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B  ENTLEY'S 


MISCELLANY. 


VOL.  LI. 


LONDON: 
CHAPMAN    AND    HALL, 

193,  PICCADILLY. 
1862. 

Tie  riffU  qffubUthiig  Tranilatioiu  o/Jrtiek*  m  tUt  MagcuiMe  is  rettrved. 

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CONTENTS. 


PIOS 

The  Lord  Major  of  London ;  or,  City  Life  in  the  kst  Centnrr.    By  Wl- 

Uam  Harrison  Ainsworth        .  .  .1, 127>  237,  347|  4&7,  667 

The  Late  Pnnoe  Consort   .  .  .  .  .  •  .26 

On  the  Lamented  Death  of  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  Consort  .    81 

Madame  la  Marquise  .  •  .  .  .  •  .82 

Stage  Emotion.    By  Monkshood   .  .  .  .  •  .45 

The  Moral  Condition  of  the  Trench  .  .  .  .  •    65 

The  Conntcss  of  Albany     .  .  .  .  .  .  ,67 

¥iye  Months  in  a  French  Pine  Forest       .  .  •  .  .    78  ' 

England  getting  ready       .  .  .  .  .  •  .83 

To  the  most  H&strioos  Monmer  in  the  New  Year.  By  Mrs.  Acton  Tindal  91 
The  Worries   of  a  Chaperone;   or.  Lady  Marabout's  Troubles.     By 

Ouida.    Season  the  Third.— The  Climax        .  •  •  .92 

Population  and  Trade  in  France.    By  Frederick  Marshall : 

No.  X. — ^Merchant  Shipping  ......  104r 

Crooked  Usage ;  or.  The  Adventures  of  Lorn  Loriot.    By  Dudley  Cos- 

teUo 116, 173,  271),  406,  650 

Social  Science  and  Sunny  Scenes  in  Ireland  ....  162 

Table-Talk.    By  Monkshood         ....  189,812,423 

Scandinavian  Travel  .  .  .  .  .  •  .199 

Chant  for  little  Mary.    By  Mrs.  Acton  Tindal      .  .  .  .209 

A  Beal  American   ........  210 

Cecil  Castlemaine's  Gage ;  or.  The  Story  of  a  Broidered  Shield.  By  Ouida  221 
The  Death-^.  From  the  Danish  of  !B.  S.  Ingemann.  By  Mrs.3ushby  267 
The  Forgotten  Dead  .  .  .  .  .  .  .283 

An  Arab  Village 292 

An  Autumn  at  Oedt 800 

Edward  Forbes  the  Naturalist 823 

Favette  and  Thargelie ;  or.  My  Pastel-Portrait  by  La  Tour.    By  Ouida    .  883 

Travels  in  Equador 371 

A  Dark  Mood.    By  Mrs.  Acton  Tindal 879 

Slavery  in  America  ....•••  881 

Eecreations  in  Switzerland.  An  Ascent  of  Mont  Combin  from  St.  Pierre .  889 
History  of  the  First  Battalion  of  Koyal  Marines  in  Chma,  from  1857  to 

1859 898 

Canterbury  and  its  Archbishops     ......  482 

The  Beauty  of  Vicqd'Azir.    By  Ouida 440 

A  Day  with  the  AlUgators 491,  650 

A  Summer  in  America       ......      501,  661 


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VI  CONTENTS. 

PA6B 
Dreamland  ••......  610 

The  Conyict  System  in  the  Colonies.    By  Captain  £.  F.  Du  Cane,  E.E.    .  613 
The  Irish  Widow.    A  Stonr  founded  on  Facts      ....  528^ 

The  Diet  and  Dainties  of  Australian  Aborigines.    By  Alexander  Andrews  544 

All  Saints'  Eve.    By  Mrs.  Acton  Tindal 598 

The  World's  May  Meeting 601 

The  last  Coquetry  of  Lady  Caprice.    By  Ouida     .                                  .610 
The  Millionnaire  of  Saintonge.    By  Dudley  Costello         .           .           .  621 
A  Glance  at  Borne  in  1862            •           .           .           .           .           .637 
The  Poet's  Dream.    From  the  German  of  Heine.    By  Edgar  A.  Bowring, 
C.B 647 


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BENTLErS  MISCELLANY. 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON; 

OR,  CITY  LIFE  IN  THE  LAST  CENTURY  * 
By  Williah  Habbisok  Aikswobth. 


QUILDHALL. 
I. 

LORD  HArOE's  DAT,  A  HTJNDRID  TEAB8  AGO. 

Ok  the  Ninth  of  November^  1761|  there  was  great  jubilation  in 
the  City  of  London* 

On  that  day,  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  Gresham  Lorimer,  Knight, 
draper,  alderman  for  Cheap  ward,  and  member  of  the  Worshipful 
Company  of  Merchant  Tailors,  entered  upon  his  duties  as  first 
magistrate  of  the  first  city  In  the  world.  Most  auspiciously  did 
his  mayoralty  commence.  Called  by  the  po{>ular  voice  to  the 
dvic  chair,  his  election  had  been  almost  unanimous,  there  being 
only  one  vote  for  the  brother  alderman,  nominated  with  him  by 
the  livery;  and  when  the  choice  of  the  court  was  made  known  by 
the  Recorder,  the  announcement  was  received  with  great  cheering. 
The  applause  was  even  more  vehement  when,  being  called  forth, 
the  Lord  Mayor  elect  was  invested  withthe  chain,  and  retumea 
thanks  for  the  great  honour  done  him.  Subsequently,  on  hjf 
being  presented  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  by  the  Recorder,  the 
approbation  of  the  crown  was  very  ^ciously  communicated  to 
him  by  his  lordship.  The  fitrewell  dmner  given  by  Sir  Gresham 
in  conjunction  with  Sir  Matthew  Blakiston,  the  retiring  Lord 
Major  was  remarkable,  even  in  the  City,  for  splendour  and  pro- 
fusion, gave  promise  of  many  a  glorious  banquet  to  follow. 

Special  circumstances  conspired  to  give  additional  lustre  to 
our  Lord  M^yor^s  Day.  Not  only  was  he  {generally  respected  by 
his  fellow  citizens;  not  only  was  he  certain  of  an  enthusiastic 
reception  from  the  thousands  assembled  to  greet  him  on  his 
way  to  Westi^nlnster;  not  only  had  unwonted  care  been  bestowed 
on  the  procession  destined  to  attend  him;  not  only  were  some 
of  the  old  divic  pageants^-the  delight  of  the  multitude — to  be 
revived  for  t^e  occasion;  but  on  that  day  the  young  and  newly*' 

•  Ml  TigkU  remved. 

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TOI-U. 


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2  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

married  George  III.  was  about  to  honour  the  City  with  his  pre- 
sence— according  to  custom,  it  being  the  first  Lord  Mayor^s  Day 
after  his  coronation — ^to  view  the  show,  and  partake  afterwards  of 
the  grand  civic  feast  at  Guildhall. 

As  the  young  monarch  would  be  accompanied  on  this  occasion 
by  his  queen,  the  whole  of  the  royal  family  and  the  court,  extra- 
ordinary preparations  were  made  for  their  reception.  As  usual, 
the  day  was  kept  as  a  general  holiday.  The  shops  were  closed, 
and  business  altogether  suspended.  Bells  were  rung,  guns  fired, 
and  other  noisy  demonstrations  of  delight  made.  Scaffoldings 
were  erected  by  the  City  companies  for  the  accommodation  of  their 
wardens  and  liverymen  at  various  points  calculated  to  command  a 
good  view  of  the  procession.  Many  of  the  houses  were  richly  de- 
corated and  hung  with  flags  and  banners,  and  arrangements  were 
made  for  a  general  illumiBaticm  at  night.  Four  regiments  of  the 
London  Militia  were  ordered  to  line  the  way  from  Temple-bar 
to  the  top  of  Ludgate-hill,  and  took  up  their  position  betimes. 
The  Mounted  Train  Bands  were  stationed  at  intervals  from  Saint 
Paul's  Churchyard  to  the  Mansion  House.  All  public  vehicles 
were  prohibited  in  the  principal  thoroughfares,  and  no  private  car- 
riages were  allowed  to  pass  along  Cheapside,  or  approach  Guild- 
hall, whence  the  procession  was  to  start  at  eleven  o'clock,  except 
those  belonging  to  the  aldermen  and  sheriffs,  or  other  personages 
connected  with  the  show. 

A  vast  and  continually-increasing  concourse  filled  Qieapside 
and  the  streets  leading  to  Blackfriars,  where  the  Lord  Mayor  was 
to  embark  in  his  state  barge  and  proceed  by  water  to  Westminster, 
and  a  good  inany  brawls  and  disturbances  took  place,  which 
the  combined  eflrorts  of  the  militia  and  the  peace-officers  scarcely 
sufficed  to  check — the  mobs  in  those  days  being  very  turbu- 
lent and  pugnacious,  and  exceedingly  ready,  not  only  with  sticks 
and  bludgeons,  but  with  such  weapons  as  nature  had  provided 
them  withal.  Broken  pates,  dama^d  noses,  or  darkened  orbs  of 
vision  generally  followed  these  conflicts.  However,  as  on  this  occa- 
sion the  bulk  of  the  crowd  consisted  of  decently-behaved  citizens^ 
who  had  brought  their  wives  and  daughters  with  them  to  see  the 
lord  mayor's  show,  the  quarrels  were  of  rarer  occurrence  than  usual, 
and  more  speedily  subdued.  High  and  low,  masters  and  appren- 
tices, were  dressed  in  holiday  attire,  and,  to  judge  from  their 
looks,  full  of  glee,  and  bent  upon  enjoyment. 

Fortunately  for  all  concerned  in  the  show,  whether  as  actors 
or  spectators,  the  day  was  remarkably  fine.  The  mn  shone  forth 
brilliantly,  gladdening  every  heart,  while  the  preipcriptive  fogs 
of  November  held  good-naturedly  aloof.  \ 

Before  proceeding  further,  it  may  be  proper  to  say  a  few  words 
concerning  the  hero  of  the  day.  Sir  Gt^ham  Lorimiei^s  previous 
history  is  soon  told,  being  unmarked  by  any  exciting  incid^t  or  ad- 
venture.  His  career  had  been  simply  that  of  a  citizenT,  who,  by  in- 

»*■*••  1 

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THE  LOBD  ICAYOR  OF  LONDON.  3 

dnstry  and  inte^ty,  has  risen  from  a  humble  position  to  wealth  and 
distinction.  Circomstances  no  doubt  favoored  him  in  hig  promes, 
but  80  they  generally  do  the  deserving.  Bom  in  BuckleraDury, 
about  sixty  years  before  the  present  important  epoch  in  his  history, 
Grresham  was  the  third  son  of  a  drysaltery  who  had  got  into  diffi- 
culties, and  never  recovered  from  tliem,  but  who  was  able  to  five 
his  son  a  good  education  by  placing  him  at  Merchant  Tailors' 
School,  where  the  lad  remained  until  his  father's  death,  when  he 
was  apprenticed  to  Mr.  Tradescant,  a  prosperous  draper  in  Cheap- 
side,  wno  knew  the  family,  and  had  taken  a  &ncy  to  the  youtn. 
Gbesham  did  not  disappoint  the  expectations  formed  of  him  by  his 
worthy  master.  Discreet,  diligent,  and  shrewd,  he  soon  became 
Mr.  Tradescant's  right  hand.  On  the  expiration  of  his  term,  he 
was  made  head  clerk,  and  in  a  few  years  afterwards  was  taken 
into  partnership  by  his  employer,  the  firm  thenceforward  being 
Tbad£Sgant  and  Lobimeil 

Before  attaining  this  position,  which  established  his  success  in  Ufe, 
Gresham  had  lost  his  mother,  to  whom  he  was  tenderly  attached, 
and  to  whose  support  he  had  of  late  mainly  contributed.     His 
brothers,  Godfrey  and  Lawrence,  neither  of  whom  was  distin- 
guished by  the  same  good  qualities  as  himself,  had  left  London 
to  seek  a  fortune  elsewhere,  and  had  not  since  been  heard  o£    It 
was  then  that  Mr.  Tradescant  judged  it  the  fitting  season  to  put 
in  execution  a  design  he  had  long  since  entertained.    The  worthy 
draper  was  a  widower,  with  an  only  child,  a  daughter,  on  whom 
all  his  hopes  and  afiections  were  fixed,  and  there  was  no  one,  he 
thought,  to  whom  her  happiness  could  be  more  securely  confided 
than  Gresham  Lorimer.  Ciuia  Tradescant  responded  to  her  father^s 
wishes.     Her  heart  was  entirely  disengaged;  or,  if  she  had  any 
preference,  it  was  for  the  very  person  sdected  for  her.  A  few  years 
younger  than  Gresham  Lorimer,  she  had  not  failed  to  admire  him« 
as  they  sat  together  in  Mr.  Tradescant's  large  pew  in  Bow  Church, 
and  looked  over  the  same  prayer-book.     But  to  Gresham's  credit,  it 
must  be  stated  that  he  had  never  ventured  to  raise  bis  eyes  towards 
his  master's  fair  daughter,  and  it  was  only  when  placed  on  an 
equality  with  her  that  he  thought  it  possible  he  might  obtain 
such  a  prize.    Even  then  it  was  necessary  for  Mr.  Tradescant  to 
Bsake  his  intentions  manifest  before  the  young  man  dared  to 
comprehend  them.     At  last,  however,  the  event  so  much. desired 
by  all  parties  was  satisfactorily  brought  about.    The  young  couple 
were  married  at  the  altar  of  the  church  where  they  had  so  often 
knelt  together,  and  a  very  grand  wedding  it  was.     All  Cheapside 
was  alive  that  morning;  musicians  played  before  Mr.  Tradescant's 
dwelling,  and  alms  and  viands  were  liberally  distributed  among  the 
poor. 

Who  so  happy  now  as  Gresham  Lorimer ! — blessed  with  a  very 

Sretty  wife,  and  partner  in  a  very  lucrative  concern,  which  must  one 
ay  be  entirely  his  own.     Brilliant,  indeed,  were  his  prospects,  and 

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4  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

they  continued  undimmed  to  the  very  time  of  which  we  treat, 
except  by  such  few  mischances  as  are  inseparable  from  human 
affiurs.  Having  arranged  matters  to  his  satisfaction,  good  Mr. 
Tradescant  committed  the  management  of  his  business  entirely  to 
his  son-in-law,  and  passed  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  calm  con- 
tentment with  his  beloved  daughter,  living  long  enough  to  see  his 
grandchildren  springing  around  him. 

Several  chilaren  were  bom  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lorimer,  but  of 
these  the  only  survivors  at  the  time  of  our  narrative  were  three 
daughters  and  a  son.  Of  these  and-  their  mother  more  anon, 
our  present  business  being  with  Sir  Gresham.  His  probity  and 
honourable  conduct  gained  him  a  very  high  character  in  the 
City.  Necessarily,  he  had  served  as  shenff,  or  he  could  not  have 
been  elevated  to  the  civic  chair,  and  he  had  displayed  ,80  much 
efficiency  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties  while  holding  that  im- 
portant office,  coupled  with  so  much  liberality  and  hospitality, 
that  he  was  then  marked  out  for  a  still  higher  dignity,  in  case  he 
should  aspire  to  it. 

It  was  during  his  shrievalty  that  he  received  the  honour  of 
knighthood  from  the  late  kin^,  George  II.,  and  this  circumstance 
was  not  less  gratifying  to  himself  than  to  his  spouse,  who  had 
become  much  more  consequential  since  her  husband  hiad  risen  in 
importance.  Sir  Gresham's  next  step  towards  the  object  of  his 
ambition — ^for  ambitious  he  undoubtedly  was  of  becoming  Lord 
Mayor — ^was  his  election  as  alderman.  A  vacancy  having  occurred 
in  the  court  by  the  death  of  the  alderman  for  Cheap  Ward,  Sir 
Ghresham  was  chosen  out  of  three  candidates  to  fill  the  office.  In 
this  new  position  he  speedily  distinguished  himself  as  an  active 
and  intelbgent  magistrate,  a  lealous  administrator  of  the  affiiirs  of 
the  City,  and  a  watchful  guardian  of  City  rights  and  interests.  No 
man,  except  perhaps  his  brother  alderman,  Mr.  Beckford,  had  more 
weight  with  the  common  council  than  he,  and  as  the  City  exercised 
considerable  political  influence  at  that  time,  his  power  was  felt  by 
the  government. 

Sir  Gresham's  elevation  to  the  mayoralty  was  accelerated  by  an 
important  political  event,  to  wliich  allusion  must  now  be  bnefly 
made.  During  the  late  reign,  and  especially  towards  its  close, 
Pitt's  vigorous  and  successful  conduct  of  the  wars  in  which  we 
were  then  engaged,  had  raised  the  national  pride  to  such  a  pitch, 
that  the  mere  idea  of  a  peace — unless  our  foes  should  be  thoroughly 
humbled — was  distasteful  to  the  country.  Pitt  was  the  people  8 
minister,  and  the  idol  of  the  City.  But  on  the  accession  of 
George  III.  it  soon  became  apparent  that  a  new  influence  was  at 
work.  Before  mounting  the  throne  this  young  prince  had  been 
entirely  guided  by  his  mother,  the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales, 
a  woman  of  ambitious  character  and  passionate  temperament,  who. 
in  her  turn,  was  governed  by  her  confidential  aaviser  the  Earl 
of  Bute.  It  was  foreseen  that,  by  the  double  influence  possessed 
by  this  parvenu  Scotch  peer  over  the  mother  and  the  son,  he  must 

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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  5 

needs  play  an  Important  part  in  the  direction  of  state  afl&irs,  and 
events  speedily  justified  the  correctness  of  these  suppositions. 
Bute^s  aim  ?ras  to  be  supreme  in  the  cabinet,  but  speedily  dis- 
coyering  that  Pitt  was  an  unsurmountable  obstacle  to  his  designs, 
and  that  so  long  as  he  continued  in  the  ministry,  uncontroUed 
sway  would  be  impossible,  he  determined  to  remove  him.  With 
the  exception  of  Lord  Temijle,  Pitt's  brother-in-law,  all  the  other 
members  of  the  administration,  including  its  ostensible  head,  the 
old  Duke  of  Newcastle,  showed  themselves  sufficiently  complaisant, 
so  that  the  "Favourite's'*  task  did  not  appear  particularly  difficult. 
With  the  view  of  supplanting  his  rival,  he  contrived  to  inspire 
the  young  king  with  an  inclination  for  peace,  persuading  him  it 
would  be  most  beneficial  to  the  country,  and  well  Knowing  that  any 
such  proposition  made  to  Pitt  in  the  present  posture  of  affiiirs 
would  encounter  his  violent  opposition,  and  if  persisted  in,  and 
carried  in  his  despite,  would  infallibly  cause  his  resignation. 

The  scheme  proved  successful.  But  the  indignation  of  the  whole 
country  was  roused  a^gainst  the  intriguing  "  favourite"  by  whose 
arts  it  had  been  deprived  of  a  minister  to  whom  it  owed  its  great- 
ness. Loud  was  the  clamour  against  Bute  throughout  the  land,  and 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle  and  his  colleagues  came  m  for  a  share  of  the 
popular  obloquy.  Even  the  young  king  himself  was  severely 
censured. 

Of  alL  Pitt's  partisans  in  the  City,  and  their  name  was  legion, 
the  most  zealous  and  devoted  were  Sir  Gresham  Lorimer  and  Mr* 
Beckford,  both  of  whom  enjoyed  a  certain  degree  of  his  con- 
fidence, and  when  the  patnotic  minister  resigned  the  seals  as 
secretary,  because  his  bold  and  judicious  counsels  of  a  prompt 
declaration  of  war  against  Spain,  and  the  seizure  of  the  Plate  fleet 
before  it  could  get  into  port,  would  not — owing  to  the  wily 
machinations  of  Bute — be  listened  to  by  the  cabinet,  a  meeting 
of  the  common  council  was  summoned  by  Sir  Gresham,  and 
an  address  proposed  to  the  retiring  minister,  another  to  the  king 
praying  Pitt's  recal.  Such  a  representation  of  the  sentiments  of 
the  City  could  not  be  disregarded  by  his  majesty.  The  indignant 
secretary,  however,  refused  to  return  to  office.  But  while  declining 
his  royal  master^s  solicitations,  he  accepted  the  pension  graciously 
ofilered  him — an  act  that  temporarily  lowered  him  in  the  estimation 
of  his  City  friends.  A  letter,  however,  subsequently  addressed  to 
them  in  justification  of  his  conduct,  completely  restored  him  to 
theirgood  opinion. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Sir  Gresham,  after  reading  this  letter  to 
the  members  of  the  City  senate.  "  1  hope  you  are  satisfied  with 
our  great  statesman's  explanation.  I  never  doubted  him  for  a 
moment,  knowing  him  to  oe  incorruptible,  and  solely  influenced  by 
the  noblest  and  most  patriotic  motives.  As  to  the  pension,  he 
deserves  all  that  a  grateful  country  can  bestow  upon  him — infinitely 
more  than  he  has  yet  obtained.  His  foresight  and  prudence  will 
soon  be  made  manifest.    Government  will  be  forced  to  follow  out 

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6  THE  LORD  MAYOB  OF  LOKDOH. 

his  plans.  But  they  can't  get  on  without  him*  We  must  have 
him  back  again — in  spite  of  my  Lord  Bute— and  at  the  head  of 
the  administration.  The  sooner  the  ^  Favourite '  is  4ismissed  the 
better.    I  hope  he  naay  hear  what  we  think  of  him  in  the  City." 

The  ^^  Favourite"  did  hear  of  it,  and  contemptuously  remarked 
that  Sir  Gresham  Lorimer  was  a  meddlesome  blockhead,  who  had 
better  stick  to  his  shop,  instead  of  interfering  in  matters  that 
didn't  concern  him,  and  about  which  he  knew  nothing. 

These  few  disparaein^  words  served  Sir  Gresham  more  than 
the  highest  commendation  could  have  done.  From  that  mo- 
ment die  City  resolved  to  avenge  him  upon  the  ^^  Favourite." 
His  name  was  in  every  man's  mouth.  They  would  have  no 
other  Lord  Mayor.  L(^d  Bute  should  learn  what  they  thought 
of  him  and  his  sneers.  If  he  treated  the  City  with  scorn,  the 
Citv  would  pay  him  in  his  own  coin — and  with  interest.  He 
had  sneered  at  oir  Gresham  Lorimer,  and  called  him  ^^  a  meddle- 
some blockhead."  Very  well.  "The  meddlesome  blockhead" 
should  be  Lord  Mayor,  and  no  other.  The  City  was  unanimous 
on  this  point  So  Sir  Gresham  was  triumphantly  elected,  as  we 
have  alr^dy  descril;^,  and  the  laugh  was  then  on  his  side. 

As  Lord  Bute  must  needs  accompany  his  royal  master  on  his 
visit  to  the  City,  an  opportunity  would  be  afforded  the  citizens 
of  showing  the  estimation  in  which  they  held  him.  They 
would  likewise  be  able  to  manifest  their  opinion  of  Mr.  Pitt  and 
Lord  Temple,  who  were  also  to  be  the  Lord  Mayor's  guests  at 
(juildhall.  It  was  plain  that  the  day  would  be  one  of  triumph  to 
the  late  ministers^  and  of  humiliation  and  mortification  to  the 
"  Favourite." 

n. 

THE  LADY  HAYOBESS  AKD  HE!  FAMILY. 

Constant  to  the  City,  where  he  was  bom  and  bred,  where 
the  happiest  hours  of  his  life  were  spent  and  his  fortune  made, 
Sir  Gresham  Lorimer,  on  becoming  wealthy  and  important, 
would  not  desert  it,  but  proof  against  the  solicitations  of  Lady 
Lorimer  and  his  family,  who  would  willingly  have  moved  west^ 
ward,  continued  to  dwell  in  Cheapside,  in  the  house  where  his 
business  was  conducted,  and  where  his  worthy  and  highly-respected 
father-in-law,  Mr.  Tradescant,  had  so  long  resided. 

Situated  on  the  same  side  as  Bow  Church,  at  the  comer  of 
Queen-street,  the  house  was  old-fashioned,  having  been  built  soon 
after  the  great  Fire  of  London,  but  it  was  large  and  commodious, 
with  extensive  premises  at  the  rear,  and  answered  perfectly  well  the 
double  purpose  of  a  private  dwelling  and  a  place  of  business.  The 
lower  noor  was  devoted  to  the  shop  and  warehouse,  and  entirely 
separated  from  the  upper  part  of  the  house;  an  arrangement  idightly 
differing  from  that  observed  during  Mr.  Tradescant's  time,  when  the 

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THE  LOKD  HATOK  OF  LOJTDQlf .  7 

iq>prentice8  lodged  and  boarded  with  their  master.  The  habitation 
had  a  solid  and  rather  heavy  look,  being  totally  devoid  of  ornament^ 
unless  the  wide  balcony  on  the  first-floor  coold  be  termed  oma- 
mentaL  The  private  entrance  was  firom  Queen-street,  and  the 
foitch  over  the  ooorway  was  handsome,  its  far-projecting  roof  bdi^ 
supported  by  carved  pillars,  and  embellished  with  a  scutcheon 
di^laying  the  arms  of  the  Tradescants.  Within,  a  wide  staircase 
conducted  to  a  gallery  opening  upon  several  spacious  apartments; 
in  one  of  the  largest  of  which,  £Eu;ing  CheMside,  the  ^mily  of  the 
Lord  Mayor,  with  his  chaplain  and  some  other  guests,  presently  to 
be  described,  were  assembled  at  breakfitft  about  ten  o'clock  on 
the  morning  in  question.  His  lordship  himself  had  not  made  his 
impearance,  being  engaged  with  two  of  the  aldermen  and  the 
sneriffi  in  another  room,  but  was  momentarily  expected. 

As  it  may  perhi4)s  surprise  those  unacquainted  with  civic 
usages  to  learn  that  the  Lord  Mayor  had  not  yet  quitted  his 
private  residence,  it  maj  be  mentioned  that  time  is  always  cour- 
teously allowed  the  retiring  City  magnate  to  remove,  without 
haste  or  inconvenience,  from  the  scene  of  his  late  grandeur.  Sir 
Matthew  Blakiston  was  therefore  permitted  to  occupy  the  Man- 
sion Hot^e  for  a  few  days  longer. 

At  this  juncture,  our  Lord  Mayor's  residence  presented  a  much 
more  imposiDg  aspect  than  it  ordinarily  wore.  The  shop,  of 
course,  was  closed.  The  balcony  was  overhung  by  a  rich  canopy, 
fiom  which  curtains  of  crimson  damask  were  suspended,  while  m 
front  were  displayed  two  banners,  on  one  of  which  the  City  arms 
were  gorgeously  emblazoned,  and  on  the  other  the  arms  with  which 
the  heralds  had  furnished  Sir  Gresham.  The  upper  windows  were 
likewise  decorated  and  hung  with  flags.  The  street  was  kept  clear 
in  front  of  the  house,  and  for  a  considerable  space  on  either  side,  by 
mounted  troopers,  and  by  a  posse  of  peace-officers  and  staves-men. 
Queen-street  was  also  kept  clear  as  far  as  Watling-street  for  the 
Lord  Mayor's  state-coach,  and  for  the  sheriff's  carriages.  The  whole 
of  King-street,  and  the  large  area  in  front  of  Guildhall,  were 
occupied  hj  a  throng  of  equipages  of  various  kinds,  and  by  a  vast 
number  of  persons,  some  on  foot  and  some  on  horseback,  and 
many  in  extraordinary  habits,  connected  with  the  procession, 
which  was  to  start  from  this  point.  Here  were  drawn  up  the 
standard-bearers  of  the  City  companies,  the  bargemen  in  their 
liveries,  the  watermen  carrying  various  colours,  the  beadles,  the 
mounted  trumpeters,  the  mounted  guard,  the  ancient  herald, 
esquires,  armourers,  ancient  knights,  armed  cap  k  pie,  yeomen  of 
the  guard,  with  a  crowd  of  grotesque  and  fantastic  personages 
belonging  to  the  pageants.  Besides  these,  and  many  others  too 
numerous  to  particularise,  there  were  three  or  four  military 
bands,  one  of  which,  stationed  in  Cheapside  nearly  opposite  the 
Lord  Mayor's  residence,  enlivened  the  multitude  collected  there- 
aboats  by  the  airs  they  played.    Tall  footmen  in  state  liveries 

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8  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LOimON. 

wearing  large  three-cornered  hats,  laced  and  feathered,  and  carry- 
ing  lonff  ^old-headed  canes,  congregated  at  Sir  Gre^m's  door, 
which,  being  thrown  wide  open,  admitted  a  view  of  other  laoaueys 
and  porters  lining  the  passage,  or  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase,  all  quite  as  grandly  arrayed  as  their  fellows  outside,  and 
quite  as  proua  in  Iook  and  deportment. 

But  let  us  now  repair  to  the  room  where  the  breakfast  party 
were  assembled,  and  bestow  a  glance  at  its  occupants. 

The  Lady  Mayoress,  it  has  been  intimated,  was  a  few  years 
younger  than  her  husband,  and  being  still  in  remarkably  good  pre- 
servation, might  be  termed  a  fine  woman.  Her  person  was 
rather  on  a  large  scale,  it  is  true,  her  features  fat  and  rounded, 
and  her  once  dimpling  chin  doubled,  but  her  teeth  and  eyes  were 
good,  and  she  had  an  agreeable  smile,  and  a  generally  pleasing  ex- 

Eression  of  countenance.  Her  size,  however,  was  vastljr  exaggerated 
y  the  outrageous  dimensions  of  the  hoops  sustaining  her  pink 
satin  gown,  which  was  decorated  to  profusion  with  large  bows  of 
ribbon,  cords,  tassels,  and  wreaths  of  flowers,  and  festooned  with 
great  bands  of  parti-coloured  silks;  while  her  stature  was  in^ 
creased  in  the  same  ratio  by  a  surprisingly  lofty  head-dress,  which 
rose  full  three  feet  above  her  brows,  and  might  have  over-balanced  a 
less  substantially-built  frame.  This  monstrous  '^  head,"  the  interior 
of  which  (if  we  may  venture  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  the  toilette), 
was  formed  of  tow,  rose  up  smooth  and  straight  as  a  wall  in  front, 
being  stiflened  with  powder  and  pomatum,  while  the  sides  and  back 
were  covered  with  ranges  of  enormous  curls,  likewise  plentifully 
besprinkled  with  powder.  Some  of  these  curls  descendea  upon  her 
ladyship's  ample  shoulders.  But  we  have  not  yet  done.  The  towering 
head-dress  in  question,  which  reminds  one  of  Queen  Hunoamunca'^ 
was  hung  over  with  ropes  of  pearls,  and  other  jewels,  decorated 
with  ribbons  in  bobs  ana  ties,  and  surmounted  by  a  plume  of  ostrich 
feathers.  There  seems  little  danger  of  such  a  moae  as  this  being 
revived,  but  it  may  be  well  to  remark,  by  way  of  caution,  that, 
independently  of  the  time  occupied  in  its  construction,  the  shape, 
whicn  was  calculated  to  last  for  a  fortnight,  could  only  be  pre- 
served by  the  wearer  sleeping  in  a  chair  during  the  whole  of  the 
time. 

Such,  ladies,  was  a  Lady  Mayoress  in  the  times  of  your  great- 
grandmothers. 

Separated  from  her  mother  by  the  Lord  Mayor^s  phaplain, 
Dr.  Dipple, — a  fat<,  rubicund-visaged  divine,  attired  in  cassock 
and  band,  who  looked  as  if  he  did  not  despise  the  good  things 
of  this  world,  and  had  assisted  at  many  a  civic  feast, — was 
Lady  Lorimex^s  eldest  daughter.  Lady  Dawes,  a  lively,  dark-eyed, 
coc[uettish,  and  very  pretty  widow  of  some  three  or  four-and- 
thixty.  I^dy  Dawes's  rather  full  figure — for  her  ladyship  pro- 
mised in  due  time  to  attain  to  her  mother^s  goodly  proportions 
— was  arrayed  in  a  polonese  of  garnet-coloured  lustring,  made  very 
high  behind,  and  very  low  in  front    Open  from  the  waist,  and 


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THS  LORD  KATOR  OF  LONDON.  9 

looped  back  so  as  to  display  a  rich  diamond-quilfced  petticoat,  this 
very  becoming  dress  was  puffed  at  the  sides  with  ribbons,  and  ed^ed 
with  kce.  The  half  moon  toupee,  in  which  form  her  ladyship's 
raven  tresses — now  chapged  in  nue  by  powder — ^were  arranged, 
suited  her  to  a  marveL  Lady  Dawes's  features  were  by  no 
means  classical  in  outline.  There  was  nothing  severe,  or  chiselled, 
in  their  style.  But  without  being  regular,  they  were  prettv,  and 
their  expression  was  eminently  pleasing.  She  was  the  reuct  of 
Sir  John  Dawes,  a  rich  old  goldsmith  in  GracechurchnBtreet,  whom 
we  suspect  she  must  have  married  for  his  money,  for  he  had  no 
other  recommendation,  and  who  had  died  a  few  years  before, 
leaving  her  all  Ais  treasures.  With  her  personal  attractions  and 
her  wealth  it  will  not  be  supposed  that  Lad^  Dawes  lacked  suitors 
— ^in  fact,  she  had  a  great  many — ^but  she  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
assume  the  matrimonial  yoke  for  the  second  time. 

The  Lady  Mayoress's  second  daughter,  Mrs.  Chatteris,  who  was 
likewise  present  with  her  husband  Captain  Chatteris,  of  the  Ho- 
nourable City  Artillery^— Tom  Chatteris,  as  he  was  familiarly 
called — was  also  a  very  pretty  woman,  though  in  quite  a  different 
style  firom  Lady  Dawes,  being  a  blonde,  with  soft  blue  eyes,  a  de* 
licately  fair  complexion,  and  languishing  looks.  Lady  Lorimer  had 
been  heard  to  declare  that  she  did  not  know  which  of  her  two  mar« 
ried  daujzhters  was  the  handsomest — she  sometimes  gave  the  palm  to 
dearest  Olivia,  sometimes  to  dearest  Chloris.  But  she  never  com- 
pared her  youngest  daughter,  Millicent,  with  either  of  them.  Mrs, 
Chatteris,  however,  was  pretty  enough  to  make  any  mother  vain, 
and  any  husband  jealous,  though  Tom  Chatteris  neitner  doted  upon 
her  nor  was  jealous.  In  fact,  ne  rather  liked  to  see  her  admired, 
and  as  Mrs.  Uhatteris  had  no  objection  to  admiration,  this  did  very 
well.  Provided  he  was  allowed  to  flirt  as  much  as  he  pleased,  Tom 
never  thought  of  interfering  with  his  wife's  proceedings,  and  this 
mutual  good  understanding  being  arrived  at,  they  lived  together  on 
the  best  terms  possible.  Sir  Gresham  would  have  liked  to  see  a  little 
more  real  conjugal  regard  on  both  sides,  but  as  Lady  Lorimer 
assured  him  that  dearest  Chloris  was  perfectly  happy,  he  was  fain 
to  be  content,  simply  remarking  that  ^^this  was  not  the  way  married 
fbik  used  to  Uve  together  in  former  days." 

^^  Ah  I  but  habits  of  life  have  greatly  changed  since  our  time, 
Sir  Gresham,"  observed  Lady  Lorimer. 

^^  So  it  aeems,"  he  replied,  dryly ;  ^^  but  I  am  dull  enough  to  like 
old  manners  best.  I  could  never  have  borne  to  see  any  one  make 
downright  love  to  you,  as  I  perceive  some  of  those  scented  fops 
do  to  Chloris;  and  for  all  your  pretended  indifference,  I  don't  think 
you  would  have  liked  me  to  run  after  every  pretty  woman  I  met, 
as  seems  to  be  Uie  case  with  Tom  Chatteris." 

"I  don't  think  I  should,  my  d^r,"  Lady  Lorimer  rejoined, 
quickly  agitating  her  fan.  "But  imr  case  is  very  diff*erent.  Wr, 
you  know,  marned  from  love." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  people  do  marry  from  love  now-a-days, 

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10  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

eh?    At  all  events,  I  hope  Millj  won't  follow  her  sisters'  example 
in  that  respect" 

^  I  shall  be  rery  glad  if  Millj  marries  as  well  as  either  of  them, 
rejoined  Lady  Lorimer,  somewhat  sharply.     ^  Dearest  Olivia  was 
the  envy  of  all  our  City  belles  when  she  married  that  Croesus, 
old  Sir  John  Dawes ^" 

^  Well,  I  can't  say  that  was  a  bad  match,  regarded  in  a  pecuniary 
point  of  view,"  Sir  Gresham  interrupted;  ^^but  it  was  entirely 
your  making,  my  love." 

"  So  it  was,"  she  rejoined.  "  I  take  the  entire  credit  of  it.  And 
dearest  Olivia  is  greatly  obliged  to  me,  if  you  are  not.  Sir  Gresham. 
What  could  she  desire  better?"  ft 

**  Why,  Sir  John  Dawes  was  twelve  years  older  than  myself, 
cried  Sir  Gresham,     ^  I  remember  him  when  I  was  a  boy  and 
dwelling  in  Bucklersbury." 

^^  Don't  refer  to  that  period,  I  beg  of  you.  Sir  Gresham.  Sir  John's 
years  were  a  recommendation  rather  than  otherwise,  since  they 
gave  his  wife  the  assurance  of  becoming  the  more  speedily  a 
widow.  And  he  was  obliging  enough  to  gratify  her,  and  to  leave 
her  ten  thousand  a  year  in  testimony  of  his  affection.  If  that  can't 
be  termed  marrying  well,  I  don't  know  what  can." 

"Well,  well,  my  dear,  I  won't  contradict  you.  Ten  thousand 
a  year  is  a  jointure  not  to  be  despised,  and  OUvia  may  please  her- 
self, if  she  marries  again,  that's  quite  certam.  But  you  can't  say 
there  were  any  such  worldly  advantages  as  those  in  Chloris's 
case,  and  you  were  as  eager  to  bring  about  that  match  as  the 
other.  You  know  I  objected  to  Captain  Chatteris,  and  thought 
him  too  gay,  too  fond  of  pleasure — not  quite  steady  enough,  in 
short — ^but  I  suffered  myselt  to  be  overruled  by  yon." 

"  And  very  properly  so,  too.  Sir  Grresham.  Where  a  daughter's 
happiness  is  concerned,  no  one  is  so  ^ood  a  judge  of  the  means 
of  ensiiring  it  as  a  mother.  Captain  Chatteris  and  dearest  Chloris 
seemed  made  for  each  other,  lou  remember  I  said  so  when  he 
danced  with  her  at  the  ball  at  Goldsmiths'  Hall,  where  they  first 
met." 

"  I  remember  he  was  very  assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  you,  my 
dear,  and  paid  you  nearly  as  much  court  as  he  paid  Chloris." 

"  Mere  iancy  on  your  part,  Sir  Gresham.  Captain  Chatteris  is 
the  best-bred  person  I  know.  He  has  been  brought  up  in  a  good 
school,  which  teaches  that  assiduous  attention  to  our  sex  is  the 
primary  duty  of  man." 

"  The  lessons  he  learnt  at  that  school  have  not  been  thrown  away 
u^  him,  it  must  be  owned,"  laughed  Sir  Gresham.  "  He  rarely 
fiuls  to  profit  by  them." 

"  And  much  to  his  credit,  if  he  does,"  Lady  Ghresham  rejoined. 
"  To  my  mind,  people  can  never  be  too  polite.  You  would  be  none 
the  worse  yourself  Sir  Gresham,  if  you  imitated  Obtain  Chatteris 
in  that  respect  a  little.  However,  let  that  pass.  Tom's  agreeable 
manners  and  good  looks  won  dearest  Chlons's  heart,  as  you  know, 

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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  MHDON.  11 

and  I  could  not  refuse  my  consent  to  the  umon,  though  he  wam't 
quite  8o  well  off  as  might  have  been  deaired." 

''Well  off!"  exclaimed  Sir  Greaham.  ''Zounds!  he  had  less 
than  nothing.     He  was  over  head  and  ears  in  debt." 

"But  he  confessed  his  positioii  so  charminglj,  and  promised 
amendment  so  earnestly,  that  one  could  not  &il  to  be  {leased  with 
him,  and  take  him  at  his  word.  And  you  behaved  nobly,  as  you 
always  do,  Sir  Gresham.  Tou  not  only  paid  his  debts,  but  agreed 
to  make  th^m  a  handsome  allowance  on  tneir  marriage.'' 

"  Which  they  have  always  exoeededt"  observed  Sir  Gresham. 
"I  hope  Tom  isn't  in  debt  again.  I  shan't  help  him  out  of  his 
difficulties  a  second  time,  I  can  promise  him." 

"  If  he  owes  anything  'tis  a  mere  trifle.  A  few  hundreds,  which 
you  will  never  miss,  Sir  Ghresham,  will  set  all  right." 

"  Then  he  is  in  debt ! "  cried  her  husband,  angrily.  "  Fire  and 
fury !     I've  a  good  mind  to  turn  my  back  upon  him." 

"  No  ^ou  won't,  Sir  Grresham,"  she  rejoined,  in  the  coaxing 
tone  which  seldom  failed  in  effect.  "  Tou  are  fiir  too  kind,  too 
fi;enerou8  for  that  Set  him  clear  once  more,  and  I'll  imswer  for 
his  good  conduct  in  future." 

"  I  won't  promise  anything  till  I  know  precisely  how  much  he 
owes,  and  whom  he  owes  it  to/'  said  Sir  Grresham.  "  When  I  am 
satisfied  on  these  points  I  will  decide.  But  it  is  not  merdy  of 
Tom's  extravagance  that  I  complain,  but  of  the  bad  example  he 
sets  to  our  son,  Tradescant,  who,  I  fear,  is  disposed  to  tread  in  his 
steps.  Use  all  the  arguments  I  [Jease,  I  can't  get  the  young  scape- 
graoe  to  attend  to  business." 

'*  No  wonder.  Sir  Grresham.  Tradescant  knows  he  is  an  only 
son,  and  he  likewise  knows  you  are  very  rich." 

"Tom  Chatteris  takes  care  to  impress  that  upon  him  pretty 
fordbly.  What  is  more,  he  tries  to  niake  a  fine  gentlenotfui  ot  him, 
and  teaches  him  to  despise  his  father^s  business." 

"  Why  you  wouldn't  have  Tradescant  a  draper,  Sir  Gresham?" 
cried  Lady  Lorimer.  "  Surely,  you  intend  him  for  something 
better  than  that  I" 

"And  what  better  could  he  do  than  follow  the  business  which 
his  father  and  gnmdfather  have  conducted  before  him?  Zounds! 
I'll  have  none  of  these  fine  airs.  Tradescant  is  a  son  of  a  trades- 
man, and  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  of  his  ori^.  If  he  is,  I'm 
ashamed  of  kirn.  But  he  sluill  attend  to  busmess.  He  shall  be 
seen  in  the  shop.    He  shall  stand  behind  the  counter." 

"  He  will  die  first  What  I  our  son,  Tradescant,  measure  out 
a  few 'yards  of  cloth  for  a  customer!  Dreadful! — ^not  to  be 
endured!" 

"And  why  not?"  cried  Sir  Gresham.  "Tve  measured  many 
a  yard  of  cloth  in  my  day,  and  thought  it  no  disgrace.  But  times 
are  chai^^  now.     oons  begin  where  fathers  leave  off" 

"  And  very  natural  too,  Sir  Gresham.    Don't  lower  your  son,  I 


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14  THE  LORD  MATOR  OF  LONDOH. 

ihftt.  be  thoi^ht  her  poeidy^j  handsome-^far  handsomer,  indeed, 
than  either  of  bis  other  daughters.  But  this  no  doabt  was  a 
mistake,  and  entirely  attribotaole  to  hk  partiaHtj.  No  one  else 
diaooyered  these  beauties,  beeavse  poor,  retiring  Millioent,  who, 
kept  in  the  background — ^^  the  proper  pUice  for  her,"  Lady  Lorimer 
aaicU-was  eenecally  overlookea.  It  cannot  be  denied,  however, 
that  she  had  a  Tery  good  figure;  tall,  slight,  and  perfectly  formed. 
Her  rich  dark  tiesses  were  tak^i  back  nrom  her  smooth  brow  so 
as  to  form  a  very  pretty  toupee  of  moderate  size,  while  her  profuse 
back  locks,  which,  when  unfSsurtened,  fell  down  almost  to  her  feet, 
were  clubbed  behind,  and  secured  by  a  broad  pink  ribbon,  tied 
in  a  bow.  Her  gown  was  of  dove-coloured  silk,  long  waisted, 
kced  over  the  stomacher,  and  had  short  sleeves  to  the  elbow, 
adorned  with  large  ruffles.  There  was  no  other  ornament  about 
it.  Her  feet  w^re  quite  as  small  and  as  pretty  as  those  of  her 
sisters,  and  this  was  the  only  point  of  resemblance  between  them. 

Having  thus  completed  the  survey  of  the  female  members  of  our 
Lord  Mayor's  family,  we  will  next  glance  at  his  only  son, 
Tradescant  It  will  not  be  thought  surprising  that  Lady  Lorimer 
should  deem  it  d^rading  in  such  a  smart  young  gentleman  as  we 
are  about  to  present,  to  pay  any  personal  attention  to  his  father's 
business.  Tradescant  was  a  beau  of  the  first  wat^.  A  richly- 
laced,  maroon-coloured  vdvet  coat,  made  in  the  extremity  of 
the  mode,  with  large  cuffs,  and  without  collar,  and  a  long-skirted 
satin  waistcoat,  embroidered  and  laced  like  the  coat,  set  off  his 
really  fine  person;  while  cobweb  silk  stockings  of  a  ruby  colour, 
and  shoes  with  diamond  buckles  in  them,  were  equally  advantageous 
to  the  display  of  his  leg  and  foot,  of  both  of  which  tlite  young  fellow 
was  not  a  little  vain.  Ruffles  of  the  finest  Mechlin  lace,  a  deep  frill 
of  the  same  material,  and  a  muslin  cravat  completed  his  costume. 
A  dishevelled  peruke  of  flaxen  hair  assisted  the  rakish  look  and 
deportment  he  affected.  But  for  this  dissipated  expression,  and 
his  extreme  foppery  of  manner,  Tradescant  Lorimer  might  have 
been  termed  a  very  handsome,  elegant  fellow;  but  his  graces, 
such  as  they  were,  were  all  external,  for  though  not  devoid  of 
spirit,  he  was  shallow-pated  and  frivolous,  devoted  to  pleasure,  led 
by  his  equally  dissolute  brother-in-law.  Captain  Chatteris,  and 
preyed  upon  and  duped  by  his  other  profligate  associates.  With 
the  worst  side  of  his  son's  character  Sir  Gresham  was  entirely  un- 
acquainted. He  knew  him  to  be  idle  and  extravagant,  but  he 
did  not  know  the  sort  of  company  he  kept.  He  was  aware 
that  he  frequented  Ranelagh,  Vauxhall,  and  Marybone  Gardens, 
the  Opera  and  the  theatres,  and  he  saw  no  great  harm  in  this, 
bat  he  never  dreamed  that  he  haunted  taverns  and  gaming- 
houses, consorted  with  racing-men,  and  betted  at  the  cock-pit.  Had 
these  proceedings  come  to  his  father's  ears,  Tradescant  would  have 
felt  the  full  weight  of  the  old  gentleman's  displeasure. 

Conspicuous  among  the  party  at  the  breakfast-table  was  the 

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THE  LOW)  IIATOR  OP  LONDOK.  15 

Sy  and  good-looking  Captain  ChatteriB,  whose  example  and  precepts 
d  produced  such  pernicious  effects  upon  his  brotner-in-law.  A 
person  of  singularly  fascinating  manners,  rery  lax  in  morals,  very 
showy  in  appearance,  possessed  of  high  animal  spirits,  always 
engaged  in  pleasurable  pursuits,  Tom  Chatteris  was  one  of  the 
most  dangerous  companions  that  any  young  man,  constituted  like 
Tradescant,  could  have  found,  and  no  wonder  he  was  led  astray. 
On  the  present  occasion  Tom's  yenr  handsome  figure  was  invested 
in  the  uniform  of  the  Honourable  City  Artillery,  to  which  he 
belonged,  and  remarkably  well  it  became  him. 

In  addition  to  the  Lord  Mayor^s  Chaplain,  Doctor  Dipple, 
already  casually  mentioned,  the  breakfast  party  comprised  some 
five  or  six  gentiemen,  all  of  whom  were  very  elegantly  attired— 
much  in  the  same  style  as  Tradescant  himself,  whose  intimates 
they  were.  All  these  gay-looking  personages  were  distingubhed 
by  easy  and  agreeable  manners,  and  had  quite  the  air  of  men 
about  town*  Noticeable  among  them — though  not  for  good  looks, 
for  he  was  one  of  the  ugliest  persons  imaginable,  and  squinted 
abominably — was  a  tall  thm  man  of  some  three  or  four-and-thirty. 
He  was  rather  more  soberly  attired  than  his  companions,  and  had 
less  of  the  air  of  a  petit-maitre.  Though  his  looks  were  almost 
forbidding,  there  was  so  much  wit  and  drollery  in  his  conversa* 
tioD,  and  so  much  mobility  and  expression  in  his  features,  that 
his  ugliness  was  speedily  forgotten.  His  obliquity  of  vision  gave 
effect  to  his  jests.  This  was  no  other  than  the  well-known  John 
Wilkes,  member  for  Aylesbury,  who  afterwards  became  suffi- 
dentiy  notorious.  An  ardent  admirer  of  the  sex,  Wilkes  plumed 
himself  upon  his  successes,  and  notwithstanding  the  personal  dis- 
advantages under  which  he  laboured  with  them,  there  mi^ht 
possibly  be  some  foundation  for  the  boast.  On  the  present  occasion 
he  was  devoted  to  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Chatteris,  next  to  whom  he  sat. 

On  the  fair  lady's  left,  and  seemingly  bent  upon  disputing 
Wilkes's  pretensions  to  her  favour,  was  the  other  member  for 
Aylesbury,  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  son  to  an  archbishop,  and  if  good 
looks  went  for  anything  in  such  a  contest,  Tom  Potter  was  sure  of 
victory.  Mrs.  Chatteris's  sweetest  smiles,  however,  seemed  to  be 
reserved  for  the  ugly  wit 

Lady  Dawes  engrossed  the  attentions  of  the  Earl  of  Sand- 
wich, upon  whom  her  charms  had  produced  a  decided  impres- 
sion; while  her  fickle  ladyship,  intoxicated  by  her  new  con- 
quest, scarcely  deigned  to  notice  her  old  admirer,  Sir  Thomas 
Stapleton. 

Only  two  other  persond  require,  to  be  mentioned.  These 
were  Sir  William  Stanhope  and  Sir  Francis  Dash  wood;  the 
former  of  whom  chatted  gaily  with  the  Lady  Mayoress,  while 
the  latter  vainly  endeavoured  to  amuse  Millicent  by  his  prattle. 
All  his  anecdotes  and  court  scandal  failed  to  extract  a  smile  from 
her.     She  felt  herself  quite  out  of  place  in  the  present  company. 

VOL.  u.  0 

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16  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OP  LONDON. 

None  of  the  individual  we  have  mentioned  must  be  regarded  as 
the  Loard  Mayor's  fnaids;  they  had  come  thither  on  his  son's 
invitation.  To  most  of  them,  Tradescanf  s  promise  that  his  sisteis 
Lady  Dawes  and  Mrs.  Chatteris — the  repute  of  whose  beauty 
had  reached  them — would  be  present,  had  proved  a  stronger  lure 
than  the  show,  which  he  held  out  as  the  main  attraction,  and  the^ 
readily  agreed  to  come  and  breakfast  with  him  in  Gheapside  at  this 
early  hour.  Both  Lord  Sandwich  and  Mr.  Wilkes  took  care  to 
let  the  ladies  know  what  inducements  had  brought  them  there. 

These  gentlemen  formed  the  dissolute  and  dangerous  set  to 
whom  TnSescant  had  been  latterly  introduced  by  his  brother-in- 
law,  and  as  they  were  all  persons  of  undoubted  fashion,  the  young 
fellow  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  fine  acquaintanoes,  not  perceiving 
that  they  made  him  pay  for  the  honour  of  their  society.  At 
Captain  Chatteris's  instance  he  had  lately  been  made  a  member  of 
the  Dilettanti  Club,  held  in  Palaoe-yard,  and  participated  in  its 
nightly  carousals  and  orgies.  Better  acquainted  than  her  husband 
with  Tradescant's  mode  of  life.  Lady  Lorimer  was  not  without 
anxiety  about  him,  but  partly  deluded  by  the  representations  of 
Captain  Chatteris,  and  bhnded  by  partiality,  she  persuaded  herself 
his  follies  were  the  mere  eflervescence  of  youth,  and  would  soon 
pass  ofL  Then  Tradescant's  fine  acquaintances  were  exactly  the 
sort  of  people  to  impose  upon  her.  Were  not  some  of  them 
persons  of  rank  and  title,  and  all  men  of  high  breeding,  wit,  and 
fashion?    Impossible  he  could  go  far  wrong  in  such  a  set. 

When  the  brilliant  Lord  Sandwich  was  presented  to  her 
on  the  morning  in  question,  together  with  the  captivating  Sir 
Francis  Dashwood,  the  handsome  Tom  Potter,  and  that  drollest 
of  mortals,  Mr.  Wilkes,  her  ladyship  was  quite  enraptured,  and 
thought  her  son  might  well  be  proud  of  such  friends.  Her  two 
elder  daughters  were  equally  enclianted.  Lady  Dawes  thought 
Lord  Sandwich  charming,  and  Mrs.  Chatteris,  though  she  could 
not  conceal  from  herself  that  Mr.  Wilkes  was  ^  a  pmect  fright,** 
found  him  immensely  entertaining,  and  far  more  agreeable  than 
some  handsome  men — meaning  his  colleague,  Tom  Potter.  The 
only  person,  as  we  have  intimated,  who  was  not  delighted  with 
Tradescant's  fine  friends  was  Millicent;  but  this  was  not  surprising, 
it  being  quite  understood  that  she  had  neither  taste  nor  discri- 
mination. *'  Strange,  I  can't  get  a  smile  from  her,  or  elicit  a 
remark,"  thought  Dashwood,  astonished  at  his  failure.  ^  The  girl 
must  be  an  idiot.  Yet  she  looks  intelligent,  and  has  decidedly 
fine  eyes.     What  the  deuce  can  be  the  matter  with  her?" 

However,  the  rest  of  the  party  got  on  remarkably  well. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  lively  conversation  and  merriment,  and 
they  were  all  laughing  heartily  at  one  of  Mr.  Wilkes's  funny 
stories,  when  the  door  was  thrown  open  by  the  gorgeous  footmen 
stationed  outside  it,  and  the  Lord  Mayor,  m  his  scanet  and  richly- 
furred  robes,  and  wearing  his  chains^  and  the  collar  of  SS  with  a 
pendant  jewel,  entered  the  room. 

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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  17 


m. 

UrTBOmUCING  T1U5  LOED  MATOB,  ALDEKMAN  BECKPOED,  AUD  ALDEBMAN  SIB 
FELH  BLA3n>.— ASD  SHOWIKG  HOW  HIS  L0BD6HIP  BECEIVED  A  VISIT  PBOTT 
A  SEPHEW  AHD  lOlCE,  01  WHOM  HE  HAD  NZVEB  HEABD  BEFOBX. 

The  Lord  Mayor  looked  extremely  well.  Tall,  well  propor- 
doned,''aiid  stout,  his  bulkiness  of  person  rather  heightened  his 
dignltj  of  deportment  than  detractea  from  it.  E^s  pink  cheeks, 
smooth-shayen  and  glossy,  bespoke  him  no  enemy  to  good  cheer; 
but  his  eyes  were  bnght,  and  his  looks  indicative  of  jgood  health, 
and  its  best  and  surest  promoters  cheerfulness  and  £ndliness  of 
heart.  Though  his  face  was  round  and  full,  its  lineaments  were 
reguhr,  and  of  the  genuine  English  stamp.  His  goodly  person 
was  arrayed  in  a  full  court  suit,  over  whicn  he  wore  his  rotes  and 
chain,  as  already  mentioned.  A  well-powdered  tie-wig  completed 
his  costume. 

The  Lord  Mayor  was  accompanied  hj  two  aldermen  in  their 
robes,  and  by  the  sheriffi,  Mr.  Nathaniel  Nash  and  Mr.  John 
Cartwright,  likewise  in  their  gowns  and  chains.  Of  the  aldermen, 
the  most  worthy  of  note  was  a  tall,  stately-looking  personage, 
whose  features,  rather  quick  and  passionate  in  expression,  and 
embrowned  in  hue  as  if  by  warmer  suns  than  our  own,  were 
marked  by  a  large  aquiline  nose  and  keen  penetrating  eyes.  This 
was  Mr.  William  Beckford,  previously  described  as  one  of  Mr. 
Ktt?s  most  zealous  adherents.  A  wealthy  West  India  merchant,  one 
of  the  represenfetives  of  the  City  in  parliament,  and  alderman  for 
the  Ward  of  Billingsgate,  Mr.  Beckford  had  earned  the  goodwill 
of  his  fellow-citizens  by  unremitting  attention  to  their  interests  both 
in  the  House  and  out  of  it,  as  well  as  by  his  praiseworthy  endeavours 
to  check  the  abuse  of  malt  distillery,  and  the  pernicious  effects  of 
rin-drinking.  Somewhat  hot  in  temper,  no  doubt  owing  to  his 
West  Indian  origin,  and  apt  t^  be  overbearing  in  manner,  Alder- 
man Beckford  could  not  fail  to  make  some  enemies,  but  those  who 
knew  him  intimately,  and  could  estimate  his  sterling  qualities  and 
generodty  of  character,  admired  and  esteemed  him.  Amongst 
these  was  Sir  Gbresham  Lorimer. 

Yerj  different  from  Mr.  Beckford  was  Sir  Felix  Bland,  alder- 
man for  Bas&ishaw  Ward,  who  entered  the  room  at  the  same  time, 
but  at  once  darted  forward  to  pay  his  devoirs  to  the  Lady  Mayoress 
and  her  daughters.  A  stout,  sleek  little  man,  with  the  softest  and 
sweetest  expression  of  countenance  and  the  smoothest  manner.  Sir 
Felix  was  profuse  in  compliments,  and  unsparing  in  professions  of 
regard.  Everybody  with  whom  he  claimed  acquaintance — and  he 
knew  half  the  City — was  his  dearest  and  most  valued  friend.  He 
was  delighted  to  meet  him,  inquired  about  his  wife  and  daughters 
— ^if  he  had  any — and  his  family  concerns — of  which  he  jcnew 
but  little,  and  cared  less — with  an  interest  that  was  really  touch- 
ing.   There  was  something  perhaps  rather  cloying  in  this  un- 

02 


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18  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

yaryiiig  sweetness  of  manner,  and  the  overdose  of  compliments  as 
usually  administered  by  Sir  Felix  seemed  to  savour  of  insincerity^ 
but  people  will  stand  a  good  deal  when  their  self-love  is  flattered, 
and  there  was  no  resisting  the  smooth-spoken  alderman's  blandish- 
ments and  the  gentle  pressure  of  his  hand.  Besides,  he  had  a  great 
many  good  qualities,  a^d,  apart  from  his  adulatory  manner,  which 
brought  considerable  ridicule  upon  him,  was  a  very  amiable,  esti 
mable  person. 

On  the  entrance  of  the  Lord  Mayor,  all  the  party  arose  from 
the  breakfast^table,  though  his  lordship  besought  them  to  keep 
their  seats,  and  Tradescant  proceeded  to  present  his  new  acquaint* 
ances  to  his  father.  While  this  was  going  on,  and  Sir  Gresham 
was  affably  acknowledging  the  ceremonious  bows  made  to  him  on 
all  sides.  Sir  Felix  Bland,  as  we  have  stated,  had  flown  to  the 
ladies,  and  began  by  showering  compliments  upon  the  Lady 
Mayoress. 

"  Your  ladyship  looks  charmingly  to-day,'*  he  said,  in  accents 
of  the  most  fervent  delight,  and  lifting  his  eyes  towards  her 
towering  head-dress,  as  if  quite  dazzled  by  its  beauty;  **  I 
declare  1  never  beheld  anything  more  majestic  and  imposing. 
Your  perruquier — Le  Gros,  I  presume — has  done  you  justice* 
'Tis  a  superb  creation,  and  proves  him  to  be  a  man  of  real  genius 
in  his  line.  But  no  wonder  he  felt  inspired  when  he  had  such  a 
head  to  deal  with.  Your  ladyship  knows  I  scorn  flattery,  but  I 
cannot  repress  genuine  admiration — as  why  should  I?  By-and-by, 
you  will  nnd  my  opinion  of  that  ravishing  head-dr«s  confirmed  by 
the  universal  rapture  the  sight  of  it  will  occasion.  And  what  a  day 
for  its  display !  Could  anything  be  more  propitious?  No  fog — no 
rain — not  even  a  cloud — but  a  sunshine  worthy  of  June.  Sure 
never  was  Lord  Mayor  so  highly  favoured  as  our  dear  Sir  Gresham ! 
But  I  felt  it  would  be  so.  His  lordship  is  lucky  in  everything,  but 
in  nothing  more  lucky  than  in  the  possession  of  the  most  adorable 
wife  in  the  world." 

**  Really,  Sir  Felix,  you  quite  overwhelm  me,"  cried  the  Lad^ 
Mayoress,  affecting  confusion.  "  Were  I  youncer,  your  compli- 
ments might  turn  my  head.  As  it  is,  they  make  me  feel  quite 
vain,  though  I  know  'tis  mere  flattery." 

"  Your  ladyship  does  me  a  great  injustice  in  taxing  me  with 
flattery.  I  value  myself  on  my  sincerity  and  candour.  Thus,  if 
your  ladyship  had  not  been  dressed  so  divinely,  and  looked  so  be- 
witchingly,  but  had  been  as  unbecomingly  attired  and  as  uncouth 
in  manner  as  some  City  dames  I  have  seen — I  won't  mention 
names— I  should  scarcely  have  hesitated  to  say  so.  But  now  I 
can  assert,  and  without  fear  of  contradiction,  that  we  have  a  Lady- 
Mayoress  who  for  grace,  dignity,  and  beauty — ay,  beauty — has 
never  yet  had  her  peer." 

"You  are  prodigiously  polite,  I  vow.  Sir  Felix,"  replied  the 
Lady  Mayoress,  upon  whom  these  pretty  things  were  not  lost; 

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THE  LORD  MAYOB  OF  LONDON.  19 

^^  and  I  am  charmed  to  have  won  tlie  approbation  of  a  person  of  so 
much  taste  and  discrimination.  Your  encouragement  will  help 
me  to  get  through  the  day.  To  sit  in  a  state  chariot  and  be 
gazed  at  by  thousands,  is  nothing;  but  to  receive  his  majesty  and 
the  new  queen,  with  the  princess-dowager  and  their  royal  high- 
nesses the  Duke  of  Cumberland  and  the  Duke  of  York,  and  the 
young  princes,  my  Lord  Bute  and  the  ministers,  I  feel  ready  to 
expire  when  I  think  of  it." 

^^  Your  ladyship  need  have  no  misgivings.  The  king  is  afia- 
bility  itself,  and  her  majesty  is  equally  condescending.  As  to 
personal  attractions  and  dignity/'  he  added,  in  an  under  tone, 
but  with  significance,  "I  won't  say — though  I  have  an  opinion — 
whether  the  advantage  is  likely  to  rest  with  the  highest  lady  of 
the  court  or  the  highest  lady  in  the  City.  One  thing  is  <juite  cer* 
tain,"  he  continued,  raising  his  voice,  ^^  if  their  royal  highnesses 
the  Duke  of  York  and  the  young  princes  have  the  taste  and  dis- 
cernment we  give  them  credit  for,  they  can't  fail  to  go  away  with 
a  very  exalted  notion  of  the  loveliness  of  some  of  our  City  dames." 
And  he  bowed  as  he  spoke  to  Lady  Dawes  and  Mrs.  Chatteris. 

"  There  I  entirely  agree  with  you.  Sir  Felix,"  observed  Lord 
Sandwich.  '^  Beauty  seems  to  have  established  itself  in  the  east, 
and  it  is  there  we  must  seek  it,  if  we  would  behold  it  in  perfec- 
tion." 

"Very  true,"  rejoined  Sir  Felix;  "and  your  lordship  must  be 
well  repaid  for  your  voyage  of  discovery." 

"  Sir  Felix,  you  are  intolerable.  You  will  incur  my  severe  dis- 
pleasure if  you  go  on  thus,"  cried  Lady  Dawes. 

^  Nay,  my  dear  lady,  you  must  be  angry  with  my  Lord  Sand- 
wich, and  not  with  me.  My  remark  was  general,  but  he  gave  it 
a  special  application,  though  I  own  I  think  him  quite  right." 

"  What  is  that  you  are  saying.  Sir  Felix?  "  inquired  Tom  Potter, 
stepping  towards  them. 

"  He  is  matching  the  City  belles  against  our  Court  belles,"  said 
Lord  Sandwich. 

^  Then  I'll  support  him,"  rejoined  Tom  Potter ;  "  and  we  needn't 
go  beyond  this  room  to  decide  the  point.  If  the  Court  can  show 
any  two  equal  to  those  we  can  here  exhibit,  I  will  yield — ^but  not 
till  then.  I  will  back  Lady  Dawes  and  Mrs.  Chatteris  against  all 
her  majesty's  ladies  and  maids  of  honour  for  any  amount  that  may 
be  staked." 

"Bravo!  Mr.  Potter— bravo  I "  exclaimed  Sir  Felix.  <*But 
let  us  wait  till  to-night  before  making  the  bet" 

While  this  talk  was  proceeding,  the  rest  of  the  company  were 
presented  to  the  Lord  Mayor,  ana  by  his  lordship  to  Mr.  Beckford 
and  the  sheriffi. 

"  I  am  very  much  honoured  as  well  as  gratified  by  your  presence 
on  this  occaaon,  gentlemen,"  said  Sir  Gresham,  in  a  very  urbane 
manner,  ^^  and  I  trust  my  son  will  take  good  care  of  you  all.    Mr, 

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20  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

Wilkes/'  he  added  to  that  personage,  "  I  am  particularly  glad  to 
make  your  acquaintance.  1  shall  hope  to  see  you  often  at  the 
Mansion  House,  not  as  a  guest  merely,  but  as  a  mend." 

"  Your  lordship  does  me  infinite  honour,"  replied  Wilkes,  bowing.  . 
"  I  shall  not  fail  to  profit  by  your  very  obliging  invitation." 

"  You  will  always  be  welcome,"  pursued  the  Lord  Mayor,  "  as 
will  be  all  my  son's  friends.  You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure,  gentle- 
men, if  I  am  unable  to  show  you  much  personal  attention  now,  but 
I  am  merely  come  to  bid  adieu  to  her  ladyship  before  taking  my 
place  in  the  procession,  which  sets  out  at  eleven  o'clock  from 
GuildhaU." 

"  I  quite  envy  your  lordship,"  said  Wilkes.  ^*  'Twill  be  a  most 
triumphant  day  for  you,  and  you  will  receive  a  general  ovation 
from  your  fellow-citizens,  who  recognise  in  you  the  champion  and 
def^der  of  their  rights.  The  gallant,  gay  Lothario — I  beg  his 
pardon;  my  Lord  Bute  I  should  have  said — ^must  be  a  bold  man 
to  face  them  on  an  occasion  like  the  present." 

"At  all  events,  they  won't  welcome  him  as  they  will  the 
minister  he  has  supplanted,  and  whose  laurels  he  would  fain  reap," 
rejoined  the  Lord  Mayor.  "  The  contrast  will  be  striking,  and,  I 
hope,  will  convince  his  majesty  that  he  has  listened  unwisely  to  the 
suggestions  of  a  counsellor  who  has  not  England's  trae  mterests 
and  welfare  at  heart.  Before  long  the  terms  of  the  Family  Com- 
pact between  France  and  Spain  will  be  revealed,  and  will  fully 
justify  Pitt's  prescience.  But  it  will  then  be  too  late.  We  shall  have 
lost  the  rich  galleons  which  might  have  been  ours.  Had  Mr.  Pitt's 
timely  counsels  been  followed,  we  might  have  seized  the  Havannah, 
have  occupied  the  Isthmus  of  Panama,  and  have  directed  an  ex- 
pedition thence  against  Manilla  and  the  Philippine  Islands." 

"His  majesty  must  be  in&tuated  indeed  if  he  doesn^t  find  out 
how  he  has  been  deluded  and  misled,"  rejoined  Wilkes;  "but  as  to 
hoping  for  Lothario's  dismissal,  I  fear  that  is  out  of  the  question. 
The  Princess-Dowager  of  Wales  will  not  allow  her  confidential 
adviser  to  be  turned  out." 

"No  scandal  about  her  royal  highness,  Mr.  Wilkes,"  interrupted 
the  Lord  Mayor,  with  a  slight  laugh.  "My  opinion  of  Lord 
Bute  is  no  secret.  Indeed,  I  believe  it  is  to  the  public  expression  of 
it  that  I  am  placed  in  my  present  proud  poation.  Still,  I  confess 
I  would  rather  occasion  should  not  be  taken  on  this  day  for 
humiliating  him." 

"  You  cannot  help  it,"  said  Alderman  Beckford;  "  and  it  is  well 
the  young  king  should  learn  the  truth,  though  it  may  not  be  alto- 

f  ether  palatable  to  him.     None  of  hia  subjects  are  more  loyal  and 
evoted  than  the  good  citizens  of  Londcw,  but  Aey  detest  under- 
hand influence  as  much  as  they  idolise  true  patriotism.    Mr.  Pitt 
will,  therefore,  have  all  their  cheers  tonday,  and  Bute  their  groans." 
The  company  then  mingled  together,  and  a  general  conversation 
ensued,  in  the  midst  of  which  a  servant  in  state  liveiy  entered 

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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  21 

the  room,  and  approaching  the  Lord  Mayor,  seemed  desiroos  ot 
commmiicating  something  to  him  in  private. 

^  What  is  it,  Tomline?"  cried  Sir  Greaham,  not  understanding 
the  man's  manner.     "  Speak  out." 

^  A  young  man  ontside  is  very  desirous  of  seeing  your  lordrfiip/' 
replied  Tonuine;  ^when  I  say  a  young  man^  I  ought  to  state 
that  be  has  a  young  woman  with  him." 

^  Well,  wcU,  young  man  or  young  woiman,  I  can  see  neither  of 
them  now.  Tms  is  not  a  proper  moment  to  intrude  upon  me.  I 
have  no  time  to  spare.     Tell  them  so." 

*'  I  have  already  told  the  young  man  that  your  lordship  is  jurt 
about  to  enter  your  state  coach,  but  he  won't  be  put  offy  and 
declares  he  will  wait  upon  the  stairs  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Why  didn't  you  hare  the  impudent  rascal  turned  out  of  the 
house,  TomKne?'^  cried  Tradescant.    "  Egad,  Til  4o  it  myself." 

^  Hold ! "  exclaimed  the  Lord  Mayor.  **  He  has  a  young  woman 
with  hnn.  What  does  he  want,  Tomline?  Did  he  give  no  name?" 

^  Oh !  yes,  my  lord,  he  gave  a  name,  and  that  caused  him  to  be 
admitted  below.     But  I  scarcely  believed  him." 

^What  reason  had  you  for  doubting  him,  sirrah?"  cried  the 
Lord  Mayor,  sharply.     "  What  name  did  he  give?" 

^^  If  I  must  speak  out,  he  gave  the  same  name  as  your  lord- 
ship's^" answered  Tomline,  reluctantly.  **  He  calls  himself  Herbert 
Lorimer,  and  declares  he  k  your  lordship's  nephew." 

"  My  nephew ! "  exclaimed  the  Lord  Mayor.  "  I  never  heard 
I  had  one." 

*^0h!  an  impostor!"  cried  Tradescant.  "Til  soon  get  rid  of 
him." 

"  Stop  ! "  exclaimed  Sir  Gresham.  "  The  young  man's  asser- 
tion may  be  true.  I  had  two  brothers,  Godfrey  and  Lawrence, 
whom  I  have  not  seen  for  fifty  yean.  This  Herbert,  as  he  calls 
himself,  may  be  the  son  of  one  of  them;  and  if  it  should  be  so, 
posfflbly  the  young  woman  may  be  my  niece." 

^  Your  lordship  has  guessed  aright,"  observed  Tomline,  ^  sup- 
posing any  reliance  is  to  be  placed  upon  the  young  man's  state* 
ments." 

"  This  relationship  is  a  mere  trumped-up  story,"  cried  Trade*, 
cant.  ^^His  lordship  won't  see  them.  Send  them  about  their 
business  at  once,  Tomline." 

**Not  so  fast,"  said  Sir  Ghreshara.  "I  must  be  satisfied  that  it 
is  a  trick  before  I  send  them  away.    Let  them  cotne  in,  Tomline.* 

*^  Excuse  me,  father,  but  you  are  very  wrong,**  said  Tradescant. 

**  Very  wronff,  indeed ! "  added  the  Lady  Mayoress^  coming  up. 

**I  don't  think  so,"  replied  the  Lord  Mayor;  "  and  I  am  surely 
the  best  judge  in  a  matter  in  which  I  am  personally  concerned.^ 

Ifatutaliy ,  the  incident  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  whole 
company,  and  when  Tradescant  hazarded  a  glance  at  his  fashionable 
friends  to  ascertain  what  they  thought  ot  it,  he  was  annoyed  to 

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29  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

perceive  them  laughing  and  whispering  together.  Ab  to  the  Lady 
Mayoress,  no  words  can  describe  her  annoyance.  She  agitated 
her  fan  violently.  Her  elder  daughters  were  calmer,  but  even  they 
seemed  disturbed. 

No  one,  however,  was  kept  long  in  suspense.  The  door  was 
almost  instantly  thrown  open  by  Tomline,  and  a  tall  young  man 
of  some  twenty,  or  twenty-one,  leading  a  young  woman,  a  year  or 
80  his  junior,  by  &e  hand,  was  admitted.  The  marked  resemblance 
between  them  proclaimed  them  to  be  brother  and  sbter.  The 
habiliments  of  both,  of  plain  and  homely  stuffs,  sober  in  hue,  and 
evidently  of  provincial  make,  contrasted  very  strongly  with  the  attire 
of  the  gay  and  fashionable  company  into  whose  presence  they  were 
thus  thrown.  But  though  he  might  fairly  have  been  expected  to  be 
so  under  the  circumstances,  the  young  man  did  not  appear  in  the 
slightest  degree  abashed.  HI  displayed  as  it  was  by  his  badly-made 
apparel,  his  figure  was  a  model  of  combined  strength  and  symmetry. 
His  features  were  handsome;  his  cheeks  glowing  with  health;  his 
eyes  bright;  and  in  place  of  a  peruke  he  wore  his  own  flowing  dark- 
brown  locks.  But  if  he  was  unawed,  his  sister  was  not  so.  She 
shrank  tremblingly  from  the  curious  gaze  to  which  she  was  exposed, 
cast  down  her  eyes,  and  evidently  needed  all  the  support  of  her 
brother^s  strong  arm  to  sustain  her.  As  he  could  not  leave  her,  and 
she  seemed  unwilling,  indeed  almost  unable  to  step  forward,  the 
young  man  remained  stationary  near  the  door. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  the  Lord  Mayor 
looked  very  hard  at  them.  Apparently  satisfied  with  his  scrutiny, 
and  not  unfavourably  impressed  by  the  looks  of  his  newly-dis- 
covered relatives,  he  advanced  towards  them,  and  addressing  the 
young  man  in  a  very  kindly  tone,  said,  **  So,  sir,  you  call  yourself 
my  nephew,  eh?" 

^*  Yes,  my  lord.  I  am  Herbert  Lorimer,  son  of  your  brother 
Godfrey,  and  this  is  my  sister  Prue." 

"Herbert,  eh  I  Prue,  ah  I  Well,  well,  I  don't  doubt  what 
you  tell  me.  I  can't  doubt  it,  for  you're  both  as  like  your  father 
as  can  well  be.  Here's  my  hand,  Herbert — here's  my  hand.  Glad 
to  see  you  both — ^very  giad.  Look  up,  child  I  Look  up,  that  I 
may  see  your  eyes.  Ay,  there  it  is — that's  Godfrey's  expression. 
I  haven't  forgotten  it,  though  half  a  century  has  elapsed  since  I 
beheld  him  last.     And  how  is  he? — how  is  my  brother?" 

"Alas!  my  lord,  he  died  some  years  ago  at  York,"  replied 
Herbert.     ^^Prue  and  I  are  alone  in  the  world." 

"  No,  not  alone,  since  you  have  found  your  uncle  out.  But  why 
didn't  you  come  to  me  sooner?  And  whv,  above  all,  choose  a 
time  like  the  present  for  making  yourselves  known?" 

"  We  only  arrived  in  town  yesterday  from  York,  imcle,"  said 
Prue.  "  I  told  Herbert  our  visit  to-day  would  be  very  inoppor- 
tune and  improper,  but  he  wouldn't  be  dissuaded.  He  said  you 
would  be  glad  to  see  usJ' 

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THE  LORD  HATOS  OF  LONDON.  23 

"  And  he  was  right,"  returned  Sir  Ghresham ;  *'  but  I  should  have 
been  better  pleased  if  you  had  come  before.  How  was  it  you  never 
wrote  to  me,  or  conveyed  to  me  any  tidings  of  your  father^s 
decease,  or  ^our  own  existence?  How  was  I  to  know  I  had  a 
nephew  or  niece  if  I  never  heard  of  them  before?" 

^  All  this  requires  explanation,  which  you  shall  have  at  the  fitting 
moment,  uncle,^  replied  Herbert.  ^^  I  have  much  to  relate — much 
that  will  pain  you  to  hear.** 

^  Well,  Fve  no  time  to  listen  to  it  now.  Was  ever  Lord  Mayor 
thus  bothered  when  about  to  join  his  procession?" 

"  You  hear  that,  Herbert,"  said  Prue.  *'  Are  you  not  ashamed 
of  yourself?" 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  he  replied.  "  Since  I've  seen  my  uncle,  and 
spoken  to  him,  I'm  quite  content  So  now,  my  lord,  we  humbly 
take  our  leave.     Come  along,  Prue." 

"  Stay!  stay  I"  cried  Sir  Grresham,  "I  must  present  you  both 
to  your  aunt,  the  Lady  Mayoress,  and  your  cousins.  You  mustn't 
go  away — ^you  must  spend  the  day  here." 

^  But  we  shan't  know  what  to  do  with  theip,"  whispered  the 
Lady  Mayoress.     ^^  Better  let  them  go." 

^^Impossible !  I  couldn't  do  such  a  thing,"  rejoined  Sir  Gresham. 
^  These  are  my  poor  brother  Godfrey's  children.  I'm  sure  your 
ladyship  will  give  them  a  hearty  welcome." 

"  Your  lordship's  nephew  and  niece  m\ist  of  course  be  welcome," 
rejoined  the  Lady  Mayoress,  in  a  cold  tone,  and  without  extending 
a  hand  to  either  of  them.  "  I  wish  they  had  stayed  at  York,"  she 
added  to  herself.     **  I  wonder  what  brought  them  here." 

Seeing  the  eflect  produced  upon  her  by  this  haughty  reception, 
Sir  Gresham  took  his  niece's  trembling  hand,  and  led  her  towards 
his  two  elder  daughters,  both  of  whom  made  her  a  very  distant 
and  formal  courtesy,  after  which  they  turned  their  backs  upon 
her.  Millicent,  however,  received  her  with  ffreat  affection,  and 
strove  by  her  warmth  of  manner  to  efface  the  impression  pro- 
duced upon  her  by  her  sisters.  Tradescant  was  equallv  rude  to 
Herbert,  and  scarcely  deigned  to  notice  him  when  his  father 
introduced  him.  Captain  Chatteris  was  still  more  impertinent, 
and  placed  the  breakfast  table  between  himself  and  the  youne  man 
when  the  latter  was  brought  towards  him.  Herbert's  cheek  was 
instantly  in  a  flame,  and  be  marched  up  to  his  sister. 

**Comc,  let  us  go,  Prue,"  he  cried.  "You  said  we  should  be 
unwelcome  guests,  but  I  didn't  believe  you.  I  was  wrong  to 
come  here,  and  you  were  right  in  advising  me  to  keep  away.  I 
didn't  expect  to  be  insulted  in  the  house  of  my  father^s  brother." 

**  Nor  shall  you  be,"  rejoined  the  Lord  Mayor,  catching  his  arm. 
"  St^— I  command  you." 

*^0h!  pray  stop,  Herbert,"  implored  Prue.  ♦<  You  won't  dis- 
obey your  uncle." 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  the  young  man,  halting.^ 

**Hear  me,"  cried  Sir  Ghresham,  glancing  ai^rily  round,  **I 

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24  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

won't  have  my  relatives  rudely  treated.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  own 
before  all  this  company  that  I  have  risen  from  nothing — that  I 
have  gained  the  proud  position  I  now  occupy  solely  by  my  own 
exertions-—" 

"  Oh !  pray  papa,  don't  say  any  more ! "  cried  Lady  Dawes  and 
Mrs.  Chatteris  together. 

"  Forty  years  ago,"  pursued  the  Lord  Mayor,  disregarding  their 
entreaties,  "  my  prospects  were  no  better  than  my  nephew's  in  all 
probability  are,  and  knowing  how  much  I  needed  a  helping- 
hand  then,  I  shan't  refuse  him  one  now.  On  this  day,  above  all 
others,  I  ought  to  be  influenced  by  feelinffs  of  thankfulness  and 
kindliness,  since  I  have  obtained  all  I  aspired  at,  and  far  more  than 
my  deserts.'* 

**  Oh !  Sir  Gresham,  I  shall  expire  if  you  go  on  in  this  manner ! " 
the  Lady  Mayoress  exclaimed.     *'  Consider,  we  are  not  alone." 

**  That's  the  very  reason  I  speak  out,"  continued  Sir  Gresham. 
"  I  wish  everybody  to  know  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  origin.  I 
have  an  honest  pride  referring  to  it.  'Tis  one  of  the  greatest 
privileges  of  the  high  office  I  now  hold,  that  its  qualifications  are 
not  exalted  birth,  or  interest,  but  the  good  opinion  and  esteem  of 
one's  fellow  citizens.  These  I  have  won,  or  I  should  not  wear 
these  robes  to-day.  But  I  should  be  unworthy  of  my  office  if  I 
could  forget  my  former  position — if  I  could  look  coldly  on  my 
brother's  children.  I  bid  them  heartily  welcome.  All  who  love 
me,  and  respect  me,  will  follow  my  example.  Nephew  and  niece, 
I  am  very  glad  to  see  you — and  so  is  her  ladyship — aren't  you?" 

"  Delighted — since  you  will  have  it  so.  Sir  Gresham,"  the  Lady 
Mayoress  replied,  trying  to  control  her  vexation. 

"  And  so  are  my  daughters.  Lady  Dawes  and  Mrs.  Chatteris — 
are  you  not,  my  dears?"  pursued  Sir  Gresham. 

But  the  ladies  in  question  made  no  reply,  but  turned  up  their 
noses  disdainfully. 

**  Tradescant,"  continued  Sir  Gresham,  **  I  insist  upon  your 
shaking  hands  with  you  cousin  Herbert." 

"  I  am  bound  to  obey  you,  father,"  replied  the  young  man, 
reluctantly  complying  with  the  injunction. 

Seeing  what  was  going  on,  and  thinking  he  mi^t  be  called 
upon  next,  Captain  Chatteris  sedulously  applied  himself  to  the 
viands  on  the  table,  and  dedined  to  look  up.  Millicent,  however, 
did  not  require  to  have  orders  given  her,  for  she  said, 

^*  I  am  very  glad  to  see  my  cousins,  and  I  am  sure  Prue  and  I 
shall  become  great  friends." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  it,"  replied  her  cousin,  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  One  word  before  I  go,  Herbert?  "  demanded  the  Lord  Mayor. 
"What  are  your  habits:  What  have  you  done?  What  are  you 
fit  for?" 

"I  can  scarcely  answer  your  questions,  uncle,"  returned  the 
young  man,  modestly.  "But  my  habits  are  regular,  and  I  am 
accustomed  tP  business." 

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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  25 

"  Buaness — ha !     Glad  to  hear  it.     What  business  ?  " 

"My  brother  has  just  served  his  apprenticeship  to  Mr.  Hornby, 
the  mercer  near  the  Micklegate,  in  lork,  uncle,  interposed  Prue; 
"  and  he  has  come  to  town,  hoping  you  might  befriend  him.  He 
has  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  you  from  Mr.  Hornby.  Give 
it  to  your  uncle,  Herbert." 

^  Not  now,**  replied  the  Lord  Mayor — **not  now.  If  I  find  all 
as  you  represent  it,  Herbert,  and  you  are  not  too  proud,  as  some 
youngsters  now-a-days  are** — glancing  at  Tradescant — "to  stand 
behind  a  counter,  and  attend  to  a  customer,  I'll  place  you  in  my 
shop." 

"  Good  gracious,  Sir  Gresham,  don't  talk  about  the  shop  now ! " 
cried  the  Lady  Mayoress,  with  a  look  of  dismay. 

"  Tutl  tut !  this  is  the  very  time  to  talk  about  it.  But  as  I  wis 
saying,  Herbert,  I'll  place  you  in  my  shop  and  give  you  the 
management  of  it,  and  if  you  latnfy  me,  on  next  Lord  Mayor's 
Day  rU  tike  you  into  partnership;  and  then  it'll  be  your  own 
fiiult  if  you  aren't  Lord  Mayor  yourself  hereafter." 

"Well  done,  my  lord !"  cried  Alderman  Beckford.  "  You  have 
acted  noblj.     The  City  may  well  be  proud  of  jou." 

"That  It  may  indeed!"  exclaimed  Sir  Fehx  Bland,  while  the 
room  resounded  with  similar  expressions  of  approval. 

"I  shall  endeavour  by  my  conduct  to  merit  your  goodness, 
uncle,"  said  Herbert,  with  a  look  of  profound  gratitude. 

Prue  could  not  speak,  but  her  moistened  eyes  showed  how 
much  moved  she  was  by  Sir  Gresham's  generosity* 

At  this  moment,  as  if  the  crowd  in  Cheapade  had  known  what 
was  occnrxin^,  and  desired  to  express  their  sympathy,  loud 
shouts  were  heard,  with  which  the  Lord  Mayor's  name  was 
mingled.  Immediately  afterwards  the  door  was  thrown  open  by 
two  servants  in  state  liveries,  and  the  sword  bearer,  the  common 
crier,  the  mace  bearers,  the  water  bailiff,  and  other  gentlemen  of 
the  Lord  Mayor's  household  were  seen  standing  outside.  All 
these  personages  were  in  their  full  habiliments  of  office.  Two 
gentlemen  in  court  suits,  who  were  provided  with^  white  wands, 
and  acted  as  ushers,  then  stepped  in,  and,  bowing  deferentially 
to  the  Lord  Mayor,  intimated  to  him  that  his  carnage  was  wait- 
ing. On  this,  Sir  Gresham  bowed  courteously  around,  and,  being 
joined  by  his  chaplain,  quitted  the  zoom,  followed  by  the  two 
aldermen  and  the  snerifis.  As  he  descended  the  stairs,  preceded 
by  the  sword-bearer  and  the  mace-bearers,  and  passed  through  the 
lilies  of  servants,  trumpets  were  sounded  to  announce  his  coming 
forth.  The  niiUtary  band  stationed  in  Cheapsidebegaa  to  play,  and 
amid  the  cheem  of  all  who  could  obtain  a  sight  of  him,  accomr 
panied  hv  the  waving  of  hats  and  handkerchidfs,  the  Lord  Mayor 
entered  his  magnificent  state  coadi,  to  which  six  splendid  iroa- 
ffrey  horses,  hi^ly  caparisoned,  and  decorated  with  ribbons,  were 
harnessed. 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


26 


THE  LATE  PMNCE  CONSOET, 

We  cannot  hold  Mortality's  ttroog  hand. 

King  Jokn^  Act  lY.  Sc.  2. 

In  the  full  prime  of  maohood,  and — bat  a  few  days  before  the  blow 
fell  which  has  nlled  an  empire  with  mournings — ^in  the  plenitude  of  bodily 
health  and  intellectual  vigour,  Death  has  stricken  down  the  foremost  man 
of  all  the  realm ! 

The  Prince  Consort  of  England — ^he  whom  every  one  loved  and  re- 
verenced— is  dead ! 

The  Great  Arrest  was  so  suddenly  made,  that,  spite  of  the  houriy 
evidences  of  the  insecurity  of  life,  few  were  able,  when  the  sad  news  was 
first  bruited  abroad,  to  believe  that  it  could  be  true.  Of  the  many  who 
read  in  the  daily  newspapers  that  the  Prince  was  suffering  from  indispo- 
sition, not  one,  perhaps,  in  a  hundred  thousand  entertained  the  idea  that 
danger  lurked  in  the  carefully-worded  bulletin  which  conveyed  the 
guarded  intimation.  A  slight  ailment,  soon  to  pass  away  altogether, 
seemed  all  that  threatened ;  till,  on  the  third  day  after  the  first  officiid 
announcement  of  the  Prince's  illness,  words  came  of  menacing  import, 
which,  in  an  instant,  changed  the  current  of  popular  thought,  and 
awakened  universal  solicitude — a  solicitude  which  deepened  into  anxiety 
as  the  day  wore  on,  and  manifested  itself  everywhere  by  eager,  appre- 
hensive inquiry.  By  this  time  the  nature  of  the  Prince's  malady  was 
generally  known,  and  expectation  tremblingly  awaited  the  next  intelli- 
gence, which,  when  it  arrived,  allayed  the  fears  so  promptly  excited,  and 
men  once  more  calmly  betook  themselves  to  their  several  occupations. 
But  scarcely  was  there  time  for  mutual  congratulation,  before  other  news 
was  received  rendering  the  worst  a  possible  event;  and  they  who  lay  down 
to  sleep  in  doubt  awoke  to  the  knowledge  that»  during  the  silent  night, 
the  spirit  of  the  worn  sufferer  had  **  drifted  out  upon  the  dark  and  un- 
known sea  that  rolls  around  the  world !" 

Gloomy,  indeed,  was  every  home  in  England  when  the  shadow  of  this 
tidings  fell  upon  it ;  but  while  each  heart  acknowledged  the  pang,  indi- 
vidual sorrow  was  merged  in  one  feeling  of  loyal  affection  for  Her  whose 
trial  was  the  heaviest  of  all  who  mourned  the  dire  calamity,  and  not  a « 
voice  but  rose  in  prayer  to  the  Great  Distributer  of  Good  and  Evil,  that 
strength  to  bear  we  woe  beneath  which  her  soul  fainted  might  in  mercy 
be  accorded* 

All  of  us  had  cause 
To  wail  the  dimming  of  this  shining  star, 

—but  She  the  most :  for  in  her  bereavement  were  comprised  the  sum 
and  substance  of  all  that  constitutes  earthly  happiness.  The  decree 
which  went  forth  to  grieve  a  nation  severed  from  her  side  a  husband 
than  whom  none  could  be  more  dearly  or  deservedly  loved,  a  friend  and 
oounseller  such  as  the  world  rarely  sees,  a  companion  whose  quick  intel- 
ligence threw  light  on  every  subject,  and  whose  affectionate  nature  made 
every  day  a  happy  one;  the  sharer  in  all  her  joys,  in  all  her  adverse  dis- 
pensations—4he  chosen  one  of  her  heart,  the  &ther  of  her  children ! 
Was  never  widow  had  so  dear  a  loss ! 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  LATS  PRINCE  CONSORT.  27 

•-4mt  Utter  though  the  cup,  and  filled  to  the  brioit  the  nation's  prayer 
was  heard,  and  the  power  to  endure  was  granted.  With  that  firmneM  of 
mind  which  is  her  special  attribute,  and  even  while  her  tears  were  welline 
fast,  the  uoble  assurance  fell  from  her  lips  that  the  task  of  duty,  how  haid 
soerer  to  fulfil,  was  not  fingotten.  Brieht  as  had  heen  her  life-long 
example  to  her  people,  this  great  act  of  self-abnegation  became  its  crown- 
ing ornament.  Nor.  was  assistance  to  bear  her  grief  wanting  in  those 
who^  in  the  next  degree,  were  the  most  deeply  afflicted.  The  Prince, 
whose  day  of  rule  is  yet  in  the  future — and  long,  we  trust,  to  be  a  remote 
contingency — knelt  also  beside  the  bed  of  death,  summoned  thither  by 
the  affectionate  foresight  of  his  sister,  her  royal  mother's  chief  support ; 
and  he,  too,  felt  that  however  sacred  his  sorrow,  the  daim  of  duty  was 
paramount  even  in  that  mournful  hour»  What  sacrifice,  indeed,  might 
not  be  expected  from  children  trained  to  the  practice  of  every  virtue ! 

Of  all  the  men  of  modem  time,  who  have  occupied  a  place  of  eminence, 
none  were  of  nature  more  pure,  or  character  more  free  from  blemish,  than 
the  late  lamented  husband  of  our  Queen.  Domestic  in  all  his  habits,  yet 
with  a  capacity  for  mastering  every  question  of  public  interest — political, 
scientific,  or  social — he  was  free  from  every  ambitious  taint  or  desire  for 
worldly  prominence,  beyond  the  station  which  he  was  imperatively  called 
upon  to  occupy.  His  mind  was  filled  by  the  highest  thoughts;  the  pro- 
foandest  wisdom  guided  all  his  acts ;  and  nothing  that  could  advance  the 
interests  or  promote  the  happiness  of  his  fellow-creatures  was  neglected 
by  him. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  glance  at  the  outer  life  of  one  whose  heart  was  so 
good,  and  whose  mental  endowments  were  so  rare.  It  presents  a  career 
which  might  be  called  romantic,  if,  on  close  consideration,  it  were  not 
found  to  be  logically  sequent  upon  the  most  natural  causes. 

In  the  most  central  imrt  of  Germany  there  lier  an  extensive  tract  of 
country,  bounded  by  the  Hars  mountains,  of  superstitious  memory,  the 
rapid  rivers  Saale  and  Werra,  and  the  dark  forests  of  pine,  called  the 
Tfauringerwald,  which  still  retain  their  andent  name.  This  district,  once 
ruled  by  the  Landgraves  of  Thuringia,  and  later  by  the  electors  of  Saxony, 
has  long  been  broken  up  into  several  small  duchies,  the  chiefest  of  which 
were  those  of  Gotha  and  Coburg,  distinct  governments  till  their  political 
union  was  effected  under  the  appellation  of  Saxe-Coburg-Gotha,  on  the 
death  of  the  last  refeUm  of  the  former  house.  When  this  event  took  place 
— some  ox  or  seven-and-thirty  years  ago — Coburg  was  governed  by  Duke 
£rnest  Anthony  Uie  First,  a  lineal  descendant  of  that  famous  Elector  of 
the  Empire,  who  was  the  first  to  sign  the  Protest  at  Spires  against  the 
decision  of  the  Diet  of  Augsburg,  an  act  which  principally  served  to  give 
the  derignation  of  *<  Protestants''  to  all  who  were  opposed  to  the  Church 
of  Rome.  Independently  of  ancient  lineage,  traceable — as  ancestry  is 
traceable  in  Germany  alone — to  an  ante-medi»val  period,  here  was  an 
event  to  be  proud  of;  but  the  family,  of  which  Duke  Anthony  was  the 
bead,  was  destined  to  be  more  widely  known  by  other  than  polemical 
illustration — by  that  softer  influence,  which  has  made,  and  sometimes 
marred,  so  many  fortunes. 

Of  all  the  seven  sons  of  George  the  Third,  surviving  in  1816,  the  two 
eldest  only  were  married,  and  the  second  of  these  was  childless.  But  the 
heir-apfMurent  had  a  daughter,  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales,  *'  the 
cynosure  of  every  eye ;"  and  in  her  the  hope  of  perpetuating  the  House 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


28'  THE  ULTE  FBI3S0E  COUSOBT. 

of  Bmnswick  was  eentrecL  H<nr  she  beeame  Ae  wife  of  Prinoe  Leopold 
of  Suae-Saal&Id-Cobarg,  the  brother  of  Doke  Ad^kmij  of  that  ilk,  is  too 
well  Iciiown  to  seed  repetition  here ;  equally  fiuniliar  to  all  k  the  &ct  of 
her  premature  decease,  while  <*  the  mother  of  a  moment^  whieh  saw 
«bk»8om  and  flower  lie  withered  on  one  bosgh."  The  hope  and  aggran- 
disement of  the  Coborg  fiamily,  whieh  Prinoe  Leopold's  marriage  had 
promised,  seemed,  by  this  fatal  ooeurrenoe,  to  have  wholly  past  away ; 
but  the  event  its^  was,  by  the  inscntable  ordering  of  Divine  Ptovidence, 
the  actual  cause  of  its  suMequent  high  position. 

For  the  heritage  of  the  fint  kingdom  of  the  world  to  be  without  direct 
claimants  was  a  state  <^  things  that  could  not  quietly  be  contemplated, 
and  straightway  all  haste  was  made  to  procure  wives  for  George  the  Third's 
fisur  remainiog  bachelor  sons,  the  youngest  of  whom  was  upwards  of 
forty  years  of  age.  On  this  ocoarion  fortune  again  befriended  the  House 
of  Cobnrg,  the  Duke  <^  Kent — ^the  second  in  succession  to  the  throne  after 
his  two  childless  elder  brothers — proposing  for  the  huid  of  the  Duchess 
A^ctoria,  Duke  Anthony's  youngest  sbter,  the  widow  of  Prinoe  Enrich 
Charles  of  Leiningeo,  tnen  in  her  thirty-second  year.  Their  union  took 
place  in  1816,  and  in  the  following  year  their  only  duld,  her  present 
most  moious  Majesty,  was  bom. 

Collateral  eWation  was  achieved  by  Duke  Anthony's  sister's  marriage, 
but  this  was  not  all :  in  the  womb  of  fate  was  yet  another  event  to  raise 
it  higher.  In  the  previous  year,  before  the  thunder-doud  burst  over  his 
brother  Leopold's  head,  Duke  Anthony  himself  had  courted  and  won  for 
hb  bride  the  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  only  daughter  of  the  Duke  of 
Saxe-Coburg-Altenburg.  K,  in  a  domestic  point  of  view,  dns  marriage 
did  not  prove  a  happy  one,  there  was  compensation — ^that  ever-recurring 
balance  of  all  tfamgs  human — in  the  birth  of  two  sons — ^the  eldest, 
Ernest,  in  1818,  and  die  second,  Albert,  who  flrst  saw  tiie  light  in  the 
foUowing  year,  in  the  old  manor-house  of  Bosenau — <<  the  meadow  of 
roses  "— «  hozEting  seat  of  the  Coburg  hnafy,  about  four  miles  from  the 
capital  All  the  old  cities  of  Ceotnl  Germany  abound  in  picturesque 
objects,  and  <me  ci  the  most  striking,  as  it  is  the  most  considerable  edifice, 
is  the  old  palaee  of  Ehrenburg,  a  Gothic  building  dating  from  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  where  quaintness  of  architecture  still  prevailed, 
though  ito  medieval  character  was  changing  fut.  Between  Rosenan  and 
Ehrenburg — both  of  these  places  well  adapted  to  create  an  impression  on 
minds  susceptible  of  artistic  teaching — ^the  early  years  of  the  two  young 
princ^  were  passed;  their  careful  ftither,  who,  doubtless,  had  a  strong 
faith  in  the  star  of  his  House,  bestowing  upon  tiiem  the  best  educa- 
tion that  ^e  Professors  of  Coburg  eould  impcurt.  With  nothing  to  ruffle 
ike  even  current  of  hb  life,  save  the  death  of  his  mother,  wfa^n  he  was 
abovt  twelve  years  old. 

How  happily  the  days  of  Thalaba  went  bj, 

emoying  the  present,  and  dreaming,  perchance,  of  a  brighter  future. 
That  the  future  was  not  undreamt  of  by  those  who  had  the  guidance  of 
his  ^'ipfant  fortunes"  is  tolerably  clear  from  what  tranqnred  in  the 
interval  between  the  completion  of  the  young  prince's  youthful  studies 
and  his  preparation  for  these  higher  ones  which  dose  die  GermaQ 
student's  educational  career. 

In  the  q>riDg  of  1836,  the  Princess  Victoria  of  Kent  had  entered  her 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  LATE  PSIKCE  CONSOJtX.  29 

e^hteenth  veftTy  and  the  ace  of  William  the  Fourth,  togt^r  with  hit 
not  very  xoboat  health,  rendeied  her  6ariy  aocciaoa  to  the  throne  of  Eag^ 
land  a  not  unprobable  event  Hen  was  a  mueeptible  time  of  life,  and  if 
inclination  were  allowed  to  have  any  share  in  fizrae  her  domestio  position 
— and  happily  this  was  the  case — the  period  had  amved  when  efig^ible 
clsiiints  for  her  hand  might  fairiy  he  offered  to  her  choice.  At  thia 
moment  nx  joong  princes,  iowt  of  them  of  her  own  Uood,  tmd  two  otheri» 
were  in  this  advantageous  position:  George  of  CiMnhefkad,  George  of 
CambridM,  Emtst  and  Albert  of  Saxe-Cohorg-Gotha,  and  William  and 
Henry  of  Holland.  In  May,  1819,  they  wete  all  on  the  tfot,  oooraeas 
or  ttnoonacioQfl  rivals,  as  appears  from  the  record  which  was  kept  by  one 
who  made  a  careful  note  a£  all  contemporaneous  events. 

In  Raikes's  Journal  for  1836  (which  he  wrote  in  Paris)  are  to  be  found 
the  following  passages,  which  wiU  be  read  with  interest,  as  they  show  how 
long  hefore  the  event  the  marriage  of  Queen  Victoria  had  been  deter- 
nunedon: 

^  Monday,  30th  May. — Travelling  seems  to  be  the  rage  with  kings 
and  princes.  The  King  of  Naples  has  set  out  on  a  foreign  tour  to  variout 
courts  it  is  said,  in  search  of  a  wife.  In  England  there  are  already 
arrived  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  his  two  sons,  the  Duke  of  firuncwiok, 
and  the  two  Princes  of  Ssixe-Coburfl^ :  they  all  attended  a  grand  ball  on 
Monday  evening,  given  by  the  DucAess  of  Kent  at  Kensington  Palaooy 
perhaps  with  the  hope  of  interesting  the  Princess  Victoria;  indeed,  as  the 
Prince  of  Orange  himself  was  ibrmeriy  a  candidate  ^or  the  hand  of  the 
Princess  Charlotte,  it  is  not  improbable  that  he  has  brought  over  his  two 
80DS  with  that  view ;  but  here  again  he  meets  with  the  two  nephews  of 
the  hated  Leopold,  of  whom  he  mei  to  say :  '  Vcalk  un  homme  qui  a  pris 
ma  femme  et  mon  royaume  V* 

"Friday,  17th  June. — Lord  Granville  gave  a  grand  dinner  to  the 
Princes  of  Saxe-Coburg,  who  are  just  arrived  from  England,  which 
would  rather  encourage  the  idea  of  the  future  marriage. 

"  Saturday,  18th  June. — I  hear  to-day  that  the  young  Prince  of 
Saxe-Coburg  is  die  destined  husband  of  our  Princess  Victoria." 

As  early,  then,  as  the  year  1836 — neariy  four  vears  before  the  mar- 
riage actually  took  plaee — it  was  une  Ojffmre  arretee,  though,  from  an* 
otW  passage  in  the  same  Journal,  the  success  of  Prince  Albert  had  not 
been  permitted  without  an  effdrt  to  contest  it. 

>(  Sunday,  18th. — (This  is  an  error  in  the  date).  My  old  friend, 
General  Fsgel,  who  is  come  to  resume  his  post  as  Dutch  minister, 
aeemed  to  confirm  my  speculations  on  the  object  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange's  visit  to  London.  He  said  that  the  sons  were  fine  young  men, 
but  r^her  stiff  and  formal  in  their  manner,  and  that  the  intimacy  of  the 
yonng  Saxe-Coburgs,  through  their  aunt,  the  Duchess  of  Kent,  woold 
give  them  great  advantages  at  Kensington ;  but  he  thought  the  son  of 
the  Dnke  of  Cambridge  would  be  the  most  popular  marriage  for  the 
Prinoess  Victoria,  in  the  eyes  of  the  English  people." 

In  Paras,  Prince  Albert  and  his  hrother  were  joined  by  the  King  and 
Queen  of  the  Belgians,  and  with  them  they  returned  to  Brassdis,  where 
they  hoth  won  golden  opinions — ^Prince  Albert  especially — ^from  Pro- 
fessor Quetelet,  and  the  English  clergyman,  who  for  some  months  directed 
their  studies.  After  this  came  their  University  life  at  Bonn,  the  good 
fellowship  of  Burschenschaft  being  maintained  amongst  their  comates, 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


30  THE  LATE  PBINCE  CONSORT. 

while  the  pursoits  which  were  to  crown  them  with  knowledge  and  all 
graceful  acquirements  were  earnestly  studied*  In  the  autumn  of  1838, 
after  compledne  three  academical  terms.  Prince  Albert  set  out  for  Italy, 
leaving  beUnd  him  at  Bonn  not  only  a  brilliant  reputation  for  scholar- 
ship, but  a  name  endeared  to  all  for  kindness  of  heart  and  sweetness  of 
disposition.  England  owes  much  to  the  Prince's  visit  to  Italy,  for  there 
be  matured  that  Imowledge  of  art  by  means  of  which  he  afterwards  ren- 
dered so  man^  services  in  this  country.  The  summer  of  1839  was  the 
last  which  Phnce  Albert  spent  at  Ck>burg,  for  towards  the  close  of  that 
year,  accompanied  by  his  brother,  he  came  again  to  England,  justifying 
by  every  indication  the  selection  which  had  been  made  in  his  favour. 
He  was  now  of  legitimate  age  to  woo  his  destined  bride,  and  how  his 
wooing  prospered  the  world  became  soon  aware.  The  Queen's  choice 
was  hailed  with  acclamation,  and  as  if  with  a  prophetic  sense  of  its 
national  value,  for,  during  a  full  third  of  the  span  allotted  to  human 
existence,  there  was  not  a  single  day  of  the  wedded  lives  of  Victoria  and 
Albert  that  did  not  fiimish  forth  a  bright  example  for  the  emulation 
ofaU. 

Into  the  quiet  domestic  circle  at  Windsor,  at  Osbom,  at  Balmoral,  it 
does  not  become  us  to  penetrate,  further  than  to  add  an  echoing  voice  to 
that  universal  one  which  told,  from  year  to  year,  of  the  well-deserved 
happiness  which  filled  each  several  abode.  How,  indeed,  could  happiness 
have  been  absent  there,  for  Providence  was  kind,  vbiting  the  royal  pair 
with  no  domestic  fiction — till,  in  the  course  of  nature,  only  a  few 
months  since,  her  Majesty's  mother  died — and  the  lives  of  the  Queen 
and  Prince  exhibited  all  private  and  public  virtues. 

Of  these  last — that  eulogy  of  the  Prince  Consort,  unsupported  by 
facts,  may  not  be  our  sole  theme — we  will  speak  in  brief,  but  compre- 
hensive  terms. 

To  be  useful  was  the  great  aim  of  his  existence :  to  that  end  he  de- 
TOted  his  untiring  energies ;  and  how  he  accomplished  his  object  let  the 
thousands  who  benefited  by  his  zealous  advocacy  declare!  It  was  not 
personal  benevolence  alone — ^though  that  was  largely  given — which  con- 
stituted his  claim  upon  their  gratitude.  His  largeness  of  heart  was  not 
content  with  the  free  distribution  of  material  bounty ;  he  truly  felt  that 
in  mental  exertion  for  the  good  of  his  fellow-creatures  resides  the  greateat 
power  of  usefulness.  We  accordingly  find  him,  for  a  series  of  years  and 
to  the  latest  hour  of  his  life,  perpetually  occupied  in  some  great  work  of 
human  improvement  To  improve  the  physical  condition  of  the  afi^ricul- 
tural  labourer,  by  rendering  ms  home  at  once  more  habitable  and  more 
healthy  ;  to  place  the  large  class  of  domestic  servants  in  a  better  and 
more  deserved  position;  to  inaugurate  institutions  for  the  comfort  and 
sanitary  advantage  of  the  poorest ;  to  aid,  and  actively  aid,  in  projects 
for  economiring  the  expenditure  and  securing  the  g^ins  of  the  hard- 
working community;  to  develop  conditions  favourable  to  the  educational 
progress  of  all  ranks  of  persons,  having,  above  all,  the  cultivation  of  '*  the 
people"  in  view,  though  his  views  also  embraced  refinements  in  art  which 
address  themselves  to  the  highest ;  these  were  the  hourly  occupations  of 
the  Prince^  whose  death  has  filled  ''  the  isles"  with  lamentation. 


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31 


ON  THE  LAMENTED  DEATH  OP  HIS  ROYAL  HIGHNESS 
THE  PRINCE  CONSORT. 

BT  MS8.  BU8HBT. 

A  CEY  of  horror,  of  dismay,  and  grief, 
Is  heard  throughout  the  land !    The  startling  tale^ 

The  sudden  blow,  can  scarcelj  gain  belief. 
Gloom  sits  on  ererj  brow,  and  every  cheek  is  pale ! 

What  fearful  tidings  these !    That  Death  has  crept. 

With  stealthy  step,  within  yon  palaoe  walls. 
And,  firom  the  mightiest  on  the  earth,  has  swept 

Away  the  dearest,  to  his  cold,  dark  haUs ! 

Inexorable  Death !    Why  come  to  bUist 

The  happiness  that  was  so  pure,  so  rare  ? 
Why  come  the  shadows  of  the  tomb  to  cast 

Over  yon  peaceful  scene — ^to  leave— despair? 

Yet  not  despair,  0  Death !    Thou  hast  no  power 

But  o'er  this  mortal  frame ;  tiai  may  decay 
Within  thy  realm,  the  grave,  yet  in  the  hour 

Man  dies,  he  wakes  to  everlasting  day. 

Oh,  Royal  Mourner !  raise  thy  thoughts  above 

To  yonder  spheres,  where  now  his  spirit  strays. 
In  angel  form,  midst  scenes  of  joy  and  love. 

With  glorious  seraphs  chanting  hymns  of  praise. 

Yet  grief  must  have  its  course,  and  thou  and  thine 
Must  feel,  while  life  exbts,  this  stroke  of  fate — 

Mysterious  fiat  of  the  will  divine, 
Such  strange,  unlooked-for  evil  to  create! 

Lady !  with  thee  a  nation  sympathise. 
And  mourn  their  loss  and  thine ;  a  people's  wail. 

From  every  saddened  British  home,  shall  rise. 
Alas!  alas!  that  tears  can  naught  avail ! 

Where'er  the  time-worn  flag  of  England  waves— 

And  waves  it  not  o'er  the  remotest  part 
Of  earth,  whose  shores  the  world-wide  ocean  laves  P — 

Their  Sov'reign's  gtief  shall  find  an  echo  in  each  heart ! 

IMJyeombm'. 
YOU  U.  D 

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32 


MAT>AMT!  LA  MAEQUISE: 

A  STOBT  PEHDAKT  TO  A.  rOBTKAIT  BT  MIGNAIID. 

She  was  bien  belle,  Madame  la  Mar^jvdst.  Migoard's  portraits  of  her 
may  fully  rival  his  far-famed  Portrait  aux  Amours.  One  of  them  has 
her  painted  as  Venus  Victrix,  selon  the  fiwhioa  of  the  day  v  one  of  them, 
as  herself,  as  Leootme  Opportune  de  Viyonae  de  Rennecourt^  Marquise 
de  la  Riviere,  with  her  creve-coeurSy  and  her  diamonds,  and  her  moqueur 
smile,  showing  her  teeth,  white  and  gleaming  as  the  pearls  mingled  with 
her  curls  k  la  mode  Montespan.  Not  Louise  de  la  Beaume-le- Blanc, 
when  the  elm-boughs  of  St.  Germain  first  flang  thehr  shadow  on  her 
golden  head,  before  it  bent  tor  the  Carmelite  veil  before  the  altar  in  the 
Bue  St.  Jacques;  not  Henriette  d'Angleterre^  when  she  listened  to  the 
trouveres'  romances  sung  under  her  balcony  at  St  Cloud,  before  her  young 
life  was  quenched  by  the  hand  of  Morel  and  the  order  of  Monsieur ;  not 
Ath^nais  de  Mortemart,  when  the  liveries  of  lapb  lasoli  blue  dashed 
through  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  the  outriders  cleared  her  path  with  their 
whips,  before  the  game  was  lost,  and  the  ircm  spikes  were  fastened  inside 
the  Montespan  bracelets ; — none  of  then»,  her  eonteasporaries  and  acquaint- 
ances, eclipsed  in  loveliness  Madame  la  Marquise.  Had  she  but  been 
blonde  instead  of  brune,  the  brown  Boarbon  eyes  would  have  fallen  on 
her  sans  doute ;  she  would  have  oot^ne  the  lapis  faumli  liveries  with  a 
royal  guard  of  scarlet  and  gold,  and  her  friend  Athetuos  wcmld  have  hated 
her  as  that  fair  lady  hated  '*  la  sotte  Fontanget"  and  *<  Sainte  Maintenon;'* 
for  their  sex,  in  all  ages,  have  remembered  the  sage's  precept,  *^  Love  as 
though  you  will  one  day  hate,"  and  invariably  carry  about  with  them, 
ready  for  need,  a  Httle  flacon  of  the  acid  of  Malice,  to  sour  in  an  instant 
the  sugared  cream  of  their  lores  and  thei»  friendships,  if  oocasion  rise  up 
and  the  storm-cloud  of  rivalry  loom  in  ^  homon. 

She  was  a  beauty,  Madame  la  Marquise,  and  she  knew  it,  as  she 
leaned  out  over  the  balcony  of  her  eh&teau  of  Petite  For^  that  lay  close 
to  Clagny,  under  the  shadow  of  the  wood  of  Ville  d'Avr^  outside  the 
gates  of  Versailles,  looking  down  on  her  bosquets,  gardens,  and  terraces 
designed  by  Le  Ndtre  $  for  though  she  was  alone,  and  there  was  nothing  but 
her  little  dog  Osmin  to  admire  her  white  skin,  and  her  dark  eyes,  and 
her  beautiful  hands  and  arms,  and  her  diamond  pendants  that  glittered 
in  the  moonlight,  she  smiled,  her  flashing  triumphant  moqueur  smile, 
as  she  whispered  to  herself,  *<  II  m'ahne— il  m'aime !  Pah !  comment 
pourrait-il  s'en  emp^her  f*  and  pressed  the  ruby  agrafie  on  her  corsage 
with  the  look  of  a  woman  who  knew  no  resistance,  and  brooked  no 
reluctance  to  worship  at  her  shrine.  Nothing  ever  opposed  Madame  la 
Marquise,  and  life  went  smoothly  on  with  her.  If  Bossuet  ever  reproved 
her,  it  was  in  those  anathemes  cach^  sous  des  fleurs  d'oranger  in  which 
that  politic  priest  knew  how  to  deal  when  expedient,  however  haughty 
and  relentless  to  the  world  in  general.  M.  le  Marquis  was  not  a  monstre 
sauvage  like  M.  de  Pardaillon  de  Gondran,  would  never  have  dreamt 
of  imitating  the  eccentricity  of  g^ing  into  mourning,  but  if  the  Bourbon 
ever  had  ftdlen  on  his  wife,  would  have  said,  like  a  loyal  peer  of  France, 


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HAMMK  LA  HAJUKTISE.  33 

iiuit  aQ  hig  hoiuehoU  tiUMugta  wew  tbe  Kiogfs.  Difftgweabki  fled 
.bafeie  tke  aeinliUatioiit  of  hsr  smilMy  as  the  boivgeoiM  fled  befem  her 
^ild«d  ewriage  and  her  Flaadeffa  horaea;  and  if  ever  a  Htde  fit  of  petjr 
ooee  in  a  while  eane  over  her,  and  the  rocoeo^  ill-hred,  gobenvmche  Cmi- 
leknce  whispered  a  vtrnk  i  propos  woid  in  her  delicate  ear,  die  wonUi  give 
an  eaameUed  kmp  to  Sunte  Marie  R^paratrice,  l^  the  advice  of  the 
Gomtease  de  Soabise  and  the  Pnnoesie  de  Monaco  (who  did  each  ex- 
piatory things  theoMelves,  and  knew  the  comfort  thej  afforded),  and 
eoierge  horn  her  repentance  one  of  the  most  radiant  of  all  Ae  brUliaat 
Jmttflurflies  that  flattered  their  gorgeoos  wings  in  the  Judtn  da  Fbre 
«ader  the  swn j  skies  of  Y«Esail7es. 

The  moonlight  glittered  on  the  foontaiasy  falling  with  meeeored  splash 
mto  their  aiarbb  basins ;  the  Kaie-leaTes,  fiuntly  stirred  by  the  sultry 
hreeaee,  perfiimed  the  night  with  thdr  vohiptaoas  fragrance,  and  the 
loses,  twining  round  the  carved  and  gilded  balustrade,  shook  ofi^  their 
bowed  heads  drops  of  dew,  that  gleamed  brightly  as  the  diamonds  among 
the  cnris  of  the  woman  who  leaned  above,  resting  her  delicately-nniged 
dieek  on  her  jewelled  hand,  alone — a  very  rare  ciroomstanee  widi  the 
snivie  Marquise  de  la  Riviere!  Perhaps  Osmin  did  not  admire  the  rare 
sofitode,  for  he  rattled  his  silver  bells  and  barked — an  Italian  greyhound's 
ahrill,  £retfi2l  bark — as  his  quick  ears  canght  the  distant  sound  of  steps 
ooonng  swifUy  over  the  turf  bek>w,  and  bu  mistress  smiled  as  she  patted 
his  head: 

"^  Ah,  ha,  Osmin !— vient-il  P" 

A  man  came  out  from  under  ^  heavy  shadow  of  limes  and  chesnuts, 
whose  darkness  ike  moon's  rays  had  no  power  to  pieroe,  crossed  the  lawn 
just  under  the  balcony,  and,  coming  up  the  terrace  steps,  stood  near  her— 
a  man  yonng,  £Eur,  handsome,  wh^e  age  and  form  the  uniform  of  a  cafH 
tain  of  the  Guards  vroald  have  suited  far  better  than  the  calotte  and  robe 
of  a  priest,  which  he  wore ;  his  lips  were  pressed  closely  together,  and  his 
face  was  pale  with  a  p^leur  souffrante,  that  consorted  oddly  with  the  warn, 
pasnonate  gleam  of  his  eyes. 

^  So !  You  are  late  in  obejing  ray  commands,  monsieur !"  Surely  no 
otiber  man  in  France  would  have  stood  silent  beside  her,  under  the  speli 
of  her  flashing,  dazzling  glances,  with  such  a  tableau  befiire  him  as 
Madame  la  Marcpiise,  in  her  azure  silk  and  her  point  d'Angletarre,  with 
her  diamond  pendauts  shaking  among  her  hair,  and  her  arcned  eyebrows 
fiftsd  knperkmsly  p  But  he  did ;  his  lips  pressed  closw,  his  eyes  g^eam- 
ii^  blighter,  ^e  changed  her  tone;  it  was  sof^  s^duisaa^  r^pnMdifnl, 
kad  the  smile  on  her  lips  was  tender — as  tender,  c'est-ci-dire^  as  it  ersr 
could  be  with  the  sneer  that  always  lay  ander  it;  and  it  broke  at  last 
the  spell  that  bound  him,  as  she  whispered,  '^Ah!  Gaston,  you  love 
menotr 

"  Not  love  you  ?     O  Heaven  I*" 

They  were  but  five  words,  but  they  told  Madame  k  Marquise  of  a  love 
aoeh  as  she  had  never  roused,  despite  all  her  fucinations  and  intrigues,  in 
tiie  lovers  that  crowded  round  her  in  tbe  salons  within,  or  at  Versailles^ 
over  the  trees  yonder,  where  love  was  gallantry,  and  all  was  light  comedy, 
with  nothing  so  ootre  as  tragedy  known. 

He  clasped  her  hands  so  doeely  that  the  sharp  points  of  the  diamond 
iiDga  cut  his  own,  though  he  M%  them  not. 

d2 

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34  vAnAiTR!  lA  MARQUISE. 

«  Not  love  you  ?  Great  Heaven !  Not  love  you  ?  Would  I  did  not 
Near  you,  I  forget  my  oath,  my  vows,  my  God ! — I  forget  all,  save  you, 
whom  I  adore,  as,  till  I  met  you,  I  adored  my  Church.  A  woman  has 
become  my  heaven,  and  I  hug  my  sin  as  dearly  as  if  it  were  my  honour. 
Torture  endured  with  you  were  dearer  than  Paradise  won  alone  !  Once 
with  you  I  have  no  strength,  you  bow  me  to  your  will  as  the  wind  bows  the 
lime-leaf ;  and  a  man  drugged  with  delirious  perfumes  is  not  more  irrespon* 
able  for  his  madness  than  I  for  mine.  Oh !  woman,  woman  I  could  you 
have  no  mercy,  that  with  crowds  round  you,  daily  worshipping  your 
slightest  smile,  you  must  needs  bow  me  down  before  your  glance,  as  you 
bow  those  who  have  no  oaths  to  bind  them,  no  need  to  scourge  themselves 
in  midnight  solitude  for  the  mere  crime  of  Thought  ?  Had  you  no  mercy, 
that  with  all  hearts  yours,  you  must  have  mine  to  sear  it  and  destroy  it? 
Have  you  not  lives  enough  vowed  to  you,  that  you  seek  to  blast  mine  for 
ever  ?  I  was  content,  untroubled,  till  I  met  you ;  no  woman's  glance 
stirred  my  heart,  no  woman's  eyes  haunted  my  vigils,  no  woman's  voice 
oame  in  memory  between  my  soul  and  prayer!  What  devil  tempted 
you  to  throw  your  spells  over  me— could  you  not  leave  one  man  in 
peace?" 

''Ah  bah!  the  tempted  love  the  game  of  temptation  generally  full 
as  well  as  the  tempters !"  thought  Madame  la  Marquise,  with  an  inward 
laugh  sous  cape.  Why  did  she  allow  such  language  to  go  unrebuked? 
Why  did  she,  la  belle  des  belles,  to  whom  none  dared  to  breathe  any  but 
words  the  most  polished,  and  love  vows  the  most  honeyed,  permit  herself 
to  be  addressed  m  such  a  strain  ?  Possibly  it  was  very  new  to  her,  such 
energy  as  this,  and  such  an  outbreak  of  passion  amused  her.  Dieu  le 
sait  I  At  any  rate  she  only  drew  her  hands  away,  and  her  brilliant  brown 
eyes  filled  with  tears; — tears  were  to  be  had  at  Versailles  when  needed, 
even  her  friend  Ath^nais  knew  how  to  use  them  as  the  worst  weapons 
against  the  artillery  of  the  Ev^ue  de  Comdom — and  her  heart  heaved 
under  the  filmy  lace. 

**  Ah,  Gaston !  what  words !  ^  What  devil  tempted  me?'  I  know  not 
whether  love  be  angel  or  devil ;  he  seems  either  or  both !  But  you  love 
me  little,  unless  in  that  name  you  recognise  a  plea  for  every  madness  and 
every  thought !" 

The  scarlet  blood  flushed  over  his  face,  and  his  eyes  shone  and 
gleamed  like  fire,  while  he  clenched  his  hands  in  a  mortal  anguish. 

'^  Angel  or  devil?  Ay !  which,  indeed !  The  one  when  it  comes  to 
us,  the  other  when  it  leaves  us !  You  have  roused  love  in  me  I  shall 
b^r  to  iny  grave ;  but  what  gage  have  I  that  you  give  it  me  back  p 
How  do  1  know  but  that  now,  even  now,  you  are  trifling  with  me, 
mocking  at  me,  smiling  at  the  beardless  priest  who  is  unlearned  in  all  the 

giy  gallantries  of  libertine  churchmen  and  soldierly  courtiers?     My 
eaven!  how  know  I,  as  I  stand  beside  you,  whether  you  pity  or  disdain 
me,  love  or  scorn  me  ?" 

The  passionate  words  broke  in  a  torrent  from  his  lips,  stirring  the 
subdued  stillness  of  the  summer  eve  with  a  fiery  anguish  little  akin 
to  it. 

''  Do  I  not  love  you  ?"  Her  answer  was  simple ;  but  as  Leontine  de 
Benneconrt  spoke  it,  leaning  her  cheek  against  his  breast,  with  her  eyes 
dazzling  as  the  diamonds  in  her  hair,  looking  up  into  his  by  the  light  of 


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MADAME  LA  MARQUISE.  35 

the  stars,  they  had  an  eloquence  far  more  dangerous  than  speech,  and 
delirious  to  the  senses  as  magician's  perfumes.  His  lips  lingered  on  hers, 
and  she  felt  the  loud  fast  throbs  of  the  heart  she  had  won  as  he  bent 
over  her,  pressing  her  closer  and  closer  to  him — vanquished  and  con- 
quered, as  men  in  all  ages  and  of  all  creeds  have  been  vanquished  and 
conquered  by  women,  all  other  thoughts  fleeing  away  into  oblivion,  all 
fears  dying  out,  all  vows  forgotten  in  the  warm,  living  life  of  passion  and 
of  joy,  that,  for  the  first  time  in  a  brief  life,  flooded  his  heart  with  its 
golden  voluptuous  light. 

