UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
 
 AT URBANA-CHAivlPAIQN 
 
 B00K3TACKS
 
 MORNINGS AT MATLOCK 
 
 R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, D.C.L. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "TITIAN,' AN ART-NOVEL, 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1850.
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY HARRISON AND SON, 
 
 ST, martin's lane.
 
 V.I 
 
 CS. TO 
 
 SIR MATTHEW WHITE RIDLEY, BART., 
 
 ^ WHOSE ENLIGHTENED KNOWLEDGE 
 
 OP THE PRINCIPLES OF THE HIGHER WALK OF ART 
 (which are those of TRUTH AND NATURE,) 
 HAS ENABLED HIM TO APPRECIATE, 
 •Yi AND URGED HIM TO POSSESS, 
 
 THE SHAKSPICRIAN EMBODIMENTS OF 
 
 OUR SCrLPTOR, LOUGH, 
 
 THESE VOLUMES 
 
 5 
 
 I 
 
 <^ May 1, 1850 
 
 ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
 a 2
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OP 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 PAGE 
 IXTRODUCTION 1 
 
 I. 
 
 Ensign Simmonds, of the Tenth 14 
 
 II. 
 
 The Bush Guinea 29 
 
 III. 
 
 Lb Millionaire malgre Lui 40 
 
 IV. 
 Tressilian's Stoey 73 
 
 V. 
 Velasquez and his Mestizo 145 
 
 VI. 
 A Night with Burns 182
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 VII. PAGE 
 
 The Phrenologist 205 
 
 VIII. 
 The "Composer op Poetry" 230 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Bard O'Kelly 260 
 
 X. 
 
 The Great Will Cause 281
 
 MORNINGS AT MATLOCK, 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 On a fine May morning, some years ago, I 
 had walked oyer from Chesterfield to Matlock, 
 and, however pleasant it may be to talk and 
 write of a pedestrian journey of twelve miles, 
 through a romantic district, the greater plea- 
 sure is, when the wearying walk is ended, 
 and you have settled down into an amalgama- 
 tion of coolness and repose, to take your ease 
 in your inn, and there personally experience 
 the " warmest welcome" to an excellent break- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 fast. Philosopliers may speculate as they 
 please upon the fact — for fact it very unques- 
 tionably is — that in a country inn, even with 
 the most delicate, it would seem 
 
 " As if increase of appetite had grown 
 By what it fed on." 
 
 Fancy, then, how appetizing a walk of twelve 
 miles must have been to a gentleman in rude 
 health ! — But this is a tender memory which 
 should be kept in some iseoret hiding-place of 
 the mind, nor exposed to the rude breath of 
 a prosaic world. 
 
 Matlock, it may be stated, is not the place 
 noted for its medicinal waters. What the 
 public generally know by that name, is actually 
 Matlock Bath, about two miles north-east of 
 the village. Matlock Bath is a pretty place^ 
 peculiar in its aspect, — and full of picturesque 
 points. A local writer has thus sketched it : 
 — " The huge bulk of Masson is hollowed out 
 to receive within it a lovely village, rising ter- 
 race above terrace, and villa after villa, shel- 
 tered within little clumps of sycamores or fruit
 
 INTRGBUCTION, 3 
 
 trees : the heiglits of Abraham crowning the 
 lovely picture. The swollen Derwent dashing 
 over its rocky bed, hemmed in by the ever 
 verdant banks which enclose the Lovers' Walk 
 — over which rise the umbrageous woods — 
 while from among them the basaltic rocks rear 
 their time-furrowed heads and ivyed battle- 
 ments in every varied and fantastic form. 
 There stands the village church, as if guarding 
 the sweet scene. Beyond, the lawn of the 
 Old Bath Hotel and its sparkling fountain, one 
 almost hid from view by the gay crowds which 
 throng it, and, further on, the parade is 
 studded with groups of the fair and the noble 
 of the land." 
 
 Matlock is indeed all that is thus described 
 — and more. The Derwent flows on, some- 
 times with a rapid rush, through a narrow 
 channel, with musical murmur as it dashes 
 over the rocky fragments from the cliffs above, 
 and then, when it widens, gently expanding 
 until you see it, clear and unruffled, mirroring 
 on its surface the trees, which luxuriantly over- 
 hang it. On one side of the ravine stands 
 
 b2
 
 4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Matlock Bath, with the houses scattered on 
 the side of the slope, here and there in pictu- 
 resque disarrangement. On the opposite side 
 of the river, vast masses of naked rocks are 
 contiguous to other eminences, scarcely less 
 exalted, some of which are covered with green 
 turf, some crowned with clumps of leafj trees. 
 The familiar and the sublime are strangely 
 mingled here ; trim cottages, neat shops, sump- 
 tuous hotels, and gravelled walks appearing 
 scarcely in accordance with scenes where 
 nature has been lavish of her wildest beauty. 
 The very nomenclature of the show-places bur- 
 lesques the Romantic. In spite of all, Mat- 
 lock is beautiftd and unique. 
 
 My recollection of the place, however, is very 
 dim and general. I remember that, with several 
 other unfortunates of both sexes, I was dragged 
 into divers caverns, which I was told ought to 
 be admired, because the Romans had formerly 
 got ore out of them ; that they gleamed very 
 prettily for a moment, when twopenny-worth 
 of fireworks were let off to exhibit the sparry 
 lustre of their stalactites ; that we were de-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 sired not to pass here, because it led to no- 
 \vhere, and not to think of venturing there, as 
 it ended in a fathomless abjss of water; that 
 each guide pertinaciously insisted on the vast 
 superiority of his mine or cavern over all others ; 
 that we were allowed, at last, to emerge into 
 the fresh air and gaze up at High Tor, through 
 which a railway tunnel has since been scooped ; 
 that we were duly marched to the summit of 
 the Heights of Abraham, whence, indeed, the 
 view is so beautiful that even the nuisance of 
 a garrulous guide was unheeded at the moment ; 
 that, descending from this elevation, we were 
 conducted to the Petrifying Wells, which, like 
 those at Knaresborough, speedily cover all 
 articles placed therein with an abundant de- 
 posit of carbonate of lime, so as to form 
 complete incrustrations ; that some of us ob- 
 tained specimens of articles so incrusted, which, 
 no doubt, were thrown away within two hours 
 after; and that, having seen all the sights 
 (including the museums, which are really worth 
 an express journey to Matlock, so extensive 
 and beautiful are theii* supplies of native
 
 S INTRODUCTION. 
 
 minerals), a few of us, grouping together, de- 
 termined to be independent of guides for the 
 future, and to observe and admire for ourselves. 
 So we walked from place to place (the quaint 
 little church of St. Giles, in Matlock village, 
 standing on the very verge of a tall rock, ap- 
 pearing to us worth all the regulation show 
 places) ; and soon became friendly. Thus we 
 leisurely visited the High Tor, with the Derwent 
 winding at its base, while, over-head, the huge 
 bulk of rock towers like a perpendicular wall, 
 vast, bare, and weather-beaten. We ascended 
 the Masson height, on the opposite side, the 
 view from which, though it includes a cotton- 
 mill and a weir, is a favourite with the Mat- 
 lock visitors. We sauntered on, by Cromford 
 Bridge, over the Derwent, towards Willersley 
 Oastle, built by Arkwright, the inventor of the 
 spinning jenny, who reclaimed from the wild 
 and rocky moor-land the gardens which now 
 are the admiration of that part of the world. 
 We ascended the Wild Cat Tor, and thence, 
 looking northward, had a view, such as can- 
 not be surpassed in England, perhaps, in its
 
 INTRODUCTION-. 7 
 
 blending the grand and the familiar. We 
 then scrambled down to the Lovers' Walk, 
 which margins the Derwent to the east. We 
 entrusted ourselves to the boats which were 
 in waiting to carry us across the river; and 
 after all this loitering, returned to the hostelrie, 
 "jclept the New Bath Hotel, at which, as it 
 chanced, all of our little party were staying. 
 
 Thrown thus together, in this fortuitous 
 manner, we arrived at the very un-English 
 resolution of being sociable (albeit not formally 
 "introduced'' to each other), of enjoying com- 
 mon sitting and refreshment rooms, of forming, 
 in fact, one party for the time. None of us 
 intended making a long stay, — it is odd, by 
 the way, that so few visitors do remain more 
 than a few days at Matlock. As birds of 
 passage, therefore, we determined to enjoy 
 ourselves while we could, and how we could. 
 Such, we afterwards heard, had been the good 
 old custom at Matlock, even within the last 
 sixty years. There were fewer visitors then, but 
 such as came remained for some months, and
 
 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 lived sociablj together during their visit, — 
 dining in common, having dances and cards in 
 the evening, and forming one agreeable com- 
 munity. We had never met until that day, — 
 we might never meet again, — why not enjoy 
 ourselves, when there was the opportunity 1 
 There might have been solemn dignity in each 
 man's sitting by himself, over his solitary 
 repast, but there was enjoyment, rational as 
 well as pleasant, in joining company as we 
 did, and sociably chatting until midnight. 
 
 At first, our party was small. The most 
 noticeable was a tall, handsome man, of about 
 forty, whose erect carriage, easy manners, and 
 bronzed countenance, indicated that he had 
 seen much of the world. Nor were we in 
 error in surmising, after having been half an 
 hour in his society, that he was a military man. 
 We learnt, indeed, that he was now on the 
 half-pay, and had borne the rank of Major in 
 the line. 
 
 Another of our company was an Artist, 
 travelling, like Dr. Syntax, of happy memory.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 " in search of the picturesque/' He had an ex- 
 traordinary facility in sketching ; and what- 
 ever caught his attention — tree, rock, or 
 ruin, — stream, yalley, or mountain, — man, 
 woman, or child — was rapidly and faithfully 
 dashed off in a few spirited touches of his 
 pencil, and carefully treasured up. With a 
 strong feeling for the Beautiful, he also had a 
 remarkable appreciation of the Ludicrous, and, 
 as a caricaturist, he would have been un- 
 equalled, had he yielded to the temptation of 
 exercising his talents in that ephemeral but 
 popular line. In those days, however, 
 " Punch '' was not. Our artist (who now 
 writes R. A. after his name) must figure in 
 these pages by the nom de guerre of Crayon. 
 He had seen varieties of life in many coun- 
 tries, had read much, and had been a close 
 observer of men and things wherever he went. 
 There was a heartiness in his nature which 
 was irresistible ; indeed, it was at his sug- 
 gestion that we agreed to make one party at 
 the inn. 
 
 There was an Author, who, having just seen
 
 10 INTRODUCTION". 
 
 his annual work of fiction through the press — 
 in those days, novels and romances had a 
 considerable sale — had come into the country 
 to unbend the bow. He was a gentleman of 
 pleasing manners, much information, and great 
 personal knowledge of literary men. We found 
 him unaffected, and singularly free from any- 
 thing like envy. He recognised the Artist : 
 they met like old friends in the country, 
 though both confessed, laughingly, that, in 
 London, theu's had hitherto been little more 
 than a mere bowing acquaintance. AYhen there 
 is occasion to name him, this personage must 
 be known in these pages as Mr. Butler. 
 
 The fourth would never forgive me, if I 
 omitted to introduce him : — otherwise, with 
 the modest assurance which appeared so much 
 a part of his nature, that no one ever thought 
 of blaming him for sometimes exercising it, he 
 certainly would have made a point of intro- 
 ducing himself This was an Irishman, with 
 high, but not boisterous spirits, and good 
 nature in every word and look. He was 
 "full of fun," — joking on everything, and
 
 rUTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 exciting mirth with apparently little eflfort. 
 Mr. Moran was a strange compound of mind 
 and matter ; he was a good scholar, but 
 endeavoured to appear as if he had never 
 opened a book. He could converse well with 
 every man on the subject best known to the 
 party with whom he was speaking. He knew 
 nearly as much about pictures and painting, as 
 the artist ; his legends and short rapid narra- 
 tives might have been profitably expanded by the 
 author ; and the Major averred, that he had 
 the whole " History of the Wars of Europe," 
 at his fingers' ends. He was free, careless, 
 good-humoured, intelligent, as yet on the 
 sunny side of thirty, and no one could be in 
 his company for five minutes without feeling 
 convinced that he was likely to achieve high 
 reputation in whatever he attempted. In 
 less than two years from the time I first 
 met him, he had ceased to be, — he was a 
 candidate for an Irish county, in the Election 
 of 1835, and was suddenly taken off, by a 
 neglected cold, which turned to inflammation 
 of the chest, just as, all his wild oats sown,
 
 12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 he was about to commence an active career in 
 politics. 
 
 With the four whom I have thus rapidly 
 introduced, there was a fifth — and I scarcely 
 know how to describe him. Let it suffice, 
 that he now holds the pen. At that time, he 
 conducted a newspaper in the county of which 
 Matlock is the gem, and the impertinence of 
 mentioning him here, should not have been 
 committed, were it not that but for his short- 
 hand notes, the novelettes and legends which 
 follow, would have been preserved imperfectly 
 — or not at all ! 
 
 We had dined, and were lingering over 
 our wine and dessert, when a batch of new 
 arrivals was announced. The Artist, who 
 seemed to know everybody, saw, as they 
 alighted, that he knew these, and hastened to 
 receive and welcome them. He told them 
 what a social party had collected, and in our 
 name, invited them to join us. The invita- 
 tion was accepted, and, in a short time, our 
 party was augmented by two ladies and a 
 gentleman. They consisted of Sir Julian and
 
 INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 Ladj Tressilian, and a friend of theirs, whom 
 we heard addressed as Ladj Morton, bj the 
 Major — whose recognition, I could see, was 
 not very calmlj received by her. 
 
 In the course of the evening, some conver- 
 sation having arisen as to the eccentricities 
 which are occasionally met with in various 
 ranks of life, the Major stated that he be- 
 lieved he could remember a friend's adven- 
 tures, which had terminated very happily, 
 owing to the eccentric notions of a well-known 
 original in a neighbouring town. It required 
 little persuasion to tempt him to relate the 
 anecdote, and, accordingly, he told it to us, in 
 manner such as I now endeavour to repeat it : —
 
 14 
 
 ENSIGN SIMMONDS, OF THE TENTH. 
 
 When railway trayeUing was undreamt of, 
 and mail coaches were " alone in their glorj/' 
 the ancient and sootj town of Sheffield rejoiced 
 in the possession of an inhabitant, named Mr. 
 Samuel Peach. To have enquired for him, how- 
 ever, by that appellation, would have been next 
 to useless. Not only in Sheffield, but throughout 
 the length and breath of the three Ridings of 
 Yorkshire, he was known, and familiarly spoken 
 of, as " Sam Peach, of the Angel coach-office,^' 
 just as people speak of " Tom Waddell, of the 
 Hen and Chickens, at Birmingham,'' or " Isaac 
 Taylor, of the Lion, at Shrewsbury."
 
 EXSIGN SIMMONDS. 15 
 
 Eccentric in man j things, yet with a dash of 
 quiet humour, and a most catholic spirit of 
 humanity in his nature, was this same Sam 
 Peach. He was wealthy, of course, for eccen- 
 tricity is too great a luxury for a poor man to 
 indulge in. Of the importance of his position, 
 as autocrat of the mail and ;stage coaches 
 which travelled to and from Sheffield, he had 
 a high opinion. Not having any connexion 
 with the Statistical Society, it would be impos- 
 sible to state, with the requisite fulness and 
 particularity of detail, how many of these 
 coaches he possessed — how many horses he 
 had " on the road," — how many quarters of 
 oats, and loads of hay, his cattle annually 
 consumed — how many miles per diem his car- 
 riages travelled — to how many families his 
 calling gave bread. Enough is it to say, that 
 Sam Peach, engrossing the "conveyancing de- 
 partment" in and from Sheffield, was considered 
 a very wealthy personage — the rather, perhaps, 
 because he studiously avoided the display of 
 riches. He had purchased some land in the 
 neighbourhood of Sheffield, extensive enough
 
 16 ENSIGN SIMMONDS. 
 
 to be called an estate. He always spoke of it 
 as " the farm," though the house he had erected 
 thereon, was of sufficiently imposing appear- 
 ance and extent, to make it sometimes taken 
 for the country seat of one of the squirearchy. 
 With that " order," Sam Peach had no desire 
 to be identified. Plain, and somewhat brusque 
 in his manner, he was proud of the business 
 by which he had acquired an independence, 
 and it is yet remembered as a fact, that, on 
 one occasion, when ^ distinguished commoner 
 in the neighbourhood, (since become a peer 
 and a Cabinet-minister,) addressed him as 
 "Samuel Peach, Esquire" the recipient, who 
 knew the writing, returned the letter to the 
 postman, with an endorsement, "not known at 
 the Angel coach-office!" 
 
 Wealth and integrity, backed by his eccen- 
 tricity, had made Sam Peach quite a popular 
 character in Sheffield. Never did any one 
 care less for popularity. His rule of conduct 
 was, to pursue the right, whatever should be- 
 tide. His very peculiarities "leaned to mercy's 
 side!" It was as much as any of his coach-
 
 OF THE TENTH. 17 
 
 men^s place was worth, for one of them to see 
 a tired foot-traveller on the road, and not im- 
 mediately '' pull up," and invite the way-farer 
 to a seat. The sterling character of the man 
 was estimated from the fact, that most of the 
 people around him had been in his employ- 
 ment for upwards of twenty years. 
 
 It is more than probable that Sam Peach 
 had never heard of the name and system of 
 Lavater, and yet it is certain that he had a 
 habit of taking likes and dislikes to people's 
 faces, which involved the putting them " inside 
 for outside fare," or for no fare, or the stout 
 refusal to take them inside or outside of any 
 of his coaches, at any price. 
 
 It 'happened, one sunny day in September, 
 1815, that Sam Peach was sitting in his 
 coach-office — " his custom ever of an after- 
 noon" — engaged in examining a ledger ; for 
 he used to say that, by attending to business, 
 he was pretty sure of business attending to 
 him. A gentleman came in and asked what 
 was the coach-fare to London 1 
 
 The booking-clerk, with pen across his. 
 
 YOL. I. C
 
 18 ENSIGN SIMMONDS 
 
 mouth, after the fashion of persons who 
 would fain appear exceedingly busy, answered, 
 " One pun' fifteen out ; two pun' ten in.'' 
 
 The traveller desired to be booked for an 
 outside place, if there were room. " Not one 
 seat taken,'' said the booking-clerk. 
 
 "I suppose I had better pay you here?" 
 enquired the traveller. 
 
 " Just as j/OM please," was the reply ; " only, 
 until we have the money, you neither put foot 
 into the coach, nor on it." 
 
 The money was accordingly disbursed out 
 of a not very plethoric purse. 
 
 " What name ?" asked the booking-clerk. 
 " What name '?" echoed the traveller. 
 " I thought I spoke plain enough," said the 
 clerk, sulkily. " What name are we to book 
 you by ? You have a name, I suppose ?' 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the traveller, with 
 a smile ; " but I have been for some years 
 where a man's name was the last thing 
 required from him. Put me down Ensign 
 Simmonds of the Tenth." 
 
 Mr. Simmonds was duly entered in the
 
 OF THE TENTH. 19 
 
 book, and thence in the waj-bill ? — Indeed he 
 was not ! 
 
 The moment that the traveller had described 
 himself as " Ensign Simmonds of the Tenth/' 
 Sam Peach closed the big ledger, with an 
 emphasis ^Yhich sounded not unlike a pistol 
 shot, — pushed the fat-headed booking-clerk 
 aside, — took his place, with a countenance 
 quite radiant with excitement, — and, in his 
 blandest tone, asked what name he should 
 enter in the daj-book. 
 
 " Ensign Simmonds of the Tenth/^ 
 
 " Well !" said Sam, in the subdued manner 
 of a man holding a confidential conversation 
 with himself. " Well ! m j ears did not de- 
 ceive me. What a singular thing this is, to be 
 sure/^ Then, addressing Mr. Simmonds, he 
 said, " In the army. Sir 1" 
 
 " Why, considering that I bear his Majest/s 
 commission, I think I may safely say that 
 I am." 
 
 " Seen any actual service V 
 
 " Yes ; two years in the Peninsula, and in 
 the last brush with the French at Waterloo.'^ 
 
 c2
 
 20 ENSIGN SIMMONDS 
 
 " Wonderful T exclaimed Sam Peach . " Got 
 a Waterloo medal V 
 
 "Aye, and a Waterloo wound. Indeed, I 
 have been at home since my return, getting 
 cured ; and now that I am on my legs again, I 
 am off to town to report myself at the Horse 
 Guards for duty. Our second battalion is to 
 be disbanded ; and as we are likely to have a 
 long peace, I am afraid I shall have some 
 difficulty in getting upon full pay in another 
 regiment." 
 
 " Then," said Sam Peach, rather anxiously, 
 "I suppose you are not bound to be at the 
 Horse Guards by any particular day 1" 
 
 Mr. Simmonds replied that he was not. 
 
 " That being the case, Sir," said Sam Peach, 
 " it can't make any great difference your not 
 being able to travel by any of my coaches this 
 afternoon '?" 
 
 " Not go '? — after paying for my seat !" 
 
 " Afraid not. All the seats are engaged." 
 
 Here the fat-headed book keeper chimed in 
 with " Not one on 'em. Only look at the 
 way-bill/^
 
 OP THE TENTH. 21 
 
 But Sam Peach pushed aside the officious 
 underling, and declared that he "was a stoopid, 
 who did not know what he was saying." Then, 
 resuming his conversation with Mr. Simmonds, 
 he added, " The fact is, Sir, all the seats are 
 engaged. But as you have paid your fare, I 
 am bound to send you forward in a post- 
 chaise, or make the delay of no loss to you. 
 My house is only a few miles out of town. I 
 shall feel gratified by your coming out to dine 
 with me to-day. In the morning, I shall drive 
 you in, if you like, and you can start for 
 London by any coach you please." 
 
 Vainly did Mr. Simmonds assure Sam Peach 
 that he had much rather proceed to London 
 without delay — that he did not wish to intrude 
 upon his hospitality — that he would prefer 
 remaining at the " Angel." Vainly, too, did 
 he endeavour to ascertain why (when there 
 evidently was no real impediment to his 
 immediate departure for London) Sam Peach 
 should wish to detain him. But Sam, deter- 
 mined to play the host, steadily declined 
 giving an explanation ; and the result was,
 
 22 ENSIGN SIMMONDS 
 
 that, at six o'clock that afternoon, Mr. Sim- 
 monds found himself at Sam Peach's table, 
 discussing what anj gentleman, even if he had 
 not campaigned in the Peninsula, and had 
 hospital fare at Brussels for some weeks after 
 the da J of Waterloo, would be justified in 
 considering an excellent dinner. 
 
 Such a thing as " taking the pledge " (except 
 at the " Lombard Arms") was not thought of 
 at that time ; and therefore a few glasses of 
 old wine did them no essential harm. Much 
 they talked — Ensign Simmonds, of the adven- 
 tures he had met with while on foreign 
 service ; and Sam Peach, who was a capital 
 listener, pleasantly keeping up the ball by 
 occasional shrewd questions and racy remarks. 
 At last — but this was about the conclusion of 
 the second bottle of that incomparable port, 
 which tasted like nectar, and smelt like a 
 bouquet — Sam Peach grew communicative 
 about himself; — told how he had risen to 
 opulence by industry, from a small commence- 
 ment ; and boasted how, far above his wealth, 
 he prized his only daughter. " YOu shall see
 
 OF THE TENTH. 23 
 
 her in the morning," said he ; " for I did not 
 like to introduce you until I saw whether my 
 first impressions would be confirmed on closer 
 acquaintance. It is not every one, I can tell 
 you, that I would introduce as my friend to 
 my daughter Mary." 
 
 A capital breakfast the next morning ; and 
 not the less pleasant because pretty Mary 
 Peach presided at the board, assisted, on such 
 social duties (as her mother had been dead for 
 many years), by a maiden aunt, who was. 
 neither skinny nor shrewish. 
 
 " Pleasant weather," observed Sam. " Are 
 you much of a sportsman V 
 
 *' Rather," said Mr. Simmonds. " We had 
 plenty of practice at the red-legged partridges 
 in the Peninsula. You should have seen how 
 Lord Wellington peppered them, when he had 
 nothing else to do !" 
 
 " WeU," said Sam, " unfortunately, I had 
 not the chance of seeing him. I think you 
 said, that you are not exactly tied to time as 
 to your being in London ; and if you can only 
 make up your mind not to start until to-
 
 24 ENSIGN SIMMONDS 
 
 morrow, there's a famous Joe Manton in the 
 hall. I happen to own the preserve across 
 yonder valley, and I can tell you that not a 
 gun has been fired there this season." 
 
 Mr. Simmonds remained for that day 1 — 
 To be sure he did. Fancy a young man of 
 five-and-twenty, who had been on foreign 
 service for three years, with a heart beating 
 quick and strong within his bosom, and (at 
 that time) not engaged in any particular love 
 afiair ! — fancy him suddenly thrown into the 
 society of Mary Peach — really a well-educated 
 and pretty, if not quite a beautiful girl ; — 
 pressed to make the place his home as long 
 as he pleased, and the quarters surprisingly 
 comfortable ! Fancy all this, and wonder, if 
 you can, at Mr. Simmonds quite forgetting 
 that he had ever disbursed " one pun' fifteen '' 
 for the outside fare to London. Then there 
 were such beautiful snatches of scenery all 
 along that Glossop Road, which Mary Peach 
 recommended him to look at, and to which 
 she kindly accompanied him, as he might not 
 be able to find them out without her assist-
 
 OF THE TENTH. 25 
 
 ance ; — and she had so much to ask, anil he 
 to tell her, about foreign countries, and the 
 perils he had been in — and she made him tell 
 her, again and again, how he had got his wound 
 at Waterloo — and she had such a pretty way 
 of seeming to listen with her dark grey eyes, 
 and — But I need not go on. It was a clear 
 case ! 
 
 " Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
 And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft." 
 
 In short, it had come to pass that Mr. Sim- 
 monds had a palpitation of the heart whenever 
 Mary Peach spoke to him, or looked at him. 
 
 "In love with her'?" you will say. You 
 know how it will end : — a scene with the 
 lady — a blush or two — half a dozen tears — 
 the whole to conclude, with a whispered, 
 " Speak to my father !" 
 
 Not exactly so ; for when our hero found 
 that he was in love, he took the opportunity of 
 speaking to Sam Peach, before he mentioned 
 a word of the matter to the lady. 
 
 You will think that he was in a pretty 
 passion, no doubt 1
 
 26 EN"SIGN SIMMOOTDS 
 
 Wrong again. Sam told Mr. Simmonds that 
 he had been expecting something of the kind, 
 having full use of his eyes and ears ; that, 
 under this expectation, he had made inquiries 
 as to Mr. Simmonds and his prospects ; that 
 he was satisfied with what he had heard ; and, 
 if Mr. Simmonds could obtain the lad/s con- 
 sent, no man upon earth would be more ac- 
 ceptable as a son-in-law. 
 
 Shortly after, Mr. Simmonds and Mary 
 Peach were united — she being too good a 
 daughter to decline giving an acceptable son- 
 in-law to her father. What fortune she had 
 was never exactly known ; but they drove off 
 from church in a handsome chariot-and-four, 
 which Sam Peach had presented to " the 
 happy couple ;" and just as the bridegroom 
 was about stepping into the vehicle, where sat 
 the bride, all beauty and blonde, Sam Peach 
 delivered himself as follows : — 
 
 " Simmonds, you never asked me what I 
 saw in you, when we first met, to take a fancy 
 to you, and bring you home with me. Know, 
 then, that in the five-and-thirty years I have
 
 OP THE TENTH. 27 
 
 been at the head of the coaching in Sheffield, 
 I have had hundreds of military men in my 
 office, to be booked for places — generals, colonels, 
 majors, and a crowd of captains ; — but you 
 were the only Ensign that ever came across 
 me! For the singularity of the thing, I 
 thought that phenomenon worthy of a good 
 dinner ; and your own good qualities have 
 done the rest. Good bye now — God bless 
 yon! — and let me hear from you and Mary 
 every day !" 
 
 " I knew Sam Peach very well," continued 
 the Major. " He was full of oddities. One 
 peculiarity was that each of his cattle should 
 have one day's rest every week. AVithout 
 considerable inconvenience to the public and 
 loss to himself, his equine friends could not all 
 rest on the same day — therefore, a score ceased 
 from labour on Monday, a score on Tuesday, 
 and so on. His motto was, * The merciful man 
 is merciful to his beast." There is no doubt
 
 28 ENSIGN SIMMONDS. 
 
 that the anecdote I have now told you had a 
 foundation in truth/^ 
 
 " Perhaps," said Crayon, " few books would 
 be more amusing than a veritable innkeeper's 
 Album, relating circumstances which had oc- 
 curred in different hostelries, and describing 
 peculiar traits of character as exhibited by 
 ' mine host' in different towns. I recollect 
 hearing an American gentleman tell a story 
 in which an English Boniface of his father's 
 day figures very favourably. With your leave, 
 I will repeat it."
 
 29 
 
 II. 
 
 THE BUSH GUINEA. 
 
 A famous place, formerly, when Bristol had 
 a fair share of trade and commerce, monopo- 
 lizing a great portion of the West India trade, 
 was the Bush Inn, kept by a true hearted, 
 honest, downright man named John Weeks. 
 At the time of which I speak, this inn- 
 keeper was not very wealthy, though he de- 
 served to be. The poor largely benefited by 
 his charity, and it was djscovered, — not until 
 after his death, for he was one of whom it might 
 literally be said that his right hand knew not 
 what his left hand did — that several decayed 
 housekeepers were largely indebted to his
 
 30 THE BUSH GUINEA. 
 
 benevolence for food, clothes, fuel and money 
 during the hard season of winter in particular, 
 and at all times in general. In the Bush Inn 
 there was a miglity kitchen — it is there jet, I 
 presume, if the house be kept up as an inn* — 
 down the centre of which extended a mam- 
 moth table. It was the delight of this Boni- 
 face, on every Christmas Day, to cover this 
 great table with a glorious load of roast beef 
 and plum-pudding, flanked, most plenteously, 
 with double home-brewed, of such mighty 
 strength and glorious flavour, that one might 
 well have called it malt-wine, rather than 
 malt-liquor. At this table, on that day, every 
 one who pleased was welcomed to sit down 
 and feast. Many to whom a good dinner was 
 an object did so ; and no nobler sight was there 
 in Bristol, amid all its wealth and hospitality, 
 than that of honest John Weeks at the head 
 of his table, lustily carving and earnestly press- 
 ing his guests to " eat, drink, and be merry.'' 
 Nor did his generosity content itself with this. 
 
 * The Bush Inn, at Bristol, has lately been converted 
 into chambers and offices.
 
 THE BUSH GUINEA. 31 
 
 It was the custom of the house, and of the 
 day, when the repast was ended, and the 
 guests had drank some toasts, commencing 
 with " The King, God bless him," (and be 
 sure that their gratitude did not forget their 
 generous entertainer,) that each person should 
 go to honest John Weeks, in the bar, and 
 there receive his cordial wishes for many 
 happy returns of the genial season. They re- 
 ceived something more — for, according to their 
 several necessities, a small gift in money was 
 pressed upon each. To one man a crown — ^to 
 another half-a-guinea — to a third, as more 
 needing it, a guinea. On the whole, some 
 twenty or thirty guineas was thus dispensed. 
 The gross amount might not be much, but the 
 good done was great, and on that one day, 
 perhaps, John Weeks thus expended in all 
 as much as a tithe of his annual income : — 
 less, it might be, than many a plethoric Alder- 
 man lavished on a single entertainment to 
 persons of his own rank who did not require, 
 and would scarcely thank him for it. 
 
 On one particular year, it had been no-
 
 32 THE BUSH GUINEA. 
 
 ticed, during tlie inontlis of November and 
 December, that a middle-aged man, whom no 
 frequenter of the Bush Inn appeared to know, 
 and who appeared to know no one, used to 
 visit the coffee-room about noon every day, 
 and, calling for a sixpenny glass of brandy 
 and water, sit over it until he had carefully 
 gone through the perusal of the London paper 
 of the preceding evening, which used to arrive 
 about an hour before his visit, owing to Mr. 
 Palmer's, then recent, acceleration of mail- 
 coach travelling from five to eight miles an 
 hour — a novelty which, at that time, was con- 
 sidered to be the accomplishment of very 
 extraordinary speed. In those days, a London 
 newspaper was a noticeable thing, even in 
 Bristol, which was far beyond its provincial 
 contemporaries in newspaper wealth, having 
 four papers — Felix Farley's, the Gazette, the 
 Mirror, and the Mercury — while Liverpool 
 men had only two. The landlord of the Bush, 
 seeing how anxious the reduced gentleman was 
 to read the London paper, made it be under- 
 stood that while he had it " in hand/' no one
 
 THE BUSH GUINEA. 33 
 
 else was to expect it. And thus, without 
 being pressed for time, the reduced gentleman 
 was allowed to read his paper at his ease, 
 whicli he did, apparently commencing with the 
 title on the first page, and ending with the 
 imprint on the last. 
 
 Garments in that state, which though not 
 actually "shabby," may be described as "seedy," 
 a beaver, which, most rusty and napless, was 
 carefully brushed, — faded gloves, — spatter- 
 dashes of doubtful hue, covering shoes which 
 appeared to have been made for a much larger 
 man — plain buckles — a lean body — a con- 
 firmed stoop— and a limited expenditure of 
 the single sixpence every day, without any 
 gratuity to the waiter, very clearly intimated 
 that the newspaper reader was one of the 
 class called "poor gentlemen," and by that 
 appellation he soon came to be distinguished. 
 If a customer asked for the London paper, it 
 was sufficient to say, " the decayed gentleman^ 
 has it in hand." 
 
 On Christmas eve, honest John Weeks, 
 anxious that " the decayed gentleman" should 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE BUSH GUINEA. 
 
 have one good meal, at least, in the Bush, ad- 
 dressed him as he was quitting the coffee-room, 
 and delicately intimated that, on the following 
 day, he kept open table, at which all who could 
 not obtain good Christmas dinners at home, 
 were very welcome to sit down, free of cost. 
 The "decayed gentleman" looked at the inn- 
 keeper with some surprise, and smiled — but he 
 presently recovered himself, and retired with- 
 out saying a word, simply bowing his acknow- 
 ledgement. If there had been any doubt of 
 his condition, it was at an end on the next day, 
 when, punctually at one o'clock, being the ap- 
 pointed hour, he appeared at the Bush, in his 
 usual seedy attire. In virtue of his being 
 a stranger there, and the appearance of having 
 seen better days, he was honoured with a seat 
 at the upper end of the long table, even next 
 to John Weeks himself. He partook of the 
 good dinner with the apparent relish of a man 
 to whom such a feast had long been a novelty, 
 and duly did justice to the " stunning ale," for 
 which, far and near, the Bush was famous. 
 Now and then, the landlord had snatches of
 
 THE BUSH GUIisEA. 35 
 
 conyersation witli him, and yerj soon perceived 
 that "the decayed gentleman'' was shrewd in 
 his remarks, and had evidently sat at rich 
 men's tables at one period of his life. 
 
 The dinner was concluded. The landlord 
 retired to his bar, into which, one after one, 
 straggled his guests, and then received the; 
 various money - doles, which John Weeks' 
 knowledge of their respective wants had pro- 
 vided, and apportioned for each. The "de- 
 cayed gentleman " remained the last at the long 
 table — a kind-hearted waiter, who knew how 
 much he liked to read the London paper, 
 and knew, also, that he had not visited the 
 coffee-room that morning, had brought down 
 the broad-sheet, Cow per 's folio of four pages, 
 and " the decayed gentleman" read it, in the 
 kitchen, after his dinner, with as true a sense 
 of enjoyment as my Lord Duke could have 
 perused it in his palatial library. Presently, 
 there came a message from some civic 
 functionary, desiring the attendance of the 
 landlord of the Bush, to receive instructions 
 about a feast which was to be given at the 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE BUSH GUINEA. 
 
 Mansion House, on the new year, and to be 
 provided from the Bush. Therefore, when 
 departing to attend to this important sum- 
 mons, John Weeks called his head-waiter, a 
 sagacious, well-powdered, steady man, to whom 
 he confidentially entrusted the donation which 
 he had set aside for "the decayed gentleman," 
 and with it were many instructions to exercise 
 great delicacy in handing him the gift, " for," 
 said John Weeks, "it is very evident that 
 he has seen better days, and we should have a 
 regard for his feelings, Morris, particularly as 
 he is a stranger in the city." Thus saying, he 
 departed, and faithful Morris remained to exe- 
 cute his delicate and holy mission. 
 
 Just as "the decayed gentleman" was leaving 
 the house, and when there was no witness of 
 their interview, Morris blandly and respectfully 
 accosted him, and slipping a guinea into his 
 hand, said " My master requests, sir, that you 
 will do him the favour to accept this, and he 
 is sorry that his being called away causes it 
 to come through my hands ! " The money 
 rested in the palm of " the decayed gentleman."
 
 THE BUSH GUINEA. 37 
 
 He looked at the gold — he then looked at the 
 waiter, — he looked at the gold again. Morris 
 thought, at first, that he intended returning it. 
 But " the decayed gentleman," quietly put it 
 into his waistcoat pocket, from which he drew a 
 card, which he handed to Morris, saying " my 
 compliments to your master, and my thanks. 
 This is my name and address, and if he should 
 ever come my way, or think that I can do 
 him any service, I beg, that he will call upon 
 me, or write." He buttoned his coat, went 
 away, and, from that day to this, was never 
 again seen in the coffee-room of the Bush. The 
 inscription on the card was simply " Thomas 
 CouTTS, 59, Steand." The owner had come 
 to Bristol on some very particular business, 
 and it was his humour to live there in an 
 humble manner. 
 
 In a short time, John Weeks, to the sur- 
 prise of the Bristolians, purchased the Bush 
 Inn, at a large price, from Griffith Maskelyne, 
 the owner. Next, he embarked largely in the 
 coaching and posting department, and throve 
 abundantly. Soon after, when a bargain was
 
 38 THE BUSH GUINEA. 
 
 to be had of some land belonging to the Cor- 
 poration, the purchaser was John Weeks, who 
 let it off for building leases, bj which he ob- 
 tained full twelve per cent, for his investment. 
 Finally, having acquired a competency, he with- 
 drew from business, and went to live on an 
 estate which he had purchased at Shirehamp- 
 ton. No one exactly knew how he had 
 obtained the capital to embark in great specu- 
 lations so largely as he did, — but his drafts 
 upon Coutts and Company, 59, Strand, were 
 duly honoured, and to this day, among the 
 heirlooms which she most particularly prizes, 
 the Duchess of St. Albans, widow of Thomas 
 Coutts, shows a coin, richly mounted in a 
 gorgeous bracelet, which coin bears the name of 
 " The Bush Guinea.'' 
 
 Thanks were duly given to the Artist for his 
 anecdote, and after some conversation respect- 
 ing Mr. Coutts, the Millionaire, who had more 
 than once received charity from persons whom
 
 THE BUSH GUINEA. 39 
 
 his povertj-stricken dress and attenuated form 
 had seduced into the idea that he was a poor 
 man, too proud to beg, Mr. Butler, the Novehst, 
 said that apropos of Millionaires, he believed 
 he could recollect a story relating to a gentle- 
 man of this order of men, which, like what 
 we had just heard, had the merit of brevity, 
 at any rate. We gladly accepted the volun- 
 teer, whose story ran to this effect : —
 
 40 
 
 III. 
 LE MILLIONAIRE MALGRE LUI. 
 
 Some years ago, I spent six weeks at Lyons, 
 waiting the arrival of a friend, whom I was to 
 accompany to Naples. Old • cities, old books, 
 and old friends, are what exactly suit my taste. 
 Therefore, Lyons — the mural queen of South 
 Eastern France, — was calculated to challenge 
 my attention. During nineteen eventful cen- 
 turies, a crowd of historical associations have 
 become linked with the city of Lyons ; anti- 
 quity is deeply furrowed on its aspect ; its 
 commercial operations have made it a stir- 
 ring and wealthy place ; its public institutions 
 and edifices, are unsurpassed, out of Paris ;
 
 LE MILLIONAIRE MALGEE LUI. 41 
 
 its approaches (either from Chalons or Mar- 
 seilles,) are through a lovely country, which 
 seems like a rich vineyard, skirted and shel- 
 tered by hills ; and its inhabitants, enriched 
 by industry, are hospitable and friendly. Is 
 it wonderful, tlien, that Lyons is a place of 
 which I keep a grateful and pleasant memory '? 
 Loving to loiter in a strange city, here I 
 indulged my humour to the full, and sauntered 
 in and about Lyons, until I knew it so well, 
 that, at this moment, I believe, I could draw 
 a plan of the place from mere recollection. It 
 was pleasant to cross and recross, view and 
 review its six bridges over the sluggish Saone, 
 and its three over the more rapid Rhone ; to 
 pace through its fifty-nine squares, with an 
 almost daily visit of admiration to La Bellecour, 
 (one of the finest in Europe.) graced by the 
 noble statue of tliat Louis,'"' whose regal boast, 
 " L'etat c'est moij'vi SiS s carcely an exaggeration ; 
 to hunt for antiquities where the Forum Tra- 
 
 '^- Louis XIV., who, for more than half a century 
 after the death of Cardinal Mazarine, governed without 
 a prime minister.
 
