SCENE III.

A drawing-room; doors in the flat; one opening into Miss Juliana

Smashaway's boudoir, and the other to her bed-chamber. She is

discovered standing at the window in a pensive attitude. She sighs

heavily, and rubs her temples with "eau de Cologne."

_Miss S._--He comes not--half-past four! Ah, fickle Connor! Is this

thy plighted faith, and thrice-pledged honour? Was it for this, I

waived a grocer's hand, And twice refused a counter in the Strand,

Sent back an offer from a Tenth Hussar, And without warning left Soho

bazaar, Rejected Griskin, that rich man of mutton; Shy'd Lincoln

Stanhope, and cut Manners Sutton?

(_Sudden noise. Voices without._)

_1st voice._--Fare's sixteen-pence, and with one bob I'm shamm'd!

Fork out the four-pence!

_2nd voice._ First I'd see you d--d!

(_Door opens. Clipclose rushes in, and embraces Miss Smashaway._)

_Miss S._ (_with considerable spirit._)--Unhand me, fellow! Whence

this bold intrusion? I think I'll faint, I feel in such confusion.

DUET--_Clipclose and Miss S._--("Pray Goody.")

_Mr. C._

Oh, come, Juliana, lay aside your anger and surprise; One

trifling kiss you'll scarcely miss, you know. I saw a ready

pardon seal'd already in your eyes, Else, 'pon my soul! I scarce

had ventur'd so.

_Miss S._

True, sir; but you, sir, Should recollect what's due, sir, To one

so young and innocent

_Mr. C._

As pretty Missus Ju--. Oh, come, Miss S. do lay aside your anger

and surprise; A trifling kiss you'll scarcely miss, you know. I

saw a ready pardon seal'd already in your eyes, Else, 'pon my

soul! I had not ventur'd so.

(_Cab stops suddenly at the door. Miss S. looks out alarmed. Loud

knocking. Alarum._)

_Miss S._--Lost--lost for ever!

_Mr. C._ Pray, madam, what's the matter?

_Miss S._--Heard ye no broadsword on the pavement clatter?

_Mr. C._--A broadsword! Zounds! My teeth begin to chatter!

_Miss S._--Where shall I hide him?--(_Opens the chamber door._)--In,

sir, or you 're dead.

_Mr. C._--Can nothing save me?

_Miss S._ Creep beneath the bed.

(_Door opens. Mags peeps in._)

_Mags._--She's quite alone. Oh, happy Matthew Mags!

(_Maid-servant enters._)

_Maid._--A chap's below who says he's Samuel Snags.

_Mags._--I'm a done man; for that 'ere cove will blow me.

_Miss S._--Follow me in, and I will safely stow ye.

(_Enter Snags._)

_Snags._--Divine Miss Smashaway, I humbly kneel To plead a passion

you can never feel; A smile will save, a frown as surely kill, One

who for you has robb'd his master's till.

_Miss S._--Well, after that the man deserves some pity.-- Knocking

again! and here comes my maid Kitty.

(_Enter Maid._)

_Maid._--One Mr. Poppleton.

_Miss S._ Was ever one so courted?

_Snags._--All's up with me; for life I'll be transported! Ma'am,

could you save a lover?

_Miss S._ Let me see. Oh, yes; the bed will surely cover three.

(_Puts Snags into bed-chamber. Enter Poppleton._)

_Pop._--Where is my charmer?

(_Enter Maid, hastily._)

_Maid_ (_to Pop._) Sir, you're dead as mutton; The Captain's come.

Your life's not worth a button.

_Pop._--Where shall I hide?

_Miss S._ (_to the Maid._) Put him with t'other three; They're the

same firm, "Clipclose and company."

(_A heavy footstep is heard, and a sword strikes against the stairs.

Enter the Captain, whistling "Darby Kelly."_)

_Miss S._ (_flies into his arms._)--My own loved Guardsman, and my

fancy beau. Oh, Terence Connor! (_Kissing him._)

_Capt._ (_embracing her._)--Sweet Juliana, O!

_Miss S._--Why did you dally, dearest; tell me all? Were you on guard?

_Capt._ Yes, sweetest, at Whitehall.

_Miss S._--Ah, you false man,--(_taps his cheek playfully,_)--I'll

watch you close.

(_Somebody sneezes within._)

_Capt._ What's that?

_Miss S._--Nothing, dear Terence, but the landlord's cat.

(_Somebody coughs twice._)

_Capt._--A cough!--another! Do cats cough so, my fair? Ha! her cheeks

redden! Tell me who is there? That guilty look! Zounds! If my fears

be true, He'll curse the hour he dared to visit you!

(_Draws his sword, and rushes into the bed-chamber. Miss S. faints.

Voices within._)

_Capt._--A man!--my eyes! another!--and another! A fourth one still!

_Snags._ I'm dead with fright!

_Pop._ I smother!

(_Capt. drives them before him into the drawing-room._)

_Capt._ (_in a frenzy._)--Why, hell and Tommy! the maid whom I adore

To prove untrue, and play me false with four! But all shall die!

(_Captain Connor cuts No. 6. with his sword, while Clipclose and

company fall upon their knees._)

_Mags._ Oh, Lord! I'm dead already!

_Capt._--Prepare for death!

_Snags and Pop._ Indeed, sir, we an't ready.

_Mr. C._--Probably, sir, affection for my wife Might plead my pardon,

and reprieve my life.

(_Enter, hastily, Mrs. Clipclose and Annette._)

_Mrs. C._--Why, what's all this? What do my eyes discover? An errant

husband, and a truant lover! (_Aside to Mr. C._)--Was it for this I

gave my faith to you? (_Aside to Capt. C._)--Was it for this I drove

you out to Kew, Paid cab and lunch, brown stout, and ruin blue?

(_Capt. C. drops the point of his sword, and evinces great

contrition for attempting the lives of the company, when enter an

elderly pieman with a juvenile dealer in "all-hots," attended by

two policemen. Pieman identifies Miss Smashaway._)

_Pieman._--That 'ere flash madam hit me in the withers.

_All-hot (pointing to Mr. Clipclose)._--And that cove knock'd my

kitchen-range to shivers!

_Mr. C._ (_to Policeman._)--Let me explain, sir.

_Miss S._ Pray, sir, let me speak.

_Policeman._--Silence! and keep your gammon for the beak.

(_A rumbling noise heard underneath, attended by a disagreeable

vapour._)

_Policeman._--Zounds! what is this? it smothers me almost. Is it the

gas-pipe?

_Capt. C._ No, dash my wig! a ghost!

(_Slow music. Apparition of Old Clipclose rises through the stage,

dressed in a white shirt, and scarlet nightcap._)

ROUNDELAY--_Ghost and Company._

("Good morrow to you, Madam Joan.")

_Ghost._

All in the family way, Whack-fal-li, fal-la-di-day! Are you met

here to take tea? Whack-fal-li, &c. Or is it love-making you're

come? Tol-de-re-lol, &c. Or to keep clear away from a bum?

Whack-fal-li, &c.

_Miss S._

Oh, no, sir! we're going to jail, Whack-fal-li, &c. Unless,

Mister Ghost, you'll go bail, Whack-fal-li, &c.

_Policeman._

A spectre, Miss S. will not do, Whack-fal-li, &c.

(_To the Ghost._)

Where the blazes! should we look for you? Whack-fal-li, &c.

(_Enter Capt. C's four wives._)

_1st Wife._

Ah, Terry, you traitor, you're there! Whack-fal-li, &c.

_2nd Wife._

As usual, deceiving the fair! Whack-fal-li, &c.

_3rd Wife._

You'll pay dear enough for your pranks! Whack-fal-li, &c.

_4th Wife._

You're broke, and reduced to the ranks! Whack-fal-li, &c.

(_Capt. C. seems thunderstruck, grinds his teeth passionately, then

strikes his forehead, and sings._)

AIR--_Capt. C._--("The night before Larey was stretch'd.")

_Capt. C._

By St. Patrick, I'm done for, at last! From a captain come down

to a private. Terry Connor, your glory is past; A very nice pass

to arrive at!

(_To the Ghost._)

I say, you old rum-looking swell, I would deem it a favour, and

civil, In spite of your sulphur'ous smell, To take me down stairs

to the devil, And get me a troop in his guards.

_Ghost_ (_to the Capt._)--Shut your potato-trap! we still refuse--

The corps's so moral--Life-Guardsmen and Blues.

_4th Wife._--Cheer up, my Connor; 'twas in jest I spoke, When I

affirm'd my best beloved was broke.

_Ghost (addressing the company)._--Ladies and Gemmen, give the ghost

a hearance, As this, his first, must be his last appearance. (_To

Mr. and Mrs. Clipclose_)--Bent upon wedlock, and an heir, to vex ye,

If toasted cheese had not brought apoplexy, I died asleep, and left

my hard-won riches; Search the left pocket of my dark drab breeches;

Open the safe, and there you'll find my will; Deal for cash only and

stick to Ludgate-hill; Watch the apprentices, and lock the till; And

quit the turf, the finish, and the mill; Turn a new leaf, and leave

off former sins; Pay the pieman, and mend young "All-hot's" tins.

_Mr. C._ (_doubtfully._)--Did you die rich, dad?

_Ghost._ Rich as any Jew; And half a plum, son Bob, devolves on you.

_Mrs. C._--What a dear ghost, to die when he was wanted! Will you

forgive me?

_Ghost._ Ma'am, your pardon's granted. My time's but short; but

still, before I go, With Miss Juliana I would sport a toe.

_Miss S._--With all my heart. What would your ghostship order?

_Ghost._--Tell them to play, "Blue bonnets o'er the border."

_Apollonicon_ strikes up the country-dance. _Ghost_ leads off with

_Miss Smashaway_; the _Captain_ follows with _Mrs. Clipclose_;

_Clipclose_, _Mags_, _Snags_, and _Poppleton_ each choose one of the

_Captain's Wives_; the _Police_ dance with the _Ladies' Maids_; and

the _Pieman_ with "_All-hot_." Twice down the middle, poussette, and

form hands round. At the end of the dance, the _Ghost_ vanishes, and

the remainder of the _dramatis personæ_ take hands, and advance to

the stage-lights.

GRAND FINALE--("There's nae luck about the house.")

Dad's away, and we may play, Nor dread Old Grumpy's frown; Well

may we say, "thrice happy day When Square-toes toddled down!"

There's now luck about the house, There's now luck to a'; There's

now luck about the house Since grumpy dad's awa!

(_Curtain falls amid tremendous applause, and a call for the author._)

CRITICAL REMARKS BY AN M.P.

"I am not in the habit of frequenting the theatres, nor indeed any

public house, except the House of Commons; neither do I pretend to be

particularly conversant with the drama: but, by general consent, this

play has been declared not inferior to the happiest effort of the bard

of Avon, as player-people call William Shakspeare. I have not seen it

represented; for, the free list being suspended, prudence would not

permit me to attend. Had half-price been taken, I think I should have

gone to the two-shilling gallery; but this question is irrelevant.

"The author deserves well of his country. Indeed, his is a double

claim; and the debt consequently due by the public would amount to a

large _tottle_. No doubt the restoration of the drama is a matter of

some importance; but surely the diminution of drumsticks is one of

infinitely greater consideration!

"I perceive by the playbills,--one of which I was enabled to obtain

_gratis_,--that a gentleman called Tambourette performs upon two

drums with a single stick. Now, I call the public attention to this

important discovery; and, in these times of retrenchment and reform,

the introduction of this system into our military establishment should

be at once insisted on. The saving would be immense. Assuming that

there are one hundred and three battalions of foot, and, on an average,

twelve drums to each regiment,--a shameful waste of public money,

by-the-bye, one drum and fife being quite sufficient for each corps,

as they only alarm an enemy in war-time, and, in peace, destroy the

utility of servant-maids by seducing them eternally to the windows.

Well, even permitting this extravagant number to remain; by adopting

Mr. Tambourette's system of performance, one thousand two hundred and

thirty-six drumsticks would be saved to the country. Now, averaging the

cost of the smaller-sized drumstick at sixpence, and the larger at one

shilling, a reduction in the army estimates might be effected of _one

thousand one hundred and thirty-three small_ and _one hundred and three

large ones_; making a _tottle_ to the credit of the nation of 33_l._

9_s._ 6_d._!!!

