Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,

Now experienced what schoolboys denominate "funk."

In vain he look'd back

On the whole of the track

He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,

At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,

And did not seem likely to pass away soon;

While clearer and clearer,

'Twas plain to the hearer,

Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,

And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,

Very much "like a Coffin a-walking up stairs."

Mr. Pryce had begun

To "make up" for a run,

As in such a companion he saw no great fun,

When a single bright ray

Shone out on the way

He had pass'd, and he saw with no little dismay

Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,

The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!"

Twas so!--it had certainly moved from its place,

And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;

'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,

And nothing was alter'd at all but the Face!

In that he perceived, with no little surprise,

The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes

Blazing with ire,

Like two coals of fire;

And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip,

And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.

No!--he could not mistake it,--'twas SHE to the life!

The identical Face of his dear defunct Wife!!

One glance was enough,

Completely "_Quant. Suff._"

As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"--

Like a Weather-cock whirl'd by a vehement puff,

David turn'd himself round;

Ten feet of ground

He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!

I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses,

I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises,

At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,

And one from a Bailiff much faster than that;

At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder,

I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder,

I've seen little boys run away from a cane,

And I've seen, (that is, _read of_,) good running in Spain;

But I never did read

Of, or witness, such speed

As David exerted that evening.--Indeed

All I ever have heard of boys, women, or men,

Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "PEN!"

He reaches its brow,--

He has past it, and now

Having once gain'd the summit, and managed to cross it, he

Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity;

But, run as he will,

Or roll down the hill,

That bugbear behind him is after him still!

And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,

The terrible Clock keeps on ticking and striking,

Till, exhausted and sore,

He can't run any more,

But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door.

And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock,

"Oh! Look at the Clock!--Do.--Look at the Clock!!"

Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down,

She saw nothing there to alarm her;--a frown

Came o'er her white forehead,

She said "It was horrid

A man should come knocking at that time of night,

And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;

To squall and to bawl

About nothing at all--"

She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call,

His late wife's disaster

By no means had past her,"

She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!"

Then, regardless alike of his love and his woes,

She turn'd on her heel as she turn'd up her nose.

Poor David in vain

Implored to remain,

He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again."

Why the fair was obdurate

None knows,--to be sure, it

Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;--

Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole

Pryce could find to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!

In that shady retreat,

With nothing to eat,

And with very bruis'd limbs, and with very sore feet,

All night close he kept;

I can't say he slept;

But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept,

Lamenting his sins

And his two broken shins,

Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,

And her he once thought a complete _Rara Avis_,

Consigning to Satan,--viz. cruel Miss Davis!

Mr. David has since had a "serious call,"

He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,

And they say he is going to Exeter Hall

To make a grand speech,

And to preach, and to teach

People that "they can't brew their malt-liquor too small!"

That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,

Was right in proclaiming "ARISTON MEN UDOR!"

Which means "The pure Element

Is for the belly meant!"

And that _Gin's_ but a _Snare_ of Old Nick the deluder!

And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up,"

At the old Goat-in-Boots, with metheglin, each cup,

Mr. Pryce, if he's there,

Will get into "the Chair,"

And make all his _quondam_ associates stare

By calling aloud to the landlady's daughter,

"Patty! bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!"

The dial he constantly watches; and when

The long hand's at the "XII," and the short at the "X,"

He gets on his legs,

Drains his glass to the dregs,

Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,

With his President's hammer bestows his last knock,

And says solemnly,--"Gentlemen!

"LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!"

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

_Tappington Everard, July 24._

SONG OF THE MONTH. No. IX.

September, 1837.

THE DOUBLE BARREL.

BY FATHER PROUT.

Duo quisque Alpina coruscat

Gæsa manu.--_Æneid. lib. 8._

Παν πραγμα δυας εχει λαβας.--_Epictetus._

SEPTEMBER the first on the moorland hath burst,

And already with jocund carol

Each NIMROD of NOUSE hurries off to the grouse,

And has shouldered his DOUBLE BARREL;

For well doth he ken, as he hies through the glen,

That scanty will be _his_ laurel

Who hath not

On the spot

(Should he miss a first shot)

Some resource in a DOUBLE BARREL.

'Twas the Goddess of Sport, in her woodland court,

DIANA, first taught this moral,

Which the Goddess of Love soon adopted, and strove

To improve on the "double barrel."

Hence her CUPID, we know, put two strings to his bow;

And she laughs, when two lovers quarrel,

At the lot

Of the sot

Who, to soothe him, han't got

The resource of a DOUBLE BARREL.

Nay, the hint was too good to lie hid in the wood,

Or to lurk in two lips of coral;

Hence the God of the Grape (who his betters would ape)

Knows the use of a DOUBLE BARREL.

His escutcheon he decks with a double XX,

And his blithe _October_ carol

Follows up

With the sup

Of a flowing ale-cup

_September_'s DOUBLE BARREL.

_Water-grass-hill, Kal. VII^{bres}._

GENIUS; OR, THE DOG'S-MEAT DOG.

BEING A SECOND "TAILED SONNET," IN THE ITALIAN MANNER.[10]

BY EGERTON WEBBE.

"Hal, thou hast the most unsavoury similes."--_Falstaff._

Since Genius hath the immortal faculty

Of bringing grist to other people's mills,

While for itself no office it fulfils,

And cannot choose but starve amazingly,

Methinks 'tis very like the dog's-meat dog,

That 'twixt Black Friars and White sometimes I've seen,--

Afflicted quadruped, jejune and lean,

Whom none do feed, but all do burn to flog.

For why? He draws the dog's-meat cart, you see,--

Himself a dog. All dogs his coming hail,

Long dogs and short, and dogs of various tail,

Yea truly, every sort of dogs that be.

Where'er he cometh him his cousins greet,

Yet not for love, but only for the meat,--

In Little Tower Street,

Or opposite the pump on Fish-street Hill,

Or where the Green Man is the Green Man still,

Or where you will:--

It is not he, but, ah! it is the cart

With which his cousins are so loth to part;

(That's nature, bless your heart!)

And you'll observe his neck is almost stiff

With turning round to try and get a sniff,

As now and then a whiff,

Charged from behind, a transient savour throws,

That curls with hope the corners of his nose,

Then all too quickly goes,

And leaves him buried in conjectures dark,

Developed in a sort of muffled bark.

For I need scarce remark

That that sagacious dog hath often guess'd

There's something going on of interest

Behind him, not confest;

And I have seen him whisk with sudden start

Entirely round, as he would face the cart,

Which could he by no art,

Because of cunning mechanism. Lord!

But how a proper notion to afford?

How possibly record,

With any sort of mental satisfaction,

The look of anguish--the immense distraction--

Pictured in face and action,

When, whisking round, he hath discovered there

Five dogs,--all jolly dogs--besides a pair

Of cats, most debonair,

In high assembly met, sublimely lunching,

Best horse's flesh in breathless silence munching,

While he, poor beast! is crunching

His unavailing teeth?--You must be sensible

'Tis aggravating--cruel--indefensible--

Incomprehensible.

And to his grave I do believe he'll go,

Sad dog's-meat dog, nor ever know

Whence all those riches flow

Which seem to spring about him where he is,

Finding their way to every mouth but his.--

I know such similes

By some are censured as not being savoury;

But still it's better than to talk of "knavery,"

And "wretched authors' slavery,"

With other words of ominous import.

I much prefer a figure of this sort.

And so, to cut it short,

(For I abhor all poor rhetoric fuss,)

Ask what the devil I mean--I answer thus,

THAT DOG'S A GENIUS.

[Illustration: Oliver claimed by his Affectionate Friends]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 10: For the former specimen, as well as some critical

account of the comic sonnets of the Italians, see the April number of

_Bentley's Miscellany_.]

OLIVER TWIST;

OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.

BY BOZ.

ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S,

WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED

CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND.

Oliver soon recovered from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's

abrupt exclamation had thrown him; and the subject of the picture was

carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the

conversation that ensued, which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's

history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse

without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast;

but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first

act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again

looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were

disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.

"Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes.

"It is gone, you see."

"I see it is, ma'am," replied Oliver, with a sigh. "Why have they taken

it away?"

"It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that, as it

seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you

know," rejoined the old lady.

"On, no, indeed it didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to

see it; I quite loved it."

"Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast

as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There, I promise

you that; now let us talk about something else."

This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at

that time, and as the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness,

he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so listened

attentively to a great many stories she told him about an amiable and

handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome

man, and lived in the country; and a son, who was clerk to a merchant

in the West Indies, and who was also such a good young man, and wrote

such dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought the tears

into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated a

long time on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her

kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul!

just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea; and after tea she

began to teach Oliver cribbage, which he learnt as quickly as she could

teach, and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity,

until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water,

with a slice of dry toast, and to go cosily to bed.

They were happy days those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so

quiet, and neat, and orderly, everybody so kind and gentle, that after

the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it

seemed like heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his

clothes on properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and

a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver

was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave

them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell

them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily

did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew

roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think

that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger

of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell

the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as Oliver

was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr.

Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see

him in his study, and talk to him a little while.

"Bless us, and save us! wash your hands, and let me part your hair

nicely for you, child," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Dear heart alive! if we had

known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar

on, and made you as smart as sixpence."

Oliver did as the old lady bade him, and, although she lamented

grievously meanwhile that there was not even time to crimp the little

frill that bordered his shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and

handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so

far as to say, looking at him with great complacency from head to foot,

that she really didn't think it would have been possible on the longest

notice to have made much difference in him for the better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door, and, on Mr. Brownlow

calling to him to come in, found himself in a little back room, quite

full of books, with a window looking into some pleasant little gardens.

There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow

was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from

him, and told him to come near the table and sit down. Oliver complied,

marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number

of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser,--which is

still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist every day

of their lives.

"There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?" said Mr.

Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the

shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

"A great number, sir," replied Oliver; "I never saw so many."

"You shall read them if you behave well," said the old gentleman

kindly; "and you will like that, better than looking at the

outsides,--that is, in some cases, because there _are_ books of which

the backs and covers are by far the best parts."

"I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir," said Oliver, pointing to

some large quartos with a good deal of gilding about the binding.

"Not those," said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and

smiling as he did so; "but other equally heavy ones, though of a much

smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write

books, eh?"

"I think I would rather read them, sir," replied Oliver.

"What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?" said the old gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while, and at last said he should think it

would be a much better thing to be a bookseller; upon which the old

gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing,

which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it

was.

"Well, well," said the old gentleman, composing his features, "don't be

afraid; we won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade

to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to."

"Thank you, sir," said Oliver; and at the earnest manner of his reply

the old gentleman laughed again, and said something about a curious

instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention

to.