"  You  love  me,  LSontine?  O  Heaven!  I  have  no  strength  to  put  away 
this  joy ;  we  are  mortal,  not  Deity,  that  we  should  be  blind,  and  dumb, 
and  dead  to  the  passion  that  beats  within  us.  You  love  me  ?  So  be  it 
— better  torture  with  you  than  paradise  alone ;  but  beware  what  you  do, 
my  life  lies  now  in  your  hands,  and  your  love  must  be  mine  till  death 
sl^l  part  us  r 

*^  Till  my  fancy  change  rather!*'  thought  Madame  la  Marquise,  as  she 
put  her  jewelled  hand  on  his  lips,  her  hair,  perfumed  with  Eastern 
fragrance;,  softly  brushing  his  cheek,  with  a  touch  as  soft,  and  an  odour 
as  sweet,  as  the  leaves  of  one  of  the  roses  twining  below. 

Two  men  strolling  below  under  the  limes  of  Petite  ForSt— discussing 
the  last  scandales  of  Versailles,  talking  of  the  ascendancy  of  La  Fontanges, 
of  the  Spanish  dress  his  Majesty  had  reassumed  to  please  her,  of  the  Brin- 
vilUers'  Poudre  de  ^Succession,  of  the  new  ch&teau  given  to  P^  de  La 
Chaise  (that  gentle  royal  confessor  with  absolutions  ever  ready  to  stretch 
to  any  point)  ;  of  D'Aubigny's  last  extravagance  and  Lauzun's  last  mot» 
and  the  last  gossip  about  Bossuet  and  Mademoiselle  de  Mauleon,  and 
all  the  chit-chat  of  that  varied  day,  glittering  with  wit  and  prolific  of 
poison — glanced  up  to  the  balcony  by  the  light  of  the  stars. 

**  That  cursed  priest !"  muttei^  the  younger,  le  Vicomte  de  Saint- 
Elix,  as  he  struck  the  head  off  a  lily  with  his  delicate  badine. 

*'  In  a  fool's  paradise  I  Ah!  Madame  la  Marquise!"  laughed  the  other 
— the  old  Due  de  Clos-Vougeot — taking  a  chocolate  dragee  out  of  his 
emerald-studded  bonbon  niere  as  they  walked  on,  while  the  lime-blossoms 
shook  off  in  the  summer  night  wind  and  dropped  dead  on  the  grass 
beneath,  laughing  at  the  story  of  the  box  D'Artagnan  had  found  in 
Lauzun's  rooms  when  he  seized  his  papers,  con  tinning  the  portnuts  of 
sixty  women  of  high  degree  who  had  worshipped  the  resistless  Capitaine 
des  Glardes,  from  the  Queen  of  Portugal  to  saintly  devotes,  with  critical 
and  historical  notices  penned  under  each — notices  D'Artagnan  and  his 
aide  could  not  help  indiscreetly  retailing  en  petit  comit^  and  over  soupers 
de  minuit,  in  despite  of  the  Bourbon  command  of  secrecy — secrecy  so 
necessary  where  sixty  beauties  and  saints  were  involved!  "A  fool's 
paradise!"  saxd  the  Due  de  Clos-Vougeot,  tapping  his  bonbonniere, 
enamelled  by  Petitot :  the  Due  was  old,  and  knew  women  well,  and 
knew  the  value  and  length  of  a  paradise  dependent  on  that  most 
fickle  of  butterflies — female  fidelity;  he  had  heard  Ninon  de  Len* 
dos  try  to  persuade  Scarron's  wife  to  become  a  coquette,  and  Scar- 
ron's  wife  in  turn  beseech  Ninon  to  discontinue  her  coquetteries;  had 
seen  that,  however  different  their  theories  and  practice,  the  result  was  the 
same,  and  already  guessed  right,  that  if  Paris  had  been  universally  won 
by  the  one,  its  monarch  would  eventually  be  won  by  the  other.  "  A  fool  s 

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36  MADAME  LA  MABQUISE. 

paradbe  !**     The  cmntier  was  right,  but  the  priest,  had  he  heard  him, 
would  never  hare  believed ;  his  heaven  shone  in  those  dazzling  eyes :  tall 
the  eyes  dosed  in  death,  his  heaven  was  safe  !     He  had  never  loved,  he 
had  seen  nothing  of  women ;  he  had  come  strai^t  from  the  monastic 
gloom  of  a  Dominican  abbey,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Soudi,  down  in 
Languedoe,  where  costly  missals  were  his  only  idol,  and  rigid  pietists,  pro* 
fionndly  ignorant  of  the  ways  and  thoughts  of  their  brethren  of  Paris,  had 
reared  him  np  in  anchorite  rigidity,  and  scourged  his  mind  with  iron 
philosophies  and  stoic-like  doctrines  of  self-morti6cation  that  would  have 
repudiated  the  sophistries  and  ingenuities  of  Sandies,  Escobar,  and  Mas- 
carenhas,  as  snggestaons  of  the  very  Master  of  Evil  himself.     From  the 
ascetic  gloom  of  that  Languedoe  convent  he  had  been  brought  stnught,  by 
superior  vriil,  into  ^e  dazzling  glare  of  ihe  life  at  Versailles,  that  bril- 
Hfmt,  goi^geous,  sparkling,  bizarre  life,  scintillatiBg  with  wit,  brimful  of 
intrigue,  crowded  with  the  men  and  the  women  who  formed  the  Court  of 
diat  age  and  the  History  of  the  next — where  diamonds  were  melted  to 
brighten  the  wine,  and  every  di^  was  a  plat  sucr^  if  aqua  toffania 
bubbled  beneath — where  he  found  every  churchman  an  abb6  gakmt,  and 
heard  those  who  performed  the  mass  jest  at  it  with  those  who  attended  it 
— ^where  he  found  no  lines  marked  of  rig^t  and  wrong,  but  saw  them  all 
fused  in  a  gay,  tangled  web  of  two  court  colours — Expediency  and 
Pleasure ;  a  11^  that  dazzled  and  tired  his  eyes,  as  the  glitter  of  lights  ia 
a  room  dazzles  and  tires  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  comes  suddenly  in  from 
Ae  dark  night  air,  till  he  grew  giddy  and  sick,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
gilded  salons,  or  the  soft  confessions  of  titled  pecheresses,  would  ask  himself 
if  indeed  he  could  be  the  same  Gaston  de  Launay  who  had  sat  calm  and 
grave  with  the  mellow  sun  streaming  in  on  his  missal-page  in  the 
monastic  gloom  of  the  Dominican  abbey  but  so  few  brief  months  before, 
when  all  this  world  of  Versailles  was  unknown  p     The  same  Gkston  de 
Launay?  truly  not— never  again  the  same,  since  Madame  la  Marquise 
had  asked,  ^  Qui  est  ce  beau  pr^re  ?"  of  Saint-Elix,  one  day,  had  bent 
her  brown  eyes  upon  him,  been  amused  with  his  singular  difference  from 
all  those  around  her,  bad  loved  him,  en  passant,  as  women  loved  at 
Versailles^  and  bowed  him  down  to  her  feet,  before  he  guessed  the  name 
of  the  forbidden  language  that  stirred  in  his  heart  and  rushed  to  his  lips, 
untaught  and  unbidden.     He  loved,  and  Madame  la  Marquise  loved  him, 
^  A  fool's  paradise !"   said  the  Due,  sagaciously,  tapping  his  gold  bon- 
bonni^.     But  many  a  paradise  like  it  has  dawned  and  faded,  before, 
and  nnce,  the  Versailles  of  Louis  Quatorze. 

He  loved,  and  Madame  la  Marquise  loved  him.  Through  one  brief 
tumult  of  struggle  he  passed :  struggle  between  the  creed  of  the  Domi^ 
nioan  abbey,  where  no  sin  would  have  been  held  so  thrice  accursed,  so 
unpardonable,  so  deserving  of  the  scovrge  and  the  stake  as  this — and 
the  creed  of  the  Bourbon  Court,  where  churchmen's  gallantries  were  every- 
day gossip ;  where  the  Abb6  de  Planck,  ere  he  Immded  the  saintly  ^loom 
of  La  Trappe,  scandalised  town  and  court  as  moeh  as  Lauzun ;  where  thei 
P^  de  la  Chaise  smiled  complacently  on  La  Fontanges'  ascendancy ;  where 
three  nobles  rushed  to  pick  up  the  handkerdiief  (x  that  royal  confessor, 
who  washed  out  with  eau  b^nite  the  royal  faux  pas,  as  yoa  vrash  off  grains 
of  dust  with  eau  parfum^  ;  where  the  great  and  saintly  Ev^ue  de  Con- 
dom could  be  checked  in  a  rebuking  huangue,  and  have  the  tables  turned 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


JCADAKS  Lk  HABQUISE.  Zt 

oa  him  by  a  mudueTOiw  refovenoe  to  Madetnouelle  de  ^kkuUon  ;  vliere 
life  was  iotrigae  for  churchmen  and  kymen  alike,  aad  where  the  aUb^i 
rof^t  aud  the  eardinal's  scarlet  ooverod  the  same  ricet  as  were  openly 
Uaaoaed  on  the  gold  aigulets  of  the  Garde  du  Corps  and  the  costly  lace  cf 
tiie  ChambeUan  Sa  Roi.  A  storm,  brief  and  violent  as  the  summer  stcani 
^lat  raged  e^er  YenaiUes,  was  roused  between  the  conflicting  dioughts  at 
war  wi&B  himy  between  the  pnnciples  deeply  rooted  from  kikg  habttand 
stem  belief,  and  the  passions  sprung  up  unbidden  with  the  sudden  growth 
and  gorgeous  glow  of  a  tromcal  flower — a  storm,  brief  and  violent,  a 
atm^^  ended  that  night,  when  he  stood  on  the  balcony  with  the  woman 
lie  loved,  felt  her  Iqis  upon  his,  and  bowed  down  to  her  feet  delirious  and 
strengthless. 

"  I  have  won  my  wager  with  Adeline  ;  I  have  vanquished  mon  beau 
De  LttBay,"  thought  Madame  la  Marquise,  smiling,  two  days  after,  ai 
Alt  sat,  ea  D^lig^,  in  her  broidered  fftuteuil,  pulling  Osmin's  ears,  and 
stirring  the  frothy  chocolate  handed  to  her  by  her  negro,  Aaor,  hnnigfait 
over  in  the  suite  of  the  African  embassy  from  Ardra,  fufl  of  monkeyish 
espi^lerif^  and  coreied  with  gems — a  priceless  dwar^  black  as  ink,  and 
but  two  feet  high,  who  could  match  any  day  with  the  queen's  little  Moor, 
**  He  amuses  me  with  his  vows  of  eternal  love.  Btmial  love  ?  Quel 
eonte  bleu  ridicule !  how  de  trop  we  should  find  it,  here  in  Venaillesl 
But  it  is  amusing  enough  to  play  at  for  a  season  ;  and  he  loves  me,  mon 
juutrre  Gaston.  No,  that  is  not  half  enough — ^he  adores  1  He  loves  mo 
pour  moi-meme,  the  others  love  me  pour  eux-memes :  a  very  great  dif- 
ference; n*est-ce-pas,  Osmin?** 

So,  in  the  salons  of  Versailles,  and  in  the  wc^ld,  where  Ninon  reigned 
(and  made  her  reign  so  brilliant  that  she  held  the  court  in  contemptuous 
disdain  as  hors  du  monde),  by  the  jeunesse  dor^e,  while  they  lauglM  over 
Hathehn's  mischievous  caricature  that  had  cost  its  graver  the  Bastille,  and 
by  the  dames  de  la  cour,  while  they  loitered  in  the  new-made  gardens  of 
Marly,  among  other  similar  things  jested  of  was  this  new  amour  of 
Madame  de  la  Riviere  for  the  young  Pere  de  Launay.  '<  She  was  always 
eceentrie  in  fancy,  and  he  wtu  very  handsome,  and  would  have  charming 
manners  if  he  were  not  so  grave  and  so  silent,"  the  women  averred ;  while 
the  young  nobles  swore  that  these  meddling  churchmen  had  always  the 
best  luck,  whether  in  the  bonnes  fortunes  of  amatory  conquest,  or  tha 
bonnes  bouches  of  fat  lands  and  rich  revenues.  What  the  priest  of  Lan- 
guedoc  thought  a  love  that  would  outlast  life,  and  repay  him  for  peace  of 
conscience  and  heaven  both  lost,  was  only  one  of  the  passing  bubbles 
of  gossip  and  scandal  floating  for  an  hour,  amidst  myriads  like  it,  on 
the  glittering,  &st-rushing,  diamond-bright  waters  of  life  at  Versmlles ! 

A  new  exist^ice  had  dawned  for  Gaston  de  Launay  ;  far  away  in  tha 
dim  dusky  vista  of  £c»rgotten  things,  though  in  reality  barely  distant  a  £ew 
short  months,  lay  the  old  life  in  Languedoc,  vague  and  unremembered  as 
a  passed  draam  ;  with  its  calm  routine,  its  monastic  silence,  its  unvaryii^ 
akematioDS  of  study  and  prayer,  its  iron-bound  thoughts,  its  rigid  croed. 
It  had  sunk  away  as  the  peaceful  grey  twilight  of  a  summer's  night  sinks 
nvay  before  the  fiery  burst  of  an  artificial  illumination,  and  a  new  life  had 
dawned  for  htm,  radiant,  tumultuous,  conflicting,  delicious — that  dazzled 
Us  eyes  with  the  magnificence  of  boundless  riches  and  unrestricted  ex- 
toMiganoe;  that  charmed  his  intellect  with  the  witty  corruscations,  th« 


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38  MADAME  LA  MARQUISE. 

polished  esprit,  of  an  age  unsurpassed  for  genius,  grace  and  wit;  and 
that  swayed  alike  his  heart,  his  imagination,  and  his  passions  with  the 
subtle  intoxication  of  this  syren  of  Love,  whose  forbidden  sone  had  never 
before,  in  faintest  echo,  fallen  on  his  ear.  Far  away  in  the  dim,  lifeless^ 
pulseless  past,  sank  the  memory  of  the  old  Dominican  Abbey,  of  all  it 
had  taueht  him,  of  all  it  had  exacted,  in  its  iron,  stoical,  merciless  creed. 
A  new  life  had  arisen  for  him,  and  Gaston  de  Launay,  waking  from  the 
semi-slumber  of  the  living  death  he  had  endured  in  Languedoc,  and  liked 
because  he  knew  no  other,  was  happy — happy  as  a  prisoner  is  in  the  wild 
delight  with  which  he  welcomes  the  sunlight  after  lengthened  imprison- 
ment, happy  as  an  opium-eater  is  in  the  delicious  delirium  that  succeeds 
the  lulling  softness  of  the  opiate. 

^^He  loves  me,  poor  Gaston  1  Bah!  But  how  strangely  he  talks!  If 
love  were  this  fiery,  changeless,  earnest  thing  with  us  that  it  is  with  him, 
what  in  the  world  should  we  do  with  it  ?  We  should  have  to  get  a  lettre 
de  cachet,  and  forbid  it  the  Court;  send  it  in  exile  to  Pignerol,  as  they 
have  just  done  Peguilan  de  Lauzun.  Love  au  s^rieux  ?  We  should  lose 
ihe  best  spice  for  our  wine,  the  best  toy  for  our  games,  and,  mon  Dieu ! 
what  embrouillemens  there  would  be !  Love  au  s^rieux  ?  Bagatelle  I 
Louise  de  la  Yalli^re,  petite  sotte,  shows  us  the  folly  of  that ;  but  for  its 
Quixotisms  she  would  now  be  at  Vaujours,  instead  of  buried  alive  in  that 
Rue  St.  Jacques,  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  weep  for  *  Louison,'  count  her 
beads,  and  listen  to  M.  de  Condom's  merciless  eloquence !     Like  the  kii^, 

J'aime  qu'on  m'aime,  mais  avec  de  Tesprit. 

People  have  no  right  to  reproach  each  other  with  inconstancy ;  one's 
caprices  are  not  in  one's  own  keeping;  and  one  can  no  more  help  where 
one's  fancy  blows,  than  that  lime-leaf  can  help  where  the  breeze  chooses  to 
waft  it  But  poor  Gaston  !  how  make  him  comprehend  that?"  thought 
Madame  la  Marquise,  as  she  turned,  and  smiled,  and  held  out  her  warm 
jewelled  hands,  and  listened  once  again  to  the  passionate  words  of  the 
man  who  was  in  her  power  as  utterly  as  the  bird  in  the  power  of  the 
snake  when  it  has  once  looked  up  into  the  fatal  dazzling  eyes  that  lure 
it  on  to  its  doom. 

**  You  will  love  me  ever,  L^ontine  ?"  he  would  ask,  resting  his  lips  on 
her  white  low  brow. 

'^  A  jamais!"  would  softly  answer  Madame  la  Marquise. 

And  her  lover  believed  her:  should  his  deity  lie?  He  believed 
her  I  What  did  he,  fresh  from  the  solitude  of  his  monastery,  gloomy 
and  severe  as  that  of  the  Trappist  abbey,  with  its  perpetual  silence, 
its  lowered  glances,  its  shrouded  faces,  its  ever-present  "Memento  mori,'' 
know  of  women's  faith,  of  women's  love,  of  the  sense  in  which  (hey 
meant  that  vow  *<^  jamais"?  He  believed  her,  and  never  asked  what 
would  be  at  the  end  of  a  path  strewn  with  such  odorous  flowers.  Alone, 
it  is  true,  in  moments  when  he  paused  to  think,  he  stood  aghast  at  the 
abyss  into  which  he  had  fallen,  at  the  sin  into  which,  a  few  months  be- 
fore, haughty  and  stem  in  virtue  against  the  temptation  that  had  never 
entered  his  path,  he  would  have  de6ed  devils  in  legion  to  have  lured 
him,  yet  into  which  he  had  now  plunged  at  the  mere  smile  of  a  woman  I 
Out  of  her  presence,  out  of  her  spells,  standing  by  himself  under  the 
same  skies  that  had  brooded  over  his  days  of  peace  in  Languedoc,  back  oo 


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MADAME  LA  MABQUI8E.  39 

his  heart,  with  a  sickening  angubh,  would  come  the  weight  of  his  sin ; 
the  burden  of  his  broken  oaths,  the  scorch  of  that  curse  eternal  which, 
by  his  creed,  he  held  drawn  down  on  him  here  and  hereafter;  and  Gaston 
de  Launay  would  struggle  again  against  this  idolatrous  passion,  which 
had  come  with  its  fell  delusion  betwixt  him  and  his  God ;  struggle—- 
vainly,  idly — struggle— -only  to  hug  closer  the  sin  he  loved  while  he 
loathed ;  only  to  drink  deeper  of  the  draught  whose  voluptuous  perfume 
was  poison ;  only  to  forget  all,  forsake  all,  dare  all,  at  one  whisper  of  her 
voice,  one  glance  of  her  eyes,  one  touch  of  the  lips  whose  caress  he  held 
would  be  bought  by  a  curse  dirough  eternity. 

Few  women  love  aught  '*  for  ever,"  save,  perchance,  diamonds,  lace, 
and  their  own  beauty,  and  Madame  la  Marquise  was  not  one  of  those  few; 
certunly  not — she  had  no  desire  to  make  herself  singular  in  her  gene- 
ration, and  could  set  fashions  much  more  likely  to  find  disciples,  without 
Teverting  to  anything  so  eccentric,  paysanne,  and  out  of  date.  Love  one 
for  ever !  She  would  have  thought  it  as  terrible  waste  of  her  fascina- 
tions, as  for  a  jewel  to  shine  in  the  solitude  of  its  case,  looked  on  by  only 
one  pair  of  eyes,  or  for  a  priceless  enamel,  by  Petitot,  to  be  only  worn 
next  the  heart,  shrouded  away  from  the  light  of  day,  hidden  under  the 
folds  of  linen  and  lace.  *^  Love  one  for  ever  F" — Madame  la  Marquise 
laughed  at  the  thought,  as  she  stood  dressed  for  a  ball,  after  assisting  at 
the  representation  of  a  certain  tragedy,  called  *<  Berenice"  (in  which 
Mesdames  Deshouli^res  and  De  S^vign6,  despite  their  esprit,  alone,  of  all 
Paris  and  the  court,  could  see  no  beauty),  and  glanced  in  the  mirror  at 
her  radiant  face,  her  delicate  skin,  her  raven  curls,  with  their  pendants 
shaking,  her  snow-white  arms,  and  her  costly  dress  of  the  newest  mode, 
its  stomacher  gleaming  one  mass  of  gems.  "  Love  one  for  ever  ?  Ma 
foi!  il  est  joliment  exigeant,  monsieur  mon  prStre!  —  mais  je  I'aime 
maintenant ;  c'est  assez  pour  moi,  et  il  faut  que  ce  soit  assez  pour  lui"  It 
was  more  than  enough  for  his  rivals,  who,  not  having  rococo  Languedoc 
taste  for  an  amour  itemelle,  bitterly  envied  him  this  amour  passagere ; 
courtly  abb6s,  with  polished  smiles,  and  young  chanoines,  with  scented 
curis  and  velvet  toques,  courtiers,  who  piqued  themselves  on  reputations 
only  second  to  Lauzun*s,  and  hommes  du  monde,  who  laughed  at  this  new 
caprice  of  Madame  la  Marquise,  alike  bore  no  good- will  to  this  Languedoc 
priest,  and  gave  him  a  significant  sneer,  or  a  compliment  that  roused 
his  blood  to  fire,  and  stung  him  far  worse  than  more  open  insult,  when 
they  met  in  the  salons,  or  crossed  in  the  corridors,  at  Versailles  or 
Petite  For^t.  "  Those  men !  those  men  !  Should  he  ever  lose  her  to  any 
one  of  them  ?"  he  would  think  over  and  over  again,  clenching  his  hand, 
in  impotent  agony  of  passion  that  he  had  not  the  sword  and  the  licence  of 
a  soldier  to  strike  them  on  the  lips  with  his  glove  for  the  smile  with 
which  they  dared  to  speak  her  name  ;  to  make  them  wash  out  in  blood 
under  the  trees,  before  the  sun  was  up,  the  laugh,  the  mot,  the  delicate 
satire,  which  were  worse  to  bear  than  a  blow  to  the  man  who  could  not 
avenge  them. 

**  Pardiett !  le  plus  grand  miracle  est  de  guerir  de  la  coquetterie ! 
Vadame  roust  be  very  unusually  faithful  to  her  beau  pr^tre ;  she  has 
smiled  on  no  other  for  two  months !  What  unparalleled  fidelity  !'*  swd 
the  Vicomte  de  Saint  Elix,  twisting  his  long  blonde  moustaches  with  a 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


40  MADAME  LA  MABQUISE. 

<<  Jealoos,  L^Qce  ?"  laughed  tbe  old  Due,  whom  he  spoke  to,  tapping 
ihe  medallion  portrait  on  his  bosboani^re.  *'  Take  comfort :  when  tha 
weather  has  been  so  long  fixed,  it  is  always  near  a  change.  Ah !  M.  de 
Launay  ov^ears  I  He  looks  as  if  he  would  slay  us.  Very  unchristiaii 
in  a  priest !" 

Gaston  de  Launay  overlieard,  as  he  stood  by  a  crois^  at  Petite  For^ 
playing  with  Osmin — he  liked  even  the  dog,  since  the  hand  he  loved  sa 
often  lay  on  its  slender  neck,  and  toyed  with  its  silver  chain — and,  sworn 
at  he  was  to  the  service  of  his  Church,  sole  mistress  as  his  Church  had 
been,  till  L^ontine  de  Renneoourt's  eyes  had  lured  him  to  his  desertion 
of  her,  apostate  in  his  own  eyes  as  such  a  thought  oonfessed  him  to  have 
erown,  he  now  loathed  the  garb  of  a  priest,  that  bound  hie  hand« 
fiom  vengeanoe,  and  made  him  powerless  be£ore  insult  as  a  woman. 
Fierce,  ruthless,  longing,  for  revenge  upon  these  men  setaed  on  him  | 
devilish  desires,  the  germ  of  which  till  that  hour  he  never  dreamt  shun- 
beved  within  him,  woke  up  into  dangerous,  vigorous  life.  Had  he  lived 
in  the  world,  its  politic  reserve,  its  courtly  sneer,  its  light  gallantries, 
that  passed  the  time  and  flattered  amour-propre,  its  dissimalated  hate 
that  smiled  while  plotting,  and  killed  with  poisoned  bonbons,  would  never 
have  been  learnt  by  him ;  and  having  long  lived  out  of  it,  having  been 
suddenly  plunged  into  its  whirl,  not  guessing  its  springs,  ignorant  of  iti 
diplomacies,  its  suave  lies,  termed  good-breeding,  its  leg^res  phikMophies, 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  wisdom  with  which  its  wise  men  forsook  their 
loves  and  concealed  then:  hatreds.  Both  passions  now  sprang  up  in  him 
at  <me  birth,  both  the  stronger  for  the  long  years  in  which  a  chill,  arti- 
fioal,  but  unbroken  calm,  had  chained  his  very  nature  down,  and  fettered 
into  an  iron  monotony,  an  unnatural,  colourless  tranquillity,  a  character 
originally  impetuous  and  vivid,  as  the  frosts  of  a  winter  chill  into  one 
cold,  even,  glassy  surface,  the  rapids  of  a  tumultuous  river.  With  the 
same  force  and  strength  with  which,  in  the  old  days  in  Languedoc,  ha 
had  idolised  and  served  his  Church,  sparing  himself  no  mortification^ 
believing  every  iota  of  her  creed,  carrying  out  her  slightest  rule  with 
merciless  self-examination,  so — ^the  tide  onoe  turned  the  other  way — so 
the  pciest  now  loved,  so  he  now  hated. 

*^Hje  is  growing  exigeant,  jealous,  presuming;  he  amuses  me  no 
longer-^he  wearies.  I  must  give  him  his  cong6,"  thought  Madame  la 
Mutjnise.  '*  Ce  jeu  d'amour  6teime\,  it  is  very  amusing  to  play  at  &c 
a  while,  but  like  all  things,  il  vous  ennuie  when  it  has  lasted  some  time. 
What  does  not  ?  Poor  Gaston,  he  loves  me  as  I  have  not  been  kwed ;  it 
is  his  provincial  ideas,  but  he  will  soon  rub  such  oSy  and  find,  like  us  all« 
that  smoerity  is  troublesome,  ever  de  trop,  and  never  profitable.  He 
lores  me — but  bah !  so  does  Saint-Elix,  so  do  they  all,  and  a  jealooa 
husband  like  M.  de  Nesmond,  le  dr61e !  could  scaroely  be  worse  than 
mon  beau  De  Launay  is  growing !"  And  Madame  la  Marquise  glanoed  at 
her  &oe  in  the  mirror,  and  wished  she  knew  Madame  de  Maintenon'a 
secret  for  the  Breuvage  Indien;  wished  she  had  one  of  the  clefs  de 
fayeur  to  admit  her  to  the  Grande  Salle  du  Parlement ;  wished  she  had 
the  eouronne  d*Agrippine  her  friend  Atheaais  had  just  shown  hor; 
wished  Le  Bmn  were  not  now  occupied  on  the  ceiling  of  the  Ring's  grands 
galerie,  and  were  free  to  paint  the  frescoes  of  her  own  aew-buiit  chi^s 
wished  a  thousand  unattainable  things,  as  spoilt  children  of  fortune  wilL 


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lUDAlfS  LA.  1IABQU18B.  41 

do,  and  swept  down  her  eliAteaa  tttircaM  a  little  bondeuae  and  contra* 
n6e — she  eoidd  not  have  told  why — to  recenre  her  guests  at  a  £^  given 
in  boQOiir  of  the  marriage  of  Mademoiselle  de  Blois  and  the  Prince  d« 
Conti.  There  was  the  yonng  Comte  de  Vermandois,  who  would  recog- 
nise in  the  Daaphin  no  saperioritj  save  that  of  his  '<  frere  aln4 ;"  thero 
was  *'le  petit  ^XMsii,"  Prince  Engene,  then  soliciting  the  roohet  of  a 
Biriiop,  and  equally  ridiculed  when  he  soi^ht  a  poet  in  ^  army; 
there  was  M.  de  Louvois,  who  had  just  signed  the  order  finr  the 
Dragonadee;  there  was  the  Palatbe  de  Bavi^  with  her  gancha 
German  bmsquerie,  who  had  just  clumsily  tried  to  insult  Madame  de 
Monteepan  by  coming  into  the  salon  with  a  great  tomspit,  led  by  a 
nmilar  ribbon  and  called  by  the  same  name,  in  ridicule  of  the  pet  Mon- 
teipan  'poodle ;  diere  was  La  Montespcn  herself  with  her  lovely  gold 
hair,  her  dove's  eyes,  and  her  serpent's  tongue ;  there  was  Madame  de 
86vign^  and  Madame  de  Grignan,  the  Duehesse  de  RieheHeu  and  the 
Dnchesse  de  Lesdigoi^res ;  there  was  Bussy  Rabutin  and  Hamilton. 
Who  was  there  not  ^at  was  brilliant,  that  was  distinguished,  that  was 
liigh  in  rank  and  fiuned  in  wit  at  the  fdte  of  Madame  la  Marquise  ?— « 
Madame  la  Marquise,  who  floated  through  the  crowd  that  glittered  in 
her  salon  and  gardens,  who  laughed  and  smiled,  showing  her  daaling 
white  teeth,  who  had  a  little  Cupid  gleaming  with  jewels  (emblematie 
enough  of  Cupid  as  he  was  known  at  VersaiUes)  present  the  Prinoessa 
de  Conti  with  a  bridal  bouquet  whose  flowers  were  of  pearls  and  whose 
leaves  were  of  easeralds ;  who  piqued  herself  that  the  magniflcenoe  of  her 
f(He  vras  soaroely  eclipsed  by  His  Majesty  himself ;  who  yielded  the  palm 
neither  to  LtL  Yalliere's  lovely  daughter,  nor  to  her  friend  Ath^nais,  nor 
to  any  one  of  die  beau^es  who  ^one  with  them,  and  whose  likeness  by 
Mynard  laughed  down  from  the  wall  where  it  hung,  matchless  double  oif 
her  own  matrices  self. 

The  pTieet  of  Languedoc  watched  her,  the  relentless  &ngs  of  passion 
gnawing  his  heart,  as  the  wolf  the  Spartan.  For  the  flret  tiase  he  was 
forgotten  !  His  idol  passed  him  carelessly,  gave  him  no  glance,  no  smile, 
but  lavished  a  thousand  coquetteries  on  Saint-EHx,  on  De  Bohan-Soubisey 
on  the  boy  Venaandois,— on  any  who  sought  them.  Once  he  addressed 
her.  Madame  la  Marquise  shrugged  her  snow-white  shoulders,  and  arched 
her  eyebrows  with  petulant  irritation :  "  Pardon,  monsieur  I  roais  vooa 
me  taquinez  1"  and  turned  to  laugh  gaily  at  a  mot  of  Saint- EUix,  who 
was  amusing  her,  and  La  Montespan,  snd  Madame  de  Tfaianges  with 
acme  gay  mischievous  scandale  coneeming  Madame  de  Lesdigui^res  and 
«he  Archbishop  of  Paris ;  for  scandales,  if  not  wholly  new,  are  ever  divert- 
mg  when  coneeming  an  enemy,  specially  when  dressed  and  served  up 
widi  the  sauce  piquante  of  wit. 

^  Je  n'aurai  done  plus  occasion,  madame,  d'Atve  jaloux  de  ee  ^r^tre 
d^tesUble  ?"  whiepered  Saint- EKx,  after  other  whiipers,  in  the  ear  of 
Madame  la  Marquise.  The  Yicomte  adored  her  beaux  ye«,  not  truly 
in  Languedoc  fashion,  but  very  warmly — k  la  mode  de  Versailles. 

The  Marqmse  laughed  her  gay,  moqueur  lao^ 

"Peut-6trenon;  mais  il  est  bien  beau— plus  beau  que  toi,  Wonoe! 
qinoique  oertainement  je  ne  I'eusse  pas  regarde  si  sa  s^verit6  ne  m'eiit 
f»qct6e  k  le  vaincre,  et  si  Adeline  de  Montevreau  n'etit  pas  pari^  avaa 
mci  que  je  n'en  fenus  jamais  la  eonqudte.    J'u  gagn^  mon  paxi^  at 


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42  MADAME  LA  MARQUISE. 

maintenant  De  Launay  iu'ennuie  'an  peu,  je  le  confesse— — Ah,  ciel !  il 
Dous  entend !  Je  ne  le  croyais  pas  si  pres  de  nous.  Nous  aurons  quelque 
trag^die,  mon  cher!" 

*^  M.  le  Vicomte,  if  you  have  the  honour  of  a  noble,  the  heart  of  a 
man,  you  fight  me  to-night.     I  seek  no  shelter  under  my  cloth  !*' 

Saint-Elix  turned  as  he  heard  the  words,  spoken  fiercely  and  low,  as 
he  left  ihe  Marquise  at  a  call  there  was  no  disobeying  (the  call  of  the 
Dauphin,  who  was  disputing,  as  usual,  with  Vermandois,  and  had 
beckoned  his  favourite  to  settle  the  dispute),  the  Vicomte  laughed 
scornfully,  and  signed  the  speaker  away  with  an  insolent  sneer : 

^'Bah!  Monsieur  de  Launay,  we  do  not  fight  with  women  and 
churchmen  I" 

The  fi^te  was  ended  at  last,  the  lights  that  had  gleamed  among  the 
limes  and  chesnuts  had  died  out,  the  gardens  and  salons  were  emptied 
and  silent,  the  little  Cupid  had  laid  aside  his  weighty  jewelled  wings,  the 
carriages  with  their  gorgeous  liveries,  their  outriders,  and  their  guards  of 
honour,  had  rolled  ^m  the  gates  of  Petite  For^t  to  the  Palace  of  Ver- 
sailles. Madame  la  Marquise  stood  alone  once  more  in  the  balcony  of 
her  salons,  leaning  her  white  arms  on  its  gilded  balustrade,  looking  down 
on  to  the  gardens  beneath,  silvered  with  the  breaking  light  of  the  dawn, 
smiling,  her  white  teeth  gleaming  between  her  parted  rose-hued  lips,  and 
thinking— of  what  ?     Who  shall  say  ? 

Still,  still  as  death  lay  the  gardens  below,  that  an  hour  ago  had  been 
peopled  with  a  glittering  crowd,  re-echoing  with  music,  laughter,  witty 
response,  words  of  intrigue.  Where  the  lights  had  shone  on  diamonds  and 
pearl-broidered  trains,  on  softly  rouged  cheeks,  and  gold-laced  coats,  on 
jewelled  swords  and  aigulets  of  gold,  the  g^y  hue  of  the  breaking  day 
now  only  fell  on  the  silvered  leaves  of  the  limes,  the  turf  wet  with  dew,  the 
drooped  heads  of  the  Provence  roses ;  and  Madame  la  Marquise,  standing 
alone,  started  as  a  step  through  the  salon  within  broke  the  silence. 

''  Madame,  will  you  permit  me  a  word  now  ?" 

'< Gaston!  Ah,  bah,  comme  c'est  mal  Apropos!"  she  thought;  '^ces 
gens  jaloux  sont  si  opini^tres,  si  drdles !" 

Gaston  de  Launay  took  her  hands  off  the  balustrade,  and  held  them 
tight  in  his,  while  his  voice  sounded,  even  in  his  own  ears,  strangely 
calm,  yet  strangely  harsh: 

"  Madame,  you  love  me  no  longer  F" 

"  Mais,  monsieur,  vous  le  prenez  sur  le  ton  d'un  inquisiteur !  I  do  not 
answer  questions  put  to  me  m  such  a  manner." 

She  would  have  drawn  her  hands  away,  but  he  held  them  in  a  fierce 
grasp  till  her  rings  cut  his  skin,  as  they  bad  done  once  before. 

"  No  trifling !     Answer — yes  or  no  !*' 

^'  Well !  <  no,'  then,  monsieur.  Since  you  will  have  the  truth,  do  not 
blame  me  if  you  find  it  uncomplimentary  and  unacceptable." 

He  let  go  her  hands  and  reeled  back,  staggered,  at  if  struck  by  a 
shot. 

**  Mon  Dieu !  it  is  true — ^you  love  me  no  longer !  And  you  tell  it 
me  thus  /" 

Madame  la  Marquise,  for  an  instant,  was  silenced  and  touched ;  foB 
the  words  were  uttered  with  the  faint  anguished  cry  of  a  man  in  mortal 
agony,  and  she  saw,  even  by  the  dim  twilight  of  dawn,  how  livid  his  lip« 


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MADAME  LA  MARQUISE.  43 

ttuned,  how  ashjc  grey  grew  the  hue  of  his  face.  Bat  she  took  up  her 
^Eivourite  ton  railleur,  and  smiled,  plajnng  with  Osmin's  Dew  collar  of 
pearls  and  coral ;  for  the  dog  had  crept  in  after  De  Lannaj,  to  whom, 
more  faithful  than  its  owner,  it  had  grown  fondly  attached. 

'^  Tell  it  you  *  thus  ?'  I  would  not  have  told  it  you  ^  thus,'  moDsieur, 
if  you  had  been  content  with  a  hint,  and  had  not  evinced  so  strong  a 
desire  for  candour  undisguised ;  but  if  people  will  not  comprehend  a 
delicate  suggestion,  they  must  be  wounded  by  plainer  truths — it  is  their 
own  fault.  Did  you  think  I  was  like  a  little  berg^re  in  a  trouv^re  lay, 
to  play  the  childSsh  game  of  constancy  without  variations  ?  Had  yoa 
presumption  enough  to  fancy  you  could  amuse  me  for  ever         " 

He  popped  her,  his  voice  broken  and  hoarse,  as  he  gasped  for  breath. 

"  Silence,  for  the  sake  of  Heaven !  Womaii,  have  you  no  mercy  ? 
Does  a  devil  reign  triumphant  in  your  form  ?  For  you^for  such  as 
you — I  have  flung  away  heaven,  steeped  myself  in  sin,  lost  my  church, 
my  peace,  my  all — forfeited  all  right  to  the  reverence  of  my  fellows,  all 
hope  for  the  smile  of  my  God !  For  you — for  such  as  you — I  have 
become  a  traitor,  a  hypocrite,  an  apostate,  whose  prayers  are  insults, 
whose  professions  are  Ues,  whose  oaths  are  perjury !  At  your  smile  I 
have  flung  away  etemi^;  for  your  kiss,  I  have  risked  my  life  here,  my 
life  hereafter;  for  your  love,  I  held  no  price  too  vast  to  pay;  weighed 
with  it,  honour,  faith,  heaven,  all  seemed  valueless — all  were  for- 
gotten !  J  loved  you !  Great  Heaven !  is  not  that  love  strong  which 
makes  a  man  smile  at  the  threatened  torments  of  eternity  ?  You  lured 
nie  from  tranquil  calm,  you  broke  in  on  the  days  of  peace  which  but  for 
you  were  unbroken  still,  you  haunted  my  prayers,  you  placed  yourself 
between  Heaven  and  me,  you  planned  to  conquer  my  anchorite's  pride, 
you  wagered  you  would  lure  me  from  my  priestly  vows,  and  yet  you 
have  so  little  mercy,  that  when  your  bet  is  won,  when  your  amusement 
grows  stale,  when  the  victory  grows  valueless,  you  can  turn  on  me  with 
words  like  these  without  one  self-reproach  ?" 

^^Ma  foi,  monsieur!  it  is  you  who  may  reproach  yourself,  not  I. 
Are  you  so  very  provincial  still,  that  you  are  ignorant  that  when  a 
lover  has  ceased  to  please  he  has  to  blame  his  own  lack  of  power  to 
retain  any  love  he  may  have  won,  and  is  far  too  well  bred  to  utter  a 
complaint.  Your  language  is  very  new  to  me ;  I  forgive  it  only  because 
I  know  your  ig^cmmce  of  the  savoir-faire,  and  believe  you  are  led  away 
by  the  passion  <^  the  moment.  Most  men,  monsieur,  would  be  grateful 
for  m J  slightest  preference ;  I  permit  none  to  rebuke  me  for  either  giving 
or  withdrawing  it." 

The  eyes  of  Madame  la  Marquise  sparkled  angrily,  and  the  smile  on 
her  lips  was  a  deadly  one,  full  of  irony,  full  of  malice.  As  he  beheld  it 
the  seales  fell  at  last  from  the  eyes  of  Graston  de  Launay,  and  he  saw 
what  this  woman  was  whom  he  had  worshipped  with  such  mad,  blind^ 
idolatrous  passion. 

He  bowed  his  head  with  a  low,  broken  moan,  as  a  man  stunned  by  a 
mortal  blow ;  and  Madame  la  Marquise  stood  playing  with  the  pearl-and-^ 
ooral  chain,  and  smiling  the  malin,  moqueur  smile  that  showed  her  white 
teeth,  as  they  are  shown  in  the  portrait  by  Mignard. 

"  Comme  les  hommes  sont  fous !"  laughed  Madame  la  Marquise. 

He  lifted  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  her  as  she  stood  in  the  faint  light  of 


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44  JfAIXAME  JUL  MABQUI6S. 

Ae  dawBy  with  her  rich  irmSj  her  gktmmg  diftinoiidt^  her  widLed,  mftlin 
'smiky  her  matchless  heautjr;  aod  the  passbn  ia  him  luroke  oat  in  a  bitter 
pry: 

*<  God  help  me !  my  sin  has  brought  home  its  eurse  V 
He  bent  over  her,  his  burning  lips  scorching  her  own  like  fire,  holding 
ber  in  one  last  embrace,  that  clasped  her  in  a  vice  of  iron  she  had  no 
power  to  break.  <<  Angel !  devil !  temptress !  Tki»  for  what  I  have 
deemed  diee-— i^o^  for  what  thou  art !"  He  flung  her  from  him  with  un- 
conscious vidence,  maddened  with  pain,  as  a  man  by  the  Uow  that 
has  bHnded  him,  aod  left  her — flying  where  she  felL 

.  The  grey  abrery  dawn  rose,  and  broke  into  the  warmth  and  simfight 
6f  a  summer  day ;  the  deer  nestled  in  thek  oouehes  under  the  chequered 
shadows  of  the  woodlands  round,  and  the  morning  chimes  were  rung  in 
muflieal  carillons  from  the  campanile  of  the  di&tean  ;  the  Provence  roses 
tossed  their  delicate  heads,  joyously  shaking  the  dew  off  their  scented 
petals ;  the  blossoms  of  the  limes  feU  in  a  fragrant  shower  on  to  the  turf 
below,  and  the  boughs,  swayed  sofdy  by  the  wind,  brushed  their  leaves 
agamst  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  fountains;  the  woods  and  gardens  of 
Petite  For^t  lay,  bright  and  laughing,  in  the  mellow  sunlight  of  the  new 
day  to  which  the  worid  was  waking ;  and  with  his  &ce  turned  up  to  the 
sky,  clasped  in  his  hand  a  medallion  enamel,  on  which  was  painted  the 
hcAd  of  a  woman,  the  grass  and  ferns  where  he  had  fiedlen  stained  crimson 
with  his  life-blood,  lay  a  dead  man,  while  in  hia  bosom  nestled  a  little 
dog,  moaning  piteous,  plaintive  cries,  and  vainly  seeking  its  best  to  wake 
him  to  the  day  that  for  him  would  never  dawn. 

When  her  household,  trembling,  spread  the  news  that  the  dead  man 
had  been  found  lying  under  the  limes,  slain  by  his  own  hand,  and  it 
reached  Madame  la  Marquise  in  her  private  chambers,  she  was  startled, 
diocked,  wept,  hiding  her  radiant  eyes  in  her  broidered  handkerchief. 
'^  Pauvre  Gaston !  c'est  triste;  mais  quand  les  hoomies  sont  Ibus^-que 
peut-on  faire,  mon  Dieu?"  and  called  Aaor,  and  bade  him  bring  her  her 
flacon  d'eau  parfum^,  and  bathed  her  eyes,  and  turned  them  dazzling 
bright  on  Saint-Eliz,  and  stirred  her  chocolate,  and  asked  the  news. 
^'  On  pent  Itre  ^mue  aux  larmes  et  idmer  le  diocolat,"  thought  Madame 
la  Marquise,  with  her  Mend  Ath^nais; — while,  without,  under  the  waving 
shadow  of  the  linden  boughs,  with  the  sunlight  streaming  round  him,  the 
little  dog  nestling  in  his  breast,  refiiang  to  be  comforted,  lay  the  man 
whom  she  had  murdered. 

The  portrait  by  Mignard  still  hangs  on  the  walls  of  the  ehftteau,  and 
in  its  radiant  cdours  Madame  la  Marquise  still  lives,  foir  type  of  her  age, 
smiling  her  malin,  moqueur  smile,  with  the  diamonds  shining  among 
het  hair,  and  her  lurilliaut  eyes  flashino;  defiance,  irony,  and  coquetry  as  of 
yore,  when  she  reigned  amidst  the  beauties  of  Venuulles ; — and  in  the 
gardens  beyond,  in  the  summer  nights,  the  lime  boughs  softly  shake 
&eir  firagrant  flowers  on  the  turf;  and  the  moonlight  falb  in  hushed 
and  mournful  csdm,  streaming  through  the  network  <^  the  boughs  on  to 
the  tangled  mass  of  violets  and  ferns  that  has  grown  up  in  rank  luxuriance 
over  the  spot  where  Gaston  de  Launay  died. 


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45 
STAGE  EMOnOIf. 

BT  HOKK8HOOD. 

MoiVTAiGNEy  in  one  of  his  discursiye  essays,  ^  Tentilates"  the  question 
of  orator  and  comedian  being  touched  to  the  quick  in  acting  their  parts, 
tboufi^h  in  fiction.  The  orator  shall,  he  sajs,  in  die  ''  force  of  his  plead- 
ing,' be  moved  with  the  sound  of  his  own  yoice  and  feimed  emotions^ 
and  suffer  himself  to  be  imposed  upon  by  the  passion  he  represents— 
imprinting  in  himself  a  true  and  roal  grief  by  means  of  the  part  he 
phiys,  to  transmit  it  to  the  judges,  who  are  less  concerned  than  he :  *^  as 
they  do  who  are  hired  at  funerals  to  assist  in  the  ceremony  of  sorrow, 
who  sell  their  tears  and  mourning  by  weight  and  measure.  For  although 
thcgr  act  in  a  borrowed  form,  nevertheless  by  habituating  themselves, 
and  settling  their  countenances  to  the  occasion,  'tis  most  certain  ihey  are 
often  really  affected  with  a  true  and  real  sorrow.  .  .  Quintilian  reports 
to  have  seen  players  so  deeply  engaged  in  a  mourning  part,  that  they 
could  not  give  over  weeping  when  they  came  home ;  and  of  Hmself, 
that  having  undertaken  to  stir  up  that  passion  in  another,  he  himself 
espoused  it  to  that  degree  as  to  find  himself  surprised  not  only  into  tears, 
but  even  with  paleness,  and  the  port  of  a  man  overwhelmed  with 
grie£'^  One  can  fancy  Shakspeare  not  unmindful  of  the  passage — for 
he  was  a  reader  of  Montaigne,  at  least  had  a  copy  of  him — when  put- 
ting into  Hamlet's  mouth  such  lines  as, 

Is  it  not  monstrous,  that  this  player  here. 

But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 

Ck>uld  force  Iiis  soul  so  to  his  own  conceit, 

That  from  her  working,  all  his  visage  wann'dj 

Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in's  aspect, 

A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 

With  forms  to  his  conceit  P    And  all  for  nothmg ! 

EorHeeubal 

What's  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 

That  he  should  weep  for  her  P    What  would  he  do. 

Had  he  the  motive,  and  the  cue  for  passion. 

That  I  have  ?    He  would  drown  the  stage  with  tears, 

And  cleave  the  general  ear  with  horrid  speech ; 

Make  mad  the  guilty,  and  appal  the  free. 

Confound  the  i^rant ;  and  amaze,  indeed, 

The  very  faculties  of  eyes  and  ears.! 

Talking  one  day,  with  John  Philip  Kemble,  on  the  subject  of  his  pro- 
fessioD,  Dr.  Johnson  inquired,  "  Aj*e  you.  Sir,  one  of  those  enthusiasts 
who  believe  yourself  transformed  into  the  very  character  you  repre- 
sent ?"  Upon  the  young  actor's  answering — that  he  had  never  felt  so 
strong  a  persuasion  himself;  ^*  To  be  sure  not,  Sir,"  said  Johnson  ;  ^*  the 
thing  is  impossible.  And  if  Garnck  really  believed  himself  to  be  that 
monster,  Richard  the  Third,  he  deserved  to  be  hanged  every  time  he 

*  Montaigne's  Essajs  (Cotton's  translation),  book  ill.  cb.  iv. 
t  Hamlet,  Act  H.  Sc.  2. 


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46  STAGE  EMOTION. 

performed  it"*  Alluding  to  this  interview,  Leigh  Hunt  has  remarked, 
**  It  was  Johnson's  opinion  (speaking  of  a  common  cant  of  critics)  that 
an  actor  who  really  'took  himself  for  Richard  III.,  deserved  to  be 
hanged ;  and  it  is  easy  enough  to  agree  with  him  ;  except  that  an  actor 
who  did  so  would  be  out  of  his  senses.  Too  great  a  sensibility  seems 
almost  as  hurtful  to  acting  as  too  little.  It  would  too  soon  wear  out  the 
performer."  There  must,  according  to  thb  authority — and,  in  his  time, 
Leigh  Hunt  emphatically  was  one — there  must  be  a  quickness  of  con- 
ception, sufficient  to  seize  the  truth  of  the  character,  with  a  coolness  of 
judgment  to  take  all  advantages ;  but  as  the  actor  is  to  represent  as  well 
as  conceive,  and  to  be  the  character  in  his  own  person,  he  could  not  with 
impunity  give  way  to  his  emotions  in  any  degree  equal  to  what  the  spec- 
tators suppose.  *^  At  least,  if  he  did,  he  would  fall  into  fits,  or  run  his 
head  against  the  wall."t 

Madame  Dudevant  touches  on  the  question  at  large  in  one  of  the  art 
conversations  she  constructs  between  Consuelo  and  Joseph  Haydn — when 
the  former,  under  agitating  circumstances,  is  bent  on  quitting  the  lyric 
stage.  Hitherto  the  prima  donna  has  denied  the  influence  of  emotional 
feelings  on  the  boards.  "  I  always  entered  on  the  stage  with  calmness 
and  a  modest  determination  to  fulfil  my  part  conscientiously.  But  I  am 
no  longer  my  former  self,  and  should  I  make  my  appearance  on  the  stage 
at  this  moment,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  commit  the  wildest  extravagances ; 
all  prudence,  all  self-command  would  leave  me.  To-morrow  I  hope  it 
will  not  be  so,  for  this  emotion  borders  on  madness."  Beppo,  however, 
—for  so  she  nominally  Italianises  her  humble  German  friend, — fears,  or 
rather  hopes,  that  it  will  ever  be  so.  Without  true  and  deep  emotion 
where  would  be  her  power  ?  he  asks.  And  then  tells  her  how  often  he 
has  endeavoured  to  impress  upon^the  musicians  and  actors  he  has  met, 
that  without  this  agitation,  this  delirium,  they  could  do  nothing,  and 
that,  in  place  of  calming  down  with  years  and  experience,  they  would 
become  more  impressionable  '  t  each  fresh  attempt.  *'  It  is  a  great  mys- 
tery," rejoins  Consuelo,  sighing.  "Neither  vanity,  nor  jealousy,  nor 
the  paltry  wish  of  triumphing,  could  have  exerted  such  overwhelming 
power  over  me.  No !  I  assure  you  that  in  singing  this  prayer  of  Zeno- 
bia's  and  this  duet  with  Ziridates,  in  which  I  am  borne  away  as  in  a 
whirlwind  by  Caffariello's  vigour  and  passion,  I  thought  neither  of  the 
public,  nor  of  the  rivals,  nor  of  myself.  I  was  Zenobia,  and  believed  in 
the  gods  of  Olympus  with  truly  Christian  fervour,  and  I  burned  with 
love  for  the  worthy  Caffariello,  whom,  the  performance  once  over,  I 
could  not  look  at  without  a  smile."  All  this  is  so  strange  to  the  dis- 
guised performer,  that  she  begins  to  thmk  that,  dramatic  art  being  a 
perpetual  falsehood.  Heaven  inflicts  on  her  profession  the  punishment  of 
making  them  believe  as  real  the  illusions  they  practise  on  tne  spectator.^ 
Dr.  Johnson,  if  consistent,  would  have  condemned  this  stage  renegade 
from  the  faith,  to  whatever  pains  and  penalties  his  orthodoxy  (critical 
and  theological)  might  deem  appropriate  to  an  apostasy  so  complete. 

The  feelings  to  which  Consuelo  gave  passionate,  and  withal  plaintive 

*  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  sub  anno  1783. 

t  The  Town;  its  Memorable  Characters  and  Events,  by  Leigh  Hunt,  vol.  ii. 
ch.  vii. 
X  Consuelo,  H.  35. 


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STAQE  EMOTION.  47 

utterance,  are  essentiaUy  the  same  as  those  expressed  by  Mrs.  Browniog, 
with  a  less  restricted  applicatioD  : 

While  Art 

Sets  action  on  the  top  of  snfferinf : 

The  artist's  part  is  hoth  to  be  and  do. 

Transfixing  with  a  special  central  power, 

The  flat  experience  of  the  common  man. 

And  taming  outward,  with  a  sudden  wrench, 

Half  agony,  half  ecstasy,  the  thing 

He  feels  the  inmost :  never  felt  the  less 

Because  he  sings  it.  .  .  . 

...  0  sorrowful  ereat  gift 

CJonfcrred  on  poets,  of  a  twofold  life, 

When  one  life  has  been  found  enough  for  pain  !* 

Lady  Mary  Wortlev  Montagu,  in  one  of  her  letters  from  Paris,  de- 
scribes a  risit  she  made  to  the  fair  of  St.  Lawrence  (which  she  thinks 
''  much  better  disposed  than  ours  of  Bartholomew''),  and  though  "  their 
opera-house  is  a  booth,  compared  to  that  of  the  Haymarket,  and  the 
play-house  not  so  neat  as  that  of  Lincoln's  Inn-fields,"  still,  her  ladyship 
comes  away  gratified  at  the  amount  of  stage  emotion  she  has  witnessea, 
which  contrasts  liberally,  by  her  report,  with  the  maximum  in  London. 
*^  It  must  be  owned,  to  their  praise,  their  tragedians  are  much  beyond  any 

of  ours.     I  should  hardly  allow  Mrs.  O d  a  better  place  than  to  he 

confidante  to  La  ■  I  have  seen  the  tragedy  of  Bajazet  so  well  re- 

presented, that  I  think  our  best  actors  can  be  only  said  to  speak,  but  these 
to  feel;  and  'tis  certainly  infinitely  more  moving  to  see  a  man  appear  un- 
happy, than  to  hear  him  say  that  he  is  so,  with  a  jolly  face,  and  a  stupid 
smirk  in  bis  countenance." t  The  English  actress  referred  to,  is  of  course 
Mistress  Oldfield,  who  does  not  seem,  therefore,  to  have  taken  the  heart 
of  Lady  Mary  by  storm,  as  she  had  done  those  of  all  '^  the  town"  besides. 
Perhaps  her  ladyship  would  have  been  moc^propitious  to  Mrs.  Barry — 
whose  '^  emotional'*  power  of  exciting  pity,  and  suggesting  unfeic^ed 
distress.  Gibber  declares  to  have  been  *'  beyond  all  the  actresses  I  have 
yet  seen,  or  what  your  imagination  can  conceive  ;"| — and  of  whose  per- 
formance of  Otway's  Monimiay  Gildon  bears  this  record :  '*  I  have  heard 
her  say  that  she  never  said 

Ah,  poor  Castalio ! 

without  weeping ;  and  I  have  ^quently  observed  her  change  her  coun- 
tenance several  times,  as  the  discourse  of  others  on  the  stage  hare  [sic} 
afiected  her  in  the  part  she  acted.''§ 

It  so  happens  that  Mrs.  Oldfield  herself,  in  a  modem  fiction,  has  beea 
made  to  illustrate  this  very  question  of  stage  emotion,  and  frankly  bear 
her  testimony,  firom  personal  and  nightly  experience,  as  to  its  character- 
and  operation.  A  simple-hearted  admirer,  firesh  from  the  country,  has. 
bad  his  bead  turned  by  the  lady's  acting.  He  has  found  his  way  to  her 
bouse,  and  gasps  out  his  homage  as  best  be  can.  Each  of  her  achieve- 
ments on  the  stage,  he  begins  by  telling  her,  seems  to  him  greater  than 

*  Aurora  Leigh,  book  v. 

f  Letters  of  Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu,  Oct.  10, 1718. 
X  An  Apology  for  the  Life  of  Mr.  CoUey  Gibber,  ch.  r. 
f  Qildcm's  Life  of  Betterton. 
TOL.U.  fi 


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48  STAGE  micmov. 

Ae  last.  Tin  others  are  mil  pvppets,  played  by  rale  mwxal  hst,  the  qoeen 
of  speech  and  poetry  ;  her  pathos  is  so  tree,  her  sensibility  so  profoood; 
hers  are  real  tears :  **  Yov  lead  our  sorrow  in  person ;  you  fuse  your  soul 
into  those  great  characters,  and  wtt  becomes  iMittere :  you  are  the  thing 
you  seem,  and  it  is  plain  each  lofty  emotion  passes  through  that  princely 
heart  on  its  way  to  those  golden  lips."  **  No,  thank  you,"  is  Nance  Old- 
field's  studiously  prosaic  rejoinder — (she  being  engaged  by  promise  to  dis- 
courage the  lad) :  *^  No,  thank  you:  emotions  don't  pass  through  my, 
what's  the  name — well,  you  are  green — you  don't  come  from  the  country 
-—you  are  from  Wales.  I  must  enlighten  you ;  sit  down:  sit  down,  I  tell 
you.  The  tears,  my  boy,  are  as  real  as  the  rest — as  the  sky,  and  that's 
pasteboard — as  the  sun,  and  he  is  three  candles  mirking  upon  all  nature, 
which  is  canyass — ^they  ore  as  real  as  onrselyes,  the  tragedy  queens,  with 
our  cries,  our  sighs,  and  our  sobs,  all  measured  out  to  us  by  the  £hre-foot 
rale.  Reality,  young  gentleman,  that  begins  when  the  curtain  ledls,  and 
we  wipe  off  our  profound  sensibility  along  with  our  rouge,  •our  whiting, 
and  our  beauty  spots." 

<<  Impossible  !**  cries  the  poet,  *^  those  tears^  those  dew-drops  on  the  tree 
of  poetry !" 

Then  the  enthusiast  is  requested  not  to  make  Mrs.  Oldfield  '^  die  of 
laughing"  with  his  tears ;  his  ooramon  sense  is  appealed  to.  '^  Now,  my 
good  soul,  if  I  was  to  yex  myself  night  afiter  night  for  Clytemnestra  and 
Co.,  don't  you  see  tiiat  I  should  not  hold  together  long?  No,  thank  you ! 
I've  got  '  Nanoe  Oldfield'  to  take  care  o^  and  what's  Hecuba  to  her? 
For  my  part,"  continues  this  frank  lady,  ''  I  don^  understand  half  the 
authors  give  us  to  say."  These,  purposely  exaggerated,  confessions  the 
tragedy  queen  multiplies,  with  corresponding  candour;  and  then,  sud- 
denly interrupting  her  disclosures,  she  offers  her  perplexed  auditor  a  snuff- 
box, and  says  dryly,  *^  D'ye  snuff?"  His  eyes  dilate  with  horror.  She 
observes  him,  and  explains,  ^*  There's  no  doing  without  it,  in  our  busi- 
ness :  we  get  so  tired !"  (here  Mrs.  Oldfield  yawns  "  as  only  actresses 
yawn, — like  one  going  out  of  the  world  in  four  pieces ;"  and  resumes  the 
thread  of  her  discourse :)  ^'  We  get  so  tired  of  the  whole  conoem.  This 
is  the  real  source  of  our  inspiration,"  quo'  she,  taking  a  pinofa,  "  or  how 
should  we  ever  rise  to  the  Poet's  level,  and  launch  all  those  aw^ 
execrations  they  love  so?  as,  for  instance*- Ackishoo ! — Ood  bless  you !" 
The  sneeze  interrupts  the  intended  instance,  and  considerably  disenchants 
the  rapt  listener. 

Later  in  the  stoty,  there  is  a  scene  where  the  tragedian,  disappotflted 
and  dbpirited,  whimpers  a  little,  ''  mudi  as  a  housemaid  whimpers  — and 
it  was  not  «t  all,  the  author  assures  xis,  ^  Kke  the  *  real  tears '  that  had  so 
affected  Alexander."— One  other  passage  in  the  tale  is  note-worthy,  in 
connexion  wiA  our  theme.  Fresh  crosses  and  yexations  have  occurred  to 
harass  tiie  Oldfield — ^and  she  has  to  contnd  her  emotions  lest  she  cany 
Ihem  from  home  with  her  to  the  ^^atrb.  She  is  studpng  the  part  of 
Statiia,  which  she  is  to  play  to-night ;  and  her  cousin  Susan,  observing 
**  a  strange  restlessness  and  emotion  "  in  her  manner^  asks  what  is  the 
matter  p  <<  It  is  too  bad  of  these  men,"  is  the  answer.  *^  I  ought  to  be 
all  Statira  to-day,  and  instead  of  a  tragedy-queen  they  make  me  feel — 
like  a  human  being!  This  will  not  do;  I  cannot  have  my  fictitious 
feelings,  in  which  thousands  are  interested^  eadangeredfor  Buoh  a  trifle  as 


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JTA€g  KM  OTKWI*  40 


mj  ftftl  ottM^''    Ami  m^hj%  «lem  efiorty  ske  gkiM  Imt  e ji«f  i9  ker  parfc, 

itel^  vovldy  by  ker  philoatphy,  be  oai  «f  ifae  qiiOiii«i.     To  be  reo% 
4igitAted  ftheve,  would  apoi]  alL 

It  Km  beoft  nmoilKd  o€  a  medical  iBan-*ui  reference  to  bitogii^nfwituig 
apathy  atthedeadiofapatiai^— tbatifbeiUlMl  atroi^  dixii^lJM 
arogrefls  of  a  dieeaiei  big  jo^gmeot  wmgki  be  a£EeeCed  hy  that  Tetr  eeiuB- 
Uti^,  and  be  might  be  rendered  ineapable  efdoaag  kit  doty  ateadily  ai:^ 
without  fear.t  The  lemark  applies  te  the  actoiv- «8  vc^^aidi  bit  tetf- 
cotnmaBd  upon  tbe  eteige.  M.  Saiale-Beoive  says  of  Balaaiv  the  norelist^ 
^'U  eiak  en  pttfk  i^  urn  cmvre^  tt  que  eon  UUeni  lemfieHait  eoupemi 
oeifc  mu  ekaar  hmci  d  qmatfte  ehtfMnuu  Powec,  tbe  entie  jeeagaieet  au 
thit  Tery  trnfeHmm^ni^  biit  tbcae  at  aneiber  and  Ugher  kind  of  power,  be 
contends — "  Tautre  puissance,  qui  est  tans  doute  la  plus  vraie,  celle  qui 
domine  et  r^t  une  oeuvre,  et  qui  fait  que  I'artiste  j  reste  sup^eur  comme 
^  sa  cT^tion.^  This,  too,  applies  direct  to  tt^e  passion,  its  impultetj 
its  excestes,  its  artistic  management  The  charioteer  will  do  well  to  show 
off  the  mettle  of  his  steeds,  and  may  lash  ^m  up  to  the  desired  speed,  or 
gire  rein  to  their  eager  abandon ;  but  he  must  remain  master  of  the 
situation  throughout,  must  not  let  his  horses  run  away  with  him,  and 
znnst  not  only  know  when,  butat  onoe  and  witheot  a  struggle  be  aUe,  to 
pull  them  up. 

In  ^e  same  way  does  Elia  areue  of  the  true  poet,  that  he  is  not  pos- 
sessed by  his  subject,  but  has  domimon  over  it.  ^^  He  wins  his  flight 
without  self-loss  through  realms  of  chaos  and  old  night.  Or  if,  abandon- 
ing hintelf  to  that  severer  chaos  of  a  '  human  mind  untuned '  [Elia  spoke 
£Mlingly3»  be  is  content  awhile  to  be  mad  with  Lean,  or  to  bate  maakiad 
(a  sort  of  madness)  with  Timon,  neither  is  that  madness,  nor  thit  aain- 
nnthropy,  so  unchecked,  but  that — never  letting  the  reins  of  reason  wholly 
gpy  wnue  most  he  seems  to  do  so, — he  has  his  better  genius  still  whispering 
at  his  ear,  with  the  good  servant  Kent  suggesting  saner  counsels,  or  with 
the  honest  stewwd  Flavins  recommending  kindlier  resokition8.''§  From 
poet  to  player,  the  application  is  obvious. 

Diderot,  in  his  Tieadse  on  Acting,  maintains,  that  not  only  in  the  art 
of  which  he  treats,  but  in  all  those  which  are  called  imitative,  the  posses- 
sion of  real  sennbiSty  is  a  bar  to  eminence ; — sensibility  being,  according 
to  his  view,  '^  le  caract^re  de  la  bont^J  de  T&me  et  de  la  m^ocrit^  du 
g^e."  His  ideal  actor  might  so  far  be  characterised  in  a  fibak^areaa 
lin^  which  originally  bears  no  such  import, — 

Whe^  moving  others,  is  himself  as  8t«ie.|| 
Or,  agaJD,  in  tbe  Matonie  petnse  of  iOHke  oU 

oraitcHr  Tcnowzf d. 
In  Atbent,  or  froe  Rome, 
iidiD, 

■  'to  some  greet  eanae  addreit'dv 
Stm>i  f»  iiamsffeolkcM ;  while  eaek  pai^ 
Motion,  each  act,  won  aodieBce  ere  the  icmgae.^ 

*  Alt:  aDraauri^  fVae,  by  Charles Beade.  f  needofeHoQ^ 

1  Sainte-Beuve,  Essai  sur  M.  de  Balzac,  1850. 
I  Essajt  of  Elia :  <*  Sanity  of  Txue  Geniat." 

I  Shakspeare't  Sonaett,  xcH.  i[  Paradise  Lost,  book  ix. 

,  e2 

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60  STAGE  EMOTION. 

M.  Scribe's  Miekonnet,  a  yeteran  in  stage-management  and  histrionio 
tact,  beseechingly  warns  his  too  agitated  protSgee^  ^<  II  hat  du  calme  et  da 
sang-froid,  m^me  dans  Tbspiration.  La  Dudos,"  he  bids  her  remember, 
appealing  to  her  sense  of  rivalry,  ''  se  poss^era  ....  elle  profitera  de 

ses  avantages  ....  tandis  que  toi '*•     The  Dudos  will  hare 

her  wits  about  her,  and  will  be  cool  enough  to  act  well,  to  play  the  arUst 
to  perfection ;  while  you— overcome  by  passion — tossed  to  and  fro  by 
every  wind  of  feeling — ^the  prey  of  morbid  sensibility,  the  sport  of  over- 
bearing emotion — you^  will  not  be  able  to  act  at  all. 

And  yet,  earlier  in  the  same  play,  already  indeed  in  the  same  scene, 
has  old  Michonnet  been  taught  that  to  this  veritable  emotion  of 
Adrtenne^s  is  to  be  traced,  by  he^  own  account,  the  secret  of  her  stormy 
success  of  late,  in  the  most  impassioned  and  exacting  of  tragedy  parts. 

AOBIEKNE. 

N'avez-vous  pas  remarqu6  qu'ils  disent  tous,  depois  quelque  temps :  Le 
talent  d'Adrienne  est  bien  chang^  ? 

MiCHOKNET,  fdvement. 
G'est  vrai !  .  .  .  .  il  augmente !  .  .  .  .  Jamais  ta  n'as.  jou^  Phbdre  comme 
avant-hier. 

AoBiENi^E,  avec  animation  et  eonientement. ' 
N'est-ce  pas?  ....  Ce  jour-1^  je  sonffrais  tant!  Totals  si  malheureose! 
....  (Souriant,)  On  n'a  pas  tous  les  soirs  ce  bouheur-Ia ! 

MlCHONlTET. 

Et  d'otl  cela  venait-il  P 

Adbiehne. 
...  Ah !  tout  ce  qu'il  y  a  dans  le  coBur  de  crainte,  de  douleur,  de  d^spoir, 
j'ai  tout  devin^  tout  souffert !  .  .  .    Je  puis  tout  exprimer  maintenant,  surtout 
lajoie.  .  .f 

all  this  facility  being  due  to  certain  personal  experiences,  which  give 
intensity  and  realism  to  her  impersonations — whereby  her  old  instructor's 
theory  of  art  is,  seemingly,  in  Adrienne's  instance  at  least,  put  in  the 
wrong. 

How  readily  Madame  de  Stael  could  forget  all  other  things  when  her 
heart  was  touched,  was  singularly  shown,  Lord  Brougham  observes,  on 
one  occasion,  when  she  <^  acted  a  part  in  a  dramatic  performance,  and, 
confounding  her  natural  with  her  assumed  character,  bounded  forward  to 
the  actual  relief  of  a  family  whose  distresses  were  only  the  theme  of  a 
fictitious  representation."! 

Sir  Walter  Scott  has  remarked,  in  reference  to  the  personification  of 
Lady  Randolph  by  '<  the  inimitable  Siddous,"  that  great  as  was,  on  all 
occasions,  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  in  that  part,  it  was  increased  in  a 
manner  which  can  hardly  be  conceived  when  her  son,  Mr.  Henry  Siddons, 
supported  his  mother  in  the  character  of  Douglas,  and  when  the  full  over- 
flowing of  maternal  tenderness  was  authorised,  nay,  authenticated  and 
realised,  by  the  actual  existence  of  the  relationship.  *'  There  will,  and 
must  be,  on  other  occasions,  some  check  of  the  feeling,  however  virtuous 
and  tender,  when  a  woman  of  feeling  and  delicacy  pours  her  maternal 
caresses  on  a  performer  who,  although  to  be  accounted  her  son  for  the 

*  Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  Acte  IL  Sc.  4.  f  Ibid. 

t  Statesmen  of  Time  of  Qeo.III.voLiv. 


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STAGE  EMOTION.  51 

night,  is,  in  reality,  a  stranger.*'  But  in  the  scenes  to  which  Sir  Walter 
alludes,  that  chilling  obstacle  was  removed ;  and  while  Lady  Randolph 
exhausted  her  tenderness  on  the  supposed  Douglas,  the  mother  was,  ia 
truth,  indulging  the  same  feelings  towards  her  actuaJ  son.*  This,  how- 
ever, is  a  wholly  exceptional  piece  of  '*  domestic"  tragedy. 

Mrs.  Siddons  herself,  by  the  way,  recordsf  with  fond  delight  the 
impression  produced  by  her  Isabella,  <'  with  my  own  dear  beautinil  boy, 
then  but  eight  years  old,"  at  her  first  reappearance  at  Drory  Lane, 
in  1782. 

When  the  actor  of  Athens,  as  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton  observes,^  moved  all 
hearts  as  he  clasped  the  burial  urn,  and  burst  into  broken  sobs,  how  few, 
there,  knew  that  it  held  the  ashes  of  his  son ! 

In  the  chief  poem  attributed  to  Sir  Bulwer^s  own  son,  this  same  inci- 
dent is  effectively  introduced : 

When  the  Greek  actor,  acting  Electra,  wept  over 

The  urn  of  Orestes,  the  theatre  rose 

And  wept  with  him.    What  was  there  in  such  Active  woes 

To  thrill  a  whole  theatre  P    Ah,  'tis  his  son 

Hiat  lies  dead  in  the  urn  he  is  weeping  upon ! 

'Tis  no  fabled  Electra  that  hangs  o  er  that  urn, 

'GRs  a  father  that  weeps  his  own  child. 

Men  discern 
The  man  through  the  mask ;  the  heart  moved  by  the  heart 
Owns  the  pathos  of  life  in  the  pathos  of  art.$ 

The  elder  Lytton's  observation  is  made  in  reference  to  one  of  his 
Italian  heroines — a  great  cantatrice — who  brings  to  the  theatre  the 
tumultuous  sorrows  of  home.  **  And  ag;ain  Viola's  voice  is  heard  upon 
the  stage,  which,  mystically  faithful  to  life,  is  in  nought  more  faithful 
than  tlus,  that  it  is  the  appearances  that  fill  the  scene ;  and  we  pause  not 
to  ask  of  what  realities  they  are  the  proxies."  || 

In  a  subsequent  chapter,  the  subject  is  suggestively  renewed,  ^ola 
acts  with  surpassing  animation  and  power,  for  the  lora  of  her  destiny  is 
there  to  look  on.  '*The  house  hung  on  every  word  with  breathless 
worship ;  but  the  eyes  of  Viola  sought  only  those  of  one  calm  and  un- 
moved spectator ;  she  exerted  herself  as  if  inspired.  Zanoni  listened,  and 
observed  her  with  an  attentive  gaze,  but  no  approval  escaped  fiis  lips ;  no 
ennotion  changed  the  expression  of  his  cold  and  half-disdainful  aspect 
Viola,  who  was  in  the  character  of  one  who  loved,  but  without  return, 
never  felt  ao  acutely  the  part  she  played.  Her  tears  were  truthful ;  her 
passion  was  that  of  nature :  it  was  almost  too  terrible  to  behold.'*^  But 
so  far  at  least  it  is  proclaimed  to  be  successful — that  when  she  is  borne 
from  the  stage  exhausted  and  insensible,  it  is  amidst  such  a  tempest  of 
admiring  rapture  as  continental  audiences  alone  can  raise. 

We  are  told  of  the  **  Marianne"  of  Tristan — one  of  Corneille*s  imme- 
diate predecessors — that  this  piece  (an  imitation  of  Calderon's  *'  Tetrarca 
de  Jerusalem")  not  only  drew  tears  from  the  eyes  of  Cardinal  Richelieu, 

Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood, 

*  Life  and  Works  of  John  Home.  t  See  her  life^  by  GampbelL 

t  See  ''Zanoni,'* book  i  ch.  z. 

T  Lucile,  by  Owen  Meredith,  part  ii.  canto  iv.  J  Zanoni,  b.  1.  ch.  x. 

4  Ibid.,  book  iL  di.  iL 


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62  STAGE  EMOTTOlf . 

bot  that  the  actor  who  played  Herod  came  to  a  stand^sti!!  from  excess  of 
emotion.*  PeRisson  tells  as  of  M^ziriac  (a  French  Academictan  of 
semetnne  rejwte),  who  «sed  to  get  np  the  Bergtries  of  Raean  on  a& 
elaborate  scale,  that  he  would  select  for  each  part  an  actor  wkose  private 
experience  appropriated  the  passion  he  was  to  represent — Ae  result  being 
that  all  of  them  s'emimerent  cTune  /agon  extraortHnaire,  There  was 
among  these  plajers  one  young  man  to  whom  was  assigned  Ae  part  ©f  a 
distressed  loter^— amtmf  affligt — and  who,  being  an  nmanl  ^fflige  him* 
self,  is  declared  to  have  '^  surpassed  on  this  occasion  a  Roscius,  an  Sa&^ 
a  Meodory  ?t  and  after  bemg^  himself  the  first  ta  shed  real  tear^  moved 
to  tears  the  entire  assembly." J  Here  was  a  Hteral  enough  reading  of  the 
precept  Si  vis  mefiere — too  fiteral,  perhaps,  for  Horace  to  have  sestheti* 
calfy  approved  of,  unless  under  these  quite  exceptional  and  extctwating 
circumstances.  M^ziriac*s  afflicted  lover  was  no  more  acting  thas  Ro«ar 
lind  in  Arden,  when  (*<  why,  how  now,  Gttnyinede,  B4Peet  Ganymede  F'^) 
she  forgot  her  man's  part,  and,  at  the  riuxk  of  had  nenvs,  Ml  into  a  real 
woman's  faiBl.     In  vain  she  pretests  on  eoming  to, 

Ah,  Sir  [to  OL'ver],  a  body  would  think  this  was  well  counterfeited:  I  pray 
you,  tell  your  brother  how  well  I  counterfeited. — Heigh  ho  I — 

But  Orlando's  brother  knows  better  tiian  tfaat :  ha  is  not  so  bed  a  dis- 
criminator between  real  and  stage  emotion  as  to  be  duped  here — 

Oliver.  This  was  no  counterfeit ;  there  is  too  great  testimooy  in  your  com- 
plexion, that  it  was  a  passion  of  earnest.  § 

The  fool^h  body  again  asseverates,  "  Counterfeit,  I  assure  you* — but  she 
fibs  monstrously,  and  CeFia's  "  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler,"  shows 
how  unable  the  would-be  actor  is  to  put  a  good  face  on  it,  or  face  it  out. 

An  old  play -goer  to  whom  Betterton's  Samlet  was  as  faraiHar  as  it 
was  ever  impressive,  reports  the  countenance  of  that  great  player,  •*  whidi 
was  naturally  ruddy  and  sanguine," — '*  through  the  violent  and  sudden 
emotion  of  amazement  and  horror,  to  have  turned  instantly,  on  the  sight 
of  his  Other's  spint,  as  pale  as  his  neckcloth ;  when  his  whole  body  seemed 
to  be  affected  with  a  tremor  inexpressible ;  so  that,  had  his  father's  ghost 
actually  risen  before  him,  he  could  not  have  been  seized  with  more  real 
agonies."  And  this,  adds  the  reporter,  was  felt  so  strongly  by  the 
audience,  that  (as  he  overphrases  it)  ''  the  blood  seemed  to  shudder  in 
their  veins  likewise ;  and  they,  in  some  measure,  partook  of  the  astonish* 
ment  and  horror  with  which  they  saw  this  excellent  actor  affected.*  Our 
reporter  is  quoted  as  an  authority  on  this  matter  in  one  of  the  anti-Cibber 
pamphlets,  II  which  were  rife  and  rampant  in  Dunciad  times. 

"Whenever  Mrs.  Siddons  played  Constance  in  "  King  John,"  she  never, 
by  her  own  account,  from  the  beginning  of  the  tragedy  to  the  end  of  her 
part  in  it,  once  suffered  her  dressing-room  door  to  be  closed,  in  order  that 
her  attention  might  be  constantly  feed  on  those  distressing  events  whiclv 
by  this  means,  she  could  plainly  hear  going  on  upon  the  stage,  the  ter»- 
nble  effects  of  which  progress  were  to  be  represented  by  her.  Nor  did 
she  ever  omit  to  place  korsel^  with  Arihmr  in  her  hood,  to  hear  the  march> 

*  Beuiugeot; 

t  Mondory  was  the  Talma  of  France  during  the  reign  of  Louis  Hn  ThirtRBentii. 

1  feilBsBODy  Histoire  de  TAcad^oire  Fran^ aise. 

§  As  You  Like  It,  Act  IV.  Sc.  3.  ||  A  Lick  at  the  Laureate  (1786). 


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8TAQS  SMOnOX.  53 

wImb,  open  the  reconcitiatioD  of  England  and  Franee»  they  enter  the 
gmt«a  of  Anglers  to  ratify  the  contraet  of  marriage  between  tibe  Dauf^im 
and  d^  Lad^  Blanche;  becaMe,  as  die  puts  it»  ^  the  sickening  sounds 
of  tiMit  march  woold  usually  cause  the  bitter  tears  of  rage,  disappoiot- 
»ent,  betrayed  confidence,  baffled  ambition^  and,  abore  all,  the  agonisii^ 
ftslmgs  of  maternal  afifeotion  to  gush  into  my  eyes."*  Thos  artificiallv 
did  she  stimulate  nature  to  keenly  £eel,  as  well  as  midly  eapsess,  reu 

It  is  by  the  shedding  of  leal  tears— jewels  of  the  first  water,  and  net 
eoQJiterfeit — that  the  supposed  Sebastian  describes  himself  as  melting  hm 
^cr  sel^  Julisy  tiie  wronged  Lady  of  Verona : 

For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part : 
Madam,  Hwas  Ariadne,  passioning 
For  Theseus'  perjury,  and  imjust  flight ; 
Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tews, 
That  my  poor  nustress,  moT^d  therewithal. 
Wept  bitterly.t 

It  may  be  by  the  proposed  shedding  of  real  tears  that  Nick  Bottom 
intends  to  meh  an  august  Athenian  assemblage,  in  hb  harrowing  imper- 
sonation of  Pyramus.  **  That  win  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  performing 
of  it:  If  I  do  ity  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes,  I  will  more  stormy  I 
win  condole  in  some  measure."^  But  more  probably  buHy  Bottom's 
design  is  to  do  all  this  without  any  salt-water  expenditure  on  his  side,  and 
by  mere  and  sheer  prowess  of  histrionic  art.  How  far  he  succeeded  we 
Imow  on  the  best  authority,  that  of  the  master  of  the  rerels.  For  when 
Philostrate  saw  rehearsed  that  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus  and 
his  love  Thiabe,  very  tragical  mirth,  §  he  must  confess,  it  made  his  eyes 
water  (so  fio*  verifying  Bottom's  reckoning) ;  but  then,  adds  Philostrate, 
more  merry  tears  the  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

It  was  by  the  sheddiDg  of  real  tears  that  Quin  so  worked  upon  t^ 
audience,  when  reciting  the  prologue  to  *'  Coriolanus,''  his  friend 
Thomson's  posthumous  tragedy.||  Talma's  first  boyish  part  seems  to 
have  been  in  an  old  drama,  called  ^  Simois,  Fib  de  Tameriane,"  and  so 
deeply  is  he  said  to  have  entered  into  the  feeling  of  the  character,  that 
he  burst  into  tears  at  the  recital  of  the  hero's  sorrows.  Miss  O'Neill 
would  firequently,  in  her  scenes  of  affliction,  shed  real  tears.  A  Cam- 
bridge Professor,  who  had  seen  her  perform  at  the  BamweH  Theatre, 
once  asked  her  ^^  whether  it  was  true  that  she  really  shed  tears  during  her 
performance  of  afieeting  parts.  She  acknowledged  that  she  did.  '  But 
jon  must  not  think,'  she  continued,  '  that  such  tears  are  painful;  they  are 
rendered  pleasing  by  the  consciousness  of  fiction ;  they  are  such  as  one 
would  shed  in  rXding  a  pathetic  story.  Moreover,  the  strong  state  of 
excitement  naturally  brought  on  by  performing — the  applause — the  tears 
of  those  around  me — all  conspire  to  excite,  and  to  draw  such  tears  from 
my  eyes  as  aU  great  emotions  are  calculated  to  produce.  Were  they 
sneh  tears  as  guilt  or  agony  really  shed,  I  should  have  been  dead  long 


• 


i 


See  Campbell's  Life  of  Mrs.  Siddons. 

The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  IV.,  Sc.  4. 

A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  Act  L,  Sc  2.  §  Ibid.,  Act  V.,  Sc.  1. 

Johnstsita  Liii  of  Ttansen.    (Chalmers'  Poets.)  ^  T.  P.  Grinsted. 


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54  STAGE  EMOTION. 

But  then  the  actress,  in  this  case,  was  a  person  of  acute  natoral  senri- 
hility.  Contrast  with  her — to  take  another  illustration  firom  works  of 
fiction — the  Fanny  Millinger  of  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  "  Godolphin"— 
who  will  afford,  too,  a  piquant  contrast  to  the  Viola  we  have  already 
glanced  at,  in  another  of  that  author's  works.  *'  Cora  was  now  on  the 
stage:  a  transport  of  applause  shook  the  house.  < How  well  she  acts!' 
said  Radcliffe,  warmly.  '  Yes,'  answered  Godolphin,  as  with  folded 
arms  he  looked  quietly  on  ;  *  but  what  a  lesson  in  the  human  heart  does 
good  acting  teach  us.  Mark  that  glancing  eye — that  heaving  breast^ 
that  burst  of  passion — that  agonised  voice :  the  spectators  are  in  tears  I 
The  woman's  whole  soul  is  in  her  child !  Not  a  bit  of  it !  slie  feels  no 
more  than  the  boards  we  tread  on :  she  is  probably  thinking  of  the  lively 
supper  we  shall  have ;  and  when  she  comes  off  the  stage,  she  will  cry, 
*  Did  I  not  act  it  well  ?'  *  Nay/  said  Radcliffe,  '  she  probably  feels  while 
she  depicts  the  feeling.'  *  Not  she :  years  ago  she  told  me  the  whole 
science  of  acting  was  trick ;  and,'  "  adds  this  cynical  philosopher,  *' '  trick 
—trick — trick  it  is,  on  the  stage  and  off.'  "*  Godolphin  is  in  a  mood  of 
green  and  yellow  melancholy — and  so  far  his  theory  of  stage  emotion 
must  only  go  for  what  it  is  worth.  No  doubt  his  charge  against  Miss 
Millinger  was  a  true  bill ;  but  to  extend  the  operations  of  that  bill  so  uni- 
yersally,  c^esi  different, 

Marmontel  records  a  conversation  at  Femey  about  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour,  in  the  eclipse  of  her  favour  at  court.  "  She  is  no  longer  beloved, 
and  is  now  unhappy,"  said  Marmontel.  "  Eh  bien^**  exclaimed  Voltaire, 
*'  let  her  come  here  and  act  tragedies  with  us  ;  I  will  make  parts  for  her, 
and  they  shall  be  parts  for  a  queen.  She  is  handsome,  and  she  cannot 
but  be  acquaintea  with  the  play  of  the  passions."  '*  She  is  also  ac- 
quainted," replied  Marmontel,  ^*  with  profound  griefs,  and  with  tears." 
"  So  much  the  better,  that  is  the  very  thing  we  want."t  Voltaire  was 
not,  then,  of  Diderot's  opinion  as  to  the  disqualification  of  a  tragedy- 
queen. 

Charles  Lamb  was  discoursing  with  Mrs.  Crawford  (once  famous  in 
Lady  Randolph),  not  long  before  her  death,  on  the  quantity  of  real  present 
emotion  which  a  great  tragic  performer  experiences  during  acting ;  and  on 
his  '*  venturing  to  think"  that  though  in  the  first  instance  such  players 
must  have  possessed  the  feelings  which  they  so  powerfully  called  forth  in 
others,  yet  by  frequent  repetition  those  feelings  must  become  deadened  in 
great  measure,  and  the  performer  trust  to  the  memory  of  past  emotion, 
rather  than  express  a  present  one— the  old  lady  indignantly  repelled  the 
notion,  that  with  a  truly  great  tragedian  the  operation,  by  which  such 
effects  were  produced  upon  an  audience,  could  ever  degrade  itself  into 
what  was  purely  mechanical.  **  With  much  delicacv,V  adds  Elia,  who 
could  so  well  appreciate  it,  *'  avoiding  to  instance  in  her  «e{^experience, 
she  told  me,  that  so  long  ago  as  when  she  used  to  play  the  part  of  the 
Little  Son  to  Mrs.  Porter's  Isabella  (I  think  it  was),  when  that  impres- 
sive actress  has  been  bending  over  her  in  some  heartrending  colloquy,  she 
has  felt  real  hot  tears  come  trickling  from  her,  which  (to  use  her  power- 
ful expression)  have  perfectly  scalded  her  back.  I  am  not  quite  sure  that 
it  was  Mrs.  Porter ;  but  it  was  some  great  actress  of  that  day.     The 

*  Godolphin,  ch.  liiL  f  Marmontel:  M^moires. 


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THE  MORAL  CONDITION  OP  THE  FRENCH.  55 

name  is  indifferent ;  bat  the  fact  of  the  scolding  tears  I  most  distinctly 
remember."  Charies  Lamb's  own  eyes,  be  sure,  were  not  dry  as  he  sat 
and  listened  to  the  aged  actress. 

This  Mrs.  Crawford  it  was — at  the  time  of  the  abore  conTersation 
(1800)  yerg^ng  on  seTenty— of  whose  childish  experience  in  the  Old  Bath 
Theatre,  in  1743,  Lamb  nas  indited  so  touching  a  record  in  the  essay  en- 
titled '*  Barbara  S  ."  (Her  maiden  name  was  Street ;  and  she  twice 
^ohaoged  it  before  she  became  Mrs.  Crawford.)  The  story  is  one  of 
aastere  penury,  and  extreme  temptation.  Litde  Barbara  came  off 
^mphant  in  Uie  mental  conflict.  But,  to  her  strangles  upon  this  childish 
occasion,  Lamb  was  disposed  to  "  think  her  indebted  for  that  power  of 
rending  the  heart  in  the  representation  of  conflicting  emotions,  for  which 
in  after  years  she  was  considered  as  little  inferior  (if  at  all  so  in  the  part 
of  Lady  Randolph)  eren  to  Mrs.  Siddons."*  One  may  apply  to  an 
actress  of  this  otlibre  the  reference  to  Beatrice  by  Shakspeare's  match- 
making coii£Bderate8 : 

2).  Fedro,  Majbe,  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 
Cktud.  'Faitb,  like  enouj^h. 

Leon.  O  God !  counterfeit !    There  never  was  counterfeife  of  passion  came  so 
near  the  life  of  passion,  as  she  disooTers  it.f 

To  which  a  strictly  parallel  passage  occurs  in  another  of  Shakspeare's 
best  comedies — wnere  Rosahnd  tries  to  make  out  her  real  fainting  to 
have  been  a  mere  feint,  "  Counterfeit,  I  assure  you,"  **  I  pray  you  [to 
Oliver],  tell  your  brother  [Orlando]  how  well  I  counterfeited.''  But 
Oliver  knows  better.  '*  This  was  not  counterfeit;  there  is  too  great 
testimony  in  your  complexion,  that  it  was  a  passion  of  earnest."^ 


THE  MOEAL  CONDITION  OF  THE  FEENCH. 

The  Tarious  races  of  men  are  generally  distinguishable  from  each 
other  as  much  by  the  marked  features  of  their  national  character  as  by 
the  accident  of  the  geographical  position  which  they  occupy  on  the  sur- 
fiace  of  the  earth.  Each  one  groups  itself  into  a  social  whole,  regulated 
by  certain  conditions  common  to  all  its  members,  and  by  a  general  model 
rf  principle  and  action,  which,  accepted  by  the  entire  community,  consti- 
tutes what  is  understood  by  a  national  type. 

The  French  present  the  singular  example  of  a  people  without  a  type. 
Equality  and  HWty  have  effaced  it* 

Exposed  for  seventy  years  to  successive  revolutions  which  have  de- 
stroyed all  distinctions  of  rank  and  all  respect  of  birth,  which  have 
demolisbed  social  demarcations  and  neutralised  the  effects  of  relative  posi- 
tion, which  have  suppressed  all  organised  upper  classes,  and,^th  them, 


*  LastEsMiysofEUa:  « Barbaras ." 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  Act  11^  Sc  8. 
As  You  Like  It,  Act  lY.,  8c.  3. 


{ 


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56  THE  MORAL  OOKDITION  OT  THE  FBENCH. 

&e  mond  exan^le  wbich  they  furnish  to  the  rest  o£  the  nation  in 
countries  wlteie  their  inflieenoe  aliill  mhsistfly  the  Frenoh  have  beeome 
possessed,  as  a  necessary  consequence  of  this  disorg^isationy  of  an 
amovBt  of  Uberfy  in  their  relations  with  each  other  and  with  society  at 
krg«,  of  which  ii  is  diiicalt  to  form  a  sufficient  conception  in  England, 
where  tlu  wbole  people  is  held  in  hand  by  ike  eommcm  actton  of  a  normal 
«Bd  adopted  rule,  and  where  a  recognised  aiajority  ean  olearlj  express 
and  Yigoiously  enforce  its  decisions.  In  Frasice  thtto  is  no  majority,  no 
model ;  every  one  is  free  to  do  as  he  pkases,  wtthin  the  ebstie  limits  of 
what  are  cslled  the  cmtmemmois  of  society,  wi^koot  reference  to  the 
opinicaos  or  raepidioBS  of  his  neighbours.  This  privilege  is  immensely 
pleasing  to  we  indivtdoal  who  ezerases  i^  and  it  is  its  almost  universal 
exitteaee  which  readers  France  so  agreesJI^  a  country  to  inhabit,  and 
whiob  gives  to  French  life  the  singular  charm  of  independence  which  is 
one  of  its  nsost  str&ing  ^araeteristies.  But  while  tJus  system  destroys 
all  tyranny  and  permits  a  freedom  of  action  which  is  unknown  else* 
where,  it  has  produced  an  almost  endless  multiplicity  of  personal  de- 
velopment of  character,  and  has  simultaneously  suppressed  all  entemal 
unity  of  ^qpe. 

Cut  up  into  an  infinite  series  of  separate  circles  and  separate  societies, 
which  are  again  indefinitely  subdivided  according  to  the  number  of 
distinct  indtviduafities  which  compose  them,  but  permitting,  from  the 
abaeoce  of  aQ  real  social  barriers,  the  fusion  and  exchange  of  these  com- 
posite elements  from  class  to  class,  according  to  the  new  fiaculdes  which 
they  acquire,  and  to  the  varying  sympathies  which  they  provoke  between 
themselves,  the  French  of  our  epoch  have  no  great  outline  of  national 
principle,  no  received  system  of  organisation,  no  adopted  tendency  of 
opinion.  Their  society  has  no  existence  as  a  ruling  power;  its  verdicts, 
if  ever  it  ventures  to  express  any,  remain  unexecuted,  for  it  possesses  no 
means  of  applying  them  otherwise  than  by  the  weak  and  divided  action 
of  such  of  its  members  as  may  happen  to  agree  with  them. 

Directed  during  the  two  last  generations  by  a  series  of  governments, 
of  which  the  objects  and  systems  have  varied,  but  which  have  all  aided, 
either  intenticBally  or  indirectly,  to  8uff:>eate  the  eaEpresnon  of  opinion, 
and  to  destroy  the  influence  of  the  educated  classes,  the  French  people 
1mm  QBOonsciously  lost  all  respect  £ar  example,  all  habit  of  moral 
•hedienee^  all  desiie  jv  tnifiirm  oonvietions ;  they  have  ceased  to  feel 
ihat  mnity  of  opinion  and  action  is  accessary  to  viaintaia  the  vigour  and 
consistency  of  natioBal  diaaaeter. 

Withont  an  example  to  imitate  or  a  g«deto  fiiUew,  witbant  a  na^nal 
moral  object  to  parsne,  without  a  pvess  to  direct  thebr  in^idses,  wit^nt 
the  means  of  public  communication  widi  each  odier,  abandoned  to  their 
own  personal  issfnraticns,  unchecked  by  generally  received  social  laws, 
without  fear  of  organised  opinion,  and  without  even  one  respected  class, 
they  have  bean  rednocd  to  create  systems  of  life  for  thcnis^es,  each  one 
afibcr  his  own  fashion,  fironglit  up  in  the  freedom  from  aocial  reatzic- 
tiaas,  which  has  vomited  feaoi  the  convnlBiona  thooorh  which  their 
OMMPAry  has  passed,  ikej  aeknowMfc  no  uavarybtg  nms,  support  ao 
pressure  from  others. 

Indifference  to  generd  Aearies  of  oooduet»  weakened  appreciation  of 
the  more  delicate  sentiments,  impatieDcc  of  oMnd  cantml,  and  the  entire 


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THE  MORAL  CCWTDITION  OF  THB  FRENCH.  57 

destnieiMa  of  all  imtioQ^  unHbrmity  of  character,  these  are  die  evH  eoa* 
seqoenoca  of  tfak  auiyeraai  social  ltfa«Ky. 

But  this  absence  of  example  and  obedieBee,  thie  cxisteaoe  of  snoheckedl 
peno&al  teBdaocies,  hove  ike  adyaiitag<e  of  allowing  the  free  develop- 
iBeat  of  every  sort  of  iniitvidiial  merit;  they  permit  each  nan  to  he  hnK 
weAC,  and  cb  not  oblige  him  to  sink  ^e  persooakty  he  may  possess  in  a 
servile  imitation  of  a  general  model  which  he  has  been  brooght  up  to 
lerere.  On  tlie  oAer  hand,  tiiey  increase  his  re^onsibility,  for  while 
tbej  allow  htna  to  enjoy  ahsoft  untimiled  fnedom,  they  impose  on  htn 
the  obligation  of  wottmy  atiag  it.  Whatever,  thereft>re.  be  the  present 
laoral  state  of  the  French  peo^  in  the  absence  of  sXi  publie  example 
sad  of  all  na^nal  interfereaoe,  be  it  good  or  be  it  bad,  it  is  te  tlie  dis> 
pontions,  qualities,  or  defects  of  each  individoal,  brought  to  light  by  the 
liberty  with  which  he  acts,  that  it  roust  be  attributed ;  if  its  feahires  arfr 
unheaHhy  and  VBsati^ftctory,  this  inevitable  deduction  increases  their 
grairity,  m,  as  they  camiot  be  attributed  to  the  coaseqnences  of  example^ 
it  brings  out  in  1^1  its  loree  the  voluntary  and  wilful  personal  action 
whieh  has  produced  them. 

It  is  impoesiye  to  accurately  describe  a  state  of  society  which  resto  en 
so  ^Kso^^aoieed  a  basis.  The  French  themselves,  even  ihe  most  intelH* 
geat  of  them,  know  it  in  detail  only  as  it  exists  within  the  limits  of  their 
special  cirde ;  each  one  sees  it  in  the  light  of  his  personal  impressions, 
and  often  witbent  recognising  the  incite  varieties  of  sentiment  and 
tendencies  which  snrround  him.  No  two  opinions  agree,  no  two  de> 
seriptioDs  tally ;  the  evidence  is  so  contradictory  that  it  is  almost  im<» 
posnble  to  deduce  from  it  any  result  Even  the  current  Kterature  of 
France  presents  no  rehabie  pictuTe  of  the  condition  of  the  country  as  a 
whole,  while  its  inftaeooe  is  almost  null.  There  exist  an  immense  num- 
ber of  vicious  novels  and  cynical  plays,  which  are  read  and  Hstened  to 
because  of  the  talent  of  tiiieir  authors,  but  certainly  not  because  they 
ppesent  any  general  tableau  of  Hfs,  or  from  any  general  sympathy  witn 
their  tendencies.  And,  indeed,  the  effect  of  these  productions,  if  thej 
hanFC  any,  is  Kmited  to  Paris,  for  it  is  one  of  the  signs  of  the  moment 
that  the  class  of  puli^ations  demanded  in  the  provinces  is  widely  dif- 
ferent from  that  which  circdates  in  the  cafutal.  Books  which  teach 
BomeUiing — travels,  scienees,  er  histories— constitute  the  general  reading 
ci  the  eovntry  inhabitaiits,  and  though  the  habit  of  reading  at  all  k 
relatively  hnited  in  France,  especially  as  compared  with  England,  their 
preference  is  certainly  in  fbvour  of  the  higher  classes  of  works.  Tho 
remarkable  encoess  wluch  the  publication  of  the  letters  of  Madame 
SwetcfaiDe  has  just  attained  is  a  proof  of  the  disposition  to  read  pureljr 
moral  books^  provided  their  form  be  attractive ;  and  though  it  may  bo 
argued  that  this  particular  work  presents  a  speciel  charm,  and  a  peculiar 
pfailosophicid  as  well  as  religious  character,  the  fact  is  indisputable  tiutt 
it  has  been  read  in  every  direction. 

There  is  a  prevalent  disposition  out  of  France  to  accept  the  Kghter 
Bad  less  moral  prodnetions  of  the  French  press,  as  giving  correct  general 
deaeriptiant  of  h£s  and  feeling.  They  may  be  true  as  regards  the  par- 
tienlar  and  Mmitod  point  of  view  to  which  they  are  directed,  but  aa  that 

"  it  forma  only  one  of  the  innumerable  dirisions  vriiich  French  chancter 
aasmned,  it  is  evident  that  th^  can  onfy  ha  received  as  presenting^ 


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it; 


fl8  THE  MORAL  CONDITION  OF  THE  FRENCH. 

the  single  condition  to  which  they  refer,  and  not  as  one  indication  of  a 
general  state,  or  as  giving  a  comprehensive  and  correct  account  of  all 
the  varying  moral  phases  of  French  existence. 

Besides,  the  fact  must  he  repeated  that  books  are  now  without  any 
tangible  influence  in  France ;  they  may  succeed  because  of  their  literary 
merit,  they  may  be  largely  read  because  they  are  gay  and  amusing,  but 
of  moral  effect  they  have  scarcely  any,  either  good  or  bad. 

Even  a  long  series  of  detiuled  pictures  of  individual  types,  however 
exactly  drawn,  would  only  present  those  types  themselves,  without  any 
connecting  link  between  them,  and  without  producing  a  general  outline 
of  the  nadon  as  a  whole.  It  has  no  whole.  The  keenest  eye  can  de- 
tect no  constant  and  regularly  reproduced  form  in  the  kaleidoscopic 
crowd  which  agitates  itself  in  one  immense  confusion  of  all  its  parts, 
presenting,  at  every  shifting  of  the  scene,  new  features,  new  colours,  and 
new  objects.  Every  principle,  every  conviction,  every  tendency,  b 
represented  in  this  sea  of  uncertain  and  undisciplined  character.  All 
the  virtues  and  all  the  vices  exist  side  by  side,  and  seem  to  live  in  peace 
together  without  difficulty  or  contention,  so  thorough  is  the  liberty 
attained.  The  inflnite  variety  of  personal  sentiments  extends  to  every 
subject ;  on  no  point  is  there  general  union  of  thought,  still  less  general 
uniformity  of  practice.  From  the  highest  intellectual  and  moral  ques- 
tions down  to  the  trifling  details  of  domestic  life  the  same  divergency 
exists  in  varying  degrees,  not  from  a  spirit  of  opposition,  but  from  the 
utter  want  of  a  general  and  adopted  bond.  No  matter  where  example 
be  chosen  the  result  will  be  the  same ;  the  exceptions  which  may  be 
supposed  to  exist  in  political  parties,  or  in  the  few  remaining  repre- 
sentatives of  certain  fixed  ideas,  are  more  apparent  than  real,  and  even 
were  they  substantial,  their  application  is  numerically  so  limited  that 
they  prove  nothing  against  the  general  rule. 

But  notwithstanding  this  utter  disorganisation  and  the  consequent 
excessive  difficulty  of  correct  appreciatfon  of  the  relative  value  of  the 
parts,  certain  salient  features  stand  out  in  relief  in  the  midst  of  the  dis- 
order, and  their  outline  is  so  clearly  marked  that  they,  at  all  events,  can 
be  seized  with  precision  and  certainty.  It  is  on  these  main  points  that 
an  idea  of  the  present  moral  condition  of  the  French  can  alone  be  based. 
But  even  there  it  is  essential  to  guard  against  sweeping  or  exaggerated 
conclusions,  for  the  whole  question  is  so  complicated,  that  even  its  most 
striking  and  general  characteristics  vary  in  force  and  development  ac- 
cording to  the  circumstances  in  which  tney  produce  themselves. 

After  the  universal  existence  of  democratic  equality  and  social  liberty, 
and  the  disappearance  of  all  uniform  type,  the  first  great  fact  which 
strikes  the  eye  in  looking  below  the  suifaoe  of  French  society,  is  the 
almost  entire  absence  of  religious  belief  amongst  the  men.  As  children, 
their  mothers  teach  them  the  principles  of  their  creed ;  almost  invariably 
thejr  receive  their  first  communion  ;  but  there,  with  rare  exceptions,  en<is 
their  pursuit  of  religious  practices.  On  their  entry  into  life  begins  the 
action  of  indifference,  which  rapidly  degenerates  into  infidelity  and  hos- 
tility. The  women,  on  the  contrary,  as  a  mass,  regularly  frequent  the 
churches,  and  many  of  them  are  really  actuated  by  sincere  devotion, 
which  even  the  dangerous  contact  of  their  husbands'  opposition  does  not 
always  destroy.     These  general  remarks  apply  to  every  class  indistinctly. 


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THE  MORAL  CONDITION  OF  THE  FRENCH.  59 

from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  They  are  trae  of  the  comitry  vilkeet 
as  of  the  towns^  of  the  workmen  and  peasantry  as  of  the  liberal  profes- 
nons  and  the  richer  portion  of  the  nation.  In  certain  prorinoes,  especially 
in  Brittany  and  Auvergne,  local  exceptions  may  be  found,  where  the 
men  still  retain  the  habit  of  external  practice  and  of  reverence  for  holy 
things ;  but  the  rule  of  irreligion  is  none  the  less  absolute. 

In  this  general  absence  of  Christian  faith,  of  all  acceptance  of  revela- 
tion, exists,  after  the  effects  of  revolutionary  convulsions,  the  first  great 
cause  of  the  indifference  to  community  of  principle,  which  is  found  to  so 
laige  an  extent  throughout  the  country.  Confident  in  their  intelligence, 
applying  its  test  to  all  subjects,  the  men  of  France  admit  no  guide  but 
their  own  reason,  and  are  led  by  it  to  the  diversity  of  convicdons  which 
always  reeolta  from  the  undirected  employment  of  human  intellect. 
Rejecting  Christian  doctrines  on  the  ground  that  they  are  not  supportable 
by  human  arguments,  recognising  no  proofs  but  such  as  they  fancy  are 
witlun  the  reach  of  their  personal  appreciation,  they  enter  at  once,  by 
thdr  contempt  of  religious  convictions,  on  the  road  of  independence, 
which  they  rollow  on  so  many  other  points,  and  which  leads  them  to 
refuse^  generally  and  collectively,  all  guides  and  all  examples. 

If  their  minds  were  susceptible  of  religious  faith,  it  would  follow, 
almost  necessarily,  that  they  would  open  also  to  adopted  social  principles, 
and  to  the  necessity  of  unity  of  thought  on  the  main  questions  of  life. 
But  in  their  insubmission  to  the  control  exercised  by  Christian  belief  on 
those  who  possess  it,  in  their  rejection  of  the  discipline  imposed  by  its 
application,  they  inevitably  prepare  themselves  to  consequently  decline 
the  social  control,  the  social  discipline,  which  received  general  obligations 
create  in  other  countries. 

There  is  n<^  real  prospect  of  any  present  change  on  this  great  question. 
At  certain  moments  during' the  last  few  years,  there  have  been  passing 
appearances  of  a  partial  resumption  of  the  practices  of  devotion;  but 
these  revivals  have  quickly  died  out  again,  and  have  left  no  traceable 
result.  The  mass  of  the  young  men  of  France  are  infidels,  and  with  the 
natural  disposition  of  their  age  and  inexperience,  they  exaggerate  the 
force  of  what  they  imagine  to  be  their  convictions.  Theso-CMiIled  liberal 
press  stimulates  their  already  developed  tendencies  by  holding  up  religion 
as  a  worn-out  means  of  civilisation  which  has  become  almost  a  danger  to 
modem  society.  The  system  under  which  the  girls  are  educated  is 
decried,  because  it  seeks  to  give  them  principles  of  faith  which  their 
future  husbands  will  not  share,  and  which  will,  tnerefore,  become  a  source 
of  danger  for  the  happiness  to  both.  But  notwithstanding  these)  attacks, 
the  migority  of  the  women  maintain  the  external  habit  of  the  faith  they 
have  been  taught,  and,  resisting  the  contagion  which  surrounds  them, 
th^  persistently  transmit  that  fsaih.  to  their  children :  their  power  is 
fimited  to  their  action  on  the  young,  but  they  use  it  steadily  as  long  as 
they  possess  it. 

But  wlule  religion  is  thus  abandoned,  and  its  controlling  and  re- 
generaUng  influences  thus  annulled,  it  is  curious  to  observe  how  com- 
mrtably  and  pleasantly  the  religious  and  irreligious  live  together.  There 
is  no  intolerance  on  either  side  ;  each  frankly  allows  the  other  to  have  its 
own  opinion  and  to  follow  its  own  path.  The  universal  give-and-take 
system  which  regulates  all  the  relations  of  life  in  France  applies  here  in 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


60  THE  uobjll  ommssam  or  the  iiench. 

M  its  foree.  It  is  rslifM  itself  which  is  attadced  bj  the  masseSy  not 
.those  vibo  practise  it.  The  eeremooiss  mod  pvoeessioiis  wkkth  ink*  place 
pvUiely  in  Fiaaoe,  even  the  columiis  of  hlack  and  grcj  penitante  «h» 
join  them  in  the  south,  provoLs  &o  hostility  or  oeatenpt  hom  the  lookera 
OB,  however  little  they  waa^  syaMadme  with  the  aeene  before  them.  The 
sentiment  of  liberty  is  so  really  »^  tbat  Tiokat  oeotradictioii  is  searedy 
possible. 

It  is  not  to  peliticid  and  revohkumary  ooasequesuces  alone  that  the 
destmetioa  of  i>elif  loa  should  be  attributed ;  they  hafe  oertmnly  Mate- 
rially aided  to  produce  it,  especially  amengst  the  lower  classes,  hmA  it  has 
been  confinned  by  the  enaacipainoii  from  coadrol  which  now  constitotos 
the  batts  of  French  existence,  u»d  which  applied  here,  as  ia  ail  the  detaib 
and  directions  of  Hfe,  renders  fiEoth  aa  irkaoaae  burden  uawaitiiy  ta  be 
borne  by  the  liberated  minds  of  this  generation.  There  is,  ia  the  idioie 
eubjeet,  a  eoaiplication  of  causes  and  effects  reacting  mutoally  on  each 
other,  which  renders  it  extreakely  difficult  to  determine  the  limit  between 
the  two.  The  want  ef  religion  and  the  possession  of  personal  liberty  o»- 
ezisti  and  each  Stimulates  the  athec,  but  tiie  precise  proportiaas  of  their 
relative  effects  caanet  be  defined. 

Next  to  the  genend  want  <£  rehgiaos  fueling,  the  most  striking  of  the 
bad  features  e£  the  present  state  of  the  French  is  the  scepticism  and  in» 
difference  vrith  whidi  the  duties  of  married  Me  are  regsMed  by  a  oon* 
ttdeaable  part  of  die  nation.  And  here,  indispataUy,  &e  wcaien  deserve 
aeme  part  of  the  blaiae.  With  all  the  ianaense  intenet  ^ey  hare  ia 
maintaiaing  pure  and  intact  the  rigour  of  the  aurriage  bond,  numbexsof 
iheia  accept  and  support  it  lather  as  aa  opportumty  of  aequiriog  aa 
envied  position  than  as  a  grave  duty  of  which  the  responsihili^  is 
ooBipensated  by  the  apedal  charm  of  the  new  eaaaas  of  happiness  it 
offers. 

The  S3^8tem  under  whicdi  amrriages  are  prepaved  in  FroM^  is  the  aHaa 
oause  of  these  earless  impressioas.  Not  only  does  it  tncreaae  the  uaoer- 
iMJJ^  ef  a  happy  result,  because  it  rurely  a^ds  the  gaarantoe  of  a  fce^ 
yieusly  eadstt^  real  affection,  but  it  briags  hndoand  tmd  wifie  tcgethorfor 
first  motives  in  which  they  hanre  generally  scaroely  any  shm,  ^uek 
parents  arraagiag  their  miion  faeoauae  motives  of  arataid  interest  or  illa- 
tive position  reader  it  appniently  desirable.  They  eadi  acoept  the  other 
iDr  a  Mfe-loug  companion  because  they  hase  been  brought  i:q»  with  the 
idea  of  receiving  instead  of  choosiBg  their  spouse.  This  is  especially  true 
of  the  girls,  for  the  men  have  a  i^tive  power  of  selection,  but  it  auist 
jnat  be  imagined  tftat  marxiages  are  imposed  by  £>thefs  oa  their  dakken ; 
such  cases  doubtless  exist,  but  th^  are  extremely  rare.  The  rale  is,  that 
before  the  pr^tendant  is  allowed  to  preseat  Uaaself  in  Ate  inily,  hisoha- 
racier  and  qualification  must  be  examined  and  approved;  bat  that  ea- 
amkaation,  while  it  removes  one  source  of  daager,  in  no  m^  implies  that 
if  he  fails  to  acquire  the  sympathy  of  the  girl  he  seeks  to  many  she  is  ta 
he  forced  to  accept  him  all  the  saoM. 

In  practice,  h<»rever,  die  desire  for  eariy  auyrriage  is  so  strong  aasaagat 
the  young  women  of  the  middle  and  upper  classes  in  Fraaoe^  and  emtt 
of  the  labouring  peculation  too,  though  in  a  less  degree,  that  they  alaM>st 
always  at  once  accept  any  husband  suggested  to  t^m  by  tiieir  parents; 
and  at  is  to  the  precipitation  with  which  they  voluntarily  rush  lata 
matrimony,  without  assuring  themselves  that  their  hearts  are  really 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


TmL  MORAL  COKIHTIOK  OF  THE  VKEKCH. 

Menred,  tkafc  Um  Bubtaqwnt  T«MtioB  ahoaM  be  sttfibotod,  ladwr  thm  to 
tbe  wwygwi  difjotic  motioB  of  tke  pmntt,  wUek,  thrni^  it  may  hsiPe 
codsted  in  preriow  gwnutiiji,  is  ocrtwiily  not  mienmed  now.     Tfie  girl 


k  free  to  aootpi  tr  refuse,  but  her  ignoranee  ef  life  aad  ehvaoter,  iim 
wamt  of  loMfwledge  of  tbe  worid  in  wfaicb  she  bes  been  broogbt  «p,  her 
long  habit  of  confidbnoe  m  tbe  coouek  ef  her  &tber  md  motfier,  and 
her  eager  denie  to  eachange  tbe  losignificaDee  ef  ber  poskmn  for  ^ 
autbofitjr  sad  independeaoe  of  married  life^  -oombiae  to  indnoe  her  te  see 
aD  sorts  of  obams  in  tbe  husband  offsied  ber.  She  marries  with  tbe 
idea  that  she  is  in  iote,  bi^  as  she  is  never  allowed  to  be  abne  with  her 
intended,  or  to  have  aoj  sort  of  intiinate  eommanication  with  him,  it  is 
net  till  she  has  really  tned  ber  new  existence  that  she  learns  wbeAer  sbe 
is  ng^  or  wrong. 

•niis  system  applies  evetywbne  in  France.  What  are  called  lam 
msniages  in  iWiand  ape  so  rare  tbattbey  maybe  said netto exist.  The 
girls  are  so  eleosiy  gaardod  by  their  mothers  that  they  have  no  oppor- 
tunity of  formiag  attachments,  and  tbeir  ednoation  teaches  ibpem  not  to 
regard  manriage  as  a  Tohmtary  aet  to  be  produced  by  tbeir  own  free  wiU. 
There  are,  bowofer,  signs  that  ihvj  are  begunnag  to  acouife  greater 
liber^  of  action,  and  it  is  possible  that  tb^  may  saooeed  ia  tine  in 
modifying  tbe  preoeat  system  in  favoar  of  tbw  own  initiatiTe. 

Dofivered  ignorant  aad  eoufidiug  to  their  husbands,  diey  snddenly 
fiad  tbemaeiycis  in  tbe  position  of  comparattre  iadepeafdenoe  wbidh  was 
tbe  object  of  tbeir  young  aaibition.  Sarvounded  Irf  new  temptations, 
stimdated  by  new  desires,  toe  often  cbrected  by  their  hartiaads  towards 
a  line  of  aotiosi  aad  pEi»n(4e  identieally  eootraiy  to  aH  'tiieir  previous 
ideas,  taagbt  by  tbeir  new  experience  bow  ^tifferent  are  tbe  efieots  of  tbe 
educa^n  of  man  and  wosDen,  firequentiy  disappointed  in  their  hopes  ef 
ateady  afleetieii,  they  grow  too  genendly  to  regard  tbe  married  state  as 
0ae  m  position  in  society  rather  than  ef  duty  to  tbe  husband.  Tbeir 
appreciation  of  tbe  tie  tbey  have  aeoepted  beoooes  modified,  tbeir  attach- 
ment to  viftue  and  their  ngoraus  obedieiiee  to  its  laws  may  remain  un- 
affected, but  tbeir  views  ef  their  future  life  take  a  diroctiea  in  which  tbe 
worid  aswunes  tbe  greater  share  of  importance  and  the  basbaad  tbe  lesser. 
It  is  probable  tfiat  the  majonty  of  FrsDcb  marriages,  in  tbe  midcHe  and 
upper  classes,  arrive,  after  a  certain  time,  at  this  resuH. 

Aad  if  it  b  attained,  the  husband  cannot  asasonably  eompbdn  of  it ; 
for  it  is  gsnemlly,  dirsetiy  or  indiiec%,  his  own  work.  He  marries 
ooBipaiatiidj!  brte  in  Ufe,  either  because  be  bas  exbausted  oAer  asweea 
of  distraetioii,  or  fxmi  motives  of  interest  or  oofiaeiiiiiiee,  rarely  because 
be  is  led  to  the  step  hy  strong  affection.  He  frequently  comes  to  it 
widioat  refigion,  and  abaost  alwanrs  without  any  clear  sense  of  tbe  oblt- 
gatioos  which  be  aeoepts.  He  admits,  as  a  rm,  Aat  be  is  not  bound  to 
observe  absolute  fidelity  to  bis  wife,  and  in  many  cases  bis  doobts  are 
carried  so  fiu*,  that  he  is  not  even  sure  that  be  will  be  able  to  nHUBtun 
ber  in  absobite  fidelity  to  himsrif.  When  men  believe  in  nothing,  even 
tiiis  remarkable  form  c£  scepticism  is  not  extraordinary.  After  Idbe  first 
pleasant  months  of  bis  new  existence  he  not  unfreowenfly  returns  to  bb 
previous  habits,  and  leaves  bb  wife  alone  to  create  ber  own  distractions, 
^le  nccesparily  throws  herself  on  others  for  amwement,  or,  if  she  really 
knvaa  ber  busbaod,  for  eonsoktion ;  and  witho«t  a^hnittmg  ht  one  instant 
that  French  wives  are  generally  uxiiaithful  to  their  husbands— a  monstrous 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


62  THE  MORAL  COKDITION  OF  THE  FRENCH. 

idea  of  which  eyen  a  limited  knowledge  of  French  homes  will  alwa3r9 
prove  the  iaHnty — ^it  if  certain  that»  in  such  cases,  which  are  unhappily  too 
numerous,  they  finally  cease  to  reeard  their  husband  as  the  great  object 
of  their  liyes,  as  their  natural  guide  and  friend  in  moments  of  doubt  or 
difficulty.  They  learn  to  look  on  marriage  as  a  necessary  social  condition, 
of  which  the  great  object  is  to  provide  a  defined  position  for  women,  but 
not  as  a  bond  which  unites  two  hearts  for  better  and  for  worse. 

This  unhappy  result  is  certainly  arrived  at  in  an  immense  number  of 
cases,  and  it  is  rendered  more  easy  by  the  general  unwillingness  of  the 
French  to  have  children.  If  those  tender  ties  between  man  and  wife 
existed  in  every  case,  indifference  to  each  other  would  forcedly  become 
more  difficult  to  attain,  and  their  first  affection  would  be  almost  neces- 
sarily strengthened  and  developed.  But  the  statistics  of  the  population 
of  France  are  there  to  prove  the  striking  &ct,  that  the  thirty-six  millions 
of  to-day  produce  positively  fewer  children  than  the  twenty-four  millions 
of  1788,  so  general  is  the  application  of  the  Malthusian  theory  of  so- 
called  prudence.  The  astonishing  devotion  of  French  mothers  to  their 
offspring,  and  the  remarkable  pictures  of  domestic  concord  presented  in 
quantities  of  families  where  thi^  generations  live  together  in  affectionate 
harmony,  are  proo£3  enough  that  children  create  virtue  in  their  parents, 
and  that  their  absence  is  an  absolute  evil.  It  is  in  the  mother^s  excessive 
love  for  them  that  she  brings  out  the  womanly  tenderness  of  heart  by 
which  the  husband  does  not  care  to  profit,  and  there  she  atones  for  her 
own  indifference  to  him.  But  mutual  coldness  is  almost  rare  in  cases 
where  children  are  allowed  to  arrive ;  the  family  tie,  in  its  fullest  sense, 
is  perfectly  understood  in  France,  and  if  the  French  would  but  accept  the 
common  law  of  procreation,  instead  of  so  generally  evading  its  effects,  . 
they  would  obtain  for  themselves  not  only  a  higher  moral  tone,  but  also 
far  happier  homes.  In  a  multitude  of  cases  the  husband  emulates  the 
active  and  tender  maternal  care  which  the  wife  exhibits.  Nowhere  are 
children  so  intimately  bound  up  in  the  existence  of  their  parents ;  in  no 
case  are  they  left  at  home,  or  abandoned  to,  the  hands  of  servants;  no 
father  is  asnamed  to  play  with  his  child  in  public,  or  to  put  in  evidence 
the  affection  which  he  feeb.  It  is  singular,  that  with  such  sentiments 
towards  their  offspring — ^when  they  have  any — the  men  of  France  should 
so  frequently  refuse  to  become  fathers. 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  more  admirable  development  of  fondness 
and  watch^  care  than  that  with  which  most  French  mothers  bring  up  the 
young.  Their  untiring  vigilance  never  ceases ;  their  anxious  solicitude 
never  flags ;  their  children  are  the  great  object  of  their  thoughts.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  exceed  the  touching  maternal  devotion  which  the 
great  mass  of  them  exhibit.  In  thousands  of  cases  the  girls  sleep  in  thdr 
mother's  room  from  the  hour  of  their  birth  to  the  day  of  their  marriage. 
Separation  from  the  husband — where  it  exists — has  this  advantage :  it 
permits  an  absolute  abandonment  of  the  mother  to  the  child;  in  the 
excess  of  her  motherly  sentiment  the  wife  finds  a  safeguard  fh>m  the 
provocation  of  the  husband's  neglect,  and  from  the  temptations  to  which 
the  want  of  all  home  occupations  would  expose  her. 

The  children  amply  repay  the  self-sacrificing  tenderness  of  which  they 
are  the  object;  indeed,  in  the  unsatisfactory  picture  which  the  present 
state  of  France  exhibits  on  certain  points,  the  astonishing  per&cti<m  of 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  MOEAL  CONDITION  OF  THE  FRENCH.  6S 

^e  bond  between  the  parent  and  the  child,  at  all  periodf  of  life,  is  a 
bright  and  striking  exceptbn. 

Tins  mntual  attachment  between  the  offspring  and  its  auUiors  is  a 
tendency  so  thoroughly  honest  and  ennobling,  that  it  seems  almost 
ungratefol  to  add  a  criticism  to  it.  But  it  cannot  be  forgotten  that  this 
intensity  of  affection,  this  absorbing  action  of  the  parental  and  filial  tie, 
have  the  effect  of  creating  for  children  too  promment  a  place  in  early  life. 
It  cannot  be  denied  that  they  now  occupy  in  France  a  position  of  which 
the  importance  is  so  great,  that  it  is  not  only  a  source  of  frequent  annoy* 
ance  to  strangers,  but  that  it  may  also  become  a  danger  for  the  character 
of  the  children  themselTes.  Brought  up  from  their  earliest  infancy  to 
feel  that  they  are  the  great  object  of  their  mother's  thoughts,  spoilt  and 
unchecked  hy  her  often  inconsiderate  fondness,  they  too  frequently  ac- 
quire an  undue  conriction  of  their  own  weight  in  the'  constitution  of 
their  family,  and  they  arri?e  imperceptibly  at  a  disposition  to  play  at 
little  men  and  women  almost  before  they  have  learnt  to  spell.  It  is  the 
development  of  thb  cause  which  is  leading  French  gtrb  to  the  liberty  of 
action  to  which  allusion  has  already  been  made. 

If  the  evil  progresses  it  is  possible  that  it  may  cure  itself  by  its  own 
excess,  for  French  women  are  not  only  adoring  mothers,  they  are  intelli- 
gent and  independent  thinkers  too;  and  if  they  should  recognise  that  bad 
moral  consequences  are  resulting  from  their  present  system,  of  which 
the  full  appUcadon  is  very  recent,  it  may  be  that  they  will  voluntarily 
modify  it,  if  it  be  only  to  prove  the  sincere  and  well-calculated  intentions 
which  actuate  ^em  in  the  matter. 

The  third  defective  feature  in  the  present  condition  of  French  morality 
is  ddicate  and  difficult  to  indicate. 

During  the  last  thirty  years,  and  especially  since  1852,  there  has  been 
a  remarkable  extension  of  trade,  manu^tures,  and  Bourse  operations  ^of 
every  kind.  Nearly  all  classes  have  been  more  or  less  mixed  up  in  the 
general  speculative  movement;  the  young  men  have  been  diverted  in 
large  numbers  from  the  liberal  professions  and  administrative  careers, 
towards  commercial  and  industrial  positions ;  a  tendency  has  sprung  up 
to  r^^ard  worklly  success  as  the  best  test  of  talent  and  capacity;  and  the 
pursuit  of  money  in  eveir  form  has  become  the  great  object  of  a  con- 
^derable  proportion  of  the  educated  classes.  This  disposition  has  been 
stimulated  by  the  growing  necessities  created  by  growing  luxury;  by  the 
envy  and  jeidousy  of  those  whose  incomes  have  not  allowed  them  to  rival 
the  brilliant  existences  around  them,  and  who  have  sought  to  acquire 
that  power  by  every  means  at  their  disposal ;  and  by  the  existence  of  an 
example  from  above  which,  wanting  where  it  could  be  exercised  for  good, 
is  present  for  harm  in  this  single  case. 

This  rush  after  gain  has  done  most  infinite  moral  harm  to  those  who 
ha^e  been  engaged  in  it,  for  it  has  too  often  destroyed  the  appreciation 
and  application  of  the  fine  shades  of  delicacy  of  conduct,  and  has  opened 
»  school  in  which  success  is  the  only  element  considered. 