 42 LE MILLIONAIRE 
 
 jani liad stood ; to examine the Hotel de 
 Ville, inferior only to the palatial to^n-house 
 of Amsterdam ; to copy the most outre in- 
 scriptions on the monuments which embellish 
 the beautiful Necropolis upon the hill of 
 Fourvieres ; to feel the " religio loci," while 
 listening with hushed awe to the sweet and 
 solemn 
 
 " Stabat mater dolorosa," 
 
 or the yet more touching swell of the 
 
 " Dies irae, dies ilia," 
 
 reverberating from harmonious voices through 
 the Gothic aisles of the Cathedral of St. John ; 
 or to regret that the then recent fall of the 
 tall tower of Pitrat,t prevented my viewing to 
 
 I This tower was erected on an elevation to the 
 north of the city, for an observatory, and fell down in 
 1828. It has been re-erected, and rises to the height 
 of 625 French feet above the river. The view from, 
 this is unequalled of its kind. Lyons lies at your feet, 
 spread along the banks of the Saone and the Rhone, 
 which meet here. The city covers the peninsula 
 between, and appears as the nucleus of a A'ast popu- 
 lation, hived in clusters of villages, Mhich join its 
 suburbs, and gradually break up into hamlets, manu-
 
 MALGR^ LTJI. 43 
 
 the best advantage, the natural panorama of 
 Lyons, and the beautiful country around it. 
 
 After all, these loiterings were merely epi- 
 sodal in my life at Lyons, after I had dis- 
 covered that the library there, one of the 
 finest in France, was especially rich in manu- 
 scripts and books, upon what the elder Disraeli 
 names as three of the six " follies of science," 
 — alchemy, astrology, and magic. These are 
 among the most graceful superstitions of our 
 forefathers, and I confess that I have long had 
 a strong curiosity to learn what it was by 
 which gifted minds, a few centuries ago, were 
 held in a strong and over-mastering thrall. 
 The public library of Lyons, rich in this pecu- 
 liar lore, afforded ample opportunity of re- 
 search, and I spent many an hour in attempt- 
 factories, and chateaux. Many of the latter may be 
 observed ten miles off, delightfully situated on the 
 southern and western declivities of the hills which gird 
 the plain. Far beyond, and towering above the north- 
 eastern bound, Mount Jura and the eastern range of 
 the Alps are visible, and, superior to them all, at the 
 distance of a hundred miles, Mont Blanc may be seen, 
 like a huge cloud between the gazer and the verge of 
 the horizon.
 
 44 LE MILLIONAIRE 
 
 ing to deciplier and comprehend the myste- 
 rious revelations by which Geber, Artephius, 
 and Nicholas Flam el communicated how they 
 had made the w^onderful Powder of Projection, 
 by w^hich the meaner metals were transmuted 
 to gold, and that Elixir, not less W'Onderful, 
 which was at once to renew the springs of 
 life, and bestow the boon of immortality! 
 There, too, I read of the Cabala, — wdth their 
 ten numerations called Sephiroth, their holy 
 Sigils, their sacred Pentacles, and the Tables 
 of Ziruph, or magic roll-call of the seventy-two 
 Angels, whose names are duly recorded by 
 Cornelius Agrippa and others, as if they were 
 in the habit of daily communication with them. 
 And there, above all, I had an opportunity of 
 examining what is treasured as an autograph 
 of the famous Astronomical tables of King 
 Alfonso'". 
 
 To me, much loving the wild imaginings by 
 which our elders were self-deceived, there 
 was a great deal of interest in such literary 
 
 '^'' Iving of Castile and Leon, in the thirteenth cen- 
 tury. He was surnamed El Sahio, or the Learned.
 
 MALGRE LUl. 45 
 
 rarities as I have mentioned. To examine 
 them was fitting occupation for an idle man, 
 fond of raising Chateaux d'Espagne of a dif- 
 ferent order for himself, and who regarded the 
 splendid follies of science as the spraj dashed 
 up bj the adventurous diver, who boldly and 
 blindly seeks the pearl of Truth in the ocean 
 of Conjecture. 
 
 It happened, fortunately for the peculiar 
 course of inquiry I had fallen upon, that Mon- 
 sieur Jean Hervieu, one of the sub-librarians, 
 was something more than a mere hander-out 
 of volumes. He soon saw into what line my 
 researches traversed, and saved me a world of 
 useless trouble, by placing before me, at once, 
 all that was richest and choicest in that pecu- 
 liar line. When I left Lyons, I had many 
 regrets, for I had made friendships there, which 
 yet continue; but my chief sorrow was that 
 poor Hervieu, with abilities and tastes of a 
 high order, should be lost in a petty situation 
 so much below his merits. 
 
 Two years passed, and I came to winter at 
 Paris ; a step which I recommend none to take
 
 46; LE MILLIONAIRE 
 
 unless thej are enamoured of Arctic tempe- 
 rature. Shortly after my arrival, I met with, 
 my quondam acquaintance, the sub-librarian 
 of Lyons. He was much changed. He had 
 reached the dignity of wearing a coat out of 
 the mode, which none but a wealthy man can 
 afford to do. His manners, too, now had the 
 ease and self-possession of one who has not 
 only an account at Lafitte's, but a pretty 
 considerable balance on the credit side. A 
 few days afterwards, while discussing some 
 unexceptionable Burgundy, with all the 
 sobriety that regal wine deserves, at Mon- 
 sieur Hervieu's country house, within a couple 
 of leagues from Paris, the secret of this change 
 was explained by him in nearly the following 
 words. 
 
 " I perceive, my dear friend, that you won- 
 der how I happen to have these comforts 
 about me ; how I have advanced to the dignity 
 of a millionaire. In truth, it is what I often 
 find myself wondering at. My fortune was
 
 MALGRE LUI. 47 
 
 made bj accident, — in spite of myself, — in a 
 word, as fortunes scarcely ever are made. 
 
 " When you knew me, two years ago, I 
 contrived to exist upon eight hundred francs 
 a year'-', and, though not very extravagant, 
 had a few debts, which it had been as easy to 
 incur, as I found it difficult to pay. Two 
 acquaintances were spending an evening with 
 me, when the portier brought up an account 
 from — my tailor. I had no means of settling 
 it, but the ready answer came, ' bid him call 
 to-morrow.' The bill threw a damp over all 
 of us, — for our circumstances were much alike, 
 — and our gaiety took wing." 
 
 " ' It is a pity,' said Louis Boyer, 'it is a 
 pity that we have neither wealth nor the 
 reputation of it, which is just as good. What 
 a lucky thing it would be if some unknown 
 relation were to turn up, and. bequeath a 
 fortune to one of us ! ' 
 
 " ' There's little chance of that,' said Charles 
 Berget; 'for my part, I have not a relation 
 in the world.' 
 
 * About £33 65. 8c/.
 
 48 LE MILLIONAIRE 
 
 " ' And for mine/ I observed, ' matters are 
 very much the same way; but I remember 
 bearing my father speak of a nephew of his 
 who went to Cuba or Martinique, when I was 
 a child. Nothing was ever heard of him 
 since/ 
 
 "•'Famous!' cried Louis Boyer, clapping his 
 hands; 'I have it all. We must bring him 
 on the stage, endow him with immense 
 wealth, and, as he must be childless, make 
 him inquire after an heir, and find you not 
 only next of blood, but his only relation. In 
 one word, my dear friend, we must make you 
 ' a young man of brilliant expectations,' with 
 a rich, liver-diseased cousin in the West Indies, 
 who has declared you his heir!' 
 
 " ' No, no ! ' chimed in Berget, with a laugh, 
 ' this ' expectation ' story will not do. The rich 
 cousin must die; so — write his epitaph forth- 
 with! Let me see: Jacques Hervieu leaves 
 Marseilles twenty-five years ago, goes to Mar- 
 tinique, makes a splendid fortune there, leaves 
 five sugar-plantations, and liundreds of negroes, 
 to his cousin Jean Hervieu, of Lyons. The
 
 MALGRE LUI. 49 
 
 whole are worth two millions of francs, at 
 least. Give me jour hand, my dear Jean! 
 I wish you joj of your change of fortune. 
 And now, mon cher, we must drink your 
 health/ 
 
 " ' Of course/ said Louis Bojer : ' and praj, 
 now that he is at the top of the ladder, that 
 he will not forget those who were his friends 
 in misfortune !^ 
 
 " * Depend on me T was mj laughing reply. 
 Then, keeping up the jest, we drank to the 
 memory of Jacques Hervieu, and to the health 
 of his heir : in effect. Monsieur, we had a very 
 pleasant evening. 
 
 " I was making m j toilet next morning, when 
 the door of mj attic was dashed in, and half a 
 score of mj young acquaintances rushed to 
 me. 
 
 " ' We wish you joj, Hervieu !' they all cried 
 out, with one accord. 
 
 " ' Joy 1 my dear friends !' 
 
 " ' That you should become heir to such a 
 large fortune !' 
 
 " * 1 do assure you ' 
 
 YOL. I. E
 
 S^9 LE MILLIONAIEB 
 
 " * Just at the time, too, when Colonial pro- 
 duce has become so yaluable !' 
 
 '" * Believe me, it is only a joke ' 
 
 " ' Come, come,' said half a dozen Yoices, at 
 once, ' this will not do. You owe us a fete 
 on getting this windfall, and must not try ta 
 creep out of it. Where shall we have it, and 
 whenr 
 
 " I scarcely know how I got rid of them alL 
 But I shook them off at last. Presently I 
 heard some one at the door ; * Come in !' — it 
 was one of them come back to borrow a few 
 hundred francs. 
 
 " ' My dear fellow, I have not five francs in 
 the world/ 
 
 " ' I see. Your remittances from Martinique 
 haye not yet come to hand." 
 
 " ^ Indeed they have not,' said I, with a sigh.. 
 ^The borrower took his leave with some forma- 
 lity ; the very report of wealth had already 
 placed a gulf between me and my fellows. 
 
 •' The news ran through Lyons like wildfire. 
 I had quite a levee during that forenoon. The 
 worst was, it was quite useless to protest —
 
 MALGEE LUI. 51 
 
 eyerj one took it for granted that I had be- 
 come a rich man. It was recollected that I 
 had a cousin named Jacques Hervieu, who had 
 gone abroad early in the Consulate. There 
 was an old sailor who had even seen him take 
 ship at Marseilles, for Martinique — or some 
 other foreign place. All the rest followed of 
 course, that he had made a large fortune, and 
 had bequeathed the whole of it to me ! 
 
 " At last, I was again alone. There came a 
 gentle tap at the door. Who can this be ? 
 thought I. It was mj tailor. He sent no 
 ' little account,' this time. He no longer 
 dunned bj deputy. He, too, had heard of my 
 good luck, and came for his money, no doubt I 
 I too well remembered that I had sent a mes- 
 sage for him to call for his fifty francs. 
 
 " ' Good morning. Monsieur Passy,' said I, 
 
 * you have come for your money X 
 
 " * Surely,' said the broad-cloth artist, wilii 
 a bow, and a grimace meant for a smile, 
 
 * Surely, Monsieur will not trouble himself 
 about that trifle. You wiU permit me to 
 measure you for the mourning.' 
 
 B 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF iOiwu.
 
 52 LE MILLIONAIRE 
 
 " At the moment, I had forgotten that there 
 was such a place as Martinique ! Quite me- 
 chanically I allowed him to measure me, 
 scarcely heeding what he said. But, when he 
 declared that he could not have more than one 
 suit finished that evening, I thought it right to 
 put an end to the folly. 
 
 " ' I assure you, Monsieur Passy, I have re- 
 ceived no money.' 
 
 " ' Monsieur is too considerate. I beg he will 
 not speak of payment. But,' he continued, 
 ' Monsieur can do me a great service. You 
 know my house ; it is a fine building. Buy it 
 of me ! I want ready money. You are very 
 rich. Fifty thousand francs are nothing to 
 Monsieur. You will want real property to invest 
 your great capital in. I shall become bankrupt 
 for want of some ready money. M. Bonnet has 
 proposed to buy it, but is so long making up 
 his mind, that I shall be ruined before he 
 decides. 
 
 " ' But why should I buy your house V 
 
 *' * Because Monsieur may not only serve me 
 very much, but also get an excellent investment
 
 MALGRIE LUI. 6S 
 
 for himself. It 'will be worth double tlie moDey 
 in a few years. Thank you, Monsieur.' The 
 man of measures hurried off before I could say a 
 word, and proclaimed, far and near, that I had 
 bought his house ! 
 
 " Half an hour after he had quitted me, M. 
 Bonnet, who was very rich and miserly, did 
 me the honour to call. He made his congra- 
 tulations upon my good fortune, and said, 
 * You are an excellent man of business. Mon- 
 sieur Hervieu, and a prompt one. I live next 
 door to Passy, and want his house. I was 
 sure of it. I had offered him forty-five thou- 
 sand francs, and knew he could not hold 
 out. You have outbid me, and as I know it 
 would be vain to attempt starving out you 
 into a bargain, I shall be frank with you, and 
 offer you fifteen thousand francs upon your 
 purchase.' 
 
 " I did not jump from my seat in surprise — 
 because the events of the morning had pre- 
 pared me for almost anything. I had presence 
 of mind, and sufficient prudence to suppress my 
 emotion, and affect indifference. I requested
 
 54 LE MILLIOJTArRE 
 
 M. Bonnet to call on me in an hour. He was 
 punctual. 
 
 " ' M. Bonnet/ said I, with the grayitj of a 
 man of business, ' I do not actuallj require 
 the house, and jou maj have it on jour own 
 terms/ He grasped mj hand with energy, 
 declared that he was much indebted to 
 what he called mj ' great kindness ;' and 
 drawing from his pocket-book, fifteen thousand 
 francs in bills on Paris at thirty days, added, 
 ' Here is your premium, Monsieur. You shall 
 bare no farther trouble in the business, as I 
 shall pay your purchase money to Passy.' 
 
 " A few years before, I had receiyed a small 
 legacy from a distant relation through a com- 
 mercial house in Paris, the only firm in that 
 city whose name I knew, — the only one ac- 
 quainted with mine. I wrote, accordingly, 
 requesting their advice as to the investment of 
 some funds. I had an answer by return of 
 post, telling me that my letter had reached 
 them when the book for the Spanish loan, in 
 which their house had a share, was closing ; 
 and, as the investment was a very promising
 
 MALGR]^ LUI. 55 
 
 one, the J had reserved an interest of fifty thou- 
 sand piastres for me I If I did not like that 
 investment, I could readily and profitably sell 
 out at any time, as that stock was rising. M. 
 Mignon, the head of the house, appended a 
 postscript, in his own hand-writing, congratu- 
 latiDg me on my recent good fortune, and 
 giving me the assurance of his personal desire 
 to be of service to me in any mode. Lo ! the 
 Martinique romance had taken wing to Paris. 
 
 " Fifty thousand piastres ! The amount of 
 the sum startled me. What should I have 
 thought had I known that, instead of this being 
 the sum invested, as I believed, it was only 
 the annual interest of my investment! I 
 •wrote to say that they had made a greater 
 purchase than I desired. 
 
 " I had a prompt reply, stating that they had 
 obeyed my intimation, — sold out half my in- 
 vestment, at a premium of a hundred and sixty 
 thousand francs, — taken the liberty of reserving 
 thirty shares of the new joint- stock bank in 
 Holland, which was certain to head the money- 
 market before any call was made, — would insist
 
 66 LE MILLIONAIRE 
 
 on making investments for me whenever pro- 
 fitable opportunities warranted speculation on 
 their own account, — and begged to add that, 
 fully aware of the difficulty of an immediate 
 settlement of a gi-eat colonial property, they 
 had opened a credit to my account with their 
 house, which I might use to any extent. 
 
 " This was all very puzzling. A hundred and 
 fifty thousand livres ! Profits, and invest- 
 ments, and credits ! I could make nothing of 
 it, except to suspect that Mignon and Company 
 of Paris had lost their senses. 
 
 " In the mean time, I was the lion of Lyons. 
 My mourning suit was a proof positive of my 
 heirship. I was teased with calls of con- 
 dolence and congratulation. The newspapers 
 gave anecdotes of my cousin Jacques, and 
 memoirs of myself. Heaps of relations sprung 
 up on all sides, claiming gifts and loans. Yet, 
 with the reputation of possessing immense 
 wealth, I was actually in want of money for 
 my daily expenses, having nothing but M. 
 Bonnet's bills, which, from an utter ignorance 
 of business, I did not know how to discount
 
 MALGRE LUI. 57 
 
 into current cash. Mj place in the library 
 had been filled without consulting me. But I 
 was rich, and people contended for the honour 
 of mj patronage. I still lived in mj cheap 
 attic ; but that was put down to great 
 humility, or charming eccentricity. I was in 
 high credit, and quite perplexed with my 
 situation. I resolved to go to Paris, and a 
 wealthy manufacturer, who was about pro- 
 ceeding thither, said he would be highly flat- 
 tered by my accepting a seat in his caleche, 
 which I did, and completely won his heart by 
 allowing him to defray all the expenses of the 
 journey. I afterwards found that he had a 
 strong notion of becoming my father-in-law — 
 if he could ! 
 
 " M. Mignon and his partners received me 
 with all the respect due to the reputed pos- 
 sessor of two millions of francs. Then, like 
 proper men of business, they opened their 
 books. 
 
 " ' The Spanish stock is still rising,' said 
 M. Mignon. ' I am sorry that Monsieur dis- 
 trusted it.'
 
 58 LE MILLIONAIRE 
 
 " ' What may be the exact value of mj re- 
 maining stock in the Spanish funds V 
 
 " ' Your account stands thus/ replied M. 
 Mignon, ' taking it in round numbers. The 
 Spanish stock, if sold now, would pay jou 
 four hundred thousand francs. We saw occa- 
 sion to put jour name down for a hundred shares 
 in the new bank ; each share is worth an advance 
 of four hundred and fifty florins — say about a 
 hundred and fifty thousand francs more/ 
 
 " ' Without my having paid anything V 
 
 " ' Certainly.' 
 
 " ' How could I realize these profits, and 
 make a good permanent investment of them V 
 
 " ' Nothing safer, if Monsieur will take up his 
 profits now, than our Five per Cents : the 
 actual rate is more than six. You have four 
 hundred thousand francs in the Spanish, a 
 hundred and twenty thousand Dutch, a hun- 
 dred and sixty thousand by the first sale of 
 Spanish — total, nearly six hundred thousand : 
 income thirty-six thousand, say forty thousand 
 francs per annum, in round numbers/ 
 
 " ' And when can this be invested V
 
 MALGRE LUI. 59 
 
 " ' Whenever Monsieur pleases. Will he 
 favour our house with the negociation V 
 
 " ' Assuredly, M. Mignon. You are entitled 
 to my fullest confidence/ 
 
 " The banker bowed his thanks for the com- 
 pliment — and the commission. He placed a 
 checkbook before me, requesting me to draw 
 any sum for present demands that I required. 
 Not until that happy moment did I realize the 
 truth of the good fortune which had literally 
 been forced upon me. I accepted M. Mignon's 
 pressing invitation to make his house my abode 
 while I remained in Paris. When my funds 
 were invested, including M. Bonnet's bills for 
 the fifteen thousand francs, I found my prin- 
 cipal in the Five per Cents yielding me forty 
 thousand francs a year. I had sent down to 
 hire a chateau near Lyons, and, bidding adieu 
 to my friendly bankers, proceeded to take pos- 
 session of it. 
 
 " My return from Paris was immediately 
 known at Lyons. My friends Boyer and 
 Berget — who had seen with consternation 
 what full credence their Martinique romance
 
 60 LE MILLIONAIRE 
 
 had obtained — knew not what to think when 
 the J heard of mj having gone to Paris ; the 
 general rumour being that I had taken the 
 journey for the purpose of proving my cousin's 
 will. I cannot suppose that they fancied I was 
 mad enough to believe tlie heirship they had 
 invented. 
 
 " They thought it right to call upon me. My 
 house, my furniture, my caleche, my greys, 
 my servants, successively astonished them. I 
 amused myself with their surprise for a few 
 hours, and undeceived them, at last. They 
 were indeed surprised, and warmly compli- 
 mented me on the ability, which, they said, 
 I had displayed. No — I had merely turned 
 circumstances to good account. 
 
 " I had another visit about this time. It was 
 from M. Felix, an old friend of mine. He 
 was a manufacturer in moderate circumstances 
 who had known me from childhood. * I paid 
 you no visit, my dear Jean,' said he, ' while I 
 believed that a golden shower had fallen upon 
 you. But I call upon you now, to say that it 
 is time this farce were at an end. Where-
 
 MALGRB LUI. 61 
 
 ever I go, I hear it whispered that you have 
 lost your senses, or are willingly lending your- 
 self to a monstrous cheat. I might have be- 
 lieved what every one says ; but poor Louise — 
 you have not forgotten Louise 1 — declares that 
 she is certain your principles are not corrupted, 
 and that, if the whole matter be a cheat, as, 
 indeed, it seems to be, you are more deceived 
 than deceiving. Give over this matter, my 
 dear Jean. If you want money to settle your- 
 self in the world, in an honest way, I will lend 
 you what I can spare, and in a few years you 
 may retrieve your character as an honest man/ 
 
 " * And dear Louise does not believe any ill 
 of mel' 
 
 "'No, indeed,' said M. Felix. 'At first, 
 when we heard that you had become rich, she 
 wept bitterly, and said, "Then we shall see no 
 more of M. Hervieu ; he will forget his old 
 friends." But, when she heard, as every one 
 now says, that you were not rich, she recovered 
 her spirits, and said, "We shall have Jean with 
 us again — when he is poor, he will be certain 
 to come back and visit us as he used to do."
 
 62 LE MTLLIO'NAIRE 
 
 I don't think I should have called on jou to- 
 day, if Louise had not urged me. She bade 
 me tell you that, hear what she may, she never 
 will believe that Jean Hervieu, whom she had 
 known since they were children together, could 
 do an act of dishonour/ 
 
 " I did not regret the aspersions upon my 
 character, since they were the cause of shew- 
 ing me that I had one sincere friend, at least. 
 One of the uses of adversity is to try and 
 prove regard. It was due to M. Felix, that I 
 should undeceive him^ as to the real state of 
 the question. He was much surprised, as he 
 well might be. 'Louise will be so happy,' 
 said he, ' for she insisted that you were slan- 
 dered. But I hope that Monsieur Hervieu 
 will not forget us because he is rich, after all.' 
 
 "'My dear friend,' I replied, 'you must still 
 call me your ^pauvre Jean,' as you used to do 
 ivhen you heaped kindness after kindness on 
 the orphan ; and it will go hard with me, if I 
 do not convince Louise, before long, that she 
 is not one whom I am likely to forget.' 
 
 " The bubble burst, a few days after this visit
 
 MALGRE LUI. 63 
 
 from M. Felix. No one knew what to make 
 of the whole storj. The very existence of 
 Jacques Hervieu became doubted ; the old sea- 
 man who had seen him embark at Marseilles, 
 declared it was somebody else ! Some people 
 thought me crazy. M. Bonnet said, " a splen- 
 did hoax ! it cost me fifteen thousand francs !" 
 At length, the storm descended. My creditors 
 came in a body to dun me. Charles Berget 
 (whom I had made my steward) paid all their 
 accounts, and then gave them a splendid enter- 
 tainment. Public opinion veered round in my 
 favour. Jacques Hervieu has not yet appeared, 
 but people are undecided whether I really did 
 obtain wealth from Martinique, or made a 
 lucky hit by speculation. The only man in 
 Lyons, who does know, except M. Felix, is 
 Louis Boyer, to whom I lent a few thousand 
 francs, with which he has entered a commercial 
 firm, and will, probably, make a fortune — not 
 quite so rapidly as I did. 
 
 " This is my story, Monsieur. I take my 
 place in society as a man of forty thousand 
 annual income, and people call me a Millionaire.
 
 64 LE MILLIONAIRE. 
 
 I am wealthy, simply because people would 
 haye it that I was rich — thougli I protested 
 that I was not. 
 
 " I have no more to say. Let us drink to the 
 memory of Jacques Hervieu !" 
 
 " It is a singular story/' said I, " and it is a 
 pity that, to give an air of romance to a nar- 
 rative literally crowded with francs, bankers' 
 accounts, speculations, and investments, it does 
 not wind up — as every true tale does — with 
 love and marriage." 
 
 " Precisely so 1" replied Hervieu, " and, 
 therefore, let it not surprise you, if, in a fort- 
 night from this very day, you receive an 
 invitation to assist in a ceremony, which, 
 while it will change the fair Louise into 
 Madame Hervieu, I hope may leave her Felix 
 — in every thing but name ! " 
 
 " It is not every one," said Tressilian, join- 
 ing in the conversation, after this story, " who 
 
 I
 
 SPECULATIONS. 65 
 
 can contrive to keep the -wealth he has won 
 bj speculation. I scarcely ever knew one of 
 these Millionaires of the moment, who retained 
 what he had gained with scarcely an effort. 
 Light come, lightly go, might be the motto of 
 this class. It might be said of a money-man 
 of this order, that he goes up like a rocket, 
 and comes down like the stick. It is the same 
 with what has been won at the gambling table, 
 it does no permanent good to those who gain 
 it. I do not remember a single gambler, who 
 has retired without actual loss in the long run. 
 Speculation, which, in a few weeks, would fain 
 make the colossal fortunes steady enterprise 
 and integrity take years of labour to amass, is 
 but a sort of gaming after all, and moved, as 
 to its results, by the same influences. But,'' 
 he added, " I must beg the ladies to pardon 
 me fcfr philosophizing." 
 
 " Our sex," said Lady Morton, " will scarcely 
 thank Sir Julian Tressilian for the inference, 
 that we cannot appreciate or enjoy serious dis- 
 course. I suppose he would limit the subjects 
 upon which our attention should be engaged,. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 J 
 
 66 TRESSILIAN. 
 
 to small talk about frills and flounces — lacea 
 and muslins — fashions and scandal." 
 
 A protest from the gentleman, that he could 
 not have been guilty o^petite trahison of such a 
 description, was retorted by the ladj, that he 
 had been condemned, without the liberty of 
 appeal. " Your punishment," said she, " shall 
 not be a very heavy one. You have heard these 
 gentlemen severally relate a story, and the 
 judgment of the Court is, that you follow so 
 excellent an example ; and youi- pardon shall 
 be the more plenary, if you relate a personal 
 adventure." 
 
 " I shall rejoice," said he, " to fulfil my 
 destiny, or submit to my doom, which ever 
 wording may best please your ladyship, so it 
 be understood by this goodly company, that 
 each of them, before we leave Matlock, shall 
 do likewise." 
 
 " The gentlemen, I am sure," said the fair 
 dame, " will consent to the arrangement." 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; " but it must extend to 
 the ladies also." 
 
 Lady Morton said, that, on that head, the
 
 TRESSILUK". 67 
 
 parties concerned must consult. But ^hen 
 she turned round, Lady Tressilian s chair was 
 vacant — its fair occupant had retired a few 
 minutes before. Then, with a charming 
 smile, which appeared quite irresistible, Ladj 
 Morton said, that she belieyed the majority 
 would be against her if she resisted, and there- 
 fore, yielding to numbers, like many other 
 combatants, she must even assent to the terms 
 proposed. 
 
 Sir Julian, therefore, consented to be the 
 next story-teller. He was a fine-looking man, 
 upon whose brow middle age had scarcely 
 yet set its signet. His appearance was very 
 prepossessing ; he had an ingenuous and win- 
 ning expression of countenance : and this, as 
 well as a fine person, and an air distingue, 
 must have once done considerable havoc amons 
 female hearts, and doubtless would still have 
 been successful, but, from the first moment we 
 saw him, it was evident that his attentions 
 were reserved for the lady who sate by his 
 side, and with whom he seemed to be on 
 especial good terms. 
 
 p 2
 
 68 TRESSILIAIT. 
 
 In the earlier part of the evening, we had 
 noticed what seemed exceedingly like flirtation 
 between them ; that interchange of looks 
 which shows the freemasonry of the heart ; 
 varying tones, which, in their modulation, 
 told to each other far more than was meant 
 for the common ear ; wreathed smiles, which 
 well became the manly cheek of the gentleman, 
 and the damasked countenance of the dama : 
 — all, in fact, which would have been of rather 
 a suspicious and suggestive character, but from 
 the knowledge gained from his lips, within ten 
 minutes after he had frankly made our ac- 
 quaintance, that the lady was — his wife ! 
 
 She was, indeed, as beautiful and attractive 
 a person, as ever it has been my fortune to 
 look upon. Perhaps, one might think her not 
 quite young enough to figure as the heroine 
 of a love-story. It was difficult to discover 
 her age from her looks and figure. The latter 
 was slight, as if she had not long emerged 
 from the gracefulness of " sweet seventeen ;" 
 while, looking at her face, you might doubt 
 "whether she was five-and-twenty, or some
 
 TRESSILTAN. 69 
 
 ten years older. Hers was an aspect which, 
 even in age, would probably retain much of 
 the expression of youth ; for, as Byron says, 
 
 " There are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
 And tui'us aside his scythe to ^iilgar things." 
 
 She appeared imbued with that "glorious 
 sunshine of the heart," which is the best 
 cosmetic in the world. I am wholly at a loss 
 for words to describe the character of her 
 beauty— living, breathing, real. Nay, it was 
 not beauty, 
 
 " Oh, no! it was something more exquisite still!" 
 
 The features were fine in their ensemble, 
 though, taken separately, they were not what 
 you would call " beautiful." They had that 
 best of graces, — the grace and charm of ex- 
 pression, which sometimes irradiates even an 
 ordinary face, and rests on handsome features 
 like " a glory " on a Madonna^s pure forehead. 
 There was something in her piquant air — her 
 espiegle glance, from hazel eyes at once bright 
 and soft ; her lovely alternations of colour,
 
 70 TRESSILIAN. 
 
 for there fitfully gleamed a rose-tinted glow 
 through her skin, " darkly beautiful/' as Ka- 
 led's ; — her brow, clear as alabaster ; — her 
 glossy hair, with its slight natural wave, taste- 
 ful and simple in its arrangement ; — and, 
 above all, in her earnest look, breathing as 
 much natural goodness as ever illumined any 
 countenance, — which, taken altogether, formed 
 something far better than the mere statuesque 
 loveliness at which 
 
 " We start — for soul is wanting there." 
 
 It was pleasant to notice that her helpmate 
 considered her the very incarnation of all that 
 was excellent. So attentive, so very attentive, 
 was he to her, that, as I have said, we might 
 have suspected, at first, that they were but 
 recently married ; but, on observation, we 
 could perceive that his was a more temperate 
 and calm attention than is paid by the bride- 
 groom to the bride ; and the manner in which 
 the lady received his little kindnesses (the 
 farthest possible from anything like those the 
 newly-wedded too often so foolishly exhibit)
 
 TRESSILIAN. 71 
 
 clearly showed that she had long been accus- 
 tomed to the homa2:e. 
 
 It was, indeed, a very charming specimen of 
 marriage as it should be. The husband kind, 
 affectionate, and gentle ; the wife not less so, 
 but with a more delicate tenderness, the ex- 
 quisite sentiment, as it were, which is to be 
 found in the crucible of wedded life after Loyo 
 has passed through the fiery heat of Passion, 
 and become sublimed into hearted Friendship. 
 Theirs was an interchange of the most delight- 
 ftd courtesy imaginable, springing from the 
 heart, and best nurtured there. Alas ! not 
 always is it so. " The trail of the serpent'^ 
 may be traced even here, where, if happiness 
 exist on earth, it should abide. Many a hearth 
 is desolate, though the wedded sit by it — 
 smiles to the world around them, but worse 
 than cold to each other. Many a heart may 
 " brokenly live on," though mirth may light 
 the countenance, and smiling wit may vivify the 
 conversation with its flashes. Better the grave 
 than this death-in-life, which palsies exertion, 
 and confuses thought, and fetters imagination,
 
 72 TRESSILIAN. 
 
 and teaches the lips to wear smiles, with the 
 arrow rankling in the unseen wound. The 
 Spartan, concealing the strong agony which 
 was preying upon his life, had not a stronger 
 struggle to seem calm than those of whom I 
 write. 
 
 All of us had been interested from the first, 
 in this agreeable couple, and now (the lady not 
 having returned) all felt delighted when her 
 husband kept his promise, and rapidly told his 
 story thus : —
 
 73 
 
 IV. 
 
 TEESSILIAN'S STORY. 
 
 My name is Julian Tressilian, as jou already 
 know. Mj family came from Cornwall, where 
 thej had been settled long before the Conquest. 
 Mj grandfather was made a baronet by George 
 the Second, for his active services as a volun- 
 teer, when " the isle was frightened from its 
 propriety," by the Rebellion of 1745. There 
 is a family tradition, that on this occasion he 
 rejected a peerage, declaring that he would 
 rather be the first of the gentry, than the last 
 of the nobility. 
 
 My father was a younger son. Like most of 
 the class, he early made what was called " a
 
 74 TRESSILIAlif'S STORY. 
 
 foolish marriage/' That is, he raarried a 
 woman Tvhom he loved, and who vcrj dearly 
 loved him, but whose family could not be 
 traced back more than a few generations. 
 His marriage arrayed his relations against him 
 — made him, in short, the Pariah of the 
 family. He was young, spirited, and ardent, 
 so he solaced himself with the happiness of 
 wedded life. T verily believe, that he, with 
 narrow means, was far happier than his elder 
 brother, with the title, and the rich estate, and 
 the family tree, with its Saxon roots, and its 
 branches sometimes shooting into connexions 
 with noble and roval personages. 
 
 My eldest uncle, the baronet, was a haughty 
 man, who could not relish the thought that his 
 brother was not quite as wealthy as he should 
 have been, had he married the heiress whom 
 it had been arranged he might have had. 
 Selfish, as well as proud, my uncle did not 
 think of bettering my father's circumstances 
 out of his own ample resources, but ofi'ered to 
 procure him a situation in Ireland — one of the 
 Government appointments, by which obsequious
 
 teessilian's stoey. 75 
 
 Totes in the House of Commons Tvere then 
 rewarded. Mj uncle, I should have told you> 
 had a " leading interest" in two boroughs. 
 The offer was ungraciously made, but it was 
 too good to be declined, for its emoluments 
 were necessary ; so my father accepted it, 
 and removed himself and his wants from the 
 vicinity of his proud brother. 
 
 I was an only child, for, while I was yet very 
 young, my mother died ; and I had completed 
 my twentieth year, when it pleased Providence 
 that my father should follow her. 
 
 His illness was very brief He told me, only 
 an hour before his death, what indeed, I had 
 long expected, that he had fully lived up to 
 his income. He had not taken the precaution, 
 so requisite for persons whose incomes termi- 
 nate with their lives, of securing provision for 
 surviving relatives by means of insurance. He 
 was constantly saying that he would commit 
 this act of prudence, but he had deferred it 
 from time to time, until it was too late. The 
 fact was that — as only two brothers, with 
 their families, stood between him and the
 
 76 tressilian's story. 
 
 baronetcy — he had secretly calculated on the 
 succession, at sometime or other. In this 
 foolish expectation he had latterly lived — 
 rather according to his hopes than his means. 
 The result was that, when all his debts were 
 paid, I found myself master of less than a 
 hundred pounds. This sum was the whole of 
 my worldly possessions at the time. 
 
 But I had greater treasures, although less 
 readily convertible into food and clothing. I 
 had youth, with its sanguine, hopeful spirit. I 
 had energy, without which nothing exalted can 
 ever be dared or done. I had confidence in 
 myself More than all, I had received a good 
 education. My instructors had reported me 
 as an idle boy, who could learn if he would. 
 For the last three or four years after I had 
 left school, I had " taken to learning," as the 
 saying is in Ireland, and as the proficiency 
 thus acquired had somewhat made up for past 
 carelessness, I had obtained a fair share of 
 general information. The necessity for exer- 
 tion was now a stimulus to my ambition. I 
 resolved to go to London, not having been
 
 tressilian's story. 77 
 
 brought up to any profession, there to adven- 
 ture in the paths of literature. 
 
 One of mj first steps, on my father's death, 
 had been to write to my uncle, Sir Edgar 
 Tressilian, acquainting him with the fact. In 
 due course, I received a letter of condolence, 
 formal and cold, informing me that his own 
 health was excellent ; that one uncle had just 
 broken his neck in leaping a double-ditch in a 
 steeple-chase ; that the other, with his five sons 
 — how, in the name of common-sense, conld 
 my poor father anticipate that all these who 
 stood between him and the baronetcy, would 
 be so complaisant as to die ? — was well and 
 flourishing ; and that the tone of indepen- 
 dence in my letter forbade his presuming 
 to offer any advice as to my position and 
 prospects. Disgusted with the coldness of 
 this epistle, I threw it into the fire, and was 
 about sending the franked envelope to keep 
 it company, when I saw a few lines pencilled 
 within. I remember them well. They were 
 these : —
 
 78 tressilian's stoey. 
 
 " ' Dearest Oousm, 
 " ' Never mind mj fatlier's letter. He gave 
 it to me to seal, and thus I have chanced to 
 read it. He does not mean the harshness 
 which he writes. I am quite sure he would be 
 glad to see jou at Tressilian Court. Knowing 
 that JOU cannot have an excess of the goods of 
 Fortune, I must entreat that jou will oblige me- 
 bj using what I shall send to-morrow. I do 
 not require it, and it may be of service to 
 
 JOU. 
 
 "^Emma.^'^ 
 
 Next da J, came a second and a longer letter 
 from mj cousin Emma. It enclosed £.50 — 
 the savings or surplus of her pocket-monej. 
 I was greatlj obliged bj this kind and 
 thoughtful gift, and was not too proud to 
 accept of it. 
 
 It is twentj jears since I first saw London 
 — just twentj jears next autumn. I had 
 then onlj turned mj twentieth jear. I 
 entered the might j citj as manj a man 
 entered it before me — that is, as a literarj ad- 
 
 1
 
 tressilian's story. 79 
 
 venturer. Mj money was soon spent, for I did 
 not then know its value. Mj spirits sunk with 
 mj sinking fortunes. I had formed no extrava- 
 gant hopes of success, but, I confess, that I had 
 expected to meet with some employment for 
 my pen. But there ever arose this difficulty 
 — I was not only very young, but wholly un- 
 known. Publishers and editors received me 
 politely, but asked not what I could do, but 
 what I had done % I was quite a stranger, 
 wholly untried, and they were naturally un- 
 willing to risk the experiment of engaging with 
 one who had yet to make a name. I did not 
 blame them, even then, and I certainly cannot 
 blame them now. It was one of the liabilities 
 of the career upon which I had entered ; and, 
 if some lucky chance in the chapter of acci- 
 dents did not turn up, it was possible that I 
 might never have the opportunity of shewing 
 what I really could do. Of all the misfortunes 
 in all this mortal life, I know few more heart- 
 sickening than that of a man of letters, who 
 feels that he has the abihty to do what would 
 give him high reputation, but can not obtaiu
 
 80 tressilian's story. 
 
 the opportunity of getting the wished-for field 
 of action for that ability. 
 
 " You may be sure that I did not forget to 
 solicit the proprietors of the newspaper press. 
 But here, again, the same thing occurred. 
 Men of at least equal ability with myself, and 
 the full experience which I did not possess 
 naturally, were engaged ; and while I lamented 
 the fact, I could not wonder at it. I stooped 
 — if a man can be said to stoop when he seeks 
 for honest employment — I stooped even to 
 solicit the situation of reader in a printing- 
 office : the same result — I wanted experience, 
 and employers care not to pay a man, and also 
 show him how to do his business, and wait 
 until he has learned it. Then, as I wrote a 
 fair hand, and was a good accountant, I en- 
 deavoured to obtain the situation of mercan- 
 tile clerk, but I had no one to whom to refer 
 for character, and to give the requisite security 
 for probity. It was the same with every- 
 thing I tried — there always was some ex- 
 cellent impediment to my success. I might 
 have been own brother to the unfortunate
 
 tressilian's story. 81 
 
 gentleman who complained that, "if he had been 
 a hatter, it was probable the human race would 
 have been born without heads !" 
 
 At last, after I had been in London for 
 some months, I was so fortunate as to obtain 
 employment. Heaven knows it did not come 
 before it was wanted, for my resources were 
 literally in extremis. I am not ashamed to 
 confess that I have known what it is to want 
 food for more than a day, for I had to depend 
 for mere existence on the remuneration, (slight 
 enough at that time,) which I could obtain for 
 such light articles of literature or criticism as I 
 had disposed of to the magazines and weekly 
 periodicals. But now, a more certain and remu- 
 nerative field for literary exertion was opened to 
 me. I was engaged as a principal contributor to 
 a biographical work of som.e pretensions, and I 
 prepared to enter upon it with the earnestness 
 and industry which are requisite for such a pur- 
 pose. I had established a character for punctua- 
 lity and readiness while casually contributing to 
 one of the magazines, and this induced its pro- 
 prietor to offer me an engagement, which was 
 
 YOL. I. G
 
 82 teessilian's story. 
 
 prosperity itself, compared with the condition 
 out of which mj recent struggles had not been 
 able to extricate me. 
 
 On a fine morning in April, 1814, as I 
 passed through the streets of London, trulj 
 alone in their "peopled solitude," I accidentally 
 passed by St. George's Church, Hanoyer Square^ 
 just as a bridal party was entering that fashion- 
 able building. Curiosity led me in, to witness 
 the performance of the marriage service. The 
 bride was a charming girl, on the rery verge 
 of womanhood — not more than eighteen years 
 of age, and scarcely looking as old. She was 
 precisely, on that day, what Byron meant, 
 when he described Aurora Raby as 
 
 " A rose, with all its petals yet unfolded." 
 
 The bridegroom was about four times her age. 
 It certainly was not a love-match ; but neither 
 did it appear to be a forced marriage. The 
 young lady exhibited no appearance of regret 
 at what I could not help thinking a great 
 sacrifice. She demeaned herself with graceful 
 elegance, and may be said to have gone
 
 TRESSILIAlfs STORY. 83 
 
 through the ceremony "as well as could be 
 expected." 
 
 At the age of one-and-twentj, if ever, a 
 man may have a little romance in his mind. 
 What a dull plodder must he be who has not 1 
 For mj own part, I have always been building 
 castles in the air ; and, on that day, looking 
 upon that young and beautiful bride, I felt a 
 stronor reoret that she should have been so 
 unmeetly matched to Age ; that — shall I own 
 the weakness 1 — that she was not more meetly 
 mated to myself. 
 