"Now," said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the

same time in a much more serious manner than Oliver had ever heard him

speak in yet, "I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am

going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve, because I am

sure you are as well able to understand me as many older persons would

be."

"Oh, don't tell me you are going to send me away, sir, pray!"

exclaimed Oliver, alarmed by the serious tone of the old gentleman's

commencement; "don't turn me out of doors to wander in the streets

again. Let me stay here and be a servant. Don't send me back to the

wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir; do!"

"My dear child," said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of

Oliver's sudden appeal, "you need not be afraid of my deserting you,

unless you give me cause."

"I never, never will, sir," interposed Oliver.

"I hope not," rejoined the old gentleman; "I do not think you ever

will. I have been deceived before, in the objects whom I have

endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you,

nevertheless, and more strongly interested in your behalf than I can

well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed

my dearest love lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness

and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin

of my heart, and sealed it up for ever on my best affections. Deep

affliction has only made them stronger; it ought, I think, for it

should refine our nature."

As the old gentleman said this in a low voice, more to himself than to

his companion, and remained silent for a short time afterwards, Oliver

sat quite still, almost afraid to breathe.

"Well, well," said the old gentleman at length in a more cheerful

voice, "I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing

that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful,

perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a

friend in the world; and all the inquiries I have been able to make

confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you came from, who

brought you up, and how you got into the company in which I found you.

Speak the truth; and if I find you have committed no crime, you will

never be friendless while I live."

Oliver's sobs quite checked his utterance for some minutes; and just

when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been

brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a

peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door,

and the servant, running up stairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.

"Is he coming up?" inquired Mr. Brownlow.

"Yes, sir," replied the servant. "He asked if there were any muffins in

the house, and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea."

Mr. Brownlow smiled, and, turning to Oliver, said Mr. Grimwig was an

old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his

manners, for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to

know.

"Shall I go down stairs, sir?" inquired Oliver.

"No," replied Mr. Brownlow; "I would rather you stopped here."

At this moment there walked into the room, supporting himself by

a thick stick, a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who

was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and

gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with

green. A very small-plaited shirt-frill stuck out from his waistcoat,

and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end,

dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were

twisted into a ball about the size of an orange;--the variety of

shapes into which his countenance was twisted defy description. He

had a manner of screwing his head round on one side when he spoke,

and looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time, which

irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude he

fixed himself the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a

small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed in a growling,

discontented voice,

"Look here! do you see this? Isn't it a most wonderful and

extraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a

piece of this cursed poor-surgeon's-friend on the staircase? I've been

lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death at

last. It will, sir; orange-peel will be my death, or I'll be content

to eat my own head, sir!" This was the handsome offer with which Mr.

Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it

was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting, for the

sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being ever

brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head

in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a

particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly

entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting, to put

entirely out of the question a very thick coating of powder.

"I'll eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon

the ground. "Hallo! what's that?" he added, looking at Oliver, and

retreating a pace or two.

"This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about," said Mr.

Brownlow.

Oliver bowed.

"You don't mean to say that's the boy that had the fever, I hope?" said

Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little further. "Wait a minute, don't speak:

stop--" continued Mr. Grimwig abruptly, losing all dread of the fever

in his triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy that had the orange!

If that's not the boy, sir, that had the orange, and threw this bit of

peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head and his too."

"No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come, put

down your hat, and speak to my young friend."

"I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old

gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less

orange-peel on the pavement in our street, and I _know_ it's put there

by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit

last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I

saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light.

'Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, 'he's an assassin,--a

man-trap!' So he is. If he is not----" Here the irascible old gentleman

gave a great knock on the ground with his stick, which was always

understood by his friends to imply the customary offer whenever it was

not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he

sat down, and, opening a double eye-glass which he wore attached to a

broad black riband, took a view of Oliver, who, seeing that he was the

object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.

"That's the boy, is it?" said Mr. Grimwig, at length.

"That is the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow, nodding good-humouredly to

Oliver.

"How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig.

"A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver.

Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about

to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step down stairs, and

tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea, which, as he did not half

like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do.

"He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow.

"I don't know," replied Grimwig, pettishly.

"Don't know?"

"No, I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two

sorts of boys,--mealy boys, and beef-faced boys."

"And which is Oliver?"

"Mealy. I know a friend who's got a beef-faced boy; a fine boy they

call him, with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid

boy, with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams

of his blue clothes--with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a

wolf. I know him, the wretch!"

"Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young

Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath."

"They are not," replied Grimwig. "He may have worse."

Here Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently, which appeared to afford Mr.

Grimwig the most exquisite delight.

"He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come

from? Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever--what of that? Fevers

are not peculiar to good people, are they? Bad people have fevers

sometimes, haven't they, eh? I knew a man that was hung in Jamaica

for murdering his master; he had had a fever six times; he wasn't

recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!"

Now, the fact was, that, in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr.

Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and

manner were unusually prepossessing, but he had a strong appetite

for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the

orange-peel; and inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him

whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved from the first

to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point

of inquiry could he yet return any satisfactory answer, and that he

had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until

he thought the boy was strong enough to bear it, Mr. Grimwig chuckled

maliciously, and demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in

the habit of counting the plate at night; because, if she didn't find

a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be

content to----, et cetera.

All this Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous

gentleman, knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good

humour; and as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express

his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly, and

Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than

he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's presence.

"And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account

of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?" asked Grimwig of Mr.

Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal: looking sideways at Oliver as

he resumed the subject.

"To-morrow morning," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I would rather he was alone

with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, my

dear."

"Yes, sir," replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because

he was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him.

"I'll tell you what," whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; "he

won't come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is

deceiving you, my dear friend."

"I'll swear he is not," replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.

"If he is not," said Mr. Grimwig, "I'll----" and down went the stick.

"I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life," said Mr. Brownlow,

knocking the table.

"And I for his falsehood with my head," rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking

the table also.

"We shall see," said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising passion.

"We will," replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; "we will."

As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in at this moment a

small parcel of books which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of

the identical bookstall-keeper who has already figured in this history;

which having laid on the table, she prepared to leave the room.

"Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow; "there is something to

go back."

"He has gone, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin.

"Call after him," said Mr. Brownlow; "it's particular. He's a poor man,

and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too."

The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way, and the girl another,

and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there

was no boy in sight, and both Oliver and the girl returned in a

breathless state to report that there were no tidings of him.

"Dear me, I am very sorry for that," exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; "I

particularly wished those books to be returned to-night."

"Send Oliver with them," said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; "he

will be sure to deliver them safely, you know."

"Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir," said Oliver; "I'll run

all the way, sir."

The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out

on any account, when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined

him that he should, and by his prompt discharge of the commission prove

to him the injustice of his suspicions, on this head at least, at once.

"You _shall_ go, my dear," said the old gentleman. "The books are on a

chair by my table. Fetch them down."

Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in

a great bustle, and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to

take.

"You are to say," said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at

Grimwig,--"you are to say that you have brought those books back,

and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is

a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back ten shillings

change."

"I won't be ten minutes, sir," replied Oliver, eagerly; and, having

buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books

carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room.

Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions

about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of

the street, all of which Oliver said he clearly understood; and, having

super-added many injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the careful

old lady at length permitted him to depart.

"Bless his sweet face!" said the old lady, looking after him. "I can't

bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight."

At this moment Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned

the corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and,

closing the door, went back to her own room.

"Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest," said Mr.

Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. "It will

be dark by that time."

"Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?" inquired Mr. Grimwig.

"Don't you?" asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.

The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig's breast at the

moment, and it was rendered stronger by his friend's confident smile.

"No," he said, smiting the table with his fist, "I do not. The boy

has got a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books

under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket; he'll join his old

friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this

house, sir, I'll eat my head."

With these words he drew his chair closer to the table, and there the

two friends sat in silent expectation, with the watch between them. It

is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our

own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and

hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not a bad-hearted

man, and would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected

friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly

hope at that moment that Oliver Twist might not come back. Of such

contradictions is human nature made up!

It grew so dark that the figures on the dial were scarcely discernible;

but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit in silence, with the

watch between them.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

SHEWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY

WERE.

If it did not come strictly within the scope and bearing of my

long-considered intentions and plans regarding this prose epic (for

such I mean it to be,) to leave the two old gentlemen sitting with

the watch between them long after it grew too dark to see it, and

both doubting Oliver's return, the one in triumph, and the other in

sorrow, I might take occasion to entertain the reader with many wise

reflections on the obvious impolicy of ever attempting to do good to

our fellow-creatures where there is no hope of earthly reward; or

rather on the strict policy of betraying some slight degree of charity

or sympathy in one particularly unpromising case, and then abandoning

such weaknesses for ever. I am aware that, in advising even this slight

dereliction from the paths of prudence and worldliness, I lay myself

open to the censure of many excellent and respectable persons, who

have long walked therein; but I venture to contend, nevertheless, that

the advantages of the proceeding are manifold and lasting. As thus: if

the object selected should happen most unexpectedly to turn out well,

and to thrive and amend upon the assistance you have afforded him, he

will, in pure gratitude and fulness of heart, laud your goodness to

the skies; your character will be thus established, and you will pass

through the world as a most estimable person, who does a vast deal

of good in secret, not one-twentieth part of which will ever see the

light. If, on the contrary, his bad character become notorious, and

his profligacy a by-word, you place yourself in the excellent position

of having attempted to bestow relief most disinterestedly; of having

become misanthropical in consequence of the treachery of its object;

and of having made a rash and solemn vow, (which no one regrets more

than yourself,) never to help or relieve any man, woman, or child

again, lest you should be similarly deceived. I know a great number of

persons in both situations at this moment, and I can safely assert that

they are the most generally respected and esteemed of any in the whole

circle of my acquaintance.

But, as Mr. Brownlow was not one of these; as he obstinately persevered

in doing good for its own sake, and the gratification of heart it

yielded him; as no failure dispirited him, and no ingratitude in

individual cases tempted him to wreak his vengeance on the whole human

race, I shall not enter into any such digression in this place: and,

if this be not a sufficient reason for this determination, I have a

better, and, indeed, a wholly unanswerable one, already stated; which

is, that it forms no part of my original intention so to do.

In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, situate in the filthiest

part of Little Saffron-Hill,--a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring

gas-light burnt all day in the winter-time, and where no ray of sun

ever shone in the summer,--there sat, brooding over a little pewter

measure and a small glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of

liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots, and

stockings, whom, even by that dim light, no experienced agent of police

would have hesitated for one instant to recognise as Mr. William Sikes.

At his feet sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog, who occupied himself

alternately in winking at his master with both eyes at the same time,

and in licking a large, fresh cut on one side of his mouth, which

appeared to be the result of some recent conflict.