With  their  many  brilliant  and  solid  qualities;  with  their  animated 
sosc^tibilities  and  their  highly  developed  capacity  for  friendship  and 
derotion  to  each  other;  with  dieir  quick  intelligence  and  remarkable 
i^iiitiides;  brave,  and  often  quarrelsome  for  nothing;  resenting,  sword 
in  hand,  all  imputatbns  on  their  honour  and  their  name;  regardmg 

TOX*.  LT*  F 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


64  THE  MORAL  CONDITION  OF  THfi  FRSNCH. 

duelling  M  a  aemisity,  and  applying  it  'witboot  care  of  its  illegal  eone- 
quences,~too  many  of  the  French,  with  all  tliif  appeasaaoe  of  high4(»ej[ 
fcding,  yieW  too  ^aeily  to  the  temptadon  of  moaey.  Tliey  jadge  iJieir 
ttate  on  this  critioal  qwAtion  irfth  a  severity  and  a  hanbneM  whieb  ne 
foreigner  «ould  decently  employ.  They  deplore  betwaea  themaelvet  tint 
the  public  stuidard  of  delicacy  vbould  bave  £allcn  to  aacb  aa  ebb,  and 
that  even  those  whose  position  would  seem  to  o\Mge  them  to  act  wkb 
rigid  probity  are  the  firot  to  profit  1^  that  position  to  aeli  their  names 
and  ^eir  tn'flaenee. 

But  while  tbese  striking  wad  ivgrettable  featases  T«veal  themselves  in 
erery  class,  and  in  varying  degrees,  in  the  majority  irf  ewerj  bUss  they 
are  accompaBied  by  some  admirable  qualities. 

The  wlK^e  nation  is  affectionate  and  siooefe  in  its  attadiroeats,  and 
fnll  of  sympathy  for  the  difficulties  and  sufferings  o£  otbon.  Nowhere 
does  the  sentiment  of  camaraderie  attain  sacb  peifoetioR  and  amsti  oon» 
stancy.  Nowhere  do  men  help  each  other  with  move  oonMal  good-will 
and  with  lees  affectation  of  rendering  service.  This  excellent  dupositioa 
is  particularly  developed  amongst  the  yoong  men  of  tbe  towas,  who  ara 
almost  all  formed  into  small  circles  or  sets,  of  wfaidi  the  object  is  not  only 
social  intercourse,  but  also  the  material  assistanee  of  each  other.  Tins 
banding  together  in  sraidl  societies  implies  almost  an  involantary  protesta- 
tion against  theindrridiial  selfidmess  which  iaoiatad  personal  action  woold 
produce,  and  it  furmshes  strong  evidence  that,  netwitifastaiidii^  the  abso* 
tote  liberty  enjoyed  by  each  separate  member  of  those  societies,  a£BMrt«Mt 
for  others  is  still  a  fundamental  virtue  of  French  character. 

The  remarkable  attention  of  the  women  to  their  doraestio  dudes  is 
another  general  merit  of  this  generation.  In  every  <da86,  with  but  rare 
ezcepdons,  they  direct  their  households  witli  an  inteUigeooe  and  economy 
which  partly  explain  the  appeannce  of  luxurious  expenditure  which  has 
become  so  genial  of  late  years  in  France.  The  Hnnted  total  of  the  ac- 
count-book of  many  a  French  family  woald  astonish  English  hoosekeepen^ 
who  would  not  comprehend  that  such  external  results  can  be  obtained  at 
SBch  a  price.  The  singularly  ingenious  domestic  aptitude  of  the  women 
of  France  and  their  active  disohttrge  of  their  home  cares  is  the  key  to  the 
difficulty. 

The  force  of  the  parental  and  filial  tie  has  already  been  iadicated. 

In  addition  to  these  q>e(»fic  merits,  the  French  possess  a  negadva 
quality  of  immense  importance.  It  is  impossible  to  imagiae  a  people 
more  totally  &ee  from  hypocrisy  or  bumbog.  It  is  true  that  they  have 
no  motive  whatever  for  giving  in  to  this  peculiarly  English  defoct;  their 
liberty  is  so  veal  that,  in  their  unMmited  power  of  doing  exactly  as  they 
please,  they  have  no  reason  for  offenag  tiie  **  homage  ^idiieh  vice  renders 
tovirtae.*'  13i^  osn  be  vimoos  if  tltey  like,  and  a^odty  will  atop  them; 
and  on  ikia  v^tpj  foot  a  most  powesfol  argament  in  their  fovour  saigbt  be 
based,  for  aH  their  fonlts  oome  out  in  the  open  light  of  nneoi^roUed 
action,  while  those  of  many  other  oonntries  are  cavefolly  biddoi  ander 
Ibe  uniform  of  hypocrisy  whidi  the  strong  hand  of  public  opinion  imposes. 
The  French  are  £rank  and  straightforward,  for  the  eimpiest  of  all  i 
that  they  have  no  motive  for  bcnig  otherwise. 

These  varioas  quattties  exist  far  aioreimiivenally  iima  the  defocts  < 
liave  been  eanmented  before  tfiem ;  and,  even  as  sagaads  the  latter,  it 
must  not  be  imagined  that  their  practice*is  absolute,  and  that  the  -wkole 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


TSX  MOfiAL  CONDCnOK  09  THE  nENOB.  <5 


fIrMck  BftlMi  «Im«U  tiiaflt&xe  lie  loekidM  bb  one  wwmfiag 
4ion.  A  ki^  auaonty  ef  th*  fM^laAM  ave  £ree  irom  the  prevdairt 
faults  of  their  countrymen,  and  present  adnmble^LMapke  of  virtue  and 
iMTit  Tlwie  CKoepiiiinD  eonai  an  ererj  elaoa,  and  the  tHtoutaon  of  ktgfa 
aaoral  qaatitiog  witk  the  iadnpnadancn  of  action  and  brilkaniy  of  eeniwaa* 
tioD  wkidi  reader  Frenck  maaty  so  atoaelive,  eonslitiiies  an  adiairaliifa 
wboky  of  whack  aearaeljr  an  esample  can  be  found  elsewkera. 

The  atate  of  4he  wiMs^  daases,  wlnle  affennr  ^emdlj  O^  aane 

It  eharactsriatios  as  diat  of  tlteir  superiors  im  <eaBoatien  and  pesbiai, 

sate  one  reonricaUe  merit.     The^^kave'Oecne^ivt  vnsomtliedfrMstfae 

I  «OBta0t  «£  the  socialist  pstaoiples  which  were  oamat 


iheoi  ten  jemn  ago,  aadtlMy  have  diandoned  the  tempting  but  fidlaetoas 
theories  of  aM  leveUiag  oqaalit j  with  whioh  xerokitioAary  teachers  hafe 
eonght  to  indootriaate  theaa.  They  are,  for  the  most  pait,  honest  and 
fpaU  disposed,  coarteeos,  seher,  and  simple.  fi«t  their  speeial  merit  is 
thai  th^  have  Tdimtarily  fersabea  socialism,  and  have  fraoUy  aeoepted 
the  equality  which  naUy  sahsists.  Using  the  eppettaiiitiui  eo  easily  oo- 
^pvred  in  the  psesent  state  of  Freaeh  society  or  risiag  by  good  oonduot 
juid  indastry  to  positaens  of  ooofort  and  lespeotahility,  they  lisnre  ceased, 
OB  a  body,  to  look  on  the  upper  dasses  as  bars  in  tfaesr  road  which  are  to 
he  £osml^  reasoved  when  oceaaien  offers.  Socialism  toU  tfassa  to  rogasd 
obaiitj  oa  on  insult,  and  property  ai  a  robbery,  aad  te  hate  Oftnistiani^ 
beeaase  it  tangbit  chanty.  It  is  because  they  have  eoose  oat  of  ths 
•daogerous  trial  witheat  hsing  permaaently  aieoted  by  it  that  they  peofo 
the  naaate  good  sense  aad  ammd  approotataoa  of  the  dutias  of  M£i,  wbtich 
aeally  exist  aaioag  thsas  ia  a  marjced  degree,  aad  timt  'dmy  eonsequentty 
paieentj  as  a  daas,  a  very  satisCaetory  &iture  in  :die  state  of  the  oem- 
aannity. 

While  the  workmen  of  ihe  towns,  who  had  nothii^  to  lose,  were  ( 


bsen  soeiaMats  at  all.  Tkey  pvasent  ihe  same  nuua  ontlhies  of  character 
ai  ibe  anaiaifactaring  classes,  who  are  indeed,  to  a  great  eKtent,  recnuted 
from  dieir  ranks,  but  they  ase  Car  more  rapacious  aod  eanntng  than  the 
latter.  They  jare  not  geaerally  pleasai^  to  deal  with;  and  if  a  normal 
di^K  of  the  rieh  eaiiats  anywhere  in  the  lower  iWench  population,  it  is 
oertaii^y  amongst  thsm  that  it  will  be  found.  The  few  vemannng  families 
of  the  old  BobHity  whe  still  vetain  oouatry  positknis  ave,  ahnost  without 
oneptioa,  isspeoted  and  Iflced,  because  they  do  their  duty  as  neighboars; 
hot  aufofiunately  the  popsseat  possessois  of  country-houses  are  most  of 
them  suouisBfiil  traders,  who  bay  them  from  aaotives  of  imncty,  and  with 
no  aoticn  of  <Kschai'ging  <«y  oliaritable  duties  around  tbaai.  They  think 
they  prore  their  superiority  by  an  affectation  of  haughty  grandeur,  and 
dopeadon  th«r  money  instead  of  their  edacatioa  sad  good  works  for  the 
effect  whidi  they  fiMcy  they  prodaea.  Provoked  by  theor  jetfishaois,  the 
peasants  natmsaily  hats  thcai,  and  in  oertaia  distriots  the  pK>prietors  of 
iliftiaaai  might  find  thsaoaehFes  ia  adisagnaoable  posMen  in  Ae  erent  of 
a  p:ok>ngod  revohitioo.  But  this  ^al  inritatioQ  is  to  a  great  eitsnt 
excusable,  and  scarcely  constitutes  a  greaad  of  speeial  hbnne  agaiast  the 
agricultural  class  as  a  whole. 

The  general  state  of  French  morality  thus  offers  a  series  of  clearly 

r2 

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66  THE  MORAL  GONDITIOK  OF  THS  FRENCH. 

marked  good  and  bad  quaUties,  which  exist  Tery  generally  throughout  the 
nation.  Their  good  qualities  are  scarcely  likely  to  £si^pear;  must  the 
same  be  said  of  the  bad  ones  ? 

Can  it  be  argued  that  their  state  is  essentially  one  of  transition,  that 
they  hare  been  brought  to  it,  as  a  whole,  by  the  consequences  of  their 
modem  political  history,  and  that  if  the  cause  be  not  renewed  its  effects 
cannot  fail  to  die  out?  This  is  the  opinion  of  many  intellifi^nt  French- 
men, who  consider  that,  restored  to  calm,  reassured  as  to  the  destiny  of 
their  country,  and  governed  with  the  avowed  object  of  raising  their  moral 
standard  by  the  renewed  influence  of  education  and  example,  they  would 
rapidly  return  to  high  moral  couTictions.  It  is  urc;ed  that  ihm  remark- 
able capacities,  their  special  and  highly-deTeloped  fticulty  of  imitation^ 
would  enable  them  to  quickly  resume  the  position  which  they  hare 
abandoned  on  certain  points,  and  that  they  would  recover  it,  with  all  the 
vigour  which  strong  reaction  invariably  brings  into  play,  if  once  a  guide 
acquired  their  confidence,  and  right  means  were  employed  to  counteract 
the  known  and  evident  evils  of  deir  present  position. 

But  is  this  opinion  just?  Is  not  the  universal  freedom  of  life  and 
sentiments  in  France  in  itself  an  unsurmountable  difficulty  in  the  way  of 
all  common  national  action  ?  If  so,  all  expectation  of  a  change  in  the 
great  present  defects  of  French  character  is  but  a  wild  and  ftmciful 
dream,  for  that  freedom  will  never  be  abandoned.  It  is  impossible  that 
the  French  can  ever  be  brought,  by  any  efforts  or  any  teaching,  to  accept 
a  social  master,  and  still  less  anything  approaching  to  the  icy  rule  of 
'^  respectability,"  as  it  is  understood  in  England.  Supposing  even  that 
they  readmit  religious  convictions,  that  they  learn  to  respect  and  cherish 
the  married  state,  and  that  they  reacquire  a  high  standard  of  poscmal 
delicacy,  all  of  which  results,  excepting  the  latter,  are  apparently  im- 
|>robable,  they  will  never  abandon  the  right  of  individual  social  liberty,  of 
mdependence  towards  each  other,  of  which  they  have  become  possMsed 
at  the  price  of  seventy  years  of  constantly  recurring  convulsions.  This 
conquest  is  too  precious  to  be  given  up ;  it  is  the  complement  of  the  sup- 
pression of  social  classification,  which  is  now  the  very  essence  of  French 
life ;  never  will  they  consent  to  copy  their  existences  and  their  opinions 
from  one  general  model,  applied  to  every  rank  and  every  position,  or  to 
allow  individuality  to  be  crushed  by  tne  voioe  of  a  majority.  How, 
then,  is  a  reaction  to  begin  ? — ^how  is  it  to  be  organised  ?  If  Uiey  return 
to  a  higher  level  of  feeling  on  the  points  in  question,  it  can  only  be 
because  each  individual  freely  accepts  the  change;  in  such  a  caae  it 
would  be  effected  with  ease,  because  the  full  force  of  voluntary  personal 
action  would  stimulate  it.  But  as  imposed  example  will  never  be  accepted, 
and  pressure  never  be  supported,  how  is  a  reaction  to  be  commenced  ? — 
and  how  are  all  the  separate  wUls  of  France  to  be  turned  to  the  same 
object? 

It  seems  reasonable  to  believe  that  individual  improvement  may  occur, 
but  the  irradicable  possession  of  personal  liberty  will  never  allow  the 
universal  assimilation  of  the  whole  people  into  one  obligatory  uniform 
moral  type;^  it  will,  according  to  tU  appearances,  continue  to  present  a 
discordant  picture  of  defects  and  |||rits  subsisting  side  by  side,  without 
any  general  movement  in  one  direction. 


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67 


THE  COUNTESS  OP  ALBANY. 


At  the  mature  age  of  fifty-two,  Charles  Edward,  no  longer  the 
«<  young  chefaUer,"  tired,  mayhap,  of  his  connexion  with  the  fair  Clemen- 
tina Walkinshaw,  or  prohahly  thinking  it  high  time  to  reconcile  himself 
with  religion,  determmed  henceforth  to  live  cleanly.  He  listened  very 
kindly  to  the  proportion  of  the  French  court  that  he  should  marry,  and 
die  lady  selected  for  him  was  Louise  Princess  of  Stolberg-Geldem,  who 
has  just  attained  the  age  of  twenty.  The  lady's  grandmother  on  the 
maternal  side  was  a  daughter  of  Thomas  Bruce,  Earl  of  Elg^n  and  Ayles- 
bury, who  followed  James  II.  into  exile.  At  the  age  of  seyen,  Princess 
Louise  was  appointed  a  canoness  of  St.  Wandru,  in  Belgium,  by  the 
Empress  Mana  Theresa.  The  young  canoness,  after  being  carefully 
•ducated  in  the  convent,  went  out  into  society  and  attracted  very  consi- 
derable attention.  She  was  venr  fond  of  music  and  drawing,  to  the  last 
of  which  pursuits  she  remained  ntithful  up  to  the  day  of  her  death. 

In  1771,  Charles  Edward  was  suddenly  summoned  from  Vienna  to 
Paris,  and  was  informed,  through  the  Duke  of  Fitzjames,  that  the  French 
court  wished  him  to  get  married  out  of  hand.  The  motive  for  this  wish 
is  unknown,  but  it  is  certain  that  Fitnames  recommended  the  Princess 
Louise  of  Stolberg,  whose  sister,  Caroline  Augusta,  had  just  married  his 
own  eldest  son,  the  Marquis  de  Jamaicque  and  future  Duke  of  Berwick. 
At  this  time  the  Pretender  was  a  wreck,  both  bodily  and  mentalljr,  and 
we  doubt  whether  his  own  wishes  were  taken  into  consideration  in  the 
matt«r  of  marriage.  Eighteen  years  earlier,  when  his  father  urged  him 
to  marry,  he  had  answered:  <*  The  unworthy  conduct  of  certain  ministers 
and  Dec^ber  10,  1748,  have  rendered  it  impossible  for  me  to  settle 
anywhere,  without  risking  honour  and  interests.  But  even  were  it  pos- 
sible to  find  a  place  of  shelter,  I  think  that  our  family  has  experienced 
sufficient  misfortune.  I  will  not  marry  so  long  as  I  am  in  poverty,  for 
such  a  step  would  but  heighten  my  misery.  Were  I  to  have  a  son  re- 
•embline  his  father  in  character,  he  would  also  be  chtuned  hand  and  foot, 
if  he  rerased  to  obey  some  scoundrel  of  a  minister.*'  Still,  he  had  not 
quite  given  up  the  idea  of  a  marriage,  as  we  know  from  the  confidential 
reports  of  his  partisans,  and  he  had  himself  made  use  of  expressions 
about  the  education  of  his  children,  in  the  event  of  his  marrying  a 
Cathc^c  princess,  which  proved  clearly  how  fully  his  own  religion  opposed 
his  ascending  the  throne  of  England. 

The  proposed  marriage  must  have  possessed  some  attraction  for  the 
joting  canoness  of  Mons.  A  crown  was  offered  her,  a  valueless  crown  it 
is  true,  but  surrounded  by  that  halo  which  centuries  of  legitimacy  and 
great  events  impart — a  crown  which  had  once  belonged  to  the  glorious 
race  of  Robert  Bruce,  whose  blood  flowed  in  her  own  veins.  "  Dieu  et 
mon  droit"  and  the  Scottish  "  Nemo  me  impune  lacessit'*  found  an  echo 
in  the  motto  of  the  Stolbergs,  "  Spes  nescia  fiilci"  in  the  "  Fuimus"  of 
the  Bruces.  The  matter  was  arranged  under  the  rose,  because  the  oppo- 
sitioD  of  the  Austrian  court  was  apprehended,  owing  to  its  close  relations 
with  England.  Princess  Louise  arrived  in  Paris  with  her  mother,  when 
the  marriage  took  place  by  proxy,  and  the  bride  eventually  sailed  from 


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68  THE  COUNTESS  OF  ALBANY. 

Venice  to  Aocona.  The  actual  marriage  was  celebrated  at  Macerata  on 
April  17,  1772.  According  to  Von  Reumont,*  the  following  witnesses 
were  present : 

In  the  hoii8e-chai>el,  Charles  III.,  Kinfjof  Great  Britain,  Prance,  and  Ireland, 
defender  of  the  Faith,  and  Louise  Maximiliane  Caroline  Emmanuel,  daughter 
of  GustiKTUS  Adolphns,  Prince  of  Stolberg-Gddcm,  were  married  by  Monaignore 
CSarh)  Feranmi,  Bishop  of  Macerata.  Edmund  Rjaa,  major  of  Berwidc'a 
ngiment,  ^ve  the  conseat  in  the  name  of  the  brub^s  mother.  Moarigaore 
Bwueri  Emocohiietii,  gof^emor  of  the  Mardies,  Canillo  Compagnoiu  Mare- 
fosehi  ftSMl  Ajitonio  de'  Pellicani,  patricians  of  Macerata,  were  present  as  wit- 
nesies.  An  inscriptbn  in  the  chapel  and  a  medal  were  the  memorials  of  the* 
ceremonj.  The  obverse  of  the  latter  displayed  the  portrait  of  Charles  Edward, 
the  reverse  that  of  his  youEg  consort. 

The  newly-married  couple  remained  a  few  days  in  Macerata^  and  then 
iD^;rated  to  Rome  with  truly  regal  pomp*  Cardinal  York  hurried  to 
met  them,  and  gave  his  sister-in-law  a  snuff-box  richly  set  with 
diamonds,  and  containing  an  order  for  forty  thooiand  Roman  dollars* 
Charles  Edward's  first  step  was  to  inform  ^e  secretary  of  state  of  the 
arrival  of  **  the  King  and  Queen  of  Engknd."  But  times  had  greatly 
changed  ai  Rome,  and  Pope  Clement  XIV.  was  not  disposed  to  make  a 
T0COgnition  whidi  could  only  lead  to  embarrassment.  During  the  whole 
period  of  the  Pretender's  stay  in  Rome,  the  royal  honours  his  father  had 
enjoyed  there  were  not  conceded  to  him.  Of  course  this  did  not  prevent 
Claries  Edward  asserting  his  rights,  and  he  nudntained  as  regal  a  house- 
bold  as  oircumitances  permitted.  A  Swiss  traveller  and  author,  Von 
Boostetten,  describes  thig  mioiature  court,  which  be  visited  two  years 
after  the  marriage.  The  Palazzo  Muli,  in  which  it  was  held,  was  very 
fitted  up,  and  the  walls  of  the  i^Nurtments  of  the  princess  were 


decorated  with  engravings  by  Robert  Strange^  Three  or  four  ladies  and 
gentlemen  waited  on  the  royal  pair,  and  the  grace  of  the  *<  queen"  spread 
a  peculiar  charm  over  everything.  The  Queen  of  Hearts,  as  the  Romans 
oalled  her,  was  of  middle  height,  blonde,  with  dark  blue  eyes,  a  retrouss^ 
nose,  and  a  complexion  as  brilliantl  v  fair  as  that  of  an  Englishwoman. 
The  Pretender  was  tall,  thin,  good-humoured,  and  talkative.  He  de- 
lighted in  being  able  to  talk  English^  and  was  fond  of  describing  his  ad- 
ventures^  interesting  enough  for  a  stranger,  though  his  suite  might  have 
heard  them  a  hundred  times.  Nearly  after  every  phrase  he  would  ask : 
*^  Ha  capito  p"  His  young  consort  laughed  heartily  at  the  disguise  in. 
female  clothing,  as  she  looked  at  his  face  and  stature. 

The  Pretender  and  his  wife  resided  in  their  palace  on  the  Square  of 
the  Apostles  up  to  the  summer  of  1774.  From  this  abode  the  Romuis 
called  the  princess  "  Regina  Apostolorum."  The  report  spread  in  the 
antumn  after  the  marriage,  that  she  had  borne  her  lord  a  son,  proved 
filse.  In  1774  the  Count  and  Countess  of  Albany  went  to  Leghorn, 
with  the  intention  of  eventually  settling  at  Siena.  The  following  year, 
namely,  was  the  jubilee  at  Rome,  and  Charles  Edward  could  not  bear 
ibe  idea  that  on  this  occasion  the  honours  generally  granted  to  crowned 
heads  would  be  refused  to  him.  Towards  the  end  of  October  they  re- 
moved to  Florence ;  but,  before  describing  their  eventful  abode  in  the 

♦Die  Qrafln  von  Albany.  Von  Alfred  von  Reumoat.  Two  volumes.  Berlins 
Imker. 


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THE  COUNTESS  OF  ALBANY.  <19 

Toaeaa  oaiHtal,  we  must  olEer  our  readen  a  few  details^  forming  the 
fMmdaiion  for  claims  that  have  reeently  aroused  some  aitention  : 

In  the  year  after  Cbarks  Edward's  maniage,  so  the  story  nms,  a  yonng 
Seottish  physician  of  the  name  of  Beaton  was  trarelHng  through  Italy.  While 
wandfliing  about  Toseany,  be  heard  a  rumour  that  the  heir  of  the  Stuarts  was 
residing  imet^to  in  that  country.  They  were  said  to  inhabit  a  villa  near  a 
conTent  dedicated  to  Santa  Rosalii^  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Apennines. 
Attracted  by  the  name  of  the  "  king  and  queen,"  the  younjj  surgeon  proceeded 
to  the  indicated  spot.  He  remained  some  days  in  the  neighbourhood,  aoid  re- 
cognised the  prince  as  he  rode  past,  who,  though  no  longer  youthfully  hand- 
some, still  retained  that  eagle  g^anoe  which  had  fiiscinated  his  followers.  On 
tibe  same  eremng  he  visited  the  convent  chapel,  where  he  was  suddenly  ad- 
dressed by  a  tall  man,  who  requested  hks  immediate  sarj^eal  help.  As  usual  in 
aoch  stones,  his  eyes  were  bound  after  getting  into  a  carriage,  which  conv^ed 
him  to  a  splendid  villa.  Here  a  servant  met  nimy  who  informed  him  that  Ins 
lady  patient  had  had  a  premature  accouchement,  owing  to  the  breaking  of  a  car- 
riage-wheel, but  mother  and  child  were  doing  well.  He  was  then  lea  through 
several  rooms,  on  the  walls  of  which  hung  several  portraits,  and  he  recognised 
James  Vlii.  and  the  Puke  of  Perth.  He  entered  the  bedroom,  where  1^  saw 
a  nurse  hoidiag  a  new-born  babe,  and  on  asking  for  writing  materials,  he  wae 
shown  into  an  adjoining  cabinet,  where  be  recognised  a  miniature  of  Charlsa 
SdwanL 

We  need  not  follow  the  details  ^  we  will  merdy  add  that,  when  on  the 
pant  of  leaTtDg  Leghorn,  Dr.  Beaton  declared  that  he  saw  hit  friend  at 
the  convent,  with  a  lady,  hand  over  a  bundle,  from  which  the  cnr  of  a 
ofaihi  israed,  to  Captain  CHalloran,  of  the  English  frigate  Albina. 
From  diia  narrative  sprang  the  fable  that  the  heir  of  the  Stuarts  waa 
secretly  educated  in  the  Highlands.  As  a  proof  of  the  falsehood  of  tbe 
story,  we  need  only  allude  to  the  utter  silence  the  Count  and  Coontesf 
of  Albany  maintained  on  the  subject ;  but  those  who  are  curious  on  the 
matter  will  find  tbe  entire  narrative  in  a  work  pnUiihed  by  Messrs 
Blackwood.* 

The  eoimt  and  ooontess,  as  we  said,  proceeded  to  Florence,  where  tlie 

Pretender's  health  began  speedily  to  eive  way.     Traces  of  dropsy  vrere 

Timhle,  and  his  digestion  was  entirely  destroyed.     Still  he  did  not  in  any 

way  alter  his  mode  of  life  :  he  drove  out  daily,,  gave  dinner  parties,  ana 

went  every  evening  to  the  Opera.     In  winter  he  visited  the  public  balls, 

wksre  he  appeared  in  a  Venetian  domino,  his  eonsort  heing^  nnwesked. 

On  one  ooeasson,  being  inflamed  with  wine,  he  had  a  dispute  with  a 

JEVoneh  ofieer,  and  when  the  latter  replied  to  an  insulting  remark,  that 

lie  must  forget  who  he  vras,  he  replied,  *^  Je  sais  que  vous  Stes  Fran^ais, 

et  cela  sufBt  !**     Altogether,  the  Pretender  was  what  may  be  called  a 

''bad  Ipt^"  for  though  he  recovered  slightly  in  1780,  it  was  only  to  break 

ant  into  fresh  excesses.     Even  when  he  went  to  the  theatre  he  would 

emnj  a  bottle  of  Cyprus  with,  him,  and  at  one  of  tbe  masqued  balls  he 

;««aafaMi  on  dancing  a  minuet  with  a  young  lady,  which  greatly  amused 

the  oompenj,  as  his  equerry,  Count  Spada,  had  to  hold  kirn  under  tlie 

arms.     His  relations  to  his  wife  were  naturally  very  painful.     We  find, 

from  Sb  Horace  Mann,  that  he  ill-treated  her;  but  he  omits  to  add  what 

waa  the  chief  cause  of  the  unpleasantness  between  them. 


f  •  T^dM  cf  the  Century.    By  John  Sobierid  and  Charles  Edward  Staart    Gfr. 
ri^gtiiwp,TiA.lmL 


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70  THE  COUNTESS  OF  ALBANY. 

In  the  autumn  of  1777  Vittorio  Alfieri,  then  not  more  than  twenty 
years  of  age,  formed  the  acquaintance  of  the  Countess  of  Albany,  and 
the  acquaintance  speedily  ripened  into  friendship.  At  that  period  the 
countess  seems  to  have  been  capable  of  arousing  a  powerful  impression 
in  the  heart  of  an  inflammable  Italian,  for,  as  Sir  W.  Wraxall  tells  us, 
*^  the  Countess  of  Albany  merited  a  more  agreeable  partner,  and  might, 
herself,  have  graced  a  throne.  When  I  saw  her  at  Florence  (in  1779), 
though  she  had  been  long  married,  she  was  not  quite  twenty-seven  years 
of  age.  Her  person  was  formed  on  a  small  scale,  with  a  fair  complexion, 
delicate  features,  and  lively  as  well  as  attractive  manners.''  It  was  evi- 
dent that  a  crisis  must  ensue  ere  long,  for  all  the  elements  were  collected 
on  the  scene:  a  passionate  poet,  a  young,  attractive  wife,  and  an  ageing 
husband,  whose  vices  it  was  impossible  to  veil.  There  are.  Von  Reumont 
tells  us,  two  portraits  still  existing  in  Florence,  representing  the  too 
unequal  couple.  Charles  Edward  is  not  to  be  recognised  as  the  same 
man:  he  has  lack-lustre  eyes,  hanging  cheeks  and  chin,  and  an  expres- 
mon  half  vexed,  half  wearisome.  He  is  dressed  in  a  short  peruke,  a 
scarlet  coat  with  gold  facings,  the  ribbon  and  star  of  the  Garter,  and  a 
small  St.  Andrew's  cross  in  his  button-hole. 

Sir  W.  Wraxall  describes  the  liaison  between  Alfieri  and  the  countess 
in  such  a  way  as  to  make  us  believe  that  Charles  Edward  felt  no  annoy- 
ance at  the  Italian  custom  of  cicisbeism.  But  this  did  not  endure  long, 
and  a  crisis  at  length  arrived  in  the  life  of  the  married  pair,  of  which  we 
cannot  help  thinking  that  the  poet's  exclusive  admiration  for  the  countess 
was  the  onief  incentive.  The  affair  is  so  fully  described  by  Horace 
Mann,  that  we  will  quote  his  letter.  Writing  from  Florence,  on  Decem- 
ber 12,  1780,  the  envoy  says: 

I  have  often  had  occasion  to  mention  to  your  lordsbip  the  irrej^lar  bebavioor 
of  the  Pretender,  but  a  late  instance  of  it  has  produced  a  scene  fist  Saturday  of 
which  it  is  my  duty  to  give  your  lordship  the  earliest  account.  Of  late,  the 
intemperance  of  his  behaviour,  especially  when  he  was  heated  with  wine  and 
stronger  liquors,  has  been  vented  upon  nis  wife,  whom  he  has  for  a  long  time 
treated  in  the  most  indecent  and  cruel  manner.  On  St.  Andrew's-day — ^which 
he  has  always  celebrated  by  indulging  himself  in  drinking  more  than  usual,  he 
ill-treated  her  in  the  most  outrageous  manner,  by  the  most  abusive  language, 
and  beating  her,  and  at  night  by  ...  .  attempting  to  choke  her.  Her  screams 
roused  the  whole  family,  and  their  assistance  prevented  any  other  violence ;  but 
it  is  supposed  that  from  that  moment  she  determined  to  separate  from  him, 
though  she  concealed  her  intention  till  she  could  write  to  the  Cardinal  of  York, 
to  represent  the  affair  to  him,  and  receive  his  answer.  In  the  mean  while  she 
meditated  on  the  means  of  putting  it  in  execution.  The  cardinal's  answer  was 
conceived  in  terms  of  great  civuity  and  compassion,  exhorting  her,  for  the 
honour  of  his  family,  to  bear  with  his  brother's  behaviour  as  long  as  she  could, 
but  promising  her  both  assistance  and  protection  in  case  she  should  be  obliged 
to  leave  him.  Fresh  instances  of  his  cruelty  making  her  think  herself  in  danger 
of  her  life,  she  meditated  on  the  means  of  putting  her  resolution  into  effect,  lor 
which  purpose  she  made  her  case  privately  xnown  to  the  great-duke,  and  invited 
a  lady  of  her  acqu^ntance  to  breakfast  with  her  in  company  with  her  husband, 
as  she  had  often  done  before;  after  which,  he  proposed  to  the  ladies  to  take  the 
air  in  his  coach  as  usual,  and  thejr,  under  the  pretence  of  visiting  a  sort  of  con- 
vent, not  a  strict  cloister,  which  is  immediately  under  the  great-duchess's  pro- 
tection, induced  him  to  go  thither,  having  previously  engaged  a  gentleman  of  her  - 
acquaintance  to  be  there  to  hand  her  out  of  her  coach,  and  to  prevent  any  acts 
of  violence  that  might  ensue,  as  the  Pretender  always  carried  pistols  m  his 


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THE  COUNTESS  OF  ALBANY.  71 

pocket.  The  ladies  getting  first  into  the  convAit,  the  door  was  immediately 
shai  and  barred,  to  preTent  the  Pretender's  going  in.  He  flew  into  a  violent 
passion,  demanding  his  wife.  A  ladj  of  the  court,  who  has  direction  of  that 
place,  in  the  name  of  the  great-dachess  came  to  the  grate  and  told  him  that  the 
Conntess  Albania  had  put  herself  under  the  protection  of  the  great^uke,  and 
that  being  in  danger  of  her  life,  she  had  resolutely  determined  nerer  to  cohabit 
with  him  any  more.  Upon  which  he  returned  home,  where  he  committed  the 
greatest  extravagances,  and  has  since  declared  that  he  will  give  a  thousand 
aecchins  to  anybody  who  will  kill  the  gentleman  who  assisted  his  wife  on  that 
occasion.  He  likewise  had  the  foil?  to  say  publicly  that  he  knew  that,  hj  his 
majesty's  orders,  I  had  given  several  thousand  zecchins  to  his  wife  to  administer 
a  potion.  •  •  •  •,  He  immediately  sent  Count  Spada.  his  gentlemui,  to  the  ereat- 
duke  to  complain  of  what  had  happened,  and  to  demimd  his  wife;  but  he  re- 
ceived a  very  unfavourable  answer.* 

The  cardiDal  williogly  assented  to  give  his  sister-in-law  a  shelter,  and 
ahe  soon  af^r  quitted  Florence.  As  apprehensions  were  entertained  that 
her  husband  might  try  to  carry  her  o^  her  coach  was  escorted  by  armed 
horsenoen,  and  Alfieri  and  Mr.  Gahagan,  in  disguise,  occupied  the  coach- 
box.  The  countess  reached  Rome  in  perfect  safety.  She  temporarily 
resided  in  the  convent  of  the  Ursulines,  at  the  grate  of  which  Alfieri  saw 
her  lor  a  moment,  in  February,  1781.  When,  however,  the  Pope  gave 
her  permission  to  leave  the  convent,  and  reside  in  a  wing  of  the  cardinal's 
town  paUazo,  the  poet  saw  the  lady  of  his  heart  with  tolerable  frequency. 
It  was  while  enjoying  this  happiness  that  Alfieri  resolved  to  prepare  an 
edition  of  his  tragedies  for  the  press,  and  one  of  them — ^the  ^*  Antigone" 
— was  performed  in  the  palace  of  the  Spanish  embassy,  before  an  audience 
of  the  most  distinguishea  persons  in  Rome.  Alfieri  was  most  anxious  to 
secure  powerful  ^ends,  for  his  liaison  with  the  countess  had  become 
matter  of  town  talk,  and  he  foresaw  the  annoyances  and  torture  that  were 
preparing  for  him.     An  independent  circumstance  precipitated  events. 

Count  Albany  remained  in  Florence.  His  passion  at  his  wife's  flight, 
and  the  way  in  which  it  had  been  effected,  only  heightened  the  accursed 
mania  to  which  he  gave  entire  way.  He  tried  to  drown  his  misery,  and 
thus  destroyed  the  small  amount  of  health  and  strength  left  him.  Hit 
drunkenness  attained  such  a  pitch  that,  as  an  old  servant  of  his  brother 
said,  a  street  porter  could  not  beat  him.  The  consequences  might  be 
mnticipated :  in  March,  1783,  he  was  taken  dangerously  iU,  and  on  the 
24th  he  received  supreme  unction.  Soon  after,  lus  brother,  the  cardinal, 
arrived  in  Florence,  and  Charles  Edward  told  him  his  story  about  the 
flight  of  the  countess,  and  said  that  the  cardinal  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
faimself  for  giving  her  shelter.  Henry  Benedict,  who  seems  to  have  been 
easily  swayed,  thereupon  wrote,  soon  after,  that  Alfieri  was  the  sole  cause 
of  we  ever«to-be-lamented  disunion  between  his  brother  and  his  wife. 
On  this  subject  Alfieri  writes  in  his  autobiography: 

Assuredly  I  will  not  here  offer  an  apology  for  the  mode  of  life  of  the  majority 
of  married  women,  both  in  Rome  and  the  whole  of  Italv.  I  merely  say  that  the 
conduct  of  the  lady  in  question,  with  reference  to  myself,  was  much  more  within 
than  beyond  the  measure  of  what  is  universally  tolerated.  I  add  that  the  injos- 
tioe  and  bad  behaviour  of  her  husband  towards  her  were  notorious  facts.    Still 


•  We  may  mention,  incidentally,  that  the  gentleman  who  assisted  the  oountesff 
was  an  Irishman  of  tl^  name  of  Gahagan. 


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72  THE  COUHTESS  OF  ALBAmr. 

I  condude,  inoider  to  do  honour  to  the  truth,  that  hiubaBd  and  brother-in-law, 
and  their  priestly  adherents^  had  a  perfect  right  to  disapprove  of  my  too  freqn^it 
yifiits,  althou^  the  border  line  of  nonour  was  never  transgresaeo.  I  am  only 
annoyed  thai  it  was  not  evangelical  zeal,  but  the  efieetof  selfish  inirigoe  and  low 
revenge. 

In  this  state  of  tilings  Alfieri  resolved  to  quit  Rome,  though  other 
writers  assert  that  he  leceived  an  order  to  quit  that  city  within  a  fort- 
night.. In  the  mean  while,  the  countess  spent  summer  and  autumn  at 
Geniano,  on  ihe  hanks  of  the  Lago  de  Nemi,  and  then  fetumed  to  Rome^ 
tvheie  she  renoiaiBed  till  1784,  when  die  regained  her  liberty.  Charles 
Edwiffd  consiBted  tD  a.  separation.  Thie  was  mainly  brought  abeut  by 
Grustavns  III.  of  Sweden,  then  trarelfing  in  Italy,  under  the  title  of 
Count  von  Haga.     Everyone  knows  the  sarcastic  verses  made  about  him : 

n  Conte  de  Haga, 
Tutto  vede, 
Pooo  intende, 
Snnllapaga. 

On  his  introduction  to  Charles  Edward,  the  king  offered  to  act  as 
mediator,  and  on  his  arrival  at  Rome  he  at  once  entered  into  commumca- 
tion  with  the  countess  and  the  cardinal.  The  terms  of  the  separation 
were  soon  settled :  her  future  income  was  Bxed  at  six  thousand  scudi, 
while  the  French  court  gave  her  an  annuity  of  sixty  thousand  francs. 
A^T  the  Pope  had  given  his  consent  to  a  separation,  a  mentd  et  thoro, 
Charles  Edward  signed  the  following  document : 

Nona  Ghariesy  km  l^iiime  de  la  Grande  Bretagne :  sar  les  representations  qui 
iMtts  out  M  faitea  nar  Louise  GaroUae  MaTiaiiTiwme  Bwmaaiuel,  Frineesae  de 
Stolberg,  que,  wax  oien  des  raisons^  elle  souhaitait  demeurer  dana  un  ^loign&- 
ment  et  sq)aimioa  de  noire  personne,  que  les  circonstances  et  nos  malheurs 
rendaient  n^cessaires  et  utiles  pour  nous  deux;  et  consid^rant  toutes  les  raisons 
qa'ele  nous  a  expos^;  nous  declarons  par  la  pr^ente  que  nous  donnons  notre 
oonsentement  librc  et  volontaire  ^  cette  9<^paration,  et  que  nous  lui  permettons 
dores  en  avant  de  Tivre  a  Rome,  ou  en  telle  autre  ville  qu'ellejugera  le  phiscon- 
vmable,  td  ^tant  notre  bon  plaiiir.  Pait  et  scell^  dn  sceau  de  nos  snuea,  en  notre 
palak  i^  Pku%nce,,le  a  avril,  1784. 

Appcouvd  r^riture  et  le  contenu  oi^Bssns, 

(L.  S.)  Chables  R. 


la  d»  aamnier  of  17B4,  tiM  eovntess  reeebed  pevmitnoii  t»  kave  Rome 
tm  Radea,  in  Argovie*  Alfieri,  we  need  not  say,  waa  sooa  informed  of 
die  fiEust,  and  the  pair  resided  fbr  a  couple  of  nMOftbe  at  a  seduded  viUn 
near  Celmar.  They  lemained  togetlMr  two  happy  montibs,  daring  whioh 
the  poet  wMte  lua  <«  Am,"  bis  "^  Sophonisbe,"  and  his  '<  %rrha."  There 
tbey  parted  agaki,  and  the  eoimtes*  letnrned  to  Boiogna,  a»  she  oon- 
sidered  it  her  duty  to  reside  for  dM  present  in  the  States  of  the  Churdi* 
In  the  following  autumn,  Alfieri  and  the  countess  met  agaia  at  Col  mar, 
whence  the  latter  proceeded  alone  to  Paris.  In  the  following  year,  how- 
ever, they  visited  the  French  capital  together,  when  the  celebrated  fina 
of  Piene  Didot,  the  ekl«r,  was  bringing  out  AlEeri'a  tragedies^  while 
Benumafehaia'spieii,  aitKehl,  waa  producing  hia  miaoelkneoae  work&  At 
the  dose  of  1787,  the  countftss  and  the  poet  took  up  their  permanent 
residence  in  Paris,  and  a  great  change  soon  after  took  place  in  the  lady's 
drcumstances.    After  the  separation,  Chadea  Edwaid  still  xemainod  at 


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THE  COUNTESS  OF  ALBANY.  73 

noreiwe,  aaEid  {Mx>bftbly  feeKng  how  thoroughly  alone  in  the  world  he  W89^ 
he  resolyed  to  send  for  his  daughter,  who  was  living  as  a  boarto  in  the 
Abbey  of  Meaux,  with  her  mother,  Clementina  Walkinshaw.  When 
the  Pretender  had  separated  horn  that  person,  he  gave  her  a  pension,  but 
uMiated  on  her  signinfl^  a  document  tnat  no  aMrrii^  had  taken  p]ac» 
between  them.  As  aoe  nelused,  her  pension  waa  stopped,  and  being  le- 
dooed  to  extreme  poverty,  she  signed  the  dooiment,  but  recalled  it  A& 
next  day,  though,  of  course,  too  late.  In  July,  1784,  Charies  Edward 
recognised  Lady  Charlotte  Stuart,  his  natural  daughter,  legidmised  her 
under  the  name  of  the  Duchess  of  Albany,  and  sent  for  her  to  Florence. 
She  was  at  that  time  one -and- thirty  years  of  age,  and  was  very  kindly 
xseeived  by  the  nohili^.  Soon  after  her  arrivnl,  the  Pretender  made  his 
willy  in  whieb  he  made  her  sole  heiress^  and  in  17S5,  she  soeoeeded  in 
reeoncffing  the  eardinal  with  his  brother.  It  was  arranged  that  Charia» 
Edwavd  sboiM  remove  to  Rome,  and  he  left  Fk>rence  for  e^er  on  Decem- 
ber 2.  He  dragged  on  there  fbr  two  years,  the  happiest  he  had  known 
fior  •  long  ti»e.     Of  ibese  yeart  Ton  Eeumont  says  r 

We  must  not  regard  Charies  Edward  as  such  an  outcast  as  he  is  described  bj 
csntemporaries  who  had  an  interest  in  doing  so.  The  old  and  the  new  sorrows 
had  brtMcen  him,  and  he  had  sought  oblivion  in  an  unworthy  sovrce ;  but  the 
nobis  spait  of  his  yonth  had  not  utterly  died  ont.  Tbe  recollection  ci  kis  father- 
laad  and  his  friends  was  as  lively  in  Mm  as  ever.  Not  long  before  his  arrival  in 
Bom^  a  friend  of  Charles  fox,  Mr.  Greathed,  had  a  conversation  with  hinu 
They  were  alone  in  the  prince's  liouse,  and  the  guest  tried  to  bring  the  conversa- 
tion round  to  Scotland  and  the  '45.  At  first  Charles  Edward  would  not  go  into 
it,  for  the  recollection  evidently  saddened  him.  But  when  the  other  continued, 
he  seemed  to  throw  off  a  load ;  his  eye  sparkled,  his  features  became  unusual^ 
animated,  and  he  began  the  description  w  the  campaign  with  youthful  ener^ : 
spoke  of  his  maanikn,  his  baUies,  his  victories,  of  his  fiight,  and  the  dangers  that 
suTOonded  hiai,  the  devoted  fidelity  of  his  Scoidi  oonpanions,  and  the  terrible 
hte  so  manv  of  them  met  with.  T\\q  impression  which,  after  foriy  years,  the  re- 
collection of  the  sufferings  of  friends  produced  on  him  was  so  powerful  that  his 
strength  deserted  him;  his  voice  broke  down,  and  he  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 
On  hearing  the  noise,  his  daughter  hurried  in.  "  What  is  this,  sir  ?"  she  ei- 
danned.  •*  I  am  certain  you  bive  been  talking  with  my  father  about  Scotland 
and  the  EB^dands.  No  one  must  allude  to  those  subjects  in  his  presence.**  On 
aflK>ther  oocasicm  Charies  Edward  burst  into  tears  on  hearing  the  affeeting 
laelody  eC  *'Lochabcr  no  more !"  which  his  unfortunate  followers  had  snng  in 
pciaon. 

On  January  g,  1788,  he  had  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and  on  the  30lli  of  Ae 
saoie  montii  breathed  his  last  sigh  in  the  presence  of  his  daughter,  ytho^ 
doaed  his  eyea.  He  was  buried  in  his  brother's  church,  at  Fraecati,  vritb 
r^al  honoura.  The  Duchess  of  Albany  did  not  long  survive  her  nnhappy 
fii&er;  she  died  on  ^  14th  November  of  the  ensuing  year  at  Bologna. 
The  cocmtess  was  now  free,  and  Sir  WflHam  Wraxall  gives  a  graphic 
acceunt  of  her  household  in  Paris.  In  one  of  the  rooms  was  a  throne,  wiA 
the  arms  of  Great  Britain  over  it,  and  all  the  plate  bore  the  same  insignia. 
While  the  guests  addressed  her  as  Countess  of  Albany,  her  servants 
always  employed  the  word  majesty.  Roral  honours  were  also  paid  by  the 
nnns  of  the  convent  she  visited  on  Sundays  and  holidays.  Her  house  was 
Hm  gstlieriBg^of  all  celebrities  of  birth,  faehion,  and  talent.  Among  thaaa 
WW  JBeawiBMehais,  vrho,  in  Febmary,  1791,  read  his  pky,  '*La  Mtae 
CbopiMe/'  to  a  distinguished  party  in  tbe  drawing-room.     On  tbii  oe» 


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74  THE  COUNTESS  OF  ALBAmr. 

casion  Beauroarchfus  wrote  so  characteristic  a  letter  that  we  cannot  but 
make  room  for  it : 

Madake  la.  Comtesse, — ^Puisque  vous  Toulez  absolument  entendre  mon  tr^ 
s^y^re  ouvrage,  je  ne  puis  pas  m'y  opposer ;  mais  faites  une  observation  avec 
moi :  qnand  je  veux  rire,  o'est  anx  Eclats ;  8*11  faut  pleurer,  c'est  aox  sanglots. 
Je  n'y  connais  de  milieu  que  Tennui.  Admettez  done  qui  vous  voudrez  k  la  lecture 
de  mardi,  mais  ^cartez  les  ooeurs  us^s,  les  &mes  dess^h^,  aui  prennent  en  pitie 
ces  douleurs  ^ue  nous  trouvons  si  d^icieuses.  Ces  gens-m  ne  sont  bona  qvi'k 
parlcr  revolution.  Ayez  quelques  femraes  sensibles,  aes  hommes  pour  qui  le 
eoBur  n'est  pas  une  cmm^re,  et  puis  pleurons  k  plein  canal.  Je  vous  promets  ce 
douloureux  plaisir. 

In  1790  the  countess  risited  England  with  Alfieri,  and  kept  a  journal 
of  the  accidents  and  incidents  that  occurred  to  her  in  that  country.  The 
most  remarkable  event,  however,  was  certainly  an  audience  granted  her 
by  George  III.  tiod  Queen  Charlotte  on  May  19.  Horace  Walpole 
wrote  a  letter  to  Miss  Berry  about  it,  in  which  he  declares  that  the  world 
has  been  turned  topsy-turvy  since  the  Pope  was  burnt  in  e£Bgy  in  Paris, 
Madame  Dubarry  dined  with  the  lord  mayor,  and  the  widow  of  the 
Pretender  was  presented  to  the  Queen  of  Great  Britain.  The  following 
winter  was  spent  by  the  couple  in  Paris,  hut  at  last  they  found  it  high 
time  to  escape  from  the  consequences  of  the  Revolution.  On  the  18th 
August  they  contrived  to  get  out  of  the  doomed  city  with  the  greatest 
difficulty.  Two  days  later  they  would  surely  have  been  arrested  as 
aristoS)  and  probably  have  been  victims  of  the  Septembriseurs.  Their 
house,  as  it  was,  was  plundered,  and  Alfieri's  splendid  library  carried  off. 
After  a  journey  through  Europe  the  countess  and  Alfieri  arrived  at 
Florence,  where  they  permanently  settled  down. 

Among  the  most  intimate  friends  of  the  countess  at  Florence  were  the 
Countess  of  Besborough,  sister  of  the  celebrated  Georgina  of  Devon- 
shire, and  Lady  Webster,  afterwards  wife  of  Lord  Holland.  Among 
her  male  friends  was  Fabre,  the  French  artist,  who  gave  her  lessons  in 
drawing,  and  remained  her  intimate  friend  to  the  last.  At  this  period, 
too,  the  countess's  pecuniary  resources  began  to  improve,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  French  despotism,  as  Alfieri  tells  us,  which,  after  the 
peace  of  Lun6ville,  put  a  stop  to  the  bankrupt  paper-money  in  Italy,  so 
that  fat  length  gold  arrived  from  Rome  instead  of  bills.  She  derived 
the  greater  portion  of  her  income  from  her  brother-in-law,  but  the 
French  and  Roman  revolutions  had  done  his  fortune  serious  injury.  All 
that  was  left  him  was  the  produce  of  his  Spanish  benefices,  which 
brought  him  in  14,000  scudi,  which  suffered  a  terrible  discount  through 
being  paid  in  paper.  And  out  of  this  small  revenue  he  was  bound  to 
pay  4000  scudi  to  his  sister-in-law,  3000  to  the  mother  of  his  deceased 
niece,  and  1500  for  pensions  awarded  by  his  father  and  brother.  Under 
these  circumstances  the  British  Government  came  to  his  assistance,  and 
promised  to  pay  him  4000/.  a  year  for  life : 

And  the  last  prince  of  Darnley's  house  shall  own 
His  debt  of  gratitude  to  Brunswick's  throne. 

Simultaneously  with  this  piece  of  good  fortune,  which  secured  the  coun- 
tess's pension,  Alfieri's  Piedmontese  income  began  to  be  regularly  paid* 
Hence  they  were  able  to  buy  horses  of  their  own  instead  of  using  **  a 


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THE  COUNTESS  OF  ALBANY.  75 

paltry  hired  coach,''  and  could  Htc  respectably  if  not  brilliantly.  Bat 
we  fancy  that  the  countess  had  some  trouble  with  her  poetical  friend,  for 
he  began  to  grow  rery  cranky  with  advancing  years,  and  his  repeated 
attacks  of  gout  compelled  him  to  employ  a  regimen  which  undermiiied 
his  constitution.  He  said  once,  *^  If  my  stomach  could  write  my  history^ 
it  would  call  me  dirtily  ayaricious.**  In  this  way  he  became  very  weak, 
and  felt  that  he  had  not  long  to  live.  His  forebodings  were  correct: 
in  the  autumn  of  1803  he  had  a  fresh  attack  of  gout,  which,  through  a 
miftake  of  the  phyrician,  flew  to  his  chest,  and  on  the  morning  of  Octo* 
ber  8th  he  died,  in  the  fifty-fifth  year  of  his  a^e.  De  Chateaubriand, 
while  passing  through  Florence  for  Rome,  saw  the  great  Italian  poet  in 
his  coffin.  The  countess,  whom  he  had  made  his  unirersal  legatee,  did 
all  in  her  power  to  honour  his  memory ;  within  a  year  of  his  death  she 
commencea  the  publication  of  his  posthumous  memoirs,  while  Canova 
was  commissioned  to  honour  the  great  deceased  by  a  work  of  his  own 
hand,  wluch  was  erected  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Croce. 

When  the  Cardinal  York  died,  in  1807,  the  countess,  who  thus  lost  a 
considerable  portion  of  her  income,  wrote  to  George  III.,  telling  him  of 
the  circumstance,  and  government  at  once  settled  on  her  a  pension  of 
1600/.  a  year,  his  majesty  at  the  same  time  expressing  a  regret  that 
*'  the  deniands  unavoidably  made  upon  him  in  consequence  of  the  dis- 
tressing and  calamitous  situation  of  so  many  sovereignhouses  of  Europe, 
so  nearly  connected  with  his  majesty,  should  preclude  him  from  extend- 
ing the  allowance  solicited  by  the  Countess  of  Albany  beyond  the  sum 
above  stated."    With  her  income  thus  secured,  the  countess  lived  a  very 
pleasant  life,  and  would  have  continued  to  do  so,  had  not  the  Frencn 
police  begun  to  get  alarmed  at  her  soirees,  where  all  the  best  people 
met,  but  were  offennve  to  the  French  despot  on  account  of  th^  openly 
avowed  Lorraine  tendencies.     In  the  summer  of   1809  the  countess 
received  a  polite  intimation  that  she  was  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  Paris. 
Of  course  she  went,  but  very  unwillingly  so,  and  was  very  politely 
received.     As  her  travelling  companion,  Fabre  telb  us,  "  The  reception 
given  her  was  highly  flattering.     The  Emperor  certainly  said  to  her, 
though  jestingly,  that  he  knew  all  about  her  influence  over  Florentine 
society,  and  that  she  stood  in  the  way  of  his  intended  fusion  of  the 
Tuscans  and  the  French.     For  this  reason  he  had  invited  her  to  settle  in 
Paris,  where  she  would  find  easier  opportunities  for  satisfying  her  incli- 
nations for  art.**     This  compulsory  residence  in  Paris  Usted  fifteen 
months,  when  she  falteringly  asked  permission  to  return  to  her  beloved 
Florence,  and  it  was  immediately  conceded.     It  was  in  that  city  that 
Lrfimartine,  then  a  lad  of  nineteen,  formed  the  lady's  acquaintance,  and 
moat  of  our  readers  will  have  read  his  description  of  her.     How  utterly 
he  misunderstood  the  character  of  Alfieri  will  be  seen  firom  the  following 
passage :  '^  He  died  of  ill-temper,  a  sad  end  for  a  person  who  was  con- 
sidered a  great  man.     He  was,  however,  no  great  man :  he  was  a  great 
deelaimer  in  Terse,  a  great  humorist  in  prose.     There  was  nothing  truly 
great  about  him,  save  his  passion  for  liberty  and  his  love.     At  that  time 
I  was  under  the  illusion  of  his  character  and  genius.     My  readers  must 
pardon   my  youth."     We  think,  mutato  nomine^  that  this  description  is 
better  suited  to  the  writer  himself  than  to  Alfieri,  who  is  universally 
allowed  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern  poets. 


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76  Tfl£  OOUKTESfl  OF  JLU3ANT. 

Another  oelebraied  man  who  £peq«ently  suited  the  odonteM  wag  Fanl 
Lonu  Courier,  wkoee  raeBM>iable  klot  of  iak  oa  the  mamiucnpt  of  Longvs 
Qveaited  such,  a  tremendoufl  Mandal  in  Fkreaee.  Amoag  Isw  works  wfll 
her  found  an  iatoresting  paper  oaUed  ^*  Coaveisatioii  ebea  la  ComtoMe 
Albany,"  the  first  of  a  aenea  he  Iiad  intended  to  write.  The  eomieig 
waa  a  good  friend  to  him,  and  was  often  of  great  aaaistaiiQe  to  him  in  his 
pee«niaiy  diffioulties.  Another  remackable  character  who  haunted  her 
house  was  Ugo  Foscolo,  to  well  known  at  a  later  da*e  in  this  ooamtry,  and 
of  whom  Cyrvfi  Redding  gives  such  an  ioteresting  aooount  in  hts  ''  Fifty 
Years'  BeeoUectionB." 

After  the  overthrow  of  the  Napdeonides  and  the  vetiini  of  the  <jicand- 
Duke  of  Tuscany,  the  countess  aaiade  an  attempt  to  ohtain^the  paymeiitof 
her  pension  from  the  Frendi  govenuneBt,  which  had,  of  comcse,  heea  sns- 
pencwd  during  the  Revolution  and  the  Empire,  but  waa  unatisoeasfid.  She 
did  not  want  it,  however,  for  her  mode  of  living  was  unpreten^ng,  and  she 
led  a  very  regular  life.  At  all  seasons,  when  the  weather  permitted  it, 
she  went  out  waUdng  at  an  early  hoar.  She  walked  alone,  for  everjdk>dy 
in  Florence  knew  her,  in  her  large  hat  aa»d  shawl,  with  her  hM  £oot£i^ 
and  her  arms  frequently  stuck  aianho.  On  returning  home,  the  ooontem 
|NK«eeded  to  her  library,  ix  Ae  was  a  diligent  student,  and  fond  of 
making  glossaries  on  the  text.  She  also  left  behiDd  kar  a  knge  nmnber 
of  analyses  of  books  she  had  read.  At  the  same  time  she  kept  sp  an 
enormous  correspoodenoe  with  all  the  leading  men  of  the  age.  She  paid 
hut  few  visits,  and  nefner  invited  to  dinner  more  than  two  or  three  of  her 
most  intimate  friends. 

Ho:  house,  as  we  have  said,  was  the  gatherii^  phioe  of  celebrities  of 
all  ttges.  It  is  ia^MMsible  to  mention  aU  here,  but  we  will  detioto  a  few 
lines  to  a  lady  who  had  a  considerable  opinion  of  hemelf,  fimt  quoring 
Von  Eeumont's  verdict  upon  hmr,  which  is  an  admirable  eririoism: 

A  ktcr  acquaintance  was  Sydney  Lady  Morgan.  Tbia  lady  has  been  valued 
far  too  highly,  and  ranged  muen  too  low.  In  a  literary  epoch,  when  the  shal- 
lowest liberalism  made  a  fortune,  because  the  bitteiness  of  the  first  revohi- 
tion  was  half  forgotten  ch:  only  known  by  hearsay,  and  that  of  the  new  revolu- 
tion had  not  yet  been  tasted,  her  books  on  France  and  Italy  created  considerable 
sensation.  People  had  been  so  long  without  any  inner  litetatare  of  the  latter 
country,  that  they  eagerly  took  up  a  Dook  which  was  half  a  description  of  a  tour, 
half  memoirs.  A  mass  of  superficial  opinions  was  regarded  as  deep  political 
wisdom,  common  art-chatter  as  SMfthctics,  and  readers  were  pleased  with  all  the 
rerelations  which  the  reckless  indiscretion  of  the  author  made,  in  which  per- 
sonal, social,  and  {)olitioal  relations  were  sfflred  up  with  equally  compromisiag 
talkativeness.  TVhile,  then,  these  bodes  are  not  in  many  respects  praiseworthy 
si^ns  of  the  times,  and  often  not  at  all  ladylike,  with  all  their  defects  they  oon- 
tam  much  that  interests.  The  lively  wit,  the  sharp  and  practical  gift  of  ob- 
servation, in  spite  of  the  tendency  to  superficiality,  crop  out  of  the  desert  of 
common-place  twaddle. 

According  to  her  own  account  in  the  *'  Book  of  the  Boudoir,'*  Sydney 
Lady  Morgan  was  an  ever  welcome  guest  at  the  house  of  the  counteea, 
and  we  can  pardcm  the  vanity  contained  in  her  remark  to  Thomas  Moore, 
that  she  waa  "  led  to  the  seat  quite  as  the  queen  of  the  room,"  when  we 
kam  that  the  Countess  of  Albany,  who  never  paid  a  visit  to  private  per- 
aons,  and  never  left  her  palace  on  the  Amo  except  fer  the  F-n^i^A 


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THE  COUNTESS  OF  ALBANY.  77 

smbeMftdor's  ©r  Urn  grmid-ddce''8,  ^ondetoended  to  pay  a  mmmg  caH  <m 
Sydney  I^y  Jforgui.     To  quote  the  lady's  own  aceomt : 

The  CJountess  of  Albany  could  be  the  most  agreeable  woman  in  the  worid,  and 
upon  the  occasion  of  this  flattering  visit  she  was  so.  She  couU  also  be  the  most 
disagreeable;  ibr,  like  most  great  ladies*  her  temper  was  uaoertain,  and  her 
natural  hanteor,  when  not  mbdued  by  her  brilliai^  bursts  of  good  humour,  was 
occasionally  extremely  revolting.  Still  she  loved  what  is  v^^y  called' fu% 
and  no  wit  or  sidly  of  humour  could  offend  her. 

Here,  again,  is  -die  acooimt  of  another  intenriewy  end  of  what  Sydney 
Lady  Morgan  ealb  by  its  real  title: 

We  had  receiv od  Tery  ewiy  btion  from  Londoa.  with  the  aocoont  of  tha 
king's  death.  I  was  stepping  into  the  carriage  to  pay  Madame  d' Albany  a 
morning  visit  when  they  arrived,  and  I  had  still  the  letters  in  my  hand  on 
entering  the  library  of  this  rez-de-chauss^  where  I  found  her  alon^  and  writings 
when  I  suddenly  exclaimed,  with  a  French  theatrical  air : 

"^  Grande  prinoesse,  doat  les  torts  tovt  nn  peuple  d6plion» 
Je  viens  vous  I'annoncer :  Tusurpateur  est  mort !" 

"What  usurper?"  asked  Madame  d' Albany,  not  a  little  surprised,  and  not  a 
little  amused.  "Madame,  P£lecteur  de  Handvre  a  ce8s<^  ae  vivre!"  The 
mauvaise  plaisanterie  was  taken  in  good  part ;  for,  truth  to  tell,  though  the 
Countess  d' Albany  always  spoke  in  terms  of  reqtect  and  gratitude  of  the  royal 
family,  and  felt  (or  affected)  an  absolute  passion  for  his  present  majesty,  whose 
picture  she  had,  she  was  always  well  pleased  that  others  should  consider  her 
claims  to  the  rank  of  queen  as  legitimate,  of  which  she  entertained  no  doubt. 
She,  however,  affected  no  respect  for  a  husband  whom,  living,  she  had  despised 
for  his  vices  and  hated  for  bis  cruelty. 

Throngh  lack  of  space  we  will  confine  our  attention  solely  to  the 
EagBsh  oeldnities  who  oallad  ia  at  die  countess's  house.     Ficst,  we  have 
the  Duefaeis  of  Devonshire,  whose  beauty  aroused  the  admiration  of  all 
Surope,  and  who  resided  at  Borne,  as  the  devoted  friend  of  Cardinal 
Coosalvi.    Her  last  letter,  written  to  her  ^'caca  regina,"  aa  ^she  called 
the  Countess  of  Albany,  five  days  before  her  death,  has  been  {nreserve^ 
and  we  wish  we  had  space  for  it  here.     It  will  be  found,  however,  in  Von 
Benmont's  adouraUe  biography,  to  which  we  have  before  rafecred.  There, 
toe^  was  seen  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Hamiltou,  whose  beauty  and 
grace  attracted  the  g^atest  attention  wherever  she  sojourned  in  Italy. 
One  of  the  aneedobes  this  lady  used  to  tell  is  worth  quoting,  as  a  side- 
piece  to  TaUeyrand's  wife  and  "le  bonhosnme  Vendredi."     On  a  Mr. 
Jones  heing  aanounoed  in  a  Boiaan  salon,  Cardinal  Caccia  Pialti  asked, 
with  charaung  sioqplieity,  whether  he  were  any  relation  to  the  oelebrated 
Tom  Jones?     The  Countess  of  Jersey,  too,  was  an  honoured  guest,  whom 
Madame  de  Stafil  leeommended  as  "  la  plus  lolie  et  Tune  des  nius  agr^bles 
personnes  de  I'Angleterre."     In  these  salons  Lady  Charleaont,  Lady 
DUlon,  Lady  Greoville  Teaaple,  and  others,  distinguished  by  birth  or 
beanty,  met  others  whose  names  have  gone  far  beyond  fashionable  circles. 
Of  fluoh  was  Mrs.  Somerville,  who  still  lives  in  Florence,  as  admirable  for 
her  learning  as  she  is  estimable  in  private  life  for  her  modest  simplicity. 
Such,  too,  were  the  Misses  Berry,  whose  remimscences  extended  fix>m 
Horace  Walpole  and  Madame  du  De£fand  down  to  the  latest  days,  and 
oompriaed  both  English  and  French  society.   Among  the  pawing  visitooi 


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78  FIVE  MONTHS  IN  A  FRENCH  PINE  FOREST. 

to  the  countess's  salons,  we  will  just  mention  Byroni  Shelley,  Leigh  Hnnt> 
Trelawney,  Samuel  Rogers,  John  Cam  Hobhouse,  and  <*  Anastasius'' 
Hope,  whom  Madame  de  Sta^l  introduced  by.  the  following  letter,  written 
at  Coppet^in  1816: 

N*est-il  pas  vrai,  ma  souveraine,  que  vous  me  pardonnez  de  vous  envoyer 
encore  de  noureaux  sujets — Monsieur  et  Madame  Hope  P  Monsieur  Hope  est 
un  bomme  tr^  instruit,  tr^  connaisseur  dans  les  beaux-arts,  et  sa  femme  est 
aussi  iolie  que  gracieuse.  Faites,  je  vous  prie,  que  le  premier  jour  ils  croient  ii 
votre  Dont6  pour  moi;  quand  yous  les  aurez  connus,  vous  les  aimerez  pour  eux. 

The  health  of  the  countess  had  always  been  good,  and  she  passed  her 
seventieth  birthday  without  being  attacked  by  the  failings  of  old  age. 
In  1823,  however,  traces  of  dropsy  began  to  be  visible;  but  she  fought 
against  it,  and  still  took  exercise.  Towards  the  beginning  of  1824,  how- 
ever, she  had  a  serious  fever,  and  fell  into  a  dangerous  condition.  She 
prepared  for  death  with  the  utmost  calmness,  and  the  sorrowful  event 
took  place  on  January  29,  1824,  in  the  seventy-second  year  of  her  age. 


FIVE  MONTHS  IN  A  FEENCH  PINE  FOEEST. 

There  is  a  charming  nook  in  the  department  of  *'  la  Gironde"  but 
little  known  by  the  English,  famed  though  they  be  for  ubiquity.  Its  ' 
merits  as  a  spring  residence  are  so  great,  and  so  unknown,  that  it  is  a 
thousand  pities  not  to  spread  them  broadcast  We  must  try  to  make  up 
for  the  deficiency,  premising  that  no  words  of  ours  can  do  *^  Arcachon*' 
justice. 

'<  Well,  it  must  be  a  precious  out-of-the-way  place,  that  ArcachoD,'* 
we  can  imagine  the  reader  saying,  <<  for  I  never  even  heard  the  name 
before." 

Possibly.  But  do  you  never  find  your  geographical  knowledge  at  fault, 
may  I  ask  p  Can  you  stand  the  hard  test,  for  mstance,  of  the  American 
war,  withouut  reference  to  a  map  ?  We  must  confess  to  have  been  sunk 
in  the  depths  of  the  most  lamentable  ignorance  as  to  its  whereabouts, 
even  at  Bordeaux ;  but  then  toe  never  were  geographers :  we  hare  a 
shrewd  suspicion  that  the  historic  child  who  considered  ^'  Egypt  the 
capital  of  Paris"  must  have  been  our  prog^enitor. 

However,  we  committed  ourselves  with  implicit  faith  to  Bradshato^ 
and,  under  its  guidance,  found  ourselves  at  Arcachon  one  gloomy,  wild, 
January  evening,  about  seven  p.m.  We  quitted  Bordeaux  by  the  train 
that  leaves  for  Bayonne  and  Pau,  at  4.30,  successfully  triumphed  over 
the  difficulties  of  *'  Lamothe"  junction,  and  were  whirled  away  in  a 
south-westerly  direction  for  nearly  three  hours,  before  finally  reachingr 
our  journey's  end. 


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nVE  MONTHS  IN  A  FRENCH  PINE  FOREST.  79 

Arcaciioii,  thirty  years  ago,  consisted  of  some  half-dozen  fishermen's 
boreU ;  now  it  is  as  pretty  a  village  as  France  can  produce  anywhere. 
Nestled  in  its  fostering  pines,  it  thrives  i^ace;  and  can  boast  now  of  four 
hotels,  a  town-hall,  and  numerous  shops.  The  latter  are,  I  must  con- 
fess, in  winter  at  least,  rather  short  of  contents,  beyond  the  necessaries 
of  life.  But  what  rose  is  without  a  thorn  ?  certainly  not  so  pretty  a 
rose  as  Arcachon  $  and  at  La  Teste,  five  minutes'  distance  by  lail, 
endless  superfluities  of  life  are  obtainable.  **  Marie  Moutou's"  shop,  alone, 
can  provide  you  with  almost  anything,  from  early  violets  to  scarlet 
flannel ;  and  if  *^  Mademoiselle  Ad^Ie,"  in  addition,  is  not  sufficient  for 
your  wants,  we  can  only  say  you  are  very  hard  to  please.  Sabots, 
fineries — as  the  maids  call  them — and  breviaries,  form  quite  a  happy 
fiunily  together  in  her  house  at  La  Teste.  She  has,  as  she  says  her- 
self, '<  an  peu  de  tout"  The  difficulty  would  be  to  manage  to  avoid 
smting  yourself  in  her  endless  variety. 

The  scenery  of  parts  of  the  forest,  which  stretches  awav  behind  Ar- 
eachon,  inland,  in  one  long,  unbroken  green,  for  forty  miles,  is  quite 
lovely.  Arbutus,  of  growth  almost  equal  to  Killamey,  forms  the  under- 
wood, in  conjunction  with  several  varieties  of  heath.  The  *'  mediter- 
ranean," with  its  sweet  spikes  of  pinkish  lilac  blossom,  is  often  found 
from  eight  to  ten  feet  high  ;  and  a  profusely-blowing  white  heath  is  a 
mass  of  blossom  from  the  middle  of  February.  Al^ve  all  tower  the 
pines,  in  every  picturesque  attitude ;  some  of  gigantic  stature,  like  the 
sons  of  Anak,  most  of  apparently  about  forty  years'  growth. 

There  is  an  obelisk  erected  in  the  forest,  near  La  Teste,  on  which 
the  curious  may  see  recorded,  in  marble  letters,  that  the  forest  was  begun 
to  be  planted  by  Louis  XVI.,  in  1783,  and  continued  by  Louis  XVIII., 
in  1818,  who  erected  the  obelisk  to  his  brother's  memory.  It  must  be 
a  profitable  possession,  that  forest,  as  the  turpentine  and  resin  produced 
by  each  tree  averages  yearly  about  one  shilling  and  sixpence  of  our 
BdODey.  M.  Emile  Pereira  owns  part  of  it,  but  the  principal  proprietor 
is  the  Crown. 

There  is  nothing  remarkable  in  the  scenery  that  the  railway  passes 
through   between    Bordeaux  and   Arcachon.      From   Lamothe  it  be- 
ccunes  interesting  fr^m  historical  associations,  as  at  almost  every  point 
one  is  reminded  of  the  famous  ''  Captaux  de  Buch."    Not  far  from  La- 
mothe iteelf  was  the  Priory  of  Comprian,  to  which  they  contributed  so 
largely  in  days  of  yore,  as  it  was  the  fisivourite  burjring-place  of  the  lords 
of  the  thirteenth  century.    At  '*  Le  Teich,"  a  station  nearer  Arcachon, 
is  to  Iw  seen  the  home  of  the  last  of  the  Captaux  de  Buch,  in  the  Chft- 
teaa  de  Buat,  now  owned  by  M.  Adrien  Festugi^re ;  but  at  La  Teste^ 
the  last  station  before  Arcachon,  the  interest  culminates ;  for  to  an  ar- 
chsDologist  and  antiquarian  it  possesses  great  charms.     La  Teste,  still 
called   **  La  Teste  de  Buch,"  was  the  head-quarters  of  those  famous 
chieftains,  who  have  left  such  a  name  behind  them  in  the  annals  of 
Franoe  and  England.     The  whole  of  the  surrounding  territory  belonged 
to  th^Dy  and  as  lately  as  the  year  1820,  renudns  of  their  formidable 
eaatle  were  to  he  seen.     The  hill  on  which  it  was  situated,  behind  the 
present  churdi,  is  sUU  pointed  out  by  the  peasantry.     If  we  may  believe 
An^rS  Favyn,  a  dty  was  founded  on  the  site  of  the  present  La  Teste  de 
vol-  IJ.  <> 


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80  flYE  ICONTHS  m  A  FSEKCH  jmffB  FOBEST. 

Bttdi»  iMttdy  tlwee  hnndrtd  jean  Mara  Chtiti,  whi«h  took  the  name  of 
^'Boios,''  EDcL  beeame  t\m  aMkt  of  a  biahopm  ia  mcNre  modarn  IImiii, 
tbongh  it  was  Imried  by  the  gradual  mnroaJehyig  o£  the  aands,  oentonea 
before  the  prefent  town  existed,  vfaioh  latter  oan  date  baek  in  aomm 
partf  to  the  twelfth  eentaxjy  and  b  a  tewn  a^  we  thoulA  imagine,  loaa^ 
&nr  thousand  inhabitants. 

But  to  return  to  Aroachon  and  its  many  marks.  The  climate  aC 
the  forest  is  peculiarly  suitable  fer  dwae  inin£ds  who  snflEsr  £roaa 
disaasQO  of  the  chest  and  Inngsw  The  air  being  impregnated  witk 
tiie  reaaons  turpentine,  erery  breath  inhaled  ia  medicated,  and  it  <|«i4a 
aats  as  a  dbarm  in  some  cases.  The  thermometer  marks  from  six  to 
eight  degrees  higher  in  the  shelter  of  the  £arest»  to  iHiat  it  does  <m  thfr 
strand,  at  the  same  period  of  the  day.  Very  Htderaia  ieJla  at  Aicadioai 
— 4he  sk^  there  is  not  giiMft  to  weeping — and  the  soil  is  dry  and  san^* 
The  cutting  east  wind,  too,  that  b^te  noitre  of  inralids,  doea  net  prenul ; 
when  it  does  eome,  it  »  certainly  not  cutting,  but  a  refermed  diaracter, 
aetnally  doing  good  instead  of  harm  by  its  soft  balasy  breath.  No^ 
that  heartless  fiend  thai  stalks  abroad  in  Chraat  Britain  in  the  springs 
shrireUing  up  the  very  marrow  in  the  bones  of  his  wretehed  victims,  d^ 
ooyed  out  of  doors  by  a  delusive  sun,  is  fortunately  not  omnipresent. 
Ah!  poor,  trembling,  neundgia-stridcen  suffefera  from  his  nerciiesi 
grasps  take  onr  advice,  and  go  to  Areadion :  we  speak  from  ezpurienee.. 
Bevile  him  there  at  your  ease ;  revel  in  abase,  and  he  ean't  punish  yon. 
He  deserves  all,  and  more  than  all,  the  hard  words  you  can  give  him  £or 
the  cruelties  he  perpetrates  eveiy  spring.  Go— from  revenge,  if  it  were 
nothing  ^e — to  deprive  him  of  his  prey.  If  you  have  an  eye  for  the 
picturesque,  Arcachon  will  rejoice  your  heart.  The  honsea  are  mostly 
bnilt  after  the  model  of  Swiss  cdildets  and  Indian  bungalows,  the  walls 
generally  oobured  lilac  or  pink,  the  deep  verandahs  soad  carved  wood* 
work  of  the  outrnde  galleries  setting  them  off  immense^.  And  watch  thai 
knot  of  women  coming  home  from  oyster-drsdgtng»— how  diey  would  r»> 
joice  a  painter's  heart !  Immense  boots  to  the  knee,  fiill  scamet  knicker- 
bockers, gay  ^'Soulards**  streaming  (the  only  Icminine  charactmstic  by 
the  way),  and  very  likely  a  shepherd  or  two  from  die  **  Landes,"  wrapped 
in  she^kins,  majestically  perched  on  stilts,  trying  to  negotiate  an  ex- 
change b^ween  eggs  and  oysters,  and  making  pigmies  of  the  womeaft 
beside  them. 

Footsore  though  we  were  the  day  after  our  arrival,  returning  from  a 
pilgrimage  in  seardi  of  an  eligible  '^  maison  particnli^ff%''  we  never  more 
hilly  realised  the  old  tnusm,  Siat ''  when  the  eye  is  gladdened,  the  body 
rejoices."     On  every  side  t^re  was  something  to  stop  and  admire. 

The  hoteb  being,  nnfortunafedy,  all  near  the  sea,  are  not  favourably 
attoated  lor  invalid,  who  shonkl  be  as  much  in  the  fecsst  aa  possible :  aoy 
nolens  voUnSf  we  had  to  go  house^iuntmg.  We  had  hardly  progressed 
fifty  yards,  before  we  were  swooped  down  upon  by  the  landlady  o£  a  ri^ml 
hotel,  who  evidently  looked  on  any  English  stranded  on  the  beach  at 
Areadion  as  her  lawfrd  prey,  and  insisted  on  taking  us  throng  her 
rooms.     ^'  She  guite  understood  the  care  of  English''  (as  if  we  were   a 

eeies  of  wild  beast,  to  be  approadied  with  eantion).  <^  She  had  hadtvro 

Dglish  gentlemen  staying  in  her  house,  Cor  whom  she  had  made  ehooo« 


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?nrs  MOirrHS  rsr  m  prxkvh  pine  forest.  81 

kte  ev^i^  evening.  Tea  wm  ^  ibri  dingeieox.'  ^«r  roomt  fibeed  Ae 
tm,  M  firepUeee  weie  quite  maeeessary.  Ah,  the  heat  of  a  fii»  was 
▼eiv  uBwhoktoroe."  We  weie,  bewewr,  proof  to  her  UaodiflAineiite, 
gad  feky  <m  hammg  her»  that  e«r  m<Mral  eeurmge  had  nerer  been  tuffi- 
eient^  appreeiated  ia  EngUmd.  We  wandered  on  till  we  came  lo  a  house 
wi&  a  pink  cupola,  out  of  which  the  <<  gardieane''  rushed  ae  we  passed. 
**  Teaes,"  her  hoase  had  eooatless  advantages  ;  it  was  bo^  m  the/or^ 
mmd  om  tkt  Aere^  so  that  it  combined  the  double  advsBti^psS  of  forest 
eliBtateandsea^bathing.  We  of  course  eoald  aotdtne  in  thefaloa  (there 
was  but  one  sitting-room),  but  we  would  hare  our  cheiee  of  diaing  either 
in  the  veraadah^  er  ander  Ihe  acadaa  in  the  garden,  ia  aa  <<  omhrage 
d^licievz.''  Cktag  withool  dinner  till  May,  or  dbiag  tsider  leafiest 
acacias  in  Januarj,  we  fek  would  be  a  deubiRd  pleasuee;  we  shuddered; 
in  spirit  at  least,  at  the  idea  of  tiw  draughts  of  Ihe  reraodah,  and  sea- 
bathing at  that  season  was,  we  are  sinre^  delightluly  but  still,  it  mi^t  aet 
aait  us  exaetlj.  Well,  we  would  think  about  it ;  and  with  difficultj  got 
awi^,  feeling  that  we  were  considered  extnevdinarily  eocentrie,  eren  £br 
English,  to  reject  such  proffered  advantages.  However,  we  did  at  last 
get  a  perfiection  of  a  house,  and  went  back  to  the  hotel  joyfol. 

House  vent  is  not  dear  jet  at  Areaehon.  For  one  hundred  francs  a 
month  yon  can  get  a  six  or  eight-roomed  house,  well  situated,  fttrly  £ui- 
nished,  aad,  Hke  all  the  houses,  very  clean.  When  a  private  house  is  taken, 
it  is  always  the  custom  to  hire  linen  and  table  necessaries  from  the 
gardiens,  who  can  provide  all  your  wants  in  that  way  for  a  very  moderate 
charge  ;  and  if  they  live  in  the  house,  which,  however,  is  not  always  the 
ease,  they  could  probably  cook  for  you  also,  which  saves  a  good  osal  of 
trouble  in  seardiing  for  an  '*  artiste*'  elsewhere. 

The  pride  our  servants  took  at  forming  part  of  an  English  '<  miaage,'' 
and  the  airs  of  superiority  they  assumed  thereupon  over  their  unemployed 
fellows,  provided  us  with  a  never-failing  fund  o£  amuseaaeiit,  and  was,  of 
course,  inunensely  gratifying  to  our  feelings. 

The  Areaefaonais  always  converse  in  patois  among  themselvei,  but  can 
jlQ  speak  French,  of  more  or  less  purity*  The  mysteries  of  English^ 
hpwoier,  they  have  sot  yet  mastered,  and  lodsed  upon  us  with  siagulas 
JCflpect  for  being  able  to  qwak  it,  oblivious  of  the  foot  that  it  was  our 
native  tongue.  They  apparently  drew  their  idea  of  its  jaw-hseaking  cifMt- 
bUities  from  watching  Nl,  Fillioux,  the  apothecary  (the  only  person  in  the 
oommunity  who  "owned  a  little  English*'),  who  made  wonderfully 
spasmodic  contortions  at  his  English  words.  He  was  very  proud  of  what 
he  Icnew,  and  naturally  liked  airing  his  vocabulary  on  every  possible 
occasion. 

There  are  various  excursions  that  can  be  taken  from  Areaehon ;  one  of 
the  pleasantest  is  to  the  great  lake  of  Cazeaux,  where  there  is  excellent 
fishiiig'  to  be  had.  The  road  lies  through  the  most  picturesque  parts  of 
the  "  Grande  Foret"  of  La  Teste,  and  is  a  charming  two  hours'  ride  on 
an  early  summer's  morning.  The  lake  is,  the  people  say,  as  large  as  the 
Bassin  d'Arcachon,  the  latter  being  twelve  miles  long.  The  best  view  of 
the  lake  is  decidedly  from  M aubrue,  not  from  Cazeaux  itself,  which  latter 
jdaoa  consists  of  some  thirty  houses,  scattered  through  half  a  dozen  fields, 
and  can  hardly  be  said  to  nave  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a  main  street. 

q2 


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82  FIVE  MONTHS  IN  A  FRENCH  PINE  FOREST. 

The  solitude  that  reigns  on  this  lake  is  complete;  when  launched  on  its 
waters,  not  a  sound  is  to  be  heard.  We  could  imagine  ourselves  on  some 
North  American  lake,  the  same  silence  prevails;  ana  if  a  Red  Indian,  fol- 
lowed by  his  squaw,  were  to  step  out  from  among  the  sombre  pines  with 
which  it  is  girt,  it  would  seem  only  in  character  with  the  scene.  We  were 
not  surprised  at  the  Arcachon  people  thinking  Cazeaux  '*  triste ;"  the 
astonishment  to  us  was  that  any  French  people  could  live  there  vrithout 
going  melancholy  mad ;  but  as  we  must  confess  a  most  vitiated  taste  for 
strong  contrasts,  we  enjoyed  an  occasional  visit  there,  for  Arcachon  looked 
cheerier  than  ever  on  our  return. 

Pretty,  however,  as  Arcachon  is  at  all  times,  she  certiunly  looks  her 
best  in  April  and  May,  when  the  gardens  (for  each  house  stands  in  a 
kind  of  <<  compound,"  to  use  an  In<Oan  term)  are  a  blaze  of  beauty,  the 
trees  in  full  leaf,  the  pine-blossom  shedding  its  delicious  scent  all  round, 
and  the  long  avenue  of  acacias  extending  on  each  side  the  caniage-road, 
forming,  towards  the  end  of  May,  a  white  awning  of  blossom  the  whole 
way  to  '^  La  Teste,"  a  distance  of  between  two  and  three  English 
miles. 

An  invasion  of  Bordeaux  shopkeepers  and  their  belongings,  in  July 
and  August,  for  sea-bathing,  inflict  on  poor  unfortunate  Arcachon  a  visi- 
tation of  noise  and  dust,  under  which  she  g^ans  in  vain  ;  but  as  in  those 
months  it  is,  from  the  heat,  too  relaxing  a  residence  for  most  invalids,  it 
does  not  so  much  matter.  Her  greatest  charm,  a  delicious  spring 
climate,  is  fortunately  not  appreciated,  hardly,  indeed,  known,  at  Bor- 
deaux. 

We  may  conclude  by  recommending  any  unfortunate  sufferers  from 
the  wet  of  an  Irish  winter,  the  harshness  of  an  English  spring,  to  follow 
our  steps  to  Arcachon,  where  they  will  receive  in  exchange  a  dry  soil  and 
balmy  air,  if  they  can  dispense  vrith  English  society.  We  can  promise 
them  one  English  book  at  M.  Lacou's  library,  who  can  also  supply  them 
with  the  one  indigenous  product  of  Arcachon,  the.  <' Nectar  des  Landes," 
a  capital  liqueur,  with  a  smack  of  noyau,  which  alone  is  worth  going  to 
taste.  M.  Fillioux  is  most  benevolent  in  lending  **  Skakspesxe  — ^in  his 
estimation  the  best  antidote  to  ennui  to  an  Englishman ;  and  having 
brought  our  readers  into  such  good  company,  we  relieve  them  of  ours, 
feeling  thatwe  shall  leave  them  in  much  better  hands. 


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83 


ENGLAND  GETTING  BEADY. 

As,  acoordiag  to  all  probability,  the  aoswer  for  which  England  ii  wait* 
mg  firom  across  the  Atlantic  will  have  been  receiyed  before  these  pages 
see  the  light,  it  will  be  superfluous  for  us  to  speculate  on  its  nature.  We 
maj  fairly  assume,  however,  from  all  that  has  occurred,  that  the  Federal 
government  is  preparing  for  war,  hoping  in  that  way  to  improve  its  dis« 
creditable  position  as  concerns  the  South,  and  employ  that  opbion  as  the 
basis  of  our  article,  in  which  we  purpose  to  show  in  what  position  Eng- 
hind  stands  in  the  event  of  Lora  Lyons  receiving  his  walking  papers. 
We  will  premise,  however,  that  we  shall  not  again  mention  the  revered 
names  of  Fuffendorf,  Grotius,  Vattel,  and  Wheatley,  of  which  our  readers 
may  be  tired,  and  we  certainly  are.  For  this  reason:  even  had  the 
Americans  been  in  the  right  in  the  matter  of  the  Treni^  which  every 
Englishman  believes  they  were  not,  excepting  Lord  Robert  Montagu, 
Loni  Ebury,  and  sundry  prophets  of  peace  and  discontented  shareholders 
in  the  Central  Illinois,  our  patience  had  already  grown  exhausted  by  a 
series  of  petty  insults,  and  it  was  high  time  to  make  a  demonstration. 

It  is  gratifying  to  find  that  two  much*abused  public  departments,  the 
Admiralty  and  tae  Horse  Guards,  have  been  able  to  vindicate  their  cha* 
racter  so  triumphantly  in  the  present  crisis.  As  regards  the  former 
establishment,  the  ground  has  been  completely  cut  away  from  under 
Messrs.  Lind^ty,  White,  &c.,  probably  to  the  sincere  joy  of  their  much« 
enduring  fellow  M.P.s;  while  the  would-be  smart  phrase,  **  How  not  to 
do  it  V'  rebounds  from  the  Horse  Guards  like  a  shot  from  the  sides  of  the 
Warrior,  In  fact,  no  Englishman  can  reproach  the  government  with 
lavish  expenditure,  when  he  regards  the  magnificent  results  achieved. 
Nothing  will  show  this  in  a  more  striking  light  than  a  comparison  of  the 
present  with  the  past.  When  an  equally  splendid  army  was  sent  forth 
frx>m  our  shores  at  the  commencement  of  the  Crimean  war,  the  troops 
were  set  on  shore  at  GalUpoli,  and  not  a  soul  paid  the  slightest  consi« 
deration  to  them ;  there  was,  so  to  speak,  no  commissariat ;  no  provision 
had  been  made  for  their  winter  clothing,  and  sheer  imbecility  was  the 
characteristic  of  the  heads  of  departments.  At  the  present  moment,  so 
thoroughly  is  the  working  order  in  ail  branches  of  the  administration, 
that  en^  regiments  go  aboard  their  transports  with  as  little  fatigue  as 
if  changing  g^arrison,  and  find  there  that  wise  forethought  had  provided 
them  with  every  reasonable  protection  against  the  rigour  of  a  Canadian 
winter.  We  will  quote,  as  a  curiosity,  the  extra  outfit  supplied  gratis  to 
the  private :  two  pairs  of  woollen  drawers,  one  Jersey,  two  merino  under- 
vests,  two  pairs  of  worsted  stockings,  one  comforter,  one  chamois  leather 
wwstcoat,  one  sealskin  cap  with  ear-mufflers,  one  pab  of  sealskin  mits, 
one  pair  of  Canadian  boots,  and  one  sheepskin  coat.  Any  man  who  had 
recommended  such  a  system  to  the  authorities  prior  to  the  Crimean  war 
would  have  been  regarded  as  a  harmless  lunatic ;  but  who  can  doubt, 
employing  past  experience  as  a  guide,  that  it  is  the  wisest  and  the 
di^pest  plan.  We  are  not  surpnsed  to  read,  therefore,  that  even  the 
regimentid  officers  are  avttling  themselves  largely  of  the  permission 
granted  them  to  obtain  their    equipment    from   government    stores. 


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84  ENGLAND  GETTING  READY. 

Equally  praiseworthy  b  the  rapidity  with  which  the  ten  thousand  men 
sent  to  Canada  as  a  first  instalment  were  put  on  hoard  ship,  and  the  ease 
with  which  the  Horse  Qtiards  selected  so  large  a  hody  of  men.  Ours 
may  he  a  small  army,  hut  that  it  is  maintained  in  the  highest  efficiency 
cannot  be  doubted.  Of  course,  if  war  become  indispensaMe,  such  a 
number  would  not  be  sufficient  to  guard  the  thousand  miles  of  Canadiaa 
frontier  from  insult,  but  we  can  support  them  almost  at  a  moment'c 
notice  with  other  twenty  l^ousand,  all  equally  efficient,  and  thoroughly 
prepared  for  erery  contingency.  Nor  must  we  forget  tiiat  we  alreadj 
narre  fi?e  thousand  good  troops  in  Canada,  while  the  Duke  of  Newcastm 
recently  assured  us  that  '*  ten  thousand  men  would  not  reptesenl  one- 
tenth  of  those  who  would  come  forward  upon  occasba  for  the  defence  of 
British  North  America."  To  organise  these  Tolunteers  and  militia, 
government  hnre  sent  out  officers  ^  great  experience,  as  weH  as  100,000 
riiles  and  rast  stores  of  ammunition.  On  the  other  side,  the  report  of  the 
Federal  secretary  represents  ^e  strength  of  the  American  amy  at 
^40,687  Tolunteers,  and  20,S44  regulars;  the  former  number  to  be  re- 
duced, during  tiie  coming  year,  to  500,000  in  round  figures.  Of  the  rahia 
of  such  troops  Mr.  Russell  has  told  us  enough,  and  even  if  the  whole 
array  marched  against  Canada,  there  would  be  no  serious  cause  of  alarm, 
eren  suppoeing  tnat  the  South  raised  the  nege  of  Washington,  wlu^  is 
extremely  doubtful. 

Turning  to  the  navies  of  the  two  powers,  we  have  no  cause  to  feel 
alarm,  even  if  war  broke  out  to-moirow.  Viee-Admiral  Mylne  has 
abeady  a  very  fine  fleet  on  the  North  American  station,  and  vcnsek  an 
being  daily  brought  forward  to  reinforce  him.  When  we  read  the  arma* 
ment  of  the  Orlando,  which  left  Plymouth  on  December  2drd,  aod  notice 
among  her  fifty  monster  gnns  no  fewer  than  eight  100-pounder  Arm* 
strongs,  we  feel  as  if  the  American  fleet  must  be  blown  out  ef  the  water. 
The  secretary  of  the  Federal  navy  has,  it  is  true,  told  us  in  his  report  that 
he  has  raised  it  to  264  ships,  but  many  of  these  are  sailing  ships,  and  quite 
unfit  to  cope  with  our  screws.  At  the  beginning  of  De^mber  onr  steam 
navy  amounted  to  242  ships  of  all  classes,  mounting  4650  gtms,  and 
manned  by  50,000  sailors  and  marines ;  and  by  the  end  of  this  month  we 
shall  indubitably  have  on  the  American  station  a  fleet  mounting  1527 
guns.  It  would  be  idle  to  assume  that  the  Federal  navy  eould  make  aaj 
offensive  demonstration  against  it.  Apprehensions  have  been  expressed 
in  some  quarters  that  the  Americans  may  revert  to  their  old  privateering 
system,  and  slip  vessels  out  from  San  Francisco  to  Ke  in  wait  for  the 
homeward-bound  gold  fleet ;  but  we  are,  fortonately,  fully  prepared  for 
them.  Admiral  Warren,  commanding  on  this  side  of  the  Pacific,  has  a£ 
his  disposal  a  fine  squadron  of  six  rinps,  mounting  99  guns.  Moreover, 
our  admirals  all  over  the  world  have  received  their  instrucdons  by  iba» 
time,  and  we  may  feel  certain  t^t  we  shall  suffsr  no  hunnliation  like  ibe 
cnrture  of  the  Java,  although  another  ChesapeeJie  may  haul  down  hflr 
colours  to  a  modem  Skemnon, 

So  far  we  have  regarded  the  pleasant  side  of  tlie  question,  but,  liise 
most  matters  in  life,  this  silver  shield  has  its  reverse.  In  the  first  plaee^ 
it  is  a  material  impossibility  to  guard  a  frontier  of  three  thousand  vnlee  im 
length,  and  ^ould  the  Feaeral  government  determine  on  hostilities,  unn 
may  feel  assured  th^t  General  M*Clellan  would  reeognise  the  importaoatt 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


ZlTfiLAND  OBTTIMG  lUADT.  S5 

ofttrtkioir  «lw  first  hlMf.  Futimg  hioMelf  at  tiM  head  of  200,000  nwo, 
1m  ean  Wave  WMhiogtoii  bj  EMlwaT*  and  reaeh  in  oompantiTeljr  a  abort 
penod  the  Casadiaa  frontier.  Colonel  Eardley  Wilmot,  who  veoentlj 
Tetoraed  from  Washington,  told  ns  he  had  teen  these  200,000  men  under 
ezoeUent  discipline,  and  100  field-goos  well  horsed,  the  whole  aitenlad 
bj  an  organised  eommtssariat  and  means  of  transport.  Of  coarse  the 
AmeriWMi  Napoleon  would  he  prevented  hy  the  winter  from  andertakbg 
any  eztenstre  operations,  hat  he  could  do  the  Canadians  eonsiderafafe 
iDjwry,  Ererything  seems  to  indicate  that  Montreal  would  he  the  point 
of  attack,  and  it  still  renin  ins  nodefended,  although  the  Royal  EogineeBS 
haTe  on  several  ooeasions  drMm  up  the  plans.  Henee  the  great  work  for 
the  Canadians  doriag  the  winter  will  be  forming  earthworks  round  llimt 
oipitaL  Another  important  oonsideration  is  how  the  reinfioffoeineats  ait 
to  xeaeh  Canada,  £ot  praotioaUy  the  only  v?inter  T0«te  to  that  eowatry  is 
viA  Portland,  whieh  bslooes  to  America.  From  the  latest  accoonta,  the 
winter  is  so  open  in  Canada  this  year,  that  there  is  a  possibili^  of  the 
Melhamme  getting  np  to  Riviere  d«  Loup,  about  one  hnndeed  and  twenty 
miles  from  Qnebac,  to  which  city  a  railway  nms  up ;  hut  the  other  traas* 
ports  must  land  their  troops  either  at  HalifEo,  or  St.  John,  New  Brans* 
wiok.  From  these  pkoes  they  would  be  obUged  to  travel  in  sleighs  to 
the  above  nilway,  and  theaoe  ^  up  to  Qoe&,  say  ui  six  weeks  from 
this  time.  But  that  is  no  solution  of  the  difficulty,  lot  we  unfertunatdy 
mant  the  troops  at  Montreal,  and  the  only  way  to  de  that  is  by  landing 
diem  at  Portland.  That  place  is  absolutely  neoessary  ior  us,  aod  if  we 
acted  with  enesgy  we  might  seise  that  port  immediately  on  tbe  deelarap 
tion  of  hostilitiea»  or,  at  any  rate,  a  thmt  of  oeoupation  would  cause  a 
diversion  from  MontreaL 

The  newspaper  prsm  has,  of  course,  been  raking  up  all  possible  material 
eoenected  with  the  winter  mardi  of  troops  through  Canada,  with  special 
jfiefrFsoce  to  the  year  1837,  when  the  gallaot  4iBrd  Light  Infrntry  marched 
from  Frederiekton  to  Quebec]acroM  froaen  plains  and  rivers.  Since  that 
pttiod,  however,  tnatters  hsnre  greatly  changed.  At  that  time  both 
Jlentreal  and  Quebec  were  feebly  garrisoned  and  surrounded  by  the 
rebels,  and  it  was  indispensable  that  reinforcements  shouki  reach  the 
latter  dty  at  all  risks.  Morsover,  some  five-and-twenty  years  have  made 
considerable  akeiations  in  New  Brunswwk :  roads  have  been  laid  down^ 
smd  from  the  excellent  arrangements,  such  a  winter's  tour  in  tbe  braoing 
atmosphere,  and  with  cradding  hard-eet  sqow  under  foot,  will  be  regarded 
liy  the  soldiers  in  the  light  of  a  pleasure  excursion.  At  any  rate,  it  will 
be  a  veiy  different  thing  from  the  winter  our  gallant  fellows  spent  in  the 
trenches  before  Sebastopol.  In  the  mean  while,  we  are  glad  to  find  by 
dm  most  recent  advices  from  Canada  that  there  is  great  activity  in 
military  and  warlike  prepamtions.  Sir  Fenwick  WilMams  has  set  to  work 
in  &rt^bg  Toronto  ;  the  62nd  and  63rd  Segiments  have  been  ordered 
vp  to  Quebec  fr<om  lUifisuK,  and  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  they  will  reach 
the  fiiviere  dn  Loup  brfore  the  me  sets  in.  The  Canadians,  English  and 
Fiench,  are  animated  by  the  best  sentiments,  and  aie  determined  to  fight 
to  the  death  for  their  hemes  and  altars.  As,  too,  their  opponents  are  but 
vnluttteeri^  like  themselves,  we  may  feel  pretty  sure  that  operations  wiU 
;  if  the  Amarieans  meet  with  a  firm  jresistanoe  when  they  attempt 
r  fist  hlow«    It  is  also  a  (Peering  £Mst  that,  although  the  Yankees 


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86  ENGLAND  GETTING  READY. 

have  inyaded  Canada  seTen  times,  they  have  with  one  exception  beeo 
most  satisfactorily  thrashed.  In  1813  and  1814,  when  we  were  engaged 
in  the  continental  war,  they  inflicted  some  severe  blows  on  us,  especially 
in  the  action  near  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  on  July  25,  1814,  when  they 
were  commanded  by  General  Wintield  Scott.  Two  years  previously, 
however,  Brigadier  Hull,  with  his  whole  force,  surrendered  to  General 
Brock,  and  a  second  invasion,  under  Van  Rensselaer,  equally  t^minated 
in  an  ignominious  capitulation.  In  those  times,  however,  England  had 
her  work  to  do  in  Europe,  and  could  not  devote  such  care  to  her  colony  : 
now,  we  need  hardly  say,  matters  are  far  more  promising  for  us. 

There  is  another  pleasing  item  to  take  into  account;  we  shall  be 
enabled  to  blockade  every  American  port,  and,  if  necessary,  blow  boUi 
New  York  and  New  Orleans  out  of  the  water.  But  we  tacitly  laid  down 
the  rule  in  the  Crimean  war  that  we  would  do  no  injury  to  unarmed 
cities,  and  we  spared  Odessa,  although  continental  nations  laughed  at  our 
folly.  We  shall,  however,  in  all  probability  find  ourselves  avenged  in  a 
more  satisfactory  way :  the  North  have  hit  on  the  barbarous  plan  of  fill- 
ing old  vesseb  with  stones  and  sinking  them  in  narrow  channels  off 
Southern  ports,  hoping  that  with  this  aid  nature  will  soon  silt  them  up* 
If,  then,  the  Fedtitds  declare  war  with  England,  they  will  be  compelled 
to  raise  the  blockade  of  the  Southern  ports  precipitately,  and  it  strikes  us 
that  the  South  will  be  very  much  inclined  to  retaliate  the  barbarity,  and 
try  the  experiment  in  the  New  York  harbour,  which  abo  possesses  ex- 
tremely narrow  channels.  And  we  really  could  not  blame  tne  South  for 
doug  it,  after  the  atrocities  that  have  hiUierto  characterised  the  war. 

There  is  one  point  which  seems  to  offer  some  diflBculty,  and  that  is  Iq 
what  manner  England  is  to  treat  the  South.  We  can  hardly  accept  Mr. 
Jefferson  Davis  as  our  ally,  and  probably  the  furthest  extent  to  which  we 
can  go  is  recognising  the  belligerent  rights  of  the  South.  For  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that  the  Southerners  have  been  quite  as  rabid  against 
Earl  Russell's  policy  as  the  North,  and  their  papers  have  been  filled  with 
violent  denunciations  against  England,  which  iVir.  Bennett,  of  New  York, 
might  have  signed  without  a  blush.  As  we  do  not  in  any  way  require 
the  aid  of  the  South  in  settling  our  quarrels,  we  consider  it  wiU  be 
altogether  wiser  quietly  to  ignore  it.  There  is  another  nation  whose 
proffered  aid  we  can  gratefully  decline:  while,  appreciating  the  admirable 
spirit  displayed  by  the  Emperor  of  the  French  and  the  nation  at  large, 
England  must  ask  permission  to  settle  this  quarrel  herself.  So  long  as 
the  emperor  does  not  go  back  to  the  traditional  policy  of  France,  and  sedc 
to  regain  French  Canada,  we  shall  be  fully  satisfied  ;  but,  with  all  possible 
respect,  we  have  had  lately  too  many  of  these  joint  enterprises,  which  do 
nobody  good.  Well-meaning,  too,  as  is  the  French  emperor's  notifica* 
tion  to  the  President,  that  he  felt  very  displeased  with  his  braggadocio, 
and  was  determined  to  back  up  English  policy,  there  is  something 
offensive  to  Englishmen  in  the  noUon  that  they  cannot  settle  their 
quan-els  without  the  proffered  interference  of  a  third  party.  We  cannot 
see  any  benefit  that  will  result  ^m  such  a  measure  on  the  part  of  tiie 
Emperor  of  the  French,  and  we  therefore  trust  that  he  will  recal  his 
decision.  One  thing  is  quite  certain:  British  pride  will  revolt  from  the 
notion  of  foreigners  being  appealed  to  to  aid  us  in  chastising  our  insab* 
ordinate  younger  brother.  We  have  no  wish  to  punish  him  more  than  Jut 


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ENGLAND  GETTING  READY.  87 

strength  will  permit,  and  so  soon  as  he  has  cried  **  Peoeavi  !*'  we  will  take 
him  back  to  our  faTonr,  and  buy  up  all  his  cotton.  Still  we  do  not  think 
it  would  be  wise,  even  supposing  that  the  South  continued  hostilities,  to 
begin  buying  cotton  too  hurriedly.  The  Americans  are  essentially  fickle, 
and  we  might  some  day  discover  that  we  were  supplying  the  funds  with 
which  the  Federals  held  out  against  us. 

We  do  not  wish  to  assert  that  the  fight  will  be  absolutely  one-sided  at 
the  outset.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  Federals  hare  several  fast  screw 
private^v  in  the  China  waters,  which  may  do  our  colonial  possessions 
considerable  injury,  but  scuttling  them  will  be  merely  a  work  of  time. 
Wanton  destruction  they  may  commit,  but  they  can  never  hope  to  get 
back  again  with  their  plunder,  and  there  is  not  a  spot  in  the  Eastern  seas 
where  they  could  lay  in  a  fresh  stock  of  coal,  for  every  station  is  in  our 
possession.  As  there  is,  moreover,  always  a  certain  amount  of  pinunr 
carried  on  in  those  parts,  the  captains  of  merchantmen  are  on  their  guardf, 
and  would  offer  a  decent  amount  of  resistance.  Still  the  mere  fact  of  any 
Uow  b^g  dealt  to  our  mercantile  marine  would  inflate  the  vanity  of  tlie 
Yankees,  and  make  them  fiBmoy  themselves  once  more  the  heroes  who  licked 
the  Britishers,  who  had  berore  licked  the  world.  In  the  old  war  we 
fought  to  put  down  rebellion,  and  were  within  an  ace  of  effecting  our 
purpose:  now,  we  have  no  desire  to  annex  any  American  territory,  beyond 
the  state  ci  Maine  at  the  most,  and  if  we  seize  on  that,  it  will  be  owing 
to  Mr.  Seward's  petty  malignity  in  compelling  the  Canadians  to  display 
passports  when  they  shipped  from  Portland  for  Europe. 

There  is  one  portion  of  our  American  possessions  which  appears  to  be 
in  a  critical  position — Vancouver's  Island.  We  have  but  two  or  three 
inrignificant  men-of-war  in  those  waters,  and  though  the  colonists  have 
long  imdlored  the  presence  of  a  regimen^  it  has  not  yet  been  granted  to 
them.  The  British  government  is  represented  by  a  handful  of  marines, 
and  there  are  thousands  of  Yankee  rowdies  who  would  only  be  too  glad 
to  cross  ^e  frontier  and  seize  on  the  gold-fields  at  the  first  whisper  of 
hostilities.  We  understand,  on  excellent  authority,  that  government  have 
ordered  heavy  guns  and  vessels  to  that  station,  but  the  distance  is  so  great 
that  the  miachief  wonld  be  effected  prior  to  their  arrival.  Had  Sir  Bulwer 
Lytton  remained  in  power  a  short  while  longer,  this  evil  would  have  been 
rectified,  and  British  Columbia  placed  in  a  proper  posture  of  defence.  At 
the  present  moment  there  is  nothing  but  the  patriotism  of  the  inhabitants 
to  preserve  to  the  British  Crown  a  colony  that  promises  to  turn  out  one 
of  the  most  valuable  of  its  possessions. 

It  has  been  argued  more  than  once  that  it  is  beyond  belief  that  America, 
with  a  war  already  on  her  hands,  to  which  she  sees  no  outlet,  should  ven« 
ture  on  bearding  a  new  and  far  more  formidable  opponent.  Still,  every- 
thing seems  to  prove  the  truth  of  the  deliberate  intention  of  Mr.  Seward 
to  pick  a  quarrel  with  us ;  and,  probably,  the  best  criterion  of  the  Ame« 
riean  temper  at  the  present  moment  will  be  found  in  a  remarkable  series 
of  letters  publishing  in  the  Morning  Herald^  under  the  signature  of 
''Manhattan."  The  writer  is  an  American  gentleman  of  some  standing, 
and  tolerably  well  known  in  this  country,  and  it  might  be  naturally  sup* 
posed  that  he  would  not  condescend  to  rituperation.  Strange  to  say, 
even  this  gentleman  and  scholar  has  become  so  exasperated  by  the 
lunnliatioQ  put  on  the  North,  that  his  correspondence  offers  the  strangest 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


88  ENGLAND  GETTING  XSADT. 

medey  of  rowdyiaa  mod  ianaticum  ever  poUitked  in  ihis  country.  The 
Morning  Heraidj  with  its  marked  Soatkem  teodeaciei^  is  only  too  ready 
to  pfuhlith  Manhattan's  eorretpondeaee,  in  spite  of  an  affeeted  coyness, 
for  it  offers  such  a  inarfelloiis  specimen  of  YankeeMia.  It  strikes  us,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  the  story  of  the  two  Kilkenny  cats  might  be  repeated 
with  advantage  to  the  world  in  America,  and  that  in  oor  admiratioa  for 
iSbe  plucldness  of  the  Southern  gentlemen,  and  the  brave  resistance  they 
have  offered  their  huge,  bullying  opponent,  we  have  closed  our  eyes 
against  the  exifteooe  3l  slavery.  Nor  must  we  forget,  wi^  war  looming 
in  the  Ibrsground,  thai  the  £M;hera  of  this  Sowthem  ofatvalry  shot  down 
our  fidhers  from  behMd  cotton  bales,  and  dmriog  liie  last  Ajaraieaia  war 
w«re  hx  more  inveterwle  against  us  than  the  Northeraevs.  Taking  all 
this  into  consideration,  we  do  not  see  that  Eogknd  oould  honounUy 
enter  into  an  offsnstve  and  defeosive  alUaace  with  the  South.  Of  4MMM«e 
we  shall  fed  v«ry  nmeh  obliged  to  them  if  they  will  hold  tiie  Eederab  in 
check  un^  we  can  sail  up  the  Potomac  oaee  agaia  and  deetroy  the 
pompous  capital ;  but  we  doubt  whether  the  gveai  mass  of  the  English 
nation  would  be  indined  to  pin  their  fortunes  to  such  a  tabted  caiuie  as 
that  of  the  South.  Hitherto,  aU  the  advantage  has  been  on  the  side  of 
the  Confederatios,  both  with  the  sword  and  the  pen;  but  when  the 
eaasperation  has  worn  off,  when  the  hot  Uood  courses  more  eahnly 
through  our  reins,  we  shall  see  that  the  whole  bUme  attaches  to  one  man 
-^Mr.  Sewaod.  Ever  since  the  election  of  Lincoln,  the  conduct  o£  the 
Republican  party  has  been  tinged  with  an  hypocrisy  only  possible  io  soeh 
a  denominational  country  as  North  America.  The  abolitioB  of  slavery 
was  put  forward  when  they  wished  to  destroy  Southern  inflneaoe  in  Con- 
gress ;  but  so  soon  as  the  first  blow  was  struck  the  world  saw  that  this 
was  hut  a  hollow  evasion,  and  that  the  fight  was  in  reality  hetweea  Pro- 
tection and  Free-trade.  Their  cause  was  lost  with  Europe  ere  the  first 
shot  was  fired,  and  their  wretched  conduct  of  the  campaign  dxww  4owa 
on  them  the  ridicule  and  contempt  of  the  world,  and  th^  have,  coos^ 
quently,  sdeoted  Eng^d  as  the  country  they  will  hold  up  to  poateri^ 
as  a  warning  examf^ 

Well,  be  it  so !  it  was  quite  certain  that  the  braggart  arroganoe  of  the 
Yankees  must  eventually  be  punished.  They  had,  fisr  some  tiaie  pas^ 
construed  our  moderation  into  fear,  and  had  grown  into  a  wild  belief  of 
the  majesty  of  Kiag  Cotton.  During  the  last  siz-aad-twenty  years  we 
have  never  beea  in  aaeh  an  excellent  position  for  fitting  without  drain- 
ing our  resources,  as  at  present :  France  is  practically  bound  over  to  geod 
b^ianomr  by  the  avowed  embarrassment  of  her  finances;  Eunpe  is 
tolerably  tranquil,  and  we  have  restored  peace  through  our  widdy* 
scattered  dommions.  We  have  a  magnifioeBt  fleet  and  an  efiectiva 
amy;  we  have  the  finest  ordnance  anl  of  the  heaviest  oalifare  in  the 
worid,  and,  better  still,  an  eatraordinary  enthusiasm  pervadiog  the  nation 
at  the  mare  idea  of  our  flag  being  insulted.  Nor  need  we  faiar  thskt  oar 
fbroes  will  this  time  be  wesJcened  by  desertions :  our  aaikrs  have  lesmed 
by  harsh  eaperienoe  what  they  have  to  expect  if  they  desert  their  oohwrs 
to  join  the  Americana,  while,  at  the  same  tiaae,  we  have  given  them  ia- 
dnoements  to  stay  with  us,  ia  the  shape  of  liberal  and  fair  treatwsat. 
Desertion,  it  is  true,  has  prevailed  to  a  great  extent  ixom  the  reginoeats 
ttationed  in  Canada,  hot  at  has  not  beea  fer  the  purpose  of  <  " 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


ENGLAND  CaSTTIKO  BSADT.  89 

indi  the  Federal  regiikn^  whose  daicipHiie  ii  eaoeniTdj  ftrict  TImm 
JMOftioos  hftve  mettly  taken  place  among  »eii  whe  lunre  a  de«ie  te 
better  tbemseliies,  or  whoae  xelativea  haire  settled  ia  the  heekwoodgy  and 
deeenibe  tbem  in  th«r  letfeen  as  a  land  flowing  with  niUc  and  honey. 

BeoapifealatiQg  the  advanfeages  and  ^sadTantages,  we  have,  ^mi,  a 
large  BM^oritj  of  Ae  former  in  oar  fsvoar.  Bven  aupposini^  that  the 
Soiithemarg  give  MOlellan  a  duuace  o£  slipping  off  to  Caaa£i  with  hie 
200,000  men,  it  is  qaite  certain  that  thej  eannot  do  nraoh  for  the  Mwasaft. 
In  the  mean  while  we  can  eloselj  invest  the  Northern  foste,  and  atlerij 
stop  their  trade,  batter  down  their  few  fbrtifieationsy  and  spread  iscror 
and  alarm  aloag  the  sea-board.  Aad  then,  ere  long,  *he  Western  States^ 
whose  .inhabitants  will  be  frightfully  imporerished  bf  ihe  inahili^  of  die* 
posiDg  of  their  oereals,  will  beoome  agitated,  and  in  all  probahilify  lellev 
the  example  of  the  Sonth,  and  the  mtwieldf  Nerthem  repayie  wil  be 
atteriy  broken  ap»  If  it  he  true,  aa  the  lamented  PriaoeOmasTt  said  on 
one  pnblic  oeoasion,  that  in  this  <:o«itry  oaaadtotienalism  waa  on  its 
tiial,  it  is  evidmt  that  soateace  has  been  passed  on  repabHeanism  acsoa 
the  Athyatie.  If  we  are  £Mreed  to  fight,  we  shall  go  into  tfa»  contest 
aoeompanied  by  the  aoelamataons  of  all  the  reigning  hooses  of  Enropo^ 
aad  henoe  there  is  bnt  little  Srar  of  any  demonstration  at  home  whieh 
may  prevent  nt  develofung  ear  entire  energies  aeross  the  Atlantia 

We  preeame  that  nat^nal  jealousy  caused  the  Amerioans  to  aeleot 
fin^^aad  as  the  nation  with  wmeh  to  try  eooclnnons,  for  there  is  anothsr 
ooantry  that  has  hehared  far  more  nnkindly  to  them.  Throaghont  the 
Oimeaa  war  the  Ancficaus  threw  themsehres  at  the  feet  of  the  Czar,  and 
even  (ncked  a  quarrel  with  ns  in  the  hope  of  hampering  ovr  resonrces. 
They  hatf e  now  reeeived  a  severe  proof  that  repuhhcans  ought  to  pnt  no 
&ith  in  pRoees,  for  the  Czar  has  not  made  the  slightest  demenatration  on 


their  behalf.  Throughovt  the  present  fratricide,  the  Federd  government 
has  done  eveiy  thing  in  its  power  to  conciliate  France,  but  m  result  of 
all  the  efforts  appears  to  have  been  tiie  friendship  of  Prince  Napoleon, 
wha  cando  hot  Iktle  for  the  Federal  cause.  What  measures  ihe  Emperor 
of  the  French  aiay  eventually  adopt  are  beyond  speculation,  bat  it  is 
ramooMd  ifaat  five  French  ships  of  the  line  are  abeaay  anchored  off  New 
Yodc.  Bat  we  cannot  believa  that  the  French  nation  will  be  at  all  ia» 
dined  to  iateifose  ia  a  quarrel  that  conoems  it  so  fittla. 

It  mi^  be,  hewerer,  that  the  prompt  action  of  tibe  British  garemment 
wdB  oaaseevea  Jlr.  Seward  to  reflect  ere  he  throws  down  &e  gauntlet 
to  £ngl«id.  Fsem  the  latest  advices,  it  is  true,  he  is  still  parswing  hii 
old  arrqgant  csairse,  and  dedin«|^  offioiidfy  to  reeabe  any  despatch  im 
vfainh  the  Confederatists  are  not  designated  as*  rehels;  but  the  sharp 
demand  for  restitution  borne  aeross  the  Atlantic  by  the  JEuropa  had  not 
yet  arrived  oat  It  is  more  than  probable  that  the  Federal  govenuneat 
win  once  more  have  recourse  to  evasion,  and  attempt  to  shift  the  gxcuad 
to  legal  technicalities;  but  Lord  Lyons  has  no  discretion  left  him. 
Either  Messrs.  Mason  and  Slidell  must  be  set  free  within  five  days,  or 
our  ambassador  will  take  ship  for  home.  Such  a  stnughtforward  course 
as  this  must  open  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Seward,  and  prove  to  him  that  there 
is  a  point  bejond  wluch  English  moderation  cannot  go;  still,  it  is 
ominotis  to  find  the  New  York  Herald  writing,  so  late  as  the  10th  ult., 
that  "  the  British  government  will  be  unable  to  find  a  pretext  for  a 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


80  ENGLAND  QETTINO  READY. 

quarrel  in  the  action  of  Captain  Wilkes.  England  has  too  many  inte« 
rests  at  stake  to  risk  a  rapture  with  the  United  States.  Canada  is  within 
two  days'  railway  journey  of  half  a  million  of  armed  men,  and  has  a 
frontier  that  can  offer  no  resistance  to  an  invading  force.  England  wiU 
he  in  no  hurry  to  embroil  herself  in  another  American  difficulfy.'* 
Prohably  by  this  time  the  writer  of  the  article  will  hare  discoTored  his 
mistake;  but  such  lang^ge  is  well  calculated  to  inflame  the  passions  of 
the  mob,  and  even  should  Presideot  Lincoln  be  disposed  to  follow  the 
true  policy,  the  pressure  from  without  may  be  so  powerful  that  he  will  be 
compelled  to  float  with  the  stream.  Canada  has  ever  been  a  flattering 
bait  to  the  Northern  States,  just  as  Cuba  was  with  the  South,  and  the 
bad  terms  on  which  the  two  former  countries  stand  to  each  otiier  will  be 
an  additional  incentive  to  the  rowdies  to  insist  upon  a  hopelesi  war. 

We  think,  however,  we  have  proved  that  England  neisd  not  feel  the 
slightest  apprehension  as  to  the  result  of  the  threatening  war.  Should 
it  break  out,  it  will  be  short,  sharp,  and  decisive,  and  r^  the  Yankees 
that  lesson  which  they  have  deserved  any  time  during  the  last  twenty 
years.  Even  if  we  escape  a  war  we  shall  have  one  mat  advantage,  that 
Canada  will  no  longer  remain  defenceless,  and  uius  offer  a  constant 
temptation  to  the  transatlantic  Ishmaelites.  The  present  expedition  to 
Canada  certunly  affords  a  dSmenti  to  those  public  writers  who  have 
asserted,  numy  a  time  and  oft,  that  the  loss  of  Canada  was  of  no  import- 
ance to  us,  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  we  should  derive  greater  commer« 
cial  advantages  from  its  entire  separation.  In  the  moment  of  emer- 
gency, however,  the  Engibh  nation  has  shown  that  blood  is  thicker  than 
water:  no  question  is  raised  as  to  which  party  will  pay  the  cost,  and  no 
ministry  would  have  dared  to  leave  the  Canadians  to  their  own  resources. 
As  an  abstract  principle,  we  concede  that  colonies  entail  charges  on  the 
mother-country  out  of  proportion  to  the  commercial  advantage  derired 
from  them ;  but  when  their  independence  is  threatened,  England  does 
not  calculate  the  cost  of  defending  them. 

Out  of  evil  good  sometimes  rises,  and  it  therefore  a£Ebrds  us  satisfac- 
tion to  learn  that  Mr.  Bright  is  about  to  depart  for  America  to  try  hia 
powers  in  a  reconciliation.  If  he  would  only  have  the  kindness  to 
remain  there  permanentiy,  we  would  not  have  the  slightest  objeotioa  to 
give  him  up,  while  hu  attachment  to  American  institutions  might  pro- 
bably render  him  useful  out  there.  At  any  rate,  he  has  nearly  played 
out  his  part  in  this  country,  and  it  will  doubtless  afford  him  gratification 
to  find  willing  audiences  in  America.  Still,  for  his  own  sake,  we  would 
hint  to  him  that  tars  and  feathers  are  articles  in  immense  demand  in  his 
favoured  land,  or  that  the  spectacle  of  a  British  member  taking  a  ride  on 
a  rail  would  not  at  all  conduce  to  the  dignity  of  our  institutions,  even 
though  the  general  opinion  in  this  country  might  be,  "  Serve  hitn  rig^ht, 
for  Que  diable  allait-il  faire  dans  cette  galore?" 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


91 


TO  THE  MOST  ILLUSTRIOUS  MOURNER  IN  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

BT  MRS.  ACTON  TUfDAL. 

Beloybi)  and  stricken  mother,  widowed  Qaeen,. 

Mooming  among  thy  children  for  their  sire, 
A  gnest  nnbidden,  in  tny  court  unseen, 

Iieft  of  his  presence  there  these  tokens  dire : 
A  neryeless  arm  where  thou  wast  wont  to  lean, 

A  death-cold  head  among  thy  pillows  lay, 
A  pulseless  heart  that  as  thine  own  had  been, 

A  shadow  time  shall  never  roU  away 
From  thy  great  tender  spirit,  mighty  Queen ! 

On  solitudes  of  sorrow,  rapt  and  lone. 

Thou  standest  burdened  oy  a  nation's  care, 
Conspicuous  as  a  frozen  mountain  cone. 

In  pallid  majesty,  0  monarch  fair ! 
With  sad  amazement  in  thy  wide  blue  eve. 

While  piercing  memories  round  thee  keenly  moan. 
Ten  times  more  desolate  because  so  high. 

The  mate  who  shared  thy  lofty  eyrie  flown, 
Ah !  through  the  midnight  thrilled  thy  bitter  cry. 

Orphan  and  widow  made,  since  in  our  zone 

The  lights  of  Christmas  and  its  roses  shone. 

Children  weep  round  thee,  all  too  ^oung  to  know 

The  bright  distinction  of  the  spirit  fled. 
Hie?  yet  more  conscious  of  his  loss  will  grow, 

'Ae  rarely-gifted,  wise,  and  gentle  dead ! 
Thy  faithful  counsdlor,  tby  constant  friend. 

Thy  loye  in  glorious  manhood  lying  low ! 
On  the  dean  wmgs  of  prayer  our  thoughts  ascend; 

Eor  thee,  before  the  Kine  of  Kings  we  go. 
And  homy  hands  are  raiseo,  and  proud  knees  bend. 

For  thee,  great  Queen,  bnure  hearts  ache,  bright  tears  flow ; 
While  round  thy  toVrs  the  wind's  dull  wailings  blend 

With  the  dread  pomp  of  death  at  court  below, 

A  saddened  people  share  their  monarch's  woe ! 

The  heavj  throbbing  of  that  funeral  bell 

Will  echo  through  each  adyent  of  thy  time, 
And  dirges  o'er  all  Christmas  carols  swell. 

Loud  tolling  'mid  the  Babe  Christ's  hallowed  chime. 
May  His  light  reach  thee,  by  thy  Prince's  graye. 

That  woke  the  Shepherds  on  the  Eastern  fell ! 
May  His  star  shine,  above  j^efs  foam-crowned  waye. 

That  cheered  the  Magi  with  its  guiding  spell! 
May  God  who  took  away  the  joy  Hs  gave, 
This  to  thy  people,  Monabch  !  Mothxb  !  save ! 


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92 


THE  WOEEIES   OF  A   CHAPEEONE; 

OB, 

LADY  KAKJLBOUrS  TKOTJBLEa 

By  OmDJL. 


SEASON  THE  THIBD.-^THE' CLIMAX. 


HOW  SOME  CHORDS  WEBS  TOUCHED  AT  THE  OPERA. 

'<  That  little  thing,  soft  and  careless,  and  kittenish  as  she  looks,  is 
ambitious,  and  has  set  her  heart  on  winnincp  Qx>odwood,  I  do  believe,  as 
much  as  ever  poor  Valencia  did.  True,  uie  takes  a  different  plan  of 
action,  as  Philip  would  call  it,  and  treats  him  with  gaj  nooehalante  in- 
difference, which  ecrtainly  seems  to  piqve  hiot  more  than  erer  my  poor 
niece's  beauty  and  quiet  deference  to  hit  opinions  did ;  hot  that  is  fciecause 
she  reads  him  better,  and  knows  more  cleverly  how  to  rouse  him.  She  has 
set  her  heart  on  winning  Goodwood,  I  am  certain,  ambitious  as  it  seems. 
How  eagerly  she  looked  out  for  the  Blues  yesterday  at  that  Hyde  Park 
inspection  (though  I  am  sure  Goodwood  does  not  look  half  so  handsome 
as  Philip  does  in  haniMS,  as  they  call  it ;  Philip  is  so  much  the  fiaer  man). 
I  will  just  sound  her  to-day— or  to-night  as  we  come  back  from  the 
Opera,"  thought  Lady  Marabout,  one  morning. 

