The rivalry between the favourites went on increasing; but the Earl

of Somerset's rank and standing still gave him the ascendancy. The

king wished them reconciled; and, for this purpose, desired Villiers

to wait on Somerset with a tender of his duty and attachment. But the

haughty earl, though he had received a hint that the king expected

this offer to be graciously received, spurned at it. "I will none of

your service," was his answer, "and you shall none of my favour. I

will, if I can, break your neck, and of that be confident." It was

immediately after this interview that an inquiry was set on foot into

the circumstances of Overbury's murder; and the supposition of a

contemporary writer is not improbable, that, "had Somerset complied

with Villiers, Overbury's death had still been raked up in his own

ashes."

The first step that appears to have been taken in this inquiry was a

private examination of Sir Jervis Elwes, the lieutenant of the Tower,

by the king himself, who piqued himself on his skill in conducting

judicial investigations; in which, indeed, he had acquired great

experience during his turbulent reign in Scotland. Pressed by the

king's questions, Elwes admitted his knowledge of Weston's intention

to poison his prisoner, but denied his own participation in the crime.

Weston, being apprehended and examined, admitted circumstances which

involved Mrs. Turner, and the Earl and Countess of Somerset. The

king issued his warrant for the commitment of the earl and countess

to private custody, which was executed on the 15th October 1615. The

circumstances attending this arrest, as related by a contemporary,

Sir Anthony Weldon, in his "_Court and Character of King James_," are

curious, and characteristic of that monarch.

"The day," says this writer, "the king went from Whitehall to

Theobald's, and so to Royston, the king sent for all the judges, (his

lords and servants encircling him,) where, kneeling down in the midst,

he used these words:--'My lords the judges, it is lately come to my

hearing that you have now in examination a business of poisoning. Lord,

in what a miserable condition shall this kingdom be, (the only famous

nation for hospitality in the world,) if our tables should become such

a snare as none could eat without danger of life, and that Italian

custom should be introduced among us! Therefore, my lords, I charge

you, as you will answer it at that great and dreadful day of judgment,

that you examine it strictly, without favour, affection, or partiality;

and, if you shall spare any guilty of this crime, God's curse light on

you and your posterity; and, if _I_ spare any that are guilty, God's

curse light on me and my posterity for ever!'"

We shall presently see how his majesty kept this solemn vow, uttered

in such awful terms. "The king, with this," continues Weldon, "took

his farewell for a time of London, and was accompanied with Somerset

to Royston, where, no sooner he brought him, but instantly took leave,

little imagining what viper lay among the herbs; nor must I forget to

let you know how perfect the king was in the art of dissimulation,

or, to give it his own phrase, kingcraft. The Earl of Somerset never

parted from him with more seeming affection than at this time, when he

knew Somerset would never see him more; and, had you seen that seeming

affection,--as the author himself did,--you would rather have believed

he was in his rising than setting. The earl, when he kissed his hand,

the king hung about his neck, slabbering his cheeks, saying, 'For God's

sake, when shall I see thee again? On my soul I shall neither eat nor

sleep until you come again.' The earl told him 'On Monday,'--this

being the Friday. 'For God's sake, let me!' said the king. 'Shall I?

shall I?' then lolled about his neck. 'Then, for God's sake, give thy

lady this kiss for me!' In the same manner at the stairs' head, at

the middle of the stairs, and at the stairs' foot. The earl was not

in his coach when the king used these very words in the hearing of

four servants, one of whom was Somerset's great creature, and of the

bed-chamber, who reported it instantly to the author of this history;

'I shall never see his face more.'"

It afterwards appeared that, when Somerset returned to London, he found

that his wife had received the fatal tidings of Weston's apprehension.

There was an apothecary of the name of Franklin who had been employed

by the countess and Mrs. Turner to procure the poisons. At a late hour

in the night Mrs. Turner was despatched to bring this man to the earl's

house. When he arrived, he found the countess in a state of violent

agitation. "Weston," she said, "was taken; he should likely be seized

immediately, and they should all be hanged." She went into an inner

room, where Franklin heard her conversing with her husband. On her

return she again urged Franklin to be silent, and made him swear not

to reveal any thing. "The lords," she told him, "if they examine you,

will put you in the hope of a pardon upon confession: but believe them

not; for, when they have got out of you what they want, we shall all be

hanged." "Nay, madam," said Mrs. Turner, who was in the room, "I will

not be hanged for you both." That same night, or next morning, the earl

and countess, with Mrs. Turner, were arrested, and committed to prison.

Weston was first tried. At first, by the direction of Serjeant

Yelverton, "an obliged servant of the house of Howard," he stood mute,

and refused to plead; but, after a few days, the terror of being

pressed to death overcame his resolution, and he pleaded "Not guilty."

The circumstances already detailed, in which he was concerned, were

fully proved. He himself confessed that he had been the medium of

the correspondence carried on between Lord Rochester and Lady Essex,

not only in regard to the poisoning of Overbury, but during their

adulterous intercourse; and he also confessed that, after Overbury's

death he had received, as a reward, one hundred and eighty pounds

from the countess, by the hands of Mrs. Turner. He was convicted, and

executed at Tyburn. At the time of his execution, Sir John Holles and

Sir John Wentworth, friends of the Earl of Somerset, went to Tyburn,

and urged Weston to deny what he had before confessed; but he refused

to do so: and these gentlemen were afterwards prosecuted in the

Star-Chamber for traducing the king's justice in these proceedings.

The next trial was that of Mrs. Turner. It excited intense interest,

as it involved, besides the murder of Overbury, the circumstances of

Lady Essex's connexion with Rochester. Some letters from the countess

to Mrs. Turner, and Forman the conjuror, were read, and are preserved

in the record of the proceedings. To Mrs. Turner, (whom she addresses

"Sweet Turner,") after complaining of her misery in her husband's

society, and giving vent to her passion for Rochester, she says, "As

you have taken pains all this while for me, so now do all you can,

for I was never so unhappy as now; for I am not able to endure the

miseries that are coming upon me, but I cannot be happy so long as

this man liveth: therefore, _pray for me_,(!) for I have need, and I

should be better if I had your company to ease my mind. Let _him_ know

this ill news" (her husband's insisting on cohabiting with her); if

I can get this done, you shall have as much money as you can demand:

this is fair-play. Your sister, FRANCES ESSEX." In a letter to Forman,

she says, "Sweet father,--I must still crave your love, although I

hope I have it, and shall deserve it better hereafter. Keep the lord

[Rochester] still to me, for that I desire; and be careful you name

me not to anybody, for we have so many spies that you must use all

your wits,--and all little enough, for the world is against me, and

the heavens favour me not. Only happy in your love, I hope you will

do me good; and, if I be ungrateful, let all mischief come unto me.

My lord is lusty and merry, and drinketh with his men; and all the

content he gives me is to abuse me, and use me as doggedly as before.

I think I shall never be happy in this world, because he hinders my

good; and will ever, I think so. Remember, I beg, for God's sake, and

get me out from this vile place. Your affectionate loving daughter,

FRANCES ESSEX." Some of the magical implements made use of by these

wretches, such as images, pictures, &c. were exhibited in court. "At

the showing of these," says the account in the _State Trials_, "there

was heard a crack from the scaffolds, which caused great fear, tumult,

and confusion among the spectators, and throughout the hall; every one

fearing hurt, as if the devil had been present, and grown angry to

have his workmanship showed by such as were not his scholars. There

was also a note showed in the court made by Dr. Forman, and written on

parchment, signifying what ladies loved what lords in court; but the

Lord Chief Justice would not suffer it to be read openly in court." The

scandal of the day was, that Coke suppressed the note because he found

his own wife's name at the beginning of it.

Mrs. Turner's share in the death of Overbury was amply proved; and Coke

pronounced sentence upon her, telling her that she had been guilty of

the seven deadly sins, among which he enumerated witchcraft and popery.

"Upon the Wednesday following," says the account of the trial, "she was

brought from the sheriff's in a coach to Newgate, and was there put

into a cart; and, _casting money often among the people as she went_,

she was carried to Tyburn, where she was executed, and whither many

men and women of fashion came in coaches to see her die; to whom she

made a speech, desiring them not to rejoice at her fall, but to take

example by her. She exhorted them to serve God, and abandon pride and

all other sins; related her breeding with the Countess of Somerset,

having had no other means to maintain her and her children but what

came from the countess; and said further, that, when her hand was once

in the business, she knew the revealing it would be her overthrow. The

which, with other like speeches, and great penitency there showed,

moved the spectators to great pity and grief for her."

Immediately after Mrs. Turner's execution, Sir Jervis Elwes, the

lieutenant of the Tower, was brought to trial. He was convicted upon

the evidence of the correspondence which he had held with the Earl

and Countess of Somerset, and also with the Earl of Northampton, the

countess's uncle; from which it appeared that that nobleman had been

deeply implicated in Overbury's murder. By the letters read on this and

some of the other trials it was shown that Northampton was not only

aware of Somerset's adulterous intercourse with his niece, but had

aided them in carrying it on; that he had been a principal promoter

of the scandalous divorce, and the equally scandalous marriage which

followed it; and that he was not only privy to the murder, but actively

instrumental in the steps taken to conceal the crime. He was, however,

freed by his death the preceding year from the earthly retribution

which would now have overtaken him. In the course of this trial the

name of Sir Thomas Monson, the chief falconer, was also implicated;

it having appeared that through his recommendation Weston had been

employed as Overbury's keeper, and that he was at least aware of the

crime. One of the principal pieces of evidence was the voluntary

confession of Franklin the apothecary, who had been employed to provide

the poisons. This man, among many other things, said, "Mrs. Turner came

to me from the countess, and wished me from her to get the strongest

poison I could for Sir Thomas Overbury. Accordingly I bought seven,

viz. aquafortis, white arsenic, mercury, powder of diamonds, lapis

costitus (lunar caustic), great spiders, and cantharides: all these

were given to Sir Thomas Overbury at several times." He declared also,

that the lieutenant knew of these poisons: "for that appeared," he

said, "by, many letters which he writ to the Countess of Essex, which

I saw, and thereby knew that he knew of this matter."--"For these

poisons," he further said, "the countess sent me rewards. She sent

many times gold by Mrs. Turner. She afterwards wrote unto me to buy

more poisons. I went unto her, and told her I was weary of it; and

I besought her upon my knees that she would use me no more in these

matters: but she importuned me, bade me go, and enticed me with fair

speeches and rewards; so she overcame me, and did bewitch me." The

cause of the poisoning, he said, as the countess told him, was because

Sir Thomas Overbury would pry so far into their suit (the divorce) as

he would put them down. He added, that, on the marriage-day of the

countess with Somerset, (which was after Overbury's death,) she sent

him twenty pounds by Mrs. Turner, and he was to have been paid by

the countess two hundred pounds per annum during his life. The Lord

Chief Justice, when he produced Franklin's confession upon this trial,

prefaced his reading of it by informing the court that this poor man,

not knowing Sir Jervis should come to his trial, had come to him that

morning at five o'clock, and told him that he was much troubled in his

conscience, and could not rest until he had made his confession: "and

it is such a one," added the Chief Justice, "as the eye of England

never saw, nor the ear of Christendom ever heard." Sir Jervis, who had

defended himself strenuously against the other articles of evidence,

was struck dumb by this unexpected disclosure. He was found guilty,

condemned, and executed, after having at the place of execution made a

full confession of his guilt.

Franklin was then tried, convicted, and executed, on his own confession

alone, to which, as it was entirely voluntary, he seems really to have

been prompted by remorse. In passing sentence upon him, the Lord Chief

Justice said, that, "knowing as much as he knew, if this had not been

found out, neither the court, city, nor any particular family, had

escaped the malice of this wicked cruelty."

Sir Thomas Monson was next arraigned, and strongly exhorted by the

crown lawyers to confess his crime; one of them (Hyde) declaring him

to be "as guilty as the guiltiest." The trial, however, was brought

to a strange and abrupt conclusion. In the middle of the preliminary

proceedings the culprit was suddenly carried off from the bar by a

party of yeomen of his majesty's guard, and taken to the Tower, from

whence he was soon afterwards liberated without further trial. This

singular interference is ascribed to some mysterious expressions

dropped by the Lord Chief Justice. "But the Lord Chief Justice Coke,"

says Sir Anthony Weldon, "in his rhetorical flourishes at Monson's

arraignment, vented some expressions as if he could discover more than

the death of a private person; intimating, though not plainly, that

Overbury's untimely remove had in it something of retaliation, as if

he had been guilty of the same crime towards Prince Henry; blessing

himself with admiration at the horror of such actions. In which he flew

so high a pitch that he was taken down by a court lure; Sir Thomas

Monson's trial laid aside, and he soon after set at liberty; and the

Lord Chief Justice's wings were clipt for it ever after." There can

be no doubt that the conduct of Coke on these trials was used as a

handle against him by his rival and enemy, Bacon, to deprive him of the

royal favour; and, that the manner in which his language on the above

and other occasions was represented (or misrepresented) to the king,

was one cause, at least, of his removal from his office a few months

afterwards. But this was not the only mystery connected with this

matter.

All these trials took place in close succession between the 19th of

October and the 4th of December 1615; but the principal criminals

were not tried till May following. During this interval the earl and

countess were frequently examined, and many efforts were made to bring

them to confession. On the 24th of May the countess was arraigned

before a commission of the peers. A graphic account of her demeanour is

given in the _State Trials_. The Clerk of the Crown addressed her:

"'Frances, Countess of Somerset, hold up thy hand!'

