CHAPTER XVII.

Lord L'Estrange did not proceed at once to Riccabocca's house. He

was under the influence of a remembrance too deep and too strong to

yield easily to the lukewarm claim of friendship. He rode fast and

far; and impossible it would be to define the feelings that passed

through a mind so acutely sensitive, and so rootedly tenacious

of all affections. When he once more, recalling his duty to the

Italian, retraced his road to Norwood, the slow pace of his horse

was significant of his own exhausted spirits; a deep dejection had

succeeded to feverish excitement. "Vain task," he murmured, "to

wean myself from the dead! Yet I am now betrothed to another; and

she, with all her virtues, is not the one to--" He stopped short

in generous self-rebuke. "Too late to think of that! Now, all that

should remain to me is to insure the happiness of the life to which

I have pledged my own. But--" He sighed as he so murmured. On

reaching the vicinity of Riccabocca's house, he put up his horse at

a little inn, and proceeded on foot across the heath-land towards

the dull square building, which Leonard's description had sufficed

to indicate as the exile's new home. It was long before any one

answered his summons at the gate. Not till he had thrice rung did he

hear a heavy step on the gravel walk within; then the wicket within

the gate was partially drawn aside, a dark eye gleamed out, and a

voice in imperfect English asked who was there.

"Lord L'Estrange; and if I am right as to the person I seek, that

name will at once admit me."

The door flew open as did that of the mystic cavern at the sound of

'Open, Sesame;' and Giacomo, almost weeping with joyous emotion,

exclaimed in Italian, "The good Lord! Holy San Giacomo! thou hast

heard me at last! We are safe now." And dropping the blunderbuss

with which he had taken the precaution to arm himself, he lifted

Harley's hand to his lips, in the affectionate greeting familiar to

his countrymen.

"And the Padrone?" asked Harley, as he entered the jealous precincts.

"Oh, he is just gone out; but he will not be long. You will wait for

him?"

"Certainly. What lady is that I see at the far end of the garden?"

"Bless her, it is our Signorina. I will run and tell her that you

are come."

"That I am come; but she cannot know me even by name."

"Ah, Excellency, can you think so? Many and many a time has she

talked to me of you, and I have heard her pray to the holy Madonna

to bless you, and in a voice so sweet--"

"Stay, I will present myself to her. Go into the house, and we will

wait without for the Padrone. Nay, I need the air, my friend."

Harley, as he said this, broke from Giacomo, and approached Violante.

The poor child, in her solitary walk in the obscurer parts of the

dull garden, had escaped the eye of Giacomo when he had gone forth

to answer the bell; and she, unconscious of the fears of which

she was the object, had felt something of youthful curiosity at

the summons at the gate, and the sight of a stranger in close and

friendly conference with the unsocial Giacomo.

As Harley now neared her with that singular grace of movement which

belonged to him, a thrill shot through her heart--she knew not

why. She did not recognise his likeness to the sketch taken by her

father, from his recollections of Harley's early youth. She did not

guess who he was; and yet she felt herself colour, and, naturally

fearless though she was, turned away with a vague alarm.

"Pardon my want of ceremony, Signorina," said Harley, in Italian;

"but I am so old a friend of your father's, that I cannot feel as a

stranger to yourself."

Then Violante lifted to him her dark eyes, so intelligent and so

innocent--eyes full of surprise, but not displeased surprise. And

Harley himself stood amazed, and almost abashed, by the rich and

marvellous beauty that beamed upon him. "My father's friend," she

said, hesitatingly, "and I never to have seen you!"

"Ah, Signorina," said Harley, (and something of its native humour,

half arch, half sad, played round his lip,) "you are mistaken there;

you have seen me before, and you received me much more kindly then--"

"Signor!" said Violante, more and more surprised, and with a yet

richer colour on her cheeks.

Harley, who had now recovered from the first effect of her beauty,

and who regarded her as men of his years and character are apt to

regard ladies in their teens, as more child than woman, suffered

himself to be amused by her perplexity; for it was in his nature,

that the graver and more mournful he felt at heart, the more he

sought to give play and whim to his spirits.