 T^p to that hour, I had been heart-free. 
 While gazing on this fair girl, the arrow 
 entered into my soul. It was foolish — it was 
 wrong. I knew that ; but I could not help 
 lingering for a parting and nearer gaze upon 
 her. To look on such beauty was nothing 
 wrong ; to look on it, to love it, on the moment, 
 as I did, was. 
 
 At last, the ceremony was concluded. I 
 hastened out of the church, to catch a parting 
 glimpse. A carriage was drawn up to the 
 steps. The aged bridegroom hastened down 
 
 g2
 
 84 TRESSILIAN'S STORY. 
 
 them as rapidly as his infirmities would allow, 
 the bride supporting him rather than sup- 
 ported. The novelty and the excitement of 
 her situation, had slightly tinged her cheeks 
 with the most delightful and changeful blush 
 imaginable. My fixed and eager glance 
 met hers, — she blushed yet deeper beneath 
 that steadfast impassioned gaze. The bride- 
 groom, forgetful of the politeness which, then 
 at least, should have been extended to the 
 lady, entered the carriage before her. I saw 
 all the embarrassment of her situation, and 
 eagerly stepped forward to assist her. In 
 truth, she had no other resource. Half con- 
 fused, half angered, she took my profiered 
 hand in preference to that of a liveried 
 lackey. A moment, and she was in the 
 carriage. She gracefully bowed her thanks 
 — the vehicle whirled ofi" — I stood alone, on 
 the steps of Sit. George's Church, gazing after it. 
 My self-possession immediately returned. I 
 bounded ofi* at my utmost speed. The people 
 whom I passed must have thought me mad. 
 I contrived to keep the carriage in view,
 
 tressilian's story. 85 
 
 though I became so exhausted by mj long and 
 rapid race, that I was more than once on the 
 point of abandoning the pursuit. Still I 
 mechanically toiled on — my heart heaving as if 
 it were going to break ; my temples throbbing 
 as if the blood would burst from the swelled 
 arteries ; my knees bending beneath me. I was 
 forced to lean against a lamp-post for support, 
 utterly exhausted, when — the carriage stopped. 
 I stood in Harley-street. My fatigue was 
 at once forgotten. Again I rushed forward — 
 just in time to hand the bride from the car- 
 riage. The servants had no time to interfere ; 
 perhaps they thought that I was one of her 
 friends. She grew pale and red by turns. 
 She did not refuse my hand, but her own 
 trembled within it. She might not have won- 
 dered at my interference at the church-door, 
 for that might have been only a simple act of 
 courtesy ; but how must she have been sur- 
 prised to see me before her, at the end of her 
 route. All this was embarrassing — but there 
 was no time for explanation, could I have 
 given it. Her hand was ungloved ; the glove
 
 85 teessilian's story. 
 
 fell to the ground. I raised it up, and ven- 
 tured to press to mj lips the fair hand I held. 
 She looked into mj face with a sort of srailing 
 surprise as, with the air of a princess, she 
 withdrew that hand. I turned aside. The 
 aged bridegroom was on the threshold of his 
 door bj this time. The carriage rolled away. 
 The white train of the bride swept within 
 the hall. I saw her fair face turned toward 
 me. I bowed. Mj salute was gracefully ac- 
 knowledged. The door closed, and I stood in 
 Harley Street, pressing the glove to my lips — 
 feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my 
 life, with a world of regrets that, until it was 
 too late, I had not seen and known that bright 
 creature who had glanced across my path for 
 that brief time, 
 
 " Too brief to meet, but never to forget." 
 
 As I went home, I communed with my 
 heart. The still, small voice spoke, and was 
 neither unheard nor unheeded. I took a 
 wiser resolution than young blood and heated 
 imagination might have been expected to form.
 
 teessilian's stokt. 87 
 
 I perceived that the ladj and myself could 
 have no interest in each other ; she was a 
 wife now, and I but a struggling stranger. 
 However unequally she was matched, still she 
 w(xs mated ; nor could I forget the great 
 gulf thus placed between us. So I turned to 
 my solitary home, — to be more solitary in 
 future, by the contrast which fancy would 
 create — and dreamed away the hours in a 
 reverie, sad and soul-subduing. The next 
 day, I arose a wiser man, and endeavoured 
 to think more of what I had to do, and less 
 of the bright vision, who, to me, as Words- 
 worth says, was — 
 
 " A sudden apparition sent, 
 To be a moment's ornament." 
 
 I have said that I had obtained a literary 
 engagement. It was peculiarly suited to my 
 taste ; for, even when a careless schoolboy, 
 reading all books, except those which 1 should 
 have studied, I had delighted to learn history 
 through biography ; to know public actions, 
 and their motives, from the lives of the actors.
 
 88 tkessilian's story. 
 
 The work on which I was engaged was bio- 
 graphical ; and I wrote it, therefore, with a 
 thorough liking for the subject. It gave me 
 subsistence, and it brought me reputation. 
 True, mj gains were not very great ; but my 
 wants were few, and mj habits were not 
 expensive. I had not much fame, but still it 
 was fame. I got the credit for having done 
 mj work well ; and as this was the stepping- 
 stone to distinction, I did not despise it. If 
 not of the highest quality, yet it was of some 
 value. I knew that he who hopes to look 
 down from the mountain's brow, must first 
 conquer the difficulties of the ascent ; and I 
 was content to toil my way onward, as best 
 I could, even though my stages were but 
 small. 
 
 Although my thoughts sometimes reverted 
 to the fair bride of Ilarley Street, she did not 
 continue to engross my attention half so much 
 as might have been expected from my sanguine 
 temperament. I can account for this by 
 stating, that, for twelve or fourteen months 
 succeeding the adventure of the bridal, I was
 
 tressilian's story. 89 
 
 so much engaged in authorship, that I really 
 had not time to think of love. Now and then, 
 I gazed upon the white glove, with mingled 
 feelings. Perhaps, too, if I saw a graceful 
 figure in the street or at the theatre, I may 
 have looked, with more than common anxiety, 
 to see whether the face was that of my un- 
 known charmer ; but to prove to you how 
 yery little, beyond the first impression, my 
 heart was interested, I never went into Harley 
 Street. You smile ? You think that this 
 avoidance proves I was not so very indifi*erent, 
 or so very strong and sure in my indiflference, 
 as I would have persuaded myself I was 1 You 
 may be right. 
 
 During all this time, I had scarcely heard 
 any thing of those members of my father's 
 family who had treated me with so much 
 coldness and indifference. Once or twice, 
 my uncle wrote to me on business ; and I 
 was not sorry to have the opportunity in my 
 reply, of paying off pride with pride. It 
 appeared that three of my cousins, ambitious 
 of the doubtful distinction of being esteemed
 
 90 tressilian's story. 
 
 " fast men '' at the Ilniyersit j, had drunk 
 themselves into fever, and had died soon after, 
 fi'om the consequences of their hard living. 
 The Baronet was anxious to sell part of his 
 estates ; but as I stood collaterally in the line of 
 succession, mj consent was necessary, according 
 to family settlements, " merely as a matter of 
 form,'' (as I was told,) previous to his proceeding 
 to " dock the entail." I never wrote any letter 
 with more satisfaction than that in which, re- 
 spectfully but firmly, I declined all interference 
 with the affairs of a family which had all but 
 disowned my father, and had deserted me. 
 I was resolved to show them that, in spirit at 
 least, I was a true Tressilian. I subsequently 
 was informed that my haughty uncle rather 
 respected me for my unbending disposition. 
 As it turned out, he had ample cause to j 
 rejoice over it. He wanted the money to make 
 a large investment in the purchase of mining 
 property, at the suggestion of some Douster- 
 swivel of the day, and my refusal to join him I 
 in executing the necessary instruments saved 
 him from ruin. The party who was induced
 
 teessilian's story. 91 
 
 to enter into the speculation, lost neai'lj kalf 
 a million by it, and eventually died in a mad- 
 house. I sometimes had a letter from my cousin 
 Emma, always full of affectionate interest in 
 my well-doing. She was the sole link to 
 bind me to my house. 
 
 One of the dreams of my early ambition 
 had been to write a successful drama. In the 
 year 1815, it was considered rather fashionable 
 to have a dramatic taste. This was before 
 the success of Macready, — the finest melo- 
 dramatic actor of his time, — the best Rob Roy 
 and William Tell upon the stage. But Kean 
 had then recently appeared, and had carried 
 the public along with him. There was truth 
 in what he told his wife, when she asked him 
 how Lord Essex liked his Sir Giles Overreach, 
 *' The pit rose at me." Never was triumph 
 more complete. The energy of the man, — 
 the passion, the truth, — bore all before him. 
 The secret of his success w^as tersely developed 
 in the brief criticism of John Kemble,— " He 
 is at all times terribly in earnest,'^ — a frank 
 tribute, and a generous one, from one great
 
 92 tressilian's story. 
 
 actor to another. The coldness of an English 
 audience vanished, for the public became enthu- 
 siastic. Among them, I could not resist the 
 power of the witchery. I was literally spell- 
 bound by Edmund Kean's powerful delinea- 
 tions. You forgot, as you bowed before the 
 whirlwind of passion which he raised, that his 
 voice was defective, his action abrupt, and his 
 stature insignificant. You could only note, 
 that there, for the first time, you saw an actor 
 setting at defiance, and deposing the hereditary 
 " points" in each character, and substituting 
 Nature's well-regulated impulses for the con- 
 ventionalities of what was called the Classical 
 Drama. You felt that, at length, this was to 
 realize what you had imagined as the perfection 
 of acting ; other great performers might have 
 been scholastic, this one was intellectual. You 
 forgot, at times, that the scene was a mimic 
 one, the circumstances unreal, and that the 
 actor was uttering words written by another 
 man, and merely committed to his memory. 
 You saw that he felt every word he spoke. 
 His singularly expressive, and well-cut Italian
 
 tressilian's story. 93 
 
 countenauce illustrated the sentiments to which 
 he was to give voice; and then, his brilliant 
 ejes, — thej spoke as much as his lips did. 
 Kean did not seem as if he were simulating 
 a character, but as if he were the person he 
 represented. Niglit after night, I followed 
 with the public in the wake of his triumph, 
 rejoiced to find that Nature and Truth were 
 recognized upon the English stage, in the 
 highest walk of the drama. 
 
 Then suddenly came the thought — how 
 briUiant would success be if partaken with him 
 and by his means. Why should not / write a 
 play, in w^hich he could perform? Mine to 
 make the creation, — his acting to breathe into 
 it the vitality of existence! 
 
 This thought I seized upon as a treasure. 
 In a few weeks I had even commenced my 
 task. I meditated much on the subject, and 
 how it should be treated. The plot was 
 fully developed in my mind before I put pen 
 to paper. In two months I had completed 
 the drama. Then followed a pause of a few 
 weeks, after which the enthusiasm of com-
 
 94 tressilian's story. 
 
 position having cooled down, I could calmly 
 plaj the critic on what I had written, and 
 prune the exuberance of the language, and 
 strengthen, bj compression, the consistency 
 of the plot. Lastly, came the difficulty, un- 
 dreamt of until that moment, — how to get 
 it acted. 
 
 I had the boldness to do what the emer- 
 gency required, — what, perhaps, the emer- 
 gency alone could have fully justified. I waited 
 upon Kean, with my play in my hand, and 
 told him how his acting had enforced me to 
 write. He encouraged my hopes, and soothed 
 my doubts. He carefully read my play, and, 
 approving generally of it, he suggested a few 
 alterations, to give greater effect to the situa- 
 tions. I made them, and he approved. He 
 even took upon himself to bring my play 
 before the Committee of Drury-Lane Theatre, 
 — that establishment whose fortunes he had 
 redeemed. He did more; he introduced me 
 to some of his most influential patrons and 
 friends. I have heard that he was capricious 
 in his manner and regard, — to me he was ever
 
 tressilian's story. 95 
 
 most kind and considerate. What a noble 
 lieart that wondrous man possessed! 
 
 Kean had not miscalculated his influence at 
 the theatre. Mj play was accepted and put 
 in rehearsal, Kean himself consenting to take 
 the leading part ; which, indeed, I had written 
 for him. As, avoiding the error of allowing 
 one actor to monopolize all the effect, I had 
 diffused the interest throughout the play, all 
 who were to perform in it were well satisfied 
 with their respective parts, and assured me, 
 each and all, that they would use their best 
 exertions to effect my success. I had faith in 
 the promise, as it involved their own success also. 
 
 The play was produced. As I sat in the pit, 
 alone in that great crowd, tremblingly anxious 
 for its fate, I caught a glimpse of the bride 
 of Harley-Street, in a private box immediately 
 opposite me ! There she sate, more beautiful 
 than ever. A mourning dress was in admir- 
 able contrast and deep relief with the purity 
 of her complexion. I had never paid much 
 attention to the minutiee of female attire, and 
 never until now had I occasion to regret the
 
 96 tressilian's story. 
 
 ignorance which prevented mj knowing whether 
 I saw a widow's weeds. But no! those could 
 not be the proverbially unbecoming garments 
 of widowhood. 
 
 The plaj went on beyond my hopes, but I 
 little heeded how it preceded . My heart — 
 my hopes had all been intent on its success ; 
 now, the whole was changed, like the shifting 
 slide in a magic lantern — and my tragedy, the 
 world itself, was nothing to me. My world 
 sat before me, lovelier than ever my dreams had 
 imagined her. 
 
 At last, the ordeal was past. The play was 
 over, and announced for repetition amid shouts 
 of applause ; and few would have suspected 
 that the abstracted, anxious being in the pit 
 was the successful author. Some of my friends 
 recognised me, made way to me, thronged 
 round me, shook hands with me, and 
 warmly offered me their congratulations. A 
 whisper ran through the house — " the author." 
 Presently the whisper found a voice. I felt, 
 as painfully as proudly, that I was the object of 
 general interest. I was triumphant. Not
 
 tressilian's story. 97 
 
 fully two-and-twentj, I had gained a success 
 such as, at that immature age, had been rarely 
 even striven for. All eyes were upon me, all 
 voices swelling to do me honour ; — the eyes I 
 wished to meet, the voice I longed to hear, 
 these alone were wanting. At length, the 
 beautiful Unknown joined in the general in- 
 terest : the murmur had reached her also. 
 She had warmly applauded the play in its 
 progress ; more than once, she had given it 
 that sincerest of all tributes, her tears. Now, 
 she turned to look upon the successful author ; 
 her eyes coldly met mine, and, without any 
 recognition, she rose to quit the theatre. 
 
 I also lost no time in quitting my place. So 
 intent was I in the pursuit, that I did not heed, 
 far less acknowledge, the plaudits that greeted 
 me as I left the scene of my triumph. So 
 much the better : it was attributed to my 
 modesty ! The truth is, I was quite uncon- 
 scious of the applause. 
 
 I was just in time. The lady's carriage was 
 at the door. There was a dreadful crush, as 
 there always was, at that time, when Kean 
 
 YOL. I. H
 
 "98 tressilian's story. 
 
 performed. Ooacliman strove Tvitli coachman 
 in most bitter emulation ; ladies were fright- 
 ened, gentlemen indignant. The lady was 
 stepping into her carriage, when I saw the 
 horses rushing on the parement. I dashed 
 forward to aid. I snatched her from her peri- 
 lous position with one hand, while, with the 
 other, I succeeded in restraining the fretted 
 horses. Others came to give assistance, and I 
 could then devote my whole attention to the 
 frightened lady, whom I placed in her carriage. 
 I also went in : the door was closed ; the 
 vehicle rapidly disengaged from the tumul- 
 tuous crowd ; the word " home T given and 
 obeyed. 
 
 Meanwhile, my fair charge was scarcely 
 conscious of what had happened. The rapid 
 motion of the carriage somewhat restored her. 
 " Where am I T she asked, as she recovered 
 consciousness. My reply satisfied her ; a few 
 broken words of explanation formed our con- 
 versation. I was too much excited by past re- 
 collections and the conflict of present thoughts ; 
 she, independent of her recent alarm, had snf-
 
 tressilian's story. 9^ 
 
 ficient excuse for silence. She might have felt 
 disinclined to converse Tvith a stranger, or pro- 
 bably she then was only conscious that some- 
 body had rescued her from danger, and was 
 escorting her home. 
 
 We soon arrived in Harley Street. We 
 stopped at the well-remembered house. I saw 
 a hatchment over the door. I perceived that 
 the servants were in mourning. This gave 
 confirmation to my hopes — God forgive me ! — 
 that my charmer was a widow. A great load 
 of anxiety was thus removed from my heart. 
 
 Our journey was at an end. I handed the 
 lady out of the carriage. She lingered for a 
 moment to return me thanks, and politely 
 requested to know to whom she was indebted 
 for what she was pleased to term my " very 
 particular kindness.'' I did not half relish the 
 cool manner in which the inquiry was made — 
 just as if it were a mere matter of form. Per- 
 haps I was a little piqued that she scarcely 
 deigned to look at me while asking the ques- 
 tion. I expected that, at the very least, she 
 might have turned the full light of her counte- 
 
 h2
 
 100 tkessilian's story. 
 
 nance upon tlic man who had probably saved 
 her life at the risk of his o\yn : — but there she 
 stood, her face only half turned towards me, 
 and her bright eyes most provokingly fixed, 
 not upon me. You smile at this, I can smile 
 now, to think how such a trifle could haye 
 annoyed me then. But such things, in the 
 days of youth, will cloud the sunshine of the 
 heart, and pale the cheek, and dim the eye, 
 and dull the spirit. The joys and griefs of life 
 are composed of trifles — even as the Andes 
 are made up of atoms. 
 
 In reply to the lady's inquiry, I handed her 
 my card, at the same time pronounciug my 
 name. Nothing could be more rapid than the 
 change caused by the utterance of the word 
 " TressiHan." I doubt whether the " Open, 
 Sesame !" of Ali Baba had a more sudden or 
 powerful effect. The moment the word had 
 passed my lips, she turned round, eagerly and 
 earnestly fixing upon me an intense and 
 searching glance, as if she would have read 
 every secret of my heart. I have never pre- 
 tended to be a very bashful man, but I quailed
 
 tressilian's story. 101 
 
 beneath the intensity of that look. To make 
 matters worse, it continued so very long ! I 
 began to feel as much annoyed by her excess 
 of attention, as I had previously been by her 
 neglect of it. Even a man of the world might 
 have been embarrassed — I was but a man of 
 letters, and " my order" are usually as little 
 self-possessed as possible. 
 
 The lady found a voice at last, but not 
 until she had read my features as you would 
 read a book. If my identity were to be proved^ 
 she had qualified herself for a witness most 
 completely. 
 
 " Tressilian ? " she repeated. " It is very 
 strange.'^ Then, after another pause, — " may 
 I ask whether we have met before V 
 
 I answered that we had. 
 
 " Will Mr. Tressilian be so obliging as to 
 mention where and when 1" 
 
 " About two years ago, at St. George's 
 Church." 
 
 " Ah !" she said, "I remember it now. I really 
 am very stupid not to have instantly recognised 
 the gentleman, to whose attentions on my wed-
 
 102' tressilian's story. 
 
 ding-da J I was so much and so unexpectedly 
 indebted. I was a little annojed bj them, 
 too, at the time." These last words were 
 spoken in rather a mirthful manner. 
 
 She went on : — " You are about asking 
 mj permission to call to-morrow, and inquire 
 how I have got over to-night's alarm. Come ! 
 I shall only be too happy again to see the 
 gentleman who has obliged me thrice!' 
 
 I made some unintelligible reply. She 
 cut short my compliments — " One word more : 
 your name is Tressilian V — I bowed assent. 
 
 " Julian Tressilian V — I was surprised at 
 her knowledge of my Christian name, as my 
 look might have shown her. 
 
 " The nephew, I believe, of Sir Edgar 
 Tressilian, of Cornwall T — Again I silently 
 assented. 
 
 " Then, Sir, I shall indeed be very happy to 
 see you again ; you will remember the house V 
 — This was said in a tone of inexpressible 
 archness. " And you may do a more unwise 
 thing than cultivate the acquaintance of its 
 owner — the Widow Stanley.''
 
 tbessilian's STORT. ' 103" 
 
 The prettiest possible smile played upou 
 her lips as she thus announced her name and 
 widowhood. Cheerfully enough I promised to, 
 pay the visit, and departed with my mind full 
 of thoughts, the most varied and contending. 
 
 It was one consolation to learn that my now 
 known Unknown was not shackled by the 
 bond matrimonial ; another, that she had for- 
 given, but not forgotten, my strange conduct 
 on her wedding-day ; a third, that she had 
 been not only very courteous, but apparently 
 desirous to see me again. I was puzzled with 
 conjectui'es as to the means by which she 
 could have obtained such an accurate know- 
 ledge of my family connexions. So intent was 
 my mind on these speculations, that I almost 
 forgot my success at the theatre. By degrees,- 
 my thoughts flowed in a calmer current, and a 
 sound, dreamless sleep closed my contempla- 
 tions on that eventful evening. You will fancy 
 this a " lame and impotent conclusion ;" but as 
 I am telling you what occurred, and not 
 inventing a romance, I cannot alter it. 
 
 I awoke early in the morning, and very
 
 104 teessilian's story. 
 
 anxiously longed for the hours to run on more 
 quickly. Never had thej appeared so leaden- 
 footed as then. Shall I confess it 1 my most 
 anxious thought was to see — the widow of 
 Harley Street 1 No ; to have a glance through 
 the newspapers. You cannot wonder at my 
 impatience. My drama had been very suc- 
 cessful on the stage ; but a great deal, as 
 regarded the mind of the public, depended on 
 what the critics of the Press might say of it. 
 
 All of them seemed in a friendly conspiracy 
 to be kind to me. Of Kean's acting they 
 spoke enthusiastically. A light heart was 
 mine ; I was, indeed, one of the happiest men 
 in London on that morning. 
 
 As the day rolled on, carriage after carriage 
 stopped at my door. Never before had my 
 humble apartments received such distinguished 
 visitors. To have written a successful play 
 was a great thing in those days ; therefore, I 
 had quite a levee of the gifted and the noble. 
 I might gratify my vanity by naming some of 
 them, and repeating what they said ; but I 
 have outlived that feeling, and must hasten my
 
 tressilian's story. 105 
 
 story to a conclusion. Among mj visitors was 
 Kean, with his heart upon his lips, loud in my 
 praise, and delighted with his own success. 
 Never before had I experienced the deep, deep 
 pleasure of hearing my own praises from the 
 lips of those whose favourable opinion was 
 distinction. I was proudly conscious of this 
 great delight, for I felt that I had done some- 
 thing to deserve it. 
 
 At last — and I thought they never would 
 have departed — my friends went away. Hur- 
 rying to pay my promised visit, I was in Harley 
 Street in a very short time. I asked, " Is Mrs. 
 Stanley at home V I was told " Yes ;" and 
 that she had waited within ail the morning. 
 
 I was ushered into a noble, and magnificently 
 furnished room. x\t the time, I had eyes for 
 neither its size, nor its splendid adornments ; 
 but I saw one, the loveliest, greeting me with 
 a gentle and winning smile. Two years had 
 matured her into a very charming woman; 
 and, like Geraldine in Christabel, she was 
 " beautiful exceedingly." 
 
 My reception was courteous, and even kind.
 
 106 tressiliak's story. 
 
 In reply to some playful badinage as to my 
 having fashionably delayed my visit until so 
 late an hour, I frankly told her what had 
 detained me. 
 
 " What r' she exclaimed, " are you the 
 dramatist ? Here is the Morning Post, with 
 a full column of praise and extracts, and a 
 mysterious announcement that the author of 
 this new and successful play is nephew of a 
 Baronet of ancient family in the south-west 
 of England ! Good Master Tressihan, your 
 modesty will run a fair chance of being 
 ruined !" 
 
 Once entered into conversation, I did not 
 allow it to flag. Nor did we, even thus early, 
 lack those mutual confidences which are so 
 delightful when the parties are young, and of 
 diflferent sexes. I confessed how much I had 
 been struck with her on her bridal day. She 
 seemed to encourage my talking of myself. 
 Believe me, that one of the most dangerous 
 positions in which you can place a young man, 
 as to allow him to speak of himself to a charm- 
 ing woman, who pays him the perilous com-
 
 tkessilian's story. ' 107 
 
 pliment of being interested, or seeming to be, 
 in what lie says : — the seeming is scarcely dis- 
 tinguishable from the reality in such cases, and 
 often merges into it. That day fixed my fate. 
 There was every excuse for it — if love 
 require excuse. The lady was not only beau- 
 tiful but accomplished ; more so, perhaps, 
 than is usual at her age, for she was not yet 
 twenty. But there was deep and solid good 
 sense, like a rocky foundation, beneath the 
 Corinthian embellishments of her mind; Ad- 
 ded to this, there was strong feeling, with a 
 dash of enthusiasm, and that most dangerous 
 weapon which can be possessed by a pretty, 
 witty, wilful woman — a keen perception of the 
 ridiculous. This she possessed rather than 
 wielded — the blade .flashed rather than smote. 
 In contemplative repose, her face would have 
 reminded you of the beautiful description of one 
 of the most imaginative of our poets, 
 
 " Thought sits upon her happy brow — like light! 
 
 The piure young thoughts that have no taint of sin! 
 Making the mortal beautj- yet more bright, 
 By the immortal beauty from within*." 
 
 * From a sonnet by T. K. Hervey.
 
 108 tressilian's story. 
 
 With so many natural and acquired advan- 
 tages, I doubt to this hour, which was most to 
 be admired, her beauty or her talents. 
 
 The interest which she took, or seemed to 
 take, in whatever concerned me, was very 
 flattering. My visit lasted two hours. Time 
 was not leaden-footed there, and in that 
 interval she had become acquainted with rather 
 more of my adventures, few as they had been, 
 than, a week before, I could have deemed it 
 possible I should have communicated to any 
 one. But when the auditor is fair and win- 
 ning, the heart will speak freely. 
 
 There was this satisfaction — she was nearly 
 as communicative as myself. Her father had 
 held a high situation at Madras, in the Civil 
 service of the East India Company. With the 
 usual profusion of persons accustomed to 
 Oriental habits of luxury, but without the 
 prudence which which many of them exercise, 
 he had contrived to spend every sixpence of 
 his income ; so that, when he died, his daughter 
 Mariana was almost destitute. Mr. Stanley, 
 who had been his schoolfellow in youth, and
 
 tressilian's story. 109 
 
 his friend through life, took charge of the 
 orphau, then a mere child ; sent her to England 
 to be educated ; and, on his return from 
 India, ^vas so much struck with the naivete of 
 her manners and the freshness of her beauty, 
 that, instead of adopting her as his daughter, 
 which was his first intention, he offered her 
 his hand and fortune. Mariana was without 
 another friend in the world, was quite uncon- 
 scious of the sacrifice she was making, and 
 therefore had little hesitation in promising to 
 espouse her father's friend. It was a new 
 edition of " January and May," as far as years 
 were concerned : for she was not eighteen, and 
 he was about seventy. Shortly after she had 
 made this promise, Mr. Stanley's health broke 
 up, from the efi'ects of climate and its change, 
 and during several months of acute suffering, 
 Mariana was his constant attendant, nursing 
 him with the care and kindness of maturer 
 years. On his partial recovery, he informed 
 her that, in order to give her an indisputable 
 right to succeed to his fortune, he still hoped 
 she. would become his wife — intimating that,
 
 110 tressilun's story. 
 
 as he could not expect her to sacrifice her 
 youth to his infirmities, thej should still pre- 
 serve their relative positions of parent and child 
 by adoption. On such an understanding, their 
 union took place. Its celebration, as I had 
 seen, was as private as possible, but Mariana 
 was a wife only in name. For about a year, 
 she continued to tend the old man — ever at 
 his side, with the affection and kindness of a 
 dear child. His death left her in affluence : — 
 the bulk of his fortune, amounting to some 
 thousands a year, becoming her own without 
 any restriction. She had continued to reside 
 in the house which Mr. Stanley had purchased 
 on his return from India. A female relative, 
 to whom such a home was an object, lived with 
 her as companion. 
 
 Such was the substance of what I heard, part 
 of it not until long after — a story which rather 
 damped my own hopes. If I despised one 
 thing more than another, it was that wretched 
 character a fortune-hunter. I own that, if 
 I had been smitten before, I was doubly struck 
 now, when a few hours' conversation had
 
 tressilian's story. Ill 
 
 revealed the rich and varied resources of Mrs. 
 Stanley's mind. But here was a sudden dash to 
 my hopes. If she had been poor, I would most 
 gladly have been the friend to protect, and 
 lore, and cherish her through life. If she had 
 been poor, I would have " coined mj heart 
 into drachmas" for her : I would have felt 
 pride in tasking mj mind to support her ; but 
 here, amid wealth and luxury, with all the 
 friends they can command, she was too far above 
 my aim. 
 
 You who know any thing of the passion- 
 springs of the heart, of the passion-stirrings of 
 the heart, of the rapture which the heart feels 
 in converse with one whom it loves — you 
 may imagine how rapidly flew the hours, 
 while Mariana and myself thus conversed 
 together, free and friendly as if we had known 
 each other for years. AVhen I enquired how 
 the accident of the preceding evening had 
 affected her, she told me that, until that 
 morning, she had not been fully conscious of 
 the extent of her obligations to me, — that, 
 yielding to some unaccountable impulse, she
 
 112 tressilian's story. 
 
 had gone to the theatre, escorted by a gentle- 
 man T?ho was a near relative — that, the play 
 having ended, she was about departing, when 
 having reached the vestibule of the theatre, 
 her escort heedlessly quitted her for a moment 
 to hasten her carriage, which drove up before 
 his return, and that I had arrived just in time 
 to be of service to her. 
 
 We parted. I promised to repeat my visit — 
 how cheerfully I kept my word ! Day after 
 day, the chain was more and more inextricably 
 entwined around my heart. I knew it, yet I 
 yielded to it. I could not resist the spell, and 
 to my great joy, Mariana appeared as little loth 
 as myself to continue the acquaintance. Some- 
 times, indeed, — when out of her presence, — I 
 determined to be less passive, to wean myself, 
 gradually and imperceptibly, from companion- 
 ship so charming, and so perilous. But the 
 resolution was sure to be broken. There was 
 this new poem to be read, that song to be 
 practised. Byron and Moore were pouring out 
 Poetry and Melody, with vigour and sweetness 
 at that time : to say nothing of a host of
 
 tressilian's story. 113 
 
 minor singing-birds ; now I Lad promised 
 to accompany her to see her portrait in 
 the Exliibition — it was of the lovehest that 
 Lawrence had ever painted ; to-morrow, we 
 were to visit Windsor, — the next day, we were 
 to join a party which had arranged to go to 
 Dulwich, — in short, there was a round of 
 engagements, and, as these were fulfilled, new 
 ones were proposed and entered into. Thus, 
 it was utterly impossible to keep my resolu- 
 tion of allowing the acquaintance to grow cold, 
 — perhaps this was a principal reason why I 
 so often made such a resolution. 
 
 I had a friend — a worldly-minded, hard 
 man — who had made a fortune by the law, as 
 respectably, no doubt, as it usually is ever 
 so made. He was a shrewd, calculating man, 
 wholly free from any idea of romance. He 
 never would neglect his own interests, nor 
 would he willingly injure the interests of 
 otliers. He was so strictly just, that I did 
 not think him capable of also being generous. 
 I had rendered this man a service ; and, while 
 thanking me, in a very few words, he told me 
 
 yoL. I. I
 
 114 tressiliak's stoey. 
 
 that whenever I required it, his advice was at 
 my command. I do not know what motive 
 impelled me to visit him, for he was about the 
 last person in the world of whom one would 
 think of making a confidant in an affair of the 
 heart. Yet, I actually did go to him with 
 that view. It may have been because I was 
 confident he would not laugh at me. I told 
 him what I felt, and feared, and hoped. He 
 heard me with attention. "It strikes me," 
 said he, " that this lady and her fortune would 
 be a desirable speculation. It is evident that 
 she has a fancy for you — that you are anxious 
 to marry her. I see that you would marry 
 her if she were friendless and fortuneless, and 
 I cannot think that the accident of her being 
 neither should stand between you and your 
 desire." 
 
 All attempts to argue against his sophistry 
 were put down with — "If you had fortune, 
 you would share it with her ; it happens that 
 she has it, so the case is exactly the same, 
 mutatis mutandis. You cannot do better than 
 seriously pay court to this Mrs. Stanley, and
 
 tressilian's story. 115 
 
 marrj her as soon as you can. You will want 
 money, perhaps ? Here is a draft for a hun- 
 dred pounds : draw on me for any further 
 sums, within reason, which you may require 
 for this purpose, and repay me when you have 
 the means. Not a word more. You once 
 did me a service, more essential than you 
 imagine, and you must allow me to acknow- 
 ledge it just as I think proper. I do not risk 
 my money — it is written, as the Turks say, 
 that you will repay it in the manner I 
 point out." 
 
 He literally pushed me out of his office. I 
 was weak enough, foolish enough, worldly 
 enough, to suffer my better feelings to be sub- 
 verted by what that old lawyer said. I 
 reasoned myself into the belief that he was 
 right — nay, I fear that I went farther, and 
 made calculations of the advantages which a 
 wealthy wife might afford to a person like 
 myself. I believed that, possessed of fortune, 
 it would not be very difficult to open for 
 myself a new and brilliant career. I had the 
 vanity to believe that I was well quahfied to 
 
 I 2
 
 116 tressilian's story. 
 
 strive for and gain distinction in public life. 
 I already contemplated, as part of the fruits 
 of a prosperous marriage, not only a seat in 
 Parliament, but rapid success in the new and 
 ambitious pursuits of a politician. In short, 
 I brought myself to think that my old friend, 
 though he had put the matter in a very 
 worldly point of yiew, was right in the main ; 
 and I found myself even wondering, at last, 
 how I could have allowed false delicacy to 
 interfere between me and my preferment. I 
 am very frank, you see : but the plain fact is, 
 I became anxious to be Mariana's husband, 
 not only because T loved her, but because the 
 alliance would at once open to me a sphere of 
 active exertion from which might spring per- 
 sonal distinction. As I walked home, I found 
 myself thinking what a noble library I should 
 have, what liberal patronage I should exercise 
 towards living artists, what elegant hospitality 
 should distinguish my establishment, — in short, 
 how many gratifications for soul and sense 
 might be purchased out of six thousand a 
 year. So, with this baser alloy mingling
 
 tressilian's story. 117 
 
 through mj feelings, I continued mj visits 
 to Harlej Street, and saw with delight that 
 the Avidow was not heart-whole. The crisis 
 was at hand. 
 
 One morning, as I was quitting mj resi- 
 dence, three letters reached me, which the 
 messenser — one of the attendants at a coffee- 
 house which I frequented, and to which my 
 correspondents were accustomed to address 
 me — told me had been lying there for a day 
 or two. I recognized the official seal of one, 
 and found that it was from the treasurer of 
 the Theatre, enclosing a draft for three hun- 
 dred pounds as the payment for my play. I. 
 should have told you that its success was real 
 — the theatre had not been packed with 
 friends, on the first night, to applaud it 
 whether good or bad, — it had not been adver- 
 tised with the stereotyped puff of *' splendid 
 success," to be dismissed, after three or four 
 nights' performance, into the tomb of all the 
 €apulets. 
 
 This remittance gave me so much satis- 
 faction, that, eager to carry into execution aa
 
 118 teessilian's story. 
 
 idea which had haunted me for some time, I 
 thrust the other letters into my pocket without 
 reading them, and hurried to mj friend the 
 lawyer. I seldom had greater satisfaction than 
 when I repaid him his loan. He enquired when 
 the marriage had taken place, and appeared 
 surprised and vexed when I told him that 
 matters remained precisely as they were when 
 I had consulted him. It was clear that he con- 
 sidered me as a young man who had foolishly 
 thrown away a good chance. 
 
 I proceeded to Harley Street. Mariana's 
 manner was agitated, her words hurried. An 
 indifferent subject of conyersation was started, 
 but neither of us pursued it. Silence fol- 
 lowed. I know not how it was, but as we sat 
 together in that silence, my hand unconsciously 
 wandered, for the first time, gently to encircle 
 Mariana's waist. My boldness increased, as I 
 saw that the intrusion was scarcely reproved. 
 Then, growing bolder, my lips ventured to 
 press the ripe and pouting beauty of hers. 
 Ere she could utter reproof, I was on my 
 knee by her side, and had breathed all my
 
 tressilian's story. 119 
 
 fear, and had ventured to whisper some of 
 mj hope. 
 
 A deep, deep sigh — a long, long gaze — the 
 ejes suddenly withdrawn — a delicate blush — 
 a slight pressure of my hand — a silence more 
 voiceful than the richest oratory — a gush of 
 sudden tears ; these were her answers to my 
 confession. In that answer, thus indicated, 
 rather than expressed, I was fully repaid for 
 all that I had suffered from the fever of 
 my fear. 
 
 Then followed full and mutual confidences, 
 each to each, of all that had disturbed our 
 hearts. In the midst of this, I remembered 
 that I had one confession yet to make — one 
 due no less to my own honour than to my 
 self-esteem. I made it thus — for well I re- 
 member every word uttered at that memorable 
 interview — " My Mariana,'^ (it was the first 
 time I had ever addressed her by her Christian 
 name,) " I have told you much ; pardon me if 
 I have not told you all. You have given your 
 heart to mine, in the trusty hope that I 
 deserved you. / do not, I am the veriest
 
 120 tressilian's story. 
 
 cheat that ever played with a trusting heart. I 
 have dared, not forgetful of yourself, to re- 
 member your fortune. I have deceived myself 
 — you I would not. I do not ask for forgive- 
 ness — I cannot forgive myself — spurn me — 
 reject me — despise me. I will submit to it 
 all — I deserve it all.'' 
 
 She appeared astonished, and exclaimed — 
 " Julian, you a fortune-hunter ? you a cheat 1 
 You unconsciously exaggerate. You must not 
 deceive me now !" 
 
 I told her all that passed between me and 
 my friend. She listened attentively ; a shade 
 of abstracted thought seemed to cloud her 
 brow. She said, '' Julian, I would even hope 
 that all you say were true, rather than believe 
 that, having seen my weakness in confessing 
 that you are not indifferent to me, you would 
 trifle with me thus, and now. Answer me, do 
 you know any thing new concerning yourself \ 
 Do you know any thing new about Tressilian 
 Court r 
 
 I answered truly, that I knew nothing. 
 
 " Nothing! Have not you got letters 1"
 
 teessilian's story. 121 
 
 I recollected the letters which I had re- 
 ceived that morning, but had not opened, and 
 I produced them. 
 
 She laid her liand upon mine before I 
 could open them. " If," said she, " the contents 
 of these letters should make your purpose 
 wayer for a moment, (and I know the intelhgence 
 thej contain — have known it since yesterday, 
 and thought it brought you to my feet to-day,) 
 if your purpose waver for a moment, remember, 
 I release you from your vows. I, too, would 
 not be held as winning a heart, and having a 
 worldly interest in view. Read your letters 
 now." 
 
 I read them. One was from the solicitor 
 of my family, written a week before, informing 
 me that my uncle and his two sons had been 
 lost at sea, on their voyage from Madeira, and 
 suggesting the propriety, as I now was heir- 
 presumptive to the title and estates, of mj 
 visiting Tressilian Court, where Sir Edgar, my 
 only surviving male relative, was anxious to re- 
 ceive me, and would have written with his own 
 hand, but was afraid, from the tone of our
 
 122 tressilian's story. 
 
 previous correspondence, that his letter would 
 be ungraciously received or returned. The 
 other letter was from my cousin Emma, giving 
 particulars of the shipwreck, and urging me to 
 lose no time in visiting Cornwall. In a post- 
 script — which is always said to contain the 
 pith of a young lady's letter— she "hoped that 
 my wooing throve V 
 
 You may imagine what my first impulse 
 was. I felt no inclination to release Mariana 
 from her plighted faith, rejoicing that I thus 
 could prove that it was indeed herself whom 
 I had sought to win. 
 
 In the conversation which ensued, she told 
 me that she had been a school-fellow of my 
 cousin Emma, and from her had learned of 
 my evil fortunes ; that when I first told her 
 my name, her interest had thereupon been 
 excited, and — all the rest was but a repetition 
 of what her glances and blushes had con- 
 fessed before. Having already heard from 
 Emma Tressilian of my change of position and 
 fortune, she had at first believed that, cheered 
 by this ray of sunshine on my path, I had that
 
 tressilian's story. 123 
 
 day come to tell lier in words what her heart 
 had conjectured long before. More than all, 
 she told me that, having won her affection, she 
 would hare wedded me for myself, whether my 
 fortunes were low, as I believed, or prosperous, 
 as she knew them to be. 
 
 I went to Tressilian Court, where I became 
 a favourite with Sir Edgar. Amid all his 
 pride and neglect, it had been his cherished 
 project to marry me to my cousin Emma, but 
 I was engaged, and it appeared very soon that 
 she was attached elsewhere. 
 
 One morning, there was a double bridal 
 at Tressilian Court. The beauty of Harley 
 Street became more beautiful in the wilds 
 of Cornwall. My cousin Emma, transported 
 to the garden of Wiltshire, was not less 
 lovely than before, nor (her smiles said) less 
 happy. 
 
 My uncle lived to see his grand-children 
 climb his knee — to embrace my children also. 
 He died some ten years ago. If any of my 
 friends here wish to see how we keep up old 
 customs at the Court, I can only say that Sir
 
 124 tressilian's story. 
 
 Julian Tressilian will be glad of tlie opportunity 
 of receiying them. 
 