"She did so, and held it till Mr. Lieutenant told her she might put

it down; and then he read the indictment. The Countess of Somerset,

all the while the indictment was reading, stood, looking pale,

trembled, and shed some tears; and at the first naming of Weston in the

indictment, put her fan before her face, and there held it half covered

till the indictment was read.

"_Clerk._--'Frances, Countess of Somerset, what sayest thou? Art thou

guilty of this felony and murder, or not guilty?'

"The Lady Somerset, making an obeisance to the Lord High Steward,

answered, '_Guilty_,' with a low voice, but wonderful fearful."

After the proceedings consequent on this confession, she was asked in

the usual form what she could say for herself why judgment of death

should not be pronounced against her. Her answer was,

"I can much aggravate, but nothing extenuate, my fault. I desire mercy,

and that the lords will intercede for me with the king."

"This," says the account, "she spake humbly, fearfully, and so low,

that the Lord Steward could not hear it; but Mr. Attorney repeated it."

The Lord High Steward then sentenced her to the punishment of the law.

The earl's trial took place on the following day. He refused to follow

his wife's example, and pleaded Not guilty. The most remarkable feature

of this trial is the correspondence between Somerset and his victim.

The following passages are striking.

In Overbury's first letter to Somerset, after his imprisonment, he said,

"Is this the fruit of my care and love to you? Be these the fruits

of common secrets, common dangers? As a man, you cannot suffer me to

lie in this misery; yet your behaviour betrays you. All I entreat of

you is, that you will free me from this place, and that we may part

friends. Drive me not to extremities, lest I should say something

that you and I both repent. And I pray God that you may not repent

the omission of this my counsel in this place whence I now write this

letter."

Overbury afterwards writes,

"This comes under seal, and therefore I shall be bold. You told my

brother Ledcate that my unreverend style might make you neglect me.

With what face could you do this, who know you owe me for all the

fortune, wit, and understanding that you have."

* * * * *

"Yet this shall not long serve your turn; for you and I, ere it be

long, will come to a public trial of another nature,--I upon the

rack, and you at your ease, and yet I must say nothing! When I heard

(notwithstanding my misery) how you went to your woman, curled your

hair, and in the mean time send me nineteen projects how I should cast

about for my liberty, and give me a long account of the pains you have

taken, and then go out of town! I wonder to see how much you should

neglect him to whom such secrets of all kinds have passed."

* * * * *

"Well, all this vacation I have written the story between you and me;

how I have lost my friends for your sake; what hazard I have run; what

secrets have passed betwixt us; how, after you had won that woman by my

letters, you then concealed all your after proceedings from me; and how

upon this there came many breaches between us; of the vow you made to

be even with me, and sending for me twice that day that I was caught

in the trap, persuading me that it was a plot of mine enemies to send

me beyond sea, and urging me not to accept it, assuring me to free me

from any long trouble. On Tuesday I made an end of this, and on Friday

sent it to a friend of mine under eight seals; and if you persist still

to use me thus, assure yourself it shall be published. Whether I live

or die, your shame shall never die, but ever remain to the world, to

make you the most odious man living."

Overbury is aware that he has been betrayed and entrapped, and is left

by his treacherous patron to languish in a dungeon. He addresses him

in the bitterest and most indignant language, and threatens him with a

desperate and fatal revenge. He remembers, too, the threat which had

been applied to himself; knows himself to be in the power of the man

who used it; feels himself to be dying by inches, of maladies which the

most rigorous confinement could not have produced; and yet it never

enters his mind that his unscrupulous enemy may have determined, by his

death, to get rid of him and his dangerous secrets!

The evidence of Overbury's father is affecting. "After my son was

committed," he said, "I heard that he was very sick. I went to the

court and delivered a petition to the king, the effect whereof was,

that, in respect of my son's sickness, some physicians might have

access unto him. The king answered, that his own physician should go

to him; and then instantly sent him word by Sir W. Button that his

physician should presently go. Upon this, I only addressed myself to my

Lord of Somerset, and none else, who said my son should be presently

delivered, but dissuaded me from presenting any more petitions to the

king; which notwithstanding, I (seeing his freedom still delayed) did

deliver a petition to the king to that purpose, who said I should have

present answer. And my Lord of Somerset told me he should be suddenly

relieved; but with this, that neither I nor my wife must press to see

him, because that might protract his delivery, nor deliver any more

petitions to the king, because that might stir his enemies up against

him; and then," added the poor old man, "he wrote a letter to my wife,

to dissuade her from any longer stay in London."

This letter was, "Mrs. Overbury,--Your stay here in town can nothing

avail your son's delivery; therefore I would advise you to retire into

the country, and doubt not before your coming home you shall hear he is

a free man."

Thus did this monster amuse the unhappy parents with delusive hopes

till all was over; and he then wrote to the aged father the following

unparalleled letter:

"Sir,--Your son's love to me got him the malice of many, and they cast

those knots on his fortune that have cost him his life; so, in a kind,

there is none guilty of his death but I; and you can have no more cause

to commiserate the death of a son, than I of a friend. But, though

he be dead, you shall find me as ready as ever I was to do all the

courtesies that I possibly can to you and your wife, or your children.

In the mean time I desire pardon from you and your wife for your lost

son, though I esteem my loss the greater. And for his brother that is

in France, I desire his return, that he may succeed his brother in my

love."

Somerset defended himself stoutly. His desperate situation seems to

have sharpened his faculties. He cross-examined the witnesses with much

acuteness and presence of mind, made ingenious objections to their

testimony, and laboured to explain away the facts which could not

be denied. From eight in the morning till seven at night he exerted

himself with an energy worthy of a better cause; but in vain. He was

found guilty by the unanimous voice of his judges. He then desired a

death according to his degree; but this was denied him, and he received

the usual sentence of the law.

Thus were these great criminals brought to justice; and they received,

it may be supposed, the punishment of their crimes. No: they were

pardoned by the king,--nay more, received especial marks of royal

favour! They were imprisoned in the Tower till January 1621, when the

king, by an order in council, granted them the liberty of retiring to

a country-house. "Whereas his Majesty is graciously pleased," thus ran

the order, "to enlarge and set at liberty the Earl of Somerset and his

lady, now prisoners in the Tower of London, and that nevertheless it is

thought fit that both the said earl and his lady be confined to some

convenient place; it is therefore, according to his majesty's gracious

pleasure and command, ordered that the Earl of Somerset and his lady

do repair either to Greys or Cowsham, the Lord Wallingford's houses in

the county of Oxon, and remain confined to one or other of the said

houses, and within three miles' compass of either of the same, until

further order be given by his majesty." In 1624, they both obtained

full pardons; the lady, on the ground that "the process and judgment

against her were not as of a principal, but as of an accessory before

the fact;" and the earl, merely on the ground of the king's regard for

his family. Nor was this all: his majesty granted the earl an income

of four thousand pounds a-year out of his forfeited estate; and, what

was still worse, in order to save this minion from disgrace, committed

a gross outrage on the order of knighthood to which he belonged. "The

king," says Camden, "ordered that the arms of the Earl of Somerset,

notwithstanding his being condemned of felony, should not be removed

out of the chapel at Windsor, and that felony should not be reckoned

amongst the disgraces for those who were to be excluded from the order

of St. George; which was without precedent." Without precedent indeed!

Remembering the king's solemn vow when, kneeling in the midst of the

judges whom he had summoned into his presence, he exclaimed, "If you

shall spare any guilty of this crime, God's curse light on you and your

posterity; and, if _I_ spare any that are guilty, God's curse light on

me and my posterity for ever!" how are we to account for so flagrant

a violation of it? Even had he not so earnestly called down the curse

of Heaven upon his head, he was bound by the strongest obligations

of public justice not to screen from condign punishment criminals

so atrocious. Nor can we ascribe his failure in so sacred a duty to

personal regard for Somerset. His attachment to him was long since

extinguished; a newer favourite had engrossed his capricious affection.

Fear, not love, seems to have been the cause of his forbearance.

Before Somerset's trial, mysterious circumstances were remarked,

both in his conduct and in that of the king. It is stated by several

historians that the earl, while in the Tower, loudly asserted that the

king durst not bring him to trial; and there is still extant a letter

from him to the king, written immediately after his condemnation, in

which he desires that his estate may be continued to him entire, in a

style rather of expostulation and demand than of humble supplication.

There is a studied obscurity in the style of this letter, as if it

darkly hinted at things meant to be understood only by him to whom it

was addressed; but its tone indicates that it was meant to impress the

king with the dread of a secret which the writer had it in his power to

reveal.

The king, on the other hand, showed the most extreme anxiety about

the earl's behaviour and the event of the trial. He himself selected

certain persons to examine Somerset in secret, among whom was Bacon.

They had the king's instructions to work upon the earl's obstinate

temper by every method of persuasion and terror; now to give him hopes

of the king's compassion and mercy, and now to impress him with the

certainty of conviction and punishment. Moreover, the king ordered

Bacon (then Attorney-General) to put in writing every possible case

which might arise at the trial out of Somerset's behaviour. Bacon

accordingly drew up a paper of this sort, on which the king with his

own hand made some marginal notes. Bacon having said, "All these

points of mercy and favour to Somerset are to be understood with this

limitation,--if he do not, by his contemptuous and insolent carriage

at the bar, make himself incapable and unworthy of them," the king's

remark in the margin was, "That danger is well to be foreseen, lest he

upon one part commit unpardonable errors, and I on the other part seem

to punish him in the spirit of revenge." Why this solicitude to prevent

the "danger" of Somerset's adopting a "contemptuous and insolent

carriage at the bar?" And what were the "unpardonable errors" it might

lead him to commit? No error could be so unpardonable as the crime he

had already committed; and we are led, therefore, to the inference that

the king wished it to be understood, that though he was ready to pardon

the crime of which Somerset should be convicted, provided he conducted

himself _discreetly_ on his trial, yet an error _on this score_ should

be held as unpardonable.

Notwithstanding all these precautions and pains taken to bring Somerset

to a _safe_ frame of mind, he appears to have been very untractable;

and the king's dread of his conduct during his trial, and anxiety to

know the result, seem to have amounted to agony. His behaviour cannot

be so well described as in the words of Sir Anthony Weldon.

"And now for the last act enters Somerset himself upon the stage, who,

being told, as the manner is, by the lieutenant, that he must provide

to go next day to his trial, did absolutely refuse it, and said they

should carry him in his bed; that the king had assured him he should

not come to any trial, neither durst the king to bring him to trial.

This was in a high strain, and in a language not well understood by

George Moore, [Sir George Moore, lieutenant in the room of Elwes,] that

made Moore quiver and shake; and, however he was accounted a wise man,

yet he was near at his wit's end. Yet away goes Moore to Greenwich, as

late as it was, being twelve at night; bounceth at the back-stairs as

if mad; to whom came Jo. Loveston, one of the grooms, out of his bed,

inquiring the reason of that distemper at so late a season. Moore tells

him he must speak with the king. Loverton replies, 'He is quiet,' which

in the Scottish dialect is, fast asleep. Moore says, 'You must wake

him.' Moore was called in (the chamber left to the king and Moore). He

tells the king those passages, and desired to be directed by the king,

for he was gone beyond his own reason to hear such bold and undutiful

expressions from a faulty subject against a just sovereign. The king

falls into a passion of tears: 'On my soul, Moore, I wot not what to

do: thou art a wise man; help me in this great strait, and thou shalt

find thou dost it for a thankful master;' with other sad expressions.

Moore leaves the king in that passion, but assures him he will prove

the utmost of his wit to serve his majesty. Sir George Moore returns to

Somerset about three o'clock next morning of that day he was to come

to trial, enters Somerset's chamber, tells him he had been with the

king, found him a most affectionate master unto him, and full of grace

in his intentions towards him. 'But,' said he, 'to satisfy justice you

must appear, although you return instantly again without any further

procedure; only you shall know your enemies and their malice, though

they shall have no power over you.' With this trick of wit he allayed

his fury, and got him quietly, about eight in the morning, to the

Hall; yet feared his former bold language might revert again, and,

being brought by this trick into the toil, might have more enraged

him to fly out into some strange discovery, that he had two servants

placed on each side of him, with a cloak on their arms, giving them

a peremptory order that if Somerset did any way fly out on the king,

they should instantly hoodwink him with that cloak, take him violently

from the bar, and carry him away; for which he would secure them from

any danger, and they should not want a bountiful reward. But the earl,

finding himself overreached, recollected a better temper, and went on

calmly in his trial, where he held the company until seven at night.

But who had seen the king's restless motion all that day, sending to

every boat he saw landing at the bridge, and cursing all that came

without tidings, would have easily judged all was not right, and that

there had been some grounds for his fear of Somerset's boldness. But at

last one bringing him word he was condemned, and the passages, all was

quiet."

The reader will remember that the abrupt termination of the proceedings

against Sir Thomas Monson, who was carried off from the bar by a party

of yeomen of the guard, was caused by the Lord Chief Justice's having

made some indiscreet allusion to suspicions regarding the death of

Prince Henry, the king's eldest son, which had taken place in 1612,

about four years before the time of these trials.