"If the author will furnish me with the necessary information to enable

me to frame a bill, I will move for a return of the drummers attached

at present to the army: specifying their respective names, weights,

heights, and ages, and take the earliest opportunity of bringing the

matter before parliament.

"J.H.

"July 1, 1837.

"P.S. If one thousand two hundred and thirty-six drumsticks be

dispensed with, it follows that a similar number of drummers'

hands will then remain unoccupied. Might not a _one-handed fife_

be introduced, or a pandean pipe substituted, and fifers totally

abolished? I see no reason why the same man should not play the drum

and fife together. This, indeed, would be a reduction worthy a reformed

parliament, and a tremendous saving to the public purse.

"J.H."

THREE NOTCHES FROM THE DEVIL'S TAIL; OR, THE MAN IN THE SPANISH CLOAK.

A TALE OF "ST. LUKE'S."

I had often met with him before in my travels, and had been much struck

with the peculiar acumen of his remarks whenever we entered into

conversation. His observations were witty, pungent, and sarcastic;

but replete with knowledge of men and things. He seemed to despise

book-knowledge of every kind, and argued that it only tended to

mislead. "I have good reason to be satisfied on this point," he said to

me one day at Vienna. "History is not to be relied on; a fact is told

a hundred different ways; the actions of men are misrepresented, their

motives more so; and as for travels, and descriptions of countries,

manners, customs, &c. I have found out that they are the most absurd

things in the world,--mere fables and fairy tales. Never waste your

time on such trash!"

I again met this gentleman in Paris; it was at a _salon d'écarté_;

and he amused me much by informing me of the names and circumstances

of the most distinguished persons present. Whether English, French,

or Germans, he knew something of the private history of each, some

ridiculous adventure or silly _contre-tems_. I marvelled how he could

have collected so great a store, such as it was, of anecdote and

information; how he carried it all in remembrance; and, still more, at

the perfect _sang-froid_ with which he detailed these things under the

very noses of the persons concerned, who would, had they heard them, no

doubt have made as many holes in his body with "penetrating lead" as

there are in a cullender.

To avoid getting into any scrape myself, I invited this _well-informed_

gentleman to spend an evening with me at my hotel, where, over a bottle

of claret, we might discuss some of those amusing matters, more, at

least, to my own ease. Before we separated, I pointed out a certain

Englishman to him, who was playing high, and did not notice us: I asked

him "If he knew anything respecting that gentleman?" I had my private

reasons for asking this question, unnecessary now to mention, and was

pleased to find my colloquial friend knew, as they say, "all about

him;" so we parted, with a promise on his side that on the following

evening he would visit me, and give me every particular.

He came punctually to appointment, but I could not prevail on him

to put off his large Spanish cloak, what they call technically "_an

all-rounder_;" he complained of cold, said he had been accustomed to

a _warm climate_, and sat down just opposite to me, when, without

hesitation, in a sort of business-like way, he entered at once into the

details I most wished to know respecting the young Englishman we had

left at the _salon d'écarté_; and left no doubt on my mind, from some

circumstances I already knew respecting him, that the account was most

veracious. I fell into a fit of musing in consequence of his narration,

which he did not interrupt by a single remark; but, fixing his eyes

upon me, seemed to be amusing himself with watching the progress of my

thoughts.

"It will never do!" said I, forgetting I was not alone; "he is not

worthy of her."

I stopped, and the stranger rose, gave me a peculiar significant look,

and was retiring, but I would not permit it; and, apologising for my

abstraction, insisted that he should finish the bottle with me: so he

sat down again, and we tried to converse as before, but it would not do.

There we sat, facing each other, and both nearly silent; and now it was

that I remembered I had never once seen this stranger without this same

Spanish cloak,--a very handsome one it is true, richly embroidered,

and decorated with Genoese velvet, and a superb clasp and chain of the

purest gold and finest workmanship. I pondered on this circumstance,

as I recollected that even in Italy and the Ionian islands, where

I had before met him by some extraordinary chance, as well as at

Constantinople and at Athens, he had always been enveloped in this same

most magnificent mantle. At last I thought of the fable of the man,

the sun, and the wind; so concluded that he wore this Spanish cloak to

guard him equally from heat and cold, to exclude the sun's rays and the

winter's winds; or, perhaps, I argued, he wears it to conceal the seedy

appearance of his inner garments, or sundry deficiencies of linen, &c.

"Things will wear out, and linen will lose its snowy whiteness, but

what the devil have I to do with the matter? Let him wear his cloak,

and sleep in it too, if it please him; why should I trouble my head

about it?"

"You are returning to England soon, sir," said, at length, the cloaked

stranger (but I am certain that I had not intimated such intention to

him); "I am proceeding there myself on some pressing business, and will

do myself the honour of there renewing our acquaintance."

I paused and hesitated ere I replied to this proposition. It is one

thing to invite an agreeable stranger to drink a bottle of claret with

you at an hotel in Paris, and another to bring him to the sanctuary

of your home, to the fireside of an Englishman, to the board of your

ancestors, to suffer him to gaze freely on the faces of your sisters,

and to pay his court at his ease to every other female relative beneath

the paternal roof!

The stranger saw my embarrassment, and seemed to penetrate the cause.

He gave me a smile of most inexplicable expression as he said,

"Your late father, Sir George F----, and myself, were old

acquaintances. We spent some months together at Rome, and met with a

few adventures there, which I dare say have never reached the ears of

his son."

This was said in his usual sarcastic way; but I could not endure that

he should allude in the slightest manner of disrespect to my deceased

father; so I answered, with much reserve, and some sign of displeasure,

"That I did not wish to pry into the youthful follies of so near a

relative; at the same time I thought it odd I never should have heard

my father mention that he had formed any particular intimacy with any

one at Rome, but, on the contrary, had even been given to understand

that all his recollections of the Eternal City were rather of an

_unpleasing_ nature."

"Did he never mention to you the baths of Caracalla?" demanded my

strange guest; "but it matters little, for the son of Sir George F----

merits every attention from me _on his own account_, as well as for the

sake of _another_----" He did not finish the sentence; but, folding

his cloak more closely round him, he made me a profound bow, something

between an Eastern salaam and the bow of a dancing-master, and politely

took his leave.

For two or three days I thought much of this extraordinary man; but

after that time I became so deeply interested in a Platonic _liaison_

with Madame de R----, the beautiful wife of a Parisian banker, that I

forgot him altogether. I had to read, as well as to write, sentimental

_billets-doux_ sometimes twice a day, for so often they passed between

my fair Platonist and myself. I had to select all her books, her

flowers, and to choose her ribbons. I know not how it might have ended,

for affairs began to wear a very critical aspect; but I was summoned to

England by an express. My beloved mother was dangerously ill. I tore

myself away, disregardful of the tears that gathered in the brightest

pair of eyes in the world, and travelled post-haste to Calais.

Scarcely had I put my foot on the deck of the vessel ere I perceived my

acquaintance of the Spanish cloak. There he was, walking up and down

the deck,--tall, erect, gentlemanly; there was his magnificent cloak,

without a wrinkle or a spot, the gloss still on it. I sat still, and

watched him, not without a sensation of annoyance, as I was not at

all in the humour just then to enter into conversation. I was uneasy

respecting the life of an only parent, and I had just parted with one

of the prettiest women in France, at the moment, too, when we both

wished Platonism in the same place its founder was, dead and buried;

but I might have saved myself the trouble of being annoyed, for the

stranger did not seem to recognise me, nor wish to speak to any one.

His carriage was lofty and reserved; his eye was proud, and sought to

_overlook_ the rest of the passengers as unworthy of its notice; and so

marked was his avoidance of myself, that I began to feel piqued, and to

imagine that my own personal appearance, if not our former knowledge of

each other, might have gained for me the honour of his notice. Never

before did I see so imperious an eye, or so magnificent a cloak!

The passage was a very boisterous one; and all the passengers, both

male and female, began to show evident signs enough that the human

animal was never intended by Nature to ride upon the ocean's billows.

Strange sounds were heard from the very depths of human stomachs, as if

in response to the roaring of the winds and the dashing of the waves! I

began to sympathise most sincerely with the unhappy sufferers; for such

sights and sounds are sure to affect the feelings of those who both

see and hear. In short, I began to look grave, and become squeamish.

I saw nothing but livid lips and blue cheeks around me,--a perfect

pandæmonium of wretchedness; yet there walked the stately man in the

cloak, perfectly unmoved in countenance and stomach. I perceived he had

lighted a cigar, which glowed of a bright red colour, and threw a glow

over his handsome features.

I grew still worse, and my disorder was coming to its climax, when the

eye of the stranger for the first time condescended to notice me, and

he bowed ceremoniously, with a smile which seemed to say, "I wish you

joy, young man, of your sea-sickness!" I turned from him, and sincerely

wished him in the same condition as myself and the other victims of the

wrath of Neptune. He advanced towards me.

"You look ill, sir!" he exclaimed. "Take the advice of an old sailor;

only try one of my cigars; _they are not of common use_; one or two

whiffs will drive away your nausea. I never knew them fail."

Now I loathe smoking at all times; it is a vulgar and idle amusement,

fit only, as a modern writer says, for "the swell-mob;" but at this

moment the thought of it was execrable. I could have hurled the

stranger, when he offered me one of his cigars already ignited, into

the sea.

"I never smoke, sir," said I, pettishly, "and I always get as far away

as I can from those who do. May I thank you to go a little to the

windward?"

"My dear sir, do not be obstinate," said the pertinacious stranger;

"we have many hours before we shall touch the shore, for you see

both wind and tide are against us. I assure you the remedy is always

efficacious;" and he handed me a lighted cigar, immediately under my

nose.

I snatched at the burning preparation, and flung it overboard, with

an exclamation of no gentle kind; it dropped into the boiling waves,

making a noise like a hissing red-hot iron, as it is put by the smith

into the water of the stone cistern.

"It is not of the slightest consequence," said my tormentor, affecting

to believe I had dropped the cigar by accident, "I have plenty more

in my case;" and with the most provoking coolness he lighted another

from his own, and presented it to me. I was puzzled what to do, for the

courtesy of this man was extreme. I was exceedingly sick, and wished

to get rid of him; for who likes to have a witness during the time of

Nature's distress? I therefore accepted his cigar, and turned from him,

with a very equivocal bow of acknowledgement.

There was something of a very refreshing nature in the smell of this

extraordinary-looking cigar, which was burning steadily in my hand.

I resolved to try its boasted efficacy; and accordingly put it to my

lips, and inhaled its fragrance. In a moment I was well, more than

well; for a delicious languor seized me. After that, my nerves were

braced, invigorated; I felt as a hunter does after a long day's sport,

hungry almost to famine, and I descended to the saloon, and called

lustily to the steward to bring me a cold fowl, a plate of ham, and a

bottle of porter. No more nausea, no more livid lips and blue cheeks.

All of a sudden I became eloquent, poetical, and brimful of the tender

passion. I wished to console some of my fair companions who were

languishing around me, and offered my cigar to all who would accept

it. Had it not been for an occasional thought of my mother's illness,

which would intrude upon me whether I wished it or not, what folly and

entanglement might I have got into with a pretty milliner on board,

just returned from Paris, with fashions in her head, and French levity

in her heart!

I ought to have acknowledged my obligation to the stranger for his

remedy; but I had conceived so insuperable a dislike to him, that I

could not account for it, and my only wish was to escape from his

society at Dover, as I feared he would offer to accompany me to London,

and I could hardly refuse him after the service he had rendered me. I

therefore lingered below some few minutes when we arrived, and looked

cautiously around me when I ascended the companion-ladder; but the

stranger was gone. I saw no trace of his august person then, or his

superb Spanish cloak.

I hastened on with four horses to ---- Square, and met my weeping

sisters. My mother still breathed; but that was all. The physicians

could not comprehend her malady, but agreed to call it a general

debility, an exhaustion of the vital energies, without any particular

complaint. She was extremely weak, but knew me instantly, and smiled

her welcome as I knelt and kissed her hand.