 As for our happiness — but here comes mj 
 Mariana, little altered, to mj ejes, from what 
 she was when I married her. A son, who al- 
 ready undutifully aspires to overlook his father, 
 and a daughter, who seems nearly as womanly 
 as her mother, are living witnesses how years 
 steal on us, no matter how happily they may 
 pass. 
 
 "We thanked Sir Julian Tressilian for his 
 story, and regarded his very charming wife 
 with augmented interest. Slight as the 
 narrative was, it bore the stamp of earnest- 
 ness and frankness, with the appearance, amid 
 much strangeness of circumstances, of being 
 true. 
 
 " I have never coveted anything," said Mr. 
 Butler, " so much as the reputation which 
 arises from a successful drama ; — I mean in the 
 higher rank of that department of literature. It 
 is more enviable than that which any other 
 kind of fiction can bring to the author, and in-
 
 DRAMATISTS AND AUTHOES. 125 
 
 finitely higher, in its universality, than what a 
 Painter usually can realize." 
 
 "There can be no doubt," observed Tres- 
 silian, "that the success of which you speak 
 is pleasing and exciting, but I doubt if 
 it have any thing like the permanence aris- 
 ing from performances more purely literary. 
 A book, for example, has its season of 
 popularity, but if it possess real merit, it 
 outlasts the immediate and more ardent 
 success which it met with at first ; it finds a 
 succession of admiring readers, year after year ; 
 while a popular play runs through a season, is 
 then laid upon the shelf, and rarely is heard of 
 more." 
 
 " You forget that a good drama, though 
 it may cease to be acted after a time — but 
 this does not necessarily follow — is read in the 
 closet, long after it has had its course upon the 
 stage. He who writes wliat, for distinction- 
 sake, we may call a book, achieves his reputa- 
 tion by a slower process than the dramatist. 
 Weeks or months may pass by before the book- 
 maker has the eclat of success, but tlie drama-
 
 126 DKAMATISTS AND AUTHORS. 
 
 tist bounds to the goal with one effort, and in a 
 single night. He maj enter the theatre an un- 
 known man — he leaves it covered with laurels ; 
 and while his play is before the public, he has 
 a succession of nightly triumphs." 
 
 " Yes !" exclaimed Ladj Morton, " and 
 what triumphs ! He sees the highest histrionic 
 talent employed to illustrate what he has 
 written, throwing new light, as it were, upon 
 his thoughts, and investing them with an atmo- 
 sphere of superior intelligence. He hears the 
 hidden meaning drawn out of every sentence, 
 by the actor's skill, — the inflections of voice, 
 the variations of intonation, the grace of atti- 
 tudes, the flexibility of countenance, the poetry 
 of action all uniting to develope the passion 
 and the pathos, the force and the tenderness of 
 what he has composed. He finds appropriate 
 scenery and costume, judiciously employed to 
 give the greatest possible semblance of reality 
 to the drama. He has a brilliant theatre, rich 
 in ornaments, and profuse in lustrous light, in 
 which his play is represented, and, when re- 
 quired. Music lends her aid to the illusion. He
 
 DRAMATISTS AKD AUTHORS. 127 
 
 turns from the stage to the audience, and be- 
 holds a nioying sea of faces in the pit, a 
 thronging crowd of people in the gallery, a 
 crush of fashion and beauty in the boxes. 
 Unless he be more or less than man, what 
 thought must then occupy his mind ? — that he 
 has gathered all those people under that roof ; 
 that his writing, spoken by the actors on the 
 stage, is able to make all these hearts beat and 
 throb as with the power of an enchanter, and 
 that his is the might beneath which the tears 
 flow and the smiles arise as if at will. Say 
 not, then, that the more enduring fame of the 
 man who writes a book is preferable to the 
 enthusiasm which rewards the efforts of him 
 who writes a successful drama of the higher 
 order." 
 
 " You argue so eloquently,^^ said Tressilian, 
 " that I am almost afraid of replying to you 
 with cold words of reason. But in your bril- 
 liant sketch, you view only one side of the 
 question, and that by far the brightest. You 
 use too much couleur de rose. You do not 
 consider that even a good play may not sue-
 
 128 DRAMATISTS AND AUTHORS. 
 
 ceed. You forget how completely he who 
 writes is at the raercj of those who act the 
 drama. We shall even imagine, if joii wish, 
 that the piece has been produced, and has 
 succeeded ; and I grant you that the delirium 
 of such success is very delightful. But, on 
 each successive representation, as on the first, 
 there is a constant chance of something going 
 wrong, which may turn the passion of the 
 scene into what is ludicrous. A moment's 
 delay in the shifting of a scene — the curtain 
 raised or lowered at the wrong time — the 
 failure of one of the hundred mechanical pro- 
 cesses behind the scenes on which depends the 
 perfection of what is shown on the stage — 
 these are things liable to occur at any time 
 during a performance, and one of these would 
 change the plaudits into hisses. These de- 
 pend mainly on the intelligence or the so- 
 briety of workmen, and may be provided 
 against, by the selection of proper persons. 
 But who can guard against failures arising from 
 the neglect, the forgetfulness, the caprice, the 
 spleen, the ignorance, the dulness, or the envy
 
 DRAMATISTS AND AUTHORS. 129 
 
 of the actors themselves. He who has the 
 smallest character in the plaj — the mere 
 deliver J of a letter, for instance — may so mar 
 the scene in which he appears, as to throw an 
 air of burlesque upon the most serious and 
 touching passages. On the other hand, the 
 author of a book, if his reputation be of less 
 sudden growth, has more certainty of its con- 
 tinuance. What he has written, will stand or 
 fall by the impression which its perusal makes 
 on each individual mind, and on the multitude 
 of minds." 
 
 "I notice," said Crayon, "that the com- 
 parison between the success of a dramatist, 
 and a painter, has been only glanced at. For 
 my own part, I think that Literature, as re- 
 gards the permanence of fame, may claim a 
 higher place than Art. It is tradition, in many 
 cases, against fact. A picture or a statue 
 perishes, a book lives for ever." ii^ci;^;!' .. 
 
 "What!" said TressiKan, "with all the 
 eternal specimens of ancient and modern art 
 before us — in painting, sculpture, and architec- 
 ture — with which Europe is crowded? You 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 IMMOETALITY OF ART. 
 
 forget the Titians, the Raphaels, the Guidos, 
 the Corregios, the Murillos, the ^lichel 
 Angelos, to saj nothing of the master-minds 
 to which we owe the Apollo Belvidere, the 
 Medician Venus, the Laocoon, and a host of 
 other statues/' 
 
 " No, I fully bear them all in mind," replied 
 Crayon, " and I remember also how the epics 
 of Homer, and the dramas of Sophocles, ^s- 
 chylus, Euripides, and Aristophanes hare main- 
 tained a yet greater celebrity. When I think 
 of the permanence of letters, and the perishing 
 nature of what the Fine Arts produce, I am 
 tempted to exclaim, as Napoleon did, when 
 some one spoke of an immortal painting, the 
 material of which, with care, might last for 
 iiYe hundred years, 'Bah! the immortality 
 of a picture!"' 
 
 "The painting itself might perish," said 
 Lady Tressilian, " but its memory would last. 
 The graver perpetuates what the pencil has 
 drawn. I remember that when we were at 
 Milan, we were shewn Leonardo da Vinci's 
 picture of The Last Supper, which was at
 
 IMMORTALITY OF ART. 131 
 
 once the glory of the Painter, and the wonder 
 of the age whicli he had adorned. But, within 
 a century after it was executed, it had so much 
 mouldered away from damp, and want of care, 
 as to have presented but the shadow of its 
 original beauty. It is not now known whether 
 it was originally painted in oil, fresco, or 
 tempera. When we saw it, it was so much 
 the fragile vision of a picture, that we had 
 some difficulty, at first, in tracing even the 
 outlines. But though the colouring could not 
 be re-produced, the composition has been made 
 eternal. There are so many engravings of 
 this picture, that we can now almost bear 
 with its loss. So, after all, it does not appear 
 quite so absurd to talk of ' the immortality of 
 a painting.' While the graver remains, with 
 skilful hands to use it, no picture can be lost 
 — the colouring may fleet, but the grace and 
 form remain." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Butler, with a smile, " I 
 am not convinced, for the engraving can but 
 give us form, and colour is an essential which 
 nothing can supply." 
 
 E 2
 
 132 THE DRAMA. 
 
 "Just now," observed Tressilian, *'I should 
 rather write a book than a drama — because, 
 after I had completed mj plaj, the chance is, 
 that it would remain in my own desk, or in 
 company with a heap of other unacted dramas, 
 in the Manager's drawer." v,.,. r 
 
 " Truly, as you say," said the Major, " the 
 drama is at a low ebb, when we compare it 
 with what it was, even a score of years ago." 
 
 " There are obvious causes for its decline," 
 said Mr. Moran, who had been out of the 
 room during the preceding dialogue, and had 
 only just returned. "The actors, and the 
 play-wrights, are not equal to what they have 
 been." .0,:. .; 
 
 " Why not 1" asked Tressilian, " because 
 acting and writing, like spring-flowers, require 
 the sunshine. Twenty, or five-and-twenty 
 years ago, it was the fashion to go to the play. 
 The ' good old King,^ as people loved to call 
 George the Third, went at least once a week 
 to one of the large theatres, while he was in 
 London, and the people went also, as much, 
 perhaps, to see Royalty in the boxes, as the
 
 THE DRAMA. 133 
 
 actors on the stage. Where Royalty went, 
 the Aristocracy followed. When there wa 
 patronage like this, a good company of per- 
 formers at each theatre was a necessity, and 
 high talent was well remunerated for writing 
 for such performers. When Royalty ceased 
 to attend the theatres, the Aristocracy also 
 ceased ; and not only the Aristocracy, but the 
 crowd who aped to follow in their footsteps. 
 Change of fashion, too, making the dinner- 
 hour later, rendered it inconvenient for the 
 noble and the wealthy to visit the theatres. 
 But this change did not interfere, and, indeed, 
 rather chimed in with the late hours at the 
 Italian Opera. Thus, by degrees, the National 
 Stage, for acting, grew out of favor, and the 
 Italian Stage, for singing, became the fashion. 
 To revive the drama, requires only the encour- 
 agement which native talent ought to receive, 
 and has every right to expect." 
 
 " Yes,'' said Crayon, " provided the Starring 
 system be abolished. It has led to extrava- 
 gant sums being paid to a few puffed indivi- 
 duals, and, as a necessary consequence, to the
 
 134 THE BEAM A. 
 
 reduction of the salaries paid to the bulk of 
 the performers. When one hears of as much 
 being paid to a melo-dramatic actor, as a Star, 
 for a single night's performance, as was paid to 
 Mrs. Siddons or John Kemble for a month's 
 laborious and constant acting, we need not 
 wonder at theatrical speculations being un- 
 remunerative.'' 
 
 " There is much in what jou saj,^' said our 
 Irish friend. " Mj father told me that at the 
 Crow Street Theatre, in Dublin, in his daj, the 
 drama was so popular that sometimes there 
 used to be more in the house, than the house 
 could hold.'' 
 
 "A bull, bj Jove," exclaimed the Major, 
 amid laughter from all — none enjoying it more 
 than the maker of the blunder. 
 
 " Ah," said he, " that is nothing of a bull to 
 one that I heard the other day. Two Irish- 
 men met after a long separation. After 
 mutual enquiries, one asked the other after 
 the health of a certain cousin, ' Mighty ill,' 
 was the answer ; ' she's had the fever, and it 
 has brought her down terribly. You are thin
 
 •PATRONAGE OF ART. 135 
 
 and I am thin, but she's thinner than both of 
 us put together.' " 
 
 " It reminds me," said Mr. Butler, " of what 
 once took place between Sheridan Knowles 
 and AVilliam Abbott, the actor, at Bath. Thej 
 met in Sydney Gardens, and Knowles said, 
 after the usual interchange of compliments, 
 * I am leaving this place to-morrow ; can I 
 take any letters' for you V ' Where are you 
 going ?' said Abbott. ' I have not made up 
 my mind yet,' was the reply." 
 
 When the mirth which this sally had 
 caused was ended, the conversation was 
 resumed. 
 
 " The patronage of the Drama," observed 
 Crayon, " is a conventional phrase, which we 
 should reject from our vocabulary. Neither 
 Literature, Art, nor Science sliould deoeud 
 upon mere patronage. The Nation itself 
 rather than individuals, should patronize merit 
 wherever it be found. The Fine Arts, for 
 example, — how far has the nation recognized 
 them ? A few monumental common-places in 
 St. Paul's and Westminster x\bbey, certainly
 
 136 A NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 
 do not show what our Sculptors can perform ; 
 and in Painting, little has jet been done to 
 encourage and reward genius. We give accom- 
 modation to a Royal Academy, which has 
 never yet allowed one of the public within 
 the Exhibition rooms without payment/' 
 
 " You will admit, at any rate," said Tres- 
 silian, " that we have a National Gallery open 
 to the public T 
 
 " I will admit," replied Crayon, " that we 
 have some fine paintings, chiefly by the Old 
 Masters, forming the nucleus of what, by pur- 
 chase, gift, and bequest, will eventually become 
 a very valuable collection. My idea of a 
 National Gallery is this : — The best paintings 
 and sculptures executed by Native Artists^ 
 whether publicly exhibited or not — because 
 works of merit are frequently not even received 
 into the Exhibitions, on the plea of " want of 
 room" — should be purchased for the country, 
 year after year, on the responsibility of a 
 Committee of Selection, consisting of men of 
 recognized taste and judgment, none of whom 
 should be in any way connected with any
 
 A NATIONAL GALLERY. 137 
 
 Exhibiting body of Artists. So small a sum 
 as Thirty thousand pounds a year, judiciously 
 expended in this manner, would do more to 
 advance Art and Artists than twice the 
 amount disbursed by private purchasers. This 
 would be the most effectual recognition of 
 Art ; and, if this system were once in opera- 
 tion, the Painter and the Sculptor would have 
 their faculties called into emulative action, 
 from a consciousness that they were working 
 for a National reputation. "We should thus 
 have a constantly increasing collection of 
 works of native Art — the best productions of 
 each year — and, as these accumulated, speci- 
 mens of each artist might be drafted off into 
 provincial galleries, and thus extend a know- 
 ledge of art, by placing constantly before the 
 public examples, of what Genius and Talent 
 are accomplishing, season after season, in this 
 country. What we now know as the National 
 Gallery might be continued — but exclusively 
 limited to works of Continental artists, whether 
 ancient or modern. Thus, as has indeed been 
 attempted in the Royal Institution at Liver-
 
 138 AET AND LETTERS. 
 
 pool, with the paintings collected bj Roscoe, 
 the history of Art might be traced by the 
 works of successive artists. In our own Na- 
 tional Gallery, on the plan I suggest, the 
 history of British Art might be shown in 
 like manner, and different styles contrasted 
 and compared, not only without difficulty, 
 but with comparative ease and undoubted 
 advantage." 
 
 " Bravo !" exclaimed Mr. Butler, " but would 
 not this rather tend to dispense with private 
 patronage V 
 
 " On the contrary, it would lead to such a 
 knowledge of Art and a taste for it too, as 
 would necessarily involve, with that knowledge 
 and taste, an increase of private patronage. 
 But this should commence at the right end. 
 At this moment, advanced in civilization as we 
 boast ourselves, we know so little of Art, that 
 when a man makes purchases, he buys a name 
 rather than sl performance. The celebrity of the 
 artist, rather than the real merit of the work, 
 has too much become the test. In literature 
 it is otherwise. There, the educated mind
 
 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 139 
 
 forms its own judgment, and will not approve 
 of what is indifferent, because a great name is 
 labelled on it. A book is estimated justly, on 
 its intrinsic value, tliougli, naturally enough, 
 its perusal gives increased pleasure if it be from 
 the pen of an established and familiar writer, 
 because the reader then has the opportunity 
 of comparing the new performance with pre- 
 vious performances, and of judging for and by 
 itself, whether it exceed or fall short, not only 
 of the general standard, but of the standard 
 which that particular writer has enabled us to 
 make of his own capacity and knowledge. 
 The principles of Art should form part of every 
 gentleman's education, just as the principles of 
 Literature do. Then, a gentleman would be 
 able to recognise the value of a work of art, 
 whoever the author, as readily as he now 
 recognises the value of a literary composition, 
 and would not hesitate to become the possessor 
 of what he knew to be good, even though the 
 artist's name had hitherto been unheard of. 
 But now, place a fine production, from an un- 
 known hand, beside a piece of mediocrity by
 
 140 ART-PATRONS. 
 
 one "who has gained the world's applause, and 
 the good work will scarcely find a purchaser, 
 even at a low price, while the indififerent work 
 will be bought for a large sum, because its 
 maker is known. Why is this ? — because, with a 
 few exceptions, those who buy works of Art, do 
 not possess even that general knowledge of 
 the principles of Art, which would enable them 
 to appreciate merit whenever it was exhibited. 
 In the fulness of time, perhaps, that knowledge 
 will be taught at the Universities and else- 
 where, to those who, as possessors of wealth, 
 purchase works of Art for their own private 
 collections, or, as legislators, may be called 
 upon to vote pubhc money on account of a 
 National Gallery.'' 
 
 " There is a fashion in those things," said 
 Tressiliau, " as there is in theatricals ; and 
 when the lead is given in the highest quarter, 
 Aristocracy and Wealth will always follow it. 
 The formation of a National Gallery such as 
 Mr. Crayon has suggested, would not prevent 
 the fullest encouragement being given to Art 
 by individuals. But the example should be
 
 A ROYAL GALLERY. 141 
 
 shown by Royalty. So small a sum as Ten 
 Thousand a year, which could easily be spared 
 from the Civil List, judiciously expended in the 
 purchase of Works by British Artists, would 
 lead to the expenditure of a hundred times 
 that amount by the Aristocracy of Rank and 
 Money. People speak of George the Fourth 
 as having been a liberal patron of Art. It is 
 true that he spent a great deal of money in 
 the purchase of pictures, but his taste chiefly 
 ran upon the Flemish School, from the fact, I 
 believe, that the rooms inOarlton House were not 
 suited for large pictures, though he sometimes did 
 encourage native talent. What a magnificent 
 collection might our Sovereign make — how 
 richly and appropriately adorn the Royal 
 Palaces — by dispensing even such a small 
 annual amount as I have named in buying the 
 productions of native skill and genius, con- 
 fident, too, that, from the mere habit of fol- 
 lowing in the footsteps of Royalty, there would 
 be extensive emulation in this as there is in 
 meaner purposes. But while native talent is 
 not sufficiently encouraged, we shall continue
 
 142 HAYDOl^. 
 
 to find our Artists not only struggling for glory, 
 but sometimes even for the smallest means of 
 existence/' 
 
 " Do you not unconsciously exaggerate ?'' 
 " No," said Crayon, " I am afraid there is 
 too much truth in what he says. There is 
 Haydon, whose life has been a prolonged 
 struggle. He is the boldest, and, with all his 
 faults, which certainly do not spring from a 
 common-place mind, one of the most original 
 painters of our time. Contrast the neglect 
 which has awaited him with the encouragement 
 that the French gave to David, so much in- 
 ferior. Not one of our Academy Presidents 
 or Professors have lectured as well as Haydon, 
 because none have so thoroughly understood 
 the principles of Art — few have sent out more 
 distinguished pupils. Earnest, laborious, and 
 enthusiastic — an example, in sobriety of life 
 and earnestness of application, to his fellow 
 students — obtaining, at an unusually early age, 
 the largest prize from the British Institution, 
 — following up that by a series of successftd 
 efforts in the highest department of Art, and
 
 MARTIN. 143 
 
 jet never admitted into the Rojal Academy, 
 though it might have been expected that such 
 a body \vould have been proud to honour a 
 man initiated into Art in its own School. Or, 
 take the case of John Martin, who produces 
 noble works which speak to the mind 
 through the eye — master of space, sublimity, 
 and power — subduing vastness so as to con- 
 tract or transfuse it at will — and yet, when 
 he pleases, giving exquisite glimpses of the 
 beautiful landscapes with which our merry 
 England is full. But it has been for foreign 
 Academies and foreim Princes to render him 
 that justice, which the self-elected dispensers of 
 honours have refused him at home. I have 
 ever thought kindly of George the Fourth since 
 he befriended Haydon in his distress. As yet, 
 however, no Royal Palace in England has 
 been enriched by the acquisition of one of 
 Martin's pictures. The error, in this country, 
 partly arises from the recognition of merit by 
 the Academy, often being tardy or capricious. 
 Take the case, for example, of Lough, our own 
 Sculptor. Some years ago, in early manhood,
 
 144 LOUGH, THE SCULPTOR. 
 
 inspired bj genius, and instructed bj nature, he 
 surprised the world with his " Milo," a work of 
 a loftier character than British Art had jet 
 produced. In rapid succession, (for genius is 
 always productive) followed other great works, 
 among which his " Battle of the Standard," — 
 his " Satan,'' his " Orpheus," his " Duncan's 
 Horses," will challenge competition.* The 
 Academy has not honoured itself by conferring 
 membership upon him, and his works are not 
 in Royal palaces. Not thus was native Art 
 neglected on the Continent. There, even amid 
 their wildest schemes of ambition and conquest, 
 the Princes and their Nobles encouraged Art. 
 If the subject has not quite fatigued you, I 
 shall be happy in being permitted to relate an 
 anecdote of Velasquez, the Spanish painter, 
 whose King was also his familiar friend." 
 
 As we all concurred in wishing to hear this 
 anecdote, Mr. Crayon thus related it : — 
 
 * Since the date of this conversation, Lough has 
 produced his Shaksperian Statues — by far the loftiest 
 and most original productions of our time and country, 
 and the only embodiments in Sculpture of our greatest 
 Poetry.
 
 145 
 
 V. 
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 Ix the Alcazar Real, at Madrid, two 
 centuries ago, one suite of apartments was 
 particularly honoured. Therein, Genius had 
 its " local habitation/' There its works were 
 executed under the personal surveillance of 
 one who, amid the weight of Rojal duties, not 
 only delighted to hold familiar converse with 
 the followers of Art, but was also the patron 
 of Letters. The monarch was the same Philip 
 the Fourth, to whose acquaintance, as Prince 
 of the Asturias, we have been introduced by 
 Gil Bias. The Painter, (distinguished in his 
 own time, and for all time, as rivalling the 
 
 YOL. I. L
 
 146 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 skill, in portraiture, whicli Titian and Van- 
 dyke have elevated into historical importance,) 
 was Diego Rodriguez da Silva y Velasquez. 
 
 Born at Seville in the last year of the six- 
 teenth century, (the same time in which Van- 
 dyke was given to the world at Antwerp,) of 
 parents who were noble in blood, but reduced 
 in circumstances, Velasquez received from them 
 all that they could bestow — a liberal educa- 
 tion. He shewed such an early and strong 
 predilection for Art, that he was placed under 
 the elder Herrara — an artist whose temper 
 was warm, as his genius was undoubted, and 
 whose vigorous touch and brilliant colouring, 
 even yet may be considered as scarcely in- 
 ferior to what is exhibited in the best works 
 of Rubens. From him, no doubt, Velasquez 
 derived the boldness and vigour which so soon 
 distinguished him. But no pupil could long 
 endure the ill-temper and harshness of such a 
 master as Herrara, and Velasquez sought and 
 found more agreeable instruction from Fran- 
 cisco Pacheco, to whose pen, as its historian, 
 Spanish Art owes more than it does to his
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 147 
 
 pencil. Alonzo Oano, afterwards so distin- 
 guished as a Painter, Sculptor, and Architect, 
 was the fellow-pupil of Velasquez, under 
 Pacheco. 
 
 It would appear as if, even like Titian 
 with his masters, the Bellini, Velasquez soon 
 emerged from the conyentional methods and 
 hard style of his second instructor. Pacheco 
 was one who carefully observed the tradi- 
 tions of Art — he has been called " a man of 
 rules and precepts,''— he was always elaborate, 
 sometimes graceful, but he did not presume to 
 follow Nature. Velasquez, on the contrary, 
 commenced, continued, and ended, by holding 
 Nature in view. From the first, he neither 
 sketched nor coloured any object which was 
 not actually before his eyes. For a time, he 
 painted notliing but still life, and the few 
 specimens of this early industry which remain, 
 shew all the minuteness and literal fidelity of 
 the Flemish school. Sometimes, he went 
 among the multitude for studies, — he found 
 them in the streets of Seville, and on the 
 highways of Andalusia, and he painted them 
 
 L 2
 
 148 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 with a spirit and faithfulness, such as are not 
 surpassed even in the works of Murillo. Thus, 
 bj a variety of Labour, he acquired Facility, 
 and with these he combined Truth ; thus, too, 
 the Actual has predominated in his works 
 over the Ideal. After five years study, under 
 the roof of Pacheco, during which time he had 
 the opportunity of full and constant com- 
 munion with, the most polished and cultivated 
 society in Seville, he determined to visit 
 Madrid, in order to study the great painters 
 of Castile on their native soil, to examine the 
 treasures of Italian Art which had been 
 accumulated there by the taste and munifi- 
 cence of the Emperor Charles V. and his 
 successors, and to establish himself, if he could, 
 in a city, where Painting, Sculpture, and 
 Literature were then eminently encouraged 
 — the reigning monarch, Philip IV., being their 
 great patron, and himself imbued with taste 
 and knowledge. During the reign of this 
 monarch, the Castilian stage may be said to 
 have been in its greatest glory — men of letters 
 filled honourable posts about the kingly person
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 149 
 
 — Philip ^yrote liis own fine language with 
 spirit and elegance — he was himself a poet ; 
 and a tragedj from his pen, on the storj of 
 an English favourite, Essex, still maintains its 
 place among the dramatic wealth of Castile, — 
 he has been praised as one of the most accom- 
 phshed musicians of his time — he could draw 
 and paint with skill and effect, and thus had 
 practical knowledge to assist his judgment — 
 he projected an Academy of the Fine Arts, 
 which the jealousies of artists alone caused not 
 to be established, — he applied himself during 
 a long reign, to the acquisition of works of 
 genius, encouraging native talent, employing 
 his ambassadors and other agents to purchase 
 all paintings, sculptures, and bronzes of un- 
 doubted merit, which were to be had for 
 money, in foreign countries, no matter what 
 the cost, — he bartered the gold of Mexico 
 and Peru, for the artistic treasures of Italy 
 and the Low Countries ; and, not content 
 ^'ith culling the fairest flowers from contem- 
 porary studios, employed the best artists in 
 his kingdom to visit foreign climes, thence to
 
 150 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 select for his collection at Madrid, and to 
 procure, and make good copies of such paintings 
 and statues, modern and ancient, as money 
 could not procure. Never, at any period, nor 
 in any country, has Art found a patron at once 
 so discriminating and munificent, as Philip 
 the Fourth of Spain. Had our own Charles 
 Stuart fallen upon less troublous times, perhaps 
 he might have merited equal praise. 
 
 At the age of twenty-three, having com- 
 pleted his studies at Seville — studies which 
 were not confined to painting alone, but in- 
 cluded anatomy, the exact sciences, architec- 
 ture, general literature, the history of art, 
 and the language of Italy — Velasquez pro- 
 ceeded to Madrid, accompanied by a single 
 servitor. He arrived there in April, 1622, 
 taking with him, among other introductions 
 from Pacheco, a letter to Don Juan de Fonseca, 
 a man of noble birth, a native of Seville, an 
 amateur artist of some merit, and attached to 
 the person of the King by his office of Usher 
 of the Curtain. Through him, Velasquez ob- 
 tained the entree to the royal galleries, in
 
 .VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 151 
 
 which he industriously studied for several 
 months. Fonseca vainly endeavoured to pre- 
 vail upon the King to sit for his portrait 
 to Velasquez. The youthful monarch had 
 ascended the throne during the preceding 
 year, and was disinclined, thus early, to give 
 to Art the hours then claimed by Pleasure. 
 Therefore, Velasquez quitted Madrid without 
 having painted the King. However, a friend- 
 ship had been formed between him and 
 Fonseca ; and this was exercised so bene- 
 ficially in his behalf that, in a few months 
 after his return to Seville, the Oount-Duke of 
 Olivarez sent Velasquez a letter of command 
 to proceed to Court. Thither he went, accom- 
 panied, as before, by Juan de Pareja, his slave. 
 Velasquez immediately painted the portrait of 
 his friend Fonseca, in whose house they lodged. 
 The very day the picture was finished, it was 
 taken to the palace, where it was seen and 
 admired by the King, the Infantes, and the 
 courtiers, all of whom immediately came to 
 visit him. Without any delay, Velasquez was 
 retained for the King's service, under a per.T
 
 152 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 sonal order from tlie monarch himself. He 
 was commanded to paint a portrait of one of 
 the King's brothers, — made a sketch of Charles 
 Stuart, Prince of Wales, then on his love-visit 
 to Madrid, — and commenced that fine eques- 
 trian portrait of Philip which, when completed 
 in August, 1623, was exhibited in the most 
 public thoroughfare of Madrid, eliciting sonnets 
 from poets, critical remarks from rivals, the 
 praise from the Minister, Olivarez, that the 
 portrait of the King had never been painted 
 until now, and the expression of a design on 
 the part of Philip not only to sit to none but 
 Velasquez, but to collect and cancel all pre- 
 vious portraits of himself. 
 
 This was the culminating point of the for- 
 tunes of Velasquez. He was made the King's 
 Painter, — granted a handsome residence ad- 
 joining the palace, with a liberal allowance for 
 his support, — presented with the means of con- 
 veying his family from Seville to Madrid, — 
 engaged constantly on portraits of the royal 
 family, — encouraged by large remuneration to 
 execute historical and other paintings, — re-
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 153 
 
 ceiyed an appointment about the rojal person 
 as Usher of the Chamber, for haying produced, 
 in competition with other and eminent artists, 
 the best representation of the Expulsion of 
 the Moriscoes bj Philip III., — speedily raised 
 to the rank of Gentleman of the Chamber, — 
 further encouraged bj the royal patronage 
 being extended to his father, — permitted, on 
 the recommendation of Rubens, to go to Italy 
 for t\vo years, without loss of appointments or 
 income, and with liberal presents from the 
 King, — honoured for his genius while abroad, 
 — graciously receiyed by his Royal master on 
 his return, in 1631, and fayoured with that 
 remoyal to a studio in the Alcazar, which 
 enabled the King to pay him daily yisits, — 
 taken as the King's companion in his northern 
 journey, in 1642, when the Catalans reyolted 
 under the harsh goyernment of Oliyarez, and 
 to Arragon, two years later, when Philip in 
 person besieged, took, and triumphantly entered 
 Lerida, — sent on a mission to Italy, in 1648, 
 to collect works of Art, partly for the Royal 
 galleries, and partly for the intended Academy
 
 154 VELASQUEZ AND HIS IVIESTIZO. 
 
 of Madrid, — executed at Rome a portrait of 
 Pope Innocent X., so strikingly like, that one 
 of the Chamberlains seeing the picture through 
 the door of an ante-room advised his fellow- 
 courtiers to lower their voice, as the Holy 
 Father was in the next chamber, — made a 
 portrait of his faithful servitor Juan de Pareja, 
 for which the Roman artists elected the Painter 
 into the Academy of St. Luke, — rewarded, on 
 his return to Madrid, after a three years' 
 absence, with the appointment, at once dig- 
 nified and lucrative, of Aposentador-Major of 
 the King's household, which made him at once 
 Master of the Ceremonies, Lord Steward, and 
 Lord Chamberlain, — received the office of Gold 
 Key, giving him, as of right, a key which 
 opened every lock in the Palace, an appoint- 
 ment heretofore bestowed on none but the 
 highest nobility, — and was thenceforth con- 
 sulted by the King, not only on matters of 
 Literature and Art, but, as one who had read 
 much and visited foreign countries, on state 
 and family affairs of importance and delicacy. 
 Thus honoured, encouraged, rewarded, con-
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 155 
 
 fided in, bj a monarch singularly jealous and 
 captious, was Velasquez the painter. He had 
 obtained an eminence so high as to be con- 
 sidered well nigh perilous. 
 
 Years had rolled on, and it was now the 
 twenty-third since the Painter, then just en- 
 tered into manhood, had engaged the attention 
 of King Philip, at that time little more than a 
 youth. Now, the monarch had reached his 
 fiftieth year, while the Painter was his senior 
 by five years. In the Studio, at the Alcazar, 
 two persons might be seen — the King and the 
 Painter. There was a third, (if one so humble 
 be, indeed, worth notice) a Slaye, named Juan 
 de Pareja. The son of a Spanish Cavalier, and 
 an African woman, Juan was a Mestizo, or 
 half-caste, one of a description of slaves, then 
 common in Andalusia. He was some seven 
 years the junior of Velasquez, and had been 
 his property from childhood. He was a bright- 
 eyed Mulatto, well-featured, neither lackmg 
 intelligence nor observation — but who would 
 heed idmf For years past his duty had been 
 to attend on his master in the studio ; to clean
 
 156 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 the brushes, grind the colours, prepare the 
 palettes, adjust the canvas, and fix the easel in 
 its proper angle of inclination. He had grown 
 from childhood into the Yale of years, in this 
 employment. Too insignificant was a menial 
 Mestizo, in the eyes of Prince and Painter, for 
 a single thought. They always conversed 
 together, while he was in the room, precisely 
 as if he w^ere absent. And yet nature had 
 endowed the Mestizo with some gifts, and, 
 among them, with genius ! 
 
 It was now the year 16.56. Velasquez was 
 busy on that last great work, which artists and 
 connoisseurs have agreed to call his chef 
 d'cEuvre — as much from the difficulties which 
 he combatted and overcame, as the consummate 
 resources of art, which he then developed. 
 This is the large picture, called Las Menifias 
 (or the Maids of Honour,) which now is one 
 of the gems of the Royal Museum of Madrid. 
 It represents Velasquez, painting the Infanta 
 of Spain, Maria Margarita, who afterwards 
 became Empress of Germany. On the left, 
 one Maid of Honour presents a cup, on a salver,
 
 YELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 157 
 
 to the youthful, and fair-haired Princess, repre- 
 sented in the centre of the picture ; another 
 is in the act of making an obeisance ; two 
 dwarfs vary the action in the fore-ground by 
 caressing a majestic dog ; behind, a Lady of 
 Honour, attired as a nun, is speaking to one of 
 the officers of the Court ; through an open 
 door is seen another officer ascending a stair- 
 case ; in a mirror near this door, are reflected 
 the countenances of the King and Queen, who, 
 though out of the bounds of the picture, are 
 thus shown as part of the principal groupe. 
 Around the room are represented pictures from 
 the hand of Rubens. To add to the pictorial 
 difficulties, the apartment is shown as lighted 
 by three windows on one side, and an open 
 door at the end, thus giving the cross lights, 
 which artists so much dislike. In the extreme 
 right of the picture is placed the easel on 
 which Velasquez is at work, and beyond it is 
 the Painter, with the palette and pencils, 
 pausing for a moment as if to look at the 
 effijct of his composition. Every figure is the 
 size of life, and it has been justly said that
 
 158 YELASQUEZ AXD HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 the perfection of art, Tvhich conceals art, was 
 never better attained than in this picture. 
 
 " The work advances bravely," said the King, 
 "it will certainly be finished to-day. The 
 Queen, who has come daily to see it, has 
 spoken so much, and so warmly of it, that all 
 the Court are impatient to behold, and to ad- 
 mire it. You have certainly surpassed all that 
 you have done. Turn where I may, the blue 
 eyes of the Infanta seem to follow me. I 
 doubt, my Velasquez, whether the likeness be 
 not even more striking than that of the Ad- 
 miral Pareja, which you painted for me imme-. 
 diately after your second visit to Italy. You 
 remember that V 
 
 '' Your Majesty has resolved that I shall not 
 forget it." 
 
 *' Could I forgive the first, and only deceit 
 you ever used towards me 1 I had sent the 
 Admiral to his command in New Spain. He 
 had taken leave. I thought him far away. I 
 came into this room, from which you had ex- 
 cluded all light, save that which falls upon the 
 canvass. The portrait that you had finished
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 159 
 
 stood against the wall, in yonder corner. Mis- 
 taking it for the man himself, I angrily rated the 
 Admiral for having delayed his departure. I 
 received no reply, and then, as I advanced, I 
 discovered my mistake." 
 
 " Yet, Sire," said Velasquez, " it is no un- 
 common thing for a painting thus to deceive. 
 To say nothing of Zeuxis deceiving the birds 
 with his grapes, or Parrhasius painting a cur- 
 tain, which deceived even Zeuxis himself, it is 
 related that when Titian exposed his portraits 
 of Pope Paul the Third, and the Emperor 
 Charles the Fifth, in the open air, one on a 
 terrace, and one beneath a colonnade, the po- 
 pulace, who went by, reverently saluted them, 
 as if one had actually held the keys of St. 
 Peter, and the other the sceptre of the great 
 Charlemagne." 
 
 *' As to Zeuxis and Parrhasius," said Philip, 
 " you have gone very far back for examples, 
 which may or may not be true. With respect 
 to the portraits by Titian, in sooth, if ever 
 pencil could effect a miracle, it was his, and 
 the story may be believed. But he only
 
 160 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 deceived the populace in the streets, who know 
 little of Art, while you, my Velasquez, did 
 deceive your friend, a King who at least claims 
 the merit of loving, and of understanding the 
 excellencies and difficulties of Art. I tell you 
 that I thought that I actually was face to face 
 with the swarthy features, and overhanging 
 brows, and thick dark hair, and somewhat 
 surly features of our Admiral. I am surprised 
 that you should have travelled out of Spain 
 for an illustration. Have you forgotten that 
 Juan Pantoja, who was in great favour with 
 Philip the Second and his successor, painted 
 an eagle which had been caught in the chase 
 near the Prado, and did it so well, that when 
 the eagle saw the picture, he broke loose, and 
 tore the canvass with his talons and beak, 
 believing he saw an opponent.'^ 
 
 Thus familiar was the conversation between 
 the Monarch and the Painter. Presently the 
 pencil was laid aside — resumed once or twice, 
 to give more and more finishing touches, — and 
 then Velasquez announced that his work was 
 done.
 
 VELASQUEZ A^^D HIS MESTIZO. 161 
 
 " Metlnnks," said tlie King, after he had 
 long, and attentively surveyed it, " there is no 
 better picture than this in Spain. I rejoice 
 that I suggested the main points of its com- 
 position, and persuaded — nay, even had to 
 command you, to enrich it by the introduction 
 of your own portrait. In after-times, believe 
 me, this painting may derive much of its 
 interest from its exhibiting to posterity the 
 resemblance of him whose pencil has executed 
 it. One thing, and one only, that portrait 
 wants, but it can be supplied at another time, 
 if not by another hand." 
 
 Velasquez bowed — for he was too much a 
 courtier to -bandy compliments with his Sove- 
 reigii. He then requested the King to excuse 
 his attendance at that time, as the duties of 
 his office called him awa}^ for a few hours. 
 
 "I shall even extend the time,'' said the 
 King, " Be an exile from this studio until to- 
 morrow/' 
 
 So saying, and with a gentle familiarity 
 which could not have offended even an equal, 
 Philip pushed Velasquez out of the room, and 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 took up the palette and the pencil which the 
 painter had laid down. 
 
 The Mestizo, meanwhile, had been pursuing 
 his usual employment — the grinding colours 
 for his master. Besides the preparation of 
 the palette and other materials of Art, this 
 faithful servitor was entrusted with the arrange- 
 ment of draperies, the care of pictures, the 
 custody of books and manuscripts. Except 
 when thus employed, Velasquez seldom required 
 his services. Much leisure, therefore, the 
 Mestizo had enjoyed, and well had he availed 
 himself of the boon. He had learned to read 
 and write, and was familiar with the contents 
 of every volume in his master's, possession. 
 During thirty years in which he had seen that 
 master's almost daily practice in the Art, the 
 poor Mestizo — unregarded, despised as he 
 was — had keenly and emulatively observed 
 him. Perhaps, too, he sometimes even had 
 the presumption to think that what he had 
 seen he could do. 
 
 The King, like all the members of the 
 Austrian dynasty who had preceded him on 
 
 I
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 163 
 
 the Spanish throne, was himself an excellent 
 judge of Art, and, for nearly the fourth of 
 a century, had enjoyed constant and close 
 converse with Velasquez. He now placed 
 himself opposite the painting on the easel, 
 and rapidly put in with his own hand the 
 distinguishing chaio, badge, and cross of the 
 Order of Santiago. He did not lack the 
 requisite skill to execute this with tolerable 
 ability, and concluded his self-imposed task 
 with a complacent glance at the effect given 
 to the portrait of Velasquez by this addition. 
 
 The King had nothing else to do. Half- 
 an-hour yet .remained before supper, which at 
 that time was usually served ere the sun had 
 set, and, as frequently was his custom when 
 he wanted to kill time, he ordered that the 
 pictures which stood on the floor with their 
 faces to the wall, should be turned, that he 
 might see them. 
 
 Picture after picture was thus rapidly ex- 
 hibited. His Majesty yawned, — he had seen 
 them all before. At last the Mestizo ventured 
 to show a portrait of the King, which, although 
 
 M 2
 
 164 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 it evidently resembled the colouring and style 
 of Velasquez, as evidently was not from that 
 master's pencil. Philip was startled. " Know 
 you," said he, "who painted this'? Assuredly 
 I never sate for this portrait ; yet it displays 
 much merit, and, if I may judge of my own 
 features, it is an excellent likeness." His eye 
 fell upon the Mestizo, maintaining the enquiry 
 which his lips thus made. 
 
 The Mestizo threw himself at the King's 
 feet, and faltered out his confession, that the 
 portrait had been stealthily painted by himself 
 — that wdth much labour and difficulty, he 
 had learned to imitate Velasquez — and that, 
 fearing punishment for his presumption, yet 
 anxious to propitiate the King in his favour, 
 he had ventured on this expedient, in his 
 master's absence, of showing what he had 
 done. 
 