This young prince at a very early age displayed talents and virtues

which endeared him to the nation. The accounts of his short life are

pleasing and interesting. He was thus described when he was twelve

years old, in a letter from the French ambassador. "None of his

pleasures savour in the least of a child. He is a particular lover of

horses, and what belongs to them; but is not fond of hunting; and, when

he does engage in it, it is rather for the pleasure of galloping than

for any which the dogs give him. He is fond of playing at tennis, and

at another Scotch diversion very like mall;[20] but always with persons

older than himself, as if he despised those of his own age. He studies

two hours in the day, and employs the rest of his time in tossing the

pike, or leaping, or shooting with the bow, or throwing the bar, or

vaulting, or some other exercise of that kind; and he is never idle.

He is very kind to his dependents, supports their interests against

all persons whatsoever, and urges all that he undertakes for them or

others with such zeal as ensures it success; for, besides his exerting

his whole strength to compass what he desires, he is already feared by

those who have the management of affairs, and especially by the Earl

of Salisbury, who appears to be greatly apprehensive of the prince's

ascendency; as the prince, on the other hand, shows little esteem for

his lordship." This high-spirited and magnanimous boy could not fail

to be aware of the faults and vices of his father's character. He

entertained great admiration for Sir Walter Raleigh; was often heard

to exclaim, "No king but my father would keep such a bird in a cage;"

and his aversion to the Earl of Salisbury was understood to have

arisen from that nobleman's share in Raleigh's ruin.[21] His strong

sense of religion rendered his father's habit of profane swearing

repulsive to him. "Once," we are told by Coke, "when the prince was

hunting the stag, it chanced the stag, being spent, crossed the road

where a butcher and his dog were travelling. The dog killed the stag,

which was so great that the butcher could not carry him off. When the

huntsman and the company came up, they fell at odds with the butcher,

and endeavoured to incense the prince against him; to whom the prince

soberly replied, 'What! if the butcher's dog killed the stag, how could

the butcher help it?' They replied, if his father had been served so,

he would have sworn as no man could have endured it. 'Away!' replied

the prince, 'all the pleasure in the world is not worth an oath.'"

A young prince, who, at twelve years old, was "feared by those who

had the management of affairs," must, when he grew up, have been a

formidable object to a worthless minion like Carr. He disliked this man

from the first; and his aversion grew into a rooted hatred. When Carr

was made Viscount Rochester, Henry, then about fourteen, as we are told

by Osborn, "contemned so far his father's election of Rochester, that

he was reported either to have struck him on the back with his racket,

or very hardly forborne it." The prince continued to express on all

occasions an abhorrence of favourites, and an utter contempt of Carr;

and made no secret of his resolution to humble both him and the family

into which he was allied if ever he came to the throne.

Carr, then, must necessarily have feared and hated the prince; and it

is hardly to be supposed that such feelings would remain passive in

a mind like his. Henry did not enjoy his father's favour. The king's

"genius was rebuked" in the presence of a son so much his superior

in every moral and intellectual quality; and he was jealous of the

esteem and admiration in which the youth was held by the nation. "The

vivacity, spirit, and activity of the prince," says Dr. Birch, "soon

gave umbrage to his father's court, which grew extremely jealous of

him."--"The king," says Osborn, "though he would not deny any thing the

prince plainly desired, yet it appeared rather the result of fear and

outward compliance than love or natural affection; being harder drawn

to confer an honour or pardon, in cases of desert, upon a retainer

of the prince, than a stranger." The prince himself, in a letter

written within a few weeks of his death, excused himself from applying

on behalf of a friend, for some piece of court favour, "because, as

matters now go here, I will deal in no businesses of importance for

some respects." At this time Carr was in the height of his power; and

this position of the prince at his father's court must be ascribed in

no small degree to the influence of the favourite.

Prince Henry died on the 6th of November 1612, (at the age of

eighteen,) of an illness under which he had laboured for two or three

weeks. The symptoms (as detailed by Dr. Birch in his Life of the

prince) were of the most violent kind; dreadful affections of the

stomach and bowels, excessive thirst, burning heat, blackness of the

tongue, convulsions, and delirium. The physicians "could not tell what

to make of the distemper," were confounded by "the strangeness of the

disease," and differed in their opinions as to its treatment. The day

after the prince's death his body was opened by order of the king; and

the report of the physicians who examined it does not indicate the

operation of poison. They say, in particular, "his stomach was without

any manner of fault or imperfection."

The grief of the nation pervaded all ranks, and almost all parties. The

king himself, however, manifested the utmost insensibility. Only three

days after the prince's death, Carr (then Lord Rochester) wrote, by

the king's orders, to the English ambassador at Paris, directing him

to resume the marriage treaty, which had been begun for Prince Henry,

in the name of his brother Charles. After a very short interval, all

persons were prohibited from appearing in mourning before the king; and

orders were given that the preparations for the Christmas festivities

should proceed without interruption. The Earl of Dorset, in a letter

written at this time to the English ambassador in France, uses these

expressions: "That our rising sun is set ere scarcely he had shone, and

that with him all our glory lies buried, you know and do lament as well

as we; _and better than some do, and more truly_, or else you are not a

man, and sensible of this kingdom's loss."

Suspicions that the young prince had come foully by his death became

prevalent immediately after that event. They were by no means of that

vague and unmeaning kind which the untimely end of an illustrious

person is apt to occasion among the vulgar. "The queen," says Dr.

Welwood, "to her dying day could never be dissuaded from the opinion

that her beloved son had foul play done him." Bishop Burnet, in his

History of his own time, says, that Charles the First declared that the

prince, his brother, had been poisoned by the means of the Viscount

Rochester, afterwards Earl of Somerset. And contemporary writers afford

innumerable proofs of this opinion having been entertained by persons

engaged in public affairs, and conversant with the transactions of the

time.

The opinions of modern writers, as may be supposed, are divided on a

question so dark and mysterious. "Violent reports were propagated,"

says Hume, "as if Henry had been carried off by poison; but the

physicians, on opening his body, found no symptoms to confirm such

an opinion. The bold and criminal malignity of men's tongues and pens

spared not even the king on the occasion; but that prince's character

seems rather to have failed in the extreme of facility and humanity,

than in that of cruelty and violence." Hume's facts, it is notorious,

often assume the colouring of his political feelings; of which a pretty

strong instance occurs in this very case of Sir Thomas Overbury,

whose imprisonment in the Tower, says this historian, "James intended

as _a slight punishment for his disobedience_" in refusing to go as

ambassador to Russia. James ordered Overbury to be most rigorously

confined, and even sent a gentleman to the Tower for having simply

exchanged a word with the prisoner. Nay, more: James knew all along

that Overbury was languishing in his dungeon; having received, and

disregarded, repeated petitions from his afflicted father for his

release. And this, according to Hume, was intended by James as a slight

punishment for what was, in truth, no offence.

In the preface, by Lord Holland, to Fox's History of the early

part of the reign of James the Second, we find the opinion of that

illustrious statesman upon the subject. Lord Holland, speaking of Mr.

Fox's historical researches, and his correspondence with the Earl of

Lauderdale and others of his friends respecting them, says: "Even while

his undertaking was yet fresh, in the course of an inquiry into some

matters relating to the trial of Somerset, in King James the First's

reign, he says to his correspondent, 'But what is all this, you will

say, to my history? Certainly nothing; but one historical inquiry leads

to another: and I recollect that the impression upon my mind was, that

there was more reason than is generally allowed for suspecting that

Prince Henry was poisoned by Somerset, and that the king knew of it

after the fact. This is not, to be sure, to my present purpose; but I

have thought of prefixing to my work, if ever it should be finished, a

disquisition upon Hume's history of the Stuarts; and in no part of it

would his partiality appear stronger than in James the First.'"

For ourselves, we shall not pretend to penetrate a mystery which is

now, perhaps, for ever inscrutable. But the events which we have

related form an impressive and instructive page of the great book of

human life.

The guilty pair, who were the chief actors in these tragic scenes,

though they escaped the death which they had merited, did not escape,

even in life, the retribution of their crimes. They suffered "a living

death." For many years they resided together, in the house allotted to

them as their place of banishment, detested by the world and by each

other. The unceasing torments of an evil conscience were embittered by

mutual hatred so rancorous and implacable, that they passed year after

year in the same dwelling without the interchange of a single word.

Their doom may be likened to that so fearfully described in the tale of

the Caliph Vathek. It seemed as if their punishment was begun ere yet

they had tasted of death. The everlasting fire was already burning in

their hearts; hope, the last and most precious of Heaven's blessings,

had forsaken them for ever; and they read in each other's eyes nothing

but rage, aversion, and despair. So they lived, in seclusion and

solitude, till their existence was forgotten; and, of those who have

commemorated their crimes, hardly any one has cared to record the

periods when, one after the other, they dropped into eternity.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: This close imprisonment, it must be observed, was not the

unauthorised act of a subordinate, but the result of an express order

from the king: and his majesty was equally rigorous in enforcing as in

issuing this order; for Winwood tells us that "Sir Robert Killigrew was

committed to the Fleet _from the council-table_ for having some little

speech with Sir Thomas Overbury, who called to him as he passed by his

window, as he came from visiting Sir Walter Raleigh."]

[Footnote 20: The national, and still favourite game of _golf_.]

[Footnote 21: The king afterwards stripped Raleigh of his estate for

the purpose of bestowing it upon his favourite, Carr. "When the Lady

Raleigh and her children on their knees implored the king's compassion,

they could get no other answer from him but that he '_mun ha_ the

land,' he '_mun ha_ it for Carr!' But let it be remembered, too, that

Prince Henry, who had all the amiable qualities his father wanted,

never left soliciting him till he had obtained the manor of Sherborne,

with an intention to restore it to Raleigh, its just owner; though by

his untimely death this good intention did not take effect."--_Life of

Raleigh._]

AN EXCELLENT OFFER.

BY MARMADUKE BLAKE.

"It's an excellent offer--so plain and handsome!"

The above contradictory description was applied by Mrs. Gibbs to the

contents of a letter which a few hours previously, had been received by

her husband, Mr. John Gibbs, of Adelaide Crescent, Camberwell.

Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs were rather elderly: a stranger would have taken

them to be brother and sister; for, having lived together during the

greater part of a long life, not only had their habits and modes of

thought become congenial, but even the expression of their respective

features had assumed a strong resemblance.

On the evening in which it is our purpose to introduce the reader to

their acquaintance, Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs occupied the precise position

which they had at the same hour occupied evening after evening for the

preceding forty years; that is, Mrs. Gibbs was by the side of the table

with her "work," and Mr. Gibbs sate with his feet upon the fender, an

open book by his side, on which his spectacles were deposited, while

his body was assuming a backward inclination, which was occasionally

checked by a sudden bobbing forward of the head, accompanied by a

pulmonary effort of a most profound description.

"A little more, and I should have been asleep," said Mr. Gibbs; and,

as the remark had escaped from the lips of that gentleman once every

evening during nearly half a century, it did not seem to Mrs. Gibbs to

call for any particular reply.

"I was speaking, my dear," said she, "of Mr. Paine's offer."

"And I," responded Mr. Gibbs, "was thinking upon the very same subject

at the moment when you spoke; I was thinking that we must keep our eyes

open to the advantages which are now presented."

Mr. Gibbs took a glass of wine, resumed his horizontal position, and

seemed disposed to nod.

"Well, my dear,--now do rouse up,--if we are to accept Mr. Paine as a

son-in-law, what will young Langton say to us?"

"I hope," said Mr. Gibbs, rubbing his eyes and yawning most

uncomfortably,--"I hope Mr. Langton doesn't dream----"

"Why, my dear," interrupted the lady, "you must allow, we _have_ given

him a little encouragement."

"Not at all--not at all," was the reply; "nothing could be further from

my intention: if indeed he had such an idea as you seem to intimate,

I'm sure it has never been encouraged by me; he may have fancied

otherwise, but anything of the sort on my part was mere manner, I

assure you."

Mrs. Gibbs seemed satisfied, and the conversation on Mr. Paine's offer

was resumed.

"He is so very respectable," said Mr. Gibbs, "and at a very suitable

age for Caroline; two giddy people together would never do any good: I

don't think much good ever comes of early marriages."

"We were neither of us of age when we married," interposed Mrs. Gibbs:

"I hope you consider that case to have been an exception."

Mr. Gibbs was still dozy, and he nodded his head just at the right

moment. The lady continued.

"If I were asked to _choose_ a husband for my daughter, I shouldn't

hesitate to give her Paine."

"Nor I either," replied Gibbs, who misunderstood his wife; "it would be

entirely for her own good."

"He is a very pleasant man," ruminated Mrs. Gibbs.

"He has a thorough knowledge of the world, a great deal of philosophy,

and----"

"A nice house in the Regent's Park."

We need not further pursue the interesting dialogue; suffice it to

say that it terminated in a decision favourable to Mr. Paine, and a

comfortable belief that if Mr. Charles Langton should go out of his

mind, it would be entirely his own fault, as any encouragement which

he might fancy to have been given, was only to be attributed to Mr.

Gibbs's "manner."

Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs were "early people;" the clock struck ten, the

housemaid and cook were heard ascending to their places of repose.

Mrs. Gibbs followed, while her husband commenced, according to nightly

custom, a perambulation in the dark, in order to see that everything

was right; and having descended into the kitchen, and peeped into the

cellar, and put his foot into a dish of water and red wafers set as a

black-beetle trap, and knocked his forehead against a half-open door,

he felt, as he said, satisfied in his mind, and could go to sleep in

the most comfortable manner.

