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 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
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 Ill oae Volume, Price 6s., 
 THE BOOK OF 
 
 Drawing-Room Plays and Evening Amusements. 
 
 A Comprehensive Manual of In-door Recreation, including all kinds of 
 Acting Charades, Mute, Comic, Poetic, Fairy, Dramatic, Historic, and 
 Classic ; Proverbs, Burlesques, and Extravaganzas ; comprising Novel and 
 Original Ideas, numerous Skeleton Plots and Dialogues; Descriptions of 
 Continental Court Tableaux, hitherto unnoticed in this Country ; Intellectual, 
 Active, Catch, and Trick Games; Forfeits, Board Games, Puzzles, and 
 Parlour Magic. The whole interspersed with Practical Directions con- 
 cerning Costume, and Hints on Management and Accessories, 
 
 By HENRY DALTON. 
 With Scenic Illustrations by Corbould and Du Maurier, and upwards 
 of One Hundred and Twenty Diagrams on Wood. Accompanied by a 
 copious Index.
 
 In Two Volumes Cloth, Price 21s., with Sixteen Illustrations, from 
 
 Drawings by H. K, Browne and James Godwin, Engraved by 
 
 the Brothers Dalziel, 
 
 THE WITS AND BEAUX OF SOCIETY. 
 
 By grace and PHILIP WHARTON, 
 
 Authors of the " Queens of Society." 
 
 Memoii's of Men who, from the Days of Louis XIV. and Charles II. to 
 the present Centmy have been celebrated for their Wit, their l^Ianners, 
 their Dress, and their general Social Pre-eminence, in England and France ; 
 Anecdotes of their Eccentricities, their Sayings and Doings ; Sketches of 
 their Characters, of the Courts, Clubs, and Coteries they frequented, and 
 of the Phas&s of Society in which they moved and shone. 
 
 Contents of Vol. I. 
 
 George Villiei-s, Second Duke of Buck- 
 ingham. 
 
 De Grammont, Saint Evreraond, and 
 Rochester. 
 
 Beau Fielding. 
 
 Of certain Clubs and Club- Wits under 
 Anne. 
 
 William Congreve. 
 
 Beau Nash and the Bath Set. 
 Philip, Duke of ^VTiarton. 
 Lord Hervey and the Twickenham Set 
 Philip Dormer Stanhope, Lord Chester- 
 field. 
 The Abbe Scarron. 
 La Rochefoucault and Saint Simon. 
 
 Horace Walpole and Strawberry Hill, 
 
 George Selwyn. 
 
 Richard Brinsley Sheridan and the 
 
 Prince's Set. 
 Beau Brummell, and the Prince's Set. 
 
 Contents of Vol. II. 
 
 Theodore Edward Hooke. and the Lite- 
 rary Set. 
 Sydney Smith, and the Holland-House 
 
 Set. 
 
 George Bubb Dodington, Lord Mel- 
 combe.
 
 ^^r 
 
 /-^3 . 
 
 THE 
 
 TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 §g a ^omtg {)f f;a&eliste. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : JAMES HOGG AND SONS.
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS
 
 p3 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CD 
 
 K VOL. I. 
 
 •-* PAGE 
 
 . The Rendezvous. — Men and Characters ... 1 
 
 1^ Henry D' Aubrey's Story. — The Lady I Saw in Eyde 
 ^2=, Park. One Tale in two. ..... 37 
 
 William Rebow's Story. — Perseveraunce in Love ; or, 
 
 the OoldsmitKs Story 195 
 
 Charles Verney's St^ory. — Swift^s Visit to Popes Villa 229 
 Frederick Graham's Story. — An Episode in the Life 
 of Godfrey Knox ; or, " ^ Miss is as good as a 
 
 Mile:' 289 
 
 Francis Scott's Story. — Marriage hy Lottery . . 317 
 
 VOL. IL 
 
 Ralph Angerstein's Story. — The Double Shot . . 1 
 
 Alfred Duvernoy's Story. — TJie Diamond Clasp . 201 
 Charles Verney's Second Story. — Reminiscences of 
 
 Walpole and Sty^awherry Hill 219 
 
 Mrs. Verney's Story. — Se'ppy Will .... 273 
 William Rebow's Second Story. — A Lawyer's Fishing 
 
 Adventure ; or, Hooking a Case .... 307
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 The Rendezvous. — Men and Characters ... 1 
 
 Henry D' Aubrey's Story. — The Lady I saw in Hyde ' "" 
 
 Parh. One Tale in two 37 
 
 William Rebow's Story. — Perseveraunce in Love ; or, 
 
 the GoldsmitKs Story 195 
 
 Charles Verney's StorY. — Swift's Visit to Pope's Villa 229 
 Frederick Graham's Story. — An Episode in the Life 
 
 of Godfrey Knox ; or, "J. Miss is as good as a 
 
 Mile." 289 
 
 Francis Scott's Story. — Marriage by Lottery . . 317
 
 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 THE RENDEZVOUS 
 
 MEN AND CHAEACTERS. 
 
 VOL. I»
 
 On the bank of the Thames at Twickenham, at the 
 prettiest bend of any in the river, stood, at the time 
 to which this narrative refers, a large mansion, whose 
 solid red brick front contrasted in a manner most 
 satisfactory to the student of the aesthetic with the 
 silvery stream that flowed before it, and the dark 
 masses of thick' foliage that waved behind it. An 
 air of comfort and of opulence — not ostentatious, but 
 therefore the more substantial — seemed diffused from 
 it over the whole landscape in its immediate neigh- 
 bourhood, and the stranger passing along the river 
 might make sure that within its walls dwelt one of 
 those to whom life is not as it is to so many thousands 
 of our fellow-creatures — but one long care. 
 
 Charles Verney, to whose taste the mansion and 
 grounds owed much of their quiet and tranquil beauty, 
 was a gentleman of fortune, who, unlike the usual 
 type of an English gentleman at that period, was more 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 fond of his library than the hunting-field, and sought 
 rather in the wit and vivacity of men of letters, and 
 men whose education and ensrao^ements in' the liberal 
 professions had given keenness and a business-like 
 turn to their minds, without the destruction of the 
 grace and elegance of thought which distinguishes a 
 true scholar — in their society rather than in the ordi- 
 nary amusements of the country — the farm, the cover, 
 or the hunt ; he sought and found all that he could 
 desire in the way of conversational relaxation for a 
 mind which never knew entire rest, and was always 
 employed in self-imposed study when conversation 
 and the conference of kindred spirits were wanting. 
 
 In appearance Yerney might have passed for a 
 man of thirty, so lightly had time touched him ; but 
 in reality he was past forty. The hand of time 
 seems always indeed lightest on men like Yerney, 
 who, naturally of an easy and contented nature, have 
 no severe changes to pass througli. Turning the 
 corners in life is the most trying thing to the human 
 frame. The anxiety of a man just from college, or 
 starting without the assistance of an academical edu- 
 cation in the pursuit of his own livelihood — the tran- 
 sition from pupil to tutor, from apprentice to master — 
 the dreary period of brieflessness — the succession of 
 miserable curacies : — all these ' take it out ' of a man 
 sadly; then comes a marriage and an expensive 
 establishment, towards the maintenance of wdiich the 
 wife contributes an annual income just half what she
 
 MEN AKD CHARACTERS. ♦> 
 
 requires for her own pin-money, while the husband 
 settles a very large and handsome fortune composed 
 of expectancies. The stinting and economising, the 
 shifts and shuffles to which two people who have been 
 previously accustomed to comparative luxury find 
 themselves obliged suddenly to resort, speedily leave 
 their indelible mark in the wrinkled brow, and thin 
 hair, and stooping gait, and the man of forty more 
 often in these days looks like a man of fifty than a 
 man of thirty. 
 
 Verney had indeed escaped all these troubles, for 
 though married to a lady to whom we shall be pre- 
 sently introduced, he had none of the financial cares 
 which matrimony so often involves ; and being fortu- 
 nate enough to find a wdfe with similar tastes to his 
 own, and a placid temper, the stream of his days 
 passed along as smooth and unruffled as the river 
 flowing before his w indows. You might' have 'thought 
 it indeed, at first sight, drearily monotonous always 
 to rise in the morning to the same daily routine of 
 study, exercise, and the evening relaxation of studious 
 society. One might have exclaimed, with the common 
 fate of a retired tradesman in one's eye, that man will 
 die of ennui before he is fifty ; but the judgment 
 would have been a very hasty one. True, that in 
 Verney's consuetudinal one day succeeded another 
 without any marked change, and he was, now that he 
 had already passed the brow of life, following the 
 same round of employments that he had taken to
 
 6 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 directly he had left Cambridge. But between such a 
 man as Verney and one who has not enjoyed a liberal 
 education, there is the essential and never-to-be- 
 forgotten distinction, that the former possesses an 
 elegant and cultivated understanding that can always 
 employ itself upon some new pursuit, and though out- 
 wardly one day succeeds another without any differ- 
 ence, yet really the mind has advanced in the path of 
 knowledge and inquiry, and looks forward at the dawn 
 of every day to conduct it into new fields of learning 
 and employment. Its activity thus always finds some- 
 thing to work upon, and that rust which grows over 
 and corrodes an unemployed mind is kept away by the 
 cheerfulness and satisfaction which a well-regulated 
 mind always derives from healthful and agreeable em- 
 ployment. The mere man of business on the other 
 hand has been transferred, a raw schoolboy, from his 
 English grammar and arithmetic to the counting- 
 house or the copying-desk. As soon as his intellect 
 has begun to shoot, it has been directed in the narrow- 
 est channels to the sole employment of making money 
 in his trade. All his efforts have been to obtain a com- 
 petence and retire. When at last the hour of retire- 
 ment comes, the stock-in-trade and good-will have 
 been sold, the villa bought, the pony and chaise 
 chosen, what more is left for him to do ? You will say 
 to enjoy his earnings ; but the mind is a machine for 
 work, it is not capable of enjoying only, and when 
 there is no work to be done the machine rusts and de-
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 7 
 
 cays. His only resource is to do like the retired tallow- 
 chandler, and come to his old shop on * melting days.' 
 
 But Verney managed entirely to escape all the 
 dangers which so frequently beset idle people in the 
 arduous duty of killing time. His Kvely and sym- 
 pathising nature made him take a deep interest in 
 the rapid progress which at that time was taking 
 place in every form of human knowledge ; and indeed 
 it is in these happy days more than one man can do 
 to keep pace with the vast strides which are being 
 made continually in all departments of inquiry and 
 invention. 
 
 It was a bright morning early in August ; an un- 
 usual bustle denoted that something had occurred, or 
 was about to occur, to disturb the ordinary quiet of 
 Verney's establishment. The domestics were turned 
 loose into the saloons, the library, and the bed-rooms, 
 to brandish brooms and dusting-brushes, and to * put 
 things to rights ' as they call it, the result of which 
 operation generally is that nothing can be found when 
 wanted. One apartment only — Yerney's sanctum — 
 was sacred from their intrusion. 
 
 ' Do you expect any of your friends before lunch T 
 inquired Mrs. Verney of her husband. 
 
 ' I should tliink it probable some would come as 
 early as ; why, there they are.' 
 
 A loud ring at the bell — for in suburban villas the 
 absence of knockers deprives footmen of the oppor- 
 tunity of those graceful exercitations which resound so
 
 8 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 pleasingly during the season in Belgravia— a ring at 
 the bell denoted the arrival of some at least of Yerney's 
 visitors. 
 
 Now these visitors were not plain Mr. and Mrs. 
 A — or plainer Lord and Lady B — , but they were 
 men who, brought up in the same sphere as Verney 
 was brought up in, were his familiar intimates at col- 
 lege, and had maintained with him ever since a 
 friendship which too often was obliged to distil itself 
 through the post-office ; but w^as yet none the less 
 keen and real, and none the less capable of being 
 revived into more active demonstration whenever 
 opportunity allowed. They were all men who, unlike 
 Verney, had had to fight their w^ay for a living, and 
 — except one of them, decidedly the most promising 
 at college, but who has since sunk into a college 
 don — they had all succeeded in attaining position 
 and reputation in the ranks of honourable professions. 
 The first who entered was Henry D' Aubrey.. 
 When D'Aubrey and Verney were at Trinity together, 
 their extraordinary likeness in features, manners, and 
 frame of mind, was the subject of general remark. 
 In the discussions on matters of philosophy and taste, 
 which were the favourite amusement of the cu'cle of 
 which D'Aubrey and Verney were distinguished orna- 
 ments, it was a common joke to say to Verney, who 
 was always the more retiring of the two, ' Ah ! well, 
 D'Aubrey has given his opinion, we know what yours 
 is ;' not that Verney copied D'Aubrey in the leas
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 9 
 
 the thing was as often said to D'Aubrey, or would 
 have been, had he not been rather the more forward of 
 the two to speak. The similarity of person remained, 
 except that Verney had contracted rather a down- 
 looking carriage, and his modesty and retiring habit 
 had grown on him ; while D'Aubrey, on the other 
 hand, had undergone the most complete process of 
 ' bronzing ' which a man can undergo. He was a 
 member of the bar, and his talent having been soon 
 discovered he had not moped long in briefless misery, 
 but gradually had arrived at thst happy state Avhen 
 no proposition was too paradoxical for him to main- 
 tain, — no case too bad for him to put a serious look on 
 it, and make his hearers believe that there was really 
 something in it which they could not see. A bold 
 erect carriage, a ready flow of plausible speech, an 
 invincible determination not to be * put down,' 
 showing itself in a habit of always managing to have 
 the last word, and if after all he was utterly vanquished 
 in argument yet ending the discussion by a confident 
 reassertion of the proposition with which he started, 
 — all these, the outward and visible signs of a mind 
 ever armed for conflict, distinguished D'Aubrey now 
 most effectively from his shy and contemplative host. 
 I dare say the reader will declare that he knows 
 several barristers, successful ones who have seriously 
 worked at and risen in their profession, and had 
 their minds to a considerable extent formed by it, 
 who yet do not in the slightest degree resemble my
 
 10 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 portrait of D' Aubrey. But then it must be remem- 
 bered that a barrister is the name of a genus, and that 
 different species of the learned body differ from each 
 other, as much as the Newfoundland from the Turnspit. 
 D'Aubrey was at the Common Law Bar, and by confin- 
 ing his practice to the superior courts at Westminster 
 and the Northern Circuit had avoided the gradual 
 reduction of his tastes and language and current of 
 ideas to the level of those of a small huckster, 
 a fate which too often overtakes the * Sessions' 
 Barrister,' or one who devotes his time to perverting 
 the intellect of petty juries. On the other hand, he 
 had equally steered clear of that abyss of unfathom- 
 able dulness into which a * Conveyancing Barrister ' 
 plunges. The poor wretches rise to the surface two 
 or three^times after they have fallen into it, and if some 
 kind friends are at hand to rescue them, and help 
 them on at the Chancery Bar, they are not much the 
 worse for the immersion, but after the third or fourth 
 time they come no more to the surface, and sink and 
 sink in the pool inextricably and hopelessly. Few 
 things are more entertaining than to be present at a 
 consultation which is convened in consequence of the 
 * Doubts on Title ' which a conveyancer has raised. 
 I was once present at one ; but I confess the entertain- 
 ment was not one I desire to repeat under the same 
 circumstances, inasmuch as I was the unhappy client 
 on whose title my conveyancer had bespattered a 
 quantity of doubts, the scum that floats upon the
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 11 
 
 pool aforesaid. My Chancery counsel said they were 
 all nonsense: so the two met. One by one the 
 conveyancer produced his ' doubts.' The instant 
 they were, submitted to the keen analytical mind of 
 the Chancery man they crumbled away to dust. The 
 conveyancer himself gradually doubled up his papers, 
 and shrunk away to nothing, and when the consulta- 
 tion was over, and I and the solicitor had presented 
 a few hasty acknowledgments to the skilful man for 
 his attention to my case, and looked round for the 
 conveyancer to try and say an encouraging word to 
 him, he was gone. I expressed to the solicitor some 
 concern lest the conveyancer's feelings might have 
 been hurt by the rapid fashion after which his doubts 
 were overruled. ' no,' said he, ' it's alw^ays the 
 way with conveyancers. They are used to it.' 
 
 Of all barristers — and I speak with some authority, 
 for unfortunately I have had frequent occasions for 
 the services of the learned profession : my house has 
 been five times broken open and robbed, and I have 
 become in consequence quite an adept in Old Bailey 
 practice. My estates, such as they are, always require 
 some fresh parchment to cover them with, terms are 
 attending the inheritance or doing some other ec- 
 centric piece of politeness, and require a new deed 
 to do it by, to the enrichment of my conveyancer. My 
 aunt left me the residue of her effects, after giving a 
 heap of legacies in such an absurd fashion that no 
 one ventured to think she meant what she said till
 
 12 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 tlie Yice-Chancellor declared she did so, but tlien he 
 said he should be afraid to meet my aunt's spirit in 
 the other world after attributing such nonsense to 
 her ; and through this piece of kindness on. the part of 
 the old lady I was kept in a state of pleasant suspense 
 for four years, and set up a carriage on the strength 
 of my expectations ; but in the end all the costs, and 
 not my carriage, * came out of the residue.' There 
 was nothing left for me after payment of the other 
 people's expenses, and my solicitor sent me in addi- 
 tion a bill for costs which he could not get 'out of the 
 residue,' so by this means I became acquainted with 
 Chancery. — Of all barristers then, — and of course I 
 speak also from a very considerable private acquaint- 
 ance with them, many being old college friends, neigh- 
 bours in the country, &c., — of all barristers, the Chan- 
 cery barrister is the beau-ideal. He has plenty of assur- 
 ance and fluency, but he does not try to talk you down 
 like the common lawyer ; his mind is more cultivated 
 and subtle, uncontaminated by juries, and when you 
 get him for a foe in argument, you don't have a stand- 
 up fight as with the common lawyer, and know when 
 the blow is coming, and where it is aimed at ; but you 
 go on to your own satisfaction, thinking that the 
 Chancery man is rather timid and won't sliow fight, 
 till by finding the earth suddenly closing over you, 
 and a sensation coming on as if the end of all things 
 has arrived, you find that you have trodden into one 
 of his screened pitfalls. I don't mean to say that
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 13 
 
 this is so pleasant as being thrashed outright by the 
 common lawyer, but the art is greater. 
 
 There is one vice that pervades the whole frater- 
 nity, — they have a mania for contradiction. The habit 
 of listening in court to the speeches of the counsel on 
 the other &ide with the sole object of answering them, 
 gives them a knack, which they can't resist making 
 use of on all occasions, of exposing the weakness of 
 any proposition that is put forward. You may generally 
 know a barrister in society by this vice. It is often 
 very disagreeable, and makes people think barristers 
 bad company ; but then every profession has its con- 
 versational vice, and on the whole perhaps tlie vices 
 of other professions are worse than that of the 
 bar. If you are content wdtli an empty noodle in 
 society, whose only possible theme of conversation is 
 * shop,' you can find plenty of them in the officers of 
 the line. They always manage to get upon the 
 change of quarters, or the new drill, or the last im- 
 provements in the rifle, till at last you wish that the 
 rifle had the qualities which a young lady who sat 
 next me once at dinner thought a revolver possessed, 
 viz., always sending the shot revolving back, so as to 
 hit the shooter. For dogmatism the clergy are un- 
 approachable. Their privileges in the pulpit give 
 them the habit of laying down what they like without 
 fear of contradiction. When they get round the 
 dinner-table, they begin in the same style, and get 
 exasperated and overbearing if any one ventures to
 
 14 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 * doubt ' what they say — worse, they set him down 
 as a disreputable character at once, if he dares to 
 contradict them. Nothing is finer in the way of in- 
 tellectual baiting than to set an Old Bailey lawyer 
 upon a D. D. The former keeps his temper perfectly, 
 gets out of the way of all the rushes and buttings, 
 and yet keeps yelping away with effect at the D. D.'s 
 heels, till the latter is fairly beaten by the our, and 
 gets off the course with his tail between his legs and 
 his temper frizzling up the gray stumps which he 
 calls his hair. I don't mean of course to say that 
 every parson, or every oflScer, has his professional vice 
 very conspicuously, but they have always a tendency 
 to it ; and I never knew an officer yet that I could 
 
 * warrant sound and never talk shop,' or a parson 
 that was ^free from vice and never dogmatises at 
 dinner.' 
 
 Now Henry D' Aubrey certainly — fine frank fellow 
 as he appeared, and really was in all other respects — 
 always began his sentences with a ' no,' and then in 
 nine cases out of ten, per force went on to say some- 
 thing precisely to the same effect as the statement 
 he had previously denied; just as I found in the 
 aforesaid suit caused by my aunt's drivelling, that 
 the pleader in drawing my * answer ' made me begin 
 by denying in the most positive manner, 'save as 
 herein appears,' everything which I was interrogated 
 about, and then afterwards it therein appeared that I 
 admitted everything the plaintiff asked about. So
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 15 
 
 when D 'Aubrey came in to Verney's house, Verney 
 said to him, ' How very kind of you to come ! I fear 
 you must have left circuit on purpose.' 
 
 * No, not at all. I am always glad to cut the cri- 
 minal business if I can. I have only just come from 
 York. What a charming view you have, Mrs. 
 Verney !' 
 
 NoAv once for all that remark about the view shall 
 have been made. Every one who came into Verney's 
 house for the iirst time felt compelled to make it, 
 not by politeness, but because the idea forced itself 
 upon him ; and no one who knows the beauty of the 
 scenery about Twickenham will doubt for a moment 
 the truth of what they said. 'Let it be granted,' 
 therefore, as Euclid says, that the scene was very 
 beautiful, and that every one said it was so, and we 
 will not bore ourselves further with the subject. 
 
 D'Aubrey rattled on, sometimes to Verney, some- 
 times to Mrs. Verney, about poKtics, operas, marriages 
 in high life, new books by celebrated authors, and all 
 the rest of those matters which form the subject of 
 the talk of the town. Kejoiced"as Verney was to see 
 his friend, after six or seven years' interval — for 
 though D'Aubrey had often been asked to come, he 
 never could manage it before ; in the season he was 
 always four or five weeks deep in engagements, and 
 in the winter Verney thought it a shame to ask him 
 to come to a cold damp-looking house with leafless 
 grounds and chilly lawns — rejoiced as Verney was now
 
 16 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 to meet his friend again, lie was yet shocked, very 
 much shocked, at the change which had taken place 
 in him. Verney's ideal of life was the contempla- 
 tive. He was always anxious to see as much as he 
 could of men in active life, in order to save himself 
 from the dano-er of which he was conscious of becom- 
 ing — a mere recluse, shut up in foolish theories ; but 
 yet D 'Aubrey's form of active life was so frightfully 
 active, his assumption so unblushing and conspicuous, 
 as to appear as if it had become a second nature, 
 and the whole man seemed so altered from the 
 thoughtful argumentative undergraduate who * kept * 
 in letter L in the Old Court at Trinity, that Yerney, 
 still the same contemplative man that he was ten 
 years before, and still retaining his mind in a sort of 
 hot-house that sheltered it from all the rude blasts 
 of a life of business, now felt quite a stranger to the 
 rising barrister, and actually regretted that his friend 
 possessed that hardier frame of mind which enabled 
 him to buffet with all the winds and waves of life 
 through which he was rapidly emerging to eminence 
 and wealth. 
 
 Kalph Angerstein, who joined them very soon after 
 D' Aubrey came, was also a member of the learned 
 profession, but he belonged to the Chancery Bar, and 
 therefore had nothing to do with juries, and no need 
 to acquire that swaggering, blustering air, and that 
 habit of continually interposing startling propositions, 
 which a common lawyer acquires, from his being
 
 ME^ AND CHARACTERS. 17 
 
 obliged to strain after * effect ' in order to keep up tlie 
 attention of the jury. The Chancery man addresses 
 a venerable judge, who must give an elaborate and 
 reasoned judgment on the case before him, which he 
 knows he cannot do without attending to the whole 
 case ; instead of being obliged to be courted to attend 
 to the counsel, he feels indebted to the counsel for 
 his assistance in explaining the case, and saying all 
 that can be said on one side of it ; and he is sure to 
 attend as long as the counsel is talking sense, how- 
 ever awkwardly and slowly. This makes an immense 
 difference in the mind of the two bars. The one has 
 done more than half his task if he can get the tri- 
 bunal to listen to him. The sole object of the other 
 is to present his case in the most plausible manner, to 
 bring out the strong points and cover the weak ones 
 with a web of sophistry. He is in a perpetual combat, 
 both with his adversary's counsel and with the judge, 
 for good judges always set themselves against the 
 speaker, and start fallacies in his case in order that 
 he may answer them ; so that if ultimately the judg- 
 ment shall be in his favour, it shall not be so till 
 after every possible objection to it has been consi- 
 dered. The Chancery man is therefore much quieter 
 and less offensive in society till an argument begins 
 and arouses his vice of contradiction. Then you 
 would think he never could say yes to anything, ex- 
 cept when, by a common stratagem, he admits his 
 adversary's proposition for a moment, and proceeds 
 VOL. I. , - .
 
 18 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 to show the absurdities which necessarily follow from 
 it. When Hallam the historian was a young man at 
 the bar, he was very conspicuous for this utter power- 
 lessness of assenting. At last a * consent brief was 
 sent to him, which imposes on its holder the duty of 
 getting up after the plaintiff's counsel has stated his 
 case, and asked for a decree, and saying that he con- 
 sents to it. Hallam's friends were in pain he would 
 not be able to do this, and suggested that he might 
 get over the difficulty of supporting the affirmative 
 by means of a double negative. 
 
 Kalph Angerstein was in a full flow of spirits, for 
 this was the first day of his three months' long vaca- 
 tion. Lincoln's Inn was pulling down its blinds and 
 shutting its shutters, and preparing to take its long 
 sleep till November, while its inhabitants would be 
 scampering over Europe or destroying grouse, and 
 would come back ruddy, hearty, and fresh for the 
 next nine months of hard toil. At that time the ambi- 
 tion of the profession had not soared so high as the 
 High Alps, where all the learned counsel who are 
 ' unattached ' are to be found in August and Septem- 
 ber, and unhappily they sometimes discover that their 
 skill in threading the meshes of the law does not 
 always serve them in good stead in passing through 
 those of the mountains. Nor even at that time was 
 the profession so martial as it is now. You could 
 then go to consult your counsel about five o'clock in 
 the afternoon in term time without finding him in one
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 19 
 
 uniform and his clerk in" another, both preparing for 
 their evening drill, nor did we hear of any long-vaca- 
 tion amusement like the 'Inns of Comt Contingent' 
 to Garibaldi's army. 
 
 It was not, therefore, altogether beneath the notice 
 of Ealph Angerstein — as it would be now of any 
 Chancery barrister — to think of spending a week or 
 so at the suburban villa of his old college friend. 
 They had not been such strangers to each other since 
 they left college, as D'Aubrey and Verney had been, 
 for Angerstein was fond of coming down to see his 
 friend on Sundays, though he came less often than 
 he would have done, because Mrs. Verney could not 
 bear the thought of his reading his briefs on that day, 
 which Angerstein always seemed to do if he had been 
 dining ^out on Saturday ; and she at last established 
 a sort of Custom-house inspection of his luggage. 
 He was obliged to give his parole that the carpet- 
 bag contained no contraband briefs ; and if there was 
 the slightest hesitation about it, the whole package 
 was seized, and not retm-ned till the traveller was 
 about to leave the country on Monday morning. 
 
 The rest of Verney's friends came in quick 
 succession: but I have dwelt at such length on 
 the first two that I must despatch the others with 
 more speed. Frederick Graham was what is called a 
 diplomatist. He was a tall, exceedingly gentle- 
 manlike man ; he kept a gig with plated harness, 
 a high-stepping horse, and a diminutive groom, 
 
 c2
 
 20 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 belonged to the Travellers', tlie Athenaeum, and 
 Brooke's, and was altogether an elegant specimen of 
 a man about town. He had been attached to several 
 embassies, and now held the office of private secretary 
 to the Minister for Foreign Affairs ; but neither at col- 
 lege, nor in a continental city, nor in his diplomatic 
 interviews, nor in his club, nor over a dinner table, 
 nor anywhere wherever, did Frederick Graham ever 
 do or say a clever thing. ' Humdrum ' was a word 
 created to describe him ; and it was always a puzzle 
 to Yerney's other friends to find out what there could 
 be in Graham that he liked ; but there was a cer- 
 tain way about Frederick Graham — and we all have 
 some such person in the circle of our acquaintance — 
 a certain way of sailing along smoothly on the sur- 
 face of affairs and going into the right harbour at the 
 right time, never getting into a scrape, and yet never 
 doing a single action but what the most ordinary of 
 mortals would seem capable of doing. He always 
 passed his examinations without trouble — but then he 
 only just passed them ; he always got on well in the 
 way of appointments — but then no minister or am- 
 bassador ever appointed him because he thought him 
 clever, or expected him to do the work in first-rate 
 style, but because there happened to be no one else 
 better to put into the place just at that moment. He was 
 exactly the sort of person to whom exaltation would 
 be dangerous. Some day or other, by this gentle 
 shoving up — for one can call it by no more elegant
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 21 
 
 term — he would find himself in a position of high trust, 
 having to deal, perhaps, on behalf of his country in a 
 difficult negotiation with the keen, subtle- witted minis- 
 ters of a foreign court. The result of course would be 
 that he would be overreached, and then would come 
 a recall, and a general outcry about the incapacity of 
 the aristocracy and the utility of competitive exami- 
 nation : all vain, for this man could pass any mode- 
 rate examination with ease ; the examiners would be 
 struck with his manner in their viva-voce examina- 
 tion as exactly fitted for an office where com-tesy and 
 gentlemanlike bearing was required, and there could 
 be no way of keeping such men out of high places 
 unless there was a larger number of abler candidates 
 for diplomatic service ; but such tliere never mil be, at 
 least for the inferior stations in it, while the harvest 
 is 901. a-year ; and there prevails a sort of tradition 
 in English diplomacy that unless you begin with this 
 lazy, ill-paid underling life you are not fitted for the 
 higher offices. The only way to obtain clever nego- 
 tiators for public affairs is to pick out from the ranks 
 of the liberal professions those who have shown a 
 talent in that direction ; and of course the country 
 must pay higher if it wants a better article. 
 
 Frederick Graham came sauntering in with an air of 
 elegant indifference, as if he was rather conferring a 
 favour than not by coming, but didn't wish to insist 
 on it as it was too much trouble. He began languidly 
 about the prospect, and drawled on a long time a sort
 
 22 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 of unmeaning twaddle, in which the only amusement 
 of the listener consisted in discovering the lies ; for 
 Graham was, as are many of such young men who affect 
 fashion on small means and with small understand- 
 ino-, an habitual liar. His lies were all white lies. 
 He would not have told you a lie to get money out 
 of you or do you an injury, but still they were lies. 
 I should be sorry to say how many times I have heard 
 him exclaim, when there was an audience likely to 
 be sympathetic and admiring — young men not of 
 fashion or young ladies struck with his gentlemanlike 
 appearance and official position — ' God bless me ! 
 what a fool I am ! I've just given a sovereign to a 
 cabman instead of a shilling. I'm always doing it.' 
 He never went out to a matinee without telling every 
 one he danced with that he really ought not to dance 
 more in the morning, as he was going out to three 
 balls that night, when, poor fellow ! the truth of the 
 matter was he would have to open letters and write 
 precis of them all the evening and half the night to 
 make up for his idleness by day. Never did Frede- 
 rick Graham tell you he went to any place of amuse- 
 ment in London, or even to a Sunday saunter in 
 Bushy Park when the chestnuts are out, but he 
 would take care to add he went ' with some fellows 
 — guardsmen, you know.' All this, and talk like it, 
 the two barristers and Mrs. Yerney saw through with- 
 out the smallest difficulty ; and it became almost as 
 delightful to D'Aubrey to listen to him as to one of
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 23 
 
 liis adversary's witnesses going on with a long drivel 
 which destroyed the case he Avas called to support ; 
 for though D'Aubrey and Graham were old friends, 
 still theirs was that sort of friendship which does not 
 exclude a little satisfaction at seeino: vour friend 
 make a confounded fool of himself. 
 
 Graham would have drawled on I know not how 
 long, with a sort of talk that always reminds me of 
 a toy which amused me much at a seasonable period 
 of my life — the wooden apples which contain a sur- 
 prising number of smaller apples inside them, and 
 you continually think that you have got to the last 
 till, trying it, it splits open and lets out a smaller* 
 So Graham began, as I said, about the prospect — a 
 substantial subject ; then he went on about the road 
 he came ; when that was opened up and done for, 
 there came talk about the sovereign he gave to the 
 cabman ; then it was the new fashion in ties ; and so 
 his subjects seemed gradually getting less and less, 
 till at last you thought he had reached the minimum 
 of insignificance, and then he would open and bring- 
 out something still smaller to talk about. 
 
 ' Mr. Francis Scott,' said the servant, and stopped 
 Graham's droning. All four of his old college friends 
 started with surprise. They had not seen Scott for ten 
 years at least ; he did not happen to be up when they 
 went to take their masters. They left him a sprightly, 
 light-hearted, very clever, and monstrously overrated 
 man, occasionally being * gated,' and getting into
 
 24 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 worse scrapes, but a splendid hand at classics and tole- 
 rably sure of a fellowship. Every one who knew him 
 at college quietly yielded him the supremacy, except 
 D'Aubrey, who grudged doing it, and did not think 
 he did it ; but nevertheless did it. There was a sort 
 of romance about Scott in the minds of his contem- 
 poraries. They would not have been surprised if the 
 examiners had made him a D.C.L. at once instead of 
 a B.A., or if some political whippers-in had come and 
 kidnapped him for Prime Minister. He was sure to 
 be Lord Chancellor if he would only go to the bar, 
 or Archbishop of Canterbury if he would only take 
 orders ; indeed some thought that it must ultimately 
 come to his holding all the offices of the Cabinet at 
 once, for his talent was so great he must be at the 
 top, and his spirit so un tameable that he could * bear 
 no brother near the throne.' But how are the mighty 
 fallen ! As he came into Verney's drawing-room he 
 looked, and he was — Horresco referens ! — a college 
 don. 
 
 A shriek, for it deserved no other name, burst from 
 Yerney, who had adored and idolized young Scott, 
 and had kept him for the last ten years in the magni- 
 fying chamber of his mind, the hero of his imagination. 
 Whenever people talked about the decay of talent, 
 the old age of all our eminent statesmen, the want of 
 new men of real ability to supply their place, Vemey 
 would always say, ' Why, there's Scott of Trinity, only 
 give him a seat and then see what he'll do. I am
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 25 
 
 very mucli mistaken if he won't fill the place of a 
 dozen statesmen.' When the Duke of Wellington 
 died, and the papers complained we were without a 
 great commander, and should never find another to 
 understand the art of war as he did, Yerney would 
 exclaim, ' What a pity it is Scott doesn't take a com- 
 mission and study strategy! he's sure to be Com- 
 mander-in-Chief in ten years if he would. I'll write 
 to him about it.' Some poems by the Poet Laureate 
 came out, which Yerney did not at all approve. ' Lah !' 
 he would say to his wife, ^ see how popular even such 
 trash as this is, because it's mysterious and people 
 can't understand it; but if Scott would only write 
 poems, then people might understand and admire at 
 the same time.' His friends did not however estimate 
 Scott more highly than he estimated himself, and he 
 took all their adoration as the right sort of thing, and 
 was not at all elated by it, but would have been very 
 irate if he hadn't had it. When he was a freshman, 
 and hadn't been in Cambridge three days, he went to 
 Scrim toe, the great classical ' coach,' to make arrange- 
 ments for reading with him. When Scrimtoe had 
 found some hours he could give him, and was about 
 to book -them for him, he said, *What name?' 'Oh, 
 I'm Scott ;' and he never forgave Scrimtoe for not 
 knowing who Scott was and all about him, and left 
 him soon in consequence. 
 
 Alas ! when Yerney, D' Aubrey, and tlie rest of that 
 year ' went down,' Scott stopped up, reading for his
 
 26 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 fellowship and taking pupils. Those of his old friends, 
 who came up to Cambridge occasionally, saw with 
 pain the process of denization going on, and every 
 time they went to his rooms found him drier and 
 drier, and more incapable of talking about anything 
 but the last or the coming examination, and losing 
 all idea of a joke unless it was in the shape of funny 
 answers to the examination questions. ' Ah, poor 
 Scott !' they Avould say after they left him ; ' it's a 
 thousand pities.' 
 
 Now Yerney and his guests at Twickenham had 
 not, as I have said, seen Scott from the time they 
 left him in his hour of triumph as senior classic till 
 he now stood before them — a don. No wonder they 
 were shocked. They expected the fascinating and 
 commanding youth to have blossomed into an equally 
 fascinating and commanding man ; but alas ! a don is 
 nothing more nor less than a dried bud. He never 
 opens, or develops, or advances, or improves one 
 hair's-breadth after he once becomes a college don ; 
 on the contrary he dries and shrivels, and wastes 
 away till his poor emaciated spirit rattles loosely like 
 a withered kernel inside the husk of learning and 
 accomplishments which he had acquired as an under- 
 graduate. The worst of it is, that the buds which are 
 thus selected to be dried and withered are frequently 
 those which gave most promise : — not promise of great 
 originality or ability of the highest order, but promise 
 of being ready and accomplished men, well versed in
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 27 
 
 the knowledge possessed by those who had preceded 
 them, and well able to apply it to practice, though 
 not likely themselves to increase and improve the 
 store ; for really great men — be it said for the conso- 
 lation of dunces— are scarcely ever found at the top 
 of the class-lists. 
 
 Yery different indeed was William Eebow, who 
 was always a man of considerable conversational 
 talent at Cambridge, and had great general informa- 
 tion — a ' modern literature ' sort of man, but he made 
 no great figure in the University ; he hated mathe- 
 matics, and had had no proper schooling in classics, 
 and so he Avas thouglit idle, though in truth he was 
 by no means so, but was laying the foundations deep 
 and wide for a lasting literary reputation. You know 
 his writings well ; they are on every drawing-room 
 table ; cheap editions of them lie about on cottage 
 shelves, and in bachelors' rooms. I don't go any- 
 where but I see something by Eebow. But he 
 always had a sort of feeling that authorship was a 
 disgrace. He came of a high family, but with the 
 bar sinister on his scutcheon, and on account of his 
 race, I believe, principally, he always thought it 
 mean and degrading to write — as, poor fellow^, he and 
 I are obliged to do — for bread ; and he sent his literary 
 children into the world, as his father sent him, with 
 a false name on them. If I send mine so too, be 
 good enough not to draw inferences about my genea- 
 logy.
 
 28 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 Eebow was in the habit of seeing the others con- 
 stantly, but Scott he had not seen since they were 
 undergraduates together. They were both shocked 
 with each other. Kebow with Scott because he had 
 been dried ; Scott with Kebow because ten years of a 
 hard-working, anxious, sedentary life had left their 
 miserable footprints in the round shoulders and 
 narrow chest, and thin hair and puffy fibreless cheeks, 
 which soon come over the unhappy author who has 
 to write after midnight with a wet towel round his 
 head, while the printer's boy is asleep in the passage, 
 and the haggard wife sitting up with the baby (the 
 ninth), which is teething and cannot sleep. The 
 fresh air of Verney's villa was luxury to poor Rebow, 
 who seldom had — but I really can't go on ; I don't 
 mind dissecting a dog or an elephant, but I am too 
 sensitive to dissect a fellow-man, and for the same 
 reason my pen does not scruple to lay open a 
 barrister, or a college don, or a diplomatist, but I 
 feel as if I were exposing my own vitals, when I 
 open up poor Rebow to your gaze. Poor fellow ! 
 how he enjoyed his holiday, and still more to be re- 
 called to his old college days ! 
 
 I have one more character to bring on the scene, 
 and then I shall let them speak for themselves. The 
 Reverend Alfred Duvernoy was — but no, that's quite 
 unnecessary, you knew him as well as I did. Every 
 one knows a popular preacher, particularly if he is 
 high church and there are stories against him. The
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 29 
 
 little spice of sin in Lis composition gives an addi- 
 tional zest to the interest you would otherwise take 
 in him. You feel that he is more of a real man, 
 and are more inclined to believe in him, and even to 
 think well of him for having done wrong ; for then 
 you know how he has done wrong, and it is comfort- 
 able to know it is no worse, whereas the immacu- 
 late parson of whom all men speak well does not 
 seem human. You know he must have a skeleton 
 closet somewhere ; perhaps it is a very bad skeleton 
 closet, very full of skeletons murdered under unjus- 
 tifiable circumstances ; and at any rate you are certain 
 that he is a bad man, because he has plastered and 
 papered over the door of his skeleton closet, and pre- 
 tends his house hasn't got such an article, when you 
 know it must have, and are better pleased with the 
 man who opens the door, and says, ' Yes, my friend, 
 walk in and see — this is the evil I have done, here 
 are the corpses, go thou and take care thou dost no 
 worse.' 
 
 You knew Duvernoy well enough as a popular 
 preacher, but you may perhaps not happen to know 
 what he was at college. He was what is called a 
 Unionic Cantab. The species generally develops into 
 barristers and politicians ; and I have heard several 
 of them say in after life, that there is nothing half 
 so trying in all the range of public speaking as a 
 speech at the Union Debating Society. At the bar 
 the speaker has a judge and jury, or a judge alone,
 
 30 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 whose duty it is to listen to him carefully, who will 
 do so if he speaks with tolerable sense and vivacity, 
 and who in any event have a common sympathy with 
 him in their desire to know what the case is about, 
 and he goes on therefore explaining the facts, and 
 arguing about them till he forgets himself. So in 
 the House of Commons, a certain set of members 
 want to have a certain set of opinions well ventilated 
 and put forth in as plausible and convincing a way 
 as possible ; and if you do that with reasonable ability, 
 you are sure to have a good set of backers to cheer 
 you on, and you will be received by the other side 
 either in respectful silence, or with what a true orator 
 always likes best, a frequent chorus of ' no no's.' But 
 in the Union (unless the topic happens to be, as it 
 very rarely is, one of academical interest), the au- 
 dience think of nothing but the speaker. They 
 catch at every word he says, to laugh at him ; if he 
 gets nervous and clutches at the pillars, they laugh at 
 him for that ; if their laughter puts him out, and he 
 takes his notes out of his pocket and looks for some- 
 thing to say, which they have driven out of his head, 
 they laugh at him for that too. The only mode of 
 achieving success is by fluent effrontery. Now it is 
 very well this should be so, for a man consequently 
 sets to work to acquire fluent effrontery, and when he 
 has once got it, and can face the undergraduates on a 
 full night at the Union, there is no audience under 
 the sun that he need fear for a moment ; and this is
 
 MEN AND CHARACTP]RS. SI 
 
 all that a college debating society could usefully try 
 to teach. 
 
 Duvernoy was the pink of clerical fashion. His 
 tie was exquisite, the brushing of his hair a study. 
 The art of tailoring had reached its acme in his 
 clothes ; but, of all things, that which distinguished 
 Duvernoy, par excellence, was the manipulation of 
 his handkerchief. I can't find language to express 
 my admiration of this. It was thrilling, when de- 
 scribing the horrors of the day of judgment, and after 
 he had separated the goats from the sheep, and had 
 grilled the sheep, but one did not know what he was 
 exactly going to do with the goats — it was thrilling 
 when he said, ' there they stand apart awaiting their 
 fate, as you, my brethren, will stand and await yours,' 
 and then took out his handkerchief and gently 
 soothed his face, flushed with the excitement of read- 
 ing his eloquence and fervour — a week stale, but let 
 that pass. Next the handkerchief was rolled deli- 
 cately round by the beautiful black kid gloves, and 
 held to the mouth — a short, interesting, would-be 
 consumptive cough was improvised — and then, rally- 
 ing his faded strength, he saved the goats. 
 
 The great crime of Duvernoy was that he turned 
 the heads of the young clergymen of the day. They 
 all thought that by dressing as swells, and appearing 
 to be exhausted with the immense amount of feeling 
 thrown into their sermons, and putting on a little 
 consumption, they could draw full houses — fah! I
 
 32 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 mean congregations — and get some of those slippers 
 which were sent to Duvernoy in such numbers that, 
 as his enemies said, he kept a shop for the sale of 
 them in Liverpool, and realised handsomely. It was 
 really very annoying, and 1 never forgave Duvernoy 
 for it, that one could not go into a church at the 
 West End without finding the curate an ecclesiastical 
 puppy, and very often the rector another. 
 
 * Now,' said Yerney, ' that you are all assembled, 
 you shall hear my humble bill of fare. This is 
 Liberty Hall, and every one does as he chooses till 
 dinner. After dinner, every day that you honour me 
 with your company, one of you must, as I forewarned 
 you, teU a tale. I am glad to see by the bulk of your 
 carpet-bags that you have brought me good-sized 
 ones. 
 
 * I am master of the ceremonies, and have there- 
 fore prerogative to direct who shall begin the enter- 
 tainment, and I shall invert the rule first come first 
 served. D'Aubrey, you came first, and I am very 
 much obliged to you for doing so, and you must 
 therefore begin the tale-telling first, and increase my 
 obligations.' 
 
 * Oh,' said D'Aubrey, always liking to be put for- 
 ward, ' I shall be only too happy. I remember when 
 I had to speak at the Union, I never could listen to 
 any speech that went before mine, and I was only 
 too glad to speak early in the evening that I might 
 get the anxiety over and listen to the speeches that
 
 MEX AND CHARACTERS. 33 
 
 followed ; so when I have vented myself of my own 
 tale I shall be able to enjoy better those that come 
 after it. Let me however propose some resolutions 
 about our tales. 
 
 * First, then, I propose that none of us pretend to 
 give a tale of our own experience. For myself, I 
 shall treat the tale which I am about to offer to you 
 as having no more relation to myself than has the 
 case of any of my clients. We are sure not to have 
 had all of us any very wonderful personal experiences ; 
 and so, without inventing an autobiography, it is best, 
 I hold, to tell the tale as for a third person, and above 
 all to have no * shop ' in it. I hope myself to try and 
 keep aloof from the tale I tell, and not throw myself 
 into it, though this is not always easy to do when one 
 gets interested in it, any more than it is easy for an 
 advocate to help identifying himself with his client's 
 case ; though, by the way, this is a failing rather of 
 your bar, Angerstein, than of mine — for our clients 
 commit murder, and felony, and other unpleasant 
 eccentricities, and under such circumstances it is not 
 very agreeable to identify oneself too much with one's 
 respectable client : but in Chancery there is no harm 
 in saying ' I am mortgagor,' or ^ I am legatee for a 
 thousand pounds.' I heard, however, one of your 
 leaders, a fussy little man, the other day get very 
 excited when he had been contradicted and interrupted 
 by the counsel on the other side, and began his speech 
 afresh, thus — ' No, no, that is not the case at all. It 
 
 VOL. I, D
 
 34 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 is of no use interrupting ; the true state of the case 
 is this : — I am the father of thirteen illegitimate 
 children, all by different mothers, and the question is, 
 whether I can leave legacies to these children under 
 the description of " my children/' 
 
 ' Next,' continued D' Aubrey, * I beg to suggest that 
 if any one likes to read a translation of a tale, he be 
 permitted to do so.' (Hear ! hear ! from Angerstein 
 and Kebow). 
 
 * Thirdly, let the length of the tale be left to the 
 teller's Muse. Mine, I forewarn you, is a long-winded 
 lady, so if you wish to cut her short you had better 
 enact a law now to that effect' 
 
 ' Scott,' said Yerney, turning to him as the old 
 king of the company, * what do you say to D'Aubrey's 
 propositions ?' 
 
 ' Well, I think when they are reduced into proper 
 shape, and all begin with the word " that," they will 
 do very well. I'll write them out fair.' 
 
 ' My dear Scott,' said D' Aubrey, ' we don't want 
 them starched and put up on the screens in the 
 buttery. What can you be thinking of?' 
 
 * Oh, well, you can leave them as you like ; but 
 your English composition is not what we get in these 
 days at Trinity.' 
 
 * Stop, stop,' said D' Aubrey, ' I've got one to add — 
 here it is : 
 
 ' Fourthly, it is proposed by Henry D'Aubrey of 
 Trinity College, M.A., that a prize of ten postage
 
 MEN AND CHARACTERS. 35 
 
 stamps be awarded for the best tale in English prose, 
 and that Mr. Scott be appointed examiner. The 
 number of marks for the prizeman to be 2375, all 
 who do not get 783 marks to be plucked.' 
 
 ' Yes, that will do very nicely,' said Scott. 
 
 Poor, poor Scott ! how they all stared at him ! Has 
 much learning made him mad, or is this being a 
 college don ? 
 
 ,The resolutions were put to the vote and carried 
 nem. con., though Scott had determined in his own 
 mind that D 'Aubrey should be plucked for his bad 
 English. 
 
 D 2
 
 HENEY D'AUBREY'S TALE. 
 
 THE LADY L SAW IN HYDE PARK 
 
 ONE TALE IN TWO.
 
 ( 39 ) 
 
 After Verney's guests had all amused themselves 
 to their taste during the afternoon, some in wander- 
 ing through his ample grounds and listening to the 
 feathered songsters of the grove, which were then 
 deluding themselves into the belief that spring had 
 come again, and were beginning anew their love- 
 tales ; others in boating on the river, and rambling 
 through Richmond Park, of which latter party was 
 the Rev. Alfred Duvernoy, who delighted himself by 
 creating a sensation — public character as he was — 
 on the terrace on Richmond Hill ; after this, dinner 
 succeeded, and when the gentlemen had joined Mrs. 
 Vemey in the drawing-room, and refreshed themselves 
 with coffee, D'Aubrey, reminding his hearers of the 
 resolution that the reader of the tale was to dis- 
 identify himself with the narrator of it, and saying, 
 * My narrator, you see, is an Oxford man,' began as 
 follows : —
 
 40 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PAKE: 
 
 ONE TALE IN TWO. 
 
 CHAPTER I.— The Prologue. 
 
 I HAVE it, on the authority of Mr. Spurgeon and a 
 young Cantab, that there is in Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, a statue of Lord Byron, which the sculp- 
 tor hath so cunningly devised, that when you look at 
 it from one point you see a face in which all the 
 divinity of high genius lieth, while if you shift your 
 place, you find nothing but the morbid sensualist. 
 The sculptor was a bit of a wag, and yet a true man. 
 He was paid to grave immortality upon the mortal 
 stone ; but in doing his job he would not go against 
 the grain of his conscience, and resolved bravely to 
 sully with truth, if truth can sully, the immortality 
 he was hired to grave. The sculptor was more, he 
 was a philosopher. It may not be true that all men 
 are Balaams, and ready to run with Kenard, and hunt" 
 with Harkaway ; but it is undeniably true that to the 
 spectator all men wear a double face. Shift your 
 place, is the great rule for gaining the truth. Look 
 at me from your worldly point of view, and you find 
 me a worldling of deep dye ; shift your place, and 
 analyse this heart of mine, you ^vill find more good 
 than you expected — nay, you will even learn the 
 secret of my worldly appearance, and pardon or even 
 praise me.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 41 
 
 I had once to play the part of walking-gentleman 
 in a little drama of life which wonderfully exempli- 
 fied this rule, and I will give you both views of a 
 woman whom I knew, that you may judge for your- 
 self. You shall hear the man's version first, and 
 shall think ill of her. You shall hear the woman 
 speak for herself, and think — oh, you must form 
 your own opinion. I could forgive and palliate — you, 
 perhaps, will condemn. 
 
 I knew a man, or, as the Germans say, I learned 
 to know a man : — now I do not mean that, taking 
 that ill-trimmed lantern of Diogenes, I searched the 
 world over from Pekin to Panama, and, more success- 
 ful than the dirty philosopher, found what he sought 
 — a perfect man — a man indeed ; but I mean that I 
 once knew a man who indeed was not much short of 
 perfection. 
 
 My friend had all the sweetness of a woman with 
 all the strength of a man. He was nearly perfect in 
 feeling, because it was impossible for him to feel ill 
 towards any being. He overflowed with charity and 
 kindness. He was nearly perfect in soul, because it 
 seemed impossible for him to sin. He was nearly 
 perfect in mind, because having a great mind, he 
 had applied it to great objects. But he was imperfect 
 in character, because there was about him a certain 
 morbid melancholy, which had conquered and en- 
 slaved him. Now such a habit of melancholy is the 
 very reverse of perfection. Your morbid man breaks 
 the first commandment, because it is clear that his 
 whole heart and soul are fixed on some worldly
 
 42 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 object, and as love and worship are almost synony- 
 mous, he therefore worships a god of his own finding. 
 Next your morbid man is selfish, seeing that how- 
 ever much he may seem to love you, and be inte- 
 rested in you, he is really absorbed with a peculiar in- 
 terest of his own, and cannot bring himself to feel 
 with you, for his sympathy is all stored away in 
 his own barn of sorrows. Again, the morbid man is 
 apt to be uncharitable, being by experience against 
 the world, and extending that general term to each 
 individual within it. Lastly, the morbid man is a bad 
 companion, for nothing can cheer him — nay, not the 
 reckless debauch of an Oxford wine party (Heaven 
 knows it never cheered me) ; and when most excited 
 he will sigh and become absent, which is the greatest 
 affront a man can show to his company. 
 
 Strange was it, then, that, my friend being a morbid 
 man, I could find sweet comfort and solace in his 
 fellowship ! Yet so it was, for so unselfish was this 
 friend, that he had conquered this black imp that sat 
 upon him — conquered him for the sake of his friends 
 only — and though seldom gay, was yet a delightful 
 associate, from having the true essence of friendship 
 in him, I mean the power of loving. 
 
 What was the mystery of his melancholy ? Long 
 I wished to know, but to question was impossible. 
 Yet there are moments in all friendships when hearts 
 are opened to one another, and such a moment arrived 
 to satisfy me. He told me his story, and as he told 
 it you shall hear it. Curtain, rise !
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 43 
 
 CHAPTER II.— The Man's Tale. 
 
 I HAVE read somewliere about some ocean-nymph, 
 who would accept the caresses of no one who did 
 not brave the deep to go to her (he began, laugh- 
 ingly). Some prince or other heard of her beauty, saw 
 her sporting in the brine one day, just on the foam- 
 crest of some breaker, and ilung himself headlong 
 into the water. He was not drowned, because that 
 would have spoiled the story, but she lodged him in 
 a cavern a la Tennyson at the bottom of the ocean, 
 where he 
 
 ' would roam abroad and play 
 With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, — 
 Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower 
 And holding them back by their flowing locks, 
 "Would kiss them often under the sea, 
 And kiss them again till they kissed me.' 
 
 For the rest of which I refer you to our Laureate. 
 However, I remember the end of it was, that one day 
 he became very curious and wanted to know the 
 secret of the imperceptible diving-machine, by which 
 he managed to exist twenty fathoms under sea-level ; 
 and the young mermaid in question called him a 
 saucy fellow, and just kicked him up to the top again, 
 when he found his mouth and ears unpleasantly full 
 of salt water, and had to swim for his life to the near- 
 est rock ; and that w^as all he got by his curiosity. 
 Well, the story is not a new one, for really there is
 
 44 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 nothing new under the sun, except Oxford wine, 
 Tom, eh? It seems very much like that of Eve 
 in Paradise, and it certainly is much the same as the 
 one I am going to tell you. The rule of life seems 
 to be * when you are happy, ask no questions,' and 
 with this reflection, a la spelling-book, I will right- 
 about-face, and march. 
 
 My father and the rest of them were living 
 in London, when I came up as a boy of nineteen 
 from Oxford. He had a large London parish, and 
 a small income — naturally. Of course he had a 
 large family too, and on the whole not a very satis- 
 factory one. My eldest brother was a man who saw 
 nothing in life but gold. He had embarked in some 
 rapid railway speculations, made two thousand one 
 day and lost three the next ; the consequence being, 
 that once a fortnight he would write to my dis- 
 tracted parent, informing him that he was determined 
 to blow his brains out, but just fifty pounds would 
 save him; of course the money was scraped up 
 somehow, and I must say for Bob that he generally ' 
 repaid it. But he never could compensate for the 
 continual shocks that he caused my father, and 
 the terrible anxieties into which my maternal relative 
 and the girls were plunged. Poor Bob, he has a good 
 heart in spite of it all ! The next brotlier, John, was 
 a well-meaning do-nothing. He was in a public office, 
 where he got 901. a-year, and he always managed 
 to spend 150^. On settling-day there was of course 
 a 'shine,' tears, angry words, and those * infernal 
 accounts.'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PAKE. 45 
 
 I can't deny that I was just then the Hopeful of 
 the family. Though such a chicken, I had written a 
 few readable things, and been paid for them. You 
 remember, old fellow, that I had a kind of reputation 
 at Oxford as a 'literary card;' and though I got 
 plucked right and left at examinations, it was all put 
 down most charitably to my ' genius,' of which I now 
 believe I never had a spark. 
 
 Well, the upshot of it all was, that seeing the un- 
 comfortable state of family finance — with a position 
 to keep up, half-a-dozen sisters to marry, and so on — 
 I determined when I came to town to devote all I 
 got pro bono familiaro. You will see how a certain 
 unmentionable gentleman took my good resolves for 
 flagstones to pave a certain unmentionable locality. 
 
 I worked very steadily at literature — say, seven 
 hours a day, and achieved a great deal. I was not 
 wholly set against the pleasures of this wicked et cetera, 
 but did not allow myself to be tempted by them. 
 Only for two hours in the afternoon did I stroll about 
 this street and that, or occasionally the Parks, 
 with an old Oxford chum or two, — Tom Norton, whom 
 you remember, was one of them. 
 
 Walking one day in Kotten-Kow, I saw before me 
 a figure feminine which riveted my eyes. When I 
 say, Madame, tliat yoiu-s is an exact counterpart 
 thereof, I have described it enough. Close to this 
 figure walked another of the other sex, and as odious 
 as the first was attractive. 
 
 The latter individual was from time to time poking 
 his face under the bonnet of the lady in question.
 
 46 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 evidently to her considerable annoyance. At last 
 she turned suddenly round and showed me that face, 
 or rather that soul in a face, which has been the 
 opium of my life ever since. I say *the opium,' 
 because from that moment I was in a dream, out of 
 myself, almost out of my senses. 
 
 The lady looked about a little in a manner that 
 showed her intense trouble, and then turning upon 
 me those terrible eyes, suddenly spoke to me. 
 
 ' Pray, sir,' she said, * have the goodness to protect 
 me from insult.' 
 
 I fired up like a dog when his tail is pulled. 
 
 * Is this person,^ I cried, with considerable dignity, 
 * annoying you ?' 
 
 The answer was looked, not spoken. 
 
 I half raised my cane. The individual, who had 
 very much the appearance of a ticket-of-leave man, 
 walked off at a rapid pace without looking behind 
 him. 
 
 * Thank you,' said the voice of voices. Then 
 looking after him a moment, she added, * Would 
 you oblige me still farther by calUng that carnage 
 standing there ?' 
 
 I did so. A handsome brougham it was, and she 
 stepped in. * Now,' she continued, ' you have done 
 me, sir, an inestimable service. Will you complete 
 the obligation by following that man, and taking care 
 that he does not run after my carriage.' 
 
 Ah ! the dream ! How happy was I to obey, and 
 yet when the brougham drove off, I felt an intense 
 desire to run after it myself. I stood a second, and
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 47 
 
 then rushed out of the gates after my quarry. In 
 vain I looked everywhere. He was off, in tenues 
 auras. I hunted about like a hungry weasel, and at 
 last turned homewards. 
 
 When I had recovered the excitement of the ad- 
 ventm'e, — ^just such a one as to set a young man 
 loving and wondering for nights, — there were two 
 considerations which a little detracted from its de- 
 lights. Imprimis, my vanity was a little wounded by 
 the nonclialant manner in which the unknown had 
 made use of me, sending me about like a good-natured 
 boy ; and next, Kotten-Eow in the afternoon, a 
 brougham without a footman, the stylish dress, and 
 the mere fact of another man addressing her, raised 
 suspicions, for though innocent I was not wholly 
 ignorant of the world. 
 