My mother was only of the middle age, which made it more strange that

physical weakness should thus overpower her. I inquired at what time

she was first seized; and on reference to my note-book, found out that

her first appearance of illness was at the _precise hour_ when the

stranger in the Spanish cloak was sitting with me at my hotel, and

talking to me of my father. Well! what of that? it was a mere chance!

It is no use disguising it. I am naturally superstitious. We can

no more help the frailties of our minds than the blemishes of our

features. As I sat by my declining mother's side, I pondered again and

again on this mysterious stranger. I recollected how he had cured me of

my sickness in a moment; how wonderfully he knew the private history

of every individual; and I ended by believing that there was something

of a supernatural agency about him. "Perhaps," thought I, starting up

suddenly, and speaking aloud, "perhaps this wonderful cigar of his

might recover my beloved mother." I searched every pocket, hoping that

a remnant of it might have remained: but, no; it had been whiffed away

by the ladies in the cabin, and I had not a vestige left.

When once an idea seizes hold on the mind, it scarcely ever lets go

its hold. I began to consider myself mad, yet could not prevent myself

from going out I knew not whither, to make inquiries for the cloaked

stranger, and request him to give me another of his marvellous cigars.

As I passed Louisa and Emily, my sisters, and----, now no more, they

were alarmed by the wildness of my looks, and endeavoured to arrest my

progress.

"I go to seek a remedy for my mother," exclaimed I, breaking from them,

and I darted from the house.

I made inquiries at all the principal hotels and club-houses for the

stranger in the magnificent cloak. The waiters at the Oriental, the

Travellers, and the Albion, had all seen him, but knew not his address

or name. I sought him in the parks, at the exhibitions; but could

not find him. At length I thought of the British Museum, but _why_ I

did so appears to me most mysterious; I drove instantly thither, and

ran through all the rooms with the most searching gaze. In George

the Fourth's splendid library there, seated at his ease by special

permission from Sir Henry Ellis, I beheld the man I sought, with a

large folio volume of Eastern learning spread open before him.

I felt ashamed to address him; for, had I not been most uncourteous,

most repulsive to him? and now I wanted another favour. I stood before

the table at which he sat, and watched his countenance as he seemed

engrossed with his Oriental literature; but it was only for a moment,

for he raised his eyes by some sudden impulse, and fixed them straight

upon me.

The stranger acknowledged me not even by a bow or a look of

recognition. I knew not what to say to him, yet the case was urgent.

"Pardon me, sir," I stammered out, "I fear I interrupt you; but----"

"Proceed, sir," said the stranger, coldly. "I am always ready to

listen to the son of Sir George F----, for I owe to the father some

obligation."

"You possess the power of allaying the most tormenting sickness by some

mysterious drug or preparation," I said, hesitating as I spoke: "that

was no common cigar. Have you other remedies?"

"A thousand," replied the stranger. "Pray go on."

"My mother lies dangerously ill; can you restore her?"

"May I behold the patient?" demanded the stranger, and an inexpressible

glance flashed from his brilliant eyes.

What made me tremble at this natural request? for such it might have

been deemed, since every medical man has free liberty to inquire into

the symptoms of the case before he prescribes.

Fixedly did his eyes rest on mine; they seemed as if turned to stone,

for they moved not in the slightest degree.

"I will _describe_ my mother's case to you, sir," I said, evasively.

He made me no answer; but, casting down his eyes, he calmly resumed

his reading, and I walked up and down the spacious apartment, in

which there were not above a dozen other persons, in a state of mind

resembling a chaos, occasionally glancing with angry eyes at the

reading stranger, who seemed perfectly composed, and unconscious of my

presence.

"What a fool am I!" said I, mentally; "what _harm_ can this man do my

dying mother? but, then, _she_ may see him--this being that resembles

a demi-god--and _she_ too of so peculiar a mind, so enamoured of all

that is great and wonderful; so romantic, too! Wretch that I am! is my

beloved mother's life to be sacrificed--at least the chance of saving

her--to a wild and jealous fantasy? No!" and I walked up again to the

table.

The stranger was rising as I approached him, had closed his book, and

returned it to the librarian. He would have passed me, but I laid my

hand upon his arm.

"Most extraordinary being!" said I, "_come_, I conjure you, and save my

mother!"

He entered my carriage without saying a word, and silently followed me

to the apartment of my languishing parent, who was dozing in a sort of

lethargic stupor, that appeared to be the precursor of death. My two

sisters stood gazing on her pale features, and---- was holding her thin

white hand in one of hers, and bathing it with her tears.

The stranger took my mother's hand from hers, and--I cannot be

mistaken, for I watched every movement--some strong agitation, some

convulsive spasm, passed over his countenance as he looked upon that

face which never had its equal yet on earth; but, whatever was his

emotion, he soon mastered it, and desired that a silver plate and lamp

might be brought to him.

From a small crystal box the stranger took out a brown preparation,

and, breaking it in two, placed them on the silver plate; then with

a slip of paper lighted from the lamp he ignited the substance so

placed, which sent up a pale blue flame, and a most intoxicating odour.

He desired that my mother should be raised in bed, even to a sitting

posture, when he placed the blazing plate immediately beneath her

nostrils, and some portion of the actual flame entered and curled about

her face. My sisters shrieked, but ---- spake not a word, and I waited

the result with agonised impatience.

"She revives! she revives!" exclaimed the latter, "and my blessed aunt

will live!"

It was true. Years have gone by, and _my mother is still alive_. Never

has she had an hour's illness from that hour. Was I grateful to the

stranger for saving a life so prized? No. In my heart I loathed him at

the very time he was heaping benefits upon me. And why? I detected a

look of wonder, and admiration, and gratitude, and a smile of ineffable

beauty directed towards him by one who----

Disguising as well as I was able the hatred that swelled within my

heart, I offered to place on the finger of this mysterious visitant a

ring of great value, that belonged once to my father. He started as

he saw it, and, pressing a secret spring in it that I knew not of,

restored it to me.

"It was a present from myself to him at Rome," he said, and his voice

faltered, "for a signal benefit conferred. Behold! there is my own

miniature!"

And it was so. Most exquisitely painted was there concealed, a minute

resemblance of himself. I now perceived, and I cursed him in my heart

for it, that ---- retained the ring, after having expressed her

astonishment at the fidelity of the likeness. I rudely snatched it from

her hand, and threw the ring from me.

"Theodore," said my mother, "give me that ring. I know full well who

it was presented that ring to him who is now no more. Marquis! I must

speak to you alone, but not now. Come hither to-morrow. Now, I beseech

you, retire!"

How dreadful is it to bear about with us the seeds of insanity. I have

felt them shoot and grow within me from my childhood. The fibres had

twined about my very being. _I knew_ that madness must some time or

other scorch my brain; I was full of delusions; I could behold nothing

clear with my mental vision. I once heard a learned physician say to my

father, "Take care of him, sir. Excitement may drive that boy mad. Do

not let him study too much; and, above all, I trust he will never meet

with disappointment in any affair of the heart."

Have I met with such? Let me not think about it, or----_And yet I am

not mad now._

From this time I became gloomy and morose, and always worse whenever

this accursed man in the Spanish cloak came to the house, which now

was very often. He charmed all but myself. I hated the sound of his

voice. My sisters would come and try to soothe me into sociability

and calmness. I repelled them with harshness and severity; and even

when my gentle cousin tried each soft persuasive art to lead me to his

presence, I taunted her in the cruellest manner with her hypocrisy, as

I chose to call her blandishments, and bade her "go to the fascinating

marquis, and heap her witcheries on him." Nothing could exceed the

patience of this devoted being, her sweetness of temper, her angelic

forbearance, but my own ferocity and hellish brutality; yet how did I

love her, even when I bitterly reviled her! Once, when I observed that

ring upon her finger, which my mother had permitted her to wear,--that

ring, bearing the portrait of _that man_,--I absolutely spurned her

from my presence, and wonder now that I did not murder her.

Cloud after cloud obscured the light of reason in my brain, and it

was deemed advisable by those who loved me still, notwithstanding my

growing malady, to have some one with me night and day, lest I should

lay violent hands upon myself, as if a life like mine were worth the

caring for.

An intelligent young man, one of my tenants, accepted this painful

task, and he performed it with gentleness and fidelity. He soon

perceived that I grew more furious when the voice or the name of the

Marquis ---- met my ears. He mentioned this circumstance to my mother,

and from that time the marquis was not permitted to enter the house.

I heard of this at first with incredulity, then with complacency.

By degrees I grew calmer. I was afterwards shown a letter from the

cloaked stranger, dated Rome; and it confirmed their assertions. I

once more enjoyed the society of my family, and basked in the smiles

of my beloved cousin. She was all kindness, all attention; and I began

to flatter myself that the ardent love I had borne her from my very

boyhood was returned. It was her reserve that before drove me from my

country.

To my great astonishment and delight, that young Englishman who had

interested me so much in the _salon d'écarté_ at Paris, was formally

refused by her who was dearer to me than life. He was of ancient

family, and of great possessions; I knew he loved her, and feared he

would gain her: but on my saying one day, as if by accident, in her

presence, "that I feared S---- gamed high, and consequently was not

worthy of the regard of any woman of discretion," she gave me a smile

of ineffable sweetness, and told me, "It was of little consequence to

her his frailties or his virtues; for she had long determined to give

him a refusal, and, in fact, had done so before he went to Paris."

I considered the _manner_ of my cousin, more than her mere words, as

encouragement to myself, and with all the ardour of my nature declared

to her my passion. These were her words in reply: "Theodore, I pretend

not to misunderstand you; and, if it be any comfort to you, believe

that I most tenderly return your affection. But, oh, my beloved cousin!

think how you have been afflicted,--and then ask yourself whether

I ought to listen to your proposals? whether you ought to marry?

Theodore, I solemnly promise you that, for your sake, never will I wed

another; but, oh! ask me not to become your wife whilst you are subject

to such a fearful malady."

In vain I represented to her that my late mental affliction had been

caused wholly by my fear of losing her, as I believed that detested

foreigner was exactly the man to charm her, and thus I considered her

lost to me for ever.

"This, dear Theodore," she answered, "is one of your delusions. You had

no cause why you should form such a preposterous notion,--a man old

enough to be my father, and----"

"That is true," said I, "there is disparity of years; but, then, what a

splendid being!"

"Yes," she replied coldly, "he wears a most magnificent cloak."

"Not always, sure?" I asked inquiringly, for I had never entered the

room where he was, since he had cured my mother. "Did he not remove it

when he dined and drank tea with you so often, and stayed so late, that

I could have torn him to pieces for it?"

"Softly, my beloved cousin," said the sweet girl, placing her soft

hand before my lips; "why are you so excited now when talking of this

stranger? _Your_ mother, Theodore, has been restored by him; and for

that service what do we not all owe him?"

"Was it for this," I said, "from gratitude alone, you wore that ring?"

"Yes, from gratitude only. Are you now satisfied?"

"Blessings on you, dearest, for your kindness!" I continued. "But say,

did you ever see him without that cloak?"

"Never, Theodore, never. It was always too hot or too cold; or he was

poorly, or some excuse or other. We never could persuade him to take

off that cloak."

I fell into a long reverie after this; nor could I blame her for her

decision. I knew myself that my brain was not steady, and consequently

I had no right to marry, to entail on my innocent offspring such a

calamity. But then this inexplicable stranger;--perhaps he had the

power to cure me,--he had already performed almost a miracle; if he

could but settle my head, my beloved cousin would become mine, and I

should be free from those fears that were constantly besetting me of

becoming incurably mad.

Nothing would now do but my immediately setting out for Rome to seek

the stranger with the large Spanish cloak. My mother did not think it

advisable that I should go alone; so it was determined that she, with

Louisa and Emily, accompanied by our sweet relative, should bear me

company to Italy, and thither we accordingly went. We lingered not on

our progress to look at curiosities, or paintings, or prospects. We

journeyed as fast as four horses could carry us, and arrived quite safe

at imperial Rome.