"What a beautiful night!" said the gentleman as he placed the

extinguisher on his candle and the bright light of the moon entered his

dressing-room. He manifested, however, no romantic desire to sit and

watch her silent progress, so in a short time her beams were falling on

the unconscious features of Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs.

The night was beautiful indeed,--so beautiful that we can only hope to

bring it to the mind's eye of our matter-of-fact friends by stating

that it was one of those evenings when the moon attains a brilliancy so

extraordinary, that "you may see to pick up a pin;" having arrived at

which point, we have been accustomed to believe lunar brightness can no

further go.

The number of moonlight nights which shed their influence upon us

during a passing year is of very small amount; and yet, when we suffer

memory to look through "the waves of time," how much of moonlight is

brought upon the mind. Day after day passes away, and although they

give birth to new events and unlooked-for changes, yet they leave no

more impression behind than we should experience after a survey of

the fragmental patterns of a kaleidoscope,--each movement produces a

variation, but there is nevertheless a general sameness of character

which is altogether destructive of a permanent effect;--but in the

lives of all men there have been moonlight "passages" which stand

alone in their recollection, and which come upon them in after years,

remembered as the periods when the heart, escaping from the stifling

struggles of daily life, assumed a freer action,--moments in which they

made resolutions which perhaps were broken, but which nevertheless it

is some credit to them only to have made.

By daylight we are apt to consider mankind in the mass; by moonlight

we invariably individualize,--we feel more deeply how mysteriously we

stand, lonely in the midst of countless multitudes, and we draw more

closely to our hearts those who have sought to lighten

"The heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world."

Reader, when you take a retrospect of life, we will answer for it

that your fancy turns to some moonlight game with happy schoolfellows

beneath a row of ancient elms, which threw their long cold shadows

upon the greensward by the side of a village church. Let your fancy

wander on, there is moonlight still: you roam, perchance, near the same

church, and a gentle maiden is by your side; but you do not choose the

elm-walk now, because the "school-boys" divert themselves thereon, and

you prefer a semi-solitary stroll. Onward still: you are mixing in the

bustle and heat of life; and there are moonlight hours when the thought

of your vain career comes upon your mind, and you form in your heart

new resolves, and pant with higher aspirations. Onward once more: and

the scene is drawing to a close, the mist is on your sight, and memory

wanders o'er a field of graves; and now how often do you lift your

aching eyes to the silent and trembling stars, and suffer fancies to

dwell upon your mind, that perchance from those orbs the spirits of the

dead may be permitted to look down!

We only intended to venture a few words upon this subject, but we are

afraid that we have written a "discourse."

There is a range of hill running from Westerham to Sevenoaks, the

neighbourhood of which abounds with quiet scenery of surpassing beauty;

and during the period in which Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs's dialogue took

place, the young lady to whom it referred was indulging in a pleasant

stroll in the garden of a cottage which stood in one of the little

valleys at the foot of this range, and in which dwelt the parents of

the young gentleman who was the companion of her walk, and who was the

identical person whom Mr. Gibbs so strenuously stated to have received

no "encouragement" whatever.

They wandered round a lawn encircled by a shrubbery path, which was

glittering in the silver light: they were very silent, but they

felt all that youth can feel, although an occasional exclamation of

"How beautiful this is!" was all that mutually escaped their lips.

A midsummer night and a garden-path are capable of imparting much

power to the most delicate young ladies; and instances are by no

means rare of some who would have shrunk from the prospect of an

excursion extending to a mile from home, who will nevertheless stroll

unrepiningly in company with a cousin or a friend two or three hundred

times round a gravel-walk!

There was a happy family within doors,--brothers and sisters,--the

light from the cottage-windows shining on the shrubs in front, and the

merry laugh sounding from within: occasionally they were interrupted

in their stroll, and messages were sent to know "whether they were

coming in,--and that the grass was wet, and the night-air dangerous,

and Miss Gibbs very delicate," &c. &c. &c.; to which messages replies

were given that "they were _not_ walking on the grass, and that the

air was exceedingly mild, and that Miss Gibbs had a headache, and

found herself better out of doors;" and then they were told that it

was past ten o'clock,--and they promised to come in directly; and Mr.

Langton only asked Caroline to take one turn more, and during that time

he took Miss Gibbs's arm; and then he must walk once more round, and

"this should positively be the last;" and so they took another turn,

and this time his arm gently encircled her waist; and as they came in,

there was a little hesitation while they were scraping their feet,

and Caroline upon entering looked a little confused, and Mr. Langton

seemed remarkably buoyant, and he rattled on for an hour or two, till

his mother declared that there was "no getting him to bed;" and after

Caroline and his mother and sisters had retired, he entered into an

elaborate speech to his father concerning his prospects in life, which

was only discontinued upon the discovery that his respectable parent

had been asleep for upwards of an hour.

The reader who compares the stern reality of our opening scene with the

poetic character of that by which it was succeeded, will have little

difficulty in anticipating the result: the first disclosed the decision

upon a plan which it had long been the chief object of a worldly man

to effect; the latter was the idle dream of a boy and girl who knew

nothing of the world, and still less of themselves.

On the morning subsequent to his moonlight walk, cool reflection had

operated on the mind of Mr. Langton so far as to reduce the ardour with

which he desired to communicate to his father his design of immediately

entering into some active pursuit, with the view of sharing with an

amiable partner an income which he was quite sure he could not fail

to realize, but which as yet existed only in his own imagination.

Nevertheless, although the daylight had thus produced its usual effect,

and had given a matter-of-fact turn to his thoughts, he felt that he

really did love Caroline, although it might be prudent to wait some

few years before he made a formal declaration to that effect. Like

most other young persons, he imagined that it was the easiest thing in

the world to live on with unshaken affection, however distant might be

the realization of his hopes: he was little aware of the numberless

and apparently trivial influences which, during a period of prolonged

separation or suspense, tend effectually to give a new colour to the

views of those who have thus drawn upon futurity.

As he seated himself at the breakfast-table, he received from Caroline,

in return for one of those

"Looks and signs

We see and feel, but none defines,"

a very kind glance, which assured him that he was the object of kind

thoughts: he fancied that Fate had already twined the wreath that was

to bring their happy fortune within one bright round,--that their love

would be sanctified by the very difficulties with which he might have

to contend before he could make her his wife,--that, with her as the

reward of his exertions, he could not fail to succeed, and that to her

influence alone he should proudly attribute whatever honours he might

ultimately gain:--that look across the breakfast-table, unobserved by

others, was the source from whence his imagination found no difficulty

in tracing the Nile-like current of his future career!

We want to compress into one paper, events which were brought about by

the course of several years; we must therefore hurry the reader over a

few facts which perhaps he will have anticipated already.

Shortly after the consultation between Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, Caroline

received a letter from them, written in a tone of more than ordinary

affection, interweaved with some little sermon-like passages touching

the implicit obedience which children should at all times bestow upon

their parents, and enforcing the same by the observation that those who

had lived in the world nearly sixty years must of course in that time

have acquired a nice sensibility of the manner in which to deal with

the affections of the young. It concluded by requiring her immediate

return to town; it gave their best love to Mr. and Mrs. Langton, and

their compliments to Mr. Charles.

On Caroline's return the arrangements respecting Mr. Paine were fully

detailed. Caroline cried, and Mrs. Gibbs said it was very natural she

should dislike to leave her mother,--that she would consult her wishes

in every way,--that she lived only in the happiness of her child, but

that she must _insist_ upon her acceptance of Mr. Paine: and then

Caroline's friends were entreated to come and see her as often as

possible, and they were particularly requested by Mrs. Gibbs not to put

any idle fancies into her head which might prejudice her against the

match; and one young lady of four-and-thirty, who had once possessed

some charms, and who had flirted away all her chances, was desired to

come and "cheer her up" whenever she could find time: the said young

lady having for the last five years been in the habit of expressing a

contempt for _very_ young men, and an extreme desire to become the wife

of some "nice old gentleman who kept his carriage."

After the detail of these circumstances, it will not be thought

surprising that at a period of seven years from the opening of our

story Caroline had long been the wife of Mr. Paine; and, having become

the mother of three children, had made every effort, although perhaps

she had not succeeded, to forget the moonlight walk in which she had

been "_so_ happy" with Charles Langton.

Mr. Paine was a merchant. His father, who had been a warehouseman

in Friday-street, had, as is the custom of warehousemen, amassed a

considerable fortune; and, although he had not been known to think very

highly of himself while he was in indifferent circumstances, his own

estimate of his value as a man, gradually grew with the strength of his

pocket. His friends considered this a very proper view, and towards

the end of his life he became much respected. Some time before his

death he had purchased for his son a partnership in a house of "high

standing," in which that gentleman had gradually risen from junior

partner until he became the head of the firm. He inherited along with

his father's wealth a great similarity of disposition; and his ideas of

the importance of the "house," and consequently of his own importance

as the head of the firm, had become the all-absorbing feature of his

mind. Now this, although it told with admirable effect in Broad-street,

was scarcely calculated to astonish his West-end connexions, nor was it

likely to give that freedom of manner which forms the peculiar charm of

domestic life.

Mr. Paine, on account of his mercantile standing, had been elected

to a directorship of a prosperous insurance company; and as he was

accustomed to look in daily at the office of the establishment, where

he found himself surrounded by bowing clerks, and porters in bright

waistcoats, who never heard a whisper from his voice without raising

their hands to their hats, he became very deeply impressed with the

idea that he really was an extraordinary person. No doubt he was so;

but it was the misfortune of Mr. Paine that he never contemplated

that "unbending of the bow" which is rather necessary to make home

happy, and consequently when he returned from town he was cold and

formal, in order to produce an impression on his servants, similar to

that which gratified him in the City; and when he took his seat at

the dinner-table there was hardly any variation from the manner which

characterised him as chairman at the weekly meetings of the company,

each remark being delivered in a style which sounded very much like a

Resolution of "the Board."

Men choose their acquaintances as they choose their wives, and are very

apt to select those whose qualities differ most widely from their own.

Acting upon this principle, Mr. Paine had become intimate with a person

to whom he condescended in a more than ordinary degree.

This person was Mr. Hartley Fraser, an unmarried man, at about the

middle, or, as it is very pleasantly termed, the prime of life. He was

of good family and small income; which latter circumstance he always

assigned as the cause of his determination to live single, although it

was attributed by some to a habit of ease and self-indulgence which he

was now not disposed to correct. He knew and liked everybody in the

world; and his philanthropy was not thrown away, for he was universally

sought after, and in the making up of parties was always spoken of as a

very desirable man. He humoured the foibles and flattered the caprices

of his friends; the ladies liked him because he was "so useful," and

the men spoke well of him because he never became a rival. He had

always avowed his intention of remaining unwived, since, to use his own

words, he found that he could drag on quietly enough with six or seven

hundred a year as a bachelor, and he felt no inclination to go back in

the world by becoming the proprietor of an expensive wife and a needy

"establishment."

His manner, which, as we have already stated, was quite antithetical to

Mr. Paine's, was as easy and kind as possible; and his stiff friend was

never able to unravel the means by which, in the absence of a cast-iron

stateliness, he invariably seemed to produce a feeling of deference

in the minds of those with whom he came in contact. Though professing

poverty, he never borrowed. His appearance was extremely good; while

in conversation he rarely spoke of himself, and, if ever he did so, it

was with an air of so little reserve, that his hearer could not help

entertaining an idea that he was the most candid person in the world.

Mr. Paine felt quite proud of his popular acquaintance; and, as pride

was the only attribute through which it was possible to gratify or

wound that gentleman's feelings, of course he entertained as much

regard for him as he could under any circumstances feel for any one.

Fraser was therefore a frequent visitor at his house, which, despite of

the governor's formality, was pleasant enough, for Caroline was always

kind and cheerful, and "the children" were never visible.

Mr. Fraser soon became aware that his visits were rendered more

frequent by the attraction of Caroline's society, while she could not

sometimes help acknowledging to herself that her husband's selfish

coldness was not placed in the most favourable light by a contrast

with his agreeable friend. This was a dangerous discovery; but just at

the period when it might have led to serious inroads on her happiness,

an accident occurred which gave a new turn to her thoughts, and which

tended to a catastrophe as unforeseen as it was fatal.

At an early hour in the afternoon a servant who had charge of the

children would frequently request permission to take the eldest, a

fine boy six years of age, for a short walk. Her consideration for the

health and mental improvement of her young charge invariably induced

her to wend her way to Oxford-street, where, by a strange coincidence,

she invariably met a young gentleman in a flour-sprinkled jacket

who emerged from a neighbouring baker's, and with whom, though they

only met on these occasions, it afterwards appeared she was "keeping

company." During the period of their conversation the child was told

to "play about;" and, with that inherent love of liberty which dwells

in the human mind, the boy made a point of availing himself of this

permission by forthwith getting into all those spots which at other

times he had been taught to shun. Occasionally a foot would become

fixed between the iron gratings of an area in such a manner that

he was unable to extract it; and then he would immediately roar as

though he had been placed there by some tyrannical nursery-maid, and

a crowd would collect to sympathise with his pangs, and at length

to witness his extrication. At other times the gutter would seem

to offer irresistible attraction; and in all cases the attentive

guardian to whom he was entrusted consented not to tell her "missus"

of his delinquencies if he would promise not to say a word about

the young man from the baker's. This system was carried on till it

had nearly terminated in a serious event. The child, having on one

occasion stepped off the footway, was thrown down in attempting to

escape from a carriage that was furiously approaching: in another

instant the horses would have trampled upon him, had not a young man

who observed his frightful situation rushed, heedless of danger, to

the horses' heads, and, with the aid of the coachman, arrested their

progress. The stranger learned from the boy his name and residence,

conveyed him home, and, after giving an account of the accident, left

a card with the footman to whom he delivered the child. About an hour

afterwards the guardian angel returned in great alarm, when she was

immediately favoured with unlimited leave of absence, and thereby

enabled, literally as well as metaphorically, to "keep company" with

her interesting friend.