"Keep quiet, you warmint! keep quiet!" said Mr. Sikes, suddenly

breaking silence. Whether his meditations were so intense as to be

disturbed by the dog's winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought

upon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable

from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for

argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the effect was a

kick and a curse bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.

Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by

their masters; but Mr. Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in common

with his owner, and labouring perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful

sense of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one

of the half-boots, and, having given it a good hearty shake, retired,

growling, under a form: thereby just escaping the pewter measure which

Mr. Sikes levelled at his head.

"You would, would you?" said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and

deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew

from his pocket. "Come here, you born devil! Come here! D'ye hear?"

The dog no doubt heard, because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest

key of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some

unaccountable objection to having his throat cut, he remained where he

was, and growled more fiercely than before, at the same time grasping

the end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild

beast.

This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; so, dropping upon

his knees, he began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped

from right to left, and from left to right, snapping, growling, and

barking; the man thrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the

struggle was reaching a most critical point for one or other, when, the

door suddenly opening, the dog darted out, leaving Bill Sikes with the

poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.

There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage;

and Mr. Sikes, being disappointed of the dog's presence, at once

transferred the quarrel to the new-comer.

"What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?" said Sikes

with a fierce gesture.

"I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know," replied Fagin humbly--for the

Jew was the new-comer.

"Didn't know, you white-livered thief!" growled Sikes. "Couldn't you

hear the noise?"

"Not a sound of it, as I'm a living man, Bill," replied the Jew.

"Oh no, you hear nothing, you don't," retorted Sikes with a fierce

sneer, "sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go. I

wish you had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago."

"Why?" inquired the Jew with a forced smile.

"'Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as

haven't half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill his dog how he likes,"

replied Sikes, shutting the knife up with a very expressive look;

"that's why."

The Jew rubbed his hands, and, sitting down at the table, affected to

laugh at the pleasantry of his friend,--obviously very ill at his ease,

however.

"Grin away," said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with

savage contempt; "grin away. You'll never have the laugh at me, though,

unless it's behind a nightcap. I've got the upper hand over you, Fagin;

and, d--me, I'll keep it. There. If I go, you go; so take care of me."

"Well, well, my dear," said the Jew, "I know all that; we--we--have a

mutual interest, Bill,--a mutual interest."

"Humph!" said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on

the Jew's side than on his. "Well, what have you got to say to me?"

"It's all passed safe through the melting-pot," replied Fagin, "and

this is your share. It's rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but

as I know you'll do me a good turn another time, and----"

"'Stow that gammon," interposed the robber impatiently. "Where is it?

Hand over!"

"Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time," replied the Jew

soothingly. "Here it is--all safe." As he spoke, he drew forth an old

cotton handkerchief from his breast, and, untying a large knot in one

corner, produced a small brown-paper packet, which Sikes snatching from

him, hastily opened, and proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained.

"This is all, is it?" inquired Sikes.

"All," replied the Jew.

"You haven't opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come

along, have you?" inquired Sikes suspiciously. "Don't put on a injured

look at the question; you've done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler."

These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell.

It was answered by another Jew, younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile

and repulsive in appearance.

Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure, and the Jew, perfectly

understanding the hint, retired to fill it, previously exchanging a

remarkable look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant as if

in expectation of it, and shook his head in reply so slightly that

the action would have been almost imperceptible to a third person.

It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie the

boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly if he had observed the brief

interchange of signals, he might have thought that it boded no good to

him.

"Is anybody here, Barney?" inquired Fagin, speaking--now that Sikes was

looking on--without raising his eyes from the ground.

"Dot a shoul," replied Barney, whose words, whether they came from the

heart or not, made their way through the nose.

"Nobody?" inquired Fagin in a tone of surprise, which perhaps might

mean that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth.

"Dobody but Biss Dadsy," replied Barney.

"Miss Nancy!" exclaimed Sikes. "Where? Strike me blind, if I don't

honor that 'ere girl for her native talents."

"She's bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar," replied Barney.

"Send her here," said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor; "send her

here."

Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining

silent, and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired, and

presently returned ushering in Miss Nancy, who was decorated with the

bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key complete.

"You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?" inquired Sikes, proffering the

glass.

"Yes, I am, Bill," replied the young lady, disposing of its contents;

"and tired enough of it I am, too. The young brat's been ill and

confined to the crib; and----"

"Ah, Nancy, dear!" said Fagin, looking up.

Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew's red eyebrows, and a

half-closing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was

disposed to be too communicative, is not a matter of much importance.

The fact is all we need care for here; and the fact is, that she

suddenly checked herself, and, with several gracious smiles upon Mr.

Sikes, turned the conversation to other matters. In about ten minutes'

time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit of coughing, upon which Miss

Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and declared it was time

to go. Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way

himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her: and they went

away together, followed at a little distance by the dog, who slunk out

of a back-yard as soon as his master was out of sight.

The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it,

looked after him as he walked up the dark passage, shook his clenched

fist, muttered a deep curse, and then with a horrible grin reseated

himself at the table, where he was soon deeply absorbed in the

interesting pages of the Hue and Cry.

Meanwhile Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very

short a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the

bookstall. When he got into Clerkenwell he accidentally turned down a

by-street which was not exactly in his way; but not discovering his

mistake till he had got halfway down it, and knowing it must lead in

the right direction, he did not think it worth while to turn back, and

so marched on as quickly as he could, with the books under his arm.

He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to

feel, and how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick,

who, starved and beaten, might be lying dead at that very moment, when

he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud, "Oh, my dear

brother!" and he had hardly looked up to see what the matter was, when

he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.

"Don't!" cried Oliver struggling. "Let go of me. Who is it? What are

you stopping me for?"

The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from

the young woman who had embraced him, and who had got a little basket

and a street-door key in her hand.

"Oh my gracious!" said the young woman, "I've found him! Oh, Oliver!

Oliver! Oh, you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your

account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious

goodness heavins, I've found him!" With these incoherent exclamations

the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully

hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a

butcher's boy, with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was

also looking on, whether he didn't think he had better run for the

doctor. To which the butcher's boy, who appeared of a lounging, not to

say indolent disposition, replied that he thought not.

"Oh, no, no, never mind," said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand;

"I'm better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy, come."

"What's the matter, ma'am?" inquired one of the women.

"Oh, ma'am," replied the young woman, "he ran away near a month ago

from his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people, and

joined a set of thieves and bad characters, and almost broke his

mother's heart."

"Young wretch!" said one woman.

"Go home, do, you little brute," said the other.

"I'm not," replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. "I don't know her. I

haven't got any sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I

live at Pentonville."

"Oh, only hear him, how he braves it out!" cried the young woman.

"Why, it's Nancy!" exclaimed Oliver, who now saw her face for the first

time, and started back in irrepressible astonishment.

"You see he knows me," cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. "He

can't help himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll

kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!"

"What the devil's this?" said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with

a white dog at his heels; "young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother,

you young dog! come home directly."

"I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help!" cried Oliver,

struggling in the man's powerful grasp.

"Help!" repeated the man. "Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal! What

books are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here!"

With these words the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck

him violently on the head.

"That's right!" cried a looker-on, from a garret window. "That's the

only way of bringing him to his senses!"

"To be sure," cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look

at the garret-window.

"It'll do him good!" said the two women.

"And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another

blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain!

Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! mind him!"

Weak with recent illness, stupified by the blows and the suddenness

of the attack, terrified by the fierce growling of the dog and the

brutality of the man, and overpowered by the conviction of the

bystanders that he was really the hardened little wretch he was

described to be, what could one poor child do? Darkness had set in; it

was a low neighbourhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In

another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark, narrow courts,

and forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared

to give utterance to, wholly unintelligible. It was of little moment,

indeed, whether they were intelligible or not, for there was nobody to

care for them had they been ever so plain.

* * * * *

The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the

open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times, to see if

there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat

perseveringly in the dark parlour, with the watch between them.

THE POISONERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

BY GEORGE HOGARTH.

There are few things in the history of mankind more extraordinary

than the frightful extent to which the crime of secret poisoning was

carried, in several countries of Europe, during a large portion of the

seventeenth century. It appears to have taken its rise in Italy, where

it prevailed to a degree that is almost incredible. The instrument

chiefly used in its perpetration was a liquid called _aqua tofana_,

from the name of Tofania, its inventor, a woman who has acquired an

infamous celebrity. According to the account of Hoffmann, the famous

physician, this woman confessed that she had used this liquid in

poisoning above six hundred persons; and Gmelin says that more people

were destroyed by it than by the plague, which had raged for some

time before it came into use. This crime also prevailed, though for a

shorter time and to a smaller extent, in France; and was far from being

unknown in England. We intend to give our readers such information

as we have collected on this curious subject; and though the most

regular way might be to begin with the Signora Tofania herself, and

the diffusion of her practices in her own country, we prefer giving

at present the history of the most eminent of her followers, the

Marchioness de Brinvillier, whose atrocities created so much excitement

in France in the time of Louis the Fourteenth, as we shall thus be

enabled at once to place the matter in its most striking light. We

have consulted, we believe, most of the French works in which there

are any particulars respecting this lady; and our readers may take the

following as a faithful account of her life.

Marie-Marguerite d'Aubray was the daughter of M. d'Aubray, a gentleman

who held a considerable judicial office in Paris. In 1651 she married

the Marquis de Brinvillier. The match was a suitable one, both in

respect to station and property. The marquis had estates of thirty

thousand livres a-year; and his wife, who had two brothers and a

sister, brought him a fortune of two hundred thousand livres, with

the prospect of a considerable share of her father's inheritance. The

marchioness enjoyed the gifts of nature as well as of fortune. Her

figure was not remarkably handsome, but her face was round and pretty,

with a serene and quiet expression; and she had an air of innocence,

simplicity, and good-nature which gained the confidence of everybody

who had any intercourse with her.

The Marquis de Brinvillier was colonel of a regiment of foot. While on

service, he had contracted an intimacy with a gentleman of the name

of St. Croix, a captain of cavalry. There was some mystery about this

man's birth. It was known that he was from Montauban. Some thought him

an illegitimate scion of a noble house; others said he belonged to a

respectable family; but all agreed that he was totally destitute of the

gifts of fortune.

The part which this personage acted in the occurrences of which we are

about to give a sketch, makes it worth while to repeat the description

of him contained in some of the memoirs of the time. His countenance

was handsome and intelligent; he was remarkably courteous and obliging,

and entered into any benevolent or pious proposal with the same

alacrity with which he agreed to commit a crime. He was vindictive,

susceptible of love, and jealous to madness. His extravagance was

unbounded, and, being unsupported by any regular income, led him into

every sort of wickedness. Some years before his death, he assumed

an appearance of devotion, and it is said even wrote some tracts on

religious subjects.