 Poor women ! what a difficult position they hold, 
 especially if they are cursed — if it be a curse — with 
 beauty ! Here was one, doubtless as pure as a wood 
 violet, who, because one or two extreme laws of re- 
 spectability appeared to be violated, might have her 
 soul even prejudged by the world as indifferently 
 as that of a detected pickpocket. One solution 
 indeed there was to the whole mystery — she might 
 be a married woman. But for the life of me I could 
 not and would not believe it. I preferred to think 
 any foolishness of her, than shut out from myself the 
 chance and right of being in love with her. Besides, 
 a hundred things started up to combat such an idea. 
 She looked scarce nineteen. She had the figure and 
 face of a maiden unbetrothed. And then, too.
 
 48 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 she must not be married. I couldn't^ bear tKe 
 thougbt. 
 
 Time passed, and when I bad told my adventure 
 a bundred times to a biindred different people, and 
 beard it surmised on in a bundred different ways, I 
 was just beginning to forget tbe incognita in new 
 interests — ^tbere are always interests in life for nine- 
 teen — wben I walked again for tbe twentieth time 
 since tbe adventure in Rotten-Kow, perhaps a little 
 less expectant than usual. 
 
 Among all tbe sprucery, foppery, flummery, and 
 lavender-glovism of tbe walk, was an individual — 
 leaning over tbe railings and appearing to take an 
 interest in tbe equestrian exercises before him — whom 
 I recognized not tardily. My man was dressed in 
 what is commonly styled * Newmarket:' tight trousers 
 clung to legs which looked as if their owner bad 
 learned to ride before be could walk ; a little Jenny- 
 Wren coat of a dark slate colour, scarcely sufficed 
 for bis thick-set person; a tall, straight, rusty bat 
 with a diminutive brim, as flat as a young lady's 
 notes wben she sings 'Mira Norma' in a small 
 muffin-worry, was punched down over bis bead as if it 
 bad been put on with a hammer. He was dressed 
 as a groom, but be looked like a burglar. His black 
 hair was short and stumpy, bis small eyes glistening 
 and without any whites, and, vilest of all, beneath bis 
 chin that peculiar roll of hair popularly known as a 
 Newgate Frill. There was no mistaking my man. 
 In the present day you would mutter ' ticket-of-leave,' 
 and put your thumb in your watch-pocket ; but as
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 49 
 
 philanthropists and parliamentary bunglers had not 
 been quite so mad at the period in question, I only 
 nudged Tom Norton, who was with me, and whispered, 
 ' Newgate, and I have seen liim before. Keep your 
 eye on the boy.' 
 
 Tom, in reply, pointed out to me a short round, 
 and very thick stick which he held in his hands. 
 
 We had scarcely passed the individual ten yards, 
 when jirk, jirk, pit-a-pat, thump, thump, went my 
 unfortunate heart, for down the Row at a full gallop^ 
 neatly perclied on a lively, thin-shanked, clean-pas- 
 terned, fiery-eyed pet of an Arab, and with her sunny 
 hair floating joyfully back, came — oh ! how lovely 
 she looked — my own incognita. 
 
 * Tom, Tom !' I cried, nearly pushing his arm out 
 of joint ; ' look, look, for the love of friendship ! Isn't 
 she charming?' 
 
 Tom was lost in admiration. 
 
 But, disappoiutment terrible ! at that moment she 
 glanced at me, and either did not or would not re- 
 cognize me, though my hand was half-way to my hat. 
 
 I turned round. I could not help it. If the 
 great Khan himself had been talking to me, I must 
 have turned to look after her, as on she rode full of 
 life. 
 
 But quite suddenly, as if a cannon-ball had struck 
 it, the pretty Arab dropped on its side, and my 
 lady, my heart's own, was thrown upon the road. 
 I was by her side, before the crowd of lookers-on 
 even knew that she had fallen. She was insensible. 
 She had fallen on her shoulder. Of course it was 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 dislocated. I passed my arm ' gingerly ' round her 
 waist, and raised her. I remember her groom that 
 moment rode up and did something or other with 
 the Arab. I remember that, nothing abashed by 
 the crowd that now circled round, and got as much 
 in the way as possible, I shouted for Tom in a loud 
 imploring voice. I remember most of all that I 
 saw close to her the same short thick stick I had seen 
 two minutes before in the hand of the Newgato- 
 Newmarketan villain. 
 
 ' Call a cab,' I cried to the stupid crowd. 
 
 No one stirred, — idiots. 
 
 Then I remembered that those useful conveyances 
 had not the entree of the Park, so clasping my charge 
 stoutly in my two arms, I bore her bravely through 
 the assembly of inquisitive riders, grooms, ladies and 
 all, followed by a train of foot-passengers, and a soli- 
 tary policeman. At Hyde-Park-Corner I hailed a 
 cab that was passing at the moment, and laid the 
 lovely form gently on the seat. 
 
 ' This lady is hurt,' I said, jumping in by her side, 
 * drive to the nearest chemist's.' I remembered St. 
 George's close at hand, but my burden seemed too 
 precious for the eclat of a hospital. 
 
 I breathed again as we left the ruck of curious ones 
 behind us, and passing my arm round her supported 
 her thus, and let her head fall upon my shoulder. 
 Oh, what a moment ! Beneath the broad black hat 
 with its rich plumes, was that lovely face, lying on 
 my very bosom, pale as death, and the lips parted 
 gently. The golden flakes of hair showered over my
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 51 
 
 black coat, and close to my side the heart beat 
 slightly. Was it not enough ? 
 
 The chemist brought restoratives, and told me the 
 name of the nearest surgeon. She revived as we 
 went, but still lay as I had placed her. She groaned. 
 * My shoulder !' she murmured. I raised her gently. 
 I had been pressing the wounded shoulder against 
 my own. Then she turned her eyes feebly towards me. 
 
 * Is it John ?' she asked. 
 
 'No,' I replied, *your groom is not here, but a 
 friend has charge of you.' 
 
 Then a sigh. * I am much hurt. Have the good- 
 ness to drive to my house in Park-Lane. Perhaps 
 you are going there already ?' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, we will go there, but we must stop here 
 first.' 
 
 * Where ? What is this house ?' 
 
 * You must have your arm looked at. You have 
 sprained it.' 
 
 As I spoke I turned to her. She had fainted again. 
 
 Fortunately the surgeon had just returned to 
 dinner. I waited in the dining-room, while he and 
 his maid tended the wounded limb. In half-an-hour's 
 time, he came to me. 
 
 ' Nothing broken,' he said. ' I have sent for a 
 chair, and you can take the lady home without 
 danger. I will call in this evening, directly after 
 dinner. Would you give me the address ?' 
 
 This embarrassed me not a little. 
 
 * It is in Park-Lane,' I answered. ' But I really 
 — forget the number. The lady herself can tell 
 you.' , ' E 2 
 
 U. OF ILL LIB.
 
 52 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 To be brief, he learnt the number, sent round 
 for her seryants, and escorted her with me to her 
 houFe. 
 
 I saw her lodged carefully with her maids and 
 attendants, and then thinking it more delicate to re- 
 treat, I rushed off to the nearest stationer's and 
 eagerly looked into a directory. 
 
 * No. — Park-Lane, Miss Trevanion.' 
 
 Miss Trevanion! Was that her name? Strange 
 that she should live alone, and be sole landlady of a 
 large house. However, there was no time for wonder- 
 ing, and I turned back in quest of Tom 
 
 Just as I entered the Park, he ran against me, and 
 nearly knocked me down. 
 
 ^ My dear fellow,' he gasped, quite out of breath. 
 Hi, there. Hansom.' And without another word we 
 jumped in together. 
 
 ' To the nearest police-station !' shouted Tom, 
 through the little hole in the top of the cab. 
 
 Cabby was doubtless astonished, perhaps suspicious, 
 but he obeyed and off we went. 
 
 ' Now,' said Tom. ' I think I shall catch him.' 
 
 ' Catch whom ? what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Why the man, the brute.' 
 
 * W^hat man ? what brute ?' 
 
 * The fellow in the Newmarket cut-a-way, of course.' 
 ' Well, but what about him ? Why do you want 
 
 to catch him ?' 
 
 ^What! didn't you see ?' 
 ' See what ?' 
 
 * Why, see him throw that stick at the horse's legs, 
 and bring him down ?'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 53 
 
 ' Good heavens, you don't say so !' 
 
 * Oh, my dear boy, I have had such a chase ! I 
 have been all over the Park, and half over London 
 after him. And just as I met you I had gone back 
 to see if the stick was still there. I suppose some 
 one must have taken it. I couldn't find it.' 
 
 * Of course not ; but are you sure ?' 
 
 ' Sure ! why I saw him do it with these identical 
 eyes.' 
 
 ' The deliberate villain I' 
 
 * Ay, ruined a good horse.' 
 
 'And nearly killed Miss Trevanion. Horse, in- 
 deed !' 
 
 ' Miss Trevanion. So ho ! You have — . But tell 
 me all about it.' 
 
 I told Kim all. We lodged information and de- 
 scription at the police office ; and I then took the 
 faithful and exhausted Thomas home to dine with 
 us. But first I made him promise not to breathe a 
 word about the matter. I had my reasons in certain 
 vague suspicions, and a good knowledge of the charac- 
 ter of my respected relatives. There was a mystery 
 in the whole matter, and I was determined to solve 
 it, before any obstruction was put in my way by 
 
 overscrupulous parents. I was a boy and a 
 
 fool.
 
 54 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 CHAPTER III.— Fascination. 
 
 Well, (said my friend,) I have come to the end of 
 my first scene, and I need scarcely tell you that it 
 left me deeply in love. I do not reprehend this love ; 
 for I think it one of the chief blessings of the spring- 
 tide of life that in it we can love, and, above all, 
 love the beautiful. Nor do I condemn the man who 
 loves the beautiful external before he has sounded it. 
 For ever throughout my life those Avords of Fanny 
 Kemble will rise again in my mind, and again bear 
 repeating : — 
 
 ' Better trust all and be deceived 
 
 Aud weep that trust and that deceiving, 
 
 Than doubt one word which, if believed, 
 Had blest thy life with true believing.' 
 
 Better, far better, for the young man to rush rather 
 heedlessly into love, and be disappointed and even 
 blighted, than to check with worldly prudence and 
 cold calculation the most healthy of all passions. 
 Often love brings sin, but oftener, and most often, it 
 fills the heart with an universal gentleness and 
 charity for which even temptation should be risked. 
 Believe me, it is better to love foolishly than to be 
 cold — better to have the habit of loving than 
 to deaden the nerves of the heart. And how often 
 does not the passion of love ripen us to the wisdom 
 of love 1 
 
 The next day I broke through my custom of writing
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 55 
 
 till late in the afternoon. When I looked at my 
 morning's work I was horrified to see how little I had 
 done. I was engaged on a novel, which by a won- 
 derful good chance (I hate that word chance, it seems 
 like a heathenism, an insult to Providence — and 
 yet — ) had been accepted by a certain publisher. I 
 had managed a most interesting heroine, with whom 
 I had fallen thoroughly in love while working out 
 the plot ; but somehow on the said forenoon I felt 
 no more interest in her than in any Miss Smith, 
 Jones, or Kobinson in the Post-office Directory. So 
 I opened all my drawers, searched for Sunday vests, 
 which were hard to find, for my wardrobe was ex- 
 tremely limited, and by various little appliances 
 managed to make what I deemed a killing toilette. 
 Oh ! vanitas juventatis ! I confess to a little vanity, 
 a little partiality for dress and appearance. 
 
 When all was done I went forth, with a heart 
 which, for a boy in stout health, pattered most un- 
 warrantably. I acknowledge that anxiety for the 
 shoulder-blade or collar-bone of the incognita was not 
 the sole magnet that drew me towards Park Lane, 
 and made me button those new gloves so carefully. 
 There is a little egotism in all love ; why deny it ? — 
 and I looked to the present opportuoity to bring my- 
 self under the gaze of eyes that had fascinated me. How 
 my hand shook as I knocked at the pompous door ! 
 How studiously I looked at boots, trousers, and coat, 
 and arranged my curls up under my hat 1 
 
 The servant who opened the door looked at me a 
 moment ; and while I was still stammering out the
 
 56 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 first words of my inquiry, begged me to walk in. I 
 was ushered up a staircase of alarming grandeur, and 
 shown into a splendid room. My eyes passed hur- 
 riedly to the sofa, and there, magnificently dressed, 
 and turning with a disappointed look towards me as I 
 entered, was a shrivelled, dust-coloured, wig-wearing 
 duenna, whose stern aspect completely upset me. 
 
 In vain my eyes sought the object they thirsted 
 for. I felt like an intruder, for youth either grossly 
 overrates or foolishly undervalues itself; and the 
 cold but rather surprised look that met me froze my 
 blood, and left it sticking in my cheeks. 
 
 I bowed to the duenna. 
 
 *I came,' I stammered out, Ho inquire after the 
 young lady who — ' 
 
 ' May 1 ask your name, sir ?' rather pettishly. 
 
 I gave it her. 
 
 * I do not remember it myself. You are perhaps 
 an acquaintance of my niece.' 
 
 ' Indeed, madame, I cannot assert that I have that 
 honour — ' 
 
 ' Then why—' 
 
 ' I was fortunate enough,' I interrupted, growing 
 warm again in the embarrassment, Ho have the 
 honour of assisting her last evening, when that unfor- 
 tunate accident occurred in the Park.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' she replied, her tone changing immedi- 
 ately to one of more amiability, though as owl-like as 
 ever. ' You are the young gentleman my niece men- 
 tioned. She is anxious to see you ' (here she rang 
 the bell), * and I will send you to her immediately.'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 57 
 
 1 felt quite a new being. 
 
 ' Now have the kindness to tell me all about it.' 
 
 I was half way in my narrative, when the servant 
 came to usher me to the presence of the unknown 
 one ; but the old lady would not release me till I had 
 told her all the story. I could have garotted her 
 with a clear conscience. 
 
 I found the wounded beauty laid upon a sofa, and 
 attired in a loose morning gown of Oriental fashion. 
 I did not quite like this, for there was a dSgage air 
 about it which could not charm like the simplicity 
 of her usual dress, rich though it was. 
 
 She received me warmly, almost too warmly. I was 
 thoroughly overcome. 
 
 ' I will not say, as they do in novels,' she began, in 
 those clear chime-like tones, ^ that you have saved my 
 life, et cetera ; but you did me an invaluable service 
 in taking care of me when I was hurt and not killed, 
 as I might and perhaps ought to have been — ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! — and such a boon is difficult to reward. Shall I 
 insult you very much if I offer you — ' 
 
 Here she paused, and looked curiously into my face, 
 while a wicked smile played round her lips. My eyes 
 sank under the gaze. 
 
 ' Now, what do you imagine I am going to offer 
 you?' 
 
 * Oh,' I stammered, ' I assure you, you have offered 
 me more than my due. I — I only came to — ' 
 
 * Yes, I know ; but there's my hand to do what you 
 like with it.' 
 
 Had I been an Eastern prince in search of some
 
 58 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 long-dreamed-of princess I should have taken the 
 offer as very significant. As it was, I took only the 
 hand, and bent towards it as if to press my lips upon 
 it, but my courage gave way, and I only held it. 
 
 * Well,' she said, with a merry little laugh, * you 
 don't kiss it ?' 
 
 I answered by pressing it tightly to my lips. What 
 a strange mortal I thought her. 
 
 She begged me to be seated. I took a chair at a 
 respectful distance. 
 
 ' No, this one near me,' she laughed out. * Dear 
 me, you young men are terribly bashful. Am I a 
 scorpion or a demon that you avoid me so ? I have 
 been called both before now.' 
 
 ' You !' I exclaimed, warmly. * Impossible !' 
 
 * Not a bit of it. You don't know me yet. They 
 are always telling me I am very wicked ; and I really 
 think they are right — ha ! ha !' 
 
 My feelings were terribly jolted about. This ease, 
 which seemed almost like boldness in one so young 
 and beautiful, was so completely the reverse of the 
 simple girlishness I had expected, that, fascinated as 
 I was by it, I almost felt it wrong to be so. 
 
 * I have not asked after your arm yet,' I said, with 
 more staidness. 
 
 * And my arm will return thanks for kmd inquiries 
 when the doctor has been to see it again.' And she 
 looked at me as if to judge of the effect of her words, 
 and did not conceal her smile. I felt a kind of 
 shiver. The old suspicions seemed to take body. I 
 became more and more stiff in manner.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 59 
 
 * There is one point about which I deem it my duty 
 to ask you — ' 
 
 * Your duty ! for heaven's sake alter the word. I 
 hate it. My Aunt Theodora is so continually drum- 
 ming it into my ears. But, never mind. What is 
 your duty, Mr. Solemnity ?' 
 
 This was worse and worse. I was being gradually 
 frozen. 
 
 * The friend,' I replied, ' who was with me yester- 
 day has lodged information about that man, and this 
 morning learns that the police think they have traced 
 him.' 
 
 This time she was perfectly serious. Her large 
 eyes opened with astonishment and inquiry. 
 
 * What man do you mean, the one who — ' 
 
 * Yes, the one who threw your horse down.' 
 
 ' Threw my horse down ? W^hat on earth do you 
 mean ? The poor beast stumbled and fell, partly I 
 think by my own careless riding ; but how could a 
 man throw it down. You must be dreaming.' 
 
 I briefly related all that Tom had told me. She 
 laughed vehemently ; but as I thought with a little 
 forcing, when I came to the end, and I thought her 
 face was a shade paler. 
 
 ' My dear young friend — you don't mind my call- 
 ing you young — your Pylades must have been de- 
 ceived. I assure you the fall was purely my own 
 fault. Stromboli was always weak on his legs — poor 
 Stromboli, he's ruined now — and I was holding him 
 most carelessly. Now 1 think of it, that stick was 
 lying in the road when I came up. Ha, ha, ha ! it
 
 60 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 is a very pretty story, but quite a mistake 1 assure 
 you.' 
 
 I tried to laugh too. I could not but believe 
 anything she said, for in her presence I was like a 
 magnetic subject before the magnetizer, and in a 
 complete state of electro-biology. I believed that 
 Tom had been quite mistaken. 
 
 ^ Now listen, my young friend,' she resumed ; 
 * you have done me many services — at least two — for 
 I do not forget your face when the suspected indi- 
 vidual in question was annoying me in the Park ; — 
 but if you care to do me another — do you care ?' 
 
 She looked at me so bewitchingly that I could 
 have told a lie even to serve her. 
 
 'Yes, I know you do. Well, then, do me just 
 this one service more. Go to the police with whom 
 you lodged the description, tell them you have seen 
 me — don't give my name, of course — and that the 
 whole thing is a mistake. Will you do this ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! how could I refuse ? Anything — anything 
 to serve you.' 
 
 'Thank you, thank you much. There, take my 
 hand, but don't kiss it this time. Ha ! ha ! ha !' 
 
 I pressed it, and rose to go. 
 
 ' Do not go,' she said, holding me down. ' That 
 is, unless you wish to — eh ?' 
 
 ' How could I wish it ?' 
 
 ' Well, then, stay and talk to me. You cannot 
 imagine how lonely I am. Good aunt, she never 
 comes near me, except to read me a lesson of some 
 kind When you are gone she will come to preach
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 61 
 
 on the impropriety of ray keeping you here so long. 
 And as for society, except that of a few callers, who 
 bore me, I have none.' 
 
 How flattered I felt ! Her clever eyes saw it at 
 once. 
 
 * Ah ! don't flatter yourself that you do not bore 
 me as much as the rest ; but then I like a bore that 
 J can bully — a young man who is devoted to me — 
 are you not devoted to me ?' 
 
 This egregious vanity, as I thought it at the 
 time, completely upset me. I answered with the 
 coldest manner against my conscience, ^No, Miss 
 Trevanion, I am not devoted to you.* 
 
 *Ha! ha! ha!' she laughed to herself, long and 
 merrily, ^Sijeunnesse savait.' 
 
 Then suddenly growing quite calm, and looking 
 at me fixedly, she continued, ' I am glad to hear it, 
 though I have forced you to tell a lie. You are 
 devoted to me, and you were so before you came 
 here ; you think me a very odd woman, and perhaps 
 a very horrid one. Now listen, I know a great deal 
 about young men. Do not imagine that I have 
 reached my advanced age — nineteen by the family 
 Bible and Burke's Commoners — without understand- 
 ing my contemporaries of the other sex, and you are 
 one of them, and — don't be flattered — a very pleasing 
 specimen. You came here with a vague fascination 
 dragging you on, and expected to find me very 
 different to what you have seen me. I might have 
 been so — I can play any part ; bah I it is so easy to 
 deceive.'
 
 62 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 1 shuddered. 
 
 'But if I had played the role you hoped to see 
 me in, you would have gone away in love with me.' 
 
 * No, no,' I put in, hurriedly. 
 
 * I know better,' she answered, correctingly ; ' you 
 would have gone away desperately in love ; so now 
 you can thank me for having undeceived you, eh ?' 
 
 * I confess,' I answered, sadly, ' that you have 
 undeceived me. To one of your terrible penetration 
 it is useless to deny that you are right ; but I do not 
 see why I should thank you for not allowing me to 
 be—' 
 
 'Deceived? Why, boy, what misery you would 
 have been in ! Admit I have acted rightly.' 
 
 * Yes,' I answered, very sad ; ' and yet — ' , 
 'Yet what?' 
 
 ' It would have been very pleasant to — to — ' 
 ' Say the word, I know what it is.' 
 
 * What then ? say it for me.' 
 
 ' It would have been a luxury to you to love me, 
 you think. Now, I tell you it would have been hell 
 to you. There, it is a strong w^ord for a lady to use. 
 You are growing more and more and more disgusted, 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! but it is true, it would have been hell 
 to you.' 
 
 I was shocked. 'And why?' I asked, reluc- 
 tantly. 
 
 ' Because you do not know me ; because you are 
 a good man in your way. You bear it in your face ; 
 and you do not know me. Wlien you had found me 
 out you would have hated me. I am bad — a bad 
 woman !'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 63 
 
 * What do you mean ? How are you bad ? I do 
 not think it can be the case; bad peoj)le never 
 confess it.' 
 
 * Pardon me. There is a certain stage of bad- 
 ness in every character where the shame of it is lost. 
 I have reached that stage.' 
 
 ' Nonsense/ I cried ; ' you take me for a mere 
 child, and think I shall believe anything you like to 
 stuff into my ears. I may be young, but I know 
 enough of mankind, and womankind too, to see that 
 that face belies your words.' 
 
 ' Well, believe what you like.' 
 
 There was a pause. I was thinking ; she smiling 
 to herself. 
 
 * By-the-by, what is your name ?' 
 
 * Arthur Magennis.' 
 
 ' Then, Mr. Arthur, who and what are you ?' 
 
 I told her. 
 
 ' Yes, and besides Cambridge, you have some other 
 occupation. I mean you are a little above Cam- 
 bridge ; not all horses and dogs, and boats, and rats, 
 and all that kind of dull young squireism.' 
 
 * You flatter me. I am not better than the rest, 
 though I have not their tastes.' 
 
 * I thought not ; yours are — 7 
 
 '■ Oh ! anything that is beautiful ; books mostly.' 
 ' Yes ; then reach me that Tennyson off the 
 table. Let us talk a little poetry, and believe our- 
 selves clever. That soft unction is very pleasant to 
 the soul, eh ?'
 
 64 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 What a levelling mind had this woman ! I reached 
 the book, and she opened it. 
 
 * Ha, ha ; very good, very appropriate.' And she 
 read : — 
 
 " Lady Clara Vere de Yere, 
 
 From me you shall not win renown, 
 You thought to break a country heart 
 For pastime, ere you went to town." 
 
 Then she turned over the pages and read a line 
 there and another here. 
 
 * I will read you something good,' she said. * The 
 best thing Tennyson ever wi'ote.' And, changing her 
 ringing voice for a deeper tone, she read out, ' The 
 Two Voices,' as I have never heard it read before. 
 All its full meaning came new upon me. 
 
 * It is not,' she said, as she closed the book and 
 looked full into my eyes, ' that there is any very deep 
 philosophy in this. On the contrary, the philosophy 
 is the commonplace of the century, the argument of 
 a prison chaplain or a newspaper editor. But, be- 
 cause that commonplace is put into new and better 
 words — because the poem, as a poem, is original in 
 general conception, and in that crescendo movement 
 which abhors the tricks of startling, puzzling, dis- 
 appointing, and high-flying, and leads on from theme 
 to theme, from thought to word and word to thought 
 — because of this, I say, that this piece is good. It 
 satisfies the mind, and yet leaves it in a new sphere. 
 You and I having read this poem, think more broadly 
 than we did before.' 
 
 * You speak like a man,' I answered.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 65 
 
 *I ought to do SO. I have lived all my years 
 among men. Fancy that aunt. She is the first woman 
 who was ever my companion, and she is not much of 
 one for me.' 
 
 I was thinking what a strange woman was here. 
 There was a silence. Suddenly she turned her eyes 
 upon me, like flashes from the clouds over a bleak 
 plain, and said : ' Ah, I see this will not do. You 
 are getting interested in me again. Come, I must 
 try and disgust you.' 
 
 * No, don't ; please don't,' I cried, imploringly. 
 
 ' I won't then, but you must go. Good-bye. Do 
 not come here again. If you are tempted to do so, 
 believe it is the devil who prompts it. My arm will 
 heal without your inquiries.' 
 
 I could not go. I had so much to unravel, so 
 much to know. I looked upon her shining beauty, 
 and felt rooted to her side. She simply turned her 
 head away and laughed — almost vulgarly, as I 
 thought. 
 
 * Shall I not see you again, then ?' I asked, still 
 hovering near. 
 
 ' Perhaps. In the Park, fur instance, with the 
 suspicious individual at my heels. Good-bye.' 
 
 This was said impatiently, and so I took my hat 
 and rushed away. 
 
 CHAPTER I Y.— Foolishness. 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' said Arthur, at this point, ' I bore 
 you with this tale. These conversations, which in 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 my folly I love to go back to, to recall word for 
 word, and to dwell upon, can have no interest for 
 you, who never knew the principal character in these 
 scenes, and can scarcely understand the weight of 
 her every word to me.' 
 
 * If you talk in this way,' I answered, impatiently, 
 * why did you ever begin your tale ? You know how 
 anxious I was to hear it, and cannot you understand 
 that a mere relation of bare facts cannot half so 
 much interest me, as details which shadow forth the 
 characters I do not know ? Go on at once, unless, 
 like a young lady, you must be pressed and implored.' 
 
 * As you like it. I will go on then.' 
 
 * This woman is not vulgar ; she is eccentric. I 
 was not disgusted, but I am disappointed. She is 
 not an apple of the Dead Sea, blooming without and 
 rotten within, but she is a will o' th' wisp, whose ap- 
 pearances lead you to believe in a substance, and 
 who is still an unsubstantial mystery when you follow 
 her. T am not in love, but I am terribly fascinated.' 
 
 Such was about the sum of my reflections, when 
 nearly a week after I was dressing for a grand ball? 
 to which I had obtained rather than received an in- 
 vitation. I was busy with my tie and looking at my 
 clean youthful face in the glass. ' I wonder what she 
 thinks of me,' thought I, * not much ; and yet — Well, 
 no matter, I am resolved to throw off the yoke. 
 To-night I shall meet some one perhaps as beautiful, 
 certainly as young — and decidedly more feminine, 
 more delicate and modest.' 
 
 This was a presentiment only, but destined to be
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 67 
 
 realised. I had scarcely entered the rooms of Lady 
 B — , when my eyes fell upon a girl quite as lovely 
 as Miss Trevanion, though in a very different style, 
 dark and cold, and about the same age apparently. 
 Yet how different the expression ! How calm and 
 pure the downward gaze ! How assuring the soft, 
 serious smile ! 
 
 I manoeuvred a long while for an introduction, and 
 at length succeeded. A rapturous waltz was just 
 beginning. I bowed, and was accepted. 
 
 * How divine is this music !' I said, seeking for any 
 commonplace path to lead me to the deeper forest- 
 glades. 
 
 * Very pretty, indeed.' 
 
 ' I can't imagine,' I went on, nothing chilled, ' how 
 men and women of respectable, serious cast of mind 
 can be so fondly devoted to this same modern danc- 
 ing. I can understand a jovial country-dance 
 among happy high-spirited country-people. I can 
 understand a stately measure. But this giddy whirl 
 is so unnatural. I think we must derive this passion 
 from the East. Some remnant of the Dervish's 
 spirit in our race. Don't you tliink so ?' 
 
 * I do not see anything unnatural in it, when you 
 are accustomed to it.' 
 
 I hauled in my scudding-sail, and set a flying-jib. 
 It was evident this tack would never bring me to laud. 
 
 ^ Have you been to the Exhibition ? Did you see 
 Miiller's ferns ? What do you think of them T 
 
 ' Oh ! I cannot imagine what people can see to 
 admire in such an ugly thing.' 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ' Yet there is much excuse in the grand concep- 
 tion, and the courage of the picture. This worship 
 of Natui-e, and belief that she, and she only, is the 
 real mistress of art, is not altogether contemptible.' 
 
 The young lady looked at me with some astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 * I am sure I do not know anything about Nature, 
 but I thought the picture very uninteresting. I do not 
 see what there can be in a clump of ferns and grass 
 to excite attention.' 
 
 ^Ah, I see you hold that all Nature is beau- 
 tiful, but worthy of imitation only in her higher 
 works ?' 
 
 The young beauty looked rather bored. ' I do not 
 care much for pictures,' she said, and putting up her 
 arm in the diffident manner of young ladies who 
 want to dance, obliged me to waltz with her. 
 
 After the dance, I returned to the charge. To all 
 my attempts to draw out some original thought 
 that should prove the soul of so much beauty to 
 be more than mere commonplace, I obtained the 
 same sensible, unromantic, respectable answers. 
 More than once I gave up the attempt, but when I 
 looked upon that lovely face, and saw the half-melan- 
 choly that lurked in those downcast eyes, I was per- 
 suaded that this commonplaceness was merely shyness ; 
 that I had only to fathom deeper waters, to draw her 
 out more skilfully, to interest her in myself. I re- 
 sumed the attack, and inquired about her tastes, 
 mingling a casual hint about my own. I found her 
 well read in Mudie's library, but nothing more.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. G9 
 
 Her criticism was highly sensible, and owed itself to 
 the newspapers or reviews. She had never read 
 Spenser, and knew nothing about Herbert. So, 
 finding literature was not her forte, I took her into 
 the * ways of the wicked world.' Here too she had 
 plenty to say, but not a single original view. 
 
 Still I lingered. At last I went into deep waters, 
 and talked of the romance of life. 
 
 ^I cannot bear romantic people/ she answered, 
 curtly. 
 
 At this moment Miss Trevanion entered the room 
 upon the arm of a handsome young man. Certainly 
 she looked magnificent, a very Cleopatra, and the 
 crowd fell back, and made way for her. I saw she 
 was not known even here. I noticed that people 
 whispered to one another with their eyes upon her, 
 and I felt rather proud when her eyes fell a second 
 upon me, and then glanced to my j)artner. Yet 
 she did not even appear to recognise me. 
 
 * Who is that ?' I asked presently of a young ball- 
 goer, who prided himself on knowing everybody. 
 
 'A foreigner, I believe,' he answered, while I 
 smiled. 'I saw her in the Park t'other day, but 
 this is I think the first time I have met her in 
 society. Very handsome, but evidently no one of 
 consequence.' . 
 
 This omniscient individual must have been rather 
 surprised, when a few minutes after I made my way 
 towards her, seeing that nobody but Lady B — 
 seemed to speak to her, and stood before her. 
 
 She smiled and gave me her hand. I saw a hun- 
 dred envious eyes opening at me.
 
 70 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 * I am glad to see your arm is well enough to allow 
 you to be here.' 
 
 * And I am glad to see you here. It is an intro- 
 duction, which we needed. So you are content to 
 appear in the ranks of these London dancers, in spite 
 of your virtuous spleen.' 
 
 * Not I forsooth. I come to look on.' 
 
 * Oh ! of course, and are quite blind to beauty. 
 Now, I know 1 am keeping you from a most interest- 
 ing tete-a-tete. She is certainly very lovely.' 
 
 ^Who?' 
 
 * The young lady over whom you bent with so 
 deep an interest.' 
 
 ' You] wrong me. I found her the veriest disap- 
 ix)intment.' 
 
 ^ So is everybody in the ball-room. Go to the 
 iireside, and learn character there. It is the only 
 nook where it bears a true light. The arm-chair is 
 to women what wine is to men. Verity sits in it.' 
 
 I took her down to supper. In a low tone she 
 turned to me and passed a thousand satirical epi- 
 grams on everybody present. This would have been 
 bad taste in any one but her. 
 
 'I am glad,' said I, when I had laughed enough, 
 ' that the world has never admitted the existence of 
 a female wit. Your femme d' esprit is bad enough, 
 but if to the license which woman takes as her due, 
 we were to add that which all allow — through fear 
 perhaps — to the acknowledged wit, I don't know where 
 your tongues would stop.' 
 
 She smiled in a peculiar manner to herself, as 
 much as to say * you don't know me by half yet.'
 
 THE LADY 1 SAW IN HYDE PARK. 71 
 
 *I remember,' I continued, 'seeing in a little 
 church — I think it was at Walton-on-Thames — a 
 kind of iron gag some centuries old, with the in- 
 scription — 
 
 " Thys ys a brydle 
 For the ladies of Waltoa which talke so ydle." 
 
 What a boon such an institution would be in modern 
 society !' 
 
 ' And add to it a pair of handcuffs for such wives 
 and daughters as have the itch for authoress-ship, 
 and you would do mankind a service. But you are 
 wrong, besides being rude, in applying the rule to 
 me. I laugh at these people, whom I do not know 
 and perhaps shall never see again, for want of some- 
 thing better to laugh at. Wicked people like me 
 must either laugh or drink. We must forget. But 
 I only laugh at these people's outsides. If I knew 
 more of them, I should find less to deride because 
 more to murmur against. I should abhor that 
 affected youth with the gold nuggets down his waist- 
 coat, if I knew that his bill at the jeweller's was un- 
 paid, that the workman who fashioned them was 
 waiting for his money, and the father who owned the 
 young dandy might have at last to screw it out of a 
 small income, and worse than the hardship, to find his 
 spoilt boy preferring nugget-buttons to his father's 
 comfort. If I knew that prim, priggish old maid 
 better, I should perhaps pity her for the miserable 
 worldliness of some wretched lover who deceived her 
 twenty years ago. Now I can only laugh at the con-
 
 72 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ceit of the one and the red nose of the other. But 
 after all, the real laughing-stock is society itself, which 
 by its self-grown laws encourages the little hypocrisies 
 which so amuse us. But diamond cuts diamond, and 
 there are plenty of laughers to have their jest at you 
 and me if we stay here much longer, flirting, as they 
 will say. I hate the word.' 
 
 We went up stairs again, and I delivered her 
 into the hands of the handsome young man with 
 whom she had come, not without a certain feeling of 
 jealousy which I tried hard to think unwarranted. 
 
 Before she left the ball, however, she took the 
 trouble to come across the room, and say to me, that she 
 should be walking and driving in Kotten-Kow the 
 afternoon next. 
 
 How intensely happy, — ay, and how horribly con- 
 ceited, this same speech made me. I went home 
 in a Hansom cab, quite regardless of expense for the 
 moment, for it was a very fine night ; and if I had 
 respected my own or the family's purse I should 
 have walked — and all the way I thought to myself 
 how infinitely superior was intellect, talent, genius 
 — call it what you will, I mean and meant the 
 unseen motive that tunes the tongue of the speaker 
 to lure the ear of the listener, be he more beast than 
 any quadruped wizarded by Orpheus' four strings. 
 I say I felt how this 'koyovsx'^)/ of the invisible A'^X'^, far 
 surpassed all the excellences, not of beauty only, but 
 of manner, style, petticoats, dressmakers, and even 
 the science of the eyes. Nay more, I behoved at the 
 time — mind me, fair incognita, I don't say I beheve
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 73 
 
 it now — that the power of the head, if a Kttle soft- 
 ness of the heart go with it, ever so little — is more 
 to be prized than all those beauties, which we expect 
 in woman and believe to be her chiefest duty, her 
 highest recommendation. Enough, I was wrapped in 
 the serpeiitship of my queen ; and no doves, however 
 tender, however purple plumed, could win me from her. 
 
 And on the morrow I went to seek her. I turned 
 into Rotten-Kow with a beating heart, and a great gulp 
 of pride. I, who had often secretly deplored the in- 
 feriority of my dress and appearance among the 'heavy 
 swells,' whiskered and moustachioed, who lounged 
 there, now felt a greater man than all of them. I 
 was going by appointment to meet a beauty who had 
 excited all the attention of Lady B — 's ball-room, and 
 must needs attract all the eyes in the Park. I there- 
 fore walked with a quick step, tossing a look of in- 
 difference, sometimes even of condescension, on those 
 whom at other times I looked up to as the very 
 Antonies of society. And all the way I fanned 
 myself with the delightful idea that I had an ' ap- 
 pointment ' with the great Cleopatra, and never for a 
 moment bethought me how unwonted it was for young 
 ladies of good breeding to make appointments with 
 young men in Hyde Park, or anywhere else. And if 
 such a thought had intruded, I should probably have 
 met it with praise of that generous independence 
 which scorned the narrow views of the respectable 
 world, every whit as wicked, for all its cloak of 
 sobriety. 
 
 What discomfiture then was mine, when after
 
 74 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 walking nearly the whole length of the Kow, till I 
 believed myself a dupe, or at least forgotten, I saw 
 the fair one holding the hand of the same hand- 
 some yoimg man with whom I had seen her the night 
 before ! * • 
 
 I won't bother you with the dole of my jealousies. 
 Suffice it to say, the youth was really handsome, and, 
 more than this, had that same aplomb of the world, 
 which I knew I wanted, and therefore foolishly 
 envied so much. 
 
 Determined to hold a dignified position in spite of 
 my presumed wrongs, I walked straight on, and 
 passed the pair without looking at them. But I 
 could not help hearing their parting words. In her 
 softest tones she was saying to him : ' You know I 
 cannot bear being bored, and if I tell you you bore 
 me, I am sure you will not attempt to repeat it.' 
 
 I could not help turning round at these unex- 
 pected words. The expression on the young man's 
 face was intensely sheepish. 
 
 Two minutes later she joined me, laughing mer- 
 rily. Flattered though I was, I felt rather disgusted, 
 and showed it. 
 
 * You treat your friends rather cavalierly,' I said. 
 * I suppose I must expect the same dismissal when 
 you grow weary of me ?' 
 
 * I shall never do you the honour to allow you to 
 weary me,' she answered, laughing again. ' But as 
 to Mr. Tarlton, he is intolerable, and I do not see 
 why I should make myself wretched to indulge the 
 whim of a young simpleton.' ^
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 75 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 * I wonder if that is what you call me too behind 
 my back?' 
 
 ' Of course it is,' she laughed out merrily. Then 
 suddenly becoming quite serious, she added, ^ No ; 
 there is a great difference between you and the 
 very intellectual Adonis who has just left us. The 
 fact is, that I revel in mystification. You know how 
 vain I am. Well, I flatter that vanity yet more by 
 the conviction that there is something very interest- 
 ing about ^me, something eccentric and out of the 
 common in a person so young and so independent, 
 &c., &c. Now, my friend Tarlton is not worth the 
 trouble of mystifying. He's so dull, that he thinks 
 everything I do must 'be the right thing. Besides 
 which, I don't know what his feelings really are with 
 regard to me. But with you it is just the reverse — ' 
 
 *In other words, you do me the honour to make 
 a fool of me, and then, by way of salve, tell me that 
 you do so because I am so wise.' 
 
 ' Just so. It is no fun to delude Giles or Miles. 
 The real enjoyment is to trip up Solomon.' 
 
 Thus we chatted on various themes as we walked 
 along the now crowded Kow. I could not help a 
 glow of satisfaction rising in my cheeks when I saw 
 the decided attention that my companion's beauty 
 attracted, and the looks of wonder or inquiry directed 
 at myself. At last, among the crowd came young 
 Tarlton, leaning now on the arm of a friend. 
 There was a look of intense melancholy on the young 
 man's handsome face that raised him in my esteem.
 
 76 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 A more worldly man would have been able to conceal 
 it. But his eyes seemed literally to devour my com- 
 panion, who, feeling with woman's instinct that he 
 was coming, sedulously turned towards me, and gazed 
 into my face with all the passion she could counterfeit. 
 
 * Ah !' thought I to myself, ' perhaps after all 
 she is only making me her tool, to stir up a jealous 
 rancour in the bosom of that unhappy youth. By 
 Jove, I can't stand that !' 
 
 But the feeling passed away again when, long 
 after the young man was gone, she continued to talk 
 to me in the same eager manner, growing more and 
 more lively, saying yet more unaccountable things, 
 and talking incessantly about herself, a subject on 
 which I had no desire to interrupt her. 
 
 At the end of the Row we found her neat little 
 brougham waiting, and to my disappointment and 
 vexation she told me to open the door of it. I 
 put out my hand for a * good-bye,' when she quietly 
 told me to get in too. I obeyed in silent amazement, 
 not a little increased by her giving the order to drive 
 round the Park. A long pause, in which I was trying 
 to account for this new piece of independence, not to 
 say boldness, by any reasonable or probable excuses. 
 
 ^ You are very courageous,' I said at last ; ^ you 
 seem to have a supreme contempt for the world's 
 wicked tongue.' 
 
 *I know what you mean. You are right. I 
 have a supreme contempt for all liars, and the world 
 is the greatest. Besides, independently of that, no- 
 body knows me in London, and my conscience is too
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 77 
 
 clear for me to care an atom if everybody did know 
 me.' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 * You certainly do mystify me,' I resumed ; ' and 
 nothing more so than by your extraordinary spirit 
 of independence.' 
 
 * That is what constitutes my wickedness. But? 
 ah ! if you knew me well you would understand it 
 all. Keflect that I was brought up in an out-of-the- 
 way village in the mountains, with no one near me 
 but an old father, who spent his days among books 
 and liis nights among dreams and memories, who left 
 me to gi-ow wild like a red foxglove in the woods, 
 and to pick up what I could of knowledge between 
 his musty library and the sunny hillsides. Oh ! 
 when I was a girl, there was not one perhaps in all 
 the country more single in heart, more naturally reli- 
 gious, more coy and modest, and certainly none as 
 gay as I was. You would have loved me then, Mr. 
 Arthur, if you had known me. But then the sad 
 day came. My poor dear old father closed his eyes 
 and went away to heaven, when I was still a child 
 of sixteen. I tell you I prayed that I might 
 follow him. Morning and night I prayed eagerly 
 for death, for I had a terror of the world, a pre- 
 sentiment of all the evil it would do me, and a 
 simple, childish longing for heaven. Well, that 
 prayer was not heard, and I was brought away into 
 the world that I hated. And there — there — forced 
 into a false position. What has happened ? \Miat ? 
 why I am a very sinner, a wretch. Oh ! if you knew
 
 78 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 me now really, you — you who are, I firmly believe, 
 truly good and just — you would hate me, despise me/ 
 
 Her voice was full of tears, and with a furtive 
 glance I saw that the long thick lashes glistened. I 
 dared not speak. 
 
 Suddenly she seized my hand in both of hers. 
 
 ' You — you will be a friend to me,' she said, eagerly. 
 * You will never, never consent, when the world, or 
 perhaps your own eyes, tell you of _my wickedness, 
 will you ?' 
 
 * Never, never ; but what — ' 
 
 * Hush ! no question.' 
 
 Then looking tenderly and sadly into my face, 
 she muttered ^ Poor boy !' 
 
 * Why do you pity me ?' I asked, indignantly. 
 
 * Ha ! ha ! ha ! because you are such a good fool.' 
 And that was all I could wring from her. 
 
 CHAPTER v.— Madness. 
 
 That night I went mad. 
 
 I have read that at the season of his love — (for in 
 this world there are seasons even for love, and youth is 
 man's season) — the Indian elephant becomes furious ; 
 I have seen the wild horse sniff, start, shake back his 
 mane, and suddenly dart frantically forward, head 
 down, hoofs high, head high, hoofs down, now curvette, 
 now rear, now whirl in a circle, now madly gallop on, 
 and yet no clarion called him, save the neigh of the 
 distant filly. And if the common instinctive love that
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PAEK. 79 
 
 their Maker has set in the hearts of beasts can thus 
 enrage them, how much more hath that pure feeling, 
 that can in nowise be compared therewith — as the 
 diamond cannot be comparisoned with the coal — the 
 power to turn men from their natural senses ? 
 
 * In the spring a brighter iris settles on the burnished dove ; 
 In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts 
 of love.' 
 
 I loved this woman — all woman as she was — with a 
 passion that burnt me wholly up. I could not speak 
 nor think for my love. I came home white as death ; 
 the palsy of passion was upon me. I sat down with 
 my folk to dinner. I eat nothing. I tried to swallow 
 a crumb of bread, and it stuck in my throat. Then 
 I drank enormously, until my good mother, who had 
 noticed my strangeness, became quite alarmed, and 
 drew me aside to question me. I swore that I had 
 never been in better health, and never felt happier. 
 She said little, begged me not to work too hard, and 
 went away with the firm impression that I was on the 
 brink of a fearful fever. She never thought about 
 insanity. That would have explained it. I was love- 
 mad. 
 
 When I had managed to escape my mother's 
 fond anxieties, I threw myself on my bed in my own 
 room and thought — or at least thought that I was 
 thinking — for there was too much of a mirage within 
 me to let any one thought be distinct — about this, my 
 love. 
 
 I was not wholly without experience in loving, at 
 least I believed so ; I had had more than one boyisii
 
 80 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 passion, which I had believed each time to be the 
 real one, and one cause or another — the death of 
 one, the marriage of another, or perhaps a nearer ac- 
 quaintance with a third — had turned each dream to 
 a nightmare, and left me at last free again. But this 
 love was another thing. This being was so wonderful, 
 so high above all in beauty, in soul, in mind, in all 
 things ; even — ah ! there was a hitch — yet even in 
 heart. There was nothing romantic in this love. It 
 was only a rapid scorching fire that had caught me, 
 and could not be put out again. The concomitants 
 were commonplace. Here was no village-maiden in 
 a lovely distant land; no high-born damsel in a 
 scutcheoned turret, no sighs, no tears, no single word 
 of love. All was laughter ; yet a strange laughter, 
 through which the underlying sorrow came, like the 
 deeper vibration in the jingle of a chime of marriage- 
 bells. And I was wholly a slave. I knew it. I knew 
 that I was in love with Medusa, but I doubted the reality 
 of the serpents that coiled in her hair, because she 
 made no effort to conceal them, but herself pointed to 
 them. 
 
 So then I got up and wrote a letter of six sheets, 
 in which I told her all I felt, and only asked her to 
 allow me to love her, — to forgive me, to be kind to 
 me, — nothing more. Then I read these six sheets over 
 and instantly threw them into the fire. Then light- 
 ing a pipe and joining my hands behind my head, I 
 rocked myself to and fro till I had concocted another 
 letter. This was far more respectful, and more 
 serious. I began with, * My dear Miss Trevanion,'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 81 
 
 simply. I sketched a little history of my own state, 
 then of my prospects, my poverty, my ambition, my 
 utter un worthiness, and I know not what more of 
 folly. I sealed this letter and took it to the post. I 
 had no sooner heard it thump against the bottom of 
 the post-box, than I wished to have it back again. 
 But the little obstacle in the way of this changed my 
 purpose, and I walked back contented and went to 
 bed. 
 
 The next morning two letters were brought me 
 while I was yet between the sheets. The first I 
 opened contained a cheque for a hundred pounds. 
 I had long expected this. It was the sum I had agreed 
 upon for the novel 1 had just finished ; and great was 
 my joy to see it, for I had devised a delightful sur- 
 prise for my dear father. I had no use for the money 
 myself, and had determined to pay it in to my father's 
 account and leave him to find it out from the bank 
 book. 
 
 The next letter was in an unknown lady's hand. 
 I rather trembled as I broke the seal, but when to 
 my horror my own long letter fell from the packet, 
 this trembling became a convulsion. The blood 
 rushed to my face ; I felt as if guilty of a detected 
 crime. I eagerly seized a small note that fell out 
 with it, and read as follows : 
 
 ' My dear Sir. 
 
 * I have just received the letter which I now 
 return you. It was addressed to me not only outside^ 
 but within, so that I had no choice but to read it. It 
 may be some comfort to you to know, however, that a 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 very few lines sufficed to make it evident that the 
 letter was not intended for me, while your name and 
 something in its tone led me to the conclusion that it 
 was meant for my niece Alice, Lady Grey.' 
 
 Here I dropped the note and groaned. But I 
 forced myself to read on. 
 
 ' My acquaintance with you, like yours with my 
 niece, is so very slight, that I will not take upon my- 
 self the burden of commenting at length upon this 
 extraordinary conduct. I think you will see at once 
 the absurdity of addressing in such terms a lady of 
 whose name even you are ignorant. If there is any 
 excuse to offer for you, it is your extreme youth, and 
 the remarkable manner in which you made Lady 
 Alice's acquaintance. I should say more than this if 
 it were necessary ; but as my niece left England last 
 night, perhaps for some years, I have little fear of 
 your renewing — ' 
 
 I saw no more. My head swam. I stumbled out 
 of bed and dressed hurriedly, making mental prepara- 
 tion all the while to carry out a sudden resolve that 
 I had taken. Then I sat down and wrote two letters, 
 one to my father and another to my mother. These I 
 sealed and put into my pocket. I then went down to 
 breakfast. I was very late that morning, and for- 
 tunately, as I thought, for I breakfasted alone. 
 About eleven o'clock I walked to Park Lane. 
 
 * Is Lady Alice Grey at home ?' I asked, with all 
 the coolness I could muster. 
 
 *No, sir. Her ladyship left last night for the 
 Continent.'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 83 
 
 * Indeed !' with forced surprise. ' For Paris, I 
 suppose ?' 
 
 ' I think it was for Florence, sir. Leastways she 
 was to go from Dover.' 
 
 * Ah. Just so.' 
 
 * Would you like to see Miss Trevanion, sir ?' 
 How that name jarred ! 
 
 * No, thank you, no. I only called to inquire.' 
 ' What name, sir ?' 
 
 * Oh, never mind this morning ; I will call again.' 
 At the corner of Piccadilly I met a Hansom. 
 
 ' Coutts's bank,' I cried, jumping in. 
 Now, with that perversity inherent in Hansoms, 
 my Jehu insisted on taking a road of his own, quite 
 out of the track which the crow would have taken 
 under similar circumstances, and drove down the 
 very street in which was the bank wherein my father's 
 little bunch of *wild thyme' grew; that is, grew 
 smaller and smaller, not bigger and bigger. I knew 
 the place well, and at the sight of it a dire struggle 
 rose within me between duty and desire. What was 
 there not of solace, what would there not be of self- 
 gratulation, in at once abandoning my wild scheme, 
 and paying in the cheque at my father's bank, instead 
 of cashing it at Coutts's ! I was just in the act of 
 poking my umbrella through the roof of the cab to 
 stop Jehu for this laudable purpose, when the 
 memory of yesterday came back upon me. Surely 
 the devil did it. No matter. We drove on, and I 
 cashed my cheque. 
 
 I next learnt that a boat would leave Dover for 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 Calais at ten at night, and that the train left London 
 Bridge at six in the evening. I passed some time in 
 buying a small portmanteau, linen, and other need- 
 fuls, and at last took an earlier train to Dover, in 
 order to escape the terrible conflict that still raged 
 within me. Before I went, however, I sent off my 
 letters home, and this eased my mind considerably. 
 
 Of my journey I need say nothing. Though it was 
 the first time that I crossed the Channel, though I had 
 long wished to go abroad, nothing had the slightest 
 interest for me. I saw nothing, cared for nothing. 
 The roughness of the douanier ; the cheating of the 
 ugly middle-aged woman who gave me my ticket and 
 wrong change at the station ; the tiresome civility of 
 the dapper-looking guard who took my surreptitious 
 franc, but would not take my hint to leave me alone ; 
 the chattering of half a dozen third-rate French- 
 women, with all their gesticulations ; and lastly, the 
 obsequious bobbings of the landlord at my hotel at 
 Paris, were all lost upon me. I lay coiled in a nest 
 of my own reflections, and these, I confess, were far 
 from satisfactory. 
 
 EPbwever, I woke up by degrees, and when I re- 
 membered the absurdity, to say nothing of the impro- 
 priety of my expedition, I determined to turn it at 
 least to the usual advantage gained by travelling, 
 and spent half a day in seeing Paris. But even here 
 my chief interest was the hope of possibly meeting 
 Alice in this place or that, as I thought it only natu- 
 ral she should rest a day in the French capital. Then 
 in the afternoon I drove round to all the principal
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 85 
 
 hotels, and at last discovered that she had left that 
 very morning. The rest of the journey was a mere 
 race. At every stopping-place I learnt that I was 
 just a day too late, though I was travelling day and 
 night incessantly. At last, somehow or other, I lost 
 all clue of my quarry, and went on as it were alone 
 to Florence. A couple of stations from the old city 
 I was just dozing off — for this chase had worn me 
 out — when my ears were greeted by a terrible English 
 oath of the coarsest and most violent description, 
 breaking the calm of a warm Italian evening. 'Twas 
 bad enough in the distant land to be reminded of 
 home only by its coarsest side, but for me it was not 
 all, for the next moment the door of the carriage was 
 violently opened and a drunken Englishman stum- 
 bled into the seat opposite me, followed by a thin 
 sinister-looking foreigner. 
 
 The individual in the bacchanal condition had an 
 exterior which took away a little from the hbrror of 
 his state, whilst it made any reflection upon it doubly 
 grave. He was a man about eight and twenty, with 
 a very handsome face, a little pale and worn, perhaps 
 from drinking, and not a little spoiled by a cruel, 
 despotic fierceness in his eyes. He was well dressed 
 in a fashionable English style, the more striking in a 
 land of tight coats and flashy * continuations.' His 
 companion had all the appearance of the keeper of a 
 gaming-house, or any other disreputable establish- 
 ment, and was decidedly obnoxious in the most fa- 
 vourable lights. 
 
 The Englishman talked to him in loud jockey
 
 86 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 tones, and with an air of rightful superiority. Now I 
 knew, as I thought, a good deal of the lingua Toseana. 
 I had read Silvio Pellico, Metastasio, and even bits 
 of Dante with the aid of a dictionary, and with the 
 additional assistance of Ollendorf I had managed to 
 ask for my ticket and other Kttle trifles on my jour- 
 ney, but this was the first time an Italian conversa- 
 tion was carried on in my hearing, and I found I 
 knew nothing at all of it. Still, not being allowed 
 to doze any longer, and having nothing better to do, 
 I listened attentively, knowing that I could not un- 
 derstand enough to make listening a breach of honour, 
 and at last, from stray words which I picked up, I 
 made out that the Italian was suggesting to the 
 drunkard the probable wrath of his unhappy wife 
 when he went home, a suggestion which he received 
 with a volley of syllables, which the mingling of 
 ' Corpo di baccho,' with a well-known English mono- 
 syllable, revealed as a string of oaths. 
 
 Suddenly, with a jerk, the Englishman turned to 
 me, and with an air of ludicrous politeness, took off 
 his hat and made me a profound obeisance. 
 
 *A — a fe — fe — fellow-countryman, I b'lieve,' he 
 hiccuped out. I bowed very stiffly. 
 
 ' Be — eg your parzon. Very fond of Englishmen. 
 Want to know how old Britannia getting on. Three 
 cheers for old Brit — ' 
 
 The rest lost in a loud vociferation of patriotic 
 sentiment. Disgusted as I was, I could not help 
 being a little amused. I had become accustomed to 
 the sight of drunken scenes at Cambridge, where that
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 87 
 
 suicidal vice is connived at in the younger men be- 
 cause so common among the older ones, and the feel- 
 ing of contempt and abhorrence easily gave way to 
 that of the ludicrous. Moreover, a weary week of 
 soKtude and sombre reflections had just brought me 
 to that state when very little suffices to amuse, so 
 that when the individual made an abortive attempt 
 to put down the window, and finding himself too un- 
 steady to effect his object, took the more direct 
 method of obtaining air by thrusting his fist through 
 the glass, I gave way to a guffaw, in which he joined 
 wildly. 
 
 The Italian, as I understood, told him he would have 
 to pay for the damages, and when the Englishman, 
 fumbhng in his waistcoat pockets, produced a heap of 
 large silver pieces and offered them to him, and it 
 was clear that his worthy companion wished to im- 
 prove the opportunity by robbing his charge, insist- 
 ing that it was not enough, I thought it only cha- 
 ritable to interfere. 
 
 * That is far more than enough,' I said. * Don't 
 give him any more, my good sir.' 
 
 The drunken man turned on me a look of ludicrous 
 suspicion, and smiled very leerily as he hiccupped out, 
 
 ' If you want my money, you Mr. Fellow-country- 
 man, here goes. I am not proud.' 
 
 Upon which he emptied both pockets of a large 
 quantity of gold and silver. 
 
 My suspicions of the Italian were not misplaced. 
 He made a desperate clutch at the rolling pieces, and 
 transferred a few to his own pockets ; but I was too
 
 88 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 sharp for him, and picking up as many as I could, I 
 returned them to the rightful owner. 
 
 ' You are a re — re — regular^ brick,' remarked that 
 lucid individual, in great wonderment at my proceed- 
 ings, while the other scowled furiously at me. 
 
 When we arrived at the terminus, the Italian 
 leapt nimbly out and disappeared in a trice. Though 
 I Avas in no mood to take charge of a drunken man, 
 I felt it a duty not to leave a countryman to the 
 mercy of thieves and vagabonds ; and when he 
 seized hold of my arm and said, * I say, old fellar, 
 stick by me — carriage here — white liveries — you 
 know,' I helped him out, and then across the plat- 
 form to a large double chariot that was waiting for 
 him. 
 
 A tall English ' flunkey ' received his master from 
 my arms, and managed to bundle him into the 
 vehicle ; then turning hurriedly to me, he said, ' If 
 you would be so kind, sir, as to get in with Sir 
 William. My lady has arrived ; and I am sure we 
 shall not be able to get him quietly to bed without 
 some gentleman that he knows being there to take 
 care of him.' 
 
 ' I shall be very happy,' I replied ; ' but I do not 
 know this person at all. I happened to be in the 
 same carriage with him, and as he was alone, took 
 care of him.' 
 
 * Oh ! I beg pardon, sir, I thought you was one 
 of master's acquaintance ; but if you could manage 
 to go with him all the same, I'm sure my lady would 
 be very much obliged to you. You see, sir, when
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 89 
 
 he's in this way of taking on, lie gets very awful, and 
 won't let any but a gentleman touch him. And he 
 seems to know you somehow, sir.' 
 
 * Is he often in this state ?' 
 
 * Well, sir, it is his way, rather ; but we thought, 
 as my lady was coming back, he would have kept quiet 
 for a little.' 
 
 I saw how it was ; and this mention of my lady, 
 and the reflection of a wife having to receive her 
 husband in this state of brutal intoxication, were 
 enough to draw out my consent. I had my luggage 
 put on the carriage and jumped in. 
 
 * Hurrah!' cried the drunkard, *now we will go 
 home and have some supper.' 
 
 We were set down in the court of a large pa- 
 lazzo. A major-domo came out, and with his assist- 
 ance and that of the other servant we managed to 
 get Sir William upstairs. As ill-luck would have it, 
 a supper was laid out in one of the rooms, and while 
 for a moment off my guard, the bacchanal wretch 
 got to the table, emptied half a bottle into a tumbler, 
 and drank it off. The major-domo came up at this 
 moment. 
 