I was sorry to learn that the Marquis ---- was now at Naples; and,

after settling my family in an elegant villa a few miles from modern

Rome, I set off in quest of the man for whom I had an antipathy,

powerful, incurable; and for what purpose? To request his aid,

mysterious, perhaps sinful, to cure me of a disorder, of which the

consciousness was part of its calamity. The raving madman, at least, is

saved from _knowing_ his own misery.

I had not been an hour at Naples, attended by my favourite servant, the

young man who once acted to me as my keeper, when I saw from the window

of my hotel the cloaked stranger pass with a lady on his arm. But I

hesitated not,--I might lose him for ever; so I ran into the street,

and hastily accosted him.

What I said to him I know not, for my words were wild and ambiguous;

but he promised that he would dine with me the following day, although

his manners were even more reserved than when I spoke to him at the

Museum.

Our instincts ought ever to be attended to; the brute creation follow

nothing else, and _they_ commit no sin. The first time I saw this

stranger, he was looking at an inscription at Athens, and I felt a

secret desire to get from his presence; but he entangled me with

his talk, his knowledge of everything around, his high bearing, his

intelligent eyes, and his superb Spanish cloak.

Again we were seated at the same table, and I again requested him to

remove his mantle.

"Not yet," he said significantly; "but after the cloth is removed I

will, if you still wish it, take off this upper clothing."

Oh how sarcastically were these words pronounced! My heart beat

violently; I could not eat, and became abstracted and melancholy; not

a word was said respecting my request to him, nor did he ask me why I

sought him. He ate in silence, and seemed to have forgotten he was not

alone.

When the table was cleared, the stranger coolly took a book from under

his cloak, and began to read; whilst I, pondering on all I had ever

known of him, began to feel the most burning desire to see this man

once _without_ his cloak, and was determined to do my utmost to effect

it.

"The cloth _is_ now removed, signor," said I, "and you promised _then_

you would take off that everlasting garment."

"It displeases you, then?" retorted my companion. "_Is it not unsafe to

penetrate below the exterior of all things?_ Is not the surface ever

the most safe? Is not the _outer_ clothing of nature ever the most

beautiful to the eye? What deformity dwells in mines, in caverns, at

the bottom of the ocean! Nature wears a cloak as beautiful as mine: do

you wish also to strip off her covering as well as mine?"

"At this moment, signor," said I gloomily, "I was not thinking of

Nature at all, but of the strangeness of your ever wearing that cloak."

"Was it for this you came from England, Sir Theodore?" inquired the

marquis, "and sought me at Naples? The knowledge, I should deem, could

never compensate you for the loss of your cousin's society so many

days."

"It was not for this I sought you, noble marquis," I replied, piqued

at his irony; "but, when a man ever wears a cloak, it must be for some

purpose."

"Granted," slowly said my companion; "I have such purpose."

"Which you promised to unfold!" I exclaimed, with pertinacity. "Is it

still your pleasure so to do?"

"_It is necessary first that we should have no intruders_," he

answered, with a tone that froze me to the heart. Oh, how cutting, how

sarcastic did it sound in my ears!

"No person will enter this apartment save my faithful servant, Hubert;

therefore----"

"I promised to enlighten the master, and not the servant. If you insist

on this strange request, the door must be securely locked; there must

be no chance of interruption."

"Oh, what a fuss," I thought, "about a mantle! Why, _he_ must be mad

too! How can he cure me of an evil he has himself? Lock the door,

forsooth, because he takes off his cloak! But I must humour him, I

suppose, or he will find an excuse for breach of promise." As I thought

this, I walked to the door, locked it, and, placing the key upon the

table, merely said, "Now, signor, your promise?"

"Would it not be prudent, young gentleman," he observed, laying his

finger on my sleeve, "that you should speak of your request,--that one

that brought you hither, and which I should conceive of more importance

than the satisfying an idle curiosity,--would it not be wiser of you to

mention this previously to my taking off my cloak."

"Oh, what importance he attaches to so trifling a thing!" thought I;

"but, after all, the man is right; I had better attend to the most

essential, nor was I wise to couple two requests together."

"Signor Marquis," said I, "have you any cure for insanity?"

"_I cured your father_," was the answer, "and this your mother knows.

He in return did _me_ a service; he presented me with--this excellent

cloak."

I was more puzzled than ever; I had never before _heard_ that my poor

father had unsettled reason, but many circumstances made me now believe

it. I fancied too that my youngest sister gave indications of the same

disorder; she was growing melancholy and reserved. "Oh, heavens!"

thought I, "there will be more work for this man to do; I had better

invite him at once to England, and make him physician in ordinary to

our family."

"I have an engagement at nine," said the stranger; "have you any other

inquiries to make?"

"But, if you _cured_ my father, Signor Marquis," I observed, "how

is it that I have inherited the disease? Should not the _cure_ have

eradicated it for ever from him and his posterity?"

"Is it not enough that I prevented the display of such a malady during

his life? that I drove away the cloud that obscured his day, so that

the sun of reason shone brightly on him until his death? What had I

to do with future generations? with a race of men then unborn? _I

performed my contract_, and he was satisfied. Shall the son be more

difficult to please than the father?"

I interrupted him, "Oh, mysterious man! canst thou not cure the _root_

of this disease? stop its fatal progress? prevent the seed from

partaking of the nature of the plant?"

"Young man!" solemnly returned the marquis, "was not thy first

progenitor, the man who resided in Paradise, _mad_--essentially mad?

and has not his disease been carried on, in spite of all physicians,

down, down to the present hour? It is woven into man's very nature;

the warp and woof of which he is composed. I can check its open

manifestation in a single individual; but the evil will only be dammed

up during his time, to give it an increased impetus and power to those

who follow him. Art thou not an instance of this fact? Hast thou not

been madder than thy father?"

I groaned aloud. I remembered my own wild delusions, my sudden bursts

of passion. I even began to think that madness ruled me at that very

hour; that all I saw and heard was the coinage of a distempered brain.

At length I said, dejectedly, unknowing that I spoke aloud, "Then I

must never marry; my children will become worse than myself. Farewell

then----"

"Or rather," interrupted the cloaked stranger, "farewell to human

marriages altogether, if those who marry must be free from madness.

Why, 'tis the very sign they are so, their wishing to rivet fetters on

themselves; but, no matter. What have I to do with all the freaks and

frenzied institutions of such a set of driveling idiots?"

"Art thou not a man?"

"Thou shalt judge for thyself, thou insect of an hour!" and he

unclasped his cloak, and stood erect before me. Coiled around him like

a large boa-constrictor, reaching to his very throat,----But I sicken

as I write! The remembrance of that moment, how shall it be effaced?

Time deadens thousands of recollections, but has never weakened the

impression made upon me at that appalling moment!

The immense mass that wound its lengthy fibres round him, like a cable

of a ship, now became sensibly animated by life! I beheld it move, and

writhe, and unfold itself! I heard its extremity drop upon the floor!

I saw it extend itself, and creep along! More--more still descended;

fewer coils were round him! He turned himself to facilitate its

descent; and, when the enormous whole encircled him, still undulating

on the ground, that being looked towards me with one of those smiles,

that Satan might be supposed to use.

"Behold!" said he, pointing to the dark undulation on the floor,

"_behold the reason why I wear a cloak!_"

Insensibility closed up my senses. I could behold no more. When I

recovered, I was alone. The stranger had departed, leaving the door

ajar; but he had written on a slip of paper, and placed it just before

me, these words:

"The remedy I bestowed upon the father, for _his_ sake I will give unto

the son. _Three notches of the devil's tail_ will perfectly restore

you; but it must be cut off by the hand of _the purest person that you

know on earth_. _It will grow again!!_"

* * * * *

I hastily caught up this paper on hearing the step of my attendant,

and placed it in my bosom. I think he saw the action, for he looked

mournfully on me, and shook his head. I told him I was ready to set off

instantly for Rome: his simple answer was,

"I wish we had remained there!"

"And _why_, Hubert?"

"You are pale as a sheeted corpse, and the boards of the floor are

_singed_, yet there has been no fire in the room!"

I looked where he pointed; and, in a serpentine form, I beheld the

traces of that enormous tail I had seen fall from the body of the

cloaked stranger, coiled round him as an immense serpent twines itself

around a tree. I shuddered at the sight. I felt my brain working; yet I

wrestled with the spirit of darkness within. I tried to persuade myself

that I had been overtaken only by a dream; that my whole acquaintance

with the pretended marquis was nothing but an illusion, a vision of the

imagination, an optic delusion, an hallucination of an excited state

of mind; but it would not do. There were the dark and calcined marks,

which it was my duty to account for to my host, who cared very little

how they were occasioned, so as he received an ample sum to have the

boards removed, and others in their place.

Our accounts were soon arranged, and I returned to my anxious family;

but my disorder was increasing hourly. The wildest imaginations haunted

and perplexed me. My beloved mother looked at me with tears swimming in

her eyes. My eldest sister strove, by a hundred stratagems, to dispel

the gloom that arose amongst us all. Emily sat, absorbed in her own

melancholy thoughts, a fellow-sufferer, I fancied, with myself. My

lovely, innocent, affectionate cousin held my fevered hand in one of

hers, and imploringly asked me to be tranquil; said she would sing to

me if I would try to sleep. I felt the gentle charm, and gave myself up

to it. I laid myself upon the sofa; and she, whose name I cannot utter,

sitting on a low stool by my side, sought to soothe me with her voice.

THE SONG OF ----.

"Come from Heaven, soft balmy Sleep,

Since thou art an angel there!

Come, and watch around him keep--

Watch that I with thee will share.

Strew thy poppies o'er his head,

Calm the fever of his mind;

All thy healing virtues shed,

That he may composure find!"

"Oh, God!" I cried, jumping up; "and must I never call this angel mine?

Better to die at once, or lose all consciousness of what a wretch I am!"

"Hush, my dearest cousin! I have invoked an angel from the skies to

visit you; drive her not away by ill-timed violence; here, let me hold

your hand;" and she began again to murmur in a low tone,

"Strew thy poppies o'er his head,

Calm the fever of his mind."

and so I fell asleep.

When I awoke, my gentle cousin, (more constant than my heavenly

visitant, Sleep,) was still seated by my side; all the rest were gone;

candles burned on the table--it was midnight; I had slept for hours,

she yet retained my hand. I looked at her, and burst into tears.

"We are alone, Theodore," said my beloved; "tell me, I beseech you,

what is labouring on your mind. You have spoken strange things during

your sleep. You have declared that I had the power to restore you; can

I do this? Theodore, be candid! Were it to cost my life, I would gladly

lay it down to be of benefit to you."

I could not answer her; but I clasped my arms round that pure, angelic

form, and wept like an infant on her bosom.

"Can I do you service, Theodore? You deny not what your lips murmured

in sleep."

"You can restore my reason, for you are the purest person that I know

on earth."

"By what means? But, alas! you are wandering still; this is one of your

delusions! Would that it were in my power to heal thy mind, my dearest

cousin."

"In this, my heart's treasure, I am at least perfectly sane. _You have

the power to cure me._"

"Tell me the means."

I related to ---- the whole of my adventures at Naples. I hid nothing

from her excepting that our children might be infected with the same

disease. Many reasons prevented my naming this. She was too delicate

for me to allude to such a circumstance; I was willing to run all

hazards of my posterity inheriting so dreadful a disease. My father had

done as I intended to do; and the remedy was as open to _my_ offspring

as to myself, for had not the cloaked stranger told me that "the tail

would grow again"? Even without such growth, had it not notches enough

for a whole line of my posterity, supposing them all in want of such a

restorative.

There was a pause of a full minute ere she spoke; her cheek was

blanched, and her hand trembled in mine.

"Theodore, I know not what to think, whether from madness or from

sanity comes your wondrous tale; but I will go through it, come what

may. I will see this being; and, should he be indeed the author of all

evil, out of evil shall come good, for I have courage, for your dear

sake, to take from him the horrid remedy; but speak not of it, even

to your mother or your sisters. Ah, poor Emily! she too may need such

help! I will procure enough for her also."

Every thing was arranged. I was in that state that all I demanded was

granted to me, for they feared to oppose my wishes. I entered the

travelling carriage with my beautiful betrothed.