 At that time, in any part of Christendom, 
 the idea of a Slave attempting to become a 
 Painter, would have been received with incre- 
 dulity and indignation : but especially in Spain, 
 where the distinctions of society were zealously
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 165 
 
 maintaiued, and ^diere Art, justly considered 
 as a liberal pursuit, was often followed by per- 
 sons of ancient blood, and often brouglit high 
 rewards and honour. 
 
 But Philip, whatever his defects as a 
 monarch, had a just appreciation of merit ; and 
 having ascertained that it existed in Juan de 
 Pareja, the Mestizo, determined that the low- 
 liness of its station should not present obstacles 
 to its recognition and reward. He conde- 
 scended to examine other paintings which the 
 Mestizo had privily executed, praised what he 
 had done, and promised to use his best endea- 
 vours to obtain from Velasquez permission for 
 him henceforth openly to pursue that art in 
 which, untaught except by Genius and Industry 
 — those wonder-workers who, combined, can 
 do any and every thing — he had already ac- 
 complished so much. 
 
 The morrow came. By special invitation 
 from the King, the studio of Velasquez was 
 crowded with nobles of the highest rank. Pre- 
 sently came the Monarch, leaning on the 
 Painter's shoulder — a familiarity which he loved
 
 166 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 to exhibit. There was a pause, after Philip 
 had taken his seat, and then he said — 
 
 " Three-and-twenty years ago I first sate 
 for mj portrait to Velasquez. It was in the 
 house of mj minister, the Count-Duke d'Oli- 
 varez, not, until then, had Painter traced to 
 mj satisfaction, these features and this form. 
 I think, mj Velasquez, I am right as to the 
 time r 
 
 " The portrait,'^ responded the Painter, 
 " bears on it the date of August 30, 1623, for 
 1 was proud to record upon it, visible to all 
 men, the yerj day on which I completed a 
 work which had the good fortune to please my 
 sovereign." 
 
 " I intimated to Velasquez, then," continued 
 the King, (who, it may be observed, followed 
 the custom of his country in not speaking of 
 himself in the first person plural, like other 
 potentates,) "that from that day, none other 
 but himself should be employed to paint my 
 portrait. He can answer that I have kept my 
 promise indifi'erently well. He has since wor- 
 thily laboured for us, through a long series of
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 167 
 
 years, not only to enrich my palaces with his 
 works, but to elevate the Spanish name, by 
 the execution of what may challenge competi- 
 tion with the best Italian and Flemish painters. 
 He has devoted himself, at my request, to long 
 and laborious journey ings to foreign countries, 
 to procure for me works of art worthy of 
 embellishing my capital and my palaces, while 
 they afford examples to the native talent of 
 this my Spain. A few appointments about 
 my person have gratified myself more than 
 Velasquez, for they gave me, to share my secret 
 hours of retirement, one who is qualified by 
 education, intellect, and thought, to be the 
 companion of Princes. Yesterday I received 
 from Velasquez a painting, into which, by my 
 desire, he introduced a portrait of himself. 
 To-day, I exhibit it here, with additions, 
 which my own unskilled hand has ventured to 
 make." 
 
 At a signal from the King, the curtain 
 which concealed the picture was here with- 
 drawn, and when Velasquez saw what the 
 King had painted in, he bent his knee to earth,
 
 168 YELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 and gratefully kissed the hand which had thus 
 executed a compliment, as graceful as Royalty 
 ever honoured itself by bestowing on Genius. 
 
 " No thanks !" exclaimed the King. " You 
 will please to observe/' he added, addressing 
 the Marquis da Tabara, President of the Order, 
 " that Don Diego Rodriguez da Silva y Velas- 
 quez has already been invested, on this canvas, 
 with the red Cross of Santiago. No need to re- 
 port on his qualifications. For them, and for his 
 noble blood, and nobler worth, the King him- 
 self will vouch. Let his installation take place, 
 in the Church of the Carbonera, on the feast of 
 San Prospero, the birth-day of my son, the 
 Prince of Asturias. Let the Marquis de Mal- 
 pica, as Comendador of the Order, officiate as 
 sponsor; Don Gaspar Perez de Guzman, and 
 my cousin, the Duque de Medina Sidonia, will 
 place tlie insignia upon the new Knight." 
 
 Once more the King and the Painter were 
 alone — save the humble presence of Juan, the 
 Mestizo. 
 
 "And you think, my Velasquez,^' said the 
 King, " that the portrait is not damaged by
 
 YELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 169 
 
 the addition made ? The chain which I have 
 there pLaced round jour neck is not precisely 
 of the pattern usually worn by the Knights of 
 Santiasjo. But I remembered that when Duke 
 Frances of Modena visited our Madrid, in 1638, 
 you painted his portrait, and he rewarded you 
 with a gold chain, which I have seen you wear 
 on gala days, until some ten years later, when 
 it was laid aside for that chain, with a medal 
 of himself, which Pope Innocent the Tenth 
 gave you, at Rome, for having made a better 
 likeness of him than any Italian painter had 
 been able to produce. To record that you had 
 been so rewarded, I even asked your Mestizo 
 here to bring me the Pope's chain, and, as 
 you see, have introduced it into your por- 
 trait." 
 
 " Never was Painter so exalted," said Ve- 
 lasquez, " as I am by these honours conferred 
 upon me by your Majesty." 
 
 " I well believe," said the King, " that 
 never before has the accolade of knighthood 
 been conferred by a few touches of the pencil 
 instead of a blow of the sword. But you err
 
 170 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 if you think that never before, in this country, 
 has genius been duly honoured. The Emperor 
 Charles, who regarded the acquisition of a 
 picture by Titian ^vith as much satisfacti9n as 
 the conquest of a province, crested him a 
 Count Palatine of the Empire — my grand- 
 father, Philip the Second, raised Tibaldi, the 
 painter, to the rank of Marquis in the Mila- 
 nese States, by the title of Yaldelsa, the vil- 
 lage in which his father had laboured as a 
 mason — and to Calderon, the dramatist, and 
 Francesco de Roxas, the poet, have I already 
 given the Cross of Santiago. In such cases, 
 the honour is to him who bestows, not on him 
 who receives. I should think ill of myself if, 
 loving Art as I do, I did not reward its fol- 
 lowers. Know you not that from the good 
 Dominican, Juan Bautista Mayno — who in- 
 troduced your friend, Alonso Cano, to my 
 notice, — I received that practical knowledge of 
 painting, which enabled me, ere the cares of 
 Royalty fell upon my brow, to exercise the 
 pencil in a manner which, I have been told, 
 might have made me eminent as an artist, if
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. l7l 
 
 the sceptre bad not descended to me. But I 
 have surprised jou once to day, perhaps I can 
 do so a second time. You doubt 1 — Let jour 
 slave turn the picture opposite." 
 
 It was done. Vebisquez examined the 
 painting carefully, and then remarked, " If it 
 were the work of any rival artist, methinks, I 
 should have cause to dread the rivalry. Not 
 because your Majesty has painted this, but 
 because of its intrinsic worth, do I give this 
 painting the fullest approval." 
 
 " No matter who the artist '? Suppose it 
 had been painted by one of my servitors V 
 
 " Your Majesty compels me to speak the 
 truth. I must not wrong my judgment. Who- 
 ever did this portrait, were he lowest servitor 
 in the meanest ville in Spain, is worthy to 
 stand before princes. If my own Mestizo 
 there, who mixes my colours, had done this, 
 I would say the same." 
 
 " Then," said the King, " learn that your 
 Mestizo is the Painter. See, he kneels at 
 your feet. Velasquez, you must pardon, for 
 the success, the presumption which has tempted
 
 172 VELASQUEZ AXD HIS MESTIZO. 
 
 liim into the path you haye so Trorthily 
 pursued. You see that a Painter like this 
 ought not to remain a Slave." 
 
 Velasquez readily assented. Juan de Par- 
 reja, kissing the King's hand, arose a freed 
 man. He had knelt, a slave : he now stood 
 erect in the dignity of freedom. Without 
 any loss of time, Velasquez executed a formal 
 deed of manumission, and told him he vras now 
 at liberty to pursue his own course. But his 
 services did not then terminate. He solicited, 
 as a boon, the privilege of continuing his 
 voluntary services to Velasquez, and (lightly 
 tasked, however,) did so continue them for 
 four years longer, until the death of his mas- 
 ter, in 1660. Nor did his connexion w^th the 
 family of his benefactor cease even then, for 
 he continued in the service of his daughter, 
 married to Mazo Martinez, who succeeded 
 Velasquez as painter in ordinary to the King. 
 
 In the history of Spanish Art, the name of 
 Juan de Pareja, the Mestizo, is honoui'ably 
 recorded. The pencil of Velasquez has pre- 
 served his features. His own pencil, and the
 
 VELASQUEZ AND HIS MESTIZO. 173 
 
 romantic circumstances of his storj liave caused 
 him to be remembered. His works, whether in 
 portraiture or composition, are now very few, 
 and as might be expected, exhibit a close and 
 successful resemblance, in colouring and hand- 
 ling, to those of his great master. Some of 
 his later portraits, are spoken of as possessing 
 greater freedom than he at first displayed — 
 the public exercise of his pencil probably gave 
 him confidence in his own powers — and have 
 been sometimes taken, from their force and 
 boldness of touch, for the works of Velasquez. 
 He died in 1670, fourteen years after his 
 manumission. 
 
 Memorable in the annals of Art was the day 
 of the double adventure, vdiich tradition has 
 preserved, undoubted in its incidents, to these 
 later and less romantic times. On that day 
 the Spanish King made Velasquez, a Knight 
 of Santiago, and Juan de Pareja, the Mestizo, 
 obtained his freedom, by means of his ability 
 as a Painter.
 
 174 MURILLO AND GOMEZ. 
 
 " Thanks," said Tressiliaii, " for a true storj, 
 from the history of Art in Spain." 
 
 " Do joii not recollect," said Lady Tres- 
 silian, " that when we were at Seville, we were 
 shewn pictures executed by a Mulatto, but I 
 think they told us that he had been in the 
 service of Murillo V 
 
 " You are quite correct in your recollection, 
 my dear," answered Sir Julian. " At Madiid 
 we saw the calling of St. Matthew, by Pareja, 
 the emancipated Mestizo of the great Velas- 
 quez. In Seville, we saw some of the works 
 and heard the story of Sebastian Gomez, the 
 Mulatto, slave of Murillo. He slept in his 
 master's studio, and having taught himself how 
 to paint, used to practice secretly at night. 
 Once, having taken up the pencil to touch a 
 picture of the Virgin which his master had 
 sketched and left upon the easel, he was led 
 to forget that it was the design of another, 
 and continued to paint, heedless of the day- 
 light having dispersed the shades of night, and 
 equally unconscious that Murillo had entered 
 the studio, with some of his pupils. Murillo
 
 QUIXTIN MATSYS. 175 
 
 motioned them into silence, and remained for 
 some time, a spectator of the Mulatto's labom's. 
 At length, he broke silence, to the dismay of 
 the Mulatto, who trembled for the consequences 
 of his temerity. Murillo took him by the 
 hand, and said, " He who can so use my 
 colours must no longer continue to grind them. 
 Be a freed man from this hour. Continue with 
 me — but as a pupil. I am, indeed, fortunate, 
 for I have made not only pictures, but a 
 Painter.'' Henceforth, Gomez pursued the 
 practice of the Art, and with such success, that 
 he has left a name as one of the great Painters 
 of Spain. At Seville, several of his works are 
 shown, — they have much of the rich harmony 
 of colouring which distinguish those of Murillo. 
 " It is singular," said Crayon, " that Velas- 
 quez and Murillo, flourishing at the same time, 
 should each have had a mulatto with sufiicient 
 genius to advance into the rank of Painters. 
 But there are many curious coincidences in 
 Art. The well-known anecdote of Quintin 
 Matsys, the blacksmith of Antwerp, who, for 
 love of an artist's dauditcr, himself became a
 
 176 FRANCISCO DE EIBALTA. 
 
 painter, was anticipated, hy more tlian a cen- 
 tury, by tlie romantic story of Antonio Soiario, 
 (commonly called Lo Zingaro, or the Tinman 
 of Naples,) who after ten years' probation, 
 achieved so much success as to obtain the 
 hand of Claudia, daughter of Colantonio del 
 Fiore, a noble, who was himself an artist, and 
 had vowed that she should wed none but a 
 Painter equal to himself. And so in Spain, 
 Francisco de Ribalta, born twenty years after 
 Quintin Matsys had died, became enamoured 
 of the daughter of a Painter at Valencia. The 
 father positively refused to accept as a son-in- 
 law, one so young and inexperienced. The 
 maiden decided to wait. Ribalta went to 
 Italy for four years, and during that time, 
 carefully formed his style on that of Raphael 
 and the Carracci. On his return he found the 
 lady as faithful as he had hoped. On the 
 easel, at her father's, was an unfinished picture 
 — Ribalta took up the pencil and rapidly 
 finished it. The father, returning, was so 
 delighted with the painting, that he declared 
 the artist, whoever he might be, should wed
 
 THE FIXE ARTS IN SPAIN. 177 
 
 his daughter, and not that mindless Ribalta. 
 Then came the discovery, followed bj the 
 nuptials, and to this hour, Ribalta continues 
 among the foremost of the Painters of Valencia, 
 and memorable also, as the instructor of the 
 famous Spagnoletto. Thus, Italy, Spain, and 
 the Low Countries, have each an authentic 
 anecdote of a Painter made great under the 
 impulse of Lore! It seems that Art, like 
 Life, has strange coincidences." 
 
 " Like effects springing from like causes,'' 
 said Tressihan. " It is a remarkable thing, 
 and what cannot be said of some countries 
 which boast themselves as much more civilized, 
 that in Spain, under five successive monarchs, 
 during a period of nearly two centuries, the 
 fine x\rts should have been constantly and 
 munificently cared for. There was the Em- 
 peror Charles the Fifth, (so familiar to us 
 through his brilliant historian, Robertson,) 
 encouraging the painters, sculptors, and archi- 
 tects of Spain, — boasting of the friendship of 
 the great Titian, — honouring him with titles 
 of nobility, — enriching him with liberal gifts 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 l78 PHILIP II. 
 
 and pensions, — picking up his pencil, with the 
 graceful compliment that Titian was worthy 
 to be seiTed by Oaesar, — rebuking his courtiers, 
 who thought he was too familiar with the 
 painter, by saying there were many princes and 
 only one Titian, — and declaring that no other 
 hand should draw his portrait since he had 
 thrice received immortality from the pencil of 
 that artist. There was his son and successor, 
 Philip the Second, so well remembered in 
 England as the husband of Mary Tudor, and 
 the sender forth of that Armada which, with 
 vain anticipation, he had called "The Invin- 
 cible. '' Morose and gloomy as a monarch 
 and a man, he delighted to manifest kindly 
 feelings towards his artists; he also was the 
 friend of Titian, — was an intimate acquaint- 
 ance with Antonio More, — lavished regard 
 and wealth upon Herrara, the builder of his 
 palace of the Escurial, and encouraged and 
 rewarded the genius of Morales, Sanchez Coello, 
 El Mudo, (who has been called the Spanish 
 Titian,) and El Greco, who, as painter, sculptor, 
 and architect, has a reputation which will not
 
 PHILIP lY. 179 
 
 perisli. So, also, tlioiigh with meaner capacity, 
 did the Third Philip encourage art and its 
 professors. lie appreciated Don Quixote, 
 though he did not think of inquiring whether 
 Cervantes was not in poverty; when a fine 
 gallery of paintings, at the palace of the 
 Prado, in Madrid, was destroyed by fire, he 
 eagerly exclaimed, ' Have they saved the 
 Antiope of Titian? we may replace other 
 pictures, but the loss of a Titian cannot be 
 repaired/ Then came the golden age of Art 
 in Spain, under Philip IV.; his afiectionate 
 regard for Velasquez commenced when the 
 monarch was only eighteen and the painter 
 four-and-twenty ; his munificent expenditure 
 in the importation of works of Art from Italy 
 and Flanders, — his kindness to Rubens, — his 
 liberality to De Zurbaran, Alfonso Oano, Mu- 
 rillo, and the younger Herrara, with a con- 
 tinued and liberal encouragement of art during 
 a reign of nearly forty-five years. And 
 Charles IL, the last of the Spanish kings of 
 the Austrian line, could delight in his pictures 
 when nothing else could give pleasure to his 
 
 N 2
 
 180 ENGLISH AET-PATRONS. 
 
 limited capacity. In his reign, though art 
 had decUned, it still could show some noble 
 followers, and the works of Oarreilo, Palomino, 
 and Alfaro, yet challenge admiration in the 
 galleries of Spain/' 
 
 " What is called ' a clear stage and no 
 favour,' appears to me,'' said Butler, "to be 
 the best mode of giving encouragement to 
 Art. Any attempt to patronize it is certain 
 to lower it." 
 
 " That," said Crayon, " depends on what 
 we may term patronage. For my own part, 
 as an artist, I am not ambitious, as some men 
 are, to measure my merit by the number and 
 quality of the visitors to my studio, nor yet 
 by the quantity of pictures I may sell in the 
 year, nor the gross amount I may receive for 
 them. To have a work of mine in the col- 
 lection of a man of recognized knowledge of 
 Art, and feeling for its beauties and difficulties, 
 such as Lord Farnborough, Lord de Tabley, 
 Sir Robert Peel, Lord Egremont, the Marquis 
 of Westminster, Lord Francis Egerton, Mr. 
 Wells, or Lord Lansdowne, — would of itself be 
 
 I
 
 ART AND LETTERS. 181 
 
 a diploma of merit, of more value than if I 
 had received a large sum for it from some one 
 -svho could not decide for himself if it were 
 good or bad, and had merely bought it because 
 the painter happened to have a name. The 
 Nation and the Sovereign should thus become 
 the patrons of Art, by becoming possessed of 
 the best works of its painters and sculptors/' 
 
 " Agreed," replied Butler, " all other patron- 
 age is worse than useless, for it does not 
 elevate the artist. So, too, with literature; 
 it is not the mere fact of a man's work sellino; 
 largely, to his great gain, that assures him of 
 the success he covets, but the knowledge that 
 minds well calculated to be critical, acknow- 
 ledge that he has done well. Will you allow 
 me to end this disquisition, which has become 
 too particular, by relating an incident in Nvhich, 
 though slightly, the shepherd-poet of Scotland, 
 bore some little parti'' 
 
 Then were related to us the marvellous 
 adventures of Andrew Horner.
 
 182 
 
 VI. 
 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 
 
 It is recorded that when Sir Walter Scott 
 was a lad of fifteen, he saw Burns. " I may 
 truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum,'' are his own 
 words. Much more fortunate was Andrew 
 Horner, who spent an evening in the poet's 
 company, and — must I tell iti — there and 
 then imbibed so much liquid, rather stronger 
 than spring-water, that his head ached sorely 
 the next morning. 
 
 About fifty years ago, there flourished a 
 worthy, in the city of Carlisle, who — bless the 
 mark! — was smitten with the desire of fame; 
 and, not content with the dim and distant
 
 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 183 
 
 prospect of obtaining it by his humble occu- 
 pation as a vendor of linen, adventurously 
 fixed his glance upon no less a mark than 
 that pedestal whereon, '' with a pencil of 
 light,'' Renown has inscribed the names of the 
 illustrious who have elevated themselves into 
 earthly immortality. 
 
 Andrew Horner was the name of the wight 
 who (in his own estimation) was worthy to 
 break a lance with those proud heirs of fame 
 who have gained the world's admiration. He 
 had reached the sage age of half a century, 
 €re he had fully made up his mind in what 
 manner he should astonish the public. He 
 determined, finally, to " witch the world with 
 noble'' — not horsemanship, but rhymes. Like 
 many men before, in, and since his day, he 
 mistook the aspiration for the ability — the 
 wish for the power to write. Thus do we 
 constantly see practical illustrations of the 
 frog trying to swell to the expansive size of 
 the lordly bison, and thus have we been 
 afflicted with manifold imitations of the better 
 brethren of the quill, in which, like Chmese
 
 184 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 
 
 artists, the copyists give every defect with 
 remarkable fidelity, but invariably contrive not 
 to give the grace, the expression, and the 
 freshness which breathe life and beauty into 
 the originals. 
 
 Sundry quires of what he courteously and 
 complacently called poetry, were written by 
 Mr. Horner. These he would read to such of 
 his customers as he could prevail upon to 
 listen. When he lacked this " audience fit 
 though few/' he was wont to read his efiiisions 
 aloud, ore rotundo, for his own edification- 
 and, if he was in a particularly placid and 
 pleasant vein, he would send for a neighbour, 
 who had brightened his intellect by making 
 the theatrical tour of England (as candle-snufFer 
 and bill-sticker for sundry erratic theatrical 
 companies) and bribe him, with a noggin of 
 whiskey, or a gill of ale, to listen to the melli- 
 fluous lines which their author monotonously 
 poured out — like a child pouring a thin stream 
 of muddy water into a bottomless vessel. 
 Andrew Horner's amour propre would be 
 gratified, ever and anon (between gulps), with
 
 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 185 
 
 sucli interjectional remarks, as " Gude — vera 
 gude!" ''Real fine rhjmes I" "Excellent! 
 ma faith, Sliakspere ne^er wrote sic po'try as 
 that !" But bj tlie time the fluids were dis- 
 posed of, the listener usually was in a calm 
 sleep. AVhatever other merits thej possessed, 
 it was pretty obvious that Mr. Andrew Hor- 
 ner's rhymes were of a composing nature : — 
 the art of writing such has not died with him. 
 The proverb which tells us that a prophet 
 has no honour in his own country, is equally 
 true when applied to poets. The good^ people 
 of Carlisle have never been too discerning, and, 
 indeed, it is rather a recommendation than 
 otherwise for a man, amongst them, to be some- 
 what of a dullard — if he happily be a bigamist 
 also, he has a great chance of success ! They 
 ^ere as blind to literary merit in 1785, as 
 they are now, or as they have been in any 
 year of grace since Paley cast too much light 
 upon their mental obscurity. Is it wonderful, 
 then, that Ilorner shared the common doom ? 
 that he gained, at best, the dubious distinction 
 of being sneered at as a half-witted rhymester,
 
 186 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 
 
 or positively condemned for the folly of 
 neglecting his business for his verses 1 
 
 How could a soul like his be "cabined, 
 cribbed, confined,'^ in the dull and dirty city 
 of Carlisle '? What more natural than that 
 
 " Aspiring upwards — like a star," 
 
 it should seek a more extended range, a wider 
 sphere of action 1 What more obvious than 
 this should be gained by the then important, 
 but now common step — publication ? 
 
 Andrew Horner read his own poems for the 
 thousandth time, — worked himself, once more, 
 and for ever, out of his lingering doubts, and 
 into the heart of his old conviction (that they 
 were truly exquisite), and then magnanimously 
 resolved to — print them ! 
 
 It is faithfully recorded, in one of the 
 gossiping memoirs of the time, that Henry the 
 Fourth of France once entered a small town, 
 and was met at the gate by the Mayor and 
 Corporation, with a right loyal address — that 
 is, an address in which the reigning monarch 
 is told, even as his predecessors were told, in
 
 A BIGHT WITH BURNS. 187 
 
 terms of adulation, that lie is all but a God 
 upon earth. " Maj it please jour most august 
 and sacred Majesty/' added the chief repre- 
 sentative of municipal wisdom, "we should 
 have saluted jou with cannon, according to 
 ancient custom, but for seventeen reasons ; 
 the first is, jour Majesty, we have not got anj 
 cannon !' " That will do," hastilj inter- 
 rupted the impatient King, as he gave spur 
 and rein to his charger, "I excuse the remaining 
 sixteen reasons." In like manner could be 
 enumerated a great varietj of circumstances 
 which unfortunatelj prevented Andrew Hor- 
 ner having his book printed at Carlisle. The 
 first was, that in the jear 1785, there actuallj 
 was not a printing office in that ancient citj. 
 Perhaps, like the French king, jou will "excuse 
 the other sixteen reasons." 
 
 The nearest place, at that time, where he 
 could have his book creditablj brought out, 
 was the good citj of Glasgow — then, as now, 
 famous for the punch-making and punch- 
 bibbing powers of its worthj inhabitants. 
 
 To Glasgow, therefore, Andrew went. There
 
 188 A I^IGHT WITH BURNS. 
 
 he speedily learned that the expense of printing 
 and publishing was no trifle ; but then, what 
 was a little money, nay, what was a great deal 
 of it, in the balance against his immortal fame ! 
 Although not actually a Scot by birth, our 
 friend was " too far north" to close any bar- 
 gain on the instant with the Glasgow biblio- 
 pole, but left it pending, or, as he would have 
 said, " hanging betwixt and between." His 
 mind was too enlarged to be made up at a 
 moment's notice, like a travelling bag or a pre- 
 scription. He had to consider, on his way 
 back to Carlisle, what number of copies it 
 would be proper to print. On the moderate 
 calculation that there certainly must be at 
 least one lover of poetry in every parish in 
 England and Scotland, (to say nothing of the 
 Kingdom of Ireland and the town of Berwick- 
 upon-Tweed) his original idea was for a small 
 impression of — ten thousand copies. The more 
 prudent bookseller recommended the maximum 
 to be a paltry five hundred ; and, when Andrew 
 had the estimates before him, he was fain to 
 confess that it might be as well, perhaps, not
 
 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 189 
 
 to Tentiire upon thousands until the sale of 
 hundreds had furnished the means of paying 
 expenses. 
 
 Andrew Horner, like an Indiaman from 
 Calcutta, or Barney Riordan, the Navigator, 
 when he met the American liner far out at sea, 
 — ^as " homeward bound" when he came to the 
 principal hostelrie in the ancient town of Ayr ; 
 not very far from which is Mossgiel,the farm held 
 by Robert Burns at the date of this anecdote^ 
 and where, if he lost some money, the world 
 gained the fine poetry which — in a continuous, 
 deep, yet flashing stream — flowed to his pen, 
 from his heart, during his residence there. 
 
 It never was ascertained why Mr. Andrew 
 Horner took such a detour to the west as Ayr, 
 some thirty miles out of the direct road from 
 Glasgow to Carlisle ; but poets have odd fan- 
 cies sometimes, and poetasters, having the 
 organ of imitation very strong, aflPect to be 
 discursive, in the hope that Oddity (copper- 
 gilt) may be mistaken for the sterling metal of 
 Originality. 
 
 It was a fine evening in September, 1785>
 
 190 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 
 
 when the redoubtable Andrew Horaer entered 
 the common room of the Inn at Ayr. Some 
 half-dozen ranting, roaring, dashing young 
 fellows — fond of their glass and joke — were 
 sitting down to dinner as he entered, " exactly 
 in the nick of time." Room was immediately 
 made for him. The oldest occupant in the 
 room took the chair, according to the Inn 
 usage, within the memory of the oldest in- 
 habitant, and, by the contrary rule, Andrew 
 Horner was made Vice-president, by yirtue of 
 his being the most recent arriyal. 
 
 It may be taken for granted, that what Mr. 
 Carlyle would call " the remark ablest" justice 
 was executed upon all the viands. The cloth 
 being removed, the Chairman gave " the King." 
 It was Andrew's turn next ; and in the cus- 
 tomary routine, he should have given "the 
 Queen and Royal Family ;" but, much to the 
 surprise and amazement of the company, he 
 started on his legs, made a vehement speech, 
 " de omnibus rebus," (which, being interpreted, 
 does not mean a rebus in an omnibus, as a 
 blue-stocking once translated it,) — branching
 
 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 191 
 
 off to Loudon politics and Cumberland po- 
 tatoes — glancing at William Pitt, the boj- 
 Miuister of that day, and Lord Thurlow's 
 qracious manner — gliding into a dissertation 
 upon salmon-fishing, and Irish-linen ; and, by 
 a nice gradation, introducing a lengthy eulogy 
 of the British Poets, ^ith a modest allusion to 
 his own metrical merits. So intent was he on 
 the subject, that he plumped down into his 
 chair, at the end, without haying proposed any 
 toast whatever. 
 
 The wit who presided had a very particular 
 and pleasant penchant for fiin. Therefore, no 
 sooner had Horner resumed his seat, than, with 
 a gravity of manner which deceived no one but 
 the self-satisfied and unconscious butt, he in- 
 timated that it would be no more than decorous 
 to drink the health of the eminent literary 
 character, whose society they were then, for- 
 tunately, enjoying. After a few more compli- 
 ments, the hyperbole of which was exquisitively 
 ludicrous, he proposed "the Poets of Great 
 Britain, and Mr. Horner, their worthy repre- 
 sentative."
 
 192 A Is'IGHT WITH BURNS. 
 
 Such a toast could only be drank "with all 
 the honors," — an infliction which invariablj 
 makes me enyj a deaf man. Horner, of 
 course, responded, as best he could. His 
 speech would have been very Ciceronian, no 
 doubt, but that the orator had the misfortune 
 to stammer. However, he stuttered out his 
 thanks — the unusual excitement having much 
 augmented his natural infirmity — and, though 
 he said little, that little, owing to his defective 
 utterance, was like a traveller to far climes — if 
 went a great way. 
 
 So copiously was he fed with flattery and 
 punch, that, ere the second bowl of the latter 
 was exhausted, Andrew Horner had mounted on 
 a table (by special desire,) and, with great em- 
 phasis, read for his new friends sundry extracts, 
 from what he loved to call his " poetic poems,'' 
 So much mock applause followed this exhibition, 
 that, more than ever did he beheve that he was 
 predestined to revive fine poetry in the land. 
 
 To carry on the joke yet further, and " fool 
 him to the top of his bent," a critical dispute 
 was commenced, as to the relative merits of
 
 A XIGPIT WITH BURNS. 193 
 
 each poem, which the company had heard. At 
 last, one of the gentlemen ventured to hint, 
 Avith a show of independence, that tlieir guest 
 might not be such a very mighty bard as they 
 imagined. Horner's mettle was up immediately, 
 and he defended himself, with rather more 
 warmth than modesty. His opponent then 
 affected to be yet more critical, and fully 
 aroused Andrew's indignation by exclaiming, 
 " tut, mon ! there's a lad near by wha wud 
 mak mair pomes in ae day than yourseF cud 
 compose, as ye ca' it, in a month o' Sundays ^ 
 Extremely indignant at this imputation on 
 his hardship, Andrew Horner rashly backed him- 
 self against the field. A wager was immedi- 
 ately offered, taken, and booked, as to the result 
 of a trial of poetic skill between Andrew Horner 
 and the " lad near by," who was put forward 
 as his opponent. It was resolved to bring the 
 matter to a conclusion on that night, if pos- 
 sible. It may be confessed, — but this, of 
 course, is merely hinted in most " private and 
 confidential" manner imamuable — that as 
 Andrew had hastily made the bet, and as 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 A NIGHT WITH BTJIINS. 
 
 speedily repented having done so, his forlorn 
 hope lay in the fancied impossibility of meet- 
 ing his poetic opponent that evening, as it Tras 
 now waking late. His firm intention was to 
 quit Ayr at dawn of day, and thus, literally 
 gallop out of the responsibility he had rashly 
 incurred. 
 
 His companions knew — what, alas ! he did 
 not — that the Ayr Freemasons held their 
 monthly sitting that night, and that the young 
 poet whom they sought, was then actually in 
 the house "in lodge,'' with that goodly fra- 
 ternity—he being one of the " brethren of the 
 mystic tie.'' He was called out, briefly in- 
 formed of the ludicrous circumstances of the 
 case, and readily persuaded to enter the lists 
 against the Carlisle bardling. 
 
 The stranger-poet entered the room, and 
 even Andrew Horner could see, at a glance, 
 that he was no common man. At that time, 
 his age was about some six and twenty years. 
 His form was vigorous, rather than robust. He 
 was well-made, and very strongly set together. 
 His height was rather above the middle size ;
 
 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 195 
 
 but a slight stoop of the neck, such as maj 
 frequently be noticed in men who follow the 
 plough, (and in Scotland, at that time, few 
 farmers were above doing their own business,) 
 took somewhat from his stature. His com- 
 plexion was dark — swarthy indeed ; and hi>s 
 features might be called massive rather than 
 coarse. But his face was any thing but com- 
 mon; in repose, it had the contemplative, 
 melancholy look, which so often indicates the 
 presence of high imagination ; and when he 
 spoke (sometimes with a sharp, and frequently 
 with a witty, or boldly eloquent remark,) there 
 was a preponderance of intelligence — of genius, 
 in his aspect, and its expression such as 
 Lavater would have been happy to behold. 
 His broad, pale brow was shaded by dark hair, 
 with rather a curl than a wave. His voice 
 was particularly sweet, yet manly and sonor- 
 ous. But the cliief charm of a very remarkable 
 countenance lay in his eyes, which were large, 
 dark, and beautifully expressive. They literally 
 seemed to glow when he spoke, with feeling 
 and interest. When conversation excited him, 
 
 2
 
 196 A NIGHT WITH BURN-S. 
 
 as it usually did, they kindled up until they 
 all but lightened. 
 
 Such was the young man now introduced to 
 Andrew Horner, and whose very glance sub- 
 dued him, amid the flush of his Bacchanalian 
 revelries, into a feeling of his own insignifi- 
 cance. It might have been as much by acci- 
 dent as design that the stranger was not 
 introduced by name. At that time, indeed, 
 he had achieved only a local reputation. In a 
 short time after, he was acknowledged as one 
 of the most eminent and brilliant men his 
 country ever produced — how did that country 
 reward his genius ? 
 
 He readily joined in the conversation, and 
 by no means allowed the cup to pace the 
 table, " like a cripple," to borrow a phrase 
 from Christopher North's memorable motto to 
 the Noctes. His language, if sometimes care- 
 less, was always vigorous ; and it was very 
 evident that whatever his education might 
 have been, his mental powers were great. 
 There are men who " achieve greatness" with- 
 out the dust of the schools having made cob-
 
 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 197 
 
 webs in tlieir minds, and such would probably 
 dwindle into common-place persons if they had 
 all the advantages of education. They become 
 original thinkers and doers, precisely because 
 they- haye had to teach themselves. At the 
 head of this class may be placed the Ayrshire 
 poet. 
 
 It required little pressing to get him to sing 
 several songs of his own composition ; and the 
 unfortunate Andrew Horner had sense enough 
 to perceive that, either for stinging satire, or 
 touching pathos, or passionate tenderness, these 
 lyrics were inimitable. 
 
 Having sat with them for some time, he 
 made a show of retiring, when the party in- 
 sisted that he should allow the wager to be 
 decided, by competing, in poetry, with Andrew. 
 With well-acted humility, he declined what he 
 called " the certainty of defeat ;" and so real 
 seemed his disinclination for the contest, that 
 Andrew Horner fancied he was actually afraid 
 to enter into the competition : so that, urged 
 on by the insidious advice of some of those 
 around him, he asked the stranger, in the
 
 198 A NIGHT WITH BURNS. 
 
 exulting tone and manner of anticipated tri- 
 umph, to have one trial, at least. The chal- 
 lenge could not, in honour, be declined ; and, 
 with apparent, and AYell-acted doubt of its 
 result, it was accepted. 
 
 An epigram was chosen, because, as Andrew 
 internally argued, " it is the shortest of all 
 poems/^ In compliment to him, the company 
 resolved that his own merits should supply the 
 theme. 
 
 He commenced — 
 
 " In seventeen-huncler' thi'etty-nine " 
 
 and he paused. He then said, " Ye see I was 
 born in 1739, [the real date was some years 
 earlier] so I mak' that the commencemen.^' 
 
 He again took pen in hand, folded his paper 
 with a conscious air of authorship — squared 
 himself at the table, like one who considered 
 it no trifle to write even a letter, and slowly 
 put down, in good round-hand, as if he had to 
 make out a bill of parcels, the line — 
 
 " In seventeen-liimdcr' tbretty-nine," 
 
 but beyond this, after repeated attempts, he
 
 A KIGHT WITH BURNS. 199, 
 
 was unable to advance. That line was the 
 Rubicon his muse could not pass. 
 
 At last, (when Andrew Horner reluctantly 
 admitted that he was not quite in the vein,) 
 pen, ink, and paper were handed to his antago- 
 nist, who rejected them, and instantly said — 
 
 " lu sevcnteeu-himder' tlu-etty-nine, 
 The dcil gat stuff' to mak' a swiue, 
 
 And pit it in a corner ; 
 But, shoi'tly after, changed his plan, 
 Made it to something like a man, 
 
 And called it — Andrew Horner!" 
 
 The subject of this stinging stanza had the 
 good sense not to appear offended at its satire, 
 cheerfully paid the wager, set to for " making a 
 night of it" with his new friends, and thrust his 
 poems between the bars of the grate, when 
 " the sma' hours" cauie on to four in the morn- 
 ing. As his poetic rival then kindly rolled up 
 the hearth rug, into a quiet corner of the room, 
 to serve as a pillow for the vanquished 
 rhymster — then, literally a carpet hnight — the 
 old man, better prophet than minstrel, ex- 
 claimed, " Hoot, mon, but yell be a gran' poet 
 yet !"
 
 200 A KIGHT WITH BURNS. 
 
 How truly was the prediction fulfilled ! — A 
 few months after, a volume of poems was 
 printed from the press of John Wilson, of Kil- 
 marnock. The author was a peasant by birth, 
 a poet by inspiration. Coarse was the paper 
 on which these poems were printed, and worn 
 was the type : but the poems themselves were 
 of that rare class which the world does not 
 willingly let die. The fame of their author 
 has flown, far and wide, throughout the world. 
 Pilgrims have come from distant countries to 
 visit the cottage in which he was born, the 
 scenes in which he lived, the " banks and 
 braes'' of which he sang, the house in which he 
 died, the churchyard in which he was buried. 
 His genius and his fate have become " at once 
 the glory and the reproach of Scotland.*' That 
 author, now with world-wide glory, was the 
 same who, in sportive mood, has given memory 
 of Andrew Horner through the " amber chrys- 
 talization" of an epigram. His own name was 
 —ROBERT BURNS.
 
 TEITONS OF THE MINNOWS. 201 
 
 " Mj father," continued Butler, " was one 
 of the company, before whom this Andrew 
 Horner entered into competition with Robert 
 Burns, and has often repeated to me the 
 epigram in which, bj the ' amber chrjstaliza- 
 tion,' the poet has preserved the name of the 
 poetaster/' 
 
 *' Horner," observed Tressilian, " appears 
 to have belonged to that class of men who com- 
 placently think their own brief taper better and 
 brighter than the meridian blaze which gathers 
 around true merit. Living in' a contracted 
 circle, they find no superior within its narrow 
 bound. The vainest man of letters I ever 
 encountered was a young person who did the 
 criticism in a very obscure provincial news- 
 paper. On the contrary, when in Company 
 with ' the better brethren' of the pen, the most 
 striking matter has been the absence of pre- 
 tence. Scott, Southey, and Lingard, particu- 
 larly attracted me by the simplicity of their 
 unaffected manners." 
 
 " Though it makes rather against my own 
 order," said Crayon, " I incline to the belief
 
 202 PAIXTERS AND SCULPTORS. 
 
 that artists are more rain and egotistical tlian 
 men of letters. Actors, again, are endowed 
 with self-esteem in a jet more abundant man- 
 ner. Take the author of a clever and popular 
 book, for example, and throw him into society ; 
 — ^you will rarely find him anxious to originate, 
 or enter into conversation upon what he has 
 written, — certainly more desirous of getting 
 out of the way of praise, and of sinking the 
 author, if he can. But Painters, and Sculptors, 
 will talk fluently and boldly on what they 
 have done, — drawing your attention to the 
 manner in which such and such difficulties 
 have been met and conquered, — pointing out 
 the beauty of this composition, the liarmony 
 of that colouring, the effect of the gleam of 
 light here, and the depth of shadow there, — 
 not hesitating to assert, of their own works, 
 that the painting has all tlie beauty of the 
 ItaUan, Spanish, or Flemish schools, and that 
 the sculpture throws every chef d'oeuvre of 
 antiquity into the back ground. If an author 
 ventured to hint a hundredth part of such 
 praise for anything he had done, he would be
 
 YANITY OF ACTORS. 203 
 
 Toted an intolerable piece of vanity. But 
 artists do it, and are not minded. As for 
 actors — tlie man, woman, or child, who "goes 
 on" for the smallest part, in the smallest piece, 
 on the humblest boards, thinks himself, or 
 herself capable, with due encouragement and 
 opportunity, of surpassing every one who ever 
 wore the sock or buskin. Nothing, I am sure, 
 can exceed the self-complacency ■» of actors, 
 "the fettered lions" of the green-room, who, 
 one and all, perpetually think that the whole 
 world of managers, audience, play-wrights, and 
 critics, are in a conspiracy to keep them down. 
 I have not observed that musicians and vocalists 
 have this offensive self-esteem — one good thing 
 is, they have more emulation than envy, and 
 do not hesitate to praise, as it merits, the sing- 
 ing, the music, or the instrumentation which 
 their ear and taste tells them is. of good 
 quality. Returning, however, to the literary 
 character, will you allow me to read a 
 sketch which I wrote, some time ago, to 
 illustrate a little fancy-piece which I had
 
 204 THE artist's story. 
 
 executed for an Annual. I liaye the en- 
 graying with me." 
 
 The engraying, which was but a first etching, 
 was looked for, found, handed about, admired, 
 and then came — the Artist's Storj.
 
 205 
 
 VIL 
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 Rabelais, the wittiest, if not the truest of 
 all historians, relates that Gargantua, when a 
 youth, found employment in setting cows to 
 catch hares, in carrying water in sieves, in fish- 
 ing for whales in tea- cups, in shoeing goslings, 
 in hunting for needles in haystacks, and such 
 profitable and pleasant occupations. What 
 Gargantua did, in youth, Professor Richter, of 
 the University of Heidelberg, pursued in age, 
 that is, his pursuits, if not exactly the same, 
 were equally practical and philosophical. A 
 great man was the Professor. 
 