On the following morning, a paragraph, which ran as follows, decorated

the columns of the Morning Post.

"Yesterday, as Lady Crushmore's carriage was going down Oxford-street,

it nearly passed over a child who had fallen before the horses: the boy

was, however, rescued by a person who happened to witness his perilous

situation. We merely notice the circumstance in order that we may have

the satisfaction of recording a noble instance of humanity on the part

of Lady Crushmore, who would not suffer the coachman to drive on until

he had inquired whether the child was hurt."

It would be impossible to describe Caroline's feelings when she

received the account of the accident: she took the card which had been

left by the stranger, but in the excitement of the moment she did not

heed the name, and, throwing it on one side, she pressed the terrified

boy to her breast with hysteric minglings of tears and laughter.

That afternoon Mr. Paine returned in company with Fraser; and, as he

entered, he received an account of what had happened. He was by no

means moved, but went into the matter, and asked questions in a most

cool and dignified manner.

"Really," he said, "I think this is a case we ought not to look over;

and therefore I must move, that is, I would suggest, that the boy

should receive a very severe whipping."

The motion, not being seconded, fell to the ground, and Mr. Paine

continued,

"Have you learned the name of the person by whom he was accompanied

home?"

Caroline recollected the card, and, without looking at it, handed it to

her husband.

"Langton--Charles Langton, Raymond Buildings," ruminated Mr. Paine; "I

don't know the name."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Caroline; "Charles Langton?"

"Yes, my dear; is there anything so extraordinary in the name--is he

any connexion of your family?"

"Yes--no--that is, my father had a very old friend of the name of

Langton, who lived near Sevenoaks."

"Ah," said the amiable Paine, who prided himself on the sarcastic,

"Raymond Buildings are within a stone's throw of Sevenoaks."

Mr. Paine had not observed any great peculiarity in Caroline's manner;

but he was excessively fond of giving utterance to an occasional sneer,

which was the highest effort of his conversational power. But with

Fraser, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, the emotion which

Caroline betrayed when the card was read did not pass unnoticed or

unremembered.

Mr. Paine having on the subsequent day made strict inquiries as to

the respectability of the man who had saved his child, condescended

to forward a note of thanks and an invitation to dine. This was

immediately accepted, for Langton was not ignorant that the mother

of the boy was his early friend; and, although circumstances were so

sadly altered, he could not resist an opportunity of renewing the

acquaintance.

The dinner to which he thus had the honour of being invited, went

off rather flatly. There was a large party, principally composed of

that class of persons who get their heads muddled in wool and tallow

speculations during the day, and who attempt to become particularly

brilliant and exclusive in the evening, when unfortunately it generally

happens that, despite their best exertions,

"Let them dress, let them talk, let them act as they will,

The scent of the city will hang round them still."

Fraser, to whom Mr. Paine always looked as the enlivener of his

otherwise cold dinners, was on this occasion unusually quiet, Langton

and Caroline were mutually embarrassed, and Mr. Paine's platitudes

grew more and more tiresome, till at length, when the dessert made its

appearance, he took an opportunity of effecting an elaborate speech,

the object of which was to impress upon his friends the sensation which

would have been created if the eldest child and only son of Mr. Paine,

of the firm of Paine, Grubb, and Jones, had been the victim of any

serious accident, and the gratitude which in consequence they ought to

entertain to the person by whom such an event had been arrested.

"A shock so calamitous," he said, "has been averted by the intrepid

conduct of Mr. Langton; and I must therefore beg that he will

accept the cordial thanks of this meeting,--that is, of myself and

friends,--for the courage and presence of mind which he so seasonably

displayed."

This speech exhibited such a style of pompous foolery, that during

its delivery Fraser was tempted to glance at Caroline with peculiar

significance, which seemed to intimate a considerable degree of

contempt for her husband, and an idea that a similar feeling could not

be altogether a stranger to her bosom.

Langton observed all this; and although it was with little surprise,

for he knew that love is more easily alienated by pride than any other

sentiment, yet he could not help feeling the most sincere regret that

Caroline had entered upon that dangerous path, the first step of which

is the condescending to show to any man a feeling of this nature.

"I have not learned to love her less," he said, when afterwards

meditating on this circumstance, "and I love her too well to see her

comfort or fame lightly lost while it may be in my power to save her.

It was always her nature to be easily led by the influence of others;

and although her pliant disposition may have linked her destiny with

one whom it is evident she can never love, yet she may still be saved

from a more fearful sacrifice. I will see her, and in the recollection

of our early friendship, as well as in the recent claim which I

have acquired upon her feelings, I will venture to speak boldly and

sincerely. In warning her of the precipice on which she stands, she

must not, however, be violently aroused to a sense of danger which

perhaps she has not yet acknowledged to herself. I must first gently

win her back to that spirit of confidence which we formerly knew, and,

if I succeed in my ultimate aim, how slight in comparison will seem the

peril from which I have saved the child, to that from which I shall

have rescued the mother!"

Alas! that the morality of the young, which is so strong in thought,

should be so weak in practice as it ever is. Here was another stone

added to that pavement which is said to be composed of good intentions.

From this time he became a frequent visitor in the Regent's Park, and

the result of this course will be best given in the description of an

interview between himself and Caroline which took place about three

months afterwards.

"Caroline," said he, as during a morning call, which had been prolonged

to a most unfashionable extent, he sate alone by her side, "I find you

the same kind being that you always were; it is from that tenderness of

feeling, which under happier circumstances would have given additional

value to your character, that I now dread an inroad on your peace. You

confess that you are wearied with the cold and monotonous routine of

your daily life, and that it is your fate to be linked with one who is

incapable of understanding or returning any deep emotion of the heart;

can you then wonder that I should tremble for your peace, when I see

you flattered by the attentions of a man from whom I am afraid you

have not been sufficiently discreet to conceal the disquiet which you

suffer?"

"Indeed, indeed you have mistaken me," exclaimed Caroline. "I have

neither been flattered by his attention, nor have I in any way confided

in him: to you only have I spoken thus. I was wrong, very wrong, in

doing so; but you entreated me to speak without reserve, and it is

hardly kind of you now to tax me with the fault." As she said this, the

tears started to her eyes, and as Langton gazed upon her he knew that

the very confidence which had appeared so dangerous when he imagined

it to be given to another, was now unreservedly bestowed upon himself:

did he remember his indignant anticipations of broken happiness and

degraded character on the part of Caroline, or did he apply to himself

those rules which he had deemed so necessary to be considered by

another? Alas! no. He took her hand, and said in a voice which faltered

with emotion,

"Caroline, dear Caroline, I cannot bear to see you give way thus. Come,

come, we must not have any tears: you may be very happy yet."

"No," she said, making a vain attempt to repress her sobs, "I do not

hope to be happy,--I have not deserved to be so; for I knew, when

they wished me joy on my wedding-day, that my happiness was gone for

ever. But I must not talk thus to you, Charles; I have no right to

trouble you with sorrows of my own seeking. Besides," she continued,

smiling bitterly through her tears, "you are about to be married to

one who cannot fail to love you, and I must claim no share in your

thoughts. Believe me, I will conquer every emotion that you desire to

be repressed. I will endeavour to be all that you would wish to see

me,--indeed I will: only tell me that you are not offended,--that you

do not think less kindly of me than you have always done,--and that

you will sometimes think of her who, while she lives, can never cease

to think and pray for you." She buried her face in her hands and wept

bitterly. "Don't, don't speak to me now," she said, as her tears flowed

more quickly; and Langton, taking her hand, felt them falling on his

own. At that moment he considered himself pre-eminently wretched; he

pressed her head upon his shoulder, bidding her be more calm, and, as

he imprinted one kiss upon her forehead,--a servant entered the room.

"Did you ring, sir?"

"No!" said Langton furiously, and the intruder disappeared. Servants

always think you ring at the very moment when you wish you were in a

wilderness!

The party who received Mr. Langton's impetuous negative was a fat

housemaid of extreme sensibility; and as the sensibility of housemaids

is usually concentrated upon themselves, of course, in the description

of the indignity she had received, any very delicate consideration for

the character of her mistress could not be expected to find a place.

A committee was immediately formed in the pantry, where she related

the "undelicate" conduct of that lady to her sympathising colleagues,

and several strong resolutions were immediately carried expressive

of their unqualified admiration of virtue in general, and their

particular disapprobation of the deviation from its strict rules which

had just been detailed; but as the said committee could not perceive

any particular benefit to themselves that was likely to result from a

disclosure to Mr. Paine, they determined to let the matter drop, and

merely to suffer it to exist as an occasional topic to give intensity

to those sublime denunciations of the wickedness of their betters in

which they were accustomed to indulge round the kitchen fire, when

their thoughts were glowing beneath the stimulus of an occasional

bottle of wine which had been abstracted from the cellars of their

"injured master."

Of course, however, it was not to be expected that the knowledge of

the circumstance should be concealed from their immediate circle of

acquaintance; and as the green-grocer wished he might drop if he ever

breathed a syllable about it, and the milkwoman thanked Heaven that she

never was a mischief-maker, of course the insulted housemaid "didn't

mind telling them," upon their promise of profound secrecy; which was

especially necessary, as, with the exception of the servants on each

side of Mr. Paine's, and the nurserymaid opposite, not a soul knew a

word about the matter.

Now it so happened that the watchful being who had been discharged

on account of the affair in Oxford-street, was one of those amiable

characters by whom forgiveness of injuries is accounted a duty. She had

carried out this principle so far, that, although she had been desired

never to enter the house again, she would occasionally call after dark

to see her old fellow-servants, with whom she would sometimes take a

glass of ale, in order to show how completely she had subdued those

feelings of animosity which she might be expected to entertain towards

the person at whose cost it was provided. She always seemed to take

the same interest in the family as she had formerly done, and, with a

spirit of Christian charity which did honour to her nature, she would

sometimes declare "that although they had injured _her_, yet she hoped

it would never come home to them."

Any concealment from a person of this disposition was of course

unnecessary; and, when she was made acquainted with the circumstance,

her horror was unlimited. "Poor Mr. Paine, who was so much of a

gentleman!--and Mrs. Paine, too, who always seemed to love the dear

children so!--who would take care of them now?--and then _that_ Mr.

Langton, she always said from the first she never liked _him_! But no,"

she continued, her goodness of disposition again overmastering every

other feeling, "I won't believe it,--I can't do so; though I know,

Mary, that you wouldn't tell a falsehood for the world, and, if you

couldn't speak well of anybody, would rather say nothin' at all."

The reader will be surprised to learn that, although Mr. Paine's

servants had acted with such praiseworthy reserve, a letter was

received by that gentleman at the insurance office of which he was

chairman, (the seal bearing the royal arms, which had been produced by

the application of a sixpence; and the post-mark giving indications of

the existence of a place called "Goswell-street Road,") the purport of

which was as follows:

"SIR,--Nothin but my ankziety for your peas of mind could indews me to

writ this letter, which i am afeard will set your fealings in a flame,

& cause you grate distres. i am sorry to say your confidens is abused,

and that you have little idere of the fallshood which will be found in

what i am goin to relate.

"Your wife is untrew--the young man who pickt up Master Eddard when he

_would_ run into the rode, is one of her old bows. You may depend upon

my assurance, for altho' there is an animus signatur at the bottem of

this, the writer is a steddy young woman and knows what wickedness is.

"If you don't take warnin by what I have writ you will peraps be

unhappy all the rest of your days, and so I hope you will.

"From your sincere well-wisher,

"J.J."

It is said that, for the deprivation of one sense, compensation is not

unfrequently given by an increased action which is acquired to the

remainder; and those who have seen men cut off from the enjoyment of

some long-cherished feeling at the moment when its gratification seemed

most essential to their happiness, must have admired the benevolence

with which Providence has thus bestowed upon the mind a capability,

when it is deprived of one pursuit, of falling back with redoubled

ardour upon another. But Mr. Paine was an exception to this rule; he

was rather the incarnation of a single feeling than a sharer in the

complicated emotions of mankind. Pride was the only thing that he was

conscious of,--the one point from which all his ideas radiated; and,

when this was destroyed, his existence might virtually be considered at

an end.

From the moment that he had received the wretched scrawl, the

alteration which took place in this unhappy man was of the most

extraordinary kind. He had never been suspicious, for, loveless though

he was, the possibility that _his_ wife could sink to frailty had never

entered into his mind; but, when the idea was once aroused, he seemed

without hesitation to receive it as a truth; and that that truth should

be forced upon him by the agency of a person who was evidently of the

lowest class was an aggravation of the keenest kind. His spirit was

from that day broken. Homage seemed a mockery, for he felt that the

most despised among those who showed him reverence possessed a more

enviable lot than it could ever be his fate to know again.