"Indeed, Signorina," said he demurely, "you insisted then on placing

one of those fair hands in mine; the other (forgive me the fidelity

of my recollections) was affectionately thrown around my neck."

"Signor!" again exclaimed Violante; but this time there was anger in

her voice as well as surprise, and nothing could be more charming

than her look of pride and resentment.

Harley smiled again, but with so much kindly sweetness, that the

anger vanished at once, or rather Violante felt angry with herself

that she was no longer angry with him. But she had looked so

beautiful in her anger, that Harley wished, perhaps, to see her

angry again. So, composing his lips from their propitiatory smile he

resumed, gravely--

"Your flatterers will tell you, Signorina, that you are much

improved since then, but I liked you better as you were; not but

what I hope to return some day what you then so generously pressed

upon me."

"Pressed upon you!--I? Signor, you are under some strange mistake."

"Alas! no; but the female heart is so capricious and fickle! You

pressed it upon me, I assure you. I own that I was not loath to

accept it."

"Pressed it! Pressed what?"

"Your kiss, my child," said Harley; and then added, with a serious

tenderness, "And I again say that I hope to return it some day--when

I see you, by the side of father and of husband, in your native

land--the fairest bride on whom the skies of Italy ever smiled! And

now, pardon a hermit and a soldier for his rude jests, and give your

hand, in token of that pardon, to--Harley L'Estrange."

Violante, who at the first words of this address had recoiled,

with a vague belief that the stranger was out of his mind, sprang

forward as it closed, and, in all the vivid enthusiasm of her

nature, pressed the hand held out to her, with both her own. "Harley

L'Estrange--the preserver of my father's life!" she cried; and her

eyes were fixed on his with such evident gratitude and reverence,

that Harley felt at once confused and delighted. She did not think

at that instant of the hero of her dreams--she thought but of him

who had saved her father. But, as his eyes sank before her own, and

his head, uncovered, bowed over the hand he held, she recognised

the likeness to the features on which she had so often gazed. The

first bloom of youth was gone, but enough of youth still remained to

soften the lapse of years, and to leave to manhood the attractions

which charm the eye. Instinctively she withdrew her hands from his

clasp, and, in her turn, looked down.

In this pause of embarrassment to both, Riccabocca let himself into

the garden by his own latch-key, and, startled to see a man by the

side of Violante, sprang forward with an abrupt and angry cry.

Harley heard, and turned.

As if restored to courage and self-possession by the sense of her

father's presence, Violante again took the hand of the visitor.

"Father," she said simply, "it is he--_he_ is come at last." And

then, retiring a few steps, she contemplated them both; and her face

was radiant with happiness--as if something, long silently missed

and looked for, was as silently found, and life had no more a want,

nor the heart a void.

A CANTER TO CALIFORNIA.[58]

[58] _A Ride over the Rocky Mountains to Oregon and California._ By

the Hon. HENRY J. COKE. London: 1852.

To be very sure of what he is about to say, and to say it in the

fewest possible words, are golden rules which every young author

should inscribe, in letters of the same metal, upon the most

prominent panel of his study. Had the Hon. Henry Coke done this

when he stepped out of his stirrup, on his return from his Ride

to California, he would have spared himself the painful throes

which appear to have attended the commencement of his literary

labour--would have spared his readers, too, the triviality and

platitudes which deface some of the earlier pages of his otherwise

spirited narrative of a most adventurous expedition. We reckon it

amongst the remarkable and hopeful signs of the times, that young

men of family and fortune voluntarily abandon the luxurious ease

of home for such breakneck and laborious expeditions as that whose

record is before us. Whatever the faults of the nobles of Great

Britain, effeminacy is certainly not of the number. May the day be

far distant when this is otherwise, and when we cease to possess,

in a bold and manly aristocracy, one important guarantee of our

national greatness.

It is, indeed, from no featherbed journey or carpet-knight's tour

that Mr Coke has recently returned. Take the map, reader, and trace

his route. From England to Jamaica, Cuba, Charleston, New York and

St Louis, the great and rising capital of the Western States. We

omit the minor intermediate places at which he touched or paused.