 How he had become Professor, no one
 
 206 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 knew — how he contriyed to continue in that 
 capacity, every one wondered. His duties 
 principally consisted in the receipt of a hand- 
 some income, paid quarterly. It was neces- 
 sary, in the year 1817, that the students 
 should have certificates of attendance on his 
 Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human 
 Mind, as part of their curriculum. The cus- 
 tom was to pay the fees, to receive the certifi- 
 cates, and not to hear the lectures. Thus the 
 Professor had a sinecure, which has been 
 described as " nothing to do, and well-paid for 
 doing it/' 
 
 A venerable youth was he — on the shady 
 side of sixty. He knew no language but his 
 own, and that not very well ; but his essays in 
 the Heidelberg Mercury, were well sprinkled 
 with Greek and Latin sentences, seldom appli- 
 cable to the subject, and industriously conveyed 
 from a huge " Dictionary of Quotations.'' He 
 had commenced life as a spectacle-maker, but 
 had no skill in that calling, so he turned Pro- 
 fessor. He ever was mounted on some hobby : 
 now, he would give a lecture on Swimming, to
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 207 
 
 the eflfect that little boys should practice on 
 diy land, never yenturing into the water, until 
 they had thus acquired adequate skill, nor even 
 then without cork-jackets of his own inven- 
 tion ; anon, he would wax garrulous, if not 
 eloquent, upon the philosophic mystery of 
 making a spinning-top perform its gyrations 
 on a clean plate for half-an-hour at a time, 
 for, having heard that Franklin had made his 
 electrical experiments and discoveries by means 
 of a paper-kite, this Heidelberg man of science 
 thus resorted to spinning-tops, in the hope 
 of discovering the Perpetual Motion ! Thus 
 eminently practical and deeply scientific were 
 all his experiments. 
 
 Latterly, the Professor, caught by its no- 
 velty, had been seized with a penchant for 
 phrenology, which, at the time he flourished, 
 was becoming popular in Germany. After 
 some twelve months' musing and muddling 
 (for he had always been rather a damp soul), 
 he conceived the wonderful idea that, as the 
 character and conduct of human beings depends 
 upon the size and shape of their respective
 
 208 THE PHEENOLOGIST. 
 
 and respected skulls, the character could be 
 fixed, and the conduct mainly guided, by 
 elevating or depressing, bringing forward or 
 reducing the different " organs/' His idea 
 was, that they might be reduced by means of 
 compression, and developed by such a simple 
 method as the creation of a vacuum by an 
 air-pump. Accordingly, he had a compass 
 made of gold, which, when he could get a 
 suitable subject, he resolved to fix on the head 
 by a strong band, secured by a tourniquet 
 This apparatus was to remain on the head 
 day and night ; and, by giving the tourniquet 
 a slight turn each morning, when the cranium 
 is said to be most compliant, he trusted that, 
 in a short time, he should be able to compress 
 any organ to its desiderated moral size. On 
 the other hand, the use of a portable air-pump 
 would create a vacuum in a vessel of strong 
 flint-glass, which, if placed over any bump not 
 adequately developed, would, he calculated, 
 cause its gradual elevation on the skull. The 
 person operated upon, would have to wear the 
 compass and tourniquet day and night for
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 209 
 
 the short space of twelve months, and remain 
 for the same period under the air-pump, to 
 effect all that the Professor^s mighty wisdom 
 had anticipated. As yet, unfortunately, he 
 had not met with any one willing to make 
 the experiment, personally, for the promotion 
 of science. 
 
 I should like to make a sketch of Caroline 
 von Pichler, as pretty a German maiden as 
 ever, when a lover spoke particularly, blushed 
 the " Yes '' which her lips would not utter at 
 once. "When I mention German beauty, you 
 do not think, I hope, of the importations 
 which annoy our eyes with bronzed faces, mob 
 caps, clay-coloured hair, thick legs, short petti- 
 coats, dumpy hands, and churn-waists, and 
 who make music for our ears with detestable 
 " Buy-a-broom " discords. JSTo ; such is not 
 German beauty. Walk down the Kohlmarkt 
 (the Regent-Street of Vienna), and you will 
 see a hundred brilliancies and varieties of 
 female beauty. Now you are jostled in that 
 thronged thoroughfare, and the finest form in 
 the world flits by you, and the most speaking 
 
 yoL. I. p
 
 210 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 eyes vividly flash their bright apologies for 
 the accident. A moment, — ere you have time 
 to regret that sweet vision, 
 
 " One of those forms whicli flit by us, when we 
 Are young, and fix our eyes on every face," 
 
 you meet another, and another, and another. 
 There they are frequent as the sweet flowers 
 in May, or the bright stars at midnight. 
 
 " And oh! the loveliness at times we see 
 In momentary gliding ; the soft grace, 
 The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree 
 
 In many a nameless being we retrace. 
 Whose course and home we know not, nor shall 
 know." 
 
 They are varied, too, in their brightness and 
 their clime. The radiant freshness of the 
 English complexion ; the violet eyes and dark 
 hair of the Irish beauties ; the beaming intel- 
 lect of those thoughtful Italian faces; the 
 sweet pathos which throws a shade of sadness 
 over Polish loveliness ; the Asiatic cast of the 
 Hungarian aspect; the undescribable grace 
 which elevates the Parisian lack of what we 
 call beauty ; the classic contour of the Grecian
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 211 
 
 outline ; the mingled fire and dignity of those 
 large Spanish eyes, which seem to look into 
 you and through you ; all may there be seen 
 and admired, as they flit and flash by you, — 
 and among them all, none is fairer than the 
 earnest and simple expression of the German 
 maiden, just as she has begun to feel that she 
 has a heart, and that there is such a thing as 
 lore to make it swell with a tumult of pas- 
 sionate thought. 
 
 After such a preface, which may lead you 
 to expect something very sm^passing, how can 
 I yenture to describe Caroline von Pichlerl 
 
 Fancy a lovely, loving, and loveable girl, of 
 bright nineteen, and you may have a thought 
 of Caroline. Then, like Cordelia's, 
 
 " Her voice was ever soft, 
 Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman." 
 
 Her eyes were of the most charming gray, — 
 such orbs, in the lovely face of Mary of Scot- 
 land, won many a heart. Her figure was 
 slight, without being fragile. Her hair was 
 light, and in beautiful abundance. Her com- 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 plexion, " carnatioued like an infant," was not 
 too fresh. I need not catalogue all her charms, 
 but let me add that she had what Bjron calls 
 " thorough-bred feet and fingers." In a word, 
 both in person and mind, she was a delightful 
 specimen of womanhood in its earliest prime ; 
 well educated, too, though she made no display 
 of her attainments; fond of music, and even 
 suspected of haying composed some of the 
 airs which she sweetly warbled ; and gloriously 
 good-tempered, in spite of sundry and frequent 
 trials from the vinegar disposition of Madame 
 Annette Yon Pichler, a cross-grained old maid, 
 lier aunt and guardian. When Madame scolded, 
 (which, to do her justice, was only five minutes 
 out of every fifteen,) Caroline resorted to 
 painting or the piano. If these did not please 
 her, she retired to her own apartment to pre- 
 pare her lessons for her private tutor, Ernst 
 Manheim. 
 
 Ernst was young — not yet five-and-twenty. 
 He was handsome. Caroline, somehow or 
 other, always identified him, in her thoughts, 
 mth the Apollo Belvidere. Poor girl ! She
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 213 
 
 was not the first, bj thousands, who had 
 raised a mortal into an idol, making her own 
 heart the shrine. 
 
 For twelve months, Ernst Manheim had 
 been yisitins^ tutor to Caroline von Pichler. 
 Much did he teach her in lano:uao:es and 
 sciences ; but he also taught her Love, which 
 is the life of Life. 
 
 A great crime ! — Ernst had been absent 
 six entire days, and had onlj sent a formal 
 apology to Madame, that he was compelled 
 bj business to quit Vienna for a week. Caro- 
 ne, albeit taught, from childhood, to avoid 
 even the remotest breach of the Eighth Com- 
 mandment, "appropriated" Ernst's note from 
 her aunt's work-box, and carried it next her 
 heart. AVhat odd fancies little Cupid leads 
 people into ! ^ 
 
 She reclines upon the sofa in the Library — 
 dull, distraite, and languid. Ha ! whose step 
 is that '? It is outside — in the street — and 
 yet she can distinguish it among every foot-fall 
 in Vienna. As Scott says, 
 
 " Oh, lovers' eyes are quick to see, 
 And lovers' ears are quick in hearing!"
 
 214. THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 Caroline had intended something like re- 
 proach — an extraordinary condition of society, 
 when the scholar could even harbour the idea 
 of scolding the master ! — but, when Ernst 
 entered, the intention evaporated. So they 
 sat down to read ; but Ernst was almost 
 silent, and the expression of his countenance 
 was very grave. 
 
 " You are dull to-day, Ernst," said Caroline, 
 in the sweetest voice, and with the brightest 
 smile in the world. " What has annoyed you '? 
 Why are you sad and vexed T 
 
 "For you, Caroline," said he, taking the 
 ismall white hand from the book on which it 
 rested. She blushed, but did not withdraw 
 that little hand. 
 
 " I have discovered," continued Ernst — 
 " how, it does not matter — that your excellent 
 aunt has bargained to marry you to Professor 
 Richter. Your fortune, as she knows, is a 
 thing of doubt ; for there is a male heir some- 
 where, and if he claim it you are penniless. 
 Therefore, as she has lately received notice 
 that this long missing heir is alive and at
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 215 
 
 hand, she -^ould secure you against poyertj, by 
 marrying you to the Professor." 
 
 '' All this is quite new to me/' said Caroline, 
 in a trembling tone. 
 
 " I do not wonder that it is,'' answered Ernst. 
 " Your grandfather, the Count Yon Fugger, of 
 Augsburg, bequeathed his large estates to you, 
 if your cousin, then in the Bavarian army, and 
 supposed to have been slain in the battle of 
 Leipsig, did not appear to claim them within 
 fiye years. The time has nearly elapsed, but 
 your cousin has made his claim, with the 
 fullest proof of his identity. Our good Em- 
 peror Francis could scarcely refuse him speedy 
 justice, for your family have an hereditary 
 right to obtain not only justice but favour 
 from the Imperial ruler of Germany. The 
 Emperor Charles the Fifth borrowed a million 
 florins from a merchant, one of your ancestors. 
 The money was to enable him to support the 
 war against the majority of the Princes of 
 Germany. lie returned through Augsburg, a 
 conqueror ; and his creditor not only enter- 
 tained him and his retinue for two days, in
 
 21^ THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 the most sumptuous manner, but, before tbe 
 Emperor departed, put his bond into a fire of 
 cinnamon bark, made for the purpose, and 
 burned it before his ejes. In acknowledgment 
 of this generosity, he was made a Count of 
 the Empire, receiving lands and fiefs in per- 
 petuity for himself and his descendants. Your 
 cousin's claim has been made, has been ad- 
 mitted by the Imperial Chancery, has been 
 confirmed by the Emperor ; and, this very day, 
 if he will, he may take possession of your 
 lands, your wealth. But enough of this. Are 
 you inclined to marry, and to marry the 
 Professor ?" 
 
 There fell no accent of reply from the ripe 
 lips of Caroline ; but Ernst saw her cheek flush 
 and then become pale, while he felt her hand 
 tremble within his. 
 
 " Your intended will be here to-day," added 
 he, " and you are to marry him to-morrow.'' 
 
 Caroline raised her eyes and looked ear- 
 nestly into his, but still she spoke no word. 
 There was such a silence for about a minute 
 that he could have counted her heart-beats^
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 217 
 
 Then lie gentlj pressed lier hand : she blushed 
 again, but her ejes did not seek his. 
 
 Ernst whispered, "You would avoid this 
 marriage '? Perhaps jour affections are already 
 enpraored V 
 
 Even jet the joung ladj continued mute, 
 and her ejes sought the ground. 
 
 "Perhaps jou love another? — love him 
 deeplj, have loved him long V 
 
 " Alas, jes I" she cried, " too deeplj, but 
 knew it not until now." 
 
 " Dearest Caroline !" And here, as if bj 
 magnetic attraction, their lips imperceptiblj 
 came close — closer — and met in the first, fond 
 kiss of jouthful love. The prudish maj blame 
 them, if thej please — but we know the fable of 
 " sour grapes" — and, for mj own part, so far 
 from blaming one or both, I cannot refrain 
 from the natural and involuntarj wish that it 
 had been mj own good fortune to have been 
 in Ernst's place at that enviable moment ! 
 
 The soft talk which followed cannot be 
 repeated in detail. There were gentle con- 
 fessions, tender words, honied phrases, soft
 
 218 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 promises, earnest pleadings, hearted smiles, 
 and jojM tears. Thej had a great deal to 
 say, and thej said it. They were not over- 
 come with their sensations — for the threatened 
 marriage dimly loomed in the distance — but 
 theirs was a cliastened delight. As Keats says 
 of his Diana and Endymion, 
 
 " Perhaps they were too happy to be glad." 
 
 After all these raptures, they came back to 
 common sense. "I have been absent for a 
 week,^^ said Ernst. " I had a previous hint of 
 this intended marriage, and went to Heidelberg 
 to see my learned rival. Such an exhibition ! 
 On the strength of his approaching change of 
 condition, he has assumed the airs and 
 dress of a petit-maitre. Fancy a man, old 
 enough to be my grandfather, dressed like a 
 modern Exquisite ; with Hyperion curls — his 
 own — by purchase ; as fresh a bloom upon 
 his hollow cheeks — as carmine can bestow, 
 a thin moustache, dyed to the colour of his 
 peruke ; a frame bending beneath the burden 
 of seventy winters — decked out to ape the
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 219. 
 
 juvenility of one-and-twentj. In a vord, 
 dearest Caroline, the dotage and decrepitude 
 of senility arrayed in the vanity of boyhood. 
 Such is your intended." 
 
 " We must avoid this marriage/^ said the 
 young lady, with a smile. 
 
 " That I have arranged, lady-bird ! I have 
 seen him, spoken to him, and ascertained that 
 he is well-disposed to make you the victim of 
 his great experiments in phrenology." 
 
 " Phrenology ! — what a hard word. Can 
 you tell me wliat it means ?" 
 
 " Ma bonne et belle Caroline, it means the 
 art of knowing what is in the head from merely 
 looking at its outside. A Phrenologist thinks 
 that the mind is in the brain, so that there is 
 no great use for the heart, except to send out 
 blood through the arteries and get it well 
 through the veins. He does not believe, as 
 you and I do, that hearts were made " 
 
 " For what, Ernst T 
 
 " For Love, ma mignon r 
 
 It is a pity to interrupt such an interesting 
 dialogue, but we cannot allow the young
 
 220 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 people to remain talking, ad lihitum,, on such 
 subjects. We must fancy it four-and-twenty 
 hours later, if you please ; the next day, in 
 fact. 
 
 The morrow had duly arrived, and so had 
 the Professor. There, also, was Ernst, — 
 giving Caroline her lesson, as if nothing ordi- 
 nary were to happen, in that very library where 
 they had all their soft talk on the previous 
 day. At breakfast, Madame Annette had 
 told her niece that it was full time to be 
 married, Caroline had answered, that perhaps 
 it was. Madame Annette had then praised 
 her own discretion, and announced that Pro- 
 fessor Richter would be a fit and proper 
 nephew-in-laAv — Caroline had smiled, and not 
 ventured to contradict her Aunt. Madame 
 Annette had intimated that all the wedding- 
 clothes were ready — Caroline had gravely 
 thanked her. Lastly, Madame Annette bade 
 her take her last lesson from Ernst, as she 
 was to be married that evening — and Caroline 
 went, like a dutiful niece. 
 
 A loud crack of the postillion's whip, the
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 221 
 
 rattle of a carriage in the court-yard. The 
 Professor had arrived. What a wonderfully 
 scientific man ! He was accompanied by 
 twenty thick volumes of the Heidelberij Mer- 
 cury, containing all his Essays. He had 
 brought a large box filled with cork-jackets, in 
 case til at he should go boating. He had 
 brought a magnificent spinning-top. Nor was 
 this all — he was accompanied, also, by his 
 curious collection of skulls and casts, to be 
 used in teaching Phrenology to his bride, 
 and he had moreover brouo-ht with him the o^old 
 compass for reducing, and the portable air- 
 pump for enlarging the bumps on the human 
 cranium. It was a mystery how all his lug- 
 gage could have been safely brought, with 
 himself, in one vehicle. 
 
 Wonderful things ! But, to apply Cole- 
 ridge's quotation, the " voonder of voonders," 
 was Professor Richter himself. 
 
 One might have thought him turned out of a 
 band-box, so well was he made up. The 
 moustaches had received a fresh application of 
 "Turkish dye," — he had put on his new
 
 222 THE PHRENOJiOGIST. 
 
 peruke, — lie liad put pearl-powder, as well as 
 rouge, upon his cheeks, — he had invested 
 himself in a magnificent suit of clothes, — he 
 appeared quite a modern antique. 
 
 Having been shewn into the library, he 
 saluted the fair Caroline, with an affectation 
 of youthful spirit, and graciously expressed 
 his satisfaction at renewing his acquaintance 
 with Ernst. AVhile they were exchanging 
 compliments, Madame Annette came — rather 
 discomposed, for one of the boxes of skulls 
 had been broken, and the relics of mortality 
 were rolling around the hall. The Professor 
 speedily and carefully picked them up, after 
 which, he gallantly escorted Caroline to the 
 dejeiine, and divided his attention between it 
 and the ladies. After this, they returned to 
 the library. 
 
 Madame Annette soon introduced the sub- 
 ject of their meeting, and intimated that the 
 marriage would take place that evening. The 
 Professor expressd his delight at the arrange- 
 ment which would so soon render him the 
 happiest of men, but gravely added, that
 
 THE PHEEN-QLOGIST. 223 
 
 Caroline must first have the goodness to submit 
 to a Phrenological examination. 
 
 " A Phren — -what V said Madame, who had 
 never heard of the science. 
 
 "An examination of her head, my dear 
 Madame," blandly replied the Professor. 
 
 Madame did not appear to know what he 
 meant, so the Professor continued : — " We 
 take a skull, such as this, for instance," Tun- 
 ing into the hall, and returning with a skull 
 in his hand, " on which the place and location 
 of each organ is mapped out. We see how 
 the brain is disposed in the living subject, by 
 comparing it with these organs, and thus we 
 judge of the character, the intellect, and the 
 disposition of each individual. You will 
 find it all lucidly explained in the thirteenth 
 volume of the Heidelberg Mercury, page 157. 
 There are notices of it in other volumes, 
 which you can readily consult, as I have 
 brought the whole twenty volumes with me, 
 thinking that my Caroline would like some 
 pleasant reading to amuse her during the 
 honey-moon."
 
 224 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 " What nonsense is the man saying V mut- 
 tered Madame, in an ominous under-growl. 
 
 " If the young lady will sit down/' continued 
 the Sage, " I shall now proceed with the ex- 
 amination." Accordingly, obeying a nod from 
 Ernst, the young lady sat down. The Pro- 
 fessor placed the skull on the table before him, 
 and was about commencing, when he found 
 that he had mislaid his spectacles — they were 
 very safe in Ernst's pocket, at the moment. 
 Ernst Yolunteered his aid as assistant, and the 
 Professor was fain to accept it. So, the ex- 
 amination commenced. 
 
 " Now,'' said the Professor, " begin with the 
 affectiye organs. Let me judge what sort of a 
 wife she will make." 
 
 As it was not Ernst's game to speak of 
 them as they actually were, he thus catalogued 
 them : — Combativeness, large : Destructive- 
 ness, full: Amatiyeness, small: Philoprogeni- 
 tiyeness, none" 
 
 "Hold!" cried the Professor, starting up, 
 "this will never answer. She is deficient in 
 the faculties of her sex. We must subject her
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 225 
 
 to mj experiment. This," said lie, turning to 
 Madame Annette, "this will shew the triumph 
 of Science. I shall apply my compress and 
 toiirnkjuet to reduce Destructiveness and Oom- 
 bativeness, and shall use my portable air-pump 
 and exhausted receiver, to deyelope Amative- 
 ness, and the other matrimonial organs. The 
 double apparatus — how fortunate that I have 
 brought it with me — does not weigh more than 
 forty pounds, and she will have to wear it day 
 and night, for not more than a twelvemonth. 
 Madame, may I trouble you to cut off your 
 neice's hair, that we may lose no time in com- 
 mencing the developement and depression'?" 
 
 Unfortunately for the interest and advance- 
 ment of Science, Madame Annette Von Pichler 
 no sooner comprehended the nature of this 
 proposition, than she quietly flung the mapped 
 skull out of the window, and calling up her 
 servants, gave such decided orders for her 
 house to be " cleared of all that rubbish," (as 
 she irreverently called the Professor and his 
 cargo,) that this eminent and highly indignant 
 man immediately quitted the domicile, and 
 
 YOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 made the best of his way back to Heidelberg, 
 ^vhere he might be seen to this yerj day, if he 
 had not died on the first of April, 1818, 
 being, by a curious coincidence, the appropriate 
 anniversary of his birth. 
 
 "There," exclaimed Madame Annette, -when 
 the Professor and his learned lumber had 
 been cleared away — "there! the man is mad. 
 I thought so, when I saw him decked out 
 as if he were only one-and-twenty. I had 
 rather that my Caroline lost forty fortunes 
 than gain such a loss* as the competency 
 that absurd old creature could have given 
 you. Never mind, Caroline, though your 
 cousin has turned up, and will take your 
 fortune from you, there is enough left of 
 mine to make you comfortable. But, oh ! that 
 beautiful wedding dinner! what can be done 
 
 * " Gained a loss.'' — ^ladame Annette could have 
 quoted authority for this phrase. An Irish gentleman, 
 who had married a dashing lady of fashion, with a 
 moderate fortune, and an immoderate taste for expen- 
 diture, replied mournfully to some gratulations on the 
 happy event: "Thank you kindly — but I am afraid/ 
 have gained a loss.''
 
 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 227 
 
 ^itt it 1 We cannot use it now — it will all 
 be spoiled!" 
 
 "Suppose we prevent such an awful catas- 
 trophe," said Ernst. "If you will take the 
 trouble to read this missive, to which the Im- 
 perial seal and signature are duly attached, 
 jou will see that I, whom jou have known as 
 Ernst Manheim, the private tutor of jour 
 niece, am the very cousin, whose return to his 
 native country, after much journeying, and long 
 absence in remote lands, was to rob her of 
 her fortune. If I do — it shall be to share it 
 with her, and give her the title of Countess 
 Von Fugger." 
 
 Madame Annette could offer no objection to 
 such a sensible proposition, involving the hap- 
 piness of her niece, the increase of her family 
 by the accession of a young gentleman, standing 
 in double relation as cousin and husband to 
 Caroline, and, above all, the certainty of the 
 wedding feast being consumed by a wedding 
 party. Ernst had, previously, made all the 
 necessary arrangements, even to the inviting a 
 select party of friends, and in due course of 
 
 q2
 
 228 THE PHRENOLOGIST. 
 
 time, his wife and his aunt were made ac- 
 quainted with all the "moving incidents by 
 flood and field/' into which his truant dis- 
 position had plunged him. 
 
 " Perhaps/' asked Tressilian, "it may not be 
 too much to inquire whether this adventure 
 come under the head of fact or fancy '? Has 
 it been written to illustrate the sketch, or has 
 the work of the pen preceded that of the pencil V 
 
 " I plead guilty," said Crayon, " to the in- 
 vention of the story ; but though the incidents 
 have been imagined, to illustrate the drawing, 
 the main character was real, and the original 
 may be encountered, any day of the week, 
 in the town of Liverpool. To ' shoot folly as 
 it flies,' is a legitimate task for any one who 
 writes ; and the original of my Professor 
 Richter presented so many, and such obvious 
 marks, that I could not help hitting them. 
 As the Irish gentleman said, at Donny brook 
 fair, when he dealt a blow of his hurley to 
 :Some bald head, which the wearer had thrust
 
 ORIGINALS. 229 
 
 out of a split in the tent with the purpose of 
 cooling it, * It was so tempting, that it was 
 impossible to resist striking it.' For my own 
 part, however, I rather fear that I have not 
 shown mj hero half so absurd as the original ; 
 in this respect, mj failing has leaned on the 
 side of moderation." 
 
 '* It would not be difficult," said Butler, " to 
 make a curious chapter or two out of the 
 originals whom one meets with in the daily 
 path of life. I encountered one, as peculiar 
 as Andrew Horner or the hero of Mr. Crayon's 
 story. Do me the favour of hearing who he 
 was, and how I happened to meet him."
 
 230 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY 
 
 Two years ago — that is, in the Spring of 
 1831 — on my daily return from the British 
 Museum, I used to pass to the Strand through 
 "Wych Street, Drury Lane ; in which, as all 
 the world knows, stands the Olympic Theatre. 
 Immediately opposite this temple of the drama, 
 an old book-shop very unpretendingly reared 
 its humble front. I should probably not have 
 noticed it, if my attention had not been caught 
 by a very fine engraying, after Phillips's well- 
 known portrait of Lord Byron, which hung 
 in its half-window. Crossing the street, to 
 examine and admire it, I could not refrain
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 231 
 
 from looking at tlie collection of books which 
 were displayed on the shelf, in the said half- 
 windo^y, beneath the portrait, — from a hun- 
 dred to a hundred and fifty volumes, perhaps. 
 It was rather startling to find that these 
 books were all upon one subject. Dallas's 
 Recollections of Lord Byron, — Galignani's 
 edition, containing the Letters and passages, the 
 publication of which a Chancery injunction 
 prohibited in this country, — were vis-a-vis 
 with Leigh Hunt's unfortunate quarto on Lord 
 Bjron and Some of his Contemporaries. Med- 
 win's Conversations of Lord Byron at Pisa, 
 w^ere close to Dr. Kennedy's Conversations on 
 Religion with him in Cephalonia. There, too, 
 might be found Moore's quarto biography of 
 the wayward Childe, and Gait's pert duo-, 
 decimo. The Annual Biography and Obituary 
 for 1824, containing another Memoir, reposed 
 by the side of Clinton's Life of Byron, — which 
 will yet be curious to a book-collector, as con- 
 taining a variety of spirited wood-cuts after 
 George Cruikshank. Knight and Lacy's 
 Byron Anecdotes paired off with Nathan's
 
 232 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 Fugitive Pieces and Reminiscences of Lord 
 Bjron. 
 
 Nor was there any lack of works relating to 
 Bjron's last Visit to Greece, and his Death 
 there. I noticed the volumes published bj 
 Colonel Leicester Stanhope, Count Pietro 
 Gamba (brother of the Guiccioli), Colonel Leake, 
 Mr. Blaquiere, Dr. Millingen, and Major Parrj. 
 
 In that collection, also, were several works 
 of fiction in which Bjron was exhibited as the 
 hero : Harold the Exile, aforgotten ofi'shoot of 
 the Minerva press ; Ladj Caroline Lamb's 
 Glenarvon, and Miss Cursham's Norman Ab- 
 bey. Here, also, might be found The Vam- 
 pire, written by Dr. Polodori, and greedily 
 accepted in France, for a long time, as a 
 veritable work of Byron's. As fitting com- 
 pany to that contemptible fiction, there was 
 the account of Byron's Residence in the Isle 
 of Mytilene (an island which he never visited) ; 
 and the equally accurate Narrative of his 
 Voyage to Corsica and Sardinia in 1821, in 
 his yacht Mazeppa. 
 
 William Howitt's Poet's Pilgrimage to New-
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 233 
 
 stead was there, with its quaint little view of 
 Hucknall Church; it was companioned bj 
 tributes from the pens of foreigners — the 
 Countess Albrizzi's Portraits of Illustrious Men, 
 includingthecleverpen-and-ink sketch of Bjron; 
 M. Beyle's notice of the Poet, in his History of 
 Painting in Italy ; Casimer Delavigne's Messe- 
 nian on Byron ; Lamartine's Last Canto of 
 Childe Harold ; the Marquis de Salvo's Byron 
 in Italy and Greece ; and Madame Belloc's 
 more critical tribute. I also noticed several 
 translations of Byron by French authors, in- 
 cluding the prosaic attempt, in metre, which 
 Madame Lucile Thomas has perpetrated on 
 The Corsair. And in that collection were 
 several translations, into the Russian language, 
 by Joukovsky, and others with more unpro- 
 nounceable names. 
 
 There were numerous copies of the poet's 
 works : Galignani's single volume, with the 
 Memoir, by Lake, and the eight small volumes, 
 with indifferent print and paper, issued to the 
 '-'universal Yankee Nation," by Carey and 
 Hart, of Philadelphia; the six duodecimos of
 
 234 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 Murraj's issue, (which preceded the seyenteen 
 volume edition of the Life and Works, only 
 just now completed), and the supplementary 
 volumes, containing the whole of Don Juan, 
 and the later poems, published by the Hunts. 
 And there, also, was not only the editio 
 princeps of each of Byron's works, but every 
 successive edition: a curious collection this, 
 for it was headed by the thin quarto of 
 Juvenilia, printed by Ridge, of Newark, in 
 1806, but destroyed (all but four copies) at 
 the desire, and by the persuasion of Mr. Becher, 
 the poet's early friend. There was The Hours 
 of Idleness, emanating from the same country 
 press; the English Bards, which some one had 
 illustrated, at gi'eat expense, with the portrait 
 and autograph of every writer therein blamed 
 or praised ; the original edition of Lara, issued 
 in conjunction with Mr. Rogers' Jacqueline; 
 every thing, in short, from the earliest of 
 Byron's published writings to the last Cantos 
 of Don Juan, which appeared in London only 
 a month before his death in Greece. And 
 there miofht also be found the half-a-dozen con-
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 235 
 
 tinuations of Don Juan, -whicli, from time to 
 time, liaye appeared, to show the writers' bene- 
 volent desire that the trunk-makers should not 
 be distressed for waste paper. A thin pamphlet, 
 containing The Parliamentary Speeches, con- 
 sistently reposed on The Liberal, by the side 
 of which was Mazeppa Travestied, and Ohilde 
 Harold in the Shades, " an infernal Romaunt." 
 Ranging with these, was Hobhouse's Historical 
 Illustrations of Ohilde Harold; nay, as if re- 
 solved to show that whatever was allied to 
 Byron should have a place here, I noticed 
 Commodore John Byron's Narrative of the 
 Loss of the Wager, (niched in Don Juan, 
 whose sufferings were 
 
 '^ Comparative 
 To those related in my grand-dad's narrative.") 
 
 and the present Lord Byron's quarto Voyage 
 to the Sandwich Islands. 
 
 Xor was there any lack of friendly and 
 unfriendly criticism and comment, from Joseph 
 Cottle, Dr. Styles, Dr. Croly, 0. 0. Colton, 
 Maginn, Hazlitt, Harding, Grant, with Don 
 Juan unmasked, and a heap of anonymous
 
 236 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 pamphlets; and towering among them, like 
 a pyramid surrounded bj huts, was a bulky 
 Album, in which had been collected the thou- 
 sand-and-one anecdotes, slanders, praises, and 
 inventions which had appeared in the news- 
 papers during Byron's life, and since his death. 
 Among them, — indeed it figured as the first 
 thing in the volume, — was the Original Pro- 
 clamation, announcing Byron's Death, and the 
 laments of Greece, issued at Missolonghi by 
 Prince Maurocardato, on the part of the Pro- 
 visional Government, on the evening of that 
 19th of April, 1824, when the cause of 
 Freedom lost its truest champion, with the 
 Funeral Oration spoken by Spiridion Tricoupis, 
 at the same place, a few days after. There 
 they were, in the original Greek, and some 
 one had taken the pains to supply translations, 
 which had been carefully and neatly written 
 out and placed in tlie book, with the original 
 mourning-edged documents. Such eulogy, 
 from such men, — speaking with the voice of 
 a grateful and grieving nation, — outweighs all 
 the bitter censure and faint praise of open
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 287 
 
 enemies and pretended friends. There, too, 
 framed and glazed, was a quarto page of 
 Childe Harold, in the poet's autograph. It 
 was singular to find, thus heaped together, all 
 that Byron had published, together with the 
 bulk of what friends and foes have related of 
 him, either as matter-of-fact, or conjecture, or 
 opinion. 
 
 I had fallen, it was evident, on a Bjronic 
 bookstall. There was no volume in that col- 
 lection which was not either written bj, or 
 about the author of Childe Harold. I have 
 seen such strange things in my brief day, that, 
 in self-defence, I have adopted " nil admirari,'' 
 from Horace, as ray maxim, and am rarely 
 overcome with surprise at anything; but this 
 exclusiveness, — so completely a la Byron, — 
 did surprise me. I looked through the shop 
 window to discover what manner of man was 
 the bibliopole. I could not see any body 
 within, — but that was the less marvellous, in- 
 asmuch as it appeared doubtful whether the 
 window-panes had ever been cleaned. There 
 was no view of the interior. The books were
 
 238 THE COMPOSER OP POETRY. 
 
 left exposed to public view and examination, 
 as if the Bjronic vendor had a fond confidence 
 and consciousness that any one would as soon 
 commit sacrilege as steal them! 
 
 I stood by the window for nearly half-an- 
 hour, during which time many persons passed. 
 Some casually took up the books, to look at 
 them. Two or three seemed half-inclined to 
 purchase, but went off, because no salesman 
 was forthcoming. Still, unprotected as was 
 this literary stock-in-trade, no one appeared 
 inclined to take any part of it away. After 
 spending some time in looking through the 
 books, with vain expectation of the advent of 
 their chapman, I, too, 
 
 " Homeward sped my solitary way." 
 
 Day after day, I passed by this mysterious 
 dwelling : — day after day, I was disappointed 
 in my expectation of seeing its inhabitant. 
 There was a touch of mystery in this — akin to 
 that which formed an atmosphere around the 
 goodly person of Washington Trving's ' Stout 
 Gentleman' — which put me in a sort of literary
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 239 
 
 feyer. Who could this Byron book-collector 
 be ? Was he an Eidolon, or a reality ? Was 
 he always invisible 1 — if not, how was it that 
 I could never get a sight of him ? 
 
 Once upon a time, happening to attend a 
 public meeting where Dr. Spurzheim was also 
 present, that phrenologist suddenly intimated 
 to me, that the organ of " Ideality" was so 
 strongly developed on my brow as to make 
 him desirous to have a cast of my cranium — a 
 rery unpleasant process this cast-taking is, by 
 the way, and when the head is cased in plaster 
 of Paris, the slightest touch of a pin on the 
 crust will make you fancy that you have been 
 buried alive, and do not only hear, but feel the 
 earth scattered on your coffin. This "Ideality" 
 has played me a thousand tricks, especially 
 when it sets me to become the architect of those 
 exquisitely-formed edifices known as Castles in 
 the Air. In the case of the invisible book- 
 seller of " Wych Street," it plunged me into 
 a world of conjecture. Sometimes I fancied 
 him a poetic incognito, who, having pap-fed 
 his mind with album verses, had resolved to
 
 240 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 turn oyer a new leaf, and endeavour to quaff 
 stronger aliment from the passion-filled pages 
 of Bjron, and had set out the volumes to air, 
 before he commenced cramming himself with 
 their sublimity and sense. Sometimes I con- 
 jectured that it was some modern Sappho, who, 
 having herself spun a ream or two of verses, 
 was about setting up on her own account, and 
 wished to dispose of her Bjron library, as of 
 no further use to her. Sometimes — heaven 
 help us — I fancied that it might be some 
 dreadful incarnation, some angel of the lower 
 sphere, who having heard that Bjron was 
 founder of what Southej sharply calls " the 
 Satanic School of Poetry," had been sent up 
 to collect a library of reference for that place 
 which remains unnamed to " ears polite," and 
 had commenced with this set of Byron, his 
 critics, translators, and biographers. 
 
 Conjecture, however wild and varied, did 
 not help me to a sight of the bookseller — the 
 custos of the Shop. Where was he ? — where 
 could he be ? Had he any right to set people 
 wondering at his constant absence ? Why should
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 241 
 
 he, above all men, resemble what Mr. Gait 
 described Byron as — " a mystery in a winding- 
 sheet, crowned with a halo ? I began to have 
 serious thoughts of privately setting fire to the 
 premises, on the presumption that if he were 
 on them, that would bring him out. But I 
 happily recollected that the houses in that 
 neighbourhood were old — that the Olympic, 
 being chiefly built of wood, might easily catch 
 fire — that it was easier to make, than to check 
 a conflagration — that the crime of Arson is 
 looked very unkindly at by the law — and that, 
 perhaps, I might find it diflScult to get a jury 
 to understand and excuse my motives. So, I 
 refrained. 
 
 Through "Wych Street I made it a point of 
 passing at all hours of the day : — the books 
 were invariably exposed to view, but the door 
 of that mysterious shop never opened. There 
 the books always were, — there, their owner 
 never was. At that time I was engaged in 
 severe, and time-engrossing studies : but I could 
 not help thinking, much oftener than I ought, 
 of the little book-stall in "Wych Street, and its 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 unseen owner. Who could he be ? — where was 
 he'? 
 
 Once, as I was passing by, a tall gentleman, 
 in spectacles, came up to me as I was standing 
 with one of the books in my hand — a feint of 
 mine to obtain a sight of the bookseller. " A 
 strange fellow keeps this shop. Sir," said he, — 
 " You have seen him, then ?" I asked, with 
 some eagerness. " I know him," said he. 
 " When he first came here, nearly three months 
 ago, I purchased some of these books from him, 
 giving him the price he asked, for I had known 
 his father many years ago, and wished to en- 
 courage the son. He sent the books to my 
 house, as I had desired, but he came to me, 
 about a week after, looking so very unhappy, 
 that I asked him whether any misfortune had 
 happened to him. He said, that he had no- 
 thing to complain of, but, if it did not make 
 much difference to me, he w^ould be very much 
 obliged by my taking back the money I had 
 paid him for the books, and letting him take 
 them away with him. It turned out, when I 
 questioned him, that he did not like to break
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETET. 243 
 
 his collection — even though it was bj their 
 sale that he was to live. I granted his request, 
 and he took away the books, evidently set at 
 ease by thus readily regaining possession of 
 them. It is a decided case of monomania. To 
 be sure, ^^ has cause to respect the memory of 
 Byron .'^ 
 
 At this moment, just as I was in hopes of 
 learning something about the Unknown, a gen- 
 tleman came up, took him with the spectacles 
 by the hand, walked him off, with " My dear 
 Gait, — you are the very person I want to 
 advise with ;" and thus, on the very eve of 
 having my curiosity gratified, it was cruelly 
 left to eat its heart away. 
 
 Fortune, like the rest of her soft-hearted sex, 
 does not always frown on those who have faith 
 and patience to intreat her earnestly. So I 
 found, when, one day, as it rained heavily 
 while I was passing the Olympic Theatre, I 
 saw a door open, on the opposite side of the 
 street, and having neither cloak nor umbrella, 
 I rushed across to that portal for shelter from 
 " the pelting of the pitiless storm." 
 
 R 2
 
 244 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 The luckiest shower in the world ! The front 
 door which I found open was that of the mys- 
 terious book-shop. I had gained the haven. 
 
 Once there, I resolved not to " quit the pre- 
 mises" until I had solved the riddle. Between 
 me and the sanctum sanctorum of the actual 
 shop, there jet remained the intervening 
 obstacle of a partition-wall : but that was a 
 trifle to the adventurous. I was in a hall — 
 some three feet wide — common to two shops. 
 One of these (that of the bookseller, the male 
 Sphjnx of Wjch-street !) was closed. But I 
 heard sounds from within — the clatter of a 
 knife and fork — which assured me at once of 
 the actual vicinity of the Unknown, as well as 
 of the fact that he was, like myself, '^ of earth, 
 earthy." The man was evidently engaged on 
 that great work — his dinner. 
 
 Of course, I made up my mind to wait until 
 I saw him — until I had speech of him : aye, 
 though I should have had to wait in that dim, 
 narrow passage until midnight. Very pa- 
 tiently did I delay, for nearly half-an-hour, for 
 some kind genius to let me in. At last —
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 245 
 
 reward for all my patience, compensation for 
 all mj anxiety — the door stealthily creaked 
 upon the hinges, as if it were opened in a 
 mysterious manner. I quickly darted in. I 
 was at once bold and fortunate. I was within 
 the penetralium. 
 
 In many books of travels which I have 
 read, I have observed that the authors were 
 invariably " struck all in a heap," when they 
 first laid eyes on the shrine, whither their 
 pilgrimage was tending. Some have become 
 breathless at the first glimpse of Rome, " the 
 Niobe of Nations ;" others have been smitten 
 with voiceless expectation when, passing down 
 the Brenta, the cry of " Venezia ! Venezia !'^ 
 is heard, and the city of the sea opens on their 
 view : more have bowed their heads when 
 Mecca met their sight, (but these were turbaned 
 Haggis,) and some have fallen on the ground 
 and prayed, with tears, when from the rocky 
 eminences which overhang the city of David, 
 they have seen the Holy Sepulchre — it is a 
 pity that the monks have shewn more than 
 one, each being exhibited as the undoubted
 
 246 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 original. But all these were affected raptures 
 in comparison with what I (should have) felt 
 on entering the interior of the Bjronic book- 
 yendor's retreat. However, I may make a 
 clean breast of it, and confess that, owing to 
 mj intense curiosity to look upon the man, I 
 had not presence of mind to recollect the pro- 
 priety of being wonderfully awe- stricken and 
 heart-delighted. I had no time for raptures. 
 