Things  were  en  train  to  the  very  best  of  her  expectations.  Learning 
experience  from  manifold  fiEulures,  Lady  Marabout  had  laid  h«r  plans  this 
time  with  a  dexterity  that  defied  discomfiture,  seconded  by  both  the 
parties  primarily  necessasy  to  the  accomplishment  of  her  manoeuvres ; 
with  only  a  little  onter-world  opposition  to  give  it  piquancy  and  excite- 
ment, she  felt  that  she  might  defy  the  iktes  to  checkmate  bar  here.  This 
should  be  her  Marathon  and  Lenmos,  which,  simply  rererted  to,  should 
be  sufficient  to  secure  her  immunity  from  the  attacks  of  any  feminine 
Xantippus  who  should  try  to  rake  up  her  failures  and  tarnish  her  glory. 
To  win  Goodwood  with  a  nobody's  daughter  would  be  a  feat  as  wondernil 
in  its  way  as  for  Miltiades  to  have  passed  ^  in  a  single  day  and  with  a 
north  wind,''  as  Oracle  exacted,  to  the  conquest  of  the  Pdasgian  Isles ; 
and  Lady  Marabout  longed  to  do  it,  as  you,  my  good  sir,  may  have 
longed  in  your  day  to  take  a  king  in  cl]^k  with  your  only  available 
pawn,  or  win  one  of  the  ribands  of  Uie  turf  with  a  little  fiUy  that  seemed 
to  general  judges  scarcely  calculated  to  be  in  the  first  flight  at  the 
Chester  Consolation  Scrainible.  Things  were  beautifully  en  train ;  it 
even  began  to  dawn  on  the  perceptions  of  the  Haottons,  usually  very 
slow  to  open  to  anything  revolutionary  and  unwelcome.  Her  Grace  of 
Doncaster,  a  large,  lethargic,  somnolent  dowager,  rarely  awake  to 
anything  but  the  interests  and  restoration  of  the  old  ultra-Tory  party 
in  a  Utopia  always  dreamed  of  and  never  realised,  like  many  other 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


LABT  ICAIULBOUT's  TB0CBLE8.  93 

UlOfMM  politkml  and  potiioal,  public  and  fetmsmXf  htA  iornad  her  mym 
on  Flora  MoatolMUy  and  aiked  her  son  the  qaeetioa  inevitable,  **  Who 
is  she  ?"  to  which  Gkiodwood  had  replied  with  a  deril-iMy-care  reckless- 
naaa  and  a  headlong  indefinitenesi  which  grated  on  her  Grace's  ean>  and 
imparted  her  no  information  whattever:  ^  One  of  Ladj  TattersaU'g 
yearlings,  and  the  most  charming  Httle  dear  I  erer  met.  You  know 
that?  Why  did  yon  ask  me,  then ?  You  know  all  I  do»  and  all  I  care 
to  dof— a  remark  that  made  the  Duchen  wish  her  very  dear  and  per* 
aonal  £riend.  Lady  Marabout,  were  eomfortaUy  and  nraely  interrea  in 
the  maufloieum  at  Fern  Ditton,  rather  than  ali?e  in  the  fleu  in  Belgnvriay 
chaperoning  young  ladies  whom  nobody  knew,  and  who  were  not  to  be 
£Mmd  in  any  a£  Sir  E*^  Burke's  tiiad  of  Tolumes.  Belgravia,  and  her 
sister  Mayfa^,  wondered  at  it  and  talked  over  it,  laked  up  the  parental 
Montolieu  lineage  mercilessly,  and  found  o«t,  firom  the  Bishop  of  Bon^ 
vivear  and  Saueeblanche,  that  the  unde  on  the  distaff  side  had  been  only 
a  Tug  at  Eton,  and  had  lived  and  died  at  Fern  Ditten  a  perpetual  curate 
and  rien  de  plus — not  even  a  dean,  not  even  a  rector!  Goodwood 
comldnU  be  serious^  settled  the  coteries.  But  the  mone  hints,  innuendoee, 
qneetions,  and  adroitly  concealed  but  simply  suggested  animadversion 
Lady  M»niboat  received,  the  greater  was  her  glory,  the  warmer  her 
complaeency,  when  she  saw  her  Little  Montt^u  leading,  as  she  un- 
doubtedly £d  lead,  the  most  desired  eligible  of  the  day  captive  in  h« 
chains,  sent  bouquets  by  him,  begged  for  waltaes  by  hio^  followed  by 
him  at  the  Ride^  riveting  his  lorgnon  at  the  Opera,  monopolising  his 
attention — though,  clever  little  intriguer,  she  knew  too  well  how  to  pique 
him  ever  to  let  him  monopolise  hers. 

^'  She  certainly  makes  play,  as  Philip  would  call  it,  admirably  with 
Gioodwood,"  said  Lady  Marabout,  admiringly,  at  a  morning  party,  stirring 
a  cup  of  Orange  Pekoe,  yet  with  a  certain  irrepressible  feeling  that  m 
afaonld  almost  prefer  so  very  young  a  girl  not  to  be  quite  so  adroit  a 
aehemer.    ^  That  indifference  and  noDchalance  is  tha  very  thing  to  pique 
and  retain  such  a  courted  nU  admirari  creature  as  Gooawood;  and  she 
knew  it,  too.     Kow  a  clumsy  casual  observer  might  even  fancy  that  she 
liked  some  others — even  you,  Philip,  for  instance — much  better  ;  she  has 
a  g;ieat  deal  of  ^panchement  with  you,  talks  to  you  much  more,  appeals  to 
yoB  twice  as  ofte%  positively  teases  you  to  stop  and  lunch  or  come  [to 
diimer  here,  and  really  told  you  the  other  night  at  the  Opera  she  missed 
you  BO  when  you  didn  t  come  in  the  morning;  but  to  a&ylx>dy  who  knows 
sttijthing  of  the  worU,  it  is  easy  enough  to  see  which  way  her  inclina- 
tioDs  (yes,  I  do  hope  it  is  inclination  as  well  as  ambitioQ— I  am  not  one 
af  those  who  advocate  pure  manages  de  eonvenanee;  I  don't  think  them 
ri^bt,  indeed,  though  they  are  undoubtedly  very  eotpedient  sometimes) 
taro.     I  do  not  thmk  anjfbodt^  ever  could  prove  me  to  have  erred  in  my 
quick-sightednesB  in  those  affairs.     I  may  have  been  occaaonally  mis- 
taken in  other  things,  or  been  the  victim  of  adverse  and  unforeseen  cir« 
cazDatances  which  were  beyond  my  control,  and  betrayed  me;  but  I  know 
no  one  can  read  a  girl's  heart  more  quickly  and  surely  than  I,  or  a  man's 
either,  for  that  matter.'' 

<*  Oh,  we  all  know  you  are  a  clairvoyante  in  heart  episodes,  my  dear 
naotker  ;  they  are  the  one  business  of  your  lift  l"  smiled  Cairuthers, 
settings  down  his  ice,  and  lounging  across  the  lawn  to  a  group  of  cedars^ 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


94  THE  WORRIES  OF  A  CHAPERONE ;  OR^ 

where  Flora  Montolieu  stood  playing  at  croquet,  and  who,  like  a  scheming 
little  intrigante  as  she  was,  immediately  verified  Lady  Marabout's  words, 
and  piqued  Groodwood  a  outrance  by  avowing  herself  tired  of  the  game, 
and  entering  with  animated  verve  into  the  prophecies  for  Ascot  (late  that 
year)  with  Carruthers,  whose  bay  filly  Sunbeam,  sister  to  Wild-Falcon, 
was  entered  to  run  for  the  Queen's  Cup. 

**  What  an  odd  smile  that  was  of  Philip's,^  thought  Lady  Marabout, 
left  to  herself  and  her  Orange  Pekoe.  *^  He  has  been  very  lie  with  Good- 
wood  ever  since  they  joined  the  Blues,  comets  together,  three*and-twenty 
years  ago ;  surely  he  can't  have  hetui  him  drop  anything  that  would 
make  hun  fancy  he  was  not  serious  V* 

An  idle  fear,  which  Lady  Marabout  dismissed  contemptuously  from  her 
mind  when  she  saw  how  entirely  Goodwood — in  defiance  of  the  Hauttons' 
sneer,  the  drowsy  Duchess's  unconcealed  frown,  all  the  comments  sure  to 
be  excited  in  feminine  minds,  and  all  the  chaff  likely  to  be  elicited  from 
masculine  lips  at  the  mess-table  in  the  U.  S.,  and  in  the  Guards'  box 
before  the  curtain  went  up  for  the  ballet — ^vowed  himself  to  the  service  of 
the  little  detrimental  throughout  that  morning  party,  and  spoke  a  tern- 
porary  adieu,  whose  tenderness,  if  she  did  not  exactly  catch,  Lady  Mara- 
bout could  at  least  construe,  as  he  pulled  up  the  tiger-skin  (one  Carni« 
thers  had  brought  home  long  years  before,  when  he  spent  a  lengthened 
leave  in  running  overland  to  Scinde,  to  try  the  sport  of  the  jungles) 
over  Flora's  dainty  dress,  before  the  Marabout  carnage  rolled  down  the 
Fulham-road  to  town.  At  which  tenderness  of  feurewell  Carruthers — 
steeled  to  all  such  weaknesses  himself — ^ave  a  disdainful  glance  and  a 
contemptuous  twist  of  his  moustaches,  as  he  stood  by  the  door  talking  to 
his  mother. 

<<yous  aussi,  Phil?"  said  Goodwood,  with  a  laugh,  as  the  carriage 
rolled  away. 

Carruthers  stared  at  him  haughtily,  as  he  will  stare  at  his  best  friends 
if  they  touch  his  private  concerns  more  nearly  than  he  likes ;  a  stare 
which  said  disdainfully,  '*  I  don't  understand  you,"  and  thereby  told  the 
only  lie  with  which  Carruthers  ever  stooped  m  the  whole  course  of  his 
existence. 

Goodwood  laughed  again,  as  he  took  the  ribbons  of  lus  mail  phaeton. 

'^  If  you  poach  on  my  manor  Aere,  I  shall  kill  you,  Phil ;  so  gare  a 
vous!" 

'*  You  are  in  an  enigmatical  mood  to-day !  I  can't  say  I  see  much 
wit  in  your  riddles,"  said  Carruthers,  with  his  grandest,  most  contemptuous 
ur,  as  he  lit  his  Havannah. 

^< Curse  that  fellow!  I'd  rather  have  had  any  man  in  London  for 
a  rival  than  him !  Twenty  and  more  years  ago  how  he  cut  me  out  with 
that  handsome  Virg^e  Peauderose,  that  we  were  both  such  mad  donkeys 
after  in  Paris.  However,  it  will  be  odd  if  J  can't  win  the  day  here.  A 
Goodwood  rejected — pooh!  There  isn't  a  woman  in  England  that 
would  do  it!"  thought  Goodwood,  as  he  drove  down  the  Fulham-road. 

'* Curse  that  fellow!  What  did  he  mean,  with  his  devilish  imperti- 
nence p  '  His  manor !'  Who's  told  him  it's  his  P  And  if  it  be,  what  is 
that  to  me?  Philip  Carruthers  you're  not  a  fool,  like  the  rest  of  them, 
I  hope  P  You've  not  forsworn  yourself,  and  gone  down  before  that  child, 
surely  P    Pshaw ! — ^nonsense ! —impossible !" 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


LADT  MARABOUT^S  TBOUBLES.  95 

And  Camithera  drew  his  whip  sharplj  across  his  leader's  hack  as  he 
tooled  the  greys  tandem  in  his  tilhury  hack  to  town,  at  a  stretching 
gallop,  like  g^y hounds,  vowing  to  himself  to  think  no  more  on  so  idle  a 
subject;  and,  as  a  natural  sequence,  thinking  much  the  more — thinkine 
of  nothing  else,  indeed,  till  he  turned  the  g^ys  into  the  stable-yard 
at  the  Wellington  Barracks. 

*^  Certainly  she  has  something  very  charming  about  her.  If  I  werd 
a  man  I  don't  think  I  could  resist  her,**  thought  Lady  Marabout,  as  she 
sat  in  her  box  in  the  grand  tier,  tenth  from  the  Queen's,  moving  her  fan 
slowly,  lifting  her  lorgnon  now  and  then,  listening  vaguely  to  the  music 
of  the  second  act  of  the  **  Barbiere,"  for  probably  about  the  two  bun- 
dredth  time  in  her  life  (she  was  an  inveterate  fanatica  per  la  musica),  and 
looking  at  Flora  Montolieu,  sitting  opposite  to  her.  Very  pretty,  cer- 
tidnly,  Flora  Montolieu  looked,  her  golden  hair,  with  roses  lying  on  it, 
chefS^'cBuvre  of  Palais  Royal  skill,  fresh  and  fair  as  though  just 
gathered,  with  morning  dews  upon  them,  and  her  rayonnante  face  fresh 
and  ^ir  as  the  roses ;  but  not,  Deo  gratis,  like  them,  made  up,  as  too 
many  fair  faces  were  that  gleamed  under  the  amber  curtains  in  the  gas- 
light, and  attracted  the  flattering  battery  of  levelled  lorg^ons  from  the 
stalls  that  ni^t,  as  every  night  of  every  Opera  season.  Egedia  and 
Feodorowna  Hautton  were  just  opposite,  in  the  icy  company  of  madame 
leur  m^re.  The  Hauttons  didn't  forswear  the  Opera,  thoueh  they  con- 
sidered the  theatres  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes  highly  reprehen* 
nble  and  immoral.  Do  you  think  the  distinction  hypocritical  and 
hypercriUcal  ?  Point  du  tout :  it  is  like  a  gi*eat  many  distinctions  made 
in  this  world.  Theatres  were  unattractive  to  and  beneath  them  and 
their  order — denounce  them  and  clear  them  away!  but  never  to  go 
to  the  Opera  would  look  so  very  odd !  We  must  rather,  in  preference, 
look  over  its  wickedness  and  condone  our  own  in  frequenting  it !  Don't 
yon  know  the  style  of  reasoning  ?  If  you  don't,  monsieur,  je  vous  en 
felicite,  but  I  can't  tell  where  you  have  lived. 

Very  frigid,  colourless,  stiff  and  statuesque  looked  Egedia  and  Feodo« 
rowna  in  comparison  with  Lady  Marabout's  tropical  flowers,  and  the 
lorgnons  that  swept  round  the  house  compared  the  two  boxes  very  inju- 
xioa^  to  the  one  whose  door  was  lettered  **  The  Countess  of  Hautton.'^ 
**  The  women  are  eternally  asking  me  who  she  is.  I  don't  care  a  bane 
who,  but  she's  the  prettiest  thing  in  London,"  said  Fulke-Nugent,  which 
'Was  the  warmest  praise  that  any  living  man  about  town  remembered  to 
have  heard  fall  from  his  lips,  which  limited  themselves  religiously  to  one 
iegitiaiate  laudation,  which  is  a  superlative  now-a-days,  though  Mr. 
LiDdley  Murray,  if  alive,  wouldn't,  perhaps,  receive  or  recognise  it  as 
finch:  "Not  bad-looking." 

**  It  isn't  who  a  woman  is,  it's  what  she  is,  that's  the  question,  I  take 
it,"  said  Goodwood,  as  he  \eh  the  Guards'  box  to  visit  the  Marabout. 

**  By  George  !"  laughed  Nugent  to  Carruthers,  ''  Goodwood  must  be 
serioat,  eh,  Phil  ?  He  don't  care  a  button  to  watch  little  Bibi,  though 
when  she  came  out  flrst  he  threw  her  bouquets  reli^ously ;  he  don't  care 
tar  the  coulisses,  not  even  for  Zerlina,  who,  if  she  doesn't  dance  like 
Taglioiu,  is  certainly  handsome  enough  to  please  anybody.  The  Rosi^re 
orer  there  signs  to  him  in  vain,  and  has  neither  his  carriage  nor  his 
suppgra  as  of  yore.    When  the  ballet  begins  I  verily  believe  he's  thinking 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


96  THE  WOBRIEfi  OF  A  CHAPEBONB;  OR, 

lets  of  the  women  before  him  than  of  the  woman  who  has  h&  the  house  ; 
and  if  a  feUdw  can  give  more  ominoos  signs  of  being  *  senons^'  as  th» 
women  phrase  it,  I  don't  know  'em,  do  you  ?" 

Carruthers  didn't  answer,  but  leaned  over  the  front  of  the  box,  turning 
his  lorgnon  on  to  a  dashing  woman  in  the  fourth  tier,  whom  he  didn't 
know,  and  didn't  heed,  but  at  whom  he  gazed  so  fixedly  for  ten  minutes 
and  more  that  her  companion  and  husband,  a  Georges  Dandin,  we  must 
presume,  and  a  Spanish  merchant,  thirsted  to  take  fierce  and  murderous 
Tengeance  on  the  hateful  Senor  Inglese,  looking  so  impudently  up  at 
his  dona  from  below,  and  was  greatly  relieved  when  Carruthers  at  last 
saw  fit  to  withdraw  his  glass  and  his  gaze  and  followed  Goodwood  to  tha 
Ifarabout  box. 

That  is  an  old,  old  story,  that  of  the  fair  Emily  stirring  fieud  between 
Palamon  and  Arcite.  It  has  been  acted  out  many  a  time  since  Beau* 
mont  and  Fletcher  lived  and  wrote  their  twtn-thoughts  and  won  their 
twin-laurels;  but  the  bars  that  shut  the  kinsmen  in  their  prison-walls, 
the  ivy -leaves  that  filled  in  the  rents  of  their  prison-stones,  w^e  not  more 
entirely  and  blissfully  innocent  of  the  feud  going  on  within,  and  the 
battle  foaming  near  them,  than  the  calm,  complacent  soul|pf  Lady  Mara- 
bout  was  of  the  rivalry  gobg  on  close  beside  her  for  th«  sake  of  little 
Montoliea. 

She  certainly  thought  Philip  made  himself  specially  brilliant  aacl 
agreeable  that  night ;  but  then  that  was  nothing  new,  he  was  &mous  for 
talking  well,  whether  at  clubs,  dinner-tables,  or  parliamentary  debates, 
and  liked  his  mother  well  enough  not  seldom  to  shower  out  for  her  some 
of  his  very  best  things ;  certainly  she  thought  Goodwood  did  not  shine 
by  the  contrast,  and  looked,  to  use  an  undignified  wordy  rather  cross 
than  otherwise  ;  but  then  nobody  €Ud  shine  beside  Philipi  and  she  knew 
a  reason  that  made  Goodwood  pardonably  cross  at  the  undesired  presence 
of  his  oldest  and  dearest  chum.  Even  she  almost  wished  Philip  away. 
If  the  presence  of  her  idolised  son  could  have  been  unwelcome  and  roal 
k  propos  to  her  at  any  time,  it  was  so  that  night. 

'*  It  isn't  like  Philip  to  monopolise  her  so,  he  who  has  so  much  tact 
usually,  and  cares  nothing  for  girb  himself,"  thoue^ht  Lady  Marabout; 
<*  he  must  do  it  for  mischief,  and  yet  that  isn't  like  him  at  all ;  it's  very 
tiresome,  at  any  rate." 

And  with  tnat  skilful  diplomacy  in  such  matters,  on  which,  if  it  was 
sometimes  overthrown,  Lady  Manunrnt  not  unjustly  plumed  herself,  she 
dexterously  entangled  Carruthers  in  conversation,  and  during  the  crash 
of  one  of  the  choruses  whispered,  as  he  bent  forward  to  piek  up  her  £mi, 
which  she  had  let  drop, 

**  Leave  Flora  a  little  to  Goodwood ;  he  has  a  right— he  spoke  deci« 
sively  to  her  to-day  in  the  Park." 

Carruthers  bowed  his  head,  and  stooped  lower  for  the  fan* 

He  left  her  to  Goodwood  till  the  curtain  fell  after  the  last  act  of  the 
**  Barbiere ;"  and  Lady  Marabout  congratulated  herself  on  her  own  adroit* 
ness.  "  There  is  nothing  like  a  little  tact,"  she  thought ;  **  what  would 
society  be  without  the  gmdmg  genius  of  tact,  I  wcxider?  One  dreadfid 
t)onnybrook  Fair !"  But,  someway  or  other,  debits  all  her  tset,  or 
because  her  son  inherited  that  valuable  quality  in  a  triple  measare  to 
herselfy  someway,  it  was  Goodwood  who  led  her  to  her  cwriag%  Mid 


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LADT  MAEABODT's  TBOUBLES.  97 

Csrrathm  who  led  tlie  little  Montollea.  «'  Terribly  b^  of  Philip ;  hov 
Tsry  unlike  him !"  miuad  Lady  Maraboot,  as  she  gathered  her  iMvaoaf 
roond  her.  Carmthert  talked  and  laughed  aa  he  led  Flora  Montolieu 
through  the  passages,  more  gaily,  perhaps,  than  usual. 

<*  My  mother  has  told  me  some  n^ws  to-night,  Mias  Montolieu,"  he 
said,  carelessly.  ^'  Am  I  premature  in  profieringyoo  ny  oongratulations? 
But  even  if  I  be  so,  you  will  not  refuse  the  privilege  to  an  old  friend,  and 
Trill  allow  me  to  be  the  first  to  wiah  yoa  happiness  ?** 

Ladj  Marabout's  carriage  stopped  the  way.  Flora  Montoliea  coloured, 
looked  foil  at  him,  and  went  to  it,  without  baring  tioae  to  answer  Ihs 
eongratolations,  in  which  the  keenest'tigfated  hearer  would  have  failed  to 
detect  anything  beyond  erery-day  friendship  and  genuine  indiffirtnee. 
The  most  trnthAd  men  will  make  the  most  consummate  actors  when 
spurred  up  to  it. 


HOW  THE  OUTSIDBB  WON  THB  OUP,  AND  WHAT  SHH  DZO  WITH  IT. 

'^  Mr  dear  child,  you  look  ill  to-night ;  I  am  glad  yoa  haye  no  engager- 
ments,"  said  Lady  Marabout,  as  she  sat  down  before  the  dressing-room 
fire,  toasting  her  little  satin- shod  foot — she  has  a  weakness  for  fire  even 
in  the  hottest  weather— while  Flora  Montolieu  lay  back  in  a  low  chair, 
cnuhing  the  roses  mercilessly.  **You  do  feel  well?  I  should  not 
have  thought  so,  your  face  looks  so  flushed,  and  your  eyes  so  preter- 
naturally  dark.  Perhaps  it  is  the  late  hours;  you  were  not  used  to  them 
in  France,  of  course,  and  it  must  be  such  a  change  to  this  life  firom  your 
unvarying  coaventual  routine  at  St.  Denis.  My  lore,  what  was  it  Lord 
Goodwood  said  to  you  in  the  Park  to-day  ?" 

*^  Do  not  speak  to  me  of  him,  Lady  Marabout,  I  hate  his  name  !**  said 
Flora  Montolieu,  Tehemently  enough. 

Lady  Marabout  started  with  an  astonishment  that  nearly  upset  the  cup 
of  coffee  she  was  sippine. 

**  Hate  his  name  ?     My  dearest  Flora,  why,  in  Heaven's  name  ?" 

Fk)ra  did  not  answer ;  she  pulled  the  roses  off  her  hair  as  though  they 
had  been  in^Bcied  with  Brinviiliers*  poison. 

''What  has  he  done?'' 

^Hehns  done  nothing  I" 

"*  Who  has  done  anything,  then  ?^ 

^  Oh,  BO  one — no  one  has  done  anything,  but — ^I  am  sick  of  Lord 
Goodwood's  name— tired  of  it !" 

Lady  Marabout  sat  speechless  with  surprise. 

"Tired  of  it,  my  dear  Flora  ?" 

Little  Montolieu  laughed : 

*'  Well,  tired  of  it,  perhaps,  from  hearing  him  praised  so  of^n,  as  the 
Athenian  trader  grew  sick  of  Aristides,  and  the  Jacobin  of  Washington's 
lUUBe.    Is  it  unpardonably  heterodox  to  say  so  ?* 

X^ady  Marabout  stirred  her  coffee  in  perplexity : 

'*  My  dear  child,  pray  don't  speak  in  that  way ;  that's  like  Philip's  tone 
wbien  he  is  enigmatical  and  sarcastic,  and  worries  me.  I  really  eamiot 
m  the  least  undevBtand  you  about  Lord  Goodwood,  it  is  quite  incorapre* 
henwMe  to  me.    I  thought  I  overhead  him  to-day  at  Lady  Qeorge'9 

h2 


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98  THE  WORRIES  OF  A  CHAPERONE ;  OR, 

concert  speak  very  definitely  to  you  indeed,  and  when  he  was  interrupted 
hy  the  duchess  hefore  you  could  give  him  his  reply,  I  thought  I  heard 
him  say  he  should  call  to-morrow  morning  to  know  your  ultimate  deci- 
sion.    Was  I  right?" 

«  Quite  right" 

"  He  really  proposed  to  you  to-day  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  And  yet  you  say  you  are  sick  of  his  name  ?" 

«  Does  it  follow,  imperatively,  Lady  Marabout,  that  because  the  Sultan 
throws  his  handkerchief  it  must  be  picked  up  with  humility  and  thanks- 
giving  ?"  asked  Flora  Montolieu,  furling  and  unfurling  her  fan  with  an 
impatient  rapidity  that  threatened  entire  destruction  of  its  ivory  and 
feathers,  with  their  Watteau-like  group  elaborately  painted  on  them — as 
pretty  a  toy  of  the  kind  as  could  be  got  for  money,  which  had  been 
given  her  by  Carruthers  one  day  in  payment  of  some  little  bagatelle  of 
a  bet 

"  Sultan ! — humility !"  repeated  Lady  Marabout,  scarcely  crediting  her 
senses.  "  My  dear  Flora,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  You  must 
be  jesting  I  There  is  not  a  woman  in  England  who  would  be  insensible 
to  the  honour  of  Goodwood's  proposals.     You  are  jesting.  Flora !" 

"  I  am  not,  indeed !" 

"  You  mean  to  say,  you  could  positively  think  of  rejecting  him  1" 
cried  Lady  Marabout,  rising  from  her  chair  in  the  intensity  of  her  amaze- 
ment, convinced  that  she  was  the  victim  of  some  horrible  hallucination. 

"  Why  should  it  surprise  you  if  I  did  ?" 

"  Wht/  ?"  repeated  Lady  Marabout,  indignantly.  "  Do  you  ask  me 
wht/  f  You  must  be  a  child,  indeed,  or  a  consummate  actress,  to  put 
such  a  question ;  excuse  me,  my  dear,  if  I  speak  a  little  strongly :  you 
perfectly  bewilder  me,  and  I  confess  I  cannot  see  your  motives  or  your 
meaning  in  the  least  You  have  made  a  conquest  such  as  the  proudest 
women  in  the  peerage  have  vainly  tried  to  make ;  you  have  one  of  the 
highest  titles  in  the  country  offered  to  you ;  you  have  won  a  man  whom 
ever}'body  declared  would  never  be  won  ;  you  have  done  this,  pardon 
me,  without  either  birth  or  fortune  on  your  own  side,  and  then  you 
speak  of  rejecting  Goodwood — Goodwood,  of  all  the  men  in  England! 
You  cannot  be  serious.  Flora,  or,  if  you  are,  you  must  be  mad  \** 

Lady  Marabout  spoke  more  hotly  than  Lady  Marabout  had  ever 
spoken  in  all  her  life.  Goodwood  absolutely  won — Goodwood  absolutely 
'*  come  to  the  point'' — the  crowning  humiliation  of  the  Hauttons  posi- 
tively within  her  grasp — her  Marathon  and  Lemnos  actually  gained! 
and  all  to  be  lost  and  flung  away  by  the  unaccountable  caprice  of  a  way- 
ward child !  It  was  sufficient  to  exasperate  a  saint,  and  a  saint  Lady 
Marabout  never  pretended  to  be. 

Flora  Montolieu  toyed  recklessly  with  her  fan. 

"  You  told  Sir  Philip  Carruthers  this  evening,  I  think,  of " 

"  I  hinted  it  to  him,  my  dear — ^yes.  Philip  has  known  all  along  how 
much  I  desired  it,  and  as  Goodwood  is  one  of  his  oldest  and  most 
favourite  friends,  I  knew  it  would  give  him  sincere  pleasure  both  for  my 
sake  and  Goodwood's,  and  yours  too,  for  I  think  Philip  likes  you  as  much 
as  he  ever  does  any  young  girl — better,  indeed  ;  and  I  could  not 
imagine — I  could  not  dream  for  an  instant — that  there  was  any  doubt  of 


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LADY  marabout's  TROUBLES.  99 

your  acceptation,  as,  indeed,  there  cannot  be.  You  have  been  jesting  to 
worry  me.  Flora !" 

Ldttle  Montolieu  rose,  threw  her  fan  aside,  as  if  its  ivory  stems  had 
been  hot  iron,  and  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece. 

**  You  advise  me  to  accept  Lord  Goodwood,  then,  Lady  Marabout  ?** 

*^  My  love,  if  you  need  my  advice,  certainly  such  an  alliance  as  Oood- 
wood's  will  never  be  proffered  to  you  again  ;  the  brilliant  position  it  will 
place  you  in  I  surely  have  no  need  to  point  out  !*'  returned  Lady  Mara- 
bout, angrily  musing.  **  The  little  hypocrite  !  as  if  her  own  mmd  were 
not  fully  made  up— as  if  any  girl  in  Europe  would  hesitate  over  accepting 
the  Doncaster  coronet — as  if  a  little  nameless  Montolieu  could  doubt  for 
a  moment  her  own  delight  at  being  created  Marchioness  of  Goodwood  I 
Such  a  triumph  as  that — why  I  wouldn't  credit  any  woman  who  pre- 
tended she  wasn't  dazzled  by  it !" 

*'  I  thought  you  did  not  approve  of  manages  de  convenance  ?" 

Lady  Marabout  played  a  tattoo— slightly  perplexed  tattoo— with  her 
spoon  m  her  Sevres  saucer. 

"  No  more  I  do,  my  dear — that  is,  under  some  circumstances  ;  it  is  im- 
possible to  lay  down  a  fixed  rule  for  everything !  Manages  de  conve- 
nance— well,  perhaps  not ;  but  as  /  understand  mariages  de  convenance, 
they  mean  a  mere  business  affair,  arranged  as  they  are  in  France,  without 
the  slightest  regard  to  the  inclinations  of  either;  merely  regarding 
whether  the  incidents  of  fortune,  birth,  and  station  are  equal  and 
suitable.  Mariages  de  convenance  are  when  a  parvenu  barters  hb  gold 
for  good  blood,  or  where  an  ancienne  princesse  mends  her  fortune  with  a 
nouveau  riche,  profound  indifference,  meanwhile,  on  each  side.  I  do  noc 
call  this  so ;  decidedly  not  I  Goodwood  must  be  very  deeply  attached  to 
ou  to  have  forgotton  his  detestation  of  marriage,  and  laid  such  a  title  as 
lis  at  your  feet  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  weight  of  the  Dukes  of  Don- 
caster  in  the  country  ?  Have  you  any  notion  of  what  their  rent-roll  is  ? 
Have  you  any  conception  of  their  enormous  influence,  their  very  high 
place,  the  magnificence  of  their  seats  ?  Helmsley  almost  equals  Windsor ! 
All  these  are  yours  if  you  will ;  and  you  affect  to  hesitate—" 

"To  let  Lord  Gooawood  buy  me !" 

"Buy  you  ?     Your  phraseology  is  as  strange  as  my  son's  I" 

"  To  accept  him  only  for  the  coronet  and  the  rent-roll,  his  position 
fluid  his  Helmsley,  seems  not  a  very  grateful  and  flattering  return  for  his 
preference  ?" 

"I  do  not  see  that  at  all,*'  said  Lady  Marabout,  irritably.  Is  there 
aoything  more  annoying  than  to  have  unwelcome  truths  thrust  in  our 
teeth?  "  It  is  not  as  though  he  were  odious  to  you — a  terrible  ogre,  whose 
very  presence  repelled  you.  Goodwood  is  a  man  quite  attractive  enough 
to  merit  some  regard,  independent  of  his  position ;  you  have  an  affec- 
tionate nature,  you  would  soon  grow  attached  to  him " 

Flora  Montolieu  shook  her  he^  with  a  look  on  her  face  Lady  Mara- 
bout would  not  see. 

"  And,  in  fact,"  she  went  on,  warming  with  her  subject,  and  speaking 
all  the  more  determinedly  because  she  was  speaking  a  little  against  her 
eonscience,  and  wholly  for  her  inclinations,  "  my  dear  Flora,  if  you 
seed  persuasion — which  you  must  pardon  me  if  1  doubt  your  doing  ia 
your  heart,  for  I  cannot  credit  any  woman  as  being  insensible  to  the 


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hi 


100  THE  WOBBIES  OF  A  CHAPERONE;  OR, 

gait  of  a  future  Duke  of  Doncaster,  or  ioTulnerable  to  the  honour  it  does 
her — if  you  need  persuasion,  I  should  think  I  need  only  refer  to  the 
happiness  it  will  a£brd  your  poor  dear  mother,  amidst  her  many  trials, 
to  hear  of  so  biilliant  a  triumph  for  you.  You  are  proud — Goodwood 
will  place  you  in  a  position  where  pride  may  be  indulg^  with  impimity, 
nay,  with  advantage.  You  are  ambitious — what  can  flatter  your  ambi- 
tion more  than  such  an  offer  ?  You  are  clever — as  Goodwood's  wife  yoa 
may  lead  society  like  Madame  de  Rambouillet,  or  immerse  yourself  in 
political  intrigne  like  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire.  It  is  an  offer  which 
places  within  your  reach  everything  most  dazsling  and  attractive,  and  it 
n  one,  my  dear  Flora,  which  you  must  forgive  me  if  I  say  a  young  girl  of 
obscure  rank,  as  rank  goes,  and  no  fortune  whatever,  should  pause  before 
she  lightly  rijeets.  You  cannot  afford  to  be  difficile  as  if  you  were  an 
heiress  or  a  lady  in  your  own  right." 

That  was  as  ill-natured  a  thing  as  the  best-natured  lady  in  Christendom 
6¥er  said  on  the  spur  of  self-interest,  and  it  stung  Flora  Montolieu  more 
than  her  hostess  dreamed.  The  colour  flushed  into  her  hee  and  her  eyes 
flashed: 

^'  You  have  said  sufficient.  Lady  Marabout.  I  accept  Lord  Groodwood 
to-^morrow !" 

And  taking  up  her  fan  and  her  opera-cloak,  leaving  the  discarded  roses 
unheeded  on  the  floor,  little  Montolieu  bade  her  chaperone  good  night, 
and  floated  out  of  the  dressing-room  almost  as  dignifiedly  as  Valencia 
Yalletort  could  have  done,  while  her  chaperone  sat  stirring  the  cream  in 
a  second  cup  of  coffee,  a  good  deal  puzri^,  a  little  awed  by  the  odd  turn 
affairs  had  taken,  with  a  slight  feeling  of  guilt  for  her  own  share  in  the 
transaction,  an  uncomfortable  dread  lest  the  day  should  ever  come  when 
Flora  should  reproach  her  for  having  persuaded  her  into  the  marriage,  a 
comfortable  conviction  that  nothing  but  good  could  come  of  such  a 
brilliant  and  enviable  alliance,  and,  above  all  other  conflicdng  feelingSy 
one  delicious,  dominant,  glorified  security  of  triumph  over  the  Hauttons^ 
mere  et  filles. 

But  when  morning  dawned,  Lady  Marabout's  horizon  seemed  cleared 
of  all  clouds,  and  only  radiant  with  unshadowed  sunshine.  Goodwood  was 
coming,  and  coming  to  be  accepted.  She  seemed  already  to  read  the 
newspaper  paragraphs  announcing  his  capture  and  Flora's  conquest, 
already  to  hear  the  Hauttons'  enforced  cong^tulations,  already  to  see  ihm 
nuptial  party  gathered  round  the  altar  rail  of  St.  George's.  Lady  Mara- 
bout had  never  felt  in  a  sunnier,  more  light-hearted  mood,  never  more 
completely  at  peace  with  herself  and  all  the  world  as  she  sat  in  her 
boudoir  at  her  writing-table,  penning  a  letter  which  began: 

"  Mr  DEAREST  LiLLA, — What  happiness  it  gives  me  to  congratulate 
you  on  the  brilliant  future  opening  to  your  sweet  Flora         " 

And  which  would  have  continued,  no  doubt,  with  similar  eloquence  if  it 
had  not  been  interrupted  by  Soames  opening  the  door  and  announcing  ^^  Sir 
Philip  Carruthers,"  who  walked  in,  toucbed  his  mother's  brow  with  his 
moustaches,  and  threw  himself  down  in  a  low  chair,  comma  d'ordinaire. 

*^  My  dear  Philip,  you  never  congratulated  me  last  night ;  pray  do  mo 
now  1"  cried  Lady  Marabout,  delightedly,  wiping  her  pen  on  the  penQon, 
which  a  small  ormolu  knight  obligingly  carried  for  that  useful  purpose. 


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LADT  marabout's  TROUBLES.  101 

Ijadies  alwajt  iripe  tfaeir  peM  as  religiously  as  they  Mt  their  bedroom 
doors,  beliere  in  ootmetics,  aod  go  to  church  on  a  Sunday. 

«<Wa8  your  oews  ci  last  n^t  true?"  asked  Carruthers,  bending 
fidrwards  to  roll  Bijou  on  his  back. 

*^That  Goodwood  had  spoken  definitirely  to  her?  •Perfectly.  He 
proposed  to  her  yesterday  at  the  Frangipane  concert — not  at  the  ooncertp 
of  course,  but  afiberwards,  when  they  were  alone  for  a  motnent  in  the  con- 
servatories. The  Dne)^  interrupted  them — did  it  on  purpose — and  he 
had  ooiy  time  to  whisper  hurriedly  he  should  come  this  morning  to  hear 
kis  fate,  i  dare  say  he  felt  tolerably  secure  of  it.  Last  night  I  naturaUy 
fpoke  to  Flora  about  it.  Oddly  enough,  she  seemed  positirely  to  think 
at  first  of  refeettog  htm — rejecting  him !-— only  feney  the  madness !  Entre 
Aons,  I  don't  thiok  ehe  cares  anything  about  him,  but  with  such  an 
alliance  as  that,  of  coarse  I  felt  it  my  oonnden  duty  to  counsel  ber  as 
strongly  as  I  could  to  accept  the  unequalled  position  it  proffered  her. 
Indeed,  it  could  have  been  only  a  girPs  waywardness,  a  child's  caprice  to 
pretend  to  hesitate,  for  she  i$  a  rery  amlntious  and  a  yery  clever  little 
thing,  and  I  would  never  bdieve  that  any  woman — and  she  less  than 
any — wo«ld  be  proof  i^^ainat  such  danitng  prospects.  It  would  be  absurd^ 
you  know,  Hiilip.  ^Yhether  it  was  hypocrisy,  or  a  real  girlish  reluctance, 
because  she  doesn't  feel  for  him  the  ideaiic  love  she  dreams  of,  I  don^ 
know,  but  I  put  it  before  her  io  a  way  that  plainly  ^owed  her  all  the 
brilliance  of  the  proffered  position,  and  before  she  bade  me  good  ni^fat  I 
had  vanqaished  all  her  scruples,  if  she  had  any,  and  I  am  able,  Uiank 
God,toaay " 

"  Ton  pemaded  her  to  accept  him  I"  cried  Carruthers,  starting  up. 
«"  Gk>od  God,  what  have  you  done  ?" 

"  Done  ?"  re-echoed  Lady  Marabout,  vaguely  terrified.  "  Certainly  I 
persuaded  her  to  accept  faim«  She  hat  accepted  him  probably;  he  is  here 
now]  I  should  have  been  a  strange  person  indeed  to  let  any  young  g^ 
in  my  charge  rashly  refuse  such  an  offer." 

SI^  was  stof^ped  by  Carruthers's  passionate  interruption  : 

^*  You  induciBa  her  to  accept  him.  God  forgive  you,  mother!  You 
haie  wrecked  my  life !" 

Lady  Maraboat  turned  pale  as  death,  and  gazed  at  him  with  unde- 
finable  terror : 

"  Fow  life,  Philip !     You  do  not  mean ^" 

"  Grreat  Heavens  1  have  you  never  seen,  mother,  that  I  love  at  last  P 
And,  great  Heavens!  love  for  what?" 

He  leaned  his  arms  on  the  mantelpiece,  with  his  forehead  bowed  upon 
them,  and  Lady  Marabout  gazed  at  him  still,  as  a  bird  at  a  basilisk. 

"Philip,  Philip!  what  have  I  doneP  How  oouW  I  tell?"  she 
onirmared,  distractedly,  tears  welling  into  her  eyes.  "If  I  had  only 
known !  But  how  could  I  dream  that  that  chikl  had  any  fascination  mt 
you  ?    How  could  I  fancy         " 

**  Hush  I  No,  you  are  in  no  way  to  blame.  You  could  not  know  it 
jT barely  knew  it  till  last  night,"  he  answered,  gently. 

**  Philip  loves  her,  and  I  have  made  her  marry  Goodwood!"  thought 
Lady  Mmd>out,  agonised,  remorseful,  conscience- struck,  heart-broken  in 
a  thousand  ways  at  once.  The  climax  of  her  woes  was  reached,  life  had 
no  greater  bitterness  for  her  left;  her  son  loved,  and  loved  the  last 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


102  THE  WORRIES  OF  A  CHAPERONE;  OR^ 

woman  in  England  she  would  have  had  him  ]ove;^that*woman  wai  given 
to  another,  and  she  had  heen  the  instrument  of  wrecking  the  life  to  save 
or  serve  which  she  would  have  laid  down  her  own  in  glad  and  instant 
sacrifice!  Lady  Marabout  bowed  her  head  under  a  Ma^h  of  real  grief, 
before  which  the  worries  so  great  before,  the  schemes  but  so  lately  so 
precious,  the  small  triumphs  just  now  so  all-absorbing,  shrank  away  into 
their  due  insignificance.  Philip  suffering,  and  suffering  through  her ! 
Self  glided  far  away  from  Lady  Marabout's  mem9ry  then,  and  she  hated 
herself  more  fiercely  than  the  gentle-hearted  soul  had  ever  hated  any  foe 
for  her  own  criminal  share  in  bringing  down  this  unforeseen  terrific  olow 
on  her  beloved  one's  head.  <*  Philip,  my  dearest,  what  can  I  do?"  she 
cried,  distractedly ;  "  if  I  had  thought — if  I  had  guessed         ** 

*'  Do  nothing.  A  woman  who  could  give  herself  to  a  man  whom  she 
did  not  love  should  be  no  wife  of  mine,  let  me  suffer  what  I  might." 

''  But  1  persuaded  her,  Philip !     Mine  is  the  blame !" 

His  lips  quivered  painfully  : 

^'  Had  she  cared  for  me  as — I  may  have  fancied,  she  had  not  been  so 
easy  to  persuade  1  He  is  here  now  you  say ;  I  cannot  risk  meeting  him 
just  yet.     Leave  me'^for  a  little  while ;  leave  roe — I  am  best  alone." 

Gentle  though  he  always  was  to  her,  his  mother  knew  him  too  well 
ever  to  dispute  his  will,  and  the  most  bitter  tears  Lady  Marabout  had  ever 
known,  ready  as  she  was  to  weep  for  other  people's  woes,  and  rarely  as 
•he  had  had  to  weep  for  any  of  her  own,  choked  her  utterance  and 
blinded  her  eyes  as  she  obeyed  and  closed  the  door  on  his  solitude. 
Philip — her  idolised  Philip — that  ever  her  house  should  have  sheltered 
this  little  detrimental  to  bring  a  curse  upon  him !  that  ever  she  should 
have  brought  this  tropical  flower  to  poison  the  air  for  the  only  one  dear 
to  her ! 

"  I  am  justly  punished,"  thought  Lady  Marabout,  humbly  and  peni- 
tentially — "justly.  I  thought  wickedly  of  Anne  Hautton.  I  did  not  do 
as  I  would  be  done  by.  I  longed  to  enjoy  their  mortification.  I  advised 
Flora  against  my  own  conscience  and  against  hers.  I  am  justly  chastised ! 
fiut  that  he  should  suffer  through  me,  that  my  fault  has  fallen  on  his 
head,  that  my  Philip,  my  noble  Philip,  should  love  and  not  be  loved,  and 
that  I  have  brought  it  on  him Good  Heaven !  what  is  that  ?" 

'*  That"  was  a  man  whom  her  eyes,  being  misty  with  tears.  Lady 
Marabout  had  brushed  against,  as  she  ascended  the  staircase,  ere  she  per- 
ceived him,  and  who,  passing  on  with  a  muttered  apoloc;y,  was  down  in 
the  hall  and  out  of  the  door  Mason  held  open  before  she  had  recovered 
the  shock  of  the  rencontre,  much  before  she  had  a  possibility  of  recog* 
nising  him  through  the  mist  aforesaid. 

A  fear,  a  hope,  a  joy,  a  dread,  one  so  woven  with  another  there  was  no 
disentangling  them,  sprang  up  like  a  ray  of  light  in  Lady  Marabout's 
heart — a  possibility  dawned  in  her :  to  be  rejected  as  an  impossibility? 
Lady  Marabout  crossed  the  ante-room,  her  heart  throbbing  tumultuoudy, 
spurred  on  to  noble  atonement  and  reckless  self-sacrifice,  if  fate  allowed 
them.     She  opened  the  drawing-room  door ;  Flora  Montolieu  was  alone. 

"  Flora,  you  have  seen  Goodwood  ?" 

Flora  Montolieu  turned,  her  own  face  as  pale  and  her  own  eyes  at 
dim  as  Lady  Marabout's^ 

*'  You  have  refused  him?" 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


LADY  marabout's  TROUBLES.  103 

Little  Mootolieu  misconstrued  her  chaperone's  eagerness,  and  answered 
haughtily  enough: 

**'  I  have  told  him  that  indifference  would  be  too  poor  a  return  for  his 
affections  to  insult  him  with  it,  and  that  I  would  not  do  him  the  injury 
of  repaying  his  trust  by  falsehood  and  deception.  I  meant  what  I  said 
to  you  last  night;  I  said  it  on  the  spur  of  pain,  indignation,  no  matter 
what;  but  I  could  not  keep  my  word  when  the  trial  came,  and  it  would 
have  been  a  wrong  to  Lord  Goodwood  and  a  sin  in  myself  had  I 
doneao.'* 

Lady  Marabout  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  with  a  fervent  gratitude 
that  not  a  little  bewildered  the  recipient. 

<<My  dear  child!  thank  God!  little  as  I  thought  to  say  so.  Flora, 
tdl  me,  you  love  some  one  else  ?" 

^  Lady  Marabout  you  have  no  right *' 

^  Yes  I  have  a  right — the  strongest  right !  Is  not  that  other  my 
•on?" 

Flora  Montolieu  looked  up,  then  dropped  her  head  and  burst  into  an 
abandon  of  tears — tears  that  Lady  Marabout  soothed  then,  tears  that 
Carruthers  soothed,  yet  more  effectually  stiU,  five  minutes  afterwards. 

**That  J  should  have  sued  that  little  Montolieu,  and  sued  to  her  for 
Philip!'*  mused  Lady  Marabout.  *'It  is  very  odd.  Perhaps  I  get 
used  to  being  crossed  and  disappointed  and  trampled  on  in  every  way 
and  by  everybody;  but  certainly,  though  it  is  most  contrary  to  my 
wishes,  though  a  child  like  that  is  the  last  person  I  should  ever  have 
chosen  or  dreamt  of  as  Philip's  wife,  though  it  is  a  great  pain  to  me,  and 
Anne  Hautton  of  course  will  be  delighted  to  rake  up  everything  she  can 
about  the  Montolieus,  and  it  is  heart-breaking  when  one  thinks  how  a 
Carruthers  might  marry,  how  the  Carruthers  always  have  married,  rarely 
any  but  ladies  in  their  own  right  for  countless  generations;  still  it  is  very 
odd,  but  I  certainly  feel  happier  than  ever  I  did  in  my  life,  annoyed  as 
I  am  and  grieved  as  I  am.  It  is  heart-breaking  (that  horrid  John  Mon- 
tdieu!  I  wonder  what  relation  one  stands  in  legally  to  the  father  of  one's 
son's  wife ;  I  will  ask  Sir  Frederick  Pollock ;  not  that  the  Montolieus  are 
likely  to  come  to  England)— it  is  very  sad  when  one  thinks  whom  Philip 
might  have  married;  and  yet  she  certainly  is  a  dear  little  thing,  and  I  do 
believe  she  appreciates  and  understands  him  fully.  If  it  were  not  for 
what  Anne  tiautton  will  always  say  I  could  really  be  pleased  I  To  think 
what  an  anxious  hope^  what  a  dreaded  ideal,  Philip's  wife  has  always  been 
to  me ;  and  now,  just  as  I  had  got  reconciled  to  his  determined  garden 
preferences,  and  had  grown  to  argue  with  him  that  it  was  best  he  shouldn't 
marry,  he  goes  and  falls  in  love  with  this  child!  Everything  is  at  cross- 
purposes  in  life,  I  think !  There  is  only  one  thing  I  am  resolved  upon— 
I  will  msvER  chaperone  anybody  again." 

And  she  kept  her  vow.  We  can  christen  her  Lady  Tattersall  no  longer 
with  point,  for  there  are  no  yearling  sales  in  that  house  in  Lowndes- 
•qnare,  whatever  there  be — malheur  pour  nous ! — in  the  other  domiciles  of 
that  fkshionable  quarter.  Lady  Marabout  has  shaken  that  burden  off  her 
dionlders,  and  moves  m  blissful  solitude  and  tripled  serenity  through 
Belgravia,  relieved  of  responsibility,  and  careless  alike  of  eligibles,  detri- 
mentals, and  horrors^  wearing  her  years  as  lightly,  losing  the  odd  trick 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


104  MBBCHAirr  SHIPPING  IK  FRANCE. 

at  her  whist  as  sunnily,  and  beaming  on  the  world  in  general  as  radiantly 
as  any  dowager  I  know. 

With  the  Worries  of  ▲  Chaperons  have  ended  Ladt  Marabout's 
Troubles.  That  she  was  fully  reconciled  to  Carruthers's  change  of  re- 
Bohre  was  shown  in  the  fact  that  when  Anne  Hantton  turned  to  her,  oH 
the  evening  of  his  marriage- day,  after  the  dinner,  to  which  Lady  Mara- 
bout had  bidden  all  her  friends,  and  a  good  many  of  her  foes,  with  an 
amiable,  ^'  Charming  your  little  belle-fille  looked  this  morning ! — sweetly 
pretty  certainly,  though  petite — but  I  am  so  grieved  for  you,  dearest 
Helena — I  know  what  your  disappointment  must  be ! — what  should  Jfeel 

if  Hautton Have  you  heard  that  Goodwood  has  engaged  himielf  to 

Avarina  Sangioyal ?— the  duchess  is  so  pleased! — I  aJways  told  yon, 
didn't  I,  how  wrong  you  were  when  you  fancied  be  admirea  little  Mon- 
tolieu — I  beg  her  pardon,  I  mean  Lady  Carrathers— but  you  wiU  give 
your  imagination  such  reins!" — Lady  Marabout  smiled,  calmly  and 
amusedly,  felt  no  pang,  and — thought  of  Philip. 

I  take  it  things  must  be  very  couleur  de  rose  witk  us  when  we  can 
smile  sincerely  on  our  enemies,  and  defeat  their  stings  simply  becaase 
we  feel  them  not.     Qu'en  pensez-vous,  messieurs? 


POPULATION  AND  TEADE  IN  FBANCE. 

Br  FREDERICK  MARSHALL. 

No.  X. — ^Merchant  Shippikg. 

The  maritime  trade  of  France  is  divided  into  the  two  great  classes  of 
reserved  and  free  navigation. 

Reserved  navigation,  that  is  to  say,  the  part  of  the  sea-transports  of 
the  country  which  is  exclusively  retained  for  national  vessels,  indadee 
coasting,  fisheries,  and  the  communications  with  the  French  colonies. 

Free  navigation  compiises  all  the  trade  between  Frendi  and  for^gtt 
ports,  and  is  carried  on  in  competition  with  foreign  vessels.  But  in  Mm 
class,  also,  French  inteiests  are  protected  by  a  system  of  differential  dutiea 
applying  both  to  the  ^ip  itself  and  to  Uie  goods  it  carries. 

GCne  dues  imposed  on  foreign  bottoms  on  entry  into  a  French  port  ara 
very  unimportant.  They  consist  in  a  tonnage  duty  of  3s.  Sd.  per  ton 
measurement  (with  certain  exceptions  in  favour  of  passenger  vessels,  aod 
other  special  cases),  and  in  droits  d'aoquit  and  droits  d'expedition  of 
trifling  amount.  The  total  of  all  these  various  extra  charges  is  very 
small ;  they  constitute  no  real  protection  for  the  home  slupown^^  In 
the  port  of^^  Marseilles,  which  is  the  most  important  in  FiaQce,  they  are 
Bot  levied  at  all. 

But  the  additional  duties  on  the  entry  into  France  of  goods  arriviii(g^ 
mider  a  foreign  flag  form  an  apparent  real  protectbn,  for  they  seem  «fc 
first  sight  to  oblige  importers  to  give  preference  to  aatioaal  vessels  im 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


MERCHANT  SHIPPING  IN  FRANCE.  105 

order  to  avoid  tk*  extra  expenses  ioourred  on  merchandtte  which  ar* 
rives  in  other  thipe.  These  differential  daties  are  establi^ied  (in  all 
cases  where  the  law  has  not  speetally  fixed  their  amount)  at  ten  per  cent, 
extra  on  the  first  2/.  of  dnty,  calculated  on  the  anitjr  of  applicatioB,  and 
five  per  cent,  more  on  the  rest,  up  to  12/^  after  which  no  further  addi* 
tion  is  made.*  They  are  not,  however,  applied  absolutely  to  eveir 
foreign  flag  without  exception;  on  the  contrary,  every  country  with 
which  France  has  suocessirely  made  a  treaty  of  commerce,  or  navig^adon, 
has  been  relieved  from  their  actioo  in  various  degrees,  and  has  received 
the  right  of  shipping  direct  to  France  from  its  own  ports  in  its  own 
vessels,  at  the  ordinary  rate  of  duty.  Ekigland  has  possessed  this  privi- 
lege since  1826^  and  several  other  nations  have  since  acquired  it 

French  navigation  is  again  divided  by  the  laws  and  regulations  which 
apply  to  it,  into  there  other  general  categories,  foreign  voyages,  coasting 
(which  is  subdivided  into  great  and  small  coasting),  and  what  is  call^ 
homage. 

The  term  foreign  voyages  is  defined  by  Art.  377  of  the  Code  of  Com- 
merce as  applying  to  all  navigation  between  France  and  certain  speofied 
countries  or  ports,  all  lying  bS^ond  the  Straits  of  GKbraltar  or  the  Sound, 
but  io  its  practical  apphciSioQ  by  the  Custom-house  authorities,  tl|^  geo- 
graphical distiactions  kid  down  by  law  are  put  aside,  and  foreign  voya|[es 
are  taken  to  imply  any  moveaoent  of  ships  between  a  French  and  a  foreign 
port,  wherever  the  latter  be  situated,  while  coasting  comprises  all  the  re* 
ttdons  of  the  French  ports  between  theaiselves,  without  reference  to 
their  rdative  position  on  the  same  or  difiSsrent  seas.  But  here  comes  ia 
the  ^sUactien  already  alluded  to  between  great  and  small  coastiog.  The 
former  reCea  to  voyages  from  a  port  on  the  Atlantic  to  a  port  in  the 
Mediterranean,  or  nioe  versd;  while  the  latter  applies  to  ports  situated 
OD  the  same  line  of  coast.  According  to  this  interpretation  the  passage 
firom  Calais  to  Dover  is  foreign  navigation,  while  a  voyage  from  Dunkirk 
to  Nice  is  only  coasting,  though  the  ship  which  performs  it  traverses 
the  Channel,  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  the  Eastern  Atkntio,  and  the  Mediter- 


Boroage  is  the  small  local  navigation  omed  on  by  vessds,  not  exceed- 
so^  twenty-five  tons,  between  ports  not  more  than  forty  miles  apart. 

The  ships  employed  in  these  various  branches  of  trade  have  hitherto 
been  exdasively  French  built,  the  introduction  of  foreign  vessels  into 
French  hands  liaviag  been  prohibited  in  1793.     With  the  exceptkm  of  a 


Ceaaponuy  suspennon  during  and  after  the  Crimean  war,  when  the  want 
of  ships  was  so  strongly  felt  that  an  imperial  decree  of  17th  October, 
iS55,  anthorised  the  SMclmission  of  foreign-built  vessels  at  an  ad  valorem 
duty  of  ten  per  cent.,  this  law  has  remained  constantly  in  force  until  the 
DOBcitaaion  of  the  recent  commercial  treaty  with  England;  the  new  tariff 
mdmita  the  Francisation  of  English  wooden  vessels  at  a  duty  of  1/L,  and 
c£  iron  vessels  at  a  duty  of  2^  IGs.  per  ton  of  French  measurement 

This  is  the  first  dumge  of  any  importance  which  has  taken  pkce  since 
the  revolution  in  the  laws  which  regulate  the  composition  and  direction 
of  the  merchant  navy  of  France.  The  other  conditions  prescribed  with 
«e8peei  to  it  remain  unaltered.     The  officers  and  half  the  crew  must  be 

*  TanfG6ilraidesDooaaesde  France.  ObservatioDs  FrOimiiiaires.  Art.  61. 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


106  HERGHAKT  SHIPPING  IK  FRANCE. 

French  subjects.  The  captain  must  hare  passed  an  examination  of 
capacity^  for  which  he  cannot  present  himself  unless  he  is  twenty-four 
years  old,  and  hare  navigated  for  6ve  years,  of  which  twelve  months  must 
have  been  passed  in  a  man-of-war.  These  conditions  apply  equally  to 
ships  engaged  in  the  foreign  or  coasting  trade.  The  masters  of  vessels 
employed  in  homage  are  exempted  from  examination,  but  they  must  ob- 
tdn  a  license  from  the  maritime  prefect  of  their  districts 

Besides  these  various  regulations,  there  are  a  quantity  of  others  which 
are  not  worth  enumerating,  but  which,  applying  as  the^  do  to  details  of 
tJie  most  trifling  nature,  mow  how  the  French  administrative  system  is 
applied  in  every  direction,  even  to  points  which  seem  beneath  its  notice. 

In  addition  to  the  special  laws  relating  directly  and  specifically  to 
merdiant  shipping,  its  interests  are  affected  very  materially  by  the  con- 
sequences of  another  law  which  is  applied  with  a  different  object. 

The  war  navy  of  France  is  recruited  by  the  system  of  **  maritime  in- 
scription," founded  by  Colbert;  the  action  of  this  system  is  peculiar. 
While  the  conscription  for  the  army  does  not  apply  to  the  entire  popula- 
tion— while  it  takes  only  a  certain  number  of  the  conscripts  of  the  year, 
and  leaves  the  rest  entirely  free— while  it  definitely  releases  all  soldiers 
after  |even  years'  service,  which,  in  peace  time,  are  ordinarily  reduced  to 
four,  the  conscription  for  the  navy  b  differently  conducted.  It  reposes 
on  the  principle  that  every  Frenchman  connected  with  the  sea,  every 
sailor  and  every  fisherman,  every  mechanic  occupied  in  maritime  con- 
structions, owes  his  services  to  the  state  whenever  they  are  wanted.  It 
keeps  every  mariner  aud  shipwright,  without  exception,  at  the  disposal  of 
the  government  during  his  entire  life  from  eighteen  to  fifty  years  of  age, 
and  though,  in  ordinary  times,  he  has  only  ^m  three  to  six  years'  service 
to  give,  the  performance  of  that  service  does  not  release  him,  as  in  the 
army,  from  the  obligation  of  serving  again  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  is  bound 
to  present  himself  at  every  calling  out  of  the  entire  force  which  political 
circumstances  may  render  necessary. 

The  list  of  the  maritime  inscription,  which  is  most  carefully  kept  up  by 
a  body  of  inspectors  named  for  the  purpose,  includes  every  individual  who 
has  been  occupied  for  two  years  as  a  fisherman,  not  only  on  the  sea,  but 
also  on  rivers  up  to  the  limits  of  the  tide,  or,  where  there  is  no  tide,  to 
the  point  where  sea-going  vessels  stop ;  every  individual  who  has  served 
at  sea,  no  matter  how,,  during  eighteen  months,  or  who  has  made  two 
voyages  abroad ;  and  every  workman  employed  in  a  ship-yard.  Once  on 
the  list,  no  one  can  be  removed  from  it  without  first  signing  a  declaration 
that  he  gives  up  a  seafaring  life ;  if  he  once  fishes  or  navifl;ates  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  he  is  liable  to  be  instantly  redassed.  In  time  of  war 
no  removals  are  allowed  at  all ;  and  all  the  men  on  the  list  may  then  be 
indefinitely  retained  in  the  service  until  the  age  of  fifty.  No  mariner  can 
quit  his  locality  without  permission,  so  that  the  state  may  always  know 
where  to  find  him ;  but  the  state  may,  at  any  moment,  take  him  awaj 
from  his  family,  whose  sole  support  he  may  be,  and  send  him  to  sea  for 
years. 

Thb  system  is  certainly  extremely  perfect  in  its  political  and  military 
effects;  it  assures  to  the  navy  a  full  supply  of  men,  and  to  the  dockyards 
a  constant  store  of  skilled  labour ;  but  it  is  cruelly  harsh  towards  the 
maritime  population,  who  are  exposed  to  this  exceptional  legislation,  and 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


MERCHANT  SHIPPING  IN  FRANCE.  107 

it  reacts  very  unfavourably  on  the  ship-building  and  merchant-shipping 
interests  of  the  country. 

It  does  not  encourage  the  inhabitants  of  the  coast  to  ding  to  the  sea ; 
at  each  successive  calling  out  of  the  entire  inscription,  many  fishermen 
abandon  their  career,  and  turn  their  attention  to  agricultural  or  manufac- 
turing occupations,  rather  than  remain  at  the  disposal  of  the  state.  This 
^ct  is  indisputable,  though  no  figures  can  be  obtained  to  show  its  degree 
of  importance.  It  is  true  that  the  list  of  the  maritime  inscription  is 
always  increasing,  proportionately  with  the  general  progress  of  trade  and 
navigation,  and  with  the  constant  augmentation  of  the  coast  population, 
which  each  successive  census  reveals;  it  rose  horn  94,611  in  1825,  to 
160,014  in  1864,*  and  is  now  probably  higher  still.  But  these  numbers 
are  partly  illusory;  they  include  all  the  useless  men,  as  well  as  the 
mechanics,  of  whatever  kind,  who  are  engaged  in  maritime  constructions, 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  1635  miles  of  coast  which  France  possesses 
could  fiimish  altogether  more  than  60,000  really  available  seamen  in  the 
event  of  an  emergency .f  This  comparatively  feeble  result  is  certainly 
not  produced  by  any  want  of  vocation  or  ntness  for  a  seafaring  li& 
amongst  the  inhabitants  of  the  French  coast ;  on  the  contrary,  from  Dun- 
kiris  to  Bayonne,  and  from  Port  Vendres  to  Nice,  the  seaboard  population 
presents  remarkable  aptitude  and  attachment  for  the  profession  of  the  sea. 
From  time  immemorial,  the  Bretons,  the  Basques,  and  the  men  of  Pro- 
'  vence  have  been  hardy  and  able  sailors,  and  if  in  the  present  generation 
they  appear  to  be  less  eager  than  their  fathers  in  the  pursuit  of  a  mari-i 
time  career,  it  is  solely  in  consequence  of  the  rigorous  law  which  deprives 
their  class  exclusively  of  all  real  personal  liberty,  and  keeps  them  numbered 
like  packages  at  the  call  of  the  state. 

This  state  of  things  affects  the  merchant  shipping  interest  in  various 
ways.  It  of  course  diminishes  the  number  of  seamen,  and  makes  their 
supply  depend  on  the  wants  of  the  navy.  But  it  acts  with  special  effect 
on  the  ship-builders,  and  as  thus  far  it  is  they  who  alone  have  produced 
the  vessels  which  carry  on  the  trade  of  the  country,  it  follows  that  the 
system  of  maritime  inscription  begins  to  damage  commercial  navigation 
at  its  very  root. 

No  one  can  establish  a  building-yard  unless  he  is  himself  connected 
with  the  sea ;  he  must  either  be  on  the  list  of  inscription  or  be  a  pupil  of 
the  Polytechnic  School.  The  workmen  he  employs  must,  unless  they  are 
foreigners,  be  exclusively  chosen  from  the  same  list,  and  he  is  liable  to 
imprisonment  if  he  takes  one  single  independent  labourer.  He  is  even 
forbidden  to  employ  discharged  soldiers  who  have  finished  their  term  of 
service,  unless  tney  consent  to  dass  themselves  as  sailors,  and  accept  all 
the  consequences  attached  to  the  step.  The  agents  of  the  navy  depart- 
ment have  the  right  to  inspect  his  yard,  and  to  call  his  men  over  every 
day  to  verify  their  positions. 

But,  as  the  number  of  men  of  this  class  is  limited,  private  ship-builders, 
having-  no  power  of  obtaining  them  elsewhere,  are  obliged  to  pay  them 
high  wages  to  get  them  at  all,  for  men  will  naturally  not  consent  to  live 
with  the  right  of  the  state  over  their  heads  unless  they  are  paid  in  a  pro- 
portion which  compensates  the  risk.     Shipwrights'  wages  vary,  it  is  true, 

*  Statistiqae  compart  de  la  France,  vol.  L  p.  518. 
t  J<mmai  des  Soonomittet,  p.  201.    May,  1861. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


108  MERCHANT  SHIPPING  IK  FKAKGE. 

Mke  all  others,  with  the  demaud  and  with  the  comnMrcial  importance  of 
the  spot,  from  a  maximum  at  Marseilles  and  Havre  to  a  minimum  at 
Dunlurk  and  Bayonne,  but  they  are  everywhere  higher  than  the  current 
rates  paid  to  the  same  class  of  mechanics  employed  in  the  same  town  on 
ordinary  work.  At  Marseilles,  which  is  the  most  active  building  and 
repairing  port,  shipwrights  earn  as  much  as  6s.  a  day,  while  in  the  neigh- 
bcMiring  Fiedmontese  ports  the  rate  for  the  same  men  is  only  38.  2d.,  and 
at  Barcelona,  which  has  the  reputation  of  being  the  dearest  port  in  the 
Mediterranean,  it  is  only  4s.  2d.* 

Tlus  universal  and  absolute  disadvantage  created  for  private  builders 
by  the  effects  of  the  inscription  is  aggravate  by  the  risk  to  which  they  are 
exposed  of  having  their  men  called  into  the  dockyards  at  any  moment  of 
pressure,  and  of  consequently  finding  themselves  without  hands  to  execute 
their  work.  And  this  is  not  merely  a  theoretical  danger ;  numerous  cases 
of  its  realisation  exist.  M.  Malo,  a  ship-builder  at  Dunkirk,  told  the 
Conmiittee  of  Inquiry  on  the  Commercial  Treaty  with  Englandf  that  he 
was  building  a  10,000/.  ship  to  contract  during  the  Crimean  war,  that 
the  government  suddenly  called  in  the  greater  part  of  his  men,  that  he 
therefore  could  not  finish  the  vessel,  and  that  he  had  to  pay  4000/. 
damages  in  consequence. 

As,  therefore,  irrespective  of  its  general  effect  on  Frendi  merchant 
ieamen  as  a  body,  the  maritime  inscription  exercises  unfiivourable  in* 
fluence,  and  produces  a  real  increase  of  cost  on  the  sfaip-building  trade, 
it  is  all  the  more  remarkable  to  find  that,  notwithstanding  this  material 
disadvantage,  the  French  builders  all  agree  that  they  can  make  wooden 
Tessels  at  neariy  the  same  price  as  in  England.  Several  of  them  were 
examined  before  the  Tariff  Committee,  and  it  results  from  their  combined 
evidence  that  the  cost  of  construction  of  the  hulls  is  not  more  than  2^ 
per  cent  higher  in  France  than  on  this  side  of  the  Channel.  The  tirnb^ 
employed  in  both  countries  if  brought  from  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Sweden, 
and  comes  to  the  same  price  in  each,  while  French-grown  oak,  for  framing, 
which  at  one  time  was  a  good  deal  used  in  England,  is  actually  cheaper 
in  France.  As  wages  are  generally  higher  in  England,  the  effects  of  the 
inscription  bring  them  about  level  in  the  two  countries,  and  the  real  dif^ 
ference  agaiast  France  is  only  in  the  greater  prioe  of  the  iron  employed 
and  in  the  absence  of  a  large  regiUar  trade. 

While,  however,  the  comparison  of  the  cost  of  hulls  ooroes  out  so 
nearly  equal,  the  cost  of  rigging  is  dearer  in  France,  and  the  entire  ship, 
ready  to  go  to  sea,  cannot  be  estimated  at  less  than  an  average  of  2(>i{L 
per  ton  of  French  measurement  for  A  1  in  the  Veritas  list— which  cor- 
responds to  our  Lloyd's  book — while  the  English  mean  price  for  the  same 
type  of  vessel  was  given  to  die  Committee  at  18/.  ITs.,^  showing  a  dif* 
ference  of  about  6  per  cent,  against  France.  At  certain  ports  the  cost 
comes  lower;  at  Nantes,  for  instance,  it  amounts  to  only  17/.  15s. 

But  while  wooden  vessels  can  thus  be  produced,  according  to  the 
d  edarations  of  the  French  buiklers  thems^ves,  whose  evidence  on  the 
pobt  can  hardly  be  suspected,  at  a  rate  whidi  so  neariy  corresponds  with 
that  of  England,  iron  ships,  on  the  contrary,  are  very  considerably  dearer. 

*  Journal  des  EeononUsteg,  p.  204.    May,  I86I. 

t  Eaqufite  sur  le  Traits  de  Ckimmeroe,  vol.  vi  p.  900. 

X  Enqu^te  sur  le  Traits  de  Commerce,  voL  vi  p.  SSI. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


MEBCHAITT  SHIPPIK6  IN  FRANCB.  109 

Thk  18  bat  natwftl,  when  the  difference  of  the  priee  of  iron  10  borne  in 
Bind.  That  difference  certainly  amounts  to  at  lout  20  per  cent,  and  ite 
effect  is  heig^t^ied  by  the  dearness  of  coal  and  by  the  want  of  skilled 
metersi  who  do  not  exist  as  a  dasramongst  the  men  of  the  navy  list,  and 
who  have  to  be  taught  their  trade  by  degrees,  and  also  by  the  absence  of 
eonstaat  orders  already  alluded  to  as  regards  wooden  sh^  hot  which  in 
this  case  exercises  a  still  worse  effect,  for  it  preyents  the  establishment  of 
weU-mounted  yards. 

On  the  whole,  the  French  ship-building  trade,  though  limited  in  its 
production,  and  cramped  in  its  freedom  of  action  by  these  various  dif- 
ficulties, does  not  appear  to  be  really  suffering.  Reg^ular  yards,  where 
work  is  always  going  on,  are  very  few  in  number ;  indeed,  they  may  be 
said  to  exist  only  at  Havre,  Nantes,  Bordeaux,  Marseilles,  and  at  the 
works  of  the  Messageries  Imp^riales  at  La  Ciotat,  but  vess^  are  built 
all  along  the  coast,  in  all  the  little  ports,  and  on  the  open  beach,  wherever 
there  is  an  order  to  execute.  It  is  scarcely  likely  that  the  trade  will  be 
damaged  by  the  admission  of  English  wooden  ships  at  1/.  per  ton  duty, 
&r  at  the  stated  average  cost  of  20/.,  that  duty  amounts  to  5  per  c^it^ 
which  i^>pears  to  be  a  sufficient  margin.  About  iron  vesseb  opinions  are 
more  uncertain,  for  the  duty  of  2Z.  16s.  per  ton  represents  only  14  per 
cent,  on  20/.,  while  the  difference  of  cost  against  France  is  certainly  20 
percent 

No  general  account  exists  of  the  number  of  vesseb  launched  every  year, 
but  the  Tariff  Committee  received  partial  statements  on  the  point  from 
the  builders  examined  before  it.  M.  Arraan,  of  Bordeaux,  who  is  the 
largest  builder  in  France,  and  who  has  delivered  a  good  many  war  ships 
to  foreign  governments,  announced  that  he  alone  had  constructed 
83,000  tons  of  shipping  from  1850,  to  1860 ;  the  port  of  Nantes  had 
produced  altogether  177,000  tons  in  the  same  period ;  while  St  Malo» 
Sayonne,  Cherbourg,  Dunkirk,  and  various  other  small  ports  had  con- 
structed from  6000  to  40,000  tons  each.  No  statement  was  made  of 
the  production  of  Marseilles,  or  of  any  of  the  Meditemnean  ports*  All 
the  yearly  quantities  were  unusually  high  in  1856  and  1857  in  conse- 
quence of  the  sudden  demand  for  vessels,  which  was  provoked  by  the  high 
rates  of  fireieht  which  then  momentarily  existed. 

The  nuinber  of  vessels  of  all  kinds  owned  in  Fzanoe^  not  including 
fishings-boats,  has  risen  as  follows  since  1847  ;* 

Total. 
Ships.  Tonnage. 

14,321  670,260 
14,364  ^  680,565 
14,248  872.156 
15A87     1,049,844 

These  Bgures  show  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  sudden  movement 
jnst  alloded  to  from  1855  to  1858,  the  progress  lately  effected  has  been 
Jess  in  the  number  of  ships  than  in  the  augmentation  of  then:  average 
Bze«  TVliile  the  total  increase  of  number  has  been  only  866  in  the  eleven 
years  in  question  (though  it  all  took  place  in  the  last  three  years  of  the 
period),  which  is  only  6  per  cent,  on  the  figure  of  1847,  the  simultaneous 

*  Statistiqiie  Oomparee  de  U  France^  voL  iL  p.  264. 


Sailing  Yessels. 

Steamers. 

Sbipm.             tatmage. 

Shipa 

Toni»gft 

1847 

14,204          667,693 

117 

12,567 

1850 

14,228          674,205 

119 

13,391 

1855 

14023          826,663 

225 

45,493 

1858 

14,863          983,257 

324 

66,587 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


110 


MERCHANT  SHIPPING  IN  FRANCE. 


increase  of  size  amounts  to  379,584  tons,  or  56  per  cent.  The  average 
tonnage  had  got  up  from  46  to  69  tons  per  yessel.  As  regards  steamers, 
where  the  progress  has  been  more  marked  still,  their  number  rose  from 
117  to  324,  which  is  176  per  cent;  but  their  tonnage,  which  was  107 
tons  per  steamer  in  1847,  was  205  tons  in  1858. 

While  the  fleet  of  merchant  shipping  has  thus  increased,  the  progress 
of  the  general  navigation  of  France  down  to  the  year  1859,  which  is  the 
latest  date  to  which  the  returns  are  at  this  moment  published,  has  been 
far  more  considerable.  The  following  table  shows  the  variations  of  its 
movement  since  1 837.*  With  the  exception  of  the  coasting  trade,  the 
figures  represent  the  total  of  the  entries  in  and  out,  but  of  loaded  vessels 
only;  ships  in  ballast  are  not  included.  The  quantities  given  for  coast- 
ing are  those  of  departure  alone,  as  in  this  case  the  vessels  are  bound  to 
French  ports : 


French  ships: 

Foreiffu  trade  . 
Colonial  trade  . 
Sea  fisheries . . . 


Total  of  foreign  narigation. . 
Coasting  trade 


Total  of  French  navigation . 
Foreignships  


General  total  of  the  navigation  of 
France 


1837  to  1846. 


Ships. 
9.M3 
l.MO 
»73 


ii^m 

91.236 


103,197 
15,797 


Tonnage. 
860.619 
276;378 
127.466 


1.264.462 
2.922.004 


4.186.466 
1,890.290 


118,994  6.076.756 


1847  to  1856. 


Ships. 

11362 

2.701 

846 


14399 
96383 


110382 
18.930 


Tonnage. 

1392.642 
424,126 
110.768 


1327326 
8»401349 


6.229375 
2351.936 


129.212  7.781311 


1859. 


Ships. 
15,481 
2.627 
1.092 


19.200 
95.715 


114.915 
26.275 


Tonnage. 

2389,404 
615306 
146366 


3.101.476 
3.769381 


6371307 
3338^490 


141.190  10309>797 


It  results  from  this  table  that  the  maritime  trade  of  France  has  risen  in 
all  its  branches :  the  total  number  of  ships  engaged  in  it,  or  more  strictly 
the  total  number  of  voyages  executed,  has  risen  from  118,994,  on  the 
average  from  1837  to  1846,  to  141,190  in  1859,  which  is  an  advance  of 
18^  per  cent.,  while  the  tonnage  employed  in  the  transport  of  goods  (it 
must  be  repeated  that  empty  vessels  are  not  included)  has  increased  from 
6,076,750  to  10,809,797,  or  79  per  cent. 

This  general  average  of  progress  has,  however,  been  considerably  sur- 
passed  in  some  of  the  classes  of  navigation  enumerated  in  the  above  list, 
while  others  are  largely  below  it.  The  tonnage  of  French  vessels  engaged 
in  trade  with  foreign  countries  has  gone  up  172  per  cent. ;  that  occupied 
in  colonial  transports  has  increased  123  per  cent. ;  but  the  importance 
of  the  coasting  trade  has  augmented  by  only  29  per  cent.,  and  the  fisheries 
have  only  gained  15  per  cent  The  simultaneous  advance  of  the  tonnage 
of  foreign  vessels  trading  with  France  has  been  108  per  cent. 

The  division  of  the  general  progress  effected  into  these  proportionate 
figures  puts  the  relative  development  of  the  various  categories  of  French 
maritime  transactions  into  a  simple  and  easily  comprehensible  form.  The 
vessels  engaged  in  foreign  trade  are  those  which  have  gained  the  most,  and 
this  fact  forcibly  brings  up  the  question  of  the  effect  of  the  differential 
customs  duties  which  are  imposed  on  certain  foreign  flags  for  the  express 
purpose  of  favouring  the  national  marine.  Is  it  to  be  supposed  that  be- 
cause the  French  tonnage  employed  in  this  branch  of  ti*ade  has  increased 

*  Tableau  G^n^ral  du  Commerce  de  la  France,  1019. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


MERCHANT  SHIPPING  IN  FRANCE.  1  L 1 

172  per  cent,  while  that  of  foreign  vessels  engaged  in  the  same  commerce 
has  only  gone  np  108  per  cent.,  that  this  difference  between  their  respective 
augmentations  is  really  owing  to  the  consequences  of  protection  ? 

A  more  interesting  question  could  scarcely  be  proposed,  but  unfortu- 
nately no  useful  answer  can  be  made  to  it.  The  official  documents  give 
nothing  but  dry  figures  on  the  subject,  from  which  it  is  impossible  to  ex- 
tract any  symptoms  of  the  cause  which  has  produced  the  result  in  point 
No  one  can  say  whether  it  has  arisen  from  the  real  effects  of  the  existence 
of  differential  duties,  or  whether  it  b  not  rather,  like  the  progress  attained 
during  the  same  period,  by  the  other  classes  of  navigation,  all  of  which 
are  exclusively  reserved  to  French  bottoms,  a  natural  consequence  of  the 
general  development  of  the  trade  of  the  country.  Furthermore,  it  is  an 
ungrateful  task  to  try  to  prove  that  protection  is  an  advantage ;  and  as 
there  are  strong  arguments  the  other  way,  this  probably  deceptive  fact 
may  be  left  to  be  made  use  of  by  those  whose  opinions  it  seems  to 
support. 

But  the  arguments  against  these  differential  duties  naturally  find  their 
place  here.  M.  Block  has  extracted  from  the  navigation  returns  of  1857 
an  elaborate  and  laboriously  compiled  calculation  that  they  do  no  good 
at  all.* 

In  that  year  the  tonnage  of  laden  French  vessels,  which 
arrived  from  foreign  norts,  amounted  to       .        .        .  1,320,273  tons, 
while  the  tonnage  of  Laden  foreign  vessels  was      .        .  2,484,860    „ 

The  total  of  laden  vessels  was  therefore    ....  3,805,133    „ 

From  this  total  must  be  deducted  the  tonnage  to  which, 
in  consequence  of  treaties  to  that  effect,  the  differential 
duties  did  not  apply;  thb  tonnage  was  composed  as 
follows : 

French  vessels  ....  1,320,273  tons. 
English  do.  .        .        .    .  1,088,485    „ 

Yanous  American  do.       .        .     258,648    „ 

Neapolitan  do 97,248    „ 

Sardinian  do 37,545    „ 

Dutch  do 41,117    „ 

Russian  do 22,930    „ 

Other  do 5,408    „ 

2,871,654    „ 

Balance  to  which  the  differential  duties  really  applied  933,479    „ 

Therefore,  out  of  the  total  of  3,805,133  tons  of  merchandise,  which 
arrived  in  1857  from  foreign  ports,  only  933,479  tons,  or  24^  per  cent, 
had  to  pay  the  extra  duties,  m  consequence  of  the  flag  which  covered 
them.  Compared  with  the  entire  navigation  of  France,  in  and  out, 
whidi,  includmg  coasting,  amounted  in  1857  to  10,864,518  tons,  their 
|nioportion  was  only  8^  per  cent. 

And  while  the  application  of  this  system,  in  the  reduced  proportions  in 
which  it  is  now  exercised,  thus  affects  only  one-twelfth  of  the  whole  mari- 
time trade  of  the  country,  its  advantages  to  the  Treasury  are  less  im- 
portant still. 

*  Journal  det  EoonamitUi,  p.  867.    March,  1859. 
TOI..   XS^  X 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


112  HBROHANT  aHIPlHrQ  US  IRUSCE. 

£ 
The  total  product  of  the  Prendh  cnstcwi  houses  in  IS^^^^ms    7,312,000 
From  which  must  be  deducted  for  the  goods  brought  ia  W 
land 2,047,000 

The  proportion  paid  on  seaborne  -goods  was  therefore       .    5,265,000 
From  this  must  be  subtracted  the  duties  on  importations 

from  the  Fnnoh  cobmes 1,548,000 

The  amount  paid  by  merchandise,  brought  in  by  free  aaYigv 
tion,  was  therefore 3,717,000 

The  share  of  this  sum,  produced  by  importations  made  by 
French  ships,  or  by  the  vessels  of  countries  which  are 
relieved  from  the  dSfiPerential  duties,  was      .        .        .    "2,787,000 

There  remains,  therefore,  for  the  total  amount  of  duty  paid 
in  cases  where  the  differential  duties  «pfdy  .        .        .       930,000 

Now,  as  the  differential  duties  do  not  Srverage  above  9  per  cent  on  the 
whole,  over  all  the  sums  to  which  they  refer,  it  follows  that  the  total 
amount  produced  in  1857  by  this  addition  to  the  fixed  duties  did  not 
exceed  83,700/.,  or  1|  per  cent,  on  the  sum  of  7,312,000/^,  which 
formed  the  total  customs  receipts  of  the  year. 

If  the  system  prodaees  only  such  miimportant  results  as  these,  it  is 
certainly  time  to  suppress  it.  Can  its  supporters  extract  more  favourable 
arguments  irom  the  fSEict  of  ihe  large  comparatiiw  increase  of  foreign 
French  navigation  ? 

Next  to  the  foreign  trade,  £he  communications  with  the  colonies  have 
progressed  in  the  largest  proportion.  This  is  a  natural  consequence,  not 
only  of  the  reservation  of  tnat  navigation  for  French  vessels  alone,  hut 
also  of  the  constant  increase  of  the  production  of  the  colonies  during  the 
last  thir^  years.  This  trade  has  more  than  doubled  since  1 837,  and  tiie 
efforts  wnich  have  recently  been  made  to  stimulate  it,  especially  by  the 
foundation  of  the  Credit  Colonial,  which  institution  is  intended  to  lend 
money  to  the  colonists  on  mortgage,  for  the  construction  of  sugar-mills 
and  the  improvement  of  cultivation,  will  probably  enable  it  to  continue  to 
advance.  Its  transports  will  always  continue  to  form  an  important 
element  of  French  navigation. 

The  deep-sea  fisheries  have  scarcely  increased  at  all,  fsr  an  advance  of 
15  per  cent,  in  twenty-two  years,  in  the  tonnage  they  employ,  can 
hardly  be  counted  as  real  progress.  Although  most  of  the  maritime 
nations  have  been  gradually  beaten  out  of  the  whale  fishery  by  the 
Americans,  and  though  the  French  have  suffered  from  the  saaae  cause, 
they  have  heen  suppented  in  the  stri^g^  by  .govemmeet  aid,  wbiA, 
renders  th^  failure  .all  the  moxe  ceoiarkable.  Smce  1767  the  state  bmm 
accorded  a  jeries  of  varying  psemiums  to  the  ships  engaged  in  hoih  tke 
whale  and  ;cod  fidiery.  The  law  of  July  22, 1851  (the  last  which  «m 
enacted  on  the  subject),  fixed  those  premiums  At  from  i2s.  to  2/.  |Msr 
man,  and  from  9/.  128.  to  16/.  of  fish,  for  -the  cod  trade,  aocordiog  to  the 
station  fished;  and  at  4/.  16s.  per  ton  of  the  vessel,  if  manned. by  aii«»- 
dusively  French  crew,  or  21.  18s.  if  the  crew  he  mixed,  for  the  i^iiW 
trade.*     To  obtain  these  premiums,  certain  detailed  conditions  m£  AOMi- 

*  Bictionnaiiede  I'Administration  Fran^aise:  Art  "JBdeha  Maritune." 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


nnoKi&irr  fimFPrne  is  traitoe.  113 

'owot  ana  inrngstioii'nfHtiie  t)4Mtr¥0il.  N0Oiviiliiftm£iig  "fiie  Miirtaucu 
irfaich  ibej  offer,  ^  whale  traule  is  bekig  Taptdly  nbcBdoaed  in  Fmnee. 
In  1866  only  eigiit  wfanlen  went  out,  in  1657  only  six,  «nd  in  1B6S 
only  Ibiff.**  it  is  thcfefore  erident  iha^  «8  ik»  tonnagv  aogaiged  in 
^fimries  has  increased  as  a  mhcle,  the  angmtalation  has  oeoomd  soMy 
in  the  cod  branch  of  the  trade. 

The  eoaating  trade  of  Fnmee  ooenpied  8,769,§81  -tons  of  shipping  in 
1859,  against  2,922,0IH  tons  on  the  average  <^  the  ten  yean  inm  1637 
-to  1846.  The  improvenient  has,  therefore,  exceeded  oiie^ar^;  and  it 
w  the  more  TemsrkaUe,  vhen  the  dasuagiug  eonseqvenoes  ^HiMi  hove 
ensued  for  ports  of  the  coasting  trade  irom  Sue  opening  of  ssHways  are 
home  in  mind.  These  ooneeqoenoes  are  real,  and  not  imaginary ;  tbe 
vialysis  ef  the  composition  ef  the  total  of  French  eoasting  nangatton 
ehows-exaedy  frhere^  and  in  what  propoftions,  they  hare  produced  them- 
veWes. 

Before  railways  existed  in  France,  nearly  the  whole  of  Ae  heairy  goods, 
which  had  to  be  exchanged  between  ^be  Atlantic  and  the  Medfterranean 
seaboards,  went  romid  by  the  €ti«it  of  Gibrahir ;  a  small  proportaon, 
IttdtNitng  especiaHy  the  trade  between  the  Bordeiais  mid  Languedee, 
Allowed  the  Canal  dn  Midi  from  Bordeaux  to  Oette,  but  the  vea  wma  still 
iht  great  channel  of  transport  for  raw  material.  Sinee  the  construetioQ 
of  Taflways,  especiany  of  the  Midi  and  oentral  Knes,  the  old  conditions 
hare  changed,  and  m  new  efiects  produced  are  indicated  nnmistakaUy 
^  the  momfioations  which  have  occurred  in  the  rektire  parts  of  the  trade, 
^nie  following  tablet  shows  the  exact  moi^ement;  it  is  caleukted  on  tbe 
weight  of  the  merchandise  carried,  not  on  tte  mensurement  of  tbe  ships 
employed  t 

1851.  1869. 

From  the  AtiiA^  to  the  Meditemnean    .        69,881  t(Mis.  16,606  toM. 

From  the  Mediteiranean  to  the  Atlantic    .      130,403    „  68,274    ^ 

Total  of  great  Qoasting   .    «      190,284    „  83,879    „ 

Between  ports  on  tbe  Atlantic  -        .        .   1,486,452    „         1,756,101    „ 
Between  ports  in  the  Mediterranean     .    .      444,784    „  563,381    „ 

Total  «f  small  coasting.       .  1,931^6^^,         8,319,482    „ 

Therefiore,  in  «ght  yeaos,  the  sea  commnnications  between  the  two 

^oaat  lines  of  Fimnoe  ha^  diminished  by  fifity-six  per  tsent     But  this 

npid  redaction  has  not  been  equally  effected  in  the  two  directions  of 

transit,  for  while  the  shipments  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Mediterranean 

— that  is  to  say,  from  all  ports  between  Dunkirk  and  Bayonne  to  all  ports 

between  Port  Vendres  and  Nice — have  fallen  seventy-five  per  cent  in  the 

period  in  question ;  the  shipments  the  other  way  have  decreased  by  only 

£arty-seven  per  cent     And  this  diminution  on  the  long  sea-coasting  has 

occarred  simultaneously  with  a  considerable  increase  on  the  ordinary 

coaatiiig,  between  ports  on  the  same  seaboard.     While  the  former  has 

fdlen  altogether  fifty-six  per  cent,  the  latter  has  gone  up  twenty-five 

per  cent.     Here  the  proportion  is  in  favour  of  the  Mediterranean,  which 

*  Monde  Commercial. 

t  Tableau  g^^ral  du  Commerce  de  la  France. 
l2 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


114  MERCHANT  SHIPPING  IN  FRANCE. 

18  not  surprising  when  the  recent  remarkahle  extension  of  the  commercial 
relations  of  France  in  that  sea  is  borne  in  mind.  It  is  natural  that  the 
coasting  trade  of  a  port  should  profit  by  the  development  of  its  foreign 
navigation,  and  the  constant  growth  of  the  maritime  importance  of  Mar- 
seilles gives  a  vigorous  impulsion  to  its  communications  with  the  neigh- 
bouring ports. 

These  various  figures  prove  that  the  merchant  navy  of  France  is  doing 
a  constantly  growing  trade.  In  two  of  its'  elements  only  is  it  going 
backwards :  in  its  whale  fishery  and  in  the  transports  between  its  own 
most  distant  ports.  But  the  decay  of  the  whaling  interest  exists  every- 
where else,  excepting  in  the  United  States  :  while  the  diminution  of  sea- 
carriage  between  the  Atlantic  and  the  Mediterranean  implies  only  a 
deviation  of  the  line  followed,  and  in  no  way  indicates  any  falling  off  in 
the  real  amount  of  general  traffic.  It  may,  therefore,  be  taken  as  proved, 
by  the  results  themselves,  that  the  shipping  interest  is  in  a  healthy  and 
prosperous  condition. 

But  these  results  have  all,  without  exception,  been  obtained  under  the 
apparent  influence  of  protection  of  some  kind ;  protection  for  the  ship- 
builders by  the  exclusion  of  all  forelfi^-built  vessels ;  protection  of  about 
two-thirds  of  the  tonnage  employed  by  the  reservation  of  the  colonial, 
fishing,  and  coasting  tnides  for  the  national  flag  alone ;  and  protection 
of  the  remaining  third,  in  various  degrees,  by  the  differential  customs 
duties.  The  latter  is,  however,  worthy  of  mention,  rather  to  complete 
the  outline  of  the  system  employed  than  as  exercising  any  really  useful 
influence  on  the  progress  of  French  shipping. 

The  first  of  these  protections,  the  prohibition  of  vessels  constructed 
abroad,  has  been  destroyed  by  the  English  treaty,  and  it  has  been  shown, 
on  the  evidence  of  the  parties  most  affected  by  this  radical  chang^e — the 
builders  themselves — that  no  harm  to  French  interests  is  likely  to  ensue 
from  it. 

The  second  class  of  protection,  the  reservation  of  certain  categories  of 
navigation  for  the  ships  of  the  country,  exbts,  more  or  less,  and  with 
varying  degrees  of  restriction,  everywhere  else ;  the  effect  it  produces 
have,  therefore,  no  special  character,  and  the  progress  obtained  under  it 
does  not  denote  anything  more  than  that  the  maritime  trade  of  France  is 
progressing  like  all  the  other  branches  of  its  commerce. 

But  foreign  navigation  is  advancing  at  a  rate  which,  under  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  case,  implies  real  activity  and  real  progress,  and, 
without  reopening  the  question  already  discussed,  of  the  causes  of  this 
advance,  it  may  be  taken  to  constitute  die  most  satisfiustory  feature  in  the 
generally  satisfactory  condition  of  French  merchant  shipping. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


115 


CBOOKED  USAGE; 

OB, 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  LORN  LORIOT. 
Bt   Dudley   Costello. 

CHAPTER  ZZXTII. 
UH  PftTlT  BOUPER  CHEZ  MONSIETTR  COUPEVDBUZ. 

Whateteb  complacent  reminiscenses  may  contribute  to  the  serenity 
with  which  the  late  Mr.  John  Nash  looks  down  upon  his  greatest  archi- 
tectural achievement,  something,  I  should  think,  must  occasionally  rise  to 
disturb  that  serenity,  when  he  surveys  the  boundless  space  of  his  present 
elysium,  and  contrasts  it  with  the  very  stinted  accommodation  winch  he 
g^ve  to  those  who  inhabit  apartments  in  the  Quadrant 

This  part  of  Regent-street  has,  certainly,  a  very  imposing  aspect — the 
exterior  holding  out  promises  which  the  interior  positively  declines  to  per- 
form. In  the  street,  you  think  of  a  palace,  but,  "  open,  sesame,"  you  find 
yourself  in  a  prison;  though  there  be  palaces,  and  large  ones,  that  are 
prisons  too! 

Of  deceptive  appearances,  however,  Alphonse  Noel  Coupendeux  took 
little  heed.    He  had,  in  fact,  been  used  to  them  all  his  life ;  for,  though 
modem  Paris  did  not  exist  in  his  day,  her  outside  seeming,  when  he  lived 
there,  was  nearly  as  specious  then  as  now.     But  this  was  not  so  much  to 
the  point  as  the  nature  of  his  own  profession.     As  a  tailor  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  make  men  seem  very  different  from  what  they  really  are,  and 
lus  dsuly  experience  told— or  might  have  told  him,  had  ne  cared  to  think 
twice  about  it — ^that,  as  far  as  dress  goes,  the  swindler  and  the  man  of 
fiMhion  are  very  much  alike.     There  are  few  of  us,  let  our  particular 
station  be  ^hat  it  may,  who  have  not  the  same  opportunity  for  comparison 
UM  Alphonse  Coupendeux,  and  if  we  are  of  a  philosophical  turn  of  mind, 
we  bore  our  friends — and  the  public---by  talking  or  writing  books  on  the 
•object.     That  ingenious  Frenchman,  as  I  have  already  mtimated,  was 
anything  but  philosophical.     He  lived  entirely  for  the  hour,  and  if  the 
htnxT  ministered  to  his  enjoyment,  that  was  all  he  troubled  himself  about. 
Consequently,  he  was  not  in  any  way  surprised,  neither  did  he  indulge  in 
Mevere  moral  reflections,  when  he  saw  that  the  entresol  which  he  wished  to 
lure  conusted  only  of  two  rooms  of  the  very  smallest  dimensions.     They 
liappened,  indeed,  to  be  just  what  he  wanted.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and  did 
not  require  an  extensive  bed-chamber, — a  cupboard,  for  that  matter, 
would  have  answered  his  purpose  quite  as  well ;  and  as  for  the  sitting- 
Toom,  in  which  he  followed  his  sartorial  occupation,  was  it  not  gay  P— 
that  is  to  say,  did  it  not  look  upon  the  street,  with  its  ever-moving  crowd 
and  sbifting  incidents* 

Alphonse  Coupendeux  had  his  annoyance,  of  course  :  which  of  us  has 
not?      Tlie  parish  church  stood  too  near  for  his  complete  repose,  its  bells 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


116  CROOKED  naAGE ;  OR, 

appearing  to  him  to  be  for  ever  tolling.  Had  there  been  an  edict  of 
Nantes  to  revoke,  how  gladl  j  would  he  have  performed  the  part  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  solely  to  have  got  rid  of  "  that  Protestant  noise,"  the 
reason  for  which  he  could  not  by  any  roema  understand.  That  ChristiaQ 
people  should  be  summoned  to  prayer,  was  a  thing  which  never  entered 
into  his  comprehension,  his  ideas  on  the  subject  of  religion  being  of  the 
very  vaguest.  So  little,  indeed,  was  he  versed  in  religious  knowledge, 
that  when  the  meaning  of  his  second  christian  name'  w«8>  upon  some  oc-> 
casion,  adverted  to  by  a  friend,  he  expressed  the  greatest  surprise. 
^'  Tiens !"  he  exclaimed.  *^  Qtie  e'est  drdle,  9a !  Je  n'y  ai  jamais  pens^  f 
It  is  true  I  was  born  at  that  time  of  the  year,  but  I  always  thought  I  waa 
called  after  my  grandfather  Noel^.th*  gpt»er!"  In  his  private  opinion^ 
therefore,  Alphonse  Coupendeux  set  down  the  frequent  bell-ringiog, 
which  so  much  annoyed  him,  to  the  score  of  mortality,  and  had  he 
written  his  travek  he  would  have  proved,  to  the  satitfiietion  of  his  ooun- 
trymen,  that  London  ia  the  most  unhealthy  city  in  the  world.  Setting* 
aside  this  drawbaek,  which,  after  all,  was  not  a  very  strMmaone^  Alphoai»' 
Coupendeux  led  a  very  pleasant  sort  of  life  in  Imentresoiy  maldng  mone^ 
very  quickly,  and  spendmg  what  he  made  ae  fast  as  he  got  it 

We  have  already  assisted  at' one  of  his  soMbb^  but  rae  oeeanon  their 
was  improvised,  and  only  briefly  mentioned  ;  but  for  the  evening  which  I 
am  about  to  describe  there  was  some  preparatioB. 

It  is  known  to  all  who  frequent  the  polite  world,  that  th»  greatest  of 
great  men  is  the  great  man— or  valet —-of  a  gpreat'  g^entlemaQ.  In  faet,^ 
the  great  gentleman  need  not  be  so  very  great  to  account  ftnr  all  Ins 
valet's  greatness ;  for  it  m«t  be  clearly  understood  th«t  the  latter  owes 
soaething  to  himself,  and  is  never  backward  in  payings  it.  If  the  master 
occupies  a  high  position,  well  and  good  ;  the  valet  knows  bow  to  enhanee* 
it.  Should  the  master,  however,  chance  to  be  placed  '^  a  little  lower 
Aan  the  angels,"  the  vaJet  tolerates  while  he  despises* — but  never  fergetr 
\b9  own  dignity. 

Joseph  Duval,  the  valet  of  the  Comte  de  la  Roquetaillade,  was  one  of 
those  who  knew  preeisely  what  was  his  right,  and  always  exacted  it.  Hiv 
pride  did  not^  perhaps,  arise  horn  illustrious  birth,  his  parents  being  sfaop* 
keepers  of  the  Temple,  in  Paris,  where  his  father,  Nieoks  Dernd,  a  c«xtier 
in  a  small  way,  announced  himself  on  an  icriteau  as  ^  Onvrier  de  premi^roF 
chbsse :  Vend  rasoirs  et  se  dit  repasseur,"  under  the  emblem  of  an  open 
pair  of  seisson ;  while  his  mother,  Irma  7ky&  Fauquembergue,  benestdr 
tile  sign  of  the  '<  Petit  SouKer  Blanc,"  pursued  the  modest  calling  of 
'^  piqueuse  de  bottines."  But,  humble  as  were  these  occupations^  Fortunes 
did  not  turn  her  baek  on  skilful  Nicolas  and  ntedest  Irma,  who  tkronrer 
weH  after  theirraarriage,  and,  contrary  to  French  custom,  had  a  numeroos 
ikmily,  of  whom  Joseph  was  the  eldest. 

When  Joseph  had  completed  his  course  of  education,  which,  as  vr9 
have  seen,  did  not  imbue  him  very  deeply  with  geographical  lore,  he  de— 
dined  trade  in  favour  of  service ;  not  the  service  <rf  Ws  country,  for  he 
w«»  hieky  enough  to  draw  a  very  high  number,  which  saved  him  fitym 
bearing  arms,  but  that  particular  kind  which  he  caHed  liberty — and,  000- 
sidering  the  liberties  servants  take  with  their  masters^  the  designation  vmr 
not  altogether  wrong.  Beginning  his-  career  before  he  was  well  out  oT 
his-teensj  and  resolved'  to  illustrate  the  professioff  hehad  ohasen,  as 

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THE  ADTZNTUBSS  OF  LOBK  LOBIOT.  117 

aff  to  make  money  by  it»  Joseph  soon  beeame  a  model  Yt^j  and  com- 
manded a  kigfa  price  in  the  doanes^  market.  Of  coone  he  '*  bettered 
Umself '  now  aud  ^n,  but  he  never  lost  a  plaee,  and  when  he  entered 
the  serriee  oi  Monaieor  de  la  Roquetaillade,  the  paper  on  which  his  eha«» 
racter  was  written  was  almost  as  negotiable  as  the  Credit  MokiHery  whioh^ 
in  setveral  partienlars,  it  greatly  resembled*  At  this  period  he  was  a  tall, 
atooit  man,  of  eq^ht-and-tlnrty,  bat  looking  many  years  oider,  owing  to  a 
▼eiy  grave  expression  of  countenance  and  a  head  that  waa  nearly  bald. 
The  French  language*  possesses  no  sueh  word  as  *'  pompions" — neither, 
indeed,  does  oar  own — but  what  that  word  signifies  in  tha  British  ser- 
Tants'-hall  denoted  precisely  the  mwmer  and  bearing  of  Jos^h  Duval. 

In  conformity  with  Bastide's  instructions,  Conpendeaz  had  invited 
Monsieur  Duval  to  a  quiet  little  entertainment  in  the  Quadrant;  and 
within  an  hour  of  the  time  appointed,  alive  to  the  fashiomdde  merit  of 
want  of  punctuality,  the  Comte  de  la  Boquetailiade's  valet  rang  ^e 
efUre$oi  bell.  Alphonse,  vrho  had  been  fuming  with  impatienee,  ran 
down  to  let  him  in,  and  marshalled  his  stat^  visitor  nptstairs,  whose 
stateHneas^  however,  wm  6i^;htly  disturbed  by  his  head  coming,  in  the 
dark,  rather  rudely  into  contact  with  the  very  low  entranoa  of  his  boat's 
apartment.  This  accident,  consequently,  took  something 'from  the  api4mi^ 
with  which  he  would  otherwise  have  saluted  Michel  Bastide^  who  had 
aErived  a  short  time  beliDre. 

But  Bastide  was  too  gencit>a»— or  toe  politic — to  take  the  sHghest 
advantage  of  the  accident.  He  looked  as  if  he  thought  the  portly  valetE 
waa  simply  bowing  to  a  stranger,  and,  coming  fmrward,  returned  the 
iqipaient  compliment 

"  I  am  charmed,  Monsieur  Duval,"  he  said,  "  to  meet  a  gentleman  of 
jour  distinction.  My  Mend  Alpfaonse  had  already  prepared  me  for  your 
arrival." 

^  Yes,  yes  T  said  Conpendeux^  besting  in,  ^'  diat  is^  in  effect  the  case. 
Monsieur  Duval,  let  me  present  to  you  Monsienr  Charka." 

The  ex- valet  of  the  Comte  de  la  Roquetaikide  and  he  ndie  now  held 
tfaact  honoured  place,  thereupon  shook  handsy  and  ¥Owed  they  were  da* 
ligfated — the  mrst  with  vt^nt  enthusiasm,  the  last  inth  condeseendii^ 

**  I  shall  Uke  all  thai  nonsense  out  of  yon,  my  fine  fiaUow,  befbce  I 
fasre  done^"  said  Bastide  to  himself.  <^  Ton  are  exactly  the  aninu^  from^ 
Foissy  into  which  such  a  butcher  as  I  am  deetres  to  stick  his  knife." 

Then,  speaking  aloud,  he  said  : 

^  Our  excellent  friend,  Alphonse,  has  only  half  performed  his  office 
iowaida  me^  Monsieur  Duval.  He  has  simply  mentioned  my  name,  bnt: 
I  think  it  desirable,  as  we  are  strangers,  that  you  should  know  what  ir 
my  oonditicm.  A  prasen  of  your  respectability  has,  in  my  opinion,  the 
Tight  to  demand  that." 

The  portiy  valet  coloured  witii  satisfactbn  at  this  oompUment,  which 
was  pveeisely  of  the  kind  that  suited  him,  and  aeeepked  it  without 
leaerve. 

<<  I  am,"  continued  Bastide,  glancing  rapidiy  at  Coupendeoxv  whom 
he  hsMl  prepaaed— '*  I  am  engaged  in  oommefoe^'' 

"  Highly  respectable,"  muttered  Duval,   who  knew  not  what  ebe* 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


1 1 8  CROOKED  USAGE  ;  OR, 

"  A  commerce,"  pursued  the  other,  **  whicli  has  affinity  with  the  pro- 
fession of  our  admirable  host,  whose  hospitality,  I  perceive,  will  not 
permit  us  to  remain  dry-lipped,  even  for  ever  so  short  a  time  before 
.  supper.     I  have  the  honour,  therefore,  to  drink  to  your  perfect  health, 
Monsieur  Duval." 

**  To  your  health,  sir,"  replied  Duval,  following  the  example  of  Bas- 
lide,  who  had  taken  a  glass  of  Bordeaux  from  the  side-table  where 
Coupendeux  was  pouring  out  wine. 

<<  To  all  our  healths !"  added  the  latter,  filling  for  himself. 

*'  But,"  observed  Duval,  addressing  Bastide,  "  you  were  saying " 

"  Ah,  true,"  returned  Bastide,  **  the  nature  of  my  commerce.  Have 
you  ever  been  in  Normandy  ?" 

«  No,  sir." 

**  Then  you  do  not  know  the  town  of  Louviers  ?" 

^*  It  is  a  place  I  am  not  acquainted  with." 

"  I  regret  to  hear  it,  for  it  is  there  I  carry  on  my  business,  which  is 
that  of  a  clothier.  The  cloth  of  Louviers,  you  are  aware,  is  the  most 
celebrated  in  France,  and  such  is  the  article  in  which  I  have  the  honour 
to  deal.  Alphonse,  here,  is  one  of  the  best  customers  I  have  in  this 
country,  to  which,  from  time  to  time,  I  come,  as  occasion  calls  me." 

"  Have  they  then  no  cloth  in  England  ?"  asked  Duval. 

"  They  are  not  altogether  unprovided,"  replied  Bastide ;  "  but  it  is 
a  poor  sort  of  stuff,  by  no  means  comparable  to  what  we  make  in 
France." 

"  I  can  perfectly  understand  that,"  said  Duval,  who,  if  not  particularly 
wise,  was  eminently  patriotic.  "  This  country,  in  reality,  produces  no- 
thing but  beer." 

"  Which  is  a  miserable  thing  to  drink,"  said  Bastide.  "  Again  to 
your  health,  with  your  permission.  Monsieur  Duval." 

"  Once  more,  sir,  to  yours,"  returned  the  valet,  whose  ice  the  good 
wine  was  beginning  to  thaw. 

During  this  brief  conversation,  Coupendeux  had  been  very  busily  en- 
gaged in  arranging  the  supper-table,  on  which  appeared  a  famous  ffahm* 
tine  de  veauy  a  langue  fourree,  d^jambon  de  Mayettce,  a  lobster,  a  gdteau 
cTamandes,  some  fromage  de  Roquefort,  a  plate  of  qucUre  mendiants, 
a  carafe  of  water ;  two  bottles  of  vin  de  Bordeaux,  one  of  Cognac,  and, 
to  crown  all,  in  the  centre  a  bottle  of  Champagne :  not  a  bad  supper  for 
a  French  tailor  to  offer  to  his  friends. 

Monsieur  Duval  seemed  to  be  quite  of  this  opinion,  as  from  the  corner 
of  his  eye  he  surveyed  these  arrangements,  and  suffered  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  to  peep  out,  an  indication  of  his  love  of  good  things  not  lost 
upon  Bastide. 

"  Are  we  waiting  for  anybody,  Alphonse  ?"  bquired  the  merchant 
from  Louviers. 

"  I  do  not  know  if  we  ought  to  wait  much  longer,"  replied  Coupen- 
deux, ^'  but  I  expect  another  guest,  an  Englishman,  who  promiied  to 
come." 

«  Who  18  he?"  asked  Bastide. 

*'  His  name  is  Drakeford,"  said  Coupendeux ;  ^^  he  is  immensdy 
rich." 

'*  Ah  I"  observed  Bastide  to  Duval,  ^<  these  rich  Englishmen  always  take 

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THE  ADYEKTUBXS  OP  LORN  LORTOT.  119 

libertief ;  as,  in  point  of  fact,  rich  people  always  do.  For  my  part,  I  do 
not  consider  wealth.  The  character  of  a  man  is  all  I  look  at.  You  are 
fortunate  I  hope,  Monsieur  Duval,  in  the  choice  you  have  made  ?" 

*'  As  to  that,"  replied  the  valet,  **  I  am  content  The  nobleman  with 
whom  I  have  placed  myself  is  not  only  rich,  but  of  irreproachable  morab 
and  conduct.  He  is,  at  times,  a  little  given,  perhaps,  to  sombre  thoughts 
stnd  habits  of  seclusion,  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  inter- 
ference in  my  affairs,  and  I  am  quite  at  liberty  to  follow  my  own  in- 
clinations." 

**  A  happy  state  of  things,  Monsieur  Duval !  You  are  to  be  envied. 
Just  look  at  the  condition  of  us  poor  merchants !  We  are  dependent 
upon  every  casualty :  bad  crops,  epidemical  diseases,  floods,  fires,  wars, 
snipwrecks,  bankruptcies,  accidents  of  all  kinds!** 

*'  Yes  !*'  said  the  valet,  complacently  stroking  his  chin.  <<  We  are,  in 
truth,  much  better  off  than  you.  Nothing  of  that  kind  affects  us. 
Though  we  are  not  entirely  without  our  anxieties.** 

"  May  I  ask  in  what  respect  ?**  said  Bastide. 

*'  We — I  am  now  speaking  of  my  master,  the  Comte  de  la  Roquetail- 
lade — we  have  some  family  troubles!** 

Bastide  put  on  a  look  of  great  commiseration,  and  Duval  proceeded : 

^  Having  become  the  possessor  of  large  estates.  Monsieur  le  Comte  is 
aatarally  desirous  of  transmitting  them,  with  hb  title,  in  the  direct  line. 
I,  mysefr,  were  I  in  his  position,  should  desire  the  same ;  therefore,  I  do 
not  blame  him." 

"  Madame  la  Comtesse,  then,  has  brought  him  no  child  ?*' 

*'  Pardon  me  !     But  she  has  !     And  that  child,  moreover,  is  a  son  !** 

*^  A  wild,  dissipated  young  man,  perhaps  P     Or  iu  a  dying  state  ?** 

"Nwther!** 

^  You  astonish  me!     What  is  it,  then,  that  renders  the  future  doubt- 

Mr 

'*  A  circumstance  of  a  very  delicate  nature — ^bnt  one,  that  I  am  not 
unwilling  to  impart  to  you,  for  I  perceive  you  are  a  person  that  can  be 
trusted.** 

^  It  does  not  become  me  to  boast,  but  my  discretion  is  as  well  known 
as  my  mercantile  reputation.  Any  confidence  with  which  I  may  be 
honoured  will  be  as  secret  as  the  contents  of  my  own  private  ledger.'* 

"  I  will  tell  you  then.  But  is  not  this  gen^eman  very  long  in  ar- 
riving?  "* 

•  *'  Without  doubt,  he  is  ;  and  if  I  were  Coupendeux  I  would  not  wait 
another  moment  HoliL!  Alphonse,  at  the  window  there!  Do  you  see 
anything  of  your  (riend?** 

**  It  is  exactly  for  him  I  am  looking." 

**  But,  in  the  mean  time,  worthy  Monsieur  Duval  and  myself  are  dying 
of  hunger.*' 

^  A  thousand  needles!**  exdumed  Coupendeux,  impatiently.  '*  Why 
does  he  not  come  ?    Just  give  him  another  ten  minutes!*' 

**  Gire  him  ten  minutes !  All  the  events  of  a  life  may  be  crowded 
ioto  ihsit  space!  But,**  said  Bastide,  turning  to  Duval,  "  I  suppose  we 
amat?      My  attention  is  entirely  at  your  service." 

In  terms  very  nearly  the  same  as  those  which  he  had  employed  with 
Coupendeux,  tiie  valet  related  all  he  knew  of  Monsieur  de  la  Roquetail- 


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120  CROOKED  USAGB  ;  OR, 

lade*8  Ukory,  and  lus  gamiHty  did  not  stop  tkere :  bt  ealsrged,  at  U  the 
went  of  sefffaate — of  eoBfidentnJ  BemmU  espeeklly'—en  otker  matten 
pertaining  to  hit  naater^s  a&irsy  and.  in  sptaiEing  of  faaiilv  difierenees 
mMHioMcL  that  name  of.  I%r  William  Cnmbariand.  The  quick  memory  of 
Battide  oonnaotod  it  atoooe  with  the  ateDe  he  had  wilneawd  in  die  rirer- 
garden  at  Twiekeahaaiiy  bat  he  suffered  no  outward  sign  to  batraj  his 
curiositj  in  the  qaortaaBo  he  earalesriy  pat,  which  reaohed  in  his  being 
informed  that  Madame  de  U.  Roquatiullade  waa  the  oaljr  sisler  of  Mrs. 
Drakeford's  gallant,  elderly  fiiena.  It  is  a  French  habit  to  be  inatten- 
tive to,  or  to  f<»get  Engfisfa  nam6%  and  in  the  early  part  ot  his  career 
Bastide  was  at  im^ucienU  as  the  generality  of  his  countrymen,  so  that  tiw^ 
rehition^p  osme  upea  him  now  in  die  shapa  of  a  fact  entirely  new :  it 
was  one,  however,  which  he  was  extremely  glad  te  leant,  an^  he  resolved 
to  profit  by  it  at  the  &rst  opportunity.     With  thb  eiccepdon,  none  of  the 

rienlars  whieh  Duval  communicated  were  any  news  to  him;  but  as 
object  was  to  ingratiato  faimaalf  with  the  narrator,  ha  Ksteoed  to 
every  syllable  as  if  the  subject  wen  oi  the  highest  personal  interest,  and 
rewarded  the  ooasequential  valat's  eoofidenee  with  a  flattering  attention 
that  quite  secured  his  good-wilL 

Baatide  aeoompUshed  his  purpete  in  goed  time,  for  searoeiy  had  Duval 
ceased  spealung  be&re  Coupendenx,  woo  still  remained  at  the  window, 
uttaeed  a  hastyeomlaouition  and  lef^the  room,  returning,  however,  almost 
immediately  with  Mr.  Drakefeed,  who  seemed  very  mueh  blown  and 
heated,  as  if  he  had  been  running  very  fast. 

The  old  confederates  met  as  if  they  had  been  utter  strangers,  the 
simple  action  of  icratehing  his  <^ek  with  his  fbraftager  being  a  sign  on 
the  pari  of  Bastide  ifidiich  Drakeferd  perfectly  understood.  Baatide, 
therefore,  as  well  as  Duval,  was  formally  introduced  to  the  Dew<^omer, 
and  ne  further  time  was  lost  in  sitting  down  to  supper. 

Either  the  speed  with  which  he  had  hastened  to  keep  his  appointment^ 
or  soate  other  disturbing  eanse,  at  first  prevented  M&  Drakeford  from 
enjoying,  like  die  rest,  the  good  things  that  loaded  die  board.  Whib 
Coupendeux  talked  and  ate  as  fast  as  possible,  Bastide  followii^  hit 
example  with  more  mederation,  and  the  knife-and-fotk  practm  of  the 
Comte  de  la  RoquetaiUade'a  vadet  evincing  duit,  if  his  mental  capacity^ 
was  not  grea^  his  appetite  was  prodigious^  Mr.  Drakelbrd  sat  altogether 
silent.  Ue  was  listaiii^g— -not  to  the  oonversatton  whieh  waa  going  on 
^diough  he  could  have  borne  his  part  in  it  had  he  been  so  minded,  for 
he  spoke  F^eneh.  very  wellr-— but  to  external  sounds,  and  kept  turning  his 
head  every  moment  as  if  he  expeoted  some  one  to  enter  whose  presence 
would  have  been  unwelcome.  Gradually,  however,  his  agitation  sub* 
sided,  nothing  occurred  from  without  to  realise  the  apprehensions  he 
teemed  i»  eirteftain,  and  after  hastily  swallowing  dnee  or  four  glasses  of 
wine,  he  became  as  companionable  as  any  one  there.  Bastide  notieed  his> 
abstraction  and  the  subsequent  ^angev  but  refrained  £rom  inquiring  the 
cause  in  the  presenee  of  Duval,  who,  under  the  influenee  of  the  botde» 
was  beginning  ta  make  himself  very  oomfortidile.  For  »  man  of  his 
calihw^  indeed,  the  pendeieye  valet  became  oomparatively  lively,  and 
when  the  champagne  waa-nncarked,  uid>ent'ee  fur  at  to  fiMur  the  coai— 
parny  with  m  teng'^ptmoipally  lor  the  rtassa  that  he  prided  hhnself  on 
hit  voiec^  whicii  wowd  hapve  beea  move  agfecaUt  tm  Ustaa  te  had  it.no4r 


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THE  ADVENTUBEa  OF  LOBN  LORIOT.  12t 

been  slightly  cracked.  There  was^  a  certain  appropriatooefls  in  Ae 
refmn — wtooh  Coapeodeax  heartily  joined  in — andy.  therefore^  it  if  hem 
sei  dowo»  with  the  stnger'a  squeaking  aioentuation.: 

"  Man— ger  et.  boi— re» 

Voila  la  gloi — re 
Dont  nous  devons  e — tre  jaloux: 

La  ^Tirman— di — se, 

Qnoi  qu'on  en  di — se. 
Est  Ic  mtil— 4enr  p^ — eh^  de  to-oiMm-ons  !'* 

Duing  thie  melody  Baetide  £oinid  the  opportunity  he  wm  aeekiog,  of 
speaking  to  Drakeford  unobserved. 

'*  What  ipaa  the  matter  mtk  yon  when  you  came  in  ?"  he  said,  in  an 
nnder  toae^  as  if  he  waa  talking  to  one  of  the  withered  filberts  on  his 
plate. 

'*  The  BoWea  w««  after  me/'  refdied  Drakeford,  in  the  same  key  and 
ohsBnring  tiie  same  mannor. 

Bastide^s  sallow  cheek  became  a  shade  paler,  and  he  threw  a  fiurtLre 
glanee  around  him. 

"  Why  ?"  he  asked. 

**  Those  beggars  at  the  fire-office  dispute  my  claim,"  retomed  Drake- 
fiord.  ^'  And  that's  not  the  worst  part  of  it !  They  will  have  it— <»n- 
finmd  their,  impndenee — that  I  set  the  place  on  fire  myself  and  the  kmg 
and  the-  short  of  it  is^  that  they  applied  Aur  a  warrant  against  me.  Liiekilyy, 
I  got  scent  of  it,  and  bolted." 
#    ^'  And  eame  here,  direct?" 

**  Jnsise.  Having  told  Goopy  I  should— on  aeoonnt  of  the  squalling- 
party  hem — fant  I  didn't  expect  this  cross." 

"  I  suppose  not     What  ^  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

^  The  best  I  eon^  of  course.  Stay  here  till  the  coast  is  oleac  To- 
iBgbt^  at  all  events.     This  is  as  safe  a.plaoe  as  any." 

"  And  to-naorrow  ?" 

*"  Ssod  for  RaliB.     It  will  then  depend  upon  what  he  says." 

'<Whtte'6Mrs.D.?" 

«Dewn  at  her  aunt's." 

*'  Esty's  with  her,  I  suppose  ?** 

''  Of  ceursA  Where  else  ^onld  she  be  P  That  feUow's  at  it  again ! 
'  Manger  et  beire !'  He  seems  fit  for  notlung  else.  And  where  haveyoM 
been?     They  say  yoa're  wMited,  too !" 

"  I  believe  so.  But  they  will  not  find  me.  Unless  by  mistake.  Ta- 
prevent  that  I  must  wish  you  good  night." 

"  So  soon !     Won't  you  stay  and  have  your  share  of  this  pigeon  p" 

'*  fie  must  go  with  me.     I  have  promised  to  see  him  safe  home." 

**  So  you  can,  when  we've  done  with  him." 

*•  Ah !  that  must  not  be  to-night.  I  have  other  uses  for  him.  Besides, 
he  is  hardly  worth  plucking." 

«  You  want  him  all  to  yourself.     That's  not  fair !" 

«*  You  are  wrong.  I  mean  to  turn  him  to  account  another  way.  ^  But 
if  it  were  ever  so  much  worth  while,  this  is  not  the  time  for  gratifying 
your  wishes.  Suppose  the  Bobbies — as  you  call  them^were  to  drop  in 
upon  uaall?" 


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122  CROOKED  USAGE ;  OR, 

'<  Then  vou  would  go  to  quod  as  well  as  L  I  see!  Every  one  for 
himself.     It's  a  deuced  pitj,  though :  he's  getting  so  jolly  drank !" 

"  The  greater  reason  why  he  should  not  stay.  Thank  you,  Monsieur 
Duval,  for  your  excellent  song.  You  ought  to  be  the  first  tenor  at  the 
Grand  Opera.  You  have  a  voice  equal  to  that  of  Duprez.  But  do  you 
know  it  is  getting  very  late?" 

"  Late!"  stuttered  Duval.     «*  What  does  that  signify  ?" 

"  Late!"  echoed  Coupendeux,  who  had  not  received  "  the  office/'  and 
did  not  like  so  soon  to  part  with  a  guest  whose  want  of  skill  at  ecarte  he 
reckoned  on.     "  It  is  only  ten  o'clock  !" 

''  You  mistake,  Alphonse !"  said  Bastide,  showing  his  watch.  "  It  is 
past  twelve.** 

Coupendeux  perceived,  by  a  look  from  Bastide,  that  he  must  agree. 

^'  To  think,  *^  ne  said,  "  of  the  time  passing  so  quickly.  It  is,  as  yon 
say,  past  twelve  !** 

"Twelve,  or  one,  what  matters!"  said  Duval,  courageously. 

*'  Monsieur  de  la  Roquetaillade,  then,  is  a  person  so  quiet  and  easy,  that 
you  can,  I  suppose,  twist  him  round  your  finger!" 

There  was  so  much  of  the  manner  of  the  person  he  spoke  of  in  Bastide's 
severely  cynical  expression  of  countenance,  that  the  tipsy  man  was  in  an 
instant  sobered. 

"  Oh  yes!"  he  replied,  with  confusion,  ^'  in  that  respect,  you  conjecture 
rightly.  He  is — what  you  say — very  quiet — ^and  easy !  But,  I  agree 
with  you.  We  have  already  exceeded  our  time.  It  is  better  that  we 
should  be  going." 

"  And,  with  your  permission,"  said  Bastide,  "  I  will  do  myself  the  honoui^ 
to  accompany  you  to  your  hotel.  The  streets  of  London  are  not  always 
very  safe  at  this  hour,  and  being  a  stranger  to  them,  you  might  lose  your 
way."  V  ^  ^ 

The  big  valet's  courage  was  not  in  correspondence  with  his  exterior, 
and  he  thankfully  accepted  this  offer.  While  he  was  putting  on  his  cloak, 
Bastide  contrived  to  say  a  few  words  to  Drakeford,  vmom  he  then 
formally  saluted,  and  took  his  leave,  accompanied  by  his  interesting  charge. 
When  he  reached  the  door  of  Duval's  hotel,  the  object  was  achieved  ror 
which  he  had  been  scheming.  The  merchant  of  Louviers  received  a 
pressing  invitation  to  visit  his  new  friend. 

*^  1  accept,  with  pleasure,"  said  Bastide,  shaking  hands.  ^*  Depend 
upon  it,  I  will  keep  my  promise.  Here  is  my  address.  Be  kind  enough 
not  to  lose  the  card ;  and  write  to  say  when  you  are  disengaged.  I  am 
always  at  your  service." 


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THE  ADVENTURES  OF  LORN  LORIOT.  123 


CHAPTER  ZXXVm. 
SIR  iriLLIlK'S  PBOFOSALi 

It  may  almost  be  laid  down  as  a  general  rule,  that  the  man  who 
requires  advice  in  love  affairs  never  brings  them  to  a  successful  issue. 

While  Mrs.  Drakeford's  voice  still  rang  in  his  ears,  Sir  William  Cum- 
berland believed  himself  bold  enough  to  follow  her  counsel,  but  the  further 
be  receded  £rom  that  lady's  presence,  the  weaker  grew  the  resolution  she 
had  inspired,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  the  drawing-room,  where  he  had 
been  told  Esther  was,  his  courage,  like  that  of  Acres,  had  oozed  through 
lus  fingers'  ends. 

His  hesitation  to  enter  was  increased  by  the  silence  within.  Had 
Esther  been  singing,  as  was  her  general  habit  when  alone,  he  might  have 
ventured  to  turn  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  so,  under  cover  of  the 
music,  have  approached  her  unperceived ;  but  conscious  that  he  meditated 
evil,  his  coward  heart  quailed  at  the  unusual  stillness,  and  he  lingered  on 
the  threshold,  endeavouring  to  devise  an  excuse  for  disturbing  the  object 
of  his  unworthy  passion. 

It  offered  itself,  at  last,  in  the  sudden  appearance  of  Mrs.  Drakeford's 
pet  spaniel,  which  came  running  in  from  the  garden,  and  scratched  at  the 
drawmg-room  door.  The  sight  of  the  dog  recalled  the  words  of  its 
owner.  What !  He,  an  experienced  man  of  the  world,  a&aid  to  face  a 
timid  girl  of  eighteen !  How  Mrs.  Drakeford  would  laugh  and  sneer  at 
his  embarrassment !  The  fear  of  her  ridicule  decided  him,  and  he  hesi- 
tated no  longer. 