The Marquis de Brinvillier was much addicted to pleasure. St. Croix

got into his good graces, and was introduced into his house. At first

he was only the husband's friend, but presently he became the wife's

lover; and their attachment became mutual. The dissipation of the

marquis's life prevented him from observing his wife's conduct, so

that the pair carried on a guilty commerce without any suspicion on

his part. His affairs became so disordered, that his wife succeeded,

on this ground, in obtaining a separation, and after this paid no

respect to decency or concealment in her connexion with her paramour.

Scandalous, however, as her conduct was, it made no impression on the

mind of the marquis, whose apathy induced the marchioness's father,

M. d'Aubray, to use his paternal authority. He obtained a _lettre de

cachet_ against St. Croix, who was arrested one day when he was in a

carriage with the marchioness, and carried to the Bastile, where he

remained for a year.

Absence, far from abating the marchioness's passion, only inflamed

it; and the constraint to which she found it necessary to subject

herself in order to prevent a second separation, inflamed it still

more. She conducted herself, however, with such apparent propriety,

that she regained her father's favour, and even his confidence. St.

Croix availed himself of the power which love had given him over his

mistress to root out every good principle or feeling from her mind.

Under his horrid lessons she became a monster, whose atrocities, we

hope and believe, have hardly ever been paralleled. He resolved to take

a dreadful revenge on the family of d'Aubray, and at the same time to

get his whole property into the possession of the marchioness, that

they might spend it together in guilty pleasures.

While St. Croix was in the Bastile, he had formed an acquaintance with

an Italian of the name of Exili, to whom he communicated his views.

Exili excited him to vengeance, and taught him the way to obtain it

with impunity. Poisoning may be called, _par excellence_, an Italian

art. With many fine qualities, vindictiveness and subtlety must be

acknowledged to be strong features in the character of that people; and

hence their early superiority in this art of taking the most deadly,

and at the same time the safest, revenge on their enemies. It appears,

accordingly, (as we have already said,) that it was from the Italians

that the poisoners of other countries derived their skill. They

acquired the art of composing poisons so disguised in their appearance

and subtle in their effects, that they baffled the penetration and art

of the physicians of that age. Some were slow, and consumed the vitals

of the victim by almost imperceptible degrees; others were sudden and

violent in their action; but few of them left any traces of their real

nature, for the symptoms they produced were generally so equivocal,

that they might be ascribed to many ordinary diseases. St. Croix

greedily devoured the instructions of his fellow-prisoner, and left

the Bastile prepared to exercise his infernal art.

His first object of vengeance was M. d'Aubray himself; and he soon

found means to persuade the daughter to become the agent in the

destruction of her father. The old gentleman had a house in the

country, where he used to spend his vacations. All his fondness for his

daughter, whom he now believed to have been "more sinned against than

sinning," had returned; and she, on her part, behaved to him with an

appearance of affectionate duty. She anxiously attended to his every

comfort; and, as his health had suffered from the fatigues of his

office, she employed herself in superintending the preparation of nice

and nourishing broths, which she gave him herself with every appearance

of tender care. It is needless to say that these aliments contained

some articles of Italian cookery; and the wretch, as she sat by his

bed-side, witnessing his sufferings and listening to his groans, shed

abundance of crocodile tears, while she eagerly administered to him

remedies calculated to insure the accomplishment of her object. But

neither the agonies of the poor old man, nor his touching expressions

of love and gratitude to the fiend at his side, could turn her for a

moment from her fell purpose. He was carried back to Paris, where in a

few days he sunk under the effects of the poison.

No suspicion was entertained of the cause of his death; the idea of

such a crime could not even have entered into the imagination of any

one. No external symptoms appeared, and the expedient of opening the

body was never thought of. The friends of the family were desirous only

of pitying and comforting them; and the inconsolable daughter, who had

tended her father with such filial piety, had the largest share of

sympathy. She returned as soon as possible to the arms of her paramour,

and made up for the restraint imposed on her during her father's life

by spending the money she had inherited by his death in undisguised

profligacy.

It afterwards appeared that this abandoned woman had made sure of

the efficacy of her drugs by a variety of experiments, not only upon

animals, but on human beings. She was in the habit of distributing to

the poor poisoned biscuits, prepared by herself, the effect of which

she found means to learn without committing herself. But this was not

enough: she desired to be an eye-witness of the progress and symptoms

of the effects produced by the poison; and for this purpose made the

experiment on Françoise Roussel, her maid, to whom she gave, by way of

treat, a plate of gooseberries and a slice of ham. The poor girl was

very ill, but recovered; and this was a lesson to St. Croix to make his

doses stronger.

Madame de Sevigné, in one of her letters, written at a time when the

public attention was engrossed by this strange affair, says, "La

Brinvillier used to poison pigeon-pies, which caused the death of many

people whom she had no intention of destroying. The Chevalier du Guet

was at one of these pretty dinners, and died of it two or three years

ago. When in prison, she asked if he was dead, and was told he was not.

'His life must be very tough, then,' said she. M. de la Rochefoucauld

declares that this is perfectly true."

M. d'Aubray's inheritance was not so beneficial to his infamous

daughter as she had expected. The best part of his property went to

his son, M. d'Aubray, who succeeded to his father's office, and another

brother a counsellor. It was necessary, therefore, to put them out of

the way also; and this task St. Croix, thinking his accomplice had done

enough for his purposes, took upon himself.

He had a villain at his devotion of the name of La Chaussée. This man

had been in his service, and he knew him to be a fit agent in any

atrocity. The marchioness got La Chaussée a place as servant to the

counsellor, who lived with his brother the magistrate, taking great

care to conceal from them that he had ever been in the service of

St. Croix. La Chaussée's employers promised him a hundred pistoles

and an annuity for life if he succeeded in causing the death of the

magistrate, who was their first object of attack. His anxiety to do

his business promptly made him fail in his first attempt. He gave the

magistrate a glass of poisoned wine and water; but the dose was too

strong: and no sooner had the magistrate put his lips to the glass,

than he cried, "Ah, you scoundrel, what is this you have given me?--do

you want to poison me?" He showed the liquid to his secretary, who,

having examined it in a spoon, said it was bitter, and had a smell

of vitriol. La Chaussée did not lose countenance, but, without any

appearance of confusion, took the glass and poured out the liquor,

saying that the younger M. d'Aubray's valet had taken some medicine

in this glass, which had produced the bitter taste. He got off with a

reprimand for his carelessness, and the matter was no more thought of.

This narrow escape from a discovery did not deter the murderers from

prosecuting their design; but they took more effectual measures for its

success, not caring though they should sacrifice by the same blow a

number of people with whom they had no concern.

In the beginning of April 1670, the magistrate went to pass the Easter

holidays at his house in the country. His brother the counsellor was of

the party, and was attended by La Chaussée. One day at dinner there was

a giblet-pie. Seven persons who eat of it became very ill, while those

who had not partaken of it suffered no uneasiness. The two brothers

were among the former, and had violent fits of vomiting. They returned

to Paris a few days afterwards, having the appearance of persons who

had undergone a long and violent illness.

St. Croix availed himself of this state of things to make sure of the

fruit of his crimes. He obtained from the marchioness two promissory

deeds, one for thirty thousand livres in his own name, and another

for twenty-five thousand livres in the name of Martin, one of his

familiars. The sum at first sight appears a small one, amounting only

to about two thousand three hundred pounds sterling; but the immense

difference in the value of money since the seventeenth century must be

taken into account. Such, however, at all events, was the price paid by

this demon for the death of her two brothers.

Meanwhile the elder d'Aubray became worse and worse; he could take no

sustenance, and vomited incessantly. The three last days of his life

he felt a fire in his stomach, which seemed to be consuming its very

substance. At length he expired on the 17th of June 1670. On being

opened, his stomach and _duodenum_ were black, and falling to pieces,

as if they had been put on a large fire; and the liver was burnt up

and gangrened. It was evident that he had been poisoned: but on whom

could suspicion fall?--there was no clue whatever to guide it. The

marchioness had gone to the country. St. Croix wrote her that the

magistrate was dead, and that, from his brother's situation, he must

soon follow. It so turned out. The unfortunate counsellor died, after

having lingered three months in excruciating torments; and he was so

far from suspecting La Chaussée of any hand in his death, that he left

him a legacy of three hundred livres, which was paid.

These three murders were still insufficient. There was yet a sister who

kept from the marchioness the half of the successions which she wished

to gain by the death of her father and brothers. The sister's life was

repeatedly attempted in the same way; but the shocking occurrences in

her family had made her suspicious, and her precautions preserved her.

The poor Marquis de Brinvillier was intended by his fury of a wife

for her next victim. "Madame de Brinvillier," says Madame de Sevigné

in another of her letters, "wanted to marry St. Croix, and for that

purpose poisoned her husband repeatedly. But St. Croix, who had

no desire to have a wife as wicked as himself, gave the poor man

antidotes; so that, having been tossed backward and forward in this

way, sometimes poisoned, and sometimes _un_poisoned, (_désempoisonné_),

he has, after all, got off with his life."

Though everybody was convinced that the father and his two sons had

been poisoned, yet nothing but very vague suspicions were entertained

as to the perpetrators of the crime. Nobody thought of St. Croix as

having had anything to do with it. He had for a long time ceased, to

all appearance, to have any connexion with Madame de Brinvillier; and

La Chaussée, the immediate agent, had played his part so well, that he

was never suspected.

At last the horrible mystery was discovered. St. Croix continued to

practise the art which had been so useful to him; and, as the poisons

he made were so subtle as to be fatal even by respiration, he used to

intercept their exhalations while compounding them by a glass mask

over his face. One day the mask by accident dropped off, and he fell

dead on the spot; "a death," says the French writer who mentions this

occurrence, "much too good for a monster who had inflicted it by long

and agonizing pangs on so many valuable citizens."[11] Having no

relations that were known, his repositories were sealed up by the

public authorities. When they were opened and examined, the first thing

which was found was a casket, in which was a paper in the following

terms:

"I earnestly request those into whose hands this casket may fall,

to deliver it into the hands of Madame la Marquise de Brinvillier,

residing in the Rue Neuve St. Paul, seeing that all that it contains

concerns and belongs to her only, and that it can be of no use to

any person in the world except herself; and, in case of her being

dead before me, to burn it, and all that it contains, without opening

or meddling with anything. And should any one contravene these my

intentions on this subject, which are just and reasonable, I lay the

consequences on their head, both in this world and the next; protesting

that this is my last will. Done at Paris this 25th May, afternoon,

1672. (Signed) De Sainte Croix."