 I boldly advanced into the middle of the 
 shop. It was, without exception, the smallest 
 I had ever set my feet within. As far as 
 dimensions went, it was half a shade more 
 extensive than a cobbler's bulk. But if, as 
 Dr. Watts said — 
 
 " The mind's the stature of the man," 
 
 tbe standard by which he is to be measured — 
 we may safely estimate the proportions of a 
 bookseller's shop, not by cubic, but by mental 
 measure. If so, although this shop was not 
 very much larger than the interior of a six- 
 insides' stage-coach, its moral dimensions must 
 have been considerable.
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 247 
 
 Not quite into the middle of the shop. It 
 was ah'cadj half -filled bj another person. So 
 contracted was the space, that it was a matter 
 of some difficulty to stand within it, without 
 coming into bodily contact with the previous 
 occupant. He had been busily engaged upon, 
 and had just disposed of, a beef-steak, agree- 
 ably redolent of onions, and, at the very 
 moment I first saw him, I did not catch his 
 eye, because he was deeply bent on an endeav- 
 our to behold the bottom of a pot of stout — 
 while you live, always drink malt liquor out 
 of " its native pewter" — to which invigorating 
 beverage he was very heartily paying his 
 devoirs. When he had finished his mighty 
 draught, concluding it with a deep sigh and 
 an emphatic smack of the lips, which might 
 have been almost heard across the street, he 
 turned his head in my direction, and thus 
 gave me a full opportunity of taking his like- 
 ness at a glance. 
 
 He was a young man, somewhat under the 
 middle size, and wholly unlike any ideal of 
 romance or mystery. He had a large quantity
 
 248 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 of fair, sun-burnt hair, curlj as that of a 
 negro. The blemish of a red stain — one of 
 the wishing-spots, whereof matrons speak — 
 extended oyer a large portion of one cheek. 
 He had bright blue ejes ; a broad, low fore- 
 head ; full lips, and turned-up nose. He had 
 a bluff, yeoman-like air. His address smacked 
 of country breeding — perfectly ciril, but with 
 a dash of independence. I wonder how such 
 a man could have been a bookseller, and in 
 London too. He seemed more adapted to 
 follow the deer and dogs over the green fields, 
 than to have his free spirit fret itself against 
 the prisoning bars of a city life. 
 
 Not in the slightest degree embarrassed by 
 my sudden entry into his little place, he 
 announced himself, with some ostentation, as 
 owner of the shop, and informed me that his 
 stock-in-trade consisted of the books I had 
 seen exhibited to the inspection of the street 
 passengers, and of a portfolio of engravings. 
 This portfolio he placed before me, and I saw 
 that it contained a great many illustrations 
 of the life, travels, and writings of Byron — I
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 249 
 
 should say, fully nineteen-twentieths of all 
 that had been published at home and abroad. 
 The walls of liis little room were covered with 
 large engravings — all of the same character. 
 There were a few brackets in the corner, and 
 on them he had mounted busts of Bjron. He 
 then shewed me copies of the minor poems, in 
 the poet's own hand-writing, and exhibited, 
 with much reverence, a lock of hair which, he 
 told me, had been cut from Byron's head, 
 while his body lay in state at Great George 
 Street, "Westminster, before it was taken down 
 to Hucknall Church-yard, for interment. He 
 quoted several passages from the poetry, — 
 appearing familiar with the whole of it, — 
 and his recitation, albeit a little too much 
 mouthed, was very spirited, and shewed appre- 
 ciation and feeling. 
 
 I could not understand all of this. I re- 
 marked that he appeared to have a decided 
 liking for all things appertaining to Lord 
 Byron, and a wonderfully close acquaintance 
 with his writings. He replied, "why, sir, I 
 have every cause to love Lord Byron. He
 
 250 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 was the making of me and mine. I am his 
 son/' 
 
 Mjsterj upon mjsterj ! Here was a dis- 
 covery. But I made no remark, knowing of 
 old, that jou run the chance of marring a con- 
 fession, by interrupting it. "Yes," he con- 
 tinued, "I am Lord Bjron's own godson. 
 Mj father is that Mr. Fletcher, his valet, whose 
 name so often occurs in these books," — point- 
 ing to the two volumes of the biography, by 
 Moore. " My father was the humble and 
 devoted friend and servant, to whom he en- 
 deavoured to speak his last wishes. In that 
 far-away country, it was he who 
 
 ' Sat by his lone coucli, -when even the mind 
 "Which swayed the ^YOlid, was wavering, undefined.' " 
 
 On further conversation, I found no reason 
 to doubt that this really was the eldest son of 
 faithful Fletcher, and the namesake and god- 
 child of the great poet, whose fame fills the 
 world. 
 
 He told me that he had been born on the 
 Newstead property, and it was not of the
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 251 
 
 dull routine of everj-daj thought and action, 
 to see the tears stream down his cheeks, as, 
 with all the natural eloquence of over-flowing 
 gi'atitude, he spoke of the favours his family 
 had received from Bjron. In reply to my 
 enquiry respecting his father, the faithful 
 Fletcher, he told me that as Lord Byron's will 
 had not made any provision for him, Byron's 
 dear sister iiugusta had done for him what she 
 could — which, however, was not much. He 
 wrote me his address, "Mr. Fletcher, 3, Charles- 
 street, Berkeley-square," where he was in 
 business as a vender of vermicelli, and such 
 culinary nick-nacks.^ The handwriting of the 
 
 * " After all his adventures by flood and field, short 
 commons included, this humble Achates of the poet has 
 now established himself as the keeper of an Italian 
 warehouse, in Charles Street, Berkeley Square, where, 
 if he does not thrive, every one who knows anything of 
 his character will say he deserves to do." — Murray's 
 Ed. of Byron, vol. via. p. 19. Unfortunately he did 
 not thrive, for he passed through the Insolvent Debtor's 
 Court, in June, 1837. Immediately after, a subscrip- 
 tion was set on foot for him, under the auspices of Mr. 
 Murray, which did not j-ield much. He died, in 
 November, 1839, in distressed circumstances.
 
 252 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 younger Fletcher corroborated the theory, that 
 character and temperament may often be pre- 
 dicated from the caligraphy of individuals. 
 The writing was a bold, clear, round-text — 
 exactly such as might be looked for from a 
 yeoman. I should have been greatly disap- 
 pointed if it had been thin, and wiry, and 
 angular, like that of a boarding-school Miss, 
 or 2i petit maitre. 
 
 By this time, the rain had ceased, and, my 
 curiosity as much disappointed as gratified, I 
 was quitting the place, expressing my intention 
 of purchasing one of the books. But Fletcher 
 contrived to raise some objection in every in- 
 stance. He feared that this work was as 
 good as sold — that the other was not quite 
 perfect — that a third should be sent to the 
 binder. I saw, in short, that he really was 
 unwilling to part with any of his stock-in- 
 trade. Therefore, promising to call again, I 
 was departing, when respectfully soliciting 
 " future favours,"*' he put one of his own cards 
 into my hand. I have carefully preserved it, 
 and here it is : —
 
 THE COMPOSER OP POETRY. 253 
 
 Bookseller, Printseller, Stationer, 
 
 AND 
 
 55, WYCH STREET, DRURY LA.NE, 
 Opposite the Olympic. 
 
 Composer of Poetry, as part of the book- 
 selling and stationery business, was a novelty, 
 although it certainly is as correct as " Com- 
 poser of Music.*' I asked to see some of his 
 productions. He briskly opened a drawer — 
 the place was too small for a desk — and 
 handed from it a pamphlet containing some 
 rhymes, very indifferently printed, on paper to 
 match. 
 
 The subject of these verses was Reform — a 
 stirring question at that period. I had not 
 time to read the poem then, so, seeing "price 
 sixpence" imprinted on the title, I produced
 
 '254 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 that coin, laid it down, and was pocketing my 
 purchase, when the Composer told me he could 
 not part with that copy, as it was the last of 
 two editions of five-hundred each, and he must 
 retain it, to have a third edition printed there- 
 from. In a few days, he said, he should have 
 this new edition ready. 
 
 Thus it happened that I did not become 
 the possessor of this literary gem. I have 
 lamented, ever since, that I had not time to 
 give it a perusal on the spot. My memory 
 of odd things is very tenacious, and I ought 
 have carried off ten or a dozen of the 
 fifty stanzas of this brochure. I recollect, 
 however, that one verse was somewhat to 
 this efi*ect : — 
 
 " And, when the Nation came to see 
 What a great Reform there would be, 
 They were as glad as any thing. 
 And blessed the Queen and also the King." 
 
 Something in the same vein were verses 
 which a "Composer of Poetry,'' at Aberdeen, 
 named John Davidson, published on the same 
 subject, at the same time : —
 
 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 255 
 
 *' 'Tis true we live in Aberdeen, 
 A northern city cold ; 
 But that our hearts are true to him 
 King Wil-li-am hath been told." 
 
 Mr. Fletcher, to eke out the sixteen pages 
 of his publication, had added a few Mis- 
 cellanies. I remember the opening stanzas of 
 a "Poem on Mr. Green's Balloon ascent, at 
 Nottingham, in September, 1 826." It is this : — 
 
 " That moment was an awful hour 
 To all in hall, in court, in bower, 
 \Mien up, in beauty, to the sky, 
 Like a beautiful bird, the balloon did fly. 
 In all my days I never seen 
 A bolder man than Mr. Green. 
 I wish he may have, with my praise, 
 A happy end, and length of days." 
 
 To what Sterne called "the cant of criticism," 
 I leave the smile at poor Fletcher's confounding 
 the duration of a "moment" with an "hour." 
 The same word-picking maj decide how, 
 except bj poetic license, the adventurous 
 aeronaut was first to have a "happj end," and 
 then the boon of "length of days." The Com- 
 poser certainly had not heard of the itinerant
 
 256 THE COMPOSER OF POETRY. 
 
 preacher who, when discoursiDg on the good- 
 ness of Providence, said — "But, mj brethren, 
 even Death itself, which for our many offences, 
 we all have merited. Providence has wisely 
 and kindi J placed at the end of our lives : for, 
 oh! what would Life be worth, if Death was 
 at the beginning?" In the same discourse, the 
 preacher made the naive remark — "It is a 
 remarkable instance of the goodness of Pro- 
 vidence, that large rivers invariably flow by 
 large towns." 
 
 The perusal of Lord Byron's works had not 
 made a poet of his valet's first-born. 
 
 A week or two after my interview with this 
 "Composer of Poetry," I again went to his 
 residence. I found the shop closed, and no 
 one could inform me what had become of the 
 occupant. Fletcher had given up business — if 
 ever he had any — and yet the bustle of London 
 went on as usual. A great luminary had 
 departed from Wych-street, Drury-lane. This 
 is the last I ever saw or heard of the Composer 
 OF Poetry!
 
 THE YOUNGER FLETCHER. 257 
 
 " It grieved me, I assure jou/' said Butler, 
 " to have unluckily missed the opportunity of 
 cultivating my acquaintance with this ' Com- 
 poser of Poetry/ Tliere was a rough, honest 
 independence about him which, in the wilder- 
 ness of London, was quite startling. He had a 
 firm belief that he actually had great poetical 
 genius ; and yet, despite this glaring defect of 
 judgment, he understood and was familiar with 
 the writings of Byron. I do not know whether 
 he had read other authors, but nobodv could 
 doubt that he had studied, and could appreciate 
 the author of Childe Harold. It was as if a 
 diamond merchant should have exquisite ap- 
 preciation of gems possessed by others, and 
 fancy that his own bit of paste was a stone of 
 the first water. Account for it who can : it 
 puzzles me.'' 
 
 " It only shows," remarked our Irish friend, 
 " that there are more things in earth and 
 heaven than your philosophy hath dreamed of. 
 It would have rewarded your pains had you 
 traced out this man, and ascertained the 
 causes which had made his judgment of other 
 
 YOL. I. S
 
 2"58 A LITERARY ANOMALY. 
 
 men's writings so vastlj superior to his exag- 
 gerated estimate of liis own. The anomaly 
 appears remarkably curious. To think so accu- 
 rately, and write so wretchedly, — to have 
 lighted his lamp by the pure lustre of Byron's 
 genius, and fed it with the commonest whale- 
 oil of his own mind, — to have a true appre- 
 ciation of what the greatest genius of our time 
 has written, and yet to cling with egotistical 
 satisfaction to the inanity which his own pen 
 produced, — these things show a peculiarity of 
 mental organization which it would have been 
 curious to have analysed." 
 
 " I assure you,'' replied Butler, " that I 
 * nothing exaggerate, nor set down aught in 
 malice,' respecting the man. I speak of him 
 as I found him — enthusiastically attached to 
 the memory of Byron, capable of delicately 
 appreciating the immortal poetry of that im- 
 mortal mind, and yet, when attempting to 
 imitate it, producing not merely what was 
 common-place and tame, but such doggrel as 
 the ballad-mongers of the Seven Dials would 
 have perused with scorn."
 
 AN" IRISH POETASTER. 259 
 
 " ^^hen I was a lad," said Moran, " I had 
 opportunities of meetiDg an individual who 
 as a ' Composer of Poetry,' was only a few 
 degrees superior to him of Wjch Street, but 
 who contrived to live — aje, and rather luxu- 
 riantly too — upon the popular belief that he 
 was a Poet. Unfortunately, he published, 
 about eighteen months ago, and that has rather 
 tended to unpedestal him. As a mixture of 
 pretence and mediocrity, he stands unequalled ; 
 and if you will permit me, I shall read a sketch 
 of him which I wrote, in an idle hour, for want 
 of a better subject." 
 
 s 2
 
 260 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE BARD O'KELLY 
 
 For the last thirty years, an individual who 
 calls himself " The Bard O'Kelly" has wan- 
 dered through all parts of Ireland, subsisting 
 on the exacted hospitality and the enforced 
 contributions of such as happened to be so 
 ^eak, as to dread being put by him into a 
 couplet of satirical doggrel, and thus held up 
 to public scorn as wanting in liberality. An 
 Irishman, be it known, will not submit to an 
 imputation upon his generosity ; rather than 
 have that questioned, he will give away his 
 last sixpence, though the gift leave him without 
 food. O'Kelly was shrewd enough to know
 
 THE BARD o'kELLY. 261 
 
 this, and like the ale ^ylncl^ Boniface so much 
 praises in Farquhar's comedy, he " fed purely 
 upon it" — in fact, it was meat, drink, clothing, 
 and lodo^inor to him. 
 
 Until he published his " poems," no one 
 knew on what very slight grounds his Bard- 
 ship rested. His book — a thin, ill-printed 
 octavo, called " The Hippocrene," appeared, 
 with a dedication, by permission, to "the 
 most noble and warlike Marquis of Anglesea,^^ 
 and underneath the inscription is the quatrain, 
 
 " dulce decus! thou art mine, 
 "What can I more or less say: 
 Presidium! pillar of the Nine, 
 Illustrious chief Axglesea ! !" 
 
 In order, also, that the world might know 
 what manner of man his bardling was, he had 
 put his portrait as a frontispiece, and, with 
 characteristic modesty, had engTaved beneath 
 it — 
 
 " Sweet bard ! sweet lake ! congenial shall your fame 
 The rays of genius and of beauty claim, 
 Xor vamly claim : for who can read and view, 
 And not confess O'Kelly's pencil true."
 
 262 THE BAED O'kELLT. 
 
 The lake here alluded to, is that of Killar- 
 nej. In the year 1T91, O'Kellj wrote what 
 he called " a Poem" on the romantic scenery 
 of Killarney. It was written, but not pub- 
 lished — recited by the bard, as the Iliad and 
 Odyssey are said to have been by " the blind 
 old man of Scio's rocky isle," — handed about 
 in manuscript among friends, like much of 
 the Terse of the present day, when, (because 
 every third man is an author,) hard-hearted 
 booksellers refuse to purchase valueless copy- 
 rights, or even to publish them, save at the sole 
 expense and risk of the writers. 
 
 So, in 1791, was written, not published, the 
 Bard's " KiUarney," — a poem which (as he 
 was wont to speak of it,) " has all the depth of 
 the lake it immortalizes, with the clearness, 
 freshness, and sparkling flow of its waters I" 
 It may be thought a little egotistical for 
 O'Kelly thus to praise his own writings — but, 
 surely, a man is the best judge of his own 
 merit, and best acquainted with his own 
 talents. I put it to every man of sense — 
 that is, to every person who completely coin-
 
 THE BARD o'kELLT. 263 
 
 cides with my opinion, — whether, if a man 
 does not think and speak well of himself, it can 
 possibly be expected, that any one else will 1 
 No ; O'Kelly's self-praise was only a flourish 
 to remind people what a genius they had 
 among them — a Laputan flap to make the 
 Irish world quite aware of the fact of his 
 immeasurable merit. 
 
 There was a rumour — but I hate scandal — 
 that the Bard, (being a poet, and lame to boot, 
 like the Grecian,) had an ambition to be the new 
 Tyrtaeus of the Irish Rebels, in 1798. He has 
 been seen to smile, rather assentingiy, at " the 
 soft impeachment," although, no doubt, while 
 the insurgents were liable to punishment, he 
 liad Tcry capital reasons for denying it. 
 While the Civil War was raging, he went to 
 the north-east of Ireland, and, his enemies say, 
 with rebellious designs. But his own assertion, 
 
 " And truths divine come mended from his lips," 
 
 was that the sole object of his tour was to 
 compose a poem on the sublimities of the 
 Giant's Causeway. Such a composition was
 
 264 THE BAED o'kELLY. 
 
 written — for I have seen it. But the greatest 
 and best of men, from Socrates down to 
 O'Kellj — have been subjected to suspicion and 
 persecution, and it happened that when the 
 Bard shewed himself in the north, he was 
 taken up by the King's forces, and summarily 
 committed to prison on suspicion that his 
 visit was occasioned by a desire to discover a 
 snug landing-place, on the Antrim coast, for 
 the French — who, at that time, were about 
 invading Ireland. 
 
 Bad news travels very quickly. It soon was 
 noised about Kerry, that the Bard had been 
 taken up. Asa story, like a snow-ball, increases 
 as it travels, it was even added that the Bard 
 had been hanged ! 
 
 On this, a wretch named Michael McCarthy 
 — a Macroom man was this Bathyllus to the 
 Hibernian Maro — constituted himself heir-at- 
 law and residuary legatee to the Bard's poetical 
 effects, and, not having the fear of Apollo's 
 vengeance before his eyes, had the barefaced 
 audacity to publish eight hundred and forty 
 lines of " Killarney," mixed up with certain
 
 THE BARD o'KELLY. 265 
 
 versicles of his own, under the imposing name 
 
 of " Lacus Delectabilis." 
 
 The Bard O'Kelly heard of this audacious 
 appropriation at the very hour when his trial 
 was coming on, and it took such effect upon 
 his spirits that, to use his own figurative 
 lan^uafje, he " did not know at the time, 
 whether he was standing on his head or his 
 heels." 
 
 Brought for trial before a military tribunal, 
 quick in decision and sharp in execution, there 
 was so much presumptive evidence against 
 him, that he was convicted without much 
 delay, (his judges were in a hurry to dine,) 
 and sentenced to be hanged early the next 
 
 The emergency of the case restrung his 
 shattered energies. Recovering the use of his 
 tongue, he made a lieart-rending appeal to the 
 Court Martial ; narrated the vile plagiarism 
 which had been committed on his beautiful 
 and beloved Killarney ; recited a hundred 
 lines of that sonorous composition, and con- 
 cluded a very energetic harangue, by request-
 
 266 THE BAED o'kELLY. 
 
 ing "leave of absence," for a few weeks, in 
 order that he might proceed to Kerry, there 
 to punish M'Carthj for his dire offence against 
 all the recognized rules of authorship. He even 
 tendered his own bail for his re-appearance to 
 be hanged, as soon as, by performing an act of 
 signal justice towards the plagiarist, he had 
 vindicated that fame which, he said, was of 
 more value to him than life. 
 
 The manner and matter of this extraordi- 
 nary address — such as never, before nor since, 
 was spoken in a Court of Justice — were so 
 extraordinary that the execution of the sen- 
 tence was postponed. When the Civil War 
 was over, the Bard was liberated. " It was a 
 great triumph for my eloquence," was his usual 
 self-complacent expression, in after life, when 
 speaking of this hair-breadth escape. To this 
 day, however, there are some who hint that 
 the Court considered him non compos mentis — 
 too much of a fool to be traitor and conspi- 
 rator — and were merciful accordingly. 
 
 When O'Kelly returned home, he did not 
 annihilate Mac Carthy in the body — he did so
 
 THE BARD o'kELLY.' 267 
 
 in spirit : he lampooned him. Finally, the 
 plagiarist made a public apology ; and an 
 armistice was effected by the aid of copious 
 libations of the " mountain-dew/^ the favourite 
 Hippocrene of Irishmen. 
 
 The Bard's trip to the Giant's Causeway 
 gave him a wonderful inclination for travelling. 
 As itinerary rhyme-spinner, he has continued 
 to keep body and soul together ever since, in a 
 manner which nothing but the brilliant inven- 
 tion of a verse-making Milesian could have 
 dreamed of. Under the face of the sun no 
 people so keenly appreciate, and so undeniably 
 dread, satire as the Irish do. Few, it may be 
 added, have greater powers in that line — and 
 this without being imbued with less good 
 nature or more malice than other people. 
 They particularly shrink from any imputation 
 on their open-handed and open-hearted hospi- 
 tality. The Bard O'Kelly knew that this 
 sensitive feeling was the blot which he was to 
 hit. And on the results of this knowledge, 
 he has contrived to live well —to obtain 
 raiment, money, lodging, food, and drink,
 
 268 THE BARD o'kELLY. 
 
 during the vicissitudes of some five-and-thirtj 
 years. 
 
 He committed himself to a pilgrimage from 
 place to place, through Ireland, always fixing 
 his headquarters at the residence of some 
 country gentleman. Here he would abide for 
 a week — a fortnight — or even a month, if he 
 liked his quarters, and thought his intrusion 
 would be tolerated so long. During his stay, 
 his two horses, his son, (for, being Irish, he 
 had got married very soon) and himself, always 
 lived " in clover." His valedictory acknow- 
 ledgment, by which he considered that he 
 repaid the hospitality extended to him, was a 
 laudatory couplet ! If there were, or if there 
 seemed to be, the slightest want of cordiality 
 in his reception or entertainment, he would 
 immediately depart, giving the delinquent to 
 immortal infamy in a stinging couplet. When 
 he had written a few score of these rhymes he 
 used to get them printed (ballad-wise) on 
 octavo slips of whity-brown paper, and each 
 new page was added to its predecessor, by 
 being pasted into a sort of scrap-book. This
 
 THE BARD o'kELLY. 269 
 
 collection lie Ccalled his " Poetic Tour," and 
 he had only a single copy of it ; and to this, 
 which he promised to have printed in a regular 
 book, at some future period, every one who 
 entertained him was expected to subscribe 
 from a crown to a guinea — subscriptions pay- 
 able in advance. To this rule he had permitted 
 only one exception. This was some five-and- 
 twenty years ago, when the Chevalier Ruspini, 
 (a tooth and corn-extractor) who travelled in 
 Ireland as " Dentist to the Prince of Wales," 
 subscribed, in the name of his royal master, 
 for fifty copies of the work ; and, on the 
 strength of this, managed to dine, on three 
 several occasions, with Olvelly — being the 
 only instance on record of his Bardship having 
 ever played the host. 
 
 I knew O'Kelly personally, having met him, 
 for the first time, in the summer of 1823, at 
 the house of a relative in the county Limerick, 
 whither he came, purposely, to remain one 
 day en passant, but did us the honour of 
 staying for a fortnight. He made his first 
 appearance at dinner-time, and his knife and
 
 270 THE BAED o'kELLY. 
 
 fork were wielded as effectively as if he had 
 not used them during the preceding month. 
 In the course of the evening, he exhibited other 
 manifestations of industry and genius. He 
 complained of labouring under a cold, which 
 he undertook to cure by a peculiar process. 
 This was no less than by imbibing about a 
 dozen tumblers of hot and strong whiskey- 
 punch, without moving from his seat. This, 
 he assured us, was " a famous remedy for all 
 distempers ; good," added he, " for a cure, 
 and magnificent as a preventative." He con- 
 descended to inform us that, well or sick, this 
 quantity was his regular allowance after dinner 
 — when he could get it. 
 
 He was loquacious in his cups. The subject 
 of the Royal visit to Ireland, in 1821, having 
 been broached, O'Kelly produced a printed 
 account of his own interview with the monarch. 
 This, he told us, had appeared in a newspaper 
 called the Roscommon Gazette, and it was 
 not difficult to guess at whose instance it had 
 gained publicity. The account which he read 
 for us was rather an improved edition, he said,
 
 THE BARD o'kELLT. 271' 
 
 as his friend, the Roscommon editor, had 
 ruthlessly cut out some of the adjectives and 
 superlatives, AVhat he read was to this effect, 
 accompanied with his own running commentary 
 of explanation and remark : — 
 
 '"THE BARD OKELLY AND THE KING.'" 
 
 " You see, gentlemen, that I put myself 
 first. Genius {i^ronounced janius) before great- 
 ness any day ! 
 
 " ' When his Most Gracious Majesty King 
 George the Fourth — whom God and Saint Pa- 
 trick preserve ! — paid his loving subjects a 
 visit in August, 1821, the most eminent men 
 of Ireland resorted to the metropolis to do 
 him honour. Among them, was our distin- 
 guished and illustrious countryman, the Bard 
 O'Kelly. Without his presence, where would 
 have been the crowning rose of the wreath of 
 Erin's glory '? And it is very creditable to His 
 Majesty's taste, that his very first inquiry, on 
 entering the vice-regal lodge, in Phoenix Park, 
 was after that honour to our country, our
 
 272 THE BARD o'kELLY. 
 
 renowned Bard, to whose beautiful productions 
 he had subscribed, for fifty copies, many years 
 ago/ 
 
 " Yes, gentlemen, he knew all about me. 
 As he had inquired for me, I thought I could 
 not do less, in course of common civility, than 
 indulge him with the pleasure of a visit. But 
 you shall hear : — 
 
 " ' When the Bard reached Dublin, and 
 heard of His Majesty's most kind and friendly 
 inquiries, he sent a most polite autograph note, 
 written with his own hand, to Sir Benjamin 
 Bloomfield, announcing his own arrival, wish- 
 ing His Majesty joy on his, and requesting 
 Sir Benjamin to appoint a day, mutually 
 convenient to the many important engage- 
 ments of the Poet and the Monarch, when an 
 interview between these distinguished per- 
 sonages should take place. With that true 
 politeness and chivalrous courtesy which adorn 
 and distnguish the Bard, he notified that, the 
 King being a stranger, the Bard was willing to 
 waive ceremony, and wait upon him, to pre-
 
 THE BAKD KELLY. 273 
 
 sent a copy of Lis liighlj poetical poems, for 
 fifty copies of which the Chevalier Ruspini 
 had subscribed, on behalf of His Majesty, when 
 Prince of Wales/ 
 
 " Indeed, they were to hare been dedicated 
 to him, but, as yet, I have not had but the ona 
 copy, which I have made up from the slips 
 which have been separately printed, from time 
 to time. Kind gentlemen, reading always 
 makes me drouthy ; — may be, one of ye will 
 mix a tumbler for me ? — not too strong of the 
 water ; — christen the spirit, but don't drown 
 it. Ah, that will do ! 
 
 " ' An answer was immediately sent by 
 three servants in royal livery, requesting, if 
 perfectly agreeable to O'Kelly, that he would 
 do His Majesty the favour of a friendly visit, 
 the next day at four o'clock.' 
 
 " So I sent word to say that I'd be with 
 him punctual. The next day, I dressed my- 
 self very neat, put on my other shirt, gave my 
 coat a bnishing (a thing I don't often do, as it 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE BAED KELLY. 
 
 takes the nap ofif the cloth), brightened the 
 brass buttons with a bit of chamois leather, 
 went over the seams with a little vinegar and 
 ink, polished my boots, so that you'd see your 
 likeness in them like a looking-glass, had my- 
 self elegantly shaved, and to the King I 
 "went. But you shall hear : 
 
 " ' To this proposition, the Bard politely 
 assented, and went to the castle of Dublin, at 
 the appointed hour, the next day. There he 
 sent his card to the King, with his compli- 
 ments ; and Sir Benjamin Bloomfield imme- 
 diately came down the Grand Staii'case, and, 
 with a most gracious message from His Ma- 
 jesty, handed him a fifty-pound bank-note, 
 as the royal subscription to his admirable 
 poems.' 
 
 " I won't deny that the sight and touch of 
 the money were mighty pleasant ; but I said 
 nothing. It was a larger sum than ever I 
 had at any one time before, for my riches have 
 always been of the head, rather than of the 
 purse. I put the bank-note into my waistcoat-
 
 THE BAED o'kELLY. 275 
 
 pocket, fastened it safely there with a pin I 
 took out of raj cuff, and then — mind, not 
 
 until then — I told Sir Benjamin But I'll 
 
 read it : — 
 
 " ' O'Kellj (with that noble disregard for 
 lucre, which always distinguished our eminently 
 patriotic, poetic, high-minded, much-accom- 
 plished, and generous-hearted countryman,) 
 immediately told Sir Benjamin, that he would 
 rather relinquish the money, than abandon the 
 anticipated pleasure of a personal interview 
 with his Sovereign/ 
 
 " Mind — I had the fifty pounds snug in my 
 pocket all the while. You may be certain 
 that I wouldn't have spoken that way before 
 fino^erino^ the cash. 
 
 " ' On this most disinterested and loyal de- 
 termination having been mentioned to His 
 Majesty, he was so delighted with it, that 
 he desired the Bard to be ushered instantly 
 into the Grand Hall of Audience. This was 
 done, and there the Most Noble the Marquis 
 
 t2
 
 276 THE BARD o'kELLY. 
 
 of Conyngham had the honour of introducing 
 His Majesty to the Poet.' 
 
 " Wasn t it a grand sight ! There was the 
 King on his throne, and all the great officers 
 of state standing around him. In one hand, 
 the King held a sceptre of pure gold, and the 
 other was stretched out to receive my book. 
 On his head he wore a crown of gold, studded 
 all over with jewels, and weighing half a 
 hundred weight, at the very least. On his 
 breast, in the place where a diamond star is 
 usually represented in the portraits, His Ma- 
 jesty wore a bunch of shamrock, the size 
 of a cauliflower. Now you'll hear what oc- 
 curred :— 
 
 " ' Compliments being exchanged, the King 
 descended from his throne, and had the plea- 
 sure of introducing the Bard to the Marchioness 
 of Oonyngham, and all the other Ladies of the 
 Bedchamber. His Majesty, then — returning 
 to his throne, and insisting that the Bard should 
 occupy an arm-chair by his right side — said, 
 *Mr. O'Kelly' ' O'Kelly, without the
 
 THE BARD o'kELLY. 277 
 
 Mister, if you please/ said the Bard, * Your 
 Majesty would not say Mr. Sbakspere or Mr. 
 ^Milton.' ' True enough/ said the King, * I sit 
 corrected : I beg your pardon, O'Kelly. I 
 should have known better. Well then, O'Kelly, 
 I am quite sure that I shall be delighted with 
 your beautiful poems, when IVe time to read 
 them.' To this, the Bard replied, * Your 
 Majesty, I believe they'd delight and instruct 
 any one.' At this intelligent, and most cor- 
 rect observation, his Majesty was pleased to 
 smile. He then added, ' Fm sorry to see by 
 your iron leg that you are lame.' O'Kelly, 
 with that ready wit for which he is as remark- 
 able as he is for his modesty, instantly replied, 
 ' If I halt in my leg, I don't in my verses, for 
 
 " If God one member has oppressed, 
 He's made more perfect all the rest." 
 
 It is impossible for words to describe the 
 thunders of applause by which this beautiful 
 impromptu was followed.' 
 
 " I knew, well enough, that something smart 
 would be expected from a man like me ; so I
 
 278 THE BAED o'kELLT. 
 
 went prepared with several impromptus, to be 
 introduced when the occasion would allow. 
 
 " ' His Majesty then said, ' It is really re- 
 markable that YOU and mj friend Walter Scott 
 should both be lame/ The Bard replied,. 
 ' And Lord Bjron also/ His Majesty then 
 obserred, ' It is a wonderful coincidence — the 
 three great poets of the three kingdoms/ At 
 the request of the Marquis of Conyngham, the 
 Bard then made the following extemporaneous 
 epigram, off hand, on this interesting subject : 
 
 ' Three poets for three sister kingdoms born, 
 
 " That's England, Ireland, and Scotland, — 
 
 ' One for the rose, another for the thorn, 
 
 "You know that the rose and thistle are the 
 national emblems of England and Scotland : 
 
 ' One for the shamrock, 
 
 " That's poor old Ireland, — 
 
 ' which shall ne'er decay, 
 AMiile rose and thorn must yearly die away."' 
 
 " * His Majesty was quite electrified at the 
 ready wit displayed in this beautiful im-
 
 THE BARD O^KELLY. 279 
 
 promptu, and took leave of the Bard in the 
 most affectionate and gracious manner. It is 
 whispered, among the fashionable circles, that 
 O'Kellj has declined the offer of a baronetcy, 
 made to him by command of the Sovereign/ '^ 
 
 " Indeed," said the Bard, in conclusion, " the 
 King and me were mutually pleased with each 
 other, rd have had myself made a Baronet, 
 like Scott, but I have not the dirty acres to 
 keep up the dignity. Tis my private notion, 
 if the King had seen me first, I'd have had 
 ten times the money he sent me. Well, he's 
 every inch a King, and here's his health." 
 
 You may judge, from what he printed and 
 what he spoke, whether the modesty of the 
 Bard was not equal to his genius. It is a fact, 
 I understand, that he actually made his way 
 to an audience with George the Fourth ; he 
 must have rather astonished his Majesty. At 
 present, the Bard's head-quarters are in Cork, 
 where he is to be found, open to any given 
 quantity of liquor: — "The last of all the 
 bards is he !"
 
 280 A LITERARY FUNGUS. 
 
 " Unquestionably," said Tressilian, " Irish 
 life has many remarkable lights and shadows. 
 Such a fungus as The Bard O'Kelly could only 
 have been produced in, and tolerated by a 
 very strange state of society. In this country, 
 such a person would have had no chance 
 whatever/' 
 
 " He was partly laughed at as a bully, — 
 partly feared as a satirist,'' answered Moran. 
 " His manner, conversation, and attire, would 
 scarcely have been endured in the servants' 
 hall ; yet he forced his way into the company 
 of respectable people. One comfort is, such a 
 person would have no chance in Ireland now. 
 The ' hail fellow, well met ' system is at an end 
 there, and it is a pity it should ever have 
 prevailed." 
 
 An observation here was made that, as it 
 was getting late, it behoved us to arrange our 
 plans for the morrow's sight-seeing. To give 
 us time to think of them, Tressilian volunteered 
 another story, rather different, in incident and 
 character, from any we had yet heard. We 
 listened, while thus he spoke.
 
 281 
 
 THE GRExVr WILL CAUSE. 
 
 The village of Aiidlej, which, as Mr. George 
 Robins would saj, " is delightfully situated 
 within an easy distance of the provincial me- 
 tropolis of a highly-favoured midland county," 
 continues to rejoice in almost as primitive 
 simplicity as distinguished it a century ago. 
 Ko railway runs its narrow length within its 
 vicinity ; no mail coach is whirled through its 
 one street; not even an humble two-horse 
 stage connects it with the county town. 
 Neither has it any peculiar manufacture or 
 trade to distinguish it. A country village it 
 has been time out of mind, nor do I wish it
 
 282 THE GEE AT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 SO ill as to hope that modern improvement 
 may visit and spoil it, by attempting to make 
 it any thing more. 
 
 The inhabitants of Audley, few in number, 
 have carefully eschewed politics, — even when 
 a contested election sends candidates, and can- 
 vassers, and gay favours among them. The 
 few voters in and near the village, — sub- 
 stantial freeholders, who 
 
 "Ne'er have changed, nor wished to change their 
 place, ' 
 
 have usually given their " sweet voices " to the 
 candidates on the Red interest, because the 
 owners of the Audley property have always 
 supported that interest; besides, at Audley, 
 red ribbons are considered as extremely be- 
 coming to all complexions and eyes. Beyond 
 this, these good people venture not upon the 
 troubled sea of politics. The London news- 
 paper from the Hall, descends to the Marston 
 Arms Inn, the only hostelrie in the village, 
 and after being duly talked over there, and 
 its intelligence duly wondered at, and com-
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 283 
 
 mented upon, passes into the hands of Mr* 
 Salt, schoolmaster and parish-clerk, — a man 
 who knows Latin, algebra, and mensuration, 
 is suspected of a bowing acquaintance with 
 the characters of tlie Greek alphabet, and is 
 known to be tremendously hen-pecked by his 
 pretty wife, who actually cannot write her 
 own name. Mr. Simon Salt has the reputa- 
 tion of being a trayeller who has seen the 
 world, having once paid a visit to London, on 
 which occasion, having seen George lY. go 
 in state to open the session of ParHament, 
 his Majesty did very graciously condescend to 
 bestow sundry bows upon his loving subjects, 
 who shouted while the cavalcade passed by, 
 and the worthy and erudite Simon Salt, whose 
 loyalty had exhibited itself in a very observ- 
 able and unsophisticated manner, was con- 
 fident that his Majesty did pay the compliment 
 of a low bow, exclusively intended for himy 
 the aforesaid Simon Salt. Did not iVudley 
 greatly rejoice at the announcement of this 
 gratifying information '? lias not Audley, ever 
 since, been loyally proud of the lofty and dis-
 
 284 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 criminating courtesy of its Sovereign'? Has 
 it not full cause to be proud, inasmuch as the 
 compliment is reflected upon all the Audlej- 
 ites, seeing that the excellent Mr. Salt ranks 
 in public station only lower than the Vicar, 
 and is universally considered as the news- 
 carrier of the village? 
 
 The Hall, — as it is emphatically called, as 
 if it were the only Hall in the county, — has 
 always exercised as much influence over the 
 primitive people of Audley, as the Court of 
 St. James's does over the world of fashion in 
 London. The owners of the Hall " came in 
 with the Conqueror," and have held Audley 
 Manor, and its dependencies, ever since. 
 Seldom seduced into extravagance; deluded 
 neither by gambling, horse-racing, electioneer- 
 ing, nor a taste for building; content to reign 
 at Audley, rather than ruin their fortune by 
 vain competition with superior rank and wealth 
 elsew^here; satisfied with being able to make 
 the proud boast that more than once a peerage 
 had been oflfered and declined, the Marstons 
 had lived happier, perhaps, than most private
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 285 
 
 families in the kingdom. " Live and let live " 
 was their rule of conduct towards their te- 
 nantry, who, holding their farms at low rents, 
 were able to make their payments with a 
 punctuality which landlords might have envied. 
 Thus, Audley was one of the few out-of-the- 
 way, old-fashioned places where peace and 
 plenty reigned supreme, where politics were 
 unheeded, where pauperism was unknown, 
 where the keeper of " the cage" had a sine- 
 cure, and the stocks had fallen into decay from 
 want of use. 
 
 The Marston Arms Inn, at Audley, is one 
 of the most picturesque old houses you ever 
 saw. It had been built, — no one knew when. 
 It had been enlarged and beautified (as was 
 testified by the date graven on a square stone 
 inserted in the ample porch,) in tlie compa- 
 ratively recent reign of Elizabeth. Those who 
 have seen the curious gateway which leads to 
 the Council House at Shrewsbury, will readily 
 understand what manner of house was this. 
 It was a fine specimen of the ancient mode of 
 building, where immense beams of oak traverse
 
 286 THE GEEAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 the walls, like frame work, which are carefully 
 painted in black and white, as may jet be 
 seen in some old houses in the midland coun- 
 ties. Innumerable carvings embellished the 
 jedifice, — some grotesque in design, some fan- 
 xjifullj conceived in the true spirit of the 
 Beautiful, and executed with delicate and 
 tasteful manipulation. The roof, which pre- 
 sented a multiplicity of angles, was crowned 
 with a variety of small, turret-like prominences, 
 of no particular order of architecture, but 
 uniting to make a curious whole. The garden 
 side was wholly, and the front facade partially 
 covered with ivy, the stem of which was 
 thick as the body of a stout man, over which 
 ran quite a wilderness of flowering creepers. 
 Within, the walls were wainscoted with oak, 
 black with age and polished as marble. Of 
 oak, too, were the transverse beams which 
 supported the low ceilings; of oak were the 
 floors, and of oak were the low, wide stairs. 
 Time had hardened the timber, so that you 
 might almost as easily drive a nail into an 
 iron wall, as into one of the massive beams.
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 287 
 
 The windows, consisting of small, diamonded 
 panes, were enriched, here and there, with 
 fragments of painted glass, through which, 
 in other days, a " dim, religious light " had 
 been cast upon the grave stones, which lite- 
 rally formed the flagging of Audley Abbey, 
 now in ruins. 
 
 The hostess was almost as old-fashioned as 
 the house. She was one of the olden school — 
 a maiden who had arrived at the decorous 
 years when, having increased in bulk and 
 dignity, spinsters wear caps with flowing lace 
 lappets, and long mittens, and prefix Mistress 
 to their surnames. Her guests, for the time 
 being, were considered by her as part of her 
 own family. The greatest insult that one of 
 them could inflict, was the not doing full justice 
 to the viands she prepared for his use. The 
 pains she took to tempt them to eat and drink 
 heartily, would not be credited by any London 
 innkeeper. She was uneasy if the dinner was 
 not appetizing. On the other hand, she allowed 
 no one to drink more than, in her judgment, 
 was quite good for him. On Sundays, the rule
 
 288 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 of lier house was that her guests should dine 
 with her. For that repast, she would dispense 
 some particularly old and curious wine, with a 
 perfume like a bouquet, which (as she loved to 
 boast,) neither love nor money could draw from 
 her cellar at any other time. Woe to the 
 guest who proffered payment for that Sunday 
 dinner, or that unequalled wine. 
 