'*  Zoe,"  he  said,  entering  the  room,  ^*  is  like  every  one  else,  Miss 
Drakeford:  never  happy  when  away  from  you.  I  have  given  ad- 
mittance to  your  favourite,  and  availed  myself,  at  the  same  time,  of  her 
privilege." 

Esther's  back  was  towards  Sir  William  as  he  approached,  but  she  turned 
on  hearing  him  speak. 

"  You  are  in  your  own  house,  Sir  William,**  she  said,  coldly ;  "  and 
this  room,  I  believe,  is  common  to  all.  It  is  certainly  not  exclusively 
mine." 

"  But  were  it  so,  Miss  Drakeford,"  returned  her  admirer,  ''  I  trust  you 
would  not  look  upon  me  as  an  intruder." 

"  The  idea  of  intrusion,"  observed  Esther,  "  presupposes  a  sense  of 
annoyance." 

^'  And  you  feel  none  at  seeing  me,  I  trust,"  said  Sir  William,  dropping 
into  a  chair  close  to  where  she  was  seated. 

*'  I  have  not  thought  upon  the  subject,"  she  answered,  "  nor  do  I  know 
why  you  should  suggest  it" 

«<  I  feared,"  he  said,  '^  that  I  had  offended  you,  the  last  time  I  saw 
you  alone.  Believe  roe,  nothing  could  have  been  further  from  my  in- 
tention." 

*•  Your  intentions.  Sir  William,"  replied  Esther,  "are  best  known  to 
yourself.  If  they  are  free  from  reproach,  your  words  and  actions  may 
easily  be  made  to  correspond." 


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124  CROOKED  USAGE ;  OR, 

This  language,  from  a  cheerful,  free-spoken,  warm-hearted  girl  like 
Esther,  indicated  plainly  that  grounds  for  offence  existed,  and  that  the 
offence  itself  was  one  not  to  be  ligbtlj  owrlooked.  Sir  William  knew 
the  cause  well  enough,  but  ialt  Us  way  like  people  on  uncertain  ice, 
whicb  may  break  beneath  their  weight  or  suffer  them  to  pass  safely 
over.  AU  was  not  quite  safe  here,  but  still  he  diouglit  he  might 
venture. 

"  I  perceive,  llfiss  Drakeford,**  he  said,  *'  that  you  bear  ma&ce  against 
me  for  expressions  hastily  uttered.  Surely  I  committed  no  g^reat  crime 
in  telling  you  how  deep  an  impression  vour  beauty,  your  accomplishments 
had  made !  If  that  was  a  sin,"  he  added,  with  as  much  sprightlines  as 
lie  could  throw  into  his  manner — ^'  I  fear  I  must  continue  a  sinner,  for 
the  impression  is  indelible.  You  can't  find  feult  with  an  involuntary 
tribute  to  your  charms !" 

"  If,**  returned  Esther,  "  you  so  well  remember  your  fault,  your  memory 
should  teach  you,  Sir  Winiam,  to  avoid  its  repetition.  I  am  not  accus- 
tomed to  be  spoken  to  as  you  are  now  speaking." 

''And  yet,"  said  Sir  William,  who,  by  this  time,  had  once  more 
screwed  his  courage  to  the  sticking-place,  *'you  must  always  liave  been 
exposed  to  the  chance  of  hearing  it  I  A  beautiful  girl  like  you  is  safe  to 
have  bad  plenty  of — what  shall  I  say — admirers.  Come,  now,  con- 
fess— Fm  not  the  first,  by  a  score  or  two,  to  tell  you  how  pret^  ymi 
are." 

"You  are  the  first,  at  least,"  retorted  'Esfher,  ''who  have  expressed 
such  an  opinion  so  rudely." 

"  Forgive  my  manner,  then,'*  he  continued,  "  for  die  sake  of  my  sin- 
cerity. Rudely !  No !  You  are  too  charming  a  creature  lor  any  one  to 
be  rude  to.  Say  rather  that  I  express  myself  honestly^-bluntly,  if  you 
will — but  at  all  events  in  downrignt  earnest.  Why  should  there  be  any 
concealment  about  it  ?  I  love  you,  Esther,  and  if  my  love  «ind  as  mum 
money  as  you  choose  to  spend  can  make  you  happy,  take  me  fer  whst  1 
am  worth. — ^Voil^  le  fin  mot  T 

"  You  said  something  to  this  effect  before,"  returned  Esther — **  and 
my  answer  was  meant  to  be  decisive.  Your  attentions,  in  the  sense  in 
which  you  offer  them,  are  the  reverse  of  agp:«eable  to  me.  I  fasve  no 
ambition  to  occupy  a  station  which  others,  no  doubt,  aspire  to.  Our 
ways  of  life  lie  in  different  directions,  and  I  beg,  once  for  all,  that  you 
will  permit  me  to  follow  mine  in  peace." 

"  But  this  is  unreasonable — Esther — ^iss  Drakeford.  You  state  no 
objection  beyond  your  own  alleged  want  of  inclination  to-— to— matrimony. 
Let  me  know  what  it  is  you  dislike  in  me — and  then  we  can  feirly  come 
to  an  understanding.  You  won^t  quarrel  with  my  temper,  that  I  promise 
you.  You  shall  have  your  own  way  in  everything.  Do  what  you  please 
— ^go  where  you  please — only  let  me  go  witnyoul  As  to  settlements — 
name  anything  in  reason,  and  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  complun.  I*m 
sure  I  can't  say  more  !'* 

"  You  say  too  much.  Sir  William.  I  am  very  young,  and  have  seen 
very  litUe  of  the  world,  but  I  am  convinced  there  can  be  no  happiness  in 
an  ill-assorted  union." 

"  Esther — Esther — woman  as  you  seem,  you  talk  like  a  child !     Why 


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THE  AjyyiasrnmEB  of  lqbn  lobtot.  125 

^hauld  oar.mkm  lie  81  Mitptcd?  lieve  you,  md  «m  qvhe  wiling -to 
take  my  chtaee  of  3NKir  hmng  me  in  wtorn.  You  ate  yemng^  bb  yoa 
gay,  and  your  koonAedge  of  oie  world  k  not  ajitoMifn,  I  Eke  yna  M 
the  better  fixr  that  ^t  yan  will  get  okUr,  and  wiozidly  teifaiMce  mil 
eooo  eone.  Whan  it  does  yoa  iriU  be  eony  jto  find  yaa  rave  ateod  in 
your  own  light  Yoa  aee  wlnt  a  plain  ^ow  I  aoi.  I  think  moie  of 
yoor  k^eretls  Aon  I  do  of  my  own." 
'^Intereate!" 

<<  Yes :  Batwithstanding  that  MeniU  onrl  of  ihe  %  When  a  gisrl 
aettlea  for  life,  her  iaterette ought  to  be^  ficit  thing  tiK>aght  oC  Sim- 
pose  I  were  to  ^  to^macrow,  and  nothiDg  feeurad  to  my — aay  wi&. 
Where  would  she  be  then  p  Now,  I*m  quite  ready  to  do  whatanar  yeai 
or  Mss.  Daakafoid  Hki^  at  onee.  No  lawyer'a  noDaenae,  hampering 
with  all  aarts  of  canditiooa — waa^g  time  to  no  parpan.  The  moae^r 
flhall  be  paid  down  as  soon  as  I  have  seen  my  buiker ;  lodged  in  year 
iiam»— ^t»i,  twaatty  thoaaaad— only  say  the  amoant  1" 

Sir  William  paused,  his  e^nas  fisosd  an  Esther's  oaoateiBuna,  whieh  he 
eloaely  aerutbisad.  Had  he  -toached  the  mht  ehordf  Waa  ahe  acces- 
aible  to  the  lore  oi  wealth  ?  And  then,  &e  frankness  i»f  his  speech ! 
How  MMn  his  condaet,  how  honeat  his  aantiniaatB  1  The  freedom,  tao, 
whidi  he  proffaied !  Surely  he  had  profited  hy  Mm.  Drafceford's  lesson, 
and,  without  her  fiirther  asaiatanee,  waa  ahooA^  nap  the maard  of  ha 
w^-ealcakted  geaetedty. 

But  no  flashed  ehaek,  no  apafiJiag  e^  faetrayed  the  aveoeas  of  Sir 
William's  appall.  As  eahnly  as  if  Sm  wene  damning  ^aoap  or  fish  at 
dinner,  Esther  Tweeted  the  offer,  whose  inaidioas  ^uq»osa,  happily,  she 
Healed  to  comprehend.  How,  indeed,  without  pretemataoml  knowledge, 
could  she  have  been  Mwnae  of  the  &et — ao  'cloMy  was  kept  the  secret 
which  even  Mza.  Drakaford  only  suspected — fiiat  Sir  Wiflwaa  Cuaiber- 
land  already  had  a  wife,  the  inmate  of  a  hmatic  asyhun  f  The  lawyers  J 
Yes;  they  would  hare  hampered  affiurs  widi  a  vengeaneo  !  The  tnmp 
tation  of  an  «nti*M]ptial  aettleraant  was  a  gteat  one,  and  omftily  eet  in 
the  fbregronnd,  but,  unluckily  for  Sir  William,  it  proved  a  fSsilnre. 

"  I  am  very  mach  oUiged  to  you.  Sir  WilHam,"  she  said,  ^^  hut  I 
have  ao  other  answer  to  give  than  that  vdbich  you  hvwe  heard  already. 
It  is  unnecessary  that  I  should  state  the  grooods  of  asy  objeetion  to 
yoor  proposal ;  let  it  suffice  for  you  to  know  that  they  are  insurmount- 
able." 

for  a  moment  a  strange  tremor  quickened  Sir  William's  pulse,  as  the 
lear  crossed  his  mind  that  Esther  knew  his  secret^  but  a  moment's  re- 
flection convinced  him  that  it  was  impossible,  for,  had  it  been  so,  her 
calnoDess  must  have  given  way  to  indignation.     This  was  reassuring  in 
one  sense,  though  not  in  another;  for  Elsther's  words  implied  something 
nearly  akin  to  personal  antipathy.     He  rose,  and  paced  the  room  in 
▼exation.     He  could  not  abandon  his  project;  he  coveted  the  possession 
of  Esther  too  eagerly  to  relinquish  her  on  a  refusal — once — twice — even 
ten  times  repeated.     What  should  he  say  ? — how  persuade — how  force 
ber — for  he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  stop  at  anything — ^how  force  her  to 
accept  the  terms  he  offered  ? 

As  he  traversed  the  apartment,  now  glancing  at  Esther,  who  had 


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126  CROOKED  USAGE. 

taken  up  the  book  with  which  she  had  preriously  been  engaged,  now 
looking  round  him  as  if  for  aid,  he  perceived  Mrs.  Drakeford  in  the 
garden,  slowly  advancing  towards  the  house.  He  suddenly  checked  his 
pace,  and  observing  that  Esther  did  not  raise  hev  head,  turned  to  the 
window,  and  made  a  signal  which  the  quick  eye  of  his  ally  immediately 
caught  and  comprehended.     Sir  William  then  spoke  ag^ain. 

'^  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe,  Miss  Drakeford,  that  you  will  alto- 
gether turn  a  deaf  ear  to  what  I  have  said.  I  make  allowance  for  hesi- 
tation ;  the  question  is  one  of  moment ;  consider  it,  without  prcnudice ; 
again,  I  say,  I  ask  only  for  your  consent — the  terms  with  which  it  is 
accompanied  I  leave  to  you.  My  whole  fortune  is  at  your  disposition — 
as  entirely  as  my  affection." 

Saying  this,  as  if  he  were  the  very  impersonation  of  disinterested, 
generous  feeling,  and  utterly  free  £rom  guile,  Sir  William  left  the 
room. 

Absorbed  as  Esther  had  appeared  to  be  in  her  book,  the  instant  he  was 
gone  she  cast  it  aside,  and  uttered  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

"  Whence  it  arises,"  she  exclaimed,  **  I  know  not — but  the  very  sight 
of  that  man  is  hateful  to  me !  It  is  a  crime,  perhaps,  to  feel  as  I  do 
towards  him,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  Say  what  he  will,  he  fails  to  remove 
my  conviction  of  his  insincerity.  Oh,  what  a  wretched  fate  is  mine ! 
Not  one  person  in  the  whole  world  to  whom  I  can  turn  for  a  word  of 
advice  or  sympathy  !  Mrs.  Drakeford  !  My  instinctive  fear  tells  me  that 
she,  of  all  others,  is  my  most  dangerous  enemy !  Of  those  with  whom 
she  is  connected  I  shudder  to  think.  No  truth  or  honesty  in  any  of 
them !  But  I  will  break  the  tie  that  binds  me,  if  I  have  only  the  alter- 
native of  begging  my  bread !" 

In  the  hall  Sir  William  encountered  Mrs.  Drakeford. 

<*  It  is  useless,''  he  said.  *'  That  girl  is  impenetrable.  She  has  no 
more  heart  or  imagination  than  a  stock  or  a  stone !  Think  of  her  re- 
fusing twenty  thousand  pounds — and  the  bait  of  the  wedding-ring  !" 

''  You  should  have  let  me  see  her  first  before  you  showed  her  the  beet 
card  in  your  hand,"  replied  Mrs.  Drakeford.  '*  But,  as  I  said  before, 
leave  her  to  me.  Take  your  horse,  and  ride  ever  so  far.  Go  to  town — 
stav  there  for  the  night — I  will  turn  your  absence  to  account.  In  four- 
and-twenty  hours  the  tables  shall  be  turned.'* 


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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON: 

OR,  CITY  LTFE  IN  THE  LAST  CENTURY  * 
By  William  Habbiboit  AnrrvroBTH. 


33006  tj^e  §im. 

IV. 

guildhall— PAST  AND  PBB8BVT. 

While  our  Lord  Mayor  is  on  his  way  to  Guildhall,  in  his 
grand  state-coach  drawn  by  six  horses,  we  will  proceed  thither 
before  him,  and  enter  the  ^reat  hall. 

From  its  magnitude  ana  the  character  of  its  architecture,  this 
time-honoured  hall,  now  four  centuries  and  a  half  old,  and  fraught 
with  a  multitude  of  historical  recollections,  cannot  fail  to  command 
admiration  under  whatever  circumstances  it  may  be  viewed.  It 
is  one  hundred  and  fifty-two  feet  long,  fifty  broad,  and  fifty-five 
high,  and  its  size  may  be  estimated  from  the  fact  that  it  will  hold, 
and  indeed  did  hold  on  the  occasion  of  the  grand  entertainment 
about  to  be  described,  upwards  of  seven  thousand  persons. 

The  hall  was  the  first  part  of  the  edifice  erected.  Begun  in  1411 , 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.,  by  Thomas  Knolles,  then  Mayor,  its  walls 
were  so  solidly  constructed  that  they  withstood  the  ravages  of  the 
Great  Fire  of  London.  It  is  delightml  to  reflect  that  the  renowned 
Sir  Richard  Whittington,  the  first  favourite  of  our  boyhood,  can 
be  associated  with  this  vast  chamber,  as  he  no  doubt  superintended 
its  construction,  witnessed  its  completion,  traversed  it  almost  dail^, 
and  constantly  sat  within  it,  during  his  third  and  last  mayoralty,  m 
1419.  That  he  loved  it  is  certain,  since  his  executors,  only  three 
years  later — alas!  that  he  should  have  gone  so  soon! — in  fidfil- 
ment  of  his  bequest,  contributed  a  sum  of  money  towards  paving 
the  floor  with  ^^  hard  stone  of  Purbeck,''  glazing  its  windows,  as 
well  as  those  of  the  Mayor's  courts^  and  embemshing  them  with 
his  arms.  What  scenes  has  not  this  storied  hall  witoessed  since 
Whittington's  day  1  But  though  manv  a  worthy  Mayor  has  oc- 
cupied it  since,  none  worthier  than  he  has  ever  set  foot  within  it. 
His  kindly  name  alone  suffices  to  fling  a  charm  over  the  place. 

In   process  of  time,  many  courts  and  chambers,  required  by 


*  All  figkti  rm$rved, 
VOX-  u. 


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128  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

the  various  municipal  officecs,  were  added  to  the  hall,  but  we 
fihall  not  tarrj  to  describe  them,  but  come  at  once  to  the  year 
1501^  when  a  grand  desideratum  was  supplied  by  Sir  John  Shaw^ 
goldsmith,  then  Lord  Mayor,  whose  memory  deserves  to  be  held 
m  profound  r^pect  by  all  convivial  eitizeot.  Sir  Jobi  Shaw 
— we  have  pleasure  in  repeating  his  name — btrilt  a  goodly  kitchen, 
with  large  nveplacesy  ospiible  of  fomishinff  prodigious  banquets,  and 
from  that  date  the  famous  Corporation  feasts  commenced.  With 
three  hundred  vmi  sixty  grvnd  banquets  before  m,  are  we  wron^ 
in  maintaining  that  Sir  John  Shaw's  name  ought  to  be  venerated  r 
We  r^et,  however,  to  add,  that  this  fine  old  kitchen,  which, 
when  Lord  Mayors'  dinners  were  dressed  "  at  home,"  was  found 
equal  to  an  unlimited  demand  upon  its  resources,  has  since  been 
converted  to  other  and  less  hospitable  uses. 

In  the  ill-omened  year,  1  66d,  when  so  many  ancient  structures 
perished,  Guildhall  wat  invaded  by  th«  traawndous  conflagration 
which  then  devastat^  the  City,  and  its  beautiful  Gothic  open- 
work timber  roo^  with  carved  pendazits.  resembling  the  roof  of 
Westminster  Hall,  and  other  combustible  parts  of  the  buildi^^ 
wtirely  consumed.  The  solidity,  however,  of  the  masonry— -the 
walls  being  six  oc  seven  feet  in  diicknets — saved  the  bulk  of  the 
edifice,  ana  within  three  years  afterwards  it  was  restored  at  a  cost 
of  2fi00/.'^re8tored,  though  not  to  its  pristine  beautv.  The  rich 
stained  glass  of  olden  days  could  not  be  brought  back  to  its  mul» 
Koned  windows;  the  fine  arched  timber  roof  could  not  be  replaced: 
and  an  architectural  taste  true  as  that  which  famished  its  original 
design  did  not  superintend  its  reconstruction. 

But  if  fault  must  needs  be  found  with  certain  portions  of  the 
•interior;  if  we  cannot  admire  the  present  flat  roof  divided  into 
panels,  or  the  mean  windows  disfiguring  the  upper  story,  what 
aaust  be  said  of  the  exterior  of  the  ttracture,  which,  m  1790 
(some  thdrty  years  subeequent  to  the  date  of  our  story,  we  axe 
liaf>py  to  say)^  was  bereft  of  all  its  venerable  cluuracter,  and  a 
fimitage  substituted  equally  anomalous  and  tasteless,  wmch  has 
been  very  properly  described  ^'as  an  abortive  attemnt  to  blend 
the  Pointed  style  with  the  Ghnecian,  and  both  wita  the  East 
Indian  manner^?  On  this  fagade  is  inscribed  the  civic  mottoy 
^^  Domim  dirige  nos^'^  which  has  been  construed  as  a  prajrer  from 
the  Corporation  to  be  better  guided  in  future  in  their  choice  of  aA 
ar^itect. 

But  though  there  are  drawbacks  to  the  completeness  of  the  in* 
terior  of  the  great  hall,  these  are  lost  in  its  general  grandeur  and 
beauty.  The  miffhty  pointed  arched  windows  at  the  east  and 
west,  occupying  almost  the  entire  width  of  the  chamber,  with  their 
muUionsy  mouldings,  and  tracery,  are  exceedingly  fine,  though,  it 
is  to  be  wished  that  the  old,  deep-djred  glass  could  be  restored^ 
instead  of  the  garish  panes  ^riag  with  royal  arms,  orders  of  the 


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THE  LOBD  lUTOB  OF  LONDOK.  129 

Gsrter,  Ac,  wUk  which  the  upper  compaxtmentt  are  at  pceKmi 
fiQedL  At  the  mim  ftre  hurge  mi  lofty  pointed  wiodowUf  mrmtl 
of  which  have  been  imlbriiuiatelj  blocked  up  by  eenotapha  to 
be  noticed  poeseBtlyy  but  the  ekwtared  demi-piUaii  between  then^ 
nd  the  aroadefl  breath,  ane  of  great  beauty.  Abore  the  ca^tali 
of  the  piUaiB  are  shields  embhi^Ded  with  the  anna  of  the  ^' 
Companies.  On  the  ncartb^eastward  piUar  are  the  arms  of  F 
and  on  the  sonth^eastward  ptUar  the  arms  of  the  Ci^  of  T 

Beneath  the  great  eaalem  window  is  the  ancient  dais,  on  whioh 
a  jdatfom  is  set*  raised  some  feet  above  the  paTement,  and  p«rtjp 
tiooed  fion  the  body  of  tfie  hall  by  a  wainseoted  traveoe.  Here 
the  Gonrts  of  Hustings  are  hddt  occasionally  the  Court  of  Ex* 
cfaeaner,  and  here  the  Cbj  deetions  axe  conducted.  At  ^  naf 
of  ue  dais,  and  beneath  the  great  window,  may  be  seen  a  range 
of  eaiqnisiteljr  wrought  niche  canopies.  Similar  oanonies^  but  ei 
recent  execution^  wm  be  found  at  tne  other  end  of  the  nail. 

Several  of  the  windows  on  the  north  sidey  as  already  remarked, 
are  now  closed  by  large  marble  omiotaphs  reared  by  the  City  in 
memory  of  disdnguished  persons.  Amongst  these  manorials  is  one 
demoted  to  a  personage  mentioned  in  our  story,  Alderman  Beok* 
£w^  who  was  twice  Lord  Mayor  of  London^  and  whose  fiunons 
speech  to  €rear^  IIL,  in  answer  to  his  nugesty's  unfavourable 
reeeption  of  a  Bemonstrance  from  the  Corporation  in  1770^  is 
reootded  upon  the  pedestaL  Pennant  describes  this  monument 
as  ^  a  marble  group  <^  good  workmanship,  with  London  and 
Commerce  whimpering  like  two  marred  diUdres,  executed  soon 
after  the  year  1770,  by  Mr.  Bacon.  The  principal  figune  (Beok^ 
fimi)  was  ahK>  a  giant  in  his  day,  the  raw-head  and  Moody 
bones  to  the  |;ood  iblks  in  St  James's;  which,  while  Benmi* 
aiianoee  were  m  fuahkm,  annually  haunted  the  court  in  tecr^ 
toams/*  Here  is  also  the  monument  by  Bacon,  and  a  noble  week 
it  is,  of  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  who  will  likewise  figure 
in  these  pages.  Opposite  the  sculptured  memorial  of  the  greatest 
of  our  statesmen  and  orators  is  the  cenotaph  of  his  illustrious  soa^ 
the  inheritor  of  bis  hi^h  qualities.  Here  also  are  monuments  of  the 
bsroes  of  Tra&lgar  and  Waterloo. 

But  we  must  now  examine  two  well-known  occupants  of  the  halL 
In  cmpceite  a^es,  at  the  west  end,  snd  upon  octagonal  columnst 
atend  the  two  guardian  giants,  yclept  Gog  and  Magog.  Old 
Strffe  pretends  that  these  mysten<His  figures  represent  an  ancinnt 
Bditon  and  a  Saxon,  and  some  believe  them  to  be  of  no  greater 
nBtaqnity  than  C%iarles  the  Second's  day;  but  we  reject  these  notions 
ahqgether.  Thw  origin  is  buried  in  obscurity.  We  su^>ect  they 
were  fashioned  by  Merlin,  or  some  equally  potent  enchanter.  If  they 
weme  tried  by  the  Great  Fire,  they  came  out  of  it  uninjured.  Gos; 
in  jHSned  with  a  halberd,  and  Magog  with  a  pokaxe,  from  which 
a  ball  set  round  witil^  spikes.  Their  mighty  limbs,  fgso- 
K  2 


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130  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

tesque  attire,  bushy  black  beards,  penthouse-like  brows  OTer- 
shadowing  great  protruding  eyes,  which  seem  ever  disposed  to 
wink  at  you,  ana  wondrous  uneaments  in  which  ferocity  is  so 
happily  blended  with  joviality  and  merriment,  must  be  familiar 
to  all.  Familiar  also  is  the  veracious  legend  connected  with 
them.  We  all  devoutly  believe,  that  at  dead  of  night,  when  the 
clock  strikes  one,  these  marvellous  images  become  suddenly  in- 
stinct with  life,  and,  leaping  down  upon  the  pavement,  look  out 
for  supper,  regaling  themselves  upon  whatever  eatables  and  drink- 
ables they  may  be  lucky  enough  to  meet  with,  searching  for  a 
terrified  apprentice  in  the  Little  Ease,  and  sometimes,  when  hard 
pressed,  devouring  a  beadle,  great-coat,  three-comer^  hat,  staff 
and  all.  Space  is  wanting  just  now,  but  in  the  course  of  our 
story  we  hope  to  find  occasion  to  recount  another  legend  of  the 
two  gigantic  hall-keepers,  equally  as  veracious  as  the  foregoing, 
and  not  so  generally  known. 

At  the  period  of  our  tale,  however,  the  giants  did  not  occupy 
their  present  position,  but  were  far  better  placed  on  the  north  side  of 
the  hall,  exactly  where  Alderman  Beckford's  cenotaph  is  now  fixed* 
Here  was  the  old  entrance  to  the  Lord  Mayor's  Court.  Over  the  steps 
conducting  to  it  was  a  large  balcony,  supported  by  four  iron  pillari^ 
in  the  form  of  palm-trees,  the  branches  and  foliage  of  which  formed 
a  sort  of  arbour.  In  front  of  this  picturesque-looking  balcony 
was  a  curious  old  clock  with  three  dials,  set  in  an  oaken  frame, 
at  the  comers  of  which  were  carved  the  four  cardinal  Virtues,  with 
the  figure  of  Time  on  the  top,  and  a  cock  on  each  side  of  him. 
On  brackets  at  the  right  and  left  of  the  steps  were  placed  Gog 
and  Magog;  thus  establishing,  as  will  at  once  be  perceived,  a 
mysterious  connexion  between  them  and  the  clock.  But  the 
old  entrance  is  now  walled  up;  the  picturesque  balcony  with  the 
palm-trees  is  swept  away ;  and  the  quaint  old  clock  is  gone.  How 
the  jovial  giants  must  long  for  it  back  again  I 

At  the  sides  of  the  steps,  and  in  somewhat  too  close  proximity  to 
the  gigantic  guardians,  were  two  cells,  denominated,  from  their 
narrow  limits  and  the  lowness  of  the  ceiling,  ^^  Little  Ease,''  in 
which  unruly  apprentices  were  occasionally  confined  by  order  of 
the  City  Chamberlain,  where,  if  the  offenders  were  detained  during 
the  night,  the  riants  were  sure  to  find  them  out,  battering  at  the 
cell  doors  with  nalberd  and  poleaxe,  and  bellowing  fearfully  while 
trying  to  get  at  them.  We  may  be  sure  that  the  scared  apprentices 
did  not  require  a  second  night  in  the  Little  Ease.  Underneath 
the  great  hall  is  a  crypt  of  extraordinary  architectural  beauty, 
and  in  excellent  preservation,  corresponding  in  size  with  the  super- 
stmcture. 

Ordinarily,  at  the  period  of  our  tale — though  just  now  all  the  pic- 
tures had  bee^  removed  in  anticipation  of  the  grand  banquet— -the 
walls  of  the  great  hall  were  adorned  with  many  portraits  of  royal 


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THE  LORD  MATOB  OF  LONDON.  131 

and  judicial  personages.  Amongst  the  former  were  William  and 
Mary,  Anne,  and  the  two  Georges.  The  reigning  sovereign, 
Greorge  III.,  and  his  consort,  were  added  after  their  visit  to  uie 
City,  about  to  be  described.  The  judges,  looking  all  alike  in  their 
red  robes  and  monstrous  wigs,  were  sixteen  in  number,  and  com- 
prised the  learned  Sir  Matthew  Hale,  Sir  Henea^e  Finch,  Sir 
Orlando  Bridgman,  Sir  Robert  Atkins,  and  others  of  their  contem- 

Joraries,  painted  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.  At  a  later  date  Chief 
usdce  Fratt,  afterwards  Lord  Chancellor  Camden,  was  added  to 
the  list.  Amongst  the  decorations  of  the  hall  were  the  colours 
and  standards  taken  at  Ramillies,  with  other  trophies  of  subse- 
quent victories. 

In  Guildhall,  as  is  well  known,  all  the  municipal  business  is  trans- 
acted, and  here  the  nine  civic  courts  are  held.  But  these  it  does 
not  come  within  our  province  to  describe.  Many  historical  recol- 
lections are  connected  with  the  sp<Jt.  Shakspeare,  following  the 
old  chronicler  Hall,  alludes  to  one  event  in  ^^  Richard  HI."  Buck- 
ingham, we  may  remember,  is  ordered  to  follow  the  Lord  Mayor. 
Thus  cries  the  wily  Gloster: 

Go  after,  after,  oousin  Backiiiffham,« 

The  Mayor  towards  Guildhall  nics  him  in  all  poat. 

Whereunto  the  Duke  replies: 

I  go ;  and  towards  three  or  four  o'clock. 
Look  for  the  news  that  the  Guildhall  affords. 

His  persuasions,  however,  though  seconded  by  the  Lord  Mavor 
and  the  Recorder,  only  prevailed  upon  some  few  of  the  ^^  tongaeless 
blocks"  to  shout 

God  save  Richard,  England's  royal  king ! 

Here  the  martyred  Anne  Askew  was  tried  for  heresy,  and  sen- 
tenced to  the  stake.  Here  the  chivalrous  and  accomplished  Surrey 
— ^the  latest  victim  of  the  tyrant  Henry — was  arraigned,  and  found 
guilty  of  high  treason.  Here  Sir  Nicholas  Throckmorton  was  tried, 
m  the  reign  of  Mary,  for  conspiring  with  others  against  the  queen's 
life;  and  here,  in  the  reign  of  James  I.,  Grarnet,  one  of  the  chief 
contrivers  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  was  condemned  to  be  hanged, 
drawn,  and  quartered. 

But  we  prefer  the  more  cheerful  side  of  the  picture,  and  would 
rather  regard  the  hall  as  the  scene  of  grand  civic  entertainments 
than  as  a  court  of  justice.  It  affords  us  pleasure,  therefore,  to  men- 
tion that,  in  1612,  when  the  Elector-ralatine,  Frederic,  came  to 
England  to  espouse  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  only  daughter  of 
James  I.,  he  and  the  king  were  sumptuously  entertained  by  the 
Lord  Mayor;  and  the  Prince-Palatine  was  presented  by  his  lord- 
ship, in  the  name  of  the  citizens,  with  an  immense  silver  basin  and 
ewer,  and  two  large  silver  flagons,  richly  gilt.     On  the  wedding- 


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182  THE  LOKD  MATOB  OF  LOHDOK. 

day  tiie  Corporation  presented  die  electoral  bride  iriih  a  superb 
xecklace  of  Oriental  pearls,  valued  at  two  lliousatid  potuids. 
Again,  on  the  return  of  the  nnfortonate  King  Charles  1.  fioin 
Scotland,  in  164L,  a  maenifioent  banquet  iras  giren  him  by  tine 
nnmidrpal  bodjr  at  GinUmall,  and  so  delighted  iras  the  nonaidi 
by  thcor  profesnons  of  duty,  a£fectk>n,  and  loyalty,  that  he  created 
the  Lord  Ma^or  a  baronet,  and  dubbed  all  the  aUennen  knifffats. 

But  it  is  m  the  knowledge  that  it  belongs  to  the  weafthiest 
and  most  powerM  body  corporate  in  the  world  that  the  ecm- 
templation  of  Gkdldhall  becomes  chiefly  impressiTe.  When  we  con- 
aider  how  well,  and  for  what  a  lengthened  term  of  years,  the 
vast  and  complicated  business  of  the  Cit7  of  London  has  been 
here  conducted,  we  cannot  but  wonder  that  generations  of  men 
have  been  fotntd  of  such  energy  and  wordi  as  those  who  have 
carried  on  lite  mighty  machinery,  and  have  nosed  Ae  cit;f, 
for  which  they  toilea  and  strove,  to  tbe  proud  position  it 
now  occupies.  Abuses  may  have  crept  in,  imd  theae  may  be 
eadly  remedied,  but  the  operations  ot  the  great  municipfli  in- 
stitution have  been  little  affected  by  them.  From  the  daya 
of  Whittington,  in  whose  lifetime  this  noble  hall  was  founded,  to 
our  own  day,  what  myriads  of  active  merchants  and  traders,  what 
Mayors,  Aldermen,  dommon-councilmen,  and  other  officials  have 
assembled  to  administer  the  affairs  of  their  fellow-citizens  and  uphold 
their  privileges  and  immunities.  Dynasties  have  chained  during  this 
long  term,  governments  have  fallen,  but  the  municipal  government 
of.&C&ty  of  London  has  remained  the  same.  What  inexhaufltible 


lefouioea  have  the  City  rulecs  ever  focmd — how  eqnal  have  they 
been  to  every  emergency — ^how  much  mimificence  have  they  difr* 
played — ^how  faithful  live  they  been  to  their  trusts — how  irre- 
proachable in  conduct !  With  what  unstinting  hands  have  they 
dispensed  the  C&ty  charities — ^how  strictly  adminislered  its  justice ! 
By  an  honourable  course  like  this,  pursued  for  centuries,  luis  the 
Corporation  of  London  advanced  our  city  to  its  present  gieatnefls. 
Long  may  it  continue  in  such  good  hands!  Long  may  it  be 
governed  so  wisely  and  so  well ! 

The  remembrance  of  the  multitudes  of  good  men,^  honest  traders, 
prod^t,  liberal,  generous,  enliditened,  charitable  bene&ctors  to 
their  fellow-citizens,  and  upright  magistrates,  who  have  peopled 
this  great  hall,  and  have  passed  away,  fills  the^  breast  with  emo- 
tions at  once  grave  and  gladsome.  We  think  up<m  those  who 
are  gone;  but  re)<Mce  that  many  good  men  are  still  left  us. 

And  now,  having  completed  our  hasty  survey  of  tiie  interior,  let 
us  examine  tiie  extent  of  the  edifice.  It  has  been  mentioned  that 
in  1790  the  present  tasteless  facade  of  the  hall  was  erected,  iJie 
de»gn  of  which  is  described  by  Malcohn  as  ^neither  Grecian, 
Saxon,  Norman,  simple  nor  florid  Gotiiic,  though  it  approaches 
nearer  to  the  latter  stjrle  than  any  of  the  former.^    But  it  is  not 


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TBE  LORD  MITOS  OF  I/HTDOIL  18S 

with  the  existing  aspect  of  the  structure,  but  with  that  presented 
by  it  at  the  penod  of  our  story,  which  we  have  to  do.  At  that 
time  the  frontage  was  really  Gothic  in  design,  and  had  a  grey  and 
venerable  air,  £ough  the  entire  length  of  the  structure  could  not 
be  discerned,  owing  to  the  encroachments  of  the  buildings  on  either 
aide  of  the  court.  The  stately  porch  then  projeeted  sovie  yards 
beyond  the  main  edifice,  adding  thereby  gnmj  to  iti  eflbct  The 
entrance  was  formed  bya  noble  pointed  aroh  supported  by  columns^ 
the  spandrels  being  enriched  with  arma  and  tracery.  On  either 
fide  were  shields,  and  above  diem  niches  occupied  by  statues. 
Over  the  porch  was  an  vpper  story,  with  a  balcony,  beneath  which 
weie  depicted  the  arms  o£  the  dty  companies,  while  at  die  back 
were  niches  wherein  were  placed  %nree  of  Moses  and  Aaron. 
The  whole  was  surmomited  by  a  cornice  on  which,  in  has  reli$f^ 
the  aniB  of  England  were  boldly  displayed.  Embatded  turrets^ 
witii  vanes,  stood  at  each  angle  of  die  roof,  and  these  turrets  are 
still  left.  If  OuildhaH  could  be  pedeedy  restored,  anddiebuildinffs 
intniding  upon  it  remored,  it  would  be  one  of  the  noblest  speoi* 
aiens  of  arcnitecture  in  the  Oily.    But  this  is  not  to  be  bopea  for. 

On  die  weft  side  of  the  yard  tnere  was  a  long  colonnade  or  piazaa, 
and  above  diis  pleasant  covered  walk,  removed  during  the  reparations 
of  1789,  were  die  oflkes  of  the  Common  Serjeant,  the  Remem- 
brancer, and  the  City  Solicitor.  The  south-west  comer  was  occupied 
by  die  old  parish  church  of  Saint  Lawrence  in  the  Jewry,  which 
remains  pretty  much  in  die  same  condition  as  heretofore.  On 
Ae  odier  ade  of  the  yard  was  Cruildfaall  Chapel,  a  venerable  pile, 
fomided  at  the  ktter  end  of  the  thirteenth  oenturj,  and  damaged, 
ihoagfa  not  burnt  down,  by  the  dread  calamity  of  1666.  The  west 
£ront,  which  &oed  the  court,  was  adorned  with  a  krm  pointed 
arched  window,  and  widi  niches  containing  statues  of  Edwwrd  VI^ 
SBzabeth,  and  Charles  I.,  treading  <m  a  globe.  Hiis  &ie  old 
ecBfiee  was  pufled  down  in  1822  to  make  room  for  the  new  Law 
Gouite.  Contiguous  to  the  chapel  on  the  south  was  Blackwell 
HiiA,  originally  caSed  Basing's  Haugh,  a  very  ancient  etruetare, 
destroyed  by  the  Great  Fire,  and  rebuilt  in  1672.  It  had  a  spa- 
cious entrance  into  Ottildhall  Yard,  and  the  doorway  was  adorned 
•with  columns,  widi  an  entablature  and  pedkaent  displaying  the 
anna  of  England,  and  a  Kttle  lower  die  Ckty  arras. 

From  this  hasty  survey,  it  will  be  seen  that  die  stately  Gothic 
porch,  dien  advancmg  fer  beyond  the  body  of  the  old  hall,  which 
still  retained  much  otits  original  character,  the  piaaza  on  the  west 
side  of  die  court,  tibe  ancient  chapel  with  its  magnificent  window 
and  statues,  together  with  Blackwell  Hall  on  the  opposite  side, 
combined  to  produce  an  eflfective  ensemble,  totdly  wanting  to  die 
existing  court  and  edifice. 

Su<£  was  Gmldhall  during  the  mayoralty  ef  Sir  Gresham 
IfOrimer. 


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134  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 


V. 

HOW  THB££  C0T7BT  BEAUTIES  CAHE  TO  OUILDHAU^  AND  HOW  THEY  7ABED  OK 

THEIE  ABBIVAL. 

The  gorgeous  state-coach,  in  which  our  Lord  Mayor  rode, 
still  exists,  and  constitutes  a  principal  feature  in  the  annual 
civic  show.  Since  good  Sir  Gresham's  day,  a  hundred  Lord 
Mayors  have  ridden  in  it,  and  we  hope  it  may  serve  to  convey  a 
hundred  more  to  Westminster  and  back.  Though  richly  gilt  and 
burnished,  it  is  not  gaudy,  but  has  a  grand,  imposing,  courtly  ap- 
pearance, and  seems  fitted  for  the  City  sovereign,  or  for  any  other 
sovereign.  Lideed,  it  formed  the  model  for  the  royal  state-coach — 
still  likewise  in  use — constructed  for  George  III.  in  1762.  Built 
about  four  or  five  years  previous  to  the  date  of  our  story,  in  the 
somewhat  cumbrous  but  handsome  style  of  the  day,  hung  ver^  low, 
having  large  windows  calculated  to  afford  a  full  view  of  those  inside 
it,  panels  covered  with  exquisitely  painted  emblematical  desi^^ns 
and  elaborately  carved  woodwork,  representing  Cupids  sustaining 
the  City  arms,  this  state^oach,  by  its  antiquated  air  and  splendour, 
carries  back  the  mind  to  another  age.  The  paintings  on  the  panels, 
replete  with  grace  and  elegance,  are  by  Cipriani;  that  on  the  right 
door  exhibits  Fame  presenting  the  Mayor  to  the  genius  of  the  City; 
while  on  the  other  door  is  depicted  Britannia  pointing  with  her  spear 
to  the  shield  of  Henry  Fitz-Alwin,  the  first  Mayor  of  London,  who 
enjoyed  his  office  for  the  long  term  of  twenty-four  years — namely, 
firom  the  first  of  Richard  I.  to  the  fifteenth  of  John.  Until  of  late 
years,  the  roof  of  this  magnificent  carriage  was  surmounted  by  a 
carved  group  of  boys  supporting  baskets  of  fruit,  but  an  accident 
deprived  it  of  this  ornament.  The  original  cost  of  the  coach  was 
upwards  of  a  thousand  pounds,  which  will  not  appear  suiprising^ 
when  its  size  and  the  splendour  of  its  decorations  and  fittings  are 
taken  into  account.  The  expense  of  keeping  it  in  repair  is  by  no 
means  trifling,  but  this  is  now  borne  by  the  Corporation,  whose 
property  the  coach  has  become. 

According  to  custom,  the  Lord  Mayor's  companions  were  his 
chaplain.  Dr.  Dipple;  the  sword-bearer,  Mr.  Heron  Powney,  who 
carried  his  weapon  according  to  the  rule  of  armoury,  ^^  upright,  the 
hilts  bein^  holden  under  his  bulk,  and  the  blade  directly  up  the 
midst  of  his  breast,  and  so  forth  between  his  brows  ;**  the  common- 
crier,  Mr.  Roberts,  with  the  mace;  and  the  water-bailiflT,  Mr. 
Dawson.    The  latter  gentlemen  were  in  their  official  robes. 

The  six  proudly-caparisoned  horses  were  put  in  motion  by  a 
couple  of  clean-limbed,  active-looking  postihons,  wearing  jackets 
stiflfened  with  lace,  tight  buckskins,  and  great  iack-boots,  black 
velvet  caps  with  far-projecting  nebs,  and  adorned  with  tke 
Lord  Mayor's  crest  wrought  in  silver,  and  carrying  riding-whips 


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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  135 

with  heavy  silver  handles.  The  reins  were  held  by  a  coachman 
worthy  of  the  occasion.  No  one  in  the  Lord  Mayor^s  household 
had  a  higher  sense  of  the  importance  of  his  post,  or  greater  deter- 
mination to  uphold  its  dignity,  than  his  lordship's  head-coachman, 
Mr.  Caleb  Keck.  On  this  day  all  other  coachmen  were  beneath 
him.  He  would  have  taken  precedence  of  the  royal  coachman-— 
just  as  the  Lord  Mayor  would  have  done  of  royalty  itself,  east  of 
Temple-bar.  A  very  larce  man  was  Mr.  Keck,  as  darkly  red 
as  a  mulberry  about  the  (Hieeks  and  gills,  and  the  purple  dye  of 
his  broad,  bluff  countenance  was  deepened  by  contrast  with  his 
flaxen  ¥rig.  Nothing  could  be  more  imposing  than  his  appearance 
as  he  sat  on  the  hammercloth,  which  was  not  much  too  wide  for 
him,  in  his  laced  three-cornered  hat  and  state  livery,  with  a  large 
bouquet  on  his  breast,  buckles  ornamented  with  paste  brilliants  on 
his  woes,  and  his  ffreat  balustrade  calves  encased  in  pearl-coloured 
silk  stocking.  Neither  the  six  tall  footmen  clustering  behind  the 
carriage,  eacn  as  fine  as  fine  clothes  could  make  him,  and  each 
consequential  enough  for  a  lord,  nor  the  splendidly  arrayed 
postilions,  were  to  be  compared  to  him. 

Guided  by  Mr.  Keck  and  the  postilions,  the  Lord  Mayor's 
coach  passed  across  Cheapside  amid  the  acclamations  of  the  mul- 
titude, and  made  its  way,  though  slowly  and  with  difficulty, 
through  the  throng  of  equipages  already  described  as  encumbering 
New  King-street,  in  the  direction  of  Guildhall,  the  Gothic  fagade  of 
which  agreeably  terminated  the  vista.  Close  behind  came  the  superb 
state  chariots  of  the  sheriffi,  each  ^  drawn  by  four  horses,  and  the 
carriages  of  Alderman  Beckford  and  Sir  Felix  Bland.  While  Sir 
Grresham  was  acknowledging  the  cheers  and  congratulations  that 
greeted  him  from  lookers-on  from  window  and  house-top,  as  he 
passed  along,  Mr.  Keck  frowned  in  an  awful  manner  at  any  fiimiliar 
observation  that  might  chance  to  be  addressed  to  him  by  a  brother 
coachman,  and,  if  it  had  been  consistent  with  his  dignity  to  open 
his  lips  at  all,  would  have  sworn  lustily  in  return.  Cateaton-street 
was  crossed  without  hindrance,  while  loud  clappings  of  hands  and 
vociferations  proceeded  from  a  stand  erected  by  the  Merchant  Tailors 
near  the  old  church  of  Saint  Lawrence  in  the  Jewry,  and  decorated 
with  the  company's  banners.  In  the  midst  of  these  huzzas,  the 
Liord  Mayor  was  borne  into  Guildhall-yard,  which,  being  thronged 
by  various  personages  connected  with  the  procession,  presented  a 
very  animated  and  picturesque  appearance,  and  his  carriage  drew 
up  before  the  gaily  ornamented  entrance  of  a  temporary  covered 
way,  erected  for  the  convenience  of  the  illustrious  visitors  expected 
tiiat  evening,  and  leading  from  the  middle  of  the  yard  to  the  great 
hall-porch. 

No  carriages,  except  those  of  the  late  Lord  Mayor  and 
the  sheriff,  were  allowed  to  stand  in  Guildhall-yard,  but  a 
line    of  equipages  belonging  to  the   aldermen,   the  chief  City 


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186  THE  LOBD  MATOB  OF  LONDOIT. 

offieersy  tiiie  iiardeiifi  and  prime-wardeat  of  the  different  City 
oomp«iiei^  extended  theaeay  through  Bkckfrdl  Hall,  far  into 
BUiopflgate^itreeL  The  court,  howener,  wat  thronged  1^  per- 
sona on  &o%  vith  whom  a  few  othen  on  horseback  were  inters 
aaiagled.  Amongst  the  ktler  the  most  conqyicuoaa  were  the  two 
City  marshals;  the  upper  marshal  betng  nKnmted  'on  a  proudly 
capuiaoned  steed,  arrayed  is  a  grand  military  unilbraiy  with  lon« 
jaek-boots,  glittering  breastplate,  flowing  Kamillies  peruke,  sm. 
feathered  h^  In  his  hand  he  bore  a  i<»g  b&ton,  the  badge 
^  luB  office.  The  under  Bsarahal  was  soarcely  less  splendidlf 
attired.  With  them  were  a  host  of  standard*bearers,  toom- 
peten,  and  yeomen  of  the  guard.  Some  of  the  standard>beaieni 
were  momited.  In  firont  of  the  chiq^el  stood  the  barffemaetor  of 
tiae  Merchant  Tailoo^  Company — to  which  ancient  and  important 
fraternity,  it  will  be  remembered,  our  Lord  Mayor  belonged— 4n 
his  state  dxes%  the  watermen  in  their  scarlet  and  puce  livenes,  and 
tibe  beadle  in  his  scarlet  gown.  On  the  other  side  of  the  yard, 
within  the  jnaaias  {ffeyioiidy  described,  were  ranged  sixty  poor 
men,  habited  in  the  scarlet  and  puce  ffowns  and  hoods  of  the 
Merchant  Tailoisf  Company,  bearing  shields  diarged  with  the  arms 
of  the  company,  namely,  a  tent  royal  between  two  parliameBt 
robes,  aad  on  a  chief  azure  a  lion  of  England,  with  a  holy  lamb  as 
a  crest,  aild  two  camels  as  supporters.  These  sixty  poor  men,  oov* 
reraonding  in  nmnber  with  the  Lord  Mayor^s  age,  were  int^ided 
to  kad  the  proeession. 

One  cireumstanee  must  be  mentioned,  as  it  not  only  added 
materially  to  the  crowded  state  of  the  court,  but  was  nroductive  of 
considerable  inconvenience  to  ^e  various  officiab  collected  within 
k.  The  management  of  the  grand  entertainment  had  been  con* 
fiifed  to  a  committee  of  seven  aldermen,  of  which  Mr.  Beek- 
ixA  and  Sir  Felix  Bland  were  members.  By  fiivonr  of  lius 
committee  private  admittance  was  given  to  the  galleries  erected 
within  the  ffreat  hall  to  a  number  of  ladies  of  quahty,  and  to  tiie 
wives  and  ikudxters  of  such  wealthy  and  important  cttiaens  as  had 
interest  enough  to  procure  tickets. 

As  early  as  nine  o'clock,  in  order  to  secure  the  best  piaees, 
these  privileged  ladies  b^an  to  arrivey  some  in  co«urt  dresses  with 
plumes  and  diamonds,  and  all  in  rich  evening  attiie  of  nlk  and 
satin.  Wonderful  wa:e  the  coiffures  to  be  seen ! — some  of  them 
ahnoet  rivalling  the  towering  magnificence  of  the  Lady  Mayoresi^a 
^head"— some  being  arranged  ii la  Cybile,  others  i  la Gorgonne, 
or  h  la  Venus.  From  the  early  hour  we  have  mentioned  until 
the  arrival  of  the  Lord  Mayor,  a  constant  succession  otoemeiem, 
hackney-coaches,  and  sedan-chairs  had  been  setting  down  bcMve 
the  entrance  to  the  covered  passage,  discharging  dieir  firei^hte  of 
silks  and  satins,  hoops,  lace,  feathers,  and  other  finery,  bml  them 
making  their  way  back  as  well  as  they  could. 


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THE  LORD  KAYOE  OV  U^fDOIT.  1S7 

In  his  over-denie  ta  obEge  hk  friendt^  Sir  FeHx  BbsKl  had 
given  away  m  grcai  many  i»ore  ikktia  than  he  ou|^t  to  hvre 
done,  and  the  oonaequettoe  wm,  thai  the  gaUtriet  wve  crowded 
b^ore  an  J  ol  the  ladiet  bdosgiii^  to  tiie  oowwwon  cooneU-iMa  ^ 
had  been  admktevL 

The  eatiRaace  to  the  coveted  way  before  which  the  Ijoid  Mayor 
had  ttepped  wae  deoomted  with  fli^  and  bannen^  iormoiuited 
by  the  rojral  ami%  with  the  City  aanns  beneath,  attd  could  be 
closed,  if  needful,  by  rich  damask  curtains.  The  panage  was  of 
ooiisid«»Ue  eaitevt,  a»d  waa  lined  with  orinaon  eMh,  carpeted, 
iiwtomied  with  gaiianda  of  artificial  floweny  and  bsnff  with  a  pco* 
fimoQ  of  colowred  lampa.  PfmuratioMy  indeed^  had  beeft  aaade 
for  generally  illuminating  the  {Haoe  at  ni^tw  Ootaidey  the  entrance 
to  the  ooveted  way  could  be  briUian^y  Ughtad  up,  while  the 
whole  front  of  the  adjacent  hatt,  together  with  the  bnildiBga 
o»  either  aide  of  the  OMurt»  were  covered  with  variegated  banns 
•nanged  in  gDMefnl  deviceB,  oakolated  to  piodaoe  a  veiy  hm- 
lianiefibct 

The  itttenor  of  the  noble  Gbthic  porch,  to  whidi  the  pat- 
aage  condiietedy  IukI  qnite  loet  ita  original  chancter,  ita  archi^ 
tectaral  beantaaa  bei^  hiddea  by  cnmson  doth  with  which 
the  walls  were  draped.  It  had  now  all  the  ai)peax«noe  of  a 
modem  anteiooM,  or  rather  a  conservatorf^  being  fiUed  with 
flowering  shmbs  and  eoio^.  Nothing  oonld  be  seen  of  the  azdi 
crossing  its  cen^,  supported  by  columns,  of  its  paneled  tracery 
with  qnatiefcd  tnrns^  of  the  varioiidy  scalptared  and  flilt  bosMB 
at  the  intessections  of  its  groined  roof,  or  ol  the  lAield  dispky- 
iDgtheann8ofBdwardtfaeOcn£60Bar.  But  though  time  beantiee 
were  ahronded  hr  the  moment,  mndi  comfort  was  gadned,  and  it 
must  be  owned  that  the  vestibule  had  a  very  charming  tt>peanmce. 
The  shmbe  and  cBedeB^  whicfa  formed  a  beautiful  arboar,  were 
canied  on  to  the  great  hall  beyondy  and  were  adcned  with 
waricijated  hottpe,  the  cffiwt  of  wkeb^  when  Ughted  np,  was  really 

The  atoppage  of  the  stale  coach  before  the  door  of  the  covered 

pstfsage  flommoned  fordi  Aice  of  the  aldermen,  members  of  the 

committee,  in  their  gowns,  to  receive  hk  lordship  as  he  a]^;hted. 

They  were  aoeompanied  by  half  a  doaen  commonKXMmcihnea  in 

mazanne  blue  gowns — ^wnence  they  obtained  the  nickname  of 

^  Jhfamimes,''  then  oammonly  applied  to  them.    Attended  by  the 

ald«mas,  ttrKh  his  tiaatt  borne  by  a  page^  and  pveeeded  by  th^ 

bearer  and  mace-bearer,  the  Lord  Mayor  traversed  the  passage  until 

Jie  leached  the  povcb,  wliere  several  City  f^bdak,  in  their  robes, 

gowns,  and  full-dressed  wigs,  were  waiting  to  receive  him*  Amongst 

flbcsw  were  Sii;  Thomaa  Harrison,  the  Chamberlain;  Sir  Richard 

Aiooreton,  the  Beootder;  Mr.  Roberts,  junior,  the  City  Remem- 

er;  and  Mr*  James  Chamness,  the  Chief  Huntsman  of  the 


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138  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

City,  ordinarily  styled  the  Common  Hunt,  the  City  Solicitor,  the 
Comptroller,  the  two  Secondaries,  and  the  Town  Clerk. 

Behind,  at  a  respectful  distance,  stood  Mr.  Towse,  the  Chief 
'Carver,  an  enormously  stout  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  could  stow 
half  a  baron  of  beef  beneath  his  capacious  waistcoat,  and  who 
might  have  personated  one  of  the  giants  of  the  neighbouring  hall 
without  stuffing.  Mr.  Towse  was  attended  by  three  Serjeant 
carvers,  almost  as  broad  across  the  shoulders  and  as  round  about 
the  waist  as  himself. 

A  little  farther  to  the  rear  of  these  robustious  personages,  and 
drawn  up  in  lines,  stood  three  Serjeants  of  the  chamber  and  two 
yeomen  of  the  chamber,  with  the  sword-bearer's  man,  the  common- 
crier's  man,  the  beadles,  and  other  attendants. 

While  Sir  Ghresham  was  conferring  with  the  Recorder  and 
Chamberlain,  the  party  was  increased  by  the  arrival  of  the  sheriffs. 
Alderman  Beckford,  Sir  Felix  Bland,  and  the  late  Lord  Mayor. 
Sir  Matthew  Blakiston  was  somewhat  past  the  middle  term  of  life, 
though  there  were  few  marks  of  age  about  him,  stout  of  person 
as  beseemed  a  civic  dignitary,  and  possessed  a  pleasant  counte- 
nance and  urbane  manners.  Add  to  these  recommendations  great 
liberality  and  hospitality,  and  it  will  not  be  wondered  at  that  Sir 
Matthew's  mayoralty  had  been  popular. 

Some  little  discussion  being  requisite  with  the  members  of  the 
committee  as  to  the  arrangements  of  the  day,  the  Lord  Mayor,  in 
order  to  be  more  at  his  ease,  took  off  his  gown,  leaving  it  with  his 
attendants,  but  he  w^  still  in  the  vestibule,  engaged  in  conversation 
with  Mr.  Beckford,  when  three  ladies,  evidently  of  high  rank,  re- 
splendent with  diamonds,  and  distinguished  alike  for  grace,  beauty, 
and  magnificence  of  attire,  were  seen  advancing  along  the  passage, 
preceded  by  two  ushers,  carrying  white  wands. 

"  Whom  have  we  here?"  ezcbimed  Alderman  Beckford.  "  Un- 
less my  eyes  deceive  me,  these  are  three  of  our  chief  court  beauties 
— the  Duchess  of  Richmond,  Lady  Eildare,  and  Lady  Pembroke. 
They  have  come  early." 

^^  I  begged  them  to  do  so,"  cried  Sir  Felix  Bland,  transported 
with  delight  at  the  appearance  of  the  ladies.  ^^  I  said  it  would  be 
impossible  to  keep  places  af^r  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  great  rush 
would  commence;  out  up  to  that  hour  I  would  promise  £em  fix>nt 
seats." 

**You  promised  more  than  you  can  perform,  Sir  Felix,"  ex- 
claimed a  common-councilman  coming  forward.  ^^  All  the  front 
places  are  gone." 

"What!  gone  ahready,  Mr.  Judkins?"  said  the  Lord  Mayor. 
^'  How  comes  that  to  pass? " 

"  It  is  all  Sir  Felix  s  fault,  my  lord,"  rejoined  the  angry  Maza- 
rine. "  He  has  given  away  a  couple  of  hundred  tickets  more  thaa 
he  ought  to  have  done.  ISone  of  our  own  ladies  can  be  accom- 
modated.   There'll  be  pretty  work  with  them  by-and-by." 


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THE  LOBD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  139 

"  Odds  bobs !  I  hope  not,**  rejoined  Sir  Ghresham.  "  All  disturb- 
ance most  be  avoided,  if  possible.  Meantime,  the  duchess,  and  the 
noble  ladies  with  her,  must  have  places  assigned  them." 

"  I  don't  very  well  see  how  that  can  be  accomplished,  my  lord," 
rejoined  Judkins. 

"  But  I  tell  you  it  must  be  done,  sir,"  rejoined  the  Lord  Mayor, 
authoritatively.     "  About  it  at  once." 

These  remarks  did  not  reach  the  ears  of  Sir  Felix.  Hurrying 
off,  he  was  by  this  time  bowing  to  the  ground  before  the  superb 
Duchess  of  Kichmond,  after  which  he  addressed  similar  profound 
obeisances  to  her  grace's  lovely  companions.  So  enraptured  were 
his  looks,  so  obsequious  was  his  manner,  so  high-flown  and  absurd,; 
were  his  compliments,  that  Lady  Pembroke  spread  her  fan  before 
her  face  to  hide  her  laughter. 

^^How  fortunate  I  chanced  to  be  here  at  the  moment  of  your 
arrival,"  he  exclaimed,  ^^  that  I  may  have  the  honour  and  hap- 
piness of  escorting  your  grace  and  their  ladyships — three  graces, 
if  I  may  venture  to  use  the  phrase — to  your  seats.  How  con- 
descendmg  of  you  to  come  so  soon ! " 

^^  You  may  say  so  with  truth.  Sir  Felix,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned," replied  the  duchess.  ^^  It  cost  me  a  terrible  effort  to  rise 
at  such  an  unearthly  hour.  However,  I  was  resolved  to  submit 
to  any  personal  inconvenience  rather  than  lose  my  place." 

^^  We  should  have  been  here  half  an  hour  sooner  had  not  the 
streets  been  so  excessively  crowded.  Sir  Felix,"  observed  Lady 
Eoldare. 

"  Oh !  your  ladyship  has  arrived  in  the  very  nick  of  time,"  re- 
joined Sir  Felix,  bowing. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  observed  Lady  Pembroke.  "  The  people 
at  the  entrance  informed  us  we  were  late." 

"  Is  it  possible  they  ventured  to  say  so  to  persons  of  your  lady- 
ship's distinction?    They  can't  plead  ignorance,  for  they  must  have 
^li — if  not  otherwise  acquainted  with  the  fact — that  they  had 
before  them  persons  of  the  most  exalted  rank.     I'm  a&aid  your 
ladyship  will  think  us  very  ill-bred  in  the  City." 

*^I  can*t  possibly  think  that,  Sir  Felix,"  Lady  Pembroke  re- 
joined, ^^  witn  such  a  perfect  specimen  of  politeness  before  me." 

**  Your  ladyship  quite  overwhelms  me,  he  replied^  laying  his 
liand  upon  his  heart,  and  casting  down  his  eyes.  ^^  If  I  felt  that 
I  really  deserved  the  compliment, .  I  should  be  the  vainest  of 
mortals." 

^*  What  a  droll  little  creature  it  is  I "  whispered  Lady  Pembroke, 
with  a  laugh,  to  Lady  Kildare.  "  These  citizens  are  vastly  enter- 
taining,  though  I  know  most  about  them  from  plays,  but  to-day 
we  shad^  have  an  opportunity  of  studying  them  from  the  life.  I 
suppose  their  manners  and  customs  are  vastly  different  from  our 
own?^* 

<^  We  shall  see,"  returned  Lady  Kildare.    "  Here  comes  anotfier 

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140  TH£  LORD  MATO&  OF  LONDOF. 

cf  the  aboriffinesw    Ah !  «s  I  five^  'tis  Mx.  Beckfoard*    I  row  I 
dHu^t  kwnr  mm  m  hit  mvnJ' 

As  she  spoke,  the  al&man  in  qoestioii  tame  up,  and  bowed  to 
the  thieepeeraMe%  with  all  of  whom  he  appealed  to  be  acquainted. 

^^I  give  your  grace  welcome  to  the  City/'  he  said  to  the  dnchen. 
^  We  are  much  flattered  to  have  guests  so  fair  attd  of  tassk  h^h 
degree  within  our  haUs." 

^  like  yovr  bsotber  tlderman,  Sir  Felix  Bfamd,  you  indulge  in 
ixna^iiraentSy  it  seensy  Mr.  Becklbrd,"  the  duchess  reined.  ^  '1^ 
ihe  nrst  time  I  hare  been  at  Guildhall,  and  I  am  curious  to  witaes 
one  of  your  gnmd  civic  entertainments." 
^  ^  I  trusi  your  giaoe  will  not  be  disappointed,"  Mr«  Beddbrd  re^ 
plied.  ^Perhaps,  as  we  hare  royalty  and  the  court  with  us  fto^y^ 
we  msT  have  a  better  chance  of  pleasing  you." 

^We  hare  royaltjr  and  the  court  every  day"  rejoined  the 
dnchmy  UnigfaiDg.  ^  Sonsewha*  too  mtudi  of  both,  periaaps.  What 
I  wnt  to  see  is  a  resl  Lord  Mayor  and  a  Lady  Maycnress.  Thej 
tell  me  your  Loid  Mayor  is  a  draper?    Can  it  be  true?  " 

^^  Perfectly  true,  your  grace.  And,  what  is  more,  he  is  not 
adiamed  of  his  caslhng.  We  are  all  tradexs  in  the  City,  you 
know." 

^Halhalhal"  ki^hed  Sir  Felix,  ^  tha^s  very  well  for  you  to 
assert,  Mt.  Beckford— you  who  are  an  op^dent  West  India  mer- 
chant, and  come  of  a  ffood  £Etmily,  whose  gmn^re  was  Sir  Thomas 
Beckfoid,  sheriff  for  London  in  1677." 

^^  I  should  have  been  prouder  had  I  made  my  own  fortune  as 
you  hare  done.  Sir  FcGz,  and  as  our  present  Lord  Mayor  has  d<me, 
than  I  am  from  inheriting  one,"  rejoined  Bec^ord.  ^^  Ab  to  birth, 
cwrmg  your  gaied^jxaScmy  it  is  mere  matter  o£  accident" 

^^  And  pray,  Sir  Felix,  what  may  be  your  business?"  inquired 
tbednchess. 

^Minel"  he  exelaimed,  rkibbr  embanassed,  and  having  re> 
oourse  to  his  SBuffbooB^-^  mine  I  hal  hal  I  thought  your  giaoe 
had  known  it-^hel  heP'  And  he  stuffed  an  immense  pinch  into 
his  nostrils. 

^*  f  II  spare  mr  escceUent  friend  the  necessitr  of  explaimns;  that 
he  »  a  saddler,"  observed  Alderman  Beckfora;  ^  ana  I'M  add  for 
him,  what  he  couldn't  so  well  add  for  himself  that  he  has  realised 
a  rerr  large  fortune  by  his  business," 

^  How  veiy  extraqroinary !"  cried  Lady  Kildare,  hujehii^.  ^^I 
wasn't  aware  till  now  that  people  could  make  large  fortunes  W 
selling  saddles  and  bridles." 

^  Your  iadydw's  ootchman  could  hare  enlightened  you  on  that 
point,"  observed  JBeokford,  dryly. 

<<  By-theory,  I  hear  yon  have  rebuilt  Fonthill,  Mr«  Beckford,*^ 
observed  the  dndieai,  anxious  to  leheve  Sir  Felix  by  changing  the 
conversation.  ^^  'Twas  a  thousand  pities  the  fine  old  place  shoold 
Iw  bamt  dewn." 


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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  141 

<^  I  haY.e  built  a  finer  house  in  its  stead,"  said  Beckford. 

"  But  at  a  cost  of  thirty  thousand  pounds,'*  interposed  Sir  Felia^ 
who  had  now  recovered  from  his  emoarrassment  ^^  Mr.  Beckford 
has  greater  philosophy  than  most  of  us  possess.  Tour  grace  shall 
hear  what  occurred  at  the  time.  I  happened  to  be  with  him  when 
a  messenger,  who  had  ridden  post-haste  from  Wiltshire,  brought  word 
that  FonthiU  Abbey  was  destroyed  by  fire.  I  was  dreadfiilly  shocked 
hj  the  intelligence,  as  your  grace  will  naturally  conceive,  but  what 
did  Mr.  Beclobrd  say  and  do?  Rave  and  swear,  as  I  should  have 
done?  Nothinff  of  the  sort.  Quietly  taking  out  his  pocket-book,  he 
l^an  to  write  m  it  '  In  Heaven  s  name,  what  are  you  doing,  my 
good  firiend?'  I  cried,  at  last,  provoked  by  his  silence  and  apathy. 
*  Merely  calculating  the  expense  of  rebuilding  the  house,'  he  calmly 
replied.  '  'Tis  insured  for  six  thousand  pounds,  and  I  find  it  wiu 
cost  twenty-four  thousand  more  to  erect  another  mansion.'  That 
was  all  he  said  about  it — ^he  I  he ! " 

"  You  are  a  philosopher  indeed,  Mr.  Beckford,"  observed  the 
duchess.  "  Few  persons,  under  such  circumstances,  could  display 
so  much  equanimity.     I  should  not,  I'm  quite  sure." 

**  I  am  not  always  so  calm,"  rejoined  Beckford,  laughing.  "  I 
am  choleric  enough  on  occasion,  as  those  who  chafe  me  can  testify. 
Little  matters  put  me  out,  great  matters  never.  I  can  bear  misfor- 
tunes with  fortitude,  but  petty  troubles,  which  others  would  dis- 
regard, annoy  me.  I  cannot  bear  ingratitude.  I  hold  it  to  be  the 
bc^t  of  crimes,  and  when  I  find  it  manifested  either  to  myself 
or  others,  I  lose  all  patience.  From  this  your  grace  will  conceive 
what  my  feelings  must  have  been  when  our  Great  Commoner,  to 
whom  a  nation's  gratitude  is  due,  found  it  needful  to  resign,  and 
still  more  when  his  resignation  was  accepted." 

"  I  can  quite  understand  that  you  were  very  angry,"  replied  the 
duchess,  ^^  because  I  know  you  to  be  Mr.  Pittas  warmest  partisan. 
TTifl  defeat,  therefore,  must  have  been  a  severe  blow  to  you." 

^^Twas  a  blow  to  the  whole  country,"  said  Beckford;  "but 
it  will  recoil,  and  with  additional  force,  on  those  who  inflicted  it." 

*^  Mr.  Pitt,  I  am  told,  is  coming  here  to-day,"  observed  Lady 
Pembroke. 

"  He  is,  and  your  ladyship  will  see  how  he  will  be  received  by 
the  citizens,*'  returned  Beckford.  "  They,  at  least,  know  how  much 
they  owe  him.  They  also  know  what  they  owe  my  Lord  Bute, 
and  will  probably  demonstrate  their  readiness  to  discharge  their 
obligations  to  him." 

^*  1  am  malicious  enough  to  hope  they  may,"  laughed  Lady 
Kildare,  displaying  her  pearl-like  teeth.  "  The  scene  would  be 
highly  diverting." 

"  1  our  lady^ip  is  not  likely  to  be  disappointed  of  it,"  said 
Beckford.  ^^His  majesty  may  see  enough,  and  hear  enough,  to 
spare  us  the  necessity  of  further  remonstrances." 

VOL.  LI.  L 

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142  THE  LOBD  MAYOR  07  LONDON. 

<<  Lord  Bate  laughs  at  your  remonstrances,  Mr.  Beckford,^  said 
Ltd  J  Peml»rokey  ^^and  counsels  his  majesty  to  pay  no  heed  to 
them;  and  as  his  lordship  is  omnipotent  just  nowy  all  your  repre« 
aentations,  however  forcible,  are  likely  to  fall  on  dull  ears.'' 

^Then  we  must  find  other  means  of  obtaining  a  hearing/' 
r^(uned  Beckford.  ^  Lord  Bute  does  ill  to  deride  the  Peo^, 
He  knows  not  their  strength.  They  have  overthrown  many  a 
fiivourite  ere  now  more  potent  than  hin^self,  Mr.  Pitt  is  the 
People's  Minister.  Whether  tiieir  favourite  or  the  royal  favourite 
will  prevail  in  the  aid,  remains  to  be  seen.  But  that  my  fellow* 
citizens,  though  loyal  and  dutiful  in  the  highest  deffree,  and  ever 
aiudous  to  maintain  the  true  honour  and  dignity  of  the  crown,  will 
not  be  trifled  with,  I  am  certain.  A  poor  jest  of  Lord  Bute  made 
Sir  Gresham  Lorimer  Lord  Mayor.  Another  unlucky  jest  may 
woric  his  own  overthrow." 

"  Hold !  hold !  my  good  friend,  you  are  going  sadly  too  far,'' 
interposed  Sir  Felix.  ^^  You  will  alarm  her  grace  and  their  lady- 
riiips  by  the  violence  of  your  politics.  They  will  think  we  all 
share  your  sentiments,  though  many  of  us,  myself  included,  arc  of 
a  totally  different  opinion.  I  have  a  great  respect  for  my  lord 
Bate — a  verv  great  respect.    He  has  wonderful  abilities." 

^  Ay,  as  his  maj'esty's  father,  the  late  Prince  of  Wales,  said  of 
him,  he  would  make  an  excellent  ambassador  in  a  court  where 
there  is  nothing  to  do.  He  has  ability  enough  for  that,"  laughed 
Beckford.  "lou  haven't  forgiven  me,  I  see.  Sir  Felix,  for 
making  known  your  calling.  Pshaw!  man,  don't  look  blank. 
There's  no  disgrace  in  being  a  saddler." 

^^  There's  no  disgrace,  certainly^  but,  at  the  same  time,  there's 
nothing  to  be  proud  of,"  rejoined  the  little  alderman,  rather  nettled* 
"  So,  if  you  please,  sir,  we'll  say  no  more  on  the  subject." 

Mx.  fieckford  laughed,  and,  turning  to  the  Duchess  of  Rich« 
mond,  begged  permission  to  present  her  grace  and  their  ladyships 
to  the  Lord  Mayor;  and  assent  being  instantly  given,  he  1^  them 
on  to  the  vestibule  where  Sir  Gresham  was  standing  in  the  midst 
of  the  City  dignitaries  and  officials,  and  the  presentations  were 
made  in  due  form. 

If  our  Lord  Mayor  was  not  distinguished  by  any  remarkable 
dignity  of  deportment  or  peculiar  rennement  of  manner — as  waa 
scarcely  to  be  expected — he  had  a  great  deal  of  natural  good  breed- 
ing and  courtesy,  which  answered  the  purpose  quite  as  well;  and 
being  perfectly  easy  and  self-possessed,  he  was  fully  equal  to  the 
situation,  and  acquitted  himself  so  well  that  the  fastidious  court 
ladies,  who  expected  to  find  something  ridiculous  in  his  appear^ 
ance  and  manner,  were  surprised  and  perplexed.  They  did  not 
suppose  a  draper  could  be  so  well  bred.  They  thought  to  daasde 
and  confound  him,  but  they  did  not  succeed.  He  could  not  be 
insensible  to  their  rare  personal  attractions;  he  could  not  fail  to  be 


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THS  LORD  HAYOS  OF  LONDON.  148 

stniok  by  the  couxdy  grace  of  their  manner;  but  neither  their 
rank,  the  splendour  of  their  beauty,  nor  the  haughtiness  of  their 
deportment*  produced  any  undue  effect  upon  him.  Exceedingly 
afiable,  be  did  not  lose  sight  for  a  moment  of  the  position  he  had 
to  maintain. 

^  Upon  my  word,  he  seems  very  agreeable,"  observed  Lady  Eil- 
dare,  aside,  to  Lady  Pembroke.  ^'Who  would  have  supposed 
s  draper  could  be  a  gentleman?" 

^Qne  would  think  he  had  been  bom  for  his  present  office,  it 
seems  to  suit  him  so  exactly,"  rejoined  the  countess. 

^^  I  am  quite  concerned  your  fpmce  and  your  ladyships  should 
have  come  so  early,''  remarked  Sir  Greaham  to  the  duchess.  ^^  Yoa 
will  find  it  very  tedious,  I  fear,  to  wait  so  many  hours." 

^^Pottibly  we  may,  my  lord^"  replied  the  duchess;  ^but  then 
it  is  to  be  hoped  we  shall  be  rewarded  for  our  pains.  We  must 
try  to  support  the  fatigue.  People  went  to  the  Abbey  over- 
night to  view  the  coronation  ceremony,  and  they  tell  me  this  wiU 
be  quite  as  fine  a  sight" 

"Not  quite,  I  fear,"  returned  the  Lord  Mayor;  **it  won't  have 
the  advantage  of  your  grace  and  their  ladyships  as  chief  performers 
in  it.  *Tis  a  pity  you  can't  see  the  show  out  of  doors.  It  might 
have  amused  you,  and  would  have  helped  to  pass  away  the  time." 
"  I  should  nave  liked  that  prodigiously,"  said  the  duchess.  "  But 
we  were  not  invited  to  Mr.  Barclay's,  where  thdr  majesties  and 
their  royal  highnesses  are  going  to  view  the  procession. 

While  this  conversation  was  taking  place,  several  other  ladies, 
richly  attired,  had  entered  the  vestibule,  and  were  now  presented 
to  the  Lord  Mayor  by  some  of  the  aldermen  composing  the  com- 
mittee, and  were  very  courteously  received  by  his  lordsmp. 

"  We  are  rather  in  the  wajr  here,  I  think,"  said  the  duchess,  with 
a  graceful  though  formal  obeisance  to  the  Lord  Mayor.  ^^  May  we 
trouble  you  to  show  us  to  our  places,  Sir  Felix?"         / 

**  I  am  at  your  grace's  entire  disposal,"  he  rejoined,  with  a  bow. 
**  This  way,  your  ^ce — this  way  l" 

He  was  proceedmg  with  a  very  consequential  air,  when  he  was 
mddenly  stopped  by  Mr.  Judkins  and  a  party  of  Mazarines,  all  of 
whom  threw  very  angry  glances  at  him,  drawn  up  before  the  door 
ir»y  of  the  hall. 

^  By  your  leave,  gentlemen !"  he  cried.  ^^  Way  for  the  Duchess 
of  Richmond,  and  the  Countesses  of  Kildare  and  rembroke.  D'ye 
hear,  gentlemen? — make  way ! " 

Xo  his  surprise,  however,  the  sturdy  Mazarines  did  not  retire. 
'^  What  means  this  extraordinary  conduct,  gentlemen?"  he  pur- 
saedy  growing  very  red  in  the  face.     "  Her  graoe  will  have  a  poor 
opinion  of  City  manners.    Permit  us  to  pass." 

^^  Her  grace  shall  know  whom  she  has  to  blame  for  any  disap- 
pointment she  may  experience,"  returned  Judkins.    "  It  is  not  our 

l2 

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144  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

faulty  but  youTBy  Sir  Felix,  that  there  are  no  firont  places  left  in  the 
galleries.** 

"  No  front  places  left !  '*  exclaimed  the  little  alderman,  looking 
aghast.  ^^'Sdeath!  I  shall  go  distracted.  How  can  this  have 
happened,  Mr.  Judkins?  " 

**  Because  you  have  given  away  too  many  tickets,  Sir  Felix,** 
replied  Judtins.  *^Two  hundred  ladies  sent  in  by  you  have 
already  got  seats,  and  we  won't  admit  any  more,  be  they  whom 
they  may.  We  stand  upon  our  privileges  and  immunities.  We 
have  our  own  friends  to  oblige — our  own  ladies  to  accommodate. 
You  have  greatly  exceeded  your  allowance,  and  will  be  censured 
for  your  conduct  at  the  next  court  Had  each  member  of  the 
committee  acted  as  vou  have  done,  we  shoidd  now  have  fourteen 
hundred  ladies  in  the  galleries — that  is,  supposing  they  could  ac- 
commodate so  many.    it*8  too  bad  of  you.** 

"  A  great  deal  too  bad,'*  chorused  the  Mazarines.  *'  But  we  stand 
upon  our  rights.    No  more  of  your  tickets  shall  pass.  Sir  Felix.** 

"  I  don't  lor  a  moment  deny  your  rights,  gentlemen,**  cried  Sir 
Felix,  "  but  I  appeal  to  your  good  nature--— to  your  well-known 
gallantry.  I  implore  you  to  allow  her  grace  and  their  ladyships  to 
pass.    1  will  find  places.** 

"  There  are  none  to  be  had,  I  tell  you,  Sir  Felix,**  rejoined 
Judkins.  "  We  regret  to  appear  disobliging  and  uncourteous  to 
the  ladies,  but  we  have  no  alternative." 

*^How  can  I  extricate  myself  from  this  horrible  dilemma!** 
cried  Sir  Felix,  with  a  look  of  distress  so  exceedingly  absurd  that 
nobody  could  help  laughing  at  him. 

"  Well,  we  must  perforce  return,  it  seems,**  said  the  duchess. 
"  We  have  got  our  early  ride  for  nothing.  We  shall  know  how 
to  trust  to  your  promises  in  future,  Sir  Felix.*' 

"  Your  grace  drives  me  to  despair,**  he  rejoined,  with  a  frenzied 
look.  "I  can  never  survive  this  disgrace.  I  shall  die  on  the 
spot. 

"  Not  till  you  have  found  chairs  for  us,  I  trust.  Sir  Felix,**  said 
Lady  Pembroke,  laughing.  ^^  You  are  bound  to  see  us  safely  away. 
It  is  rather  provoking,  1  must  confess,  to  come  so  far  and  see 
nothing.** 

"  For  my  part,  I  shall  never  forgive  Sir  Felix,**  said  Lady  Kil- 
dare.  ^^  I  did  not  expect  such  treatment  from  a  person  of  lus  le- 
putedpoliteness.** 

*^  We  must  endeavour  to  console  ourselves  by  thinking  that  the 
spectacle  we  came  to  witness  is  not  worth  beholdmg,*  observed 
Lady  Pembroke.  **  Adieu,  Sir  Felix.  If  you  design  to  put  an 
end  to  your  existence,  pray  don*t  delay.** 

As  the  duchess  and  the  two  countesses  turned  to  depart^  the 
Lord  Mayor  disengaged  himself  from  the  persons  by  whom  he  waai 


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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON  145 

stunounded,  and  stepped  towards  them.    His  countenance  wore  a 
reassuring  smile. 
<<  I  hope  your  grace  will  pardon  me  for  allowing  this  matter  to 

J  proceed  so  far/'  he  said;  ^^I  have  done  so  to  punish  Sir  Felix 
or  his  indiscretion.  Tou  need  be  under  no  apprehension  about 
places^  for  I  have  ordered  three  of  the  best  seats  to  be  retained  for 
you,  and  they  are  now  at  your  disposition.  But  if  you  have  any 
curiosity  to  witness  the  procession — and  it  is  likely  to  be  better 
than  ordinary  to-day — and  will  so  far  honour  me,  I  will  pray  you 
to  repair  to  my  house  in  Cheapside,  which  is  nearly  opposite  to 
Mr.  Barclay's,  where  you  will  see  everything  without  inconvenience^ 
and  can  return  here  when  you  are  so  minded.** 

"  Your  lordship  is  excessively  obliging,"  replied  the  duchess. 
^^ I  accept  your  oner  with  pleasure;  and  I  think  I  may  answer  for 
my  friends,"  she  added,  to  the  two  countesses,  who  smilingly  as- 
aentedy  and  expressed  their  obligations  to  the  Lord  Mayor. 

^^  The  Lady  Mayoress  and  my  daughters  will  be  enchanted  to 
show  you  everv  attention,"  pursued  Sir  Gresham.  ^^  But  before 
proce^ng  thither,  I  trust  your  grace  will  allow  me  to  show  you 
our  ancient  hall,  of  which  we  citizens  are  not  a  little  proud.  It 
must  never  be  said  that  three  of  our  most  richly  graced  court 
ladies  were  refused  admittance  to  it.     Allow  me  to  attend  you." 

At  a  sign  from  his  lordship,  Mr.  Judkins  and  the  rest  of  the 
common-councilmen,  whose  aemeanour  was  totally  changed,  and 
who  were  now  all  smiles  and  civility,  drew  back,  and  ranged  them- 
selves in  double  file.  Passing  through  these  lines,  a  few  steps 
brought  the  Lord  Mayor  and  his  lovely  companions  into  the  boay 
of  the  halL 

Astonished  at  the  magnificent  spectacle  that  burst  upon  her, 
the  duchess  warmly  expressed  her  admiradon,  as  did  the  two 
countesses  in  equally  rapturous  terms.  We  have  endeavoured  to 
familiarise  the  reader  with  the  ordinary  aspect  of  the  hall,  but  it 
had  now  undergone  a  wonderful  metamorphosis,  being  splendidly 
decorated  in  anticipation  of  the  grand  entertainment  to  be  given 
within  it* 

On  either  side  laree  galleries  had  been  erected,  the  fronts  of 
which  were  hung  wim  crimson  cloth,  and  otherwise  ornamented. 
Sven  at  this  early  hour,  as  already  intimated,  these  galleries 
were  almost  entirely  filled  by  richly-attired  ladies,  many  of  them 
of  fi^t  personal  attraction,  whose  plumed  head-dresses,  and  the 
farimants  with  which  they  were  ornamented,  added  greatly  to  the 
efiect  produced  by  such  a  jgalaxy  of  beautv. 

Superb  lustres  for  illumination  of  the  place  when  evening  came 
on  were  suspended  from  the  roof,  and  the  royal  banner,  the  ban- 
ners of  the  City,  with  those  of  the  twelve  principal  companies, 
were  hung  from  the  walls.    Thegreat  cornice  was  traced  through- 


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146  THE  LOIO)  MAYOR  OF  LONDOK. 

out  its  entire  extent  by  a  cordon  of  uncoloured  lamps*  OrohestraSy 
capable  of  containing  two  full  military  bands,  were  erected  towards 
the  eastern  end  of  the  halL 

Here,  upon  the  platform  generally  used  for  the  hustings,  and 
now  covered  with  Turkey  carpet,  the  royal  table  was  placed, 
most  sumptuously  adorned  with  gold  plate,  as  well  as  witii  a 
variety  of  emblematic  devices  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  A 
superb  canopy  fashioned  of  crimson  satin,  embroidered  with  the 
toyCLl  arms  worked  in  gold,  covered  the  seats  intended  for  their 
majesties.  Behind  the  royal  table,  stretching  across  the  hall,  and 
on  the  right  and  left,  were  magnificent  sideboards,  piled  with 
salvers,  flagons,  ships  of  silver,  and  other  plate,  such  as  the  oorpo* 
ration  of  the  City  of  London  only  can  produce. 

On  either  side  of  the  platform^  and  just  where  it  crossed  ih^  body 
of  the  hall,  were  reared  lofty  stages  for  the  reception  of  barons  of 
beef,  so  that  these  mighty  joints  might  be  carved  by  Mr.  Towse 
and  his  assistants  in  sight  of  the  whole  company.  Across  the 
lower  hustings,  as  this  part  of  the  hall  was  termed,  a  table,  richly 
set,  was  laid  for  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  the  aldermen  and  their 
ladies.  Three  other  tables,  running  down  the  chamber,  all  arranged 
with  exquisite  taste,  were  reserved  for  the  Lady  Mayoress  and  her 
guests.  At  the  first  of  these  her  ladyship  herself  was  to  preside; 
at  the  second,  or  mid-table,  Mrs.  Chatteris;  and  at  the  third.  Lady 
Dawes. 

A  wide  qwioe  here  intervened,  beyond  which  were  three 
other  long  tables,  running  towards  the  opposite  end  of  the  hall, 
the  upper  parts  of  which  were  destined  for  the  privy  councillors, 
ministers  of  state,  forei^  ambassadors,  and  nobility,  while  the 
lower  seats  were  assignea  to  the  Mazarines. 

The  Court  of  Common  Council  were  to  dine  on  tables  on  the 
south  side  of  the  hall,  but  below  the  grand  entrance,  where  the 
division  occurred*  The  table  for  the  City  officers  was  placed  on 
the  north  side,  under  the  guardianship  of  Qog  and  Magog,  who 
came  out  magnificently,  having  been  newly  painted  and  gilt  for 
the  occasion.  The  judges  and  seijeants  were  to  dine  in  the  old 
council-chamber. 


VI. 

-inSDEE  WHAT  CIBCtTMSTAHCES  THB  LORD  MAYOR   MET,  AS  HI  SXTPK>SED,  HIS 
IX)N&*L08T  BROTHER  LlWBZNCB. 

Ths  entrance  of  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  the  distinguished  party 
with  him,  had  excited,  as  might  naturally  be  expected,  a  very  hvelyr 
sensation  in  the  galleries,  as  was  made  manifest  by  a  general  marmar 
of  applause;  but  when  his  lordship  and  the  lovely  peeresses  passed. 


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THE  LORD  MATOB  OP  LONDON.  147 

op  the  hall  and  ascended  the  platform  on  which  the  rojal  table  was 
set,  turning  round  to  look  at  the  scene  from  this  adrantageous 

Cdtion,  the  enthusiasm  became  irrepressible,  the  whole  of  the  fair 
holders  arose  en  masse,  clapping  their  hands,  wavinff  their 
handkerchiefi,  and  giving  audiole  utteraaoe  to  their  approbation. 
The  ovation  was  exceedingly  gratifying  to  the  Lord  Mayor,  and 
he  acknowledged  it  by  repeated  bows,  which  tended  to  prolong 
the  applause. 

At  this  moment  the  spectacle  was  really  brilliant  Stream- 
ing through  the  gorgeous  panes  of  the  great  eastern  window^ 
the  bright  sunbeams  fell  upon  the  beauteous  occupants  of  the 
galleries,  tinging  their  plumes  and  other  portions  ot  their  attire 
with  various  hues,  and  giving  them  the  appearance  of  beds  of 
flowers.  Viewed  firom  the  elevated  position  on  which  stood  the 
Lord  Mayor  and  the  ladies,  the  vast  cnamber,  superbly  decorated 
as  it  was,  hung  with  banners,  provided  with  galleries  filled  with 
many  of  the  Weliest  women  the  metropolis  could  then  boast 
famished  with  tables  laid  for  some  thousands  of  guests,  and  all 
richly  laid, — thus  viewed,  we  say,  the  hall  presented  a  magnifi* 
cent  coup  iTeal. 

Having  enjoyed  the  charming  spectacle,  and  come  in  for  their 
own  share  of  the  applause  resounding  from  the  galleries — having 
glanced  at  the  arrangements  on  the  royal  table,  and  noted  the 
superb  plate  on  the  sideboards — the  duchess  thanked  the  Lord 
Mayor,  and  begged  to  retire,  as  they  might  be  trespassing  too  much 
on  his  time.  As  they  were  descending  the  steps  leading  from  the 
dais  to  the  lower  hustings,  Lady  Kildare  expressed  a  desire  to  have 
a  nearer  view  of  the  giants.  Smiling  at  the  request.  Sir  Gresham 
good  naturedly  led  the  way  towards  them. 

While  they  were  contemplating  the  colossal  figures,  and  listening 
to  Sir  Gresham's  droll  version  of  tne  popular  legend  connected  with 
them,  a  strange  hollow  sound,  resembling  a  prolonged  and  dismal 
groan,  was  heard,  issuing  apparently  from  the  interior  wall  at  the 
rear  of  Ma^g.  The  lames  glanced  at  each  other  in  surprise,  and 
the  Lord  Mayor  paused  in  his  recital.  The  unearthly  sound  ceased 
for  a  moment,  and  was  then  renewed.  Just  in  front  of  the  party, 
at  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  internal  courts,  stood  a  fal^ 
pompous4ooking  beadle,  with  a  face  almost  as  crimson  as  his 
gold-laced  coat,  and  holding  a  tall  staff  with  a  gilt  head  nearly 
as  big  as  that  oiF  the  Corporation  mace. 

"  Whatfs  that?**  cried  Sir  Gtresham,  addressing  a  look  of  inquiry 
towards  this  consequential  person.  "  What's  that,  I  say?**  he 
repeated. 

^at  the  beadle  pretended  he  heard  nothing.  The  excuse,  however, 
did  not  avail  him,  for  presently  a  knocking  was  heard  against  a  small 
low  door  on  the  right  of  the  arched  entrance,  and  a  voice  could  be 
distinguished  as  of  some  one  imploring  to  be  let  out. 


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148  THE  LOBD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

'^  Bless  my  soul !  some  poor  fellow  must  be  shut  up  in  tlie  Little 
Ease  I  **  exclaimed  the  Lorn  Mayor,  ^^  Who  has  done  it,  Staveley  ? 
Not  you,  I  hope?''  he  continued,  noticing  the  beadle's  confusion, 
and  that  his  cheeks  had  become  redder  than  ever. 

"  Well,  I  own  I  locked  him  up,  my  lord,"  stammered  Staveley; 
^^  but  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do  with  him.  I  hope  your  lord- 
ship won't  be  angry." 

"But  I  am  angry — very  angry,"  rejoined  the  Lord  Mayor. 
^^  If  you  have  act^  without  the  Chamberlain's  warrant — and  I'm 
quite  sure  no  order  for  confinement  in  that  cell  would  be  given 
by  him  on  a  day  like  this— you  shall  smart  for  it,  sirrah.  Who  is 
the  person  you  have  dared  to  imprison?  What  offence  has  he 
committed?     Speak  out,  sirrah — no  equivocation  " 

"  Fm  very  sorry  to  have  incurred  your  lordship's  diq>lea8ure," 
returned  the  now  crestfallen  beadle;  ^^but  I  did  it  for  the  best 
Tis  a  drunken  old  scoundrel  whom  I  have  shut  up,  my  lord — a 
fellow  not  worth  your  right  honourable  lordship's  consideration. 
The  old  rascal  was  employed  to  lay  out  the  tables,  and  serve  at  the 
banauet,  but  he  made  too  free  with  the  wine  entrusted  to  him — 
drinking  your  lordship's  health,  as  he  affirmed — and  got  drunk, 
roarin'  drunk,  my  lord— so  I  locked  him  up  Uiere  that  he  might 
have  a  chance  of  becoming  sober;  and  I  dare  say  he's  all  ri^ht 
now,  for  he's  been  there  since  seven  o'clock.  That's  everything 
about  it,  my  lord.  If  your  lordship  desires  it,  I'll  let  him  out  at 
once." 

^^  And  so  you  have  imprisoned  a  poor  old  man  in  that  cell  for 
four  or  five  hours,  eh?'  cried  the  Lord  Mayor,  very  angrily. 
"  Enough  to  kill  him.  Your  unwarrantable  conduct  wiU  cost  you 
your  post,  Staveley." 

^^  I  hope  your  lordship  will  take  a  more  lenient  view  of  the 
case,"  said  the  beadle,  penitentially.  "  No  doubt  I've  done  wrong, 
since  your  lordship  thinks  so.  But  'twill  be  hard  to  lose  my  post 
for  a  drunken  old  vagabond.  Besides,  the  old  sot  aggerawated 
me  by  the  liberties  he  took  with  your  right  honourable  lordship's 
honoured  name.  What  does  your  lordship  suppose  he  had  tne 
effrentery  to  assert?" 

^^  Nay,  I  can't  guess,"  cried  Sir  Gresham,  impatiently. 

"  Imperance  couldn't  further  go.  He  swore  he  was  your  lord- 
ship's brother.  May  I  lose  my  post  if  he  didn't.  *  Fll  complain 
of  you  to  my  brother,  the  Lora  Mayor,'  says  he.  *  That's  very 
well,'  says  I,  *but  I  shall  lock  you  up  till  you  alter  your  tune, 
my  friend.'     And  I  thought  I  did  quite  right." 

"  Let  him  out  without  more  ado,"  rejomed  Sir  Ghresham,  upoa 
whom  his  beadle's  attempt  to  justify  himself  had  producea  a 
certain  impression. 

Taking  a  large  bunch  of  keys  from  his  capacious  pocket,  Stave- 


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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  149 

ley  unlocked  the  cell-door,  and  bawled  out,  in  an  authoritatiye 
tone,  "  There  I  come  out,  my  man,  come  out  I** 

Whereupon,  an  old  man,  whose  rusty  black  attire  was  a  good 
deal  disordered,  and  whose  scratch-wig  had  got  knocked  off  during 
his  confinement,  crept  out  on  all-fours;  for  though,  as  presently 
appeared,  the  aged  prisoner  was  short  of  stature  and  rouncU 
shouldered,  he  could  not  stand  upright  in  the  narrow  hole  into 
which  he  had  been  thrust. 

The  old  man's  appearance  was  abject  and  pitiable  in  the  ex- 
treme. Besides  beanng  evident  traces  of  the  excess  he  had  com- 
mitted, his  features  were  stamped  with  shame  and  contrition,  and 
he  seemed  painfully  sensible  of  the  degrading  position  in  which  he 
was  ^ced* 

^^  There,  get  up  I"  cried  the  beadle,  hastily  adjusting  his  dress, 
and  clapping  the  wig  upon  his  bald  head.  *^  Get  up,  I  say,  and 
make  an  obeisance  to  the  Lord  Mayor." 

" The  Lord  Mayor!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  with  a  sharp  cry. 
^  Where  is  he? — ^ha ! "  And  he  would  have  rushed  away,  if  the 
beadle  had  not  forcibly  withheld  him. 

<<  Don't  detain  me  I    he  cried.    ^^  I  can't  face  him.    I  won't" 

"  But  you  must  and  shall,"  rejoined  Staveley.  "  You  don't  go 
hence  till  his  lordship  discharges  you,  I  can  promise  you. 
You've  got  me  into  trouble  enoiieh  already  with  your  mis- 
conduct. Have  you  no  manners?  he  added,  shaking  him 
roughly.  ^^  Make  an  obeisance,  I  tell  you,  to  the  Lord  Mayor. 
Perhaps  you'll  claim  relationship  with  his  lordship  now  I "  he  pur- 
sued, m  a  low,  decisive  tone. 

''Oh  no,  I  won't,"  replied  the  old  man,  beseechingly,  but 
without  danng  to  raise  his  eyes  to  Sir  Ghresham.  '^  I  didn't  mean 
it  I  Don't  mention  it,  I  implore  you !  I  was  mad — I  retract  aU 
I  said." 

^  I  knew  you  was  bouncing,"  rejoined  the  beadle,  chuckling. 
^  But  learn  to  your  confusion,  you  owdacious  old  braggart,  that 
his  light  honourable  lordship  is  aware  of  all  you  said  in  defama- 
tion of  his  character." 

^  I  said  nothing  derogatory  of  him,  surely?"  rejoined  the  old  man. 

"You  said  you  were  his  brother,  and  if  that  ain't  derogatory 
and  defamatory  I'm  a  Dutchman  and  not  a  British  beadle. 
Down  on  your  marrow-bones  and  ask  pardon." 

"  Have  pity  upon  me,  and  let  me  go  I "  cried  the  old  man. 
"  You  don't  mow  how  you  torture  me." 

^You  richly  deserve  it  for  getting  me  into  trouble,"  said 
Staveley,  again  shaking  him.  '^  Hold  up  your  head,  I  tell  you, 
and  look  his  lordship  straight  in  the  face." 

^'  I  can't  I — ^I  daren't  I "  cried  the  old  man,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands. 


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150  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

Meantime,  the  Lord  Mayor  was  greatly  agitated.  The  more  he 
regarded  him^  the  more  convincea  he  became  that  the  old  man 
was  his  brother  Lawrence,  and  the  shock  and  surprise  of  the 
discovery  aflfected  him  so  powerfully  for  a  few  moments,  that  he 
could  neither  speak  nor  stir.  But  he  presently  became  calmer, 
and  prepared  to  carry  out  the  course  he  judged  it  right  to  pursue. 
Many  a  one  might  have  heidtated  to  acknowledge  a  near  relative 
under  such  circumstances,  and  could  scarcely  be  blamed  for  his 
reluctance.  Sir  Oresham,  however,  was  not  a  person  of  this 
stamp.  He  resolved  to  adopt  the  proper  and  the  manly  course,  let 
the  world  think  what  it  might  of  him. 

Praying  the  ladies  to  excuse  him  for  quitting  them,  and  waving 
to  the  beadle  to  stand  off,  he  advanced  towards  the  old  man, 
who  still  kept  his  face  covered,  and  patted  him  afiectionately  on 
Ae  shoulder. 

"Why,  Lawrence,  is  it  you?'*  he  said.  **Is  it  you,  my  poor 
brotiier?  What  a  meeting  is  this,  after  so  many  years'  separa- 
tion!" 

The  old  man  trembled  violently,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he 
could  speak.  He  then  replied  m  broken  accents,  and  without 
looking  up,  "  Your  lordship  is  mistaken.  I  am  not  he  you  take 
me  for.    I  have  not  the  honour  to  be  related  to  you.** 

*^  Come,  come,  Lawrence ! "  cried  the  Lord  Mayor,  "  I  am  not  to 
be  put  off  thus.     You  told  yonder  beadle  you  were  my  brother.* 

"It  appears  that  I  made  some  such  silly  boast,  my  lord  j  but  my 
brain  at  the  time  was  confused  with  strong  drink,  to  which  I  am 
■  not  much  accustomed.  Believe  me,  I  am  heartily  ashamed  of  my- 
self, and  humbly  crave  your  lordship's  pardon." 

**  Don't  talk  about  pwdon,  brother,  and  don't  attempt  to  deny 
your  relationship.  It  won*t  do.  You  are  greatly  changed,  'tis 
true,  but  I  know  your  voice.  Besides,  my  heart  tells  me  you  are 
my  mother's  son." 

"  Your  lordship  has  a  good  heart,  a  very  good  heart,"  rejoined 
the  old  man,  "  but  it  deceives  you  now.  I  committed  a  great  error 
in  making  such  an  improper  and  ill-judged  statement,  but  I  should 
do  still  woi«e  to  persist  in  it.  I  wouldn't  for  worlds  expose  you 
to  the  reproach,  tte  just  reproach,  of  being  connected  with  such  a 
one  as  myself.*' 

"If  I  don't  fear  the  reproach,  you  need  not,  brother,"  rejoined 
the  Lord  Mayor.  "  You  have  been  unfortunate,  while  I  have  been 
lucky,  that's  the  only  difference  between  us.  If  your  conduct  has 
been  without  reproach^ — as  I  trust  it  has — ^you  are  just  as  good  as 
myself.  Everybody  knows  my  origin.  Come,  give  me  your  hand, 
brother — give  me  your  hand." 

"  No,  no,  I  won't  abuse  your  lordship's  generosity,"  repHed  the 
old  man,  respectfully  declining  the  proffered  hand.     "How  many 


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THE  LORD  MATOK  0?  LOISTDC^.  151 

Jean  may  it  be,"  he  pnimied,  ^sinoe  your  brdihip  has  ae^  the 
rother  for  whom  you  take  me?  ** 

^  Why,  forty  years  and  upward*.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I 
do,  Lawrence,"  said  the  Lord  Mayor.  ^^  During  all  that  time  I 
have  never  even  heard  of  you." 

"  Forty  years  and  upwards  I "  sighed  the  old  man,  "  And  jrour 
lordship  has  not  seen  or  heard  of  your  brother  durixig  all  that  time  I 
Dqwnd  on  it  he  is  dead.  Best  suppose  him  so,  at  all  events.  FU 
answer  for  it  he  won't  trouble  you  more.  My  name  is  Gandish-^ 
Hugh  Candish — and,  as  will  be  evident  to  your  lordship,  I  am  not 
in  very  flourishing  ciroumstances.'' 

^^  I  see  you  are  not  my  poor  brother,"  rejoined  the  Lord  Mayor, 
brushing  away  the  tear  that  started  to  his  eyes;  ^  but  it  shan't  be 
my  fault  if  you  don't  do  better  in  future." 

^'I  must  again  say  that  vour  lordship  is  the  dupe  of  a  too 
generous  nature,  and  I  beseecn  vou  to  consider  well  before  you  pro« 
oeed  further.  I  have  no  possible  claim  on  your  bounty.  Have  I 
your  permission  to  depart  ?  " 

^  No,  no,  you  ^an  t  go,"  cried  the  Lord  Mayor.  ^  Brother,  or 
no  brother,  you  must  remain  here  to-day." 

^  Your  lordship  is  too  good ;  but  disagreeable  remarks  will 
be  made  if  I  remain  after  what  has  occurred.  I  came  here 
solely  to  see  your  lordship  on  this  your  day  of  triumph,  and 
having  accomplished  my  object,  I  have  nothing  more  to  desire." 

"  But  I  command  you — that  is,  I  beg  of  you  to  stay,"  rejoined 
the  Lord  Mayor.  "  Here,  Staveley,"  he  cried,  to  the  beadle,  who 
had  remained  within  earshot,  and  had  tried  to  catch  what  passed 
between  them,  ^^take  Mr.  Candish  to  my  room  near  the  old 
council-chamber,  and  tell  Jennings  to  give  him  the  best  dress  he 
can  find — the  best  dress,  d'ye  hear?     A  good  place  must  be  kept 

for  Mr.  Candish  at  the  table  of  the  common-council ^" 

**A  place  at  the  common-councilmen's  table,  my  lord!  Did 
I  hear  your  lordship  aright  ?"  exclaimed  the  astounded  beadle. 

^  You  did,  sirrah.  And  I  counsel  you  to  see  my  orders  strictly 
attended  to.  Mr.  Candish  is  to  go  where  he  likes,  and  do  what  he 
pleases;  but  if  he'll  follow  my  advice,  he  won't  take  any  more  wine 
before  dinner." 

**  Nor  after  dinner,  my  lord,  except  one  glass  to  pledge  your 
lordship's  health." 

^  Good-by,  brother,"  said  Sir  Gresham,  in  a  low  tone.  ^^  I  fully 
comprehena  and  respect  the  motives  that  induce  yon  to  practise 
this  concealment,  but  I  can  only  submit  to  it  to-day.  To-morrow, 
yt>u  must  no  longer  be  Hugh  Candish,  but  Lorry  Lorimer,  as  of 
old.  I  shall  look  out  for  you  on  my  return  from  Westminster. 
Once  more,  good-by.  What !  won't  you  give  me  your  hand  now?" 
"  I  daren%  my  lord.    I  am  not  worthy  to  take  it" 


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152  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

"Tut!  tut!  have  done  with  thisnonBeiwe!"  cried  Sir  Gieriiam, 
seizing  the  old  man's  hand,  and  grasping  it  cordiaUv* 

For  the  first  time  the  latter  raised  his  eyes,  and  meed  them  upon 
the  Lord  Mayor  with  a  look  of  unutterable  gratitude  and  ad- 
miration. 

"  Well,  I'm  blessed  if  this  don't  beat  anything  I  ever  saw  or 
heard  of,"  moralised  the  beadle.  "  A  Lord  Mayor  shaking  hands 
with  a  pauper,  ordering  him  a  fine  suit  of  clothes,  and  a  place  at 
the  common-council  table.    Things  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass! " 

But  he  was  recalled  to  a  sense  of  duty  by  the  Lord  Mayor,  who 
once  more  consigned  the  old  man  to  his  care,  and  turned  to  rqoin 
)he  ladies;  thinlang,  as  he  went,  how  he  would  make  the  rest  of 
his  days  comfortable. 

Candish  went  away  quietly  enough  with  the  beadle,  who  had 
now  entirely  altered  his  deportment  towards  him;  but  as  they  were 
traverdng  a  passage  leading  to  the  old  council-chamber,  the  old 
man  discerned  a  means  of  mght  through  a  door  opening  upon  the 
street  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and  immediately  availed  nimself  of 
it,  and  ran  off.  Staveley  called  to  him  to  stop,  but  in  vain.  When 
he  got  to  the  door,  the  old  man  had  disappeared. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  an  aggerawating  old  rascal!"  exclaimed 
the  beadle.  ^^  What  shall  I  say  to  his  lordship?  I  shall  lose  my 
post  after  alL" 


VIL 

OP  THE  LOBD  MATOR's  FBOCESSION  TO  BLA.CILFRlJias ;  AVD  OP  THB  PAGEANTS 
EXHIBITBD  BT  THB  CITT  COMPANIEB. 

^^  I  BEO  your  grace  and  their  ladysliips  ten  thousand  pardons," 
cried  Sir  Gresham,  as  he  returned  to  them.  ^^A  strange  cir- 
cumstance has  just  occurred  to  me— though  it  woiddn't  interest 
you  to  hear  it.  Ah !  Sir  Felix,"  he  pursued,  to  the  little  alder- 
man, who  came  up  opportunely  at  the  moment,  ^4t  must  be  your 
business  to  procure  chairs  for  the  conveyance  of  her  grace  and  their 
ladyships  to  my  house.  Oflicers  must  attend  to  clear  the  way.  This 
must  be  done  without  loss  of  time,  as  the  procession  will  start  forth- 
with, and  the  ladies  desire  to  see  it." 

<^^  My  own  chariot  should  be  at  her  grace's  service,"  said  Sir 
Felix,  ^^but  I  suppose  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  join 
the  procession." 

*Ut  is  quite  necessary,"  rejoined  the  Lord  Mayor.  "  You  know 
that  very  well.    Every  moment  is  precious." 

On  tms  Sir  Felix  hurried  off,  while  the  Lord  Mayor  conducted 
the  ladies  to  the  vestibule.  Here  it  appeared  that  the  Sherifb^ 
with  the  Recorder  and  Chamberlain,  and  other  of  the  chief  City 


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THE  LORD  MATOB  OF  LONDON.  153 

officers  of  the  Corporation^  had  ahready  been  summoned  to  their 
carriages. 

In  a  few  moments  more  Sir  Felix  returned,  almost  out  of 
breathy  statins  that  the  chairs  were  in  readiness^  and  that  the 
City  marshals liad  undertaken  to  ride  on  in  advance^  so  that  there 
should  be  no  possibility  of  hindrance. 

With  many  ezpresnons  of  obligation  to  Sir  Ghresham,  the  duchess 
and  her  compamons  then  took  leave^  and  were  ceremoniously 
conducted  by  Sir  Felix  and  two  other  aldermen  belonging  to  the 
committee  to  the  conveyances  provided  for  them,  and  were  borne 
with  great  prom{)titude  down  New  King's-street  to  the  Lord 
Mayor^s  resiaence  in  Cheapside. 

Intelligence  of  their  arrival  being  communicated  to  the  Lord 
Mayor  by  the  upper  City  marshal  on  his  return  to  GKiildhall.yard| 
his  lordship  at  once  issued  his  commands  that  the  procession  should 
start,  whereupon  the  aldermen  entered  their  carriages. 

At  last,  the  Lord  Mayor  himself  was  summoned  by  the  ushers, 
and  with  the  same  pompous  formalities  which  had  marked  his  en- 
trance to  the  hall,  his  train  being  borne  by  a  page,  and  the  sword 
and  mace  carried  before  him,  he  re-entered  his  state-coach,  amid 
flourishes  of  trumpets,  which  made  the  court  resound  with  their 
clangour,  while  his  chaplain  and  the  three  officials  resumed  their 
places  beside  him. 

Meanwhile,  the  sixty  poor  livervmen  of  the  Merchant  Tailors' 
Company,  in  scarlet  and  puce  hoo<!s  and  gowns,  had  quitted  their 
station  in  the  piazza,  and  advanced  towards  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession, which,  when  the  long  train  was  put  in  motion,  was  con- 
siderably beyond  Bow  Church.  These  hverymen  marched  three 
and  three. 

They  were,  however,  preceded  by  six  peace  officers  to  dear 
the  way,  and  followed  by  a  like  number  of  javelin-men.  Then 
came  the  marshal  of  the  Merchant  Tailors^  Company,  bearing  the 
shield  of  the  arms  of  England,  succeeded  by  four  stavesmen  of  the 
company,  with  their  ba&es  of  office. 

Next  came  the  band  ofthe  Gr^adier  Ghiards  in  full  regimentals, 
playing  lively  tunes  as  they  marched  along.  After  them  was  borne 
the  royal  standard,  the  arms  of  the  Merchant  Tailors^  Company, 
the  arms  of  the  City  of  London,  the  arms  of  the  Lord  Mayor, 
with  those  of  the  other  distinguished  members  of  the  company. 
Next  came  the  barge-master,  a  very  portly  persona^  in  his  state- 
dress,  supported  by  watermen  in  scarlet  and  puce  hveries. 

Preceded  by  the  beadle  in  his  gown,  came  the  clerk  of  the  com- 
pany in  a  chariot,  followed  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  livery,  the 
gentlemen  of  the  court  of  assistants,  ike  wardens  in  their  carriages, 
and  the  prime  warden,  Mr.  Braybroke,  in  his  chariot,  attended 
by  his  chaplain.    On  either  side  of  the  governors  of  this  wealthy 


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154  THE  LOKD  MATOE  OF  LOHDO!r. 

tnd  important  oompany  walked  watermen  and  other  attendants  in 
livery. 

But  it  was  not  io  much  upon  the  wardenfl  and  prime  warden 
that  the  gaae  of  all  the  spectators  was  turned  as  on  the  pageant 
£dUowing  them^  which  was  intended  to  represent  the  coat  armour 
of  the  company^  and  consisted  of  a  large  tent  royal,  ffulee^  fringed 
and  richly  garnished,  or,  lined,  £Eiced,  and  douoledt  ermine, 
TMa  tent  was  fixed  upon  a  large  and  elevated  stagey  on  which  sat 
several  ricUy-halHted  figures,  amongst  whom  was  the  renowned 
Sir  John  Hawkwood,  the  valiant  Condottiere  of  Edward  the 
Third's  day,  originally  a  tailor,  but  who,  according  to  old  Fuller, 
turned  his  needle  into  a  sword  and  his  thimble  into  a  shield,  and 
00  distinguished  himself  at  Poitiers  and  in  the  Italian  wars  that 
the  Merchant  Tailors  are,  with  good  reason,  proud  to  number 
him  amonff  their  ranks.  On  either  side  of  the  tent,  on  a  smaller 
stage,  stood  a  camel  ridden  by  an  Indian,  forming  the  supporters 
of  Uie  company's  arms. 

This  pageant,  whidi  was  much  admired,  was  followed  by  the 
banners  and  standards,  with  the  various  offioers  of  the  IronmongeraT 
Company,  concluding  with  the  master  in  his  chariot. 

Then  came  a  second  pageant,  representii^  the  Lemnian  forge 
with  Vulcan  at  work  at  it,  aided  by  the  Cyck)^.  Fanned  by 
a  gigantic  pair  of  bellows,  a  fire  was  kept  blazmg  in  the  fur- 
nace, while  the  anvil  rangwitii  blows  of  the  hammer  dealt  by 
swart  old  Mulcibtf  and  his  brawny  and  smoke-begrimed  com*- 
panaona. 

The  Ironmcmgers  were  followed  by  the  Skinners,  and  a  pageant 
was  exhibited  by  the  latter  that  caused  infinite  divendon.  It 
represented  a  great  number  of  wild  animals,  lions,  tigers,  leopards 
and  panthers,  sables  and  beavers;  but  in  the  midst  of  these  stuffed 
q)ecimen8  was  a  great  Uvinff  bear,  who  cHmbed  up  a  pole,  and 
performed  sundry  othar  tridcs,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the 
beholders. 

Next  came  the  Haberdashen^  whose  pageant  was  placed  on  a 
very  long  stagey  and  r^resented  a  numoer  of  shops,  where  mil- 
Uners,  hosiers,  and  other  dealers  in  small  commodities,  served.  This 
pageant  gave  the  greater  satis&ction,  inasmuch  as  actors  in  it  dis- 
tributed their  wares  accompanied  by  small  papers  of  tobacco, 
gratis,  among  the  crowd. 

Next  came  the  Vintners,  who  exhibited  a  very  grand  mytholo- 
gical piece,  the  Triumph  of  Bacchus,  and  this  might  have  been 
better  received  if  the  spectators  could  have  shared  the  flowing  cups 
perpetually  drained  by  the  tipsy  revellerB. 

The  Fidimongers  displa^red  a  statue  of  St.  Peter,  richly  ^It, 
with  a  dolphin,  two  mermaids,  and  a  couple  of  sea-horses.  The 
Clothworkers  introduced  Jack  of  Newbury,  the  famous  Berkshire 


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THE  LOBD  HATOB  OF  LOKDOIf^  165 

clothier,  in  the  gaib  of  the  sixte^ith  oenturyi  sarrounded  by 
peasants  of  the  same  p^od,  dancing  to  the  music  of  pipe  and 
tabor.  In  front  of  this  pageant  was  Sie  golden  ram,  the  crest  of 
the  company* 

The  Armourers  were  distinguished  by  an  archer  standing  eioet 
in  a  richly  gilt  car^  with  a  bow  in  his  left  hand  and  a  quiver  over 
his  shoulder.  The  Grocers  exhibited  a  camel  with  a  negro  on 
its  back,  between  two  baskets  full  o£  groceries  and  dried  fruits, 
which  the  tawny  rider  scattered  right  and  left^  and  for  which  the 
bystanders  struggled  and  fought. 

All  these  pageants  found  great  favour  with  the  multitude,  but 
they  were  quite  outdone  by  the  Brewers,  who  displayed  two 
enormous  wicker-work  figures,  each  fifteen  feet  high,  having  great 
paunches,  grotesque  visages,  and  extraordinary  costumes,  intended 
to  represent  the  giants  Ck4brandand  Brandamore.  Seated  in  open 
chariots,  these  sociable  Utans  smoked  their  pipes,  quaffed  ale  out 
of  mighty  pots,  and  bandied  jests  with  the  bystanders. 

The  prooession  would  have  appeared  somewhat  tame  after  the 
pageants  which  constituted  the  most  popular  part  of  the  show, 
had  not  tl^e  spectators  been  enlivened  by  the  music  of  a  second 
grand  nuUtary  band.  Then  came  the  Lord  Mayor's  beadles  in 
2ieir  slate  liveries^  the  barge*master  in  his  state  dress,  bargemen 
with  the  sheriff's  banners,  watermen  with  various  colours,  the  two 
nnder-aheriffiy  the  City  Solicitor,  the  Remembrancer,  the  Comp- 
troller, the  two  SeconojEtries,  the  four  Common  Pleaders,  the  Com- 
mon Serjeant,  the  Town-clerk,  and  the  Chamberlain.  On  either 
side  of  them  were  mounted  peace-officers,  and  they  were  followed 
by  the  mounted  band  of  the  Life  Guards. 

Next  came  the  ancient  Herald  of  England  in  his  tabard  and 
plumes.  Then  three  trumpeters  riding  abreast,  in  rich  dresses, 
with  their  clarions  decorated  with  flags.  After  them  rode  a  guard^ 
followed  by  a  standard-bearer  on  horseback  in  half-armour^  bear* 
ing  the  banner  of  his  knight.  To  him  succeeded  two  esquires, 
liding  together  and  bearing  shields;  and  after  them,  between  two 
;^eomen  of  the  guard,  rode  an  ancient  knight,  mounted  on  a 
richly-caparisonea  steed,  armed  cap-a-pie  in  a  suit  of  polished 
steel,  ana  carrying  a  battle-axe.  ^hmd  the  knight  came  two 
armourers  with  a  mounted  ^uard. 

Next  came  Mr.  Sheriff  mah  in  his  state  chariol^  drawn  by  four 
horses,  followed  by  three  trumpeters  and  a  mounted  guard.  Then 
came  other  stan^d-bearers  and  esquires,  followed  by  a  second 
knight,  equipped  like  the  first,  and  similarly  attended. 

Next  came  Mr.  Sheriff  Cartwright  in  his  state  chariot,  fol- 
lowed by  the  aldermen  who  had  not  passed  the  chair,  amongst 
whom  were  our  friends  Mr.  Beckford  and  Sir  Felix  Bland.  Then 
came  the  Recorder,  and  after  him  the  aldermen  who  had  served 


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156  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

the  office  of  Mayor.  After  them  the  late  Lord  Mayor,  Sir  Mat- 
thew Blakiston,  In  his  chariot.  Then  more  trumpeters,  another 
standard-bearer,  esquires,  yeomen  of  the  guard,  and  a  third 
knight,  sheathed,  like  those  who  had  gone  before  him,  in  complete 
steel. 

More  armourers  succeeded,  more  trumpeters  on  horseback,  more 
mounted  guard,  another  standard-bearer,  two  more  esquires,  and 
then  a  fourth  knight  in  a  suit  of  brass  scale  armour. 

After  him  rode  three  trumpeters,  and  then  came  the  Lord 
Mayor's  servants  in  their  state  liveries,  tall  fellows,  each  above  six 
feet  in  height,  picking  the  way  through  the  mud  in  their  thin 
shoes,  and  getting  their  salmon-coloured  silk  hose  bespattered  by  it 

To  these  gorgeous  lacqueys,  who  did  not  seem  to  relish  the  part 
assigned  them  in  the  procession,  succeeded  another  military  band; 
after  which,  on  his  proudly-caparisoned  steed,  came  the  upper  City 
marshal,  accoutred  as  previously  described,  and  carrying  his  long 
b&ton  with  the  air  of  a  field-marshal.  Preceded  by  the  gentlemen 
of  his  household,  and  followed,  by  a  guard  of  honour,  our  Lord 
Mayor  came  next  in  his  state-coach. 

As  his  carriage  turned  into  Cheapside,  Sir  Gresham  directed 
his  gaze  towards  his  own  house,  ana  remarked  with  great  satis- 
&ction,  and  we  are  bound  to  admit  with  some  little  pride,  that 
among  the  large  assemblage  on  the  balcony  were  the  duchess 
and  the  two  lovely  countesses.  As  may  be  supposed,  the  Lad^ 
Mayoress  and  her  two  elder  daughters  were  sedulous  in  their 
attentions  to  their  distinguished  visitors.  Millicent,  as  usual, 
was  in  the  background,  and  her  new-found  cousin,  Prue,  was 
standing  beside  her.  Tradescant  and  his  fashionable  companions 
were  likewise  there,  and  several  of  the  latter  were  grouped  behind 
the  court  beauties,  striving  to  amuse  them  with  their  jests.  Bat 
though  he  searched  for  him.  Sir  Gresham  could  nowhere  discover 
his  nephew,  Herbert 

Graced  as  it  now  was,  the  balcony  presented  a  very  brilliant 
appearance,  and  Sir  Gresham  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of 
elation  as  he  ran  his  eye  over  it,  and  acknowledged  the  saluta- 
tions of  the  duchess  and  her  companions.  Had  he  discerned  the 
tears  that  started  to  Millicent's  eyes,  he  would  have  been  more 
deeply  moved. 

But,  indeed,  the  sight  of  the  old  house  under  its  present  aspect 
excited  many  mixed  emotions  in  his  breast  He  thought  of  aays 
long,  long  gone  by,  when  he  had  first  known  it,  and  had  little 
dreamed  of  the  honours  and  dignities  in  store  for  him.  He  saw 
himself  as  the  poor  'prentice  behind  the  counter,  and  heard  his 
kind  old  master  commend  his  zeal  and  industry,  and  tell  him  if 
he  went  on  thus  he  would  be  sure  to  prosper,  and  might  in  time 
become  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 


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THE  LOKD  MAYOR  OP  LONDON.  157 

Well,  the  worthy  man's  prediction  was  now  fulfilled.  He 
had  prospered,  and  was  become  Lord  Mayor.  Yet  there  was 
something  saddening,  even  at  that  moment  of  exaltation.  He  was 
happier  as  the  poor  'prentice,  with  his  way  to  make  in  the  world, 
than  now  that  the  utmost  object  of  his  ambition  was  attained,  and 
he  was  s^ted  in  his  gilt  coach  with  the  acclamations  of  his  fellow- 
citizens  ringing  in  his  ears. 

So  absorbed  was  he  by  these  reflections  that  the  shouts  of  the 
bystanders  fell  unheeded  on  his  ears,  and  Dr.  Dipple,  noticing  his 
abstraction,  deemed  it  prudent  to  arouse  him  by  calling  his  atten- 
tion to  a  large  and  crowded  scaffold,  erected  on  the  west  side  of  Bow 
Church  by  the  Goldsmiths'  Company.  The  bells  of  the  church 
were  pealing  merrily. 

"  1  have  not  heard  those  bells  ring  so  blithely  since  my  wedding- 
day,"  observed  Sir  Gresham,  "  and  thatfs  five-and-thirty  years 
ago.** 

"That  was  a  happy  occasion,  my  lord,"  rejoined  Dr  Dipple; 
*'  but  this  is  a  happier  and  a  prouder." 

"A  prouder  occasion,  certainly,  doctor,"  returned  the  Lord 
Mayor;  "but  Fm  not  so  sure  that  it  is  happier  than  the  former. 
Then,  having  obtained  the  object  on  which  I  had  set  my  heart,  I 
deemed  mys^  the  most  fortunate  of  men,  and  was,  or  &ncied  my- 
self, perfectiy  happy.  Now  my  ambition  is  fully  jmitified,  and  yet 
there  are  drawbacks  to  my  complete  felicity.  How  do  you  ac- 
count for  this,  doctor?" 

"  I  can't  account  for  it  at  all,"  returned  the  chaplain,  "  unless 
your  lordship  has  some  secret  cause  for  anxiety,  of  which  I  am 
totally  ignorant." 

"  1  have  nothing  whatever  to  trouble  me,  my  good  sir." 

"  Then  I  own  1  am  fairly  puzzled.  But  we  won't  pursue  the 
subject.  How  does  your  lordship  like  Mr.  Barclays  decorations?'* 
lie  added,  glancing  at  a  house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
ihe  balcony  of  wluch  was  hun^  with  crimson  damask,  and  other- 
wise sumptuously  adorned,  having  been  fitted  up  in  this  manner 
for  their  majesties,  who  were  expected  to  occupy  it  on  their  way 
to  Graildhall,  in  order  to  view  the  procession. 

'*  The  balcony  has  a  handsome  effect,  and  I  trust  it  will  please 
their  majesties,"  replied  the  Lord  Mayor.  "  Ah  1  there  is  Mr.  Bar- 
day  himself,"  he  added,  bowing  to  a  gentleman  who  stepped  out. 
at  the  moment  on  the  balcony. 

Not  only  was  Mr.  Barcla/s  house  richly  decorated  in  anti- 
cipation of  his  royal  visitors,  but  almost  every  other  habitation^ 
on  either  ride  of  the  way  was  similarly  ornamented.  Carpets  and- 
rich  stuffs  of  various  colours  were  hung  from  the  windows,  pro- 
ducing a  very  gay  effect.  Moreover,  m  several  places  galleriea 
were  erected,  rising  tier  above  tier  to  the  very  roofs  of  the  houses, 
every  seat  within  tnem  being  occupied. 

TOI*.  LI.  ^ 


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158  THE  LORD  MAXOB  OF  LONDOIT. 

Each  of  the  twelve  great  Ciij  Companks  had  a  stand  leaerred 
for  its  rulers  and  liTerymen^  aad  diBtbigaisked  W  its^  bamnersw  The 
Goldsmiths^  as  aheac^  mentionec^  had  a  scanolding  Jkeaa  Bow 
Church.  The  Grocers  had  planted  themsehet  at  ^  eoni«r  of 
Friday-street,  and  the  Skinners  neat  Wood-street ;  while  the  Salters 
{Ad  the  Mercers  had  fixed  their  stands  on  either  side  of  Newgate^- 
street  where  it  opens  into  Cheapside. 

The  prooeaskm  took  its  way  through  St.  PanFa  Chwrchyard,  at 
the  eastern  end  of  whidi  iHae  scholaxs  of  Chrkt^s  Hospital  had  a 
stand,  Ti^le  at  the  top  of  Lndgate-hill  the  Ironmongers  and  Ctcth- 
workers  had  soKflfolds.  Between  ikemy  amid^  tvemendons  cheers, 
passed  the  procession,  and  so  hy  the  east  side  of  the  Fleet-— 
not  as  yet  covered  in — ^to  Blackfnars. 

The  enthnsiastie  greetings  that  weloooaed  our  Lord  Mayor 
throughout  the  whole  route  made  it  impossible  to  doubt  the  re^upd 
entertained  for  him  by  his  fellow  citizens  of  every  degree.  Xfd 
only  was  he  cheered  by  die  gaily-diesaed  folk  stationed  at  the  open 
windows,  or  on  the  numerous  scaffoldings^  and  who  waved  hats  and 
handkerdiiefr  and  shouted  lustily  aa  he  paased  by,  but  he  was 
equally  wdl  received  by  the  oonunon  folk,  who  bj  thear  rough  but 
hearty  demonstrations  of  good  will  evinced  Uiar  satjafacrion. 
They  could  only  be  kept  back  bj  the  train  banda  who  Imed  the 
way  from  approaching  the  state  eoadi,  and  trying  to  shake  hands 
wiu  him.  Luckily,  th»e  was  no  tnmuk— nor  did  anything 
occur  to  disturb  the  good  humour  of  the  mob.  They  were 
pleased  with  the  pageants,  which  they  were  told  had  been  revived 
£>r  their  special  ^fel^itatiQn;  they  were  pleased  with  the  prooessioit 
generally;  but  most  of  all  they  were  pleased  with  tbat  Lord 
Mayor.  The  acdamationa  raised  for  him  in  Cheapside  were  carried 
on  to  St.  Paol's,  and  thence  without  interruption  to  Bkekfiiars. 
What  with  the  crowds,  the  continuoua  shoutmg,  the  ringinfi^  of 
bells,  the  firing  of  guns^  and  the  waving  of  hats  and  han&er- 
chi^s,  the  scene  was  wonderfolly  exciting,  and  dwelt  long  in  the 
recollection  of  those  who  witnessed  it. 


vm. 