The casket contained a number of parcels carefully sealed up, and

some phials containing liquids. The parcels were found to contain a

variety of drugs, which, having been submitted to the examination of

physicians, were found to be most subtle and deadly poisons. This was

ascertained by many experiments made upon pigeons, dogs, cats, and

other animals, all which were detailed in a formal report made on the

subject. It is stated in that report that no traces of the action of

the poison, either external or internal, appeared on the bodies of the

animals which had perished by it, and that it was impossible to detect

its existence by any chemical tests. It would appear, therefore, that

St. Croix had by his studies greatly increased in skill since the

deaths of the d'Aubray family. The poisons administered to them were of

a comparatively coarse and ordinary kind; they burnt up the stomach and

bowels, produced horrid torment, and left unequivocal marks of their

operation when any suspicion caused these marks to be sought for. But,

with the skill subsequently acquired, this hateful pair might have

destroyed thousands of their fellow-creatures with absolute impunity.

It is impossible to suppose that St. Croix could have been constantly

engaged, for a long series of years, in the composition of these secret

instruments of death without making use of them; and there is no saying

to what extent his work of destruction may have been carried.

The same casket contained ample evidence of the marchioness's share

in these transactions. There were a number of letters from her to St.

Croix, and the deed of promise which she had executed in his favour for

thirty thousand livres.

When the marchioness heard that St. Croix was dead, and that his

repositories had been sealed up, she showed the utmost anxiety to get

possession of the casket. At ten o'clock at night she came to the house

of the commissary who had affixed and taken off the seals, and desired

to speak with him. Being told by his clerk that he was asleep, she said

she had come to inquire about a casket which belonged to her, and which

she wished to get back, and would return next day. When she came back,

she was told that the casket could not be given up to her. Thinking it

high time, therefore, to take care of herself, she went off during the

following night, and took refuge in Liege; leaving, however, a power to

an attorney to appear for her and contest the validity of the promise

she had given to St. Croix. La Chaussée, too, had the impudence to put

in a claim to certain sums of money, which, as he pretended, belonged

to him, and which were deposited, in places which he mentioned, in St.

Croix's study. This proved that La Chaussée was acquainted with the

localities of a place into which it was to be presumed that St. Croix

admitted none but his confidants and confederates; and La Chaussée was

arrested on suspicion, which was greatly strengthened by the confusion

he betrayed when informed of the discoveries made at the removal of the

seals.

A judicial inquiry was now set on foot, and many witnesses examined.

Among others, Anne Huet, an apothecary's daughter, who was a sort of

servant of the marchioness, deposed, that one day, when the marchioness

was intoxicated, she had the imprudence to show the witness a little

box which she took out of a casket, and which, she said, contained the

means of getting rid of her enemies, and acquiring good inheritances.

Mademoiselle Huet saw that the box contained sublimate of mercury

in powder and in paste. Afterwards, when the fumes of the wine had

evaporated, the witness told the marchioness what she had said. "Oh,"

she said, "I was talking nonsense;" but at the same time she earnestly

begged her not to repeat what she had heard. The marchioness (this

witness added) was in the habit, when anything chagrined her, to say

she would poison herself. She said there were many ways of getting

rid of people when they stood in one's way,--a bowl of broth was as

good as a pistol-bullet. The girl added, that she had often seen La

Chaussée with Madame de Brinvillier, who chatted familiarly with him;

and that she had heard the marchioness say, "He is a good lad, and has

been very serviceable to me." Mademoiselle Villeray, another witness,

declared that she had seen La Chaussée on a very familiar footing with

Madame de Brinvillier; that she had seen them alone together since

the death of the magistrate; that, two days after the death of the

counsellor, she made La Chaussée hide himself behind the bed-curtains

when the magistrate's secretary came to see her. La Chaussée himself,

on his examination, admitted this fact. Other persons related that La

Chaussée, when he was asked how his master was during his illness, used

to say, "Oh, he lingers on, the----!" adding a coarse epithet; "he

gives us a deal of trouble. I wonder when he will kick the bucket."

On the 4th of March 1673, the court of La Tournelle pronounced a

sentence, whereby La Chaussée was convicted of having poisoned the

magistrate and the counsellor, and condemned to be broke alive

upon the wheel, after having been put to the question ordinary and

extraordinary, to discover his accomplices; and the Marchioness de

Brinvillier was condemned, by default, to be beheaded. Under the

torture, La Chaussée confessed his crimes, and gave a full account of

all the transactions we have related, in so far as he was connected

with them. He was executed in the Place de Grêve, according to his

sentence.

Desgrais, an officer of the Marechaussée, was sent to Liege to arrest

the marchioness. He was provided with an escort, and a letter from the

king to the municipality of that city, requesting that the criminal

might be delivered up. Desgrais was permitted to arrest her and carry

her to France.

She had retired to a convent, a sanctuary in which Desgrais durst

not attempt to seize her; he therefore had recourse to stratagem.

Disguising himself in an ecclesiastical habit, he paid her a visit,

pretending that, being a Frenchman, he could not think of passing

through Liege without seeing a lady so celebrated for her beauty and

misfortunes. He even went so far as to play the gallant, and his

amorous advances were as well received as he could desire. He persuaded

the lady to take a walk with him; but they had no sooner got into the

fields than the lover transformed himself into a police-officer. He

arrested the lady, and put her into the hands of his followers, whom he

had placed in ambush near the spot; and then, having obtained an order

from the authorities to that effect, he made a search in her apartment.

Under her bed he found a casket, which she vehemently insisted on

having returned to her, but without effect. She then tried to bribe one

of the officer's men, who pretended to listen to her, and betrayed her.

During her retreat she had carried on an intrigue with a person of the

name of Theria. To him she wrote a letter, (which she intrusted to her

confidant,) beseeching him to come with all haste and rescue her from

the hands of Desgrais. In a second letter she told him that the escort

consisted only of eight persons, who could easily be beaten by five. In

a third, she wrote to "her dear Theria," that if he could not deliver

her by open force, he might at least kill two out of the four horses

of the carriage in which she was, and thus, at least, get possession

of the casket, and throw it into the fire; otherwise she was lost.

Though Theria, of course, received none of his _chère amie_'s letters,

yet he went of his own accord to Maestricht, through which she was

to pass, and tried to corrupt the officers by an offer of a thousand

pistoles, if they would let her escape; but they were immovable. All

her resources being thus exhausted, she attempted to kill herself by

swallowing a pin; but it was taken from her by one of her guards.

Among the proofs against her, that which alarmed her the most was a

written confession containing a narrative of her life, kept by her in

the casket which she made such desperate efforts to recover. No wonder

she was now horrified at what she had thus committed to paper. In the

first article she declared herself an incendiary, confessing that

she had set fire to a house. Madame Sevigné, speaking of this paper,

says, "Madame de Brinvillier tells us, in her confession, that she was

debauched at seven years old, and has led an abandoned life ever since;

that she poisoned her father, her brothers, and one of her children;

nay, that she poisoned herself, to try the effect of an antidote. Medea

herself did not do so much. She has acknowledged this confession to be

of her writing,--a great blunder; but she says she was in a high fever

when she wrote it,--that it is mere frenzy,--a piece of extravagance

which no one can read seriously." In a subsequent letter, Madame de

Sevigné adds, "Nothing is talked of but the sayings and doings of

Madame de Brinvillier. She says in her confession that she has murdered

her father;--she was afraid, no doubt, that she might forget to accuse

herself of it. The peccadilloes which she is afraid of forgetting are

admirable!"

The proceedings of her trial are fully reported in the _Causes

Célèbres_. She found an able advocate in the person of M. Nivelle,

whose pleading in her behalf is exceedingly learned and ingenious.

He laboured hard to get rid of the confession; maintaining that this

paper was of the same nature as a confession made under the seal of

secrecy to a priest; and cited a number of precedents to show that

circumstances thus brought to light cannot be used in a criminal

prosecution. Her confused, evasive, and contradictory answers to

the questions put to her on her interrogatory by the court,--a very

objectionable step, by the way, of French criminal procedure,--were

considered as filling up the measure of evidence against her; though,

in this case, it was sufficiently ample without the aid either of her

confession or examinations before the judges. The _corpus delicti_ (in

the language of the law) was certain. The deaths of her two brothers by

poison were proved by the evidence of several medical persons; and the

testimony of other witnesses established the commission of these crimes

by St. Croix and her, through the instrumentality of La Chaussée.

At length, by a sentence of the supreme criminal court of Paris, on the

16th of July 1676, Madame de Brinvillier was convicted of the murder

of her father and her two brothers, and of having attempted the life

of her sister, and condemned to make the _amende honorable_ before the

door of the principal church of Paris, whither she was to be drawn in

a hurdle, with her feet bare, a rope about her neck, and carrying a

burning torch in her hands; from thence to be taken to the Place de

Grêve, her head severed from her body on a scaffold, her body burnt,

and her ashes thrown to the wind; after having been, in the first

place, put to the question ordinary and extraordinary, to discover her

accomplices.

Though she had denied her crimes as long as she had any hope of escape,

she confessed everything after condemnation. During the latter days

of her life, she was the sole object of public curiosity. An immense

multitude assembled to see her execution, and every window on her

way to the Place de Grêve was crowded with spectators. Lebrun, the

celebrated painter, placed himself in a convenient situation for

observing her, in order, probably, to make a study for his "Passions."

Among the spectators were many ladies of distinction, to some of whom,

who had got very near her, she said, looking them firmly in the face,

and with a sarcastic smile, "A very pretty sight you are come to see!"

Madame de Sevigné gives an account of this execution the day it took

place, in a tone of levity which is not a little offensive, and

unbecoming a lady of her unquestionable elegance and refinement.

"Well!" she says, "it is all over, and La Brinvillier is in the

air. Her poor little body was thrown into a large fire, and her

ashes scattered to the winds; so that we breathe her, and there is

no saying but this communication of particles may produce among us

some poisoning propensities which may surprise us. She was condemned

yesterday. This morning her sentence was read to her, and she was

shown the rack; but she said there was no occasion for it, for she

would tell everything. Accordingly she continued till four o'clock

giving a history of her life, which is even more frightful than people

supposed. She poisoned her father ten times successively before she

could accomplish her object; then her brothers; and her revelations

were full of love affairs and pieces of scandal. She asked to speak

with the procureur-général, and was an hour with him; but the subject

of their conversation is not known. At six o'clock she was taken in

her shift, and with a rope round her neck, to Nôtre Dame, to make the

_amende honorable_. She was then replaced in the hurdle, in which I

saw her drawn backwards, with a confessor on one side and the hangman

on the other. It really made me shudder. Those who saw the execution

say she ascended the scaffold with a great deal of courage. Never was

such a crowd seen, nor such excitement and curiosity in Paris." In

another letter the fair writer says, "A word more about La Brinvillier.