Thus far all was plain sailing and easy civilised travel. The rough

work began when St Louis was left behind. Across the wide wastes

of Missouri territory, through the inhospitable passes of the

Rocky Mountains, the traveller passed on to Oregon city and Fort

Vancouver, thence took ship to the Sandwich Islands, returned to

San Francisco, visited the gold diggings, steamed to Acapulco, rode

across Mexico, and came home to England after an absence of a year

and a half, during which he had been half round the world and back

again.

Mr Coke started from St Louis with two companions: one an old

college friend, whom he designates as Fred; the other "a British

parson, whose strength and dimensions most justly entitled him

to be called a pillar of the church." What the parson did in the

prairies of the Far West does not clearly appear. He certainly did

not go as a missionary, so far as we can ascertain from his friend's

book, and indeed his habits and tendencies were evidently sporting

and jovial rather than clerical, although we do catch him reading

Sunday prayers to Mr Coke, when the latter had the chills, and lay

wrapped up in wet blankets on the banks of Green River, with a

boxful of Brandreth's pills in his stomach. We regret to believe

that instances _have_ been known of parsons employing their time far

worse than in an adventurous ramble across the American continent.

Mr Coke, nevertheless, thinks proper to veil his chaplain's

identity under the heroic cognomen of Julius Cæsar, against which

distinguished Roman, could he be recalled to life, we would

unhesitatingly back the reverend gentleman to box a round, wrestle

a fall, or handle a rifle, for any number of ponies the ancient's

backers might be disposed to post. A stalwart priest and a powerful

was Parson Julius, and is still, we trust, if nothing has happened

to him since Mr Coke left him at the court of his majesty Tamehameha

III., at Honolulu, on the eve of setting sail for the island of

Owyhee. No better companion could be desired on a rough and perilous

expedition; and although his careless friend manages to let his true

name slip out before ending his volume, we will not allow that the

slip affords grounds for regret, or that there is anything in his

journey of which, as a clergyman, he need be ashamed.

Considerably over-provided with attendants, horses, mules, and,

above all, with baggage, the three friends left St Louis. Their

"following" comprised "four young Frenchmen of St Louis; Fils, a

Canadian _voyageur_; a little four-foot-nothing Yankee, and Fred's

_valet-de-champs_, familiarly called Jimmy." The journey was

commenced on the 28th May 1850, per steamer, up the Missouri. On the

morning of the 29th a disagreeable discovery was made. Fils, the

guide, had disappeared. The scamp had levanted in the night; how,

none could tell. Drowning was suggested; but as he had taken his

baggage, and had forgotten to leave behind him the rifle and three

months' advance of pay which he had received from his employers, the

hypothesis was contemptuously scouted. Consoling themselves with the

reflection that his desertion would have been far more prejudicial

at a later period of their journey, the travellers continued their

progress up the Missouri (for whose scenery Mr Coke can find no

better comparison than the Cockney one of "Rosherville or Cremorne")

to St Joseph, which the Yankees familiarise into _St Joe_. Here they

were to exchange the deck for the saddle; and so impatient were

they for the substitution that they actually felt "annoyed at being

obliged to sleep another night on board the steamer." They had yet

to learn the value of a coarse hammock in a close cabin. At last

they made a fair start:--

"_3d June._--After much bother about a guide, and loss of

linch-pins, fitting of harness, kicking and jibbing of mules,

&c., we left the Missouri, and camped five miles from the town.

We pitched our tents in a beautiful spot, on the slope of a

hill, surrounded by a large wood. A muddy little stream ran at

the bottom. To this (with sleeves turned up and braces off,

trying, I suppose, to look as much like grooms or dragoons as

we were able) we each led our horses: no doubt we succeeded,

for we felt perfectly satisfied with everything and everybody.