HOW  THE  LOBD  HAYOE  WENT  TO  WE8TMINSTBB  BT  WATEB,  AND  WHAT  OGCUBAED 
DT7BIKO  THE  PASSAGE. 

Fortunately  for  the  display  cm  the  river,  it  was  high  tide  at 
the  time;  and  fortunately  also,  there  was  no  wind,  so  that  the 
surface  d  the  stream,  being  perfectly  unruffled,  and  somewhat 
clearer  than  it  is  in  our  own  days,  mirrored  back  the  numerooa 
gilded  barks  by  which  it  was  covered* 

The  City  bsurge,  with  its  double  banks  of  rowers  in  rich  livenea^ 


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\ 


THE  LORD  MAYOR  OP  LONDON.  159 

its  carved  taaA  btrrnished  woodwork,  the  rich  hangings  of  its  stately 
cabin,  the  broftd  alken  banner  in  front  displaying  the  City  arms,  and 
the  numeroiis  pennants  bedecking  its  roof,  flbmed  like  the  Venetian 
Bucentanr.  lior  were  the  barges  belonging  to  the  City  companies 
inferior  m  me  and  splendour  to  that  d^ned  for  the  reception  of 
the  Lord  Mayor  and  tne  great  ctvic  dignitaries.  Newly  gilt  and  de- 
corated for  the  occasion,  decked  with  pennons  and  di^bpng  their 
banners,  they  were  all  provided  with  bands,  and  manned  by  water- 
men in  their  liveries.  At  the  helm  of  each  of  these  magnificent 
barks,  which  glittered  in  the  sunbeams  as  if  made  of  gold,  stood 
the  barge^master  in  hn  state  livery. 

To  several  of  them  a  fantastical  appearance  was  given  by  the 
actors  in  the  pageants  exhibited  in  the  land  procession  being  taken 
on  board,  ana  so  placed  that  they  could  be  seen  by  the  occupants 
in  the  numerous  wnerries  by  which  the  river  was  crowded.  Thua^ 
the  two  giants,  Colbrand  and  Brandamore,  having  emitted  their 
diariots,  were  now  comfortably  seated  on  the  root  of  the  gilded 
sJoon  of  the  Brewenf  barge,  smoking  their  pipes,  and  occasionally 
drinking  to  the  health  of  tne  good  folks  in  the  wherries. 

Sir  John  Hawkwood,  leaning  on  his  two-handed  sword^ stood  at 
the  prow  of  the  Merchant  Tailors*  barge;  St.  Peter  took  the  Fish- 
m<M^efs  under  his  care;  Vulcan  and  the  Chrclops  went  on  board 
the  Ironmongers'  galley;  and  Bacchus  and  his  crew  revelled  with 
the  Vintners.  The  Skinners  were  rowed  by  watermen  disguised  in 
strange  spotted  skins  and  painted  hides,  while  their  great  brown 
bear,  chained  upon  the  cabin  roof^  continued  to  clamber  up  his 
pole. 

These  superb  vessels,  which,  including  those  belonging  to  the 
lesser  companies,  amounted  to  more  than  twenty,  were  now  drawn 
up  in  a  wide  half-moon  round  Bkckfnars  stairs»  dose  to  which 
the  Lord  Mayor's  barge  was  moored,  and  made  a  most  brilliant 
display.  Witnin  this  semicircle  no  wherries  or  other  craft  were  now 
allowed  to  ent^,  but  outside  of  it  thousands  of  boats  hovered,  filled 
with  well-dressed  persons,  eager  to  view  the  aquatic  procession. 
In  fact,  the  whole  reach  of  the  river,  from  Queenmthe,  past  Paul's 
Wharf  and  Baynard's  Castle  to  the  Temple-stairs,  was  thronged 
with  well-ktd^i  barks  of  every  kind.  The  lighters,  moored  to  the 
banks,  were  covered  with  ^>ectator8,  as  were  tne  wharves  on  either 
side,  together  with  every  building  or  projection  that  seemed  to  offer  a 
tolerable  point  of  view. 

Just  before  the  period  of  our  story,  the  building  of  Blackfiriars 
Bridge  had  been  commenced,  though  as  yet  little  progress  had 
been  made.  However,  an  unfinidned  arch  afforded  a  command- 
ing view  of  the  scene,  and  was,  oonsequently,  crowded,  though 
the  position  seemed  very  perilous.  Bridewell  Dock,  as  this  part  of 
die  Fleet  Ditch  was  termed,  had  not  then  been  filled  up,  and 

m2 


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160  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

all  the  vessels  within  it,  with  the  auays  and  buildings  on  either 
side — ^shortly  afterwards  demolished — were  thronged. 

Before  the  state  coach  drove  up  to  Blackfriars-stairs,  under  the 
skilful  guidance  of  Mr.  Keck,  the  watermen  who  had  marched  in 
the  procession  with  the  Recorder  and  Chamberlain,  the  Sheriffi,  the 
Aldermen,  and  the  chief  Citv  of&cers,  had  entered  the  barge,  so  that 
the  Lord  Mayor  experienced  no  delay,  but  on  alighting,  was  cere- 
moniously conducted  across  a  railed  gangway  to  the  stately  v^sel 
prepared  for  him. 

Just  as  he  stepped  within  it  a  salute  was  fired  from  Bay- 
nard's  Castle,  and  another  from  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river, 
while  loud  and  reiterated  cheers  burst  i'rom  the  spectators  on  all 
sides,  caught  up  and  re-echoed  by  those  on  the  nver,  who  could 
not  even  see  what  was  goin^  on.  At  the  same  moment  the  bands 
of  the  different  barges  struck  up,  while  the  watermen  looked  out 
for  the  signal  to  start. 

As  soon  as  the  Lord  Mayor  and  his  retinue  were  on  board,  the 
gorgeous  vessel  was  pushed  off;  the  barge-master  telegraphed  to  the 
convoy  around  him,  and  in  another  moment  the  whole  company 
was  in  motion  and  dropping  into  their  places. 

The  Merchant  Tailors  took  the  lead,  moving  slowly  and  majesd* 
cally  along.  The  Skinners  and  Brewers  followed,  while  in  the  midst 
of  the  dazzling  squadron  rode  the  City  barge. 

The  whole  river  was  now  astir.  Hundreds  of  boats  accompanied 
the  procession,  which  they  could  easily  do,  the  progress  of  the  barges 
being  remarkably  easy  and  dignified,  while  the  ughter  and  more 
active  craft  threaded  their  way  amongst  them,  or  loitered  to  admire 
their  decorations. 

The  spectacle  was  really  magnificent.  Moving  six  abreast,  the 
barges  stretched  almost  across  the  stream,  and  what  with  their 
splendour,  the  flags  and  banners  with  which  they  were  adorned, 
tne  music,  and  the  continuous  shouts  and  acclamations  from  the 
occupants  of  the  lesser  craft,  and  the  beholders  on  the  banks  of  the 
river,  the  procession  resembled  some  grand  triumph. 

In  this  manner  the  fleet  passed  ishe  Temple  Gardens,  where 
the  unemployed  lawyers  were  collected  to  look  at  the  show,  oldL 
Somerset  House — ^the  present  imposing  edifice  was  not  erected 
until  some  years  later — Salisbury,  x  oik,  and  Hungerford  Stairs — 
each  adding  to  the  number  of  their  attendant  barks — and  at  length 
came  in  sight  of  Westminster  Bridge,  which  had  then  been  erected 
about  ten  or  twelve  years,  and  was  pronounced  one  of  the  finest 
bridees  in  the  world. 

While  the  Lord  Mayor's  barge  was  passing  Whitehall,  his  lord- 
ship, who  was  frequently  oblifi^ed  to  show  himself  to  his  admirers 
and  acknowledge  their  vociferous  greetings,  noticed  amid  the 
wherries  thronging  around  him,  a  small  boat  rowed  by  a  single 
waterman,  in  which  sat  his  nephew,  Herbert.    He  could  not  be 


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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON.  161 

mistaken,  for  the  young  man^  on  perceivinff  his  nncle,  stood  up 
and  waved  his  hat.  Though  rather  surprised  at  seeing  him  there^ 
the  Lord  Mayor  smiled  and  nodded  in  return,  but  his  countenance 
almost  instantly  underwent  a  change.  A  litde  in  advance  of  his 
nephew  was  another  boat,  pulled  by  two  oarsmen,  containing  a 
stout  elderly  personage  with  his  wife — a  comely,  middle-aged 
woman — and  their  daughter.  This  fat  old  fellow's  name  was 
Walworth.  He  was  a  respectable  hosier,  dwelling  in  St.  Mary 
Axe,  well  enough  to  do  in  the  world,  and  he  and  his  wife  were 
known  to  Sir  Gresham.  Alice  Walworth,  their  daughter,  was  about 
ninete^,  and  possessed  considerable  personal  attractions. 

Mr.  Walworth  had  ^ot  up  to  salute  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  was  in 
the  act  of  bowing  to  him,  when  a  collision  took  place  between  his 
boat  and  another  which  came  suddenly  and  swiftly  round  the  head 
of  the  barge.  Losing  his  balance,  owm^  to  the  force  of  the  shock, 
the  old  hosier  was  precipitated  into  tne  stream  with  a  tremen- 
dous splash,  as  if  he  had  been  taking  a  header.  But  this  was  only 
the  commencement  of  the  disaster.  Mrs.  Walworth  and  Alice 
shrieked  aloud,  and,  in  their  endeavours  to  rescue  him,  overbalanced 
the  boat,  and  in  another  instant  they  and  its  other  occupants  were 
in  the  water. 

The  Lord  Mayor  was  greatly  alarmed  by  the  accident,  and,  with 
some  of  the  aldermen,  hastily  quitted  the  saloon  to  procure  as- 
sistance. 

Aid  was  promptly  found.  Herbert  Lorimer  succeeded  in  catching 
Mrs.  Walworth  oefore  she  sank,  and  consigning  her  to  the  care  of 
the  waterman  who  pulled  his  boat,  and  who  neld  her  till  further  help 
could  be  obtained,  ne  instantly  plunged  into  the  stream  in  search  of 
the  younger  lady,  who  by  this  time  had  been  swept  away  by  the  cur- 
rent, and,  though  many  an  arm  had  been  nut  out  to  arrest  her,  had 
disappeared.  Herbert,  however,  did  not  despair  of  saving  her.  He 
was  an  excellent  swimmer,  and  noting  the  place  where  she  had 
sunk,  he  dived,  and  presently  returned  to  the  surface  sustaining  her 
with  one  arm,  while  with  the  other  he  kept  her  from  again  sink- 
ing until  a  boat  came  to  their  aid. 

Meantime,  the  other  persons  whose  lives  had  also  been  placed  in 
jeopardy  met  with  a  happy  deliverance.  The  two  watermen 
escaped  with  a  ducking,  as  indeed  did  old  Walworth  himself,  who 
was  hooked  up  by  the  barge-master,  and  taken  on  board  the  City 
barge,  where  Mrs.  Walworth  was  shortly  afterwards  brought  by  the 
Lord  Mayor^s  directions. 

Their  anxiety  respecting  their  daughter  was  speedily  relieved  by 
the  shouts  that  hailed  the  successful  issue  of  Herbert's  gallant 
attempt,  and  in  another  minute  Alice  was  delivered  to  them  by 
her  preserver. 


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162 


SOCIAL  SCIENCE  AND  STJNNT  SCENES  IN  IBELAND. 

Amongst  the  usaal  **  Scarlet  Letter^  announoements  of  cheap  trips  to 
most  parts  of  the  world,  with  which  railway  managers  so  good  naturedly 
encourage  the  travelling  taste  of  EDglishmen  and  women  dming  the 
•ammer  and  autumn  months,  perhaps  the  most  numerous  this  year  were 
those  which  invited  tourists  to  meet,  what  a  sister  magazine  has  focetiously 
oalkd  **  Lord  Brougham  and  his  troupe  of  charitable  spinsters,^*  st  the 
Social  Science  meetings  in  DubUn;  or  to  nuh  to'Killamey  with  a  hope^ 
grounded  on  the  presence  of  our  fair-weather  Queen,  that  the  sun  might 
be  induced  to  shme  upon  its  exquisite  though  somewhat  showery  love- 
liness. 

Invited  by  kind  friends  living  near  Dublin  to  spend  with  them  the 
week  of  the  Social  Science  meetings,  we  started — without,  however,  avail- 
ing ourselves  of  return  tickets— on  the  13th  of  August^  by  the  7.35  A.ic 
train  from  Euston-square,  and  after  a  delightful  drive  throu^  the  rich 
and  romantic  scenery  of  the  centre  of  England  and  the  north  of  Wales, 
rushing  across  the  Menai  Straits,  through  the  tube  of  Mr.  Stephenson's 
wonderful  bridge,  we  reached  Holjhead  soon  after  two  o'dodc  The 
aoble  steamer  die  Connangki,  one  of  four  named  afiter  the  four  provinces 
of  Ireland,  which  have  been  employed  since  October,  1860,  in  the  mail 
service  between  England  and  Ireland,  was  lying  alongside  the  pier,  and 
iaipatiently  puffing  out  her  steam  in  token  of  her  readiness  to  start  vrhen 
we  arrived  ;  nor  were  we  Ipng  in  obeying  her  summons,  passengers  and 
higga^  were  soon  on  board,  and  in  l^s  than  half  an  hour  we  were 
steammg  with  a  fair  wind  and  smooth  sea  to  Kingstown  Haibour.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  say  too  much  of  the  luxury  and  comfort  of  Uie 
arrangements  on  board  this  steamer,  or  of  the  civility  and  kindness  of 
those  who  are  connected  with  her ;  indeed,  a  voyage  in  the  Connaught 
on  such  a  day  as  we  had  must  have  been  enjoyed  by  all,  even  the  most 
squeamish.  In  about  three  hours  and  a  half  the  beautiful  Bay  of  Dublin 
appeared,  and  soon  after  six  o'clock  we  ran  into  Kingstown  Harbour; 
TOO  train  for  Dublin  was  in  readiness,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we 
found  ourselves  at  the  terminus  in  Harcourt-street,  having  travelled  from 
London  to  Dablin  with  all  possible  comfort  and  with  little  or  no  fatigue,  in 
eleven  hours !  Hitherto,  our  luggage  had  been  <<  from  us  a  thing  apart,* 
but  now  we  were  told  to  claim  our  own — ^no  easy  task,  when,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  every  lady  travelled  with  a  black  leather  bag,  and  had  a  scarl^ 
braided  cover  to  her  box  exactly  like  my  own.  However,  by  adopting 
the  plan  of  leaving  others  to  select  while  I  merely  watched  that  their 
choice  did  not  fall  on  what  belonged  to  me,  I  managed  with  no  trouble 
and  with  but  little  delay  to  secure  my  own  property. 

The  scene  outside  an  Irish  railway  terminus  must  ever  be  an  amusinc^ 
one;  inside  cars  looking  like  thin  slices  of  worn-out  omnibuses,  with 
horses  to  match;  outside  cars  with  their  seats  folded  up  and  their  drivers 
in  every  variety  of  shabby  costume,  brandishing  their  long  whips  and 
vociferating  in  the  richest  brogue  for  passengers  |  stout  porters  bearing 
nearly  as  heavy  burdens  as  the  far-famed  hammals  of  Turkey;  little  boys, 
innocent  of  shoes,  stockings,  or  hat,  and  with  the  rest  of  their  apparel  in 


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SOCIAL  8CI2NCE  AND  SUKVT  SCENES  IN  ISELAND.  168 

loeh  a  tattered  ooWkioQ  that  tbe  oaly  reMondUa  wa?  of  aeoowating  lor 
its  rltaginy  ta  them  is,  that,  whea  eooe  pat  on  it  is  nei^er  taken  bat 
allowed  to  drop  off  as  it  pleases,  aod  jet  loeldng  as  rosy  aad  many  as  if 
they  "  walbed  in  sflk  attire ;"  penay  aawopaper  setters,  bawling  out  tbe 
Dames  and  eoateots  of  their  stock  ia  trade ;  women  oanyiag  MTertisiDg 
boards,  and  proving  that,  in  one  partionhur  at  any  rate  the  great  mov«» 
ment  fer  the  amployment  of  women  is  responded  to  in  Dahlia;— «!!  iim 
greeted  us  while  our  luggage  was  being  packed  in  the  ear  which  was  to 
convey  as  to  Dundram,  an  anaagMaent  greatly  impeded  by  the  aamber 
of  heiperSy  one  of  whom,  as  we  drove  off,  refusing  to  pay  him  for  doing 
nothing  and  saying  we  had  no  more  change,  bawlea  out,  **  Sure,  aad 
your  honour  will  send  it  hack  by  the  driver.'' 

Daring  this  week  ^e  Foar  Ooorts  in  Dublin  were  tbe  gveat  scene  of 

attraction  of  a  moraing,  while  the  evenings  were  generally  devoted  to  a 

visit  to  some  of  the  senses  given  to  the  members  of  die  Social  Science 

Association.    Jiany  a  drive  through  the  handsome  streets  of  DnblnSy  and 

along  its  fine  ^uays,  did  I  take  to  these  courts,  and  often,  I  fSsar,  vras  I 

among  those  whose  ''flounced  petticoats   were  seen  ftatteriaff  aloi^ 

eoaidca,  HKMUiting  with  impetuous  haste  flights  of  stairs,  and  aughting 

at  last  in  giddy  gaUeries" — to  Hsten  to  papers  on  all  imaginable  sulnects, 

or  to  he  interested  by  disoassiens  on  these  papers  horn.  Lord  Broogfaaai, 

Mr.  Napier,  Mr.  Whiteside,  and  others,  whose  eloqaeace  is  not  gene* 

laUy  drawn  forth  an  places  where  ladies  congregate.    JBravely  did  Lord 

AoD^^ham  bear  tbe  fibtigue  and  excit«neiit  of  the  six  days,  and  I  mi^ 

add  aights,  that  the  meeting  lasted ;  horn  its  opening — when  he  spoke  for 

two  hows  and  a  half,  tiring  his  hsteners  no  more  than  he  appeared  to 

do  lumself — to  his  farewell  njoinder,  after  Sir  Robert  Peel  hsd  offered 

him  the  thaaks  of  the  Association,  at  its  doee,  his  eaerffy  never  failed. 

Did  Miss  Bessie  Packes  gracefully  dnaw  his  attention  to  we  employment 

of  woBMii  in  foreiga  coaatries,  dedaeing  theaoe  how  best  to  provide  work 

for  them  in  oar  own ;  or  Miss  EnuKr  FaithfoU  vrith  plain  good  senae  de* 

acribe  the  working  of  the  Victoria  Press^  by  which  so  many  females  are 

eaoployed  in  a  trade  hitherto  believed  to  be  only  fitted  for  men;  or  again, 

««re  tne  pi^pers  to  which  he  listened  those  of  learned  lawyers  who  ^oke 

€£  iarispnidence!,  raising  questions  on  the  laws  of  evidence,  of  marriage 

and  divoeoe ;  oi^  onoe  more,  was  it  the  Solicitor^Geaeral,  with  his  learned 

sad  interesting  paper  on  Ireland's  special  prodoee,  pigs, — to  all  and  eadi 

of  these  saljeots  did  Lord  Brougham  give  a  pleased  and  earnest  attention, 

ever  mady  to  seise  the  be^  points  of  the  argument,  aad  constantly  rehev- 

h^g  the  dulness  of  a  discussion  by  tiie  liveliness  of  his  own  fancy. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  stoking  sights  connected  with  the  Sodal 
Science  meetings  in  Dublin  was  the  gathering  of  the  Young  Men's 
ChnatiaB  Societies  ia  tbe  Round  Boom  at  the  Mansion  House,  a  meet- 
ing' peeeided  over  by  Lord  Brougham,  aad  te  which  all  connected  with 
the  Social  Science  Association  were  invited.  This  room  was  buih  as  a 
bnn^iieting-hall  when  Geoige  IV.  paid  his  visit  to  Dablin,  and  holds 
"  B  fifteen  handred  to  tmo  thousand  people.  On  this  night  its  capabili-^ 
were  put  to  the  test;  every  available  part  of  it  was  full  of  those  who 
I  with  undisturbed  silence  te  Lord  Brougham  and  others  who  ad* 
^  the  ten  diffsient  societies  of  Young  Irishmen  congregated  in  ihe 
of  tbe  building.     On  another  night  the  Lord  Lieutenant  opened 


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164  SOCIAL  SCIENCE  AND  SUNNY  SCENES  IN  IBELAl!«). 

the  Castle  for  the  reception  of  the  Association,  and  walked,  with  his 
sbter,  Lady  Lascelles,  on  his  arm,  followed  hy  his  two  &ir  nieces,  through 
the  rooms,  hlandly  smiling  on  and  bowing  to  his  guests.  All  Dublin 
seemed  on  the  gut  vive  to  welcome  the  association ;  the  Lord  Mayor  in- 
vited its  principal  members  to  a  banquet  ;  judges  gave  dinners  ;  literary 
and  scientific  societies  K&ve  soirees ;  museums  and  public  gardens  opened 
with  fiee  admission  to  those  connected  with  it;  in  fact,  as  I^rd  Brougham, 
in  hb  farewell  speech,  said,  '*  every  class  seemed  to  vie  with  and  rival 
each  other  in  kindness  and  usefulness,  and  activity  of  co-operation." 

But  the  week  passed  away;  the  four  courts  were  agam  resigned  to 
their  rightful  owners ;  crinolines  no  longer  sought  for  room  in  the  narrow 
seats  intended  for  silk  or  stuff  gowns  of  less  ample  dimensions ;  the 
solicitor's  room  had  lost  the  bright  eyes  which  at  the  "  ladies'  meeting" 
had  drawn  from  Lord  Brougham  the  flattering  assertion  that  it  was  as 
easy  to  doubt  that  the  ladies  of  Ireland  were  as  charitable  as  their  Eng* 
fish  sisters  as  that  they  were  as  handsome;  "and  no  one,*'  added  his 
lordship,  with  an  emphatic  stroke  of  his  umbrella  on  the  floor,  ^*  would 
venture,  with  what  I  see  before  me,  to  do  that." 

Cars,  which  during  the  week  had  almost  instinctively  fonnd  their  way 
to  the  four  courts,  now  as  naturally  conveved  their  occupants  to  the 
Kingsbridge  terminus,  whence  all  were  rushing  towards  Killamey,  in 
anticipation  of  meeting  the  Queen  there.  Very  early  on  the  morning  of 
Thursday,  the  22nd  of  August,  the  Carlisle  pier  at  Kingstown  was 
crowded  by  those  who  had  obtained  tickets  for  places  overlooking  the 
harbour,  and  who  were  waiting  anxiously  for  some  signs  of  movement  on 
board  the  royal  yacht,  which  had  come  to  anchor  in  the  harbour  the 
night  before.  Soon  after  ten  o'clock  the  Queen,  in  deep  mourning,  but 
looking  well  and  cheerful,  appeared  on  deck.  Loud  ana  warm  were  the 
cheers  with  which  she  was  greeted  by  her  Irish  subjects ;  and  when, 
about  an  hour  later,  she  landed,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Prince  Albert,  and 
followed  by  her  young  sailor  son  Prince  Alfred,  and  her  two  fair  daughters 
the  Princesses  Alice  and  Helena,  a  deafening  and  enthusiastic  cheer  rose 
again  and  again  from  those  who  had  waited  long  to  welcome  her.  Both 
the  Queen  and  her  husband  appeared  to  feel  and  appreciate  the  warmth 
of  their  reception.  The  Queen  looked  happy ;  she  smiled  and  bowed  her 
thanks  as  she  walked  slowly  to  the  train  Which  was  waiting  to  convey  her 
to  Dublin.  She  little  thought  then  how  soon  the  strong  arm  on  which 
she  so  lovingly  leaned  would  be  taken  from  her ;  she  was  but  recovering 
from  the  deep  grief  of  a  child  sorrowing  over  the  death  of  a  beloved 
mother,  and  now,  as  I  write  on  this  23rd  of  December,  but  four  months 
later,  the  guns  boom  and  the  sad  bells  toll  the  knell  of  death,  while  the 
husband  whose  sympathy  had  been  her  consolation  in  this  sorrow,  whose 
wisdom  has  guided  and  whose  love  has  blessed  her  with  so  many  years  of 
wedded  happiness,  is  being  laid  in  the  dark  vaults  at  Windsor,  and  our 
Queen,  weeps,  a  widow,  at  Osborne  for  him. 

But  all  this  sorrow  was  littie  thought  of  when,  on  the  23rd  of  August, 
crowds  of  loyal  Irish  stationed  themselves  along  the  line  of  the  Kingstown 
Railway,  anxious  to  catch  a  gUmpse  of  their  Queen  as  she  passed  rapidly 
by  them.  Various  were  the  salutations  offered  to  her,  full  of  love,  W 
these  warm-hearted  people — who,  whether  in  Dublin,  where  in  well- 
ordered  crowds  they  stood  patiently,  from  nine  in  the  momiDg  till  six 


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SOCIAL  SCIENCE  AND  SUNNY  SCENES  IN  IBELAND.  165 

at  nigbt,  to  see  and  weleome  her  as  the  drove  along  the  city;  or  at  the 
Cnrragh,  as  a  Tisitor  in  the  tent  of  her  son,  when  Uiousands  braved  the 
rain,  whidi  poured  upon  them,  to  see  their  Qoeen  review  her  troops  ;  or 
again  at  Killamej,  where  the  calm  lakes  reflected,  not  their  own  beantiftil 
line  of  protecting  niountuns,  bnt  the  bright  colours  of  the  gaily*tenanted 
boats  which  followed  the  royal  barge— every  where  seemed  to'  be  moved 
but  by  one  feeing,  that  of  a  desire  to  prove  Uieir  devoted  attachment  to, 
and  admiration  of,  their  Queen. 

Leaving  Dublin  the  same  day  as  the  Queen,  we  avmded  accompanying 
her  to  Killamey,  and  started  for  Bray  and  Avoca,  determining  to  n)end 
our  Sunday  at  Wooden  Bridge,  in  the  far-f&med  valley  of  the  Avon.  After 
passing  StiUorgan,  about  nine  miles  from  Dublin,  the  line  soon  begins  to 
run  along  the  coast,  affording  fine  views  of  Killiney  and  the  Hill  of 
Howth.  It  is  at  Bray  Head,  however,  that  the  most  beautiful  and  ex- 
citing portion  of  theioumey  is  reached;  the  line  clings,  as  it  were,  to  the 
rery  edge  of  the  clt£^  and  hangs  over  the  sea,  which  foams  amidst  huge 
rocks  several  hundred  feet  beneath,  and  as  one  looks  from  the  carriage 
window  to  see  nothing  below  but  the  deep  green  bays  into  which  the 
head  is  indented,  one  can  scarcely  help  a  feeling  of  dmd  lest  a  blast  of 
wind  ^onld  carry  the  tndn,  alrrady  so  near  the  edge,  a  foot  beyond  it, 
and  plunge  it  into  the  depths  below.  We  had,  during  a  previous  visit  to 
Ireland,  wandered  amid  the  lovely  scenery  of  the  Dargle,  and  visited 
Powersconrt,  and  did  not,  therefore,  now  wait  at  Bray,  whence  excursions 
to  these  places  and  to  Olendalough  are  made,  but  proceeding  through 
Wicklow  to  Rathdrum,  where  the  line  now  ends,  we  took  a  car  and  drove 
to  Wooden  Bridge.  The  valley  through  which  we  passed  would  now 
more  appropriatdy  be  called  **  the  meeting  of  the  metals"  than  of  ^  the 
waters."  The  copper  mines  of  Ballymurtagh,  near  the  village  of  New- 
bridge, however  they  may  have  benefited  the  country  by  their  produce^ 
bave  certainly  not  improved  its  landscape.  Tram-roads,  with  their  long 
lines  of  dirty  carts,  intersect  the  valley  in  every  direction ;  the  mountains 
are  disfigured  byfhuge  wooden  gutters,  through  which  pour  the  metallised 
streams  that  stain  every  sparkling  rivulet  to  a  deep  thick  orange  colour; 
steam-engines  puff  firom  the  sides  of  the  hills  their  volumes  of  smoke ; 
while  the  railroad  in  progress  of  completion,  from  Rathdrum  to  Arklow, 
with  its  embankments  and  bridges,  contributes  its  aid  in  giving  the  vale 
of  Avoca  a  very  different  aspect  to  the  "  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest 
of  jpeea'*  ascribed  to  it  in  Moore's  song. 

The  hotel  at  Wooden  Bridge  is  good  and  clean ;  from  the  garden  at 
the  back  a  very  pretty  view  across  the  valley  towards  Arklow  is  obtained, 
and  the  two  nvers  Avonbeg  and  Auehrim,  which  meet  at  Avoca,  are 
seen  gliding  calmly  between  their  richly- wooded  banks. 

Returning  to  Dublin,  we  now  made  our  start  towards  Killamey; 
Tisitiiig  first,  however,  friends  in  Kilkenny,  and  staying  on  our  road 
there  a  night  at  Newbridge,  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  the  Ourra^,  a  fine 
green  plain,  closed  in  by  distant  mountains,  and  containing  qmte  a  city 
of  wooden  huts,  with  a  dock-tower,  a  Protestant  and  a  Roman  Catholic 
dioreh  in  tiie  centre.  Taking  the  train  a^ain  frt>m  Newbridge,  we 
passed  through  Kildaie,  with  its  ruined  cathedral  and  high  round  tower; 
on  by  Cark)w,  croesmg  the  river  Barrow,  and  reaching  at  last  Kilkenny. 
Taking  there  a  car,  and  admiring  as  we  passed  it  the  magnificent  seat  of 


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166  SOCIAL  dCIENCE  AND  SUHH7  SCENES  IN  IBELAND. 

the  Butlers,  Ormood  Caitle,  we  dro? e  tliravigh  a  nob,  well-iarraed  country 
to  C^Jlan.  We  staved  ihree  or  £our  days  ia  its  neigiibourhood,  and 
made  ezcorsioDS  to  Lord  Desert's  handsome,  quaiut-loekiDg  house  and 
beautiful  garden ;  and  to  Lord  Waterford's  place,  CurraghoKkre,  with  its 
curious  sheU-hoase  and  most  innttng  dairy.  At  Carrick-ou-Suir  we 
took  the  train  again  for  Waterford,  and  from  this  city  trEveUed  by  train 
through  the  Limerick  and  Mallow  junctions  to  Killamey,  and  took  up 
our  abode  there  at  the  Railway  Hotel,  which  is,  perhaps,  as  good  a 
q^ecimen  of  what  a  pleasure  hotel  should  be  as  it  is  possiUe  to  conceiye, 
large,  airy,  and  well-iurnished  bedrooms,  good  and  civil  attendante^  an 
eiEMUent  table-dlidte,  a  magnificent  salon,  with  a  piaae,  books,  prints, 
chess  and  backgammon  boards,  billiard  and  smoking  rooms,  and,  above 
all,  the  most  active  and  obliging  of  landlords,  are  all  to  be  found  here; 
it  is  two  miles  from  the  Lakes,  and  commands  no  view  of  them,  but  I 
am  not  sure  that  this  is  a  disadvantage;  to  me,  the  lovely  views  appeared 
more  exquisite  after  a  walk  or  drive  to  them  than  if  they  had  always  btai 
bef<He  my  ^es^ 

The  road  to  the  Upper  Lake,  which  we  took  the  first  day  of  our 
arrival  at  Killacney,  bore  evidence  of  the  Queen's  visit  the  week  before; 
unromantic  cabins  were  still  hidden  by  a  screen  of  fafanc^es  of  trees 
stuck  in  the  ground  before  them;  pink  muslin  torn  to  shreds  still  flut- 
tered from  the  gates  of  Lord  Castleroase's  deatesne :  for  what  it  had 
been  torn  away  we  learned  when  we  met  a  little  maiden  near  one  of  the 
gates,  who  blushed  as  pink  as  her  petticoat  when  I  asked  her  if  ahe  had 
not  made  it  with  some  of  her  Major's  muslin  ? 

"  Is  it  a  boat  your  honour  would  require  ths  fine  afternoon  ?  It's 
myself  will  be  proud  to  rowyou  on  the  lake,"  was  the  salatarion  that  met 
us  when,  on  crossing  a  bridge  over  the  small  stream  which  separates  Ross 
Island  from  the  mainland,  we  found  ourselves  beneath  the  ruined  walls  of 
Boas  Castle,  while  before  us  lay  the  lovely  lake,  studded  with  island% 
and  glowing  in  the  ro^  tint  of  approaduog  sunset.  While  doubting 
whether  or  not  to  accept  the  boatman's  invitation,  another  attack  is  made 
open  us  by  a  woman  with  a  tray  of  paper-knivei^  bracelets,  snuff-boxe^ 
and  many  other  tlungs,  all  declared  to  be  made  of  ^e  hog  oak,  or  of  the 
arbatus,  which  grows  so  luxuriantly  here ;  her  entreaties  are  again  inter- 
rupted by  those  of  a  ri^gged  urchm,  who' begs  us  to  buy  a  root  of  the 
^'raal  fiern  of  Killaroey ;"  while  a  littfe  giri  with  h]%ht  black  eyes,  who 
has  just  established  a  blind  man,  dcawi^g  dolorous  tones  from  a  cracked 
violin,  in  a  sheltered  earner^  whines  ou^  ^*  Sure,  my  lady,  and  you'll 
^ve  a  penny  to  the  poor  blind  man."  Indeed,  these  beggars  interfiara 
in  no  slight  degree  with  the  pleasure  of  a  wander  on  the  shores  of  the 
lakes,  but  nowhere  are  their  imporianities  so  overpowering  as  <m  the  road 
to  the  Ghip  of  DmikM.  We  started  on  an  excursion  to  this  beautiful 
pass  with  two  fiaends  in  an  outside  car,  and  driving  through  the  dirty 
town  of  EiUamey,  we  passed  its  beautiful  Roman  Cadioiic  cathedral,  oi 
which  both  the  exterior  and  interior  are  worthy  of  its  desig^r,  Pugin; 
jcnd  leaving  to  the  right  the  picturesque  nunnery,  sohooUiouae^  and  asylum 
lor  the  insane,  we  drove  about  seven  or  eight  miles  along  a  good  roa^ 
ever  and  anon  Bassiag  an  ivy-covered  ruin,  and  catching  oecasional 
glimpsop  of  the  bright  lake  with  its  mountain  bad^ground  on  our  left 
mad.    Ccossii^  by  a  pieturesqae  bridge  the  stony  bed  of  the  river 


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SOCIAL  SCIENCE  AND  SUXNT  SCENES  IN  HtBLAND,  167 

LaiDe^  we  aooo  readied  die  cottage  d£  the  gruiddMightor  of  Kate 
Kearny;  tke  bright  glances,  so  dugeroiu  in  tbe  gtaodflM>ther,  ne^ 
howefer,  moderated  from  the  eyes  of  her  descendant,  whose  appearance 
is  far  £rom  attractive,  and  whose  ^  metrotain  dew"  of  goat's-milk  aai 
whisky,  strongly  impregnated  with  peat  smoke,  is  as  unpalatable  a  befe* 
sage  as  I  ever  had  the  misfortune  to  taste.  At  her  cottage  oongregato 
in  full  fMce  the  band  of  assailants,  men  on  ponies,  others  carrying  hugieSy 
or  small  cannons,  with  whi<&  to  awake  the  echoes  of  tbe  moantaias ; 
hoys  with  roots  of  fern  and  sprigs  of  the  Killamey  myrUe;  and  beyond 
aU,  in  their  vociferoas  pertinacity,  the  dark-eyed  giris  in  red  petticoats^ 
with  bare  feet  and  shawls  orer  their  heads,  who  press  upon  yon  their 
bog^oak  ornaments  and  At  worsted  stockings  Uiey  hare  knkted,  or  strive 
to  tempt  yon  with  a  ghtss  of  their  **  mountain  ibw.^'  ^  WoM  she  be 
his  wi£s  or  his  sister,  lady  ?"  asked  one  of  these  maidens  of  the  friends 
who  were  with  us;  and  on  leaning  the  relationship  wiiioh  existed 
between  us,  she  ran  after  ns,  exclaiming,  *<  Sure,  and  your  honour  will 
not  refuse  to  buy  something  for  the  little  masdier !" 

Having  learned,  before  we  leB;  the  hotel,  that  there  was  aethiag  to 

prevent  a  hMly  from  walking  all  through  the  pass,  we  resisted  the  en- 

treaties  of  the  pony  leaders,  and  passing  through  the  two  hi^  stones, 

called  '^the  twmpike,"  which  form  the  entranee  to  the  gap,  we  began  to 

ascend  the  stony  road,  which,  following  the  conrse  of  a  rapid  stream 

called  the  Loe,  conducts  vou  through  a  narrow  ravine  between  the 

Toomie  and  Purple  mountains  on  <Mie  side,  and  the  sharply-indented  ridge 

ef  the  M'Gillicuddy  Reeks  on  the  other.     The  Loe  runs  all  through  the 

g^en,  sometimes  as  a  narrow  streamlet,  sometimes  expanding  into  Idces. 

The  first  of  these  is  called  the''  Serpent's  Lake,"  and  the  view  of  it,  seen 

from  t^e  bridge  which  crosses  Ae  river  at  its  head,  is  very  lov^y.     It§ 

name  is  deriv^  from  a  legend  that  in  it  still  lives  the  last  Irish  serpent. 

He,  so  says  the  story,  had  escaped  from  the  great  destr^rer  of  his  race, 

St  Patrick,  and  had  retired  for  peace  and  quiet  to  the  Gap  of  Dunloe; 

thither  the  saint  followed  him,  aod  finding  force  unaUe  to  subdue  die 

serpent,  turned  his  own  weapons  upon  him,  and  by  deoeit  entrapped  him. 

He  caused  a  strong  box  with  sundry  bands  of  iron  and  many  padlocks  to 

be  flsade,  and  offering  to  bet  the  seqpent  nine  gallons  of  porter  diat  he 

would,  or  would  not — I  am  not  quite  sure  which — be  aUe  to  get  into  it, 

he  indaoed  htm,  <'  he  being  very  ihirsty,"  to  audce  the  attempt     Of 

eonise  tbe  box  was  big  enough  to  hold  him,  bat  he,  thinking  he  woaUl 

soon  wr^gle  out  VLgtdn^  left  a  Mttle  bit  of  hb  taU  outnde.     Tbe  aaini 

was  too  quick  for  him,  and  shut  the  lid  down  so  suddenty,  that  tbe 

serpent  was  glad  to  save  bis  tail  by  drawing  it  in  at  once.     Fast  were  all 

the  psidlocks  made,  and  down  to  the  bottom  of  tbe  lake  did  St  Patrick 

Bide  the  box.     ^  Och !  your  riveieoee,  it's  plain  the  box  will  hold  me; 

sore^  and  it's  letting  me]  out  you'll  be?"     '^Amdi,  be  aisy  now,  Mr. 

Sarpint;  to-niorrow's  the  day  I'll  be  opentoe  the  chest"  And  still,  adda 

the  l^;end,  when  the  wind  is  at  peaoe  and  the  lake  sleeps,  may  be  heard 

frona  beneath  the  water,  '*  When  will  to-morrow  come,  your  riverenee?" 

After  crossing  Ae  bridge  the  path  widens,  and  the  ascent  becomes  lesa 

steep.     At  lentil,  as  we  creep  round  a  jutting  rock,  the  exquisite  view 

of  the  Black  Valley  bursts  upon  our  sight,  excelling,  I  t^nk,  in  piotaresqae 

beauty,  any  of  the  scenes  of  Killarney.    The  shadows  thrown  across  it  by 


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168  SOCIAL  SCIENCE  AKD  SUNNY  SCENES  IN  IRELAND. 

the  lofty  mouDtains  which  overhang  the  vallej  have  g^ven  it  its  melan- 
choly name ;  but  there  is  little  of  sadness  in  its  aspect.  The  deep  rich 
hue  of  the  purple  mountain,  with  its  covering  of  heather  in  full  bloom, 
and  the  sharp  points,  and  yellowish  colour  of  the  Reeks  glittering  in  the 
son's  rays,  and  repeating  their  outline  darkly  in  the  valley  beneath, 
through  which  the  Loe,  making  many  a  circuitous  bend,  as  if  loth  to 
leave  so  much  quiet  loveliness,  runs  its  bright  blue  waters,  emerging  at 
last  and  widening  into  five  lakes,  form  a  picture  upon  which  one  would 
wish  to  gaze  unt^  the  impression  of  it  on  the  mind's  eye  was  made  deep 
enough  to  remain  there  for  ever.  Leaving  the  beautiful  valley  to  the 
right,  we  found  the  road  changed  from  its  stony  character  into  one  of 
wet  peaty  moss,  with  a  profusion  of  Liondon-pride  and  Killamey  myrtle, 
a  plant  resembling  in  its  leaves  the  Alpine  rose,  growing  in  it  This  con- 
tinued for  about  two  miles,  until  we  reached  a  cottage  belonging  to  Lord 
Brandon,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  Upper  Lake,  where  boats  are  allowed 
to  wait  for  those  who  return  by  water  to  Killamey,  instead  of  retracing 
their  steps  through  the  gap. 

We  were  not  sorry,  after  our  walk  of  five  miles,  to  find  a  four-oared 
boat,  well  furnished  with  cushions  and  a  good  luncheon,  sent  to  meet  us 
by  our  attentive  landlord,  Mr.  Goodman.  The  Upper  Lake,  which  is 
smaller  than  the  other  two,  and  wilder  in  its  scenery,  is  separated  from 
the  Middle  Lake  by  what  is  called  the  Long  Range,  a  narrow  winding 
channel  issuing  firom  it  at  its  northern  end.  A  huge  rock,  bearing  the 
name  of  '*  Colman's  Eye,"  guards  its  entrance,  and  so  effectually  appears 
to  dose  the  lake  in,  tliat  it  is  a  joke  of  the  boatmen  to  inquire  how  they 
are  to  get  the  boat  out.  About  the  centre  of  the  Long  Range  an  almost 
perpendicular  cliff  rises  sharp  in  the  air,  beneath  it  the  boat  stoM,  and 
the  rowers  commence  shouting  to  evoke  the  echo  spirit  of  the  **  Eagle's 
Nest;"  on  this  occasion  it  had  a  novel  sound  for  repetition,  as  a  view 
halloa,  savouring  more  of  the  Vale  of  White  Horse  than  of  the  Lakes  of 
Killamey,  issued  from  our  boat,  and  was  taken  up  again  and  again  by 
the  air-voices  which  hung  around  and  above  us.  Gliding  gently  on 
amid  this  lovely  scenery  we  reached,  about  a  mile  further,  one  of  the 
mo^t  picturesque  and  exciting  points  of  the  Lakes,  the  Old  Weir  Bridge, 
through  the  low  arch  of  which  the  current  rushes  with  a  sharp  deeoent, 
carrying  the  boat — the  rowers  having  laid  their  oars  aside — like  a  shot 
over  the  boiling  waters,  and  sending  it  on  rapidly  to  an  exquisite  spot  on 
the  southern  side  of  Dinis  Island,  called  the  Meeting  of  the  Waters; 
whether  the  name  was  given  it  by  Moore  I  know  not,  but  its  loveliness 
gives  it  far  mater  claim  to  be  the  **  Meeting"  of  his  song  than  that  of 
Avoca,  whicn  I  have  mentioned  before. 

Gliding  along  on  the  smooth  waters  of  the  middle  lake,  we  listened 
to  the  songs  of  our  boatmen,  or  sang  ourselves,  though  constantly  inter- 
mpted  to  be  introduced  to  some  memento  of  the  O'Donoghue,  the  great 
hero  of  the  lake ;  either  his  mighty  sandwiches  or  his  library,  "  the  Bible, 
in  a  note  green  cover,  on  the  top  of  the  other  books ;"  or  again,  the  per- 
forated rock  they  call  his  eye-glass,  were  pointed  out  for  our  amusement 
by  our  rowers,  who  were  full  of  stories  and  legends  about  him.  From 
the  ruined  wall  of  Ross  Castle  they  show  the  window  whence  the 
O'Donoghue  leaped,  when  he  forsook  the  castle  he  had  built,  in  order  to 


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SOCIAL  SCIENCE  AND  SUNNY  SCENES  IN  IRELAND.  169 

rende  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake ;  here  he  is  ttill  beliered  to  dwell, 
irisitiog  but  once  in  teren  yean  the  earth,  driTiDg  his  milk-white 
steeds  along  the  surface  of  the  water  to  Ross  Island,  where,  until  the 
sun  has  risen,  he  finds  his  castle  restored  to  its  original  magnificence, 
and  then,  as  die  sun's  rays  dissolve  its  magic  walls,  returning  to  his  cod 
abode  bdow. 

Another  delightfu)  day  at  Killamey  was  spent  in  viriting  Dinis  and 
InnisfaUen  islands,  and  the  caverns  called  die  stables  and  wine-cellars  of 
this  same  O'Donoghue.  They  are  in  the  Middle  Lake,  and,  trans- 
ferred to  canvas,  have  been  seen  by  many  who  have  not  been  to  Ireland, 
this  year,  since  here  it  is  that  the  desperate  plunge  of  the  Colleen  Bawn, 
and  her  rescue  by  her  disinterested  lover,  are  supposed  to  have  occurred 
in  the  drama  which  the  acting  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boucicault  has  made 
so  attractive. 

Innisfallen  is  reckoned  the  most  lovely  of  all  the  Lake  islands ;  it  is 
ezqmsitely  wooded,  and  abounds  with  Jbays  commanding  varied  views  of 
the  lakes.  It  has  also  the  picturesaue  ruins  of  an  abbey,  said  to  have 
been  built  in  the  seventh  century :  hundreds  of  sheep  feed  on  its  rich 
pastures,  and  add  not  a  little  to  its  beauty.  Report  says  that  Lord 
Castlerosse  intends  building  a  mansion  on  this  lovely  spot,  and  hope 
whisoers  it  may  be  intended  as  a  summer  residence  for  the  Queen,  for  a 
xeguiar  return  of  whose  visits  to  their  country  the  Irish  look  forward 
with  anxious  and  affecdonate  desire. 

Instead  of  retumbg  from  Killamey  to  Dublin,  we  determined  on 
reaching  England  again  from  Waterford,  and  we  dierefore  abandoned 
the  prescribed  route  of  the  railroad,  and  travelling  through  the  south  of 
Ireland  by  the  rougher  but  far  more  amusing  means  of  a  native  outside 
car,  fully  enjoyed  the  bright  weather  and  die  exquisite  scenery  to  be 
found  in  this  part  of  the  country.  There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  the 
right  way  to  be  introduced  to  killamey  would  be  exactly  to  reverse  the 
means  we  took.  The  approach  to  it  should  be  from  the  Cork  side,  and 
not  the  Limerick,  for  by  the  former  its  beauties  develop  themselves 
gradually  as  the  approach  to  them  is  made,  whereas,  in  taking  the  latter 
rout^  and  goine  £rom  Killamey  to  Cork,  the  coup  (Tonl  is  behind  you, 
and  it  is  only  by  continually  turning  round  that  its  loveliness  can  be 


Proceeding,  then,  along  the  good  rpads,  without  any  turnpikes,  which 
are  one  of  the  many  agrSmens  of  Irish  travelling,  we  reached  the  village 
of  Clogfareen,  in  which  stands  the  gate  leadmg  to  Colonel  Herbert's 
demesne  of  Muckross ;  alighting  from  our  car  we  entered  the  park  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  the  far-fiAmea  ruins  of  the  abbey  of  Muckross.     Truly 
the  old  Franciscan  friars,  for  whom  it  was  founoidd  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury* showed  their  taste  in  their  selection  of  a  spot  to  build  on ;  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find  one  more  inviting  than  this.     The  ruin  itself  is  very 
beautiful,  and  is  kept  in  good  preservation  by  Colonel  Herbert,  whose 
house  stands  but  a  few  hundred  yards  from  it.     The  stonework  of  the 
window  and  the  cloisters  is  nearly  perfect,  and,  although  the  mighty 
yew* tree  which  grows  in  the  centre  of  the  cloisters  has  no  roof  to  confine 
its  giant  head,  the  walls  which  surround  it  are  so  bound  together  with 
laznriant  ivy,  and  look  themselves  so  strong  in  their  masonry,  that  there 


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170  SOCIAL  SCIENCE  ASD  SUHNT  SCIXES  IN  IRELANIK 

seems  little  fear  of  their  decay.  Our  M  hero  The  O'Donoghue  dsMM 
to  haY»  been  buried  here  aaaidst  brotiier  chieftains  of  aneieBt  days,  but 
the  borial-gToaad  is  still  disturbed  oecasiettaUy  by  t&e  ftmerals  of  those 
who  bare  no  remaiitic  prestige  abovt  then.  Oa  the  momiag  of  ^  day 
o«  wfaaeh  we  visited  it,  a  cdBbi  had  bees  lowered  there  kto  earth  ii^ 
with  the  dust  of  those  who  have  lived,  and  still  live,  in  the  Songs  of 
Erin.  RetanuBg  to  oar  oar,  and  driving  about  a  aide  former,  passiDg 
is  oar  way  die  pvetty  Proteetant  church  Utely  bailt  by  Cotooel  Herbert, 
and  many  oomiortafale  Englisb-lookiag  cottages  ia  hb  village,  we  stopped 
at  a  low  wooden-gate^  whidi,  beiag  unlocked  by  a  daaasel  carrying,  of 
course^  a  bottle  of  '^  mountain  dew,"  admitted  us  to  the  path  leading  to 
Ae  Tore  waterEedL  The  fall  its^  is  at  some  distanoe  from  the  gate, 
but  the  stream,  or  laUier  streame  (fior  two  unite  to  prodaee  the  greafe 
body  of  water  which  dashes  over  a  ledge  of  rock  upwards  of  sixty  feet 
high),  ran  madly  od^  boifisg  over  and  around  the  huge  stones  thai  lie  ia 
dieir  coarse,  as  if  anxioas  to  hasten  on  and  obtaia  rest  in  the  placid  lake 
after  the  leap  they  have  take*.  We  dambered  up  the  steep  ascent,  antf 
were  well  repaid  when  the  fall,  the  roar  of  wfakh  had  long  been  heard, 
Aough  the  tkidc  firs  which  ckihed  the  rooks  Kid  it  from  us,  burst  upoa 
ovr  view.  It  is,  indeed,  a  splendid  £dl,  aad  wben  we  saw  it,  must  ha?e 
measured  at  least  twenty  feet  across,  dropping  half  its  depth  l&e  a  dear 
pteee  of  green  grass,  the  other  half  enveloped  in  steaming  spray  of  Ae 
purest  white. 

The  road  from  the  Tore  waterfrJl  to  the  police^tation  is  a  eon  tinned 
ascent,  and  comaiands  views  it  wo«ld  be  difficult  to  surpass  in  beauty — 
at  times  the  lofty  crags  wluch  border  it  the  whole  way  have  so  encroached 
npon  it  that  it  has  been  necessary  to  tunnel  through  diem.  From  the 
police-station,  a  distance,  I  think,  of  nine  miles  from  KillazBey,  die  whole 
lovely  panorama  is  revealed;  the  three  blae  lakes  glitter  in  iMdistance; 
runmng  towards  them  are  clearly  seen  the  monntain  streams  by  which 
dMy  are  fed ;  on  every  side  riae  Mty  peaks,  some  Boh  and  green  Kke 
MangertoQ,  others  with  the  rich  hae  of  the  purple  mountain,  odiers, 
again^  with  the  sharp  oatHne  of  the  Reeks,  while,  conspienous  above  aH, 
towers  the  great  cone-like  head  of  the  Tore  mountain,  rising  m  its  craggy 
boldness  dghteen  hundred  feet  above  the  firs  and  other  trees  whicfa 
dothe  its  lower  part. 

Leaving  with  regret  this  beawtilal  region  behind  im,  we  drove  along  a 
aaomtam-road,  hh  of  grandeur,  until  we  reached  Kenmare,  aad  obtained, 
at  the  Lansdowne  Arms,  a  ImadKon  of  ddicious  bread,  cheeae,  and 
butter,  and  a  liresh  horse  and  car  to  carry  as  on  to  €rlengari£fe.  From 
Kenmare  to  dengariffe  the  ^stance  is  sateen  miles,  md  the  road  is 
not  only  iateresdng  from  the  extreme  beauty  of  its  alpine  scenery,  but 
from  tl»3  evidences  it  gives  of  industry  and  perseverance  in  its  ferma- 
ti<Hi ;  a  great  portion  of  it  is  cut  through  the  rocks,  which  rise  to  a  great 
bdght  on  either  side  of  it ;  in  other  parts  d^ese  rocks  have  been  pierced 
—one  of  the  tunnels  is  no  less  than  six  hundred  feet  long.  We  readied 
the  hill  bek)w  which  lies  the  valley  of  Glengarifle  just  in  time  to  get  a 
view  of  its  lovely  bay  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  wondroudy 
beautifiil  was  the  scene-*its  blue  waters  surrounded  on  three  stdea  by 
rich  woods,  and  on  die  fi>nrtk  opening  wide  towards  Bantry.     blanda 


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SOCIAL  SCIKSTCE  AKD  SUKHT  SCENES  Hf  IRELAIO).  171 

oo¥er«d  with  kurariMii  vegetetioo  me  from  the  water ;  (m  one  of  tiiem 
stands,  in  white  relief,  the  fvrt  which  was  hvilt  in  1796  to  veceiTe  the 
French  flee^  which  then  anchored  in  Bantrj  Bay. 

Tempted,  the  next  day,  W  the  fine  warm  vaomng,  my  Iotc  of  the 
sea,  aiM  the  assnranoes  of  the  pretty  chioghter  ef  onr  hmdkdj,  that 
nodiia^  eonld  he  **  more  conTanient  than  the  h«thing.plaee  at  GIte- 
ganflKs,"  and  that  it  was  herself  ''who  always  provided  ^e  AwMes,"^  I 
started  ,with  this  damsel  fer  a  hath.  Such  a  walk  for  a  kitfae  I  hwe 
never  had;  for  nearly  half  a  mBe  we  scrambled  orer  stones  andthrengh 
heaps  of  seaweed,  wet  and  sttppery  with  the  receding  tide,  across  potato^ 
gardens,  along  sand  which  filled  my  shoes  and  wetted  my  ankles,  tUi  al 
last  I  reached  the  little  coto  where  the  mmden  who  guided  me  promised 
me  a  ^  nate  little  pU^e  to  undress  in."  I  looked  down,  and  saw  a  fcw 
stakes  in  front  of  a  shelring  rock,  with  hranches  of  tree%  nnde  of  leaves, 
scattered  near  them  on  the  beach. 

^  See  that  now!^  exclaimed  my  guide,  as  I  pointed,  laughing,  to  the 
transparent  state  of  my  robing-roora.  ^Sure  and  harrin'  the  wind 
tJtov  wasnt  a  nater  place  in  Irehmd;  it*s  the  storms  have  done  this^  mj 
lady;  but  1*11  go  behind  the  rock,  sure  and  I  will'* 

I  had  scarcely  risen  from  mv  first  plungey  when  she  reappeaared 
attired  in  a  white  dress  reaching^  to  her  4et,  and  with  her  long  golden 
hair  floating  over  her  shoulders. 

**  It's  myself  that  can  swim  IS^e  a  fish,*  die  cried  ;  and,  walking  into 
the  water  ^  it  rose  to  her  neck,  she  began  then  to  float  gracelully,  want- 
ing hut  a  looking-glass  to  make  her  as  pretty  a  mermaia  aa  any  "  King 
of  the  Merrows''  could  desire  to  grace  his  court* 

Returning  to  the  inn,  and  enjoying  the  fresh  fish  from  the  bay  which 

had  been  fried  for  breakfast,  I  was  soon  ready  for  the  car  in  which  wo 

vrere  to  go  to  the  hamlet  of  BalKogeary,  on  our  way  to  Inchigeela. 

The  road  fior  some  miles  £rom  Glengarine  skirts  the  beantiAil  &r  of 

'Bmatrj ;  afUr  this  it  has  nothing  in  it  very  nrach  to  be  admired  until  it 

r&thes  the  Keimaneigh  F^m,  a  narrow  defile  between  high  nigged  di&, 

made  briffiant  by  the  varied  colours  of  the  mosses  with  w£ch  they  are  en* 

enxted  and  the  shrubs  winch  start  in  rich  profusion  from  their  sides ;  ahmg 

one  side  of  the  road  is  a  deep  channel,  formed  doubtless  1^  the  many 

streams  which,  rushing  down  these  mountain  rocks,  swell  during  the 

winter  season  into  a  river,  and  flow  towards  the  Lee.   At  Ballingeary  the 

horse  and  car  are  changed  before  proceeding  to  Inchigeela,  and  half 

an  hour  is  well  spent  in  visiting  the  lonely  lake  of  Gougane  Bajrra,  sacred 

to  ^e  patron  saint  of  Cork,  St.  Finnbar,  the  ruins  of  whose  hermitage 

still  stand,  amid  a  grove  of  ash-trees,  on  a  small  island  nearly  in  the 

middle  of  the  Holy  Lake.     Truly  the  saint  need  not  have  feared  much 

interruption  to  his  meditations  in  this  secluded  spot,  for  ere  Bianconi 

dreamt  of  cars,  or  Stephenson  of  railways,  few  would  have  penetrated 

into  the  gloomy  region  in  which  its  purple  waters  reflect  the  rugged  rocks 

by  which  they  are  surrounded.     The  nver  Lee  has  its  source  from  the 

Cjkmg^ane  Barra  lake,  and  runs,  at  first  a  bright  tiny  streamlet,  along  the 

road,  g^dually  widening  as  it  receives  the  waters  of  its  many  tributaries, 

until,  about  four  miles  from  Inchigeela,  it  expands  into  a  series  of  lovely 

lakes,  to  be  again  confined  to  its  river  proportions,  and  spanned  by  the 


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172  SOCIAL  SCIENCE  AND  SUNNT  SCENES  IN  IBELAND. 

picturesque  iyy-covered  Boyle's  bridge,  m  it  travels  towards  Coric, 
wioding  gracefully  along  the  valley,  and  opening  at  last  into  the  wide 
beautiful  bay  which  bears  the  far-famed  name  of  the  Cove  of  Cork. 
Thither  I  must  follow  i^  passing  Inchigeela,  its  pretty  bridge  and  pic- 
turesque castle,  its  primitive  hotel  and  most  obliging  waitress,  with  but  a 
short  mention.  The  scenery  gpradually  becomes  tamer,  and  though  the 
valleys  are  rich  and  the  vegetation  luxuriant,  the  journey  from  Inchi- 
geela  to  Cork  has  littie  of  the  grandeur  of  views  which  had  charmed  us 
so  much  on  the  preceding  days.  Remaining  in  Cork  two  or  three  days, 
admiring  its  fine  quays,  steaming  up  its  beautiful  cove  to  Queenstown, 
and  not  forgetting  a  visit  to  thje  famed  casUe  and  groves  of  Blarney,  we 
returned  thence  to  Waterford,  visiting  while  there  Mr.  Maloolmson's 
immense  cotton  works  at  Pordaw,  where  fifteen  hundred  people  are  em- 
ployed in  making  calico  for  the  South  American  trade,  paying  also  a  vi^t 
to  the  English  farmer,  Mr.  Joyce,  who  has  been  settled  about  nine 
years  at  Waterford,  and  whose  breed  of  Berkshire  pigs  has  so  improved 
the  Irish  stock  that  the  old  "  rint  payers,"  with  their  long  legs  and  snouts 
and  flat  sides,  are  now  almost  extinct ; — and  climbing  die  steep  crag  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Suir,  on  which  Cromwell  is  said  to  have  seated 
himself  while  his  army  beneath  bombarded  the  unhappy  town  of  Water- 
ford. 

And  here  ended  our  Irish  wanderings,  for  the  steamer  to  MUford 
Haven  soon  carried  us  between  the  bright  banks  of  the  Suir,  away 
from  the  **  green  isle." 

Lord  Brougham,  when  he  closed  the  meetings  of  the  Social  Science  m 
Dublin,  said,  *'  I  hope  to  see  you  all  again.  I  know  nothing  of  Ireland  but 
Dublin,  and  not  all  that  I  nave  not  seen  Killamey,  I  have  not  seen  the 
Giant's  Causeway.   I  must  come  again." 

I  think  most  of  those  who  have  seen  these  Irish  scenes  would  echo  his 
lordship's  resolution,  and  ''come  again."  At  any  rate,  to  those  who,  like 
him,  have  yet  to  learn  their  beauty,  I  would  say,  *'  If  you  wish  for  fine 
scenery,  good  roads,  never-failing  good  nature  and  courtesy,  and — must 
I  add— can  put  up  with  a  littie  bad  cooking  and  sometimes  a  laige  share 
of  dirt,  go  and  emoy,  as  soon  as  you  can,  an  autumn's  ramble  amid  the 
'  sunny  scenes  of  Ireland.' " 


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173 
CEOOKED  USAGE; 

OK, 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  LORN  LORIOT. 
6t   Dudley    Costello. 

CHAPTER  ZXXnC. 
LOTB-MAKINQ  BT  PBOZT. 

While  waitbg  to  hear  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet  annoancing  Sir 
William's  departure,  in  pursuance  of  her  advice,  Mrs.  Drakeford  con- 
ndered  what  course  she  should  adopt  to  bring  Esther  to  the  state  of 
mind  she  desired. 

Besides  her  natural  disposition  for  intrigue,  Mrs.  Drakeford's  own  in- 
terests were  too  much  at  stake  not  to  dispose  her  to  do  everythmg  in  her 
power  to  advance  her  friend's  object :  he  had  promised  her  a  g^ood  round 
sum  in  the  event  of  success,  nor  had  earnest-money  or  other  gifts  been 
wanting  to  stimulate  her  best  endeavours. 

There  was  a  moment  in  Mrs.  Drakeford's  history — after  quitting  the 
service  of  Madame  de  la  Roquetaillade— when,  with  several  qualifications 
for  such  a  cause,  she  had  gone  upon  the  stage;  and  at  one  of  the  trans- 
pontine theatres  the  good  looks  and  audacity  of  Miss  Ellen  Harper  had 
made  a  certain  sensation.  Circumstances,  however,  arose — not  unusual 
with  actresses  of  her  description — which  led  her,  after  a  season  or  two,  to 
relinquish  her  theatrical  pursuits,  and  withdraw,  as  it  were,  into  private 
life ;  but  she  still  retained  her  fondness  for  theatrical  demonstration,  and 
employed  it  for  her  purpose  whenever  she  thought  she  could  turn  it  to 
account     An  occasion  for  its  use  presented  itself  now. 

After  composing  her  features  before  a  pocket  mirror  to  an  aspect  of 
deep  melancholy,  and  summoning  to  her  eyes  the  tears  that  came  at  will, 
she  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  affecting  not  to  perceive  that  Esther 
was  there,  crossed  over  to  the  opposite  side,  and  throwing  herself  on  a 
aofi^  drew  out  her  handkerchief,  buried  her  face  in  it,  and  began  to  sob 
bitterly. 

In  an  instant  Esther  was  by  her  side. 

**'  Mamma !"  she  exclaimed,  forgetting  her  doubts  at  the  sight  of  Mrs. 
I>rakeford's  apparent  grief,  and  addressing  her  in  the  old  accustomed 
manner,  **  what,  for  Heaven's  sake,  is  the  matterf' 

Bat  the  interesting  sufferer  rettmed  no  answer:  she  seemed  to  be 
wholly  unconscious  of  E^ther^s  presence,  and  went  on  sobbing. 

£sther  seized  Mrs.  Drakeford's  disengaged,  listless  hand,  and  repeated 
her  inqiury. 

At  her  touch  Mrs.  Drakeford  started,  uncovered  her  face,  turned  her 
streaming  eyes  on  Esther,  and  saying  in  a  sdfled  voice,  ^'  You  here  I** 
agaiii  averted  her  head  and  resumed  1^  tearful  occupation. 

«  Pray  tell  me,  mamma,'*  said  Esther,  beginning  to  catch  the  infeotioDt 
**  pray  tell  me  what  has  happened  ?" 

vol"  LI*  N 


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174  CROOKED  USAGE  ;  OR, 

"  Oh  no,  no !"  munnured  Mrs.  Drakeford.  "  Tell  you  f  Never, 
never  I  It  is  all  over  I  Good  God !  That  I  should  have  been  the  in- 
nocent cause !" 

<<  What  is  it  ?"  urged  Esther.  ^'  Dear  mamma,  speak.  Why  do  you 
say  *  it  is  all  over?'  " 

"  Sir  William !"  faintly  articulated  Mrs.  Drakeford. 

Esther  shivered  at  the  name,  and  dropped  Mrs.  Drakeford's  hand. 

'^  He  is  gone !  He  is  gone !"  repeated  the  disconsolate  mamma,  still 
overwhelmed  with  sorrow. 

"  Gone !     Where  ?"  asked  Esther. 

<< Where?"  returned  Mrs.  Drakeford,  with  sudden  energy,  and  once 
more  revealing  her  excited  countenance.  <*  Into  the  river,  perhaps ! 
Drowned, — poisoned, — ^killed  himself, — somehow !" 

<*  Sorely,  jnamma,'*  add  Esther,  ^  you  do  not  know  what  you  are 
saying!     Be  more  oomposed,  and  explam  what  all  this  means." 

""It  means,  Esther,"  replied  Mrs.  Drakeford,  slowly,  «<t^st  Sir 
William  Cumberland  is  by  this  time  a  corpse !     He  is  a  dead  man!" 

Mrs.  Drakeford's  look  was  so  solemn— she  had  drswn  no  socceMfuUy  on 
her  melodramatic  recollectk>n6 — ^that  her  words  souoded  like  troth,  and 
Esther  gased  upon  hear  in  silent  and  chilled  amaaement. 

^<  Dead !"  Ab  exclaimed.  "  Not  half  an  hour  ago  he  was  alive,  and 
—to  all  appearances— well,  in  this  apartment !" 

**  I  know  it  i"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  wrioging  her  hands ;  ^  he  met  me 
as  he  went  out,  and  then  and  there  imparted  Us  fotal  resolution." 

**  Are  you  serioos  ?    But  no — ^it  is  impossible !" 

'^  Esther  r  exdaimed  Mrs.  Drakefoid,  in  her  best  Meg  Merriliea* 
manner— she  hod  pli^ed  the  part  with  considerable  approbation  at  the 
Coburg — '^  if  ever  a  'man  said  what  he  meant,  tiiat  man  was  Sir  Wil- 
liam Cumberland.  Statuary  marble  virasn't  whiter  than  his  face  while 
he  was  speaking.  'I  am  goiug  to  my  account f  was  the  words  be 
uttered;  'you  will  never  see  me  alive  again,  Mrs.  D.'  At  hearing 
him  my  breath  quke  lefb  my  body,  and  you  might  have  knocked  me 
down  with  a  foather,  I  was  so  overcome.  '  Yes !'  he  went  od,  '  alive 
affsin  you  will  never  see  me-^-miless' — and  he  dropped  his  Toice  to  a 
whisper — '  miless  she  cmnents  to  be  mine.  I  have  made  my  will  in  her 
fovour — but  that's  nothiag — she'll  only  know  it  when  Fm  gone !  living, 
I  offered  her  all  I  had  in  die  world,  bat  she  scorned  and  trampled  upon 
me;  dead,  she  shall  have  all  my  property,  and  then' — such  an  awful  look 
as  he  give  me — 'then,  she  may  dance  above  my  grave!'  You  it  was, 
Esther,  he  was  alluding  to ;  and,  oh,  how  his  feelings  must  have  been 
ulcerated  to  make  use  of  such  an  expression!  He  said  no  morei  but 
squeezing  my  hand  violently,  and  striking  his  own  forehead,  roslied 
wildly  from  my  presence,  and  where*  he  has  gone  to,  or  what  he  means 
to  do  with  himself,  the  cm^oner  only  can  tell !  I  fear  the  voy  worst,  for 
I  know  his  pistols  are  always  loaded." 

''  If  what  you  tell  me  is  true,"  said  Esther,  in  a  much  calmer  tonethoB. 
Mrs.  Drakeford  eiqMoted,  ^  S^  William  must  be  mod,  for  no  one  in  his 
keofes  ooukl  act  so  strangely  without  cause." 

<*  Without  cause  l"  repeated  Mrs.  Dnd^brd.  ^  Interrogate  yoor  own. 
Aonsoienee,^  Esther,  and  then  say  if  there  was  no  eouw.     He  k>ves  yoU  to 


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THE  ADTEKTUSia  OF  lOBS  LOEIOT.  175 

dteftctioBy  Esther  I    MMfgea  you,  in  hci — and  your  ooadiict  has  driven 
him  to  the  rerge  of  insanity.'' 

<<My  oonscienoe^"  said  Esther,  still  mne  coldly,  ^^  accuses  me  of 
nothing.  If,  as  I  said  before^  Sir  William  did  make  these  violent  de« 
monstrationSy  the  effect  of  my  conduct  must  have  operated  very  suddenly 
uson  Uml  That  he  had  been  addressing  me  on  a  suliject  which  was 
dislastefiil  to  aie,  I  do  not  deny ;  but,  nnlMS  I  am  altogether  deoaved,  he 
prsosrpcd  cpiite  as  much  presence  of  mind  as  myself  when  he  heard  my 
«|ily.» 

'<  I  eaa  qvite  understand  t/mir  presence  of  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford^ 
losiag  her  temper.  '^  I  really  befieve,  Esther,  that  yon  have  no  mora 
he«rt  than  a  flint !  Here,  at  this  instant,  the  best  firiend  you  have  in  the 
wotld,  him  that  wooid  make  a  lady  of  you  lor  life,  may  be  laying  dead 
in  adkeh  with  his  brains  blown  out,  and  yon  never  to  move  a  mus^ !  I 
did  think  you'd  have  shown  more  feeling  V 

^^  I  reserve  my  emotions  for  realities,"  returned  Esther.  ^'  In  the  pre- 
sent  instance,  I  see  no  occasion  for  th^  display." 

*^J)o  yon  mean  to  say,"  cried  Mrs.  Drakeford,  angrily,  '^tfiat  you 
doubt  my  word  ?" 

"  There  are  some  cases,"  said  Esther,  **  in  whteh  probaUIity  outweighs 
assertion.  This  is  one  of  them.  If  yon  have  not  invented  the  scene  you 
described.  Sir  William  must  have  been  trying  to  frighten  you,  and  is 
ahnost  as  good  a  comedian  as  yourself." 

Mrs.  Dnkeford  looked  steadily  at  Esther  for  some  moments,  uncertain 
what  coarse  to  pnrsne.  That  Esther  saw  through  her  artifice  (Mrs. 
Dndcefocd's  mental  remark  was  "  up  to  ha  dodge")  was  quite  clear;  but 
whether  she  should  resent  the  discovery  and  carry  matters  with  a  high 
hsmd,  or  turn  it  all  off  as  a  joke,  became  a  question.  Of  the  two  alter- 
natives she  finally  chose  the  latter,  and  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of 
Iftoghter. 

**  Well !"  she  said,  ''  you  are  a  deep  one !  You've  found  me  out,  have 
jon  ?     ril  kiss  you  for  it !     I  do  like  cleverness !" 

Mrs.  Drakeford  accompanied  the  word  with  the  action,  and  strained 
the  rdnctant  Esdier  in  her  embrace. 

Whoi  her  explosive  aflbction  had  subsided,  Mrs.  Drakeford  put  on  an 
air  of  affected  gravity* 

'^OoBie,  now,  Esty,"  she  said,  '*  confess  you've  been  too  hard  upon 
■a.  Though  it  ain^  quite  true  about  his  making  away  vrith  himself,  I 
fi&dge  you  my  honour  I  never  saw  a  man  so  cut  up  in  my  Hfe  I  Why, 
now,*^  she  went  on,  in  a  coaxing  tone,  **  what  can  you  have  to  say  against 
Sir  'William  ?     What  did  yon  do  to  put  him  in  such  a  way?" 

*^  Only  that  mpon  the  subject  he  spolro  of  we  entertained  entirely  op- 
posite views." 

**  And  why  '  opposite  views,'  Esty?     Ain't  he  handsome,  and  rich,  a 
man  of  rank,  and  everythink  a  woman  can  desire?" 

''  JBIe  may  be  all  yon  stfy,  and  more^  but  Sir  William  Cumberland  h 
almost  the  last  person  I  should  think  of  for  a  husband." 

Bdrs.  Drakeford  could  not  suppress  a  slight  cough,  the  meaning  of  which 
was — iF  Esther  could  have  understood  it — you  need  not  trouble  yourself 
much  on  that  score.  What  she  said,  however,  had  no  relation  to  this 
meaning^. 

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176  CROOKED  USAOS  ;  OB, 

<<  Tou  astonish  me,  Esty !  Not  many  Sir  William!  If  I  was  single 
and  twenty  years  younger,  see  if  Fd  refuse  him.** 

'<  I  am  Sony  the  opportunity  is  wanting,"  said  Esther.  **  But,  as  you 
have  asked  me  sevend  questions,  let  me  put  one  to  you !  Why  do  yoa 
take  all  this  pains  on  his  account?" 

"  Because  I  want  to  see  you  well  married,"  replied  Mrs.  Drakeford, 
unhlushingly,  *^  that's  the  naked  truth,  my  dear !  It's  not  one  gurl  in 
five  hundred  e?er  gets  such  a  chance  as  you've  got.  Only  think !  There's 
a  house  in  town,  a  lovely  place  in  Lincolnshire,  this  cottage — a  perfect 
gem — horses,  carriages,  fine  dresses,  jewels,  opera-boxes,  every  amuse- 
ment you  can  wish  tor,  and  all  to  be  had  for  the  trouble  of  opening  your 
pretty  mouth  and  saying  one  little  word." 

"  A  word,"  said  Esther,  *^  which  I  shall  never  utter.  It  is  quite  use- 
less," she  added,  seeing  Mrs.  Drakeford  about  to  speak,  *^  to  press  me  on 
the  subject;  my  determination  is  made,  and  you  will  find  it  un- 
changeable." 

With  these  words  she  rose  and  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Drakeford  foUowed  Esther  with  her  eyes  till  she  disappeared ; 
then,  throwing  herself  back  in  her  chair,  she  mused  for  a  while. 

''  Esty's  an  obstinate  little  devil !"  at  length  she  said ;  *<  when  once  she 
gets  a  thing  into  her  head,  nothing  in  the  way  of  force  can  turn  her.  Of 
course  I  shan't  try  that ;  but  I  mustn't,  by  no  manner  of  means,  give  in 
to  her.  A  thousand  pounds  for  her  consent  is  worth  trying  for — and 
I'll  earn  it — somehow.  I  needn't  be  over-particular  as  to  the  means, 
if  I'm  only  successful.  They  say  constant  dropping  wears  out  the  stone. 
You  must  be  talked  into  it.  Miss,  pleasantly,  oy  me !  He  had  better 
keep  out  of  the  way  for  a  time.  I  will  write  and  tell  him  so.  Lord  ! 
Loid !  What  fools  there  are  in  the  world !  A  man  with  ten  thousand 
a  year  to  go  a  begging !" 

Her  soUloquy  ended,  Mrs.  Drakeford  drew  a  writing-table  near,  and 
with  sundry  contortions  of  visage — common  to  those  who  are  no  gretit 
scribes^-contrived  to  pen  the  foUowing  elegant  epistle : 

"  Vilet  Bank,  Twitaiam. 
'<  Deab  Sir  Wm.— This  will  Be  a  Tufier  Jobb  than  i  Thougt  for  when 
i  first  Took  it  in  Hand  she  turns  quite  a  Deff  Year  to  all  i  say  and  caun^ 
be  perswadded  to  her  own  Good  but  newer  say  Dy  is  my  moto,  and  take 
my  Word  for  it  ile  Bring  her  Round  before  ive  Done  onely  you  must 
make  yourself  Scars  for  a  weak  or  so  and  Leave  her  entirely  to  Me  eurls 
admire  Jennerosity,  and  if  you  was  to  send  her  a  Pretty  Little  Caddow 
and  Just  for  the  Look  of  the  Thing  One  for  me  Two  that  i  think  would 
Go  a  Grate  Way  to  Move  her  i  Wish  i  could  send  her  Love  but  All  in 
Good  Time  Sir  Wm.  and  so  Bon  Swor  and  Orevor  as  the  French  say 
Yours  N.  D." 

Having  the  Court  Ouide  before  her,  Mrs.  Drakeford  spelt  the  address 
properly,  and  then  sent  her  communication  to  the  post. 


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THE  APYXNTUBES  OF  LOSN  LORIOT.  177 


OHAPTSB  XL* 
LOBX'8    LXTTBB. 

Sir  WnxiAH  proved  wax  in  the  handa  of  Mra.  Drakeford,  impUcitlj 
followiog  her  advice,  and  no  e£fbrt  was  wanting  on  her  part  to  propitiate 
Esther  in  his  f avoor.  She  reHed  a  good  deal  on  her  powers  of  persoasiony 
but  still  more  on  the  "  little  caddow,"  which  amved  as  they  sat  at 
hceakfiut  on  the  fourth  day  after  Sir  William's  departure. 

^  Well,  if  ever !"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  read  the  little  note  which 
accompanied  the  package.  *'  1  dreamt  last  night,  Esty,  that  you  and 
me  was  in  sach  luck,  and  blest  if  it  ain't  come  true!  Look  here,  Esty, 
these  are  for  us!  Oh  Lord,  how  I  do  lore  the  smell  <^  them  Rusher 
leather  cases,  specially  when  they've  somethink  inside.  See,  Estvl 
two  such  magnificent  bracelets  I  Snakes  with  carbuncle  heads  and  di« 
mond  eyes !  I  am  fond  of  snakes — ^made  of  gold  and  precious  stones. 
Ain't  he  a  dear  creature  ?" 

<^  Whom  do  you  mean  p"  asked  Esther* 

"Who?"  returned  Mrs.  Drakeford.  "Why,  Sir  William,  to  be 
sure!  Hear  what  he  says:  'Begs  Mrs.  Drakeford  and  her  charm« 
ing  daughter^ — ^that's  you,  you  know,  Esty — 'will  do  him  the  great 
kindness  to  accept  the  accompanying  trifling  marks  of  his  re^urd.' 
—-How  much  the  gentleman !  Trifling,  indeea !  I'll  be  bound  diey 
didn't  cost  less  than  fifty  guineas  i^iece.  Now,  which  of  the  two  wiU 
you  have  ?  There's  not  a  pin  to  choose  between  'em.  Take  your  choice 
—I  shan't  be  jealous." 

"  If  there  were  any  difierence,"  said  Esther,  "  I  should  not  excite 
your  jealousy.     I  mean  to  accept  neither." 

"  Not  accept,  Esty !"  cried  Mrs.  Drakeford,  in  perfect  consternation. 
'<  You  couldn't  be  so  rude  as  to  refuse !" 

"  Rude  or  not,"  returned  Esther,  **  I  must  repeat  my  refusal.  More ; 
I  can  acc^t  no  presents  from  Sir  William  Cumberland."  She  rose  as 
she  spoke^  went  to  her  work-box  which  stood  near,  and  returning,  added: 
"  You  recollect  the  first  time  I  saw  him  he  pressed  on  me  this  ring*  I 
have  never  worn  it,  and  I  must  beg  of  you  to  giye  it  back  to  him." 
So  saying,  she  laid  the  ring  on  the  table. 

^  Upon  my  word,  Esty,"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  "  you  surprise  me ! 
Whatever  can  you  be  made  of?" 

**  Not  of  the  stuff  you  suppose.  Both  yourself  and  Sir  William  Cum- 
berland are  very  g^reatly  mistaken  if  you  think  I  am  to  be  won  by  things 
like  these." 

<<  Nonsense,  Esty!  you  can't  be  serious.  Look  at  'em  again.  They're 
enough  to  make  any  one's  mouth  water.  Give  that  ring  back !  Not  if 
I  know  it!  What  you've  once  took  you  must  keep.  And  as  to  the 
bracelet!  Come  now,  Esty,  don't  be  a  fool !  Why,  if  Sir  William  was 
your  own  father  he  couldn't  be  kinder.  Lord,  Esty,  this  is  nothing  to 
what  he'll  do  for  you  if  you'll  only  let  him.  He's  out-and-out  the  most 
splendid-minded  man  I  ever  come  across !" 

Mrs.  Drakeford's  eulogium  was  suddenly  interrupted  at  ibis  point  by 
the  entrance  of  a  footman  with  a  letter. 


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176  CBOOEEDtrSMB;  OS; 

**By  ihe  day-post,  ma'am,"  he  said,  as  Mra«  Drakeford  took  it 
from  the  salyer;  and  if  you  please,  ma'am,  there's  a  person  wishes  to 
see  you." 

'*  To  see  me !"  echoed  Mrs,  Drakefordj  somewhat  in  alarm,  fearing 
the  avatar  of  him  whose  name  she  bore.     '^  What  kind  of  person?" 

^I  shoald  sajihal  he  were  foreign,  ma'am,"  replied  the  fboCioan; 
^leastways  wfaieh  he  is  tall  and  siJler  wilh  a  he«rd  and  ta^  in  a 
Frenehified  sort  of  way.** 

^  Show  him  into  m  Kbery,"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  qvi^y,  '<  and  Wf 
I  will  come  directly.  This  is  the  Doctor^s  hand,"  bob  continaed,  ttao- 
ing  to  Esther  as  Ae  broke  the  seal.  <<Oh  yes!  sare  enough;  hut 
whai^s  this  inside?  A  letter  for  yon,  Esty !  Mercy,  what  a  coppsf- 
plate  correspondent!  Wkp^canit  l>efrtxn?  Bni  stey,  I  see  the  Doctsr 
says  he  had  it  hon  that  rarl,  Sarah.  What  took  her  to  him,  I  wooderl 
M^— «Ei'ra — 'wages,'  indeed— < lost  hw  clodies  in  the  fire' — stiff  and 
nonsense !     I  can't  stay  to  read  it  now — there !" 

Tossing  Esdier^s  letter  to  her,  she  orompled  up  her  own,  and  hastily 
left  the  room. 

For  Esther  to  receire  a  letter  was  somethhig  very  rave.  She,  too^ 
wondered  where  it  came  from,  and  psosed  to  consUar,  as  people  always 
do  when  a  strange  superscription  meets  their  eye. 

**That  poor  girl,^  she  said,  **oofdd  never  write  eo  well  as  tUs! 
Besides,  what  had  ^  to  write  about?  It  can't  be  from  her.  Andyel, 
who  eke?  For  I  know  nobody.  <  To  Miss  Drakeford.'  For  me,  cer- 
tainly. I  have  no  other  name.  What  nonsense  to  spectdate,  when  i  can 
vatisfy  my  curiosity  «t  once.** 

Satisfy  your  curiosity,  Esther  ?  Every  line  there  will  raise  it.  Sodk- 
thing  more^  too,  than  curiosity,  or  why  that  deepening  glow  ?  Let  ns 
read  it  with  you,  and  learn  the  reason  why  your  eyes  fill  vrith  tears  and 
your  colour  dianges  so  quickly ! 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Drakefcnd," — the  letter  began, — ^"for 
taking  the  liberty  of  writing  to  you,  but  if  I  were  to  be  sent  sway  with- 
out seeing  you  again,  you  might  think  I  had  been  doing  wroag — as  they 
accuse  me  06 — which  I  assure  you  is  not  true ;  and  that  I  never  coM 
bear.     A  hundred  deaths  wo«da  be  nothmg  to  it.     I  know  I  am  quite 
alone  in  the  worid,  and  have  no  right  to  expect  anybody  to  can  ^hat 
becomes  of  me,  but  I  never,  never  can  forget  that  you  were  kind  to  me 
from  the  very  first.    It  was  not  my  fault,  Miss  Drakeford,  that  I  £d  not 
come  back  again  the  afternoon  I  saw  you  last.  There  is  notiiing  youeedd 
ask  of  me  tmit  I  would  not  do,  and  lay  down  my  life  to  perform  it,  only 
that  was  qmte  out  of  my  power.     I  must  tell  you  ^tue  truth,  Mns  Drake- 
ford.    I  was  arrested  on  a  false  charge,  and  put  into  prison,  where  I  am 
now,  and  unless  my  innocence  is  proved  to-morrow,  I  shall  be  tried  and 
oonvicted,  aud  then  there  wiH  be  an  end  of  me  altogether,  for  I  shall  nevsr 
be  able  to  hold  up  my  head  again ;  though  I  ought  not  to  mind,  being 
innocent  of  what  they  lay  to  ray  charge^  for  St.  Paul  himarif  suffved*  as 
an  evil*doer,  even  unto  bonds,'  as  I  have  just  been  readiu^.  I  haye  some* 
tiling  to  say,  Mm  Drakeford,  if  you  will  let  me.     ShouM  it  be  my  mis- 
fortune to  be  condemned,  pray  do  not  believe  that  I  Mm.  guUty.  The  oolj 
wrong  thing  I  know  of  n^seu  is  sometlung  I  iuivu  not  courage  to  utter. 
It  is  not  any  act  of  mme,  like  theftor  fok^ood,  b«t— but — ^w£u  Icannot 


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THE  AmrEMTCUB  OT  UaDi  LORIOT.  179 

viitoaadoqgiiiaoAtotlaiikcf;  and  yet  I.dodiiiycof  it  «f«y  moment 
ei  the  day,  aad  dr«Bm  o£  it  vlieii  I  am  not  m^dmg*  Yow  fhrjprnimi^ 
ICflsDnJiafovdfisalllaeak;  IdaDenotatkfbrmon;  and  yoa  are  so  good, 
•alditd»io  haaiitifiil,  Aat  peAaps  yoa  wM  foryii»  me !  Oh,  what  a  bep* 
pineas  it  would  be  if  I  could  only  hear  your  voice  again!  Singiiig  ov 
speaking,  its  tone  was  always  the  same  in  my  ears — a  sound  that  made 
me  feel  as  if  I  was  in  heaven !  Tbe  thowht  that  I  never  may  hear  it, 
never  see  you  more,  Miss  Drakeford,  is  the  greatest  pain  I  have  ever 
known — next  to  that  of  lonng  your  esteem ;  for  you  would  not  have 
mkeB  to  or  ssnled  on  me  if  you  had  not  thoaght  me  honest  and  tma-^ 
1  meaoi  with  nodnng  reaUy  bad  abootme.  I  must  ciose  tins  letter,  Mim 
-—Esther— oh,  pardon  me  for  writing  your  sweet  name— thoi^h  I  skmim 
never  leareeff  d  I  had  asy  own  way,  so  dear  to  me  it  is  to  £uioy  you  will 
read  what  I  write.  And  yet,  God  knows  if  it  will  ever  leaofa  you.  S^ 
hoping  thai  it  ni^,  with  every  wish  for  your  happiness,  here  and  here- 
sfter,  and  that  noMng  on  ^eaith  may  ever  caase  you  a  mcmsnt^s  sonvw^ 
I  remain,  dear  Miss  Esther^  (the  **  Miss"  had  been  blotted  ont,  but  le^ 
written),  ^  yoor  famnble  servant, 

'^LornLorhmp." 

''Poor  Mfowr  sighed  Estiier.  <'I  do  believe  in  your  honeslr  and 
troth,  whatever  the  natnse  of  the  aoeasation  against  you«  Poor  Lorn  I 
I  believe,  too** — and  agun  she  sighed^— ''in  that  wnioh  you  dare  not 
leveal.  Heaven  hdp  yon  in  your  trooUe  and  me  in  nnne,  Ur  what  is 
tiiere  in  stove  for  either  of  us  hot  a  tifc  of  pssn  and  misery !  What  evil 
has  really  befiillen  him,  he  does  not  say.  I  can  guess,  thoagh,  through 
whose  instmaentality  it  has  dianeed.  The  last  perten  I  saw  him  with — 
he,  in  faet,  who  akme  had  authority  over  him-^-was  the  man  who,  if  I 
naistake  not,  is  now  here — not  too  wekxMne  a  visitor,  I  imagine,  to  this 
yenal,  artful  Mrs.  Drakeford!  « Quite  alone  in  tfie  worid T  Yet,  Lorn! 
We  are  both  alone  in  the  worid,  and  neither  can  help  the  odiec  But  he 
cannot  be  altogether  without  friends,  or  how  shonM  ne  have  oontrived  to 
aend  me  this  letter  ?  He  muK  have  seen'the  P^^mi^  who  took  it  'to  the 
I>octor ; — ^yet  such  a  messenger !  Mrs.  Drakeford  said  somediiag  about 
*  WL  fife'  and  'olaiois  for  wi^es.*  There  is  a  mystery  in  it  all  which  I 
cannot  comprehend  P 

,  As  she  spoke,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  ornaments  that  were  still  hring  on  the 
table,  a^  beside  these  &kr  William's  open  note,  wUoh,  ia  hen  amy,  Mrs. 
I>rakeford  had  \eh  behind  her.  To  Mad  another  person's  letter,  let  the 
contents  be  what  they  might,  was  utterly  foreign  to  her  disposition ;  but 
lier  flight  was  so  quick  thiat  a  single  unintentional  glanee  sufficed  to  take 
in  a  postscript  of  three  lines  which  Mrs.  Drakeford  had  kept  to  herself^ 
Those  three  lines  eonfimed  Es^Aier's  half*fi(»Hied  suspicions.  %e  saw  by 
tfaem  not  only  that  Sir  Wilham  was  aotingaeoosding  to  Mrs.  Drakeford  s 
direotions,  but  bow  deeply  Mrs.  Drakeford  herself  was  interested  in  the 
result  of  her  seheme.  Twioe  as  nraeh  as  he  had  already  promised  was  to 
be  his  finthfid  aUy^  reward. 

There  could  be  no  mistake  new!    It  was  plain,  even  to  Estiier's  inno- 
cause,  that  she  was  bought  and  sold.    Her  determination  was  taken  at 
OBoe.     IBbtftily  asoendrag  to  her  room,  she  put  on  her  bonaet  and  cloak,  * 
gathered  tegmer  a  fow  necessary  things  ia  a  small  bag,  whkb  she  care* 

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180  CROOKED  USAGE ;  OB, 

fiilly  concealed  beneath  her  dress,  and,  hurrying  down  stairs,  crossed  Ae 
garden  to  a  private  door  opening  into  a  lane  wat  ran  down  to  the  ferry, 
and  the  ferryman  being  luckily  at  his  post,  she  entered  the  boat,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  river  was  between  her  and  the  treacherous  woman  fiom 
whom  she  fled. 

CHAPTER  ZLI. 
DIVIDE  XT  IMPESA. 

As  Mrs.  Drakeford  rightly  imagined,  her  visitor  was  Bastide;  but 
prepared  as  she  was  to  meet  him,  she  could  not  altogether  suppress  a 
manifestation  of  surprise. 

<<  Who  ever  thought  of  seeing  you  I"  she  said,  as  he  turned  from  m 
picture  he  was  looking  at  when  he  heard  her  voice. 

''  Not  you,  I  dare  say/'  was  his  reply.  "  Doubtless  it  is  an  unex« 
pected  happiness.  I  hope  your  aunts  are  both  quite  well !  They  have  a 
pretty  place  here." 

'^  Very !"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  collecting  her  thoughts  for  an  en- 
counter. 

'^  Is  that,''  asked  Bastide,  pointing  to  the  picture  which  had  occupied 
him—"  13  that  [the  portnut  of  your  uncle  ?  I  think  I  perceive  a  family 
likeness.  At  all  events,  there  is  one  point  of  resemblance  :  he  is  a  han<(- 
some  man,  and  you  are  a  handsome  woman." 

^^Tell  me  somediing  new,"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  annoyed  at  Bastide's 
bantering  tone,  and  impatient  to  learn  what  brought  him  there.  ^*  Fye 
heard  that  before." 

^'  About  your  beauty,  yes  I  Many  times— as  you  deserved.  But  the 
comparison,  at  least,  is  new.  And  diis  uncle  of  yours,  like  his  respect- 
able sisters,  your  aunts,  is  as  good,  no  doubt,  as  he  is  handsome.  What 
a  pleasure  to  have  such  interesting  relations !" 

*'  I  wish  you'd  leave  my  relations  alone,**  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  still 
more  annoyed  by  Yob  persijlage, 

**  Willingly,"  returned  Bastide.  '*  People  who  have  no  existence  are 
of  no  consequence  to  either  you  or  me." 

*^  What  the  deuce  are  you  driving  at?"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  flinging 
herself  into  a  chair.     *'  Can't  you  speak  out  P" 

''  I  was  afraid  to  dbturb  your  nerves,"  replied  Bastide,  taking  a  seat 
also.     ^*  It  is  not  advisable,  with  a  fine  lady,  to  be  too  precipitate." 

'<  Ain't  it?"  observed  Mrs.  Drakeford,  sulkily. 

'*  No !"  said  Bastide,  in  the  same  quiet  manner.  '^  To  say  all  one 
knows  at  once,  is  a  very  indi£ferent  kind  of  game.  Tres  mauvais  jeu, 
mon  amie,  je  t'assure !" 

^'  Gambling's  always  uppermost  in  your  mind,"  retorted  Mrs.  Drake- 
ford, trying  to  turn  uie  conversation  by  an  accusation. 

*'  Not  always,"  answered  Bastide ;  "  or,  if  so,  it  is  because  gambling — 
or  cheating,  if  you  like  that  better — is  everybody's  occupation.  Now, 
my  dear  Mistress  Nelly,  acknowledge  at  once — to  save  me  the  pain  of 
converting  you — that  you  have  been  cheating  me." 

<'  In  what  way  ?"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  hardily. 

'<  Oh !  you  oblige  me  to  speak  p  Well,  if  it  must  be  so,  listen.  When. 
I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  the  day  before  you  leiFt  London,  you. 


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THE  ADVENTUBBS  OF  LOBK  LOBIOT.  181 

said  you  could  not  reoeiye  me  in  the  countiy*  Those  pious,  amiable 
women,  jonr  aants,  had  so  great  a  honor  of  foreigners — ^your  words,  if  I 
remember  righUy,  were  to  that  effect — that  a  visit  horn  me  was  imjpos- 
ttble ;  and  that  I  mieht  not  offend  them  by  my  presence,  you  woula  not 
eyen  give  me  your  address." 

"  WeU,  what  does  it  all  signify  P  interrupted  Mrs.  Drakeford.  ''  I 
wasn't  bound  to  tell  you  where  I  was  gomg  to.  Besides,  how  do  you 
know  what  I  said  wasn't  true?'* 

^  Because,  in  the  first  place,  Nelly — and  you  must  not  be  offended  with 
what  I  say — ^you  never  speak  the  truth;  and  in  the  next,  because  this 
house  belongs  to  Sir  William  Cumberland." 

At  this  opea  mentbn  of  her  host's  name,  Mrs.  Drakeford  began  to 
feel  uncomfortable;  nevertheless,  she  did  not  lose  countenance,  but  deter- 
mined  to  braien  it  out 

•<  What's  the  odds?"  she  said.  "Sir  William  is  a  friend  of  mine. 
There's  no  harm  in  that,  I  suppose?" 

"None  in  the  world.  If  Drakeford  don't  mind,  it's  nothing  to 
me.  You  are  welcome  to  intrigue  on  your  own  account  as  much  as  you 
please." 

"  Thankee,  for  your  good  opinion,"  said  the  Udy,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head. 

"  But,"  continued  Bastide,  speaking  very  deliberately,  "  that  is  not  the 
whole  question." 

"  What  is,  then,  for  goodness'  sake  ?"  exclaimed  his  impatient  auditor. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  for  your  sake  and  mine,  neither  of  which,  perhaps, 
have  much  to  do  with  g^oodness.  Another  person,  besides  yourself,  is 
affected  by  this  move  of  yours." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes!  One  in  whom  I  take  some  interest  There  is,  I  believe, 
a  youDg  lady  under  your  care,  who  passes  for  your  daughter-—" 

"Passes!     Welll^' 

"  This  young  lady  is  both  beautiful  and  accomplished.  A  finer  girl  is 
not,  perhaps,  to  be  met  with.  She  is  of  marrii^^ble  age,  but — somehow 
or  other — we  don't  want  to  get  a  husband  for  her,  and  yet  we  wish  to  see 
her — what  shall  we  call  it? — established.  It  so  happens--«tay,  stay, 
don't  interrupt  me — it  so  happens  that  we  have  a  very  rich  friend — an 
elderly  Baronet,  we  will  suppose — ^who  lives  en  gargon,  is  bewitched  by 
our  young  lady's  pretty  &ce,  and  would  give  any  money  to  be  on  a  certain 
footmg  with  her.  We  accept  an  invitation,  in  consequence,  to  his  charm- 
ingly secluded  villa  on  the  oanks  of  the  Thames,  and  every  opportunity 
being  offered— *the  rest  follows.  Our  friend  the  Baronet  is  made  happy, 
somebody  is  sacrificed,  and  we  fill  our  pockets.  What  does  Mrs.  Drake- 
ford say  to  this  nice  littie  arrangement  P" 

**  I  say !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Drakeford,  in  a  fury,  "  that  none  but  a  bad 
lot  like  yourself  could  have  conceived  such  a  piece  of  wickedness !" 

"  Except  the  equally  bad  lot,"  returned  Bastide,  coolly,  "  who  has 
actually  carried  that  piece  of  wickedness  into  execution.  Bah,  my  dear 
Nelly  !  do  you  imagine  that  my  sketch  is  based  upon  mere  conjecture  ? 
Knowing  you  so  well  as  I  do,  I  might,  it  is  true,  have  guessed  that  this 
was  exactly  the  course  you  would  pursue;  but  it  so  happens  that  I  am 
able  to  rest  my  case  upon  something  even  more  solid  tmm  my  own  con- 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


IBS  CBOGXEStBAOE;  01, 


j«iBtaML  WlMfi«oiledera6c8  talk  over  i\mu  pkat  in  the  opm  air^  they 
ought  to  veawmber  tile  pf»veri>diftti7AUifaureean.  I  iHil  keep  yoa  ia 
suBpense  no  longer*     This  conreriation  ahoot  Esth^,  hetmeen  jon  aad 


Sir  William  Cumberiand,  benea^  tiie  tme  in  the  gacdea  yonder,  waa^ 
every  syllable  of  it,  oyerheard  by  me.  I  was  oot  on  the  riTer  that  day 
with  my  friend  Conpendeax ;  waa  unexpectedly  delighted  at  hearing  your 
charmiDg  yoioe — how  oonld  I  miatake  it  ? — availed  myseif  of  the  high 
banls  to  moor  my  boat,  and  of  the  thick  shrubbery  to  approach  yon  closely 
— as  dosely  almost  as  at  the  pnsent  moment — and  in  that  pontion  I 
aoqnired  as  mnoh  information  on  the  solijeot  of  yonr  i^;veeable  entretien 
as  it  was  in  the  power  of  either  of  yon  to  convey.  These  are  the  pfadn 
fiKtSy  my  dear  iHeHy,  jmd  I  hope  now  you're  satisfied  that — *  bad  lot^  as 
you  call  me-^I  have  not  simply  been  mrawing  upon  my  imaginatkm." 

Mrs.  Drakeford  was  naturally  gifted  with  more  hardihood  than  most 
people,  but  this  expose  overwhefaned  even  her.  Denial  was  useless,  and 
not  knowing  what  to  say  unless  she  had  recoune  to  it,  she  remained 
silent,  while  Bastide  went  on : 

"  Of  course  it  is  not  my  intention  to  reproaoh  you  iox  trying  to  mdse 
a  purse  unknown  to  your  old  camarade,  or  for  throwing  him  over  witii 
Esther.  Such  littie  events  are  of  every«day  oocnrrenoe,  and  we  mmt  all 
expect  them.  No !  I  came  here  for  a  very  different  purpose.  Philoso^y 
and  reflection  have  convinced  jne  that  it  will  be  wiser  to  £argivo  your 
bad  faith  in  both  these  matters,  remembering  it  only  to  my  own  advan- 
tage. Your  Sir  William  is  welcome  to  £sther,  but  I  must  share  your 
profits  1" 

**  I  thought  as  modi,''  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  with  a  long-drawn  breath. 
*^  But  you  are  reckoning  without  your  host.  I  have  leoetved  nothing  yet 
but  promises." 

^'  I  cannot  swear  to  the  contrary,"  replied  Basdde,  ^  but  I  have  no 
difficulty  in  saying,  my  dear  N^y,  that  I  don't  believe  you.  You  are 
not  exactly  the  sort  of  woman  to  be  paid  off  in  that  coin.  Recollect,  you 
are  talking  to  me;  and  what  I  am,  or  can  be,  I  befieve  you  have  a 
i^erable  notLtm." 

^'  If  I  give  you  fifby  pound,  will  you  be  satisfied  ?* 

^Nol  My  knowledge  of  this  affinr  is  worth  a  good  deal  moce. 
Whafs  to  hinder  me  ^m  spoiling  your  game  at  onoe  r  A  word  fiwm 
way  lips  and  the  wiM>le  thing  is  blown.  Think  again,  Nelly,  and  open 
yenr  mouth  afittiie  wider." 

^  A  hundred,  then  ?  I  dedaie  to  you,  if  I  was  never  to  speak  again, 
it's  every  fartiiing  I've  got !" 

**  Web,  I  won't  be  too  hard  upon  you.  Give  me  that^  and  well  be  as 
geod  friends  as  ever." 

Reluctantly  Mrs.  Drakeford  took  out  her  porie^monnaie.  Theve, 
wkfaia  its  fous,  nestled  a  cnsp  Int  of  pi^r,  magically  marked  hj  the 
Bank  of  England,  whidi  had  once  been  the  property  of  So*  WnfiaaEi 
Cumberland,  and  was  now  hers : — ^to  be  hers,  jJas,  no  longer ! 

**  I  didn't  expect  it  of  you,"  she  said,  whimpering,  as  she  handed  oiver 
the  money. 

**  Nobody  kaovm  what  to  expect  in  this  world,"  retomed  Bastide,  es- 
amining  the  note  to  make  sure  thai  his  expeetatioas  were  not  disi^^pointed* 
Finding  all  right,  he  resumed,  widi  a  smiling  air : 


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THE  ADTSNTUBBB  OF  LOSV  I^RIOT.  18S 


<«  And  aoir  du  i^de  faosiiiM  is  siMled,  ptAtpB  7^^ 

«'T<Ni  know  diont  Nwnkr  J^^iae  7^ 

''Oi^lMirtbatiiithep«>ec8.    A^xt^aksc  6b3»^^'' 

^  Yen  maj  well  my  fo.    A  flftr»iip  with  aTOigeaaMa  T' 

«<  Wkat  cb  you  meaaP* 

"The  FkPMffiM  wo«'t  stend  it,  and  Dmhefiotd's  liUly  io  eone  to 

B'lOS* 

*«  Tom  deft tsafvo!     Wlwreiibe?" 

«<  Hiding.     I  left  him  st  Coopy's  lart  night" 

*'  The  safest  place  for  him.  Nohody  would  think  of  lookinr  for  him 
there!" 

"  Or  here." 

**  Here  I     I  wouldn't  have  faim  here  for  all  the  world." 

'*  Of  course  not.    That  would  be  dangerous  for  you." 

^  For  me  ?  It's  no  affair  of  mine.  They  can't  bring  anything  home 
(D  ne.     I  WIS  out  of  the  way,  yea  know*" 

^Vaytrae.  But  these  Fire-office  people  have ctnnge  ideas.  They 
sometinief  pioseeote  for  censpba^.  And,  to  teH  you  the  truth,  I  beiiere 
d»y  mean  to  do  eo  now.     So  the  quieter  yo«  keep  the  better." 

^^  You  won't  betray  me,  Bastide  ?"  exdauned  Mn.  Drakefosd,  tiembling 
from  head  to  foot. 

'*  Betray  ye«,  Nelly  ?  What  should  I  get  by  that?  I  suppose,"  oon- 
^nned  Bastide,  '^there's  no  chance  of  my  seeing  Esther  before  I  go?** 

^*  It  can't  be,"  said  Mrs.  Drakeford,  lowering  her  Toiee.     *^  He's  with 

^  Then  gite  her  my  love,  and  tell  her  not  to  foiget  me  altogether.  One 
Un,  Netty.     Good-by." 

The  saluto  was  Tendered  with  no  good  gvae^  and  Bistide  took  his 
departure. 

'^ Judas!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Drakeford^  ^>itting  on  the  ground  the 
moBsent  his  bo^  was  turned ;  ^  if  there  was  any^ung  to  get  by  it,  yon'd 
do  it  I  wouldn't  trust  you  fortfaer  than  I  ooold  see  you.  Only  give  mo. 
«  chanoe,  and  see  if  I  don't  pay  you  cS,  you  mean,  lying)  swindling, 
foigiog,  nrarderingrweai!" 

In  the  frame  of  mind  indicated  by  these  strong  epithets,  Mrs.  Drakefoid 
lin»teiied  back  to  ^e  drawing-room.  Esther  was  not  thers^  but  eveiy- 
tiaag  else  remained  as  i^  had  left  it,  and  she  at  ooee  secured  Sir 
'Wi^am's  note  and  ike  jewels — not  fo^etting  Esther's  ring.  She  then 
looked  round  for  Esth^hsrs^  and  supposing  she  had  gone  to  her  room, 
Trent  there  to  seek  her.  Her  search  being  vain,  she  retained,  and  meet- 
ii^  a  servant,  inquired  if  he  had  seen  Mms  Drakeford*  He  replied  that 
lie  had,  '<  b«t  only  ptomiscuously ;"  winch,  being  interpreted,  signified 
tiuit  she  passed  him  in  the  hall  iJ>out  a  quarter  cf  an  hour  before.  He 
added,  that  she  had  on  her  walkingniress,  and  went  into  tiie  garden. 
Thither  Mrs.  Drakeford  fblloirod — uneasy,  she  soaroeiy  knew  w^ — hot 
though  she  adled  repeatedly,  and  travoreed  the  garden  in  every  direc- 
tion, there  were  still  no  signs  of  Esther*  At  last  Sm  reached  the  private 
door  qMning  into  ihe  lane.  She  ttied.it,  but  it  was  fost,  Esdier  having 
taken  the  preeandon  of  keking  it  ontlw  ootsideand  then  throwing  away 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


184  cbooeedusaoe;  OR, 

the  key.  On  this^  Mrs.  Dnkefoid  went  back  to  the  honae  and  interrogated 
the  servant  whom  she  had  spoken  to  ahready.  He  repeated  his  statement, 
with  the  asseveration  that  **  if  be  was  to  be  hang  next  minnit  he  could 
only  say  he  saw  Miss  Drakeford  go  down  the  steps  into  the  garding." 
He  added,  in  still  stronger  confirmation  of  his  woras,  diat  she  could  not 
have  passed  through  the  house  to  go  out  on  the  other  side,  as  he  must 
have  seen  her,  having  been  jobbing  about  in  the  hall  all  the  morning. 
None  of  the  other  servants  could  give  any  information  whatever,  and  Mrs. 
Drakeford  was  lost  in  perplexity.  She  waited  and  waited  ;  the  dinner- 
hour  arrived,  the  evening  drew  in,  night  fell,  but  Esther  was  still  absent. 
Mrs.  Drakeford  then  came  to  the  conclusion  that ''  the  gurl,"  to  use  her 
own  words,  "  had  bolted." 


OHAPTBBZLn. 
THE  8ABLK  OLOITD's  SILVEB  USJSO. 

That  closest  of  all  close  carriages,  the  prison-ran,  conveyed  Lorn  from 
the  Clerkenwell  House  of  Detention  to  tne  Bow-street  station-house  on 
the  mommg  appointed  for  his  re-examination ;  and  after  an  interval  of 
about  two  hours,  during  which  the  night  charges  were  di^K)8ed  of,  he  was 
again  placed  before  the  magistrate. 

The  interval  had  been  employed  by  Mr.  Raphael  to  Lom's  advantage. 
His  large  experience  of  the  criminal  life  of  London  had  furnished  him  with 
a  clue  which,  he  entertained  no  doubt,  would  enable  him  fully  to  establish 
his  client's  innocence. 

It  happened  that,  amongst  tiie  many  who  sought  hb  advice — a  long 
list,  including  numerous  City  firms  and  mercantile  associations,  besides  a 
host  of  private  persons — was  ^*The  Salamander  Fire  Insurance,"  the 
identical  company  on  which  Mr.  Drakeford  made  the  claim,  which  they 
thought  so  suspicious  as  to  cause  them  not  only  to  resist  it,  but  to  place 
the  matter  at  once  in  their  lawyer's  hands.  Mr.  Raphael's  quick  penetra- 
tion and  shrewd  habits  of  business  soon  led  him  to  tne  conclusion  that  the 
. claim  was  fraudulent — a  belief  speedily  confirmed  by  Smudge,  whom  he 
narrowly  questioned  on  the  subject  of  the  fire,  when  he  found,  by  com- 
paring notes,  that  the  house  where  she  had  known  Lorn  was  the  one  from 
which  the  claimant  on  "  The  SaUmander"  had  been  burnt  out 

The  information  which  Smudge  gave,  while  it  led  Mr.  Raphael  to 
advise  the  immediate  apprehension  of  Mr.  Drakeford  on  a  charge  of  arson, 
put  him  in  the  way  of  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  and  set  him  com- 
pletely on  the  track  of  Bastide.  By  following  up  the  antecedents  of  the 
first  of  these  worthies,  he  thus  came  to  learn  much  of  the  history  of  the 
other,  who  were  his  chief  companions,  and  which  the  places  he  most  fr^ 
quented.  A  clever  detective,  to  whom  the  warrant  for  the  capture  of 
Mr.  Drakeford  was  entrusted,  had  littie  difficulty,  therefore,  in  tradng 
them  from  one  haunt  to  another,  till  their  general  place  of  rendezvous,  at 
the  entresol  of  Alphonse  Coupendeux,  was  discovered. 

Whether  it  be  a  link  in  the  chain  by  which  man  and  the  inferior 
animals  are  Qonnected,  I  leave  to  Mr.  Darwin  to  determine,  but  certainly 
the  habit  of  the  policeman  in  dealing  with  his  assured  victim  very  much 
resembles  the  conduct  of  the  cat  towards  the  mouse  in  her  clutch,  and  the 


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THE  ADTSNTUBES  OF  LORN  LORIOT.  185 

course  punaed  by  Detectire  Snvre  went  hr  to  confirm  the  resemblance. 
That  functionary  knew  of  the  meditated  8u[^r-party  in  the  Quadrant 
direcUy  it  was  planned,  for  his  first  care  was  to  watch  the  movements  of 
Monsieur  Coupendeux.  He  obsenred  that  he  made  short  excursions  in 
his  neighbourhood  during  the  day ;  saw  him  return,  on  one  occasion,  with 
a  box  of  cigars  under  his  arm,  and  a  bottle  enveloped  in  pink  paper  in  his 
hand ;  found  out  that  he  had  ordered  a  salad  at  the  pretty  greengrocer's 
in  Windmill-street,  and,  a  variety  of  eometiibU$  at  the  "eharcuterte 
JParmenne'*  in  Coventry-street ;  and  putting  these  facts  together,  came 
to  the  safe  conclusion  that  Monsieur  Coupendeux  meant  to  entertain  his 
friends. 

Berthier,  the  chief  of  Napoleon's  eUU-major,  possessed  a  coup  (TcbU  so 
admirable  that  he  could  tell  almost  at  a  sinele  glance  how  many  thousand 
men  were  contained  in  any  given  space ;  and  Detective  Snare  was  endowed 
with  something  of  a  correspondmg  faculty.  No  matter  how  far  off  a 
person  stood,  provided  he  were  actually  within  the  range  of  vision,  Detec- 
tive Snare  was  able  to  make  him  out  as  accurately  as  if  only  a  few  paces 
separated  them.  Indeed,  it  was  considered  by  ''The  Force" — such  of 
them  as  were  scientific— that,  like  the  vessels  seen  by  the  memorable  old 
man  at  the  Isle  of  France,  who  used  to  announce  their  approach  several 
days  bef<M:e  they  actually  arrived,  the  objects  "  wanted "  by  Detective 
Snare  were  refracted.  It  was,  therefore,  quite  unnecessary  for  him  to 
rSder^  as  some  policemen  do,  about  the  premises  he  wished  to  examine : 
standing  quite  aloof,  and  himself  invisible  to  the  optics  of  the  parties 
watched,  he  saw,  one  afier  the  other,  Monsieur  Coupendeux's  guests 
arrive,  and  heedfdlly  took  note  of  each. 

Michel  Bastide  was  too  remarkable  in  his  appearance  to  be  overlooked 
by  Detective  Snare,  under  any  circumstances,  and  having  previously  re- 
ceived a  description  of  his  person,  he  booked  him  in  his  memory  for  ever. 
Monsieur  Jules  Duval,  wno  came  next,  though  of  more  common-place 
aspect,  also  received  the  honours  of  mental  photography  :  but  then,  there 
was  a  long  pause.  The  tale  was  incomplete.  Though  a  partie  carrhe 
was  not  exactly  the  phrase  which  Detective  Snare  would  have  employed 
to  signify  the  convivial  number  who  were  to  surround  Monsieur  Coupen- 
deux's  supper-table,  he  felt  perfectly  certain  that  a  fourth  was  expected. 
The  quantity  of  provimons  laid  m,  independently  of  the  fitness  of  things, 
pointed  to  four ;  but  besides  alimentary  and  moral  indications,  the  fre- 
quent appearance  of  Alphonse  at  his  window,  evidently  on  the  look-out 
for  some  one,  carried  conviction  to  the  bosom  of  Detective  Snare.  Unless, 
in  fact,  this  fourth  person  arrived,  he  might  almost  be  said  to  enjoy  his 
labour  for  his  pains ;  neither  of  the  other  three,  though  the  fate  of  one 
of  them  impended,  felling  directly  within  the  scope  of  his  avocations. 
Detective  Snare  had  no  warrant  yet  for  the  arrest  of  Bastide,  and  con- 
sequently he  was  not  of  so  much  interest  in  his  eyes  as  Mr.  Drakeford, 
who — ^like  Richard  Plantagenet — ''  came  at  last  to  comfort  him."  Mr. 
Drakeford's  frantic  haste  to  house  himself  would  alone  have  8u£Sced  to 
satisfy  Detective  Snare  of  his  identity,  had  there  been  no  other  signs  and 
tokens  ;  but  of  these  there  were  plenty  for  an  observant  policeman,  and 
when  Alphonse  Coupendeux  admitted  his  friend  and  shut  the  street-door, 
the  detective  smilingly  rubbed  his  hands  and  took  up  a  closer  position. 
He  now  hegtai  to  experience  the  feline  sensations  to  which  I  nave  ad- 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


186  CBOOKED  USAGE;  OB, 

verted :  diere,  so  msnjyards  off,  was  his  prey ;  he  coald  pouMe  vpoii 
hin  wfaeaever  he  fiked ;  and  he  resolved  to  indnl^  m  these  aeMationo 
to  die  uttenBOBt  When  the  pntj  at  last  broke  np,  Deteetive  Snare 
shook  off  his  apparent  uKtifference^  and  piepared  for  actioii,  if  neeeanrj; 
bat  as  only  Bartidn  aod  Duval  eame  forth>  he  kept  out  of  si^it»  and 
wsited.  About  midiiight  the  ex^ctkm  of  the  lights  in  ikie  etUr^oi 
made  the  deteotrre  ware  that  a  share  of  his  bed  had  been  offered  by 
Coopendeiix  to  Drdceford.  To  take  has  now  would  have  been  the  art 
of  the  inexpeiieBeed  m  sueh  matters,  but  Detective  Snare  knew  better. 
A  knodE  at  the  door,  at  that  hour,  would  have  excited  alarm ;  and, 
moreover,  what  would  have  become  of  the  feline  sensations  with  which  in 
proposed  to  recreate  hamself  throughout  the  night  9  A  nmii  bhmche  was 
no  privation  to  Delecdfe  Snare ;  indeed,  he  rather  liked  it ;  and  then 
there  was  the  hnury  that  awmted  him  ki  the  morning :  the  capture  of 
Mr.  Drakeford,  while  dunking  himself  safe  and  snug  in  his  warm  bed, 
or  just  awaking  to  the  expeclation  of  a  comfortable  bi*eak&8t  So,  with 
an  eye  that  never  slept,  Detective  l%isre  ^^  acred"  die  pavement  of  die 
Quadrant  till  the  milkman  began  his  rounds ;  then,  approa^ag  die  bell 
of  Monsieur  Coupendeuz,  he  pnUed  the  wire,  and  successfully  inutatmg 
diat  sound  which  brings  all  the  cats  into  the  arois  and  su^pests  to  casual 
hearers  the  advent  of  some  indescribehle  woe,  he  roused  a  slipshod 
damsel  &om  her  shimbers  in  die  back  attic  and  obtained  admission  to  the 
house. 

'*  He*s  only  round  die  comer,  my  dear,"  said  Detedxve  Snare  to  the 
yawning  girl,  as  die  stood  with  her  milk-jug  in  her  hand — '^  »y  bunness 
is  with  the  first  floor."  And  before  she  could  say  a  word  to  stop  hkn  he 
monnted. 

His  first-formed  aDticipadons  were  correct.  Under  die  same  cover- 
lid lay  Cocmendeuz  and  Drakeford,  performing  an  unconscious  duet  in 
melody  unf^lered  by  notes,  the  spontaneous  gusiiings  of  overlaboured 
sle^.  Detective  Sbare  paused  to  admire — paused  to  quaff  the  last  drop 
of  the  cup  of  his  enjoyment — before  he  dashed  it  from  his  lipe. 

**  I  never  saw  a  Frenchman  adeep  before/'  he  said,  as  he  gsaed  on 
Alphonse,  who  lay  nearest ;  *<  leastways,"  he  added — for  policemen,  eveii 
when  they  sofiloquise,  must  be  correct — *^  leastways,  witlurat  his  nightoap. 
He  looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  rat  under  a  eztinguidierl" 

Having  made  dns  pleasing  simile,  he  jerked  off  the  head-dress  which 
had  suggested  one  feature  of  the  comparison,  and  Conpendeux  aw<^e, 
with  an  oadi,  but,  as  it  was  delivered  in  French,  it  fell  unheeded  on  die 
tympanum  of  die  detecdve. 

^'  Que  diable !"  reiterated  Alphonse,  sitting  up  in  bed,  rubbing  lus  eyes. 
"Vot  you  vant?* 

'*  Not  you,  young  man,"  replied  Detective  Snare.  ^^But  if  toother 
party  has  no  objecdon " 

Mr.  Drakeford,  roused  by  the  noise,  turned  his  head  sleepily ;  but 
sleepiness  very  socm  disappeared  from  his  eyes  when  he  encountered  die 
searc^ng  glance  of  the  detective. 

^  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  Mr.  Drakefoid,"  said  the  hitter,  "^  but  as  soon 
as  you  can  make  it  convenient  to  put  on  your  things,  I  diall  be  hi^py  to 
accompany  you  to  the  Vine-street  station:  it's  only  a  step." 

Alas  lb?  the  pronised  breakfast,  theTenudns  of  the  ham,  die  tiHigue,. 


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THE  ADYENTOSES  OF  LQBN  LOBIOT.  187 

and  die  gakmUne  winch  htd  helpdl  to  hankh  foftii  the  hvi  night's 
•vpper !  Unwwhed,  vuhavcQ,  mi  anrMuifeiiig,  Mr.  Drakeferd  actepted 
his  &te.  What  eaa  a  nen  do  m  self-definioe  when  he  haa  aod^ag  en 
but  hisfllurt? 

Wkhmit  mmediatelj  detailiiig  all  die  ranilta  of  Mr.  Dndceferd's 
eapt«re»  it  may  be  Bafficient,  for  the  present,  t»  say  that  at  the  potioe^ 
office  to  which  he  was  taken,  the  charge  of  araen  was  so  dearlj  etta* 
bfished  against  him,  diat  he  was  at  ooee  oommitted  far  trial;  and  armed 
with  a  variety  ofmcideiiUl  fMsts,  aD  tending-  to  shofr  that  Lorn  had  been 
an  nneonsdons  agent  in  the  aflkir  of  the  Fiasboiy  and  Soathwavk  Bank, 
Mr.  Raphael  now  appeared  at  Bow-atreet  to  demd  him. 

Although  as  yet  nnaUe  to  prodaee  the  actnal  deliaqaeat,  the  ele?er 
lawyer's  atateraent  made  a  strongs  impression  on  the  magistrate,  who  saw 
diat  he  was  not  mereljr  making  die  beet  of  a  doubt^l  ease,  bat  really 
speaking  from  smoere  coBTicdoB.  Mr.  Raphael  went  at  some  length  into 
toe  history  of  Lorn's  1]£»  ep  to  die  period  of  his  ^appearance  from  die 
pawnbroker's^  and  argued  with  mat  foree  that  a  yoadi  of  eighteen, 
whose  charaoter  up  to  that  age  had  been  utterly  irreproachable^  could 
not  so  suddenly  baVe  fallen  into  courses  diat  indicaled  a  long  familiarity 
w^  crime  of  the  most  art&il  description.  That  Lorn  had  been  made  a 
tool  of  was,  he  said,  quite  evident,  his  unsuspecting  nature  exactly  suiting 
the  purpose  of  a  pgactised  scoundsel  like  "  The  Count,"  who,  it  would 
be  shown,  was  an  adept  in  every  sort  of  villaay — a  awindfer  and  a  branded 
fekm,  as  he  had  ^tacsses  to  prove.  He  was  aware,  Mr.  Raphael  oon- 
tinacMl,  that  oae  circunistaDce  had  miitated  against  the  prisoner — his 
veltiaal,  at  his  former  ezaminati<m,  to  say  where  he  had  been  Ihring  since 
lie  left  his  situation  in  what  seemed  so  uaacceun table  a  maaaer;  but  die 
cnnse,  he  assured  the  magistrate,  arose,  not  from  the  retieence  of  guilt, 
but  from  the  youi^  man's  unwillingness  to  give  pain  to  oortiun  members 
of  the  family — for  such  there  were — who  had  treated  him  with  kindness 
during  his  stay  amongst  them.  Silence  on  that  point  was,  however,  no 
'  hsiger  necessary,  since  a  matter  altogether  foreign  to  the  present  charge 
had  bemi  the  means  ef  reveah'ng  the  prisoner's  place  of  residence.  Mr. 
Rapka^  then  briefly  adverted  to  the  arrest  of  Mr.  Drakeford,  and  stated 
that  it  'was  in  his  house  Lorn  had  been  a  compelled  rather  than  a 
willing  inmate.  Having  closed  his  address,  Mr.  Raphael  called  his  wit- 
nesses. 

Mr.  Squirl  was  the  first,  and,  so  far  as  related  to  Lorn's  character,  the 
ixu>st  important.     Besides  what  conscience  prompted,  his  interests  were 
deeply  involved  in  his  saying  nothing  but  good  of  hb  apprentice ;  the 
only  fear  was  lest  he  should  overdo  his  part ;  but  as  it  sometimes  fortu- 
nately happens  that  men's  motives  are  not  apparent,  Mr.  Squirl's  evidence 
excited  no   suspicion,  but  rather  procured  for  him  a  reputation  for 
nosL^nanimity  in  speaking  so  well  of  one  who,  by  abruptly  leaving  his  roof, 
had    ostensibly  given  him  cause  of  complaint.     With  respect  to  *'  The 
Count,"  his  testimony  had  in  it  no  alloy,  but  was  a  perJFectly  genuine 
^in^ :  to  use  his  own  words,  he  had  been  '<  shamefully  chiselled  out  of 
a  walluable  relick  of  'appier  days;"  and  as  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  con- 
jured there  by  the  recollection  of  the  way  in  which  he  had  been  done,  he 
also  set  down,  by  two  or  three  tender-hearted  females  in  court,  as  a 
of  remarkable  feeling,  ^<  and  a  honour  to  his  sect." 


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188  CROOKED  USAGE. 

Mr.  Crampy  whom  Smudge  eyed  with  looks  of  staxmg  indignation,  and 
kept  as  far  away  firom  as  possible,  followed  his  principal,  and  proving  that 
he  had  not  been  brought  there  to  run  Lorn  down,  celebrated  his  Tirtuea 
in  pious  strain,  making  religious  capital  for  himself  at  the  same  time. 

The  last  witness  was  Smudge,  wno,  at  first,  with  some  trepidation,  but 
afterwards  in  a  very  earnest,  straightforward  manner,  tola  the  whole 
story  of  her  experience  of  Lom's  conduct  while  at  Mr.  Drakeford's^ 
omitting  only  the  fact  of  the  extorted  kiss  on  the  stiurcase,  and  slightly 
shading  down  her  own  curiosity.  Of  Lorn,  she  SMd  that  he  was  *^  the 
beit-bSiavedest  of  young  men,  and  one  that  wouldn't  tread  upon  beadles, 
or  wrong  the  very  cats  out  of  their  Tittles"— terms  of  eulcM^y  which,  how- 
ever inappropriate,  betokened  the  high  estimation  in  which  she  held  him. 
On  the  other  hand,  words  were  weak— though  Smudge's  language  was 
certainly  strong — to  depict  her  portrait  of  <*  The  Count,"  and  her  breath 
was  exhausted  long  before  her  vocabulary  of  disparaging  epithets.  Mr. 
Drakeford's  cruel  artifice  had  imperiled  her  life,  but  Smudge  was  not  half 
so  bitter  aeainst  him  as  against  his  companion,  who,  personally,  had 
never  done  her  any  harm.  It  was  by  the  Count's  means  that  Lom's  good 
name,  hb  liberty,  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  had  been  endangered,  and 
not  for  a  single  moment  did  she  weigh  one  act  in  the  same  balance  with 
the  other. 