She died as she lived, that is boldly. When she went into the place

where she was to undergo the question, and saw three buckets of water,

'They surely are going to drown me,' she said; 'for they can't imagine

that I am going to drink all this.' She heard her sentence with great

composure. When the reading was nearly finished, she desired it to be

repeated, saying, 'The hurdle struck me at first, and prevented my

attending to the rest.' On her way to execution she asked her confessor

to get the executioner placed before her, 'that I may not see that

scoundrel Desgrais,' she said, 'who caught me.' Her confessor reproved

her for this sentiment, and she said, 'Ah, my God! I beg your pardon.

Let me continue, then, to enjoy this agreeable sight.' She ascended the

scaffold alone and barefooted, and was nearly a quarter of an hour in

being trimmed and adjusted for the block by the executioner; a piece of

great cruelty which was loudly murmured against. Next day persons were

seeking for her bones, for there was a belief among the people that she

was a saint. She had two confessors, she said; one of whom enjoined

her to tell everything, and the other said it was not necessary. She

laughed at this difference of opinion, and said, 'Very well, I am at

liberty to do as I please.' She did not please to say anything about

her accomplices. Penautier will come out whiter than snow. The public

is by no means satisfied."

This Penautier was a man of wealth and station, holding the office

of treasurer of the province of Languedoc and of the clergy. He was

discovered to have been intimately connected with St. Croix and Madame

de Brinvillier, and strongly suspected of having been a participator

in their crimes. He was accused by the widow of M. de Saint Laurent,

receiver-general of the clergy, of having employed St. Croix to poison

her husband, in order to obtain his place, and of having accomplished

this object by means of a valet whom St. Croix had got into her

husband's service. Penautier was put in prison; but Madame de Sevigné

says that the investigation was stifled by the influence of powerful

protectors, among whom were the Archbishop of Paris and the celebrated

Colbert. In one of her letters she says, "Penautier is fortunate; never

was a man so well protected. He will get out of this business, but

without being justified in the eyes of the world. Extraordinary things

have transpired in the course of this investigation; but they cannot

be mentioned." He was released, resumed the exercise of his offices,

and lived in his former splendour. The first people had no objection

to enjoy his luxurious table; but his character with the public was

irrecoverably gone. Cardinal de Bonzy, who had to pay some annuities

with which his archbishopric of Narbonne was burdened, survived all

the annuitants, and said that, thanks to his star! he had buried them.

Madame de Sevigné, seeing him one day in his carriage with Penautier,

said to a friend, "There goes the Archbishop of Narbonne with _his

star_!"

The Marquis of Brinvillier is never mentioned in the course of the

proceedings in this extraordinary case, and there are no traces of his

subsequent life. Madame de Sevigné says that he petitioned for the life

of his _chère moitié_. Wretched as he must have been, he is the less

entitled to sympathy because his own dissolute character contributed to

bring his misfortunes upon himself. He probably spent his latter days

in the deepest retirement, hiding himself from the world, as the bearer

of a name indissolubly associated with crime and infamy.

* * * * *

(_This paper will be followed, in our next number, by another on the

same subject._)

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 11: This incident has suggested to Sir Walter Scott the

catastrophe of the diabolical Alasco, in _Kenilworth_:

"The old woman assured Varney that Alasco had scarce eaten or drunk

since her master's departure, living perpetually shut up in the

laboratory, and talking as if the world's continuance depended on what

he was doing there.

"'I will teach him that the world hath other claims on him,' said

Varney, seizing a light and going in search of the alchemist. He

returned, after a considerable absence, very pale, but yet with his

habitual sneer on his cheek and nostril. 'Our friend,' he said, 'has

exhaled.'

"'How! what mean you?' said Foster; 'run away--fled with my forty

pounds, that should have been multiplied a thousand fold? I will have

Hue and Cry!'

"'I will tell thee a surer way,' said Varney.

"'How! which way?' exclaimed Foster. 'I will have back my forty

pounds--I deemed them as surely a thousand pounds multiplied--I will

have back my in-put at the least.'

"'Go hang thyself, then, and sue Alasco in the devil's court of

Chancery, for thither he has carried the cause.'

"'How!--what dost thou mean?--is he dead?'

"'Ay, truly is he,' said Varney, 'and properly swollen already in the

face and body. He had been mixing some of his devil's medicines, and

the glass mask, which he used constantly, had fallen from his face, so

that the subtle poison entered the brain and did its work.'

"'_Sancta Maria!_' said Foster; 'I mean, God in his mercy preserve us

from covetousness and deadly sin!'"]

SERENADE TO FRANCESCA.

"Quei trasporti soavi

Ch'io provai nell' amore nascente!"

I.

Under your casement, lady dear!

A voice, that has slumber'd for many a year,

Is waking to know if the same heart-vow

That bound us erewhile doth bind us now.

Waken! my early--only love!

And be to my bosom its still sweet dove!

II.

Under your casement, lady bright!

The bird that you charm'd with your beauty's light

Is singing again to his one loved flower,

As often he sang in a happier hour!

Waken! my early--only love!

And be to my bosom its gentle dove!

III.

Under your casement, lady fair!

The heart that you often have vow'd to share

Is beating to know if it still remain,

A prisoner of heaven, in your dear chain!

Waken! my early--only love!

And be to my bosom its first sweet dove!

W.

THE NARRATIVE OF JOHN WARD GIBSON.

CHAPTER I.

As I do not intend that any human being shall read this narrative

until after my decease, I feel no desire to suppress or to falsify

any occurrence or event of my life, which I may at the moment deem of

sufficient importance to communicate. I am aware how common a feeling,

even amongst those who have committed the most atrocious crimes,

this dread of entailing obloquy upon their memories is; but I cannot

say that I participate in it. Perhaps I wish to offer some atonement

to society for my many and grievous misdeeds; and, it may be, the

disclosures I am about to make will be considered an insufficient

expiation. I cannot help this, now. There is One from whom no secrets

are hid, by whom I am already judged.

I regret that I did not execute this wretched task long ago. Should I

live to complete it, I shall hold out longer than I expect; for I was

never ready at my pen, and words sometimes will not come at my bidding.

Besides, so many years have elapsed since the chief events I am about

to relate took place, that even _they_ no longer come before me with

that distinctness which they did formerly. They do not torture me now,

as of old times. The caustic has almost burnt them out of my soul. I

will, however, give a plain, and, as nearly as I am able, a faithful

statement. I will offer no palliation of my offences, which I do not

from my soul believe should be extended to me.

I was born on the 23rd of October 1787. My father was a watch-case

maker, and resided in a street in the parish of Clerkenwell. I went a

few months ago to look at the house, but it was taken down; indeed,

the neighbourhood had undergone an entire change. I, too, was somewhat

altered since then. I wondered at the time which of the two was the

more so.

My earliest recollection recalls two rooms on a second floor, meanly

furnished; my father, a tall, dark man, with a harsh unpleasing voice;

and my mother, the same gentle, quiet being whom I afterwards knew her.

My father was a man who could, and sometimes did, earn what people

in his station of life call a great deal of money; and yet he was

constantly in debt, and frequently without the means of subsistence.

The cause of this, I need hardly say, was his addiction to drinking.

Naturally of a violent and brutal temper, intoxication inflamed

his evil passions to a pitch--not of madness, for he had not that

excuse--but of frenzy. It is well known that gentleness and forbearance

do not allay, but stimulate a nature like this; and scenes of violence

and unmanly outrage are almost the sole reminiscences of my childhood.

Perhaps, the circumstance of my having been a sufferer in one of these

ebullitions, served to impress them more strongly upon my mind.

One evening I had been permitted to sit up to supper. My father had

recently made promises of amendment, and had given an earnest of his

intention by keeping tolerably sober during three entire days; and

upon this festive occasion,--for it was the anniversary of my mother's

marriage,--he had engaged to come home the instant he quitted his work.

He returned, however, about one o'clock in the morning, and in his

accustomed state. The very preparations for his comfort, which he saw

upon the table, served as fuel to his savage and intractable passions.

It was in vain that my mother endeavoured to soothe and to pacify him.

He seized a stool on which I was accustomed to sit, and levelled a blow

at her. She either evaded it, or the aim was not rightly directed, for

the stool descended upon my head, and fractured my skull.

The doctor said it was a miracle that I recovered; and indeed it was

many months before I did so. The unfeeling repulse I experienced from

my father when, on the first occasion of my leaving my bed, I tottered

towards him, I can never forget. It is impossible to describe the

mingled terror and hatred which entered my bosom at that moment, and

which never departed from it. It may appear incredible to some that a

child so young could conceive so intense a loathing against its own

parent. It is true, nevertheless; and, as I grew, it strengthened.

I will not dwell upon this wretched period of my life; for even to me,

at this moment, and after all that I have done and suffered, the memory

of that time is wretchedness.

One night, about two years afterwards, my father was brought home on a

shutter by two watchmen. He had fallen into the New River on his return

from a public-house in the vicinity of Sadler's Wells Theatre, and was

dragged out just in time to preserve for the present a worthless and

degraded life. A violent cold supervened, which settled upon his lungs;

and, in about a month, the doctor informed my mother that her husband

was in a rapid decline. The six months that ensued were miserable

enough. My mother was out all day, toiling for the means of subsistence

for a man who was not only ungrateful for her attentions, but who

repelled them with the coarsest abuse.

I was glad when he died, nor am I ashamed to avow it; and I almost felt

contempt for my mother when the poor creature threw herself upon the

body in a paroxysm of grief, calling it by those endearing names which

indicated a love he had neither requited nor deserved. Had I been so

blest as to have met with one to love me as that woman loved my father,

I had been a different, and a better, and, perhaps, a good man!

"Will you not kiss your poor father, John, and see him for the last

time?" said my mother on the morning of the funeral, as she took me by

the hand.

No; I would not. I was no hypocrite then. It is true I was terrified

at the sight of death, but that was not the cause. The manner in

which he had repulsed me nearly three years before, had never for a

moment departed from my mind. There was not a day on which I did not

brood upon it. I have often since recalled it, and with bitterness. I

remember it now.

My mother had but one relation in the world,--an uncle, possessed of

considerable property, who resided near Luton, in Bedfordshire. She

applied to him for some small assistance to enable her to pay the

funeral expenses of her husband. Mr. Adams--for that was her uncle's

name--sent her two guineas, accompanied by a request that she would

never apply to, or trouble him again. There was, however, one person

who stept forward in this extremity,--Mr. Ward, a tradesman, with whom

my mother had formerly lived as a servant, but who had now retired

from business. He offered my mother an asylum in his house. She was to

be his housekeeper; and he promised to take care of, and one day to

provide for, me. It was not long before we were comfortably settled in

a small private house in Coppice-row, where, for the first time in my

life, I was permitted to ascertain that existence was not altogether

made up of sorrow.