The novelty put us all in excellent humour. The potatoes in

the camp-kettle had a decidedly bivouacking appearance; and

though the grass was wet, who, I should like to know, would

have condescended to prefer a camp-stool? As to the pistols,

and tomahawks, and rifles, it was evident that they might be

wanted at a moment's notice, that it would have been absolutely

dangerous not to have them all in perfect readiness. Besides,

there was a chance of finding game in the wood. If the chance

had been a hundred times as diminutive, we were in duty bound to

try it."

Playing at travelling, like playing at soldiers, is all very well

when the campaign is brief. The raw recruit or amateur campaigner

plumes himself on a night passed upon straw in a barn. Give him a

week's bivouacking in damp ploughed fields, and he sings small and

feels rheumatic, and prefers the domestic nightcap to the warrior's

laurel. Thus with Messrs Coke and Company. They were in a monstrous

hurry to begin gipsying. What would they not have given, a week or

two later, for a truckle bed and a tiled roof? The varnish of the

picture, the anticipated romance, was soon rubbed off by the rough

fingers of hardship and reality. What a start they made of it! Mr

Coke is tolerably reserved on this head; but through his reserve it

is not difficult to discern that, unless they had taken hair powder

and a grand piano, they could hardly have encumbered themselves

with more superfluities than those with which their mules and

waggons were overloaded. Many who read these lines will remember the

admirable and humorous account given by our lamented friend Ruxton,

of the westward-bound caravan which fell in with Killbuck and La

Bonté at the big granite block in Sweet Water Valley. Few, who have

ever read, will have forgotten that characteristic sketch;--the

dapper shooting-jackets, the fire-new rifles, the well-fitted boots

and natty cravats, the Woodstock gloves and elaborate powder-horns,

the preserved soup, hotch-potch, pickles, porter, brandy, coffee,

sugar, of the amateur backwoodsmen who found the starving trappers

dining on a grilled snake in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, and

generously ministered to their necessities. With somewhat similar

but still more extravagant provision did our jockey of Norfolk,

Fred, and Julius Cæsar, go forth into the prairie. Less fortunate

than Ruxton's Scotchman, they failed to retain or enjoy what

they had dearly paid for. Sadly altered was their trim, piteous

their plight, long, long before they reached the Rocky Mountains.

Disasters soon arrived, with disgust and discord in their train.

At their first halting place, five miles from St Joseph, a pouring

rain, pattering on their tent, forbade sleep; a horse and mule,

disgusted by the dirty weather and foretaste of rough work, broke

loose and galloped back to the town. These recovered, and the

new guide, successor to the faithless Fils, having joined, they

again went ahead. We may cull from Mr Coke's pages a few of the

impediments and annoyances encountered at this early period of the

journey:--

"Nothing could be more provoking than the behaviour of our

teams; each animal seemed to vie with its yoke-mate in making

itself disagreeable. They had no idea of attempting to pull

together, and all exertions on our parts were discouraged by the

most vehement kicks and plunges on theirs.... The men were as

incapable of driving as the mules were unwilling to be driven,

and before we had travelled three miles the heaviest of our

waggons was stuck fast.... A doubt here arose as to which road

we had better take, and I clearly perceived that our guide was

deplorably ignorant of his calling, since in the very outset

he was undecided as to which route we should pursue.... _7th

June._--Started at seven. Roads worse than ever. Heavy waggon,

as usual, sticks in a rut, and is nearly upset. Discharge cargo,

and find it hard work to carry heavy boxes up the hill.... My

black mare, Gipsy, has run away. Take Louis, the Canadian, and

go after her. Find her tracks in a large wood, and hunt the

whole day in every direction, but are at last obliged to give

her up."

Incidents such as these, and others still more disagreeable, were of

daily occurrence. Nothing could tame the wilfulness of the mules, or

check the erratic propensities common to them and to the horses. The

waggons, overladen, continually broke down. Indeed, so aggravating

were most of the circumstances of the journey in this its early

stage, and so few the compensating enjoyments, that we believe most

persons in the place of Mr Coke and his friends would have turned

back within the week, and desisted from an expedition which had been

undertaken solely with a view to amusement and excitement. With

extraordinary tenacity of purpose the three Englishmen persevered.