We had no attendants. We drove to the same hotel in which I had been

before. We were shown into the same room; but the marks upon the floor

were gone,--new boards were there. We ordered dinner _for three_; and I

went out in search of the cloaked stranger.

It may seem strange that those who seek the devil, should seek in vain;

but what is so perverse as the Origin of Evil?

Towards the close of day I however brought him in, as lofty,

proud-looking, and handsome as ever; his features bore the stamp of

angelic beauty; but, alas! the expression was--_the fallen angel_. He

saluted with much politeness, nay, even kindness, my lovely friend; and

we entered at once upon the business.

When he heard _who_ was to perform the operation, he absolutely turned

pale, and made a thousand objections. Some other person might be found;

but I, fool that I was! overruled them all, and insisted on it, that

she was the purest person that I knew on earth.

He then endeavoured to intimidate her; but she was resolute, though her

lip quivered. We had a long argument about it, and most subtle was his

reasoning. Yet he seemed as if he had no power absolutely to refuse.

Reluctantly he drew from a secret pocket in his cloak a small steel

hatchet, with many figures inscribed upon it. She received it at his

hands; but I observed a fixedness in her beautiful eyes, and a rigidity

about her mouth, that I did not like; still she grasped the shining

instrument, and hesitated not. But, when his cloak fell off, oh, what a

look of horror did those dear eyes assume!

Slowly descended the voluminous appendage; its extreme end fell on the

chair on which he had been sitting. She flew like lightning thither,

raised the glittering tool, marked the precise spot, and severed at a

blow "three notches of the devil's tail!"

"Take--take your remedy, dear Theodore!" she whispered, "for I cannot

touch it."

I stooped, and took the severed quivering part, _but could not hold

it for its heat_; so thrust it into my coat-pock; I then turned to

congratulate my deliverer, _but she was a lifeless corpse at my feet_;

and the stranger had vanished, I knew not and I cared not whither.

How often have I called on madness, or on death, to take from me the

memory of her loss! Neither would come! I have had no return of my

malady, but I have experienced anguish fourfold! The only benefit

derived has been that my sister Emily has been totally cured by the

specific that was so dearly purchased, for it proved efficacious in

both cases.

Perchance it may prove useful for the future members of our family,

should they be infected with this hereditary complaint; for myself, I

shall never need it for my offspring, my affections are buried in the

grave; but I have bequeathed it to my beloved sisters--with my hopes,

more than my belief, that it may prove effective,--"the _three notches

of the devil's tail_!"

TRANSLATION FROM UHLAND.

THE SERENADE.

What soft low strains are these I hear

That come my dreams between?

Oh! mother, look! who may it be

That plays so late at e'en?

"I hear no sound, I see no form;

Oh! rest in slumber mild:

They'll bring no music to thee now,

My poor, my sickly child!"

It is not music of the earth

That makes my heart so light;

The angels call me with their songs,

Oh! mother dear, good night!

THE PORTRAIT GALLERY.--No. III.

My friend was proceeding to relate many curious anecdotes of SIR RUBY

RATBOROUGH, when a row of several portraits of persons I had seen

abroad struck me. The librarian informed me that they were those of the

Cannon family, who had long resided on the Continent; and I immediately

recognised a most eccentric set of people, met so often, and at various

places, with such a rapidity of locomotion, that many fancied they were

gifted with ubiquity. The portraits, my conductor informed me, were

taken at Florence; and their history might serve as a hint to artists.

The painter had, unfortunately, commenced with the handsomest of the

girls; and, having somewhat flattered the likeness, of course the

family were delighted with his performance: but, when the older and the

uglier Cannons came to sit, no flattery could render their portraits

tolerable to them. The consequence was, that they were considered as

bad resemblances, and left on the painter's hand; the more favoured

young ones, of course, not being allowed by their indignant elders to

take theirs away. I had heard so much of this family that I requested

my friend to postpone our review of the political character, to give

me some account of these wandering emigrants; and he gratified my

curiosity by putting into my hands the following MS. containing a

sketch of their adventures at home and abroad, drawn out by Quintilian

Quaint.

THE CANNON FAMILY.

Who has not seen the Cannons in their Continental excursions? or, to

use Mrs. Cannon's malapropic expression, their _incontinental_ tours?

Whoever has strolled, or lounged, or lurked in a French _promenade_, a

Spanish _alameda_, or an Italian _corso_, has fallen upon some branch

of the family; nay, more properly, on two or three of them; for, if a

body perchance hits upon one individual of that numerous race, he is

sure to be rebounded on a brother or a sister, illustrating their name

by making what is called a _canon_ in billiard-room parlance.

So very _répandu_ is this moving train of curious ordnance, and

the young ladies have been so walked about, and stalked about, and

dragged about in pick-nicks, _déjeuners champêtres_, gipsy-parties,

marooning-parties, through woods and forests, hills and dales,

brushwood and underwood, that the witty Lady A---- called them _the

field-pieces_.

What took this family from their delightful box at Muckford, in

Shropshire, to visit France, and Italy, and Germany; to paddle in the

Seine, dabble in the Arno, and stroll with the rabble along the Rhine?

Surely it must have been love of the fine arts, or the cultivation of

foreign tongues, with the ladies; or pursuits of political economy,

statistics, or the study of men and manners, with the gentlemen. Not

in the least degree. The only paintings the fair part of the family

admired were their own lovely faces. All foreign tongues were as

foreign to them as Sanscrit. The only pursuit of polity that occupied

Messrs. Cannons', senior and juniors, was where to find cheap wines and

parsimonious amusements; their statistics, a census of the geese and

turkeys, turbots and mullets, brought to market; and their study of the

"varying shore o' the world" was, congregating with their countrymen,

who, like themselves, disported their nonentity in gambling-houses and

_restaurans_.

What was it then that induced the Cannons to quit their delightful

box in Shropshire? Simply because Lord Wittington and his family had

purchased the estate of Myrtle-Grove, near unto Wick-Hall,--the name

given by Mr. Cannon to his aforesaid delightful box. Now the motives

that induced Mr. Commodus Cannon to bestow upon this box the euphonious

appellation of _Wick-Hall_, arose from a natural association of ideas

and a proper sense of gratitude; for, be it known, that Mr. Commodus

Cannon had once been a tallow-chandler of great renown in the ward

of Candlewick, in which business he had realised a large fortune;

therefore, without much perplexity of the various ramifications of the

brain, its circumvolutions and ventricles, it may be conjectured why

his rural residence was denominated, despite all the arguments of the

ladies, _Wick-Hall_.

The next question that arose in the curious and impertinent minds of

those who must know the causation of all causes, was, how did it come

to pass that the arrival of the Earl of Wittington at Myrtle-Grove

should have induced, in a manner direct or indirect, the family of

an ex-tallow-chandler to migrate from a comfortable residence; to

have left Muckford and their Penates, their well-trimmed lawns, their

well-stocked gardens, their orchards and their paddocks, their dairy,

and their brew-house, and their wash-house, and their ice-house, and

their hot-house, their cosey fire-side and their snug bed-rooms, to

wander about the world, and dwell in cold and dreary, or in broiling

and stewing lodgings; drink sour _ordinaire_ wine instead of port,

sherry, gooseberry, and nut-brown October; be cheated and laughed at

by foreign servants, instead of being attended by worthy, homely, and

honest domestics; and become the ridicule of strangers, instead of

being respected and liked by their neighbours? How did it come to pass

that the Earl of Wittington's arrival should have driven the Cannons

away from their Eden? The reader who cannot guess it at once,--who

gives it up, like a hard riddle or a puzzling conundrum,--must be

stultified, unread, unsophisticated, never have subscribed to a

circulating library. However, as dulness of intellect is more a

misfortune than a fault, we shall kindly condescend to inform him.

Myrtle-Grove had long been untenanted. Mr. Cannon was the wealthiest

resident in or near the village; therefore was _Wick-Hall_ called "the

squire's mansion." Now, stupid, do you take?

Everybody has read Joe Miller. Now it may be recollected that, in that

valuable vade-mecum of _very delightful_ and _charming fellows_, there

is recorded the strange vanity of an ugly scholar in the College of

Navarre, who maintained most strenuously and syllogistically,--nay,

would have met any modern Crichton with a thesis on the subject to show

and prove, that he was the greatest man in the world; and he argued

that Europe being the finest part of the creation, France the most

delightful country in Europe, Paris the most splendid city in France,

the College of Navarre the most enlightened and precious establishment

in Paris, his room unquestionably the best chamber in the college, and

he most undoubtedly the greatest ornament in his room, _ergo_, he was

the greatest man in the world.

In the same train of ratiocination did the Cannons come to the

conclusion that they were the magnates, the top-sawyers, the leaders

of fashion of the village of Muckford. They patronised the Rev. Mr.

Muzzle, the curate, whose meek back was suited to the burthen of a wife

and eight little ones on fifty pounds a year; Mr. Hiccup, M.R.C.S.,

who, to the duties of his profession in the attendance of man and

beast, added the pursuits of rat and mole-catcher, perfumer, stationer,

and tobacconist; and Mr. Sniffnettle, the attorney, solicitor,

conveyancer, proctor, appraiser, auctioneer, poet-laureat and

parish-clerk. A _hop_ at Wick-Hall was anticipated with as much delight

by all the young and old ladies as the opening of Almacks; a game at

loo or twopenny long-whist offered all the attractions of Crockford's;

and the Sunday visits after church were as distinguished for figure and

fashion as a St. James's drawing-room on a birth-day.

This high patrician stand in society unfortunately made the Cannons

proud,--some say haughty, supercilious, and arrogant. It might have

been so; such is the nature of frail mortality, for, alas!

"Pride has no other glass

To show itself but pride; for supple knees

Feed arrogance!"

and Mr. Muzzle, and Dr. Hiccup, and Mr. Sniffnettle, had their

_vertebræ_ and their articulations so greased, and oiled, and

anti-attritioned, that they would bob, and bend, and curl, and coil

like a tom-cat's tail, whenever they visited the mansion.

And strange dreams, and visions, and fantasies would be brewing in the

brains of Mr. Cannon, both when sleeping and awake. He was wealthy; the

Cannons had a dragon rampant for their crest, and _Crepo_ for their

motto,--a motto that was traced to the discovery of a bronze figure of

the Egyptian god Crepitus in the tomb of one of his noble ancestors.

To this proud circumstance the family also owed the Christian-name of

"Commodus," which the elder Cannon always bore,--Commodus being of

Gallic origin. Sometimes Mr. Commodus Cannon thought that he might

purchase a peerage by paying some damages incurred by indiscreet

influential personages; sometimes he fancied that he might be created

a baronet upon a mortgage, or a marriage of one of the Miss Cannons to

some broken-down nobleman.

But, alas! how transient are the visions of glory! of worldly

greatness! Greatness--that gaudy torment of our soul!

"The wise man's fetter, and the rage of fools!"

Lord Wittington arrived, and the Countess of Wittington, and the Ladies

Desdemona Catson, and Arabella Catson, and Celestina Catson, and

Euripida Catson, and the Hon. Tom Catson, and the Hon. Brindle Catson,

with their aunt, Lady Tabby Catson; and all Muckford was in a state of

commotion, of effervescence, of ebullition, boiling over with hope and

fear. A comet wagging its tail over their steeple,--an eclipse, which

would have set all the Muckfordians smoking bits of glass, and picking

up fragments of broken bottles for astronomical observations,--could

not have occasioned such a stir as the arrival of four travelling

carriages, with dickeys and rumbles crowded with ladies' women,

and gentlemen's gentlemen, rattling away with four post-horses to

Myrtle-Grove.

And now were speculations busily at work. The minds of Mahomet and

Confucius, of Galileo and Copernicus, of Locke and Bacon, were idle

when compared to the brains of the Muckfordians. What was the point

in question? Was it the increase of business and of profit that

would accrue from the consumption of these wealthy visitors?--No.

Was it the advantages that might be derived from their parliamentary

connexions and ministerial interest?--No. Was it the hopes that

their residence might induce other rich families to inhabit the

neighbourhood?--No--no--no! If the reader cannot guess, he must have

lived at the antipodes, or in a desert, or never lived _in life_.