The old gentleman even conceived a strong liking, it may be called

an affection, for me. He had stood godfather to me at my birth; and

I believe, had I been his own son, he could not have treated me with

more tenderness. He sent me to school, and was delighted at the

progress I made, or appeared to make, which he protested was scarcely

less than wonderful; a notion which the tutor was, of course, not

slow to encourage and confirm. He predicted that I should inevitably

make a bright man, and become a worthy member of society; the highest

distinction, in the old gentleman's opinion, at which any human being

could arrive. Alas! woe to the child of whom favourable predictions are

hazarded! There never yet, I think, was an instance in which they were

not falsified.

We had been residing with Mr. Ward about three years, when a slight

incident occurred which has impressed itself so strongly upon my memory

that I cannot forbear relating it. Mr. Ward had sent me with a message

into the City, where, in consequence of the person being from home, I

was detained several hours. When I returned, it appeared that Mr. Ward

had gone out shortly after me, and had not mentioned the circumstance

of his having despatched me into the City. I found my mother in a state

of violent agitation. She inquired where I had been, and I told her.

"I can hardly believe you, John," she said; "are you sure you are

telling me the truth?"

I was silent. She repeated the question. I would not answer; and she

bestowed upon me a sound beating.

I bore my punishment with dogged sullenness, and retired into the back

kitchen; in a corner of which I sat down, and, with my head between

my hands, began to brood over the treatment I had received. Gradually

there crept into my heart the same feeling I remembered to have

conceived against my father,--a feeling of bitter malignity revived by

a fresh object. I endeavoured to quell it, to subdue it, but I could

not. I recalled all my mother's former kindness to me, her present

affection for me; and I reminded myself that this was the first time

she had ever raised her hand against me. This thought only nourished

the feeling, till the aching or my brain caused it to subside into

moody stupefaction.

I became calmer in about an hour, and arose, and went into the front

kitchen. My mother was seated at the window, employed at her needle;

and, as she raised her eyes, I perceived they were red with weeping. I

walked slowly towards her, and stood by her side.

"Mother!" I said, in a low and tremulous voice.

"Well, John; I hope you are a good boy now?"

"Mother!" I repeated, "you don't know how you have hurt me."

"I am sorry I struck you so hard, child; I did not mean to do it;" and

she averted her head.

"Not that--not that!" I cried passionately, beating my bosom with my

clenched hands. "It's here, mother--here. I told you the truth, and you

would not believe me."

"Mr. Ward has returned now," said my mother; "I will go ask him;" and

she arose.

I caught her by the gown. "Oh, mother!" I said, "this is the second

time you would not believe me. You shall not go to Mr. Ward yet!" and

I drew her into the seat. "Say first that you are sorry for it--only a

word. Oh, do say it!"

As I looked up, I saw the tears gathering in her eyes. I fell upon my

knees, and hid my face in her lap. "No, no; don't say anything now to

me--don't--don't!" A spasm rose from my chest into my throat, and I

fell senseless at her feet.

My mother afterwards told me that it was the day of the year on which

my father died, and she feared from my lengthened stay that I had come

to harm. Dear, good woman! Oh! that I might hope to see her once more,

even though it were but for one moment,--for we shall not meet in

heaven!

It was a cruel blow that deprived us of our kind protector! Mr. Ward

died suddenly, and without a will; and my mother and I were left

entirely unprovided with means. The old gentleman had often declared

his intention of leaving my mother enough to render her comfortable

during the remainder of her days, and had expressed his determination

of setting me on in the world immediately I became of a proper age.

It could hardly be expected that the heir-at-law would have fulfilled

these intentions, even had he been cognisant of them. He was a low

attorney, living somewhere in the neighbourhood of Drury-lane; and when

he attended the funeral, and during the hour or two he remained in

the house after it, it was quite clear that he had no wish to retain

anything that belonged to his late relative except his property, and

his valuable and available effects. He however paid my mother a month's

wages in advance, presented me a dollar to commence the world with,

shook hands with us, and wished us well.

It was not long before my mother obtained a situation as servant in a

small respectable family in King-street, Holborn; and, as I was now

nearly eleven years of age, it was deemed by her friends high time that

I should begin to get my own living. Such small influence, therefore,

as my mother could command, was set on foot in my behalf; and I at

length got a place as errand-boy to a picture-dealer in Wardour-street,

Oxford-street. The duties required of me in this situation, if not of a

valuable description, were, at least, various. I went with messages, I

attended sales, I kept the shop, I cleaned the knives and shoes, and,

indeed, performed all those services which it is the province of boys

to render, some of which are often created because there happens to be

boys to do them.

This routine was, for a time, irksome. When I recalled the happy days I

had spent under the roof of Mr. Ward, and the hopes and expectations he

had excited within me of a more prosperous commencement of life,--hopes

which his death had so suddenly destroyed,--it is not surprising that

I should have felt a degree of discontent of my condition, for which

I had no other cause. As I sat by the kitchen fire of an evening when

my day's work was done, I often pictured to myself the old man lying

where we had left him in the churchyard, mouldering insensibly away,

unconscious of rain, or wind, or sunshine, or the coming of night,

or the approach of day, wrapped in a shroud which would outlast its

wearer, and silently waiting for oblivion. These thoughts became less

frequent as time wore on; but I have never been able to dissociate the

idea of death from these hideous conditions of mortality.

My master, Mr. Bromley, when I first entered his service, was a man of

about the middle age, and of rather grave and formal manners. He had

not a bad heart; but I have since discovered that what appeared to my

boyish fancy a hard and cold selfishness was but the exterior of those

narrow prejudices which too many of that class, if not of all classes,

indulge, or rather inherit. He felt that a distance ought to be

preserved between himself and his servant; and what he thought he ought

to do, he always did; so that I had been with him a considerable period

before he even addressed a word to me which business did not constrain

him to utter.

He had a daughter, a girl about eighteen years of age. What a human

being was Louisa Bromley! She was no beauty; but she had a face whose

sweetness was never surpassed. I saw something like it afterwards in

the faces of some of Raffaele's angels. The broad and serene forehead,

the widely-parted eyebrow, the inexplicable mouth, the soul that

pervaded the whole countenance! I can never forget that face; and, when

I call it back to memory now, I admire it the more because, to use the

modern jargon, there was no _intellect_ in it. There was no thought,

no meditation or premeditation; but there was nature, and it was

good-nature.

Her gentleness and kindness soon won upon me. To be kind to me was

at all times the way to win me, and the only way. I cannot express

the happiness I felt at receiving and obeying any command from her.

A smile, or the common courtesy of thanks from her lips, repaid me a

hundred-fold for the performance of the most menial office.

I had now been with Mr. Bromley about four years. I employed my

leisure, of which I had a great deal, in reading. All the books I

could contrive to borrow, or that fell in my way, I devoured greedily.

Nor did I confine myself exclusively to one branch of reading,--I

cannot call it study. But my chief delight was to peruse the lives

of the great masters of painting, to make myself acquainted with the

history and the comparative merits of their several performances, and

to endeavour to ascertain how many and what specimens existed in this

country. I had, also, a natural taste for painting, and sometimes

surprised my master by the remarks I ventured to make upon productions

he might happen to purchase, or which had been consigned to him for

sale.

Meanwhile, I was permitted to go out in the afternoon of each alternate

Sunday. Upon these occasions I invariably went to see my mother. How

well can I remember the gloomy underground kitchen in which I always

found her, with her Bible before her on a small round table! With what

pleased attention did she listen to me when I descanted on the one

subject upon which I constantly dwelt,--the determination I felt, as

soon as I had saved money enough, and could see a little more clearly

into my future prospects, to take her from service, that she might come

and live with me! This was, in truth, the one absorbing thought--it

might almost be termed the one passion--of my existence at that time.

I had no other hope, no other feeling, than that of making her latter

years a compensation for the misery she must have endured during my

father's life.

One Sunday when I called, as usual, an old woman answered the door.

She speedily satisfied my inquiries after my mother. She had been

very ill for some days, and was compelled to keep her bed. My heart

sank within me. I had seen her frequently in former years disfigured

by her husband's brutality; I had seen her in pain, in anguish, which

she strove to conceal; but I had never known her to be confined to her

room. When I saw her now, young as I was, and unaccustomed to the sight

of disease, I involuntarily shrunk back with horror. She was asleep. I

watched her for a few minutes, and then stole softly from the room, and

returned to my master's house.

He was gone to church with his daughter. I followed thither, and waited

under the portico till they came forth. I quickly singled them out from

the concourse issuing from the church-doors. I drew my master aside,

and besought him to spare me for a few days, that I might go and attend

my mother, who was very ill.

"Is she dying?" he inquired.

I started. "No, not dying. Oh, no!"

"Well, John, I can't spare you: we are very busy now, you know."

And what was that to me? It is only on occasions like these, that the

value of one's services is recognised. I thought of this at the time.

I turned, in perplexity, to Louisa Bromley. She understood the silent

appeal, and interceded for me. I loved her for that; I could have

fallen down at her feet, and kissed them for it. She prevailed upon the

old man to let me go.

The people of the house at which my mother was a servant were kind, and

even friendly. They permitted me to remain with her.

I never left her side for more than half an hour at a time. She grew

worse rapidly, but I would not believe it. My mother, however, was

fully aware of her situation. She told me frequently, with a smile,

which I could not bear to see upon her face, it was so unlike joy, but

it was to comfort me,--she told me that she knew she was about to die,

and she endeavoured to impress upon me those simple maxims of conduct

for my future life which she had herself derived from her parents. She

must not die--must not; and I heard with impatience, and heedlessly,

the advice she endeavoured to bestow upon me.

She died. The old nurse told me she was dead. It could not be,--she

was asleep. My mother had told me not an hour before, that she felt

much better, and wanted a little sleep; and at that moment her hand was

clasped in mine. The lady of the house took me gently by the arm, and,

leading me into an adjoining room, began to talk to me in a strain, I

suppose, usually adopted upon such occasions,--for I knew not what she

said to me.

In about two hours I was permitted to see my mother again. There was

a change--a frightful change! The nurse, I remember, said something

about her looking like one asleep. I burst into a loud laugh. Asleep!

that blank, passive, impenetrable face like sleep--petrified sleep! I

enjoined them to leave me, and they let me have my own way; for, boy as

I was, they were frightened at me.

I took my mother's hand, and wrung it violently. I implored her to

speak to me once more, to repeat that she still loved me, to tell me

that she forgave all my faults, all my omissions, all my sins towards

her. And then I knew she _was_ dead, and fell down upon my knees to

pray; but I could not. Something told me that I ought not--something

whispered that I ought rather to----; but I was struck senseless upon

the floor.

The mistress of my mother, who was a good and worthy woman, offered to

pay her funeral expenses; but I would not permit it. Not a farthing

would I receive from her; out of my own savings I buried her.

If I could have wept--but I never could weep--when this calamity befell

me, I think that impious thought would never have entered my brain.

That thought was, that the Almighty was unjust to deprive me of the

only being in the world who loved me, who understood me, who knew that

I had a heart, and that, when it was hurt and outraged, my head was not

safe--not to be trusted. That thought remained with me for years.