 ' Mon dieu !' he whispered to me with a despairing 
 look, ' it is his brandy, vhat he always trink.' 
 
 I dragged him away by force just as he was ''going 
 to repeat the draught, and bidding the steward lead 
 the way to his bedroom pulled him along. It was a 
 desperate struggle to get him there. He resisted 
 with all his might, and he was no stripling ; but I 
 succeeded at last.
 
 90 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 CHAPTER VI.— The Cure. 
 
 However, tlie worst was not yet come. He lay 
 on the bed for a few minutes calm and silent while 
 the terrible spirit was taking effect, but suddenly he 
 leaped up, 'glared round him a second, and then 
 darted furiously at the major-domo and seized him 
 by the neck : a struggle ensued, but at last I rescued 
 the unfortunate servant and pushed him from the 
 room half-strangled. I had no need to bid him 
 remain outside. The madman then turned furiously 
 round the room, and with shouts and bellowings, 
 hurled the basins, jugs, &c. to the ground. I knew 
 it was useless to check him, but when he made a 
 dart at a valuable china clock on the chimney-piece, 
 I could not stand it any longer, and twisting my 
 arms round his shoulders I dragged him back to the 
 bed, and there held him by sheer force, with my 
 hand upon his neck. The scene that followed is 
 beyond all description. The oaths, curses, and foul 
 language which he poured out were frightful to 
 hear. There he lay struggling under my grasp, his 
 face red as a harvest-moon, the veins swelling, the 
 eyes starting, and he tossing his body and legs in 
 all directions. 
 
 Still I held him tightly till the fit was over, and 
 then he became suddenly calm, closed his eyes, and 
 was dead-drunk. As I stood bending over him I 
 scarcely perceived that the door opened, and a figure 
 glided to the other side of the bed. I raised my
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 91 
 
 eyes, and then with a cry started back. It was like 
 a thunderbolt, Alice stood there. 
 
 ' Alice !' I cried, all my consideration for the patient 
 being lost in this apparition. ^ Alice, is it, can it 
 be?' 
 
 She raised her finger anxiously to her lips to 
 enjoin silence, and then stealing round to my side, 
 laid her hand upon my arm. 
 
 * Dare you leave him ?' she asked, quietly. 
 ' Yes, yes.' 
 
 * Then follow me.' 
 
 I followed like one asleep, or one who sees a 
 spectre awhile before cockcrow. She led me to the 
 supper-room. 
 
 Here I rushed up to her and 'seized her hand 
 eagerly. * Oh, Alice, beloved Alice ! how happy — ' 
 I began. 
 
 She checked me angrily, without alleging any 
 reason. 
 
 * You must be exhausted,' she said, pouring out a 
 glass of wine for me. * Recruit yourself, and we will 
 talk afterwards.' 
 
 I was glad to obey, not that the exertion had 
 weakened me so much as the excitement of this 
 meeting. Then she put out her hand. 
 
 ' Thank you,' she said, * good, kind friend. You 
 have acted a generous part, as you have always done.' 
 
 * Oh ! Alice,' I blurted out, ' those words are honey. 
 Tell me, only tell me, you — you — allow me to love 
 you.' 
 
 * Hush,' she muttered, sternly ; ' do not mar your
 
 92 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 good deeds by such folly, such wickedness, such 
 insult.' 
 
 ' FoUy I insult I how, why ?' 
 
 She turned away, and in a voice full of tears, she 
 murmured, 'It is my own fault — all my own. I 
 brought this on myself.' 
 
 ' Alice,' I cried, vehemently, * forgive me ! Tell 
 me, only tell me, why is my love an insult ?' 
 
 'Are you then/ she answered, looking rigidly 
 into my face, ' are you^ even you Arthur Magennis, 
 so lost to shame, so spoiled already by the world, or 
 perhaps, rather, so blinded by infatuation, that you 
 can see no insult in speaking of love to another man's 
 wife?' 
 
 I started back in horror. I felt the blood rush 
 back into my heart. 
 
 * Wife !' I almost shrieked ; ' wife, oh !' 
 ' You did not know it ? Is it possible ?' 
 
 * Oh ! oh !' I cried, falling back into a chair. 
 * Oh, God ! oh, Heaven ! that— that it should be.' 
 
 The words found no utterance. I was annihi- 
 lated by that blow. My brain swam round ; my Bfe 
 seemed to be oozing from me. The world was a 
 blank, and for some minutes I saw nothing, felt 
 nothing. 
 
 At last the warm moisture of tears upon my 
 hand recalled me. I looked round, Alice was kneel- 
 ing by my side, her head sunk upon my shoulder. 
 She was weeping bitterly. I could not bear this. I 
 roused myself with an effort. 
 
 * Alice,' I said, gently, ' now and ever forgive
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 93 
 
 me. This is a great sin, but it was done in — in utter 
 ignorance. I knew nothing of this.' 
 
 ' I know it, I know it,' she sobbed. ' It was my 
 doing ; it was my selfishness. I concealed it for my 
 own .sake, because I was miserable ; because I needed 
 sympathy and found it in you ; because — oh, Heaven 
 forgive me ! I — I — I was wicked enough to — to love 
 you.' 
 
 1 tried to rise. She held me there. 
 
 * Oh, stay before you condemn me ! Hear me out. 
 Do not be harsh to a weak, a foolish, a much-in- 
 jured woman. I thought — indeed I thought — I should 
 be able to conquer it. I thought — oh, yes I felt 
 certain ! — that you cared little, very little for me. I 
 thought you were a boy and would forget it ; and 
 when I could no longer trust my own self-command, 
 and when I felt that you were really interested, I 
 left England at once — at once — though it was to 
 return to-^to this — to what you saw to-night.-' 
 
 Again I tried to rise, with a desperate indigna- 
 tion in my heart. 
 
 'No, you shall not go. You shall not condemn 
 me wholly. I have sinned against Heaven, I know ; 
 but I have not sinned against you. Did I not do all — 
 all I could to disgust you with myself? Did I not 
 sacrifice even my self-respect ? I knew you were so 
 good, so upright, that I believed your passing fancy 
 would pass indeed. Oh ! if you knew all, if you knew 
 how I was wedded at an age when no girl is fit for 
 the world — at sixteen — and that ever since, for three 
 years, I have been virtually alone — really a slave — the
 
 94 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 wife of the man you have seen to-night. Heaven 
 forgive me ! a drunkard, and worse than a drunkard. 
 Oh ! if you knew the degrading life of a woman in 
 such a position, surrounded by his friends, worse than 
 himself, exposed to all their lowering influence — to 
 all the temptation of what was worse than solitude. 
 If you could know how long I loved him in spite of 
 everything, how I have worked to recall him, what 
 I have endured, and how at last — only at last — after 
 so much misery, so much disappointment, my spirit 
 was broken, and I ceased to love, because I despaired. 
 Oh ! if you knew all — ' 
 
 Sobs, violent and thick, checked her words now. 
 I had risen while she spoke, but she still held my 
 arm like a vice, still crouched kneeling at my side. 
 I had turned away my face. I could not bear to look 
 upon this woman. I would have spoken, but my 
 tongue refused. The burden of my thoughts was too 
 heavy for it. 
 
 In vain I strove to shake her off. She bent her face 
 upon my arm and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. 
 
 At length her sobs ceased, and her voice came low 
 and gasping. 
 
 *You shall go. Go, if you wiU, and for ever. 
 Condemn me, if your heart is hard enough. But re- 
 member to what you leave me. Be not too hard upon 
 a wretched woman. If you forgive not my sin, at 
 least forgive the wrong I have done you. Look at 
 me — one look, for the sake of pity !' 
 
 She loosed my arm, but I did not turn. 
 
 ' Go, then,' she murmured.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 95 
 
 1 stood still there. The devil was at my heart to 
 curse this woman, but I crushed him. 
 
 * Will you not look at me ?' she said, in a sweet low 
 tone. I felt that I was giving way ; and without turn- 
 ing my head, I walked deliberately to the door. There I 
 hesitated, and turned, to see her stretched on her face 
 upon the ground. 
 
 I rushed away. 
 
 As is natural in man, I felt the selfish impulse 
 long before any other. I felt that I had suffered 
 deeply, that this blow was irrecoverable to me. I 
 even reproached, in spite of myself, her who had led 
 me on to this terrible conclusion. It was not till I 
 was alone, rolling from one side to the other of my 
 bed, that I remembered to pity where I had first 
 blamed. I did pity ; yes, I wept and prayed for her. 
 But the more I pitied, alas ! the more I loved ; and 
 when I felt this, knowing the wickedness of such a 
 love, I made a huge effort, and wrenched the pity 
 and the love and every softer feeling from my bosom, 
 till I could accustom myself to look upon this woman 
 as a sinner thoroughly unpardonable. With that 
 feehng I arrived at my father's house. I will say 
 nothing about that arrival, if you please. 1 have had 
 bitterness enough to tell of, without recalling the fear- 
 ful wreck that my folly had caused. Enough — 
 enough. 
 
 There was a long, solemn silence when Arthur 
 had ceased.
 
 96 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 CHAPTER YII.— The Interlude. 
 
 A FEW years ago the greater part of continental 
 travelling had to be done in a succession of hateful 
 diligences, which to their many other inconveniences 
 invariably added that of starting late at night, so that 
 an unfortunate traveller, unaccustomed to their ill- 
 stuffed seats, and the continual shouts of the driver to 
 his horses, could rarely pass the nocturnal hours in 
 the manner in which nature intended them to be 
 passed by weary bipeds ; and as reading was out of 
 the question, was generally forced to have recourse 
 to a pipe and his own reflections. 
 
 Coming from the interior of Germany to Bonn, my 
 friend and I had had a sixteen hours' journey to make 
 after this fashion, with no relief but an hour's stop- 
 page at a small, uninteresting iovm. It was during 
 this journey that Arthur had brought out his narra- 
 tive, and with so much success that we arrived 
 at Deutz, still under the impression that we had ano- 
 ther six hours to endure the cramping of our legs. 
 
 From Cologne to Bonn is a mere nothing by the 
 railroad ; so, as the day was far advanced, we dined 
 in the first town, and determined to reach the second 
 the same evening. Haviag done so, we engaged a 
 couple of rooms in the Hotel Royal, looking over the 
 Rhine. 
 
 The next day, after a heavy table-d'hote, we were 
 sitting smoking very calmly near the window of 
 our sitting-room, and watching the moon rise behind
 
 THE LADY I SAW m HYDE PARK. 97 
 
 the castle of Drachenfels, and make little streams of 
 silver in the flood below, when suddenly a woman's 
 voice broke into the stillness of the night air, and 
 swelled up clear and wild towards the moon. It was 
 so close to us that we were startled into admiration. 
 It was so rich and tuneful that it seemed to flow and 
 eddy round us. It was so rapturous that we held 
 our breath in delight. The words were melancholy. 
 They were verses from an old well-known English 
 ballad that had been fashionable some ten years be- 
 fore, and, like most of those maudlin productions 
 which go by the name of ' ballads,' they savoured 
 somewhat of British sentimentality. However, they 
 were plaintive, and it may be no harm to write down 
 what verses I remember of them. 
 
 * Farewell, I bid thee yet again farewell. 
 
 That word can scarcely shake this broken heart, 
 Though fallen souls shrink less from flames of hell 
 
 Than mine, from the dread thought that we must part. 
 
 ' I leave thee ; 'tis not time I fear alone, 
 Though years or even death our hands may sever, 
 
 'Tis the black thought, that in that one sad tone 
 I bid adieu to hope and thee for ever. 
 
 ' I almost wish that we had never met. 
 
 Then like a sick man's night my life had past. 
 
 When once the sun of childhood's dreams had set, 
 Mem'ry at least had hailed it as the last. 
 
 But thou, fair morning beam, hast woke the love. 
 That should have slumbered, to a rosy dawn 
 Too fair to last. Too soon the clouds above 
 
 Thy head have blackened, and life's sunlight's gone. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ' I blame not fate, although she cursed my birth, 
 Nor blame the world, my lo\e a sin that deems ; . 
 
 I blame not thee, the noblest child of earth, 
 I blame my folly and my madman's dreams. 
 
 * I bid thee not remember me, 'twere shame 
 
 That thought should pale thy bloom, whene'er it fell. 
 
 I'll love thee, till the tomb receive my name. 
 In silence and in sadness — fare thee well.' 
 
 When the song was done, the voice still seemed to 
 fill the air around. In that German land, in view of 
 the great Drachenfels, it was so strange to hear a 
 song which we had heard so often in London draw- 
 ing-rooms, that its effect was decisive, and left us both 
 speechless. 
 
 Presently the waiter entered with those never-failing 
 bougies : which, on nights like this, we invariably put 
 out the moment they were brought up. On that 
 night, however, we did not do so. The waiter in 
 question was a remarkable individual. He was an 
 enormous German, with a profusion of flaxen hair, 
 brushed about majestically. He spoke English pretty 
 well, and was proud of his knowledge of it. He was 
 the pet waiter of the place, and knew it. He attired 
 his stout person in a pair of ' bags ' — literally hags — of 
 bright Stuart tartan, which he conceived would be ac- 
 ceptable to the British eye ; a white waistcoat which 
 opened to display some feet of shirt-front elaborately 
 worked, and a black cut-away coat. 
 
 * Karl,' I said, beckoning to him, * can you tell us 
 who the lady in the next apartment is ?' 
 
 Karl stroked his chin, and looked very knowing.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 99 
 
 * Ha, milor, you have then the singing heard ?' 
 ' We have, Karl, and are delighted with it.' 
 
 ' Ya'as, milor, it is much fine, much fine.' 
 
 ' And who is it, Karl ?' 
 
 *Ah, milor, how can I to tell? It is mystery, 
 mystery. This is a much beautiful woman, vair 
 young, vair fine, vair rich, oh ! vair rich. But she 
 hide herself. She come not to the excellent table of 
 the host. She dine in her chamber. She see no 
 friend. She have her maid vid her, her carriage, 
 and her conductor and man. But when she go out, 
 a deep veil. When she stay to home, always in her 
 apartment. Never to see nobody. Oh ! vair much 
 mystery !' and Karl held up his great red hands in 
 Teutonic amazement. 
 
 * And what is her name ?' asked Arthur, eagerly. 
 *0h, her name, sair, that is also much mystery. 
 
 Who know? She seem to have no name. Her 
 servants she forbid tell it altogether. She never 
 write it in books of visitors. She hide it wid great 
 mystery.' 
 
 'Ah, this is interesting. She is English, of 
 course ?' 
 
 * Yes, sair, she is. Bote I will to tell you, sairs. 
 This evening, her maid come, and say : De book of 
 de visitors, where is it ? I give it to hair. She take 
 it to hair mistress, and when she render it to me, she 
 say : Monsieur Karl, I tell you, to-morrow my mistress 
 dine at table d'hote. Dis much amaze me. Dis de 
 first time. To-morrow, gentlemen, if you dine at 
 table d'hote, you see this great English beautiful !' 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 'Ha, ha/ I laughed, as Mr. Karl retired. *A 
 very good dodge of the waiter to get us to dine at 
 the heavy ordinary again. Shall we do so?' 
 
 *By all means,' answered Arthur, showing more 
 interest than he had ever done before. ' I am struck 
 by this woman's voice, and there is something very 
 mysterious in Karl's account of its owner. I am 
 longing to see her.' 
 
 ' What, Arthur ! so interested in any of woman- 
 kind after the story you told me yesterday ?' 
 
 Arthur smiled sadly. 
 
 'The voice is strangely like Lady Grey's,' he 
 murmured. 
 
 Accordingly, the next day, Arthur hurried me 
 back from Godesberg, where we had been examining 
 the remains of the old castle, and insisted that we 
 should join the public dinner. There were some fifty 
 or sixty people there, mostly English, and my eyes 
 passed rapidly over them in quest of the mysterious 
 lady. I saw many a pretty EngHsh girl, and not a 
 few plain ones, but I could find no one who seemed 
 to have anything very romantic about her. 
 
 * Well, Arthur,' said I, ' where is your lady of 
 the beautiful voice ?' 
 
 I turned towards him as I spoke, and was fright- 
 ened at his pallor. He was white as death, and 
 trembling violently, as I could see by the movement 
 of his knife and fork. He forced a smile, and an- 
 swered, * How should I know ?' 
 
 But I followed his eyes, which were fixed on a 
 figure at the farther end of the table, and saw a lady
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 101 
 
 in a bonnet, whose face was covered as far as her 
 mouth with so thick a black veil, that it was difficult 
 to tell what she was like. Through its folds, though, 
 I saw two beaming eyes, bent fixedly on my friend's 
 face, and I immediately made up my mind that there 
 was some connection between them. The dinner went 
 on, but Arthur did not seem to notice it. He allowed 
 the waiter to fill his plate repeatedly, but it was inva- 
 riably taken away again with an undiminished load. I 
 only noticed that he filled his tumbler repeatedly with 
 Rhenish and water, as if he were burning with fever, 
 and that when he spoke, it was with an effort, and 
 in an absent, incoherent manner. 
 
 When the dinner was over and the guests gone, 
 with the exception of a few gentlemen who stayed — 
 more Germanico — to light their weeds and sip their 
 coffee, he drew me into a window, and began in a 
 very solemn tone : 
 
 * My dear fellow, are you anxious to stay in 
 Bonn?' 
 
 * Not 1. I don't care where I go.' 
 
 * Would you mind leaving to-night for Coblentz ?' 
 ' Not at all, if I can be of any use to you.' 
 
 ' I do not mean that you should go alone, but that 
 we should both leave this place. The fact is, my 
 dear good friend — the fact is — I must tell you — that 
 Lady Grey, of whom I told you, is here.' 
 
 * Is it possible ?' 
 
 * Yes, and I believe it was she whom we heard sing- 
 ing last night' 
 
 *Ah!'
 
 102 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 *It was that lady in tlie thick veil. Did you 
 notice her ? I knew her at once, in spite of her veil, 
 and she recognised me.' 
 
 * I saw her staring at you. But why leave on that 
 account ?' 
 
 ' Because I am afraid of that woman. I do not 
 mind telling you, that I feel this evening that her 
 influence is still quick and fresh ; and I dread being 
 ensnared by it again, to suffer another time what I 
 have suffered already.' 
 
 To this argument I could say nothing, though I 
 confess I was now sorry to leave, as I wished to see 
 more of this strange person. But I yielded to 
 Arthur's wish, and gave orders for our departure. 
 
 Just as I was following him up to our rooms, the 
 tartan trousers flitted before me, and Karl, with a 
 knowing look, put a note into my hand. 
 
 ^ For me?' 
 
 ' Yes, sau', for you ; and,' he added in a whisper, 
 ' from de lady what sing so lovely.' 
 
 I tore open the note, and read in astonishment : 
 
 ^SlK, 
 
 * You will confer a great obligation on a coun- 
 trywoman, if you will allow her ten minutes' conver- 
 sation with you ; but I must beg you, whether you 
 accede to my request or not, to keep this communi- 
 cation secret from your fellow-traveller, Mr. Arthur 
 Magennis. 
 
 * Yours, A. G. 
 
 * The waiter will lead you to my apartment.'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 103 
 
 Karl did in fact lead the way, and I followed in 
 complete amazement, scarcely knowing liow to act. 
 I was ushered into a very pretty drawing-room, and 
 the waiter had only just left it, when another door 
 opened, and a lady, of such rare and heavenly beauty 
 that I cannot describe it, entered, and, bowing cour- 
 teously and with a smile, begged me to be seated. 
 
 In spite of the slightness of the description Magen- 
 nis had given me, I at once recognised Lady Grey 
 by the rich fair hair of the peculiar Madonna tint, 
 the tall graceful figure, and the ease of her manner. 
 Being one of those persons who, like the blind, are 
 influenced by the tone of voice, I was at once capti- 
 vated by the sweetness of hers. 
 
 ^ You are doubtless surprised, sir,' she began, ' at 
 being sent for in this unceremonious manner, and I 
 have to thank you much for coming at the request 
 of a person whom you had never seen before, and 
 of whom it is not probable that you can know 
 much,' 
 
 * Am I not speaking to Lady Grey ?' I asked. 
 
 * Certainly you are. But what do you know of 
 Lady Grey?' 
 
 * Perhaps,' I replied, ^ it may serve as an introduc- 
 tion to any conversation you wish to carry on, if I 
 tell you at once that Magennis has already spoken to 
 me of you.' 
 
 * Indeed ! Then you are an old friend of his ?' 
 
 * Not an old friend, but a very intimate one.' 
 
 * And how did he speak of me ?' she asked, 
 eagerly.
 
 104 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ' It is scarcely fair to ask me. But I may tell you 
 tliat he recounted to me the strange circumstances 
 under which he met you, and also his last interview 
 with you.' 
 
 * Ah !' said the lady with a sigh, ' he told you aU 
 that ? And what did he say of that last meeting ? 
 Did he tell you that we parted good friends, or the 
 contrary ?' 
 
 ^ Decidedly the contrary.' 
 
 ^ And does he still think he was right in his con- 
 duct?' 
 
 ' I cannot say. I have not discussed the question 
 w'ith him.' 
 
 There was a pause here, and then with a slight 
 bhish the beautiful woman resumed : 
 
 ^ Pardon me, but you must be on very confidential 
 terms with — with your friend, for him to tell you so 
 much. Will you not confess that he has told you 
 everything ?' 
 
 'If, by everything, you mean his attachment to 
 you, yes.' 
 
 * Ah ! then you can excuse the imprudence of my 
 sending for you. You can appreciate the interest 
 that — that still exists between us ; or perhaps I 
 should say on my side only. For I will not disguise 
 to you, that having few friends in the world, I am 
 doubly grateful to those who really serve me, and are 
 kind enough to like me. I have still a debt of gra- 
 titude to repay to Mr. Magennis, and the sight of 
 his face to day has recalled all this to my mind.' 
 
 She spoke under evident restraint, and stopped
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 105 
 
 now as if uncertain how best to continue. I was so 
 enchanted by her beauty and the modesty of her 
 manner, so contrary to what I had expected, that I 
 could not but feel for her embarrassment, and strove 
 to dispel it. 
 
 * Madam,' I said, * you may feel assured that my 
 friend is very far from forgetting you.' 
 
 ' And yet at dinner, though he evidently recognized 
 me, I could see that it gave him no pleasure to meet 
 me again. Am I not right ? Did he speak to you 
 about it?' Then suddenly changing her tone, she 
 added, ' Come, sir, I think I may be open with you. 
 That good sign-board, your face, tells me there is 
 kindness and sympathy to be had within — eh ? I am 
 seldom wrong in my first impressions, or I should not 
 have asked you to come here to-night — ' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear madam I' I interrupted, ' I assure 
 you your impression is not wrong. Believe me when 
 I tell you that I shall feel it to be an honour and a 
 happiness to serve you, and that you can repose com- 
 plete confidence in my secresy and my discretion.' 
 
 ' Thank you, thank you ! So then you will bear with 
 me, and allow me to talk a little nonsense to you. 
 Well, then, I must begin by" telling you that I am a 
 very foolish woman, and perhaps a very wicked one, 
 but yet I' try to be good. I married once a man 
 who made me wretched, and when I could no longer 
 live with him, I met Arthur Magennis, and I must 
 not deny that if he fell in love with me, I was no less 
 so with him. It was wrong, but it was natural. I 
 was alone in the world. I wanted sympathy. I
 
 106 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 wanted affection. I should have loved any one that 
 could have given them — and your friend is not a com- 
 mon being. But wlien the discovery was made, 
 Arthur's indignation was without bounds. I do not 
 blame him ; on the contrary, I admire him for his 
 very sternness ; but — but perhaps he might have been 
 less harsh with one who suffered as I did. Well, no 
 matter ; I see you are shocked — ' 
 
 ' I am sorry you should recall all this, madam,' I 
 replied, stiffly. 
 
 * Ah ! but wait. You do not know all. I am free 
 now, and to love is no sin, to love whom I please? 
 whether they care for me or not ; and so I will love, 
 though all the world were looking at me with those 
 stern respectable looks of which you gave me one 
 just now, sir. I am no longer a wife but a widow.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' I cried. 
 
 * Two years ago Sir William Grey died.' She spoke 
 solemnly, and looked down. * I wish I could say he 
 died a better man than he had lived. But enough- 
 
 For him, for me, his death was a release, and 
 
 well ! let us speak of the future ; the past is hateful 
 — hateful. Are you prepared to help me T 
 
 * Ready and most willing.' 
 
 * Will you then tell your friend that you have seen 
 me ? Do not repeat our conversation, but only that 
 Sir W. Grey is dead, and that Lady Grey has not 
 forgotten the services of Mr. Arthur Magennis. Then 
 see if you cannot induce him to come and see me. 
 But mind, what I have confessed to you I could not 
 confess to him. It is easy for me to teU you of my
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 107 
 
 foolish fondness, but he must not even dream that it 
 is still alive. He must come here only as an old ac- 
 quaintance. Go, and see if you can bring him.' 
 
 *I will do my best/ I replied, rising ; * but I must 
 warn you that he leaves Bonn to-night' 
 
 * To-night. Oh! why?' 
 
 'Shall I tell you? Well then, because you are 
 here.' 
 
 ' Does he hate me so much ?' 
 
 * Hate you, madam ! That is impossible. He 
 says he fears you.' 
 
 * But — ah, yes ! I understand. But does he know 
 that — that Sir WilHam Grey is no longer living ?' 
 
 * I do not know.' 
 
 * Oh, then, go, my good sir, go and tell him, and 
 quietly persuade him to — to relent. Do not let him 
 leave Bonn, at least to-day.' 
 
 I turned to leave the room. 
 
 *Stay,' she cried, suddenly, running to the next 
 room, and returning immediately with a small packet 
 of papers ; * stay, if all your arguments shall fail — for 
 I look to you to be eloquent in my favour, will you 
 not ? — if he still thinks too harshly of me to wish to 
 meet me again, then, but not till then, give him this 
 packet, and bid him read its contents.' 
 
 I will not weary you with a repetition of the report 
 I had now to make to Arthur, and my arguments in 
 favour of this winning beauty. Suffice it to say, that 
 I found Arthur firm in the determination not to revive 
 the fatal error of the past, and that as a last resource 
 I gave him the written papers.
 
 108 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 He spread them out upon the table, and soon rest- 
 ing both elbows upon it, supported his head upon both 
 hands, and seemed completely absorbed in what he 
 found written there. For my part, after studying 
 Murray's Handbook of the Khine till I was sick of 
 knights, castles, dragons, and phantoms, I fell into a 
 gentle doze, and awaking from time to time always 
 found Arthur still in the same position. At last the 
 night was far spent, and nothing being decided, I grew 
 impatient. 
 
 * Magennis !' I cried. 
 No answer. 
 
 * Magennis !' a good deal louder. 
 
 ' Eh ? ah ! what is it ?' without looking up from 
 the MS. 
 
 * Magennis, are we to leave Bonn to-night ?' 
 
 * Eh ? Bonn, Bonn ? Are we at Bonn ? Oh ! yes 
 of course we are. I had forgotten. Well, no, I 
 think — what do you think ?' 
 
 He looked rather ashamed of himself. 
 
 * Why, I tliink that it is near midnight, and much 
 too late.' 
 
 * Very well, as you like.' And he was already in 
 his story again. 
 
 At last he came to the closing page, and presently, 
 with a sigh, he looked up. 
 'Well, old fellow?' I asked. 
 
 * Well, life is very strange. You say Sir William 
 Grey is dead ; are you sure of it ? Yes ? Well, then, 
 I shall go and see Alice.' 
 
 And he actually started up to go, and would have
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 109 
 
 gone, if I had not led him back to the big German 
 clock on the chimneypiece, and showed him that it 
 was two in the morning. 
 
 * Is it possible ?' said he, reddening. ' Why, when 
 did I begin to read ?' 
 
 * Only some six hours ago.' 
 
 He laughed a good deal at his own absence. 
 
 * Well, you must forgive me, my dear fellow. If 
 you had had the same tale to read under the same 
 circumstances, you would have forgotten to take 
 account of time.' 
 
 * Is it so very interesting, then ?' 
 
 ' To me, yes. You perhaps would find it slow or 
 insipid.' 
 
 * Is it sentimental ?' 
 
 * Pshaw!' 
 
 * Eomantic ?' 
 ^Pooh!' 
 
 'High-flown, and full of hair-breadth 'scapes, of 
 heartless villains, who pass their lives in working 
 out a vengeance, always regardless of expense, and of 
 omniscient gipsy-mothers, who change the heroine in 
 .her cradle and astonish the weak mind of the flaxen- 
 headed hero ?' 
 
 « Pshaw !' 
 
 * Well, if your tale possesses these attributes, take 
 my advice, and — ' 
 
 ' And what, idiot ?' 
 
 * Send it to the London Journal.' 
 
 ' Wretch ! I'U have thy blood,' cried Arthur, melo- 
 dramaticaUy. 'Knowest thou not, sirrah, that this
 
 110 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 narrative comes from the pen of mine own lady-love ? 
 Avaunt, fiend ! There, that's your style for the maga- 
 zine in question.' 
 
 *But nonsense. Do you mean that this is her 
 journal V 
 
 * Even so. Or rather, it is better still, a continuous 
 account of her early life, before I knew her.' 
 
 Of course, in the process of things, I got hold of 
 the mysterious MS., and read it ; and if I now publish 
 it, you may be sure it is * by permission.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII.— The Woman's Tale. 
 
 The MS. opened without preface or explanation. 
 It was divided into chapters, the first of which was 
 called 
 
 ' MY FATHEK's beard.' 
 
 It then began thus : 
 
 The world is very old and grown diseased in its 
 age. What is there in man or woman which every 
 other reading man and woman does not know of? Is 
 there any new passion under the sun to amuse this 
 nineteenth century, or any delicate shade of feeHng 
 in the heart, or disposition in the soul, which has not 
 been discussed ad nauseam? How enviable — at 
 least to newspaper-writers — are those early Ante- 
 diluvians to whom the elegancies of crime were as 
 yet unknown! How far more brilliant an article 
 could be made out of the discovery of poison as a
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. Ill 
 
 means of removing your enemies, than even out of 
 the sea-serpent ! 
 
 Nay, even beyond the earth, all that we can con- 
 ceive has been conceived to help the unconceiving to 
 believe. If now another Milton should arise, another 
 Dante, laying aside the heathenisms and Hebraisms of 
 those pedantic men, who have been called inspired, 
 but whose inspiration, if such it was, breathed far 
 more earthly things than any prophet speaking to the 
 world of what he saw in heaven, in worldly language 
 for the dull to appreciate ; if such a man arose, Sweden- 
 borg without his prosiness, without his loud presump- 
 tuous Kes, such an one could tell us nothing new of 
 heaven, nothing that we have not dreamed of, nought 
 that we should care to hear. With man's heart and 
 woman's it is the same. All has been sifted, analyzed, 
 and over-written. So now the world, sitting hke an 
 old grandsire, iu his arm-chair, dandles his grand- 
 children on his knees, and babies have become our 
 heroes and our heroes babies. 
 
 The change is happy, for it is sweet to look upon 
 our portraits in long clothes, and say, * There is my 
 better self, before the world polluted me.' So you 
 shall have my childhood's story, and learn how I first 
 learnt the world. 
 
 In the very far distance I am sitting on the floor — 
 it is of dark wood without a carpet — in a little dark 
 room. Perhaps the room was not really dark, but iu 
 these early recollections everything is dim, and has 
 no background, as it were — no matter. The room 
 was small, not very clean, but very rustic. Across
 
 112 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 the ceiling were two great beams, and the rest of it 
 was only smeared with a very slight coating of white- 
 wash, so that you could see the boards easily under it, 
 for plaster was unknown in that country. Although 
 there were no bookcases in this room, it was filled 
 with books, for it was in fact the library. Great folios 
 in dull red bindings, a few perhaps white, and others 
 with a rough ragged brown covering, were huddled 
 corner-wise against sleeker quartos, while the little 
 duodecimos were always getting pinched between 
 them. Then there were a few shelves round the 
 walls on which the smaller and choicer books were 
 more neatly arranged ; and to add a little interest to 
 the dull place, there were one or two old-fashioned line- 
 engravings, such as you may see in hundreds on the 
 Quai Voltaire, or over the book-stalls under the 
 arches of the Institut at Paris, representing men and 
 women, whom for many years I believed to be Adam 
 and Eve, till one day I was much disappointed to 
 find they were Hector and Andromache, Dido and 
 -^neas, or some such iniquities. 
 
 Well, in the middle of this room is a large table, 
 covered with piles of foolscap, which have grown 
 dusty and brown from age, and beside it is a large 
 wooden chair, with a single uncomfortable cushion on 
 the seat. I remember that the back of this chair 
 was turned to me, and from beyond it I caught sight 
 of nothing more than one long hair, half black, half 
 silver, shining, curling, and very tempting. The 
 covered lamp is beyond this again, and gives just 
 light enough to make the silver part sparkle most
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 113 
 
 delightfully. Now this hair is the only stray one in 
 the beard of my old father, who is seated there 
 writing, writing, writing, into the long night hours. 
 I hear the creaking noise of the pen over the fools- 
 cap, and it is the only sound in the little room ; 
 and as I sit on the floor with a little old doll between 
 my legs, I look up and watch this one hair, which is all 
 I can see of daddy, for the high back of the chair 
 conceals the rest. Now I am seized with a great 
 longing to pull this one hair. I think of it long and 
 earnestly, and the more I think, the more I long to 
 do it. I put my stupid doll upon the floor and roll 
 myself over. When I get up I look at the hair 
 again. Oh, how silvery it shines in the dim room ! 
 I cannot resist it. I steal gently up, very much 
 afraid, but strongly resolved. I come quite close to 
 the high back. The scratching of the pen seems to 
 grow louder and louder, I cannot reach the tempt- 
 ing string of silver by myself, but there is a large 
 pile of books by the side of the chair, and on these I 
 mount stealthily as a mouse. Now I am up, now I 
 have clutched it, and then, oh ! what a tug ; the hair 
 gives way, and down I fall on my back. 
 
 Daddy has taken me up and kissed me, and called 
 me his own darling Alice, but he is evidently troubled. 
 It has disturbed him in his reflections and train of 
 thought, and he calls aloud for * Babbette, Babbette !' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, papa, I will be good, I won't do it again.' 
 
 But a great stumping step is heard outside the 
 door, and Babbette appears. She is an oldish woman 
 with a round pulpy figure. She wears on her head a 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 high dark-green peaked hat — I never saw her without 
 it, and her bodice is laced together with little silver 
 chains, to which are hanging little thin old-fashioned 
 coins. I console myself with these chains and florin 
 pieces, and Babbette carries me to bed. 
 
 This is my first memory. 
 
 From this to my next all is confused, though my 
 life was simple as a butterfly's. In the first place I 
 learnt a mixed jargon of Tyrolese, German, and old- 
 fashioned English ; but as Babbette and all the pea- 
 sants in the neighbourhood chatted in the proportion 
 of ten. words to one of my father's, I knew much 
 more of their sweet dialect, which has the strength 
 and curtness of the German with the fuller vowel- 
 sounds and the softer liquids of the Italian, than I 
 did of my native tongue. 
 
 I was brought up as wild as a wood-anemone. 
 True, my old father set me every evening on a little 
 high chair by the side of his great wooden throne, 
 and taught me first to read, then to write, and then 
 to think about what I read, and to write down what 
 I thought. *For,' said he, while I stared wonder- 
 ingly into his face, * of what use is it, Alice, to read 
 or write, unless both your eyes and your hands play 
 servants to your thoughts ?' And under his guidance 
 how rapidly I learnt both ; for how different is the 
 teaching, even in the merest rudiments, of a mature 
 and able mind, from that of the schoolmistress ! 
 
 Like a young eaglet, I soon found joy in the 
 powers he had given me. I read everything with in- 
 tense zest. No book however dry was dull to me, be-
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 115 
 
 cause each sentence brought its full weight ; and when 
 you called me a man you were not wrong, for in mat- 
 ters of thinking I had a man's training. But for the 
 rest, I have been too much a woman. 
 
 From the time I knew how to read, my life had 
 two phases. In the long winter evenings or the 
 burning noons of midsummer, I luxuriated in the 
 thoughts that others' thoughts suggested, however 
 simple mine and theirs ; but in the glorious work-time 
 of the day my mind found tutorage from a higher 
 source. God taught me with his works. And what a 
 grand folio was it that was there opened to me ! Let 
 us thank that good Creator who has given to the 
 world those great citadels which the utilitarianism of 
 ages can never storm. To those mountains nought of 
 the outer, utter world had ever come, nor could come. 
 This wild forest solitude was free from the selfishness 
 of those who see in earth's bosom only the stuff that 
 they can turn to gold. Here was nothing to tempt the 
 selfish ; only the lover of beauty of the pm^est kind — 
 only the man who could delight in separation from 
 his creatures and miion of an upper world of loveliness, 
 found any temptation in these hills, and so they were 
 a privileged spot, where none but the good and gene- 
 rous came. And what an education it is in this school 
 of God, where no earthly creed or master cares to 
 teach ! Perhaps you think my life has not proved its 
 value. You are wrong. My life has proved that this 
 education, if it unfits man or woman to face the world, 
 gives them such a sweet store of memories, such a deep 
 engraining of early good and purity, that though the 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THE TWICKEXHAM TALES. 
 
 world conquer them for the time its victory is never 
 complete, they rally again and rise once more. 
 
 The spot we lived in was a very Eden. Our 
 chalet, or rather that of the good dame Gusleben, 
 who was my father's landlady, was a good-sized 
 Bauer's cottage, with some half a dozen rude, but airy 
 rooms. Its front was decorated with an elaborate 
 life-sized carving of the miraculous draught of fishes, 
 with less regard to art or nature than to the space 
 afforded between the windows, and the low-gabled, 
 shadowing roof of shingles. The figure of our Saviour 
 was of course the most prominent, and, standing in 
 the middle, was also the largest. On either side of 
 Him was a little boat, about the size of a wash-tub, 
 over which leaned a couple of stooping figures with 
 outspread hands supposed to be about to grasp the 
 nets, which the artist, finding beyond his capacity, 
 had prudently left to the spectator's imagination to 
 supply. The whole group required a pretty accurate 
 knowledge of the New Testament to be at all com- 
 prehensible to the uninitiated. Below this tableau 
 ran a substantial but rude oaken balcony, which 
 passed round the whole house, and terminated rather 
 suddenly at one corner in a terribly steep ladder. 
 Under the eaves the swallows built, and even among 
 the great boulders which lay upon the shingle, as if 
 they had fallen from the great mountain above, there 
 was many a cozy little nest of which we saw nothing. 
 Thus we kept open house for all that cared to come — 
 birds, beasts, or humans. But lovely as the cottage 
 was, and beautifid as it looked from every point of
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 117 
 
 view, no one thought of it a moment while it was 
 light enough to see the buildings of Nature above, 
 below, and on every side. 
 
 We were perched midway between the clouds and 
 the waters. The chalet seemed as if it had clam- 
 bered half way up this great mountain side, and 
 growing wearied had rested there for the remainder 
 of its days. It was a mountain that rose straight up 
 from the edge of a green lake — which lay like a lark's 
 nest among the hills, a mere pond when you saw it 
 from one of those snowy peaks — rose till it had 
 pierced band after band of the thick white snow-preg- 
 nant clouds, and reared high white fingers into the 
 far blue of heaven. So high it rose that morning did 
 not dawn upon the lake below for four hours after 
 sunrise, and the black waters could not mirror the 
 sun's face tiU near midday. But then the rocky front 
 of the Kiesenberg — the Giant's Mount — was broken 
 into a thousand irregularities, which contrived to catch 
 earlier glimpses of the morning, and shone out while 
 all the rest was dark. First there was the great ledge 
 on which our chalet sat, and beneath wliich the rock 
 shelved down almost upright to the dark-green lake, 
 with lank black pines clinging to its side, like sailors 
 to the mast of a wreck. Then above there were gullies 
 and dried water-courses, clumps of rock covered with 
 stunted firs, through which the stone stuck out as if 
 expressly to catch the purple light at eventide, and 
 add more beauty to the great giant. Above these 
 again there were pinnacles and sturdy square pro- 
 montories, between wliich the goat and the chamois
 
 118 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 found a scanty j)asture, and I have often lighted on a 
 purple alpine rose. And lastly, up through a belt of 
 mist and thunder sprang the gaunt fingers, which 
 seemed to be the ladders to heaven, for ever wrapped 
 round with their thick white furs of snow. And 
 when the evening beams came up from the deep 
 west, and covered their cloaks with delicate shiny 
 purple tints, one would have dreamed a troop of 
 angels hovered round them, and spread their bright 
 wings to catch the parting light. 
 
 Such was my beloved mountain ; but the lake was 
 yet more loveable. When, as a girl of twelve or 
 thirteen, growing stout and wild on the mountain- 
 air, and fresh thick milk, I bounded down from our 
 chalet in the early morning, perhaps about five o'clock, 
 scrambling down bits of rock, leaping lightly over 
 noisy streamlets, and singing with glee, as the wind 
 drove my long hair from my face and ears, I arrived 
 at length at the only bit of flat ground that was to be 
 found for miles in every direction. This was car- 
 peted with thick, high, luxurious grass, and a few 
 wide oaks and breezy beeches stood out of it and 
 shaded the whole place. It was just like a small 
 English park ; for Nature, which does everything in 
 the best manner, as some old Greek used to say, had 
 planted these trees with the most artistic taste. I 
 used to check myself here, and walk slowly through 
 the highest grass, delighted at the soft floor for my 
 thick-shod feet, which were more wont to the hard 
 rock, until I came to a very picturesque but very 
 dirty cottage, all the front of which was generally
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 119 
 
 covered with large bob-nets studded all over with 
 thick, round cork-floats. But near the cottage I was 
 always lured most of all to the little garden, the only 
 one (except our own miserable affair in which nothing 
 would flourish) for miles round. Here all kinds of 
 flowers seemed to luxuriate, for the rich lake water 
 came up beneath and tickled their roots. And in 
 the garden I would generally find a rough, dirty girl, 
 of about my own age, digging, or mending nets, or 
 otherwise busy, and singing all the while a funny 
 irregular yodel. 
 
 * Griiss di' Gott, Kattl ' (God greet thee), was my 
 salutation. 
 
 ' The Lord Jesus keep thee, gracious Fraulein,' 
 was the regular answer of these pious, simple moun- 
 taineers. 
 
 * Is your father gone a fishing, Kattl ?' 
 
 * No ; then, he's off to the village.' 
 
 Now the village was three miles distant, and I 
 knew that the worthy fisherman never went there 
 without staying to hear the news from the yet more 
 worthy curate, a man of about his own rank in 
 Tyrol, and one who kept the best tap of beer — slyly 
 though — in all that country. So I would go down to 
 the water's edge, with my book in my pocket, and 
 choose between a flat-bottomed clumsy punt, and a 
 long very narrow skiff of the ancient fashion, scooped 
 out of a sturdy beech-stem. Now the lake being 
 almost as deep in parts as the mountain was high, 
 this same punt was managed by a little paddle stuck 
 in a nick at the stern of the rough vessel, and clutch-
 
 120 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ing this, away I would go to tlie middle of the lake, 
 for the joy of looking down into those clear green 
 waters — naturally green, not by mere reflection — 
 which were so veiy clear, indeed, that I could see the 
 fishes glance about at least a couple of fathoms 
 below the surface. There I lay, as a fairy might in 
 a well. All around, the hills more or less steep and 
 lofty rose steadily from the water's edge, or rather 
 out of the very water itself ; but only the great Eiesen- 
 berg was so lofty that it wearied my eyes to gaze up 
 at its pinnacles. Then on every side a hundred busy, 
 jumping, trickling little streams leapt like young 
 frogs from the rocks, down the sides of which they 
 had battled with stones and rocks, ever with the 
 dear lake awaiting them, till there they came and 
 plunged headlong in. And by the side of these hung 
 long low branches, or straggling wood creepers 
 bobbing their leafy tips upon the still surface, and 
 making a number of little circles on the water, which 
 widened and widened away till I was weary of looking 
 after them. 
 
 The lake was perhaps a mile in length and breadth 
 (for it was nearly round), but it looked much smaller, 
 for in the middle right across it, lay a reef of curious 
 rocky islets, covered with low shrubs, and plants, and 
 flowers, between which the waters rippled sometimes 
 in miniature rapids, sometimes more serenely. These 
 it was my joy to gain, and then getting out I would 
 take my book and lie upon my back, gazing up into 
 the sky, which seemed so much more lofty because 
 of the high towering mountain-tops. And when I
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 121 
 
 was tired of that I would jump in again, and steering 
 skilfully between the islands, ' each of which I had 
 named myself, and knew every stone upon them, to 
 a very distant mysterious point. 
 
 But as this comes into my adventurous story I 
 will go home back again, before I make for it with 
 you. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX.— A Man of the World. 
 
 One day, when I was about fifteen years old, I was 
 sitting in the little libraiy, while my father was 
 writing calmly away, and I was playing a plaintive 
 mountain air on that sweet moui-nful little instrument 
 called the zither. The night had set in early, for it 
 was autumn, but the window was still open, and from 
 time to time I looked out and saw the quiet stars 
 mirrored in the calm sleeping lake below. I was 
 playing almost mechanically, dreaming some wild 
 theory all the time, which some old book had sug- 
 gested, when suddenly, ' Ya ha e hoo, e hoo, e hoo !' 
 in the distance, from the hill above. It Avas a clear 
 rich man's voice, pouring out the joyous yodel, a 
 sound rarely heard in the evening near us. I started 
 and looked at my father ; but he was so absorbed in 
 his writing that he did not even hear this unwonted 
 noise. Then again rather nearer, *Ya ha ehoo, 
 ehoo !' and so on from time to time down the hill. 
 It came on slowly, as if the singer was picking his 
 way in the dark, and at last ceased altogether. I 
 went on playing again, thinking nothing more of it,
 
 122 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 when suddenly, almost at our window, burst out a 
 great shout. 
 
 ' Ho-la ! good people.' 
 
 This at last roused my father. Except the fisher- 
 man and his sons no one ever came here at night 
 from new year's eve to Christmas-day. But we 
 feared nothing — never a robber or a drunkard in 
 those peaceful wilds. No, thank God, this Eden 
 scarce knew the sins of the world without. 
 
 * Look out, Alice, and see what's the matter.' 
 
 I was already at the window, and in the darkness 
 could just discover a tall huntsman's figure, with rifle 
 in hand, and a dead chamois or roe slung over his 
 shoulders. It was explained at once ; but just as I 
 turned round, Babbette stumped heavily into the 
 room, and with a face as white as a mountain-top, 
 asked what on earth she was to do. 
 
 * Do ?' said my father ; ' why, go and see who it is, 
 and what he wants.' 
 
 * Jesus-Maria !' answered the terrified goody, * why 
 sure it's the Wild Huntsman come at last !' 
 
 A little smile hovered round my father's good, mild 
 face. 
 
 * Babbette,' he said, quietly, * do you believe in the 
 devil?' 
 
 Babbette crossed herself rapidly. ' The devil ? oh, 
 yes, sir, in a thousand !' 
 
 'Very good; then you ought to know that he 
 w uld never be such an ass as to come in a human 
 shape to see us, when he can tempt us all day long 
 without being visible at all.'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 123 
 
 * Hola, hola ! can't you answer ?' from without, in a 
 voice that made Babbette start so violently that the 
 long tallow candle dropped from her hand. I, too, 
 who had no slight faith in the Wild Huntsman, 
 trembled at this impetuosity. 
 
 * Alice/ said my father, ^ put your head out and 
 ask the stranger what he wants.' 
 
 But Alice, like Babbette, resolutely declined to 
 move. 
 
 ' Foolish children !' smiled my father, pushing back 
 his chair ; and taking a candle he walked, or rather 
 climbed down the steep narrow stairs, followed first 
 by me, and then by Babbette, and arriving at the 
 door opened it. I stood on tiptoe and looked over 
 his shoulder; and Babbette, clutching my waist, 
 tremblingly looked over mine. 
 
 Undeniably it was the Wild Huntsman himself. 
 Such a rough, shaggy figure, with such a profusion of 
 hair, had never been seen before. As the light fell 
 upon him, I saw a tall, stout figure, with a face of 
 about five-and-twenty summers, literally hid in a 
 dark beard, from which meandered a pair of thick 
 moustaches, passing out on each side far beyond the 
 outline of his face, which was otherwise handsome, as 
 all Tyrolers' are. He wore above a mass of rough 
 hair a high green hat, in which three feathers from 
 the tail of a spiel-hahn, or capercailzie, were jauntily 
 fastened by a rosette made of stag's bristles, m front, 
 a position which showed that our huntsman, whoever 
 he might be, w^as a man of note, and ready to do 
 anything you chose to ask for with his short heavy 
 rifle ; for none but champions may wear their feathers
 
 124 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 in the front of the hat. His dress was a rough green 
 jacket with large pockets; short black breeches 
 which did not cover the knee, and thick worsted 
 leggings on the shins. The knee itself was left bare 
 for ease in climbing, a clear proof that the stranger 
 was a huntsman by profession, and that in Tyrol 
 means a poacher. 
 
 His general appearance was quite adapted to 
 increase the apprehensions of the superstitious Bab- 
 bette ; and even if the legend of the Huntsman were 
 fabulous — which I sincerely doubted — to raise other 
 fears in people of quiet respectability like our- 
 selves. But when, with never a word of greeting 
 or apology, he strode superbly past my father into 
 the house, and quietly began to disengage his 
 shoulders of their burden, I could see that Bab- 
 bette was white as a snow-drift, and my father red 
 with indignation. The stranger caught a general 
 impression of this state of feeling, and looking up 
 with a smile, while he was busied in untackling his 
 game, said : 
 
 * You're Christians, I suppose, eh ? Well, you can 
 open your door to a benighted fellow-creature. You 
 wouldn't have a man lose his way on this cursed wild 
 mountain, and break his neck over some infernal 
 chasm. Eh, sir? You don't look like a heathen, and 
 the Fraulein there is too soft-hearted to refuse me 
 the shelter of your house.' 
 
 There was something so pleasant in the man's 
 honest tones, rough though they were, that I melted 
 towards him at once, and was rejoiced when I saw 
 my father's face relax into his quaint old smile.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 125 
 
 ' Our poor cottage,' lie said, in his pure Hano- 
 verian German, which always inspired me with a 
 deep respect, ' is neither an inn nor a hospice, but I 
 see no reason why it should not be both, or at least 
 the latter, in these wild regions, when need is.' Then 
 shutting the door again, and approaching the stranger 
 gallantly, he offered him his hand. * So be assured 
 you are welcome here ; for your face is an index of 
 your honesty.' 
 
 'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the other, coarsely, grasping 
 the white hand in his own rough paw ; * thank 'ee, 
 old fellow. Truth is, 1 thought I should di'op into 
 the family-circle of a set of Bauers ; and here I am 
 with a Professor — and a foreigner, if I mistake not ; — 
 ay, and — 'throwing down his powder-horn with un- 
 necessary violence, — ' a pretty maiden too ;' and, as 
 if this was not enough to cover me with the misery 
 of shame, he deliberately walked up to me, caught 
 me in his arms, as if I had been quite a child, and 
 gave me a rough hairy kiss. 
 
 You can imagine my confusion. I who had never 
 seen any personal beauty to compare my own face 
 with, now heard myself called pretty ; I who had 
 never kissed any one but my father, had been seized 
 by this young man as if he had a right to me. I 
 resented this not a little ; for I was no child. I was 
 fifteen years old, and had been brought up forwardly 
 — and fifteen is the age when the cheek first learns 
 to blusli, and the eye to sparkle. Still there was that 
 in the stranger's very roughness which attracted me. 
 He was evidently no peasant from the neighbourhood,
 
 126 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 for his manner would tlien have been far more 
 respectful. He spoke, indeed, with the freedom of 
 a gentleman ; but his dress, and still more his manner, 
 was anything but gentlemanlike. So when I had 
 blushed my full, while my father laughed, and Bab- 
 bette muttered pious exorcisms in the corner, I looked 
 on at him unpacking himself with quiet wonder. 
 
 His shooting-gear had got entangled, as such things 
 will do, and it was a long time before he could 
 manage to relieve himself of the chamois, as I now 
 saw it was, which he carried on his shoulders. He 
 went on talking all the time. 
 
 ' By our Lady ! if I hadn't spied a light in the 
 windows here, from a deep gully up above there, I 
 might have slept on the heather all night, and done 
 no good in the morning, for I am half dead with 
 hunger already, and my flask of schnapps is well- 
 nigh empty. Capital thing, schnapps, for shooting 
 excursions, Herr Doctor, — do you ever go out for a 
 day ? But of course ' 
 
 ' No,' replied my father, ' I am always too much 
 occupied : my neighbours bring me game.' 
 
 * Ah, ay. Well, I wish I could do as much for 
 you to-night ; but to say the truth, this little animal 
 has chosen to live, in spite of my rifle. I broke the 
 poor beast's leg for it ; it was an awfully long shot, 
 and I couldn't get a rest for the piece ; and when I 
 came up, it lay panting with such a melancholy look 
 in its big eye, that, by the blessed Virgin ! miss, I 
 hadn't the heart to put the other barrel to it. And 
 you'll think me a simpleton, for bringing it all this
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 127 
 
 way on my shoulders, when I couldn't get a fry out 
 of it, eh ?' 
 
 ' Alive !' cried I, delighted ; for though I had 
 now and then in my wanderings caught a distant 
 view of some light creature bounding from rock to 
 rock in the gullies below the snow, I had never seen 
 a chamois so near. I ran up to it with interest, 
 knelt down to examine its poor shattered leg, whipped 
 out my handkerchief, and bandaged it up with a kind 
 of surgical instinct that God has given to women in 
 general, and felt my eyes grow moist in spite of my- 
 self, when I saw its poor panting mouth, and the 
 large browTi eye turned towards me in agony. To 
 get it water ; to carry it with Babbette's aid to a rug 
 before the fire of this room, which was our kitchen, 
 dining-room, and salon all in one ; and then to nurse 
 it as if it were a child, — was an interest enough to 
 make me heedless of the loud jeers of the rough 
 huntsman. 
 
 ' Why, the girl takes a deal more care of it than 
 she would of a Christian,' he laughed out. ' Never 
 mind ; I'm not so sorry now that I took the trouble 
 to bring it all this way, for I see it's a nice plaything 
 for the Fraulein.' 
 
 This seemed like another insult. I resented strongly 
 being thought a mere child. I felt inclined to tell 
 the stranger he was a far greater brute than any poor 
 chamois, but I checked the dangerous impulse. 
 
 Meanwhile, my father had ordered supper in the 
 kitchen; and when Babbette had warmed up the 
 remains of our frugal dinner, and brought up a foam-
 
 128 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. * 
 
 ing beaker of Bavarian beer, we were soon all seated 
 in pleasant chat, which had an intense charm for me, 
 who had never heard anything better than our local 
 gossip. They began with the chase ; but as the 
 stranger had here the whole table to himself, he soon 
 brought it round to speak of Munich and its society. 
 * Aha !' thought I, ' under this rough exterior, then, 
 we have some sporting Count from the capital.' And 
 so it was : and little by little his tone altered, tiU at 
 length the rough huntsman was swamped in the 
 polished denizen of courts. Taking little part in the 
 conversation, J'which indeed was quite beyond the 
 depth of a 'girl who had never stirred from these 
 wild mountains, I listened with strange feelings, and 
 watched with amazement this wonderful change. The 
 stranger seemed to grow more attractive every minute 
 in my eyes. Even the roughness of the exterior 
 had its charm, when I saw how smooth the interior 
 could be at will; and when from time to time he 
 persisted in 'turning round to me, and looking at 
 me with undisguised pleasure, asked my opinion on 
 this or that point of which I knew nothing, the colour 
 rose now without indignation, nay with absolute gra- 
 tification. 
 
 ' And now,' said the stranger, when we had sat a 
 long time, ^ I have talked enough about myself and 
 mine ; permit me to put a rather impertinent ques- 
 tion, and solve a doubt which has been puzzling me 
 for the last hour. It is this : what on earth can have 
 induced you, a man of the world, and of letters, if I 
 mistake not, to have settled in such a remote comer
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 129 
 
 of the globe, quite beyond all connection with the 
 civilized world?' 
 
 *Yoii know the English are very eccentric?' re- 
 plied my father, with his quiet smile. 
 
 * Yes, I have heard of one of your countrymen who 
 spent ten years by the Falls of Schaffhausen, con- 
 structing a boat to go over them in safety ; and when 
 it was completed, it went over, forsooth, — but it also 
 went under with its maker, who never turned up 
 again. But I do not pay you the bad compliment 
 of ranking you in the same category with such a 
 maniac' 
 
 * Maniac, no,' replied my father, gently. ' The 
 man was but a second Curtius. He sacrificed his 
 life and time to establish a great useful principle, 
 and failed. Had he succeeded, the world would have 
 cast him in bronze, and given pensions to his great- 
 grand-daughters. But I confess I have no right to 
 be ranked mth such men. It was mere selfishness 
 that brought me here. The mother of Alice there 
 died a year after our marriage, and in disgust and 
 misery I fled from England to wander on the Con- 
 tinent. Chance brought me after a time to this 
 lake, nay to this very cottage. I was strolling about 
 and very tired. Babbette took me in and gave me 
 the best of her larder ; and when not long afterwards 
 her husband died, from being my host, she consented 
 to become my servant and the nurse of Alice. I 
 stayed here, because having found happiness in the 
 tranquillity and solitude of the place, I dared not 
 risk any change, even if I had wished it.' 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 My father had never told me as much as this even, 
 and I had never asked, because it seemed so natural 
 for us to be there, that my cm-iosity had never been 
 aroused for a moment. 
 
 ' Ah !' said the stranger, with a quaint smile, * and 
 you believe you find real happiness in this ftran- 
 quillity and solitude ? How many have gone before 
 you with the same idea, and been deceived !' 
 
 * And yet if I believe myself happy, I must be so. 
 Eeal happiness is nothing more than a state of feel- 
 ing, and the belief that you possess it constitutes the 
 possession. But mark me, I do not assert that this 
 same asceticism — for such to a great extent it is 
 with me — is a true philosophy for the rest of the 
 world. I merely say that I the individual find it 
 suits me, and so I do not care to renounce it for what 
 may be in reality better.' 
 
 ' You are right,' replied the otlier, for the first time 
 with a certain melancholy in his voice. . ' Each man 
 has his own little philosopher's stone, though he may 
 not find it when he wants it. For my part I am 
 never happy except at the chase. In the early mists 
 on these high uplands, when the sun comes up from 
 the distant plain, and I am crouched behind a stone, 
 waiting the timid chamois, oh ! then there is a real 
 content at my heart. I know not what it is, whether 
 the keen light air, or the interest of the sport, but 
 certes I ever feel my blood run fresh and free when 
 the snow lies all around me, joich-hay !' 
 
 And as he spoke the man of the town had gra- 
 dually vanished, the huntsman came back again, his
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 131 
 
 voice grew louder, his accent rougher, his eyes bright- 
 ened, he waved his feathered cap in his hand, and 
 the great lusty German shout ' yuch-hay !' rolled 
 out with real enthusiasm. 
 
 I looked on with much wonder and something 
 even of admiration. But it was not the man only 
 that set me thinking, it was the talk of the city that 
 woke a new world of imagination within me. We 
 had not only lived apart from the world, but hitherto 
 we had had our own separate thoughts. My father 
 never spoke to me of city life and society. He care- 
 fully avoided such a theme ; and I scarcely knew of 
 any difference between the town and these wild re- 
 gions with their simple villages. Even the books I 
 read were those which taught a higher not a lower 
 philosophy. So now a new light broke upon me. I 
 sat very thoughtful, and I think my father's clear eye 
 perceived what w^as working in me, for he bid me go 
 off to bed. 
 