Their followers proved terribly helpless, and they were indebted to

an old Mormon, a Yorkshireman, whom they met upon the road, for the

repairs of their frequently broken wheels. Here is the journal for

the 12th June:--

"Blazard (the Mormon) repairs our wheels. We three go out

hunting in different directions. See the tracks and skin of a

deer, also fresh tracks of wolves. Put up a wild turkey--horse

too frightened to allow me to fire at it. Killed a large snake

marked like a rattlesnake, and shoot a grey squirrel and two

wild ducks, right and left, with my rifle. When we came home we

made a bargain with Blazard, letting him have the small waggon

for fifteen dollars, on condition that he took 300 lb. weight

for us as far as the mouth of the Platte. We talk of parting

with four of our men, and packing the mules, when we get to

Council Bluffs."

This project was soon put into execution. The district known as

Council Bluffs lies on the Missouri, and takes its name from a

meeting of Indian tribes held there some years ago. There the

travellers camped, at about four miles from the river; and Mr Coke

and Fred rode over to Trader's Point, crossed the Missouri, and

called on Major Barrow, an Indian agent, who cashed them a bill,

recommended them a half-breed servant, bought their remaining waggon

and harness at an "alarming sacrifice;" bought of them also "forty

pounds of powder, a hundred pounds of lead, quantities of odds and

ends, and all the ginger beer"!!! They had previously sent back

or sold several hundred pounds' weight of lead and provisions;

so we get some idea of the scale on which the young gentlemen's

stores had been laid in. By this time, Mr Coke says, "we begin to

understand the mysteries of 'trading' a little better than formerly;

but somehow or other a Yankee always takes us in, and that too in

so successful a manner as to leave the impression that we have

taken _him_ in." Besides buying their goods a dead bargain, the

Major--a remarkably smart man, who doubtless thought that greenhorns

capable of taking ginger beer to the Rocky Mountains were fair

game--attempted to make money out of them in another way.

"The day cleared, and as we could not start till the evening,

the Major proposed to get up a race. He knew of a horse (his

own) that could beat any in our 'crowd.' He had seen him run a

good many times, and 'just knowed how he could shine.' Fifty

dollars was the stake, and 'let him what won take the money.'"

Fred volunteered to ride a fast little grey of Mr Coke's.

Three-quarters of a mile were measured on the prairie. The Major

brought out his animal, greased its hoofs, washed its face, brushed

its hair, mounted the half-breed upon it barebacked, and took his

station at the winning-post. At first the half-breed made the

running. Major and friends were cock-a-hoop; but the Englishman was

a bit of a jockey.

"They were now about three hundred yards from the post. Fred

had never used the spur; he needed but to slack the reins--away

dashed the little grey, gaining at every stride upon the old

horse. It is our turn to cheer! The Major begins to think

seriously of his fifty dollars, when, in an instant, the fate

of the game is changed. The little grey stumbles; he has put

his foot in a hole--he staggers, and with difficulty recovers

himself. The big horse must win. Now for whip and spur! Neck and

neck, in they come--and which has won the race? 'Well, sir!'

said the Major, 'slick work wasn't it? what is your opinion?' I

might have known by this deferential question what his opinion

was; but, to tell the truth, I could not decide which horse was

the winner, and so I said. He jumped at this favourable decision

on my part, and 'calculated' forthwith that it was a dead heat.

I learned afterwards that he had confessed we had won, and

thought little of our 'smartness' for not finding it out. My

little grey was thenceforth an object of general admiration; and

the utilitarian minds of the Yankees could not understand why

I was not travelling through the States with such a pony, and

making my fortune by backing him against everything of its size."

Mr Coke is a good appreciator of the Yankees, and so lively

and successful in his sketches of their national traits and

peculiarities, that it is to be regretted he does not talk rather

more about them. His stay at New York he passes over in a couple of

pages.

"I am not ambitious," he says, "of circulating more American

notes, nor do I care to follow in the footsteps of Mrs Trollope.