The question was, "I wonder if his lordship and her ladyship will

visit Wick-Hall?" No treaty of alliance, of commerce, of peace--no

protocol that ever issued from the most perfect cerebral organ in

Downing-street--was ever weighed with more momentous disquietude than

this question, "I wonder if his lordship and her ladyship will visit

Wick-Hall?"

"I should think not," observed Mrs. Curate Muzzle; "the Wittingtons are

great folks, and the Cannons were chandlers!"

"Tallow-chandlers, my dear madam," remarked Mrs. Doctor Hiccup.

"Had they even been wax-chandlers," added Mrs. Sniffnettle.

"Or corn-chandlers," replied Mrs. Hiccup.

"But a tallow-chandler," exclaimed Mr. Sniffnettle, who, as we have

seen, was the laureat of Muckford, "as Gay says,

'Whether black, or lighter dies are worn,

The chandler's basket, on his shoulders borne,

With tallow spots thy coat.'"

This appropriate quotation not only drew forth a loud laugh of

approbation, but illumined the minds of the party as brightly as two

pounds of fours might have enlightened Mr. Hiccup's back-shop parlour

on a long-whist and welsh-rabbit night.

"I'm sure I wish them no harm," remarked Mrs. Muzzle, with a benevolent

smile; "but pride is a sad failing, which deserves to be brought down."

"Oh, the deuce mend them!" rejoined Mrs. Sniffnettle; "if they're

brought to their proper bearings a peg or two."

"Because they had a little dirty cash--the Lord knows how they made

it!--they were as pert as a pear-monger's horse!" exclaimed Mr. Hiccup.

"Pride comes first, shame comes after," added Mr. Sniffnettle.

"The priest forgets that he was a clerk," professionally observed Mrs.

Muzzle.

"I could put up with pride, now," said Mr. Hiccup, "from the

Wittingtons."

"Ay!" replied the poet, quoting Byron,

'The vile are only vain, the great are proud.'"

"Exactly!" observed Mrs. Hiccup, who, like most persons doting upon

poesy, did not understand what she most admired.

Is it not strange that none of these ladies or gentlemen ever said "I

wonder if _we_ shall be invited to Myrtle-Grove?"

Whoever expected or fancied that on such an occasion such a thought

could have entered any well-disposed and educated mind must be an

ass. Who cares, if they are at the foot of the ladder, if those who

are climbing up are properly rolled down? There is no need of crying

"Heads below!" the grovellers will all get out of the way, and let the

tumblers roll in the mire to their hearts' content. I mean the hearts'

content of the lookers-on.

Now, while this most important point was discussed by the chief

authorities of Muckford, a question of still greater importance was

agitated at Wick-Hall.

"I wonder if we ought to call first upon the Wittingtons, or wait until

they call upon us?" said Mrs. Cannon, after dinner.

Mr. Commodus Cannon halted a glassful of port that was marching towards

his mouth, and kept it suspended in air like Mahomet's tomb.

Miss Molly Cannon delayed the cracking of a nut she had just introduced

between two ivory grinders.

Miss Biddy Cannon kept her hand under a roasted chestnut napkin,

unconscious of its temperature, without withdrawing it.

Miss Lucy Cannon cut into an orange she was carefully peeling with a

steel knife; a circumstance that would have produced a galvanic thrill

under other circumstances.

Miss Kitty Cannon filled a bumper of cherry brandy instead of "just the

least drop in the world."

Mr. Cannon, junior, drove a toothpick in his gums instead of his teeth.

George Cannon started, and trod on the cat's tail.

Cornelius Cannon (commonly called Colcannon, having had an Irish

godfather,) made a horrible mistake, by drinking out of his

finger-glass instead of his tumbler.

Peter Cannon used his damask napkin instead of a pocket-handkerchief;

and Oliver Cannon, who had been lolling and rocking his chair, rolled

off his centre of gravity.

A dead silence followed the important question. The ghost of

Chesterfield ought in mercy to have burst from his cerements to have

answered it. Mr. Cannon first ventured to give an opinion--a judicious

opinion.

"Why, as to the matter of that," he said, scratching his brown

wig,--which was, by-the-bye, an action which might have been called

manual tautology, since it was a scratch already,--"as to the matter of

that, it is clear that, if we are to be acquainted with his lordship,

they must call upon us, or we must call upon them."

Now, it is a matter worthy of consideration, that, in difficult and

knotty points, perspicuity of language seldom or ever elucidates

the business. Nothing could be more clear, more lucid, nay, more

pellucid, than Mr. Commodus Cannon's remark,--more self-evident, more

conclusive,--yet it only tended to make darkness visible. Mrs. Cannon,

who possessed greater powers of eloquence, was therefore imperiously

called upon for a rejoinder.

"If you could think, Mr. Cannon, of waiting until my Lord

What-do-you-call-him thinks proper to _honour_ us with a call, you are

a mean-spirited, petty-minded fellow. I'd have you to know we are every

inch as good as they are."

"To be sure we are!" replied all the Cannons in one simultaneous and

spontaneous roar, one well-fired volley of approbation without a

straggling shot,--all but Mr. Cannon senior, who remained as still as a

target.

"We owe nothing to nobody," added the speaker; "and can hold up our

heads as high as anybody that ever wore one."

This reloaded the Cannons, and another fire of coincidence was let off.

"If your nobility give themselves airs with us, let me tell you, Mr.

Cannon, just look at your crest and your motto, and show them that you

can let fly at them hollow."

All applauded except Mr. Cornelius Cannon, who was a good Latin scholar.

"For my part I wouldn't give a brass farthing--no, that's what I

wouldn't--to know them, as it's ten to one they will be shortly

wanting to borrow money from us; but, as we are neighbours, and we are

longer resident at Muckford, it's our business to leave our cards with

them, more especially as there's no _quality_ whatever in this here

neighbourhood but ourselves."

There was no necessity of putting this proposition to the vote; it was

carried by _nem. diss._ acclamations, and the visit fixed upon that day

week.

Now, strange to say, by one of those singular anomalies in the

human mind that puzzle metaphysicians, psychologists, materialists,

and immaterialists, although this acquaintance with the family of

Myrtle-Grove was not, to use Mrs. Cannon's expression, "worth a brass

farthing," everything in the house, from the furniture to the young

ladies, was turned topsy-turvy for a week. There was nothing but

dusting, and polishing, and furbishing, and scrubbing, and rubbing, and

bees'-waxing, and varnishing, and tweezing, and plucking, and puffing,

and blowing at all ends; and swearing, and cursing, and shouting from

the top of the stairs to come up, and bellowing from the foot of the

stairs to come down; and souls, and eyes, and blood, and bones were

sent the Lord knows where by the impatient gentlemen, while the ladies,

who were too well bred to pronounce the vulgar name of the infernal

regions, only wished every servant in the house a visit to the monarch

of that grilling kingdom every hour of the day; and every horse, and

every ass, nay, the very colts and fillies, shod and unshod, broken or

unbroken, were sent to and fro from Wick-Hall to the neighbouring town,

like buckets up and down a well, for silks, and ribands, and bobbins,

and laces, and caps, and bonnets, and feathers, furs, and furbelows,

and rouge-pots, and cold cream, and antique oil, and pomatum, and

washes, and lotions, Circassian and Georgian, that were ever employed

since the days of Jezebel to scrub out freckles and wrinkles, fill

up pits and creases, pucker relaxed fibres and relax puckerings,

eradicate warts, pimples, blossoms, excrescences, efflorescences,

and effluences; with collyria for red eyes, and ointments for crusty

eye-lids, liniments for gummy ankles, with odoriferous and balsamic

tooth-powders, and gargles; with stores of swan and goose down for

gigots, and rear-admirals, and polissons, and bussels; not to mention

the means of throwing out various forms that distinguish the _beau

idéal_ of the undulating line from the rigid severity of the straight

line and the acute angle; while all the wigs, tops, toupets, fronts,

tresses, plaits, curls, ringlets, black, brown, auburn, fair, and foxy,

were put into requisition.

It was not only physical brushing up that was resorted to; the mind

received a proper frizzing; and Debrett's Peerage and Joe Miller, the

Racing-calendar and the Court-guide, were studied during every leisure

moment; while all the scandal-registering Sunday papers were devoured

with avidity.

Various were the accidents that arose in this confusion. Biddy Cannon

broke a blood-vessel in straining her voice to D alt. in practising a

fashionable Italian song. A pet cat of the same (who had been trodden

on by George Cannon) was well nigh scalded to death by the overboiling

of a pipkin of oil of cucumber for Lucy Cannon's sunburns; and Kitty

Cannon caught a desperate sore-throat in trying to catch a hint of a

fashionable walking-dress one rainy morning that the Ladies Catsons

were riding out, peeping at them under a heavy shower from behind a

holly hedge. Poor Kitty Cannon was in a most piteous plight from having

made a trifling mistake in the use of some medicines sent her by Mr.

Hiccup; for, in a very great hurry to try on an invisible corset,

she rubbed her throat with some palma Christi oil, and swallowed a

hartshorn liniment that had been intended for external use. In her

burning agonies she of course kept the whole house in hot water, for

everybody was so busy that nobody could attend upon the poor sufferer;

who, unable to call out, and having torn up her bell by the roots, was

only able to attract attention to her wants by throwing every thing

she could lay hands on about the room, more especially water-jugs,

basins, physic bottles, and every vessel within her reach. Mrs. Cannon

swore she was an unnatural child; and her sisters accused her of being

ill-natured and jealous when she disturbed them in their important

occupations. In short, the Tower of Babel, or the Commons on an Irish

question, were nothing to Wick-Hall, in-doors and out-of-doors, where

the young Cannons were grooming, and docking, and trimming, and figging

their horses.

Mr. Commodus Cannon was the wisest of the party; he smoked his pipe,

muddled over a bowl of punch, and only ordered his scratch wig to be

_curled tight_, with the not unfrequent vulgar wish that the whole

family might be _blown_ to the same exiguous dimensions. He was

ambitious, but he did not like to be _bothered_ with any schemes but

his own.

The day, the great day, big with the fate of the Cannons, was drawing

nigh, and impatiently looked for, as a circumstance had taken place

which gave the Wick-Hall family much to think of and inwardly digest.

Lady Tabby Catson, his lordship's aunt, was subject to night-mare and

sleep-walking when in bed, and liable to fearful hysterics when out of

it. Her case was altogether most distressing, since, according to her

account, she could not lie on either side, was in agony when on her

back, and distracted in any other position. A physician was called in,

but, as he could only pay occasional visits, Mr. Hiccup was in constant

attendance; and as the Ladies Catsons were well supplied with novels,

and were of a most amiable disposition, Hiccup carried various new

publications to his daughters, who immediately ran to show them to the

Miss Cannons, calling the ladies by their Christian names with singular

impertinence,--such a book having been lent by the beautiful Lady

Arabella,--such a review by the lovely Lady Celestina. Moreover, Lady

Tabby Catson, during the intermissions of her ailments, had fits of

devotion that took her like stitches in the side, when Mr. Muzzle was

instantly sent for in one of the carriages. Thus were the curate and

the surgeon in constant attendance, and many little acts of kindness

shown to them by the family, such as presents of fruits and flowers,

all of which passed under the windows of Wick-Hall like the fearful

regal apparitions to Macbeth; and, what was still more offensive,

the favoured families, even the attorney, Sniffnettle, began to grow

rigid in their vertebræ though in the heat of summer, walking past the

Cannons with a mere nod of recognition, and preserving an insulting

perpendicularity.

There was no time to lose in recovering their lost ground, and the

day for commencing a campaign that would terminate in the utter

discomfiture of these vulgar intruders was fast approaching. But,

alas for human and mortal hopes! one hour,--nay, one half-hour,--one

quarter,--the time of reading a letter on foolscap paper, on letter

paper, on note paper, only a few lines written in an intelligible

unauthor-like hand, that required neither time nor spectacles, a hand

that could be read running,--and all the airy fabric of the Cannons'

visions was dissolved.