 * Nay, and that is a shame,' said the stranger, 
 seizing me abruptly by the hand, and drawing me in 
 spite of my blushes towards him — * a shame to send the 
 flower of these hills from our table. Child,' he added, 
 gently, ' have you no wish to see this unknown world, 
 which your father hates so bitterly ?' 
 
 * Not she,' answered my father for me, as I hung 
 my head. * She is too happy here to wish to change.' 
 
 * Yes,' I said, timidly, ' but I should like to see it, 
 that I might know by the contrast how happy I 
 am.' 
 
 The stranger stared at me in wonder. He had not 
 
 K D
 
 132 ' THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 expected so sensible an answer from a girl of my age. 
 He even looked at me with some respect. 
 
 * How old are you, child ?' 
 
 ' Wliy do you call me child. A girl is a woman 
 almost at fifteen.' 
 
 ' Ha, diahle ! the world is not quite so unknown 
 then even here.' 
 
 I felt very much ashamed of myself, and releasing 
 my hand, took refuge in my father's g,rms. 
 
 CHAPTER X.—' MiMi.' 
 
 You may be sure that I did not sleep that night. 
 Yet as I lay half awake I dreamed long dreams. I 
 saw courts and kings, philosophers and statesmen, 
 such as never really existed ; men with grand ambi- 
 tions all unselfish and noble, who strove for pure and 
 worthy ends ; and women, all beautiful and stately, 
 who lent the lighter romance to life. I burned to 
 realize all this, for alas ! I knew not how common- 
 place is the reality, how selfish or trivial are the aims 
 of the best, and how paltry the philosophy of the 
 most profound. And then in all my dreams came 
 the figure of the stranger, not in his rough hunting 
 dress, but with the grandeur of a courtier, and the 
 polish of a man of the world. A man of the world ! 
 what a grand idea was that ! Ha, ha ! and what do 
 we call a man of the world here ? How little dif- 
 ferent from a worldly man ! 
 
 The sun was scarcely up, when I bethought me of
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PAEK. 133 
 
 the poor chamois lying wounded below. I rose and 
 went down to tend it. I went out and plucked Land- 
 fuls of fresh grass, and brought it water in a basin. 
 It had no choice but to eat and drink from my hand, 
 and already I thought the poor thing began to put 
 confidence in me. 
 
 Then, when my father appeared with the stran- 
 ger, all rough again as ever, my night's dreams 
 vanished, and there was nothing but the bluff hunter 
 before me. After breakfast he said he must be off. 
 He thanked my father warmly, and then turned to 
 me. 
 
 ^ And what am I to do with the chamois ?' he 
 asked. 
 
 * Oh, do, do leave it to me ! Poor thing, you can 
 do nothing with it but kill it, and I am sure — ' 
 
 * So let it be. But remember, Fraulein, that these 
 beasts of the mountain are sad republicans, and when 
 the little thing can hobble about again, it will be un- 
 civil enough to prefer its liberty even to your charm- 
 ing guardianship.' 
 
 ' No, no, never ! The brutes may be republicans, 
 but they can also be grateful — ' 
 
 * A rare quality in liberty-fanatics.' 
 
 ' Never mind, Mimi — do you know I have already 
 christened it Mimi ? — will learn to love me and stay 
 \\dth ine.' 
 
 * Ah, Fraulein, that is not a difficult lesson. I think 
 if I stop here much longer I shall learn it myself.' 
 
 My father laughed, and I blushed all over. But I 
 felt a certahi pride that the stranger did not treat
 
 134 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 me SO like a child this morning. He took his rifle 
 presently and strode forth, and we stood at the door 
 and watched him. But when at last he waved his 
 feathered hat and disappeared below the brow of the 
 hill, I felt like a prisoner when his last friend has 
 left his cell. 
 
 From that day my life was changed. Its rude 
 simplicity was gone, and a fatal longing for change 
 came upon me. Yet when I tended little Mimi, and 
 when at last the poor thing could hobble clumsily 
 after me, and we wandered together through the 
 woods, I was really so happy that nothing but that 
 foolish dream could disturb me. 
 
 Thus time jogged on ; but his wings, which had 
 always been to me of transparent tissue, now began 
 to put forth great heavy feathers and flapped just 
 a whit or two less briskly. Hitherto I had had 
 no date in my life, no era from which to measure 
 time. Perhaps that was the real secret of my happi- 
 ness. But the stranger's visit had supplied this want. 
 It was an event, and made a revolution. I had grown 
 years older since then in a few months. I had had 
 a taste of change, and could no longer be con- 
 tent with monotony. It almost provoked me to see 
 the calm, quiet state of my father's mind, and how he 
 went on from day to day without a single thought of 
 that outer world, of which I even seemed to hear the 
 distant bustle from afar. I was like a child shut up 
 on May-day, who hears the drums and fifes and songs 
 of the revellers in the market-place and itches to be 
 free and join them.
 
 THE LADY I SAW TN HYDE PARK. 185 
 
 In Mimi I had a consolation. She became a com- 
 panion to me, and I thought at last that I was right 
 and the stranger wrong, when, long after she could 
 run and jump with ease, though still lame, she always 
 returned to my side. But as the winter grew deeper, 
 and it was difficult to wander any great distance, my 
 discontent waxed stronger, and I was even forming a 
 scheme to induce my father to go for a month or two 
 to Munich, when one day, to the amazement of both, 
 the stranger walked into our cottage, and greeted us 
 with real friendship. 
 
 From this moment my troubles began. The Count 
 Arnault, a Bavarian nobleman, had come, with all his 
 freaks, to hunt the chamois in our hills ; and here he 
 had settled at the village about three miles off. I 
 was so delighted, that I could not understand my 
 father's doubtful head-shaking when he heard this 
 news. The count, no longer a stranger, reverted with 
 interest to our first interview, caressed Mimi affec- 
 tionately, and now, instead of seizing me roughly 
 in his arms, took my forward hand with respect, and 
 as I thought even a little timidity. Now you know 
 how vain 1 am. I was not so then. It was no 
 vanity, but only woman's natural instinct that proved 
 to me that the count felt a certain interest in me — at 
 least in us — that had brought him to hunt in our 
 hills, when he might have gone anywhere else, and 
 had perhaps a chance of better sport. But whatever 
 truth this feeling may have had, he gave it little testi- 
 mony. True, it was no chance that brought him 
 night after night with a bag full of spiel-halms and
 
 136 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 hirh-hahns, grouse and black-cock, to rest a moTQent, 
 whicli always meant an hour, at our chalet on his 
 way to the village. It was no mere chance either 
 that brought him, twice a week or more, when, 
 as he said, the wind was unfavourable, and pretended 
 to deplore it mightily, to read EngKsh with me, or 
 join me in my forest-wanderings. But then liis age 
 was twice mine, and though I claimed the right of 
 womanhood, I was still a mere child in feeling, and 
 moreover there was nothing now of the town about 
 him. He was again the rough sportsman, and that 
 only. Indeed, I tried in vain to bring him to talk of 
 that magic world of which I dreamed so absurdly ; 
 but it seemed as if he did not like it, for to me he 
 spoke only of country joys, of the poetry of flowers, 
 of the romance of woods, of the grandeur of these 
 great mountains with their snow five feet deep, and 
 his joy to be climbing them at three in the morning. 
 Nay, with just the exception of drawing out my 
 child's philosophy from time to time, his talk was all 
 of his sport, wliich seemed nearest his heart, and I 
 never dreamed that I might be a little nearer to it 
 than even that. 
 
 But you must not imagiae that in those winter 
 days I learned to love this stranger — strange, indeed, 
 to me and all my old ideas. A man's strongest pas- 
 sion is his last, a woman's only real one is her first ; 
 and for this, and this alone, all women are slow in 
 really loving, unless they love at once. I had not 
 done this with Count Arnault. I liked him. I 
 delighted in a companionship, and particularly in that
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 187 
 
 of a stronger mind, but I liad not yet felt the neces- 
 sity to love. I bad still my father, Mimi, and the 
 old walks, views, and scenery to supply my young 
 heart with objects. But how much I valued his 
 society, how completely I was happy in it, I only dis- 
 covered when one morning the count left as sud- 
 denly as he had come, without a word of warning or 
 farewell. 
 
 Even my poor father felt this deeply. I never saw 
 him bitter till that day, when he broke out in strong 
 abuse of the ingratitude and fickleness of all man- 
 kind, men of the world particularly and the Count 
 Arnault most especially. The truth was, .that he was 
 even more annoyed at the loss of the rough hunter's 
 fresh brusque company than I was. The count had so 
 thoroughly understood my father, that he had even 
 wormed the good old man from one half of his con- 
 tinual writing, and created a revolution in the house- 
 hold hours generally, whicli it was impossible to set 
 right again when he was gone. My father was quite an 
 old bachelor in his ways and habits, and so he really 
 could not forgive the count his extraordinary conduct. 
 For my part, when I saw this I felt much less his 
 loss in sympathising with my father, and endeavour- 
 ing to make a substitute of myself. But in my quiet 
 moments I was terribly sad ; and I can't tell why. 
 That is the worst in us women. We feel so finely that 
 we cannot always account reasonably for our feehngs. 
 I certainly did not love the count. Still less did he 
 love me ; and yet — 
 
 About a month afterwards a letter came to my
 
 138 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 father. This in itself was an event, for he received 
 letters only two or three times a year ; but when I 
 watched his face I saw that this was no ordinary 
 communication. 
 
 ' Whom is it from, papa ?' 
 
 ^ Count Arnault,' he answered, severely. 
 
 ' Will you read it to me ?' 
 
 ' No, child ; it is chiefly an apology for his conduct, 
 but still it is not meant for your ears.' 
 
 Now this letter henceforward became my night- 
 mare. For many a day I dreamed of it, and when 
 at last one morning I found it with some others on 
 the table, I could not resist the temptation, and read 
 as follows : — 
 
 'My good kind Friend, 
 
 ' You were doubtless disgusted at my ungracious 
 decampment from your delightful region and no less 
 charming society. I might invent a hundred excuses, 
 but cannot bear to deceive you. I will openly con- 
 fess the whole truth, and rely on your good heart to 
 forgive me. I went to the Eib-See to shoot the 
 chamois, and I got shot myself by a mere child. 
 What many another woman could not have done with 
 art, your daughter did by her artless simplicity. It 
 is only once in a lifetime that one meets with a girl 
 of her — ' 
 
 (Here I must put in a few ' et caeteras ' to save my 
 blushes.) 
 
 * — under the garb of a peasant-like innocence. 
 Had I been free I would have taken an honourable
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 139 
 
 advantage of the opportunities afforded. I was not 
 free, and was honourable enough to leave you before 
 the matter went farther and grew worse. I never 
 told you that I was married, though separated from 
 my wife, because I never thought it necessary.' 
 
 The rest of the letter was filled with frank confes- 
 sions and warm pleadings for pardon. I read it through 
 twice and then played with Mimi. I felt only 
 amused at the time, but from that hour I discovered 
 in myself a new power and a new desire. The power 
 was that of loving a man — not, indeed, this wonder- 
 ful count, — but an ideal. The desire *vas that of being 
 loved. 
 
 The consciousness of this power and the force of 
 this desire grew upon me like a satellite on a stem, 
 thicker, stronger, and closer throughout the whole 
 spring, and I changed completely. 
 
 Months passed, and the memory of the count him- 
 self had almost vanished. But an ideal man, and an 
 ideal world with activity and ambition grew up and 
 stood for ever before me. It became a mania. I 
 strove to induce my father to go, if only for a few 
 weeks, to som^ capital. I pictured to him my utter 
 solitude, my growing gh-lhood, the stagnation even of 
 my mincl. He shook his head mournfully. 
 
 ' You know not what you ask, my dear Alice,' he 
 said, Idndly, drawing me crloser to him. * This is a 
 poison you are begging for, which would kill your 
 happiness.' 
 
 ' But I am not happy, father.'
 
 140 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ' And yet you would long for this dulness again if 
 you had tasted this poison. Be quiet, Alice ; cease 
 to think of a world of which you know nothing, and 
 wait till you are woman enough to brave its hurri- 
 canes.' 
 
 ' And when will that be ?' 
 
 He clasped me warmly to his bosom. 
 
 ' Poor child ! When you are left alone, Alice ; 
 when I am dead.' 
 
 ' Oh, father ! my father, not so ! You dead ! oh, 
 no!—' 
 
 * It will not be very long.' 
 
 I pressed moi;p closely to him, and wept in silence. 
 What had I to say to comfort him ? I had always 
 believed in the knowledge of my father. I was now 
 convinced that he must have prescience even of his 
 own death, for there was scarce anything of which 
 he ever spoke without certain knowledge. So I could 
 
 only weep.; 
 
 ***** 
 
 The spring was at the fullest bloom. It is always 
 late in the mountains, but when it does come, with 
 what laughter, and vigour, and freshness is it ! On 
 all sides, the cows and goats, pent up in close stalls 
 through the long winter, turned out and frisked 
 and gambolled, sniffing the sweet, fresh, blossomy air 
 that blew from the mountain. The peasant and 
 cowherd, too, prepared for the summer residence up 
 above, amid the very clouds, near heaven itself. 
 There, far away in distant upper dells, w^here man's 
 footstep came so seldom, the little empty chalets
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 141 
 
 were now reopened. The store of black bread, and 
 barrels of beer, were brought toilingly up from the 
 villages. The milk-cans and chnrns were turned out, 
 washed, scrubbed, made to glitter, and ranged in 
 proud display along the front of the huts. Then, in 
 a few days, you might hear some pretty peasant girl, 
 who was sitting cleaning her pans and cans at the 
 chalet-door, pour out a high, shrill yodel ; and pre- 
 sently when it had ceased, another deeper, stronger 
 tone would answer her in the same tune from some 
 distant hill, the clear mountain air bringing the sound 
 from ever so far. 
 
 Then, all around, the air was full of tinkling bells 
 of every note, some shrill and merry, some full and 
 melancholy ; and everywhere you heard the deep 
 low of the browsing kine, and the ha-ac haac of the 
 skipping goat, while all the woods, deep sombre pine- 
 forests, were filled with warbling and sharp cries, and 
 the full whoo-whoop of the loving dove. There was 
 music everywhere and joy in eveiy heart, for the 
 young hopeful year had begun again, and the light free 
 air of heaven drove sad care away. 
 
 And I, wandering alone, whether I sought for 
 sweet wood- violets up through the shelving forest, or 
 hunted for alpine roses on the upper rocks, where 
 -the pine was stunted and the clouds flew low, and 
 far far beneath the great world lay silent, — I felt in 
 my bosom ever that hot scorching desire for a com- 
 panion, for some one to revel with me in these joys, 
 sonie one to love with all a maiden's love. 
 
 Of course in my solitude this desii'e grew only
 
 142 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 stronger, and wore me out, till I had no joy in the 
 spring-tide and its flowers. Still time went on, and 
 still without an event, though I was pining for change. 
 I do not think my father saw it. I took care that he 
 should not. I felt how uudutiful my wishes Avere, 
 and would not for anything wound him by a thought 
 of them. But when I strove to conquer them they 
 only seemed to grow more vehement, and I had no 
 help for it. 
 
 At last one summer day I took Mimi down to the 
 lake and mounted the great flat punt. I was be- 
 ginning to be afraid for Mimi. The rough black 
 horns were sprouting briskly on her shaggy bead, and 
 already curled gracefully back; and now, too, she 
 could jump about with perfect ease, and more than 
 once had given me a long chase. Was it possible 
 Mimi could ever desert nie ? Then indeed I should 
 be alone. However, we rowed across to the same 
 little favourite island, and for a long time I lay and 
 listened to the tinkling of the cow-bells, and the song 
 of the fisherman at another end of the lake. Suddenly 
 my eyes fell upon that distant point to which T had 
 never had courage to steer. 
 
 Towards this mysterious point the lake seemed to 
 lengthen out, leaving its circle until it was lost in 
 a kind of dark bower, or it might be a cavern, where 
 the rocks joined overhead, and a tangled net of creep- 
 ing and hanging weeds fell down over them, while 
 the thick, short firs formed a crown above. It was 
 very dark and very mysterious, and hitherto I liad 
 always shunned it. Now, I felt in the vein for ad-
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 143 
 
 venture, and calling Mimi after me I leapt into the 
 punt and steered bravely away. There is nothing so 
 deceptive as a Tyrolean lake, and so the more I 
 steered the longer it seemed to grow. The myste- 
 rious point was quite an ignis fatiius ; but this only 
 fanned the flame of my adventurous spirit, and I 
 heeded nothing, till gradually the rocks on each side 
 grew closer and closer towards my boat, the green 
 dark water seemed deeper, calmer, and clearer, and 
 at length I ran under a mass of hanging boughs and 
 stood there within the dark cavern itself. It was a 
 minute or two before my eyes grew sufficiently ac- 
 customed to the darkness to discover that this was by 
 no means the end of all things. First I heard a 
 splashing sound as of a waterfall ; next I saw that 
 the rocky grotto ran far on, all roofed though it was, 
 and afforded plenty of space for my punt to navigate 
 yet farther. Mimi, indeed, came timidly to my side 
 and trembled against my knees, but I felt as bold as 
 Jeanne D'Arc, and determined to go on ; so I took tlie 
 punt-hook and jnished against the sides of the cave 
 till I felt the punt rock under my feet, and heard 
 the waters roar round me, and presently could discern 
 a small fall in front of us. 
 
 I guessed it all now. This was the Devil's Klamm, 
 of which I had heard Babbette speak in mysterious 
 horror. Now a hlamm is a long gallery cut out in the 
 living rock by some courageous and persevering- 
 little streamlet that insists on arriving at some de- 
 sired point.
 
 141 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 * G-utta cavat lapidem' and here the tiny brook 
 through many thousand years had been hollowing a 
 path for itself through the solid mass, and had suc- 
 ceeded, who knows when, in tumbling headlong 
 in a glorious fountain into the green lake. Is it not 
 an emblem of ambition? What difficulties, what 
 wonders we encounter and achieve for fame's sake, 
 and when all is done, what are we ? a mere drop 
 in the ocean, a cipher, a nobody. Heigh-ho ! 
 
 Well, as of course the punt declined to go up the 
 cascade, I was compelled to leave it at the bottom, and 
 looked about for some means of penetrating farther. 
 In my doubt I was aided by Mimi, who, anything but 
 pleased with the dark cavern, and the rickety punt, 
 had leaped quietly out upon the only bit of terra firma 
 in the neighbourhood. Not being so good a jumper 
 as the mountain-queen, I had to scramble not a little 
 grotesquely to follow her. I stood at length on a 
 narrow ledge of rock, which jutted out over the boiling 
 waters. I could see nothing, but trusting to Mimi's 
 sagacity, I groped along after her, tapping the rock 
 with my hand and the ledge with my feet. For some 
 time I proceeded thus in utter darkness, but presently 
 a chink in the rock above let in just light enough to 
 show me that I stood upon just three inches of stone 
 over a rushing gurgling stream at any depth below 
 me, for it was too dark to calculate. Of Mimi I saw 
 nothing ; but I knew she was too clever at this climb- 
 ing-practice to lose her footing, and she must there- 
 fore have gone on.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 145 
 
 I followed the strange windings of tlie klamm, 
 wondering why the stream should have taken such a 
 roundabout course, and again lost in utter darkness. 
 At length I emerged upon a wild sullen glen, and 
 the first thing that struck me was Mademoiselle 
 Mimi skipping away at an easy gallop vdth all the 
 spirit, a chamois is -capable of, and, quite indifferent 
 to the fate of her mistress. I called her in vain. 
 Whether the young flnt had espied some wild 
 Lothario of her own species, or whether, like her mis- 
 tress, she pined for the world of action, I could not 
 decide, but I could not bear to lose her thus, and I 
 followed her with a vague hope that if she could hear 
 my call, she would return. 
 
 It was a wild, sullen, gloomy place, girt'' with 
 shelving hills behind which rose glistening peaks. 
 Not the smoke of a single chalet, not the bell of a 
 single cow. No trace of man. It was a spot which 
 Michael and Satan might have chosen for their 
 awful duel. Over the great clumps of rock that had 
 roUed down into this dreary glen, through the copses 
 of stunted firs, over briars and creepers I leaped and 
 ran almost as lightly as Mimi herself. 
 
 She forsooth was lost to my sight, but I had but to 
 gain the brow of yon hill to find her again. So I 
 thought and toiled up. But when there, where was 
 Mimi ? I sat down in despair and called long and 
 loud. My voice ^vas struck back by the opposite rocks, 
 and echoed ghastlily through the long glen. Still 
 the spirit of adventure and the hope of finding the 
 ficlde pet drew me on. I bounded down one hill and 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 up another, until I was miles away from the klamm, 
 and should have been sorely puzzled to trace my way 
 back again. It was then that in a kind of despair I 
 determined to go on. You do not know how tempt- 
 ing these mountains are, how the idea of always 
 something wonderful beyond drags you on over each 
 successive ridge. You are longiHg for a grand view, 
 for the plain studded with smoking homesteads, and 
 bright roofs, for a sight in short of the working world. 
 You mount one terrible obstacle ; surely it lies on the 
 other side, — and when you reach the top you see 
 nought but a valley below you the double of the 
 last, and you go on again with renewed hope. 
 
 So I walked and ran and leaped for hours, till the 
 sun was shelving down towards the western hUls. 
 
 CHAPTEK XI.— Flietation. 
 
 At last I came to a ridge which frowned over a more 
 open valley ; at the bottom of which I spied a wind- 
 ing road, with a stream by the side of it. Beeches 
 and oaks were grouped here instead of firs, and in 
 the far distance I thought I could discover the 
 shining shingle roofs of a few cottages. So having 
 reached the long-sought goal, I sat down and gazed 
 upon this new scenery. Then first I felt how weary 
 I was ; then, too, I noticed that the sun was growing 
 more red and the shadows of the trees had doubled 
 in length. Then, too, I began to think of the long 
 way back, of how hurriedly I had come, and how
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 147 
 
 utterly ignorant I was of any marks by which to re- 
 trace my way. Lastly, the thought that I should not 
 be able to regain the klamm till late at night, and 
 that my poor father would be waiting me in alarm, 
 completely overwhelmed me. What was I to do? 
 I was far too weary to begin the tedious succession of 
 valley and mountain again. I must rest here for 
 some time first, and even then the way woidd be very 
 dangerous as the night came on. ' Oh ! Mimi, Mimi !' 
 I cried, ' ungrateful creature. It is you who have 
 brought me to this, and the prophecy of the count 
 has come true at last. Oh ! wicked, wicked Mimi, if 
 you would but come back now, I would forgive you 
 all !' 
 
 But Mimi was gone for ever, and I was now utterly 
 alone. I sat long pondering and trying to form a 
 plan, doubting whether after all it would not be best 
 to go on to yonder cottages, and seek for information, 
 and perhaps find some conveyance to take me home 
 by the road, for of course there was a road somewhere 
 from here to the Eib-See. Meanwhile the sun sank 
 lower and lower and steeped all the moimtain-tops in 
 glowing purple. Still I sat and could not summon 
 courage to rise. At length I was in despair, when 
 along the rugged country road below me a figure 
 slowly moved. There was something about this 
 figure that inspired immediate confidence. It was 
 not merely a rude ignorant peasant. It had the look 
 of a gentleman, and no slight resemblance to the 
 count himself. Full of this last idea, I jumped up 
 and bounded down the hill. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 When I arrived upon the road, the stranger was 
 some way off. I followed him rapidly, and had just 
 come up with him, when he turned round to see who 
 it was, and looked at me with evident amazement. 
 Perhaps this feeling was mutual. Certainly I had 
 not expected to see the face I did see, which was 
 unlike any I had ever seen before. Though he was 
 evidently a man of five and twenty or more, his face 
 was perfectly smooth from shaving — an arrangement 
 only known to the priesthood in the Tyrol. Then 
 too he turned upon me a pair of lustrous eyes, the 
 solemnity of which appeared perfectly incomprehen- 
 sible under the circumstances. Lastly, his face was 
 not only handsome but of a style of beauty entirely 
 new to me, delicate, chiselled, and smooth as a 
 woman's. I could not make him out at all. 
 
 ' Sir,' I said in German, ' I have lost my way in 
 the mountains, can you tell me the name of this vil- 
 lage, or direct me to a guide who can take me back 
 totheEib-See?' 
 
 He did not answer at once, but kept looking so- 
 lemnly at me, listening very attentively to my 
 words. 
 
 *Ich,' at last he began, *Ich— ah — au, Ich,' and 
 then suddenly stopping and looking very much con- 
 fused, he said ' Damn.' Now as this monosyllable 
 was quite unknown to me, I took the man to be 
 either intoxicated or mad, and so I said aloud, * The 
 man is a fool,' and that too in English. Whereupon 
 he coloured most violently, and went off in that 
 tongue at a furious pace.
 
 THE LADY 1 SAW IN HYDE PARK. 149 
 
 * Oh, I beg your pardon. Do you speak English ? 
 then we shall understand one another with ease. 
 The fact is, that I speak very little German and un- 
 derstand still less. May I beg you to tell me what 
 you said just now T 
 
 ' Oh ! then you are a countryman of mine.' 
 ' Impossible ! an Englishwoman in this wild place ?' 
 ' Yes, I am English.' 
 ' And yet — ' 
 'Yet what?' 
 
 ' You have — forgive my saying so — a strong foreign 
 accent.' 
 
 * I have been brought up all my life in these moun- 
 tains.' 
 
 'Indeed! how strange, how romantic!' 
 
 * And now I have lost my way, and am some 
 eight or ten miles from home. Where am I ? What 
 is this village ? Can you tell me ?' 
 
 ' My dear young lady, I am most distressed at your 
 situation. I really can't pronounce the Teutonic 
 name of this charming spot ; but if you will allow 
 me to escort you so far, you can obtain full informa- 
 tion there, and I shall be happy to place at your 
 disposal my phaeton and horses, which are put up 
 there.' 
 
 I accepted at once, and the rigid respectability of 
 the Englishman soon disappeared in the interest of 
 finding a compatriot in these out-of-the-way hills. I 
 could not help twitting him with the vanity of as- 
 suming the dress before he could master the lan- 
 guage of the country, and in return he twitted me
 
 150 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 witli being more German than English, a reproach 
 which I vehemently disclaimed. 
 
 There was something to me very attractive about 
 the manner of the man, and something very roman- 
 tic in our strange meeting, so that when he really 
 carried out his promise, and drove me back in his 
 own carriage, the journey, though very long, seemed 
 only too short. 
 
 Now, what the stranger thought of me I knew not, 
 and never knew ; but much to my astonishment and 
 delight I discovered, before I had been by his side 
 ten minutes, that we had, unwittingly on my part, 
 gradually glided into a fascinating style of conversa- 
 tion, perfectly new to me, and which I since learnt 
 was nothing more nor less than English flirtation. 
 What could I know of that harmless art ? for an art 
 I believe it to be, acquired by constant practice, and 
 only attained in true delicate perfection by the man 
 of the world, who is too old to be bashful and too 
 young to be blase. What did I, brought up like a 
 hermit, know of the innocent pleasures of badinage ? 
 and yet my natural genius and the romance of the 
 thing, to say nothing of the art of self-defence in- 
 stinctively possessed by every girl, enabled me to fall 
 into the game with ease. Flirtation has decidedly 
 its good side. In moderation, accompanied by youth 
 and good spirits, it saves a girl from becoming a 
 coquette; in excess, it is true, and accompanied by 
 fading beauty and blaseness, it makes a girl what is 
 almost as bad as a coquette, a fiirt. But coming 
 fresh and new to me. it perfectly fascinated me ; and
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 151 
 
 I, who was quite at home with grave philosophers 
 and profound thinkers, thought this witless stranger, 
 with his quick repartee and rapid perception, a very- 
 genius of his kind, and worth all your theorists, for his 
 practicability. What a little fool I was ! Well, well. 
 
 The roads were execrable, mere countiy cart-rucks, 
 and therefore, when we arrived at the village of 
 Eibenheim, about three miles from the lake, we were 
 compelled to dismount, and with some difficulty the 
 Englishman succeeded in finding a couple of stalls 
 for his English horses. 
 
 We then proceeded on foot, and had not gone half 
 a mile when we were met by Babbette and the fisher- 
 man's son, carrying lanterns, and hurrying on in great 
 alarm. Babbette covered me with respectful caresses 
 and scarcely respectful reproaches. My father, she 
 told me, was in a terrible state of anxiety. They 
 had been searching for me in every direction, and at 
 last she was going to the village to find a stout pea- 
 sant or two willing to hunt me out over the hills. 
 
 I explained all, and we hurried on, to find my poor 
 old father half paralysed with fright and anxiety. 
 
 Of course we offered the Englishman a bed, and 
 he accepted it. The next day, when he had been to 
 the village to look after his horses, he returned and 
 announced his intention of taking up his abode for a 
 month at the fisherman's cottage. 
 
 ^ I came to this neighbom-hood to shoot, or do any- 
 thing else that would pass the time, but I hear such 
 a wonderful account of the fishing about here, that I 
 think it is just the thing to suit me.'
 
 152 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. -| 
 
 I was delighted of course, and I thought my father 
 was rather pleased at the prospect of a little English 
 society, but I was mistaken — my father hated nothing 
 so much as his own countrymen, in general, and this 
 one, I afterwards found out, in particular. 
 
 The next day Sir William Grey, for it was he, 
 drove oyer to Eibenheim, and brought to the fisher- 
 man's an extensive equipment for shooting, fishing, 
 and dressing, which appeared to be his three passions ; 
 and in addition, an Englishman, half groom, half 
 courier, who seemed to be his right hand and even 
 more. He also brought with him that which insured 
 his popularity in the neighbourhood, a bulky purse 
 and a liberal hand. 
 
 From that day a change came over the dream of 
 Eib-See ; it seemed destined to be civilized. He 
 began by building stables for his horses at Eibenheim, 
 much to the delight of mine host of the 'Golden 
 Stag ;' and paid the workmen the wages which they 
 asked, but never expected to get. Then suddenly 
 enlightened as to the absurdity of keeping English 
 horses in such a country, he sent them and the 
 phaeton up to Munich, and a week afterwards the 
 groom returned with a couple of handsome Spanish 
 mules, and a little basket carriage, which was light 
 enough for any road. A day or two afterwards a 
 boat-builder appeared at the fisherman's hut with a 
 well-stocked case of implements, and the next morn- 
 ing set to work, with the aid of the fisherman's son, 
 to construct a boat on a model provided by the 
 young baronet himself.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 153 
 
 A little money goes a great way in a country 
 where even meat costs about twopence a pound, and 
 so the baronet, though not inordinately rich, soon ac- 
 quired the reputation of a millionaire. In short the 
 whole country for some five miles round was roused 
 from its peaceful routine by the activity and capital 
 of this one man, who, possessing plenty of English 
 enterprise, and a great passion for every sort of 
 active sports, turned both to the most pleasant ac- 
 count. 
 
 Of course I was delighted. Though this was not 
 the ^ world ' of which I dreamed so often, it still had 
 one great feature of it, variety and activity, and so I 
 ceased to dream of it, and was wholly taken up with 
 these novelties. Neither I nor the peasants saw that 
 in introducing this civilization on a small scale, the en- 
 terprising Englishman was sowing the first seeds of 
 discontent, and breaking through that calm monotony 
 and conservatism which was the only key to their 
 real happiness. But my father in his wisdom saw it 
 and frowned. 
 
 Bat Sir William was in great spirits. 
 
 * We only want a railroad to make us complete,' 
 he said, laughing. 
 
 ' A railroad, oh ! horrible. You would spoil the 
 simplicity of these honest people.' 
 
 'Fortunately it is impossible,' said my father, 
 quietly. 
 
 The mules were placed entirely at my disposal, 
 and we rode together about the country, nursing that 
 intimacy which was afterwards fatal to me. At every
 
 154 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 point of great beauty, Sir William suggested some 
 improvement. 
 
 ^ Wliat a spot for a park ! Why, we could have 
 chamois here instead of deer. What do you thinfe of 
 it, Miss Trevanion? And that rock is the very 
 place to pitch a hunting-lodge. I should buy some 
 Scotch tower, or some remnant of a Rhenish castle, 
 and have it built up again here. You want nothing 
 but life and animation to make a Paradise of these 
 mountains.' 
 
 And I listened with delight. 
 
 One day we rode over to a neighbouring village to 
 see a rustic fete. As usual, the principal amusement 
 was rifle-shooting at targets. Sir William insisted on 
 becoming a candidate, and the target was awarded to 
 him as the best shot. Fancy that, an Englishman 
 excelling in the very art which is the especial pride 
 of the mountaineer; but there were few things of 
 this kind which he could not do well. Yet when he 
 looked round and saw the evident shame on the 
 faces of two or three champions present, with his 
 usual liberality he offered a prize of a hundred florins 
 to the best of them. Now a hundred florins is an 
 income to a Tyroler, and you may be sure this 
 liberality, slight as it was, was not without efiect. 
 
 As we rode back, he became rather thoughtful. 
 
 * I think I was unwise in contending for the prize 
 to-day. It was evident that the native pride was 
 aroused, and it was not fair, for I have always been a 
 crack shot. But I think we can manage to make it 
 up to them. What do you say. Miss Trevanion, to a
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 155 
 
 fete of our own, on the bit of level land near the 
 lake?' 
 
 * Oh ! a capital idea. But it will be very difficult. 
 In the first place, where can they dance ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! as to that, I will have a large shed erected.' 
 
 * Then they will want an inn, and beer to drink, 
 and so on.' 
 
 ' I will turn the fisherman's hut into an inn, and 
 they shall not want either the edibles or the potables. 
 We can have it in grand style, and I can send to 
 Munich for a banquet.' 
 
 ' Oh, that will be glorious ! But there is one serious 
 objection. You know these fetes are got up under 
 pretence of keeping the anniversary of the patron 
 saint of the village. That is why they call them 
 Ejrch-weihe, or church-dedications. Now at Eib-See 
 we have neither a village nor a church.' 
 
 This rather puzzled Sir Wilham. I think he had 
 some idea of building a church for the occasion, but 
 as that was rather too absurd, he only answered, ' I 
 know how to manage it, Robert will settle that.' 
 
 Some days afterwards, Babbette, who had never 
 ceased talking about the wonderful EngHshman since 
 his arrival, took me mysteriously aside. 
 
 ^ What do you think, Fraulein ? Bobert, the Lord 
 Englishman's groom, has been over to see the re- 
 verend Pastor, and do you know he took with him 
 some bottles of such fine rich wine, — some say it comes 
 from the Rhine, some say from France — how do I 
 know? — that they say at Eiberheim, the reverend 
 Pastor was made quite ill by it, and wicked people
 
 156 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 say lie got tijDsy. Well, anyhow tlie end of it was 
 that the reverend Pastor promised Eobert, the groom^ 
 that the Eiberheim Kirch-weihe should be held three 
 months sooner than usual this year, and that on the 
 lake here. Oh, Fraulein !' 
 
 And Babbette held up her hands in amazement and 
 delight. I confess that for once in a way I felt no 
 small satisfaction at the fallibility of the church. 
 Had the reverend Herr Pastor been wine-proof — as 
 doubtless he was thoroughly beer-proof — our fete 
 would never have been realized. But it never struck 
 me at the time that the story went very strongly 
 against Robert, the groom, in the first place, and his 
 adored master in the second. Pleasure makes cliildren 
 of us all. It is only in the grave and serious business 
 of life that we look old before our time; and I 
 suppose the delight of something active and amusing 
 made a veritable infant of me. At any rate I lost 
 my head from the moment that the sheds, and stands, 
 and butts, and targets, &c.,"&c., began to be set up, to 
 that long looked-for day when the fete itself came 
 off. There was indeed only one drawback to my 
 happiness, and you will smile when I tell you that 
 this was Robert, Sir William's groom, courier, man- 
 of-all-work, right hand, and general confidant. From 
 a child up I had been on very intimate and familiar 
 terms with all the peasantry, high and low, in the 
 neighbourhood. Such a thing is by no means incom- 
 patible with the respect of the one and the dignity of 
 the other in the Tyrol. The noble mountaineers are 
 thoroughly independent, and feel themselves to be a
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PAEK. 157 
 
 kind of inferior gentry. At tlie same time tliey enter- 
 tain a profound respect for the nobility of education, 
 and not a little for that of rank. Like all peasantry 
 of highland districts, they are conservative to the 
 backbone, and yet so independent that they exact no 
 slight courtesy in return for that they pay. In my 
 utter ignorance I used towards this English servant 
 (you know him by sight, and by character he was 
 very intelligent, very ambitious in a servile way, and 
 somewhat above the usual tone of servants, having 
 travelled a great deal) the same tone that I used 
 towards the Tja-olese. The poor villain in his conceit 
 mistook it entirely. But it was very long before I 
 discovered this. 
 
 Sir William suggested that I should work a scarf 
 for the victor in the coming shooting-match. Now I 
 was utterly ignorant of those gentler arts of which 
 Miss Lambert was once, I believe, the patroness ; but 
 I was ashamed to confess it. I applied to Babbette ; 
 but though she could stitch and sew and knit against 
 any German woman, which is saying a great deal, 
 embroidery was to her an arcanum magnum. In 
 my despair I happened to mention it to Eobert, 
 pledging him to secrecy. 
 
 ' I understand, miss,' he replied, with a vulgar leer, 
 which I mistook for Englih honhommie. ' You may 
 rely on me. I am as safe as the Bank of England ; 
 bat I think I can manage it for you : leave it to me, 
 miss.' 
 
 Some days afterwards, among the packets which 
 continually anived from Munich for the enterprising
 
 158 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 baronet, was one for his groom. The same evening, 
 as I was sitting alone under some trees near the 
 cottage, I heard a step behind me. I turned and 
 saw Robert with his parcel under his arm. 
 
 He came up mysteriously, and looked doubtfully 
 round. 
 
 'Miss Trevanion,' he said, unfolding the packet, 
 and producing a beautiful little embroidered scarf, * I 
 have kept your secret and managed the trick.' 
 
 I could not conceal my satisfaction. 
 
 ' Oh, Robert !' I cried, * how good of you. This is 
 beautiful : but I cannot accept it as a gift. I must — ' 
 
 'Miss Trevanion, believe me, you will hurt my 
 feelings extremely if you do not do me the honour 
 to accept it.' 
 
 This was just what I feared to do ; while on the 
 other hand I had no power of repaying him. 
 
 ' Well, then, I must accept it. I am sure, Robert, 
 I am deeply grateful — very much obliged.' 
 
 * Miss Trevanion, I am more than repaid ; those 
 words will remain imprinted on my heart.' 
 
 Having delivered himself of which penny-novel 
 sentiment, Robert ought to have gone ; but, for some 
 incomprehensible purpose of his own, he remained 
 looking at me with an expression of maudlin tender- 
 ness. 
 
 I had always mistrusted the appearance of the man, 
 but was now disgusted. I had, however, just accepted 
 a gift from him, and could not in decency expose my 
 feeling. So I got up and walked away. 
 
 Well, the fete came off at last.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 159 
 
 CHAPTER XII.— Master and Man. 
 
 All our amusements are much alike in this life. It 
 is so difficult to make man be merry, that when once 
 a means is discovered, it is sure to be perpetuated. 
 Drinking-bouts are as old as Noah, and dancing far 
 older than David ; yet both of these are still the 
 staple regenerators of the well-worked and well-wor- 
 ried. Village-fetes make no exception to tliis rule, 
 and the Tyroler Kirch-weihe seldom varies. It gene- 
 rally consists of manly games in the morning for the 
 men, with gentler sports for the women ; rifle-matches 
 in the afternoon, dancing in the evening, and drink- 
 ing all day long. That which distinguishes it from 
 the merry-makings of cities is the thorough enjoy- 
 ment of all concerned; and that which raised it 
 above those of other countries is the respectable — 
 almost gentlemanlike, conduct of both men and 
 women. True that at night there is a little more 
 excitement than usual ; carts are driven home at a 
 more rapid jolt ; yodels are shouted out at the very 
 utmost of the voice ; and lovers, long bashful, come 
 forward at last, and look confidently into each other's 
 eyes in the declining moonhght. Nay, one or two 
 of the younger men may be taken home helpless, 
 more from sleepiness than actual intoxication, while 
 even a friendly fight or two may end the day ; but 
 your mountaineer, strong as a lion, temperate as an
 
 160 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 Arab, and honest as Aristides, is in his amusements 
 far, far above the British peasant, lying dead-drank at 
 mid-day, filling the air with foul words, and decked in a 
 shabby coat that still apes gentility. We are proud of 
 our field-sports and manly exercises. But whom do 
 they benefit ; to w^hom are they confined ? — The 
 well-to-do and the gentry. Would that they might 
 extend to our peasantry! Would that the clerg)^ 
 saw no more harm in a bat and ball in the 
 labourer's hand than he does in a field of fifty well- 
 mounted gentlemen hunting to death one miserable 
 fox ! Would that that blind, exploded, ridiculous, but 
 still tenaciously clung to prejudice of Saints and 
 Simonists, — that recreation, not the want of it, en- 
 courages the beershop — were declared a lie by the 
 voice of the country ; and that those who set them- 
 selves against genial relaxation could be sent off in 
 a mass to the Tyrol, to see what a peasantry should 
 really be, and what even the ignorant priests of Rome 
 can let them be, because they have not stifled and 
 overlain their common-sense. And then their prate 
 of our enlightenment, and the superstition and dark- 
 ness of these simple-minded people ! Let it be so ; 
 and I will ask one question. Is it the ignorance that 
 sees in the wayside cross an earthly form to remind 
 us of an heavenly spirit, and falls down before it, and 
 the ignorance which knows not the pollution of 
 penny newspapers, Reynolds' Miscellanies, London 
 Journals, and the Hke ; — or is it rather drunkenness, 
 fornication, theft, and murder, — that will iaherit the 
 kingdom of hell ? If the former, then let us rejoice
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 161 
 
 in our education and enlightenment ; if the latter, 
 let us admit that we are wrong in believing — and 
 what is more, asserting — that the British peasant is 
 the finest specimen of his class in Europe. But this 
 is a digression : — to return. 
 
 Our festival — our first and last— had however much 
 to distinguish it. In the first place, the peasant did 
 not come here to spend his long laid-by savings — the 
 beer and the banquet were a gift. In the next place, 
 Kathchen or Betchen did not say to one another when 
 setting out for Eib-See that morning, ' Well, I won- 
 der if the kirch-messe will be a good one to-day, 
 whether we shall have any fun there ?' for everybody 
 had implicit confidence in this eccentric rich English 
 Graf — they would almost have caUed him Herzog — 
 who would be sure to have the best of everything at 
 his fete. 
 
 So Kathchen, Betchen, Gratchen, Marie, Liezl, 
 Babettchen, and all the rest of them, rummaged for two 
 days previously in tliose huge roomy store-closets with 
 which every Bauer's cottage is provided, for the 
 choicest of all the rich garments which had been 
 lying there for years, perhaps made half-a-centnry 
 back, and brought by the thrifty mother as her 
 trousseau, just as it had been her own mother's 
 trousseau before her, and would still be her daugh- 
 ter's. Here on one shelf, for instance, they found no 
 less than twenty skirts of a thick woollen material 
 and of different dark colours — brick-red, sea-blue, 
 black edged with yellow, brown, green, and even 
 purple. The happy possessor chose among these 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 with natural good taste. Undermost she put a thin 
 black skirt, over this a madder-brown, then a bright 
 red, and lastly a rich black, outside the rest ; or if 
 more gaily inclined she would have purple and 
 orange instead of brown and red, always keeping the 
 black outside. Thege skirts are plaited in the minu- 
 test folds, and when on stick out in every direction 
 almost as successfully as our modern hoopage. They 
 reach, however, very little below the knee, and are 
 so arranged that the gaudy colours shall always peer 
 out more or less from under the sombre black. Then 
 the little coquette would choose some bright-coloured 
 boddice, very short-waisted, which she would draw 
 round over a stomacher of goodly white lawn or a 
 neatly folded shawl, and would lace with real silver 
 chains, to which were hung coins, medals, charms, 
 horse-shoes, and the like, a goodly rattling chatelaine, 
 with at least the advantage of being genuine. Then 
 if she were a maiden coy, she would gather her 
 plaited hair into two quaint silver horns which hung 
 down like rich stalactites at the back of her neck, or 
 if she was wedded, she would proudly set upon her 
 head a cap or rather turban of soft dark fur, such as 
 has not been worn in the civilized world since the 
 days of Elizabeth of Bohemia. Lastly, she drew over 
 her red worsted stockings a pair of thick shoes, whose 
 only elegance forsooth was the bright silver buckles 
 with which they were clasped. Then discarding the 
 common brown umbrella, and arming herself with a 
 huge one of a bright scarlet or violet blue, she would 
 toddle forth.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 163 
 
 ' A fine stout woman,' says her husband, clapping 
 her on the shoulder. ' Bound and handsome.' 
 
 And the wife smiles and blushes, for the Tyrolese 
 idea of beauty even in women is connected with 
 strength and health, and the tender and slender 
 have something even sickening about them to the 
 ruddy mountaineer. 
 
 Such were our guests that day. The men need no 
 description. You have seen them exact and com- 
 plete in the choruses of ' Freischiitz ' at Her Majesty's 
 Theatre, with the exception that those are wretched 
 little Londoners who feel miserable in their disguise, 
 while these were great gaunt powerful men of six 
 feet and more. 
 
 They came in hundreds, some by the road in little 
 carts, or on rough mountain ponies, others across the 
 hill-tracks, by no means ashamed of walking ten 
 miles for a day'^ amusement. 
 
 About mid-day Sir William Grey came up and 
 brought me down to dinner, which was then to com- 
 mence. My father could not be induced to come with 
 us. He would " look us up " in the evening, he said ; 
 he had seen fetes enough in his day, and the only 
 joy that really pleased him was spontaneous, not this 
 ' systematic necessity of joy.' I was grieved at my 
 father's words, though I had scarcely expected him 
 to come. But I was not prepared for the look of dis- 
 appointment that pulled down the Baronet's usually 
 smiling mouth. 
 
 ' You know he never stirs out, except at his own 
 hours,' I said, by way of softening his incomprehen- 
 sible disappointment. M 2
 
 164 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 * It is not that,' he answered, moodily. * It is 
 not the absence of your father's venerable head 
 at our rustic festival, though I would fain have 
 seen it there. No, the fact is, that — that — to tell 
 you the truth,' — here he even reddened, a most un- 
 usual thing for this man of the world — ' I — I got this 
 fete up expressly — excuse my saying it — expressly 
 for you.' 
 
 ' For me. Sir William ! How kind, but how — ' 
 
 * Foolish, you would say. Well, perhaps it was, 
 for I see your father is anything but pleased at my 
 taking his solitude by storm in this manner. But I 
 saw, I knew, that you wanted some change. It is 
 natural that a girl of your spirit should sigh for some- 
 thing more lively and active than musty folios, and 
 Babbette's prosy gossip — is it not so ?' 
 
 And here was a man who understood me. In my 
 gratitude I felt, and certainly said, too much. 
 
 ' W^ell, I think you will like it,' he said, some time 
 after. * I have done everything I could to make it 
 complete. I did not forget your sarcastic remarks 
 on my dressing up in tliis guise, when we met the 
 first time ; but I thought it would be absurd to be 
 playing the Englishman among these good people, 
 and I wished to make them at home. Unfortunately, 
 we have very few good shots coming to-day. So I 
 have put Kobert up, to give the competition a zest, 
 and he has promised not to carry away the prizes, 
 though he is a capital marksman. By the way, have 
 you brought your scarf ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, of course,' I answered with some con- 
 fusion.
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 165 
 
 ' You must present it yourself to the victor/ 
 
 * Certainly.' 
 
 At tliis moment I almost wished Eobert and the 
 scarf at the bottom of the lake. 
 
 Sir William had certainly changed the face of our 
 quiet lake-shores, and the festival on the Theresian- 
 meadow at Munich could scarcely be more brilliant 
 than his tiny fair. Everything that money and taste 
 could do had been done, and to give life to it all, 
 were hundreds of happy men and women in gala 
 dresses, talking, laughing, beer-drinking, singing in 
 jovial knots, with the little quiet priest in his shabby 
 black going gently from band to band, receiving the 
 reverent salutations of all, and hearing the tales and 
 doles of nearly half of them. 
 
 The banquet over, the games began. Here the 
 skittles clumped and jumped. Here the sharp-edged 
 quoit was hurled. Here a little barbed ball hanging 
 from a beam was thrown at a ring some twenty paces 
 off, and every now and then caught in it with a click. 
 Then the women crowded round a couple of rustic 
 musicians, who were playing the sweet-toned zithers, 
 and singing a quaint dialogue, mingled with a certain 
 wit and satire, that drew laughter from them all, 
 though they had heard it at every merry-making for 
 years. Certainly Lesage's receipt for wit — give way 
 to your natural spirits (if they happen to be good) — 
 was testified to by these peasants, whose conversation 
 in their unbounded mirth was far more humorous, 
 and undoubtedly more original, than the stereotyped 
 dialogues of the zither-players.
 
 166 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 At length the shooting-match — ^the great event of 
 the day — came off, and a goodly array of tall hand- 
 some fellows, who made no secret of their being free- 
 shooters, alias poachers, came forward with their own 
 rifles. The prizes, consisting of the targets them- 
 selves, or tin plates, or small sums of money, were 
 carried off by the victors, and the whole valley re- 
 echoed with the shots, till at last I thought with 
 pleasure that my miserable scarf was forgotten, when 
 suddenly the cry of * The stag, the stag,' was raised 
 on all sides, and the poachers rushed off to a new 
 spot, followed by a general crowd. Thither Sir Wil- 
 liam presently drew me. 
 
 ' This is a great feature,' he said, * and your scarf is 
 now to come into requisition.' 
 
 At the distance of a hundred and fifty paces a 
 couple of thickets had been got up, with a broad 
 space between them. From one of them the wooden 
 figure of a stag emerged and passed at a rapid pace 
 to the other. There was but one vulnerable spot in 
 this animal — the fore shoulder — and when that was 
 struck the figure fell on its knees. This was much 
 finer sport than shooting at a fixed target, and it 
 created proportionately more interest. 
 
 We arrived just at the moment when an animated 
 dispute was going on, and found Kobert, the groom, 
 taking the principal part in it. The disputants 
 ceased the moment we appeared on the scene, and 
 the contest began. Each man who failed to hit the 
 black spot on the shoulder retired from the field, and 
 the number was thus rapidly reduced. At last two
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 167 
 
 only were left, and as to one of these my scarf was 
 to be given, I looked to see who they were. Kobert, 
 the groom, was one of them, and the other, to my 
 amazement and delight was the Count Arnault. 
 How we had failed to meet I could not tell, still 
 less could I guess whether he knew that I was there. 
 He was so thoroughly engrossed by the excitement 
 of the match that he never once took his eyes from 
 his rifle unless to turn them to the false copses. 
 
 While lost in a maze of strange memories that his 
 face had recalled, I was roused by a wild cheer all 
 around me, and the next moment the odious Eobert 
 was led up to receive his own scarf again. I forced 
 a gracious smile as I placed it across his bowing 
 shoulders, and he kissed my proffered hand with a 
 most unwarranted tenderness. When I turned to 
 look for the count he was gone. 
 
 *What has become of the other competitor?' I 
 asked eagerly of Sir William. 
 
 ' I think he is gone away in disgust, miss,' replied 
 the officious groom, with a look of intense conceit. 
 * They say he is a first-rate shot.' 
 
 * And what do you mean, Eobert, by carrying ofl' 
 the prize ?' asked his master. 
 
 ' Well, sir, I let them take all the others, but I 
 couldn't allow these fellows to wear Miss Trevanion's 
 scarf.' 
 
 Sir William looked pleased. 
 
 * You see how faithful a rascal he is,' he whispered 
 to me. ' Like master, like man.' 
 
 * Indeed I see not the remotest resemblance,' I
 
 168 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 answered ; ' but will you have the kindness to de- 
 spatch some one in search of the unsuccessful com- 
 petitor. I recognized in him aii old friend.' 
 indeed!' 
 
 * Yes, a Count Arnault, who passed some time here 
 last winter.' 
 
 ' Aha ! I did not know we had so august and so 
 favoured a personage among us. Eobert, send imme- 
 diately in search of the count — quick !' 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour Eobert returned. 
 
 ' The Count Arnault presents his compliments to 
 Miss Trevanion, and is sorry to say that he has not 
 time to w^ait upon her,' was the message he brought. 
 
 ' How very strange ! Did you see him yourself, 
 Eobert?' 
 
 ' Yes, miss ; I overtook him on his way to Eiber- 
 heim. He seemed to be in a great hurry.' 
 
 I was quite unable to understand this strange con- 
 duct, and my thoughts naturally reverted to the 
 letter. 
 
 * And who is this unmannerly count ?' asked Sir 
 William, as, placing my arm in his, he led me towards 
 a secluded part of the grove. 
 
 ' A great Nimrod,' I answered, * who, I think, pre- 
 fers his guns and dogs to any old friend.' 
 
 ' To prefer them to you. Miss Trevanion, argues a 
 stupidity and dulness that I can scarcely imagine 
 possible.' 
 
 'I quite differ from you. A simple child of the 
 mountains like myself, who knows nothing of life, and 
 cannot talk on a single subject beyond my own nar-
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 169 
 
 row local interests, must naturally be a bore to a man 
 of the world.' 
 
 Sir William looked in my face a moment seriously, 
 as if to see wlietber I spoke sincerely or not, and 
 then, satisfied that I did so, smiled with something of 
 pity. 
 
 * Oh, how thoroughly innocent of the world you 
 are!' he said, gently, and looking tenderly at me. 
 * How completely you ignore the charm of that 
 which we all seek. This very simplicity which you 
 deplore is for us — for me especially — your greatest 
 charm. Your beauty, rare as it is, is nothing to this 
 innocence and freshness that we look for in vain in 
 the world.' 
 
 The blood rushed into my face. 
 
 * You are laughing at me. Sir William.' 
 
 * Oh ! how you wrong me. I assure you, I swear 
 to you that I am sincere. I have never, never felt 
 so powerful an attraction as this — this very simplicity 
 of which we speak, and which I find in you, and in 
 you only.' 
 
 He looked passionately into my face as he spoke, 
 and I could not return his gaze. I still hung upon 
 his arm, and felt very happy. 
 
 * And yet,' he continued more calmly, ' you must 
 surely grow very weary of this seclusion." 
 
 ^ Oh ! yes, yes. I cannot tell you how I long to 
 see the world. I have heard so much of it — read so 
 much of it, and I am doomed to live this idle life 
 without events or objects. Nothing I long for more 
 than to see what the life of great cities is like.'
 
 170 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 * And yon ought to see it. It is not right that — 
 that your beauty — your talents too, should be wasted 
 upon mere peasants and rustics, good fellows though 
 they are in their way. But why do you not rebel ? 
 There is no reason why you should not be brought to 
 grace real life, and shine in circles where you would 
 be appreciated. There is no reason why you should 
 continue to hide your light under a bushel.' 
 
 'Indeed there are two most potent reasons. In 
 the first place, my father will never leave this spot 
 alive. He is wedded to his books, his papers, and 
 his solitude, and recoils from the idea of a town. In 
 the second, I have — no one — to take me from here ; 
 no one to go to elsewhere.' 
 
 Sir William was thoughtful for a moment. 
 
 ' I grant you your father is a great obstacle. But 
 you have influence with him, and it is as much for 
 his good as yours. In spite of all his reserve, I can 
 see that he is a man of great talents, and vast acquire- 
 ments. He is no mere bookworm. In this eternal 
 retirement, it is impossible but that his mind must 
 gTow dull and slack, or, to say the least, prejudiced. 
 The society of books is by^no means sufficient to 
 keep the mind alive and active. However much 
 they may suggest thought, or require it, it is only 
 in an easy, sluggish, reflective manner. It is the 
 contact with men that calls forth that vigorous exer- 
 cise of thought which really strengthens the mind. 
 Books are the food, conversation the gymnastics, of 
 the mind. Do you understand me ? But of course 
 you do, you understand everything.'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 171 
 
 I had never heard Sir William talk so sensibly, or 
 so well, and certainly never so much in accordance 
 with my own train of feeling. I listened attentively 
 as he went on. 
 
 ' But surely, Alice — I mean. Miss Trevanion — ' 
 
 ' No, Alice, I pray you.' 
 
 ' Surely, then, Alice, your second objection is of 
 very little weight. Do you not see at once an easy 
 solution ?' 
 
 He was watching my face so eagerly, as he spoke, 
 that I should have seen it at once ; but I was too 
 innocent to have di-eamed of it. 
 
 * No,' I answered, in a troubled tone. 
 
 * You have no one to go to — no relations. Do you 
 not see how you might create relations ?' 
 
 * Create them ; what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Do you not see what kind of relationship I mean ? 
 Who indeed should be your right protector ? Your 
 father is old ; to whom would you go if he were taken 
 from you?' 
 
 ^Oh! God forbid it!' 
 
 * Yes, indeed. But in ^time it must come ; and 
 without a home — without relations — ^to whom would 
 you look for protection? Is it not to a husband, 
 Alice?' 
 
 *I never thought of that,' I answered, quite sin- 
 cerely, as I felt the colour pour into my temples. 
 
 ' Would, then, that you would think of it now ; — 
 would you could see in me that lawful protector, 
 friend, relation !' 
 
 I stopped and looked into his face. What could 
 he mean ?
 
 172 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 * You would marry me ?' I said, not knowing quite 
 what I meant. 
 
 * Alice, I love you!' he answered passionately. 
 
 He fell back a step, and looked expectingly into 
 my eyes. It was so strange, so new, that I only re- 
 turned his gaze wdth a smile. This was enough. He 
 caught me in his arms, pressed me to his bosom, and 
 called me his wife. 
 
 He had been leading me gradually back to the 
 fete. It was already dark, and the crowds had 
 gathered round a large shed prepared for dancing. 
 It was as well Lighted as a profusion of candles in 
 little paper lamps of various colours could effect. 
 A band of three zithers were already playing a slow 
 melodious waltz ; and as we approached, I leaning in 
 mute bewilderment upon his arm and he with a 
 happy flush over his handsome features, the crowd 
 fell back, and as we entered the room, raised a wel- 
 come cheer. They had been waiting for us to open 
 the dance, and hence this welcome ; but it was so 
 strangely opportune, that the colour came into the 
 faces of us both, and we bowed to them and received 
 their greetings as if they had been congratulations. 
 
 Already the couples were pairing off, — each man 
 choosing the girl he loved best, and not from those 
 motives of convenanee which make society such a 
 bore ; and already the zithers redoubled their force. 
 
 * We must begin, Alice,' Sir WiUiam muttered to 
 me. 'I know not how I shall acquit myself in this 
 Tyrolese w^altz ; I have been studying it for weeks 
 with the fisherman's daughter, expressly for this occa- 
 sion.'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 173 
 
 * Did you never dance before you came here ?' I 
 asked in surprise. 
 
 ' Oh, dear, yes ; I am devoted to waltzing ; but 
 this slow measure, and these long steps, are sad work 
 after the deux-temps.' 
 
 ' But do they not waltz like this in the world ?' I 
 asked, in my sublime ignorance. At this Sir William 
 could no longer hold in. He burst into a merry 
 laugh. 
 
 * Forgive me, my dear Alice. You are a very 
 jewel, a queen, a ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, of course ; but why do you laugh ?' 
 
 * Because I am so happy, — because I love you so 
 much.' 
 