For a few days the secret remained fixed in his own heart,--that heart

which had sought to citadel itself in its indomitable pride, and which

was now crushed and powerless. At length to Fraser, by whom his altered

manner had been remarked, he ventured to ask, with an air of forced

coldness, "Whether it had ever occurred to him that Mr. Langton had

been in the habit of paying more than proper attentions to the mother

of the boy whom he had rescued?--he did not mean to hint that those

attentions had been encouraged or received--that of course was out of

the question; but still----"

He hesitated; and Fraser, deceived by the quietude of his manner,

thought it a very good opportunity to say a few words upon a subject

that had given him some little annoyance. He readily avowed "that he

entertained no very high opinion of the gentleman in question, but" (of

course) "his opinion of Mrs. Paine's correct feeling was so strong that

he thought the matter need cause very little discomfort. Nevertheless,

he imagined it would be as well to intimate to Mr. Langton that his

constant attendance in the Regent's Park was no longer expected or

desired."

This was the confirmation that was sought--the vulgar letter was

accurate enough--all the world were pointing at him. Fraser had noticed

it, but in delicacy to his feelings, and in gallantry to his wife, had

forborne to speak more explicitly: he had no remedy; wronged as he was,

he had no remedy. He might go into a court of justice, and there, in

consideration of his shame being recorded upon oath, he might receive

a sum equal to about a tithe of his yearly income. He might kill the

man; and then also the world, with whom suspicion only might exist at

present, would be certified of the fact. No; his course was run,--there

was but one way left for him to pursue.

It was dusk on a summer's evening, a few days after this, that Caroline

and Langton met for the last time.

"Charles," she said, "it is not a resolution lightly formed; it has

cost me a struggle which I knew I should experience, but which I never

expected to have conquered, you must not see me more! Nay, do not utter

one word of remonstrance; you may by so doing make the separation more

bitter, but you cannot shake my resolution. I dare not trust myself

to say all that now rushes to my mind; yet, perhaps, parting as we do

for ever, I may be forgiven for saying that I always loved you: this I

could not help; but, with such a feeling, I ought to have shown more

strength of mind than to have sacrificed your happiness and my own even

to a parent's wish. I failed to do so, and it is right that the penalty

should be borne. Farewell! You can appreciate all that I now suffer,

and you will tell me that you love me better for the determination

which I have made. Believe me, a time will come when you will praise

God that I had sufficient strength to endure the agony of this trial.

We have been very foolish,--we ought never to have met; but thank

Heaven that, having met, we have escaped from guilt. There, now leave

me--pray leave me, and----"

At this moment they were interrupted by a hasty knock at the

street-door; they stood still for a moment: it was Mr. Paine. He

seemed, upon entering, to make some inquiries of the servant: he

ascended the stairs, paused for an instant at the drawing-room door,

as if about to open it, and then with a hurried step ascended to his

dressing-room above. Caroline and Langton moved not; they seemed to

dread some coming event, and yet they had no definite ground for fear.

Several minutes elapsed: at length Langton smiled and was about to

speak, when they heard a heavy, lumbering fall upon the floor above,

followed by a long, low groan, the sound of which was never afterwards

forgotten.

We willingly draw a veil over the circumstances of this scene, and have

only now to detail the events to which it ultimately led.

The parting between Caroline and Langton on that dreadful night was

_final_: he made an attempt to see her once more during the period of

her suffering, but this she positively refused. The suicide of her

unhappy husband caused some little talk at the time; but as it was

proved, to the satisfaction of a coroner's jury, that his death took

place on a Wednesday, and that upon that day he had written a short

note which he had dated "Thursday," they without hesitation returned a

verdict of "Temporary Insanity," and the newspapers saw no reason for

departing from their usual plan, by attributing the rash act to any

other cause than the unsuccessful result of some speculations on the

Stock Exchange.

The world, (that is to say, those immediate connexions who became

acquainted with the circumstances of the case,) upon a retrospect of

the affair, condemned Mr. Paine for his pride, Mr. Fraser for his

politeness, and Caroline and Langton for their indiscretion;--the only

persons mentioned in our story with whom the said "world" found no

fault were--Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs!

Mr. Paine had made no alteration in his will, and a large portion of

his property was left to his widow during her life. Caroline passed

some years in deep seclusion, devoting herself to the education of

her children, and seeking consolation in the exercises of religion,

wherein alone she could hope that it might be found. She died at

the commencement of the present year; and an extract from a letter

addressed to Langton, which was discovered among her papers, may

serve to conclude her history, and to impart a moral which may not be

altogether vain.

"You will perhaps be surprised at this request," (she had entreated

that he would undertake the guardianship of her children,) "but, after

all that I have suffered, I could not feel one moment's peace if I

thought it possible that in the course of events a similar fate might

attend upon them. Edward will require little care,--to the girls my

anxiety is directed: the destiny of women is too often fixed when they

possess little power of judging wisely for themselves; and, even if

they should possess this power, strength of character is required to

enable them to resist all other influences, and to abide firmly by the

judgment they have formed. Remembering that my fate was thus rendered

unhappy, you will not hesitate to guard my children against the misery

I have endured. Watch over them, I entreat you; and let that love

which, when it was bestowed upon me, could lead only to sorrow, descend

upon them with the consciousness of purity. I know that you will do

this; I know, above all, that in affairs of the heart you will consult

their feelings of affection rather than their dreams of pride; and

while, on the one hand, you prohibit a union that might degrade them,

you will, on the other, be equally cautious never to _enforce_ the

acceptance of 'an excellent offer.'"

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GOOD JOKE.

The diamond is precious from its scarcity, and, for the same reason,

a new thought is beyond all price. Unluckily for us moderns, the ages

who came before us have seized upon all the best thoughts, and it is

but rarely indeed that we can stumble upon a new one. In the pride of

superior knowledge, we sometimes imagine that we have succeeded in

coining a new thought in the mint of our own brain; but, ten to one,

if we make any researches into the matter, we shall find our bran new

thought in some musty volume whose author lived a thousand years ago.

This is exceedingly provoking, and has often led me to imagine that

the ancients (so miscalled) have been guilty of the most atrocious

plagiarisms from us, who are the real ancients of the world. It seems

as if by some unhallowed species of second-sight they have been enabled

to see down the dim vistas of futurity, and have thus forestalled

us in the possession of the choicest thoughts and the most original

ideas. This is especially the case with regard to jokes; all the best

of them are as old as the hills. On rare occasions some commanding

genius astonishes the world by a new joke; but this is an event,--the

event of the year in which the grand thing is uttered. Hardly has it

seen the light ere it passes with the utmost celerity from mouth to

mouth; it makes the tour of all the tables in the kingdom, and is

reproduced in newspapers and magazines, until no corner of the land has

been unhonoured and ungladdened by its presence. Reader! it was once

my fortune to be the creator, the Ποιητὴς, of a witticism of

surpassing excellence,--of a joke which, as soon as it proceeded from

my brain, made a dozen professed wits ready to burst with envy at my

superior genius! Many a time since, has that bright scintillation of

intellectual light brought smiles into the faces, and gladness into

the hearts of millions! and many a joyous cachinnation has it caused,

to the sensible diminution of apothecaries' bills and undertakers'

fees! If I had been a diner-out, I might have provided myself with

dinners for two years upon the strength of it; but I was contented

with the honour, and left the profit to the smaller wits, who, by a

process well known to themselves, contrive to extract venison out

of jests, and champagne out of puns. For years I have reposed on my

laurels as the inventor of a new thought; and, but for the hope that

there were still more worlds to conquer, I would have folded my arms

in dignified resignation, and acknowledged to myself that I had not

lived in vain. About a month ago, however, my complacent pride in my

production received a severe check; and circumstances ensued which

have led me to doubt whether in these degenerate days it is possible

for a man to imagine any new thought. I was in the society of half

a dozen men of real wit, but of no pretension,--men of too joyous a

nature to be envious of my achievement,--when one of them actually

uttered my joke,--the joke upon which I pride myself,--coolly looking

me in the face, and asserting that he was the author of it. I felt at

first indignant at so dishonest an act; but, convinced of my own

right, I smiled contemptuously, and said nothing. My friend noticed

the smile, and saw that it was not one of mirth but of scorn, and has

ever since treated me with the most marked coolness. When I returned

home I retired to my chamber, and throwing myself into my comfortable

arm-chair, I indulged in a melancholy reverie upon the vanity of human

exertion, and the disposition so common among mankind to rob the great

of their dearly-acquired glory. "Even Homer," said I to myself, "did

not escape the universal fate. Some deny his very existence, and assert

that his sublime epic was the combined work of several ballad-mongers;

others, again, generously acknowledge his existence, but still assert

that he was no poet, but the mere singer of the verses that abler men

composed! And, if Homer has not escaped detraction and injustice,

shall I?" These, and similar thoughts, gradually growing more and

more confused and indistinct, occupied my attention for a full hour.

A bottle of champagne, corked up and untasted, stood upon the table

before me. It was just the dim faint dawn of early morning; and in

the grey obscurity I could plainly distinguish the black bottle as

it stood between me and the window. Notwithstanding the hour, I felt

half-inclined to take a draught of the generous juice it contained,

and was stretching forth my hand for that purpose, when, to my great

surprise, the bottle gave a sudden turn, and commenced dancing round

the table. Gradually two arms sprouted forth from its sides; and,

giving them a joyous twirl, the bottle skipped about more nimbly than

before, and to my eyes seemed endeavouring to dance a Highland fling.

I thought this very extraordinary behaviour on the part of the bottle.

I rubbed my eyes, but I was wide awake. I pinched myself, and came to

the same conclusion. As I continued to gaze, the mysterious bottle

grew larger and larger, and suddenly sprung up as tall as myself.

Immediately afterwards, the cork, which had become supernaturally large

and round, changed colour, and turned to a ruddy hue; and I could

by degrees distinguish a pair of sparkling eyes, and a whole set of

rubicund features smiling upon me with the most benign expression.

The forehead of this apparition was high and bald, and marked with

wrinkles,--not of decrepitude, but of a hale old age,--while a few thin

grey hairs hung straggling over his temples. As soon as my astonishment

was able to vent itself in words, I addressed the apparition in a

query, which has since become extremely popular, and called out to it,

"Who are you?"

[Illustration: The Autobiography of a Joke]

Ere it had time to reply to this classical question, my eyes fell

upon a roll of parchment which it held in its hand, and on which were

inscribed the magic words of my joke.

"Do you not know me?" said this Eidolon of my wit, pointing to the

scroll. "I am the joke upon which you pride yourself, and, although I

say it myself, one of the best jokes that ever was uttered. Don't you

know me?"

"I can't say that I should have recognised you," said I, as I felt my

heart yearning with paternal kindness towards him; "but--Come to my

arms, my son, my progeny!"

"Aha! ha! ha!" said the Joke, looking at me with very unfilial

impertinence, and holding his sides with laughter.

"The contempt with which you treat me is exceedingly unbecoming," said

I with much warmth, and with the air of an offended parent; "and, what

is more, sir, it is unfeeling and unnatural--'tis past a joke, sir!"

"'Tis no joke!" said the Joke, still laughing with all his might,

and peering at me from the corners of his eyes, the only parts of

those orbits which mirth permitted to remain open; "really, my good

friend, the honour to which you lay claim is nowise yours. Lord bless

your foolish vanity! I was a patriarch before the days of your great

grandfather!"

"Pooh, pooh!" said I, "it cannot be! You know that you are my

production;--you cannot be serious in denying it."

"I am not often serious," said the Joke, putting on a look of comic

gravity; "but there is no reason for so much solemnity in telling an

unimportant truth. However, we will not argue the point; I will proceed

at once to tell you my history, to convince you how little claim you

have to the honours of paternity in my case."

"I shall be very happy," said I, with more reverence than I had yet

assumed towards my mysterious visitor.

"For fear you should find me dry," said the Joke, "get a bottle of

wine."

I did as I was desired, drew the cork, filled two glasses, one of which

I handed to the Joke, who, nodding good-humouredly at me, commenced the

following narrative.

THE JOKE'S STORY.