It was on a Friday morning, the day previous to the intended

visit,--one of those unlucky days in the calendar of human

disappointments, the fifth day of the month, which, according to

Hesiod, is inevitably calamitous; a day that gave birth to Pluto and

the Eumenides; a day when the earth brought forth the monster Typhon,

and those vile giants who dared the Father of the gods,--on this day

did Mr. Commodus Cannon draw on his stockings the wrong side, the

eldest Miss Cannon--I know not why or wherefore--took a morning walk

among the nettles, and her sister Biddy spilled salt at breakfast,

forgetting to propitiate the angry heavens by casting some over her

left shoulder. A thundering rap at the hall-door made the whole family

jump, start, and stare. A footman in the Wittington livery was at the

door! he delivered a letter! Oh! how all the young hearts did beat

and leap! and how the old fount of circulation of Mrs. Cannon did

palpitate, as in days of yore! Scarcely had the door been closed, when

the whole family, with the exception of Mr. Cannon, who was buttering

toast, rushed like a torrent, or a cataract, or any thing else you

like, to secure the missive, anxious as they were to ascertain its

contents. Much time was lost in scrambling for possession of the

letter, snatched alternately from hand to hand without any regard

to filial duty or the rights of primogeniture. At last the letter,

be-buttered, be-honeyed, be-marmaladed, and be-egged, fell into the

possession of Miss Cannon. But oh! horror! instead of the broad

armorial seal of the noble earl, the note was wafered!--ay, gentle

reader, wafered!--moreover, the wafer, still damp, had been broken, and

bent, and divided, exhibiting evident marks of having been moistened by

an abundant secretion of the salivary glands! Oh, fie, my Lord W.!

Philosophers and naturalists tell us there is a method in roasting

eggs; now there is a method in closing letters, which has lately

been adopted by a nobleman whom I have the honour to know, which may

be considered a wrinkle in politeness. To his superiors, such as

emperors, kings, popes, and newspaper editors, his lordship writes on

coloured, perfumed, ornamented, and gilt-edged satin paper, and he

closes his epistle with his armorials, six of which usually consume a

stick of odoriferous wax. To his equals, though they are but few, he

writes on paper somewhat inferior, with a smaller seal. To his titled

inferiors, plain note paper, with a crest and motto. To his untitled

correspondents, half a sheet of letter paper (it must be cut in an

uneven and ragged manner), with a fancy seal, that his noble blazon may

not be polluted by vulgar eyes. To people in business, cits, snobs, a

wafer--but still a wafer--gently dipped in water. But to solicitors,

postulants, petitioners, and humble applicants, he actually spits in

their faces in the same manner as the Earl of Wittington spat in the

crimson phiz of all the Cannons. But the offence did not rest there.

MR. CANNON was on the superscription! ay, a plain MR.! a _Mr._ that

could only be washed out in blood! a _Mr._ that would even make a

respectable tailor jump from his shopboard, and grasp his goose with

proper indignation.

"Lord Wittington, wishing to become the purchaser of Mr. Cannon's

paddock under Breakneck-Cliff, part of his domain, is willing to treat

with him, and will direct his steward to call upon him. His lordship

has been led to understand that Mr. Cannon's young men have been in the

practice of shooting on his grounds; now his lordship wishes it to be

distinctly understood that his keepers have received instructions to

proceed with all the severity of the laws against trespassers."

Mrs. Cannon of course fell into fits; Commodus Cannon cast his scratch

_jasey_ into the fire; some of the young ladies rushed out of the

room; others, in whom no rush had been left, drooped in or on various

supporting parts of the furniture. The _young men_, as his lordship had

dared to call Mr. Cannon's promising and amiable sons, bore the insult

with all the calm dignity of men wantonly offended; they only bit their

lips, turned pale and red, clenched their fists, and paced about the

room at the rate of fourteen miles per hour, while the words "young

men" were muttered and murmured in deadly indignation.

"I'll be d----d if the fellow ever gets my paddock! sooner see him, and

all his seed, breed, and generation, tumbling off Breakneck-Cliff!"

The allocution of Leonidas to his Spartan heroes at the Thermopylæ

could not have been more spirit-stirring than this short and pithy

speech of Commodus Cannon; even Mrs. Cannon, forgetting, in a moment

of just indignation, that female discretion that ought to characterise

a lady's language, could not help supporting the vote by an amendment,

exclaiming, "Ay, and doubly d----d too!"

"And, moreover," added Mr. Cannon, "I'll be blown if I don't stick my

paddock chokefull of buck-wheat, and not leave the fellow a pheasant or

a partridge,--that's what I will!"

It is difficult to say what dire plans of destruction and desolation

might not have been suggested in the family council, had not another

rap at the door, louder, if possible, and more authoritative than the

footman's, interrupted the discussion. All and every one ran to the

windows. Mr. Carrydot, Lord Wittington's steward, was at the entrance

of Wick-Hall, and desired a private interview with Mr. Cannon.

Mrs. Cannon reluctantly swept out of the room, followed by all the

young ladies and the _young men_.

Mr. Carrydot was a smart, dapper, little man, with a bald head, ferret

eyes, aquiline nose tipped with purple, and with a prying countenance

that would have picked out flaws in Magna Charta or the Bill of

Rights. His costume sable; but coat, waistcoat, and unavoidables to

match, were all of a different black, more or less rusty and shining;

his coat-sleeves, or rather cuffs, were short, and allowed his duty

wristbands to be seen puckered up above his hairy and meagre hands,

and bony, long, crooked fingers, with hooked nails in half mourning.

How comes it that the coat-sleeves of certain petty attorneys and

apothecaries are generally too short, save and excepting when they have

donned their Sabbath and visiting raiment? It surely must arise from

the usual practice of extending the arms beyond the limits of their

restrictions whenever a body is going to perform some dirty business,

possibly and probably that the said dirty business may not stain the

cloth they wear, since a cloth may be respectable although the wearer

may be as spotted as a panther. Mr. Carrydot walked, or rather stalked

in; and, without a bow or a preamble, seated himself, without being

asked to take a seat.

Cannon looked an encyclopedia of indignation.

"His lordship has directed me to call upon you, Mr. Cannon, regarding

the approaching county election. You can command several votes, sir?"

"Of course, sir," replied Mr. Cannon, with a proper emphasis and

conciseness.

"You are aware, sir, that his lordship intends to put up Mr. Elfin

Eelback, of Stoop-Lodge?"

"Well, sir! what's that to me? What do I care for his lordship's

candidate?"

Bravo, Cannon! Mrs. Cannon would have inflicted a kiss had she been

present.

Mr. Carrydot's eyes glared with indignation, and beamed with _ousters_

and _ejectments_, as he repeated the words, "What's that to you, sir!"

"Ay!" replied Cannon, giving the table a liberal thump. "What the devil

is it to me?"

"Why, his lordship desires that you will vote for Mr. Eelback."

"Then tell his lordship that I'd sooner see Mr. Eelback skinned alive!"

Cannon was furious. Carrydot was calm, nay, he smiled; for the fury of

Cannon spoke volumes of prospective _foreclosures_, and _distresses_,

and _rescous_, and _replevin_, and _denial_; more especially as Cannon

seemed to be a _good man_, with a silver urn and tea-pot on the table,

and every appearance of wealth and independence about the goods and

chattels on the premises. "You seem to forget, sir," he quietly

replied, "that you only hold Wick-Hall upon a lease, and that your

interest in the lease expires next Michaelmas."

This was a thunderbolt to Cannon, who had laid out upwards of three

thousand pounds on Wick-Hall.

"What, sir, if I refuse to vote for this Eelback?"

"You must turn out, sir, _nolens volens_; so sayeth the law!"

"But justice, sir?"

"So sayeth the law. Every man has a right to do what he likes with his

own, Mr. Cannon."

"What! whatever my political opinions may be?"

"You must poll for his lordship's candidate."

"This is infamous, oppressive, tyrannical!"

"Perhaps you may think so. Your politics, as you say, may differ from

those of his lordship, but his lordship must be in the right. _Primò_,

he is lord of the manor; _secundò_, his property in the county is very

considerable; and, _ergo_, he has a better right to know what is good

for the people than a mere tenant."

"But, sir, he has no right--"

"Once more, sir, every one has a right to do what he likes with his

own."

"Then, let me tell you, sir," replied Mr. Cannon, in a paroxysm of

rage, "that there cudgel is my own, and suppose I knocked you down with

it? This here foot is my own, and suppose I kicked you out of my house,

Mr. Thingembob?"

"In that case," replied Carrydot, with a tranquillity which would have

made Job himself smash all his crockery,--"In that case, sir, if you

made use of that _there_ cudgel, as you call it, the law would soon

make you _cut your stick_; and if you did make the aforesaid use of

that _there_ foot, unless you took _leg-bail_, you should pay dearly

for the experiment."

So saying, Mr. Carrydot took an enormous pinch of snuff, clapped on his

broad beaver with forensic dignity, pulled up his coat-sleeves still

higher with a twisting thrust of the hand, ready for anything--as the

Irish say--from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter, and bidding Cannon, in

a vulgar language unbecoming a solicitor, to prepare "to tip his rags

a gallop by roast-goose time," which in the dignified metaphorical

phraseology of the bar meaneth Michaelmas, he left Commodus Cannon to

his deep reflections.

He was roused from this apathetic state by the entrance of Mrs. Cannon.

"Well, sir?" said she, in an anxious tone. "Well, sir?"

"Mrs. Cannon, I regret it, but we _must_ have a revolution in this here

slavish, this here degraded country!"

"Lord-a-mercy! what has happened?" replied his affrighted lady.

"It is not what has happened, madam," replied the regenerated

free-born Briton; "it is what shall happen. By gums!--(he was already

beginning to be somewhat puritanical and sanctified; the day before,

nay, a few moments previous to Carrydot's entrance, he would have

sworn by G--, like any duke or marquis,)--by gums! this here proud

big-wig aristocracy must be brought down; nothing can save poor

England but the abolition of this insolent peerage, these hereditary

law-makers from father to son. I say, no peers! no bishops! no lords!

a yearly parliament! universal sufferance!--(it is presumed he meant

suffrage,)--vote by ballot! Throw up your pew, Mrs. Cannon! kick the

tax-gatherer down stairs! I'll kick the fat gold-laced beadle myself!

and tell Parson Muzzle that he's a humbug and a leech!"

Mrs. Cannon, and all the Cannons, great-guns and small-arms, were

terrified, and fancied the worthy man was out of his senses. She

proposed to send for Mr. Hiccup.

"Hiccup be d--d! Do you think, woman, that Hiccup would condescend to

come to you and me were we kicking in fits, dying with the pip, or had

swallowed a mutton-chop the wrong way? Hiccup is with his lordship,

with the Most noble, the Right honourable the Earl of Wittington, the

Right honourable the Lady Tabby Catson! If their noble fingers ached,

'twould be in the Gazette, so it would. If they got a surfeit from

cramming turtle down their noble throats, it would be in the papers!

Hiccup! the rascal! the Tory pill-gilder! wouldn't give a commoner, an

independent citizen, or an honest pauper, second-hand physic if a lord

wanted him! No, not to save a fellow Christian's life!"

All this was inexplicable to the open-mouthed and alarmed family, when

a sudden burst of tears followed this violent paroxysm; and the Cannon

circle, drawing round their chief with becoming uneasiness, were soon

made _au fait_ to the full extent of the fresh indignities offered

their name and fame.

What was to be done? To remain at Wick-Hall after such an insult would

have been the height of degradation; to keep possession of it at the

expense of conscience by voting for Mr. Eelback, an abnegation of a

freeman's independence. All was doubt; and the thoughts of the Cannon

family were, to use the words of Otway,

"Like birds, that, frighted from their rest,

Around the place where all was hush'd before,

Flutter, and hardly flutter, and hardly settle anywhere,"

when another nerve-upsetting rapping at the hall once more interrupted

the busy circle. Mr. and Mrs. Grits were announced.

"Who is Mr. Grits?" exclaimed Mrs. Cannon.

The question was answered by Mrs. Grits in person; and in her, to

her utter horror, Mrs. Cannon recognised the daughter of Mr. Suet, a

carcase butcher, who had lived near them when Mr. C. was in the tallow

line.