 And throwing his arm round my waist, he drew 
 me slowly round in that graceful dance ; and we 
 glided round, separating from time to time as the 
 music changed, I retreating, he following ; and then he 
 clapped his hands, struck together the thick iron-shod 
 heels of his boots, with a wild cry, and again threw 
 his arm round my waist. The scene was most ex- 
 citing. Every couple separated and rejoined at the 
 same moment. Every sturdy peasant clacked the 
 iron on his boots, and shouted with the excitement 
 at the same time, and I can compare it to nothing 
 else than a dance upon the stage. Then as the dance 
 grew warmer, the shouts became louder, mingled 
 with snatches of a yodel to the air of the waltz ; the 
 iron heels clanked with more spirit, bright eyes 
 flashed brighter still, and in the very height of it, 
 my own fell upon a sombre, distant face, whose dark
 
 174 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 eyes watched all this scene with interest, and also 
 with melancholy. It was Count Arnault. He was 
 leaning against the door, his green hat slouched over 
 his face, and a look of sadness as he gazed at all this 
 happiness. I saw him just that moment ; the next, 
 my lover's arm was round my waist again, and away 
 we went, and only ceased with the music, half dead 
 with the exercise and excitement. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII.— Among the Fireflies. 
 
 I LOOKED round at once, though Sir WilKam was 
 speaking to me, but the count was no longer there. 
 My eyes passed about the room and found him not. 
 I felt then a strange interest in that strange man. 
 A few minutes later Sir William was called away by 
 a noisy, clamouring crowd of pretty peasant-girls, 
 who were all eager to dance with him, and could not 
 see why they should wait to be asked. The whole 
 room closed round to see which damsel would be the 
 chosen fair, and I seized this opportunity to slip out 
 and rush aAvay. I needed this indeed. I was in a 
 state of feverish bewilderment. I scarcely knew 
 whether by some strange chance I were not really 
 dreaming. This lighted room, this exciting, though 
 measured waltz, this lover openly avowed, and this 
 dehght of being loved at last. All this was so un- 
 wonted, that until I could see with my own eyes the 
 spots I knew so well, unaltered, I could not believe 
 in the reality ; so I fled with a hght step haK way 
 up the hill and into the tliick pine-wood. The cooler
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 175 
 
 air of the rich summer night blew under my hair 
 gently, and calmed my fevered thoughts, that rushed 
 through and through so mldly. 
 
 At last I gained a well-loved spot where I often 
 sat, and sank down as if I had reached home after 
 wanderings in strange lands. It is true that all was 
 beautiful to me that night, and yet I think the 
 beauty of that scene, as it comes back to me through 
 so many years, is past all fancy. I have dreamed of 
 it sometimes when reading bits of good poets. There 
 is a description in Venus and Adonis like it in some 
 stray points. The scenes one imagines for the fairies 
 in the ' Midsummer Night's Dream,' are of the same 
 sweet, luscious tone ; and there are bits in Tennyson 
 which would do it justice. I shall only spoil it I 
 fear, still I will try. 
 
 I had sunk upon a natural bed that I had often 
 pressed, — a bed of moss, crushed creepers, and stray 
 plants of heather. There were flowers near me; 
 even at my cheek I felt the tender nodding head of 
 some wood-virgin. All around, the great pines shot 
 up, bare, rough, black, and gaunt ; and before me the 
 ground shelved steeply down to the lake and lost 
 itself beneath the waveless, glassy water. All up 
 this steep bank the rough, leafless stems shot up in 
 close masses, and between them, far below, I saw the 
 water white as innocence in the moonlight; and 
 looking up through their bushy heads I caught the 
 great round summer moon calm in a cloudless, deep 
 blue sky. This same moon bewitched everything ; 
 it fell on sleeping flowers, wood-roses half shut, and
 
 176 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 twisted woodbine, and the small white floweret of the 
 low-lying strawberry. But this was not all. It was 
 witliin a few days of St. John's eve, and the wood 
 swarmed with his angels, as the peasants call them, the 
 restless fireflies. All around me they flew like little 
 sparks, or little spirits — on my dress, in my hair, on my 
 hand, thousands, millions, myriads of them ; in the 
 heather, in the moss, in the strawberry-plants, up the 
 black stems of the pines, up again under the dark bushy 
 foliage in crowds and swarms, ever moving, ever 
 light, showing here a bit of a cone, there an atom of 
 bark, here half a flower, there the tip of a leaf, and 
 ever flitting to and fro, each one separate, and yet all 
 together, so that the whole dark forest was bewitched 
 with them, as if it were full of fairies and elves bear- 
 ing tiny lanterns. And lastly, up from the lake-side 
 came the plaintive tone of the zither, drowned every 
 now and then in the wild, excited cries of the dancers, 
 and up from the lake itself came a soft, flower-laden, 
 balmy air, heavy and warm and luxurious, and 
 poured itself upon me like a rich fountain of per- 
 fumes. 
 
 But all this was nothing. All this was external and 
 sensual, and the glory that came from within me 
 drowned it all. I loved and was beloved, and this 
 joy flowed over. 
 
 Yes, I loved, if, at least, love is a passion, and not 
 a habit. I was in a state of unnatural rapture and 
 ecstasy, such as I have never knov^n since. You 
 look inquiringly — I repeat it, never. I have learnt 
 since to love really from conviction ; but then I loved
 
 THE LADY I SAW IX HYDE PARK. 177 
 
 from joy, from tlie necessity of pouring out upon 
 some creature of my kind the long-hoarded stores of 
 passion that lay within me. To be beloved at all 
 was then sufficient for this. You do not understand 
 this, and naturally so, for you are a man. But never 
 mind, it is enough to say that I was really in love, 
 and that this common passion fell upon the lover who 
 had called the feeling into life. It might have 
 lighted, perhaps, on any other man in other circum- 
 stances. So as I sat there, gazing down at the white 
 streaks of water between the black trunks, and in- 
 dulged the luxury of this new discovery, I thought 
 of all his words, and yet more on all his looks ; and 
 by composing my mind to remember it all, I grew 
 gradually calmer, until a certain sadness fell upon 
 me, and I began to compare this new state and my 
 Avhole life since Sir William Grey's arrival, with my 
 former simple happiness. Certainly, the present 
 appeared vastly greater. I was happy then, I 
 thought, because I had nothing to make me other- 
 wise. I was happy now because there was some- 
 thing real to make me so. The positive always 
 transcends the negative, of course ; and yet when 
 the older memories stole in, the lake, the island, the 
 calm library, my father's grey beard and measm-ed 
 breathing, Babbette even, and above all, poor darling 
 Mimi — I was very sad, and the tears stole up with 
 the memories. 
 
 ' Ah, Mimi,' I said aloud, through my tears, ' it is 
 all your fault.' 
 
 ' Then Mimi has a great deal to answer for.' 
 
 VOL. L N
 
 178 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 I did not turn round, but I trembled ; for this was 
 the voice of Count Arnault. 
 
 * I little thought that Mimi would prove such a 
 mischievous wretch when I left her to your care.' 
 
 *I little thought,' I repeated, after him, still with- 
 out looking round, ' that Count Arnault would dare 
 to speak to me after the message he sent this 
 mornuig.' 
 
 ' Message ! this morning ! what message ?' 
 ' Oh, yes ! it is all very well to pretend ignorance 
 now. It is a very different thing when you are 
 hurrying off to Eiberheim.' 
 
 * I — this morning — to Eiberheim ! Why, Fraulein, 
 I have been here all day. I was at the kirche- 
 messe.' 
 
 * Yes, I saw you.' 
 
 ' And I saw you too, and did not speak to you, 
 because — because — because — ' 
 
 ' Aha ! I am glad to see you are ashamed of your- 
 self. Now, what wicked reason are you going to 
 invent ?' 
 
 * No, I vow it only because I had no right to be 
 there at all. I was not invited, you know, and this 
 English lord gave the fete only to the peasants, and 
 neither expected nor wished to see a man of my 
 stamp among them. If I had known all this I should 
 not have come on any consideration. I was passing 
 through Eiberheim, when I heard of some merry- 
 making on the lake, and came with a hope of seeing 
 — your father.' 
 
 * Oho ! only my father. Then you had forgotten
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 179' 
 
 me and Mimi, I suppose. But why did you run 
 away after the rifle -match ? I think you were 
 ashamed to show your face after being beaten. At 
 least it was not civil, when I sent after you, to return 
 so unfriendly a message.' 
 
 ' The rifle-match ! why I have been ever since 
 then witli your father at the cottage.* 
 
 I jumped up now and looked him in the face. Do 
 you know I longed to kiss that dear old friend. 
 Though I did not know it, I really loved him a great 
 deal more than I did my new lover. The love which 
 is most like friendship is always the best and lasts the 
 longest. 
 
 * Count Arnault,' I said, ' did you ever tell a lie ?' 
 ' I ? of course ; a great many in my lifetime.' 
 
 * And you can stand there and confess it ?' 
 
 * Denying it would only increase the number.' 
 
 * You wicked man ! Why, I saw you standing at 
 the door of the dancing-room.' 
 
 The count laughed, and looked confused a little. 
 
 * Well, you are right ; I had just left your father 
 then, and now I am come up to fetch you do"svn 
 again. They are going to dance a grand Eiberheimer 
 Laudler, and you are wanted to join it, so you must 
 give up your romance for the time being and obey 
 superior orders.' 
 
 So saying, he tucked me under his arm and trotted 
 me down the hill. 
 
 'So you have lost Mimi,' he said, as we went. 
 • Do you forget my prophecy ? Ah ! well, you ought 
 to remember it, and make a proverb of it. Never 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 take wild creatures into your house, they are sure 
 to run off when you most care for them. And never 
 make pets of wild fancies, they will do just what Mimi 
 did, and leave you desolate. I have had smart per- 
 sonal experience to prove it.' 
 
 I was silent, trying in vain to apply the rule. 
 
 ' And some years hence, perhaps,' he added, in a 
 tone less merry, ' I may have to remind you of this 
 rule, as I just now reminded you of my prophecy.' 
 
 * I cannot understand you.' 
 
 ' No matter.' 
 
 Well, a month after this day I was married at 
 Eiberheim church, with much 'merry-making and 
 bell-ringing, to * Sir William Grey, Baronet, son of 
 the late Sn- WilHam Grey, Bart., of Stoneoaks in 
 the county of Northamptonshire and Whitton Hall 
 in the county of Warwick,' as it appeared in the 
 Morning Post, &c., &c. 
 
 My father neither gave nor withheld his consent. 
 He was too unselfish, too feeling for the latter, al- 
 though his home and the calm of his old age were 
 broken up by this naughtiness of mine ; but he was too 
 far-sighted, too well versed in humanity — that great 
 folio MS., full of nonsense, written with a goose-quill 
 in blood-red ink, and bound in most presumptuous 
 calf — not to know full well that mine was an age 
 when no woman can choose aright, no girl know her 
 real mind, and that Sir William, for all that he shone 
 here among us simple folk, with never a temptation 
 near him, might not be so devil-proof in Paris or 
 London. So when I pressed him and entreated him
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 181 
 
 to say one word whether he would have me wed this 
 man or not, he took me on his knee, as he always 
 had been wont to do, and looking sweetly into my 
 eyes, said, * Do you love him, Alice ?' 
 
 * I do, father.' 
 
 He smiled very incredulously. 
 
 * Should you love him equally if he was indifferent 
 about you ?' 
 
 This was a question had never entered my head, 
 so, of course, I said * Yes.' 
 
 * And you respect him ?' 
 *Yes.' 
 
 * Good. Now do you love him better than me ? 
 
 I covered the good old man with kisses. He 
 pushed me back. 
 
 * That will not do ; you must answer my question.' 
 
 * Oh, father ! it is such a different love.' 
 
 *Ah! you think so,' said he, with a slight frown. 
 ' Well, that is enough ; your answer proves that you 
 do love him better than me — no nonsense — and quite 
 right too. Now, my love, go to Eiberheim and ask 
 for Stemmetz the stonemason. Tell him to make you 
 a strong stone box, with a very close fitting lid, and 
 when it is ready put your young heart in that, and 
 keep it there. Have it hermetically sealed so that 
 nothing can affect it. And if those feelings are really 
 in it and always remain the same, you will be happy. 
 If they change,' he added, in a solemn voice, 'you 
 must pray God to take your heart and keep it, for 
 otherwise the evil one will get possession of it. Go, 
 ^hild.'
 
 182 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 And I kept his advice, not indeed about the stone 
 box, but the rest ; and when first my resjDect vanished, 
 and then my love, I had no strength but in Him who 
 keeps even the swallows from harm. 
 
 I pass over all the bitterness I felt at leaving the 
 lake, perhaps for ever. The day before my wedding 
 I broke away from Babbette and two assistant w^ork- 
 women, who had been making my substantial but 
 unpretending trousseau, and wanted to make a lay 
 figure of me for the fiftieth and last time, and rushing 
 away I visited every spot that I had known so long 
 and loved so well ; and long I lingered on each, and 
 fast flowed the tears, as, unseen by any eye of man, 
 I uttered in sobs my long farewell to every haunt. 
 How lovely did God's architecture seem to me that 
 day, more beautiful than it had ever seemed, although 
 it had so often wrapped me in strange dreams ! From 
 my island in the lake — I always called it my island 
 — I returned and. mounted long and wearily to a 
 certain lofty peak, to which I had been wont to 
 make an occasional pilgrimage whenever I felt in 
 my sadder moods, or whenever I seem-ed to want 
 some nearer breath of heaven. From it I gazed 
 around on an amphitheatre of towering peaks, some 
 near and lower, some far and very mighty, covered 
 wdth eternal snow, and unsullied by the approach of 
 man. The sun was setting as I now stood there for 
 the last time. I know not why, but the sunset, with 
 its circling clouds of gold and purple, has always 
 seemed to me to be a picture of heaven itself given 
 each day to man, to warn him solemnly before the
 
 THE LADY I SAW I^ HYDE PARK. 183 
 
 coming night. The hush of nature, the pause of 
 labour, the calm that falls upon the wearied spirit, all 
 add to this effect ; and to me the great sun with its 
 cloudlets cu'cling round it seems a type of the great 
 Maker surrounded by his angels. I do not wonder 
 that in eastern lands the simple worshipped this type. 
 So as I gazed, a great trembling came over my spirit. 
 I felt as if I had sinned in longing for the outer 
 world ; as if here alone was purity and truth. I knew 
 that I was going into a life of which I knew nothing, 
 whether good or evil, I fell upon my knees and 
 prayed : ' O Father, merciful Keeper of all hearts, 
 thy child is going to a new life, into an unknown 
 land. Have mercy, Lord, and forsake me not, but 
 hold me up. Keep me 'in thy great kindness, and 
 give me strength to do the thing that is right.' Then 
 the tears came thick and fast, and I rose full of faith 
 and hope. I plucked a few alpine roses, round my 
 feet, and came down. I have kept those flowers ever 
 since, and my prayer has been granted. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV.— My Dream becomes a Nightmare. 
 
 We left my father in his chalet on the lake, and 
 went to travel in Italy. I was very happy for about 
 a month. I was delighted with the exterior of the 
 world and the excellence of my husband. At the 
 end of that time my father wrote to tell me he was 
 going to leave Eib-See for ever. He had had a 
 struggle with himself, and had conquered in favour of 
 his daughter. He joined us at Naples, and there died.
 
 184 THE TWICKENHAM TALES.* 
 
 When this grief seemed to be absorbed in the new 
 love that my husband brought me, I was happy again 
 for a long time. I found Sir William had a great 
 deal of common sense, but no romance. Now, to 
 make life bearable, one of three things is necessary— 
 much religion, much romance, or much interest in 
 life. By the last I mean an object — such as money 
 or a name. Sir William had for religion the respect- 
 able Protestantism of many English country gentle- 
 man, who sits in a family pew once a week to hear a 
 prosy sermon, repeats the Lord's Prayer once a day 
 in his own chamber, is liberal to the poor, and sup- 
 ports the theory of Church and State. What he 
 lacked, and what so many of us lack, was the 
 patience for constant self-examination, and that con- 
 fidence in an Unseen Power, to which to appeal 
 at all times for all troubles. Of romance he enter- 
 tained a supreme contempt. He had sufiScient 
 sympathy with the Beautiful, and the Good as far 
 as it goes with it; but he had no aspirations of a 
 higher kind^ no communications with himself; he 
 lived a totally external life. Lastly, he wanted some 
 decided object. He was far too comfortable with 
 regard to money, and even his two country seats were 
 in such an admirable state of preservation that he 
 could not take to the squire's last resort, improving 
 and building. 
 
 About a year after his marriage, the English 
 baronet had got accustomed to his half-German wife, 
 wild from the mountains ; and that wife, partly to 
 please him, partly by her own natural instinct, had
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 185 
 
 put off her wildness gradually, and put on the ridi- 
 culous garments of civilization — garments literally to 
 a great extent witli a woman, and Miss Alice Tre- 
 vanion would have been quite a stranger in her sim- 
 ple home-made dress to Lady Grey in the height 
 of Neapolitan fashion, and learning by degrees to 
 yield to all the lies necessary in polite society, 
 and accord with all the hypocrisy of a world where 
 truth, pur et simple, is either impossible or very disa- 
 greeable. 
 
 In about a year's time Sir William, having no 
 hunting to keep him alive, found it necessary to his 
 existence to take to a club. You can guess what the 
 English club at Naples is like. British morality, 
 never at its best in a club-room anywhere, is by no 
 means proof against the strong influences of one of 
 the worst of foreign cities ; while, on the other hand, 
 Englishmen always take with them everywhere their 
 own peculiar vices just as naturally as they do their 
 own soap. Of all that my husband did at his club, 
 of the amount of money he lost at play or on that 
 anomalous grass-plat, the Anglo-Italian turf, and of 
 the other temptations that surrounded him, and to 
 which a too easy nature laid him terribly open, I 
 knew nothing, except by surmise. I was not fond of 
 ladies' society ; I had no mind for niaiseries, and my 
 husband's friends were not the people to gossip to me 
 of his follies. But I soon perceived that this club- 
 life was absorbing him, and soon discovered some of 
 its consequences at home. 
 
 He began by buying horses for me, and soon passed
 
 m 
 
 186 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 to buying them for himself. I could not but discover 
 that he was figuring extensively on ' the turf.' To 
 this I had nothing to say ; it seemed a thoroughly 
 harmless Avay of throwing his money about. But I 
 saw with some disgust that the confidential Eobert 
 was his bottle-imp in all these matters, and I had no 
 doubt that he made considerable use of his master's 
 capital and position. 
 
 ' I bought that horse of Robert/ said Sir William 
 to me one day. 
 
 *0f Robert? of your groom? You don't mean 
 to say that he is in a position to ' possess a horse 
 at all ?' 
 
 Sir William laughed heartily. 
 
 ' Why, bless your innocence ! Alice, he is one of the 
 cleverest dealers in his way in Naples. He is invalu- 
 able to me as a groom, for he knows more about 
 horse-flesh than — than I do myself almost. There's 
 only one fault about him — he can't jock for me ; and 
 so I am left at the mercy of any rogue that happens 
 to sit my horses decently.' 
 
 From this time I watched the groom's progress 
 with unusual interest. One day Sir William happen- 
 ing to be in a very bad humour, did me in conse- 
 quence the honour to dine at home. As we sat 
 over the fire after dinner, Robert knocked at the 
 door. 
 
 ' What is it, Robert ? anything the matter ?' 
 
 ' No, sir, all is right. I came to ask you to allow 
 me to go to Rome for a few days.' 
 
 * To Rome ! What do you want to do there ?'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 187 
 
 'Well, sir, I have some rather important busi- 
 ness/ 
 
 ' Speak out. Of course you can't leave me in 
 the lurch here without a good and sufficient cause. 
 What do you want to go for ?' 
 
 * Well, sir, the fact is that I have a horse to buy.' 
 Sir William looked cloudy. 
 
 ' I lay a thousand pounds it's Battler you're 
 after.' 
 
 * It is, sir.' 
 
 * And, you scoundrel, you knew I was in treaty for 
 the beast !' 
 
 * Indeed, sir, I did not.' 
 
 * Then you ought to have known it.' 
 
 * Of course I ought, Sir William ; but if you are 
 pleased to withdraw your confidence from me, and 
 keep your transactions so profoundly secret, I am not 
 to blame if — ' 
 
 'Go,' shouted the baronet, in a towering rage. 
 'Go!' 
 
 ' Then, sir, I shall not return to this house.' 
 And so saying, the groom departed with a look of 
 triumph, and never returned to our service. When 
 he did return to ]^aples it was with a very peculiar 
 position and no small amount of capital. He had so 
 long been the adviser of Sir William and most of his 
 friends, that when he came back to set up indepen- 
 dently, the value of his judgment and sharpness 
 secm^ed him the companionship of the whole troop. 
 They could no longer treat him as the groom, so, as
 
 188 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 men of the stable will do, they stooped whenever 
 necessary to his level, till he had raised himself to 
 theirs. In a short time Kobert not only kept his 
 own stable, and made it the resort of every sporting 
 Englishman and cheating foreigner who had money 
 enough to serve as their introduction to the quondam 
 groom, but kept also his own table, round which he 
 drew a select circle of admiring superiors. I say 
 * admiring,' because I am persuaded that men of 
 stable mind admire nothing more than an acquaint- 
 ance with horseflesh guaranteed by success. The 
 snob, indeed, is still the snob; but when the pro- 
 fessional rises and has the acuteness, as Kobert had, 
 to keep his position and maintain the semblance of 
 respectfulness, he is sure to make a large number of 
 fools not only his guests but his dupes. Among the 
 latter Sir William Grey soon figured. Both he and 
 Kobert found it politic to forget their former alliance 
 and recent difference, and Sir William, for all his 
 pride, soon followed the black sheep who dined with 
 his late groom. 
 
 When I discovered this, I saw no safeguard, but to 
 create a society at home, fitted to the wild tastes of 
 my husband, which should at least have the advan- 
 tage of a woman's influence. I gave soirees twice a 
 week, to which I invited every one who cared to 
 come. I soon saw that the ladies of Naples kept 
 away. Kespectability was afraid of such an incon- 
 gruous mass. But I sacrificed my pride to my hus- 
 band's weal, and braved : ae evil tongues of an evil
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 189 
 
 world. For about one winter this plan succeeded, 
 but it was already too late. 
 
 One night my husband came home di'unk. I for- 
 gave him, said nothing, and waited. A week passed, 
 and the fault was repeated. From that day he 
 became hopeless. All my kindness, all my devotion, 
 were forgotten. I could not understand this in a 
 man of naturally good heart. But it went on, and 
 at last the secret was out ; the late groom was thus 
 avenging himself for the insult — as he took it — 
 which he had suffered, and, as I now know, for the 
 chagrin of my own slighting. This wretched Bobert 
 had been in love with me. When I was still a mere 
 cottager's daughter, he had had hopes of winning me. 
 My husband had blighted these by marrying me, and 
 this he never forgave. And when he found that the 
 vile falsehoods which he circulated about me in 
 Naples, and which soon left me without a single 
 friend of my own sex, were really harmless to one of 
 my quiet character, he resolved to insure my misery 
 by the ruin of my husband. 
 
 I broke the connection at last by forcing Sir 
 William to remove to Florence. Here for a time he 
 recovered, till one day Eobert and his horses turned 
 up in that city, and again all seemed hopeless. I 
 endured as long as I could, but even woman's patience 
 is broken at last. 
 
 I grew miserable, and having no friend to go to, I 
 sought a constant relief in tears and prayer. But at 
 home I was never at home. I was never free from 
 the intrusions — for such they now were — of a half-
 
 190 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 drunken husband, who treated me as only a drunkard 
 can treat a woman, in a way which I dare not 
 recall. 
 
 One morning I rushed from the house in despair, 
 weakened by this man's cruelty, and shamed beyond 
 bearing by the jeers of his wretched destroyer, whom 
 he had had the audacity to bring into the house with 
 him. I went alone and strolled by the banks of the 
 Arno. When I looked at its rippling waters, I could 
 not but think how calm I might be dead beneath 
 them. I stood upon the brink and longed to throw 
 myself in. It was a moment's struggle. I was giving 
 way — I was so full of misery — when God sent a hand 
 to hold me back. I turned and saw the Count 
 Arnault gazing curiously at me. I took his hands 
 and pressed them madly. 
 
 * Count,' I murmured, * it is God who sends you. 
 You can comfort me. Oh, do not look so sternly ! I 
 have no friend in this world, if you are not my 
 friend.' 
 
 Without answering, he drew me to a seat. 
 
 * My good friend,' he said, softly, * I know it all. I 
 foresaw it. Indeed I warned you. Do you remember 
 when I found you among the fire-flies at Eib-See ? 
 Do you remember that I said to you, " Never make 
 pets of wild fancies — they will do as Mimi has 
 done?"' 
 
 I pressed my face to my hands. 
 
 * This is cruel, to remind me of Eib-See. To cast 
 my folly in my teeth. I am brought low enough 
 without this.'
 
 THE LADY I SAW IN HYDE PARK. 191 
 
 * Poor thing ! it is cruel. It was a selfish glorying 
 on my part. I did not know you were sunk so low. 
 But now, let me- comfort you. Let me be your 
 friend. Do not weep. We will think what is to be 
 done. Why are you weeping ? Has anything new 
 happened ?' 
 
 I sobbed for a long time. 
 ' What is it, Alice ?' 
 
 * This morning, ' I sobbed, ' he has struck me — with 
 his fists.' 
 
 ' The brute, the villain !' 
 
 * No, no. It is not that. He has not hurt me. I 
 am not weeping for myself, but think — oh ! think — 
 how low he must have sunk ! It is that thought that 
 oppresses me.' 
 
 The count was silent for some minutes, frowning 
 gloomily. At last he said : ' Alice, would you save 
 your husband ?' 
 
 * Oh ! indeed that is my only care. But how to 
 doit?' 
 
 * Would you do anything to save him ?' 
 *Yes, anything, anything.' 
 
 * Then, leave him. Leave him to-day. He loves 
 you still, foolishly but fondly. You have suffered 
 too long in silence. This patience has'encouraged him. 
 Leave him at once. Go to England, to your friends, 
 anywhere ; and you will see that he will do anything 
 to bring you back. At least, if it has no other effect, 
 it will break this habit for a time. It will shock liim 
 and sober him.' 
 
 * Leave him to kill himself — never.'
 
 192 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 And yet the same night, when I had thought 
 over it a long time, I left him, without warning, 
 and set out for England, where I found out my 
 aunt Theodora, and lived for some months with 
 her. It was during this time that walking one 
 day in Kotten-Kow, I was accosted by the quondam 
 groom. 
 
 He brought me better news of Sir William — 
 falsehoods, as I afterwards learnt— and I listened 
 to him for a while, until he had the insolence 
 to make the most insulting overtures to me ; and 
 then in despair I implored the aid of a young 
 man whom I had already noticed in the Park, 
 and whose face pleased me by its honesty and 
 
 sincerity. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The M.S. did not end here. But as you know all 
 that took place from this point where the two tales 
 join, I will not weary you with a repetition. 
 
 Need I tell you of the next day's adventures? 
 Can you, having heard Alice's tale, still think her 
 unworthy of the love she panted for ? If you do so, 
 Arthur at least did otherwise ; and after all, I know 
 not if these two young souls were so much the worse 
 for loving. 
 
 When D' Aubrey had finished, a murmur of applause 
 arose. D' Aubrey checked it, saying — 
 
 * You are all too tired for that now. Let us make 
 experiment of Veniey's beds ; l)ut ere we separate, 
 I must appoint my successor. Angerstein, you came
 
 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 193 
 
 next after me, and you must tell the next tale. Take 
 care there is nothing about a Chancery suit in it, or 
 you will have to pay the ten postage stamps which 
 Scott is going to award. By the way, Scott, may 
 the successful competitor have the college arms on 
 them ?' 
 
 ' Well, I think not,' replied Scott, ' without the 
 permission of the master and seniors ; but that's 
 nothing to you, for I tell you at once, to put you out 
 of your misery, you haven't got the prize. We don't 
 allow anything so loose as your tale in our college 
 essays.' 
 
 *Yery well,' said D' Aubrey, ^I suppose I must 
 resign myself to my fate. It is not the first time 
 I've suffered at the hands of dons ; but do, dear Scott, 
 my good feUow, shake yourself up a bit, and don't 
 think that the old chimes of St. Mary's are ever 
 clinging in yom- ears, and that people's ideas can't 
 soar above the flats of ugly old Cambridge ; and — 
 there's a good fellow — -do leave off" that white tie and 
 black frock-coat of yours, and wear a pea-green velvet . 
 shooting-jacket I'll lend you, just to make yourself 
 look human. It's not very loud, and none of your 
 pupils will see you, you know.' 
 
 Scott felt as if he had got into quite low company 
 — the company of undergraduates, for example — and 
 began to shrivel up and grow more starched than 
 ever. Mrs. Verney came to the rescue, and told 
 
 YOL. I. o
 
 194 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 D' Aubrey not to disquiet himself about his friend's 
 wardrobe, as that was in her department, and she 
 would take care that every one wore the right 
 uniform. So saying, she distributed the chamber- 
 candles, and marshalled her guests off to their 
 apartments.
 
 WILLIAM EEBOW'8 STORY. 
 PERSEVERAUNCE IN LOVE 
 
 OR, THE GOLDSMITH'S STORY. 
 
 o 2
 
 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 197 
 
 I HAD rather not say at what hour they arose the 
 next morning ; I don't mind confessing that the sun 
 was up before them, 43ecause at the beginning of Au- 
 gust, you know, the sun has work to do, and gets up 
 early to ripen the grain and the fruit ; and no one who 
 has not got a similar occupation to perform need be 
 ashamed to be anticipated by that hard-working 
 labourer. Scott, however, was out of bed by six, and 
 became very fidgety and uncomfortable because 
 there was no morning chapel to go to at seven. He 
 consoled himself as well as he could with reading 
 parts of Buttmann's Lexilogus, with a view to his 
 lectures next term on 'The Dialects to be found in 
 Homer.' When the servant brought him his shaving 
 water and brushed clothes, he brought also a little 
 note from Mrs. Vemey, as follows : — 
 
 ' Deak Me. Scott, — I know you will kindly make 
 indulgence for my small establishment, but my maids 
 are rather overworked just now, and I can't get the 
 lining of your frock-coat mended before breakfast 
 time. Will you mind wearing a coat of Verney's, 
 which I send you instead ? There is also a black tie 
 of his with it, which I think you will find comfort- 
 able in your morning rambles, as the roads about 
 here are so dusty they would soil any other you 
 might wear almost directly. Yours truly, 
 
 'Amelia Vekney.'
 
 198 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 Poor dear Scott, lie knew as well as Mrs. Verney 
 did that the liniDg of his frock-coat was immacu- 
 late, but there was no help for it; and they must 
 have been hard worked, those wretched maids, for 
 they could not find time to mend his coat till the 
 morning when he was off on his return to Cam- 
 bridge. He was not going to give way, however, 
 to that fellow D'Aubrey's impertinence, and so he 
 buckled on his white stock. But when it came to 
 putting on Verney's brown lounging coat, even Scott 
 could see that the white stock would not match, and 
 so he had to resort to Mrs. Yerney's black benefaction. 
 Poor Scott ! a man like you should stick to your rooms 
 in Trinity, and not go upon a journey ; for if you do, 
 you may fall among men and women of the world. 
 
 Of course Scott was first down to breakfast, and 
 with a keen appetite, as it was three hours later for 
 that ceremony than was usual with him. They all 
 came down pretty punctually except Graham, who 
 when Verney went to his door to say the others were 
 ready, replied, ^Aw — very well — pray don't wait. 
 You see I'm not used to such early hours ; I'll be 
 down for lunch — all right.' And he turned to for 
 another slumber. 
 
 In spite of rules Eebow was ultimately designated 
 to succeed D' Aubrey, though in priority of entrance 
 Angerstein ought to have come second ; but all were 
 eager to hear Kebow's tale, for he was supposed to 
 be more up to the mark in that business than any
 
 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 199 
 
 one else, and so he was selected, much against his 
 will, for the second evening's amusement. 
 
 They all went over to Hampton Court for the day. 
 When the time for the tale came Kebow began, 
 ' You don't know, D'Aubrey, what a fix you put me 
 in by that resolution of yours against our talking 
 shop, if I caught the scope of it rightly. Now you 
 know what my miserable shop is ; alas ! it is to 
 write, and write, and write ; and so if I write or tell 
 a tale of my own, why I am doing nothing but the 
 shop work which I am always at. Besides, I don't 
 know now that I could write a tale fit for you to 
 hear. I could once, but now I'm such a miserable 
 hack my paces are all spoilt, and I can only jog 
 slouchingly along the road to ruin. I was going to 
 ask you to hear a translation of a tale by a better 
 author than I am ; the title is " Perseveraunce in 
 Love-"' 
 
 * Stay, stay !' exclaimed D'Aubrey, * Scott won't 
 like the title or the subject either ; will you, Scott ?' 
 
 ' I'm sure I shall like any tale which Kebow 
 teUs, original or translated. I think the subject ob- 
 jectionable (a shrivel), but still I am sure that in his 
 hands it will be treated with decorum. Pray go on. 
 Pray don't let me interrupt you. How disagreeably 
 this evening's sun shines in one's eyes !' And so say- 
 ing, he pulled down the blind, and turned his back to 
 the light. 
 
 Rebow then read —
 
 2.00 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 PERSEVEKAUNCE IN LOVE. 
 
 Sir Honors de Balzac, a doughty Kniglit of the Pen, 
 but little known within the Realme of our Sovereign 
 Ladye the Queene, hath written, and moreover hath 
 caused to be imprinted, certaine Dizaines, or Tens, of 
 what he calleth Drolatique Stories; and drolatique 
 enough in good sooth they bee : grave Men and staid 
 even say ' too drolatique,' as trenching on the libertie 
 and licensee enjoyed of olde by our worthy Scribe 
 and Poet, Maister Geoffrey Chaucer, to whom our 
 English Tongue stands Debter in some small Degree. 
 He, the Sire de Balzac, excuseth his owne vagaries 
 and fantasies, and falsely sayth that the said Stories 
 were collected in the Abhayes of Touraine, and only 
 brought to light by him, the Sieur de Balzac, for the 
 Delectation of Pantagruelists, and of none others; 
 the which is throwing Foole's Dust in our Eyes. 
 For Lo ! here foUoweth one of his Stories whose Ori- 
 ginall Wee found in a wooden Boxe, fairly written 
 in a clerkly Hand, when the scandalous Revolution, 
 called in Brittaine Municipal Reforme, turned sundry 
 and diverse worthy scriveners and Towne-Clerks out 
 of Doores, to shift for themselves as best they might. 
 Read ye, my learned Friends, and judge for your- 
 selves whetlier the Abhayes of Touraine had more to
 
 PERSE VERAUXCE IN LOVE. 201 
 
 doe than your humble Servaunt to command with this 
 delectable Historie intituled 
 
 ^er00t3eraunce in TLo\}t. 
 
 In the first Yeeres of the thirteenth Century after 
 the coming of our Diviyie Saviour, there hapned in 
 the City of P^ris an amorous Adventour by the Deed 
 of a Man of Tours, at the which were astonied the 
 Towne and also the King's Court. As for the Clergy, 
 you will see, by what shall be hereinafter told, the 
 Part and Share which they had in this Historie, of 
 which the Evidence was preserved by them. 
 
 The said Man, styled the Tourangeau by the small 
 Folk, because he first saw the Light in merrie Tou- 
 raine, was called Anseau by his veritable Name. In 
 his olde Dayes, this good Man returned to his native 
 Countrie and was Mayor of Sainet Martin, as is 
 WTitten in the Chronicles of the Abbaye and of the 
 Towne ; but at Paris he was a noble Goldsmythe. 
 Now then, in the Prime of liis Age, by his great 
 Honesty, his Travail, or otherwise, he became a Bur- 
 gesse of Paris and a Subject of the King, whose Pro- 
 tection he bought, according to the Usage of that 
 Time. He had a House builded by himself, out of 
 the Keach of all Quit-Eent, Taxe, or Custom, hard by 
 the Church of Saiyict-Leu, in the Rue Sainct-Denys, 
 where his Forge was well known unto all Men who 
 sought after faire and bewtiful lewells. Although he 
 was a Tourangeau, with life and strength to spend, 
 yet had he continued sage and sober like a real 
 Sainet, notwithstanding all the Blandishments and
 
 202 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 the Frolicksomenesse of this goodly Towne, and 
 had passed the Dayes of his Spring-Season without 
 ever giving into Folly or Leasing. Many will say 
 that this passeth the Facultie of Beleef which^Provi- 
 dence hath given us to help our Faith due to the 
 Mysteries of our holy Eeligion ; therefore seemeth it 
 needful to demonstrate abundantly the hidden Cause 
 of the Goldsmythes Vertue. And First ; consider 
 that he came to Towne by the Ten-Toe Coach, on his 
 owne Feete, poorer than loh, as olde Gossips sayen ; 
 and that, like his Countrymen, he had a Temper and 
 a Character of Mettal, and persisted in his Wayes 
 like a Menkes Vengeaunce. Wliile Workman, was 
 alwayes at Worke; when Maister, still ever at 
 Worke; ever learning new Secrets, craving after 
 new Kecipes, and, by searching, also met with Inven- 
 tions of all Sorts. Belated Passengers, Watchmen, 
 and dishonest Folk who prowl by Night, saw alwayes 
 in the darknes a wise Lamp alight through the Gold- 
 smythes Windowes, and the good Smythe tapping, 
 graving, nibbling, chiselling, filing, hammering, in 
 Company with some Apprentis, with Doores shut and 
 Eares open. Want begat Labour ; Labour begat Pru- 
 dence ; and Prudence begat great Goods. Hearken 
 to this, ye sons of Cai% who swallow Doubloons and 
 whistle out Wind! If the good Goldsmythe felt 
 within him selfe any of those Phantasies which, from 
 here or from there, will pinch and torment a poor 
 lone Man, the Tourangeau beat his Mettal amain, and 
 enlisted into the Service of his Braines all those 
 seditious Imps, by forcing him selfe to make delicious
 
 PERSE VERAUNCE IN LOVE. 203 
 
 Delicacies, allegorical Conceits, golden Figurines, 
 faire Forms of Silver, with which he asswaged the 
 Choler of his familiar Daemon. Add to these things, 
 that this Tourangeau was a single-souled Man, who 
 did not go double-shod, but of simple Understanding, 
 who feared God first, next Thieves, then the Seig- 
 neurs, and Eiott most of all. Although he had two 
 Hands, never did he doe but one Thing at a Time. 
 His Speech was as soft as a Brides before her 
 Espousalls. Although the Clergy, the Men at 
 Armes, and others, did not hold him for learned, he 
 knew his Mothers Latin well, and spake it correctly, 
 without hard praying. Subsecutively, his Fellowes 
 of Paris had taught him to walk straight, not to beat 
 the Bush for Another, to mete his Passions by the 
 Measure of his Kevenues, to grant Nobody Licence 
 to take his Skin to make Leathern Girdles withal, to 
 watch his Corn as it grew and not to bee prouder 
 than the Sheaf was high, not to say what hee did and 
 to doe what he 'sayd, to have better Memory than 
 habitually have the Flyes, to keep his Troubles to 
 him selfe and also his Money-Bag, not to be Star- 
 gazing as hee walked the Streets, and to sell his 
 lewells for more than they cost him; all Things 
 whose sage Observaunce gave him as much Wisdome 
 as was needfull for him to live at his Ease and Con- 
 tentment. And so he did, without tourmenting a 
 Creature. 
 
 And, perceiving thus this good little Man in his 
 Quietude and his Privacie, many sayd, ' By my Faith, 
 would I were that Goldsmythe, even did they oblige
 
 204 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 me to wade up to the knees in Paris Dirt for an 
 Hundred Yeeres !' As well might they wish to bee 
 King of France, seeing that the Gold smy the had 
 square muscular Arms so marvellously hard, that, 
 when he closed his Fists tight, Sampson could not 
 open them with a Pair of Nippers. Keckon that 
 whatsoever hee held, was verily his owne. Moreover, 
 had hee teeth fit to chew Iron, a Stomach to dis- 
 solve-it and Entrails to digest it ; and besides, Shoul- 
 ders able to sustain the World after the manner of 
 the accommodating Pagan who has left off Business 
 ever since the Eeformation of the Mythologie. He was, 
 verily, one of those men who are struck off in Natures 
 Mint at a Single Blow, and who are the best ; seeing 
 that those who need re-touching and tinkering, are 
 good for Nothing, with all their botching and patch- 
 ing to-gether. In short, Maister Anseau was a manly 
 Wight dyed in fast Colours, with the Face of a Lion, 
 and from under his Eyelashes there shot forth a 
 Glance potent enough to melt Gold, if the Fire of 
 his Forge were in Default ; but a limpid Moisture, 
 put in his eyes by the Moderator of all Things, tem- 
 pered this f great Ardour, without which hee would 
 have scorched all around him. Was not this a 
 famous Sanipel of a Man ! 
 
 After our Inventory of his Cardinall Vertues, 
 curious Persons will persist in inquiring why the 
 good Golcismythe had alwayes remained as solitary as 
 an Oyster. But, doe these stubborn Criticks know 
 what it is to make Love ? Ho ! ho ! A Fiddle- 
 Stick 1
 
 PERSEVERAUNCE IN LOVE. 205 
 
 A Lovers Business is to come, to go, to listen, to 
 watch, to keep Silence, to speak, to squat close, to 
 grow tall, to grow sliort, to grow Nothing at all ; to 
 approve, to make Musick, to pine, to go to the Dewse, 
 to count the Fly-Spots on a Shutter, to find Flowers 
 under Snow, to say Paternosters to the Moone, to 
 coax the Cat and the Dogge, to salute the Friends of 
 the House, to flatter the Auntes Catarrhe and gout, 
 with : * Your Mien is comely ; you will write the 
 Epitaph' of the Humane Eace !' Then must hee 
 scent out what best pleaseth all the Eelations, must 
 never stamp on Peoples Corns nor breake the Glasse, 
 must shoe the Wilde Colt, wash, the Bricks, say pretty 
 Nothings, hold Ice in his Hand, bee struck of an 
 Heap with sweet knick-knacks, and cry ; ' This is 
 well !' or, 'Verily, Madame, you are bravely handsome 
 in that Head-Gear!' and vary the same Tune in a 
 hundred thousand Fashions. Then must hee be-ruff 
 and be-starch and be-ringle him selfe out, like a true 
 Seigneur, must have a Tongue both discreet and 
 nimble, must endure with a Smile every Woe sent by 
 Satan, must hold his owne Nature in Leashe, must 
 bee buxome to the Mother, buxome to the Cousin, 
 buxome to the Maid-Servant and to the Man-Servant, 
 to the He-Asse and to the She-Asse ; in short, must 
 alwayes wear a pleasaunt Face, in Default of which 
 your Ladye slippeth betwixt your Fingers and leav- 
 eth you in the Lurche, without giving a single 
 Christian Eeason. 
 
 She is in her Eights ; no one can saye a Syllable 
 against her. In this Contingency, some Men become
 
 206 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 loutisli, vexed, and crazy, more than you can imagine. 
 Severall, to witt, have slain themselves because a 
 Petticoat has tacked about. In this Wise is Man 
 distinguished from the Brutes, seeing that no Animal 
 ever lost his Senses for Despaire of Love ; which 
 fully proves that Brutes have no Soul. The Lovers 
 Trade, then, is the Trade of a Merrie- Andrew, of a 
 common Soldier, of a Mountebank, of a Dancer at a 
 Faire, of a Prince, of a Ninny, of a King, of a Slug- 
 gard, of a Monke, of a Dupe, of a Sloven, of a Liar, 
 of a Braggart, of a Sycophante, of a Noodle-Head^ 
 of a Busy-Body, of a Wagge ; a Trade in which a 
 valorous Man is expected to dispend, before all 
 Things, his Time, his Life, his Blood, his best Words, 
 besides his Soul and his Braine, which all Dames 
 cruelly crave for ; for the Keason that, when their 
 Tongues begin to wagge, they saye one to the other, 
 that, if they have not the whole of a Man, Bodye 
 and Soul, they have Nothing at all. Keckon even 
 that there bee apish Females who knit their Browes 
 and scold aloud when a Man hath performed an 
 Hundred Labours for their Sake, only to try if he 
 cannot forsooth perform an Hundred and One ; 
 seeing that in every Thing they will have the most 
 possible, through the Spirit of Conquest and Tyrannic. 
 And this lofty lurisprudence hath alwayes been in 
 Vigour under the Custome of Paris, where the 
 Women doe receive more Salt at their Baptisme than 
 in any other Place in the World, and so are cunning 
 from their Birth. 
 
 And then, the Goldsmythe alwayes established in
 
 PERSEVERAUNCE IN LOVE. 207 
 
 his Work-Shop, burnisliing Gold and heating Silver, 
 could in no Wise blow the Flame of Love, nor bur- 
 nish and make to shine his Phantasies, nor bedeck 
 him selfe with Gewgauds, nor strutt about, nor play 
 an hundred other pretty apish Tricks. So, the 
 Tourangeau had the singular Advantage of holding a 
 Bachelor-Benedict withinside his Shirt. Neverthe- 
 lesse, the Burgesse could not shut his Eyes to the 
 Beauties of Nature displayed by the Dames, and 
 likewise by the Burgesses, who came to ask and 
 bargain about the Value of his lewells. Often, when 
 hee had listened to the honied Talk of Women who 
 wanted to gull and coax him into some Abatement, 
 the good Tourangeau would wander through the 
 Streets, as dreamy as a Poet, more miserable than a 
 Cuckoo without a Nest, and saying to him selfe : * I 
 ought to take unto me a Wife. Shee would sweep 
 the House, keep the Dishes hot, fold the Linen, 
 mend my Clothes, sing merrily at Home, tourment 
 me to make me doe all after her Taste, say to me as 
 they all say to their Husbands when they crave a 
 lewell ; " Well, my Hearts Delight, look at this ; is it 
 not pretty ?" — And every Body in the Quarter would 
 think of my Wife, and say of me ; "What a lucky Man 
 hee is !" — Then would hee, in Fancy, get married, have 
 a grand Wedding, pet and pamper Madame the Gold- 
 smythesse, dress her in Purple and fine Linen, put a 
 Gold Chain round her Neck, love her heartily from 
 Top to Toe, leave her the compleat Government of 
 the Household (excepting alwayes the Exchequer), 
 put her in her Chambers up Stairs, well glazed,
 
 208 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 matted, and hung with Tapistry, with a Chest of 
 marvellous Sculpture and an extra-wide Bed with 
 twisted Columns and Curtains of citron-color'd 
 Taffetty ; then would hee buy her great Store of 
 brave Mirrours of cristall Glasse, and would alwayes 
 have Half-a-Score of Children to meet and welcome 
 him when he opened the Doore. 
 
 But, at this Poynt of his Vision, when hee really 
 opened the Doore, Wife and Children would evapo- 
 rate in Hammerings ; then would hee transfigure his 
 melancholick Imaginations into fantastick Designs, 
 and fashion his Thoughts of Love into whimsicall 
 lewells which mightily pleased his Customers, who 
 knew not how many lost Wives and Children were 
 contayn'd in the Good-Man's lewells of Gold, who, 
 the more Talent hee put in his Art, the more he 
 waxed feeble and wan of Countenance. If God had 
 not taken Pity on his Grones, hee must have departed 
 out of this World without knowing what Love was ! 
 
 Alas ! these preparatory Discourses are wearisome 
 Digressions and tedious Commentaries, which dis- 
 beleeving Persons compel a Prose-Poet Historicall to 
 wrap round his Tale, making it like a Babe wrapt in 
 Swaddling-Cloathes, when, me seem, hee ought to 
 bee running alone. The Dewse take them AUe ! 
 I will straight to my Story, without Circum-Locution, 
 By- Accidents, or round-about Talk. 
 
 Now, behold what hapned to the Goldsmythe in 
 the forty-first yeere of his Age. One Lords Day, 
 when walking at his Leisure on the left Bank of the 
 Kiver Seym, he adventured, while his Wits were
 
 PERSEVERAUNCE IN LOVE. 209 
 
 busied with Thoughts of Marriage, into the middest 
 of the Meadowe which was afterwards entituled the 
 Pree aux Clercs, which was then within the Domaine 
 of the Abbaye of jSainct- Germain, and not in that of 
 the University. There, walking on and on, the 
 Tourangeau found him selfe in the open Countrey, 
 and therein made the Encounter with a j)oor IMaiden, 
 who, beholding him bravely furnish't, saluted him, 
 saying : ' God save you, my Lord !' — As she spake 
 these Words, her Voice was tuned with such a Cor- 
 diall Sweetenesse, that the Goldsmythe felt his 
 Spirits ravished by this feminine Melodic, and was 
 smitten with Love.for her, the more so that, thorowly 
 raiging after Marriage as hee was, the Chance was 
 appliable to his importunate Desire. Never tli« 
 lesse, as hee had already pass't the Maiden, he ven- 
 tured not to turn back, because liee was as timid as a 
 simple Child ; still, when hee reached the Distance 
 of a Bow-Shot, he bethought him selfe that a Man 
 receiv'd as a Maister Goldsmythe for ten Yeeres past, 
 a Burgesse of Paris, and who had twice the Age of 
 a Dogge, might well look at a Womans Face, if such 
 haply were his Pleasure ; to which his Imagination 
 pushed him forcibly. Therefore hee tm-ned round 
 eftsoons, as if changing the Direction of his Walke, 
 and so again encountered the Maiden, who held by 
 an old Kope a weakly Cow who browzed the Grasse 
 that grew along the green Bank of a Ditch adjoyning 
 the Waye. 
 
 ' Ah ! my deare,' saith hee, ' you must bee lightly 
 endowed with Worldly gear, thus to doe Handy-Work 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 on the Lords Daye. Are you not effraide of being 
 put into Prison ?' 
 
 ' My Lord/ replied the Maiden, drooping her Eye- 
 lids, ' I have Nothing to fear, because I belong to the 
 Abbaye. The Seigneur Abbot hath vouchsafed us 
 License to graze the Cowe after Vespers.' 
 
 '■ You love your Cowe, then, better than you love 
 the Salvation of your Soule ? 
 
 ' Verily, my Lord, our Beast is well nigh for the 
 Moiety of our poor Lively hood.' 
 
 ' I am amazed, my child, to behold you so thinly 
 clad and ragged, bunched together like a Faggot of 
 Wood, and wandering with naked Feete through the 
 Fields on a Sunday, the whilst you carry more Trea- 
 sures in your Selfe than you tread under Foot when 
 you traverse the Abbatial Domaine. The Gallants 
 of the Towne must surely pursue you, and tourment 
 you with traytorous -Talk of Love.' 
 
 ' Nay, forsooth ! my Lord ; I belong to the Abbaye,' 
 sayd shee, showing the Goldsmythe a collar on her 
 left Arm, such as the Cattel in the Fields have, but 
 no Bell. Then cast shee so deplorable a Glance at 
 the Burgesse that hee was seized with a sudden Pity 
 and Sadnesse, seeing that, through the Eyes, the 
 Contagions of the Heart, when strong, are communi- 
 cated. 
 
 ' Hey ! What bee this ?' quoth hee, earnestly in- 
 clining to learn every Particular. And hee touched 
 the Collar, on which were engraven the Armes of the 
 Abbaye very conspicuous, but which he chose not to 
 see.
 
 PERSEVERAUNCE IX LOVE. 211 
 
 ' My Lord, I am the Daughter of an Homme-de- 
 Corps, a bodily Serf. By consequence, Whosoever 
 should joyn him Selfe unto me in Marriage, would fall 
 into Servitude, and would belong. Body and Goods, to 
 the Abbaye. If hee loved me otherwise, his Children 
 would yet be the Property of the Domaine. By Cause 
 of this, I am deserted by All and Every, abandoned 
 like a wretched Beast of the Field. But my greatest 
 Grief is that, according to the Pleasure of my Lord 
 the Abbot, I may bee Giver to, at his Time and 
 Place, another Homme-de- OorjJS. Even were I lesse 
 uncomely than I bee, the most amorous Freed-Man, 
 at the Sight of my Collar, would shun me worse than 
 the black Plague.' 
 
 So saying, she pulled her Cow by the Rope, to 
 constrain her to follow them. 
 
 * What is your Age ?' enquired the Goldsmythe. 
 
 * I do not know, my Lord ; but our Sire the Abbot 
 hath taken Note of it.' 
 
 This so gi-eat Misery touched the Good-Man's 
 Heart ; for hee had him selfe, in Time forepast, eaten 
 the Bread of Wretchednesse. He conformed his Step 
 to that of the Damsell, and they thus wended their 
 Waye by the Waters Side in strictest Silence. The 
 Burgesse gazed at the faire Fore-Head, the good 
 red Arms, the Queenly Waiste, the dusty Feete but 
 moulded like those of a Virgin-Marie, and the sweet 
 Physiognomic of this gentle Maiden which was the 
 true Pourtraict of Saincte Genevieve, the Patronesse 
 of Paris and of the Girls who live in the Fields. 
 Now, the more owre Burgesse sawe that hee was an- 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 hindered from toucliing and gathering this compleat 
 and perfect Blossome of Love, the more the Water 
 came into his Mouth to taste the Fruit : his Heart 
 jumpt up to his verie Throat. 
 
 ' You have a pretty Cow,' quoth hee. 
 
 * Would you drinke a little Milk ?' asked shee. ' It 
 is May-Tide, and the Sunne waxeth hot ! You be 
 yet farre from the Towne.' 
 
 In fact, the Sky was blew and cloudlesse, and blazed 
 like a burning Furnace ; every Thing shone with 
 youthfuU Splendour, the Leaves, the Air, the Dam- 
 sells, the young Men ; every Thing was warm and 
 greene and smelled like Baulm. This simple Offer, 
 without Hope of a Keturn (seeing that a Bezant 
 would not have worthily requited this especially 
 gracious Speech), and the modest gesture with which 
 the poor Maid turned towards him, constrained the 
 Goldsmythes Heart. Hee would that he could put 
 this Serf- girl inside the Skin of a Queene, and Paris 
 at her Feete. 
 
 ' Nay, nay ! my deare ; 't is not after Milk that I 
 bee athirst, but after your sweete Selfe, the which I 
 think long to obtain Licence to enfranchize.' 
 
 * That cannot bee ; and I shal die the Chattel of 
 the Abbaye. For long, long Yeeres, have wee soe 
 lived, from Father to Sonne, from Mother to Daughter. 
 Like my wretched Ancestours, I shal passe my Dayes 
 on this Domaine, as likewise will my Children ; for 
 the Abbot liketh us not to continue barren.' 
 
 ' What !' quoth the Tourangeau, ' Hath no Gallant, 
 for the sake of your bright Eyes, tried to buy your
 
 PERSEVERAUNCE IN LOVE. 213 
 
 Libertie, as I bought mine owne of His Majestie the 
 Iving!' 
 
 ' Verily, it would cost too deare ! And so, those 
 whom I please at first Sight, goe as they came.' 
 
 * And have ?you never thought to reach another 
 Countrey, in Company with some loving knight on a 
 gdBd Courser ?' 
 
 * Oh ! Well-a-day ! But, my Lord, if I were taken, 
 I should be hung at the very least, and my Gallant, 
 were hee a Seigneur, would lose thereby more than 
 one Domaine, let alone the rest. I am not worth so 
 deare a Purchase. Besides, the Abbaye hath longer 
 Arm.es than I have swift Feete. And then, I live in 
 compleat Obedience unto God, who hath planted me 
 thus where I am.' 
 
 * And what doth your Father doe ?' 
 
 * He pruneth the Vines in the Abbaye-Gardens.' 
 ' And your Mother ?' 
 
 * She busieth her Selfe with the Buck-Basket and 
 washeth the Linen.' 
 
 ^ And what is your name ?' 
 
 ' I have no Name, my deare Seigneur. My Father 
 was baptized Estienne, my mother is La JEstienne, and 
 I am Tiennette, or Little Estieune, at your Ser- 
 vice.' 
 
 * My deare,' quoth the Goldsmythe, ' never hath 
 Woman pleased* me as you please me, and I believe 
 your Heart to bee full of sure and certaine Riches. 
 Therefore, as you w^ere offered to my Eyes at the Mo- 
 ment when I firmly deHberated to take a Companion, 
 I think to behold in this an Advice of Heaven ; and if
 
 214 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 I bee not displeasant to you, I pray you to hold me 
 as your Friend.' 
 
 The Damsel straight way looked towards the ground. 
 These words were uttered in such Fashion, in so 
 grave a Tone, and with so penetrating a Manner, that 
 the said Tiennette downright wept. 
 
 'No, my Lord,' quoth shee. 'I should bee^he 
 Cause of numberlesse Misadventures and your Un- 
 happinesse. For a poor Bond-Maid, like me, for a 
 FiUe-de- Corps, a chance Gossip with you is Honour 
 enough.' 
 
 ' Ho, ho !' quoth Anseau, * you do not know, my 
 Child, with what sort of a Maister you have to doe.' 
 ' The Tourangeau made the Sign of the Holie Crosse, 
 joyned his Hands, and said : ' I vowe unto Monsieur 
 Sainct-Eloy, under whose Invocation Goldsmythes 
 doe live, to fabricate two Niches of Silver gilt, of the 
 fairest Workmanshippe in my Power to doe. The 
 one shal bee for to hold an Image of Madame the 
 Virgin, with the Intention of thanking her for the 
 Libertie of my deare Wife, and the other for my 
 Patron-Sainct, if I have good Succes in the Enter- 
 prize of the Enfranchizement of Tiennette, Fille-de- 
 Corps, here present, and for whose Sake I confide in 
 their Assistance. Moreover, I sweare by my eternal 
 Salvation to persevere with Courage in this Affaire, 
 to spend there-anent all that I possess, and to quit it 
 only with my Life. God hath hearde me right well,' 
 quoth hee. — ' And you, my Darling ?' hee said, turn- 
 ing towards the Damsell. 
 
 *Ha! my Lord! Look! My Cowe scoureth the
 
 PERSE VERAUXCE IX LOVE. 215 
 
 Fields,' she cried, weeping at the knees of her Lover. 
 ' I shall love you all my Life long ; but take back 
 your Yowe.' 
 
 *Come, let us catch the Cowe,' replied the Gold- 
 smythe, raising her up without daring to kiss her 
 yet, altho' the Damsel was well disposed thereto. 
 J Yea,' quoth shee ; * for I should bee beaten.' 
 And behold the Groldsmythe running after the 
 accursed Cowe, who made small Matter of his 
 Amours; so was she quickly caught by the Homes 
 and held as it were in a Yice by the Tourangeaus 
 Hands, who for a Nothing would have tossed her in 
 the Air, like a Rush. 
 
 * A Dieu 1 my deare. If you goe to the Towne, 
 come to my Lodging, hard by Sainet-Leu. I am 
 called Maister Anseau, and am Goldsmythe to our 
 Seigneur the King of France, at the Sign of Sainct- 
 Eloi. Promise me to bee in this Field next Lords 
 Day : fail not to come, even were it to rain Halberds. 
 
 * Yes my good Seigneur. I would leap over the 
 Hedge to come to you ; and, in Gratitude, I would I 
 could bee yours without causing you Mischief or 
 Damage. Meanwhile, till the good Time befall us, 
 I will pray God very hard for you.' 
 
 Then she stood stock-still, like a Sainct carved in 
 Stone, never stirring till she could no longer behold 
 the Burgesse, who wended his Waye at a slow Pace, 
 turning round sundry Times to look at her. And 
 when the Burgesse was farre and out of her Sight, 
 she stopped there until Night-Fall, lost in her Medita- 
 tions, unwitting whether she had not dreamed what
 
 216 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 had befallen her. Then went she late to her Lodge, 
 where she was beaten for being out of Hours, but felt 
 not the Blows. The good Burgesse lost his Appetite 
 for Meat and Drink, shut up his Work-Shop, smitten 
 with this Bond-Maid, thinking only of this Maid, be- 
 holding this Maid everywhere, his whole Selfe being 
 taken up with this Maid. 
 