 Mrs. Lee, however, had not many oppor- 
 tunities of thus exercising her hospitality, for 
 Audley was not much visited by strangers. 
 Now and then, an artist or an antiquarian 
 came, and remained a short time. Sometimes, 
 too, it was visited by some disciple of Isaac 
 AValton. Many people wondered why Mrs. 
 Lee remained in business. She was considered 
 a wealthy woman, who could well afford to live 
 without the inn ; but custom, trifling as it was, 
 and a liking for the business, kept her in the 
 old house. Besides, as she said, if she gave it 
 up, no one else would take it, for the expenses 
 far exceeded the receipts; and what would 
 Audley be without its inn ? 
 
 At length, however, a few years ago, Mrs.
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 289 
 
 Lee was made very liappj bj the arrival and 
 continuance of a guest. This was a Mr. Mavor, 
 who had come to Audlej to try his skill, as a 
 brother of the angle, in a fine trout-stream, 
 running through the centre of the estate. 
 There was no difficulty, through his bustling 
 hostess, in getting permission to fish in this 
 stream, and the only mischance was, that 
 while thus engaged one day, a sudden and 
 severe shower of rain gave him a severe cold, 
 which ripened by neglect into a really dan- 
 gerous illness, compelling him to remain at 
 Audley much longer than he had intended, 
 but affording worthy Mrs. Lee an opportunity 
 of exhibiting her unrivalled powers as a nurse. 
 The invalid had so nearly recovered, that 
 one Sunday afternoon, as he sat enthroned in 
 the very easiest of easy-chairs, in her own 
 sitting-room, while Mrs. Lee made tea for him, 
 she endeavoured to impress upon his mind the 
 propriety, as soon as he was quite well, of re- 
 turning thanks in person, for the kindnesses, 
 which, during his illness, had been showered 
 upon him from The Hall. 
 
 YOL. I. U
 
 290 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 "Indeed, Sir," quoth she, happy at having 
 fallen in with an attentive listener, " 'tis not to 
 be mentioned how kind Miss Marston, and her 
 mother have been. Every morning, Sir, there 
 was a servant to enquire how you were —and 
 sometimes the ladies called themselves, if 
 they came to the village. Then there was 
 fruit from the hot-house and the garden, jellies 
 and cordials from the housekeeper's room ; and 
 dainties of all kinds, such as they fancied a 
 sick man might fancy or relish. Indeed, Sir, 
 you must not leave Audley without going to 
 The Hall, and thanking them.'' 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Lee, I suppose I must, but I am 
 not fond of seeing strangers, or making new 
 acquaintances." 
 
 "Perhaps not, Mr. Mavor, but these are 
 ladies, and a mere note of thanks would not 
 be so proper for them, as it would be for gen- 
 tlemen." 
 
 "Then there is no gentleman at The Halir' 
 
 " Not one. Sir. The Squire died three years 
 ago. Miss Marston then came in for the estate, 
 as the next heir, and she and her mother have
 
 THE GEEAT WILL CAUSE. 291 
 
 lived tliere ever since. Her father died many 
 years ago/' 
 
 "And had the Squire, as you call him, no 
 sonr^ 
 
 " Why, Sir, he had, and he had not. When 
 the Squire was quite a young man, he went 
 abroad on his travels, and did not return for 
 many years. Indeed, we heard that he had 
 got married abroad ; but this could scarcely be 
 true, because, when he returned at last, he 
 brought no wife with him. A little boy in 
 arms came with him, but as his nurse was a 
 French woman, who returned home before she 
 could speak our language, and none of us un- 
 derstood hers, we could not make out from her 
 who the child's mother was. However, Sir, 
 the Squire called him Frank Marston, and, 
 indeed, you had only to look in his face and 
 see, from the great likeness, that he was the 
 Squire's son. When the lad grew up a bit, he 
 used to be everlastingly down in the village. 
 Many, and many a time. Sir, has he sate in 
 that very chair. No one could help loving 
 Master Frank. At times his father would be 
 
 u 2
 
 292 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 very fond of him, and then, at other times, 
 lie would look so mournfully into the lad's face, 
 and then speak to him quite pettishly, (as if he 
 was afraid of getting too fond of the boy,) 
 and turn into his library, and not be seen for 
 days. 'Twas thought, Sir, that he had some- 
 thing heavy on his mind. At last, when 
 Master Frank was about eleven or twelve, as 
 well as we could guess, he was sent to one of 
 the great public schools, and there he took to 
 his learning in a remarkable manner, and 
 carried every thing before him. 'Twas the 
 same way when he went to College, he had 
 only to try for a prize, and he was sure to get 
 it. The squire, who knew how fond I was of 
 Master Frank, — did I tell you. Sir, that my 
 mother was the Squire's nurse ? — used to send 
 for me always when the news came of his 
 getting on so well at College, and read the 
 letters to me. But it was thought odd that, 
 from the time he left the Hall for school. 
 Master Frank was never once sent for to see 
 the Squire. At last, when he was preparing 
 to study for the bar, the Squire went off, in a
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 293 
 
 gi-eat hurry, to see him in London. No one 
 knows what passed, but instead of going on 
 with the law. Master Frank went awaj to 
 travel on the Continent. He used very often 
 to write home, and nothing did the Squire 
 more good than a letter from him. Indeed, 
 I thought it strange that he should grow 
 fonder and fonder of him, the longer he was 
 away. But your cup is empty. Sir ; let me 
 give you a little more toast, it is beautifully 
 crisp, and I think some of this comb-honey 
 would be an excellent thing for your throat.^' 
 
 " Thank you. It is very nice — But the 
 Squire V 
 
 " Aye, Sir — a little more cream ? — the Squire 
 went off quite suddenly. They found him on the 
 library-floor, in a fit. He was taken up and 
 bled, but did not live long. He spoke just a few 
 minutes before he died, and said, ' Every thing 
 for my son Frank.' What this meant no one 
 knew ; and when his papers were examined, no 
 will was found. So the estate — 'tis reckoned 
 as fully worth twenty thousand a year — went 
 to his niece, Miss Emma Marston, and all the
 
 294 THE GEE AT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 other property besides. Slie Tvas abroad when 
 the Squire died, but it surely was a great thing 
 for her — Try another cup, Sir." 
 
 " Has there been no whisper of Miss Mars- 
 ton's getting married V 
 
 " At first, Sir, many gentlemen were spoken 
 of as being likely for her to marry, — this one 
 because their properties joined — that one, be- 
 cause it seemed that they had been acquainted 
 — and a third, because it pleased himself to 
 report that she was all but engaged to him. 
 But she gave encouragement to none. Just 
 now, she has trouble enough before her, poor 
 thing. Only think, Sir, of Master Frank's 
 bringing an action to get the estate from her ! 
 It has been quite the talk of the country of 
 late. It comes on. Sir, at the next Assizes, in 
 March ; but I know, if there's law or justice, 
 he cannot win. She has done all the good she 
 could to every one around her, and the very 
 ground her foot touches is loved by all who 
 know her. It is a hard thing, Sir, for Mr, 
 Frank to claim the estate !" 
 
 " Perhaps it may seem so ; but if his claim
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 295 
 
 be good, surely it would be as hard to keep 
 birn out of it V 
 
 " Yes, Sir, but how can it be good 1 He 
 says that he is the Squire's lawful son. Very 
 good — but wlio was his mother, and how came 
 it that we never heard of her f — To think of 
 Master Frank turning out so 1" 
 
 " Then you expected better from him, Mrs. 
 Tiee r 
 
 " To be sure I did. And there's the young 
 lady — as beautiful as an angel, and with a 
 voice like music — not knowing but that the 
 law will take the estate from her. It may be 
 law, Sir, but it is not justice. I only wish the 
 jury was picked from this part of the country ; 
 they'd be certain to give her the property, and 
 transport Master Frank, at the very least. — 
 The Squire's lawful son, indeed ! I'd like to 
 know how he'd prove it." 
 
 Shortly after this tea-table gossip, (which I 
 have given in detail, as it exhibits pretty cor- 
 rectly how matters stood) Mr. Mavor proceeded 
 to pay his visit to The Hall. There he was 
 no unwelcome guest, for its fair mistress in-
 
 2.96 THE GEEAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 stantlj recognised him as one to whom she 
 owed so essential a service as the preservation 
 of her life. It had chanced, four years before, 
 during her visit to Naples, that she formed 
 one of a pleasure party who set forth on an 
 excursion across the Bay. The gentlemen who 
 acted as mariners on that occasion contrived to 
 overset one of the boats, and Miss Marston, with 
 others of tlie party, had the misfortune to be 
 precipitated into the water. Mr. Mavor, who 
 was close at hand when the accident occurred, 
 jumped from his own boat into the water, and 
 succeeded in rescuing Miss Marston, who 
 escaped without any other ill effects than a 
 thorough wetting. The travelling arrangements 
 of her friends compelled her to leave Naples 
 so speedily, that her preserver had but few 
 opportunities of seeing her. They were suffi- 
 cient, however, to interest, him greatly in 
 the beauty and grace of the young lady, 
 and to regret that fortune had never again 
 thrown him in her way. He had not the 
 slightest idea, often as he had heard her 
 name, during his recent illness, as the owner
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 297 
 
 of Audlej, that slie was the same Miss Marston 
 whom he had met in Italy. 
 
 What followed may be readily imagined by 
 all who know anything of the gentle lore of 
 lore. The acquaintance thus renewed, soon 
 blossomed into friendship, and ripened into 
 mutual affection. For the satisfaction of the 
 prudish, we beg to state that, after all, this 
 process was not so very rapid. It was February 
 before Mayor quitted Audley (where he had 
 been Mrs. Lee's nominal guest, but a daily 
 visitor at The Hall,) and assuredly four or five 
 months constant companionship, with such 
 antecedents as there were in this instance, is 
 sufficient to make a gentleman and lady ac- 
 quainted with each other. 
 
 Mavor left Audley, assured, with her 
 mother's fullest concurrence, that he was any- 
 thing but hateful to Emma Marston. When 
 she frankly informed him of the claim which 
 Francis Marston had set up for the estate, he 
 told her, somewhat to her surprise, that, for 
 his own part, he rather hoped the claimant 
 would be successful : adding, when he saw her
 
 298 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 astonishment at the remark, that, if she lost 
 the estate, it would give him the opportunity 
 of showing how very sincerely he loyed her for 
 herself alone. 
 
 Then they parted. Mayor was summoned to 
 London, by urgent business, but promised to 
 return by the time The Great Will Cause, 
 as it was called — though there actually was no 
 will in question — was to be decided. 
 
 Dwellers in London hare no idea of the im- 
 portance of the Assizes to people in the 
 country. Every thing connected with them is 
 of moment — from the appointment of High 
 Sheriff to the trial of prisoners and causes. 
 Twice a year the Assizes bring the magnates of 
 the county into the principal town, where, if 
 nought else be the result, their ladies have an 
 opportunity of seeing the new fashions, that 
 is, those which were new in London three 
 months before ; of vying with their neighbours 
 in the petty ambition of " cutting a dash f 
 in short, of breaking for a time the monotony 
 of a country life. The county magistrates 
 frequently visit the county town whenever the
 
 THE GREAT ^VILL CAUSE. 299 
 
 Quarter Sessions are held, but their wives and 
 daughters do not go thither, save at Assize 
 time, or on the occurrence of some great event 
 — such as a Musical Festival, the Races, a 
 Fancy Fair, or an Archery fete. 
 
 For the Assizes, too, the inhabitants of the 
 town make ample preparations. Painters are 
 employed to refresh the external appearance of 
 shops, offices of business, and dwelling-houses. 
 The tradesmen then increase their stock, (if 
 their cash or credit enables them to do so,) and 
 display it to the best advantage. Professional 
 men are busy in preparing for Counsel those 
 lengthy documents ironically called " briefs.'' 
 The interiors of all houses, in good situations, 
 are brushed up, to prepare them as lodgings 
 during the Assize-week. The very streets, 
 dirty enough on ordinary occasions, are swept 
 clean, " for this occasion only, and by parti- 
 cular desire." All classes are on the qui vive for 
 the Assizes. The very prisoners in the gaol, 
 to whom suspense is often worse than actual 
 suffering, are not sorry to know that the time 
 is come when, if they have good fortune and
 
 300 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 good Counsel, thej may have one more chance 
 of renewing their acquaintance with 
 
 "The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty." 
 
 We must now suppose that the time has 
 arrived for holding the Lent Assizes for the 
 County in which Audley is situated. The 
 Judges, " learned in the law,'' have made their 
 stately entry into the county town, accom- 
 panied by the High Sheriff, and escorted by 
 his Javelin-men. The Commission has been 
 opened in Court — the Assize Sermon has been 
 preached — the Grand Jury have been impan- 
 neled — the Royal Proclamation against Vice 
 and Immorality has been read — the Judge's 
 Charge to the Grand Jury has been delivered 
 — the Petit Jury have been sworn in — Bills 
 of indictment have been sent up to the Grand 
 Jury — a " true bill" has been speedily returned 
 — and the arraignment of the accused takes 
 place. 
 
 Alas ! what anxious moments have the 
 prisoners who await their trials. What a tell- 
 tale is the human countenance, when we see
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 301 
 
 it in the dock ! What a wild, dazed look does 
 the accused cast around him when he first 
 emerges into daylight, and the gaze of the 
 crowd, from the dark passages beneath the 
 Court! How anxiously does he glance around, 
 to see whether amid all that sea of faces, 
 there be even one which he can recognize — 
 which has anything like sympathy in its ex- 
 pression ! How he shrinks or brightens as his 
 glance falls upon somebody whom he has cause 
 to fear or love ! Then, what an affectation 
 of unconcern as the Crown Counsel recapitu- 
 lates the particulars of the case, carefully 
 distinguishing what is fact, from what is 
 presumption, but ingeniously supplying the 
 deficiency of actual by the corroborative evi- 
 dence of circumstantial proof. Then, as the 
 witnesses touch the head of the accused man 
 with the Crier's rod, how sudden the involun- 
 tary shrinking of the frame — how spasmodic 
 the uncontrollable working of the features ! 
 He is aware of that — he fears that it may 
 have a bad effect upon the jury, — he endea- 
 Yours to remove the impression by assuming an
 
 302 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 air of indifference, — he may even affect to 
 smile, as if in pity for the witness's mistake 
 — or, conscience-smitten, he may be stupefied 
 or confounded by the recognition. For the 
 first time, then, in his course of crime, he feels 
 that there is an eye which seeth in darkness, 
 an intelligence which pierces through the 
 human concealments, in which guilt adroitly 
 enwraps itself, a justice from above, which will 
 not permit that guilt to be undiscovered and 
 unpunished. Suppose that the case is one where 
 the prisoner is accused of Murder — almost 
 the only crime for which capital punishement 
 is now inflicted. How intense the interest 
 which is kept up during the whole trial ! How 
 the spectators, every now and then, as a strong 
 point comes out in evidence, turn to look at 
 the accused and watch what impression 
 it makes on him. How earnestly does every 
 one hsten while the defence is proceeding. 
 How hushed the silence which precedes 
 the summing-up of evidence by the judge. 
 How calmly, how dispassionately, nay, how 
 mercifully, (for the Judge is presumed to be
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 303 
 
 Counsel for the accused) does he sift the 
 
 testimony of the witnesses, compare conflicting 
 
 statements, point out what links in the chain 
 
 of evidence are weak or wanting, notice where 
 
 the charge has been rebutted, declare in what 
 
 particulars it has been proved, and finally 
 
 desire the jury if they have any doubt, to give 
 
 the accused the benefit of it, and pronounce 
 
 his acquittal. Then, how awful the interval 
 
 between the Judge's summing-up, and the 
 
 delivery of the verdict ! As we, who look on, 
 
 count time, the space is but a few minutes, 
 
 but to the wretched man at the bar, whose life 
 
 is in the scale, 
 
 " Moments like to these 
 Rend men s lives into immortalities." 
 
 What a sudden lull — what a ceasing of hushed 
 whispers — what a holding in of the breath, 
 as the foreman turns round, and hands in the 
 fatal scroll. What a pang, what an agony of 
 despair thrills coldly through the prisoner's 
 frame, as, listening with his very eyes, as it 
 were, he hears the word Guilty, uttered as the 
 verdict. That one word, carelessly pronounced
 
 304 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 bj the officer of the Court, has a terrible 
 significance for the prisoner. It tells him, as 
 with a voice of pealing thunder, that his days 
 are nigh their close. When the last hour of 
 the rich man approaches, he is carefully pre- 
 pared for the tidings that his time has nearly 
 run ; cautiously, and by degrees, the intelli- 
 gence is broken to him — friends soothe 
 his dying moments — affection smooths his 
 pillow — the minister of religion gently leads 
 his thoughts to the better land, where he is to 
 meet the loved in life, "not lost, but gone 
 before.'' But that verdict of the jury! — it 
 breaks, without alleviation or preparation, on 
 the startled mind. There is no doubt — no 
 soft language to cheat with hope, even against 
 hope — no sorrowing regret — no gentle conso- 
 lation ; only the one word, " Guilty ^^ which 
 tears the husband from the wife, severs the 
 father from his children, takes the son from his 
 widowed mother. He may have offended^ 
 beyond human forgiveness, against the laws of 
 heaven and earth, which are the safe-giiard of 
 civilized society, but to the wife, the children,
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 305 
 
 the parent, that rugged, guilty man, may have 
 been affectionate and kind. He must leave 
 them now — ^yith no legacy but that of a dis- 
 honoured name : no memory save that of 
 ignominy. It would seem a pitiful thing for 
 any man, however guilty, to have such a sudden 
 doom — but lenity to him would be injustice to 
 others. That man must die. 
 
 Then comes the sentence of the law, de- 
 livered by the Judge. The condemned man 
 is asked whether he has anything to say, why 
 that sentence should not be passed upon him. 
 There is no reply ; or, perhaps, a few wild 
 words, denying the guilt which has been unques- 
 tionably proven, or supplicating the mercy that 
 cannot be extended to him on this side of the 
 grave. Meanwhile, the fatal black cap has 
 been placed upon the Judge's head. No need, 
 now, for the Crier to command silence. It 
 comes unbidden. The fall of a pin upon the 
 floor would be audible in that dreary stillness. 
 The Judge speaks, — his voice is low, little more 
 than a whisper, but it is heard in even the 
 remotest corner of that vast and crowded 
 
 YOL. I. X
 
 306 THE GREAT AVILL CAUSE. 
 
 Court. You hear a man — aged, it maj be, 
 and worn with ill-health and mental labour — 
 solemnly condemning to a sudden and shame- 
 ful death, another man in the full bloom of 
 youth, in the full enjoyment of health. If a 
 savage were to be present, he could not under- 
 stand it. He knows how a man full of anger, 
 athirst for what Lord Bacon called " the wild 
 Justice of revenge," will have blood for blood ; 
 but to see that aged man, with a stern gravity 
 on his wrinkled brow, with faltering speech, 
 with gasping breath, even with tears gliding 
 down those furrowed cheeks, dooming that 
 strong man to die, and the strong man patiently 
 listening to him, without making any attempt 
 to escape ; that is peculiar to Civilization, and 
 painful though it be, is one of the safe-guards 
 of Society. 
 
 Hark ! as the Judge concludes, a shriek 
 rings through the Court. Is it the despairing 
 cry of the doomed one's wife, or mother, or 
 daughter ? No, it is only a lady, who having 
 waited until the close of the impressive tragedy, 
 has gone off in hysterics. What, in the name
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 307 
 
 of decency and delicacy, do women want, out of 
 their proper places, in a Court of Law 1 Why, 
 in the name of all that is rational, does not the 
 High Sheriff peremptorily order them out of 
 Court, unless they haye actual business there 
 as parties or witnesses'? 
 
 It is in the Nisi Prius, and not in the Crown 
 
 Court, that the Great Will Cause, from which 
 
 I have deviated a little, is to be tried. It is a 
 
 Special Jury Case, the only one at the Assizes, 
 
 and has excited a great sensation, not only 
 
 throughout the country, but at the bar. Mr. 
 
 Shaw, one of the ablest lawyers of the day, 
 
 has been brought down "special" for the 
 
 defendant. Not that her attorney has any 
 
 apprehension of the result, but a property such 
 
 as is at stake must not be perilled by the want 
 
 of the best advocacy that money can procure. 
 
 Knowing, also, that to give men an interest in 
 
 a cause, their interest must be consulted, the 
 
 shrewd attorney has marked heavy fees upon 
 
 Counsel's briefs. Mr. Lennox, a man of some 
 
 reputation and standing on the Circuit, holds 
 
 a brief with Mr. Shaw ; and a junior barrister 
 
 x2
 
 308 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 is engaged with these two, not because he is 
 required, but because it is the etiquette, when 
 a Counsel comes down specially, to have a 
 third to open the pleadings, and conduct the 
 examination of unimportant witnesses. 
 
 On the other hand, no particular prepara- 
 -tions appear to have been made on behalf of 
 the plaintiff. His Counsel are two gentlemen 
 belonging to the Circuit, neither of whom has 
 yet had the opportunity of distinguishing him- 
 self. What with the general feeling against 
 him, as one who has brought a vexatious suit 
 against a woman, — with the admitted disad- 
 vantage of being opposed by such lawyers 
 as Shaw and Lennox, — and with the mis- 
 fortune of being personally unknown in the 
 county, the plaintiff is generally considered 
 as a man without any chance of success. 
 Already, bets are freely offered (not taken, 
 because of "the glorious uncertainty of the 
 law", twenty — fifty — a hundred to one against 
 him. 
 
 The day of trial has arrived. The Special 
 Jury, taken from among the leading gentlemen
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 309 
 
 of the count J, are duly sworn in. The Court 
 is crowded. Now and then a whisper is heard, 
 as some lady is favoured with a seat near the 
 Judge, "Is that the defendant?'^ No, Miss 
 Marston and her mother are not in Court. 
 They await the issue at the Royal Oak Inn, 
 and one of them, at least, does not want kind 
 words to cheer her, for Mr. Mavor sits by the 
 side of his affianced, and both of them, though 
 anxious, are the reverse of alarmed or unhappy. 
 The junior Counsel for the Plaintiff, in the 
 cause Doe on the demise of Marstox y. 
 Marston, opens the pleadings and states that 
 in this case Francis Marston is the plaintiff, 
 and Emma Marston the defendant ; that the 
 declaration is in ejectment to recover posses- 
 sion of the Manor of Audley in the county of 
 ¥: * -re '/- -:r^ containing divers messuages and 
 lands, with the rights and appurtenances 
 thereto belonging ; also the manorial rights, 
 tithes of corn, grain, hay, &c., within the said 
 Manor ; as also the rectory of the parish church 
 of Audley, as aforesaid, together with the 
 small tithes therein ; also divers messuages.
 
 310 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 cottages, and buildings in the coimtj aforesaid ; 
 out of all which premises it was alleged that 
 the defendant had ejected the plaintiff, and 
 wrongfully kept him out of possession of the 
 same. To this the defendant had pleaded Not 
 Guilty, and that was the question for the Jury 
 to try. 
 
 The Plaintiff's senior Counsel then briefly 
 stated the case to the Jury to the following 
 effect : that, when residing in France, the late 
 Sacheveral Marston had married Emilie Latour ; 
 that when this marriage took place, his father 
 was still aliye, and it was therefore considered 
 prudent to conceal it for a time ; that the hus- 
 band was induced, by circumstances which 
 then seemed " strong as proof of Holy Writ," 
 to suspect the fidelity of his wife ; that, on 
 being made acquainted with these suspicions, 
 she had quitted him, indignant at having been 
 doubted, and too proud to vindicate lierself ; 
 and that the plaintiff, Francis Marston, was 
 the legitimate offspring of this marriage. 
 
 The examination of witnesses followed. The 
 first was the aged clergyman, who, thirty
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 311 
 
 years before, had solemnized tlie marriage, 
 and ^vhose certificate, dated and given at the 
 time to the phiintiff's mother, he identified. 
 Then were produced two witnesses of the 
 marriage, one of them being the bonne, or 
 nurse, who had attended on the plaintiff from 
 the time of his birth, and had brought him, 
 when a child, to England. Other evidence was 
 adduced, to prove that the plaintiff was the 
 legitimate son of the late owner of the Audley 
 estates. Letters from him to tlie plaintiff 
 were put in, shown to be in his hand-writing, 
 in which he repeatedly and strongly acknow- 
 ledged plaintiff's legitimacy, admitted his con- 
 viction that all suspicions of his mother's purity 
 had been most unfounded, and besought him 
 to seek her out, that she might come to En- 
 gland, and receive the tardy justice of having 
 her innocence declared, and her rights recog- 
 nised. Not even the ingenuity of Mr. Shaw, 
 unrivalled in cross-examination, nor the 
 shrewd ability of Mr. Lennox, could shake 
 the testimony, so direct was it, so plain, so 
 simple. Inch by inch, however, they fought
 
 312 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 to the last, long after the judge had hinted 
 his opinion that the plaintiff's case had been 
 fiillj proved. Without leaving their box, the 
 jury returned a verdict for the plaintiff, and 
 every one felt that their decision was a pro- 
 per one. 
 
 Great was the astonishment of the public, 
 when, within three weeks after this important 
 decision, the fashionable department of ar 
 London morning paper contained the following 
 announcement : — " We understand that Francis 
 Marston, Esq., of Audley, in the county of 
 
 , will immediately be married to his 
 
 cousin Emma, only daughter of the late Rev. F. 
 Marston. Our readers may recollect, that the 
 
 parties in question recently figured at 
 
 assizes, as plaintiff and defendant, in the 
 great Will cause, Marston v. Marston. We 
 are in possession of the romantic incidents 
 connected with these approaching nuptials. 
 The delicacy which invariably actuates us, 
 prevents our now entering into detail further 
 than to say, — 'Truth is strange, stranger than 
 fiction.^ "
 
 THE GKEAT WILL CAUSE. 313 
 
 It was even so. On the very eveniDg of 
 the day on which the trial had dispossessed 
 Emma Marston of all her property, and when 
 ninety-nine out of every hundred who bestowed 
 a passing thought upon her, believed that she 
 was breaking her heart at the loss, that young 
 lady was in excellent spirits, having listened 
 to certain disclosui'es from Mr. Mavor, whom 
 it is high time to introduce as Francis Marston, 
 Esq., the successful suitor in the courts of 
 law and love. 
 
 " My father," said he, " married when he 
 was abroad, and, hesitating to communicate 
 this circumstance to his father (whom he knew 
 to be anxious for his union with the daughter 
 of an old friend in England, and very decided 
 in his dislike to Catholics, of whom my mother 
 happened to be one), determined to conceal it 
 altogether. My mother, a gay, lively, at- 
 tractive Frenchwoman, was unsuited to her 
 husband, a man of grave disposition, and 
 fonder of literary seclusion than of pleasure. 
 She was of high birth, high endowments, high 
 spirit. She constantly complained of the
 
 314 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 doubtful position in which she was placed 
 bj her marriage not being publicly acknow- 
 ledged. At length, mj father was induced to 
 suspect her fidelity, and she was too proud to 
 condescend to explain or yindicate her conduct. 
 She abruptly quitted him, leaving me to his 
 protection, and all search after her was in vain. 
 No wonder that it was ; for, disgusted with 
 the world, and severely wounded by the dis- 
 trust and suspicions of the husband, for whom 
 she had sacrificed her youth and heart, she 
 retired to Italy, where she became the inmate 
 of a convent. There she lingered for many 
 years, though • she never took the veil ; and 
 thence, when on her death-bed, addressed a 
 letter to my father, affording him irresistible 
 proofs that he had greatly wronged her, and 
 earnestly entreating him to do her late justice, 
 by acknowledging their marriage, and, if he 
 had not already done so, by proclaiming 
 my legitimacy. She knew that my father 
 had adopted me, and appealed, in the strongest 
 terms, to his sense of justice. When this let- 
 ter arrived, my father immediately proceeded
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 315 
 
 to London, where I tlien was ; laid it before 
 me, explained every circumstance of his early 
 life, and enjoined me to proceed, without de- 
 lay, to Italy, whither his own ill health would 
 not permit him to go ; to seek out my mother, 
 to supplicate her pardon for him, to make 
 every endeavour, and use every persuasion, to 
 prevail on her to come to England, where the 
 acknowledgment she was entitled to should be 
 most publicly made : or if, as he apprehended, 
 I should arrive too late, to obtain the fullest 
 proofs of the marriage, for he had quitted 
 France so suddenly, that he had not been able 
 to procure them, had he even wished, at that 
 time to retain such evidence of what, pro- 
 mising him much happiness, had thrown a 
 blight upon his whole course of life. 
 
 " I can scarcely account for the caprice 
 which made me resolve, while executing my 
 father's commands, not to bear his name. One 
 reason was, that as I should have to hold 
 intercourse with my mother's family, I was 
 unwilling to appear before them bearing the 
 name of him who had so deeply wronged her.
 
 316 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 I assumed the name of flavor, and thus made 
 the acquaintance of the Count de Latour, my 
 mother's brother. When I found myself de- 
 cidedly a favourite, I stated who I was, and 
 what my mission. I learued that I had arrived 
 too late. My mother had died soon after 
 writing that letter which had awakened " the 
 late remorse of love " in her husband's heart. 
 Her family were anxious to clear her fame ; 
 and the Count and myself proceeded to Italy, 
 to search among her papers for the proofs of 
 the marriage. We were in this pursuit when 
 I first saw you at Naples. For a long time, 
 we could not find the clergyman who cele- 
 brated, nor the witnesses who were present at, 
 the marriage. In the interim, my father died, 
 — died, too, without having made the acknow- 
 ledgment that he had married Emilie Latour, 
 and that I was their son. The estates de- 
 scended to you as heir-at-law ; and I can 
 only wonder at my not having surmised that 
 you, whom I had met at Naples, were the 
 Miss Marston against whom, when our proofs 
 were all complete and collected, the duty I
 
 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 317 
 
 owed alike to mj mother's memorj and to my 
 own position, compelled me to take law pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 "Of the success of the suit, I never enter- 
 tained anj doubt. Mj first impulse was to laj 
 the evidence before you, confident that you 
 would not resist my claims, if you saw how 
 well-founded they were. With this view, 1 
 proceeded to Audley. There, being attacked 
 by illness, the kindness I, a stranger, received 
 from you, made me more than ever anxious to 
 spare you the surprise and expense of a trial. 
 I saw you. I recognised you as my Naples 
 acquaintance of whom I had often thought. I 
 found myself more and more interested in you. 
 I then resolved, to avoid the worldly impu- 
 tation of having sought you for your fortune, to 
 run into the opposite extreme. It was imper- 
 ative, too, to vindicate my mother's fame, to 
 fulfil my father's wishes. I have done so. I 
 am ready, my dearest Emma, if I have deprived 
 you of a fortune, to return it to you — bur- 
 thened, it is true, with myself." 
 
 The offer was frankly made, was frankly
 
 318 THE GREAT WILL CAUSE. 
 
 accepted. Is it requisite to prolong the storj, 
 and describe how the marriage was celebrated? 
 No ; let it suffice to know that the cousins 
 lost as little time as possible in returning to 
 Audley : that the nuptials were solemnized 
 amid the good wishes and blessings of all who 
 had experienced Miss Marston's kindness, while 
 owner of the estate : that Mrs. Lee had the 
 Marston Arms magnificently painted and gilt, 
 in honor of the union, but vowed that she 
 could scarcely forgive " Master Frank,'' for not 
 having told her who he was : and that as mucli 
 happiness as usually falls to the lot of married 
 mortals, is enjoyed by the PlaintiflP and De- 
 fendant in The Great Will Cause ! 
 
 This was the last story related on our first 
 evening at Matlock. We held a council as to 
 the best mode of employing ourselves during 
 the following day. My own local knowledge 
 was of some advantage in fixing the pro- 
 gramme. With vehicles and horses at com-
 
 YALLET OP THE DERWEKT. 319 
 
 niand, vre were within accessible distance of a 
 yarietj of places well worth seeing. 
 
 North of Matlock are many points which 
 may be pleasurablv visited. At the extremity 
 of Darley Dale is that admirable inn, the 
 " Peacock," at Rowsley, which is reached after 
 traversing from Matlock through the beautiful 
 valley of the Derwent, — the transition from 
 the majestic grandeur of the Tors at Matlock, 
 and the far-extending valley in which Rowsley 
 stands, being not the least remarkable. 
 Through it now runs a Railway, which 
 changes the peculiar character of the scene, 
 while it certainly makes it more accessible to 
 the many than it was in the time when I first 
 knew it. But not even " improvement " can 
 wholly destroy the beauty of such places. 
 The confluence of the Wye with the Derwent, 
 which artists have loved to sketch, and tra- 
 vellers have delighted to admire, remains, — 
 the windings of the river are unchanged, — the 
 view up the valley of the Derwent, from 
 Rowsley Bridge, continues to attract admira- 
 tion, — and, within a few paces of the bridge,
 
 320 "THE peacock/' at rowsley. 
 
 still flourishes " The Peacock," which looks 
 rather like such a residence as a country 
 gentleman would have reared in the Eliza- 
 bethan reign, than an inn in the heart of a 
 romantic district. Within the last five-and- 
 twenty years, how many distinguished men 
 have sojourned in that comfortable hostelrie ! 
 Artists and statesmen, botanists and geologists, 
 — men of letters and of science, — black-letter 
 lawyers and grave physicians, have resorted 
 thither, for the brethren of the angle abound 
 in all professions, and the trout and the grey- 
 line: in the Derwent and the Wve are nume- 
 rous enough for all who cast the line. And 
 after the day's employment, — self-imposed 
 tasks w^hich are relaxation to minds ordinarily 
 occupied with grave and pressing thouglit, — 
 to come home to the pleasant hospitality which 
 " The Peacock " affords to all who pay, (nor 
 need the purse be very heavy when moderation 
 actuates the host,) is the very heighth of ra- 
 tional enjoyment, and enviable by those who, 
 unfortunately, are " in populous city pent," by 
 occupations which admit of scanty holidays.
 
 THE KINGS OF THE PEAK. 321 
 
 Nearly half-^yay between " The Peacock '' 
 at Rowslej, and the old town of Bakewell, 
 (built nearly a thousand years ago, by the 
 Saxon King Edward,) it is well to turn aside 
 and visit Haddon Hall. The rich pasturage 
 of the Yale of Haddon sweeps between the 
 two places, and, in the centre, on a hill which 
 abruptly rises from the Wye, stands Haddon 
 Hall, which, seen through the trees by which 
 it is surrounded, appears to realize the idea 
 which the mind forms of one of the ancient 
 fortalices, in which the baron sought refuge 
 from the encroachments of the monarch, and 
 from which he sometimes hurled defiance at the 
 kingly power. Here, in the olden time, those 
 Vernons — whose wealth and power, caused 
 them to be called " Kings of the Peak,'' — lived 
 in hospitable splendour. Here are still re- 
 tained evidences of the magnificent manner in 
 which the lords of the ancient time kept house. 
 But, in the imperishable pages of Scott, the 
 past has been made to live again, and the best 
 idea of Haddon, next to what can be obtained 
 from personal observation, is to be found in 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 HADDON HALL. 
 
 his "Peveril of the Peak/' the Martindale 
 Hall of which is but a description of the more 
 striking points of Haddon. The great hall 
 with its oaken wainscot, capacious fire-place, 
 and raised dais, — the dining-room, with its 
 quaint carvings, oak panels, and rich gildings, 
 — the drawing-room with iis curious tapestry, 
 — the immense gallery, which was honoured, 
 it is said, by Queen Elizabeth's "treading a 
 measure'' in it, at the ball given when it was 
 opened, — the antique gardens, the terraces, 
 the lime-tree avenue — and, to crown all, the 
 beautiful views from the summit of the Eagle 
 tower, form a combination of attractions, such 
 as are rarely to be met, and, in truth, are 
 almost peculiar to Haddon. The novelist, the 
 painter, the poet, and the antiquarian, have 
 found something wonderfully suggestive in Had- 
 don Hall, and good feeling, as well as good 
 taste, has been shown by the Manners' family, 
 (to whom it came by intermarriage with the 
 Vernons,) in carefully keeping it up, even as 
 we see it now. Appropriately, therefore, do 
 the peacock, the crest of the Manners, and the
 
 VERNON AND MANNERS. 323 
 
 boar's head, that of the Vernons, meet the eye 
 in the principal apartments of that noble build- 
 ing. It is almost desolate now, for the Duke of 
 Rutland prefers Bel voir Castle, in Leicestershire, 
 with its more modern appliances for comfort, 
 and indeed, it may be doubted, whether it does 
 not impress the mind more effectually in this 
 state, than if it were crowded with the " troops 
 of friends," who might be attracted there by 
 modern hospitality. Unless the ancient ap- 
 parel, arms, and attendants could be brought 
 back into the ancient Hall, there would be 
 that incongruity which invariably arises from 
 the admixture of new and antique things and 
 persons. As it is, Haddon Hall, is one of 
 our best relics of the olden time, — it is at once 
 interesting and picturesque, and to have seen 
 it is something which one would not willingly 
 have missed. 
 
 Within so easy a distance of Haddon, that 
 a pedestrian can cover the ground in less than 
 an hour, even if he walk by the side of the Der- 
 went, stands Chatsworth, " The Palace of the 
 Peak," — as it was called long before it deserved 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 THE DERWENT-SIDK 
 
 the appellation so Tvell as it does now. We 
 resolved to visit both places, the next day, 
 to contrast the massive grandeur of the old 
 Baronial hall, with the magnificence of the 
 new and splendid palace. 
 
 Our whole party started, soon after break- 
 fast, for Haddon, which we examined with 
 great pleasure and admiration. Returning to 
 " The Peacock'' at Rowsley, we had personal 
 experience, by means of an abundant luncheon, 
 that fame had not over-rated the goodness of 
 the " creature comforts'' which were there sup- 
 plied. 
 
 Leaving our vehicles at Rowsley, we went 
 to Chatsworth, on foot, by the side of the 
 Derwent, — a charming walk, which leads quite 
 into Chatsworth Park. What occasion is there 
 to describe what pen and pencil have so often, 
 and so well delineated ? 
 
 The contrast between Haddon and Chats- 
 worth struck us, as it strikes every one, 
 as a contrast between the Past and the 
 Present. If the picturesque antiquity of 
 one edifice be charming, not less pleasing is
 
 CHATSWORTH. 325 
 
 the modern refinement of. the other. To me, 
 Chatsworth was a familiar place, for I had 
 often visited it— not only in the ordinary 
 manner, by payment of the usually expected 
 douceur, but on a memorable occasion which 
 had occurred in the previous year (1832), when 
 the Duchess of Kent was a guest, in company 
 with her youthful daughter, the Princess Vic- 
 toria. On that occasion, the state apartments 
 had been thrown open en suite, and — stretching 
 as they do through the whole length of that 
 palatial mansion — a vista was formed of 
 between seven and eight hundred feet. There, 
 — with brilliant lights, attendants in gorgeous 
 liveries, guests sparkling with jewels, music 
 breathing melody throughout the evening, and 
 the adornments of the room rich beyond even 
 our ideas of Eastern luxury, — the future Queen 
 of England, then a child of some thirteen 
 years, sate as the guest of one of England's 
 richest and most exalted nobles. Nor were 
 the adornments of these rooms such as mere 
 wealth could produce. A pervading and in-
 
 326 THE PALACE OF THE PEAK. 
 
 tellectual spirit had presided over all ; and 
 statues, vases, pictures, books, and a varied 
 collection of other articles of art and vertu bore 
 testimony to the taste as well as the fortune 
 of their possessor. 
 
 Our Matlock party, thanks to my own 
 previous knowledge of Chatsworth, loitered 
 through its noble apartments, and rich gal- 
 leries, without being compelled to depend on 
 the information supplied by the persons who 
 usually showed the place. 
 
 The great Conservatory was then not 
 erected — I write of 1833 — but, in a build- 
 ing containing rare plants and flowers, were 
 then to be seen bassi-relievi of Morning 
 and Night, by Thorwaldsen. The Sculp- 
 ture Gallery had not then been erected ; but 
 the collection already included many beau- 
 tiful specimens of Art, among which is that 
 colossal bust of Napoleon, which alone gives 
 a full idea of the mental capacity of him who 
 was legislator, as well as soldier and sovereign. 
 And there, too, we saw the sitting statue
 
 MARSHAL TALLARD. 327 
 
 of Napoleon's Mother — worthy of him, the 
 greatest man, all points considered, who ever 
 rose, and reigned, and fell." 
 
 We lingered on those terraces which the 
 fairy feet of lovely and unfortunate Mary 
 Stuart had so often trod. We marvelled at 
 the splendid gardens, in which the entire 
 vegetable world appears to be represented. 
 We lost ourselves amid the leafy woods and 
 the romantic glades, startling the bright-eyed 
 fawns in their resting-places. We saw the 
 play of the artificial waterfall, and the upward 
 spring of the fountains, breaking into spray 
 above the trees, and falling like shattered 
 diamonds when viewed between the sunshine. 
 As our feet pressed the velvet and elastic 
 sward of that rich demesne, we could fully 
 appreciate the delicate truth and gallantry of 
 the farewell compliment spoken to a former 
 Duke of Devonshire, by Marshal Tallard 
 (whom the great Marlborough had taken 
 prisoner at Blenheim), " that all the time he 
 had spent at Chatsworth, he should not
 
 328 THE RETURN. 
 
 think of counting as part of his captivity in 
 England." 
 
 Sauntering back to "The Peacock," we 
 reached Matlock at too late an hour for an 
 advanced sitting, and too much overcome with 
 pleasant fatigue for any enjoyment except 
 repose. So, deciding on having the morrow 
 as a day of rest, we had no story-telling that 
 night, but each sought his pillow, thereon to 
 hope for " rosy dreams and slumbers light." 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LO>T)ON : 
 PRINTED BY HARBISON AOT) SON, BT. MARTIN'S LANE. ^ 
 
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 '^UNO , 
 
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