Enough has been written to illustrate the singularities of

second-rate American society. Good society is the same all the

world over. General remarks I hold to be fair play. But to

indulge in personalities is a poor return for hospitality; and

those Americans who are most willing to be civil to foreigners,

receive little enough encouragement to extend that civility,

when, as is too often the case, those very foreigners afterwards

attempt to amuse their friends on one side the Atlantic, at

the expense of a breach of good faith to their friends on

the other.... I have a great respect for almost everything

American. I do not mean to say that I have any affection for a

thorough-bred Yankee, in our acceptation of the term; far from

it. I think him the most offensive of all bipeds in the known

world."

We English are perhaps too apt to judge a whole nation upon a few

unfavourable specimens; also to attach exaggerated importance to

trifling peculiarities. This latter tendency is fostered, in the

case of America, by those relentless bookmakers, who, to point a

chapter and raise a laugh, are ready, as Mr Coke justly remarks, to

sacrifice a friend and caricature facts. In our opinion, Englishmen

and Americans will like each other better when they see each other

more. The free and easy manners of our Transatlantic cousins may be

rather shocking to English reserve, but they, on the other hand,

may justly take exception to the stiffness and formality, which,

although less conspicuous than formerly, and daily diminishing,

are still prominent features in our national character. In time we

may hope to meet half way. The increase of intercourse with Europe

will polish American asperities; and, either we are mistaken in our

observations, or the facilities of passage between England and the

Continent have already lessened that shyness, chilling reserve,

and repellent _noli me tangere_ manner, which have long made us

ridiculous and unpopular in the eyes of our neighbours. American

"gentlemen," in the emphatic sense of the word, are said to be very

rare productions of the Union; yet Americans have qualities whose

ripening and development may convert them, in no long time, into one

of the most chivalrous and courteous of modern nations. Prominent

amongst those qualities are the universal deference, consideration,

and protection which they accord to women. "All Americans I have

met," says Mr Coke, "were agreeable enough if humoured a little,

and perfectly civil if civilly treated." Brutes and ruffians (like

good society) are the same in all countries. At Sacramento, Mr Coke

one day took up a newspaper to read an account of a Lynch execution

which had taken place at four that morning.

"I was perusing the trial, when a ruffianly-looking individual

interrupted me with, ''Say, stranger, let's have a look at

that paper, will you?' 'When I have done with it,' said I,

and continued reading. This answer would have satisfied most

Christians endowed with any moderate degree of patience; but not

so the ruffian. He bent himself over the back of my chair, put

one hand on my shoulder, and with the other held the paper, so

that he could read as well as I. 'Well, I guess you're readin'

about Jim, aint you?' 'Who's Jim?' said I. 'Him as they hung

this morning,' he answered, at the same time resuming his seat.

'Jim was a particlar friend of mine, and I helped to hang him.'"

The narrative that follows, and which is rather too lengthy to

extract entire, is very graphic and striking--an excellent specimen

of Life in California. Jim, it appeared, was a "Britisher," an

ex-convict from the penal settlements, a terrible scamp and

desperado. His offences were many, but murder was the crime he

suffered for. Here is the horribly thrilling account of his

execution, as given to Mr Coke by the "friend" who helped to Lynch

him.

"It was just about daylight. They carried him to the

horsemarket, set him on a table, and tied the rope round one of

the lower branches of a big elm tree. All the time I kept by

his side, and when he was getting on the table he asked me to

lend him my revolver to shoot one of the jurymen, who had spoken

violently against him. When I refused, he asked me to tie the

knot so as it wouldn't slip. 'It ain't no account,' said I, 'to

talk in that way, Jim, old fellow, you're bound to die; and if

they didn't hang you I'd shoot you myself.' 'Well, then,' said

he, 'give me hold of the rope, and I'll show you how little

I care for death.' He seized the cord, pulled himself in an

instant out of the reach of the crowd, and sat cross-legged on

the bough. Half-a-dozen rifles were raised to bring him down,

but reflecting that he could not escape, they forbore to fire.

He tied a noose in the rope, put it round his neck, slipped it

up till it was pretty tight, and then stood up and addressed

the mob. He didn't say much, except that he hated them all. He

cursed the man he shot; he then cursed the world; and last of

all he cursed himself, and with a terrible oath he jumped into

the air, and with a jerk that shook the tree swung backwards and

forwards over the heads of the crowd."