"I have not the slightest recollection of my progenitors; like the

great Pharaohs who built the pyramids, their names have sunk into

oblivion in the lapse of ages. They must, however, have lived more

than thirty centuries ago, as my reminiscences extend nearly as far

back as that period. I could, if I would, draw many curious pictures

of the state of society in those early ages, having mixed all my life

with persons of every rank and condition, and traversed many celebrated

regions. I say it with pride that I have always delighted to follow

in the track of civilization, and claim as a great honour to myself

and the other members of my fraternity, that we have in some degree

contributed to hasten the mighty march of human intelligence. It is

only savage nations who are too solemn and too stupid to appreciate

a joke, and upon these people I never condescended to throw myself

away. One of my earliest introductions to society took place about two

thousand five hundred years ago, among a company of merchants who were

traversing the great deserts of Arabia. Methinks I see their faces

now, and the very spot where they first made acquaintance with me. It

was towards sunset, under a palm-tree, beside a fountain, where the

caravan had stopped to drink the refreshing waters. It has been often

said that grave people love a joke, and it was a grave old trader

who showed me off on this occasion, to the infinite delight of his

companions, who laughed at my humour till the tears ran down their

cheeks. In this manner I traversed the whole of civilized Asia, and

visited at different periods the luxurious tables of Sardanapalus and

Ahasuerus, and brought smiles into the faces of the queenly beauties

of their courts. From Asia I passed into Greece, and I remember that

I used often to sit with the soldiers round their watch-fires at the

siege of Troy. At a much later period I was introduced to Homer, and

shall always remember with pleasure that I was the means of procuring

him a supper when, but for me, he would have gone without one. The

poor peasants to whom the still poorer bard applied for a supper and

a lodging, had no relish for poetry; but they understood a joke,

and the bard brought me forth for their entertainment; and, while

my self-love was flattered by their hearty laughter, his wants were

supplied by their generous hospitality. But I was not only acquainted

with Homer, for Aristophanes very happily introduced me into one of his

lost comedies. Anacreon and I were boon companions; and, while upon

this part of my career, you will permit me to give vent to a little

honest pride, by informing you in few words that I once brought a

smile into the grave face of the divine Plato; that I was introduced

into an argument by no less an orator than Demosthenes; that I was

familiarly known to Esop; that I supped with Socrates; and was equally

well received in the court of Philip of Macedon and the camp of his

victorious son. Still a humble follower in the train of civilization, I

passed over to Rome. I was not very well received by the stiff, stern

men of the republic; but in the age of Augustus I was universally

admired. The first time that I excited any attention was at the table

of Mecænas, when Horace was present. I may mention by the way that it

was Horace himself who, in a _tête-à-tête_, first made known my merits

to his illustrious patron, and the latter took the first opportunity

of showing me off. I was never in my life more flattered than at the

enthusiastic reception I met from the men of genius there assembled,

although I have since thought that I was somewhat indebted for my

success to the wealth and station of the illustrious joker. However

that may be, my success was certain; and so much was I courted, that I

was compelled to visit every house in Rome where wit and good-humour

stood any chance of being appreciated. After living in this manner

for about a hundred years, I took it into my head to go to sleep;

and I slept so long, that, when I awoke, I found the victorious Hun

in the streets of the city. This was no time for me to show my face;

and, seeing so little prospect of happy times for me and my race, I

thought I could not do better than go to sleep again. I did so, and

when I awoke this second time found myself at the gay court of old king

René of Provence. Among the bright ladies and amorous troubadours who

held their revels there, I was much esteemed. There was, however, I

am bound in candour to admit, some falling-off in my glory about this

period. I was admitted to the tables of the great, it is true; but I

was looked upon as a humble dependent, and obliged to eat out of the

same platter with the hired jester. I could not tolerate this unworthy

treatment for ever, and it had such an effect upon me that I soon lost

much of my wonted spirit and humour. In fact, I was continually robbed

of my point by these professed wits, and often made to look uncommonly

stupid; so much so, that my friends sometimes doubted of my identity,

and denied that I was the same joke they had been accustomed to laugh

at. I contrived, however, to be revenged occasionally upon the unlucky

jesters who introduced me _mal-à-propos_. They used to forget that

their masters were not always in a humour to be tickled by a joke, and

a sound drubbing was very often the only reward of their ill-timed

merriment. This was some slight consolation to me; but I could not

tolerate long the low society of these hired buffoons, and, as I did

not feel sleepy, I was obliged to think of some scheme by which I might

escape the continual wear and tear, and loss of polish, that I suffered

at their hands. I at last resolved to shut myself up in a monastery,

and lead a life of tranquillity and seclusion. You need not smile

because so merry a personage as myself chose to be immured within the

walls of a monastery, for I assure you that in the intellectual society

of the monks,--the only intellectual society that one could meet with

in those days,--I was soon restored to my original brightness. I lived

so well and so luxuriously among these good people, that I quickly grew

sleek and lazy, and somehow or other I fell into a doze, from which I

was not awakened until a wit in the reign of Elizabeth stumbled upon

me, and again brought me out into the busy world. I ran a splendid

career in England."

"Did you?" said I, interrupting the Joke at this part of his narrative,

and appealing to him with considerable energy of manner, for I began

to be apprehensive that some of my friends, more learned than myself,

might have discovered the antiquity of my "joke," and would quiz me on

the subject. I restrained my impetuosity, however, and, with some alarm

depicted in my countenance, I asked him in a trembling voice, "Did

you--did you--ever--meet with--Joe Miller?"

"D--Joe Miller!" said the Joke with much vivacity; "I suffered more

from the dread of that fellow than I ever suffered in my life. I had

the greatest difficulty in keeping out of his way, and I only managed

it by going to sleep again. You awoke me from that slumber, when, like

many others who came before you, you passed me off as your own. You

remember you got much credit for me, as all ever have done who have

good sense enough to introduce me only at a proper time, and wit enough

to launch me forth with all my native grace and brilliancy about me."

"Then you are not a Joe?" said I, much relieved.

"A Joe!" said the Joke, reddening with anger. "Have I not told you

already that I am not? Do you mean to insult me by the vile insinuation

that I ever showed my face in such despicable company? Do you think,

sir, that I am a pun?"

"Oh, by no means," said I; "I assure you I meant no offence."

"You did, sir," replied the Joke, striking his fist upon the table with

great vehemence. Immediately afterwards I observed that his face became

dreadfully distorted, and he shook his head convulsively from side to

side. As I continued to gaze without the power of saying a single word

to calm the irritation I had so unintentionally raised, I noticed that

his neck grew every instant longer and longer, until his chin seemed to

be fully two feet from his shoulders. I was unable to endure the sight,

and rising up, half frantic with nervous excitement, I put my hand

convulsively upon his head, with the benevolent intention of squeezing

it down to its proper level. He glared furiously at me with his swollen

eyes, and, horrible to relate, just as I came in contact with him, his

head flew off with a tremendous explosion, and bounced right through

a chimney-glass that ornamented my mantel-piece. The glass flew in

shivers round me. In a dreadful state of alarm I rang the bell for

assistance, and sank down overpowered upon the chair.

"Beggin' your honour's pardon for being so bould," said my tiger, a

good-natured Irish boy named Phelim, who had entered at the summons,

"I think your honour had better drink a bottle of soda-water and go to

bed."

"Where's his head, Phelim?" said I.

"Your own, or the bed's?" said Phelim.

"The Joke's," replied I.

"Och, you must mane your own; it's light enough, I dare say," said

Phelim as he pulled my boots off. "You took a dhrop too much last

night, anyhow."

"Phelim," said I solemnly, "did you hear nothing?"

"To be sure I did," said Phelim. "Haven't you, like a drunken baste as

you are, (begging your pardon for my bouldness,) been trying to broach

that bottle of champagne at this early hour of the mornin', and haven't

you driven the cork through the lookin'-glass?"

I looked at the bottle; it was uncorked, and the champagne was even at

that moment sparkling over the neck of the bottle, and running over my

books and papers.

"A pretty piece of work you have made of it," said Phelim, picking up

the cork and pointing to the looking-glass.

"'Twas a good joke," said I, although my faith was somewhat staggered

by Phelim's explanation.

"Troth, an' I'm glad you take it so asy," said Phelim, ramming the cork

into the bottle; "you'll find it a dear one when the landlady brings in

her bill for the lookin'-glass. But never mind it, sir, now. Go to bed

and get sober."

I took Phelim's advice, and went to bed. To this day I am unable

positively to decide whether his explanation was the true one or not.

I incline, however, to the belief that I was _not_ drunk, but that

the illustrious JOKE actually visited me in _propriâ personâ_. I am

the more inclined to this belief from the remarkable coherency of

his narrative, which I now leave, without a word of comment, to the

consideration of the curious.

THE SECRET.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. PAUL DE KOCK.

Nathalie de Hauteville at the age of twenty-two had been for three

years a widow. She was one of the most beautiful women in Paris; a

brunette, with large black eyes, and one of those fascinating faces

whose charm consists more in expression than in regularity of features,

and in which are portrayed at once all the elegance of the Frenchwoman,

all the vivacity of the Italian, and all the fire of a daughter of

Spain.

When she married, at eighteen, a man of nearly three times her age,

Nathalie, a mere child in character, had not bestowed a thought on

any thing beyond her wedding dresses, her marriage presents, and the

delight of being called Madame. Her husband was as generous to her as

he was rich. Twelve months had passed in a continued round of gaiety

and amusement, when M. de Hauteville was suddenly attacked by a disease

which carried him off in a few days, and left his young widow to mourn

for a husband as she would have mourned for the loss of a friend and

protector.

But, at eighteen, sorrow soon passes away; the heart is so new to every

feeling, to every illusion. Madame de Hauteville found that she was

courted by the world; that she was invited everywhere; and that, by her

fortune and her position, she was called upon to become an ornament of

society. Yet she felt that she was too young to live without a mentor,

and to go out alone; so she asked her uncle, M. d'Ablaincourt, to come

and live with her.

M. d'Ablaincourt was an old bachelor: one love only, had he ever

known, and the object of that was--himself. His love for himself was

paramount; and, if ever he went so far as to show any liking for any

other individual, he must have received from that individual such

attention as to make him a gainer by their intimacy. M. d'Ablaincourt

was an egotist; but, at the same time, a well-bred, a well-mannered

egotist. He had all the air of devoting himself to the wishes of

others, whilst he was exclusively occupied in compassing his own;

he would appear to be taking a lively interest in those around him,

whilst, in reality, he never felt any interest in anybody but himself.

Too thoughtless to do harm, he was as little disposed to do good,

unless it were for his own advantage. In short, he liked to be at his

ease, and to be surrounded with all the enjoyments which luxury could

invent. Such was the character of M. d'Ablaincourt, who readily acceded

to his niece's proposal, because Nathalie, though a little giddy, had

a good and affectionate heart, and would load him with kindnesses and

attentions.

M. d'Ablaincourt went out into the world with his niece, because he had

not yet lost his relish for its pleasures; but, if an invitation came

for any party which he thought held out no amusement for him, he would

turn to her, and say, "I am afraid, my dear, you will not like this

party; there will be nothing at all but play. I shall be very happy to

take you; you know I always do exactly as you wish, but I think you

will find it dull." And Nathalie, who was all confidence in her

uncle, never failed to answer, "You are quite right, uncle; it will be

much better for us not to go."

[Illustration: The Secret]

So it was with everything else. M. d'Ablaincourt, who, without wishing

to be thought so, was an excessive _gourmand_, said one day to his

niece, "You know, my dear, I am no _gourmand_; I care very little

myself how things are served up, and am always satisfied with what is

laid before me; but your cook puts too much salt in everything, which

is not wholesome for a young woman; and then, she sends up her dishes

in a careless, slovenly way, which is very annoying to me on your

account, as you often give dinners. The other day there were six people

at table, and the spinage was badly dressed. You must consider what

people will say of your management when they see such neglect. They

will say that Madame de Hauteville has no idea of having things as they

ought to be; and this may do you harm, as there are persons who notice

everything."

"What you say is very true, dear uncle; will you take the trouble of

looking out for a good cook for me?"

"To be sure, my love; you know I think nothing of trouble when I can be

of service to you."

"How lucky I am in having you always by me to tell me of all these

little things, which I should never think of!" said Nathalie, kissing

her uncle; and he, good old man, forthwith discharged the cook who

dressed the spinage badly, to make way for one who shone particularly

in all _his_ favourite dishes.

Another time some improvements were to be made in the garden; for

instance, the trees in front of the old gentleman's windows were to be

felled, because they might occasion a dampness which would be dangerous

for Nathalie. And then, the elegant calash was to be exchanged for a

landau, as being a carriage in which a young lady could be much more at

her ease. So minutely attentive was M. d'Ablaincourt to the comforts

and enjoyments of his niece!

Nathalie was somewhat of a coquette: accustomed to conquest, she used

to listen with a smile to the numerous proposals which were made to

her, and sent off all suitors to her uncle, telling them, "Before I can

give you any hope, I must know what M. d'Ablaincourt thinks of you."

Had her heart favoured any individual, it is probable that the answer

of Nathalie would have been different; but, as it was, she thought

nothing could be more agreeable than to please all, and be the slave of

none.

The old gentleman, for his part, being master in his niece's house, was

not at all anxious that she should marry again. A nephew might be less

inclined to give way, less indulgent to him than Nathalie, so that he

never failed to find some serious fault in every fresh aspirant to the

hand of the pretty widow, and, as in every other case, he seemed to be

thinking of nothing but her happiness.

In addition to his egotism, and his fondness for good living, M.

d'Ablaincourt had of late years been seized with a violent passion

for _tric-trac_. His favourite pastime, his highest delight, was this

game; but, unfortunately for him, it was one very little played. The

ladies do not like it in a room, because it is noisy; the gentlemen

prefer _bouillotte_ or _écarté_; so that the old gentleman very seldom

found an opportunity of indulging his propensity. If any of his

niece's visitors did happen to play, he seized upon them for the whole

evening;--there was no possibility of escape. But, as they did not come

to the pretty widow's for the sake of a game at _tric-trac_ with the

old uncle, many were the nights he sighed in vain for somebody to play

with.

To please her uncle, Nathalie attempted to learn; but in vain. She was

too giddy to give the necessary attention, and was continually making

mistakes: the uncle scolded; and at last, Nathalie, throwing away dice

and dice-box, said, "It is no use,--I never can learn this game."

"I am sorry for it," answered M. d'Ablaincourt, "very sorry; it would

have given you so much pleasure. I only wished to teach it you for your

own amusement."

Such was the state of affairs, when, at a very large party, where

Nathalie was allowed to stand unrivalled for personal beauty and

elegance of dress, was announced M. d'Apremont, a captain in the navy.