 On the Morrow, he wended towards the Abbaye, in 
 great Apprehension, to speak to the Lord Abbot. 
 But, on the Waye, he prudently bethought him to 
 put him selfe under the Protection of one of the Kings 
 Men, and with this Intention he went to the Court, 
 which was then in Towne. Now, seeing that he was 
 esteemed of All, by Cause of his Probity, beloved of 
 All for his dainty Works and his Complaisances, 
 the Chamberlain of the King — for whom he had 
 bravely made, to give to a Lady (his Sweete-Heart), 
 a Comfit-Boxe of Gold and lewells unique in Fashion 
 — promised his Assistance, had a Horse forthwith 
 saddled for him selfe and a Hackney for the Gold- 
 smythe, with whom he went straightway to the Ab- 
 baye, and asked after the Abbot, who was Mon- 
 seigneur Hugon de Sennecterre, aged Ninety and 
 Three Yeeres. When usher'd into the Parloir with 
 the Goldsmythe, who well nigh choaked to hear his 
 Sentence, the Chamberlain prayed the Abbot Hugon 
 to vouchsafe to him beforehand a Thing easy to 
 grant, which would doe him a Pleasure. At which 
 the Sire Abbot replied, shaking his Head, that the 
 Canons inhibited and hindered him from so engaging 
 his Faith.
 
 PERSEVERAUNCE IN LOVE. 217 
 
 * Here, my cleare Father,' said the Chamberlain, « is 
 the Goldsmythe to the Court, who hath conceived a 
 great Love for a Fille-de- Corps belonging to your 
 Abbaye ; and I require you, at the Charge of ful- 
 filling the Desire that you would most have accom- 
 plished, to free this Bond-Maid.' 
 
 ' The which is shee ?' asked the Abbot of the 
 Burgesse. 
 
 *Her name is Tiennette,' said the Goldsmythe 
 timidly. 
 
 *Ho! oh!' quoth the good old Hugon, smiling. 
 * The Bait, then, hath brought us a notable Fish. This 
 is a gTave Case, and I cannot resolve it alone.' 
 
 ' I know, my Father, what that Speech meaneth,' 
 sayd the Chamberlain, knitting his Brows. 
 
 * Fine Sir,' quoth the Abbot, ' know you what the 
 Maid is worth ?' 
 
 The Abbot commanded Tiennette to be fetched, 
 telling his Clerke to cloathe her in rich Habits, and 
 to make her as brave as possible. 
 
 ' Your love is in Danger,' sayde the Chamberlain 
 to the Goldsmythe, drawing him apart. ' Give up 
 this Fantasie. You will find wheresoever you list, 
 even at Court, good Women, faire and young, who 
 will espouse you willingly. For that, if needs be, the 
 King will aid you in acquiring some Seigneurie which, 
 in course of Time, would make you the Founder of 
 a good House. Are you well enough furnished with 
 Crowns to become the Ancestour of a noble Line ?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell, my Lord,' Anseau replied. ' I have 
 gotten an Installment.'
 
 218 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ' Try, then, to buy the Manumission of this Maid. 
 I know the Menkes; with them Money worketh 
 Wonders.' 
 
 * Monseigneur,' said the Goldsmythe to the Abbot, 
 returning to him, ' you have the Charge and Cure here 
 below to represent the Goodnesse of God, who often 
 useth Clemency towards us, and hath infinite Trea- 
 sures of Mercy for our Sinnes. Now, during the 
 Kest of my Dayes^ I will put you every Night and 
 every Morning in my Prayers, and will never forget 
 that I hold my Happinesse from your Charity, if you 
 will aide me to have this Maid in lawfull Marriage, 
 without keeping in Servitude the Children that shal 
 spring from owre Union. And, for this, will I make 
 ye a Boxe to put the Euchariste, so well elaborated, 
 enriched with Gold, precious Stones, and Figures of 
 winged Angels, that Nothing of the like shaj bee to 
 bee found in Christendome, which shal continue 
 unique, shal rejoice your Sight, shal be the Glory of 
 your Altar, and shal cause the Townes-Men, the 
 Stranger Lords, and All, to throng to behold it, so 
 magnificent shal it bee.' 
 
 ' My Sonne,' answered the Abbot, ' have you lost 
 your Wits ? If you are resolved to have this Bond- 
 Maid for your legitimate Spouse, your Goods and 
 your Person will become the Property of the Chapter 
 of the Abbaye.' 
 
 ' Yea, my Lord, I am mad after this poor Maiden, 
 and am more touched with her Wretchednesse and 
 her Christian Heart than I am with her bodily Per- 
 fections; but I am,' sayd hee, with Teares in his
 
 PEKSEVERAUXCE IN LOVE. 219 
 
 Eyes, 'yet more amazed at your Hardnesse, and I 
 say it wittingly, although my Fate is in your Hands. 
 Yes, my Lord, I know the Lawe. But even soe, if 
 my Goods fall to your Domaine, if I become an 
 Homme-de- Corps, if I lose my house and my Bour- 
 geoysie, I shal still keep the Engine gained by my 
 Travaile and my Studys, and which is locked up 
 here,' sayd hee, tapping his Fore-Head, ' in a place 
 where'None besides my selfe, (except God alone), can 
 exercise the Eights of Seigneurie. Your whole Ab- 
 baye could not pay the especial Creations which 
 spring from it. You mil have my Bodie, my Wife, 
 my Children ; but Nothing can make you Lord of 
 my Talent, not even Tortures, seeing that I am 
 stronger than Iron is hard, and patienter than Sor- 
 rowe is great.' 
 
 Having spoken thus, the Goldsmythe, enraiged at 
 the Calmnesse of the Abbot, who seemed resolved to 
 gain for the Abbaye the Good-Mans Doubloons, smote 
 his Fist upon an oaken Pulpit, and broke it into 
 little Bits, seeing that it burst as it were under the 
 Stroke of a Club. 
 
 ' See, good my Lord, what a Servitour you will 
 have, if you convert an Ai-tist of divine Semblances 
 into a meere Beast of Burden.' 
 
 ' My Sonne,' replied the Abbot, * you have wrong- 
 fully smitten my Pulpit, and lightly judged my Mind. 
 This Bond-Maid belongeth to the Abbaye, not to me. 
 I am the faithfuU keeper of the Eights and Usages of 
 this glorious Monastery. Although I bee able to 
 licence this Bond-Maid to bear free Children, I must
 
 220 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 give an account thereof to Gocl and the Abbaye. 
 Now, ever since there hath been here an A har, Bond- 
 Folk, and Menkes, id est from Time immemoriall, 
 never hath the case occurred of a Burgesse becoming 
 the Property of the Abbaye by Marriage with a Fille- 
 de-Corps. Therefore, needs bee to exercise the Eight, 
 and make Usage thereof, that it bee not lost, debili- 
 tated, let fall, come into Desuetude ; which occasioneth 
 Troubles innumerable. And this is of a higher Ad- 
 vantage for the State and for the Abbaye than your 
 Boxes, how fayre soever they bee ; seeing that we 
 have a Treasury which permitteth us to buy fine 
 lewells, the whilst no Treasury can establish 
 Customes and Lawes. I appeale to Monseigneur, the 
 Chamberlain of the King, as to a Witnesse of the in- 
 finite Pains which our royall Sire taketh dayly to 
 doe Battell for the Establishment of his Ordinaunces.' 
 
 ' This is to close my Mouth,' quoth the Chamber- 
 lain. 
 
 The Goldsmythe, who was not a great Clerke, 
 remained pensif. Then came Tiennette, as cleane as 
 a Pewter-Plate newly rubbed by a House-Wife, her 
 Hair tucked up, clad in a white woollen Kobe with a 
 blew Girdle, shod with little Shoon and white Hosen, 
 in short soe royally faire, soe noble in her Mien, that 
 the Goldsmythe was petrified with Exstacy, and the 
 Chamberlain avowed that hee had never beheld so 
 perfect a Creature. Then he esteemed that the 
 Sight was too great a Danger for the Goldsmythe, so 
 brought him back in a Twinlding to the Towne, and 
 urged him to ponder well this Affaire, seeing that the
 
 PERSE VERAUNCE IN LOVE. 221 
 
 Abbaye would never enfranchise a Hook so fitting to 
 catch Burgesses and Seigneurs in the Gulf of Paris. 
 In fact, the Chapiter gave the poore Lover to know 
 that, if hee espoused this Maid, he must resolve to 
 yield his Goods and his House to the Abbaye, ac- 
 knowledge him Selfe an Homme-de- Corps, him and 
 the Children borne of the sayd Marriage ; but that, 
 by especial Grace, the Abbot would leave him to 
 dwell in his owne Lodging, on Condition of giving an 
 Inventory of his Furniture, of paying a yearly 
 Kedevance of Gavel-Kind, and of coming to dwell 
 for a Week in a little Hovel dependent on the 
 Domaine, to make yearly Act of Serviage. The 
 Goldsmythe, to whom every One spake of the 
 Obstinacy of Monkes, clearly saw that the Abbot 
 would maintain this Decree incommutably, and fell 
 into deepe Despaire. Sometimes would hee sett 
 Fire to the five Corners of the Monastery ; sometimes 
 hee purposed to entice the Abbot to a secret Place 
 where hee might tourment him till hee had signed a 
 Charter and sealed it with his Scale, for Tiennettes 
 Enfranchisement. In short, a thousand Dreames, 
 which vanished in Smoak. But, after great Store of 
 Lamentations, he determined to carry off the Maid, 
 and to hide them selves in a sure Place, where No- 
 thing might drag them out, and made his Prepara- 
 tions in Consequence ; seeing that, once gone forth of 
 the kingdom e, his Friends could better over rule the 
 Monkes and bring them to Keason. The Good-Man 
 reckoned without his Abbot ; for, on going to the 
 Meadowe, he no more saw Tiennette, and learned
 
 222 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 that she was shut up within the Abbaye in so great 
 Kigour, that, to have her, needs were to make Siege 
 to the Monastery. Then Maister Anseau bewailed 
 him selfe in complaints, passionate Kages, and dole- 
 full Sadnesse. And then, throughout the City, the 
 Burgesses and House- Wives talked of this Adventure, 
 whose Kumour waxed so loud that the King, perceiv- 
 ing the old Abbot at his Court, inquired of him why 
 he would not yield in this Occurrence of his Gold- 
 smythes great Love, nor put in Practice a little 
 Christian Charity. 
 
 * Because that, Monseigneur,' replied the aged 
 Priest, ' all Eights are held together, one hanging 
 on to another, like the several! Pieces of a Suit of 
 Armoui', and, if one is in Default, the whole Harnesse 
 falleth into Disunion. If this Bond-Maid bee ravish't 
 from us, against our Will, if the Usage bee not 
 observed, soon will your Subjects take away your 
 Crown, and will stirr up foul and grave Seditions, to 
 the End of abolishing the Taxes and the Customes, 
 the Tolls and the Dues, which weigh heavy on the 
 Shoulders of the Publick at large.' 
 
 The Kinges Mouth was shut. Every one, then, 
 was in Apprehension to learn the End of this Ad- 
 venture. So great was the Curiosity of the People, 
 that certain Lords wagered that the Tourangeau 
 would desist from his Love, and the Ladies wagered 
 the contrary. The Goldsmythe having complajTi'd 
 with Teares to the Queene that the Menkes had 
 robbed him of the Sight of his well-beloved, shee 
 found the Thing detestable and wrongful. Then, on
 
 PERSEVERAUNCE IN LOVE. 223 
 
 lier Mandate to the Seigneur Abbot, it was granted 
 to the Tourangeau to goe every Daye to the Parloir 
 of the Abbaye, whither went Tiennette also, but 
 under the Guidance of an aged Monke, and alwayes 
 came shee adorned Avith true Magnificence, like a 
 high-born Dame. The two Lovers had then no other 
 Licence than to see and speake to each other, without 
 being able to snatch the slightest Crumb of Joye ; 
 and alwayes their Love increased in Strength. One 
 Day, Tiennette held this Discourse to her Friend : 
 
 ' My deare Seigneur, I have bethought me to 
 bestowe on you the Gift of my Life, to help you out 
 of your Distresse ; in this Wise. By searching out 
 the fundamentall Poynts of the Matter, I have found 
 a Cranny and a Chink whereby to cheat the Abbaye 
 of their claims, and to accord you your Wish. The 
 Ecclesiasticall Judge hath said that, you becoming 
 an Homme-de- Corps only by Accession, and because 
 you were not born an Homme-de-Corps, your Serviage 
 would cease with the Cause that made you a Serf. 
 Now, then, if you love me above All, sacrifice your 
 Goods to acquire our Happinesse, and esjDouse me. 
 Then, after we have lived together in Joy and De- 
 light, and before I have given Birth to any Lineage, 
 I will kill myself voluntarily, and by Consequence 
 you will be free. At least, it will give a Hold for 
 the King, our Sire, who regards you as his right 
 worthy and well-beloved Liege. And, without 
 Doubt, God will pardon me the Sinne committed for 
 the Deliveraunce of my Lord & Husband.'
 
 224 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 * My deare Tiennette,' cryed the Goldsmythe, ' say 
 no more. I will bee an Homme-de-CorpSj and you 
 shal live to bee my Joye all the Dayes of my Life. 
 In your Company, the hardest Chains will have no 
 Weight, and little irketh it me to have no Moneys 
 of mine owne, because all my Wealth is treasured in 
 your Heart and my only Pleasure in your sweet 
 Presence. I confide in Monsieur Sainct Eloy, who 
 will deign to cast Eyes of Pitie on this our Wretched- 
 nesse, and will shield us from all Evil. I therefore 
 goe forthwith to a Scrivener to draw up the Charters 
 and the Contracts. At least, deare Blossome of my 
 Dayes, you shall bee bravely clad, well lodged, and 
 served like a Queene all your Life, seeing that the 
 Sieur Abbot hath left us the Enjoyment of my 
 Acquests.' 
 
 Tiennette, weeping, laughing, would fain refuse so 
 great a Happinesse, and would rather die than reduce 
 a free Man to Serviage ; but the good Anseau spake 
 to her such soft Words, and threatened so well to 
 follow her to the Tomb, that she yielded to the sayd 
 Marriage. When the Submission of the Tourangeau 
 was known in the Towne, that for his Dearey he gave 
 up his Goods and his Libertie, Each and Every would 
 fain behold him. The Ladys of the Court laded them- 
 selves with lewells at his Shop, for the Sake of 
 holding Parlance with him ; Throngs of Women 
 swarmed around him, unlike the Time when their 
 Company had been scarce. But, if some few rivalled 
 Tiennette in Beauty, none of them possessed her
 
 PERSE VERAUXCE IX LOVE. 225 
 
 Heart. In short, when Anseau heard the Hour of 
 Love and Servitude strike, hee melted all his Gold 
 into a royall Crown, into which hee wrought all the 
 Pearls and Diamonds that he had, and took it by 
 Stealth to the Queene, saying : ' Madame, I know 
 not to whom to confide my Fortune, which I herewith 
 put into your royall Hands. To-morrow all the 
 Substance in my House will be the Prey of the 
 accursed Menkes, who would have no Pitie on me. 
 It is poor Thanks for the Comfort I have had through 
 you, to behold the Maid I love, seeing that one Look 
 from her is beyond all Price. I know not what may 
 befall me. But, if one Daye my Children should bee 
 delivered, I have Faith in your queenly Generosity.' 
 
 ' Well sayd, Good-Man,' quoth the King. ' The 
 Abbaye will some Time stand in Need of my Aid 
 and I will not lose the memory of this.' 
 
 There was an exorbitant Multitude of People at 
 the Abbaye for the Espousalls of Tiennette, to whom 
 the Queene presented her nuptiall Vestments, and to 
 whom the King granted License to wear Rings of 
 Gold every Daye in her Fares. When the handsome 
 Couple came from the Abbaye to Anseau's Lodging 
 (who was now a Serf) hard by Sainct-Leu, there were 
 Flambeaux at the Windowes to see him pass, and in 
 the Street a double Line of People, as at a royall 
 Entry. The poore Husband had forged him selfe a 
 Collar of Silver, which he wore on his left Arm, in 
 Token of his belonging to the Abbaye Sainct-Ger- 
 main. And so, in spite of his Servitude, they sliouted 
 to him : ' JVoel! JVoelF as to a new King. And the 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE TWICKENHAIM TALES. 
 
 Good-Man saluted them all right courteously, happy 
 as a Lover might bee and joyous at the Hommage 
 which Everybody rendered to Tiennetes Grace and 
 Modestie. And then the good Tourangeau found his 
 Sign-Poste bedecked with green Boughs and Gar- 
 lands of blew Corn-Flowers, and the Chief-Men of the 
 Quarter were there, with a Musick, to doe him 
 Honour, and cryed out : ' You will alwayes bee a 
 noble Man, in Spite of the Abbaye !' Keckon that 
 the two Spouses lived for a whole Month as Merrie 
 as Doves who build their Nest in Spring-Tide, Bit by 
 Bit. Tiennette in her fine Lodging was glad to her 
 Hearts Content ; and the Customers who came, went 
 away marvelling at her Fairenesse. 
 
 When this Month of Flowers was past, there came 
 one Daye, in great Pomp, the good old Abbot Hugon, 
 their Lord and Maister, who entered the House, which 
 was no longer the Goldsmythes, but the Chapters ; 
 then, he there sayd to the Husband and Wife : ,' My 
 Children, you are free, clear and quit of All. And I 
 should tell you, at the first Outsett, that I was greatly 
 struck with the Love which joyned you one to the 
 other. And so, the Eights of the Abbaye being re- 
 cognised, I deKberated apart in my owne Mind to 
 make your Joye compleate, after proving your Loyalty 
 in the Crucible of God. And this Manumission shall 
 cost you Nothing.' So saying, hee gave them Each a 
 good little Slapp on the Cheek, and they fell at his 
 knees weeping for Joye, for available Reasons. The 
 Tourangeau told the Men of the Quarter, who crowded 
 into the Street, the Largesse and Benediction of the
 
 PERSE VERAUNCE IN LOVE. 227 
 
 good Abbot Hugon. Then, in gTeat Honour, Maister 
 Anseau held the Bridle of the Abbots Mare, as farre 
 as the Porte de Bussy. During this lourney, the 
 Goldsmythe, who had taken a Bag of Silver, threw 
 the Pieces to the Poore and Aged, crying: ^Lar- 
 gesse! Largesse a Dieu! God save and keepe the 
 Abbot ! Long live the good Seigneur Hugon !' — Then, 
 returning to his House, he regaled his Friends, and 
 made a new Wedding-Feast which lasted a full Week. 
 Beleeve that the Abbot was sorely reproached for his 
 Clemency by the Chapter, who had already opened 
 their throats to digest this goodly Prey. Therefore, 
 a Year after this, the Good-Man Hugon falling sick, 
 his Prior told him that it was a Punishment from 
 Heaven for having sacrificed the Interests of God and 
 the Chapter. — ^ If I have rightly judged this Man,' 
 quoth the Abbot, * hee will not forget what he oweth 
 us.' 
 
 In fact, that Daye being by Chance the Anniversary 
 of the Marriage, a Monke came to announce that the 
 Goldsmythe prayed his Benefactor to receive him. 
 WTien hee appeared in the Hall where the Abbot 
 was, he unpacked two marvellous Shrines which 
 since that Time no Workman hath surpassed in any 
 Place in Christendome, and which on this Account 
 were called THE VOWE OF PEKSEVEKAUNCE 
 IN LOVE. These two Treasures, as is known to AU, 
 are placed on the Maister- Altar of the Church, and 
 are esteemed to bee of an inestimable Travail, seeing 
 that the Goldsmythe spent on them the Whole of his 
 Substance. Never the lesse, this Work, farre from 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 emptying his Scrip, filled it choake-fuU ; because it 
 increased his Renown and his Profits so well, that hee 
 bought a Title of Nobility, with broad lands, and 
 hath founded the House of the Anseaus, who whilom 
 were held in great Honour by the People of Touraine. 
 Which teacheth us alwayes to have Recourse to 
 Heavenly Protection in all the Atchievements and 
 Enterprises of Life, and to persevere in all Things 
 honourable of Men : moreover, and above, wee learne 
 that strong Love triumpheth over every Hindi-aunce ; 
 which is an old Saying : but the Author hath 
 rewritten it, because it is right pleasaunt to in« 
 dite.
 
 CHARLES VERNETS TALE. 
 
 S\^^FT'S VISIT TO POPE'S VILLA.
 
 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 231 
 
 When Kebow had finished he turned to Verney and 
 said, *My privilege, I think, is to appoint my suc- 
 cessor. I designate you, Verney, " Tale-teller elect.'* 
 Mind, we are not going to let you oif with peripatetic 
 itinerant tales, which hop, skip, and jump about the 
 world at pleasure, like our friend D 'Aubrey's ; nor are 
 you to have the privilege of serving us to a translation, 
 as I have done you. We mean to pin you here, and 
 you must give us Twickenham fare. We know the 
 place has an excellent climate for literature, and you 
 have studied the culture of that article ; so remember, 
 if you please, the narrative you give us must have a 
 racy flavour of the soil.' 
 
 'Amen,' said D' Aubrey. 'Now we've got our own 
 tasks done we mean to lord it over you who have got 
 yours to do. It's the way of the world, Scott, for 
 your information.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' replied Scott ; ' I am happy to say it's 
 not the way at college.' 
 
 ' Credat !' was all D 'Aubrey rejoined. 
 
 Verney had often amused his leism-e in collecting 
 everything which he could find illustrating the his- 
 tory of Twickenham, which he always called the most 
 classic ground in England. A large book-case in his 
 library was devoted, firstly, to the celebrated works 
 which had been written at Twickenham, and, secondly,
 
 232 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 to books and pamphlets and some few manuscripts 
 illustrating its associations. 
 
 Among tlie first class, or the class of celebrated 
 works written wholly or partially at Twickenham, stood 
 Bacon's Essays and the Novum Organon, Lord Cla- 
 rendon's Lives, several of Donne's Poems, Suckling's 
 Poems, the greater part of Pope's works, Gulliver's 
 Travels, the Beggar's Opera, CoUey Gibber's Kefusal, 
 Tom Jones, the Gastle of Otranto, several of Paul 
 Whitehead's plays, Cambridge's Scribleriad, and 
 many more works of perhaps less note, but still rank- 
 ing among English classics. 
 
 Of the second class Yerney's collection was un- 
 usually large and probably unique. He most prized, 
 however, a manuscript narrative account of a visit 
 by Swift to Pope^s villa, which seems to have escaped 
 the biographers. It must have been made after the 
 publication of Gulliver's Travels, and just before 
 Swift's madness became so apparent as to lead to 
 his confinement. 
 
 When the evening came for Verney to tell his 
 tale, he began by apologising for the want of a plot 
 in this narrative, * which,' said he, 'would make it 
 contrast unfavourably with the finished stories that 
 had preceded it.' They all said that that was of no 
 importance, the interest of the subject would amply 
 compensate for any deficiency in that particular. So 
 Verney began to read as follows : —
 
 ( 233 ) 
 
 SWIFT'S VISIT TO POPE'S VILLA. 
 
 It was on a bright afternoon late in May, in the year 
 173 — , that the stray wanderer, if perchance such a 
 person had found his way to so desolate a region, 
 might have seen crossing the vast extent of common 
 that stretched from Putney to Eichmond a dusty 
 postchaise of very unpretentious aspect. It was evi- 
 dent that some special exigency induced the postboy 
 to urge along his tired and ill-fed nags at so unusual 
 a pace. To seize the few seconds left for the last leave- 
 taking with some beloved relative, ere the hand of 
 death finally closed over him — to bring to the rich 
 man's bed all the appliances of science, and the conso- 
 lations of religion, to ward off or soothe the fatal mo- 
 ment — or to receive the instructions for the last will 
 and testament : — one of these would naturally seem 
 the true object of such breathless haste. But incor- 
 rectly : Swift sought not to be present at death, but 
 to avoid it ; not to sit by the couch of the dying, but 
 at the table of the Hving ; and his haste was caused 
 not by the fear lest he should not find his host alive, 
 but lest he should not be alive to reach him. 
 
 * Postboy, you are not half fast enough ! If you 
 don't know how to use the whip on yom^ horses, I
 
 234 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 know how to use it on you. How much more of the 
 heath is there ; do you hear, scullion ?' 
 
 ' Two miles, your reverence. We shall be at 
 Dead Man's Corner directly, and for the Lord's sake, 
 say your prayers for me, your reverence, as I saw a 
 horseman turn up the lane yonder.' 
 
 * Make the jades go, you canting sneak ; who told 
 you to talk about praying ? And look you, if you 
 let the horses out of a gallop before we get to Marsh 
 Gate, I'll let your snivelling soul out of your body.' 
 
 Oh, if they could have seen him then ! — the per- 
 secuted ministers, the crushed authors, the hapless 
 dunces, the innocent imbeciles, whom the rage of 
 this fiery demagogue had insulted, and trampled upon, 
 and driven, some of them out of place, and the rest 
 of them out of bread — ah ! if they could have seen 
 him then, would they not have rejoiced to see their foe 
 humiliated, and to find that the man who in conflicts 
 of words was the bravest of the brave, in the hour of 
 danger to his skin was the most cowardly of cowards ; 
 or would it not rather have pained them to think 
 that one who had mastered them was himself so 
 easy to be cowed? But so it often is ordained to 
 be ; by such compensations humanity is equalised, 
 and he whose moral courage was unbounded, who 
 in thought and speech could dare God and man 
 yet trembled to go through a hole in Eochester 
 ruins, and on his post-journeys kept his head con- 
 stantly out of window, cautioning the postboy to 
 beware of an overturn, and to look out for highway- 
 men.
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 235 
 
 It was only in the excess and abjectness of his fear 
 that he was peculiar about highwaymen, for no one 
 could in those days travel the road from London to 
 Pope's villa at Twickenham, by way of Kichmond, as 
 Swift was then doing, without, in the wild range of 
 heath and common which lies between the village of 
 Putney and Sir William Temple's villa at East Sheen, 
 where Swift lived in early life as a sort of secretary 
 and amanuensis, feeling some qualms about the black 
 muffled-up figure on the swift gray mare, with large 
 pistols strapped to his saddle, whose presence haunted 
 all the heaths and commons about London, and 
 whom Gay has immortalised in the Beggar's Opera 
 as Macheath the highwayman. If these gentry had 
 not based their splendid chivalry on false convention- 
 alities, but had considered it a point of honour to rid 
 society of a rogue whenever they met him. Dean 
 Swift would never have reached Pope's villa on this 
 present or any future occasion — would never have 
 passed the barren heath of Barnes at Dead Man's 
 Corner, a place no longer exactly identified, though 
 long notorious as the scene of many murders. The 
 postboy, notwithstanding all Swift's threats, was 
 brought to a stand by a gentleman on horseback, 
 who, to save trouble, thrust his pistol through the 
 closed window of the chaise, and repeated the usual 
 formula, ' Your money or your life.' The Dean was 
 preparing to make an offer of the former, being the 
 residue of half a sovereign which he had borrowed 
 from his bookseller, after deduction of the payment 
 of his last night's lodging ; but the gentleman's keen
 
 236 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 eye estimating the amount of the Dean's offering to 
 be below what professional etiquette would permit 
 him to receive, and rightly surmising that notliing 
 further was to be extracted from underneath the cas- 
 sock, he drew back his pistols, rejected the proffered 
 silver with the lofty air of a Castilian grandee, and 
 saying, with a bow, * Pardon me, I never trouble 
 ladies or the cloth,' rode briskly off. 
 
 The first thought of Swift was, * D — n the fellow 
 for his impudence, as if a parson was no better than 
 those miserable, half-developed, reason-bereft crea- 
 tures called women.' 
 
 For the rest, we may refer to Swift's diary of the 
 journey : — ' Thursday. Wak'd with the headache. 
 Said no prayers. Drest immediately. Kej)eated 
 verses whilst I shaved my beard ; cut my chin in 
 consequence. Broke fast at the Cocoa-nut Tree. 
 Headache worse, and deafness bad. Wrote a lam- 
 poon on the X . Set out post for Pope's. Met 
 
 Macheath on the road. The fellow went off 
 frightened when he knew me, without taking any- 
 thing. Resolve to give sixpence to the poor. Eest 
 of the way annoyed by the postboy, who drove too 
 near the ditch. Feel sick in passing the old den at 
 Sheen. Pick up Morell in Eichmond.' 
 
 Excellent Morell ! Most celebrated of all the 
 curates of Twickenham, and more celebrated than 
 any of its vicars ; thou too art of the same cloth as 
 Swift, but no one will say that thy sheep's clothing is 
 inappropriate ! There could hardly be two more 
 opposite men than Swift and Morell. Swift, who
 
 swift's visit to tope's villa. 237 
 
 lived a tliorough life of business, always at some work 
 of negotiation and intrigue, and only writing books 
 for the purpose of advancing the business he had in 
 hand ; Morell, full of letters and learning, because 
 he loved tliem, and lived and breathed and had his 
 being among them, and after years of toil producing 
 his Thesaurus of Greek poetry, wherefore his memory 
 is still honoured on the banks of Isis and of Cam. 
 Morell, however, will outlive his Thesaurus by his 
 portrait. He was the friend and intimate of Hogarth. 
 He revised for the press Hogarth's book called ' The 
 Analysis of Beauty,' and by way of reward for his 
 exertions, but not as an example of the subject, 
 Hogarth made a portrait of him. There the good 
 old man sits in his huge wide-awake and scholar-like 
 deshabille, non indecoro ijulvere sordidus, with pen 
 in hand, about to write a page on Greek metres, 
 yet holding back for a space, while with good-natured 
 confidence and a gentle expostulatory movement of 
 the left hand, he seems just to pause while he con- 
 futes the advocate of an opposite opinion. His watch 
 hangs against the chimneypiece, so that the loud 
 ticks, reverberating against the stone jamb, might 
 warn him constantly that the stuff of which life is 
 made was ever wearing away. Books are heaped 
 carelessly — just as he has referred to them — on his 
 table ; an organ, the only symbol of his ecclesiastical 
 character, fills up the background ; but above all is 
 remarkable that sturdy, hard-working, acute, yet 
 kindly English face, of a type which now-a-days one 
 most often meets with in the ostler of a country inn
 
 238 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 (a place where you would not expect it), and which 
 then seems to say to you, ' Ah, sir, I'm up early in the 
 morning, and not a-bed till late at night, and life's a 
 hard battle to fight, but I take things for the best, 
 and after all they don't come so bad in the long run, 
 at least not to a man who knows his business as 
 well as I do ;' and so old Morell says to you, 
 through the pencil of Hogarth, 'It's a hard fagging 
 life this, by early dawn and the midnight lamp 
 mastering the prosody of the Greeks, and yet I know 
 my craft well, and don't care how long I work in an 
 art which owns me for its master. I wish all men 
 were as happy over then- fine-spun plots, and in their 
 lordly castles and bishops' palaces, as I am in my 
 humble lodgings at Twickenham, with my Thesaurus 
 for my companion.' There is more bonhomie about 
 his look than one would expect from the original of 
 Hogarth's ' Cynic Philosopher.' 
 
 This was the man whom Swift overtook walking in 
 Kichmond. Swift had so worried the postboy into 
 worrying his nags that the latter had sped along the 
 road half an hour quicker than was expected of them, 
 and consequently Swift found himself likely to be too 
 early for his appointment at Pope's, and determined 
 to walk leisurely, with Morell on his arm, over to 
 Twickenham. 
 
 Now Swift had no great turn for listening to rhap- 
 sodies on Greek prosody, and Morell knew so little of 
 the personelle of the court and poKtics, that Swift's 
 peculiar world was one about which they could keep 
 up no equal conversation ; and MoreU's part on such
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 239 
 
 occasions consisted of asking questions, wliicli habit 
 SAvift above all things abominated and repelled. 
 Fortunately, however, Morell had another topic in 
 which he was au fait — he knew the old historical 
 associations of Twickenham, and by vn^tue of his 
 office as curate could get admitted into the servants' 
 hall of all the great mansions, and if they happened 
 to be sitting down to meals at the time he called, 
 the butler would often, by way of doing him honour, 
 give Morell the knife and fork on his right hand. 
 Swift was no antiquary, but his giddiness of the 
 head — the first symptom of the madness that soon 
 after this came over him — and vexation at the ill suc- 
 cess of his intrigues for a bishopric, which had just 
 then ended in final failure, so disgusted the Dean with 
 liimself and all belonging to him, that he was only 
 too glad to listen to Morell's talk about things and 
 persons of the past. 
 
 'You have often told me, Morell, that there are 
 several old houses about here with tales belonging to 
 them ; 
 
 * And tho' I am no Tory, 
 
 Yet I take glory 
 
 In a house with a story, 
 
 About a murder gory, 
 
 Or a sage hoary,' 
 
 said Swift, rattling along some twenty more lines of 
 rhyming doggerel, which he always had a knack of 
 putting together with wonderful rapidity ; ' and so 
 let us call in upon them by the way, and if we do 
 commit a trespass the owner must be a curmudgeonly
 
 240 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 rascal to quarrel with fellows who come to put an 
 additional story on his house.' 
 
 * Oh, never care about trespassing/ said Morell ; 
 * I'm a good friend with all the butlers and bailiffs 
 in the parish. They don't dread I should talk Greek 
 to them as their masters do.' 
 
 * Or divinity either, perhaps,' said Swift. 
 
 So they crossed in the ferry-boat (for there was no 
 bridge then to take them across) from the banks in 
 front of the old palace on the green, to the lane by 
 the side of Twickenham Park. 
 
 * Here we are,' said Morell, * on the most classic 
 gi'ound in England, now that we can reckon Pope 
 among our inhabitants and the Dean of St. Patrick's 
 among his visitors ; for as the first essays in our lan- 
 guage were writ in yonder house, so the first finished 
 poetry and correct prose (if it is true that you have 
 writ several of your works in Pope's villa) are natives 
 of Twickenham. Do you like Bacon's style ?' 
 
 * Yes,' said Swift, ' it is full of wit. What a capital 
 answer that was he gave to Queen Elizabeth when she 
 consulted him whether some fellow hadn't committed 
 treason by writing a book ; *^ No," says Bacon, " but I 
 find he's committed felony." But Bacon was such a 
 horrid pedant, like the rest of the folks in his day, 
 that his native wit is all hid and weighed down under 
 the heavy tawdry jewellery of learned jokes in which 
 he dresses it out. How modest people were in those 
 days to call their writings essays or attempts ! they 
 didn't think then that beginning a thing was even 
 half doing it ; now so bloated and mad are they that
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 241 
 
 if they but touch an undertaking they will have it 
 that it's done; and when people call their books 
 essays they don't mean to hint a doubt that they are 
 not jDerfect. Is this the gate ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Morell, opening it. And so the two 
 walked under the groves planted by Bacon — his 
 * shady spaces of philosophy.' A grim nunnery stood 
 there when history iirst da^vned upon our village, a 
 nunnery of Bridgettines, who afterwards removed to 
 8yon Monastery, now the site of Syon House, Isle- 
 worth, one of the seats of the Duke of Northumberland. 
 The nuns left Twickenliam in 1431, and after their 
 departure an elegant mansion was erected and grounds 
 laid out.* In the year 1574 Edward, the elder bro- 
 ther of Lord Bacon, became lessee of the property, 
 which was then called Twickenham Park, and it 
 continued in the Bacon family for many years, being 
 a particularly favourite residence of the great philo- 
 sopher. ' Let Twickenham Park,' — says he in his age, 
 when he is devising a society for exjDloring aban- 
 doned mineral works, — ' let Twickenham Park, which 
 I sold in my younger days, be purchased, if possible, 
 for a residence for such deserving persons to study 
 in, since I experimentally found the situation of that 
 place much convenient for the trial of my philosophi- 
 cal conclusions, expressed in a paper sealed to the 
 trust, which I myself had put in practice, and settled 
 the same by xlct of Parliament, if the vicissitudes of 
 fortune had not intervened and prevented me.' 
 
 * An early record quoted in Ly son's Environs of London 
 (iii. 564) shows that it was a park as early as 1574. 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 Few things are more interesting than to look back 
 with Bacon to the days of his youth and innocence, 
 when, in his vacations, he retired to the soHtude of 
 his Twickenham home, to think and write, not about 
 the petty squabbles of litigants, but on the great pro- 
 gress of human knowledge, and the methods of in- 
 quiry by which mankind was to achieve the triumphs 
 we are now so proud of ; and then, after a stay of 
 a couple of months or more at Twickenham, we find 
 him writing to his brother thus, on Oct. 16, 1594 : — 
 ' One day draweth on another, and I am well pleased 
 in my being here; for methinks solitariness col- 
 lecteth the mind, as shutting the eyes doth the sight.' 
 Though Bacon made welcome to some select friends of 
 the Bar, and to some men of letters, of whom Field, 
 the author of the treatise ' Of the Church,' happens 
 to be particularly commemorated, yet he was natu- 
 rally a lone-living man — a lover of solitude, as all 
 great men are ; for the adage that the soKtary man 
 must be either a god or a beast, has much that is true 
 in it. Perhaps the solitary man may combine the 
 godlike and the bestial. Bacon partakes more of the 
 godlike. Swift, who wandered over his shady lawns, 
 thinking what a glorious place it would be to shut 
 out the hated world from, and chafing his soul when 
 he thought how successful Bacon was in the act of 
 rising to great estate, and how he himself had failed 
 — Swift, too, was a solitary man ; but the godlike did 
 not predominate in his nature. IMorell made the 
 matter worse, by remarking what lasting fame Bacon 
 had achieved ; what honours (notwithstanding all his
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 243 
 
 complaints about present times, and his well-known 
 appeal to future ages), lie had received dming his 
 lifetime — including a visit from the Queen at this 
 very park, when he presented Her Majesty with a 
 sonnet writ for the occasion.* * Ah ! that fellow,' said 
 Swift, bitterly, * knew how to be a courtier.' That a 
 cloud had passed across his bright name, which em- 
 bittered his later days, and has — justly or unjustly — 
 sullied his memory; that he has left an enduring 
 fame of the highest order, as the father of Experi- 
 mental Philosophy — the man who first gave the im- 
 petus to the ' genie philosophique,' as D'Alembert 
 calls it, which sooner or later must burst forth in 
 every country, ere it advances to greatness, — all 
 this, which other wanderers through his deserted 
 groves love to muse over. Swift thought nothing of : 
 the only worship he came to offer at the shrine 
 of Bacon, was the worship due to a successful 
 courtier. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Morell, ' it will interest you more. 
 Dean, to know that this park was, about a century 
 ago, the home of Lucy, Countess of Bedford ; and 
 that much of the taste we see displayed in the 
 grounds is due to her." 
 
 ' Indeed !' said Swift, brightening up ; * you mean 
 the patroness of Dean Donne, who writ a book to 
 excuse suicide, and to prove that men of letters must 
 always be quarrelling ?'t 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Morell ; ' I happen to have a copy 
 
 * See NiclioH's Progresses of Queen Elizabeth, vol. iii. p. 190. 
 t Donne's Bibavaros. See Preface, p. 20. 
 
 R 2
 
 244 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 of Lis letters in my pocket, and I'll read one he sent 
 here to the Countess : — 
 
 ' " Happiest and worthiest lady ! I do not remember 
 that ever I have seen a petition in verse ; I would 
 not therefore be singular, nor adde these to your 
 other papers. I have yet adventured so near as to 
 make a petition for verse ; it is for those your Lady- 
 ship did me the honour to see in Twickenham garden, 
 except you repent your making, and having mended 
 your judgment by thinking worse, that is, better, 
 because juster, of their subject. They must needs be 
 an excellent exercise of your wit, which speaks so 
 well of so ill. I humbly beg them of your Ladiship, 
 with two such promises, as to any other of your com- ^ 
 positions were threatnings — that I will not show 
 them, and that I will not believe them ; and nothing 
 should be so used that comes from your brain or 
 breast. If I should confess a fault in the boldnesse 
 of asking them, or make a fault by doing it in a 
 longer letter, your Ladiship might use your style 
 and old fashion of the Court towards me and pay 
 me with a pardon. Here, therefore, I humbly kiss 
 your Ladiship 's fair learned hands, and msh you 
 good wishes and speedy grants. 
 
 ' "Your Ladiship's servant — J. Donne." 
 
 * Fah ! what English ! How many generations it 
 takes to manufacture a decent language! These 
 prim gardens are her Ladyship's, I suppose ?' 
 
 * They are,' said Morell ; * and you know how
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 245 
 
 celebrated she was for making ladies turn their atten- 
 tion to horticulture and landscape-gardening.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Swift, ' I have heard Sir Win. Temple 
 speak of her efforts in that line with praise ; but for my 
 part, I think it an invention of the devil to make 
 people dress out God's earth in such caricatures. The 
 only true gardening is Pope's, which assists and 
 doesn't distort nature. You've seen his grotto and 
 garden, of course ?' 
 
 * No,' replied Morell, ' it's my greatest regret that 
 I haven't the privilege of listening to Pope's wit ; 
 but I'm so much a friend of Hogarth that Pope won't 
 take any notice of me.' 
 
 *It's a thousand pities,' replied Swift, *that two 
 such fellows as Pope and Hogarth shouldn^t be friends. 
 K they would only pull together, instead of pulling 
 different ways, they might shame all the world into 
 anything they pleased. You must know Pope ; I'll 
 speak about you to him ; though if you look for wit 
 you'll be disappointed. He never said a witty thing 
 in his life — unless he stole it ; and mind you, use 
 your good offices with Hogarth, and tell him it's an 
 immanly, cowardly thing to be always sketching 
 Pope's hump, when Pope never hooked him into 
 verse, or did him any wrong. Come, as you're one 
 of the cloth, preach a sermon to him, Morell.' 
 
 The curate promised his best endeavours ; and as 
 they were going out of the grounds of Twickenham 
 Park, narrated how the Countess, in 1616, gave it to 
 her relation, Sir William Harrington, and how mem- 
 bers of the Berkeley family (including John, Lord
 
 246 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 Berkeley, of Stratton, the zealous Koyalist), liad for 
 several generations resided in it. 
 
 ' And, by-the-by,' said Morell, 'I must tell you 
 an odd custom we have about this house. The boun- 
 dary line of the parishes of Twickenham and Isle- 
 worth passes through the house ; and in the hall 
 fronting the south-west, is fixed, in the mosaic pave- 
 ment of black and white marble, a small iron cross 
 which marks the division of the parishes. When 
 our parishioners perambulate the bounds, a man 
 enters a window at the north-west, then comes down 
 stands, and joining the company in the hall, they sing 
 the 1 00th Psalm ; then the man goes up to a south-west 
 window, and comes down a ladder on the outside.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' muttered Swift, ' that takes place on 
 the 1st of April.'* 
 
 Morell next pointed out the house on the opposite 
 side of the road (subsequently much enlarged, and 
 now better known as Owen Cambridge's), which 
 was worthy of commemoration as the residence of 
 Sir Humphrey Lynd, who lived here from 1617 
 to 1626, and probably longer. He was what his 
 biographers call * a severe enemy of the Pontificians,' 
 and having sat in several Parhaments, and been 
 made a justice of the peace, and knighted by King 
 James, he undertook a pamphleteering contest with 
 the Jesuits. It began with a tract by him, called 
 * Via Tuta ;' a Jesuit named Jenison answered with 
 
 * Twickenliam Park was demolislied and divided in the year 
 1805. The railway now passes over the site of Bacon's house.
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 247 
 
 ' A Pair of Spectacles for Sir Humphrey Lynd ;' and 
 the knight rejoined with ^ A Case for Sir Humphrey 
 Lind's Spectacles.' 
 
 Swift had no appetite for paying worship at Sir 
 Humphrey's shrine, and dragged off Morell, who 
 would have lingered there, and at last could only be 
 satisfied by Swift's promising to come some day to 
 his lodgings and see the pamphlets which were writ- 
 ten in that controversy. 
 
 When they got to Marble Hill, Swift needed no 
 cicerone, for he had often called with Pope and Gay 
 on the Countess of Suffolk when he was on his former 
 visits to Pope, and indeed is said to have stocked the 
 wine-cellar. As he had still time to spare, he pro- 
 posed walking in the grounds, though he was then in 
 no very good temper with the Countess, who, he 
 thought, had never done enough to forward him at 
 Court, and was only alive to her own interests. He 
 would not, therefore, go in, but they walked for a 
 while under the groves of horse-chestnuts, which had 
 been planted under the direction of Pope, and mar- 
 velled once again at the taste of the noble architect, 
 tlie Earl of Pembroke, who stunted all the floors in 
 the house except the first floor, which he made of a 
 disproportioned loftiness. The house was then too 
 new, and the plantations too young (for it was only in 
 1724 that the place had been purchased for her at a 
 cost of 10,000?. by George II., then Prince of Wales), 
 to form a very picturesque landscape, and Swift's ill- 
 temper kept boiling over against the Countess, and 
 Pope and Gay, the two latter of whom he denounced
 
 248 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 as a couple of simpletons for belieying that she had 
 any care to promote them, and that her ill success 
 arose from want of power. 
 
 * She is an absolute courtier,' said Swift to Morell, 
 ' and the less you rely on the promises of such rub- 
 bish the better for your peace of mind. Take it on 
 the word of a poor Irish dean.' 
 
 ' 0, I assure you for myself,' replied Morell, * I 
 want no places or patronage while I have my The- 
 saurus ; but I always thought you were a great 
 friend of the Countess ; and I remember being much 
 pleased in reading that pastoral dialogue of yours 
 between Kichmond Lodge and Marble Hill, where 
 Marble Hill says — 
 
 " No more the Dean, that grave divine, 
 Shall keep the key of my no-wine ; 
 My ice-honse rob as heretofore, 
 And steal my artichokes no more: — 
 Poor Patty Blount no more be seen, 
 Bedraggled on the walks so green : 
 Plump Johnn}^ Gay will now elope, 
 And there no more will dangle Pope." 
 
 ' Tut, tut,' interrupted Swift, ' no more of that ; 
 it's true enough, as far as the Dean's concerned, he'll 
 neither keep the key of her no-wine, nor care of her 
 no-conscience any longer ; and thank the Lord, as I 
 am going to Pope's to-day, I need not sponge upon 
 her for a dinner. Morell, you know that she thought 
 to have got quit of her promises to Gay by getting 
 him an ushership to the Princess Louisa, a girl two 
 years old. I am heartily rejoiced Gay threw it back
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 249 
 
 in the old jade's face, and I've begun an epistle to 
 him about it : — 
 
 " How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's strain. 
 To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain ! 
 Fain would I think our female friend* sincere. 
 Till Bobt the poet's foe possessed her ear. 
 Did female virtue e'er so high ascend, 
 To lose an inch of favour for a friend ? 
 
 Say, had the court no better place to choose 
 For thee, than make a dry-nurse of thy muse ? 
 How cheaply had thy liberty been sold, 
 To squire a royal girl of two years old ; 
 In leading-strings her infant steps to guide, 
 Or with her go-cart amble by her side !" 
 
 He was stopped by a footman, who was sent out by 
 the Countess to ask the Dean and his companion to 
 walk in. ' Tell her ladyship,' says Swift, ' that I 
 should be proud to wait upon her, but the Princess 
 Louisa X has laid her commands on me to attend 
 her Koyal Highness, and I must obey.' 
 
 Morell felt pained at this mad whim of the Dean's, 
 and hurried him out of the groimds. They walked 
 down Montpellier Row, then new and bright (for it 
 was built only in 1720 by Captain Gray, and was 
 not at this time deserving of its present name of 
 Melancholy Row), and so they reached the river- 
 front of Mr. Johnston's house (now known as Orleans 
 House). By way of reward for the Curate's good 
 offices in christening the gardener's child without a 
 fee when he was out of place, the two divines were 
 
 * The Countess of Suffolk. f Sir Kobert Walpole. 
 
 X The royal infant, two years old.
 
 250 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 shown into the magnificent grounds, the sixteen acres 
 of cherry-gardens, the graperies and vineyards, and 
 had an opportunity of inspecting more closely the 
 Flemish-looking red-brick front of the chateau. 
 
 Mr. Johnston was Secretary of State for Scotland 
 in 1690, and Lord Kegister in 1704. He died in 
 this house in 1737, having previously erected the 
 octagon-room which is now so conspicuous a feature 
 of it, in honour of a visit he received there from 
 Queen Caroline, consort of George II. His gardens 
 were always celebrated. Macky, in his Tour through 
 England in 1720, says that Secretary Johnston had 
 in his gardens the best collection of fruit of most 
 gentlemen in England, and that from the vines on 
 liis slopes he made every year some hogsheads of 
 wine. 'You know,' said Morell, turning to S\^dft, 
 'that Queen Anne, in 1694, when Princess of Den- 
 mark, took the house for a season, and the Duke of 
 Gloucester brought with him his regiment of boys, 
 whom he used to exercise on the opposite ayte.' 
 
 Swift had not heard of this sojourn, but he was 
 aware that in the large house to w^hich they soon 
 came, York House, tradition said that Queen Anne 
 was born. It is certain that the place was the pro- 
 perty of the great Lord Clarendon, and that he fixed 
 his summer residence there for many years, but it 
 does not appear distinctly how he became possessed 
 of it. It has been suggested that it was among the 
 many valuable presents which the Duke of York, 
 afterwards James 11. , made to Lord Clarendon on 
 the public announcement of his marriage with the
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 253 
 
 daughter of Lord Clareudon ; and Mr. Lister* says 
 that * there is no evidence to show whether Lord 
 Clarendon became possessed of these properties by 
 grant, purchase, or exchange ;' but it would seem, 
 from a passage in a letter from the second Earl of 
 Clarendon to the Earl of Eochester, dated Dublin 
 Castle, May 8, 1686, that the first Earl had bought 
 York House. The passage is as follows : — ' I wish 
 you joy of the little lodge (at Eichmond) the King 
 has given you. I have been at it, but it was quickly 
 after the King's restoration. A far less sum will 
 make it to your mind than would have built a new 
 house, and it stands mighty convenient for the park, 
 which you so much delight in. I heartily wish you 
 a good chapman for Twickenham, but you will not, I 
 doubt, get what it cost my father, who paid roundly 
 for all his purchases, besides what he laid out upon 
 them afterwards, which will not make them yield 
 anything the more.'-|* 
 
 Lord Clarendon used to reside at intervals in York 
 House for several years prior to his fleeing to Calais. 
 On the night of his escape, in December 1667, Pepys 
 relates that ^ his coach and people about it went to 
 Twickenham, and all people thought he had been 
 there.' And it was in this house that, according to 
 tradition, the Chancellor's granddaughter, Queen 
 Anne, was born on the 6th of February, 1665. 
 
 * Life of the Earl of Clarendon, ii. 539. 
 
 t Correspondence of Henry Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, and of 
 his brother, Laurence Hyde, Earl of Eochester. Ed. S. W. 
 Singer, 1828, vol. i. p. 374.
 
 252 THE TWICKENHAIVT TALES. 
 
 Our two worthies were very differently affected on 
 this classic spot, Morell thinking only of the great his- 
 torian of the Civil War, and how the leisure of the 
 Chancellor at York House was employed in develop- 
 ing those magnificent portraits of character for which 
 his volumes have a merit and a fame peculiar to 
 them> and how, in the hours of relaxation, those 
 lofty and stately rooms resounded with the wit and 
 vivacity of Ben Jonson, Cotton, Carew, Waller, 
 Digby, May, and the prince of anglers, Walton. 
 Swift, on the other hand, was absorbed in thinking 
 of the Queen who was born there, and how if she 
 had lived things might have turned out better for 
 him, and at last turned away from her birthplace 
 with the question on his lips which the Irish ask of 
 the corpse at the wake, *Ah, ulolu, ulolu, why did 
 ye die?' 
 
 From York House it is but a step to the church — 
 then bright and new, for it was only completed in 
 the year 1715, and contrasted still more disagree- 
 ably with the old tower of freestone than it does now. 
 Neither Morell nor Swift had anything to say in 
 favour of the taste of the architect, John James, 
 who was also the architect of St. George's, Hanover 
 Square, but Swift stopped to read the monument 
 which Pope had recently erected on the church waU, 
 in the following terms : —
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 253 
 
 To the Memory of 
 
 MARY BEACH, 
 
 Wlio died November tlie 5tL, 1725, aged 78. 
 
 Alexander Pope, 
 
 Whom she nursed in his infancy, 
 And constantly attended for thirty-eight years. 
 
 In gratitude to a faithful old servant, 
 
 Erected this Stone. 
 
 And some trite remarks about Pope's deformity, his 
 habit of always wearing stays, his incapacity for 
 dressing or undressing himself, and the consequent 
 importance to liim of a good nurse, occupied them 
 till they came opposite the old Manor House which 
 faces the church, and goes by the name of Arragon 
 House, because Katharine of Arragon, according to 
 tradition, resided there for some time. The old 
 dilapidated front gives a fair idea of a moderate- 
 sized manor-house of the days of Henry VHI. ; and 
 according to a reasonable supposition (for it is nothing 
 more), it was part of the Queen's jointure. She had 
 many places of residence, including two in the neigh- 
 bourhood, at Han worth and Hampton Court. 
 
 Swift was by this time quite tired of Morell's 
 local narratives, and pretending to be surprised at 
 the hour shown by the church clock, took leave of 
 Morell hurriedly, and walked quickly on to Pope's 
 villa. 
 
 He found Pope reading the Bible — a large folio 
 copy, with gilt clasps, and an episcopal air about it.
 
 254 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 Swift, knowing his way of thinking upon that book, 
 asked him whether he was going to write an answer 
 to it. 
 
 * It is a present,' said Pope, *or rather a legacy, 
 from my old friend the Bishop of Rochester. When 
 I went to take leave of him in the Tower I saw this 
 Bible upon his table. The Bishop said to me, " My 
 friend Pope, considering your infirmities and my age 
 and exile, it is not likely that we should ever meet 
 again, and I therefore give you this legacy to remem- 
 ber me by it. Take it home with you, and let me 
 advise you to abide by it." " Does your lordship," 
 said I, "abide by it yourself?" ''I do." "If you 
 do, my lord, it is but lately. May I beg to know 
 what new light or arguments have prevailed with 
 you now to entertain an opinion so contrary to that 
 which you entertained of that book in the former 
 part of yom- life ?" The bishop replied, " We have 
 not time to talk of these things, but take home the 
 book ; I w^ill abide by it, and I recommend you to do 
 so too, and so God bless you !" ' 
 
 ' Ah, well,' exclaimed Swift, testily, * I suppose we 
 shall all come to that some day; but meantime here's 
 Macheath. Do you know. Gay,' said he, addressing 
 that personage as he entered the room, ^I met 
 your hero to-day on the road.' * Indeed,' replied 
 Gay, ' he was no hero of mine, if he robbed one of 
 your cloth.' ' Why that was just what the cowardly 
 skulking rascal himself said, when he found me too 
 terrible for him, and was obliged to go back to his 
 lair.'
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 255 
 
 * Was he afraid of a lampoon ?' asked Pope, with 
 some wickedness in his smile. 
 
 * He was afraid of the soundest thrashing his 
 sneaking hide had ever received,' replied Swift, 
 savagely, first at the highwayman, next at Pope. 
 
 Lord BoHngbroke, who had driven over from his 
 seat at Dawley, near Uxbriclge, was then announced. 
 He made a low obeisance to the three Yahoos of 
 Twickenham — Jonathan, Alexander, and John ; tri- 
 umvirs of Parnassus, as he was in the habit of calling 
 the three wits who were assembled to receive him. 
 After the first compliments. Pope led his visitors to 
 the Grotto, in order to show them the last additions 
 which the friendship of his illustrious friends and 
 admirers had enabled him to make to it. The little 
 poet had, however, some difficulty in descending to 
 it, for his infirmity was so great that going up and 
 down stairs was an effort almost too much for him. 
 He was dressed in a suit of black velvet ; but being 
 at home, and just to make an affectation of being 
 en desliahille, he wore, instead of his wig, a black cap 
 which fitted close to his head. His visitors displayed 
 theii- different characters in the manner in which they 
 accompanied him in the descent, to him so difficult. 
 Swift went blundering and swaggering down first, 
 \vithout any regard for the cripple, and left him in 
 the lurch far behind. Bolingbroke went a few paces 
 in front, so as not to be a witness of his painful 
 efforts, but kept continually stopping, apparently to 
 make some light remark, but in reality to give Pope
 
 256 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 time to get abreast witli him. Gay followed him 
 close, tending on him as if he were his nurse, and 
 prepared to catch him up in his arms, and carry him 
 the rest of the way. 
 
 At length they got to the Grotto — at first but an 
 underground passage under the high road between 
 London and Hampton Court, and connecting the 
 lawn on the bank of the river with the garden of 
 five acres on the opposite side of the road, but orna- 
 mented by the taste of the poet, and enriched by the 
 presents of his friends, till it became the most cele- 
 brated sight of the day. He was proud of pointing 
 out the amethyst from the Duchess of Cleveland, the 
 gems from the Prince of Wales, red spar from Lord 
 Lyttleton, Vesuvian lava from Spence, beads and 
 medals blessed at Loretto, while the diamonds and 
 ores of Cornwall reflected the rays from Peruvian 
 gold and Spanish silver, sjDarkling from out of their 
 setting of Hartz crystals. Pope took his visitors first 
 to the brink of the river, and showed them the view 
 through the Grotto up a walk of the wilderness to a 
 kind of open temple wholly composed of shells in a 
 rustic manner, and taking his visitors to that spot, he 
 then pointed out to them the opposite prospect, 
 through a sloping arcade of trees, with the sails on 
 the river passing suddenly and vanishing as through 
 a prospective glass. Then he shut the doors of the 
 Grotto, and it became in an instant, from a luminous 
 room, a camera obscura, on the walls of which all the 
 objects of the river — hills, woods, and boats, form a
 
 257 
 
 moving picture in their visible radiations. Again 
 the scene was changed by lighting the lamp (of an 
 orbicular figure of thin alabaster) which hung in the 
 Grotto, when a thousand pointed rays glittered and 
 were reflected from the shells and crystals, inter- 
 spersed with pieces of looking-glass in angular forms, 
 so contrived that all the rays seemed to converge to, 
 and again diverge from, a star of the same material 
 fixed in the ceiling of the Grotto* 
 
 Pope then took his friends into the narrow passage 
 which led out of the Grotto to two porches : one to- 
 w^ards the river, of smooth stones, light and open ; 
 the other towards the garden, shadowed with trees, 
 rough with shells, flints, and iron ore. The bottom 
 was paved with simple pebble, as was also the 
 adjoining walk up the wilderness to the temple, in 
 the natural taste agreeing not ill with the little drip- 
 ping murmur of a spring of clearest water, which fell 
 in a perpetual rill, that echoed through the cavern 
 day and night. 
 
 ' What do you think,' said Pope, ' of these lines I 
 
 have just writ about my Grotto ? — 
 
 * Thou, who shalt stop where Thames' translucent wave 
 Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave, 
 Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil. 
 And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill. 
 Unpolished gems no ray on pride bestow, 
 And latent medals innocently glowj 
 Approach, — great Nature studiously behold, ; 
 And eye the mine without a wish for gold : 
 
 * Compare Pope's own description of his Grotto . 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 Approach, — but awful ! — Lo, the Egereangrot ! 
 
 Where nobly pensive St. John sat and thought ; 
 
 Where British sighs from dying Windham stole, 
 
 And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's soul. 
 
 Let such, — such only, — tread this sacred floor, 
 
 Who dare to love their country, and be poor.' 
 
 Bolinghrolce. For my part, I am at loss whether 
 most to admire the taste and judgment of the con- 
 structor of this enchanted cave, or the genius of the 
 poet who has described it. But it's the boldest figure 
 you ever used, to talk of poverty in connection with 
 your Grotto. The richest gems of the Orient sparkle 
 upon one from every nook and corner of the cave, 
 and it seems to me rather like the throne-room of 
 the palace of some fairy prince, whom one reads of 
 in fables, than an apartment in the house of an 
 English gentleman. 
 
 Pope. You are 1 oo kind to me, my lord ; but it 
 is true that I am the first person in England who has 
 lived in ease upon the mere sale of his writings. Your 
 lordship will bear me witness that I never had a 
 patron — though certainly not for want of offers from 
 the highest quarters. 
 