All  she  said,  and  all,  indeed,  that  the  magistrate  heard  that  day, 
favoured  his  own  belief  in  Lom's  innocence,  and  Mr.  Joplington,  the  bank 
manager,  having  intimated  hb  desire  not  to  deal  harshly  with  one  who, 
manifestly,  was  not  the  real  offender,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Lorn  might  return  to  his  original  employer,  sufficient  bail  being  given 
for  his  appearance  when  '^  The  Count"  should  be  taken  in  custody.  There 
was  no  difficulty  on  this  point,  Mr.  Squirl  himself  being  one  of  the  bail, 
and  a  neighbour  of  his,  a  well-to-do  tradesman,  another. 

Lorn  had  been  pale  and  calm  throughout  the  whole  proceedings,  but, 
on  hearing  the  magbtrate's  decision,  he  hid  hb  face  and  sobbed  violently. 
When  in  some  degree  recovered,  and  removed  from  the  prisoners'  bu*, 
he  eagerly  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Raphael  and  all  he  knew,  and  leaving 
Smudge  in  a  state  of  hysterical  joy,  was  carried  off  triumphantly  by 
Mr.  Squirl. 


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189 


TABLE-TALK. 
bt  monkshood. 

I.^Bbeakfast-Table-Talk. 

The  Romans,  as  Mr.  Meiivale  incidentally  remarks,  in  his  record  of 
the  gluttonous  excesses  of  ViteUius,  were  generally  content  with  a  single 
meal  a  day — the  cana ;  the  slight  refections  of  the  morning  and  mid-day, 
jmtaculum  and  prandium,  heing  rarely  taken  in  company.*  The  jenta- 
culum  was  the  merest  apology  for  a  hreaking  one's  fast — a  sheer  soupgon 
of  a  meal — ^the  poorest  shadow  of  a  shade 

Of  early  breakfast,  to  dispel  the  fames 
And  bowel-raking  pains  of  emptinessf — 

with  this  difference,  that  such  fumes  and  pains  were  virtually  unknown 
to  the  Roman,  after  his  full  ccena  (which  in  plain  practical  English  means 
dinner,  whatever  the  dictionaries  may  say), — after  his  substantial,  pro- 
longed, social  meal  of  over-night. 

Mr.  de  Quincey's  erudite  and  entertaining  treatise  on  what  he  calls  the 
Casuistry  of  Roman  Meals,  comprises  a  history  of  a  Roman  day  ;  and  if 
we  refer  to  it  for  the  article  of  breakfast,  we  are  at  once  instructed  that 
no  such  discovery  as  breakfast  had  then  been  made — *'  breakfast  was  not 
invented  for  many  centuries  after  that"  *'  Breakfast  was  not  suspected. 
No  prophecy,  no  type  of  breakfast,  had  been  published."  In  fact,  he 
alleges,  it  took  as  much  time  and  research  to  arrive  at  that  great  discovery 
as  at  the  Copemican  system.  The  Roman  saunters  out  early  in  the 
morning,  but  never  dreams  of  coming  home  for  breakfast  '*  True  it  is, 
reader,  that  you  have  heard  of  such  a  word  tajentaculum ;  and  your  dic- 
tionary translates  that  old  heathen  word  by  the  Christian  word  breakfast 
Bat  dictionaries  are  dull  deceivers.  Between  jentaculum  and  breakfast 
the  differences  are  as  wide  as  between  a  horse-chesnut  and  a  chesnut- 
horse ;  differences  in  the  time  when^  in  the  place  where,  in  the  manner 
how,  but  pre-eminently  in  the  thing  which,  ...  A  grape  or  two  (not  a 
bunch  of  grapes),  a  raisin  or  two,  a  date,  an  olive — these  are  the  whole 
amount  of  relief  which  the  chancery  of  the  Roman  kitchen  granted.  .  .  . 
All  things  here  hang  together,  and  prove  each  other — the  time,  the  place, 
the  mode,  the  thing.  Well  might  man  eat  standing,  or  eat  in  public 
[any  comer  of  the  forum,  Galen  says],  such  a  trifle  as  this.  Go  nome, 
indeed,  to  such  a  breakfast  ?  You  would  as  soon  think  of  ordering  a 
doth  to  be  laid  in  order  to  eat  a  peach,  or  of  asking  a  friend  to  join  you 
in  an  orange."}  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  Roman  usually  jentebat 
soiusj  broke  his  fast  (or  made  believe  to  do  so)  alone. 

At  this  time  of  day,  among  most  civilised  peoples,  breakfiist  is  com- 
monlj  regarded  as  an  eminentiy  sociable  m^.  There  are  recusants, 
howerer,  who  stickle  for  the  opposite  view,  and  prefer  taking  it  alone. 
Kant  did  so,  for  the  bettermost  part  of  his  fourscore  years'  life.     One  of 

*  Hist  of  the  Romans  under  the  Empire,  voL  vi.  ch.  lyii 
t  Cowper:  Verses  written  at  Bath,  1748. 
t  I>e  Quincey's  Selections,  vol.  ill  pp.  254  sqq. 
TOI'.  LI.  O 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


190  TABLE-TALK. 

his  Boswells — the  reporter  \?ho  perhaps  stands  nearest  in  that  relation  to 
him,  in  which  Eckermann  does  to  Goethe — ogives  a  rather  amusing  ac- 
count of  Kant's  hehaviour  to  him,  at  fiye  o'clock  one  morning  (it  was  only 
the  first  of  February,  too),  when  the  friendly  visitor  offered  to  take  break- 
fast with  ancient  ImmanueL  The  philosopher  had  just  had  to  part  with 
a  scamp  of  a  servant,  long  in  his  service,  and  accustomed  to  all  his  ways, — 
and  it  was  with  the  hope  of  suppljing  his  place, — at  least  to  prevent  his 
being  painfully  missed — that  our  reporter  turned  out  so  early,  to  see  after 
the  innrm  old  man.  The  breakfast- table  was  arranged,  not  without  some 
^fficulty — and  now  all  seemed  in  a  fair  train  for  action.  "  Yet  still  it 
struck  me  that  he  [Kant}  was  under  some  embarrassment  or  constraint. 
Upon  this  I  said,  that,  with  his  permission,  I  would  take  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  afterwards  smoke  a  pipe  with  him.  He  accepted  my  offer  with  his 
usual  courteous  demeanour;  but  seemed  unable  to  familiarise  himself  with 
the  novelty  of  his  sitoatioD.  I  was  at  this  time  sitting  directly  opposite 
to  him ;  and  at  last  he  frankly  told  me,  bat  with  the  kindest  and  most 
apologetic  ahr,  that  he  was  really  under  the  necessity  of  begging  that  I 
would  sit  out  of  his  sight ;  for  that,  having  sat  alone  at  me  Inreakfast- 
table  lor  considerably  more  than  half  a  century,  he  oouk!  not  abmp^y 
adapt  his  mind  to  a  change  in  this  respect;  and  he  fonnd  his  tiioiigbts 
very  sensibly  detracted."*  The  visitor,  of  course,  £d  as  be  desired ;  the 
new  servant  retired  into  an  ante-room,  where  he  w«ted  within  call ;  ami 
Kant  recovered  Ins  wonted  composure.  Just  the  same  scene  was  acted 
anew,  when  Herr  WasiaBski  called  at  the  same  hour  on  a  Bne  snmmer 
mormng  some  months  after.f  Theodore  Hook,  again, — to  select  a  snffi* 
ciently  opposite  kind  of  witness,  as  regards  general  character,  tempers* 
ment,  and  habits  of  life— eoosidered  breakfast  to  have  been  destined  for 
a  solitary  meal — nothing  to  him  (for  evidently  he  describes  his  own 
feelings  in  the  passage  we  refer  to)  was  less  endwrable  ^n  a  breakfost- 
party.  "  I  love  the  lengthened  lounging  meal  made  np  of  eating,  drink- 
ing, and  reading;  but  there  is  nothing  social  or  sociable  in  its  attribotee; 
one  cannot  '  hob-nob '  in  tea  or  coffee.  Moreover,  it  is  an  irogracefol 
meal.  Egg-e«ting  and  prawn-picking  are  not  delicate  performancee  : 
and,  besides,  a  man  when  he  is  first  up  and  jvst  down,  if  he  tries  his  roiod 
and  temper  by  a  modem  ^  spirit-level,'  wiU  find  that  brsak£ut-time  is  not 
the  time  for  company  or  conversation ."{  So  writes  our  snui-abost-towDy 
in  the  first  volume  of  the  most  really  autobiographic  of  his  fictions.  In 
the  second  volume  he  iterates  the  sentiment.  *' There  is  no  meal  so 
odious  as  breakfast  in  company ."§  Such  a  life  as  Mr.  Hook  led  was 
hardly  compatible,  perhaps^  with  any  other  sentiment. 

To  him,  then,  sudi  a  cheery  breakfast-party  as  used  to  gladden  Wairen 
Hastings'  okl  eyes,  at  pleasant  native  Daylesford,  would  of  itself  have 
been  simply  abominable,  apart  even  from  the  extra  trial  of  hearing  the 
ex-Governor-General  recite  the  verses  he  had  just  composed.  When  the 
family  and  guests  assembled,  as  Lord  MacauUy  describes  the  scene,  the 
poem  made  its  appearance  as  regularly  as  the  eggs  and  rolls  ;  and  Mr. 
Gl«g||  requires  us  to  believe  that,  if  from  any  accident  Hastings  canoe 

♦  Wasianski. 

t  See  '*  Last  Days  of  Kant,"  in  vol.  i.  of  De  QuinoeT's  <'  Miicellaniefl." 
i  Gilbert  Gurney,  vol.  L  ch.  iiu  J  Ibid.,  voL  ii.  ch.  i. 

[|  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Warren  Hastings,  voL  iii.    (1S4L) 


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TABLE-TALK.  191 

to  ibe  breakfast-table  witbout  ooe  of  bis  cbanning  performanees  in  b» 
band,  tbe  omission  was  felt  by  all  as  a  grievous  disappointment  ^  Taatea 
differ  widely,  is  the  noble  bistorian's  comment  *'  For  ourselves  we  must 
say  tbat,  bowever  good  tbe  breakfasts  at  Daylesford  may  bave  been, — 
and  we  are  assured  tbat  tbe  tea  was  of  tbe  most  aromado  flavour,  and  tbat 
neither  tongue  nor  venison  pasty  was  wanting, — we  sbould  bave  tbouebt 
the  reckoning  bigb  if  we  had  been  forced  to  earn  onr  repast  by  listemng 
every  day  to  a  new  madrigal  or  sonnet  composed  by  our  host''*  Bating 
this  infliction,  it  must  bave  been  pleasant  and  salubrious  to  welcome 

The  innocemt  freshaese  of  a  new-bocn  d2^,t 

in  tbat  well-adorned  Worcestershire  manor. 

Rousseau  appends  to  bis  description  of  tbe  cafe  au  lait  breakfasts  that 
were  tbe  order  of  the  day  aux  Charmettes  (1736),  a  remark  that  these 
seances,  nsoally  and  pleasantly  long-drawn-out,  left  in  him  a  lively  relish 
for  that  meal,  as  a  domestic  institntion ;  and  ^  infinitely  I  prefer,"  be 
says,  ^  the  enstom  in  England  and  Switierland,  where  breakfast  is  a 
veriteUe  meal  to  wbieh  all  the  family  come  together,  to  that  in  France, 
where  every  one  breakfasts  apart  in  bb  own  room,  or  more  frequently 
does  not  breakfast  at  all.'^| 

Mr.  Hawthorne  has  said  that  life  within  doors  has  few  pleasanter 
proepeeta  than  a  neatly-arranged  and  well-provisioned  breakfut-table. 
We  ceme  to  it,  freshly,  says  he,  in  the  dewy  youth  of  the  day,  and  when 
ritual  and  sensual  elements  are  in  better  accord  than  at  a  later 
so  that  tbe  material  delights  of  the  morning  meal  are  capable  of 
beiog  fully  enjoyed,  without  any  very  grievous  reproaches,  whether  gastric 
or  conseientiofis,  for  yielding  even  a  trifle  overmuch  to  the  animal  depart- 
ment of  our  nature.  '*  The  thoughts,  too,  that  run  around  the  ring  of 
familiar  guests,  have  a  piquancy  and  mirthfulness,  and  oftentimes  a  vivid 
truth,  which  more  rarely  nnd  their  way  into  tbe  elaborate  intercourse  of 
dinner ."§  Between  tbe  Hook  and  tbe  Hawthorne  point  of  view,  what  a 
distance!  The  English  Opium-eater  would  take  his  stand  with  the 
latter.  '<  Breakfast-time,**  says  he,  *'  is  always  a  cheerful  stage  of  the 
day  ',  if  a  man  can  forget  bis  cares  at  any  season,  it  is  tben."l|  And  few, 
better  than  be,  could  iq>preciate  the  poetry  of  the  subject — whether  under 
the  roof  of  some  lowly  grange,  as  in  the  picture  Woms  worth  gives, — 

Entering,  we  find  the  morning  meal  prepared : 
So  down  we  sit,  though  not  till  each  had  cast 
Pleased  looks  around  the  delicate  repast- 
Rich  cream,  and  snow-white  eggs  fresh  from  the  nesty 
With  amber  honey  from  the  mountain's  breast; 
Strawberries  from  lane  or  woodland,  o£Eding  wild 
Of  ebildrei's  iadnstrj,  in  hillocks  pUed ; 
Cakes  for  the  nonce,  and  batter  fit  to  lie 
Upon  a  lordly  dish ;  frank  hospitality 
Where  simple  art  with  bounteous  nature  vied, 
And'eottage  comfort  shunned  not  seemly  pride.^ 

*  Macaulay's  Essays,  vol.  iii.,  **  Warren  Hastings."  t  Wordsworth. 

t  Les  Confessions,  livre  vi. 
I  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  ch.  vii 
\  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-eater. 

n  Wordsworth's  MisceQaneous  Poems:  Epistle  to  Sur  G.  H.  Beaumont. 

02 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


192  TABLE-TALK. 

Or  in  the  comparatively  urban,  not  to  say  more  urbane,  atmosphere  of 
a  scene  from  Rogers : 

Soon  through  the  gadding  vine  the  sun  looks  in, 
And  gentle  nands  tiie  breakfast  rite  begin. 
Then  the  bright  kettle  sings  its  matin  song. 
Then  fn^rant  clouds  of  Mocha  and  Souchong 
Blend  as  they  rise ;  and  (while  without  are  seen, 
Sure  of  their  meal,  the  small  birds  on  the  green ; 
And  in  from  far  a  schoolboj's  letter  flies. 
Flashing  the  sister's  cheek  with  glad  surprise) 
That  sheet  unfolds  (who  reads,  that  reads  it  not  ?) 
Born  with  the  day,  and  with  the  day  forgot ; 
Its  ample  page  yarious  as  human  life, 
The  pomp,  the  woe,  the  bustle,  and  the  strife.* 

''  C*est  le  temps  de  la  joum^,"  says  one,  in  whom  an  English  breakfast 
excited  un  gout  vif  pour  les  defeunes  (which  taste  he  retained  through 
life),  "  oil  nous  sommes  le  plus  tranquilles,  ou  nous  causons  le  plus  ^  notre 
aise."t  Sir  Morgan  O'Doherty,  indeed,  who  classes  breakfast  among  the 
things  that  have  never  yet  received  anything  like  the  attention  merited, 
asserts  that  the  best  breakfast  is  unquestionably  that  of  France ;  ^'  dieir 
coffee,  indeed,  is  not  quite  equal  to  that  of  Germany,  but  the  eatables  are 
unrivalled ;  and  I  may  be  wrong,  but  somehow  or  other,  I  can  never 
help  thinking  that  French  wines  are  better  in  the  morning  than  any 
others.  It  is  here  that  we  are  behind  every  other  nation  in  Europe — the 
whole  of  us,  English,  Scotch,  and  Irish ;  we  take  no  wine  at  breakout ''f 
And  yet  Sir  Morgan  would  hardly  have  acquiesced,  we  fancy,  in  a  recor- 
rence  to  the  breakfast  programme  of  England  in  the  olden  time,  ''  no 
unsubstantial  mess,"  as  Hood  has  it, 

But  one  in  the  style  of  Good  Queen  Bess, 

Who,  hearty  as  hippocampus, — 
Broke  her  fast  with  ale  and  beef. 
Instead  of  toast  and  the  Chinese  leaf. 

And  in  lieu  of  anchovy— grampus  !§ 

Or  to  look  backwards  a  little  farther  still,  to  days  when  (to  quote  a  con- 
temporary of  Hood's,  and  his  rival  in  racy  rhymes) — 

The  Hong  Merchants  had  not  yet  invented  How  Qua, 

Kor  as  yet  would  you  see  Souchong  or  Bohea 

At  the  tables  of  persona  of  any  degree. 

How  our  ancestors  managed  to  do  without  tea 

I  must  fairly  confess  is  a  mystery  to  me ; 

Yet  your  Lydgates  and  Chancers 

Had  no  cups  and  saucers  ; 
Their  breakfast,  in  fact,  and  the  best  they  could  get. 
Was  a  sort  of  d^jeiiner  it  la  fourchette ; 

Instead  of  our  slops 

They  had  cutlets  and  chops. 
And  sack-possets,  and  ale  in  stoups,  tankards,  and  pots ; 
And  they  wound  up  the  meal  witu  rump-steaks  and'8cludots.|| 

*  Human  Life,  by  Samuel  Rogen  (1819).  f  Rousseau. 

1  Maxims  of  O'Doherty,  No.  103. 

i  Hood's  Golden  Legend  of  MisiEilmansegg. 

Ij  The  Ingoldsby  L^nds,  vol.  i,  "  The  Witches'  Frolia" 


Diqitized  by  LjOOQIC 


TABLE-TALK.  193 

This  WAfl  long  prior  to  Mr.  Pepys's  time,  whose  Diary  records  a  '^  fine 
breakfasf  that  Commissioner  Pett,  of  the  dockyard,  gave  to  him  and 
Captain  Cocke,  one  **  Lord's  day"  morning  in  August,  16^2 ;— -every thing 
seeming  fine  to  Samuel  just  then — *<  a  fine  walk  and  fine  weather" — the 
Commisaoner  *^  showed  us  his  garden  and  fine  things,"  and  ^*  did  give  us 
a  fine  breakftist  of  bread-and-butter,  and  sweetmeats  and  other  things  with 
great  choice,  and  strong  drinks,  with  which  I  could  not  avoyde  making 
my  head  ake,  though  I  drank  but  little/'*  An  egg  breakout  was  already 
a  recognised  fact  in  England.  Pepys  journalises,  a  fortnight  later,  *'  About 
seven  o'clock,  took  horse,  and  rode  to  Bowe,  and  there  staid  at  the  King's 
Head,  and  eat  a  breakfast  of  eggs."t  This  puts  us  in  mmd,  again,  of  8ir 
Morgan  the  Maxim-monger,  who  agrees  with  Falstaff  in  his  contempt  for 
^'  the  prevalent  absurdity  of  eating  eggs,  eggs,  eggs  at  breakfiut.  '  No 
puUet-sperm  in  my  brewage,'  say  I.  1  prefer  the  chicken  to  the  egg^  and 
the  hen,  when  she  is  really  a  fine  bird,  and  well  roasted  or  grilled,  to  the 
chicken.^f  In  an  earlier  Maxim,  he  propounds  his  theory  of  breakout' 
in  general, — which  is,  that  it  should  be  adapted  to  each  particular  man's 
pursuits — that  it  should  come  home  to  his  business  as  well  as  to  his  bosom. 
Accordine  to  him,  the  man,  for  instance,  who  intends  to  study  (but  this 
will  hardly  apply  to  Grub-street)  all  the  morning,  should  take  a  cup  or 
two  of  coffee,  a  little  well-executed  toast,  and  ^'  the  wing  of  a  partndge 
or  ffronse,  when  in  season  ;  at  other  times  of  the  year,  a  smsil  slice  of 
cold  chicken,  with  plenty  of  pepper  and  mustard ;  this  light  diet  prepares 
him  for  the  elastic  exercise  of  his  intellectual  powers."  On  the  other  hand, 
for  a  sportsman,  or  fox-hunter,  or  any  one  intending  ''violent  bodily 
exercise,"  Sir  Morgan  rules  that  breakfast  will  be  good  and  praiseworthy 
exactly  in  proportion  as  it  approaches  to  the  character  of  a  good  and 
praiseworthy  dinner.  "  Hot  potatoes,  chops,  beef-steaks,  a  pint  of  Bur* 
gundy,  a  quart  of  good  old  beer"§ — these  he  prescribes  for  the  sportsman 
and  his  kind.  Another  Maxim  is :  *'  By  eating  a  hearty  breakfast,  yoa 
escape  the  temptation  of  luncheon — a  snare  into  which  he  who  has  a  suf- 
ficient respect  for  his  dinner  will  rarely  fall"!)  Like  every  other  meal  of 
the  day,  breakfast  was  a  frequent  topic  in  the  edacious,  audacious  Maga 
of  that  period,  with  its  grotesque  exaggeration  of  gourmand  pretensions. 
Sir  Morgan  may  prescnbe  a  light  diet  for  the  student,  as  we  have  just 
seen.  But  how  deals  Christopher  North  with  the  subject,  when  review- 
ing a  Physician's  "Sure  Method  of  Improving  Hesith"?  The  M.D. 
prescribes,  for  the  dyspeptic  man  of  study,  breakfast  at  seven,  on  ''  stale 
bread,  dry  toast,  or  plain  biscuit  (no  butter)," — to  the  amount  say  of  three 
ounces;  plvu,  six  ounces  of  '*  tea  (black),  with  milk,  and  a  little  sugar." 
— No  man  need  write  for  Maga  (its  Editor  then  proceeds  to  announce) 
with  the  most  distant  chance  of  admission  on  any  other  scale  than  the  fol- 
lowing:— Breakfast  at  nine,  on  '^Two  hot  penny  rolls — two  toasted 
rounds  of  a  quartern  loaf — one  ditto  of  buttered  toast — two  hen's  eggs, 
not  earocks — a  small  ashet  of  fried  mutton-ham — jelly  and  marmalade, 
quantum  tuff. — two  bachelor  bowls  of  congou — a  cauIker."T  And  the 
sabaequent  meals  of  the  day  on  the  same,  or  an  even  enlarged  and  ad- 
vancing scale.     What  the  Ingoldsby  legend  calls  ^'  a  light  breakfast," 

*  Pepys's  Diary,  Augrnst  3, 166S.  f  Ibid.,  Aug.  18. 

'  Maxims  of  O'Doherty,  No.  105.  {  Ibid.,  No.  103. 

Ibid.,  No.  104.  %  Recreations  of  Chr.  North,  "*  Health  and  Longevity." 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


194  TABLE-TALK. 

Mr.  North,  we  suppose,  would  haye  reckoned  among  mere  imponderaUe 
qualities — we  allude  to  the  light  and  last  meal  of  Sir  Hiomas  the  Good — 

It  seems  he  had  taken 

A  light  breakfast — hacon, 
An  t^ — ^with  a  little  broil'd  haddock— at  most 
A  round  and  a  half  of  some  hot  butter*d  toast, 
With  a  slice  of  cold  sirloin  from  yesterday's  roast. 

And  then— let  me  see ! 

He  had  two — ^perhaps  three 
Caps  (with  sugar  and  cream)  of  strong  gunpowder  tea. 
With  a  spoonful  in  each  of  some  choice  eau  de  vie, 
—Which  with  nine  out  of  ten  would  perhaps  disagree.* 

How  far  Proieasor  Wilson  was,  however,  from  breakfsatingto  the  letter 
of  Christopher  North's  preacription,  Mr.  Parker  Willis  ihe  Peactiier  by 
tbe  way,  uid  out  of  the  way,  informed  the  public,  from  personal  obeervft- 
tion,  many  yean  ago.  Scene,  Gloucester-place :  Present,  The  Professor 
and  the  PenciUer.  "  The  tea  was  made,  and  the  breakfast  smoked  upon 
&e  table,  but  the  Professor  showed  no  signs  of  bemg  aware  of  the  &et, 
and  talked  away  famously,  getting  up  and  sitting  down,  walking  to  the 
window  and  standing  before  the  fire,  and  apparently  earned  quite  away 

with  his  own  too  ra^  process  of  thought And  still  the  toaai  was 

getting  ooAi  [alas,  poor  Penciller !],  and  with  every  move  he  seemed  lets 
and  1^  aware  of  the  presence  of  breakfast.  There  were  plates  and  cupi 
for  but  two,  so  that  he  was  not  waiting  for  another  gvest;  and  after  half 
an  hour  had  thus  elapsed,  I  began  to  fear  he  thought  he  had  already 
breakfested.**  Another  balf-hour  with  a  best  author,  has  our  famished 
Penciller  to  pass,  ere  his  host  will  abniptiy  ask,  in  the  middle  of  a  sentenee 
about  Blackwood,  "  But  will  you  have  some  breakfast?"  The  PeneUler 
was  thus  rdeased  from  the  tenter-book  of  expectation.  Hope  deferred 
had  long  been  making  his  heart  sick,  and  all  on  an  empty  stomach.  ''  The 
breakfast  had  been  cooling  for  an  hour,  and  I  most  willingly  aooeded  to 
his  proposition."  And  then  the  Penciller  relates  how  the  ProS^essor,  witli- 
ont  rising,  leaned  back  with  his  chair  still  towards  the  fire,  and,  setaing 
the  teapot  as  if  it  w^e  a  sledge-hammer,  poured  from  one  cup  to  the 
ether  withoot  interrupting  the  stream,  overrunning  both  cup  and  sanoeTp 
and  partly  flooding  the  tea-tray.  *'  He  then  set  the  cream  toward  me 
with  a  carelessness  which  nearly  overset  it,  and,  in  trying  to  reach  an  egg 
from  the  centre  of  the  tahle,  Inroke  two.  He  took  no  notice  of  his  own 
awkwardness  [but,  bless  you,  the  Penciller  did],  but  drank  his  eup  of  tea 
at  a  single  dnuight,  ate  his  eg^  in  the  same  expeditious  manner,  and  went 
on  talking  of  the  ^  Noctes,'«Dd  Lockhart,  and  Bhickwood,  as  if  eating  his 
boreakfest  were  rather  a  troublesome  parenthesis  in  his  conversation."! 
One  egg  bolted  with  despatch,  one  cup  of  tea  gnlped  down,  and  then 
an  end. 

A  nearer  approximation  to  the  Kit  North  ideal,  aniong  men  of  letters, 
might  be  found  in  Sir  Walter  Scott — with  whom,  however,  break&st  irm 
Ae  meal  of  the  day,  and  came  in  as  the  sequel  of  some  hours  of  hard 
wodc.     By  the  time  it  was  ready,  he  had  gone  through  the  severeat  pact 

*  iDgoldsby  Legends,  vol.  ii.,  "  The  Kaigiit  and  tiie  Lady.** 
f  Pencillings  by  the  Way,  vol.  iii.  letter  xk. 


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TABLE-TALK.  195 

of  luB  day's  totl,  and  tiien,  by  hit  lon-iii-law'saooowit,  he  eat  to  widi  tiM 
seal  of  Crabbe's  Sqvire  Tovell, 

And  laid  at  once  aponnd  npon  his  plate. 

No  fox-hunter,  says  Lockharty  ever  prepared  himself  for  the  field  by  more 
substantial  appliances  than  Scott.  His  table  was  always  provided,  in 
addition  to  the  usual  plenti^  delicacies  of  a  Scotch  brealdast,  with  some 
solid  article,  on  which  he  did  most  plentiful  execution — a  round  of  beef— 
a  pasty,  such  as  made  Gil  Bias's  eyes  water— or,  most  welcome  of  all,  a 
cold  sheep's  head,  the  charms  of  which  primitive  dainty  he  has  ao  gal- 
lantly defended  against  the  disparaging  sneers  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  his 
bear-leader.*  '^  A  huge  brown  loaf  flajiked  his  elbow,  and  it  was  placed 
upon  a  broad  wooden  trencher,  that  he  might  cut  and  come  again  with 
the  bolder  knife.  Often  did  the  Clerks*  coach^  commonly  called  among 
themselves  the  ZttTe^— which  trundled  round  every  morning  to  pick  iqp 
the  brotherhood,  and  then  deposited  them  at  the  proper  minute  in  the 
Parliament  Close — often  did  this  lumbering  hackiiey  arrive  at  his  door 
before  he  had  fully  appeased  what  Homer  calls  *the  sacred  rage  of 
iiQfiger ;'  and  vociferoas  was  the  merriment  of  the  learned  unclet^  when 
the  suzprised  poet  swung  f<Hrth  to  join  them,  with  an  extemporised  sand- 
wich, that  looked  like  a  ploughman's  luncheon,  in  his  hand."!  ^^  ^^ 
robust  supply,  as  his  biographer  adds,  would  have  served  Sir  Walter,  in 
fiict,  for  the  day.  He  never  tasted  anything  more  before  dinner,  and  at 
dinner  he  ate  iJmost  as  sparingly  as  Farmer  Moss's  daughter  from  the 
boarding-school — 

Who  minced  the  sanguine  flesh  in  frnstoms  fine. 
And  marvdied  mnch  to  see  the  creatures  dine.]: 

Mr.  Peacock  lays  it  down  that  a  man  of  taste  is  seen  at  once  in  the 
array  of  his  breakfast-table ;  that  it  is  the  foot  of  Hercules,  the  lur- 
riiining  face  of  the  great  work,  according  to  Pindar's  doctrine :  apxofttwau 
cpyov,  frpoawww  xp^  Befaw  rrfkavytt.^  "  The  breakfast  is  the  irpo<rmitw  of 
tlie  great  work  of  the  day.  Chocolate,  cofEee,  tea,  cream,  eggs,  ham, 
tongue,  cold  fowl, — all  these  are  good,  and  bespeak  good  knowledge  in 
him  who  sets  them  forth  :  but  the  touchstone  is  fish  :  anchovy  is  the  fint 
Btep,  prawns  and  shrimps  the  second;  and  I  laud  him  who  reaches  even 
to  these :  potted  char  and  lampreys  are  the  third,  and  a  fine  stretdi  of 
progression;  but  lobster  is,  indeed,  matter  for  a  May  morning,  and 
demands  a  rare  combination  of  knowledge  and  virtue  in  him  who  sets  it 
forth."!!  On  this  account,  sturdy  as  he  is  in  his  anti-Scoticism,  '^is  caostic 
writer  cannot  bethink  hhn  of  a  fine  fresh  trout,  hot  and  dry,  in  a  napkin, 
<)r  of  a  herring  ant  of  the  water  and  into  the  frying-pan,  on  the  shore 
of  Loch  Fyne,  wi^out  conceding,  as  frankly  as  he  may  (or  Dr.  FeUiott 
for  htm),  that^  as  every  nation  has  its  ''  ezimious  Tirtue,"  so  the  perfervid 
Scots  are  pre-eminent  in  the  glory  of  fish  for  breakfut. 

If  Mrs.  Banbury's  voluble  French  informant — the  daddng  madame 

♦  See  Ordker's  Boswell  (edit  1831),  vol  iii.  p.  38. 

-'  Lockfaart'8  Life  of  Scott, oh.  xli 

: :  Crabbe's  Tales,  VII., «  The  Widow's  Tale." 

I  \  "  Far-shining  be  the  face 

Of  a  great  work  begun."— Pind.  Oh  vi. 

II  Gretcbet  Castle,  ch.  ii 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


196  TABLE-TALK. 

that  lady  met  at  Bagn^res — be  any  authority,  we  English  are  in  the  habit 
of  breaking  our  fast  in  a  sufficiently  gross  and  greasy  manner.  ''  £h ! 
the  English  do  live  well!"  she  exclaimed ;  « the  commandant  at  Toulouse 
was  a  prisoner  in  England,  and  he  has  told  me ;  he  saw  them,  and  he 
says  he  got  to  like  it.  First,  for  breakfiist  they  take  a  great  round  of 
toast," — and  here  madame  took  the  flat  of  her  hand  to  represent  the 
toast,  drawing  the  other  a  little  way  above  it  to  represent  abo  the  action, 
— "and  they  spread  it  over  with  a  quantity  of  butter ;  then  they  put  on 
that  slices  of  ham  and  sausage,  and — what  do  you  call  that  other  thing  the 
English  are  so  fond  of,  madame?"  "  Ale,"  suggested  our  countrywoman, 
at  a  guest.  And  madame  resumed.  "  Yes,  oil — they  put  oil  on  that,  and 
then  they  take  another  round  of  toast,  covered  with  butter,  and  lay  it  on 
the  top,  and  they  eat  that,  and  they  drink  tea  au  lait^  at  the  same  time ; 
they  eat  and  they  drink,  and  they  drink  and  they  eat,  and  that  is  au 
English  breakfast— eh !  they  live  well,  these  English  !"•  Let  us  hope 
our  savoir-vivre  is  misconceived  by  this  unctuous  narrator — into  whose 
parallel  passages  about  our  feats  at  dinner  and  supper  we  have  no  cor- 
responding occasion  to  enter. 

Leigh  Hunt,  who  gives  three  charming  breakfasts  running,  in  that 
pleasant  series  of  essays  entitled  *«  The  Seer,"  stands  up  for  plain  tea  and 
bread-and-butter — a  breakfast  of  which  kind,  he  says,  is  the  preference, 
or  good  old  custom,  of  thousands  who  could  afford  a  richer  one.  "  It 
may  be  called  the  staple  breakfast  of  England  ;  and  he  who  cannot  make 
ftn  excellent  meal  of  it,  would  be  in  no  very  good  way  with  the  luxuries 
of  a  George  the  Fourth,  still  less  with  the  robust  meals  of  a  huntsman." 
The  Seer  does,  indeed,  allow  that  delicate  appetites  may  be  stimulated  a 
little,  till  regularity  and  exercise  put  them  in  better  order,  nor  has  he  a 
syllable  to  utter  against  the  **'  innocencies  of  honeys  and  marmalades." 
But  he  insists  that  strong  meats  of  a  morning  are  only  for  those  who  take 
strong  exercise,  or  those  who  have  made  up  their  minds  to  defy  the 
chances  of  gout  and  corpulence,  or  the  "  undermining  pre-digestion  of 
pill  taking.^f  Sir  Walter  was  not  one  of  those  Modern  Athenians  who 
swelled  the  cockoo  cry  of  Cockney !  at  any  and  everything  uttered  by 
a  Hunt,  a  Hazlitt,  or  a  Keats.  But  he  would  certainly  have  looked  more 
blank  than  bland,  more  blue  than  blithe,  at  Leigh  Hunt's  breakfast  bill 
of  fiue. 

The  mildest  criticism  we  can  imagine  him  to  have  passed  on  such  a 
programme  would  be,  that  a  bread-and-butter  breakfast  was  fit  only  for 
a  bread-and-butter  miss.  He  was  of  the  Jack  Carelett,  or  country 
squire  type,  in  this  respect,  rather  than  of  the  Tremaine^  or  Man  of  Re- 
finement breed.  When  honest  Jack  Careless  comes  to  breakfast,  unin/- 
vited  and  unexpected,  with  his  polished  and  rather  priggish  neighbour,— 
the  latter  orders  that  meal  to  be  prepared  forthwith,  and,  asking  the  squire 
what  he  prefers,  observes  by  the  way,  or  by  way  of  hint,  "  I  myself  drink 
chocolate,  and  can  recommend  it  to  you  as  the  right  Spanish."  "  I  would 
rather  it  were  English,"  cries  Jack,  **  and  think  Sir  Hans  Sloane's  no  bad 
thing ;  however,  I  trust,  whatever  it  is,  that  the  proper  staple  of  a  York- 
shire breakfast  is  to  be  th^  foundation."  At  this,  Tremaine  looks  in- 
quiringly— with  a  sort  of  plail-U  f  expression.     Careless  explains :  "  Vm 

*  Rides  in  the  Pyrenees,  by  S.  Bunbury. 

t  The  Seer;  or.  Commonplaces  Refreshed,  No.  IX. 


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TABLE-TALK.  197 

sonr  you  don't  understand  me,  for  I  mean  cold  beef,  or  good  pigeon  pie.*'* 
And  Tremaine  has  to  give  the  necessary  orders.  Mr.  Samuel  Slick, 
Tinting  this  country  in  the  capacity  of  attach^,  is  e? en  less  ceremonious 
on  the  animal  food  question,  though,  in  his  case,  there  is  a  supply  of  it 
within  reach.  But  Mr.  Slick  won't  admit  it  to  &e  "  within  reach,"  since 
not  even  by  making  a  long  arm  can  he  help  himself  as  he  would,  but 
must,  forsooth,  get  off  his  seat,  and  travel  to  the  sideboard.  We  forget 
whether  that  real  personage,  Mr.  Willis,  was  an  attache,  too,  at  the 
time  of  his  peregrinations  through  Great  Britain,  some  years  previously ; 
but  he,  at  any  rate,  approved  of  the  national  arrangements  as  regards  toe 
breakfast- table — of  course  under  ducal  and  baronial  roofs.  This  time 
he  is  at  a  Duke's.  **  Breakfast  in  England,"  reports  the  Penciller,  '*  is  a 
confidential  and  unceremonious  hour,  and  servants  are  generally  dispensed 
with.  This  is  to  me,  I  confess,  an  advantage  it  has  over  every  other 
meal.  I  detest  eating  with  twenty  tall  fellows  standing  opposite,  whose 
business  it  is  to  watch  me  [too  sensitive,  susceptible,  self-conscious  Pen- 
ciller!]. The  coffee  and  tea  were  on  the  table,  with  toast,  muffins,  oat- 
cakes [it  is  at  G  Castle,  far  north],  marmalade,  jellies,  fish,  and  all 
the  paraphernalia  of  a  Scotch  breakfast ;  and  on  the  sideboard  stood  cdd 
meats  for  those  who  liked  them,  and  they  were  expected  to  go  to  it  and 
help  themselves.  Nothing  could  be  more  easy,  unceremonious,  and  afiable 
tlum  the  whole  tone  of  the  meal.^t  Now  Mr.  SKck,  as  we  have  said, 
that  other  guess  sort  of  attache, — who  has  not,  however,  the  good  fortune 

to  breakfast  at  the  Duke  of  G 's, — quarrels,  as  we  have  said,  with  the 

sideboard  system.  '*  The  English  don't  do  nothin'  like  other  folks,"  he 
complains ;  "  I  don't  know  whether  it's  affectation,  or  bein'  wrong  in  the 
bead — a  little  of  both,  I  guess.  Now,  where  do  you  suppose  the  solid 
part  of  breakfast  is,  squire  P  Why,  it's  on  the  sideboard— I  hope  I  maj 
be  shot  if  it  mn*t — well,  the  tea  and  coffee  are  on  the  table,  to  make  it 
BB  onoonvenient  as  possible.— Sais  I,  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  as  I  got 
up  to  help  myself,  for  I  was  hungry  enough  to  make  beef  ache,  I  know. 
^  Aunty,'  sais  I,  '  you'll  excuse  me,  but  why  don't  you  put  the  eatables  on 
the  table,  or  else  put  the  tea  on  the  sideboard?  They're  like  man  and 
wife,  they  don't  ought  to  be  separated,  them  two.' — She  looked  at  me,  oh 
what  a  look  of  pity  it  was,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Where  have  you  been  all 
your  bom  days,  not  to  know  better  nor  that? — ^but  I  guess  you  don't 
know  better  in  the  States — ^how  could  you  know  anything  there?'  But 
she  only  said  it  was  the  custom  here,  for  she  was  a  very  purlite  old  woman, 
was  Aunty. — Well,  sense  is  sense,  let  it  grow  where  it  will,  and  I  g^ess 
we  raise  about  the  best  kind,  which  is  common  sense,  and  I  wam't  to  be 
put  down  with  short  metre,  arter  that  fashion.  So  I  tried  the  old  man  ; 
sais  I,  ^  Uncle,'  sais  I,  *  if  you  will  divorce  the  eatables  from  the  drinkables 
that  way,  why  not  let  the  sarvants  come  and  tend?  It's  monstrous  oncon- 
Yenient  and  ridikilous  to  be  jumpin'  up  for  everlastinly  that  way;  you 
can't  sit  still  one  blessed  minit.' — '  We  thmk  it  pleasant,^  sud  he,  <  some- 
times  to  dispense  with  their  attendance.' — '  Exactly,'  sais  I;  ^  then  dispense 
with  sanrants  at  dinner,  for  when  the  wine  is  in,  the  wit  is  out,  and  they 
hear  all  the  talk.  But  at  breakfast  every  one  is  only  half  awake.  Folks 
axe  considerably  sharp  set  at  breakfast,'  sais  I,  '  and  not  very  talka^'tw. 

♦  Tremaino,  by  R.  P.  Ward,  toI.  i.  eh.  xxxi. 
t  Fencillings  by  the  Way,  vol,  iil  letter  xxUi. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


198  TABLE-TALK. 

That's  the  right  tune  to  have  sarvants  to  tend  on  yov.'  "*  Which  of  the 
two  Attaches  has  the  hest  taste  we  shall  not  inquire ;  we  know  which  of 
tbem  makes  the  best  compantoa. 

It  is  a  pretty  picture  their  countryman,  Mr.  Hawthorne,  draws  on  his 
native  soil  (of  which,  too,  it  is  racy),  of  a  little  breakfast-table,  set  for 
three,  in  the  old  house  of  the  seven  gables.  The  vapour  of  the  broiled 
fish  rises  like  incense  from  the  shrine  of  a  barbanan  idol,  while  the 
fragrance  of  the  Mocha  is  such  as  might  have  gratified  the  nostrils  of  a 
tutelary  Lar,  or  whatever  power  has  scope  over  a  modem  breakfast- 
table.  <'  Phoebe's  Indian  cakes  were  the  sweetest  oflfering  of  all — in 
their  hue  befitting  the  ruatic  altars  of  the  innocent  and  gMea  age— or, 
so  brightly  yellow  were  they,  resembling  some  of  the  bread  which  was 
changed  to  glistening  gold,  when  Midas  tried  to  eat  it.  The  butter 
must  not  be  forgotten — butter  which  Phoebe  herself  had  diumed,  in  her 
own  rural  home  .  .  .  smelling  of  clover  blossoms,  and  diffusing  Uie 
charm  of  pastoral  scenery  through  the  dark-panelled  pariour."f  Nor 
should  the  flowers  be  forgotten — arranged  in  a  glass  pitcher,  winch, 
having  long  ago  lost  its  handle,  was  so  much  the  fitter  for  a  flower-vaae 
— whUe  the  early  sunshine,  *'  as  fresh  as  that  which  peeped  into  Eve's 
bower,  while  she  and  Adam  sat  at  breakfast  there,"  came  twinklmg 
throng^  the  branches  of  the  pear-tree,  and  brightened  op  that  sombre 
room — made  sunshine  in  that  shady  place. 

Leigh  Hunt  is  strenuous  for  flowers  on  the  breakfast-table :~-«  whole 
BOsegay,  if  you  can  get  it — or  but  two  or  three— or  a  single  flower — a 
rose,  a  pink,  nay,  a  daisy  ; — something  at  any  rate  on  your  table  that 
reminds  you  of  the  beauty  of  God's  creation,  and  gives  you  a  link  with 
the  poets  and  BtLge$  that  have  done  it  most  honour.  **  Put  but  a  rose, 
or  a  lily,  or  a  violet,  on  your  table,  and  you  and  Lord  Baeon  have  a 
custom  in  common ;  for  that  great  and  wise  man  was  in  the  habit  of 
having  the  flowers  in  season  set  upon  his  table — morning,  we  believe, 
noon,  and  night ;  that  is  to  say  at  all  his  meals."  The  Essayist  liked 
flowers  on  a  mombg  table  because  they  are  specially  suitable  to  die 
time.  They  look,  he  says,  like  the  happy  wakening  of  die  creation; 
they  bring  the  perfume  ci  the  breath  of  nature  into  your  room ;  he  sees 
in  them  l]be  representations  and  embodiments  of  the  very  smile  of  one's 
home,  the  graces  of  its  good  morrow,  proofs  that  some  intellectual  beauty 
is  in  ourselves,  or  those  about  us ;  some  house  Aurora  (if  we  are  so 
lucky  as  to  havesu^  a  companion)  helping  to  strew  our  life  with  sweets, 
or  in  ourselves  some  masculine  mildness  not  unworthy  to  possess  aueh  a 
companion,  or  unlikely  to  gain  her. 

'*  Even  a  few  leaves,  if  we  can  get  no  flowers,  are  far  bett^  dian  no 
•ueh  omaBoent — a  branch  from  the  next  tree,  or  the  next  herb-market, 
or  some  twigs  that  have  been  plucked  from  a  flowering  hedge.  Thej 
are  often,  nay,  alwim,  beautiful,  particularly  in  spring,  when  Uieir  green 
if  tenderest.  The  first  new  boughs  in  spring,  plucked  and  put  into  a 
wmter-bottle,  have  oflen  an  effect  that  may  compete  with  flowers  thci 
jelves,  considering  their  novelty,  and  indeed 

Leaves  would  be  counted  flowers,  if  earth  had  none."} 

*  The  Attach^,  vol.  i  ch.  iL  f  The  Honse  of  the  Seven  Gables,  ch.  viL 

X  Leigh  Hunt:  Breakfast  in  Summec 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


SCANDINAYUH  TRAVEL.  199 

With  what  a  relish  William  HazUtt,  in  hia  old  days,  reoals  the  monia^ 
he  spent  with  Coleridge  (eaeh  of  then 

In  Life's  morning  march,  when  his  bosom  was  young) 

at  the  little  inn  at  lanton,  after  that  long  walk  of  theirs,  for  miles  and 
miles,  on  dark  brown  heaths  overlooking  the  Channel,  with  the  Welsh 
hiUs  beyond — how  they  *' break£ssted  luzarioasly  in  an  old-fashioned 
parlour,  on  tea,  toast,  eggs,  and  honey,  in  the  very  sight  of  the  bee- 
iuves  firom  whidi  it  had  been  taken,  and  a  garden  full  of  thyme  and  wild 
flowers  that  had  produced  it."*  In  this  room  it  was  ^lat  the  travellers 
foond  a  little  worn-out  copy  of  the  '*  Seasons,"  lying  in  a  window-seat^ 
OD  seeiug  which  Coleridge  exclaimed,  **  Ihat  is  true  fame !" 

Omr space  is  out;  but  the  breakfast-things  must  not  be  cleared  away : 
we  shall  use  them  for  another  set-to,  even  though  that  may  not  be  until 
the  first  of  next  month. 


SCANDINAVIAN  TEAVEL.f 


Denmaul  and  Jutlaicd  are  lands  of  leeend  and  romance.  Historic 
and  even  pre-historic  monuments  abound  in  Uiem  :  barrows  and  tumuli  are 
seen  in  almost  every  landscape,  and  the  dreaded  Vikings  of  old  have  left 
their  mark  upon  the  country.  The  manor-houses  and  castles  of  a  later, 
yet  ancient  time,  rise  in  every  direction,  and  the  memorials  of  bygone 
families  linger  on  many  a  site.  With  so  many  visible  monuments  of 
former  days  around  them,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  Danes  live  much  in 
the  past  and  cherish  the  memory  of  their  own  proud  history. 

The  natural  features  of  the  Danish  isles  and  Jutland  are  not  less  re- 
markable than  the  historical.  Blue  lakes  and  green  woods  diversify 
the  wide  plains  in  many  parts  of  the  country,  and  form  a  picturesque 
contrast  to  its  tracts  of  moss  aod  heather.  The  land  is  for  the  most 
part  fertile  ;  and  the  country  generally  (Lolland  in  particular)  is  famous 
for  fair  pleasure-grounds.  The  forests  are  gorgeous  in  their  autumnal 
tints^  but  Denmark  is  especially  the  country  of  the  spring.  Most  of  the 
considerable  towns  (sucn  as  Elsinore,  for  example)  are  adorned  by 
charming  walks;  cheerful  villages  and  country-houses  enfiven  the  shores 
oi  the  Sound ;  distant  objects  of  interest  are  seen  on  die  horizon,  and  be- 
yond a  foreground  of  well-kept  gardens,  bright  with  flowers,  gleam  the 
blue  waters  of  the  sea. 

Then,  too,  everything  in  Denmark  seems  to  have  a  well-to-do  and  pros- 
perous air :  the  yery  physique  of  the  people  proclcums  it,  and  eighteen  stone, 
or  thereabouts,  is  set  down  as  the  weight  of  the  full-grown  Jutlander. 

*  HazUtt's  Wintertknr  Essays:  ^  My  First  Acquaintance  widi  Fbets.* 
t  A  Heetdenee  in  Jutland,  tiie  Danish  Ides,  and  Copenhagen.     By 
limyat.     Two  Tola    London:  Mucray.    IMO. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


200  SCANDINAVIAN  TRAVEL. 

Poverty  is  not  seen ;  the  lower  classes  are  well-eared  for  and  appear 
contented;  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  towns  of  Jutland,  in  conjunction 
with  the  authorities,  do  everything  that  can  be  done  to  make  the  towns 
desirable  abodes  for  all  classes,  so  that  the  poorest  of  the  people  enjoy 
advantages  unknown  in  the  overgrown  manufacturing  towns  of  England. 
Among  the  wild  scenery  of  Hammershuus,  in  the  remote  island  of  Bom- 
holm,  more  is  done  for  the  healthful  dwelling  and  the  out-of-door  enjoy- 
ment of  the  people  than  is  dreamed  of  in  any  of  our  wealthy  centres  of 
manufacturing  industry,  for  in  those  English  towns,  too  commonly,  a 
sordid  utilitarian  aspect  marks  the  culpable  selfishness  of  the  prosperous 
classes,  the  apathy  of  municipal  bodies,  and  the  absence  of  taste  and 
public  spirit. 

Amongst  the  middle  class  of  Danes,  the  author  of  the  volumes  before 
us  sees,  in  their  household  arrangements,  a  refinement  seldom  to  be  met 
with  in  other  countries ;  and  in  these  "  rambles  beyond  railways"  he 
found  civility  and  attention  everywhere,  and  no  illustrations  of  the  old 
proverb  that  *'  Travellers  find  many  inns,  but  few  fnends."  The  case 
may  be  otherwise  some  ten  years  hence,  when  the  country  comes  to  be 
intersected  by  railroads,  and  opened  to  wider  intercourse  with  the  rest 
of  the  world.  When  steam-boats  shall  navigate  the  chain  of  lakes,  upon 
whose  placid  waters  the  Vikings  of  bygone  days  bore  the  spoils  of  Gaul 
and  England,  and  when  Silkeborg  shall  have  become  the  Birmingham 
of  Jutland,  simplicity  of  manners  will  probably  disappear,  together  with 
the  otter  which  now  abounds  in  the  streams,  and  with  salmon — ^now  so 
plentiful,  that  in  Banders  town  (as  formerly  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne 
and  some  other  places  in  England)  the  employer  is  prohibited  from 
feedinfi^  his  apprentice  with  it  more  than  once  a  week.  The  improvement 
of  ag^culture,  however,  and  the  consequent  enrichment  of  proprietors, 
only  wait  a  better  development  of  the  natural  resources  of  the  country, 
and  already  mosses  are  beginning  to  be  reclaimed  and  railways  to  be 
made. 

The  quiet  old-world  towns  of  Jutland  must  afford  a  striking  contrast 
to  the  commercial  activity  of  Hamburg,  from  which  the  writer  of  *'  A 
Residence  in  Jutland  and  the  Danish  Isles"  started  for  his  northern 
$Sjour,  where  the  new  streets,  arcades,  and  buildings  that  have  risen 
nnce  the  great  fire,  vie  with  Paris  in  their  new-born  magnificence.  On 
his  way  to  the  sea-baths  of  TravemQnde,  he  paced  the  shady  walks, 
under  fragrant  limes,  that  are  formed  on  the  ancient  ramparts  of  Lubec, 
whose  tall  unstraight  church-spires,  old  gateways,  and  houses  that 
threaten  to  topple  over,  are  seen  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  Trave ; 
and  then,  at  tne  table  d'hdte  of  Travemunde,  he  was  waited  on  by  buxom 
attendants,  decolUth^  under  a  summer  sun,  at  two  o'clock,  and  display- 
ing feet,  grood  solid  and  useful  for  common  purposes,  and  capable  of 
cainrying  l£em  with  ease  even  when  they  weigh  sixteen  stone. 

Without  following  a  given  route,  we  may  conveniently  group  together 
the  ch&teaux  and  the  historic  sites  of  feudal  ages  that  seem  best  deserving 
of  notice. 

The  grim  old  castle  of  Sonderborg,  once  the  residence  of  the  Slesvig 
dukes,  partakes  in  the  decay  of  the  capital  of  the  ancient  duchy ;  but 
though  fidlen  ^m  its  high  estate^  Slesvig  is  still  memorable  as  the 
mother-town  of  early  Christianity  in  this  land.     Another  castle — that  of 


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SCANDINAVIAN  TBAVEL.  201 

Koldingy  one  of  the  roost  ancient  in  Jutland,  called  formerly  Omsboig 
(Eagle's  Castle)— fell  a  prey  to  fire  during  the  occupation  of  Bemadotte 
(every  edifice  in  Denmark,  royal  or  plebeian,  seems  fated  to  be  destroyed, 
sooner  or  later,  by  fire),  but  the  keep  is  remarkable  for  being  still  sur- 
mounted by  two  stone  figures  of  warriors,  resembling  those  found  on 
some  of  the  border  towers  of  Scotland,  and  also  at  Alnwick  Castle,  in 
Northumberland.  The  chlteaux  of  the  duchy  of  Holstein  are  substantial 
quadrangular  buildings,  surrounding  a  large  court  which  has  a  green  plot 
in  the  centre  bordered  by  limes.  The  entrance  is  under  a  porte-cochere. 
In  front  is  the  large,  heavy  schloss,  with  a  huge  portico  supported  by 
Corinthian  or  Ionic  columns;  and  this  is  flanked  by  two  stupendous 
buildings  with  high-pitched  roofs,  each  as  large  as  the  abbey  church  of 
Malvern,  which  are  used  for  storing  the  farm  produce,  implements,  and 
stock.  The  live  stock  in  cows  on  these  domains  is  something  enormous: 
ex,  gr,^  the  Countess  Rantzau  rejoices  in  four  hundred  and  eighty  cows, 
and  in  some  of  the  great  dairies  hundreds  of  pounds  of  butter  are  pro- 
duced in  one  forenoon.  These  useful  animals,  by  the  way,  are  called 
"  cows"  by  the  Jutland  peasant ;  but  this  is  not  the  only  thing  in  sound 
and  sight  to  remind  the  English  traveller  of  home  :  many  expressions  of 
the  peasantry  might  pass  for  Yorkshire  speech ;  the  horses  resemble  the 
Yorkshire  breed,  and  the  sheep  are  the  English  *'  Southdown  ;"  even  the 
lofty  stone  monuments  (dolmens)  that  are  scattered  over  the  country 
are  called  ''  Stonehenge"  by  the  peasants.  Some  of  the  countnr  resi- 
dences are  kept  up,  too^  in  a  style  that  would  not  disgrace  an  ffnglish 
mansion. 

Count  Friis  lives  in  Friisenbor^,  a  ch&teau  surrounded  by  a  moat  and 
horse-chesnuts  of  splendid  growth — ^a  quaint  old  building,  flanked  by 
antiquated  towers.  But  the  whole  castle,  excepting  the  stone  foundation, 
is  in  a  coat  of  whitewash,  for  the  most  respectable  old  red-brick  is  ruth- 
lessly whitewashed  in  Denmark.  At  Katsholm  we  have  the  story  of  a 
Danbh  Whittington.  An  unjust  man  died,  and  his  youngest  son,  on 
receiving  his  share,  put  his  money  to  the  water-ordeal,  knowing  that  what 
was  unjustly  got  would  sink  and  the  rest  would  float.  A  farthing  only 
floated,  and  with  it  he  bought  a  cat,  which  with  her  kittens  he  took  to  a 
foreign  land  where  cats  were  unknown,  and  with  the  fortune  realised 
from  the  progeny  of  his  cat,  returned  to  Jutland,  and  built  the  castle  of 
Katsholm.  The  castle  of  Kronborg  has  many  a  souvenir  of  interest  to 
English  readers.  Here  was  celebrated  the  marriage  by  proxy  of  James  VI. 
of  Scotland  with  the  youthful  Princess  Anne,  daughter  of  Frederick  II. 
of  Denmark;  and  tides  are  current  of  the  drinking-bouts  of  Prince 
Christian  and  the  bridegroom.  The  ramparts  of  Kronborg  are  described 
as  being  par  excellence  the  locality  for  Shakspeare's  ghost-soene  in 
*' Hamlet,"  but  the  romance  of  Kronborg  is  over.  A  propos  to 
**  Hamlet,''  it  may  be  mentioned  that  our  author  gives  some  illustra- 
tions of  the  story  of  the  Prince  of  Denmark.  A  gprassy  mound  that  would 
be  called  in  England  a  Danish  camp  goes  by  the  name  of  Amkth's 
Castle,  and  he  lies  buried  under  a  lofty  tumulus  that  bears  his  name. 
At  Roeenholm  there  are  many  memorials  of  the  Rosenkrantz  fiimily. 
Amongst  the  portraits  is  one  of  Erik,  the  youthful  ambassador  at  the 
pseudo-court  of  Cromwell,  to  whom  he  ought  to  have  said,  if  he  did  not 
really  say,  when  the  ill-mannered  ''  Protector**  scoffed  at  a  beardless 


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202  SCANDINAVIAir  TRAYEL. 

jDiiiittep,  "  If  my  sorereiga  had  known  it  was  a  beard  you  reqinred,  be 
eould  hare  sent  700  a  gfoat:  at  anj  rate,  my  beard  is  of  older  date  than 
your  Protectorate  I* 

AxDODg  the  families  enaobled  are  many  of  Seottiih  descent,  whose 
ancestors  setUed  ia  Denmark  dunn^  the  middle  ages,  but  there  is  bo 
trace  of  an  Irish  settler.  The  St.  Cbns  stand  first  on  the  hst,  and  appear 
in  eoancils  of  the  kingdom  in  the  fourteenth  century.  Near  Helmgborg 
16  '^Hamikoa  Hous^"  the  residence  of  Count  Hamilton,  a  Swedish 
BoUenBan  descended  from  tme  of  the  Scottbh  soldiers  of  fortune  who 
joined  the  banner  of  Gustayus  Adolphus,  and  at  the  end  of  the  Thirty 
Years'  War  adc^ted  Sweden.  At  raarereile,  by  the  tranquU  waters  of 
tile  fiord,  on  a  Uttle  promootory  jutting  into  the  sea,  we  are  at  the  burial- 
place  of  a  Scottish  nobleman  of  greater  fame  and  darker  fortunes;  for 
within  the  walls  of  the  Kttie  whitewashed,  gabled  chiffch  are  the  mortid 
remaios  of  the  £ari  of  Bothwell,  who  died  a  prisoner  in  the  castle  of 
Draxkolm  (dragon's  isle).  This  moated  pile,  which  foroKrly  bek)ng«d 
to  the  bishops  of  RoeskUde,  later  merged  in  the  barony  of  Adelsbcvg. 
Bolhwell's  prison  is  now  the  wine-cellar  of  the  castle.  The  mummy-Kke 
eorpse  of  the  eari  is  shown  in  the  yault  of  Faarereile.  He  appears  to  hare 
been  of  middle  height,  with  a  forehead  not  expansile,  and  head  wide  at 
the  ba<^  of  the  skull,  and  his  hair  seenn  to  hare  been  red,  mixed  widi 
rrey;  his  cheek-bones  high  and  prominent,  nose  somewhat  hooked,  and 
hands  and  feet  well  shaped  and  small.  Had  Bothwell  in  his  stonny 
fife  seeded  a  spot  marked  by  quiet  and  repose  in  death,  he  could 
hardly  have  found  in  all  Christendom  a  resting-place  more  calm  and 
peaceful. 

An  Englidi  traveller  in  Denmark  is  struck  by  die  large  nomber  of 
portrails  of  our  royal  Stuarts  that  are  found  in  its  portrait-galleries,  hot 
die  fsdA  that  the  mother  of  Charles  I.,  the  light-hearted  Anne,  was  a 
Danish  princess,  of  course  sufl&ciently  accovmts  for  ihm  presence.  At 
the  palace  of  Frederiksborg  in  particular,  diere  is  a  most  interesdog  series 
of  portraits  of  the  royal  house  of  England.  At  Rosenborg  the  Eng^i^ 
visitor  sees  with  g^reat  interest  a  princess  of  the  present  reigning  family 
of  Engkad  stand  out  brighUy  among  the  less  refined  specintens  of 
(jerman  royalty.  The  portrait  presenred  in  that  casde  of  Queen  Lomsa^ 
daughter  of  George  II.9  and  wife  of  Frederidc  V.,  must  be  a  charming 
one* 

Rostgaard,  die  only  other  castle  we  haye  room  to  mendon,  one  of  die 
most  b^ntiliil  residences  in  the  yicinity  of  £3sinore,  derives  some  interest 
from  the  story  of  ELirstme,  the  Danish  Penelope,  the  &ir  and  youthful  wife 
of  Hans  RostL;aard,  who  was  lord  of  the  casUe  m  1659.  Becoming  involved 
in  a  plot  i^^nst  the  Swedes  when  their  officers  held  Kronborg,  he  had 
to  fly  from  his  home,  and  decMved  his  enemies  into  the  belief  tlmt  he  had 
been  killed.  The  ridi  and  pretty  widow  (for  widow  she  was  supposed  to 
be)  dared  not  reveal  her  husband's  existence,  and  attracted  the  addresses  of 
all  the  Swedish  officers  who  were  quartered  at  the  manor-house,  and  who 
re^>ected  her  property  only  because  each  of  them  hoped  that  it  might  in 
dme  become  his  own.  When  pressed  by  the  most  ardent  of  her  suitors, 
she  pleaded  her  recent  widowhood,  and,  true  to  "  The  Wife's  Secret," 
begged  for  time,  and  then  coquetted  so  cleverly  that  each  individual  of 
the  corps  imagined  himself  to  be  the  favoured  one.  At  length  a  year 
elapsed,  and  peace  was  signed;  she  then  made  them  a  profound  reverence, 

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SCANDINAYIAK  TRAVEL.  208 

thanked  them  for  the  connderfttion  they  had  thown  to  her  goods  and 
chattel^  and  reiotroduoed  to  them  her  reeuaeitated  hashaod. 

The  churches  of  Denmark  and  Jutland  have  some  peoalkr  featmres,  and 
many  of  these  edifices  are  of  considerable  antiqukj,  hot  the  materials  of 
which  most  of  them  are  built — a  mixture  of  granite,  sandrtone,  and  briok- 
work— -does  not  gire  them  an  attractiye  appearance.  Eight  round  chorches 
are  enumerated :  the  most  perfect  is  that  at  Thessager,  knit,  it  is  saki, 
upon  the  site  of  a  temple  of  Thor,  and  the  edifice  appears  to  be  of  an 
earlier  date  than  the  twelfth  century.  The  original  part  of  the  boikltag 
is  circular,  and  massive  piers  snpport  the  vaaltM  roo£  At  Veile,  a  citj 
of  ancient  Uneage,  where  some  of  the  fah«st  seenerj  of  the  okl  Jutkod 
province  begins,  the  church  had  oar  Canute  for  its  founder ;  and  a  fignre, 
black  like  a  statue  carved  in  oak  Iresh  from  the  bogs  of  Hibemia,  is 
shown  as  the  body  of  Queen  Gunhik),  and  is  stated  to  have  been  trans- 
bted  thither  from  the  morass  in  which  she  was  buried.  Her  dress  and 
hair  are  shown  in  the  Museum  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Northern  Anti- 
quaries at  Copenhagen,  and  eight  centuries  have  not  eflOeued  from  the 
woollen  wrapper  that  enveloped  the  body  the  square  pattern  of  a  "  sh^ 
herd's  plaid^  tartan.  The  Domkirk  of  Bibe,  one  of  the  asoet  aneieftl 
cities  of  Jutland^  is  described  not  only  as  the  great  Hon  of  the  place,  but 
as  the  finest  chimsh  in  the  country.  The  interior  presents  some  good 
architecture  in  what  may  be  called  the  Norman  style,  but,  in  truth,  the 
Romanesque  of  these  northern  chnvehes  is  a  style  Bipmtt  from  that  known 
m  EnglaAdy  France,  or  Germany.  The  cathedral  in  the  ancient  city  of 
Viborg  is  a  sort  of  Westminster  Abbey  of  the  province,  for  die  remains 
of  many  sovereigns  repose  in  its  round-arched  crypt.  On  the  site  of 
Viborg,  the  chief  sacrinces  to  Odin  were  solemnised  in  pagan  times,  and 
here  iSie  Danish  sovereigns  were  elected  for  the  provinces  of  Jutland.  In 
later  times  the  city  boasted  as  many  churches  as  York,  besides  convents, 
friaries^  and  wondrous  relics.  The  abbey  church  of  Soro  contains  some 
interesting  monuments,  beginning  with  tlie  sepulchral  stone  of  Olaf,  King 
of  Norway  and  Denmark,  and  artistically  culminating  in  the  recumbent 
figures  of  Christian  II.  and  his  queen  Euphemia.  The  king's  effigy  re- 
sembles that  of  Edward  II.  in  Gloucester  Cathedral :  he  is  arrayed  in 
royal  robes,  his  hair  flowing  long,  his  beard  pointed  after  the  fashion  of 
our  early  Plantagenets,  and  his  head  is  encircled  by  the  crown.  There 
are  also  some  interesting  royal  monuments  in  the  cathedral  diun^  of 
Roeskilde,  the  time-hon4»ured  city  which  gives  a  patronymic  to  the 
Rothschild  family,  who,  according  to  Mr.  Marryat,  emigrated  from 
Denmark  in  the  last  century,  and  assumed  as  a  surname  the  name  of 
their  ancestral  birthplace.  Here,  too,  is  the  monument  of  Queen  Margaret, 
who  first  united  under  one  sceptre  the  three  Scandinavian  kingdoms,  and 
her  effigy  fitly  represents  the  great  queen  recumbent,  with  eyes  dosed 
and  hands  meekly  clasped,  as  if  awaiting  the  day  of  judgment — a  curious 
confrast  to  the  martial  gaze  and  impatient  expression  of  Christian  IV.  in 
Thorwaldsen's  bronse  statue,  a  figure  as  little  suited  to  a  churdi  as  most 
of  the  statues  of  statesmen  and  heroes  that  crowd  Westminster  Abbey 
and  St.  Paul's. 

The  church  epitaphia  of  the  country  must  be  curiosities.  The  oval 
medallion  portrait  common  in  the  Duchies  gives  place  at  Eendsburg  to  a 
representation  of  scriptural  subjects.  One  of  these  monuments  was  set 
np  by  a  man  whose  three  wives  died  before  him,  and  as  they  had  proved 

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204  SCANDINAVIAN  TBAVEL. 

(as  it  would  appear)  no  comfort  to  him,  he  has  signalised  at  once  his 
scriptural  zeal  and  his  marital  resentment  hy  a  representation  of  the  Last 
Judjs^ent,  in  which  they  are  placed  among  the  condemned.  The  church 
of  Eckernfiord  is  described  as  resembling  an  old  curiosity- shop  in  its 
strange  collection  of  all  kinds  of  monuments,  commemorating  as  well 
armed  knights  and  high-bom  ladies  as  substantial  burghers  and  their  (too) 
fruitful  spouses,  and  in  its  queer  latticed  pews,  which  are  piled  up  any- 
where and  anyhow ;  some  are  like  a  sedan-chair,  and  made  to  contain 
one  person ;  others  are  large  enough  to  hold  families  as  numerous  as  the 
family  of  Jacob;  and  the  church  keys  are  of  such  size  and  ponderosity 
that  the  mace  of  the  Lord  Mayor  and  the  state  weapons  of  the  Christ 
Church  poker-bearers  are  ramrods  in  comparison. 

"  What  families,"  exclaims  Mr.  Marryat,  **  people  had  in  the  days  of 
these  antiquated  tombs !  I  may  add,  what  a  number  of  wives !  If  yon 
closely  examine  the  epitaphia  you  may  take  as  an  average  three  to  a  family 
of  sixteen  children ;  sons  ranged  on  one  side  behind  the  father,  daughters 
behind  the  mother,  and  the  babes  who  died  in  infancy  spread  out  on 
cushions  in  front,  done  up  in  swaddling-clothes,  the  father  and  mother 
always  dressed  with  the  greatest  decorum."* 

Bomholm  is  remarkable  for  churches  of  blue  marble;  and  in  the  church 
at  Aarkirkeby  one  of  the  most  remarkable  sculptured  fonts  in  Europe 
may  be  seen.  At  Nalborg,  on  the  Liimfiord,  there  is  a  circular  antiaue 
font  of  sculptured  granite.  Mr.  Marryat  says  the  date  11 66  is  visiole 
upon  it,  and  that  cherubim,  with  faces  as  broad  as  a  Wiltshire  cheese,  are 
carved  upon  it ;  but  in  the  twelfth  century  fonts  were  not  dated,  and  the 
Tulgfarities  familiarised  to  us  by  English  Churchwardenism  and  monu- 
mental masonry,  were  not  perpetrated  in  the  middle  ages. 

But  from  silent  churches  and  monuments  let  us  pass  to  the  picturesque 
and  peopled  city  of  Copenhagen  (Merchants' Haven),  and  its  beautiful 
environs,  foremost  among  which  is  Lyngby— -described  as  another  Vale  of 
Tempo — where,  in  early  May,  the  peasants  bring  in  baskets  full  of  little 
nosegays,  formed  of  the  lilac  flowers  of  the  Primula  farinosa ;  and 
Marienlyst,  where  an  English  princess,  Philippa,  Queen  of  Denmark, 
sister  of  the  hero  of  Agincourt,  founded  a  Carmelite  nunnery,  to  which 
a  royal  villa  succeeded  that  has  become  a  sort  of  Chelsea  Hospital.  The 
canals  bring  ships  to  the  heart  of  Copenhagen.  Its  municipal  privileges 
date  from  1254,  but  not  many  houses  of  ancient  date  or  historic  interest 
remain  in  the  city.  It  is  pleasant  to  know,  however,  that  the  residence 
of  Tycho  Brahe — the  northern  luminary  of  his  age^ — a  heavy-looking, 
old,  red-brick  house,  with  massive  stone  window-copings,  is  still  pre- 
served. The  Palace  of  Christianborg,  by  which  Frederick  VI.  replaced 
the  edifice  built  by  Queen  Sophia  Madalena,  is  not  as  useless  as  unsightly, 
for,  besides  the  state  apartments,  it  harbours  the  two  Chambers  of  Par- 
liament, the  gallery  of  picture,  and  the  royal  library. 

The  first  idea  of  establishing  the  University  of  Copenhagen  is  attri- 
buted to  Erik  the  Pomeranian,  the  royal  spouse  of  Philippa,  sister  of  our 
Henry  V.     Art  and  archaeology,  as  well  as  literature,  have  their  homes 

*  The  Danes  wore  armour  later  than  other  nations ;  hence  the  monument  of 
the  nobleman  who,  in  1740,  was  ambassador  to  the  Empress  Catherine,  represents 
him  in  armour. 


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SCANDINAVIAN  TRAVEL.  205 

in  Copenhagen :  the  Thorwaldsen  Masenm  contains  a  most  interesting 
collection  of  the  works  of  the  great  Danish  sculptor ;  and  the  Museum 
of  the  Royal  Society  of  Northern  Antiquaries,  the  formation  of  which 
has  heen  achieved  in  little  more  than  forty  years,  is  not  only  a  wonderful 
treasure-house,  hut  fosters  a  national  taste  for  the  presenration  of  his- 
torical antiquities.  The  director  of  the  museum  happened  to  he  ahle  to 
give  Mr.  Marry  at  an  example  which  could  hardly  have  heen  anticipated. 
Seeing  in  the  Ethnographical  department  three  soldiers  in  hlue,  who, 
catalogue  in  hand,  were  examining  the  collection,  he  remarked  that 
twenty  years  ago  no  soldier  would  have  thought  of  quitting  his  beer- 
shop  to  visit  a  collection  of  art,  and  off  he  went  to  explain  tne  contents 
of  tne  cabinet  to  his  humble  visitors. 

The  implements  of  the  remote  period  known  as  the  Age  of  Bronze, 
which  are  brought  together  in  the  Scandinavian  collection,  appear  to 
belong  to  a  period  previous  to  the  birth  of  Christ ;  and  they  are  attributed 
to  a  nomadic  Oriental  tribe,  a  small-limbed  race,  who  settled  in  Denmark, 
but  had  no  connexion  with  their  predecessors.  And — apropos  to  this — 
it  is  curious  to  remark  that  in  the  island  of  Fano  (nearly  opposite  the 
little  seaport  of  Hjerting,  whence  in  summer  a  steamer  bears  beeves 
destined  for  the  ail-devouring  London  market)  the  young  girls  are 
described  to  have  quite  an  Oriental  type  of  countenance,  with  long  eyes 
and  dark  complexions ;  the  women  who  tend  the  cows  or  work  in  the 
fields  wear  a  black  mask,  and  the  place  adheres  to  old  customs  and  old 
habits,  and  is  supposed  to  have  remained  stationary  for  a  thousand  years- 
things  that  are  very  suggestive  of  the  people  and  customs  of  an  Eastern 
land.  In  this  island,  by  the  way,  the  womankind  wear  an  indefinite 
number,  firom  seven  upwards,  of  substantial  woollen  petticoats  of  various 
colours — a  bride  once  wore  thirteen ! 

Even  in  the  remote  *'  Age  of  Bronze''  the  ladies  appear  to  have  pos- 
sessed the  requisites  of  the  work-table,  scissors  excepted.  The  museum 
contains  many  needles  in  bone  and  in  bronze,  but  some  have  the  eye 
pierced  in  the  centre.  A  pin  or  brooch,  for  fctstening  the  dress  or  plaid, 
M  described  as  precisely  similar  to  the  pins  and  brooches  of  the  Scottish 
Highlands. 

Among  the  antiquities  of  later  periods  preserved  in  this  most  interesting 
museum,  drinking-horns  of  glass  and  of  bone  are  found ;  and  the  collec- 
tion formerly  contained  two  golden  horns,  which  were  accidentally  dis- 
covered— the  one  in  1639,  and  the  other  in  1737 — in  the  same  locality,, 
and  were  valued  respectively  at  600/.  and  450^.*  The  mosses,  or 
morasses,  and  the  tumuli  of  the  country  (the  island  of  Samso  alone  is  ai 
very  Kensal-green  of  the  early  Scandinavian  era)  seem  to  hold  golden. 
treasures  in  their  dark  oblivion :  thus,  three  gold  armlets  of  beautiful^ 
workmanship,  now  in  the  museum — for  in  Denmark  no  pernicious  law  of* 
treasure-trove  consig^ns  such  treasures  to  the  melting-pot — were  found  in. 
an  ancient  grave  at  Buderupholm. 

Accident  has  likewise  disclosed  many  a  hoard  of  coins.     The  Vikings, 
who  settled  on  the  eastern  shores  of  England  in  the  ninth  and  tenth  cen<^ 

•  These  valuable  objects  were,  iuifi)rtanately,  stolen  from  the  museum,  and 
upon  the  event  a  funeral  elegy  was  written,  of  so  touching  a  character,  as  Mr 
Manyat  facetiously  remarks,  that  it  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  all  antiquaries. 

TOI<«  I«I«  P 


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a06  aCAlflHNATUK  TBAVXL. 

iuriM>  ooined  money ;  but  coin  appean  to  bnre  been  first  stadc  m  De»> 
mark  in  the  reign  of  Svend,  father  of  Canute,  abevi  the  jear  1000  ;  aoi 
liie  first  decent  comage  Denmadi  ever  possessed  wm  that  o£  Enk  the 
Pomeranian.  Large  quantitiee  of  foreign  coins  have  been  diacoviMd  in 
yariouB  plaees— Cufic,  Bjxantine,  Roman,  German,  and  Angky-Saaon, 
together  with  rings  and  bam  of  silfer  and  gold,  and  beads  and  omanents, 
gtud-embossed,  and  appswently  of  B3aantine  ongin.  Beads  of  giasi^ 
coloured  and  mosaic,  pK>habl  j  likewise  of  Eastern  mannfisctnre,  aw  also 
found.  Mr.  MaEryat  does  not  acbtempi  ta  explain  the  oasurrenoe  of  amk 
ezotic  objects  in  Denmark ;  but  it  is  to  be  nmembeied  that  Northsm 
Danes,  Swedes,  Norwegians,  and  even  An^e%  Booked  hy  land  through 
Russia  to  ConstaDtioople  in  the  tenth  oentury,  and  took  senrioe  in  &it 
imperial  guard;  and  pure  Old-Northern  names  oecar  in  Byaaodne 
writings.  Northmen  were  ambassadors  to  the  Greek  emperoc%  and  in 
those  early  times  were  much  brought  in  oontaet  with  the  East,  which  in 
ages  still  more  remote  had  been  the  Northmen's  hoase. 

Their  lore  of  diange  and  wandering  seems  afterwards  to  have  lived  in 
the  old  Viking  spirk  of  the  Danes,  and  now  their  descendants,  no  k>ngsr 
seeking  adyentnres  beyond  the  seas,  and  eircnmecnbed  in  the  aien  for 
their  wanderings,  indulge  a  last  remnant  of  the  nativn  resdessnesa  by 
frequently  dianging  thmr  abodes.  The  Copenhagen  peimle  are  slahsd 
by  Mr.  Marnrat  to  flit  twice  a  year  from  one  street  of  their  oapilat  to 
another !  When  ill,  eren  the  hi^ier  classes  can  rent  rooms  in  dieeplendid 
hospital  of  Frederick  V.,  andeojoy  all  the  medical  adfantages  of  the  eatar 
blishment,  without  deranging  or  endangering  their  homes. 

Undw  the  fostering  care  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Northern  Aatiquaria 
(which  has  the  king  himsrif  for  its  president),  the  national  antiquities 
are  now  so  well  cared  for  in  Denmark^  that  one  reads  with  astonisfameiit 
of  the  highly  disrespectfrd  treatment  of  the  public  reeords  in  the  ardteo- 
logically  daric  age  of  Frederick  V.  That  mcmarch,  wishing  to  eelebinte 
the  marriage  of  Frinoe  Christian  by  a  grand  ^sf^y  of  fireworks^  and 
paper  for  thdr  fobrication  not  being  acoessible,  is  stated  to  haf«  ordered 
all  towns  and  omiTentual  bodies  to  forward  thmr  arohnrss  to  Copenhagen 
Thereupon  records  arrived  in  cart-load  after  cart-load,  obemady  foa^ 
warded  by  their  unauspeoting  custodians,  and  were  sao^eed  in  m  holo- 
oaust  of  royal  fireworks. 

The  f[^-k»e  of  the  country  and  the  andeat  castoma  still  observed  ars 
but  incidentally  noticed  in  Mn  Marryaf  s  Hfdy  pi^;e0^  bat  be  mentioDa  a 
few  curious  particulara.  On  one  of  the  faighMt  pdnts  of  SSeahmd  them 
is  a  blackened  stone,  on  which  the  peasants  %ht  a  bonfire  on  the  ere  of 
St  John— ardic  (of  course) of  a  Tcry  eariy  pagan  custonu  Theauasel^ 
bell  dways  rings  as  the  sun  goes  down^  lecnlHng  the  aneieat  Carfow  of 
Normandy  and  England  still  rung  in  some  oathediml  towns.  At  Umh 
hind — a  place  whose  quiet  and  repose  is  sddom  broken  save  by  the  little 
rurd  f^te  at  harvest-home,  the  church-bdla  "ring  up  the  sun''  (as  the 
ez{»re6sion  goes)  and  ''ring  it  down"  again;  and,  in  the  midst^  nine  dis- 
tinct strokes  are  given,  one  for  the  Patesnostav  seven  for  &a  seven 
separate  petitions  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  a  loud  booming  ninth  pro- 
claims Aasen*  Nowhere  are  the  good  old  Christmas  eostome  more 
pleasantly  observed  than  in  Jutland.  Even  die  litde  birds  of  the  air  an 
notf(»*gotteD,  for  a  small  wheatsheaf  is  Idd  in  the  garden  over-nig^  on 


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SQAKDINAVIAN  TBAYSL^  907 

Cfariatmai-eTe  in  order  that  tliey  also  nay  eat  and  njoiee*  The  peasants 
Mkre  that  at  nudnigfat  oa  Chnstmas-e^  the  eattle  aU  rise  together 
tm^L  stand  upright;,  and,  on  that  day,  the  sows  and  hoMv^  sod  the 
wa4cih«dog  in  pavtieolary  ase  fcd  with  the  best  o£  tfrecythiag  by  these 
flwereni,  nmple-miBded,  traditioa-loyi&g  people.  Fron  the  24th  of 
DesmsbOT  to  the  New  Year,  no  one  wodcsy  aiid  ail  the  yoaag  people 
daace ;  bat  the  new  year — at  least  in  Boraheks— is  oei  tiatisftd  in :  it  is 
sbot  in,  £(Nr  evefy  one  who  oan  obtain  fire-anns  t<isthaiges  them  at  his 
fidghhoars'  windo'ws  by  way  of  wishiag  a  happy  new  year.  On  the 
ias^al  of  the  Thvee  Kings,  a  candle  of  d»ee  wiefaa  ia  bamt  in  every 


Sone  of  the  siu»erititioDSy  too^  are  notieeahleu  Seeond  sight  is  as 
eommon  in  Jnthmd  as  in  the  Scottish  Highlands^  and  is  mnoh  belief«d 
in  lor  the  foretelling  of  fire.  The  huge  Black  Dog  that  haunts  the 
roiDed  chardi  of  tStaunai,  qnite  reeals  the  famous  "  speetre-honnd  of  Man.'' 
Furies  of  eoorse,  and  the  maeh  less  amiaUe  troU%  seem  to  stand  beside 
yon  everywhere.  The  troUs,  however,  are  not  invariaUy  misehievons 
MingB,  and  fortunately  they  can  transform  themselves  only  into  maimed 
aninwls;  thus  his  Satanic  IxEi^esty  himself  afleets  the  fi»rm  of  a  rat,  but 
never  can  grow  any  taiL  Superstition  thrives  in  FalstM— witness  the 
eastonr  of  casting  »  pail  of  water  behind,  when  a  corpse  leaves  the  dotf  , 
SO  that  no  ghost  may  appear  in  the  house. 

There  are  relics  of  strange  customs  connected  with  cbuicfa-going : 
m.  yr.  Qtfistian  V.  phtoed  **  the  yawniag-stoeks"  at  every  ehaK^*door 
(the  village  stocks,  though  remainiag  in  some  places,  are,  as  in  Una 
country,  quite  out  of  fiishion),  and  in  them  the  preacher's  vistinis,  whea 
convicted  of  a  second  offence,  had  to  stand  with  open  mouth*  Upon  this^ 
ibe  people  tried  to  protect  themselves  by  going  when  the  sermon  was 
half  over,  for  the  early  Lutheran  clergy  loved  the  sound  of  their  own 
voieea;  but  the  authcnrities  were  »  match  for  diem,  and  plaeed  the  late 
eomers  in  die  stocks  all  the  same.  Then  folks  went  c«rly,  and  took 
refuge  in  sleep,  but  hereupon  the  churchwardens  were  <Aa^ed  to  go 
Boond  and  stir  them  up  coatinually.  At  length  an  hoar-glass  was  fixed 
by  Ae  side  of  every  pulpit.  People  go  to  christenings,  at  all  events^ 
merrily  ^umgh,  for  on  a  Sunday  morning  a  stuhl-wagen  may  be  seen  to 
driipe  hy^  carrying  a  party  of  old-fiishioned  Jntlandera  to  the  ceremony, 
and  a  musician  with  distended  eheeksi  playing  vigorous^  on  a  flageolet^ 
sits  by  the  driver. 

Carriages  appear  to  have  been  eonridered  a  luxury  in  Dennuurk  down 
to  a.  date  as  Me  as  the  last  half  of  the  seventeenth  eentary.  It  wookl 
seem  that  even  in  England  the  use  of  coadbes  cannot  be  eahned  mere 
than  a  century  further  back,  that  is  to  say,  act  beyond  the  tone  of  Fita- 
Alan,  Earl  of  Arundek  J^cldngham,  King  James's  favourite,  intro- 
duced sedan-chairs  and  the  use  of  six  horses  for  his  coach — a  novelty 
which  then  excited  some  wonder,  and  was  taken  as  a  mark  of  his  extra- 
vagant pride.  Such  of  the  eitiaens  of  Copenhagen  as  could  not  afford 
to  keep  horses,  were  likewise  carried  about  m  sedan-«haixs ;  and  there 
was  an  Italian  who  contracted  to  supply  the  town  with  them. 

This  artiele  has  extended  to  so  groat  a  lengthy  that  we  can  only  notice 
very  briefly,  in  coodusion,  some  of  the  nature!  features  of  Jutland  and 
the  DiiMW  ^les*     'That  the  waters  are  retiring  on  the  Liimfiord,  there 

f2 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


208  SCANDINAVIAN  TRAVEL. 

can  be  no  doubt :  the  names  and  the  stranded  appearance  of  such  places 
as  Tranders-holm  and  £ng-holm  attest  the  fact ;  and  the  Mayor  of 
Aalbore  (Eel  Castle)  told  Mr.  Marryat  that  the  bed  of  a  little  lake  in 
which  he  used  to  fish  eighteen  years  before  was  then  cultivated  land, 
although  no  process  of  dnunmg  had  been  resorted  to.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  are  vast  bogs,  or  mosses,  the  result  of  some  ancient  inunda- 
tion of  the  sea,  which  have  been  reclaimed  by  draining,  and  in  which  the 
plough  uncovers  urns  of  black  Jutland  pottery  with  the  zig-zag  ornament, 
and  contiuning  bones.  The  draining  of  the  Sjorring  Lake  is  looked  for- 
ward to  by  antiquarians  as  that  of  a  Jutland  Tiber.  Level  lands  so  open 
to  the  sea  are  of  course  particularly  liable  to  be  overwhelmed  by  the  sands 
and  the  salt  waves.  What  is  now  a  plain  of  driving  sand,  was  in  living 
memory  one  of  the  most  fertile  meadows  in  Jutland ;  and  in  many  wild 
mosses  now  inhabited  only  by  the  swarthy  gipsy  and  the  lapwing,  ruins 
of  cottages  and  remains  of  furnaces  are  found,  and  weapons  are  uncovered 
by  the  turf-cutters — memorials  of  a  civilisation  that  the  spot  once  knew, 
but  which  has  long  passed  away. 

The  naturalist  finds  much  to  interest  him  in  Jutland.  Wolves  do  not 
exist  there  now,  any  more  than  in  England,  but  they  seem  to  have  lin- 
gered in  Jutland  to  a  later  period  than  they  did  even  in  Scotland,  for, 
towards  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  it  was  a  common  thing  to  hear 
of  their  destroying  cattle  and  doing  other  damage.  The  last  wolf  is  said 
to  have  been  killed  only  fifty  years  ago.  Christian  V.  agnalised  his 
energy  against  wild-boars  no  less  than  against  yawning  Sermon-hearers, 
and  is  said  to  have  killed  sixteen  of  the  former  animals  m  one  day's  chase 
in  1671,  but  they  are  now  quite  extinct.  In  the  manor  of  Asdal,  great 
forests  once  stood,  and  lately  the  horns  and  bones  of  the  wild  buffiilo  and 
the  elk,  races  long  since  extinct  in  Jutland,  have  been  dug  up.  The 
storks  arrive  about  old  May-day  (May  13).  It  must  be  curious  to  be- 
hold one  of  their  gatherinfi^  before  they  take  flight  on  the  approach  of 
winter.  A  fnend  of  the  author  saw  an  assembly  of  four  hundred  perched 
on  the  eaves  of  fiEmn-buildings  in  Zealand :  the  whole  flock  appeared  to 
be  mustered  for  inspection  and  review ;  and  the  aged  and  we^dcly  being 
separated  and  pecked  to  death,  the  rest  took  their  flight  for  Egypt.  The 
birds  are  found  to  be  quite  right  in  their  anticipation  of  summer,  for 
vegetation  suddenly  breaks  forth  in  a  few  days  after  their  arrival.  The 
larger  falcon  tribe  abound.  Everywhere  in  Denmark  the  swallow  is  a 
privileged  bird ;  its  nests  are  respected  and  preserved  wheresoever  built; 
and  the  reason  given  is,  that  the  swallow  was  the  most  blessed  of  the 
three  birds  that  came  to  our  Saviour's  cross.  The  Bohemian  wax-wing 
{BombadUa  garrula),  called  in  Denmark  '*  silk-tail,''  a  bird  of  sob^ 
plumage,  with  a  beautiful  little  yellow  tail,  is  stated  to  visit  Denmark 
only  once  in  seven  years.  It  never  lays  its  eggs  &rther  south  than 
Lapland. 

When  the  birds  of  spring  have  collected,  and  rich  verdure  waves  above 
the  carpet  of  moss;  when  '*  the  fresh  green  earth  is  strewed  with  the  first 
flowers  that  lead  the  vernal  dance,"  and  the  lily  of  the  valley,  the  Sole- 
mon's-seal,  the  hepatica,  and  other  wild  flowers,  sem  the'  woods,  the 
country  must  be  charming,  and  as  attractive  to  the  lover  of  nature  as  its 
old  historic  sites  must  prove  to  the  gatherer  of  history  and  legend. 

W«  S.  G. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


209 
CHANT  FOR  LITTLE  MARY. 

BT  MRS.  ACTON  TIHDAL. 

Tbuant  gay  was  little  Mary 

When  she  cheated  love  and  care, 
Lithe  and  light  as  any  fairr. 

Glancing  through  her  «>iden  hair, 
Li  a  tangled  shinuig  ravd 

Floating  on  the  summer  air : 
Waxen-cheeked,  and  warm,  and  rosy. 

Bound  of  limh,  and  fleet,  and  strong. 
Tossing  high  her  wild-flower  posy. 

Chiming  forth  some  rhyming  song. 
So  I  last  saw  little  Mary, 

White-robed  now  in  grave-clothes  long. 

Do  they  fear  that  she  should  waken? 

For  her  mother  shades  the  light. 
When  into  that  room  forsaken 

Tearfully  she  steals  at  niffht. 
Do  they  fear  the  wind  should  chill  her? 

For  thej  draw  the  curtains  round — 
That  a  voice  with  ]^n  should  thrill  her  ? 

For  their  words  in  whbpers  sound. 
And  they  tread  with  noiseless  footsteps. 

As  if  that  were  hoi  v  ground. 
Never  wave  off  sea  of  sorrow 

Destined  is  o'er  her  to  roll; 
Time  will  never  bring  the  morrow 

Fraught  with  sadness  for  her  soul. 

Often  through  my  hours  unwary. 

Twilight  hours  of  dreamy  thought. 
Visions  glide  of  little  Mary, 

Li  a  trance  from  Hades  brought; 
Luminous  her  outline  airy. 

Brow  and  limb  and  shroud  have  caught 
Majesty  and  ])omp  angelic. 

Wondrous  is  the  death-change  wrought ! 
Came  she,  between  lilies  lighted. 

Fragrant  lamps  of  whitest  flame. 
While  this  dawn  was  yet  benighted. 

And  I  called  her  by  her  name ; 
Though  she  gazed  with  eyes  de%hted. 
Voice  of  human  love  she  slighteo. 

From  her  lips  no  answer  came ! 
And  when  sunrise  plowed  before  her. 
The  retreating  shadows  bore  her 

Through  the  distance  none  may  measure. 
Deeps  and  heights  we  maj  not  pass. 

Till  we're  changed,  like  little  Mary, 
Where  none  weep  nor  cry  Alas  ! 

Till  we  yield  the  atoms  borrowed 
For  the  weary  frames  we  wear. 

For  the  house  in  which  we've  sorrowed. 
From  the  teeming  earth  and  air ; 

Till  we  glide,  as  light  electric. 
Free  for  ever,  everywhere ! 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


SIO 


A  SEAL  AMEBICAK. 

The  man  whose  life-history  forms  the  subject  of  this  paper  appeared 
for  a  while  predestined  to  change  the  destinies  of  Central  America. 
William  Walker,  the  filibuster,  howerer,  met  his  death,  and  the  central 
provinces  of  America  have  for  the  present  fallen  back  into  their  old  hope- 
less and  stagnant  condition.  The  nations  that  inhabit  these  districts,  so 
richly  endowed  by  nature,  can  vegetate  without  any  fear  of  disturbance^ 
for  their  worst  foes  are  busily  engaged  in  settling  their  own  private 
matters  with  fire  and  sword,  and  for  a  season  must  give  up  their  ardent 
aspirations  for  conquest  and  annexation. 

The  assertion  of  die  Americans  that  the  whole  continent  must  become 
theirs,  whose  realisation  the  celebrated  Monroe  theory  strove  to  ensure 
against  any  interposition  of  the  European  powers,  appears,  in  fact,  merely 
to  express  a  law  of  nature,  whi^  must  be  accomplished  sooner  or  later. 
While  the  primitive  denizens  are  yielding  to  the  power  of  progressive 
civilisation,  and  gradually  disappearing  from  the  fiEU>B  of  the  globe,  with- 
out leaving  a  trace  of  tneir  existeuce,  the  descendants  of  the  Spanish 
Conquistadors  appear  devoted  to  a  moral  death,  the  more  certain  the 
more  they  have  mingled  their  blood  with  that  of  the  natives.  The 
colonies  tnat  formerly  belonged  to  Spain  have,  sinee  their  emancipation, 
sufficiently  proved  that  they  are  incapable  of  prodoetng  independent  con- 
stitutions or  even  keeping  up  those  imitated  from  Europe.  Althoueh 
the  Spanish  system  of  colonisation  was  anything  rather  than  good,  the 
state  of  things  in  the  Spanish  colonies — especially  since  the  end  of  the 
last  century,  when  the  mother  country  found  itself  compelled  to  make 
concessions  to  the  spirit  of  the  age — ^was  enviable  as  compared  with  the 
present.  One  military  revolt  now  follows  the  other,  effected  by  a  few  ambi- 
tious leaders,  who  strive  to  attain  dictatorial  power,  until  they  are  in  their 
turn  amenable  to  the  same  fiite  that  befel  their  predecessors.  The  name 
of  the  despot  may  change,  but  the  system  remains  the  same;  and  in  the 
permanent  contest  the  coarsest  ambition  is  the  solitary  motive.  A  man 
who  possesses  money,  and  through  it  influence,  collects  some  soldiers  or 
robbers,  which  are  convertible  terms  in  this  happy  land.  This  band,  then, 
takes  the  name  of  Liberals,  Federalists,  Unitarians,  or  whatever  title 
may  seem  most  adapted  to  circumstances  and  most  opposed  to  the  go- 
vemiDg  party,  and  proclaims  in  tall  language  its  resolution  to  liberate 
the  oppressed  fatherland.  In  this  way  it  is  probably  liberated  for  some 
months,  until  another  disinterested,  renowned,  and  invincible  bandit  chief 
appears  once  again  to  save  his  feitherland,  which  he  generally  does  by 
shooting  down  the  ex-liberators,  and  rewajrding  lus  foUowers  with  titles, 
offices,  and  dignities.  Constitntion,  law,  and  justice,  we  need  scarce  say, 
are  constantly  despised  and  trampled  under  foot,  and  justice  and  law  are 
expected  to  be  handmaidens  to  the  man  who  possesses  influence  and 
power,  or  contrives  to  obtain  them. 

In  such  a  condition  of  thins^s  it  is  hopeless  to  look  for  any  progress. 
Hence  it  would  certainly  be  desirable  to  the  welfare  of  civilisation  that 
new  life  should  be  infused  into  this  all  but  dead  member  of  humanity. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


A  SEAL  AMEBIGAN.  ill 

So  te  as  oor  ezMnenoe  €0000^8,  w«  doiiU  wh^ 

Malattoi,  and  MfiBtiiM  poimi  the  poiper  to  reproowte  themselTes  throngli 
themielvei^  or  draw  themselves  from  the  deep  prostration^  whose  sad  aspect 
is  seen  at  every  step  taken  hy  the  traveller  in  these  states.  It  appears 
as  if  help  £ram  ndthout  were  absolutely  necessary,  and  this  help  nugfat  be 
tiie  soonest  expected  from  the  erratic  and  enterorising  Anglo-^azon  race 
in  North  America,  which  has  already  managed  to  &se  so  many  nation* 
alities  into  one  people.  About  thirty  years  ago^  the  name  of  the  North 
Americans  was  so  respected  in  Central  America,  that  an  earnest  desire 
for  annexation  was  felt  in  several  of  the  states,  and  Honduras  voluntarily 
offined  to  join  the  Union.  Had,  then,  William  Walker  accelerated  this 
Americanising  process — ^had  he  introduced  respect  (at  the  law,  safety  for 
property,  and  freedom  for  the  oitiaen — had  he  fostered  immigration  so  ae 
to  open  up  tiie  resources  of  the  country,  or  had  he  but  smoouied  the  path 
for  such  results,  his  undertaking  would  not  have  been  decried  as  filibuster- 
ing, but  recorded  in  history  as  an  immortal  work.  The  whole  civilised 
world,  save  in  those  cases  where  political  prejudices  obscured  the  eye- 
^ht  and  disturbed  the  judgment,  would  have  followed  his  career  with  the 
Eveliest  sympathy  and  hailed  his  final  success  with  cheers,  the  more  so 
as  he  would  have  improved  countries  through  which  a  great  portion  of 
die  commerce  of  three  contments  must  eventually  pass.  We  do  not  find, 
however,  that  Walker  entertained  such  ideas,  or  even  possessed  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  part  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  play. 

Walker  was  not  one  of  those  fenatics  who  are  animated  by  some  grand 
idea,  which  constantly  impels  them  to  action.  Such  men  are  not  to  be 
found  in  the  country  of  his  birth,  and  Walker  generally  possessed  qua- 
Utaes  that  distinguish  the  American,  although  some  of  them  were  extreme 
in  him.  Possessing  a  cool  head  and  callous  heart,  full  of  low  selfishness, 
be  made  everything  the  object  of  crafty  calculations,  though  he  more 
than  once  disoovered  that  tlie  best  calculations  may  go  wrong.  But  he 
ever  acted  unscrupulously  in  carrying  them  out,  and  utterly  disregarded 
the  just  claims  of  others.  Like  his  countrymen,  especially  the  South- 
emersy  he  had  an  exorbitant  idea  of  his  own  powers,  which  he  was  food 
o£  expressing  in  the  most  absurd  boasting.  The  talents  which  Walktt 
indubitably  possessed,  lost  their  value  because  they  ware  not  combined 
with  a  feeling  of  justice.  He  possessed  qualities,  lacking  whkh  a  man 
could  not  even  raise  himself  to  the  chieftainship  of  a  robber  band- 
energy,  posonal  courage,  perseverance,  and  a  most  remarkable  degree  of 
ohstuiacy*  If  these  qualities  enabled  him  to  achieve  robber  exploits,  and 
impose  on  the  thieves  and  rowdies  who  joined  him,  still  his  exploits  had 
none  of  that  poetic  lustre  which  at  times  gives  an  aureole  of  glory  to 
European  bandits,  and  causes  them  to  live  in  the  memory  of  nations  as 
heroes  and  martyrs.  It  is  true  that  Walker  at  one  time  was  regarded 
as  a  useful  instrument  by  the  democrats  party,  and  declared  by  them 
k>  be  a  hero— even  a  second  Washington.  But  the  party  soon  dropped 
Inm,  and  poured  out  oa  him  a  flood  of  that  abuse  in  which  the  New 
WmM  is  so  surprisingly  inventive.  The  civilised  world  looked  on  widi 
indifference  when  Walker  was  shot,  because  his  end  was  not  alone  jus- 
t^ed  by  the  letttf  of  the  law  but  l^  the  prindples  of  universal  moraut^. 
Benoe  his  death  wants  the  true  tragic  element,  and  higher  interests  did 
not  follow  him  to  the  grave.     Even  if  we  agree  with  Mr.  Clayton,  who 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


212  A  REAL  AMERIOAK. 

said  in  congress  that  Walker  was  a  ruffian,  buccaneer,  and  pirate,  still  we 
are  bound  to  confess  that  the  countries  he  wished  to  conquer  are  so  fertile 
in  robbers  of  home  growth,  that  they  have  no  occasion  to  import  exotic 
genera. 

William  Walker's  family  came  originally  from  Scotland,  where  his 
father  made  a  considerable  fortune  in  banking.  In  1820  he  emigrated 
to  the  United  States,  and  settled  at  Nashville,  in  Tennessee,  where  his 
son  William  was  born  in  1824.  During  his  school  years  a  marked  pro- 
pensity for  adventure  is  said  to  have  been  perceptible  in  him.  For  a 
time  he  studied  the  law,  but  grew  tired  of  it,  and  proceeded  to  New 
Orleans,  where,  after  a  while,  he  began  studying  again.  After  a  time, 
we  find  him  established  at  Philadelphia  as  a  physician,  but  he  only 
remained  there  a  short  time.  He  next  visited  Europe,  where  he  remained 
for  a  year,  and  is  said  to  have  studied  at  Gottingen  and  Heidelberg.  On 
his  return  to  America,  he  was  appointed  one  of  the  editors  of  the  New 
Orleans  Crescent,  and  in  1850  proceeded  to  San  Francbco,  where  he 
edited  the  Herald,  From  his  editorial  sanctum  he  migrated  for  several 
months  to  prison  for  publishing  libels  on  a  judge.  When  liberated,  he 
set  up  as  a  lawyer  at  Marysville,  California,  and  secured  a  valuable 
practice.  In  the  summer  of  1862  he  visited  Quay  mas,  in  Sonora,  at  the 
^me  when  the  Count  Raousset-Boulbon  attempted  his  unfortunate  in- 
vasion, in  the  hope  of  establishing  a  new  kingdom.  This  man's  under- 
taking exerted  a  great  influence  on  Walker,  as  did  Lopez's  expedition  to 
Cuba,  in  spite  of  the  latter  and  fifty  of  his  men  being  shot  in  tne  market- 
place of  Havannah.  On  his  return  to  California,  Walker  formed  the 
notion  of  conquering  Sonora  for  himself,  and  enlisted  recruits  for  the 
porpose  in  July,  1853. 

We  must  bear  in  mind  that  the  scum  of  society  had  gathered  in 
California,  and  it  was  not  till  the  following  year  that  the  vigilance  com- 
mittees, established  in  all  the  large  towns,  removed  this  scum.  Hence, 
Walker  had  excellent  raw  material  for  his  army.  The  undertaking, 
however,  was  frustrated  by  government,  and  the  ship  in  which  Walker 
proposed  starting  was  seized  on  the  15th  of  October.  Walker  contrived 
to  escape  from  San  Francisco  with  his  partisans,  and  landed  at  the  small 
port  of  La  Paz,  in  Mexican  California.  Here  he  proclaimed  the  repub- 
lic of  Lower  California,  and  appointed  himself  president  of  this  new 
creation.  The  Mexican  troops  were  defeated  near  La  Paz,  Walker's 
companions  receiving  no  other  wounds  beyond  those  inflicted  by  the 
cactus  thorns.  After  Walker  had  captured  several  towns  without  diffi- 
culty, he  declared  that  Lower  California  only  formed  a  portion  of  a 
larger  state  he  intended  to  found  under  the  name  of  the  republic  of 
Sonora.  Early  in  1854  reinforcements  of  one  hundred  men,  under 
Colonel  Watkins,  reached  Walker  from  San  Francisco,  and  on  March  20 
he  set  out  at  the  head  of  exactly  one  hundred  men  to  conquer  Sonora. 
He  started  across  the  mountains  to  hit  the  Eio  Colorado,  but  the  cattie 
could  not  be  conveyed  across  the  river,  and  in  this  inhospitable  country 
starvation  soon  stared  the  invaders  in  the  face.  The  band  suffered  terrible 
privations,  and  eventually  disbanded.  Walker,  with  twenty-five  men, 
fled  to  St.  Thomas,  whence  he  marched  along  the  coast  to  San  Diego, 
in  American  California,  and  surrendered  to  the  frontier  officers.  He  was 
liberated,  however,  after  pledging  his  word  to  go  straight  to  General 


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A  REAL  AMERICAN.  213 

Wood  at  San  Francisco,  and  suffer  any  punishment  that  might  be  in- 
flicted on  him  for  infringing  on  the  laws  of  neutrality. 

After  seven  months'  absence  Walker  reached  San  Francisco  again,  and 
on  trial  was  honourably  acquitted.  He  then  temporarily  reverted  to  his 
editorial  functions,  until  his  attention  was  directed  to  Nicaragua,  in 
December,  1864.  A  company  had  been  formed  in  San  Francisco  to 
establish  commercial  relations  between  Eastern  Honduras — where  it  was 
expected  rich  gold  mines  would  be  found — and  the  United  States.  The 
agent  of  this  company  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Don  Juan  Castellon, 
the  provisional  dictator  of  Nicaragua,  and  head  of  the  democratic  party. 
The  latter  bad,  a  few  months  previously,  overthrown  Don  Frate  Cha- 
marro,  the  leader  of  the  aristocrats,  who  with  his  beaten  army  threw 
himself  into  the  town  of  Granada,  and  barricaded  himself  there.  By  Ae 
advice  of  this  agent  a  bribe  of  fifty-two  thousand  acres  was  offered  Walker 
to  interfere  in  the  quarrel  in  favour  of  the  democratic  party.  After  the 
removal  of  several,  especially  financial,  difficulties,  the  first  expedition  of 
sixty-two  men,  under  Walker's  command,  sailed  from  San  Francisco  on 
Mav  4,  1865. 

Owing  to  the  disunion  in  the  country,  the  undertaking,  however, 
looked  promising  enough.  In  1840,  General  Moragan,  with  three 
hundred  adventurers,  had  landed  in  the  Gulf  of  Nicoya,  conquered  the 
republic  of  Costa  Rica,  and  overthrown  the  energetic  dictator  Carillo. 
Foreign  relations  were  also  favourable  to  Walker's  plans  of  conquest: 
England,  which  had  hitherto  behaved  most  kindly  to  the  Central  Ame- 
rican States,  partly  through  their  vicinity  to  her  West  India  islands, 
partly  through  jealousy  of  America,  was  up  to  her  neck  in  the  Crimean 
war,  while  the  President  of  the  United  States  was  Franklin  Pierce,  who 
the  more  openly  coquetted  with  filibustering,  because  the  democratic 
party,  which  had  gained  the  victory  under  him,  loudly  demanded  the 
extension  of  the  Union  in  their  programme.  It  is  true  that  the  United 
States  had  pledged  themselves,  by  the  Bui wer- Clayton  treaty  of  1860, 
**  not  to  occupy,  garrison,  or  colonise  any  portion  of  Central  America,  or 
to  exercise  any  supremacy  over  it."  But  as  Walker's  enterprise  was  a 
private  speculation,  the  United  States  could  look  on  quietly  for  a  time, 
until  the  fruit  seemed  ripe  for  plucking. 

When  Walker  reached  Nicaragua,  Chamarro  had  regained  a  large 
portion  of  the  country,  and  after  his  death  his  commanders  carried  on  the 
war.  On  June  1,  1866,  Walker  landed  at  Realigo,  and  proceeded  to 
Leon.  The  first  action  took  place  at  Rivas,  on  the  29th,  between  168 
men  on  Walker's  side  (100  native  troops  and  68  of  Walker^s  men),  and 
480  on  the  side  of  the  enemy.  The  fight  lasted  several  hours,  and  the 
firing"  of  the  Americans  was  so  effective  that  they  killed  double  their  own 
numbers.  Shortly  after  the  action  be^an,  however,  the  native  troops  got 
into  disorder,  fled  into  the  woods,  ana  lef^  the  fifty-eight  Americans  to 
fight  it  out.  Walker  occupied  a  large  house,  which  he  held  till  nightfall, 
when  the  enemy  succeeded  in  firing  it.  Walker  was,  therefore,  compelled 
to  a  retreat,  in  which  he  lost  ten  of  his  men.  In  spite  of  the  unfortunate 
result  o£  this  action,  it  had  taught  the  Nicaraguans  to  feel  a  respectful 
fear  of  the  American  rifles.  The  leader  of  the  aristocrats  had  180 
men  killed  and  wounded,  and  such  figures  were  unusual  in  their  usually 
bloodless  actions.    In  a  second  battle  at  Virgin  Bay,  on  Lake  Nicaragua, 


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214  iL  SEIX  AMEBIGAN. 

tbe  aastooctte,  540  itrong,  were  nitoriy  dafetted  fay  ^  AMerictiiB  aod 
120  natiye  troops. 

After  raoeiviag  tmuioftcememkB  firom  CaUfixEnU,  Wdker  oeeapied  the 
city  ai  Granada  aknost  without  a  blow.  C<»rral,  the  conunander  of  the 
aristoenatf,  thereupon  fortified  Eivaa,  and  negotiations  for  a  peace  began, 
which  were  broyght  to  a  saoeesrfiii  result  on  October  16.  Patbio  lUvas 
WAfl  appointed  provinonal  dictator,  after  Walker  had  declined  the  honour : 
his  troops,  now  redooed  to  150,  would  retire  to  Leon,  and  Corral  only 
keep  up  the  same  force.  Walker  was  appointed  oommander-in-chief  of 
the  army  of  the  Republic,  while  Corral  surrendered  his  guns  and  ammu- 
nition. On  October  29  the  festiral  of  peace  was  solemnly  kept  Suck 
sneeesses  produoed  eo  great  an  ezoitement  in  California,  that  the  steamen 
nmning  fortnightly  between  San  Franoiseo  and  San  Juan  del  Sur,  con- 
stantly brought  fresh  reomits  and  ammunition.  So  great,  indeed,  was 
the  pressure  to  j(Mn  Walker's  yictoiious  army,  that  many  of  the  adven- 
turers aotu^y  paid  their  passage  all  the  way  to  New  York,  in  osier  to 
secure  a  berth.  The  stipulated  numbw  of  150  men  was,  consequently, 
soon  exceeded ;  but  Corral,  on  his  side,  did  not  hesitate  also  to  break  the 
tnaty  he  had  ao  reeently  signed.  Letters  of  his  were  captured,  in  which 
he  tned  to  get  up  a  conspiracy  to  overthrow  the  government;  he  was 
anested,  tried  by  a  eourt-marnal  under  Walker's  presidoncy,  convicted 
and  shot  oa  November  8,  in  the  market-place  of  Granada.  As  Corral 
had  been  eiwessBvely  popular,  his  vicdent  death  did  not  conciliate  the  feel- 
ingsof  the  people  towards  the  American  intruders ;  but  the  latter  seemed 
their  position  W  the  help  of  new  arrivals,  both  ftom  the  Atlantic  and  the 
Facifie  side,  rieroe,  it  is  true,  issued  a  public  warning  against  joining 
these  armed  bodies ;  and  one  of  the  steamers  was  stof^Md  in  New  York 
harbour,  and  the  passengers  arrested.  Walker's  envoy.  Colonel  French, 
was  not  only  refused  an  audience  in  that  oapamty,  but  was  imprisoned  for 
trying  his  hand  at  recruiting.  But  all  these  measures  were  only  intended 
to  save  appearanoes;  and  so  little  was  dene  that  Walker's  army,  on  Maroh 
1^  1856,  amounted  to  1200  men.  All  persons  who  wished  to  settle  on 
the  land  received  a  gratis  gift  of  250  acres  if  unmarried,  350  if  married. 

The  journal  pubhshed  in  l^caragua,  under  the  influence  of  the  North 
American  party,  was  ordered  to  give  the  most  glowing  accounts,  and 
Ans  keep  up  an  unintecnipted  stream  of  emigrants.  According  to  the 
efiter,  Niearsgua  was  the  promised  land,  the  newly-disoovered  Parmdue^ 
tike  £1  Dorado,  where  the  true  gMea  age^  such  as  poets  described,  «k- 
isted  in  reality.  The  most  usefol  plants  and  most  grateful  fruit  grew 
there  without  man's  aid ;  the  sky  was  oonstantly  serene,  the  tee^pera- 
tore  e^al,  and  in  spite  of  the  vicinity  of  the  equator,  refreshed  by  the 
hreeaes  ftt»m  two  Oeeans:  the  dimiate  was  so  healthy,  that  people 
Kved  to  be  a  hundred  years  ai  age,  and  oould  not  help  it  In  aodition 
to  this,  the  Spanish  Creole  giris  were  of  angelic  beauty  and  endmatiag 
ffraoe,  and  cBsplayed  a  marked  preforence  for  the  young  Yankees,  especially 
for  those  who  served  under  General  Walker's  banner.  Who  could  resist 
eneh  tempting  prospects  ?  In  New  York  and  in  the  South  die  CeoDitral 
▲merman  aflMuss  found  mat  sympathy  with  bankers  and  speculators. 
Ifiny  formed  hoses  of  a  Large  fortune  fy  purchasing  immense  estates  at 
an  easy  rate;  oliien  wanted  to  dig  the  interoceanic  caasl  through  Ni- 
oaragua,  and  then  lay  claim  to  the  monopoly;  while  ethers,  again. 


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iL  BRAL  IMEBICAN.  21S 

APMOoelef  anew  dvm  ftato  ipoedDy  to  W  incoiy wtod  wMi  tli»  Union. 
Large  aoeetiiigf  were  keld ;  men  aod  money  oeyeoted ;  Walker  wae  de- 
dnei  to  he  a  great  man :  Ae  diiiatopeeteaaeei  widi  whiek  1m  ImA  ^ 
efined  the  pree^enor  was  i^iplaaded ;  he  deepised  powar,  and  onl j  i»- 
served  Ae  right  of  dying  for  the  freedom  of  Nioaragna.  Mitanderitoed 
by'hia  native  knd,  pnblidj  branded  as  a  filibuster,  he  had  oppoeed  and 
de^Bated  all  foes  within  and  without.  His  magnanimity  was  displayed, 
too,  in  his  modest  bnlletins  of  Tietoiyi  while  not  eoneeaUng  his  losses,  he 
nassed  orer  his  own  heroic  deeds  in  silenee,  and  only  described  those  of 
his  eomrades.  He  foiesaw  that  be  iiMebt  saccumb  to  his  numeraus  fees, 
bat  he  woiM  be  glad  to  shed  his  blood  fer  freedom :  in  death  he  would 
eonsole  himself  with,  the  thought  that  his  ooantrr  would  one  day  reap 
Hie  frwt  of  his  toil  '<  We  find  in  Walker,''  said  a  banker,  who  had 
inrested  a  hundred  llioDsand  dollars  in  the  invasion  of  Nicaragua,  ''  the 
heart  of  Washington,  with  the  head  and  genius  of  Napoleon."  Those 
persons,  however,  who  had  conscientious  scruples  as  to  the  conquest  of 
Central  America,  were  told  that  if  America  did  not  interpose,  the  English 
would  have  no  hesitation  in  making  so  facile  a  conquest. 

As  the  United  States  goyemment  still  hesitated  in  recognising  the 
aetoal  state  of  things,  Gtmtemala,  Honduras,  and  Costa  Rica  also  de- 
clined any  di^oaiatic  relations  with  the  new  republic  In  tins  ihej 
were  naturally  supported  by  England,  and  Costa  Rica,  indeed,  reeeived 
weapons  from  that  country.  After  Costa  Rica  had  iffnominioui^  ex- 
polled  Walker's  envoy,  Colonel  Schlessinger,  war  was  declared.  Three 
thousand  Costa  Ricans  appeared  under  arms  in  a  few  days,  and  Walker 
ordered  Colonel  Schlessinger  to  advance.  This  officer,  a  German  Jew, 
was  hated  for  his  violent  and  despotic  character,  and  was  saqsected  of 
eowaidiee.  The  corps  of  two  hundred  and  seventy  men  he  commanded 
ocMisisted  of  undisciplined  recruits  fixnn  France,  Germany,  and  North 
America.  On  March  20th  he  fought  an  action  at  Santa  Rosa,  in  whioh 
the  Costa  Ricans  gained  a  brilliant  victory,  and  Schlessinger  escaped  a 
eourt-martial  for  cowardice  by  flight.  The  Costa  Ricans,  under  the 
command  of  Baron  von  Balow,  advanced  northwards,  destroyed  some 
villages,  and  Walker,  who  had  eoncentrated  his  troops  at  Granada,  ad- 
vanced to  meet  them.  Both  sides  fought  bravely  and  obstinately  at 
Kvas,  on  A{H*il  11^,  and  both  clairoed  the  victory.  Walker  fell  baek 
on  Granada,  but  the  Costa  Ricans,  in  spite  of  their  numerical  superiority, 
had  the  worst  of  it.  They  were  confined  to  the  mainland,  which  offered 
them  constant  obstacles  through  its  tropical  vegetation  and  swamps, 
while  Wslker  could  advantageously  employ  the  steamers  on  Lake  Ni- 
ean^na.  At  the  same  time  cholera  devastated  the  ranks  of  the  Costa 
Sic«ns,  and  they  resolved  to  return  home.  The  result  was,  Umi  the 
odier  Central  American  states  susoended  their  armaments. 

While  the  south  and  west  of  Nicaragua  were  the  scene  of  snch  san^ 
gmnary  events,  important  changes  seemed  preparing  in  the  east.  Ever 
since  die  seventeenth  century  the  English  had  la^  claim  to  a  grant 
portion  of  the  Adantic  coast  known  as  Mosquitia,  and  inhabited  b^  a 
nnserable  andsavage  Indian  tribe.  They  had  dedared  this  Ihtie  cBstriot 
a  kingdom,  and  appointed  a  native  prince  to  reign  over  it  These 
ndns  natimlly  had,  further  than  the  title  and  an  exceptional  red  ceat^ 
no  oliier  prerogative  beyond  a  claim  to  an  unlimited  quantity  of  Jamaiea 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


216  A  REAL  AMERICAN. 

rum,  and,  under  the  influence  of  this  noble  liquid,  they,  with  regal 
liberality,  presented  larg^  tracts  of  land  to  British  subjects.  When  the 
yalue  of  the  harbour  of  San  Juan  del  Norte  began  to  be  discovered,  the 
claims  of  the  Mosquito  kingdom  were  extended  to  this  port,  and  ren- 
dered valid  by  English  men-of-war  in  1848.  The  town  was  thea 
christened  Greytown,  in  honour  of  the  governor  of  Jamaica  at  that 
day.  In  vain  did  the  inhabitants,  after  the  departure  of  the  English, 
remove  the  Mosquito  flag ;  the  Eaglish  returned,  forced  their  way  up 
the  San  Juan  into  Lake  Nicaragua,  and  forced  a  recognition  of  their 
claims  under  the  walls  of  Granada.  The  American  influence,  however, 
soon  surpassed  that  of  the  English  in  these  parts,  and  when  the  Vander- 
bilt  Transport  Company  selected  San  Juan  del  Norte  as  their  Atlantic 
terminus,  the  town  visibly  improved.  But  the  American  governmeat 
sent  a  man-of-war,  in  July,  1864,  which,  under  the  most  frivolous  pre- 
texts, bombarded  and  destroyed  the  defenceless  town. 

Various  attempts  had  been  made  from  time  to  time  to  found  coloniei 
on  the  lauds  given  by  his  Mosquitian  majesty,  but  they  failed.  The 
titles  were  bought,  conditionally,  by  one  Kenny,  in  1852,  and,  relying 
on  these,  this  adventurer  turned  up  at  Greytown  towards  the  end  of 

1854,  hoping  to  follow  Walker's  example.  He  proposed  to  the  latter 
to  recognise  him  as  commander-in-chief  of  the  Nicaraguan  army,  if 
Walker  would  recog^nise  him  as  governor  of  the  Mosquito  territory. 
Walker  gave  the  following  answer  to  the  deliverer  of  the  letter :  **  Tell 
Mr.  Kenny,  or  Colonel  Kenny,  or  Governor  Kenny,  or  whatever  he 
likes  to  call  himself,  that  if  he  interferes  in  the  affairs  of  Nicaragua,  and 
I  g^t  hold  of  him,  I  will  most  assuredly  han^  him."     In  September, 

1855,  Kenny  resispaed  his  governorship  and  appeared  at  Granada, 
where  he  was  not  hung,  however,  as  he  had  friends  whom  Walker  did 
not 'wish  to  offend.  By  a  decree  of  February  8,  1856,  the  Mosquito 
coast,  with  the  port  of  San  Juan  del  Norte,  was  formally  annexed  to 
Nicaragua.  In  April  of  the  same  year,  Walker  was  at  the  height  of  his 
power  and  fortune  :  the  neighbouring  states  had  given  up  their  hostile 
position,  and  by  his  system  of  terrorism  he  had  restored  peace  in  his  owa 
land.  His  army  was  composed  of  powerful  young  men,  well  skilled  in 
the  use  of  the  rifle  and  revolver,  and  no  letters  of  recommendation  or 
testimoniab  were  required  to  join  his  ranks.  These  fellows,  who  had 
probably  been  put  to  flight  by  the  police  of  New  York  and  San  Francisco^ 
Walker  managed  to  make  tame  as  lambs.  Several  of  his  best  officers 
were  Germans. 

Walker,  who  thus  appeared  secure  on  all  sides,  did  not  shrink  from  a 
measure  which  was  not  only  a  crime  but  a  blunder,  which  brought  about 
the  turning-point  in  his  career,  and  was  destined  to  rob  the  Central 
American  States  of  their  prospects  of  civilisation.  In  1850,  when  the 
trade  with  California  assumed  such  gigantic  proportions,  a  company  was 
formed  at  New  York,  under  the  auspices  of  two  capitalists, — Vanderbilt 
and  White — ^for  the  purpose  of  cuttmg  a  canal  through  Nicaragua.  A 
treaty  was  soon  made  with  the  government,  but,  on  inspecting  the  country, 
it  was  found  that  a  canal  would  be  too  expensive,  and  hence  a  transit 
route  was  establbhed,  running  from  Greytown  to  San  Juan  del  Sur,  vid 
ike  San  Juan  river  and  Nicaragua  lake.  The  road  was  opened  in  1852, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  competition  of  the  Panama  route,  large  profit  was 


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A  REAL  AMERICAN.  217 

made.  The  Nicaragua  government  demanded,  for  the  privileges  it  con- 
ceded to  the  accessory  Transit  Company,  ten  thousand  dollars  per  annum, 
and  ten  per  cent,  of  the  gross  receipts.  In  1855  disputes  arose  as  to  the 
accounts :  it  was  agreed  that  the  matter  should  he  referred  to  arbitration, 
when  Walker  suddenly  seized  the  whole  of  the  company's  property,  and 
deprived  it  of  the  concession.  Walker's  government  retained  the  property, 
estimated  to  be  worth  a  million  of  dollars,  while  the  transit  privilege  was 
transferred  to  Edmund  Randolph  and  Co.  This  Randolpn  was  a  San 
Francisco  lawyer,  who  had  backed  Walker  in  his  operations  in  Mexico  and 
Sonora.  He  was  at  the  same  time  agent  to  a  large  banker  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, who  had  advanced  Walker  considerable  sums,  and  now  wished  to 
recoup  himself  by  the  transit  privilege.  It  is  not  surprising  to  find 
that  the  financial  operations  of  Walker's  government  were  not  very 
brilliant :  he  tried  to  help  himself  by  high  taxes  and  customs,  and  the 
confiscation  of  the  property  of  his  opponents. 

It  was  natural  that  Walker,  by  this  blow  against  the  Vanderbilt  Com- 
pany, brought  the  New  York  capitalists  down  upon  him;  and  people 
began  to  see  that  any  community  with  the  filibuster,  as  he  was  now 
called,  was  a  very  hauurdous  speculation.  In  spite  of  these  occurrences 
and  the  righteous  indignation  of  the  New  York  plutocracy,  the  Washing- 
ton cabinet  recognised  the  government  of  Nicaragua  to  a  certain  extent^ 
as  President  Pierce  received  his  envoy.  Father  Aug^stin  Vigil,  a  silly 
and  immoral  priest  At  the  same  time,  however.  Walker  lost  the  sym- 
pathies of  the  Americans,  even  in  the  South,  where  people  had  hitherto 
been  most  enthusiastic  in  his  behalf.  A  Cuban  fugitive,  Goicuria,  whom 
he  wished  to  send  to  England,  had  a  quarrel  with  him,  and  in  his  passion 
publi^ed  his  correspondence  with  Walker  in  the  New  York  papers.  In 
his  letters.  Walker  instructed  the  Cuban  to  explain  to  the  British  govern- 
ment that  he  intended  to  found  a  mighty  Southern  federative  state, 
governed  on  military  principles ;  that  was  the  only  way  to  check  the 
prog^ress  of  America  in  a  south-eastern  direction,  and  he  wished  to  be 
assured  of  the  support  of  the  Western  powers.  These  confidential  com- 
munications, intended  for  England,  in  which,  moreover,  the  Northern 
democrats  were  described  as  dirty,  disgusting  Yankees,  and  a  prospect  of 
a  destruction  of  the  Union  by  uie  help  of  the  very  nation  which  most 
jealously  watched  American  progress  was  hinted  at,  naturaUy  insulted  the 
national  pride  of*  the  Americans.  It  was  only  the  extreme  party,  which 
wai  prepared  to  extend  slavery  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  other  interests,  that 
still  adhered  to  Walker. 

