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 :
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