 Bolinghrolce. Very true. The position of men of 
 letters and the power of literature seem to me to be 
 the most remarkable signs of the time. In our 
 country they are quite unexampled. 
 
 Swift. Yes, yes ; Pope's true enough, by G . 
 
 In the last age, an author needed only one patron to 
 be great and rich, and have all a man would want ; 
 now, though he has half the house of Peers for his
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 259 
 
 patrons, he cannot get anything better than a dry- 
 nurse nshership. 
 
 Swift had only imperfectly heard Pope, and had 
 quite misunderstood the tenor of the conversation ; 
 but he was sitting some distance apart, moodily look- 
 ing out upon the , river, and his deafness, which had 
 at this time so much increased, generally made it 
 impossible for him and Pope to carry on a conversa- 
 tion together. So that when there was no one else 
 present. Pope turned to composing, and Swift to 
 reading. 
 
 ' Pope has the talent well to speak 
 
 But not to reach the ear ; 
 His loudest voice is low and weak, 
 The Dean too deaf to hear. 
 
 * A while they on each other look, 
 
 Then different studies choose ; 
 The Dean sits plodding on a book, 
 
 Pope walks, and courts the muse. 
 
 ' Now backs of letters, though design'd 
 For those who more will need 'em. 
 Are fill'd with hints, and interlined, 
 Himself can hardly read 'em. 
 
 ' Each atom by some other struck. 
 
 All turns and motions tries. 
 Till in a lump together stuck, 
 Behold a poem rise.' 
 
 Bolinghroke. Well, dean, we were making some 
 remarks on the power of literature, and the position 
 of those who have the genius to wield its sceptre. 
 How are we to account for its sudden growth into a 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 profession at a particular period in the history of 
 every nation ? 
 
 Pope. For my part, I consider literature the most 
 exquisite of the fine arts, and capable of the greatest 
 perfection of any of them ; and as the progress of a 
 nation consists in the bringing to perfection all those 
 arts and accomplishments, so to speak, of which a 
 nation is susceptible, so it seems the natural result 
 and consequence of the progress of a nation, that 
 it should produce a national Kterature. As for the 
 period at which the national literature anives at its 
 perfection, does it not strike you to be fixed by the 
 arrival of the upper classes in the country at a high 
 pitch of refinement ? I have often thought that the 
 age when letters are most diffused, is not the age 
 when they are most perfect. They flourish rather 
 when they address a small but highly critical au- 
 dience.' 
 
 Bolinghrohe. It has often been questioned whether 
 they flourish best under a monarchy or under a re- 
 public. It strikes me that this is a false comparison. 
 Should we not rather say, that they flourish most at 
 the time when there is the greatest amount of liberty, 
 combined with the critical patronage of a refined 
 aristocracy? We must not use the word liberty 
 exactly in the sense in which it is often used, to im- 
 ply the lightness of the governmental restraint ; but 
 as I should use it for tliis purpose, it would rather 
 refer to the state of mental freedom — or if you will, 
 license — which prevails in a nation when the great 
 parties in it are nearly equally matched in power :
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 261 
 
 Wliat check is there then on the language of the 
 party-writers— not merely from government, but from 
 opinion ? Is there not more boldness of speech, more 
 vigour in the assaults, more shamelessness in the in- 
 vective, — at the time when authors write under the 
 shield of great party chieftains, than at any other 
 time? The liberty of the author then appears to 
 me to reach its highest point, and free scope is there- 
 fore secured to the play of the author's ideas ; wliile, 
 on the other hand, the refinement and elegance of 
 taste possessed by the class whom he addresses, re- 
 quire him to express his thoughts in chaste and har- 
 monious language. Does not this state of things 
 appear to secure all the requisites of, the finest 
 literature ? 
 
 Pope.. I concur in your view, my lord, so far as 
 to think that when the aristocracy of a country have 
 laid aside the habit of determining their contests by 
 an appeal to arms, and wage their battles instead by 
 the aid of the pen, there is the greatest liberty 
 of speech, and also a very great encouragement to 
 authors to do their utmost ; but I hesitate to say that 
 the best literature is that which is produced by party 
 conflicts. 
 
 Bolinghroke. No, truly, I don't mean that it is. 
 Heaven forbid that Walpole, and his chorus of hack- 
 libellers, should be looked upon as literary models ! 
 But you never can produce the best of any article 
 without having a crop of an inferior sort grow up in 
 the same field. The richest soil for your fruits and 
 your grain is that which also produces the largest
 
 262 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 crop of weeds ; and so I mean, that when the utmost 
 liberty is secured by this warfare of party, the field is 
 prepared for the growth of a refined and vigorous 
 literature ; though of course there is a wild growth 
 of tares and rubbish, such as that of Grub Street. 
 But what says our friend the dean to these views of 
 ours? 
 
 Swift. For my part, I know I have only wTitten 
 in hopes to , cure the perversity of fortune, which 
 made me a starveling parson instead of a lord. Lite- 
 rature is nothing to me but my coach and six. It 
 makes me of importance. Ministers fear me — alas ! 
 perhaps I should say, have feared me ; kings have 
 courted me ; the populace stand still as I pass, and 
 point at me with gaping mouths ; and the world 
 looks at me with more awe and worship, because I 
 can expose their vices and crimes, than if I were to 
 ride by with twenty outriders, as my Lord Duke, or 
 my Lord Marquis so and so. Of course, to write 
 with effect, and attain this power by writing, I must 
 write well ; and so I must do my best at the art, 
 though I no more care to be thought a good author 
 for the vanity of the thing, and apart from its 
 material effects, than I should wish to be an eminent 
 mountebank. I would as soon be the latter, if I 
 could then be as powerful as by authorship. 
 
 Bolinghrohe. You are very frank, friend Jonathan, 
 and your example proves my proposition; but for 
 the liberty of speech given by these party conflicts, 
 and the importance attached to the great literary 
 champions who fight them, such great men as you
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 263 
 
 would never trouble yourselves to be authors ; but if 
 you had lived earlier in our history, you would have 
 been a soldier or a lawyer ; and if you lived in such 
 a country as Holland or Venice, you would be an 
 eminent merchant, and thus rise to the councils of 
 your State. Is it not so ? 
 
 Swift. Precisely. In the world you know we 
 talk about the ^beauty of the art, and the glory of 
 devoting oneself to the mission of refining the human 
 mind ; but here we are retired underneath the world, 
 and may talk truth without ceremony, as the corpses 
 do in their graves. 
 
 Pope, With equal frankness, such as befits this 
 little confessional, I assert that to me the art is of 
 paramount interest and importance to the transitory 
 power which may be gained by the use of it. My 
 nature, if I may say so without undue vanity, was 
 framed for the cultivation of some fine art. You 
 know I studied painting under Jervas, and made, I 
 am silly enough to believe, some progress in it. I 
 took to verse-making in preference, both because I 
 had from boyhood a turn for it, and because — I con- 
 fess it — the professors of literature, in the days of 
 my youth, attained more place and power than the 
 professors of painting ; but in all my efforts — in my 
 bitterest attacks as well as in my show-pieces, if I 
 may so call them — I have always placed before me 
 the advancement of the art as my principal object ; 
 and when I die, the memory which I wish to leave 
 behind me is not that of the successful champion for 
 Whig or for Tory, for Papist or Protestant, — but of
 
 264 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 one who helped to correct and refine the language of 
 his country, and to create its literature. 
 
 Bolinghroke. A noble object, truly ; you have 
 done your part gloriously, and may you long live to 
 achieve further triumphs. But tell me, would you 
 have embarked in the life of authorship if some abso- 
 lute power — a despot, a jealous oligarchy like the 
 Venetian, a jealous democracy like the later 
 Athenian — had crampt your freedom, and forbid- 
 den you to speak anything but what was pleasing to 
 it? ' 
 
 Pope. I think, indeed, that I should not. 
 
 At this moment a servant entered, scared and 
 breathless, and announced that a very excited gen- 
 tleman was in the hall ; — he would force his way in ; 
 and though he left a man in the chaise to take care 
 of it, he insisted on bringing his horsewhip in with 
 him. He inquired for ' Alexander Pope ;' and when 
 the servant asked, * Do you mean Mr. Pope, sir T he 
 answered, ' Don't Mr. me, sir ! — I mean Alexander 
 Pope— A. P. E.' 
 
 Pope writhed and grew pale. ' Did he give his 
 name ?' 
 
 ^ No sir, he would not ; but as he stepped out of 
 his chaise this piece of an envelope dropped from his 
 pocket, and I thought it better to bring it up to you. 
 There is writ upon it " Mr. Dennis, The Cock Loft, 
 Budge Kow." ' 
 
 Swift burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, 
 which, as the door of the Grotto was open, rang 
 through the house and was distinctly audible in the
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 265 
 
 hall. They heard the crack of a horsewhip as a 
 sort of response to it. 
 
 Pope directed Bounce, his large Danish dog, to be 
 called in from the garden ; and Dan, the tall Irish- 
 man who always attended him with Bounce in his 
 walks, to be also summoned ; and was proceeding to 
 give directions about his pistols being fetched, when 
 Bolingbroke, interrupting his orders to his servant, 
 said, 'Let me be your negotiator with the terrible 
 Mr. Dennis. Give me plenipotentiary powers, and I 
 w^arrant you he'll be good friends with us all in half 
 an hour.' 
 
 * By all means,' said Pope, who was making the 
 most painful efforts to appear cool and unconcerned. 
 * Such cattle are not worth your lordship's trouble, 
 but it's best to get rid of them quietly.' 
 
 When Bolingbroke got into the hall, he found 
 Dennis, the king of Grub Street, in one of those 
 frenzies which, when they guided his pen, made him 
 so ridiculous as to destroy the point and effect of his 
 criticism, which had often much justice in it. He 
 had taken off his wig to relieve his head, pouring 
 down with sweat. His coat, for a similar reason, and 
 in order to give his arms more play in the exploit he 
 had come to perform, was also laid aside. A stout 
 horsewhip, which he had been exercising against the 
 w^alls of the hall, graced his huge hand. He had 
 been so intolerably absurd as to suppose that 
 Pope would rush out to meet his chastisement un- 
 awares. 
 
 He started back on seeing a live lord. Boling-
 
 266 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 broke followed up his advantage by offering his hand 
 and asking him to walk into an adjoining room. 
 
 ' Mr. Dennis/ said he, * it is an unexpected pleasure 
 to me, on my visit to my friend Mr. ^Pope, to have 
 the privilege of also meeting you. It must be some 
 extraordinary conjuncture in the literary hemisphere 
 that brings two such distinguished constellations under 
 the same roof; but is it true,' said he, as he ushered 
 the stupefied Dennis into a small room, having pre- 
 viously helped him to lay down his whip in the hall, 
 * is it true, as we hear, that you have determined no 
 longer to divide the literary world, and that you 
 have given to Mr. Pope all that was required to 
 make him invincible in letters — your alliance? Is 
 tliis indeed true ?' 
 
 * My lord ! my lord ! — what is it you say ? You 
 are too good to me. An alliance — what alliance ? 
 
 my lord, my lord ! is it possible you know not 
 the injuries I have suffered at the hands of ' 
 
 ' Tut tut,' interrupted Bolingbroke ; ' the severer 
 the warfare which has been w^aged, the more sincere 
 and the more cordial is the peace which succeeds it. 
 
 1 have indeed long observed, with the greatest pain, 
 the keenness of the thrusts which have passed between 
 you and Pope. I have always observed how, by 
 singling you out as the champion of his foes, to re- 
 ceive the most poignant a^nd poisoned darts, he paid 
 you the greatest compliment it is possible for one 
 adversary to pay to another ; and I assure you, no- 
 thing in my life ever gave me greater satisfaction, 
 than to hear that all your differences were on the eve
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa, 267 
 
 of a happy termination, and that my friend Pope, 
 whose declining health could not long have stood the 
 further attacks of your skilful and fatal pen, was about 
 to pass what little of life is left to him, in peace and 
 charity with the most redoubtable and powerful of 
 his foes. Mr. Dennis, you will pardon me, a stranger 
 as I am to you personally — though to one so eminent 
 in letters no one feels himself a stranger — you will 
 pardon me if I express the regret that I have always 
 felt, that in the republic of letters, the great party 
 which you headed was not the one to wliich most of 
 my literary friends belong. You know how eager we 
 politicians are to win over a great leader from the 
 other side ; and excuse me if I give vent to my 
 feelings of joy on the present occasion in a manner 
 so free from ceremony ; but we all feel that in wel- 
 coming you among us, you are entitled to, and, 
 in fact, that we cannot help giving you, the most 
 cordial and frank reception.' 
 
 * My lord, my lord ! I know not where I am, or 
 what I say. How is it? Was I expected? Is this 
 true, or is it a dream ?' 
 
 * Nothing is truer. You are here in Pope's house, 
 rds expected and honoured guest. You know what 
 ill health he suffers — his headache is particularly 
 distressing to-day ; he had determined not to see 
 company. Had any of the courtiers — the lords and 
 ladies who flock here so constantly — sought admis- 
 sion, he would have been denied to them ; but to one 
 who has always stood so high in his esteem, and 
 whom, now that all enmity has ceased, he can make
 
 268 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 welcome to his most intimate acquaintance — to you — 
 while he has yet any life left in him after those severe 
 conflicts, to which we will not further allude, he 
 could not under any circumstances be denied. I will 
 go and make him ready for so joyous a meeting,' 
 
 • He is stingiess,' said Bolingbroke, when he re- 
 joined Pope, Swift, and Gay, in the Grotto ; * I have 
 persuaded the fool that you expected him, and that 
 you are willing to take him into your circle, and 
 make much of him as the late chief of Grub Street 
 ^ — a chief too good for his ragged army. Come and 
 bamboozle the fellow, unless you prefer to send for a 
 constable to take him to the lock-up.' 
 
 Pope. Where is his whip ? 
 
 Bolinghrohe. 0, T made him leave that in the 
 hall, and your servant has taken it as well as the 
 pistols out of his coat pocket. Dean, you'll remain 
 here, won't you ? Two foes may be too much for 
 him to swallow at one gulp. 
 
 Swift. No, I'll go too. I never bore him any real 
 enmity, as oui* friend Pope did, and we may as 
 well amuse ourselves at his expense. 
 
 The interview between Pope, Swift, and Dennis, is 
 one of which I do not find any distinct record. It 
 was a whim of Bolingbroke to bring it about, forced on 
 by Dennis's visit in order to horsewhip Pope. Pope 
 was half ashamed of it afterwards ; and Dennis, when 
 the cool air of the road between Twickenham and 
 London had brought him to his senses, slirewdly 
 suspected that he had been made a fool of. Neither 
 party had therefore any motive for afterwards refer-
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 269 
 
 ring to it, andincleed had strong motives for not doing 
 so. The literary warfare continued as fierce as ever, 
 Pope giving the first blow, in order to undeceive 
 Dennis about the pretended reconciliation, and to 
 avenge himself for what he thought his own silli- 
 ness in giving way to Bolingbroke's frolic. When 
 Dennis had departed, they laughed heartily over 
 him ; the more so, as they sent him away without 
 his horsewhip, which Pope hung up in his study as a 
 trophy. 
 
 The carriage was then ordered to be got ready, to 
 take Pope and his guests to Sir Godfrey Kneller's, at 
 Whitton. While they were waiting for it, Boling- 
 broke proposed that they should saunter among the 
 multiplied scenes of Pope's little garden. ' That 
 theatre,' said he, ' is large enough for my ambition. 
 I wish in literature to do no more than to converse in 
 this sheltered spot with the choice spirits whom I 
 love and admire, and to let my thoughts, in what 
 order soever they flow, be communicated to you just 
 as they pass through my mind. I dare not pretend 
 to instruct mankind, and I am not humble enough to 
 write to the public for any other purpose. When I 
 do write, it is to make some trial of my progress in 
 search of the most important truths, and to make this 
 trial in the presence of friends in whom, I think, I 
 may confide.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Swift, as they wandered through the 
 assembling and retiring shades of the little garden, 
 devised so as to increase the apparent size by cun- 
 ningly concealing the bounds — ' well, no one will
 
 270 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 suppose you wished to be a professional author, but 
 how does it happen that you are the greatest orator 
 England has ever produced— was it not the same wish 
 to be powerful that makes us authors that made you 
 an orator?' 
 
 Bolinghrohe. I am not conscious to myself of a 
 distinct determination to become powerful by means 
 of oratory'; but I have no doubt that my ambition to 
 become an orator derived some of its fire from the 
 power which is attached to that accomplishment. It 
 has often struck me that there is a clear and easily 
 explained reason why in the history of every country 
 oratory arises at a particular moment, and perishes 
 again speedily. At first there is so great respect for 
 authority, that when a man, eminent by position or 
 character, arises, every breath is hushed, and what 
 falls from him is listened to with the utmost respect 
 and reverence, merely because it is his opinion. He 
 does not condescend to use the arts of the rhetori- 
 cian ; he rather delivers a judgment or sentence than 
 a speech. He tells the auditory how he is affected 
 himself in reference to the matter in debate, and 
 perhaps he also may intimate what it is which has 
 moved him to his then frame of mind ; but he is in- 
 different to the result. He has given his opinion, 
 and it is for them to follow it or not, as they like. 
 This is the style of the old chieftains, and the old 
 warrior-nobles, in the early ages of nations, both 
 ancient and modern. 
 
 Pope. It is clear, I think, that such a style of 
 speaking must be founded on a great social inequality.
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 271 
 
 The populace would not listen to a man's opinion 
 drily and succinctly delivered, unless they had a great 
 awe and respect for him. Granted that in nations 
 where there has been a conquest, and the military 
 aristocracy is firmly settled, they have sufficient 
 authority to speak after this fashion, how do you 
 account for it where there has been no such con- 
 quest ? 
 
 Bolingbrohe. Age or office gives the authority in that 
 case ; and even in the councils of feudal barons, where 
 all are socially equal in the sense of belonging to the 
 conquering race, some by superior wisdom, power, or 
 age, acquire the same authority over their peers that 
 the barons individually possess over their retainers 
 and vassals. When this species of authority declines, 
 and party conflicts arise, the same necessity which 
 calls forth a refined and powerful national literature, 
 calls forth also a rhetorical school of oratory. The orator 
 must then make an argument, not deliver a speech ; 
 he must appear to address the reason of his audience, 
 though in fact he often only tickles their ears ; he 
 must assign causes for his conclusions, so that the 
 hearers may be able to say, * We vote thus for such 
 and such reasons, and not merely because Lord 
 So-and-So has thus delivered his opinion,' and thus 
 in time oratory becomes an art. 
 
 Swift. What do you say then to the oratory of 
 the church ? Is not that an art as much as political 
 oratory ? — and yet it hardly seems necessary for the 
 divine to resort to rhetorical tricks to control the 
 minds of his audience, for his position, as a minister
 
 272 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 of the gospel, gives him the authority which an old 
 warrior had by right of the sword. 
 
 Bolinghrohe. The object of the two kinds of 
 oratory is entirely different. ' In political oratory the 
 case is this : two courses of action are before the 
 auditory, they must decide for one or the other ; the 
 end of the orator is not to rouse and amuse them, in 
 order to make them attend to him, but to direct them 
 to one or other of these courses of action. He does 
 this, first, by authority, and, secondly, by what he 
 makes them believe to be argument, and appeals to 
 their reason. The divine, on the other hand, is in 
 this position : people come to be preached to as 
 matter of duty or custom. They are not going to 
 take some important practical step at the end of his 
 preaching ; they don't listen to him to determine 
 whether they shall vote ay or no, but the real ques- 
 tion is whether they shall listen to him or not. He 
 resorts to rhetorical tricks to win their attention, and 
 having got it, he preaches according to his taste, in 
 the belief it will do them good to listen to what he 
 says; but his struggle is to keep their attention 
 rather than to bring them practically to his opinion. 
 
 Pope. The distinction seems just. At first, in 
 political oratory, rhetoric is introduced to support 
 an orator's honest opinion. Does not your lordship 
 think that the art frequently gets the better of the 
 artist ? 
 
 Bolinghrohe. Yes, when the morale of the nation 
 is lowered it does, but not, I think, till then. We 
 find, I think, in the history of all nations three stages
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 273 
 
 of oratory : first, the authoritative stage ; secondly, 
 the stage when authority is lessened, and the orator 
 is obliged to resort to rhetorical artifices to control 
 the mind of his audience, but when he still speaks 
 his honest opinion ; and, thirdly, the stage when 
 oratory has become mere hireling trickery, and when 
 the orator is nothing better than a rhetorician, 
 taking up any side, and proving it right or wrong, 
 without the slightest attention to anything but his 
 art in conducting this proof, often indeed enjoying 
 his triumph more if he has succeeded in weaving a 
 fallacy into a plausible argument, in which his anta- 
 gonist will be caught and tripped. 
 
 The carriage was now announced, and] the whole 
 party set out for a visit to Sir Godfrey Kneller. 
 Though Bolingbroke had often gone tliis journey 
 between Twickenham and Whitton, he had never 
 done so in company of Pope, and he wished to hear 
 something of the villas they would pass in their route. 
 "Pope undertook to point out those most worthy of 
 note. 
 
 Just before the carriage started, the carrier deli- 
 vered at the door a parcel of books. Pope was in 
 expectation of receiving some which he had ordered 
 from his bookseller, to assist him in the course of 
 study he was going through preparatory to his Essay 
 on Man. Bolingbroke, as is well known, was to a 
 certain extent his assistant in that composition, sup- 
 plying the philosophy while Pope supplied the verse, 
 and Pope, not wishing to stop the carriage to open 
 the parcel, and thinking that it might contain some- 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 thing bearing on the subject which now occupied so 
 much of the thoughts both of himself and Boling- 
 broke, ordered the coachman to drive on, and opened 
 the parcel in the carriage. 
 
 There shpped out a sheet of paper which had been 
 laid on the top of them, and on it was printed as 
 follows : — 
 
 'Having found, from the continual scandalous 
 libels which Mr. Pope has been publishing for these 
 six months past, that without special care the poor 
 gentleman would be entirely lost, I apply'd to liis 
 friends, Mr. Gay and Dr. Swift, to desire that he 
 might be confin'd, to have certain medicine I would 
 prescribe try'd upon him. After I had long repre- 
 sented to them the inconveniences arising to the 
 public from his walking abroad, they at last, with tears, 
 consented to his confinement at Twickenham till such 
 time as the hospital be finished. Therefore, seeing 
 whatever attacks this poor unfortunate gentleman has, 
 since the beginning of his delirium, made upon the 
 reputations of our best writers have all proved en- 
 tirely harmless, it is desired that laying aside all 
 animosities, they immediately send their pictures 
 and most perfect writings to Twickenham, that they 
 may there ease the unhappy prisoner by being burnt 
 in effigy.' Below it was writ — ' These contribu- 
 tions are humbly offered to Mr. Pope's medical 
 advisers to light the above-mentioned fire with. 
 More will be sent soon.' 
 
 Swift caught the sheet as it slipped, and read it 
 aloud, laughing immoderately all the while. Boling-
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 275 
 
 broke and Gay could not help smiling, but Pope 
 writhed in anguish and chagTin. His lap contained, 
 instead of metaphysical wisdom, which was to assist 
 him in his Essay, twenty volumes of Grub Street. 
 * Admirable,' he at last said, with affected composure, 
 his lip quivering all the while with deadly passion — 
 ' admirable device for them to hit upon. I have been 
 always anxious to collect everything that has been 
 writ against me. I have already many volumes of 
 attacks bound up, and now these excellent benefac- 
 tors will enable me to fill my library rapidly with 
 literature of this department.' 
 
 Swift would have looked into the books, but Pope 
 gave them to the footman, to put into the boot of the 
 carriage, and called BoKngbroke's attention to the 
 house of Secretary Craggs, which they were then 
 passing. It stood at the end of King Street, on the 
 site now occupied by a coachmaker's shop. Craggs 
 had been one of Pope's great allies, and would have 
 been his patron, but Pope rejected an annuity of 
 300^. a year, which Craggs would have given him 
 out of the Secret Service Fund. Craggs was dis- 
 gTaced after the South Sea bubble had burst. He 
 was one of those who had principally assisted to blow 
 that bubble, and in those days infamy and disgrace 
 attached to such proceedings. He and his father 
 held no less than 36,000?. of fictitious stock. Pope, 
 however, stuck to him to the last, and wrote an 
 epitaph for him, which does not tell more lies than 
 usual in mortuary literature. As they passed the 
 house. Gay vented an imprecation on his memory, 
 
 t 2
 
 276 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 for poor Gay, who was a child in money matters, had 
 — like many wiser persons — invested largely in South 
 Sea Stock, and when the bubble burst, was thrown 
 into a colic, from which he was recoyered with the 
 greatest difficulty. 
 
 * By-the-by,' said Bolingbroke, ' whereabouts does . 
 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu live ?' 
 
 ' I believe,' said Pope, ' she resides in a house in 
 Heath Lane,' the end of which they were just pass- 
 ing. In truth. Pope knew well enough that she 
 resided in a house now called Saville House, and 
 which her husband had taken at his recommenda- 
 tion, but a quarrel of a most deadly nature had for 
 some time existed between her ladyship and Pope. 
 On the accession of George II., the Countess of 
 Bristol and her son, Lord Hervey, possessed con- 
 siderable influence at Court, and with the latter 
 Lady Mary formed a 'political and Kterary alliance, 
 which resulted in several compositions in verse, their 
 joint work, and redounding very little to the credit 
 of either. Pope on several occasions attacked Lord 
 Hervey under the names of Lord Fanny and Sporus ; 
 nor was Lady Mary spared. He had at the time of 
 this narrative jast hooked him into the Imitation of 
 the Second Satire of the Second Book of Horace, — 
 
 * In 'faith, Lord Fanny, you are in the wrong, 
 The world's good word is better than a song' — 
 
 that satire which is so interesting to us for contain- 
 ing a glimpse of Pope at home —
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 277 
 
 * Tn South-Sea days, not happier when surmised 
 The lord of thousands, than if now excised ; 
 In forest planted by a father's hand. 
 Than in five acres now of rented land. 
 Content with little, I can piddle here 
 On brocoli and mutton round the year ; 
 But ancient friends (though poor or out of play). 
 That touch my bell, I cannot turn away. 
 'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards, 
 But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords ; 
 To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down, 
 Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own ; 
 From yon old old walnut-tree a shower shall fall : 
 And grapes, long lingering on my only wall, 
 And figs from standard and espalier join ; 
 The devil is in you if you cannot dine : 
 Then cheerful healths, (your mistress shall have place,) 
 And, what's more rare, a poet shall^ say grace.' 
 
 *I wish,' said Pope, Hhat when Mr. Dennis next 
 pays a visit to Twickenham he will select Lady Mary 
 Wortley Montagu's residence for the scene of his 
 absurdities, rather than my humble abode. He will 
 be more appropriate and not less welcome there.' 
 Pope said this in bitterness and earnest, for he seems 
 really to have believed that all his enemies must be of 
 kindred spirit and fit to keep company with one 
 another and with no other human creatures. His 
 hatred to Lady Mary was more intense than to 
 Grub Street, because it was not mingled with con- 
 tempt, and because it arose, if the now commonly 
 accepted rumour is the correct one, out of a * declara- 
 tion' which Pope made to the lady, upon receiving 
 which she laughed in his face. Certainly there was a
 
 278 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 time when he did not class Lady Mary and Dennis 
 together, the time when he wrote — 
 
 ' Ah ! friend, 'tis true — this truth your lovers know, 
 In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow ; 
 In vain my Thames reflects the double scenes 
 Of hanging mountains and of sloping greens : 
 Joy lives not here ; to happier seats it flies, 
 And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.' 
 
 Lady Mary herself well reconciled herself to this 
 quarrel, and thus wrote to her sister from Twicken- 
 ham : — * I pass my time in a small snug set of dear 
 intimates, and go very little into the grande monde, 
 which has always had my hearty contempt. I see 
 sometimes Mr. Congreve, and very seldom Mr. Pope, 
 who contmues to embellish his house at Twickenham. 
 He has made a subterranean grotto, which he has 
 furnished with looking-glasses, and they tell me it has 
 a very good effect.' 
 
 Pope was glad to be able to change the subject 
 from Lady Mary to Francis, Earl of Bradford, of 
 revolutionary memory. He lived at the close of his 
 life in Kichmond House, in King Street,Twickenham, 
 where he had a celebrated gallery of pictures. He 
 died there in 1708. After they had passed out of 
 the village of Twickenham, Swift again became un- 
 easy on the subject of highwaymen, and asked Gay 
 whether Macheath prowled anywhere in that neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 * Well,' replied Gay, determined to vex the dean a 
 little on this point, ' we are making our way towards 
 Hounslow Heath — you know its reputation. What a
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 279 
 
 pity it is you sent Dennis away so soon ; liis whip and 
 pistols might have been of use !' 
 
 This led to some conversation on the Beggars' 
 Opera, then considered the most wonderful of plays, 
 as it certainly had been the most successful. It ran 
 for sixty-two nights at the Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 
 Theatre in the season of 1727-1728, of these thirty- 
 two nights were in succession. Gay received as the 
 profits of four nights, when it was acted for his 
 benefit, 6931. 13s. 6d. We all know how absurdly it 
 was attacked by divines and magistrates, the latter 
 of whom called it the Thief's Creed and Common 
 Prayer Book, and declared that every time it was 
 acted it made new recruits for the highwayman's 
 profession. Grub Street, in the person of a Mr. J. 
 Whiston, wrote about it thus : ' It encourages a 
 daring thoughtlessness, and destroys the regard for 
 serious consideration so absolutely necessary for our 
 proper behaviour in life.' Gay took the opportunity 
 of thanking Swift for the defence of the Beggars' Opera 
 in an article written by Swift in the Intelligencer, in 
 which he maintained that Gay ' has by a turn of hu- 
 mour entirely new placed vices of all kinds in the 
 strongest and most odious light, and thereby done 
 eminent service both to religion and morality,' and jus- 
 tified this opinion by the unparalleled success of Gay, 
 all ranks and denominations of men either coming to 
 see the opera on the stage or reading it at home. 
 Even, said he, ministers of state, whom he is thought 
 most to have offended (next to those whom the actors 
 represent), appearing frequently at the theatre from a
 
 280 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 consciousness of their o^vn innocence, and to convince 
 the world how unjust a complaint malice, envy, and 
 disaffection to the government have made ; and 
 even clergymen in disguise regaled themselves 
 with the spectacle. Swift, not in disguise, accom- 
 panied Pope and Gay on the first night, when its 
 success was very doubtful. Swift was indeed in some 
 sense its author, for he suggested to Gay one day in 
 Pope's villa, ' What an odd pretty sort of a thing a 
 Newgate pastoral would make,' and out of that arose 
 the Beggars' Opera. 
 
 The carriage had by_ this time reached Kneller 
 Hall. Sir Godfrey was at home,* but very busy. 
 He had at that time in hand the Duke and Duchess 
 of Queensberry, ShefiSeld Duke of Buckingham, Lady 
 Suffolk, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Lord Hervey, 
 Lord Bathurst, Lords Halifax, Oxford, and Burling- 
 ton, Lady Scudamore, the Countess of Winchelsea, 
 the Duke of Chandos, Sir Simon Harcourt, and the 
 four visitors who had come to pay their respects to 
 him. But it was a failing of his, as most persons 
 thought it, to keep his portraits in a three-parts 
 finished state for a prodigious length of time, though 
 in truth it was a trading trick, for as his patrons 
 were constantly coming to sit to him or to ask after 
 
 * There seems to be a little anachronism here, for Kneller 
 died in 1723, but the narrative from which the tale is derived 
 has probably blended the visit of the wits to Kneller at an earlier 
 date with their present sojourn at Pope's villa. The mistake 
 seems trivial, and I cannot consider this part of the naiTative less 
 authentic than the earlier.
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 281 
 
 their portraits, he always invited them in to show 
 them room after room filled with the unfinished 
 portraits of the great lords and Jadies of the day ; 
 and whenever he went down to Whitton to enjoy 
 its rural seclusion and the dignity of his position as a 
 magistrate and churchwarden, he brought a van-load 
 of canvases which he had on his hands awaiting com- 
 pletion. Now it is the commonest weakness of 
 human nature to give to those that have, and take 
 from those that have not, and so Kneller, by pa- 
 rading that he had all the fashion of the age for his 
 customers, was sure to draw in every one who aspired 
 to be enrolled in the fashionable circles. 
 
 Sir Godfrey's house commanded a view for some 
 distance of the road which led to it, and as he knew 
 Pope's carriage well, he was at the door by the time 
 it arrived ready to receive the poet and his illus- 
 trious friends with all due honour. Pope was often 
 in the habit of driving over there alone, and would 
 sit by while Kneller painted, saying complimentary 
 things to him. If Pope omitted the latter duty 
 Kneller would cry out, 'Flatter me, flatter me, Mr. 
 Pope, you know I can't paint unless I am flat- 
 tered ;' and Pope would then, out of good-nature — 
 though not without laughing somewhat in his sleeve 
 at the vain painter — dispense the requisite adulation. 
 In the hall, which with the staircase were magni- 
 ficently painted by Kneller himself and by Laguerre, 
 was also stationed a gentleman dressed most fasti- 
 diously in the fashion of the period. He wore a long 
 flowing peruke most elaborately powdered, a blue
 
 282 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 coat with a velvet collar and enormous buttons, a 
 waistcoat of liuge dimensions, and a frilled shirt with 
 lace ruffles ; round his left leg was tied the riband of 
 the garter, while he held a cocked hat in his right 
 hand and a gold-headed cane under his left arm. 
 This was my Lord Chesterfield. His reception of 
 Kneller's visitors was the very perfection of polite- 
 ness. To Bolingbroke and Swift he w^as formal, to 
 Pope cordial, and he saluted Gray with that easy non- 
 chalance with which a distinguished man in those 
 days condescended to notice a successful performer in 
 the art of literature, who had not sufficiently attached 
 himself to any political party to make himself for- 
 midable to his foes or important to his friends. 
 
 ' This, my lord, is indeed an unexpected pleasure,' 
 said Pope, after the first greetings were over. ' I 
 presume that as we see you in the flesh we shall also 
 see you in oil.' 
 
 ' Sir Godfrey,' replied he, * is doing me that honour 
 in the intervals of his magisterial duties. But just 
 before you came the latter rather interrupted his 
 artistic engagements. You know how Kneller per- 
 forms these duties, don't you ? He was musing out of 
 the window from which he afterwards saw your car- 
 riage, when he espied a constable at the head of a num- 
 ber of people coming towards the house. While they 
 were at a considerable distance, and before he could 
 know^ anything of the matter, he called out, " Mr. 
 constable, you see that turning, go down there and 
 you will find an alehouse, the sign of the King's 
 Head, go and make it up." '
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 283 
 
 * Yes,' said > Pope, ' it was a good way of making 
 the man pay the fine in the shape of a glass of ale to 
 the constable. Sir Godfrey has a great deal of na- 
 tural justice in him. The other day there was a 
 great debate before him to which of two parishes a 
 poor man belonged. Sir Godfrey would not have 
 any evidence on the point, but he inquired which 
 was the richer, and nothing that could be offered 
 had any weight with him to determine his vote for 
 settling the man in the poorer parish.' 
 
 Swift hated to be in a circle where Pope princi- 
 pally carried on the conversation, for through Pope's 
 weak voice and his own deafness, he always lost the 
 thread of the subject which they were discussing, 
 and had to stand staring like a booby without an 
 idea, or to interpose some incongruous remark that 
 jarred with all that had been said before. As soon, 
 therefore, as he saAV that Pope and Lord Chesterfield 
 were got together he carried off Kneller to his studio 
 saying, 'Come, Sir Godfrey, who are the last great 
 lords and ladies to whom you are showing what they 
 ought to have been made. I always come here to take 
 a lesson in correcting creation, you know,' alluding 
 to the well-known passage at arms between him and 
 Pope, when Pope said to him, ' It is a pity. Sir God- 
 frey that you had not been consulted at the creation,' 
 and Kneller, throwing his eyes strong upon Pope's 
 shoulders, replied, * Really I should have made some 
 things better.' A joke, by the way, which, like all 
 Pope's jokes, was stolen ; the original author was 
 Alphonso X., King of Castile in 1252, who, when the
 
 284 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 system of the world as discovered by Hipparchus was 
 explained to him, said, * If God had consulted me at 
 the creation, the universe should have been constructed 
 on a better and simpler plan/ 
 
 Kneller having led away the rest of the company 
 to the studio. Pope, left alone with Lord Chesterfield, 
 could not help making one of those tradesmanlike 
 remarks which every now and then slipped out of 
 him and betrayed the son of the London hosier — this 
 time on the success of Kneller, and the fortune he 
 made by his art. ' Keally,' said Pope, * I often regret 
 I had not followed my early inclination for painting. 
 It is true I might not have had the luck or the merifr 
 of Kneller, but still it were a less anxious craft than 
 mine.' 
 
 * Do you ascribe much of his success to luck ?' 
 
 ' Certainly, the beginning of it, the being chosen 
 by the Duke of Monmouth to compete with Lely? 
 Did you never hear it, my lord ?' 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
 'I will tell it you. Lely was painting the late 
 King's portrait for the Duke of York. It was sug- 
 gested that another artist should at the same time take 
 another portrait of his Majesty, so that there might 
 be two different originals without giving the King 
 the trouble of going through a second set of sittings. 
 The Duke of Monmouth had heard of a young 
 foreign artist recently come to England as a promising 
 painter of heads, and sent for him, who was no other 
 than Kneller, to take the second likeness. The king 
 sat at once to both artists. Kneller beins^ th ^ vmm or/^i-
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 285 
 
 was placed in an inferior light and station to Lely, 
 but finished his piece while Lely's was only dead 
 colours. This established his fame, and Lely was 
 candid enough to admit the young artist's success. 
 After Lely's death he stepped at once, as we all 
 know, to the head of his profession.' 
 
 ' There was -more merit than luck there, I think,' 
 said Lord Chesterfield; *but what a pity it is that 
 Kneller should sacrifice so much to his inordinate 
 love of money. For the gratification of this he really 
 seems to me occasionally to disgrace his art to a 
 mere manufacture, supplying the demand for faces 
 as fast as it flows in upon him. His practice, I un- 
 derstand, is to paint the heads with inconceivable 
 rapidity, and to leave the canvas to be filled by his 
 assistants, Pieters, Bapper, Vander -^ver, and the 
 two Bings. These artists, they say, always take 
 care to paint the draperies and backgrounds in a 
 style calculated to give value to the heads by the 
 slovenly execution of the accessories.' 
 
 * Kneller relies for his fame,' replied Pope, ' on the 
 Converted Chinese and two or three other really 
 great works ; but it certainly is to be lamented that 
 he degrades the art and corrupts the public taste by 
 these hasty portraits.' 
 
 'When are we really to have a school of art in 
 England ?' asked Lord Chesterfield. ' Hitherto the 
 only painters in the country worth anything have 
 been foreigners, and they have done little else than 
 paint portraits.' 
 
 * There are some foundations laid for it,' said Pope.
 
 286 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ' Samuel Scott, a neighbour of mine at Twickenham, 
 has already attained eminence as a painter of sea- 
 pieces, and some even rank him on a level with the 
 younger Vandervelde. A young man named Hud- 
 son is also coming forward ; and though I don't know 
 much of his paintings, they say he paints with spirit 
 and accuracy.'* But here comes Kneller, and I 
 think we had better not hint in his presence that the 
 art of painting admits any improvement.' 
 
 *We were remarking,' said Lord Chesterfield, 
 ' how wonderful it is that you have managed alone 
 to create the art of painting in England. Except 
 Lely, whom you vanquished, we have hardly had 
 any painter who could be considered naturalized 
 among us.' 
 
 ' Yes, be gor — be gor, it is very vondervull, but it is 
 as you say, my lord. Dere vas not any art in England. 
 Dat Lely — faugh, he couldn't paint as I can— no, be 
 gor, he couldn't. Mr. Pope, he teach de English 
 nation to make verses. Sir Godfrey Kneller he teach 
 de English nation to paint de fine arts.' 
 
 ' My humble efforts,' said Pope, pursuing the strain 
 of flattery — the only species of conversation which 
 could be addressed to Kneller without irritating and 
 annoying him — * my humble efforts are only the last 
 of a long line. Our poetry has been in a course of 
 formation ever since Chaucer's and Spenser's days ; 
 and if I have been enabled to effect anything in the 
 way of introducing more correctness and polish into 
 
 * He afterwards came to live at Twickenham, and died there 
 in January, 1779, aged 78.
 
 swift's visit to pope's villa. 287 
 
 versification, it is nothing by the side of one who at 
 once creates and perfects the national art.' 
 
 * Yes, be gor, it is as you say— creates and perfects. 
 It is very vondervuU, but so it is.' 
 
 * I have often remarked,' said Lord Chesterfield — 
 anxious to put an end to this vulgar display of vanity 
 and flattery, which shocked his high breeding — 'I 
 have often remarked that letters always flourish before 
 the fine arts ; the former are at their prime before 
 the latter arise in a nation, how do you account for it ?' 
 
 ' Ah r said Kneller, ' it is great genius to be great 
 painter. Chaucer, Spenser, all such, they could be 
 poets, they could make verses, but they could not paint. 
 It requires long time to produce great painter.' 
 
 'Well, certainly,' said Lord Chesterfield, 'your 
 villa here at Whitton is the great nucleus and centre 
 of English art, as our friend Pope's at Twickenham is 
 the centre and head-quarters of English literature. 
 Future ages must always look on these villas with 
 affection and respect when they reflect how inti- 
 mately all that can refine and grace our English 
 civilization is connected with this beautiful locality.' 
 
 ' Ah, ah ! very true, but de future ages have not 
 come yet, and I do love de present better. My 
 Lord Chesterfield come to my studio and be painted. 
 I want for to take your brow to day. Mr. Pope, Mr. 
 Pope, come and flatter me.'
 
 m
 
 FKEDEKICK GKAHAM'S STOEY. 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFEEY KNOX. 
 
 OR, 
 
 " A MISS IS AS GOOD AS A MILE." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 ( 291 ) 
 
 When Verney had discharged his duties, he selected 
 Graham as his successor. Graham took the task 
 with the easy sang froid with which he took every- 
 thing he had to do. It was all the same with him 
 whether he had to make an analysis of some official 
 correspondence or to command the Channel fleet. 
 It was 'Aw — very well — pwecisely ;' and he went 
 and butted his head against the thing that was to be 
 done. If the thing was softer than his head, he went 
 tlirough it all right, but if it was at all hard, then 
 Graham only made some indentations in it, and left 
 the real work of getting thi'ough it to be done by 
 somebody else. 
 
 D'Aubrey began, as usual, to do a little dictation 
 and overbearingness (the word was not wanted til] 
 D'Aubrey appeared in the world, but now it must be 
 coined for him). ' Men in your profession.' said he 
 to Graham, ' can keep their imaginations, and so you 
 won't be let off with a translation.' 
 
 ' Well,' replied the diplomatist, ' I suppose I must 
 — aw — think over it while I'm dressing in the morn- 
 ing, I always — aw — find that is the best time for 
 original composition — aw — for despatches, and that 
 sort of thing.' Miserable Graham ! every one in the 
 room except Scott could see that this was one of his 
 wretched lies. The tale was all written and ready in 
 his portmanteau, and he never wrote a despatch in 
 
 u 2
 
 292 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 his life ; and if the silly fellow had only thought for 
 a moment it must have occurred to him that he 
 would have to read the folded and somewhat stained 
 paper on which it was written before all the company 
 next evening, who would see that it could not have 
 been written within the twenty-four hours. But liars 
 have neither memory nor forethought. As Graham 
 has, however, this inventive mind, I shall expect his 
 tale to be something excellent in the way of ori- 
 ginality. 
 
 ' It was really very annoying to Scott when the ser- 
 vant came into his room the next morning to be told 
 that his coat was not mended, particularly because, 
 as you know, he could not wear the white stock 
 without the black coat. I rather wonder he did not 
 apply to Mrs. Verney in person for it, but then he had 
 ever since he became a don a horror of women, 
 thought them mysterious people, easily offended, and 
 having some sort of dignity and sacredness about 
 them which he did not understand. His own bed- 
 maker led him an awful life, for he was always afraid 
 to speak to her, and never scolded her for any 
 amount of blundering and carelessness; and when 
 the specimen he had to deal with was a young' and 
 accomplished lady, like Mrs, Yerney, it was quite out 
 of the question for Scott to do anything but submit 
 to her dictates in silence. Certainly to speak to her 
 about a man's garment would have been the height 
 of indelicacy. There was nothing, in fact, he hated
 
 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 293 
 
 SO mucli as when tlie freslimen came up in October, 
 with their mothers and sisters, and brought them to 
 his rooms. He thought it quite improper that any 
 woman (except the ,aforesaid bed-maker, respecting 
 whom he could quote * fuge suspicari ' with a good 
 conscience) should ever cross liis threshold. He 
 never knew what to do with them, and was always on 
 thorns till they went out. In fact, if he had had his 
 way an order would have been issued long ago that 
 no woman should be admitted within the college 
 gates. 
 
 The morning was occupied in * Honising ' about the 
 village. They went first to Pope's villa, alas! it 
 must be said rather to the site of it, for after Pope's 
 death it was first bought by Sir William Stanhope, who 
 widened the lawn, and added wings to the house, and 
 hacked and hewed the garden about, as Walpole ' 
 says in his lively way, so as to destroy, in the hope 
 of improving the poet's fancies. Walpole's com- 
 plaint is contained in a letter of his to Sir Horace 
 Mann, in 1760. ' I must tell you a private woe that 
 has happened to me in my neighbourhood. Sir Wil- 
 liam Stanhope bought Pope's house and garden. The 
 former was so small and bad, one could not avoid 
 pardoning his hollowing out that fragment of the 
 rock of Parnassus into habitable chambers, but, would 
 you believe it, he has cut down the sacred groves 
 themselves ? In short, it was a little bit of ground 
 of five acres, enclosed with three lanes, and seeing no-
 
 294 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 thing. Pope had t^visted, and twh'led, and rhymed, 
 and harmonized this till it appeared two or three 
 sweet little lawns, oj)ening and opening heyond one 
 another, and the whole surrounded with thick impe- 
 netrable woods. Sir WilKam, by advice of his son- 
 in-law, Mr. Ellis, has hacked and hewed these gi'oves, 
 wriggled a winding gravel walk through them, 
 with an edging of shrubs in what they call modern 
 taste, and, in short, desired the three lanes to walk in 
 again, and now is forced to shut them out again by a 
 wall, for there was not a muse could walk there but 
 she was spied by every country fellow that went by 
 with a pipe in his mouth.' 
 
 xifter Sir William, came, in 1807, the Baroness 
 Howe, who bought the villa and grounds and lived 
 there for a while, till she found the perpetual inroad 
 of strangers to look over the house too great a nui- 
 sance to be borne, and pulled it down. She Kved 
 for many years in a mansion which she constructed 
 about a hundred yards from Pope's, by which proceed- 
 ing she was relieved from the visits of the curious and 
 favoured instead with their execrations. The Grotto 
 was pulled to pieces gradually, and has now become 
 what it was originally meant to be — a mere passage 
 between the lawn and the opposite garden. Pope's 
 rill suddenly stopped several years ago, and scarcely 
 a vestige of Pope now remains in the grounds. The 
 site of his house is occupied by an absurd Chinese 
 erection.
 
 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 295 
 
 Verney and his friends bespattered the memory of 
 Lady Howe, and then went to see Strawberry Hill 
 and the collection of Horace Walpole which yet re- 
 mained there. They afterwards adjom-ned to the 
 wooden house in the Back Lane, where Fielding 
 wrote Tom Jones. Scott declined to be of the 
 party to view the latter, as he did not approve such 
 novels as those which Fielding wrote, and was there- 
 fore not disposed to worship at his shi-ine. He would 
 have gone hundreds of miles after a vestige of Horace, 
 or Juvenal, or Aristophanes, but Fielding's coarseness 
 was not in an ancient language, so of course Scott 
 could not forgive it. 
 
 When they had wandered through the old wooden 
 house, and sat down for a while musing in the ' little 
 parlour' which Fielding alludes to in Tom Jones, 
 and which was hardly large enough to hold such a 
 company, they returned to Yerney's, not without 
 having extracted from him a promise that he would 
 give them a tale connected with Walpole and Straw- 
 berry Hill. 
 
 *Well, Graham,' said D' Aubrey, when they had 
 reassembled, ^I hope you thought of a good tale 
 while you were dressing this morning. Take care 
 there is no diplomacy in it ; not that I should find it 
 out if there were, for I have not the slightest idea 
 what diplomacy is, except that when I applied to the 
 Home Secretary for a recordership, his secretary
 
 296 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 wrote me word to say that the Home Secretary had 
 the honour to acknowledge the receipt of my letter, 
 and that my name had been put upon the list of 
 candidates, which of course I considered very satis- 
 factory, and my obligations were considerably in- 
 creased by their allowing it to remain there to this 
 day. But tell me, is that diplomacy ?' 
 
 'No,' replied Graham; 'no wonder you don't 
 understand diplomacy. You must have been many 
 years in the Foreign Office before you can under- 
 stand the real art of the thing, and even then the 
 practice, you know, can only be acquired by a fellow 
 that's seen foreign courts, and been closeted with 
 ambassadors, and that sort of thing as I have ' — 
 
 * Ah, yes ! well, now for your tale, which of course 
 you wrote while shaving this morning.' 
 
 *Aw — no. The fact was — aw — I found the tale 
 — aw — in my portmanteau. I write these things 
 now and then, you see, when they come into my 
 mind ; and — aw — I thought as I found I had brought 
 one — why aw — it was just as well to read it as — aw — 
 to tell you one straight off, as — aw — I otherwise 
 should have done.^ 
 
 * yes,' said D'Aubrey, * we should not have liked 
 that, because no one else but you is clever enough to 
 do it.' 
 
 Graham began.
 
 ( 297 ) 
 
 AN 
 
 EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFREY 
 KNOX; 
 
 OR, "A MISS IS AS GOOD AS A MILE." 
 
 It is about twenty-five years since the Reverend 
 Godfrey Knox was presented to tlie small living of 
 Hollybourne, in Sussex. At that period he had 
 reached the age of fifty ; and having dui'ing his 
 clerical life gone through a course of curacies, of which 
 either the will or the death of his employer had dis- 
 possessed him precisely at the time when he fancied 
 his ministry was becoming effective, he received with 
 thankfulness even that small preferment, by which 
 he was at once made independent of the w^ill or the 
 life of testy or moribund incumbents. There was 
 still a further charm beyond permanency in the 
 pretty rectory of Hollybourne ; which, with its little 
 church nestling close to the laurels and fir-trees of 
 the garden, lay, amidst a sea of green fields, about 
 half a mile from the Brighton road — a road that, 
 antecedent to the railway, with its fast coaches, its 
 mackerel-carts, its stables and horse-keepers, its dust 
 and questionable travellers, — set off still more the 
 verdant seclusion of Hollybourne. This charm to 
 Godfrey Knox was literary leisure. Hitherto he had 
 eked out an insufficient income by receiving pupils ; 
 much to the hindrance of the deep and abstract
 
 298 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 studies consonant to his taste. But now he looked to 
 his retired rectory as a hermitage from whence 
 should issue the condensed fruits of his life of learn- 
 ing ; works that he knew would be hailed by old 
 college associates as fulfilments of the promise made 
 by his early attainments. 
 
 It is not so easy to remain a hermit in this spinster- 
 teeming land ; and so Mr. Knox discovered. At the 
 house of his principal parishioner — a sort of squire- 
 farmer — he met frequently a lady, who, from the 
 circumstance of her being conversant with all the 
 details relating to some discoveries made in the ruins 
 of the Priory at Lewes, had received more attention 
 than he usually paid to women. A desire for infor- 
 mation was construed by the Chicklade family as a 
 decided preference. Unfortunately Mrs. Chicklade, 
 besides a pride in turkey-poults, had that of — what 
 she called — * bringing young people together.' A 
 bachelor of fifty, and a spinster of thirty-eight, might 
 be supposed to escape from that category ; but their 
 respective celibacy made them worthy subjects of 
 Mrs. Chicklade's match-making mission. Well she 
 worked. But without one inquiry as to their relative 
 fitness for a life-long cempanionship ; without one 
 scruple, when inventing and detailing proofs of Miss 
 Smith's penchant for the Eector, and of the Kector's 
 feelings for Miss Smith ; without compunction de- 
 scribing them as lovers to the whole neighbourhood, 
 on the shallowest grounds, — was the machinery set 
 in motion. Eclipsing the philtres of the olden 
 time, Mrs. Chicklade's legislation was so perfect that.
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFREY KNOX. 299 
 
 at tlie end of six months, Miss Smith found herself 
 receivmg Mr. Knox's thanks for her indulgence to 
 his suit 1 Alas ! there had been none — not a word of 
 love-making ; Mrs. Chicklade had done it all ! And 
 so the lady was about to intimate; but IVIr. Knox 
 gave her no time for reply. With a ceremonious air 
 he asked when it would be agreeable to her to in- 
 spect the rectory, and specify what she might wish 
 done previous to her marriage ; so she was obliged to 
 leave the higher ground of sentiment, for the short 
 cut of matter-of-fact. And so, without further induce- 
 ment on his side than the comfort it might be to 
 have a wife to take charge of his household, and the 
 addition to his income of Miss Smith's ' nice little 
 fortune,' — by which Mrs. Chicklade designated an 
 annuity of eighty pounds ; while on her part, over- 
 looking his angelic temper and vast learning, the 
 desirability of a woman of thirty-eight being settled 
 in life, was alone dwelt upon, — the union took place. 
 The first eight months of their wedded life threw 
 no stigma on Mrs. Cliicklade's match-making pro- 
 pensities. The bride seemed to find an immense 
 accession of importance in her transition from obscure 
 lodgings in Brighton to a rectory; though it was, 
 as she described it, but a ' dull hole,' — and though 
 there were dark moments, when something seemed 
 to whisper that a situation as housekeeper might have 
 wrouofht a similar chano-e, with the additional advan- 
 tage of wages : still, as she looked over the cards 
 which lay in a china plate on her drawing-room table, 
 she felt that to receive such visits she must have
 
 300 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ascended in the scale of consequence. To the Eector, 
 the advantages gamed seemed not so dubious. His 
 house was in perfect order. His man and maid no 
 longer dashed intrusively into liis study for orders. 
 Pigs and chickens were killed without his having to 
 pronounce sentence of death. Soup was often ready 
 for the poor ; a drawing-room always ready for the 
 rich, without, as heretofore, the inducting ceremony 
 of opening the shutters. In the naughtiness of the 
 man's heart, he might have been better pleased if, 
 content with the plenitude of power yielded to her- 
 self, Mrs. Knox had confined herself to doing rather 
 than talking. But it was wicked to complain. In 
 her most verbose humours had he not those beau- 
 tiful fir-trees to fly to ; where, pacing up and down, 
 soothed by the mysterious murmur of their branches, 
 he could resume the thread of those deep meditations 
 which her household talk had severed ? Yes I mar- 
 riage to him was decidedly a happy state ; even 
 though his still contracted finances offered no luxury 
 which a lady might look for, and of whose absence 
 his wife never tired of reminding him. 
 
 A strange jolt occurred in the track which Mr. and 
 Mrs. Knox were so quietly pursuing. One dark 
 wintry day, when it appeared that nothing exciting 
 could happen at that secluded rectory, a man on 
 horseback left a large envelope, containing a card 
 bearing these words : — 
 
 * The Duke and Duchess of R present their 
 
 comijliments to the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Knox, and 
 request the pleasure of their company to a Ball and
 
 AN EPISODE IX THE LIFE OF GODFREY KXOX. 301 
 
 Supper at G , on Wednesday, the 21th oj February, 
 
 at a quarter before 10 o clock' 
 
 Did any cuneiform character ever obtain more 
 critical examination than did these few printed words ? 
 Even Mr. Knox laid down Diodorus Siculus to look 
 at the direction and wonder what it all meant. 
 
 A visit to Mrs. Chicklade solved much of the 
 
 mystery. A baU was certainly to be given at G , 
 
 on the coming of age of the Earl of M ; and it 
 
 was said that all the gentry of the county were to be 
 invited. ' How ever it came that the Knoxes should 
 be asked, and not themselves/ Mrs. Chicklade never 
 could make out ; but thought voting might have 
 something to do with it. 
 
 What a week of disquietude succeeded the receipt 
 of this card; increased by the intimation endorsed 
 at the back, that the favour of an answer was re- 
 quested ! With the most vehement desire of attend- 
 ing the ball — a desu-e awakened by all the ^petty 
 vanities which at times assail the female breast — was 
 the great discomfort which it was for Mrs. Knox to 
 see, that her husband perfectly ignored the possibility 
 of accepting the Duchess's invitation ; while morbidly 
 alive to the anomaly of its being sent to a clergyman 
 and his w^ife, both of a certain age, and without 
 daughters. It was in vain that she talked petulantly 
 of being buried alive at Hollybourne — that she had 
 not a soul to speak to but Mrs. Chicklade and the 
 doctor's wife, who made as much fuss about her chil- 
 dren as Mrs. C — did about her turkeys. In vain 
 she said spitefully, that Mr. Knox kept all her friends
 
 802 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 from her ; and that now there was an opening to see 
 some of them, he unkindly wished her to miss it ! 
 See some of her friends ! Oh ! naughty Mrs. Knox ! 
 She knew there was not the slightest chance of this. 
 She knew, moreover, that for the sake of dazzling 
 some of her uninvited neighbours, and of making 
 known to the inmates of a certain boarding-house in 
 Brighton that she had attended so distinguished an 
 assembly, she was troubling in every way one whose 
 reasonable indulgence had never failed. Still she 
 persevered ; and by tears, and one night going to 
 bed before tea, she prevailed ; and without remorse 
 could lay her head on a pillow beside one whose 
 gentle yet serious objections to the ball she had to 
 set aside by false pretences, and for the most trivial 
 motives. Oh, Mrs. Chicklade ! where was the com- 
 panionship of soul you ought to have looked after in 
 your match-making enterprises ? 
 
 To fix on a black satin dress, a pink and silver 
 wreath for the ball costume — to decide that their 
 mode of transport should be their own little pony- 
 chair as far as Arundel — where they might dress, 
 
 and proceed from thence in a fly to G , seems 
 
 matter requiring little mental effort ; and yet the 
 commotion of Mrs. Ejiox's mind, the mingled plea- 
 sure and anxiety, did not cease until the 27th of 
 February actually arrived. And even then, when 
 setting off in the little carriage, the ball-dress slung 
 in a slight box beneath it, there were misgivings that 
 she might have chosen a more fashionable costume, 
 and that perhaps their diminutive pony was not alto-
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFREY KNOX. 303 
 
 gether the animal to drag them through winter roads 
 that distance. 
 
 But the gallant little pony did his work bravely ; 
 and as he rested on the summit of the steep hill 
 above Arundel, covered with his master's coat, who 
 had divested himself of the wrap that the animal 
 might not be chilled, there was a toss of the head, a 
 smart set of the ears, that seemed to say he could do 
 much more for so kind a master. 
 
 Immediately on arriving, Mrs. Knox ordered a fire 
 and tea to be placed in a bedroom. The sitting- 
 rooms appropriated to pony-carriage company, were 
 cold and dirty, and the project encompassed the 
 saving of one fire. The plan met Mr. Knox's entire 
 approval ; and as they sat basking before the blazing 
 coals, he even affected to find pleasure in the expedi- 
 tion, declaring that a tedious journey on a February 
 day gave a new and brilliant colouring to a tea-table 
 and the fireside. 
 