In  the  matter  of  slavery.  Walker  was  certainly  irreproachable — a  demo- 
crat (in  the  North  American  sense)  of  the  purest  water.  In  a  report 
which  he  published  about  his  conduct  in  Nicarama,  he  confesses  that  his 
chief  objects  were  to  get  the  land  out  of  the  hands  of  the  real  owners, 
and  to  introduce  slavery,  ^^  the  noblest  and  most  excellent  form  of  civilisa- 
tion," as  he  calls  it.  With  deep  regret  he  alludes  to  the  fi^t  that  the 
founders  of  the  Union  were  infected  by  the  mania  that  prevailed  in  the 
eighteenth  centuiy,  that  even  Washington  and  Hamilton  had  yielded  to 
a  certain  extent  to  the  influence  of  Rousseau's  absurdities  about  equality 
and  fraternity,  and  that  Jefferson  had  fostered  these  ideas  just  as  if  they 
were  the  fruit  of  reason  and  philosophy.  It  was  only  recently  that  the 
truly  beneficial  and  conservative  institution  of  slavery  lutd  been  recognised 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


218  A  BBAL  AMERICAN. 

in  the  United  States^  and  men  had  liberated  themselTet  &om  the  per- 
nieious  effects  of  Buropean  pvejudiees.  Ofcedient  to  theM  Ceeliogs^  the 
import  of  sUves  into  Nieasagua  wae  decreed  on  September  22,  1856. 

All  thif  while  VanderbiU  wae  at  wodc  in  zaiting  freeh  enemief^  and  it 
was  not  difficult  Walker  had  freqnently  eaycwed  hia  dispet  at  Ae 
Creoles,  and  had  oaee  eempared  Ceatnd  America  to  a  dang^eiqi^  good 
enough  to  fertilise  new  Anglo-American  dements^  Thronghthis  hostile 
potitioQ  to  the  natires,  he  was  foolish  enoo^  to  make  the  contest  a 
national  one,  and  hatred  of  strangers  is  in  the  Spaniard  a  more  powerM 
motive  than  love  of  conntry.  Bven  RiTas  emancipated  himsdf,  marched 
en  Leon  with  six  hundred  men,  and  declared  his  tjrant  an  uaoqier.  Oi 
Jnne  20,  1856,  Walker  i^pointed  hinMclf  presideot;  Salaiar,  who  rnaed 
an  insurrection  against  the  filibuster  government  (which  he  had  prerioiii^ 
supported),  was  captured  and  shot  on  the  Plaaa  of  Granada,  hj  whioh 
Walker  freed  himself  at  onoe  of  a  dangerous  enemj  and  a  tTOublesome 
creditor.  Ere  long  some  four  thousand  Nicanguans  were  up  in  arms 
against  Walkor ;  but  this  was  not  ^  only  danger  that  threatened  him, 
for  the  other  eentnd  republics  combined  to  put  down  the  American 
supremacy  in  Nicaragua,  which  nnist  ere  long  swallow  up  their  na- 
timiality.  The  united  contingenti  of  the  three  northern  repubRcs  of 
Honduras,  Salvador,  and  Qaatemala  amounted  to  about  ^e  thousand 
men,  inclusive  of  the  Nioaraguan  insurgents ;  while  tbeCestalEUcans  ope- 
rated from  the  south  with  two  thousand.  After  some  dulnone  battUi 
Walker  was  driven  back  on  Granada,  but  soon  seeii^  that  he  eenid  net 
hold  it  and  the  transit  route  as  w«11,  he  ordered  Henntngnn  to  destroy 
the  city,  while  himself  marched  to  Virein  Bay.  While  Henningsen 
was  employed  at  his  task,  his  four  hundred  men  were  turreundad  by 
seventeen  buodred  of  the  oiemy,  and  his  eommnnicaitsana  intenepted. 
Bie  lost  two-thtrdt  of  his  troops,  when  fortnnnt^  the  enemy  V  generals 
quarrelled  among  themselves  and  broke  up  tJieir  force.  Walker  est  the 
rest  of  Henningsen's  corps  out,  and  then  fortified  himself  iA  Bkaa.^ 

Walker  still  held  the  tranek  route  by  which  reinforcements  could  rea^ 
him,  and  all  did  not  seem  lost,  tiU  Mtmn.  Webster  and  Speneer  carried 
out  a  very  skiHul  coup  domain,  by  which  tbey  seised  the  three  fostaeom^ 
flMUMiittg  the  Sam  Jutm  and  all  the  steamets.  The  Vaoderi>ili  Company 
had  supplied  Spencer  with  the  means  to  carry  out  thit  bold  stfebe.  Attm 
beginning  of  1867,  two  thousand  %rre  hundred  recmite  were  ready  at  New 
York  and  New  Orleaos  to  go  te  Walktt^s  assistance,  and  tode  that  the 
water  route  must  again  be  opened.  A  corps  under  Seott  operated  for  this 
purpose  from  Greytown,  and  after  fitting  up  an  old  river  steamer,  they 
captured  one  of  the  forts,  but  foiled  in  their  attack  on  the  other  twa  Tlie 
corps  was  erelong  entirely  disbanded ;  the  soldiers  fled  to  Giuytown,  when 
they  went  on  l^rd  two  English  frigates  to  be  conveyed  to  North 
America.  On  March  16,  Wi^Mr  Icraght  a  desperate  action  at  San 
Jorge,  but  was  compelled  to  fall  back  on  Rivai^  which  town  the  allies  tried 
in  vain  to  sUmn.  But  Walker^s  race  was  nearly  mn:  hie  small  army 
daily  m^ted  away  through  desertion,  and  they  wese  reduced  to  two  kaa 
oxen,  two  horses,  and  two  mides,  when  a  saivbur  suddenly  appeared  in 
the  shape  of  Captain  Dara,  United  State*  navy.  He  had  been  scot  by  hia 
government  to  try  and  sarethe  wonted  filibosteim    He  fanned  a  cod- 


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A  BXAL  AM8BICAK.  219 


TOdtioB  wit&  tfa«  alfief,  bj  wkitk  tkt  Am«mot^  two  haMfaned  and  forty 
'm  nombor,  wew  fcineDded  to  1mm,  on  hu  pfoanM  to  eon/my  tbMn  oat  of 
the  oountTy  at  ooee.    Sodi  wtf  tke  ood  of  WaUnr^t  go»<ni—tijt. 

AfewnoDthtpimoailjaB  artitW  Iwd  appeavoi  in  the  Airaraj^PMfMe, 
in  wkidi  Walker's  amy  waa  deokred  to  ke  tuparior  to  any  troopa  in  Aib 
world.  Eye-witiMSfes,  wkote  impartialitj  cannot  bo  doobtad^  did  not  i«- 
oaifa  the  lama  impraMiow.  Tkara  waa  no  trace  of  unifimn;  then  were 
Fnnek  tail«ooati^  tartoQlii  and  sailoia'  roond  jacketi  and  Mooter  all 
eipially  threadbare  and  dirty.  Moat  of  these  heroeti  however,  had  no  OTor- 
aoatiy  bnt  appeared  in  eolonred  shirta  and  tromtt'i»  and  even  colonekr  and 
■119018  were  satisfied  with  this  ceatnoM.  The  head  geaa  displvfed  an 
equal  Tariety  :  some  officers  attached  to  the  staff,  in  blue  tunics  luid  broad- 
hommed  Mi  hata,  with  feathers  and  eookades,  appeared  dandies  bj  the 
nde  of  their  oomrades.  All  the  officers  wore  red  neckerohiefk  This 
army  oertainly  offisred  a  fiiTOurite  contrast  with  the  native  troops  through 
their  weU>kept  &«loda,  and  throogh  wearing  shoesor  boots*  The  offioen 
were  aimed  wi^  a  revolver  in  addition  to  a  sabie.  The  nationaUty  of  the 
troops  varied  as  mnoh  as  their  olodung.  The  largest  contii^enta  were 
jnpplied  by  the  Uinted  States,  Gennany,  and  Inland.  Walker  was 
greatly  attached  to  the  Germans  because  they  wen  tmstwerdiy,  and  not 
00  fond  of  miarrelling  as  the  others.  Many  of  them  wen  men  stanasr 
about  New  York,  wUk  othen  had  been  cheated  br  a  pn^grant  of  km^ 
vnconsckras  of  the  stipnlation  that  they  would  have  to  serve  §ov  six 
Bontha.  The  main  featon  ef  the  army  was  orueltf  and  barbarity: 
prisoners  wen  never  made,  tiie  excuse  being  that  it  was  so  dU&edt  to 
guard  them  in  the  forests.  The  troops  noeived  a  monthly  pay  of  thirty 
doUaosy  which,  owing  to  die  depreciation  of  the  cunreaoy,  did  not  npre- 
aeat  mon  Aan  three  dollars  cash,  a  snm  hardly  sufficient  to  rappiy  these 
thirsty  souls  widi  grog.  Their  food  consisted  of  a  ration  of^meat  and 
atoa^lia:  bread  was  a  Inxory,  fbr  the  impotis  firona  the  United  8tatee 
were  very  irregular.  They  idio  received  tea,  sugar,  pcfper,  nmrtard,  and 
aak.  They  could  obtain  cMhesfrom  the  goyemment  stonsat  oost  price, 
when  then  happei»d  to  be  any,  and  the  offieen  prelSnmd  gettbg  rid  of 
their  paper  money  in  this  way.  As  one^half  tlie  large  houses  had  been 
coofissated  by  government,  ordoMrted  by  their  owners,  the  qnarimrswen 
good.  Hie  sanitary  conditkm  of  the  «rmy  waa  bad,  and  the  MRMrtality 
great.  The  lengmned  raanhes,  camping  at  night  in  ^  e^n  air,  toe 
tropical  rains,  theune(]pial  food,  bad  water,  and  the  immoderate  inddgenee 
in  spiritBy  proved  mon  mjnrions  than  aetnal  fighting.  It  has  been  estimated 
tiiat  dmring  Walker's  nign  seven  thoosand  men  joined  hiae  off  and  on. 

On  readnng  New  (Means,  Walker  was  welooned  by  ten  thouaend 
men,  who  condocted  him  to  ^e  St.  Charles  Hotel.  Thmoe  he  proceeded 
to  New  Yoik,  kut  ihe  arrival  of  Us  ragged  army  drove  him  away.  He 
made  preparations  at  Mobile  lor  a  fresh  expedition,  but  was  arrested  seen 
after,  and  let  out  on  two  thousand  dollan  bail.  He  managed  to  get  away, 
and,  towardatkedose of  1857,landed  at  Punta  Arenas.  Captain  Chalaid, 
of  the  United  States  navy,  ordered  him  to  evacuate  (keytown  agam, 
which  he  had  seised,  and  on  December  6,  Commodon  Spanlding  arrived, 
and  compelled  obedience.  Walker  was  forced  to  yield,  Mid  was  conveyed 
to  New  York,  when  he  arrived  on  December  27.  ConraMxknw  Spading 


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220  A  REAL  AMERICAN. 

did  not  increase  his  popularity  by  his  interference,  nor  did  he  earn  very 
lively  thanks  at  Washington.  Large  meetings  were  held  [in  the  South, 
where  Walker  was  again  regarded  as  the  hero  of  the  day. 

Nicaragua  and  Costa  Rica,  under  these  circumstances,  requested  to 
have  their  neutrality  and  independence  placed  under  the  protection  of 
Great  Britain,  France,  and  Sarainia.  Sir  W.  Gore  Ousely  was  sent  to 
negotiate  the  affair,  and  the  British  cruizers  on  the  West  India  station 
were  ordered  to  treat  Walker  and  his  gang  as  pirates  if  they  attempted 
again  to  land.  In  spite  of  all  this,  Walker  slipped  out  of  Mobile  once 
more,  but  was  arrested  by  the  United  States  marshal  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Mississippi.  The  adventurer  was  tried  once  again,  and  of  course 
acquitted. 

We  have  now  reached  the  catastrophe.  The  indefatigable  filibuster 
was  resolved  to  make  another  attempt,  and  on  June  25,  1860,  landed 
with  his  gang  at  Ruatan,  one  of  the  Bay  Islands.  England  had  raised 
a  claim  to  these  islands,  founded  on  their  occupation  by  some  mahogany 
cutters  from  Belize,  so  far  back  as  1742,  but  the  validity  of  this  claim 
was  disputed  by  the  United  States  government.  These  islands  England 
surrendered,  in  1869,  to  Honduras,  on  condition  that  they  should  not  be 
given  up  to  any  other  power.  On  its  side,  the  Honduras  government 
bound  itself  to  spend  five  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  ten  years  in  im- 
proving the  social  condition  of  the  Mosquito  Indians.  The  inhabitants 
of  Ruatan  proved  themselves  anything  but  satisfied  with  the  result  of  the 
diplomatic  relations  between  England  and  Honduras,  and  resolved  to  be 
independent  Walker,  after  declaring  his  intention  to  unite  the  five 
central  American  states  and  sent  his  agents  to  Nicaragua,  left  Ruatan 
with  about  three  hundred  men,  and  sailed  for  Truxillo,  the  chief  harbour 
of  Honduras.  The  town  was  captured  without  difficulty ;  the  garrison 
contented  themselves  with  firing  one  shot,  which  wounded  three  free- 
booters. After  the  capture  of  the  town,  Walker  issued  a  proclamation, 
in  which  he  declared  tnat  he  was  fighting,  not  against  the  nation,  but 
the  government  of  Honduras.  In  the  mean  while,  an  English  man- 
of-war  had  arrived  at  Truxillo  to  defend  the  interests  of  that  nation, 
while  President  Guardiola  stood  under  the  walls  of  that  town  at  the  head 
of  seven  hundred  men.  Captain  Salmon,  of  the  Icarus,  ordered  Walker 
to  evacuate  Truxillo,  lay  down  his  arms,  leave  the  country,  and  give  back 
the  customs  dues  he  had  seized.  Walker  perceived  that  he  could  no 
longer  hold  his  own  in  Truxillo,  and  hence  started  along  the  coast  with 
eighty  men,  and  was  so  harassed  by  the  enemy  that  they  were  soon  re- 
duced to  five-and-twenty,  and  himself  was  wounded.  Three  of  Walker's 
men,  who  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  natives,  were  at  once  killed :  the  same 
fate  would  also  have  befallen  the  sick  men  left  behind  had  not  the  captain 
of  the  Icartis  threatened  to  punish  any  such  act  with  death,  and 
eventually  took  the  sick  on  board  his  vesseL  A  reward  of  two  thousand 
dollars  was  set  on  Walker's  head,  and  he  and  his  followers  were  speedily 
captured.  Many  of  the  adventurers  were  ill,  and  received  permission  to 
return  to  the  United  States,  after  pledging  their  word  to  take  no  part  in 
any  future  expedition.  Walker  protested  against  the  treatment  he  had 
experienced ;  but,  on  the  other  hand.  Captain  Salmon  declared  that  he 
had  done  everything  to  save  Walker  and  his  comrades.  In  a  letter  of 
August  21,  he  informed  Walker,  at  that  time  holdmg  Truxillo,  that  the 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


CECIL  CASTLEMATKEfS  GAGE.  221 

customs  dues  were  mortgaged  to  the  British  goTerament  for  a  debt,  and 
he  most  consequently  do  aU  in  his  power  to  support  the  Honduras  govern- 
ment In  the  same  letter  he  offered  Walker  the  protection  of  the 
British  BtLg,  if  he  would  lay  down  his  arms,  restore  tne  money  he  had 
seised,  and  leave  the  country.  Walker  formally  accepted  these  conditions 
in  his  letter  of  reply,  but  he  secreUy  \eh  Truullo,  and  tried  to  gain  the 
interior  of  the  country.  Through  tins  he  forfeited  any  further  indulgence, 
and  was  captured  by  the  Icarus,  with  a  detachment  of  Honduras  troops 
on  board,  on  September  13,  and  brought  back  to  Truxillo. 

A  court-martial  condemned  Walker  to  death,  and  the  sentence  was 
carried  out  on  him  and  his  colonel,  of  the  name  of  Rudler,  on  September 
12,  1860.  Walker  died  calmly,  after  begging  pardon  of  all  those  he 
miffht  have  injured  by  his  last  expedition.  His  body  was  decently  buried, 
and  he  was  so  rapidly  forgotten  that  the  Washington  government  did  not 
even  think  it  worth  while  to  protest  against  English  interference. 

We  do  not  think  it  requisite  to  make  any  comment  on  this  plain,  un- 
varnished narrative.  Every  reader  can  deduce  the  moral  from  it,  and  we 
fear  that  many  Walkers  still  exist  in  North  America.  But  Walker  did 
not  possess  even  the  merit  of  originality;  it  is  plain  that  hb  prototype 
was  Aaron  Burr;  and,  though  he  might  still  have  been  governing 
Nicaragua,  his  own  innate  covetousness  and  bloodthirstmess  led  to  his 
overthrow. 


CECIL  CASTLEMAINE'S  GAGE ; 

OB, 

THE    STORT    OF    A    BROIDSBED    SHIELD. 
Bt  Ouida. 

Cecil  Castlsmaine  was  the  beauty  of  her  county,  and  her  line  the 
handsomest  of  all  the  handsome  women  that  had  graced  her  race,  when 
she  moved  a  century  and  a  half  ago  down  the  stately  staircase  and  through 
the  gilded  and  tapestried  halls  of  Lilliesford.  The  Town  had  run  mad  after 
her,  the  Gunnings  themselves,  apr^,  were  not  more  followed  and  adored, 
and  her  face  levelled  politics,  and  was  cited  as  admiringly  by  the  Whigs  at 
St.  James's  as  by  the  Tories  at  the  Cocoa-tree,  by  the  beaux  and  Mohockr 
at  Garraway's  as  by  the  alumni  at  the  Grecian,  by  the  wits  at  Will's  as  by 
the  fops  at  Ozindas.  Wherever  she  went,  whether  to  the  Haymarket  or 
the  Opera,  to  the  'Change  for  a  fan  or  the  palace  for  a  state  ball,  to  Drury 
Lane  to  see  Pastoral  Philips's  dreary  dilution  of  Racine  that  truly  wanted 
lively  Budgell's  Epilogue  to  give  it  life,  or  to  some  fair  chief  of  her 
faction  for  basset  and  ombre,  she  was  suivie  and  surrounded  by  the 
best  men  of  her  time,  and  hated  by  Whig  beauties  with  virulent 
wrath,  for  she  was  a  Tory  to  the  backbone,  indeed  a  Jacobite  at  heart ; 
worshipped  Harley  and  Bolingbroke,  detested  Marlborough  and  Eugene, 

▼OL.  LI.  Q 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


222  CECIL  castlemaihb's  gags  ;  OB, 

b^ved  in  all  tbe  borrort  of  the  pcogrsnyne  BftkL  to  ha?e  beta  plaitod  hj 
the  Whigs  for  the  aimiyenary  shaw  of  171 1,  and  wae  thoo^t  to  haste 
prompted  the  sature  on  thoee  fiur  politiciaiM  who  are  disguised  as 
jBotaiinda  and  NigraimUla  in  the  81st  paper  of  the  j^iedaler. 

Cecil  Castlemaine  was  the  greatest  beauty  of  her  day,  lovelier  still  at 
£oor-aiid-twenty  than  she  had  been  at  serenteen,  unwedded,  tho«^  the 
highest  coronets  in  the  land  had  beea  ofiered  to  her ;  Cn  abevo  the 
eoqnetteries  and  minaaderies  of  her  friends^  &r  above  intta^n  ef  the 
aflPectations  of  Lady  Betty  Modley's  shuttle,  or  need  of  praotiaiag  the  Fan 
exercise;  haughty,  peeness,  radiant^  imwoa — ^naj,  uKMro— natottcbed ; 
fi»  the  finest  gentleman  on  tiie  town  could  not  flatter  himsolf  that  he  had 
ever  stiired  the  slightest  trace  of  interest  in  her,  ner  boast,  as  he  stood  in 
the  inner  cirde  at  the  Choeolate4iouse  (unless,  iadeed,  he  lied  nore  k^ 
pndently  than  Tom  Wharton  himself),  that  he  had  ever  been  hoaowed 
by  a  glance  of  encouzagement  firom  the  Earl's  daughter.    She  was  too 
proud  to  dieapen  bersdf  with  coquetry,  too  £Mtidious  to  care  for  her 
conquests  over  those  who  whispevea  to  her  through  Nieolini's  song,  vied 
to  have  the  privilege  of  carrying  her  fiui,  drove  past  her  windows  in  Sohfr- 
aquare,  crowded  about  her  in  St.  James's  Park,  paid  court  even  to  her  little 
spaniel  Indamara,  and,  to  catch  but  a  glimpse  of  her  broeaded  tnin  aa  it 
swept  a  ball«iroom  floor,  would  leave  even  their  play  at  the  Groom  PortetX 
Mrs.  Oldfield  in  the  ereen-room,  a  night  hunt  with  Mohun  and  their 
brother  Mohocks,  a  circle  of  wits  gathered  ''  within  the  steam  of  the  coffee- 
pot" at  Will's,  a  dmner  at  HaliEEUL's,  a  supper  at  Bolingbroke's, — what- 
ever, according  to  their  several  tastes,  mt^  their  best  entertainment  and 
was  hardest  to  quit.   The  highest  suitors  of  the  day  sought  her  smile  and 
sued  for  her  hand;  men  left  the  Court  and  the  Mall  to  join  the  Flanders 
army  before  the  lines  at  Bouchain  less  for  loyal  love  of  England  than 
hopeless  love  of  Cecil  Castlemidne.     Her  father  vainly  iu*ged  her  not  to 
fling  away  offers  that  all  the  women  at  St.  James's  envied  her.     Cecil 
Castlemame  was  untouched  and  unwon,  and  when  her  friends,  the  court 
beauties,  the  fine  ladies,  the  coquettes  of  quality,  rallied  her  on  her  cold- 
ness  (envying  her  her  conquests),  she  would  snule  her  slight  proud  smile 
and  bow  her  stately  head.     ''  Perhaps  she  was  cold ;  she  might  be ;  they 
were  personnable  men?     Oh  yes !  sne  had  nothing  to  say  against  them. 
His  Grace  of  Belamour  ? — A  pretty  wit,  without  diMibt.  IJord  MillaoMmt  ? 
— Diverting^  but  a  coxcomb.     He  had  beautiful  hands;  it  was  a  pity  he 
was  always  thinking  of  them !     Sir  (xage  Rivers  ? — As  obsequious  a  lovw 
as  the  man  in  the  '  Way  of  the  World,'  but  she  had  heard  he  was  very 
boastful  and  facetious  at  women  over  his  choc<^ate  at  Ozinda's.  The  Earl 
of  Argent  ? — A  gallant  soldier,  surely,  but  whatever  he  might  protest,  no 
mistress  would  ever  rival  with  him  the  dice  at  the  Groom  Portear^s.    Lord 
Philip  Bellairs  ? — A  proper  gentleman ;  no  fault  in  him ;  a  bel  esprit  and 
an  elegant  courtier ;  pleased  many,  no  doubt,  but  he  did  not  please  her 
overmuch.     Perhaps  her  taste  was  too  finical,  or  her  character  too  cold,  as 
they  said.     She  preferred  it  should  be  so.     When  you  were  content  it 
were  folly  to  seek  a  change.   For  her  part,  she  fiuled  to  comprehend  how 
women  could  stoop  to  flutter  their  fans  and  choose  their  ribbon^  and  rack 
their  tirewomen's  brains  for  new  pulvillios,  and  lappets,  and  devices,  and 
practise  their  curtsey  and  recovery  befi>re  their  pier-glass,  for  no  better 
aim  or  stake  than  to  draw  thegUnce  and  win  the  praise  of  men  iat  whom 


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THE  STOBT  OF  A  BSOIDSKBD  SBJELD.  S23 


ikej  cared  moAiag,  A  wooma  wk>  had  Aa  do^twnea  of  bcant j  and  a 
tnia  pride  ahoeUl  he  abeipe  heed  &r  tveh  afleetadioiie,  pltiaoure  to  sadi 
i^laoM !"  So  ahe  would  p«i  then  all  aiida  aad  torn  we  tahlea  on  her 
fidendS)  aod  go  obl  her  enm  waj^  pvoad,  peerleas,  Cecil  CailleBHdiie^  eett- 
qmtimg  aad  imeon^Mrcd ;  aad  Ste^  mact  hay^  had  her  aame  in  hk 
thoagfata^  aad  honowred  il  heartilT  aad  soMereftj^  when  he  wrote  one 
Tiiesday»on  the  21tt  of  Oetoher,  nniev  the  domiao  of  hie  Chveh  Coqnett% 
^<  I  say  I  do  honovi  to  thoae  who  cem  be  cBqmeUes  emd  are  nei  erncA^  hnt 
I  detpiae  all  who  wonld  be  aoy  and,  in  despair  of  anriving  at  it  themselrei^ 
hate  and  nhfy  aU  dttie  who  earn."  A  definitioB  jvwy  drawn  hy  hii 
keen,  quick  gmrei^  and  though  dovbtleee  it  oafy  oKated  A»  ire  o^  and 
was  entireW  loat  npen^  thoae  who  read  the  paper  oyer  Aeir  dSah  of  bohe% 
or  over  their  toflete^  while  they  shtfted  a  pateh  for  an  honr  befiwe  tiier 
coald  determine  it^  or  r^retted  the  loss  of  ten  gaiaeaa  at  cnrnp^  la  worth 
the  study  of  their  &ir  dMcendants,  who,  if  diey  hare  altered  ne'tr  modea, 
have  retained,  it  maet  be  eoaSMeed,  not  a  few  of  their  foibles ! — and  how- 
enrer  iboy  haive  danged  the  style  of  coiflPinrcs,  plan  mudi  the  same  eana- 
paigaa  in  the  brains  that  palpitate  beneath,  with  as  mnch  yanity  and 
anxiety  ^aoia  under  a  wreatn  of  stephanotis  of  dw  first  £Mhton  firom  ti» 
Pidais-Royaly  as  tkem  under  a  philoBiot-coloaied  hood  of  tha  first  fashsen 
firem  King-street,  Corent-gaiden,  for  modes  and  maatua-mahttrs  change^ 
hot  liNaale  nature^— never ! 

Cecil  Castlemaine  yras  the  beauty  of  the  Town  when  she  sat  at  Drary 
Lane  on  the  Toiy  nde  of  the  honae;  the  deToatest  admirer  of  (Mdfield 
or  Mrs.  Port«r  seareely  heard  a  yvord  of  the  Heroic  Dam^ier  or  ^ 
.^iMOfOiit  ^Hi^cNff,  and  ^"^  beau  fullest  of  his  own  dear  self  "forgot  his 
ailyffl^firinged  glores,  his  medallion  sanff-boz^  hia  knotted  cravat,  his 
doudedcane,  the  slaaghter  that  he  plani^to  do,  from  ga&ngather  where 
ahe  aai,  dignified  aad  proad  as  though  she  were  reigning  sovereign  at  St 
James's,  the  Caademaine  diamonds  flashing  crescent-like  above  her  brow. 
At  chureh  and  eourt,  at  pads  and  assembly,  tiioe  vrere  none  who  coidd 
odipso  haugh^  Cecil  Castlemaine ;  therefore  her  fond  women  firiend^  who 
had  eareased  bar  so  warmly  and  so  gracefoUy,  aad  pulled  her  to  pieces 
behind  her  back,  if  they  comd,  so  eagerly  over  their  dainty  cups  of  tea 
in  an  aftornoon  visit,  were  glad,  one  and  all,  whoi  on  ^  Bamaby-bright^" 
Anglice^  the  22nd  (then  the  1 1th)  of  Jun^  the  great  Castlenudne  chariot, 
with  its  duee  hevons  Uaioned  on  its  coroneted  panels,  its  laced  fiveries 
aad  gilded  harness,  rolled  over  the  heavy  iU-made  roads  down  into  the 
country  in  almost  princely  pomp,  the  peasants  pouring  out  firom  the  way* 
side  cottages  to  stare  at  my  lonl's  coaidi.  It  was  said  in  the  town  tMit 
a  portly  divine,  who  wore  his  scarf  as  one  of  the  chaplains  to  the  Earl  of 
Castlemaine,  had  prattled  somewhat  indiscreetly  at  Child's  of  his  patron's 
politics ;  that  certain  cypher  letters  had  passed  the  Channel  ^idosed  in 
dioeoli^-eakea  as  soon  as  French  goods  were  again  imported  after  the 
peace  of  Utrecht;  that  gentlemen  in  high  places  were  strongly  suspected 
of  misdiievous  designs  against  the  tranquillity  of  ^  country  and  govern- 
ment; that  the  Eari  had,  among  others,  received  a  friendly  hint  from  a 
relative  in  power  to  absttit  hiuttelf  fcnr  a  while  from  the  court  where  he 
was  not  best  trusted,  and  the  town  where  an  incautious  word  might  be 
pidced  up  and  lead  to  Tower-hiU,  and  amuse  himself  en  retraite,  at  his 
goedty  oaatle  of  liUierfard,  where  the  red  deer  would  not  spy  upon  him, 

q2 

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224  CECIL  CASTLEMAINE'S  GAGE  ;  OB, 

and  the  dark  beech- woods  would  tell  no  tales.  And  the  ladies  of  qaality, 
her  dear  friends  and  sisters,  were  glad  when  they  heard  it  as  they  punted 
at  basset  and  fluttered  their  fans  complacently.  They  would  have  the 
field  for  themselves,  for  a  season,  while  Cecil  Castlemaine  was  immured  in 
her  manor  of  Lilliesford,  would  be  free  of  her  beauty  to  eclipse  them  at  the 
next  birthday,  be  quit  of  their  most  dreaded  rival,  their  most  omnipotent 
leader  of  fashion,  and  they  rejoiced  at  the  whisper  of  the  cypher  letter, 
the  damaging  gossipry  of  the  Whig  coffee-houses,  the  mal  odeur  into 
which  my  Lord  Earl  had  grown  at  St  James's,  at  the  misfortune  of  their 
friend, — in  a  word,  as  human  nature,  masculine  or  feminine,  will  ever  do- 
to  its  shame  be  it  spoken — unless  the  fome$  peccati  be  more  completely 
wrung  out  of  it  than  I  fear  me  it  ever  has  been  since  the  angel  Gabriel 
performed  that  work  of  purification  on  the  infant  Mahomet. 

It  was  the  June  of  the  year  '16,  and  the  coming  disaffection  was 
seething  and  boiling  secretly  among  the  Tories,  the  impeachment  of 
Ormond  and  Bolingbroke  had  strengthened  the  distaste  to  the  new-come 
Hanoverian  pack,  their  attainder  had  been  the  blast  of  air  needed  to 
excite  the  smouldering  wood  to  flame,  the  gentlemen  of  that  party  in  the 
South  began  to  grow  impatient  of  the  intrusion  of  the  distant  German 
branch,  to  think  lovingly  of  the  old  legitimate  line,  and  to  feel  something 
of  the  chafing  irritation  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  North,  who  were  fretting 
like  staghounds  held  in  leash.  Envoys  passed  to  and  fro  between  St. 
Germain,  and  Jacobite  nobles,  priests  of  the  Church  that  had  £Ulen  oat 
of  favour  and  was  typified  as  the  Scarlet  Woman  by  a  rival  who,  though 
successful,  was  still  bitter;  plotted  with  ecclesiastical  verve  and  relish  in 
the  task;  letters  were  conveyed  in  rolls  of  innocent  lace,  plans  were  for- 
warded in  frosted  confections,  messages  were  passed  in  invisible  cypher 
that  defied  investigation.  The  times  were  dangerous ;  full  of  plot  and 
counterplot,  of  risk  and  danger,  of  fomenting  projects  and  hidden  dis- 
affection— times  in  which  men,  living  habitually  over  mines,  learned  to 
like  the  uncertainty,  and  to  think  life  flavourless  without  the  chance  of 
losing  it  any  hour ;  and  things  being  in  this  state,  the  Earl  of  Castle- 
maine deemed  it  prudent  to  take  the  counsel  of  his  friend  in  power,  and 
retire  from  London  for  a  while,  perhaps  for  the  safety  of  his  own  person, 
perhaps  for  the  advancement  of  his  cause,  either  of  which  were  easier 
ensured  at  his  seat  in  the  western  counties  than  amidst  the  Whigs  of  the 
capital.  The  Castle  of  Lilliesford  is  bowered  in  the  thick  woods  of  the 
western  counties,  a  giant  pile  built  by  Norman  masons.  Troops  of  deer 
herded  under  the  gold-green  beechen-boughs,  the  sunlight  glistened 
through  the  aisles  of  the  trees,  and  quivered  down  on  to  the  thick  moss, 
and  ferns,  and  tangled  grass  that  grew  under  the  park  woodlands  ;  the 
water-lilies  clustered  on  the  river,  and  the  swans  ^'  floated  double,  swan 
and  shadow,"  under  the  leaves  that  swept  into  the  water;  then,  when 
Cecil  Castlemaine  came  down  to  share  her  father's  retirement,  as  now, 
when  her  name  and  tides  on  the  gold  plate  of  a  coffin  that  lies  witii 
others  of  her  race  in  the  mausoleum  across  the  park,  where  winter  snows 
and  summer  sun-rays  are  alike  to  those  who  sleep  within  ;  is  all  that  tells 
at  Lilliesford  of  the  loveliest  woman  of  her  time  who  once  reigned  here  as 
mistress. 

The  country  was  in  its  glad  green  midsummer  beauty,  and  the  musk- 
rosebuds  bloomed  in  profuse  luxuriance  over  the  chill  marble  of  the 


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THE  STOBT  OF  A  BBOIDEBED  SHIELD.         225 

terraces,  and  scattered  their  delicate  odorous  petals  in  fragrant  showers  on 
the  sward  of  the  lawns,  when  Cecil  Castlemaine  came  down  to  what  she 
termed  her  exile.  The  morning  was  fair  and  cloudless,  its  sunheams 
pier<nng  through  the  darkest  glades  in  the  woodlands,  the  thickest  shroud 
of  the  ivy,  the  deepest-hued  pane  of  the  mullioned  windows ;  as  she 
passed  down  the  great  staircase  where  lords  and  gentlewomen  of  her 
race  gaaed  on  her  ftt>m  the  canvas  of  Lely  and  Jamesone,  Bourdain  and 
Vandyke,  crossed  the  hall  with  her  dainty  step,  so  stately  yet  so  light, 
and  standing  by  the  window  of  her  own  bower*room  was  lured  out  on 
to  the  terrace  o?erlooking  the  west  side  of  the  park.  She  made  such  a 
picture  as  Vandyke  would  have  liked  to  paint,  with  her  golden  dow  upon 
tier,  and  the  mask-roses  clustering  about  her  round  the  pilasters  of 
marble— the  white  diill  marble  to  which  Belamour  and  many  other 
of  her  lovers  of  the  court  and  town  had  often  likened  her ;  he  would 
have  lingered  lovingly  on  the  white  hand  that  rested  on  her  staghound's 
head,  would  have  caught  her  air  of  oourt-Hke  grace  and  dignity,  would 
have  painted  with  delighted  fidelity  her  deep  azure  eyes,  her  white 
proud  brow,  her  delicate  lips,  arched  haughtily  like  a  Cupid's  bow,  would 
have  picked  out  every  fold  of  her  sweeping  train,  every  play  of  light  on 
her  silken  skirts,  every  diunty  tracery  of  her  point-lace ;  yet  even  painted 
by  Sir  Anthony,  that  perfect  master  of  art  and  of  elegance,  though  more 
finished  it  could  have  hardly  been  more  faithful,  more  instinct  wiUi  grace, 
and  life,  and  dignity,  than  a  sketch  drawn  of  her  shortly  afbr  that  time 
by  one  who  loved  her  weU,  which  is  still  hanging  in  the  gallery  at 
Lilliesford,  lighted  up  by  the  afternoon  sun  when  it  streams  in  through 
the  western  windows. 

Cecil  Castlemaine  stood  on  the  terrace  looking  over  the  lawns  and 
gardens  through  the  opening  vistas  of  meeting  boughs  and  interlaced 
leaTCS  to  the  woods  and  hills  beyond,  fused  in  a  soft  mist  of  men 
and  purple,  with  her  hand  lying  carelessly  on  her  hound's  broad  head. 
She  was  a  zealous  Tory,  a  skilled  politician,  and  her  thoughts  were 
busy  with  the  hopes  and  fears,  the  chances  for  and  against,  of  a  cause 
that  lay  near  her  heart,  but  whose  plans  were  yet  immature,  whose 
first  coup  was  yet  tinstruck,  and  whose  well-wishers  were  sanguine  of  a 
success  they  mul  not  yet  hazarded,  though  they  hardly  ventured  to 
whisper  to  each  other  their  previous  designs  and  desires.  Her  thoughts 
were  far  away,  and  she  hardly  heeded  the  beauty  round  her,  musing  on 
schemes  and  projects  dear  to  her  party,  that  would  impenl  the  Castle- 
maine coronet,  but  would  serve  tne  only  royal  house  the  Castlemaine 
line  had  ever  in  their  hearts  acknowledged.  She  had  regretted  leaving 
the  Town,  moreover;  a  leader  of  the  mode,  a  wit,  a  woman  of  the  world, 
she  missed  her  accustomed  sphere;  she  was  no  pastoral  Phyllis,  no 
country-bom  Mistress  Fiddy,  to  pass  her  time  in  provincial  pleasures,  in 
making  cordial  waters,  in  tending  her  bean-pots,  in  preserving  her  fallen 
rose-leaves,  in  inspecting  the  confections  in  the  still-room;  as  little  was 
she  able,  like  many  fine  ladies  when  in  similar  exile,  to  while  it  away  by 
scolding  her  tirewomen,  and  sorting  a  suit  of  ribbons,  in  ordering  a  set 
of  gilded  leather  hangings  from  Chelsea  for  the  state  chambers,  and 
yawning  over  chocolate  in  her  bed  till  mid-day.  She  regretted  leaving 
the  Town,  not  for  Belamour,  nor  Argent,  nor  any  of  those  who  vwnly 
hoped,  as  they  glanced  at  the  little  mirror  in  the  lids  of  their  snufT-boxes 


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im  cbcilcastlemaine'sgage;  or, 

HuA  Aej  Bosglit  have  grmn  tlMmelfat,  mn  it  efor  so  fiuady,  ia  ber 
dkoughlfl;  bmi  Ibr  the  wits,  ikt  pleasitves,  ^  cheioe  diaue,  the  aoeas- 
tomed  circle  to  which  she  was  so  used,  the  eovrAy,  hrilltant  towft4ife 
where  she  was  wont  to  reiga.  So  Ae  stood  on  the  terrace  the  first 
momiog  of  her  exile,  her  thoughts  far  awa j,  with  the  loyal  geatJeraen  of 
the  Nordi,  and  the  hamsbed  court  at  St.  Grsrmaio,  the  Kds  droo^ng 
pnmdly  over  her  haughty  aztive  eyes,  and  her  lips  half  parted  widi  a  ftdnt 
smile  of  triumi^  ia  the  visiotis  limned  by  amhition  and  imaginatioOy 
while  the  wind  softly  stirred  the  neh  lace  of  her  bodice,  and  her  white 
hand  ky,  lightly  yet  firmly,  on  the  head  of  her  staghoond  She  looked 
op  at  last  as  she  heard  the  ring  of  a  horse's  hooft,  and  saw  a  sorrel^ 
ooverad  with  dost  and  foam,  spomd  vp  the  aTonne,  which,  rounding  past 
the  terrace,  swept  on  to  the  front  entrance  ;  the  sorrel  looked  well-nigli 
spent,  and  his  rider  somewhat  worn  and  languid,  as  a  aian  might  do  with 
justice  who  had  been  in  boot  and  saddle  twenty-fimr  hours  at  the  stretd^ 
scarce  stopping  for  a  stoup  of  wine;  but  he  lifted  his  hat,  and  bowed 
down  to  his  ss^e-bow  as  he  passed  her.  ^  Was  it  the  loag^looked-fiir 
messenger  with  definite  news  from  St.  Germain  ?"  wondered  Lady  Cedl, 
as  her  hound  gave  out  a  deep-toagued  bay  of  anger  at  the  stranger. 
She  went  back  into  her  bower*room,  and  toyed  absently  with  her  flowered 
handker^e^  broidefiag  a  stalk  to  a  yiolet-leaf,  au  wondering  what 
additional  hope  -Ae  horseman  m^t  hare  brousht  to  strengthen  the 
good  Cause,  till  her  [serrants  brought  word  that  Ins  Lordsiup  prayed  the 
pleasure  of  her  presence  in  the  octagon-room.  Wherein  she  rose,  and 
swept  through  the  long  corridors,  entered  the  octagon-room,  the  sun- 
beams gathering  about  her  rich  dress  as  they  passed  through  the  stained 
glass  orMs,  and  saluted  the  new  comer,  when  her  father  presented  him 
to  her  as  their  trusty  and  welcome  friend  and  envoy.  Sir  Fvlke  Ravens* 
worth,  with  her  careless  dignity  aad  queenly  grace,  that  namdess  aor 
wlndi  was  too  highly  bred  to  be  condescension,  bat  niaikediy  and  proudly 
repelled  familiarity,  and  signed  a  pale  of  dtstanee  beyond  whien  none 
most  intrude. 

The  new  comer  was  a  tall  and  handsonra  man,  of  nolle  presenee^ 
bronzed  by  foreign  stms,  pale  and  jaded  just  now  with  hard  riding,  while 
his  dai4c  olver-laced  suit  was  splashed  and  covered  with  dust ;  but  as  ha 
bowed  low  to  her,  erUical  Cecil  Castlemaine  saw  that  not  Bdamour  htaa- 
sdf  could  have  better  grace,  not  my  Lord  MUlamoot  eouither  mien  nor 
whiter  hands,  and  listened  with  gracious  air  to  what  her  father  unfolded 
to  her  of  his  mission  from  St.  Glermain,  whither  he  had  coaae,  at  gresft 
personal  ride,  in  many  disguises,  tmd  at  breathless  speed,  to  place  in  their 
hands  a  precious  letter  in  cypher  from  James  Stuart  to  hu  well-beloved 
and  loyal  subject  Herbert  George  Earl  of  Castlemaine — a  letter  spoken 
of  with  closed  doors  and  ia  low  whiq>ers,  lojral  as  was  the  household, 
supreme  as  the  Eari  ruled  over  his  domains  of  Lillicsferd,  for  these  were 
times  when  men  mistrusted  those  of  their  own  blood,  and  when  the  very 
figures  on  the  tapestry  seemed  instinct  with  fife  to  spy  and  to  betray- 
when  they  almost  feared  the  silk  that  tied  a  mbsive  shouM  babble  of  its 
contents,  and  the  hound  that  slept  beside  them  should  read  and  tell  ikm 
thoughts.  To  leave  Lilliesfbrd  would  be  danger  to  the  Envoy  and  danger 
to  the  Cause ;  to  stay  as  guest  was  to  disarm  suspicion.  The  messenger 
who  had  brought  such  priceless  news  must  rest  within  the  iMter  of  his 


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THE  STOST  OF  A  BBOIDBSED  SHIELD.  227 

iMif ;  too  ■meh  were  risked  by  retmrmng  to  the  French  coeet  yet  awhile^ 
or  «▼«!  by  jomuig  Mar  or  Derweniwater,  so  the  Earl  enforced  his  wffl 
vpoB  the  Ennroj,  wad  the  Enyoj  thaaked  Um,  and  aoeepted.  Perehanoe 
the  beauty,  wImmo  eyes  he  had  seen  lighten  and  proud  Intow  flush  as  she 
lead  the  royal  g^reeting  and  iojunctioD,  made  a  sojourn  near  her  presence 
aoi  distasteful ;  perdiaoee  he  cared  little  where  he  stayed  till  the  dawninr 
time  of  action  and  of  rising  should  anire,  when  he  mould  take  the  field 
jnd  fight  till  life  or  dmUh  for  the  ''  White  Rose  and  the  kmg  heads  of 
hair."  He  was  a  soldier  of  fortune,  a  poor  gentkaaaa  with  no  patrimony 
but  his  name,  no  chance  of  distineti<m  save  by  his  sword;  sworn  to  a 
cause  whose  star  was  set  for  ever ;  for  many  years  his  life  had  been  of 
changing  adventure  and  siufting  dianoes,  now  fighting  with  Berwick  at 
▲bnium,  now  risking  his  life  in  some  delicate  and  dangerous  errand  for 
James  Stuart  that  could  not  hare  been  trusted  so  well  to  any  other  ofSeer 
about  St.  Germain;  gallant  to  rashness,  yet  with  much  of  die  acumen 
of  the  diplomatist,  he  was  invaluable  to  Us  Court  and  Cause;  but,  Stuart- 
ike,  men-Hke,  they  hastened  to  employ,  but  ever  forgot  to  reward  I 

Lady  Cecil,  as  we  have  seen,  missed  her  town-life,  and  did  not  over- 
£svuur  her  exile  in  the  western  counties.     To  note  down  on  her  Mather^i 
tablets  the  drowsy  hoBulies  droned  out  by  the  ohi^lain  on  a  Sabbath 
Boeu,  to  play  at  crambo,  to  talk  with  her  tirewomen  of  new  washes  for 
the  skin,  to  pass  her  hours  away  in  knotting  ? — she,  whom  Steele  might 
have  wiit  when  he  drew  his  character  of  Eudaada,  oould  while  her  eule 
with  none  of  these  inanities;  neither  could  she  consort  with  gentry  itbo 
BBeased  to  her  little  better  than  the  boors  of  a  country  wake,  who  had 
Mver  heard  of  Mr.  Spectator  and  knew  nothing  of  Mr.  Cowley,  country* 
women  whose  ambition  was  in  their  cowslip-wines,  fox-hunters  move 
imerant  and  uncouth  than  the  dumb  brutes  they  followed.     Who  was 
tnere  for  miles  around  with  whom  she  could  stoop  to  associate,  with  whom 
she  cared  to  exchange  a  word  P     Madam  from  tne  vicarage,  in  her  gror- 
i«m,  learned  in  syrups,  salves,  and  possets  P     Country  I^y  Bountiful 
with  gossip  of  tlie  village  and  die  poultry-yard  ?     Provincsal  peeresses^ 
who  had  never  been  to  London  since  Queen  Anne's  coronation?    A 
f^oirearchy,  who  knew  of  no  music  save  the  coneert  of  their  stop-hounds^ 
ae  oo«rt  save  the  court  of  the  ooimty  assise,  no  literature  unless  bj 
Miracle  ^twere  Tarleton's  Jests?    None  such  as  these  could  cross  the 
inlaid  oak  parquet  of  Lilliesford,  and  be  ushered  into  the  presence  of  Cecil 
Castlemanie.      So  die  presence  of  the  Chevalier's  messenger  was  not 
ahegethcr  unwekxme  and  distasteful  to  her.     She  saw  him  but  littlo. 
Merely  ooaveniag  at  table  with  him  with  that  dbtant  and  dignified 
eouitesy  which  marked  her  out  from  the  light,  free,  inconsequent  manners 
in  vogue  with  other  women  of  quality  of  her  time,  u^iich  had  chilled  half 
the  aofteet  things  even  on  Belaaciour's  lips,  and  kept  the  vainest  coxcomb 
hesitating  and  abashed.     But  by  degrees  she  observed  that  the  Envor 
was  a  man  who  had  lived  in  many  countries  and  in  many  courts,  was  w^ 
icrsed  in  the  tongues  of  France  and  Italy  and  Spain — in  their  belles 
lottres  too,  moreover — and  had  served  his  apprenticeship  to  good  company 
in  the  salons  of  Versailles,  in  the  audience-room  of  the  Vatican,  at  the 
rsoeptioas  of  the  Duchesse  du  Maine,  and  with  the  banished  fanuly  at  St. 
Gmoaao.     fie  spoke  widi  a  high  and  sa^oine  spirit  of  the  troublous 
times  i^roachiog  and  die  beloved  Cause  whose  crisis  was  at  hand,  which 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


228  CECIL  castlemaine's  gage  ;  OR, 

chimed  in  vrhh  her  humour  hetter  than  the  flippancies  of  fielamour,  the 
airy  nothings  of  Siillamont.  He  was  but  a  soldier  of  fortune,  a  poor 
gentleman  who,  named  to  her  in  the  town,  would  have  had  never  a  word 
from  stately  Cecil  Castlemaine,  and  would  have  been  unnoted  amidst 
the  crowding  beaux  who  clustered  round  to  hold  her  fan  and  hear  how 
she  had  been  pleasured  with  the  drolleries  of  Grief  a  la  mode;  but  down 
in  the  western  counties  she  deigned  to  listen  to  the  Prince's  ofiBoer,  to 
smile— a  smile  beautiful  when  it  came  on  her  proud  lips,  as  the  play  of 
lifi^ht  on  the  opals  of  her  jewelled  stomacher-— nay,  even  to  be  amused 
when  he  spoke  of  the  women  of  foreign  courts,  to  be  interested  when  he 
told,  which  was  but  reluctantly,  of  his  own  perils,  escapes,  and  adven- 
tures, to  discourse  with  him,  riding  home  under  the  beech  avenues  from 
hawking,  or  standing  on  the  western  terrace  at  curfew  to  watch  the  sun- 
set, of  many  things  on  which  the  nobles  of  the  Mall  and  the  gentlemeu 
about  St  James's  had  never  been  allowed  to  share  her  opinions.  For 
Lady  Cecil  was  deeply  read  (unusually  deeply  for  her  day,  since  fine 
ladies  of  her  rank  and  fashion  mostly  contented  themselves  with  skimming 
a  romance  of  Scuderi's,  or  an  act  oi  Aurungzebe) ;  but  she  rarely  spoke  of 
those  things,  save  perchance  now  and  then  to  Mr.  Addison,  who,  though 
a  Whig,  was  certainly  an  elegant  scholar ;  to  little  Mr.  Pope,  who  bated 
hb  bitterness  with  her  ;  or  to  Henry  St  John,  the  brilliant,  the  dazzling^ 
the  matchless,  at  once  the  Catullus  and  the  Demosthenes,  the  Aloibiades 
and  the  Plato,  the  Horace  and  the  Mecnnas  of  England,  to  whom  Eng- 
land, characteristically  grateful  and  appreciative,  gave— impeachment  and 
attainder !  Fulke  Ravensworth  never  flattered  her,  moreover,  and  flattery 
was  a  honeyed  confection  of  which  she  had  long  been  cloyed ;  he  even 
praised  boldly  before  her  other  women  of  beauty  and  grace  whom  he  bad 
seen  at  Versailles,  at  Sceaux,  and  at  St.  Germain;  neither  did  he  defer  to 
her  perpetually,  but  where  he  difl*ered  would  combat  her  sentiments 
courteously  but  firmly.  Though  a  soldier  and  a  man  of  action,  he  had 
an  admirable  skill  at  the  limner's  art— could  read  to  her  the  Divina 
Commedia,  or  the  comedies  of  Lope  da'  Vega,  and  transfer  crabbed  Latin 
and  abstruse  Greek  into  elegant  English  for  her  pleasure;  thou&^h  a  beg- 
gared gentleman  of  most  precanous  fortunes,  he  would  speak  of  life  and 
its  chances,  of  the  Cause  and  its  perils,  with  a  gallant,  high-souled,  san- 
guine daring,  which  she  found  preferable  to  the  lisped  languor  of  the 
men  of  the  town,  who  had  no  better  campaigns  than  laying  siege  to  a 
prude,  cared  for  no  other  weapons  than  tlieir  toilettes  and  snuff-boxes^ 
and  sought  no  other  excitement  than  a  coup  d'^lat  with  the  lion-tumblers. 
On  the  whole,  through  these  long  midsummer  days,  Lady  Cecil  found 
the  Envoy  from  St.  Germain  a  companion  that  did  not  suit  her  ill, 
sought  less  the  solitude  of  her  bower-room,  and  listened  graciously  to 
him  in  the  long  twilight  hours,  while  the  evening  dews  gathered  in  the 
cups  of  the  musk-roses,  and  the  star-rays  began  to  quiver  on  the  water- 
lilies  floating  on  the  river  below,  that  murmured  along,  with  endless 
song,  under  the  beechen-boughs.  A  certain  softness  stole  over  her,  re- 
laxing the  cold  hauteur  of  which  fielamour  had  so  often  complained, 
giving  a  nameless  charm,  supplying  a  nameless  something,  lacking  be- 
fore, in  the  beauty  of  Cecil  Castlemaine.  She  would  stroke,  half  sadly, 
the  smooth  feathers  of  her  tartaret  falcon  Gabrielle  when  Fulke  Ravens- 
worth  brought  her  the  bird  from  the  ostreger's  wrist,  with  its  azure 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  STOBT  OF  A  BROIDEBED  SHIELD. 

relvet  bood,  and  silver  bells  and  jesses.  She  would  wonder,  as  she 
glanced  through  Comeille  or  Congreye,  Philips  or  Petrarcai  what  it 
was  this  passion  of  love  of  which  they  all  treated,  on  which  they  all 
tamed,  no  matter  how  different  Aeir  strain  ;  and  now  and  then  would 
come  over  her  cheek  and  brow  a  faint  fitful  wavering  flush,  delicate 
and  changing  as  the  flush  from  the  rose-hued  reflexions  of  western 
clouds  on  a  statue  of  Pharos  marble,  and  then  she  would  start  and  rouse 
herself,  and  wonder  what  she  ailed,  and  grow  once  more  haughty, 
calm,  stately  Cecil  Castlemaine,  daizling,  but  chill  as  the  Castlemaine 
diamonds  tnat  she  wore.  So  the  summer-time  passed,  and  the  autumn 
came,  the  corn-lands  brown  with  harvest,  the  haiel-copses  strewn  with 
fallen  nuts,  the  beech-leaves  turning  into  reddened  gold.  As  the  wheat 
ripened  but  to  meet  the  sickle,  as  the  nuts  grew  but  to  fall,  as  the  leaves 
turned  to  g^ld  but  to  wither,  so  the  sanguine  hopes,  the  fond  ambitions 
of  men,  strengthened  and  matured  only  to  fade  into  dbappointment  and 
destruction  !  Four  months  had  sped  by  smce  the  Prince's  messenger  had 
come  to  Lilliesford — months  that  had  gone  swiftly  with  him  as  some 
sweet  delicious  dream ;  and  the  time  had  ceme  when  he  had  orders  to 
ride  north,  secretly  and  swiftly,  speak  with  Mr.  Forster  and  other  een« 
Uemen  concerned  in  the  meditated  rising,  and  convey  despatches  and  in- 
structions to  the  Elarl  of  Mar,  for  Prince  James  was  projecting  soon  to 
join  his  loyal  adherents  in  Scotland,  and  the  critical  moment  was  dose 
at  hand,  the  moment  when,  to  Fulke  Ravensworth's  high  and  sanguine 
courage,  victory  seemed  certain ;  failure — if  no  treachery  marred,  no  dis- 
sension weakened — impossible  ;  to  which  he  looked  for  honour,  success, 
distinction,  that  should  g^ve  him  claim  and  title  to  aspire— trAere  ? 
Strong  man,  cool  soldier  though  he  was,  he  shrank  firom  drawine  his 
fiemcieia  future  out  from  the  golden  base  of  immature  hope,  lest  he  should 
see  it  with^  upon  closer  sight.  He  was  but  a  landless  soldier,  with 
nothing  but  his  sword  and  his  honour,  and  kings  be  knew  were  slow  to 
pay  back  benefits,  or  recollect  the  hands  that  hewed  them  free  passage 
to  their  thrones. 

Cecil  Casdemiune  stood  within  the  window  of  her  bower-room,  the  red 
light  of  the  October  sun  glittering  on  her  gold-broidered  skirt  and  her 
corsage  sewn  with  pearls  and  emeralds;  her  long  white  hand  was  pressed 
lightly  on  her  bosom,  as  though  some  pain  were  throbbing  there ;  it  vras 
new  Uiis  unrest,  this  weariness,  this  vague  weight  that  hung  upon  her ; 
it  was  the  perils  of  their  Cause,  she  told  herself ;  the  risks  her  father  ran : 
it  was  weak,  childish,  unworthy  a  Castlemaine !  Still  the  pain  throbbed 
there.  Her  hound,  asleep  beside  her,  raised  his  head  witn  a  low  growl 
as  a  step  intruded  on  the  sanctity  of  the  bower-room,  then  composed  him- 
self again  to  slumber,  satisfied  it  was  no  foe.  His  mistress  turned  slowly ; 
she  Imew  the  horses  waited ;  she  had  shunned  this  ceremony  of  farewell, 
and  never  thought  he  would  be  bold  enough  to  venture  here,  where  none 
came — not  even  the  Earl — without  permission  sought  and  gained. 

''Lady  Cecil,  I  could  not  go  upon  my  way  without  one  word  of 
parting.     Pardon  me  if  I  have  been  too  rasn  to  seek  it  here." 

Why  was  it  that  his  brief  frank  words  ever  pleased  her  better  than 
Belamour's  most  honeyed  phrases,  Millamont's  suavest  periods  ?  Lady 
Cecil  scarcely  could  have  told,  save  that  there  were  in  them  an  earnest- 
ness and  trutii  new  and  rare  to  her  ear  and  to  her  heart 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


290  CBCiL  castlemaike's  gage  ;  OK, 

She  pressed  her  hmnd  doser  on  die  <^>al8 — the  pierref  de  milhear — 
flikdfimled: 

*^  Assare^  I  wish  yoa  God  speed.  Sir  Folke,  and  stie  ksiie  &om 
aU  perils."  ^ 

He  bowed  low;  then  raised  himself  to  fats  fbUest  height,  Mid  stood 
heside  her,  watehing  the  light  play  upon  the  opals  : 

**  That  is  aU  yoa  Tooehsafe  me  ?*' 

**  AU  f"  Her  acure  eyes  turned  haughtily  upon  him.  The  pride  of 
the  Castlemaines  was  op  in  arms.  ^  It  is  as  mnch  as  you  would  daim^ 
sir,  is  it  not  P     It  is  more  than  I  would  say  to  many." 

*^  Your  pardon — ^it  <s  more  than  I  should  claim  if  prudenee  were  e^er 
by,  if  reason  always  ruled  t  I  haye  do  right  to  ask  more,  seek  for,  eren 
insh  for,  more ;  such  petitions  may  only  be  addressed  by  men  of  wealdi 
and  of  high  title :  a  famdless  sokner  should  haye  no  pride  to  sting,  no 
heart  to  wound ;  ther  are  the  prerogatiye  of  a  happier  fortune." 

Her  lips  turned  white,  but  she  answered  haughtOy,  the  crimson  light 
flashing  in  her  jewels,  heirlooms  priceless  and  hereditary,  like  her  beauty 
and  her  pride : 

**  This  is  strange  language,  sir  t     I  fail  to  apprehend  yon.*' 

<<Y<ra  haye  neyer  thought  that  I  ran  a  dviger  deadlier  than  tiiat 
iHiieJh  I  haye  eyer  risked  on  any  field  ?  Yon  haye  neyer  guessed  that  I 
haye  had  the  madaess,  the  presumption,  the  crime — it  may  be  in  your 
eyes — toloyeyou?" 

The  eolonr  flushed  to  her  ftce,  crimsoning  even  her  brow,  and  then 
fled  back.  Her  first  instinct  was  pride — a  beggared  gentleman,  a  land- 
less  soldier,  spoke  to  her  of  loye! — of  loye! — which  Belamow  had 
barely  had  countfe  to  whisper  of;  which  none  had  dared  to  sue  of  her 
in  return.  He  had  yentured  to  ieel  this  for  her!  he  had  yentnred  to 
speak  of  this  to  her!  Rayensworth  saw  the  rising  resentment,  the 
haughty  pride  spoken  in  eyery  line  of  her  delicate  face,  as  she  pressed 
her  hand  upon  her  heart,  beating  rapidly  under  the  filmy  laoe,  and 
stopped  her  as  she  would  have  spoken. 

**  Watt !  I  know  all  you  would  reply.  You  think  it  mfinite  daring, 
presumption  that  merits  highest  reproof *' 

She  turned  towards  him,  her  face  white,  but  set  in  haughty  pride : 

^  Since  you  diyined  so  justly,  it  wnre  pity  you  subjected  yourself  and 
me  to  this  most  useless,  most  unexpected  interview.     Why ** 

**  Whyf  Because,  perchance,  in  this  life  you  will  see  my  face  no 
moi!«,  and  yon  will  ^nk  gently,  mercifully  of  my  ofience  (if  offence  it 
be  to  k>ye  you  more  than  life,  and  only  less  than  honour)  when  yon 
know  that  I  haye  fiidlen  for  the  Cause,  with  your  name  in  my  heart,  held 
only  the  dearer  because  neyer  on  my  lips  I  Sincere  loye  can  be  no  insult 
to  whomsoeyer  nroffsred ;  Elizabeth  Stuart  saw  no  shame  to  her  in  die 
deyotion  of  William  Crayen!" 

Cecil  Castiemaine  stood  in  the  crimson  glory  of  the  autumn  sunset, 
her  proud  head  erect,  her  haughty  Kps  compressed,  her  pride  unshaken, 
but  her  heart  stirred  strangely  and  unwontedly.  It  smote  t^e  one  with 
bitter  pain,  to  think  a  landless  soldier  should  thus  dare  to  speak  of  what 
princes  and  dukes  had  almost  ^red  to  whisper ;  what  had  she  done^ 
what  had  she  sud,  to  giye  him  license  for  such  liberty?  It  stirred  the 
other  with  a  tremulous  warmth,  a  yague,  sweet  pleasure,  that  were  neyer 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  STOST  OF  A  BROTDERED  SHIELD.  2S1 

I  tlMTO  belbre;  but  tkat  «be  seoated  iaftantly  as  weaknefn,  UAj^ 
ighmaementy  in  ibe  Last  of  tiie  OMtlemunes. 

He  saiw  w^  enougk  what  passed  within  her,  what  made  her  eyes  M 
troubled,  yet  htit  brow  and  lips  so  proadly  set,  and  he  bent  nearer  to- 
wvds  her,  the  great  lore  that  was  in  him  trembling  in  his  voioe : 

^  Lady  Cecil,  hear  me !  If  in  the  coming  straggle  I  win  disdnetioDy 
honour,  rank — ^if  victory  come  to  ns,  and  the  King  we  serve  remember 
me  in  his  prosperity  as  he  does  now  in  his  adversity — if  I  can  meet  yoa 
heieaiWr  with  tidings  of  triomph  and  saocess,  my  name  made  one  which 
England  breathes  with  praise  and  pride,  hononrs  gained  sndi  as  even 
ymt  will  deem  worthy  of  yonr  line — then — then— wtU  you  let  me  speak 
«f  what  yoa  reluse  to  broken  to  now — then  may  I  come  to  you  and 
seek  a  gentler  answer  P^ 

She  looked  for  a  moment  npon  his  face,  as  it  bent  towards  her  in  tfie 
nkBaaee  of  the  sonset  light,  the  hope  that  hopet^  all  things  glistening 
in  his  eyes,  the  high-soaled  daring  of  a  gallant  and  sangpnine  spirit  fln^ 
ing  his  brow,  ^e  kmd  throbs  of  his  heart  aodible  in  the  stillness  around, 
and  her  proad  azore  eyes  grew  softer,  her  haughty  Kps  quivered  for  an 
instant.     Then  she  turned  towards  him  with  her  queenly  g^raoe : 

It  vras  8p<A:en  widi  stately  dignity,  though  scarce  above  her  breaA; 
hot  the  blush  that  wavered  in  her  cheek  was  but  the  lovefier,  for  the 
pride  that  woald  not  let  her  eyes  droop  nor  her  tears  rise ;  would  not  let 
her  utter  one  eofter  word.  That  one  word  cost  her  much.  That  single 
utterance  was  much  from  Cecil  Castlemaine. 

Her  handkerchief  lay  at  her  feet,  a  delicate,  costly  toy  of  lace,  em- 
broidered with  her  shield  and  chifTre;  he  stooped  and  raised  it,  and 
thrust  it  in  his  breast  to  treasure  it  ^lere. 

^  If  I  fin],  I  send  this  back  in  token  that  I  renounce  all  hope ;  if  I  can 
come  to  you  with  honour  and  with  feme,  this  AbXI  be  my  gage  that  I  may 
speak,  diat  you  will  listen  T' 

She  bowed  her  head,  her  stately  head,  ever  held  haughtily,  as  tiiouffh 
every  crown  of  Europe  had  a  right  to  circle  it ;  his  hot  lips  Ungered  m 
a  moment  on  her  hand ;  then  Cecil  Castlemune  stood  alone  in  the  win- 
dow of  her  bower-room,  her  hand  pressed  again  upon  the  opals  under 
wyeh  her  heart  was  beating  with  a  dull,  weary  pain,  her  aiure  eye^ 
teaiiess  and  proud,  looking  out  over  the  landscape,  where  the  golden 
leaves  were  fislling  £ist,  and  the  river,  tossing  sadly  dead  branches  on  its 
waves,  was  bemoaning  in  plmntive  language  the  summer  days  gone  l^. 

Two  months  went  by,  the  beech-boughs,  black  and  sear,  creaked  in  Ifae 
Ueak  December  winds  that  sighed  through  firoaen  ferns  and  over  the 
couches  of  i^ivering  deer,  the  snow  drifted  up  on  the  marWe  terrace,  and 
ice-drops  clung  where  the  warm  rosy  petals  of  the  musk-rosebuds  had 
nestled.  Across  the  country  came  terrible  whispers  that  struck  the  hearts 
of  men  of  loyal  &ith  to  the  White  Rose  with  a  bolt  of  ice-cold  terror  and 
despair.  Messengers  riding  in  hot  haste,  open-mouthed  peasantB  gosnp- 
mg  by  die  village  forge,  horsemen  who  tarried  for  a  breathless  rest  at 
alehouse  doors.  Whig  divines  who  returned  thanks  for  God's  most  graoious 
mercy  in  vou<^afing  victory  to  the  strong,  all  told  the  tale,  idl  spread  die 
news  of  dw  drawn  battle  of  Sheriff-Muir,  of  die  surrender  under  Preston 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


232  CECIL  CASTLEMAIN£'S  GAGE  ;  OR, 

walls,  of  the  flight  of  Prince  James  before  Argyll.  The  tidings  came  one 
by  one  to  Lilliesford,  where  my  Lord  Earl  was  holding  himself  in  readiness 
to  co-operate  with  the  gentlemen  of  the  North  to  set  up  the  royal  stand- 
ard, broidered  by  his  daughter's  hands,  in  the  western  counties,  and  pro- 
claim James  III.  "  sovereign  lord  and  king  of  the  realms  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland."  The  tidings  came  to  Lilliesford,  and  Cecil  Castlemaine 
clenched  her  white  jewelled  hands  in  passionate  anguish  that  a  Stuart 
should  have  fled  before  the  traitor  of  Argyll,  instead  of  dying  with  his 
face  towards  the  rebel  crew;  that  men  haa  lived  who  could  choose  sur- 
render instead  of  heroic  death;  that  $he  had  not  been  there,  at  Preston, 
to  shame  them  with  a  woman's  reading  of  courage  and  of  loyalty,  and 
show  them  how  to  fell  with  a  doomed  city  rather  than  yield  capdve  to  a 
foe!  Her  azure  eyes  were  tearless,  but  her  haughty  lips  were  blanched 
white.  Perhaps  amidst  her  grief  for  her  Prince  and  for  his  Cause  mingled 
the  deadliest  thought  of  all-— a  memory  of  a  briglit  proud  hc»  fluuied 
with  the  sanguine  hope  of  a  high  and  gallant  spirit,  that  had  bent  towards 
her  with  tender  love  and  touching  gprace  a  month  before,  and  that  might 
now  be  lying  pale  and  cold,  turned  upwards  to  the  winter  stars,  on  the 
field  of  Sberiff-Mmr. 

A  year  rolled  by.  Twelve  months  had  fled  since  the  gilded  carriage  of 
the  Castlemaines,  with  the  lordly  blazonment  upon  its  panels,  its  princely 
retinue  and  stately  pomp,  had  come  down  into  the  western  counties.  The 
bones  were  crumbling  white  in  the  coffins  in  the  Tower,  and  the  skulls 
over  Temple-bar  had  bleached  white  in  winter  snows  and  spring-tide 
suns ;  Kenmuir  had  gone  to  a  sleep  that  knew  no  wakening,  and  Der- 
wentwater  had  laid  his  fair  young  head  down  for  a  thankless  cause ;  the 
heather  bloomed  over  the  mounds  of  dead  on  the  plains  of  Sheriff-Moir, 
and  the  yellow  gorse  blossomed  under  the  city  walls  of  Preston. 

Another  summer  Iiad  dawned,  bright  and  laughing,  over  England ;  none 
the  less  fair  for  human  lives  laid  down,  for  human  hopes  crushed  out ; 
daisies  powdering  the  turf  sodden  with  human  blood,  bixds  carolling  their 
song  over  graves  of  heaped-up  dead.  The  musk-roses  tossed  their  delicate 
heads  again  amidst  the  marble  pilasters,  and  the  hawthorn  boughs  shook 
their  fntgrant  buds  into  the  river  at  Lilliesford,  the  purple  hills  lay 
wrapped  in  sunny  mist,  and  hyacinth  bells  mingled  with  the  tangled 

Kand  fern  under  the  woodland  shades,  where  the  red  deer  nestled 
^  ^  ly.  Herons  plumed  their  silvery  wings  down  by  the  water-side, 
Swallows  circled  in  sultry  air  above  the  great  bell-tower,  and  wood* 
pigeons  cooed  with  soft  love-notes  among  the  leafy  branches.  Yet  the 
Countess  of  Castlemaine,  last  of  her  race,  sole  owner  of  the  lands  that 
spread  around  her,  stood  on  the  rose-terrace,  finding  no  joy  in  the  sun- 
light about  her,  no  melody  in  the  song  of  the  birds. 

Cecil  Castlemaine  was  the  last  of  her  name;  her  father,  broken- 
hearted at  the  news  from  Dumblain  and  Preston,  had  died  the  very  day 
after  his  lodgment  in  the  Tower.  There  was  no  heir  male  of  his  Ime, 
and  the  title  had  passed  to  his  daughter ;  there  had  been  thoughts  of 
confiscation  and  attainder,  but  others,  unknown  to  her,  solicited  what  she 
scorned  to  ask  for  herself,  and  the  greed  of  the  hungry  *<  Hanoverian 
pack"  spared  the  lands  and  the  revenues  of  Lilliesford.  In  haughty 
pride,  in  lonely  mourning,  the  fairest  beauty  of  the  Court  and  Town  with- 
drew agun  to  the  solitude  of  her  western  counties,  and  tarried  there^ 


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THE  STORT  OF  A  BROIDERED  SHIELD.  233 

dwelling  amidst  her  women  and  her  almost  regal  household,  proud, 
moomful,  and  alone,  in  the  sacred  solitude  of  grief,  wherein  none  might 
intrude.  She  stood  on  the  rose-terrace,  as  she  had  stood  the  June  before, 
looking  far  away  over  to  the  golden  haze,  where  hills  and  woodland  met. 
Proud  Cecil  Castlemaine  was  yet  prouder  than  of  yore;  alone  in  her 
haughty  solitude,  sorrowing  for  her  ruined  Cause  and  exiled  King,  she 
would  hold  converse  with  none  of  those  who  had  had  a  hand  in  drawing 
down  the  disastrous  fate  she  mourned,  and  only  her  staghound  could 
have  seen  tears  in  the  azure  eyes  when  she  bent  down  to  him,  or 
Gabrielle  the  falcon  felt  the  white  hand  tremble  when  it  stroked  her 
folded  wings.  She  stood  on  the  terrace,  looking  over  her  spreading 
lands,  not  the  water-lilies  on  the  river  below,  whiter  than  her  lips,  pressed 
proudly  and  painfully  together.  Perhaps  she  repented  of  certain  haughty 
words,  spoken  to  one  whom  now  she  would  never  again  behold — perhaps 
she  thought  of  that  delicate  toy  that  was  to  have  been  brought  back  in 
victory  and  hope,  that  now  might  lie  stained  and  stiffened  with  blood 
next  a  lifeless  heart,  for  never  a  word  in  the  twelve  months  gone  by  had 
there  come  to  Lilliesford  as  tidings  of  Fulke  Ravensworth.  Her  pride 
was  dear  to  her,  dearer  than  aught  else ;  she  had  spoken  as  was  her  right 
to  speak,  she  had  done  what  became  a  Castlemaine ;  it  would  have  been 
weakness  to  have  acted  otherwise ;  what  was  he— a  landless  soldier- 
that  he  should  have  dared  as  he  had  dared  ?  Yet  the  sables  she  wore  were 
not  solely  for  the  dead  Earl,  not  solely  for  the  lost  Stuarts  the  hot  mist 
that  would  blind  the  eyes  of  Cecil  Castlemaine,  as  hours  swelled  to  days, 
and  days  to  months,  and  she — the  flattered  beauty  of  the  Court  and  Town 
— stayed  in  self-chosen  solitude  in  her  halls  of  Lilliesford,  still  unwedded 
and  nnwon.  The  noon  hours  chimed  from  the  bell-tower,  and  the  sunny 
beauty  of  the  morning  but  weighed  with  heavier  sadness  on  her  heart ; 
the  song  of  the  birds,  the  busy  hum  of  the  gnats,  the  joyous  ring  of  the 
silver  bell  round  her  pet  fawn's  neck,  as  it  darted  from  her  side  under  the 
drooping  boughs — none  touched  an  answering  chord  of  gladness  in  her. 
She  stood  looking  over  her  stretching  woodlands  in  deep  thought,  so  deep 
that  she  heard  no  step  over  the  lawn  beneath,  nor  saw  the  frightened 
rush  of  the  deer,  as  a  boy,  crouching  among  the  tangled  ferns,  sprang 
up  from  his  hiding-place  under  the  beechen-branches,  and  stood  on  the 
terrace  before  her,  craving  her  pardon  in  childish,  yet  fearless  tones. 
She  tamed,  bending  on  him  her  azure  eyes  (those  haughty  eyes  which 
had  made  the  over-bold  glance  of  princes  rail  abashed).  The  boy  was  but 
a  little  tatterdemalion  to  have  ventured  thus  abruptly  Into  the  presence 
of  the  Countess  of  Castlemaine ;  still  it  was  with  some  touch  of  a  page's 
grace  that  he  bowed  before  her. 

"  Lady,  I  crave  your  pardon,  but  my  master  bade  me  watch  for  you, 
though  I  watched  till  midnight" 

"Your  master!" 

A  flush,  warm  as  that  on  the  leaves  of  the  musk-roses,  rose  to  her  face 
for  an  instant,  then  faded  as  suddenly.  The  boy  did  not  notice  her  words, 
but  went  on  in  an  eager  whisper,  glancing  anxiously  round,  as  a  hare 
would  glance  fearing  the  hunters. 

"  And  told  me  when  I  saw  you  not  to  speak  his  name,  but  only  to  give 
you  this  as  his  gage,  that  though  all  else  is  lost  he  has  not  forgot  his 
honour  nor  t/our  will." 


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334  CECIL  GASTLEMAINE'S  6A6E  ;  OR, 

Cecil  Ca»tlem«iD«  spoke  no  word,  but  she  atretohed  oui  bet  IimmI  and 
took  it — ^hftr  ow&  costly  toy  of  cambric  and  lace,  witk  bet  braidtied 
sbield  aad  chi£&e— pressiBg  it  against  ber  bieaat,  ber  lipa  wmssed  ekacr 
together,  tbat  ^  boy  migbt  not  note  bow  tiiey  tsemUed^  tbougib  bar 
TOice  sounded  hoarse  and  broken. 

«  Your  master !     Tben— be  Utcs?" 

^  Lady,  be  bade  me  say  no  more.  Yon  ba?e  bia  message ;  I  amst  t^ 
no  fortber." 

She  laid  her  band  i^n  bb  sbouldery  a  ligbt^  soow-wbite  ddioata  baa^ 
yet  one  tbat  held  him  now  in  a  clasp  of  steeL 

^  Child !  answer  me  at  your  penl !  Tell  me  of  biim  wham  yoa  call 
your  master.     Tell  me  all — quick— -quick  T 

^  You  are  bis  friend?" 

<<  His  friend?     My  Heaven  I     Speak  on  r 

*<  He  bade  me  tell  no  more  on  peril  of  bis  heaviest  ai^ct ;  but  if  yoa 
mre  his  friend  I  sure  may  npeak  what  you  should  know  without  mew  It 
is  a  poor  friend,  lady,  who  has  need  to  ask  whether  another  be  dead  or 
livrngr 

The  scarlet  bk>od  flamed  in  Cecil  Castlemaine*8  Uanehed  &ee,  her 
aaure  eyes  lit  up  in  anger,  and  she  signed  him  ^  with  impetuoaa  com^ 
mand ;  she  was  unused  to  disobedience,  and  the  diild's  wofds  cut  ber  to 
the  quick. 

"  Sir  Fulke  sails  for  the  French  coast  to-morrow  night,"  the  boy  went 
on,  in  tremulous  baste.  '*  He  was  left  for  dead — our  men  ran  one  way, 
and  Argyll's  men  the  other— on  the  fleld  of  Sheriff-Muir ;  and  smre  if 
be  bad  not  been  strong  indeed,  he  would  have  died  tbat  awfril  night,  un- 
tended,  on  the  bleak  moor,  with  the  winds  roaring  round  him,  and  bia 
life  ebbing  away.  He  was  not  one  of  those  ithofiid;  you  know  tbat  of 
him  if  you  know  aught.  We  got  him  away  belcxre  dawn,  Donald  and  I, 
awl  hid  him  in  a  sluelding ;  he  was  in  the  fever  tben,  and  knew  nothing 
tbat  was  done  to  him,  only  he  kept  that  bit  of  lace  in  his  band  fsc  weeka 
and  weeks,  and  would  not  let  us  stir  it  from  bis  grasp.  What  magic 
there  was  in  it  we  wondered  often,  but  'twas  a  magic,  mayhaps  that  got 
bim  well  at  last;  it  wae  an  even  dianoe  but  that  he'd  ^ed,  God 
bless  bim !  though  we  did  what  best  we  eould.  We've  been  wanderiBg 
in  the  H^hlai^  all  the  year,  hiding  here  and  tarrying  there.  My 
master  sets  no  count  unon  bis  life.  Sure  I  tlttnk  he  thankfl  us  little  for 
getting  him  through  tae  fever  of  the  wounds,  but  be  eould  not  have 
borne  to  be  pinioned,  you  know,  lady,  like  a  thief,  and  hung  up  by  the 
brutes  of  Whigs,  as  a  butdier  bsjogs  sheep  in  the  sbamblesl  The  wont 
of  the  danger's  over — they've  had  their  fill  of  the  slaughter;  but  we  sail 
to-morrow  night  for  the  French  coast — England's  no  place  fer  my 
master." 

Cecil  Castlemaine  let  go  her  hold  upon  the  boy,  and  hes  band  closed 
convulsively  upon  the  dainty  handkerdMef — ^her  gage  sent  so  faitbfally 
back  to  ber !  The  child  looked  upon  her  face;  perchance,  in  bis  mastw s 
delirium,  he  had  caught  some  knowledge  of  the  story  that  hung  to  that 
broidered  toy. 

<*  If  you  are  his  Mend,  lady,  doubtless  you  have  some  last  word  to 
sand  him?" 

Cecil  Castlemaine,  proudest  beauty  of  the  Peerage^  whem  nothii^ 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  STOET  OF  A  BBOIDUUU)  SHIELD.  235 

moiredy  whom  noihiBg  aofleMd^  bcHvod  her  hctd  al  th»  timfU  qmrtian, 
her  heari  if netling  sordj^  her  Itpe  aei  together  in  WMwerviBg  pride,  m 
mist  before  her  baaghty  ejee,  the  hcoidered  shMd  upon  her  handkei- 
chief^the  shield  of  her  stately  and  unyielding  race  — •  prened  cloee 
against  her  breast. 

*'  You  have  no  word  for  him,  lady  f " 

Her  lips  parted ;  she  signed  him  away  with  one  proud  wave  of  her 
delicate  hand.  Wae  this  child  to  see  her  yieUing  to  sveh  weakness  ? 
Had  she^  Countess  of  Castlemaine,  no  better  piid%  bo  better  atxeogth, 
no  better  power  of  resolve,  than  this  ? 

The  boy  lingered,  then  tamed  slowly  away. 

<<  I  will  tell  Sir  Fulke  then,  kMiy,  that  the  rained  have  no  friends?*' 

Whiter  and  prouder  still  grew  the  delieate  beaotr  of  Cecil  CasUe- 
maine's  £Me;  closer  i^;ainst  h«r  heart  she  pressed  her  Ivoidered  haadker* 
chief— thenr— she  raised  her  stately  head,  haughtily  as  she  had  used  to 
glance  over  a  glittering  Court,  where  eadi  voice  murmured  praise  of  hsr 
k>veline6s  and  reproach  of  her  eoldnese— and  placed  the  fragile  toy  of  Um 
back  in  the  boy's  hands! 

"  Go^  seek  your  master,  and  give  him  thb  in  gage  that  their  calamity 
makes  friends  more  dear  to  uf  than  their  soceees.  Go^  he  will  know  ita 
meaning !" 

In  place  of  the  noon  chimes  the  eurfew  was  ringing  from  the  belL 
tower,  the  swallows  were  goae  to  roost  amidst  the  ivy,  and  the  herona 
slept  with  their  heads  under  their  silvery  wii^  ^jmoog  the  rushes  by  the 
river-side,  the  feme  and  wild  hyacinths  were  damp  with  evening  dew, 
and  the  summer  starl^ht  glistened  amidst  the  quivering  woodfamd  leavea. 
There  was  the  silence  of  coming  oigfat  over  the  vast  forest  glades,  and 
BO  sound  broke  the  stillness,  save  the  song  of  the  grasshopper  stirring 
the  tangled  grasses,  or  the  sweet  low  sigh  of  the  west  wind  fitfrning  the 
beUs  of  the  flowers.  Cecil  Castlemaine  stood  onee  more  on  the  rose* 
terrace^  shrouded  in  the  dense  twilight  shade  flung  from  above  by  the 
beech-boagh&  Her  white  hands,  with  their  diamonds  gleaming  bright 
as  the  dew  in  the  hyacinth-beUs,  were  denched  together,  her  fiice  was 
white  and  set  in  its  delicate,  hai^ghty  beauty ;  she  stood  waiting,  list^i- 
ing,  catclung  every  rustle  of  the  leaves,  every  tremor  of  the  heads  of  the 
roses,  yet  hearing  nothing  in  the  stillness  around  but  the  quick,  uncertain 
throbs  of  her  heart  beating  like  the  winsp  of  a  caged  bird  under  its  costly 
lace.  Pride  was  forgotten  at  length,  and  she  only  remembered — fear  and 
love.  In  the  silence  and  the  solitude  came  a  step  that  she  knew,  came  a 
presence  that  she  felt.  Proud  Cecil  Castlemaine  bowed  her  head  upon 
her  hands ;  it  was  new  to  her  this  weakness,  this  terror,  this  anguish  of 
joy ;  she  sought  to  calm  herself,  to  steel  herself,  to  summon  back  her 
pride,  her  strength ;  she  scorned  herself  for  it  all ! — His  hand  touched 
her,  his  voice  fell  on  her  ear  once  more,  eager,*  breathless,  broken. 

**  Cecil !  Cecil !  is  this  true  ?  Is  my  ruin  thrice  blessed,  or  am  I  mad, 
and,  in  delirium,  dream  of  heaven?" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  her  old  proud  glance,  her 
haughty  lips  trembling  with  words  that  all  her  pride  could  not  summon 
into  speecn ;  then  her  azure  eyes  filled  with  warm,  blinding  tears,  and 
softened  to  new  beauty,  a  world  of  woman's  tenderness  and  love  flushing 


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236  CECIL  castlemaine's  gage. 

her  face  and  trembling  on  her  lips; — scarce  louder  than  the  sigh  of 
the  wind  among  the  flower-bells  came  her  words  to  Fulke  Ravensworth's 
ear,  as  her  hot  tears  fell  on  his  hand,  and  her  haughty  head  bowed  on 
his  breast : 

"  Stay,  stay !  or,  if  you  fly,  your  exile  shall  be  my  exile,  your  danger 
my  danger!" 

The  cobweb  handkerchief  with  its  broidered  shield  is  a  treasured  heir- 
loom to  her  descendants  now,  and  fair  women  of  her  race,  who  inherit  from 
her  her  azure  eyes  and  her  queenly  grace,  will  recal  how  the  proudest 
Countess  of  their  line  loved  a  ruined  gentleman  so  well  that  she  was 
wedded  to  him  at  even,  in  her  private  chapel,  at  the  hour  of  his  greatest 
peril,  his  lowest  fortune,  and  went  with  him  across  the  seas  till  friendly 
intercession  in  high  places  gained  them  royal  permission  to  dwell  again 
at  Lilliesford  unmolested;  and  how  it  was  ever  noticeable  to  those 
who  murmured  at  her  coldness  and  her  pride,  that  Cecil  Castlemaine, 
haughty  as  of  yore  to  all  the  world  beside,  would  seek  her  husband's 
smile,  and  love  to  meet  his  eyes,  and  cherish  her  beauty  for  his  sake,  and 
be  restless  in  his  absence,  even  for  the  short  span  of  a  day,  with  a  softer 
and  more  clinging  tenderness  than  was  found  in  many  weaker,  many 
humbler  women* 

They  are  gone  now  the  men  and  women  of  that  generation,  and  their 
voices  come  only  to  us  through  the  faint  echo  of  their  written  words.  In 
summer  nights  the  old  beech-trees  toss  their  leaves  in  the  silvery  light 
of  the  stars,  and  the  river  flows  on  unchanged,  with  the  ceaseless,  mourn- 
ful burden  of  its  mystic  song,  the  same  now  as  in  the  midsummer  of  a 
century  and  a  half  ago,  when  Cecil  Castlemaine*s  haughty  eyes  drooped 
at  her  lover's  glance,  and  her  proud  heart  beat  tremulously  at  his  nrst 
embrace.  The  cobweb  handkerchief  lies  before  me  to-night,  with  its 
broidered  shield  and  chiffre,  passed  to  other  hands,  dropped  unwittingly 
by  Blanche  in  girlish  thoughtlessness,  the  same  now  as  long  ago,  when 
it  was  treasured  close  and  lovingly  in  Fulke  Ravensworth's  breast,  and 
held  by  him  dearer  than  all  save  his  honour  and  his  word.  So,  things 
pulseless  and  passionless  endure,  and  human  fife  passes  away  as  swiftly 
as  a  song  dies  off  from  the  air — as  quickly  succeeded,  and  as  quickly  for- 
got !     Bons  frhreB ! — Ronsard's  refttiin  is  the  refrain  of  our  lives  : 

Le  temps  s'en  va,  le  temps  s'en  va,  ma  dame ! 
Las !  le  temps,  non ;  mais  hovs  nous  en  tdlons ! 


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THE  LORD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON: 

OR,  CITY  LIFE  IN  THE  LAST  CENTURY .♦ 
Bt  WiLLLiM  Habbison  Aihswobth. 


90oofi  tj^e  Jflm. 
IX. 

HOW  THE  LOED  HATOB  LANDBB  JLT  TfBSTMINSTSB. 

Etery  possible  attention,  that  circumstances  would  admit,  was 
paid  by  the  Lord  Mayor  and  those  with  him  to  Mrs.  Walworth 
and  her  daughter.  Notwithstanding  their  uncomfortable  plight, 
drenched  to  the  skin,  and  with  all  their  finery  spoiled,  both  ladies 
bore  up  against  the  annoyances  with  great  cheerfulness. 

Poor  Mr.  Walworth  looked  a  very  miserable  object.  Dripping 
Kke  a  water-spaniel,  having  lost  his  laced  hat  and  bob-wig  m  the 
water,  he  was  obliged  to  take  off  his  wet  muslin  cravat.  A  glass 
of  ratafia  helped  to  restore  him,  and  he  pressed  the  same  remedy 
upon  his  wife,  who,  however,  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to 
follow  his  example. 

Great  was  the  surprise  of  Mrs.  Walworth  and  her  daughter 
to  learn  that  the  young  man,  to  whose  heroic  conduct  they 
were  so  much  indebted,  was  the  Lord  Mayor^s  nephew,  and,  in- 
deed, this  circumstance  was  equally  surprisinff  to  most  of  the 
company  within  the  barge,  as  they  learnt  for  the  first  time  that 
his  lordship  had  a  nephew— only  Sir  Felix  Bland,  Mr.  Beckford, 
and  a  few  others,  who  had  seen  Herbert  in  Oheapside,  being 
aware  of  the  fact.  The  knowledge  of  the  young  man's  relation- 
ship to  Sir  Grresham  certainly  did  not  tend  to  diminish  the  in- 
terest with  which  Alice  regarded  him,  while  it  seemed  to  increase 
her  fiither^s  gratitude  in  a  tenfold  degree.  ^ 

**  Don't  say  a  word  more,  my  go(3  Mr.  Walworth,"  cried  Sir 
Gresham,  cutting  short  the  old  hosier's  professions;  ^^  if  you  and 
the  ladies  don't  suffer  from  the  accident,  its  consequences  may 

frove  agreeable  rather  than  the  reverse.  As  the  best  preventive, 
would  recommend  a  glass  of  ratafia  to  Mrs.  Walworth" — her 
husband  had  already  tossed  off  a  second — ^^'tis  an  excellent 
fortifier,  my  dear  madam — all  the  ladies  take  it     Won't  you 


*  All  rigkU  rtstrved, 

VOL.    LI. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


238  THE  LORD  JIAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

pledge  my  nephew  and  myself,  Miss  Walworth?*'    Alice  smiled 

Sood-naturedly,  bowed  in  return  to  their  salutations,  and  raised 
le  ^lass  to  her  lips,  but  set  it  down  untasted.  "Ah!  I  see!*^ 
exclaimed  Sir  Gresham,  shaking  his  head.  "  Well,  if  you  take 
cold  it  will  be  your  own  fault.  Herbert;  your  good  health !  My 
nephew  is  nearly  as  great  a  stranger  to  me,  Mr.  Walworth,  as  he 
is  to  you.  I  never  saw  him  be&ie  this  morning,  but  I  don't  mean 
to  lose  sight  of  him  again  in  a  hurry,  I  can  promise  you.  His 
conduct  on  this  oocasbn  won't  lower  him  in  my  resard.'' 

"  Your  nephew  is  a  very  fine  young  man,  my  lord/'  cried  Mr. 
W  alworth,  upon  whom  the  cordial,  combined  with  his  previous 
ducking,  had  produced  some  little  efiect — "a  very  courageous 
youn^  man,  and  I'm  sure  he  will  do  your  lordship  infinite  credit. 
1  shall  always  consider  myself  under  the  greatest  possible  obliga- 
tions to  him,  and  to  your  lordship.  And  so  will  you,  my  dear — 
won't  you?"  he  added  to  Mrs.  Walworth.  "Take  a  glass  of 
xalafia— do ! " 

But  the  lady  daclined,  and  looked  at  him  to  intimate  that  he 
had  taken  quite  enough  himself. 

^  rU  tell  you  what  you  must  do,  Mr.  Walwortii,''  said  the  Lord 
Mayor,  ^^  to  compensate  for  the  annoyance  you  have  experienced^ 
and  enable  you  t3o  wind  up  the  day  pleasantly,  you  and  your  wife 
and  daughter  must  come  and  dine  with  the  Lady  Mayoress  and 
myself  at  Guildhall.    What  say  you — eh?" 

^^Oh!  my  lord,  you  do  as  too  nuich  honour  I"  exclaimed  the 
old  hosier,  delighted. 

^^  You  shall  see  their  majesties  and  the  young  princes,  and  dance 
at  the  ball.  Miss  Walworth,"  pursued  good-natured  Sir  Gresham. 
^^  I'll  find  you  plenty  of  partners.  My  nephew  looks  aa  if  he  could 
dance ^" 

^^  Oh  !  yes,  uncle,''  interposed  Herbert,  ^^  I^ean  dance  a  minuet 
as  well  as  most  people." 

^'  Then  y<ni  diail  dance  one  with  Miss  Walworth — that  is, 
suppoeingjbe  will  accept  you  as  a  partner." 

^^  I  need  scarcely  say  it  will  giye  me  great  pleasure  to  dance 
with  your  nephew,  my  lord^"  replied  Alice,  bluabing. 

^^  Then  all's  settled.  Tickets  shall  be  sent  you,  Mr.  Walworth^ 
and  if  I  may  advise,  you'll  get  home  as  quickly  as  posdble  and 
put*  on  dry  clothea." 

^^  Precisely  what  I  desire  to  do,  my  lord^"  replied  the  other. 
^^  If  I  don't  change  soon  I  know  what  will  happen*  I  idiall  have 
an  attack  of  rheiunatism,  that  will  lay  me  up  for  a  month.  My 
coat  is  beginning  to  stick  to  my  back^  and  my  legs  feel  as  stiff  aa 
if  cased  in  leather." 

^^  But  you  nuistn't  think  of  taking  a  coach,"  said  the  Lord 
Mayor.  "  If  you  do,  you  won't  reach  the  City  for  hours.  A  boat 
to  Three  Crane  Stairs  will  be  the  speediest  and  surest  conveyance. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  LORD  HATOR  OF  LONDOK.  239 

Go  with  Mr.  Walworth,  Herbert,''  he  added  to  his  nephew.  ^  Yon 
stand  as  much  in  need  of  diy  apparel  as  he  does.  Ana  harkee,"  he 
whispered,  ^^  you'll  find  what  you  want  at  my  house.  Go  there 
M%  once.  Tradescant's  wardrobe  will  furnish  you  with  all  you 
need.  He's  about  the  same  size  as  yourself  and  his  clothes  are 
sure  to  fit  you.  Don't  hesitate  to  put  on  one  of  the  young  coxcomb's 
smartest  suits,  for  I  wish  you  to  cut  a  figure  to-night.  Tou're 
to  dine  at  Guildhall— ^mind  that.  Tomline  will  give  you  a  ticket, 
snd  tell  you  all  about  it.    D'ye  heed?" 

Herbert  thanked  his  uncle,  and  a  wherry  coming  alongside, 
the  part^  got  into  it,  and  as  soon  as  the  oarsmen  could  disengage 
their  skiff  from  the  crowd  of  boats  that  beset  it,  they  were  pulled 
swiftly  down  the  river. 

Meantime,  the  City  barge,  which  had  been  delayed  durim;  this  in* 
lerval,  proceeded  on  its  course,  and  passed  safely  through  the  centre 
arch  of  Westminster  Bridge,  amid  the  acclamations  of  the  multi- 
tudes looking  dovm  from  its  balustrades.  Several  of  the  other 
barges  had  gone  on  while  the  Lord  Mayor  halted,  and  these  had 
grouped  themselves  on  the  farther  side  of  the  bridge,  opposite  New 
Palace  Yard  Stairs,  where  his  lordship  proposed  to  disembark.  All 
iheir  bands  were  playing,  and  the  spectacle  was  now  as  striking  as 
any  previous  part  of  the  water-pageant. 

While  the  City  barge  moved  majestically  towards  the  stain,  a 
salute  was  fired  from  one  of  the  wharves  on  the  Lambeth  side  of 
the  river,  and,  amidst  deafening  and  long-continued  cheers  from 
an  immense  number  of  spectators  stationed  at  every  point  com- 
manding a  view,  the  Lord  Mayor  landed,  and  was  ceremoniously 
conducted  to  Westminster  Hall,  where  he  was  presented  to  the 
Judges  of  the  Court  of  Exchequer  hy  the  Recorder. 

The  Chief  Baron  having  addressed  his  lordship  in  a  lengthened 
qpeech  highly  eulogistic  otthe  City,  the  customary  oath  was  admi- 
nistered. Invitations  to  the  banquet  at  Guildhall  were  then  for- 
mally given  to  the  Judges,  and  accepted;  after  which  the  Lord 
Mayor  withdrew,  and  returned  to  the  barge. 

His  lordship  was  then  conveyed  to  the  Temple,  where  he  once 
more  disembarked,  and  was  received  in  great  sUte  by  the  Master 
«nd  Benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple,  with  whom  he  breakfasted  in 
their  HaU. 


HOW  KING  GEOBGE  THB  THIRD  AND  QUBEN  CHARLOTTE  SET  EORTH  EEOM  SAINT 
JAKBS'S  TO  DINE  WITH  THE  LORD  ICAYOR. 

About  noon  on  the  same  day,  another  cavalcade,  moving  in  the 
opposite  direction  of  the  first,  set  forth  from  Saint  James's  Palace. 
King  George  III.  and  his  consort  having,  as  we  are  aware,  gra- 
ciously accepted  the  Lord  Mayor's  invitation  to  the  banquet  stt 

e2 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


240  THE  LORD  MAYOR  OP  LONDON. 

Guildhally  tHeir  majestiesi  started  betimes  in  order  to  view  the  civic 
procession  on  its  return  from  Westminster  from  Mr,  Barclay's  house 
m  Cheapside,  which^  as  already  stated,  was  prepared  for  their 
reception — the  committee  of  alaermen  appointed  to  manage  the 
entertainment  having  made  arrangements  with  the  owner  to  that 
end. 

At  the  time  of  our  narrative,  George  III.,  whose  accession  to 
the  throne  had  occurred  on  the  death  ofhis  grandsire,  some  thirteen 
months  previously,  was  a  very  handsome  young  man  of  about  three- 
and-twenty.  Our  notions  of  the  personal  appearance  of  this  ex- 
cellent monarch  are  so  connected  with  portraits  taken  at  a  later 
period  of  his  life,  wherein  he  is  represented  as  au  elderly  gentleman, 
rather  stout  and  slightly  bent,  with  a  very  benevolent  expression 
of  countenance,  clad  in  blue  coat  and  boots  with  brown  tops,  and 
leaning  on  a  cane,  that  we  can  scarcely  fancy  him  as  tall,upright,  well- 
proportioned,  and  extremely  good-looking.  Yet  he  was  so  at  the 
penod  of  this  story.  Very  temperate,  and  taking  a  vast  deal  of  ex- 
ercise, he  now  looted  the  picture  of  health.  His  complexion  was  fredi 
and  blooming,  his  eye  bright,  and  his  manner,  while  characterised 
by  great  dignity,  was  very  affable  and  engaging,  and  offered  a 
pleasing  contrast  to  the  cofd  and  haughty  deportment  of  his  imme- 
diate predecessor,  George  II. 

In  spite  of  his  German  descent,  no  monarch  ever  possessed  a  more 
thoroughly  English  character,  or  features  more  truly  English,  than 
G}eorge  the  Third.  "  Bom  and  educated  in  this  country,"  he  said, 
in  his  first  speech  from  the  throne,  "  I  glory  in  the  name  of  Briton :" 
—words  that  established  him  in  the  heart  of  the  whole  nation. 
Evidence,  confirmatory  of  his  extreme  amiability  and  kindness  of 
manner  at  this  period,  is  afforded  by  Horace  Walpole,  who,  writing 
to  Sir  Horace  Mann,  says:  "The  young  king,  you  may  trust  me, 
who  am  not  apt  to  be  enamoured  with  royalty^  gives  all  the  indi- 
cations imaginable  of  being  amiable.  Uis  person  is  tall,  and  fiiU 
of  dignity;  his  countenance  florid  and  good-natured;  his  manner 
graceful  and  obliging;  he  expresses  no  warmth  or  resentment 
a^inst  anybody:  at  most  coldness."  Again,  in  a  letter  to  Greorge 
Montagu,  the  same  shrewd  observer  writes:  ^^The  king  seems  all 
good-nature,  and  wishing  to  satisfy  everybody;  all  his  speeches 
are  obliging.  I  saw  him  again  yesterday,  and  was  surprised  to  find 
the  levee-room  had  lost  entirely  the  air  of  the  lion's  den.  This 
sovereign  don't  stand  in  one  spot  with  his  eyes  fixed  royally  on 
the  ground,  and  dropping  bits  of  German  news;  he  walks  about 
and  speaks  to  everybody.  I  saw  him  afterwards  on  the  throne, 
where  he  is  graceful  and  genteel,  sits  with  dignity,  and  reads  his 
answers  to  the  addresses  well."  Such  is  the  picture  of  this  charm- 
ing prince,  painted  at  the  time  by  one  who,  as  he  described  him- 
seU,  "was  not  apt  to  be  the  Humorous  Lieutenant,  and  fall  m 
love  with  majesty." 


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TBB  LORD  MATOB  OF  LOKDOK.  241 

The  fair  promise  held  out  by  the  young  king  was  amply  fulfilled 
during  his  long  and  eventful  reign,  chequered  as  it  was  by  many 
vidssitudes,  and  including  the  dire  calamity  by  which  he  was 
visited.  Solicitude  for  the  welfare  of  his  subjectSi  unaffected  pie^. 
and  a  character  scrupulously  moral,  combined  with  worth  and 
goodness,  endeared  him  to  all,  and  earned  for  him  the  title  of 
the  "Father  of  his  People."  That  there  were  shades  to  his 
otherwise  perfect  character  cannot  be  denied,  but  these  were 
lost  amid  its  general  brightness.  He  has  been  charged  with 
obstinacy,  and  said  to  entertain  strong  and  lasting  prejudices. 
It  may  be  so,  but  at  the  same  time  he  never  yielded  to  passion 
or  enmity,  but  sought  to  be  strictly  just  By  nature  he  was 
kindly,  benevolent,  charitable.  His  household  was  well  regu- 
lated. Practising  rigid  economy  himself,  he  tried  to  enforce  it 
throughout  his  household  ;  yet  though  careful,  he  was  by  no 
means  devoid  of  generosity.  His  industry  was  remarkable,  his 
time  being  never  unemployed.  Thou<Th  his  mental  qualificationa 
were  not  of  a  high  order,  and  though  his  education  had  been 
much  neglected,  he  had  great  good  sense,  and  remarkable  cor* 
rectness  of  judgment.  Strong  moral  perceptions  guarded  him 
alike  from  temptation,  and  prevented  him  from  committing 
wrong.  That  the  days  of  a  monarch  so  just,  so  pious,  so  revered 
— to  whom  his  people's  happiness  was  so  dear,  and  for  whose  pre- 
servation so  many  heartfelt  prayers  were  uttered — should  have 
been  temporarily  subjected  to  the  most  terrible  affliction  that  can 
befal  man,  must  ever  remain  among  the  inscrutable  decrees  of  an 
unerring  Providence. 

However,  it  is  not  with  this  dark  and  dread  period  of  his 
lengthened  reign  that  we  have  to  do,  but  with  its  dawning 
splendour,  when  fire  was  in  his  eye,  courage  in  his  breast,  and 
vigour  in  his  limbs — when  his  mind  was  sound  and  his  judgment 
good.  We  have  to  do  with  him  in  the  hey-day  of  youth  and 
happiness,  ere  yet  care  and  the  weight  of  empire  had  begun  to 
press  upon  him — while  all  was  full  of  present  delight  and  of  hope- 
fulness for  the  future.  So  admirably  did  the  young  king  conduct 
himself  in  the  exalted  position  he  was  called  upon  to  fill,  so  gentle 
and  beneficent  was  his  sway,  so  amiable  was  his  manner,  that  all 
hearts  would  have  been  won,  had  it  not  been  felt  and  indeed 
known  that  he  had  a  Favourite,  by  whom  he  was  ruled,  and  who, 
it  soon  became  evident,  would  be  content  with  noting  less  than 
supreme  power  in  the  government.  Many  of  his  most  loyal  subjects 
viewed  tnis  influence  with  distrust  and  apprehension,  as  likely,  if 
not  shaken  off,  to  lead  to  evil  consequences.  The  cabal  formed 
against  Pitt  by  Bute's  machinations,  and  the  resignation  of  a 
minister  justly  regarded  by  the  country  as  its  saviour,  filled  every 
breast  with  indignation,  a^id  would  have  materially  diminished 
the  young  monarch's  popularity  had  not  the  intrigue  been  traced 


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242  THE  LORD  MATOB  OF  LONDOiT. 

to  its  right  flouroe.  Perhaps  the  king  might  have  come  in  for  a 
greater  share  of  popular  opprobrium^  had  not  the  untoward  event 
n>Uowed  dose  upon  his  nuptials  and  coronation.  That  the  Fa* 
Tonrite  was  fultf  aware  of  tne  opinion  entertained  of  him  in  the 
Oitj,  appears  from  a  letter  addressed  by  him  at  the  time  to  his 
oonfidant,  Lord  Melcomb:  ^^Indoedy  mj  good  lord/'  be  writes, 
^  my  situation,  at  all  times  perilous,  is  become  much  more  so,  for 
I  am  no  etranger  to  the  kngoaffe  held  in  this  gr^t  city:  *  Our 
darUnff's  resignation  is  owing  to  Lord  Bute,  who  might  have  pre- 
Tented  it  wi£  the  king,  and  he  must  answer  for  aU  the  conse- 
quences/ "  Such  was  the  Favourite's  impression,  and  we  shall  see 
presently  that  it  was  correct. 

No  event  diot  had  oocurred  since  the  young  king  mounted  the 
Arone  gave  more  general  satisfaction  than  his  marriage  widi 
Charlotte,  'second  sister  of  the  Duke  of  Mecklenburg -Strelita» 
The  royal  nuptials  were  celebrated  on  the  8th  of  September,  1761 
:— just  two  months  before  the  date  of  our  story— and  on  the  23nd 
of  the  same  montii  the  coronation  of  the  august  pair  took  place  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 

Most  fortunate  was  the  king  in  his  choice.  His  first  love  had 
been  the  beautiful  and  captivating  Lady  Sarah  Lennox,  but  com- 
pelled to  conquer  his  passion  for  this  fiudnating  person,  he  turned 
nis  thoughts  m  another  direction.  By  whatever  motives  he  was 
ffuided  m  the  selection  of  a  consort,  the  result  showed  that  he 
had  acted  wisely.  If  he  himself  made  the  best  of  husbands,  Que^i 
<%arlotte  was  a  model  wife  and  mother.  In  describing  her  majesty 
we  have  again  to  contend  with  preconceived  notions,  which,  re- 
fSnrring  to  a  later  period  of  her  life,  would  seem  to  determine  that 
she  must  always  have  be^i  plain,  if  not  downright  ugly.  Such, 
however,  was  not  the  fact.  When  united  to  the  king  she  was  very 
young,  being  scarcely  sevaiteen,  and  at  that  time,  and  indeed  for 
many  years  afterwards,  she  was  attractive  in  manner,  and  certainly 
pleasing,  if  not  positively  pretty.  An  eye-witness  has  given  an 
exact  portrait  of  her:  "She  is  not  tall,  nor  a  beautv,*'  writes  Horace 
Walpole;  ^^pale  and  venr  thin;  but  looks  sensible  and  is  gentod. 
Her  hair  ia  darkish  and  fine;  her  forehead  low,  her  nose  very  wdl, 
except  the  nostrils  spreading  too  wide;  her  mouth  has  the  eame 
halt,  but  her  teeth  are  ^od."  In  this  portrait,  however,  a  most 
important  feature  is  omitted,  namely,  the  eyes,  which  were  fine 
and  extremely  expressive,  and  which  lighted  up  the  countenance 
and  gave  a  great  charm  to  it  in  conversation.  Qay  and  good- 
humoured,  she  was  without  a  trace  of  levity  or  frivolity  of  manner. 
She  possessed  many  accomplishments,  played  and  sang  well,  was 
fond  of  reading,  and  ever  anxious  to  obtain  information.  Her  con- 
versation was  animated,  and  perhaps  she  possessed  move  vivacity 
flian  she  cared  to  display.  At  all  events,  her  spirits  were  und^ 
perfSect  control,  and  her  manner  guarded.     Her  chief  aim  was  to 


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'THE  LORD  MATOB  OF  LOKDOK .  14} 

please  her  rojal  husband,  to  whom  she  invariably  showed  profound 
respect. 

About  nooB^  as  we  have  said,  and  while  the  Lord  Mayor  was 
landing  at  Westminster,  drums,  trumpets,  kettle-drums,  and  other 
instruments  resounded  within  the  courts  of  Saint  Jamei^s  Palace, 
and  amid  this  martial  din,  a  troop  of  Horse  Ghiards,  completely 
equipped,  and  extremely  well  mounted,  issued  from  the  ^tes, 
and  took  their  way  slowly  past  Marlborough  House  along  Pail- 
Mall. 

They  were  followed  by  a  superb  coach,  drawn  by  six  noble 
horses,  containing  the  Duke  of  Cumberland.  Attired  in  a  mag- 
nificent military  costume,  and  wearing  the  blue  ribband  and  a 
star,  the  hero  of  CuUoden  looked  painfully  ill,  and  as  if  his  days 
were  numbered.  At  this  juncture,  ne  was  slowly  recovering  from  a 
severe  paralytic  attack,  which  for  a  time  had  aeprived  him  of  the 
use  of  hie  limbs,  and  he  had  other  bodily  ailments  besides.  With 
difficulty,  and  only  by  the  aid  of  two  servants,  had  he  been  got 
into  his  coach.  Naturally  harsh  and  repulsive,  his  features  were 
BOW  swollen  and  distort^,  the  mouth  being  drawn  down  on  the 
left  side,  while  his  bloodshot  eyes  and  truculent  looks  seemed  to 
justify  the  epithet  of  **  the  Butcher,**  bestowed  upon  him  for  the 
severity  with  which  he  had  treated  the  unfortunate  Scots  during 
tfie  rebellion.  The  Duke  was  not  popular  with  the  multitude, 
and  very  few  cheers  greeted  him  as  he  entered  Pali-Mall.  Evi- 
dently offended  at  the  sullen  silence  of  the  throng,  and  with  the 
looks  almost  of  aversion  cast  at  him  by  some  of  them,  he  scowled 
fiercely  around,  and  threw  himself  back  in  his  carriage. 

After  another  troop  of  Horse  Guards  came  the  Pnncess  Amelia 
in  her  chariot  Sumptuously  attired  in  silver  brocade,  ornamented 
with  large  flowers,  and  having  her  head  dressed  k  la  HoUandaise, 
with  well-powdered  curis  at  the  sides,  and  large  ringlets  behind, 
frilled  with  ribbons  set  on  with  diamonds,  her  royal  highness  pre- 
sented a  very  splendid  appearance,  and  quickly  efiaced  the  dis- 
agreeable impression  produced  by  her  morose-loolring  brother. 

Next  followed  a  newly-fashioned  state-coach,  differing  from  the 
one  preceding  it,  inasmuch  as  it  had  a  superbly-gilt  ducal  coronet 
in  the  centre  of  the  roof,  instead  of  a  coronet  at  each  comer. 
And  here  we  may  be  permitted  to  observe  that,  although  our 
modem  equipages  are  in  some  respects  an  improvement  upon  those 
of  the  last  century,  they  are  far  less  elegant  in  form,  and  muck 
less  easy  to  ride  in.  The  way  in  which  the  old  chariots  were  hung 
enabled  their  occupants  to  recline  backwards  most  luxuriously, 
while  the  boachman's  box  was  placed  so  far  ofi*,  that  a  footman 
could  ait  between  it  and  the  body  of  the  carriage,  with  his  back 
to  the  horses — this  servant,  of  course,  being  merely  supplementary 
to  three  or  ibur  others  hanging  behind.  Moreover  the  ooaohee 
and  chariots  belonging  to  the  nobility  and  persons  of  weaMi 


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244  THE  LORD  MATOB  OF  LONBOIT. 

and  distinction,  were  magnificently  painted  and  gilt,  and  pre- 
sented a  gorgeous  appearance.  In  such  a  splendid  and  luxunous 
vehicle  as  described,  sat,  or  rather  lolled,  the  Duke  of  York, 
a  very  handsome  but  indolent-looking  young  man,  whose  de- 
meanour and  aspect  proclaimed  him  very  different  in  character 
from  his  sedate  elder  brother.  Nor  did  his  looks  belie  him ;  the 
young  duke  was  greatly  addicted  to  pleasurable  pursuits.  Attired 
m  white  velvet,  with  a  gold  brocade  waistcoat  ornamented  with 
flowers,  and  his  ruffles  and  shirt-frill  of  richest  point  d'Espagne, 
his  hair  powdered  and  clubbed,  he  had  the  appearance  of  a 
splendid  rou6.  Like  his  uncle  of  Cumberland  he  wore  a  blue 
nbband  and  a  star. 

After  the  young  duke  came  a  roomy  state-coach,  carrying  his 
three  brothers,  the  Princes  William,  Henry,  and  Frederick.  The 
royal  youths  were  dressed  in  rich  suits  of  various  colours,  flowered 
or  sprigged  of  gold,  and  all  three  looked  very  lively,  and  as 
if  anticipating  considerable  amusement  from  their  visit  to  the 
City. 

After  them  came  twelve  footmen  in  court  liveries,  wearing 
black  velvet  caps,  and  then  another  troop  of  horse,  followed  by 
a  coach  contaimng  the  Princess-Dowager  of  Wales  and  her  daugh- 
ters, the  Princesses  Augusta  and  Caroline. 

The  Princess-Dowager  was  still  an  exceedingly  handsome  woman 
— so  handsome,  indeed,  that  she  could  not  escape  the  breath  of 
scandal.    Eyes  fine  and  expressive,  skin  smooth  as  satin,  com- 

Slexion  brilliant — such  were  her  points  of  beauty;  while  time  had 
ealt  very  leniently  with  her,  as  if  unwilling  to  destroy  so  much 
loveliness.  Perhaps,  art  might  have  some  little  share  in  the  con- 
servation of  her  charms.  But  as  to  this  we  forbear  to  inquire, 
being  content  to  chronicle  the  result.  The  princess  was  dres^  in 
rich  silk,  trimmed  with  gold,  and  embroidered  with  ^een,  scarlet, 
and  purple  flowers.  Her  diamonds  were  very  brilhant;  she  had 
them  on  her  stomacher,  her  necklace  and  earrings;  her  sleeves 
were  fastened  with  them,  and  the  sprigs  in  her  hair  were  formed 
of  the  same  precious  stones.  Her  daughters  were  charmingly 
attired  in  pink  and  white  silks,  with  gold  and  silver  nets,  laced 
tippets,  and  treble-laced  ruffles.  Their  heads  were  dressed  a 
TAnglaise,  curled  down  the  sides,  powdered  and  fastened  with 
pink  and  silver  knots  —  a  mode  that  accorded  very  well  witli 
their  bright  young  faces. 

The  Princess-Dowager's  carriage  was  followed  by  a  grand 
retinue,  after  which  came  a  chariot  containing  the  Earl  of  Har- 
court.  Master  of  the  Horse,  and  then  another  in  which  sat  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire,  Lord  Chamberlain,  and  the  Marquis  of 
Rockingham,  Chief  Lord  of  the  Bedchamber.  Next  marched 
the  Grenadier  Guards,  and  these  were  succeeded  by  Yeomen  of 
the  Guard. 


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THE  LOBD  MATOR  OF  LOKDON.  245 

Then  followed  his  majestj's  state-carriage,  drawn  by  six  mag- 
nificently-caparisoned cream-coloured  horses.  In  it  sat  the  royal 
pair,  chatting  together  very  pleasantly,  and  both  looking  extremely 
cheerful  and  happy.  The  xing,  who  was  by  no  means  so  richly 
dressed  as  his  brotner  the  Duke  of  York,  or  even  as  the  younger 
princes,  wore  a  blue  embroidered  velvet  coat,  on  the  breast  of 
which  glittered  a  large  star  set  with  diamonds;  his  waistcoat  was 
of  white  brocade,  ornamented  with  silver  flowers.  A  plain  tie-wig, 
muslin  cravat,  lace  ruffies,  and  jabot,  completed  his  costume* 
Such  as  it  was,  his  attire  suited  him  remarkably  well.  The  aueea 
was  equally  imostentatiously  arrayed  in  plain  yeUow  silk,  laced 
with  pearls.  Her  hair,  which  she  wore  without  powder,  was  taken 
back  from  the  brow,  curled  at  the  sides  and  back,  and  secured  by 
a  half-circlet  of  pearls  and  diamonds.  Her  principal  ornaments 
were  superb  pear-shaped  pearl  earrings. 

At  the  comer  of  Saint  James's-street  a  balcony  was  erected, 
which  was  filled  with  well-dressed  personages  of  both  sexes — 
beaux,  young  and  old,  in  flowered  velvet,  or  cloths  trimmed  vrith 
TOld,  not  ot  the  dusky  and  monotonous  hues  now  in  vogue, 
but  of  every  variety  of  tint,  rich  brocaded  waistcoats,  perukes  of 
every  possible  shape,  high  foretope,  pigeons'  wings,  bobs,  bags, 
flat-ties,  and  Bamulies.  These  gentlemen  were  too  well  bred  to 
remain  covered  in  the  presence  of  ladies,  but  carried  their  three- 
cornered  laced  hats  under  their  arms,  and  trifled  with  their  snufE^ 
boxes  and  clouded  canes,  though  some  of  the  more  elderly  among 
them  protected  their  hands  from  the  cold  by  mufb.  Here  also 
the  female  fashions  of  the  day  were  fully  exhibited — sacques  of 
silk  and  satin  of  all  the  colours  in  the  rainbow,  tabby  sacques, 
white  and  silver  sacques,  pink-and- white-striped  tobine  sacques,  and 
brocaded  lustring  sacques,  with  a  ruby-coloured  ground;  fly-caps, 
Mecklenburg  cai)6,  Ranelagh  mobs,  turban  rolls,  and  ^^ heads"  of 
the  astounding  size  already  described. 

By  this  courtly  assemblage,  as  might  naturally  be  expected, 
their  majesties  were  very  well  receiv^,  though  no  loud  demon- 
strations were  made,  but  as  the  royal  carriage  rolled  slowly  along 
the  dieering  commenced,  and  was  vociferously  continued  as  far  as 
Cockspur-street.  Hats  and  handkerchiefs  were  waved  from  window 
and  balcony,  and  the  strongest  manifestations  of  loyalty  and  devo- 
tion exhibited.  Some  obstruction  occurred  at  Channg-cross,  which 
brought  the  cavalcade  to  a  halt,  and  a  stoppage  of  full  twenty 
minutes  ensued.  The  king  bore  the  delay  with  great  good  humour, 
laughed  and  chatted  with  the  queen,  called  her  attention  to  any 
trifling  matter  likely  to  divert  her,  and  repeatedly  and  graciously 
acknowledged  the  cheers  of  the  bystanders. 

At  the  time  of  our  story,  great  freedom  of  speech,  as  well  as  of 
action,  was  indulged  in  by  the  masses,  who  were  exceedingly  fond 
of  a  jest  and  a  practical  joke,  and  were  seldom  restrained  by  any 


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Si6  tHE  LORD  KATOB  OF  LOHBOOr. 

eense  of  decorum  from  giving  way  to  their  predileotionB.  Hence 
it  chanced  that,  while  the  royal  carriage  was  delayed  at  the  top  of 
Gockspur-street,  a  roar  of  laughter  suddenly  burst  from  the  throng 
near  it,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  towards  a  house  on  the  right, 
fiom  a  penthouse  on  which  some  young  taexi  were  dangling  sa 
immense  jack-boot.  The  allusion  was  at  once  understood  by  the 
erowd,  and  the  laughter,  wholly  unchecked  by  the  king's  presence, 
was  redoubled.  Some  hootings,  however,  arose  as  die  image  of  a 
Scotchman,  such  as  may  be  seen  at  the  door  of  a  tobaeoonist^ssfaoia^ 
was  brought  out  by  the  flame  young  men,  and  set  beside  due  jacc- 
boot  in  front  of  the  peat^house.  The  slight  expressions  of  disap- 
proval which  the  appearance  of  this  figure  had  occasioned  weve 
speedily  drowned  in  the  cheers  and  daughter  of  the  majority  of  the 
assemblage. 

"What!  what!  what's  that?  Hey!  hey!"  cried  the  king,  in 
his  quick  way,  looking  out  of  the  coach-window. 

His  majesty  spoke  so  loudly  that  the  inquiry  was  overheard  by 
those  near  him,  and  a  voice  immediately  responded,  ^  Ifs  the  new 
Scotch  minister— Jack  Boot.'' 

"Hold  your  ton^e,  fool!"  exclaimed  another  voice.  "DonH 
you  know  that  Lord  Bute  is  his  m^esty's  favourite?" 

"Pitt's  our  favourite,"  cried  a  third,  "and  unless  we  get  him 
back  again,  we'll  drive  all  the  beggarly  Scotchmen  over  the  Border  " 

Cki  this  there  wis  a  great  shout,  mingled  with  cries  of  "Pitt 
for  ever !    Wo  Ikvourite !  no  Scotch  minister  1 " 

On  hearing  these  outcries,  the  king  became  very  red,  and  sat  bsnk 
in  his  coach,  looking  highly  ofiended. 

"  These  good  folks  presume  rather  too  much  upon  their  freedom," 
iMsaid* 

^^  It  is  their  way^  no  doubt,  but  perhaps  there  is  no  harm  in  it," 
replied  the  queen,  softly.  "  It  is  not  against  your  majesty,  but 
against  Lord  Bute  that  these  cries  are  directed." 

^^The  rogues  think  they  can  force  me  by  their  clamour  to  take 
Pitt  back  again,  and  give  up  Bute,  but  they  may  shout  till  thejf've 
hoarse;  I  won't  do  it--J[  won't  do  it." 

"  Your  majesty  will  always  act  for  the  best;  of  that  I  am  quite 
sure,"  said  the  queen;  "  and  the  better  you  are  understood  by  yo«r 
people,  Ae  more  you  will  be  beloved." 

Just  then,  as  if  the  crowd  had  become  sensible  of  their  indecorous 
conduct,  loud  shouts  were  raised  for  the  king  and  queen,  and 
^missiles  were  hurled  against  the  obnoxious  jack-boot  and  Scotch- 
man, which  were  quiccly  withdrawn,  only  to  be  brought  forward 
again,  however,  shortly  afterwards. 

No  other  incident  occurred  before  the  cavalcade  was  again  |mt 
in  motion,  but  the  king  had  not  reached  Charing-cross  when  a 
iMCond  stoppage  took  pl^.  Precautions  ought  to  have  been  taken 
to  jn^vent  these  hiniuanoes,  but  it  would  seem  from  thmrecnr- 


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THB  LOED  MATOE  OF  LONDON.  247 

BBBoe  diat  they  mmi  haT«  been  se^aoted.  A  TMt  crowd  wosIimb 
a»embkd»  and  of  a  move  mucdUaneous  character  than  that  which 
had  ocoupiad  Pall*Mall  and  CoekspnrHitreet^  a  hrge  portion  con* 
aating  of  low  rabUe.  But  these  poor  folk  were  just  as  lojal  aoid 
warm^ieartedf  hawevetf  as  their  betters^  and  chewed  their  yoang 
sovereign  and  his  queen  most  histily. 

It  was  during  his  detention^  howeyer^  at  this  point  that  hit 
mi^estij  was  made  aware^  in  an  unmislakaUe  manner^  of  ike  nn- 
populmty  of  his  favouiitB.  A  distant  yell  was  heard^  increasing 
m  Yolume  as  it  was  caught  up  and  carried  cm^  which  informed  tfaa 
king  that  Loud  Bute's  carriage  was  approaching^  and  by  the  time 
die  minister,  who  now  swayed  liie  cabinet,  had  joined  the  lojal 
cavalcade,  he  was  exposed  to  a  perfect  storm  of  indignation. 


XL 

THS  PAVOUBITE. 

The  object  of  this  popular  displeasure,  to  whom  so  much  alluflion 
baa  already  been  made,  was  a  very  stately-looking  personage,  wilb 
a  serious  and  almost  tragic  cast  of  countenance*  He  was  still  in 
ihe  prime  of  life,  being  a  year  or  two  under  fifty;  his  filatures  were 
decidedly  handsome,  ms  parson  tall  and  elegant,  hb  address  courtly 
though  very  formal,  and  his  deportment  dignified  but  somewhat 
theatricaL  Lord  Bnte^s  gravity  did  not  seem  altogether  natural  to 
him,  any  more  than  the  sbw  and  messured  style  of  meech  which  he 
adopted,  even  in  ordinary  disi^Qfurse.  His  aim  was  to  be  weighty  and 
impressive^  but  he  was  sententious  and  afieoted,  and  consequently 
tiresome.  Yet  his  manner  pleased  the  king,  and  if  report  was  to 
be  trusted,  was  partioulariy  agreeable  to  his  majest^s  mother,  tin 
Princess-Dowager  of  Wales.  Perhaps,  beneaA  tins  cold  and  im- 
pressive  exterior  there  lurked  a  more  ardent  temperament  dian 
seemed  natural  to  him.  Undoubtedly,  Lord  Bute  possessed  great 
self-mastery,  and  rarely  exhibited  emotion  of  ainr  kind,  at  least  in 
public*  Such  a  visage  as  his  was  well  calculated  to  conceal  what 
was  passing  within.  Each  muscle  was  under  control.  Not  on^ 
w«re  his  looks^  however,  carefially  studied,  but  every  gesture  ana 
accent  In  short,  he  was  a  consummate  actor,  and  it  was  mainly 
owing  to  his  ability  in  this  line  that  he  owed  his  elevation. 

Shordy  afSter  the  Rebellion  of  '45,  in  order  to  move  his  nal  to 
the  House  of  Hanover,  the  Earl  of  Bute,  who  haa  for  some  time 
retired  to  the  Hebridean  Isles,  of  which  he  was  lord,  and  from 
which  he  derived  his  title,  returned  to  London,  and  offered  his 
services  to  the  government,  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  over^ 
tureswonld  have  been  successful  had  not  an  unexpected  piece  of 
good  luck  beffdlen  Urn.  A  series  of  dramatic  performances, 
given  by  the  Duchess  of  Queensbury,  were  honoured  by  the  pr©- 


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248  THE  LOBD  MAYOR  OF  LONDON. 

senoe  of  the  Prince  and  Prinoeea  of  Wales  and  their  court,  and 
on  one  occasion  Rowe's  "  Fair  Penitent"  was  played,  the  part  of 
the  gallant  gay  Lothario  being  assigned  to  Bute,  whose  remark- 
able personal  advantages,  then  at  their  acme,  eminently  fitted  him 
for  the  part.  Bute's  good  looks  and  graceful  person,  combined 
with  the  passionate  ardour  thrown  by  him  into  the  part,  so  charmed 
the  sensitive  princess  that  she  invited  him  to  her  court,  and  thence- 
forth he  became  a  constant  attendant  upon  her,  and  exercised  a 
marked  influence  in  the  direction  of  anairs  at  Leicester  House. 
He  enjoyed  equal  favour  with  the  prince,  and  on  the  death  of  the 
latter — an  event  that  occurred  about  ten  years  before  the  date  of 
<M