CHAPTER II.

Five years elapsed. The grief occasioned by my mother's death having in

some measure subsided, my thoughts became concentrated upon myself with

an intensity scarcely to be conceived. A new passion took possession of

my soul: I would distinguish myself, if possible, and present to the

world another instance of friendless poverty overcoming and defying

the obstacles and impediments to its career. With this view constantly

before me, I read even more diligently than heretofore. I made myself a

proficient in the principles of mathematics; I acquired some knowledge

of mechanical science; but, above all, I took every opportunity of

improving my taste in the fine arts. This last accomplishment was soon

of infinite service to me; many gentlemen who frequented our shop were

pleased to take much notice of me; my master was frequently rallied

upon having a servant who knew infinitely more of his business than

himself; and my opinion on one or two remarkable occasions was taken in

preference to that of my employer.

Mr. Bromley naturally and excusably might have conceived no slight envy

of my acquirements; but he was not envious. Shall I be far wrong when

I venture to say, that few men are so, where pecuniary interest points

out the impolicy of their encouraging that feeling? Be this as it may,

he treated me with great kindness; and I was grateful for it, really

and strongly so. I had been long since absolved from the performance of

those menial duties which had been required of me when I first entered

his service; my wages were increased to an extent which justified me in

calling them by the more respectable term, salary; I was permitted to

live out of the house; and in all respects the apparent difference and

distance between my master and myself were sensibly diminished.

During this period of five years I never received one unkind word or

look from Louisa Bromley: and the affection I bore towards this young

woman, which was the affection a brother might have felt, caused me

to strive by every means at my command to advance the fortunes of her

father. And, indeed, the old man had become so attached to me,--partly,

and I doubt not unconsciously, because my talents were of value to

him,--that I should not have had the heart, even had my inclinations

prompted me, to desert him. It is certain that I might have improved my

own position by doing so.

At this time Frederick Steiner became acquainted with Mr. Bromley.

He was a young man about thirty years of age, of German descent, and

possessed of some property. The manners of Steiner were plausible,

he was apparently candid, his address indicated frankness and entire

absence of guile, and he was handsome; yet I never liked the man. It is

commonly supposed that women are gifted with the power of detecting the

worst points of the characters of men at the first glance. This gift

is withheld when they first behold the man they are disposed to love.

This, at any rate, was the case with Louisa Bromley.

Not to dwell upon this part of my narrative, in a few months Bromley's

daughter was married to Steiner, who was taken into partnership.

I must confess I was deeply mortified at this. I myself had conceived

hopes of one day becoming Bromley's partner; and my anxiety for the

happiness of his daughter led me to doubt whether she had not made a

choice which she might have occasion afterwards to deplore. However,

things went on smoothly for a time. Steiner was civil, nay, even

friendly to me; and the affection he evinced towards his little boy,

who was born about a year after the marriage, displayed him in so

amiable a light, that I almost began to like the man.

It was not very long, however, before Steiner and I came to understand

each other more perfectly. He was possessed with an overweening conceit

of his taste in pictures, and I on my part obstinately adhered to my

own opinion, whenever I was called upon to pronounce one. This led to

frequent differences, which commonly ended in a dispute, which Bromley

was in most cases called upon to decide. The old man, doubtless, felt

the awkwardness of his position; but, as his interest was inseparable

from a right view of the question at issue, he commonly decided with me.

Upon these occasions Steiner vented his mortification in sneers at

my youth, and ironical compliments to me upon my cleverness and

extraordinary genius; for both of which requisites, as he was signally

deficient in them, he especially hated me. I could have repaid his

hatred with interest, for I kept it by me in my own bosom, and it

accumulated daily.

I know not how it happened that the child wound itself round my heart,

but it was so. It seemed as though there were a necessity that, in

proportion as I detested Steiner, I must love his child. But the boy,

from the earliest moment he could take notice of anything, or could

recognise anybody, had attached himself to me; and I loved him,

perhaps for that cause, with a passionate fondness which I can scarcely

imagine to be the feeling even of a parent towards his child.

If I were not slow by nature to detect the first indications of

incipient estrangement, I think I should have perceived in less than

two years after Steiner had been taken into partnership by Mr. Bromley,

a growing reserve, an uneasy constraint in the manners of the latter,

and a studied, an almost formal civility on the part of his daughter. I

now think there must have been something of the kind, although it was

not at the time apparent to me. I am certain, at all events, there was

less cordiality, less friendship, in the deportment of Mrs. Steiner

towards me: a circumstance which I remember to have considered the

result of her altered situation. The terms of almost social equality,

however, were no longer observed.

One Mr. Taylor, a very extensive picture-dealer, who lived in the

Haymarket, made several overtures to me about this time. He had heard

many gentlemen of acknowledged taste speak of me in the highest terms;

and, in truth, I was now pretty generally recognised throughout the

trade as one of the best judges of pictures in London. I had more

than one interview, of his own seeking, with this gentleman. He made

me a most flattering and advantageous offer: he would have engaged my

services for a certain number of years, and at the expiration of the

period he would have bound himself to take me into partnership. I had

received many similar offers before, although none that could be for a

moment compared, on the score of emolument and stability, with this. I

rejected those for the sake of Bromley: I rejected this for my own.

Shall I be weak enough to confess it? The respect I bore the old

man even now; my affection for his daughter, my love for the child,

went some part of the way towards a reason for declining Taylor's

proposal; but it did not go all the way. I hated Steiner so intensely,

so mortally, and he supplied me daily with such additional cause of

hatred, that I felt a species of excitement, of delight, in renewing

from time to time my altercations with him: a delight which was

considerably increased by the fact that he was quite incapable of

competing with me in argument. There was another reason, which added

a zest, if anything could do so, to the exquisite pleasure I derived

from tormenting him,--the belief I entertained that Bromley and himself

dared not part with me: they knew my value too well. Bromley, at least,

I was well aware, was conscious enough of that.

I had been attending one day a sale of pictures, the property of a

certain nobleman whose collection, thirty years ago, was the admiration

of connoisseurs. Mr. ---- (I need not give his name, but he is still

living,) had employed me to bid for several amongst the collection;

and had requested my opinion of a few, the merit of which, although

strongly insisted upon, he was disposed to doubt. When I returned in

the evening, I saw Steiner in the shop waiting for me, and--for hate

is quick at these matters, quicker even than love--I knew that he

meditated a quarrel. I was not mistaken. He looked rather pale, and his

lip quivered slightly.

"And so," said he, "you have been holding several conversations with

Mr. Taylor lately; haven't you, Mr. Gibson?"

"Who told you that I had been holding conversations with him?"

"No matter: you have done so. Pray, may I ask the tenour of them?"

"Mr. Taylor wished to engage my services," I replied, "and I declined

to leave Mr. Bromley."

"That's not very likely," said Steiner with a sneer.

Steiner was right there; it was not very likely. He might with justice

consider me a fool for not having embraced the offer.

"I suppose," pursued Steiner in the same tone, "Mr. ---- would follow

you to your new situation. You would select his pictures for him as

usual, doubtless."

"Doubtless I should," said I with a cool smile that enraged him. "Mr.

---- would follow _me_ certainly, and many others would follow _him_,

Mr. Steiner."

"I'll tell you what it is," cried Steiner, and a flush overspread his

face; "Taylor has been using you for his own purposes. You have been

endeavouring to undermine our connexion, and have been serving him at

the same time that you have taken our wages."

It was not a difficult matter at any time to move me to anger. I

approached him, and with a glance of supreme scorn replied, "It is

false!--nay, I don't fear you--it's a lie,--an infamous lie!"

Steiner was a very powerful man, and in the prime of manhood; I was

young, and my limbs were not yet fixed,--not set. He struck me a

violent blow on the face. I resisted as well as I was able; but what

can weakness do against strength, even though it have justice on its

side? He seized me by the cravat, and, forcing his knuckles against my

throat, dealt me with the other hand a violent blow on the temple, and

felled me to the earth. O that I had never risen from it! It had been

better.

When I came to my senses, for the blow had for a while stunned me, I

arose slowly, and with difficulty. Steiner was still standing over me

in malignant triumph, and I could see in the expression of his eyes the

gratified conviction he felt of having repaid the long score of ancient

grudges in which he was indebted to me. His wife was clinging to his

arm, and as I looked into her face I perceived terror in it, certainly;

but there was no sympathy,--nay, that is not the word,--I could not

have borne that; there was no sorrow, no interest, no concern about me.

My heart sickened at this. Bromley was there also. He appeared slightly

perplexed; and, misconceiving the meaning of my glance, said coldly,

but hurriedly, "You brought it entirely upon yourself, Mr. Gibson."

I turned away, and walked to the other end of the shop for my hat. I

had put it on, and was about leaving them. As I moved towards the door,

I was nearly throwing down the little boy, who had followed me, and was

now clinging to the skirt of my coat, uttering in imperfect accents my

name. I looked down. The little thing wanted to come to me to kiss me.

Sweet innocent! there was one yet in the world to love me. I would have

taken the child in my arms; but Mrs. Steiner exclaimed abruptly, "Come

away, Fred,--do; I insist upon it, sir." From that time, and for a long

time, I hated the woman for it.

I retreated to my lodging, and slunk to my own room with a sense of

abasement, of degradation, of infamy, I had never felt before. Mrs.

Matthews, the woman of the house, who had answered the door to me,

and had perceived my agitation, followed me up stairs. She inquired

the cause, and was greatly shocked at the frightful contusion upon my

temple. I told her all, for my heart was nigh bursting, and would be

relieved. She hastened down stairs for an embrocation, which the good

woman had always by her, and, returning with it, began to bathe my

forehead.

"Wouldn't I trounce the villain for it," she said, as she continued to

apply the lotion.

"What did you say, Mrs. Matthews?" and I suddenly looked up.

"Why, that I'd have the rascal punished,--that's what I said. Hanging's

too good for such a villain."

The kind creature--I was a favourite of hers--talked a great deal more

to the same effect, and at last left me to procure a bottle of rum,

which, much to her surprise, for I was no drinker, I requested her to

fetch me.

How exquisite it was,--what a luxury to be left alone all to myself!

Punished!--the woman had said truly,--he must be punished. They, too,

must not escape. The ingratitude of the old man,--his insolence of

ingratitude was almost as bad as the conduct of Steiner. After what

I had done for him!--an old servant who had indeed served him!--who

had refused a certainty, a respectable station in society, perhaps a

fortune, for his sake! And he must escape,--he must go unpunished,--he

must revel in the consciousness of the impunity of his insult? _No._ I

swore that deeply; and, lest it should be possible that I could falter,

or perhaps renounce my intention, I confirmed that oath with another,

which I shudder to think of, and must not here set down.