 The tea finished, the ball-dress unpacked, a sense 
 of intense weariness came over the Kector's lady ; and 
 she proposed that she should lie down in her dressing- 
 gown, and try to sleep until it was time to dress for 
 the ball, while he might repose in the easy chair by 
 the side of the fire. It was now six o'clock. It 
 
 would take them about an hour to get to G . If 
 
 they left at nine o'clock they should have ample 
 time ; therefore, allowing half an hour for dressing, 
 they might count on above two hours for repose. 
 Kinging the bell for coals, Mrs. Knox gave the 
 chambermaid directions that she should knock at the
 
 304 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 door at eight o'clock, and bring warm water. Mr. 
 Knox, when seeing his pony made comfortable for 
 the night, had ascertained that they could have a fly 
 at a quarter of an hour's notice, and had therefore 
 deferred definitely ordering it until he had consulted 
 with his wife as to the exact time. 
 
 Soothed and comforted by the warmth, though 
 wearied to an overwhelming degree, in ten minutes 
 after she had laid herself on the bed, and covered 
 herself with the quilt and blankets, Mrs. Knox sank 
 into the profoundest sleep. Mr. Knox, in spite of the 
 luxury of dressing-gown and slippers, did not so 
 soon lose all consciousness. There was something in 
 this preparation for gaiety which struck a chord of 
 recollection, long put to silence by the vast amount 
 of learned lore his mind had accumulated during the 
 succeeding thirty years. That old red bed too and 
 the hunting pictures on the wall, reminded him for- 
 cibly of an ancient manor-house, where he used to 
 spend liis Christmas vacations, when merry girls had 
 done their utmost to drive all studious ambition from 
 his mind. Gne glad creature rose pre-eminently to 
 his recollection. How she had rejoiced in these 
 winter balls ! Doubtless all women liked them ; 
 and he had been unkind in so long opposing Mrs. 
 
 Knox's wish of attending the G fete. How 
 
 much the poor thing had undergone to be present ! 
 and how her actual sound sleep told of the immense 
 fatigue she had suffered ! He had done wrong. He 
 ought to have procured a close carriage, that this long 
 journey might have been performed in comfort. He
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFREY KNOX. 305 
 
 trusted that this profound sleep might restore her; 
 and now sooner than disturb her, by putting fresh 
 coals on the fire, he let it get so low that he became 
 chilly and still more weary. He too would recline 
 on that comfortable-looking bed. He did so ; and 
 drawing a carriage-rug over him, felt some regret, 
 that but two short hours were allowed for repose. 
 With thoughts, where youthful companions were 
 mingled Avith gentle remorse at having so long let 
 his own inclinations contend with those of his wife, 
 he soon dropped asleep. 
 
 Perfectly unconscious of the duration of his slum- 
 bers, Mr. Knox was at length disturbed by a di^eam 
 which presented the image of one of his favourite fir 
 trees being blown down by a raging wind. By 
 degrees the vision seemed to grow into reality, as far 
 as noise was concerned ; and he became sensible 
 that it was the sound of carriage wheels which had 
 aroused him. The recollection of where he was next 
 came to him ; and he then guessed that the sound he 
 had heard was that of some vehicle passing in the 
 gateway beneath their room. Slowly unclosing his 
 eyes, he was surprised by perceiving some faint indi- 
 cations of light through the window curtain. Was 
 it gas ? Was it the moon ? No. It was of that 
 dim, leaden hue, which marks the grey dawn of a 
 wintry morning. Though still half asleep, Mr. Knox 
 became sensible, when he again opened his eyes, that 
 every object in the room was now distinctly visible. 
 There was the black satin dress on the sofa ; there 
 was the pink wreath glittering above it ; there was 
 
 VOL. I. - X
 
 306 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 the extinguished fire in the grate ; the candles burnt 
 down in their sockets ! It was morning ! Yes ! it 
 must be so. The faithless chambermaid had omitted 
 
 to call them; and the G ball was now among 
 
 the things of the past ! 
 
 The first thought of the Eector was, How would 
 Mrs. Knox bear this ? Eather dreading what the 
 effect of her waking might be, and conscious that 
 the ridiculous nature of a disappointment so calcu- 
 lated to annoy her could not now be lessened by 
 immediate arousing, he felt that it were wiser, and at 
 any rate a postponement of trouble, if he suffered 
 her still to sleep. But at length the absurdity of 
 the whole cKCumstance struck so forcibly on his 
 mind, and conduced so powerfully to risibility, that, 
 although not used to such demonstrations of mirth, 
 he could not check his laughter. The unwonted 
 sound partially awoke Mrs. Knox ; and she said, 
 rather sleepily, ' Eeally, Mr. Knox, I think you must 
 be ill, you are snoring so terribly. You had better 
 wake yourself up completely.' 
 
 She had scarcely spoken, when a sharp knock at 
 the door, and the twanging voice of the chamber- 
 maid, announcing that it was eight o'clock, awoke the 
 unfortunate Mrs. Knox to full perception of the ap- 
 palling and incontrovertible fact that the night which 
 was to have been spent amongst a brilliant and 
 distinguished company, had actually been passed be- 
 tween the blankets of an inn bed ! 
 
 Amazement, anger, and vexation predominated by 
 turns : and sitting up in the bed, Mrs. Knox seemed
 
 AN EPISODE m THE LIFE OF GODFREY KNOX. 307 
 
 disposed to pour a condensation of all these feelings 
 in tlie form of bitter revilings on the innocent Eector's 
 head. He told her with gentleness that he had not 
 been present when she gave the directions to the 
 chambermaid, who had doubtless jumped at the 
 conclusion that a morning call was meant ; and that 
 two such qmet-looking people could scarcely mean to 
 be awoke for a duchess's ball : and with deep con- 
 cern to see the grievous consternation which had thus 
 swept away all proprieties, he recommended her 
 again to recline in the bed, and try to sleep. 
 
 Could Mr. Knox then have laughed, it must have 
 been at the dolorous and stupefied look which his wife 
 cast at him as she sank back on the pillow. Some 
 tears were doubtless shed there; but, taking pos- 
 session of the warm water which the guilty chairiber- 
 maid had left, with still and gentle movements he 
 made his toilet, without further conversation with the 
 miserable Mrs. Knox ; it was indeed with some satis- 
 faction that he found, when she joined him at break- 
 fast, that there was at least a show of composure and 
 resignation to an irremediable mistake. 
 
 They had scarcely finished breakfast when the 
 driver of the fly knocked at the door, to learn at 
 what hour the fly was to come round which the 
 gentleman had spoken about the night before. Again 
 Mr. Knox could have laughed at this farther proof of 
 the total misunderstanding of their plans, but for the 
 woful despondency vvdtli which his wife sat cutting 
 Vandykes in a leathery bit of dry toast. A sudden 
 idea, however, seemed to dart into her mind, as the 
 
 X 2
 
 308 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 flyman seemed inclined to grumble at being disap- 
 pointed in a job. Wliy slionld they not drive to 
 G , and leave cards and excuses for tbeir non- 
 attendance ? Next to the distinction of going to a 
 duchess's party, was that of leaving a card at a 
 duchess's door!' Such was the very mild unction 
 with which she sought to soothe her very sore 
 feelings. ; 
 
 There was really something of satisfaction in the 
 countenance of Mrs. Knox as they approached the 
 quaint towers of G ; and on reaching the en- 
 trance steps, she proposed that she should take the 
 cards up to the door, under the idea that she might 
 get a peep at the glories within ; really feeling, as 
 she mounted the steps card-case in hand, and with 
 some little consequence in her demeanor, almost an 
 habituee of the ducal abode. Her message to the 
 servant had been too carefully conned not to be dis- 
 tinctly given ; and, placing the cards in his hands, 
 she begged that their regrets at being unavoidably 
 prevented waiting upon their graces, might be punc- 
 tually made known to them. Still she lingered on 
 the threshold, taking note of all the grandeur with- 
 in, and thinking Mrs. Chicklade might envy her ; 
 when a functionary, whom she saw writing at a table 
 with a foraging cap on his head and a loose tweed 
 jacket, bearing at that early hour very little of the 
 distinguished air of a groom of the chambers, ap- 
 proached her, and taking the cards from the foot- 
 man's hand, said, blandly, ^ Keally, a strange coinci- 
 dence ! I had just come to the K's, and had inserted
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFREY KNOX. 309 
 
 your names among the company. The error shall 
 be instantly corrected.' 
 
 How quickly do the thoughts connected with vain- 
 glory spring to a woman's mind! The pompous 
 speech was scarcely ended, when the idea struck 
 her that theii* names being published in the list of 
 those who had attended the ball would give the eclat, 
 for which half the toil and'trouble of their expedition 
 had been undertaken. With words not quite so 
 fluent as those with which she had delivered her first 
 message, she now suggested that as the cause of 
 their non-attendance could not be stated, she should 
 prefer their names remaining in the list. With 
 almost the tact of a waiting-maid, the man perfectly 
 understood the simple aspiration of Mrs. Knox ; and 
 entering kindly into her feelings, he said, patronizingly, 
 ' I perfectly understand. The papers shall announce 
 the Keverened Mr. and Mrs. Knox as having been at 
 our ball.' 
 
 ' I will thank "jon, sir, to insert nothing of my 
 name which is not strictly true,' said a voice behind 
 them, whose tone and tendency filled the whole soul 
 of jMrs. Knox with disgust. It was that of her 
 husband, who had followed her up the steps; and 
 who now put down her attempted equivocation and 
 the proffered partnership in lying of the servant. 
 With a flush on his cheek and a frown on his fore- 
 head, the usually mild Kector handed his wife back 
 into the fly ; who, but for the deference with which, 
 unknowing to herself, he had inspired her, would 
 have deprecated this interference with some liveli-
 
 310 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 ness of expression. As it was, she snnk back in the 
 carriage in gloomy and spiteful silence; and thus 
 ended the ball at Gr ! 
 
 The journey back to Hollybourne was as tedious 
 and dull as bad roads, a cross wife, and a tired pony 
 could make it; though neither seemed to make 
 Mr. Knox lose temper or patience. On the contrary, 
 he had a cheering word for his wife or his pony 
 whenever the occasion called for them. The light of 
 a fire shining cheerily through the parlour-windows 
 as they entered the drive of the rectory seemed 
 rather to revive her ; but what a climax was put to 
 all the contretemps and inquietudes of the past forty- 
 eight hours, when the boy who was waiting to take 
 the pony, said, * The Bishop comed to-day.' 
 
 * What ?' screamed Mrs. Knox. 
 
 ^ Yes, mum. The Bishop hisself came to-day, and 
 was mortal cut up not to find master at home.' 
 
 *0h, yes! and such a nice gentleman,' was the 
 corroboration given by the housemaid, as they entered 
 the parlour ; * and he poked so pleasantly about the 
 church, and the books in master's study.' 
 
 In the distempered state of Mrs. Knox's mind she 
 could not help associating the idea of a bishop's visit 
 wdth something inquisitorial; but on looking to see 
 what effect the intelligence had on her husband, she 
 saw, to her surprise, a flush of more unqualified glad- 
 ness beaming on his countenance than had ever yet 
 met her observation. 
 
 ' What could have brought the Bishop here ?' she 
 said, anxiously ; with a misgiving that his visit might
 
 AX EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFREY KNOX. 311 
 
 have reference to her one dominant idea, the G 
 
 ball. 
 
 *Why, that excellent man,' the Eector replied, 
 with more emotion than she had believed he could 
 feel, ' remembering our old friendship, and forgetting 
 the distance his new position has placed between us 
 has found out that I am now one of his clergy ; and 
 but for this unfortunate ball I should have had the 
 great pleasure of welcoming him here.' 
 
 As in duty bound, Mrs. Knox suggested that doubt- 
 less the Bishop would come again. But she, too, felt 
 that the ball expedition had been most mistimed ; 
 and as she consigned her black satin dress to the 
 wardrobe, where it must henceforth abide, she would 
 gladly have given its cost never to have heard of 
 
 G ; while she shed tears of vexation over her 
 
 wasted silver wreath. 
 
 Some days after this the post delivered a letter, 
 which she perceived gave gi-eat uneasiness to her 
 husband ; she feared to question him concerning it ; 
 but aft^r some consideration he placed the letter in 
 her hands, and with it a look of so much grave dis- 
 pleasm-e and reproach met her eyes that the poor 
 woman's knees trembled beneath her. The letter 
 was from the Bishop. It expressed much disappoint- 
 ment at finding him from home ; and in the most 
 cordial manner told him of the satis&ction it was to 
 offer to his early friend the first preferment it was in 
 his power to bestow; at the same time that he 
 begged to name him as one of his private chaplains. 
 This was all very weU ; and Mrs. Knox wondered at
 
 312 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 her liusband's pertiu-bation. But the following post- 
 script explained all. It was as follows. * I have just 
 seen in the Herald a long list of the clergy who 
 
 were present at the Duke of K 's ball ; with the 
 
 addition of some ill-tempered animadversions on the 
 circumstance, which I consider quite uncalled for. 
 Still, I must confess, that I am much better pleased 
 that my first presentation should not be to one of 
 these " clerical votaries of Terpsichore," as the news- 
 paper flippantly styles them.' 
 
 Although Mrs. Knox had felt acutely that the 
 pertinacity with which she had adhered to her selfish 
 wish of going to the G — — ball had worked much 
 harm ; and that the confidential feelings which the 
 Eector had always seemed disposed to manifest 
 were much interrupted, if not utterly withdrawn 
 from their daily intercourse, she was not disposed 
 to let pass unquestioned the mixed feelings which 
 the Bishop's letter seemed to have called up. 
 Again and again she looked at the distm^bing post- 
 script. Did it really neutralize all the happy an- 
 nouncement which prefaced it ? Surely not. And 
 yet the perturbed and gloomy looks of her husband 
 were anything but those of a man to whom rich 
 preferment had just been offered. At length, with true 
 womanly hardihood, which in the very desperation 
 of cowardice anticipates the blow it dreads, she 
 said, ' Well, Mr. Knox, we were not at the ball ; and, 
 as luck would have it, our names were not down in 
 the list.' 
 
 As luck would have it! The Eector took the
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFREY KNOX. 313 
 
 letter without vouchsafing any reply ; but tliere was 
 a look which might have been thus interpreted — 
 ' Poor weak creature ! would you add to the mischief 
 your weakness has involved by instigating falsehood ? 
 Would you, not content with urging him to that 
 which would have entailed disrepute, gloss over the 
 fact that it was virtually committed ? 
 
 Poor Mrs. Knox ! she was in utter ignorance of 
 
 * the calms and magnanimities, 
 The lofty uses, and the noble ends, 
 The sanctified devotion and full work,' 
 
 to which a union with a being such as Godfrey Knox 
 had called her. Still she felt as all those craven 
 souls must feel, who, tampering with truth, stand 
 abashed before the clear sight and lofty spirit of one 
 who would deal with falsehood as with the loathsome 
 weeds of a sin-cm'sed soil. 
 
 What a penitential and retributive fidget took pos- 
 session that morning of the crestfallen Mrs. Knox ! 
 She knew that the Eector was writing in his study, 
 and guessed, moreover, that the letter he was indit- 
 ing was to the Bishop ; but no word of consultation 
 passed his lips, even when, on the slightest pretexts 
 she every now and then entered the room. Twice 
 she passed so close to him she jogged his elbow as 
 he wrote. Such was the sickly contrition of her 
 humbled spirit, it was a comfort to have to beg 
 pardon; and she did it in the abject diction of a 
 slave. But still Mr. Knox kept silence ; and a 
 communication of such vital consequence to a house-
 
 314 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 hold was finislied without once referring to one so 
 deeply concerned. Was she to ask to see the letter ? 
 To her, at that time, an easier course presented itself. 
 She got up a pretext that obhged him to go to their 
 man in the kitchen garden ; and hastened to penise 
 the still open better. That 'unwhipped mischief,' 
 that trespass beyond the law's cognizance, had been 
 too often committed for her to hesitate now. 
 
 Did she read aright ? Had Mr. Knox really de- 
 clined the rich Hving on the score that accident alone 
 had prevented him being one with the ball-going 
 parsons; and that his intention of joining the as- 
 sembly at G was known, and might bring 
 
 discredit to his patron, while causing disquietude to 
 himself, if his preferment were discussed in the public 
 journals ? 
 
 All feelings of delicacy as to her method of gain- 
 ing this knowledge were at once forgotten, as the 
 fact of the refusal dawned on her mind ; and on the 
 Eector's return to the room, a flood of dissuasion and 
 feminine sophistry was poured into his ear. All was 
 in vain : her influence as a wife had passed away ; 
 her arguments were set aside with a sternness she 
 had never yet encountered ; the letter was posted. 
 
 The answer of the Bishop may be anticipated. 
 His respect for the single-hearted Eector was in- 
 creased; and though he, in his lack of worldly 
 knowledge, had believed he had put the bar to 
 present advancement by the admission he had made, 
 the gift of the living was confirmed. 
 
 Mrs. Chicklade had great glory in referring to
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GODFREY KNOX. 815 
 
 the splendid match slie had brought about for her 
 friend, now placed in ease and affluence by this rich 
 rector}^ She was made, however, to see the reverse 
 of the medal. Mr. Knox had learnt by experience 
 that much mischief may befal 
 
 " Him, whom to worth in woman over-trusting 
 Lets her will rule." 
 
 And, though ever gentle and indulgent, his wife 
 never again took that place in his consideration and 
 counsels which she had done before that ugly episode 
 of the G ball. Her spirit revolts at the sub- 
 ordinate position that she holds ; and in despite at the 
 absence of all reciprocity between herself and her 
 husband, has confided to Mrs. Chicklade *that she 
 is paired, not matched.'
 
 FRANCIS SCOTTS TALE. 
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY.
 
 ( 319 ) 
 
 The day was wet, and so Verney's guests, except one, 
 stopped at home. Now a juicy day in the country 
 is generally what visitors find the most insupportable 
 bore in life ; but Yerney had a resource in his well- 
 stocked library, which all his guests except Graham 
 knew well how to use. D'Aubrey got hold of Burke's 
 and Erskine's speeches, asked for a garret, and went 
 up there to declaim, to the perplexity of the swallows 
 who were beginning to build again under the eaves, 
 but were almost of a mind to change their quarters 
 when they found them so noisy, Angerstein was soon 
 buried in Sismondi's History of the Itahan Eepub- 
 lics, for he w^as much less a professional slave than 
 D'Aubrey, though from appearances you would have 
 judged otherwise, and he was fond of reviving his 
 jaded mind with history, or metaphysics, two subjects 
 which never failed to interest him, though he was 
 always ready enough to go back to his law after a 
 short refreshing of his intellect, as he called it, with 
 general literature. Scott found Dr. Donaldson's 
 new Cratylus on Verney's shelves, and began collat- 
 ing several editions of Homer, and was immensely 
 gratified to find that the learned doctor had in three 
 instances at least — so Scott thought — taken his quo- 
 tations from a very inferior and unauthorised edition 
 of Homer, and one that Scott would on no account
 
 320 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 have condescended to use. He showed them to 
 Verney, but Verney thought the readings adopted by 
 Dr. Donaldson better than those of the more ortho- 
 dox editions ; and then Scott shrivelled again, and 
 began inwardly remarking how very much a man's 
 scholarship falls away after he once goes down, and 
 marries, and sets up an establishment. What a pity 
 it was such men as Verney did not always stop up ! 
 As for Eebow, poor fellow, he was obliged to go to 
 Verney 's study, and write away for dear life, at some 
 articles that were wanted next week for the magazine 
 upon which he principally lived. Angerstein's Cor- 
 sican tale gave him several fresh ideas which kept 
 working in his head ; but he was such a scrupulous 
 fellow that it quite pained him to think he might, by 
 the most remote possibility, be doing such a tiling as 
 intimating a mere wish to steal from Angerstein's 
 tale ; as for stealing itself, he would take good care 
 not to do that. Ah ! poor Eebow, how many young 
 fellows at college, and many more youug fellows 
 whose friends could not afford to send them to college, 
 were at that time sighing their hearts out in vain 
 attempts to imitate Eebow, and thinking that of all 
 the ambitions in the world, that of being a popular 
 author, ruling the minds of the nation, were the most 
 lofty and magnificent. If they had only seen what 
 * ruling the mind of the nation' was coming to in 
 Eebow, they would rather have swept a crossing. 
 It . was in less than six months after this visit to
 
 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 321 
 
 Verney's that we beard of Kebow being put into a 
 lunatic asylum. We went to see bim a few times, 
 but be never recognised us, and raved and raved so 
 interminably tbat we gave up going at last, wben we 
 found it did bim no good. 
 
 Tbe delectable Eev. Alfred Duvernoy bad game 
 of bis ovm. to pursue at Hampton Court Palace. 
 Wben be was tbere two days before, in Verney^s 
 party, several of tbe old dowagers and tbeu- daugh- 
 ters, spying bim from tbeir windows, came out — by 
 accident of course — to take tbeir afternoon's walk in 
 just tbe same part of tbe grounds as we happened to 
 be in ; and as be said be was staying in tbe neigh- 
 bourhood, asked him to call. So now he got the 
 loan of Verney's carriage, and went over to do his 
 duty. Tbe dear creatures were so interested in 
 sweet consumptive Mr. Duvernoy, and were so sure that 
 when it came to separating the sheep from the goats, 
 be would put them among the goats, and were so 
 concerned that his cheek was rather paler, and bis 
 cough more troublesome, than when they last heard 
 him, and they did so wish that he would preach 
 next Sunday in tbe Palace Chapel ! And why didn't 
 mamma ask him to dinner? And I wonder bow 
 long he's going to stay at Twickenham ? and whe- 
 ther he'll really come over to these dreary old gar- 
 dens any more, as he said he w^ould ? 
 
 I am not sure myself whether be did go over tbere 
 or not again ; but it was certainly said tbat a short time 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 322 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 afterwards the Hampton Court Courier brought up 
 several scores of slippers to Duvemoy's house in 
 London, and that three or four hamperfuls of that 
 article, beyond the usual supply, were shortly after 
 consigned to the shop in Liverpool. 
 
 When the evening came, it was Scott's turn to tell 
 a tale. There was marvellous curiosity as to what 
 sort of work he would make of it. Most thought it 
 would turn upon the repeal of some old college 
 statute, or the death of a gyp, or the suicide of a 
 man plucked for his * smalls.' But they wronged 
 him; Scott was not, after all, such a fogie as he 
 seemed. Perhaps it was written in early days, ere 
 the blight of denization came on ; perhaps — but never 
 mind surmises — they were most of them agreeably 
 surprised when Scott began in a clear voice — some- 
 what solemn, but that could not be helped — 
 
 *Markiage by Lottery.' 
 
 ' Good God !' exclaimed Kebow, 
 
 ' Why, what's the matter ?' said Scott. 
 
 * Kebow thinks your title is nonsensical,' answered 
 D'Aubrey ; * marriage is a lottery aU^ the world over,' 
 
 '0 no, it's nothing,' said Eebow. *I beg your 
 pardon — ^pray go on.' 
 
 Scott proceeded as follows: —
 
 ( 323 ) 
 
 MAEEIAGE BY LOTTEEY. 
 
 If any one — and there were many who did so — had 
 asked the reason of the unusual concourse of people 
 in holiday attire assembled round the door of the 
 
 parish church of St. G , in the City of London, 
 
 on the 1st of May, 18 — , the answer would have 
 furnished an additional instance, to those every day 
 occurring, of the eccentric benevolence peculiar, it 
 has been supposed, to the character of Englishmen. 
 
 A wealthy individual, destitute of natural heirs, 
 had left by his will funds to support forty girls, to be 
 elected from the parish schools into the institution ; 
 from which, after receiving a suitable education for 
 four years, they were to be placed out in respectable 
 service ; — and so far there was nothing in the plan 
 out of the ordinary line of that charity which, like 
 the humanity it embraces, is of no particular place or 
 country. It might have occurred to a philanthropist 
 of any land — to a foreigner it certainly would — to 
 take the next step in the process, viz., giving mar- 
 riage-portions to some of the maidens thus brought 
 up. Only a true John Bull, however, would have 
 been sensible enough, in the first place, to insist on 
 three years' creditable service as a condition for the 
 gift, or crotchety enough, in the second, to make the 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 THE TWICKENHAM TALES 
 
 best-recommended candidates draw twice a year (on 
 the 1st of May, chimney-sweep's day, and the 5th of 
 November, Guy Fawkes' day), in a lottery for a prize 
 of a hundred pounds, to be given a's a dowry to the 
 winner. 
 
 Every Englishman, we know, has a right to do as 
 lie likes with his own, and Mr. acted accord- 
 ingly ; and as, within the range he had laid down 
 for his caprices, fortune could not go far wrong, the 
 portion was generally very well bestowed. But never, 
 perhaps, during the few years the plan had been 
 working, had the fickle dame so perfectly rewarded 
 merit in her favourite, and fallen in with the public 
 sense of it, as in assigning the 100?. prize to the 
 pretty Irish girl, Grace Donovan : whose waiting on 
 the trustees of the Institution^ to submit to their 
 approbation the bridegroom she was bound, before 
 receiving the money, to provide, in the shape of a 
 handsome young fireman ; and whose subsequent 
 nuptials had drawn together a crowd of well-wishers 
 and idlers in Street. 
 
 A finer-looking couple, it was agreed on all sides, 
 could not possibly come together. But it was only 
 those who knew how completely was realized in them 
 the old homely English proverb of * Handsome is 
 as handsome does,' that could fully enter into the 
 
 personal interest taken by all in Lane and its 
 
 vicinity, in the good fortune and marriage of the 
 parties. 
 
 It is a very humble neighbourhood indeed, that 
 Lane ; and squalid and desolate as it is apt to
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 325 
 
 look, even under such sunshine as London fogs some- 
 times allow its inhabitants to enjoy a taste of, it is 
 only those who may have had occasion to pass through 
 it late on a rainy winter night, who can form even a 
 guess how forlorn it can then appear ; with its little 
 shabby shops, whose uninviting wares no one would 
 dream were marketable, did not the longing and 
 famished looks of the few strolling poor who hang 
 about them, give token that they would buy with all 
 their hearts, if the ability to do so could by any means 
 be squeezed out. I know not a more saddening sight 
 (save an Irish or manufacturing-town lane of the 
 same description) than a Saturday-evening's ramble 
 in an obscure London neighbourhood, where the offal 
 of better-furnished ,tables is eyed with despairing 
 eagerness by hundreds, to whom it is an unattain- 
 able luxury. 
 
 But there is scope for coihfbrt, and tidiness, and 
 well-doing, and their attendant charity, in the very 
 humblest walks and meanest localities ; and no one 
 could peep, even on a rainy Saturday-night (that 
 worst of times for the inspection), into Widow Gran- 
 ger's cheerful, lightsome greengrocery shop, and not 
 say, ' That body yonder makes the most of her situa- 
 tion, as well as of her goods, and is as fresh at heart, 
 as well as in cheek, as one of her own nice rosy- 
 cheeked apples.' Her very little, well-trimmed, 
 clear-burning lamp, while it set off her wares, served 
 as a beacon to the whole nei^rhbourhood ; and saved 
 more feet from the kennel in a night, than the old oil 
 street-lamps, with their dim unsatisfactory glimmer, 
 did in a month.
 
 326 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 But if the bright cheerful twinkle of the little house- 
 hold star often drew to the thi-eshold a better sort of 
 customer (and indeed many such flocked from some 
 distance to buy fresh inviting vegetables), it brought, 
 on the night we are speaking of, what most women 
 in her situation would have reckoned an ' old house ' 
 on its good mistress's head. 
 
 Right in front of it had collected a crowd, (very 
 different in attire and circumstances from the joyous 
 one which gathered, twelve years later, round St. 
 
 Gr 's church,) to witness that too common London 
 
 occurrence, the falling down in a fit of a wretchedly 
 dressed, and wretched-looking Irish beggar ; over 
 whom a little girl, of about seven or eight years old, 
 was uttering piteous cries of ' Mammy ! oh ! mammy !' 
 
 Widow Granger was not the person (as richer 
 tradesfolks have been known to do) to draw to 
 her door and j)ut up her shutters, to keep clear of 
 a troublesome business. But when some one, more 
 judicious than the rest, called out that it was only a 
 faint, and that a cup of cold water, and a chair out 
 of the rain, was all the poor creature wanted to bring 
 her round, the widow bustled out with the one, and 
 cordially proffered the use of the other. The mob, 
 chiefly women as destitute and houseless as herself, 
 closed instantly in behalf of the patient, with what 
 seemed in their eyes (and no doubt in those of Him 
 who so valued the * widow's mite') a magnificent 
 offer ; and in ten minutes from the first concourse its 
 object was deposited in the good woman's own arm- 
 chair, and the little street as quiet as if no such 
 occurrence had taken place.
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 327 
 
 The fainting fit, like all those caused by inanition, 
 was long and obstinate, and not one to yield to cold 
 water alone. But the good widow who, like many of 
 her calKng, was something of a doctress, had strong 
 smelling-salts in the house; and bidding the child 
 hold them carefully to her poor mother's nose, she 
 stepped into the next-door shop, and putting a shil- 
 ling into the hand of the boy who attended it, bade 
 him run to the * Chequers ' for a phialful of wine. 
 
 It was brought, and mulled in no time by the 
 handy old dame ; and, judiciously administered to the 
 drenched and shivering patient, brought back to life 
 and its unimaginable ills one, who, but for her child, 
 would have thought it the cruellest of kindness. 
 
 And so it would have been, had it stopped there. 
 But how could the poor young creature, even when 
 a little revived, be turned out at that time of night 
 in the pouring rain ? or how could she put on again 
 her soaked gown, and faded rag of a cloak, and 
 apologies (though decent ones) for nether garments ? 
 A relic of a widow's cap, discovered on taking off her 
 bonnet, settled the matter in the good woman's mind, 
 who had acted towards her thus far the Samaritan's 
 part. She laid, not on her "' own beast,' but on her 
 * own bed ^ (she had a second in a closet, occupied at 
 odd times since his youth by the gardener's nephew, 
 who suj)plied her with vegetables), the gentle pretty 
 wreck of better days, whom God had sent to her 
 dwelling : and when the child, before creeping with 
 evident delight into the forgotten luxmies of the nice 
 mattress and clean sheets, knelt down beside them
 
 328 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 and said her little infant prayer, the * heart ' of the 
 lone widow was ' knit ' to that of her more deeply 
 tried sister in affliction. 
 
 It was but for a few weeks that the tie subsisted, 
 thus formed by compassion on the one side, and 
 gratitude on the other. The poor woman's history 
 was a common one, and soon told. She had married 
 somewhat beneath herself, in her own country, 
 an industrious, well-educated mechanic, with whom 
 (being cast off by her friends), she had come in quest 
 of employment to London, where he had worked 
 some years in comparative comfort at the Docks. 
 But exposure to weather, to which he was unaccus- 
 tomed, had at length brought on consumption, 
 under which he rapidly sunk, leaving to his fond 
 wife and dutiful nurse only the inheritance of his 
 malady. 
 
 For the decent funeral to which Irish people attach 
 so pauch importance her little remaining possessions 
 had been sacrificed ; and she was now only lingering, 
 dependant on casual charity, in London, for the re- 
 sult (nearly, if not altogether hopeless) of am appeal 
 to the compassion of her relations for means to re- 
 join them in Ireland. 
 
 No token from them came to gladden her last, 
 moments ; but forgiving them, and blessing her bene- 
 factress, the poor woman died. And though her 
 hostess (wisely resolving that what little she could 
 do, should be bestowed on the living) allowed the 
 parish to bury her chance guest, yet on being pressed 
 to send the child to the workhouse by every friend
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 329 
 
 she had (the good-natured market gardener excepted, 
 who took mightily to the ' little one'), she could not 
 make up her mind to part with her, but offered, on 
 receiving from the parish authorities a complete outfit 
 in hand, and a promise of gratuitous schooling, to re- 
 lieve them from the burden of the little girl's main- 
 tenance, always secretly hoping (though really it had 
 little or no influence on her decision) that she might 
 yet be claimed by her friends, and turn out some- 
 thing better than a mere parish girl. 
 
 Nor, though this never happened, (as it would of 
 course have done in a novel,) had the good woman any 
 reason to repent her resolution ; as she grew old and 
 stiff, little Grace, better fed and tended, grew brisk and 
 hearty ; swept up the shop, stood on the table and 
 cleaned the window, till it shone again ; set out the 
 greens and cauliflowers to double their former advan- 
 tage ; and, as spring and summer came on, not only rose 
 at daylight to pick the tenderest water-cresses and 
 freshest turnip-tops all round London, but managed to 
 bring home stray bunches of violets and primroses, 
 which not only her mistress's nephew, but other gar- 
 deners who sometimes met and gave her a ride back 
 to town, would tie up for the civil, modest little water- 
 cress girl. 
 
 But busy as she was, Grace was not the only indus- 
 trious person in the world ; and the widow's hand- 
 maiden had fomid her match in the market-gardener 
 so often alluded to. Perhaps no greater instance of 
 mere industry (combined of course with thoughtful- 
 ness and good-behaviour) could be held out for the
 
 330 THE TWICKENHAM TALES." 
 
 encouragement of working people than the rise from 
 small beginnings of Master William Coleshill. 
 
 His father, the widow's brother, had left to his son 
 (with the usual burdens on such expensive shreds of 
 property) a certain ^ Thatched House,' known by this 
 name for many a year in the neighbourhood, and the 
 small garden attached to it, whose produce, limited 
 as it was, sufficed to supply the widow's humble trade, 
 but was quite too confined to fill up profitably its 
 owner's time, or support his rising family. 
 
 What was to be done? Proud as William had 
 been of settling in his father and grandfather's 
 dwelKng, he could not starve there ; and was just 
 thinking of returning to his former service in a gen- 
 tleman's garden, when an enclosure took place of the 
 common adjoining to which his premises were situated, 
 by which he had allotted to him little less than an acre 
 of the half sand, half moor, and altogether wilder- 
 ness, of which his own property was chiefly com- 
 posed. 
 
 It seemed so hopeless a business to rid his new lot 
 of the thick furze brushes by which it was not only 
 skirted, but more than half covered, that William 
 must have left it for a more convenient season, but 
 for the offer of an old Scotsman, of his own craft, 
 to whom he had been kind, and from whom he had 
 often in return got many a valuable hint, — to do the 
 job (assisted by William's eldest son, now a boy of 
 thirteen) at his own leisure through the winter, while 
 William was employing his own stout arms more 
 profitably elsewhere.
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 331 
 
 One good turn deserves another, and the intelligent 
 quondam gardener, once himself in a nobleman's 
 service, soon observed, as his pickaxe laid bare the 
 deep tough roots of the thick furze bushes that 
 their blossoms, * unprofitably gay,' were luxuriating in 
 what struck him as the most scarce and valuable 
 mixture of the peat mould, which nursery-men will 
 send any distance to obtain, for striking and propa- 
 gating their choice exotic plants. The truth of this 
 shrewd conjecture was soon ascertained ; and the first 
 basket of earth which little Bill was sent to show to 
 a great master florist in the neighbourhood, was 
 brought back filled in return with showy plants, and 
 the proposal that if the mould were furnished strictly 
 to him alone, it should be repaid in kind with ample 
 supplies of geranium cuttings of the hardier sorts fit 
 for Covent Garden sale, as soon as William could get 
 up a bit of a frame to strike and rear them. 
 
 This offer was too tempting not to be accepted ; 
 but to build a suitable hotbed, with the necessary 
 glass, implied an outlay which William was afraid to 
 encounter. Here again Scotch John came to his aid, 
 and picked out, under the shallow surface of moor 
 earth which covered one part, and that the most 
 worthless of his allotment, a stratum he had often 
 found so situated in the north, of dead white clay; 
 the worst of possible subjects for horticulture, and 
 best for burning into brick. He and little Bill set to 
 work, and dug and wheeled; and succeeded, after 
 some failures, (John, among other old men's jobs 
 had sometimes worked for the bricklayers,) in first 
 fashioning, and then burning, with the aid of the piles
 
 332 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 of knotted old furze roots, some very tolerable bricks, 
 quite sufficiently so at least for gardening pur- 
 poses. 
 
 The hotbed walls were raised, and manure for 
 heating it being provided, much to his credit, by Bill 
 at his odd hours, when the little market cart was not 
 wanted, from the neglected and unappropriated leaves 
 of an old deserted avenue in the neighbourhood, the 
 then expensive article of glass became the grand 
 remaining obstacle. 
 
 It was the sandy portion of the unpromising new 
 lot which was now to yield its treasures, though less 
 valuable ones, to the industry which had first rid it 
 of its prickly incumbrances, and thus brought to light 
 its latent merits. Sand, of a shining and peculiar 
 character, forms, it is well known, a large ingredient 
 in the manufacture of glass, and some glass-houses 
 down near the river, not a thousand miles from 
 William's garden, suggested themselves to him and 
 John as a possible outlet for a commodity not par- 
 ticularly plentiful on the then soft and sedgy banks of 
 Father Thames. 
 
 Bill thought he could but try if his fine sparkling 
 lading of virgin first sand, untouched for centuries 
 by spade or mattock, might find a vent at the glass 
 manufactory ; not to be paid in money, but in the 
 bits of odd refuse glass with which he had seen 
 frames glazed in other neighbouring gardens. The 
 scheme succeeded ; the boy's industry and smartness 
 pleased, and was rewarded with leave to pick up 
 fragments, more precious in his eyes than diamonds, 
 of all shapes, to be sure, but of size beyond his most
 
 MARRIAGP] BY LOTTERY. 333 
 
 sanguine hopes, of the green and dingy glass, which 
 best conveys such mitigated sunshine, as plants while 
 in the act of rooting, can endure. 
 
 All being now ready, the little cart was in due 
 time sent in triumph to the nurseryman's, well 
 loaded with its golden earth, to claim back its freight 
 of geraniums. They were cheerfully given, and the 
 more liberally, that the fine shrubby plants had on 
 that day been pruned and trimmed for the season ; 
 and, as luck would have it, a year's supply of garden 
 pots having just arrived for the nurseryman, he, in 
 the fulness of his deh'ght at having raised exotics 
 with William's peat, which never would strike root 
 in anything before, filled the bottom of the cart with 
 a stock to begin with of all the most useful sizes. 
 
 It was a prouder day still for little Bill (a born 
 gardener to the very core) when, a few months later, 
 he drove the cart to town with quite a forest on the 
 top of it of broad green horse-shoe leaves and 
 bright showy flowers ; and stopped, as he was desired 
 always to do, on his way to market, to let aunt 
 Granger have her choice of a plant, to draw cus- 
 tomers to her shop, and sell at last to some well-to-do 
 neighbour. 
 
 Such, to make a long tale short, was the literal 
 beginning of the steady and prosperous trade of one 
 of the most flourishing market gardeners near town ; 
 the sandy residue of whose unpromising lot of ground, 
 properly enriched and improved, turned out unparal- 
 leled for the growth of fine asparagus ; while the old 
 part of the garden, long celebrated for unrivalled
 
 334 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 strawberries, could now be given up, almost entirely, 
 to that favourite, and, when fine, remunerating fruit. 
 
 William's family, meanwhile, had increased as well 
 as his trade ; and the old * Thatched House,' pinch 
 and squeeze as they might, would not hold himself, 
 his wife, and their six children ; particularly, as she, 
 poor woman, was delicate, and little able at times to 
 encounter the noise and prattle of her nursery. To 
 pull down the old family dwelling would have been 
 as hard on William as on many a gentleman of high 
 degree ; and, besides, to build another large enough 
 would have been beyond his means. So he resolved 
 to double it, and run up a front (the former one look- 
 ing into the garden) towards a well-frequented high- 
 road, where passengers might often be induced to 
 stop and eat strawberries, or purchase flowers or 
 seeds, by the new and modest sign of * William 
 Coleshill, market-gardener.' 
 
 The builder undertook (with the help of some sur- 
 plus home-made bricks for inside work) to do the job 
 for the moderate sum William's savings would afford ; 
 and before winter the two parts of the still ' thatched 
 house ' — for the new roof was covered, at Scotch 
 John's suggestion, with heath he had managed to 
 grow tall for the pm-pose, on the outskirts of the 
 allotment — were fit to be inhabited. 
 
 But one expense, however necessary, is sure to 
 bring on another ; and the enlarged house could not 
 be kept clean and managed, as well as the children 
 by the parish girl of twelve years old, who had hitherto 
 been the sole help of William's ailing wife. And
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 335 
 
 now came the first verification of virtue being its own 
 reward, in the shape of Grace Donovan, who, while 
 William's plants had been growing and flourishing, 
 had not been standing still either, but was now a 
 fine, tall young woman of seventeen, just leaving the 
 charity-school mentioned in the beginning of this 
 story, which she had been attending with credit to 
 herself, and satisfaction to all concerned, for the 
 last four years, to enter upon her probation in ser- 
 vice. 
 
 Now, from the character of the school, as well as 
 her own standing in it, Grace could have stepped at 
 once to the situation of nurse-maid at good wages, in 
 a gentleman's family. But she had not been * as a 
 daughter ' for ten long years to the good old widow, 
 and brought up as one of the family, not to see her 
 duty and her pleasure both in devoting the good 
 education she owed her in nursing and needlework, 
 to the benefit of her friend's kind nephew, and his 
 gentle, suffering helpmate. Hardly bearing to hear 
 of wages, though for clothing she must still depend 
 on those who had so long given her everything, 
 the good girl set out one day in the cart for her new 
 home, as happy, ay, far happier, than if (as might if 
 she chose have been the case) a nobleman's coach 
 had fetched her to join a smart party of servants 
 whom his lordship was taking with him to Paris. 
 
 If love could repay her for thus sacrificing money 
 and ambition, Grace soon had a daughter's share of it 
 from honest William, his wife, and every child in the 
 house. Nor did they prize her the less that every
 
 336 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 holiday slie could consent to take (and tliey were few 
 and far between) was spent in visiting and clieering 
 lier dear old second mother, and putting her successor 
 in tending her, William's eldest daughter, up to all 
 the little ways she had herself so well known how to 
 practise of contributing to her now infirm, and faihng 
 grand aunt's comfort. 
 
 Two years of peaceful and useful service — with no- 
 thing of servitude but the name — rolled quietly over 
 the head of Grace, and only endeared her more to all 
 the gardener's flourishing family ; now by her tender 
 care in sick-room and nursery — now by her taste, (the 
 gift of nature) in tying up nosegays — now by her clever- 
 ness (acquired at school) in casting up accounts ; not 
 to mention the happy effect on purchasers, whether of 
 flowers or strawberries, of her pretty obliging manners 
 as shopwoman or waitress. In short, Grace at nine- 
 teen was the joy as well as the stay of the house- 
 hold ; and as happy as she desired, or could ever 
 hope or wish to be. 
 
 The seventh confinement of his wife being well 
 over — ^though her recovery was always a tedious matter 
 — William Coleshill snatched a day, a rare thing for 
 him, in the Easter holidays of 18 — to attend a horti- 
 cultural show at some distance, and exhibit choice 
 plants of his own rearing ; the secret of which had 
 been left to him as a legacy by the now retired 
 nurseryman, whose fortune he had been the means 
 of making. With Grace, young as she was, he felt he 
 could safely leave the charge of his house and fa- 
 mily ; while Bill, now sixteen and very steady, he
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 337 
 
 tbouglit equally competent to look after his beloved 
 garden. 
 
 There is such a thing, however, as over-carefulness, 
 and the poor lad's anxiety lest his father's concerns 
 should suffer under his management proved the cause 
 of an evil more dreadful far than neglect or careless- 
 ness could have occasioned. One of the late improve- 
 ments, when a new front to the house had been 
 gained to the north, was the running up a small 
 forcing-house, on the south, or garden side, heated 
 in a great measure (and on this Bill specially prided 
 himself) by communication with the kitchen &e ; — 
 only requiring extra fuel on nights of peculiar se- 
 verity of temperature. In this house some camellias 
 were forcing into bloom for the Lord Mayor's ball^ 
 and a late frost having come on at a time when a 
 check would have been fatal to their beauty, poor 
 Bill got up before daylight to see after the ther- 
 mometer ; and finding it lower than he liked, lit some 
 brushwood in the stove, to get it up as quickly as 
 might be to the proper pitch. 
 
 It got up — but too rapidly ! and blazing out at the 
 slight chimney of the rude erection, soon sent sparks 
 in the dangerous direction of the roof of the 
 ' Thatched House.' The lad stood appalled for a mo- 
 ment at his own handiwork, then flew to the pump 
 with his watering-engine, which, small as the mischief 
 yet was, might perhaps have obviated farther damage 
 — but alas ! the pump was frozen ! Help must be 
 sought elsewhere, but ere he ^flew to obtain it, the 
 sleeping family must be roused ; and knowing that 
 
 VOL. I. 21
 
 338 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 G-race, especially since slie had charge of the baby, 
 was a light sleeper, the distracted boy threw up some 
 gravel to the window, and when he heard the case- 
 ment softly open, cried in a voice hoarse enough 
 with affright not to need subduing, ' Save yourself 
 and the children! the house is on fire — I did it!' 
 He then ran (the best thing he could do) to the 
 stable, got out old Dobbin, and rode, without so much 
 as dreaming of a saddle, to the station of the * Water- 
 men Firemen,' about three quarters of a mile off. 
 
 The season had fortunately been a wet one, and 
 much rain had that week fallen, else the thatch of 
 the old part of the cottage would have blazed up like 
 tinder. But the damp kept it smouldering on long 
 enough for Grace, by the light of the flaming green- 
 house, to put on the clothes of the three elder chil- 
 dren, and when that was done her own ; and just as 
 she had finished, a ladder was placed at the window 
 (luckily a large old-fashioned latticed one opening 
 both ways), and the good-looking, fresh young face of 
 one of the firemen was seen at the top of it calling 
 out, * Come, quick, young woman ! jump out ! there's 
 not a minute to lose !' 
 
 * Here ! here !' was Grace's answer, handing out, 
 as quickly as her trembling hands would allow (the 
 youngest first) the three children to the fireman, 
 who, taking each half way down, and dropping it 
 dextrously to some careful hand in the crowd below, 
 arged Grace with fresh entreaties to let him sava her 
 also. If anything would have added force to his 
 entreaties it would have been the sight of his dark
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 339 
 
 curly head, from wliicli the cap in his eagerness had 
 fallen, now thickly powdered as a miller's with the 
 white ashes of the burning thatch, which — at length 
 thoroughly ignited below the outer and wetter sur- 
 face — sent forth that appalling roar, the most fright- 
 ful shout of triumph perhaps of yictorious fire. 
 
 Once more Grace, breathing an earnest prayer, 
 handed out to the impatient fireman a precious bundle, 
 saying, as she did so, ' For God's sake, sir, hold fast !' 
 It was tlie fortnight- old baby ! a frail thing which no 
 woman perhaps ever saw in a man's rude hands with- 
 out a misgiving ; but which the kind young fellow, 
 disappointed as he was, handled as tenderly as if it 
 had been made of glass ; while Grace leaned out to 
 watch and admire his progress till she saw it safe in 
 one of the twenty pairs of women's hands stretched 
 out to receive it. 
 
 ^Now, miss! now, or never !^ cried the iu-eman, 
 striding in his haste up three steps of the ladder at 
 once, ' or the beams will be down upon you 1' In a 
 minute more he would have sprung in at the win- 
 dow, and dragged her out by force, believing that 
 the smoke which now filled the room had made her 
 insensible. But, though nearly choked, she had 
 strength to wave him off, and voice deft to say, 
 ' Eound with your ladder, if you would save us, to 
 the other side of the house ! my mistress is asleep 
 in the front bedroom !' 
 
 Knowing that to rush in after her would probabl}^ 
 be to sacrifice both, the active young fellow, calling 
 on his comrade to follow, was round in an instant ; 
 
 z 2
 
 340 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 and thankful to perceive that a broad ridge of slates 
 or lead which connected (or happily on this occasion 
 disGonnected) the two lines of roof had as yet pre- 
 vented the flames from extending to the heath which 
 covered the new part of the house, though the sparks 
 every moment falling on it would soon set it all in 
 a blaze. The precious moments, however, afforded 
 by this obstacle, and a yet more solid one in the par- 
 tition wall — built for economy's sake of their own rude 
 fire-proof bricks — gave the still wonderfully calm 
 Grace time for her most trying task, that of awaking 
 and rescuing her dear delicate mistress. 
 
 The first part of it she was saved. Aroused by the 
 smoke, she found the invalid sitting up in bed, and on 
 being eagerly asked where the smell of burning came 
 from, instead of shrieking, and wailing, and blurting 
 out the truth, as nine girls in ten would have done, 
 said, quietly but earnestly, * The greenhouse, ma'am, 
 is on fire already, and the house, of course, in danger. 
 You had better be taken out. The children are safe 
 long ago, and I'll just wrap you up in your blankets, 
 and Master Fireman yonder will carry you as safe 
 down as he did the baby.' 
 
 There was no time for parley. The sick woman 
 bade God bless her guardian angel, and was wrapped 
 up like an Egyptian mummy, with the rolled-up 
 sheets tied, rope-fashion, to keep the blankets together. 
 Two heads this time appeared at the window, and two 
 ladders were planted, swung between which (thanks to 
 the handy sheet ropes) the poor woman, whose feet 
 if at liberty would have been of no use to her, was
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 341 
 
 handed like a bale of goods to her sympathismg 
 neighbours, her mattress being pitched after her by 
 the last effort Grace's strength would suffice to make. 
 
 No ! now that all was saved, she had strength to 
 pray, and leisure to think of her own danger, as the 
 twigs of burning heath rained in fiery hail down the 
 short wide chimney, and gave her hardly space on the 
 floor out of their reach to kneel. It seemed a long 
 five minutes ere the now fairly singed curls of the 
 fireman reappeared at the window, and in two more 
 he had snatched up the half fainting girl, and placed 
 her before him on the ladder, and landed her safe 
 on the ground before the door. 
 
 It was with a sort of frantic bewilderment that 
 this hitherto self-possessed creature now called for, 
 gazed on, nay, shook and examined limb by limb, the 
 rescued children, whose identity as well as safety she 
 seemed hardly able to take in. All of a sudden she 
 let go her hold of her favourite little Fanny, and 
 striking her forehead as if some recollection had 
 just then crossed her brain, dashed forward to the 
 front door, and pushing it partially open, was fairly 
 beat back by the volumes of smoke and flame sent 
 forth by the burning staircase. 
 
 But up stairs Grace was not bent on going. Thank 
 God and his feeble instrument, there was no one to 
 be anxious about there now. In the seed-shop on 
 the ground floor, however, Grace felt sure her master 
 had valuable property ; and though not so foolhardy 
 as to insist on going herself if a fireman had been at 
 hand to save it, yet finding that all had somehow
 
 342 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 gone round to bring the engine to the new and best- 
 worth preserving part of the house, she seized on a 
 chair of the many lying about, and stepping lightly 
 from it on the breast-high sill of the shop, had disap- 
 peared within it before the fireman, or his comrade, or 
 indeed any one was aware what had become of her. 
 
 Taking for granted, as it might have been till too 
 late, that she had gone to the neighbours to inquire 
 for and wait on her mistress, this heroic girl might at 
 length have fallen a sacrifice to her devotion in a 
 cause the least likely to reconcile those she died for 
 to her dreadful fate, had not some keener stimulus 
 than ordinary compassion animated the young fire- 
 man to assure himself of her safety. The chair 
 left at the window gave the lucky clue, and in a mo- 
 ment the active young fellow was in after her. 
 
 It was time, for the poor girl had at last sunk in a 
 swoon with her master's heavy desk in her arms ; 
 and as both could not be lifted out at once, it was 
 very fortunate her being insensible spared all con- 
 troversy which should be first saved. She had not 
 been dragged, or the strong box flung out of the 
 window five minutes ere the roof of the shop fell in, 
 bringing with it in the crash what, but for her activity 
 and presence of mind, might have been her mis- 
 tress's death-bed. The feelings of both when they 
 met at that mistress's bed-side in a kind neighbour's 
 house may better be imagined than described. 
 
 William Coleshill's feelings when he returned 
 were equally beyond expression. The dwelling he 
 left so comfortable a shapeless ruin ! that was sad
 
 MARRIAGE BY LOTTERY. 343 
 
 indeed ! But when he saw all near and dear to him 
 alive and well, and thought how but for one stout 
 heart and steady hand it might have gone with them, 
 there was no room in his heart for aught but joy and 
 thankfulness. There was no need to think of build- 
 ing again immediately, though the money in the said 
 desk would go some way towards it ; for the next-door 
 neighbour, for whom his house was too large, w^as 
 y y willing to let it, and the family were settled 
 tnere for the winter at least. 
 
 One of the first visitors to inquire how they all did 
 was the young fireman, with whose modest manner 
 of assigning all the credit of the rescue to Grace 
 William .was much pleased ; while Grace again, 
 when praised for her heroism, would enlarge on the 
 coolness and courage of Serjeant Jones. Whether 
 this encouraged the young man, or whether his love 
 and admiration, which were plain to every one, 
 would no longer be controlled, he soon gave such 
 hints of both when walking alongside of Grace from 
 the parish church (where he was sure to be in at- 
 tendance in his best attire every Sunday), that any 
 other girl in that parish would have met him half 
 way. 
 
 But Grace was in no hurry to change her condi- 
 tion ; and when pressed at length more closely, took 
 the opportunity of saying that nothing in the world 
 could tempt her to leave her ailing mistress, at least 
 till she was stronger and the baby weaned. Grace, 
 independent of her duty and gratitude, had seen 
 enough of the cares of a family (even where there
 
 344 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 was competence to support them) to be in no haste 
 to encounter them in her own person, far less to lead 
 a very young and rising man into a marriage with a 
 pennyless girl. His situation, though good, de- 
 pended, she knew, more than most others on the 
 continuance of health and strength. She remem- 
 bered her poor father and mother's broken health 
 and early death, and shuddered at the thought of a 
 like fate for one exposed to hardships and per^s of 
 no ordinary kind. 
 
 It was not the fireman's profession, however, ha- 
 zardous as it was, that deterred her from closing with 
 his proposal. No ; like Desdemona, she loved him 
 better for his hair-breadth 'scapes, even had he not 
 been, under Providence, her own special deliverer. 
 But Grace was high-minded as well as unselfish ; and 
 knowing Edmund Jones to be come of reputable 
 Welsh parents, and entitled to a well-endowed wife, 
 she scorned to avail herself of his enthusiastic feel- 
 ings to draw him into an ineligible connection. And 
 when her master at length was won on by the frank 
 character and evident sincerity of the young wooer to 
 lend all his weight to prosper his suit, he could only 
 gain from Grace a promise that in the month of 
 May, when she should have been three years in her 
 present situation, she would give him a final answer. 
 
 Grace knew, though every one else had forgot, 
 and Edmund had never so much as heard, that then 
 would be the period for trying her chance in the 
 whimsical old gentleman's lottery for the 100^. prize; 
 and should she be fortimate enough to wia it, then
 
 MARKIAGE BY LOTTERY. 345 
 
 (on tlie condition, however, of its being lent to lier 
 master to help build his new house) she determined 
 to give it and herself to Edmund Jones. 
 
 The blind goddess for once did her duty. Grace's 
 was the lucky number. She walked out of the place 
 of drawing — where Master Coleshill had escorted 
 her — straight to the astonished wooer, asked him to 
 come along with them into the City on a little bit of 
 business; and having ascertained during the walk, 
 what was long before known to both, that Edmund 
 Jones preferred Grace Donovan, without a shilling, to 
 all the heiresses in London, William handed to the 
 unconscious bridegroom a bride and a hundred-pound 
 portion into the bargain. 
 
 A dinner (according to the founder's will) was 
 given to the couple and their friends at the Institu- 
 tion ; but gay as it was with toasts and speeches — 
 which only made the modest bride feel very uncom- 
 fortable — the cup of social tea, in widow Granger's 
 little parlour, all decked up with evergreens by Bill 
 for the occasion, was an earnest in its quiet happi- 
 ness of all that has yet run of Grace Donovan's 
 wedded life. 
 
 Eebow — (poor fellow ! his malady was already be- 
 ginning, though he did not know it) — became dread- 
 fully excited during the reading of this tale, and at 
 last left the room and was not seen any more that 
 night. 
 
 When it was over, every one congratulated and 
 thanked Scott for his tale ; somehow or other there
 
 346 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 had been a feeling that there was no chance of a 
 don writing a producible tale ; the thing seemed so 
 incongruous, and to require so much more originality 
 and elasticity of mind than any don was ever known 
 to possess, that every one felt pleasingly relieved, and 
 the old admiration for Scott began to revive, and they 
 said in their own minds — * There, see what a fellow 
 it is ; though he is a don, he can write a tale, and a 
 good one too: — what first-rate stuff the man was 
 made of!' 
 
 * I was very much struck,' said Verney, with the 
 way in which you described one of those scenes — I 
 forget it now — but perhaps you'll lend me the manu- 
 script, as I should like to read that passage again.' 
 
 * by all means ; here it is.' 
 
 * Why, goodness gracious !' exclaimed Yerney, 'how 
 strange ! and Eebow left the room too.' 
 
 ' What is in it ?' said D 'Aubrey, jumping out, and 
 determined by examination, cross-examination, and 
 re-examination, to find out the whole mystery — *• Why 
 it's Kebow's hand-writing !' 
 
 * Is it ?' said Scott, shrivelling ; and this time it 
 was the shrivel of shame and guilt, and not of mock 
 hypocritical dignity ; ' I had no idea it was.' 
 
 ' Is it your own ?' asked D 'Aubrey. 
 'No, it is not.' 
 ' Then who's is it ?' 
 
 * I don't know ; unless, as you say, it's Eebow's.' 
 
 * How did you get the tale ?'
 
 THE TWICKENHALI TALES. 347 
 
 ' It came to me with some sermons.' 
 
 * Then you bought it, in fact ?' 
 
 'Well, yes— not exactly — but — hem — my book- 
 seller sent it me.' 
 
 'Well,' said Vemey, anxious to put an end to 
 Scott's predicament, ' it's very curious, certainly ; but 
 we are very much obliged to you for reading it to 
 us. It's a tale quite worthy of Kebow. It's time to 
 retire now, my dear, isn't it (turning to Mrs. Vemey) ; 
 will you order the candles ?' And so the host effected 
 a general move ; and when all the others were gone, 
 he went to Eebow's door, and knocking gently, was told 
 to come in. The poor fellow was writing away hard 
 for his magazine, and there was a look of care — even 
 more than usual for him — on his wrinkled forehead. 
 Yerney told him the discovery that had been made, 
 and how much they had been pleased with the tale ; 
 and hoped nothing had occurred to annoy him. ' 
 no,' said poor Eebow ; ' it was very fooHsh of me, 
 and I beg your pardon a thousand times, but I 
 could not help it. That was the first tale I ever 
 
 wrote. I sent it to the " Magazine ;" I watched 
 
 months and months for an answer. None came. I 
 had kept no copy : I wrote for it back. " The Editor 
 does not retm^n rejected communications," was the 
 reply ; and I never heard any more of it till this 
 night. I am glad you liked it.; I little thought so 
 good a use would have been made of it when I wrote 
 it.'
 
 348 THE TWICKENHAM TALES. 
 
 *Kejected! Wliat ever could make them reject 
 such a tale as that ?' 
 
 * 0, you know the system. The editor of the " 
 
 Magazine" rejects all the communications which 
 are sent him ; and sends over the best of them to 
 
 the editor of the " Journal," in America, who 
 
 fills his journal with them. The American editor in 
 turn rejects all the communications he receives, and 
 sends the best of them over to England, where they 
 appear in the " Magazine." Neither editor re- 
 turns rejected communications ; and so they fill their 
 columns without paying any one. I'm vain enough 
 to believe that my tale was printed in America." 
 
 Verney was greatly shocked. Was it really true, 
 or was it the first symptom of Eebow's insanity ? If 
 it was true, how did the manuscript get back to 
 England into Scott's hands ? Was Scott a party to 
 this editorial system? All these were questions of 
 which time disclosed the answers. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, DUKE STREET, STAMFORD STREET.
 
 *iJ^I/^