Nathalie expected to see a blunt, gruff old sailor, with a wooden leg,

and a black patch on his eye. To her great astonishment there entered

a tall, handsome young man, with a graceful figure and commanding air,

and without either a wooden leg or a black patch.

Armand d'Apremont had entered the service very early in life; his whole

soul was in his profession; and, though only thirty, he had risen to

the rank of captain. His family property was considerable, and he had

increased his fortune by his own exertions. Under these circumstances

it is not surprising that, after fifteen years spent at sea, he should

have yielded to a longing for repose; yet he never could be persuaded

to listen to the solicitations of his friends, who urged him to marry:

hitherto he had only laughed at love as a passion unworthy of a sailor.

The sight of Nathalie changed all his ideas,--the whole man underwent

a sudden revolution. He watched her dancing, and could look nowhere

else. All the other beauties in the room passed before him but as vain

shadows, so busy were his eyes in following the graceful movements of

the young widow.

"Who is that lovely creature who dances so beautifully?" at last he

exclaimed to a person next him.

"That is Madame de Hauteville, a young widow. You admire her, captain?"

"I think her enchanting."

"She is very beautiful! And her mental qualifications are at least

equal to her personal charms. But you must ask her to dance, and then

you will be able to judge for yourself."

"_I_ ask her to dance! I never danced in my life!" and for the first

time Armand felt that this was a deficiency in his education. However,

he went and stood close to the beauty, watching an opportunity of

entering into conversation with her. Once he was on the very point

of succeeding, when a young man came up, and led her away to the

quadrille. Poor Armand bit his lips, and was obliged again to content

himself with admiring her dancing. This whole evening he made no

further advances, but he did not lose sight of his enchantress for an

instant.

The captain's behaviour did not pass unobserved by Nathalie,--so

soon do women see what effect they produce,--and, although she did

not appear to notice it, she felt secretly not a little flattered;

for D'Apremont had been described to her as a man who was far from

agreeable in the society of ladies, and who had never been known to pay

a single compliment. And Nathalie said to herself, "What fun it would

be to hear him make love!"

D'Apremont, who, before he had seen Nathalie, went very little into

society, particularly to balls, from henceforth never missed going

wherever he had a chance of meeting his fair widow. He had succeeded in

speaking to her, and had done his utmost to render himself agreeable.

His behaviour was entirely changed, and the world was not more slow

than usual in discovering the cause, or in commenting upon the marked

attention which he paid to Nathalie.

"Mind you are not caught, captain!" a good-natured friend would say.

"Madame de Hauteville is a coquette, who will but make a toy of your

love, and a joke of your sighs." And to Nathalie some equally kind

friend would say, "The captain is an original, a bear, with every

fault that a sailor can possess. He is passionate, he is obstinate, he

swears, he smokes. You will never make anything of him."

In spite of these charitable warnings,--the result, perhaps, of

envy and jealousy,--the sailor and the coquette enjoyed a mutual

pleasure in each other's society. Whenever D'Apremont was on the

point of forgetting himself, and letting out an expression a little

too nautical, Nathalie looked at him with a slight frown. He stopped

short, stammered, and dared not finish his sentence, so afraid was he

of seeing a harsh look on that pretty face. Nor is it a slight proof of

the mighty power of love that it can thus implant fear in the breast of

a sailor.

Some rumours of his niece's new conquest had reached the ears of M.

d'Ablaincourt; but he had paid but little attention to them, thinking

that this new admirer would share the fate of all the others, and that

it would be very easy to get him dismissed. Yet the report had so far

increased, that when Nathalie one day told her uncle that she had asked

the captain to her house, the old gentleman almost flew into a passion,

and said, with a vehemence quite uncommon to him, "You have acted very

wrong, Nathalie; you do not consult me as you ought. I am told that

Captain d'Apremont is a blunt, unpolished, quarrelsome----. He is

always behind your chair, and he has never even asked _me_ how I did.

There was no necessity at all for you to ask him. You know, my dear,"

added he, softening his tone, "all I say is for your good; but indeed

you are too thoughtless."

Nathalie, quite afraid that she had acted very inconsiderately, was

going to put off the captain; but this the uncle did not require:--he

thought he should be able to prevent too frequent a repetition of his

visits.

It is a trite observation, that the most important events in life

are frequently the result of the most trivial incidents,--that on a

mere thread, which chance has flung in our way, may hang our whole

future destiny. Such was the case in the present instance: to the game

of _tric-trac_ it was owing that Madame de Hauteville became Madame

d'Apremont. The captain was an excellent player; and happening in the

course of conversation to broach the subject, M. d'Ablaincourt caught

at him immediately, and proposed a game. D'Apremont consented; and,

having understood that it was necessary to play the agreeable to the

old uncle, spent the whole evening at _tric-trac_.

When everybody was gone, Nathalie complained of the captain's want of

gallantry,--that he had hardly paid her any attention at all.

"You were quite right," said she pettishly to her uncle; "sailors are

very disagreeable people. I am very sorry I ever asked M. d'Apremont."

"On the contrary, my dear," replied the old bachelor, "we had formed

quite an erroneous opinion of M. d'Apremont. I found him so agreeable

and so well-bred, that I have asked him to come very often to play

with me,--I mean, to pay his court to you. He is a very clever,

gentlemanlike young man."

Nathalie, seeing that the captain had won the heart of her uncle,

pardoned his want of attention to her. Thanks to _tric-trac_, and to

his being necessary to M. d'Ablaincourt's amusement, he came very often

to the house, and at last succeeded in winning the heart of the young

widow. One morning she came, her face covered with blushes, to tell her

uncle that M. d'Apremont had proposed to her, and to ask his advice.

The old gentleman thought for a few minutes, and he said to himself,

"If she refuses him, there will be an end to his visits here; no more

_tric-trac_. If she accepts him, he will be one of the family; I shall

always be able to nail him for a game;" and the answer was, "You cannot

do better than accept him."

The happiness of Nathalie was complete, for she really loved Armand;

but, as a woman never should seem to yield too easily, she sent for the

captain to dictate her conditions.

"If it is true that you love me," she began.

"_If_ it is true! Oh, madame, I swear by all----"

"Allow me to speak first. If you love me, you will not hesitate to give

me the proofs I demand."

"Whatever you ask, I----"

"In the first place, you must no longer swear as you do occasionally;

it is a shocking habit before a lady: secondly,--and on this point I

insist more particularly,--you must give up smoking, for I hate the

smell of a pipe of tobacco; in short, I never will have a husband who

smokes."

Armand heaved a sigh, and answered, "To please you I will submit to

anything,--I will give up smoking."

Her conditions being thus acceded to, the fair widow could no longer

withhold her hand, and in a short time Armand and Nathalie reappeared

in the world as a newly-married and happy couple. Yet the world was not

satisfied. "How could that affected flirt marry a sailor?" said one.

"So, the rough captain has let himself be caught by the pretty widow's

coquetry," said another. "This is a couple ill-matched enough."

Poor judges of the human heart are they who imagine a resemblance of

disposition to be essential to love! On the contrary, the most happy

effects are produced by contrast: mark but the union of light and

shade; and is not strength wanting to uphold weakness:--the wild bursts

of mirth to dispel melancholy? You join together two kindred tempers,

two similar organisations, and what is the result? 'Tis as the blind

leading the blind.

Our young couple passed the first few months after their marriage in

undisturbed happiness. Yet in the midst of the rapture he experienced

in the society of his lovely bride, Armand sometimes became pensive,

his brow was contracted, and his eyes betrayed a secret uneasiness: but

this lasted not; it was but as a fleeting cloud, which passes without

leaving a trace. Nathalie had not hitherto perceived it. After some

time, however, these moments of restlessness and gloom recurred so

frequently as no longer to escape her observation.

"What is the matter, my love?" said she to her husband one day when she

saw him stamping his foot with impatience; "what makes you so cross?"

"Nothing, nothing at all!" answered the captain, as if ashamed of

having lost his self-possession. "With whom do you think I should be

cross?"

"Indeed, my dear, I know not; but I have fancied several times that I

perceived a something impatient in your manner. If I have unconsciously

done anything to vex you, do tell me, that it may never happen again."

The captain kissed his wife affectionately, and again assured her that

she was mistaken. For some days he manifested none of those emotions

which had so disturbed Nathalie; but at length the same thing occurred

again: Armand forgot himself once more, and she racked her brain to

guess what cause her husband could have for this uneasiness. Not being

satisfied with her own solution of the problem, she communicated her

thoughts to her uncle, who replied immediately, "Yes, my dear, you are

quite right; I am sure something must be the matter with D'Apremont;

for several times lately, at _tric-trac_ he has looked round with an

abstracted air, passed his hand across his temples, and finished by

making an egregious blunder."

"But, my good uncle, what can the mystery be? My husband must have some

secret which preys upon his mind, and he does not choose to trust me

with it."

"Very likely; there are many things which a man cannot tell his wife."

"Which a man cannot tell his wife! That is a thing I do not understand.

I expect my husband to tell me everything, to have no mysteries with

me, as I have none with him. I can never be happy so long as he on whom

I have bestowed my heart, keeps any secret from me."

M. d'Ablaincourt, to comfort his niece, or rather, perhaps, to cut

short a conversation which began to bore him, promised to do his utmost

to discover the cause of his nephew's uneasiness; but he went no

further than trying to make him play oftener at _tric-trac_, as being

an excellent method of keeping him in good humour.

Early in the summer they left Paris for a beautiful property belonging

to the captain in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. He appeared

still as fond of his wife as ever; to afford her pleasure was his

delight, to anticipate her wishes his study; but, as she was not fond

of walking, he begged to be allowed to take a stroll into the country

every day after dinner. This was too natural a request to be denied;

and after dinner, whether they were alone or not, out went Armand, and

returned in the best humour imaginable. Still Nathalie was far from

being satisfied; her suspicions returned, and she said to herself,

"My husband has no longer the serious, gloomy look he used to wear in

Paris; but it is only since he has gone out every evening after dinner.

Sometimes he is away two hours,--where can he go?--and he always likes

to be alone. There is some mystery in his conduct, and I shall never be

happy until I have found it out."

Sometimes Nathalie thought of having her husband followed; but this

was a step too repugnant to her feelings. To take a servant into her

confidence, to place a spy on the path of a man the business of whose

life seemed to be to give her pleasure, she felt would be wrong, and

she gave up the idea. To her uncle alone she ventured to disclose her

anxiety, and he simply answered, "True, your husband plays less at

_tric-trac_, but still he does play; and as to my following him in his

walks, it is out of the question, for he has very good legs, and I have

very bad ones;--I should be fatiguing myself to no purpose."

One day that Madame d'Apremont gave a party, a young man present said,

laughing, to the master of the house,

"What were you doing yesterday, Armand, in the disguise of a peasant

at the window of a little cottage about half a mile from hence? If my

horse had not started, I was coming to ask if you were feeding your

sheep."

"My husband in the disguise of a peasant!" exclaimed Nathalie, fixing

her eyes upon Armand in amazement.

"Oh! Edward has made a mistake," replied the captain, endeavouring to

conceal a visible embarrassment; "he must have taken somebody else for

me."

"Very likely," said the young man, hurt at the impression which his

words had made upon Nathalie, and perceiving that he had been guilty of

an indiscretion; "I must have been deceived."

"How was the man dressed?" asked Nathalie. "Where was the cottage?"

"Really I know the country so little, I should have some difficulty in

finding the spot. As for the man, he had on a blue smock-frock, with a

sort of cap on his head. I don't know what could have put it into my

head that it was the captain, as it is not the carnival."

Madame d'Apremont said no more on the subject, but remained persuaded

that it _was_ her husband. The assumption of a disguise proved that he

was engaged in some extraordinary intrigue, and in a flood of tears

poor Nathalie complained of the bitterness of her lot in having married

a man of mysteries.

Whether secrets of this nature are the only ones which women can keep,

far be it from me to decide; but certain it is that they always connect

some infidelity with those of our sex. Madame d'Apremont did not form

an exception to this general observation, and in a fit of jealousy she

begged to return to town. Her husband consented immediately, and in a

few days they were in Paris. Here the captain again betrayed the same

symptoms of discontent, until one day he said to his wife, "My dear, a

walk after dinner does me a great deal of good. During the latter part

of our stay in the country I was quite well in consequence. You can

easily conceive that an old sailor wants exercise, and that he cannot

remain cooped up in a room or a theatre all the evening."

"Oh! very easily," replied Nathalie, biting her lips with spleen; "go

and take your walk, if it does you good."

"But, my love, if it annoys you----"

"Oh! not in the least; take your walk; I have no objection."

So the husband took his evening walk, returned in excellent spirits,

and again every sign of impatience had vanished.

"My husband is carrying on some intrigue: he loves another, and cannot

live without seeing her," said poor Nathalie to herself. "This is the

secret of his strange conduct, of his ill-humour, and of his walks. I

am very, very wretched; and the more so that when he is with me he is

all kindness, all attention! I know not how I can tell him that he is

a monster, a traitor! But tell him I must, or my heart will burst! Yet

if I could but get some undeniable proof of his faithlessness. Oh! yes,

I will have some proof." And with a swelling heart, and eyes full of

tears, she rushed into her uncle's room, crying that "she was the most

miserable woman alive!"

"What is the matter?" said the old gentleman, burying himself in his

arm-chair. "What has happened?"