To see her at Muckford appeared to Mrs. Cannon as wonderful as though

she had beheld the spirits of all the bullocks Mr. Suet had ever

slaughtered scampering about Smithfield. The ex-Miss Suet explained

matters. She had married Mr. Grits, a grocer, who had failed thrice,

once a bankrupt, and twice an insolvent, by which means he had realised

a tolerable independence; yet, for appearance sake, he preferred

improving his condition with the means of others, and had travelled

abroad as a _maître d'hôtel_, with the Wittingtons.

At another time,--nay, a few hours before their visit,--the Grits would

not have been received; now, in the distressed state of the family,

they were welcomed with cordiality.

But the mind sickens at the object of their visit,--to advise Mr.

Cannon to accede to his lordship's proposals, and not irritate a

powerful enemy by an idle show of independence!!--But to think of a

reconciliation brought about by a butcher's daughter and a butler!--No,

no, thrice no;--the breach was immeasurably widened. Mr. Cannon

stuttered and stammered all the insults that had been heaped upon him.

Mrs. Grits plainly saw that no pacification could be expected; and,

although she expressed the utmost regret, she was inwardly delighted,

as it did not exactly suit her views that she should be known to be

a butcher's daughter. She, therefore, seizing both Mrs. Cannon's

trembling hands in the kindest manner, attempted to console and advise

her.

"I can readily imagine, my dear friend, how much this overbearing

conduct of my lord should have annoyed you. Oh! he is as proud as

Lucifer when he goes to open his parliament! It is such men, my dear,

that make me abhor this horrible England."

"Ay, horrible England!" repeated Mr. Cannon with ferocity.

"I have lived too long in that dear delicious France, that _belle

France_, to exist, or rather vegetate, in this abominable country."

This word, "_France_," acted like a magic spell; it seemed a password,

a _Shibboleth_, an _open sesame_ to regions of delight.

"Ay, France is the country! only ask Mr. Grits."

"Oh, there's nothing like it!" responded Mr. Grits, a jolly red-faced

fellow, with an enormous abdomen, rendered more _salient_ by a flapped

white waistcoat.

"And such society, oh! such an opening for young people, oh! No one

asks who and what you are, only have the caraways! Lord bless me!

there was Mrs. Triplet, the pawnbroker of Islington's wife, married

her daughter Peg to a French count; and Mr. Rumstuff, the tailor in

the Minories, married his daughter to a general,--ay, a real general;

and then, such living, and such society, and such amusements! _Gardes

du corps_ with such nice moustaches, and _pâtés de truffes_, and

_omelettes soufflées_, and _bals champêtres_ at Tivoli, and _glasses_

at Tortoni's, and _poulets à la crapaudine_, and _salmis de lièvre_,

and then, the masked-balls at the opera, oh! and _des œufs à la

neige_, and _des œufs au miroir_! How many ways have the French of

cooking eggs, Mr. G.?"

"Three hundred and forty-three, Mrs. G."

"Only think of that! I make Mr. G. live upon eggs _à la coque_, _à la

tripe_. And then meat at fourpence per pound!"

"Fivepence halfpenny for prime joints, if you please, Mrs. G." added

Mr. G.

"And such poultry! such capons! You have no capons in England, my dear.

Bless us, they don't know what's what! and so many delicious ways of

cooking them, _chapon à la barbare_, _chapon à la Veluti_, _chapon au

parfait amour_; and then, the Hussars, and the Lancers, and the horse

and foot dragoons. Oh! women there may do whatever they like! and girls

may string lovers like a _brochette of ortolans_!"

In short, Mrs. Grits gave such a flattering account of France, its

pleasures, its cookery, and its economy, that it was decided that to

France the family should go. Mr. Cannon said he was too old to learn

to _parlez-vous_, but the ladies procured grammars and dictionaries,

to brush up their boarding-school education; and in ten days the whole

family were packed up in three travelling carriages, and set out for

Dover; their only domestics, Sam Surly, a Yorkshire coachman, and Sukey

Simper, a Kentish maid, whom we shall again find on the road.

Such is the ingratitude of mankind that all Muckford was delighted with

their departure. "_Hurrah! All the Cannons are gone off!_" exclaimed

Mr. Sniffnettle.

Lady Tabby Catson died soon after, leaving a handsome legacy to Mr.

Hiccup, the surgeon. Muzzle got a living, and resided at Wick-Hall,

the name of which he changed into _Cushion-Lodge_, alluding, no doubt,

to the _otium_ he enjoyed. Sniffnettle was made under-steward of Lord

Wittington's estate; and Mr. Grits opened an inn at the sign of the

_Mitre_, opposite _Cushion-Lodge_, and, as the Rev. Mr. Muzzle had been

appointed tutor to the youngest of the honourable Catsons, whenever

he saw the sign bearing the episcopal diadem swinging in the wind,

despite all humility, a warrantable ambition would often lead him to an

association of ideas in which a crosier acted as a favourite crotchet;

nay, in his sleep sometimes Queen Mab would tickle his nose until he

dreamt of bishopricks, _congés d'élire_, and visitation dinners, and

then he would suddenly awake and terrify Mrs. Muzzle, roaring out "NOLO

EPISCOPARI!"

A CHAPTER ON LAUGHING.

"And Laughter holding both his sides."--MILTON.

If you were to ask a learned physician to explain to you the peculiar

sensation termed laughter, it is more than likely he would astonish you

with an amazing profundity of erudition, ending in the sage conclusion

that he knows nothing more about the matter than that it is a very

natural emotion of the senses, generally originating with a good

joke, and not unfrequently terminating in a fit of indigestion. If he

happened to be (as there are many) a priggish quack, it is not unlikely

he would add as a sequel, that it was a most injurious and unmannerly

indulgence, particularly favouring a determination of blood to the

head, and decidedly calculated to injure the fine nerves of the facial

organ! If, on the contrary, he should be a good, honest follower of

Galen, he would not fail to pronounce it the most fearful enemy to his

profession, as being altogether incompatible with physic and the blues,

and, by way of illustration, he might go so far as to read a chapter of

Tom Hood's best, in order to prove the strength of his position.

Laughter--good, hearty, cheerful-hearted laughter--is the echo of

a happy spirit, the attribute of a cloudless mind. Life without it

were without hope, for it is the exuberance of hope. It is an emotion

possessed by man alone,--the happy light that relieves the dark picture

of life.

We laugh most, when we are young; the thoughts are then free and

unfettered, there is nothing to bind their fierce impulse, and we sport

with the passions with the bold daring of ignorance. Smiles and tears,

it has been observed, follow each other like gloom and sunshine; so

the childish note of mirth treads on the heels of sorrow. It was but

yesterday we noticed a little urchin writhing apparently in the agony

of anguish; he had been punished for some trivial delinquency, and his

little spirit resented it most gloriously. How the young dog roared!

His little chest heaved up and down; and every blue vein on his pure

forehead was apparent,--bursting with passion. Anon, a conciliatory

word was addressed to him by the offended _gouvernante_; a smile passed

over the boy's face; his little eyes, sparkling through a cloud of

tears, were thrown upwards; a short struggle between pride and some

other powerful feeling ensued; and then there burst forth such a peal

of laughter, so clear, so full, so round, it would have touched the

heart of a stoic!

Our natural passions and emotions become subdued, or altogether

changed, as we enter the world. The laugh of the schoolboy is checked

by the frown of the master. He is acquiring wisdom, and wisdom (ye

Gods, how dearly bought!) is incompatible with laughter. But still, at

times, when loosened from his shackles, the pining student will burst

forth as in days gone by: but he has no longer the cue and action

for passion he then had; the cares of the world have already mingled

themselves in his cup, and his young spirit is drooping beneath their

influence. The laughter of boyhood is a merry carol; but the first rich

blush has already passed away. The boy enters the world, full of the

gay buoyancy of youth. He looks upon those he meets as the playmates

of other hours. But Experience teaches him her lessons; the natural

feelings of his heart are checked; he may laugh and talk as formerly,

but the spell, the dreams that cast such a halo round his young days,

are dissipated and broken.

There are fifty different classes of laughers. There is your

smooth-faced politic laugher, your laugher by rule. These beings are

generally found within the precincts of a court, at the heels of some

great man, to whose conduct they shape their passions as a model. Does

his lordship say a _bon mot_, it is caught up and grinned at in every

possible manner till, the powers of grimace expended, his lordship is

pleased to change the subject, and strike a different chord. And it is

not astonishing. Who would refuse to laugh for a pension of two hundred

a year? Common gratitude demands it.

There is, then, your habitual laugher, men who laugh by habit, without

rhyme or reason. They are generally stout, piggy-faced gentlemen, who

eat hearty suppers, and patronise free-and-easys. They will meet you

with a grin on their countenance, which, before you have said three

sentences, will resolve itself into a simper, and terminate finally

in a stentorian laugh. These men may truly be said to go through life

laughing; but habit has blunted the finer edges of their sympathies,

and their mirth is but the unmeaning effusion of a weak spirit.

These personages generally go off in fits of apoplexy, brought on by

excessive laughter on a full stomach!

There is, then, your discontented cynical laugher, who makes a mask of

mirth to conceal the venom of his mind. It is a dead fraud that ought

not to be pardoned. Speak to one of these men of happiness, virtue, &c.

he meets you with a sneer, or a bottle-imp kind of chuckle; talk to him

of any felicitous circumstance, he checks you with a sardonic grin,

that freezes your best intentions. He is a type of the death's head the

Egyptians placed at their feasts to check exuberant gaiety.

There is, then, your fashionable simperer, your laugher _à-la-mode_,

your inward digester of small jokes and tittle-tattle. _He_

never laughs,--it is a vulgar habit; the only wonder is, that

he eats. People, he will tell you, should overcome these vulgar

propensities; they are abominable. A young man of this class is

generally consumptive, his lungs have no play, he is always weak and

narrow-chested; he vegetates till fifty, and then goes off, overcome

with a puff of _eau de rose_, or _millefleur_, he has encountered

accidentally from the pocket-handkerchief of a cheesemonger's wife!

Last of all, there is your real, good, honest laugher; the man who has

a heart to feel and sympathize with the joys and sorrows of others; who

has gone through life superior to its follies, and has learnt to gather

wisdom even from laughter. Such are the men who do honour to society,

who have learnt to be temperate in prosperity, patient in adversity;

and, who, having gathered experience from years, are content to drink

the cup of life mingled as it is, to enjoy calmly the sweeter portion,

and laugh at the bitter.

There is a strange affinity in our passions. The heart will frequently

reply to the saddest intelligence by a burst of the most unruly

laughter, the effigy of mirth. It seems as though the passion, like

a rude torrent, were too strong to pursue its ordinary course; but,

breaking forth from the narrow channel that confined it, rushed forth

in one broad impetuous stream. It is the voice of anguish that has

chosen a different garb, and would cheat the sympathies. But we have

ourselves been demonstrating the truth of our last proposition; for we

have been writing on laughter till we have grown sad. But what says the

old song?

"To-night we'll merry, merry be,

To-morrow we'll be sober."

So sadness, after all, is but joy deferred.

A MUSTER CHAUNT

FOR THE MEMBERS OF THE TEMPERANCE SOCIETIES.

Wine! wine! fill up

The sparkling cup

With champagne hissing to the brim;

For wit, and joy, and rapture, swim

In bumpers. The grape's blood is mine;

I'll steep my heart in it till it shine

With the warm flush

The purple blush

Of wine!

Wine! wine! the frown

Of Care we'll drown

In deep libations to the God

Who planted first on Nysa's sod

The branches of the illustrious vine.

Bacchus, we worship at thy shrine!

In Pleasure's bowers

Swift fly the Hours

Whose wings are wash'd with wine!

Wine! wine! the brow

Is mantling now;

The eye is flashing with "the flow

Of soul," the cheek has caught its glow;

The lips are breathing words divine,

While wreaths of song around them twine

In glorious lays,

Chaunting the praise

Of racy wine!

Wine! wine! fill up

And quaff the cup

To lovely woman! Drink again

To all bold festive souls who drain

The crystal bowl, and wear the sign

Of bacchanals. Hurrah! we're there,

Thou soul of joy!

Immortal boy!

God of immortal wine!

REMAINS OF HAJJI BABA.