We are cantering rather ahead of Mr Coke and his friends, whom

we left at Trader's Point, with a long trail before them. Their

councils were already divided. The members of the triumvirate could

not agree as to how many of their attendants should be retained.

Finally, most of them were paid off and sent back. This was a very

painful and arduous part of the journey. On the second day after

leaving Major Barrow's station, they reached Elk Horn ferry. It had

been broken up by the Indians, and a raft had to be made, and, the

baggage taken across piecemeal. "The animals were not so easy to get

across. Some of us were obliged to swim the river (which was sixty

or seventy yards wide) eight or nine times, taking one horse at a

time, or driving two or three by flogging and shouting behind them."

The musquitoes were in the ascendant; the rains heavy and frequent;

the Sioux Indians, it was reported, had received from the Pawnees

intimation of the movements of the Pale-face band.

"All the party rather out of sorts," writes Mr Coke on the

26th June. "Our two best men, Louis and Jim, are very unwell.

Nelson, a most willing and hard-working fellow, is unused to

the sort of life, and wants to turn back. As to Jacob, his

utter uselessness is a constant source of provocation to me;

and the parson's indifference, and Fred's fidgetty disposition,

make the chapter of our miseries complete. The mules are not

much better off than we are; five of them are suffering from

severe back-sores, and all of them object strongly to carrying

the packs; they frequently cast themselves in the night, and

get their legs badly out with the picket ropes. It seems after

all doubtful how far we shall get. Some of us talk of going on

alone."

Trials of temper are inseparable from expeditions of this kind, and

here was a trio manifestly ill-assorted; one of its members rather

fanciful and capricious, another too phlegmatic and easy-going,

the third--Mr Coke, could not be expected to set forth his own

failings, but we suspect him of being a little irritable and

hot-tempered, although evidently a good fellow, with plenty of pluck

and perseverance. As yet, however, there was no break-up. The party

kept together, often in straggling order, but usually re-uniting

at evening, to feed on rancid ham, mouldy biscuit, and such flesh

or fowl as their rifles had procured them during the day. Nor were

fish and reptiles despised when obtainable. Occasional attempts at

angling were not very fortunate, the American fish being apparently

unused to English flies; but sometimes a fine salmon or two were got

by barter, from the Indians who had speared them. And a roast snake

is by no mean a despicable thing. Both Mr Coke and the Parson--for

whom we entertain an intense respect, as a man of few words but

energetic action, a little tardy to move, perhaps, (a slight dash

of Athelstane the Unready in his character) but most effective and

vigorous when movement was decided upon--went a-snaking now and

then. He of Norfolk seems to have been a fair shot at starting,

and a first-rate one before he had half got over his journey, and

he stalked the buffalo very successfully, shot snakes through the

head, and contributed a large quota to the contents of the camp

kettle. The chaplain also was considerable of a sportsman, and ready

with his rifle. Fat cow, tender loin, and juicy hump, at times were

plentiful in camp. Failing those delicate viands, all was made game

of that offered itself to the wanderers' muzzles.

"_12th July._--Shot two prairie dogs. Jim killed a hare and

rattle-snake. They were all capital eating, not excepting the

snake, which the parson cooked and thought as good as eel."

Following a band of buffaloes, Mr Coke was charged by a bull, and

awaited his onset, but waited a little too long. "My horse never

stirred; I had no time for anything but to take aim, and having

fired between the neck and shoulder, I was, the next minute,

sprawling on my back, with the mare rolling over four or five yards

beyond me. Recovering from the shock, I could not help admiring

the picturesque group we presented; I rubbing my bruised limbs,

and the buffalo looking on, half stupified and astonished at the

result of his charge." The contents of the rifle's second barrel

roused the bull from his stupefaction, and he moved off. Up came the

unfeeling parson and followed the wounded brute, perfectly heedless

of his friend's mishaps. Quite a man of business was this parson.

Mr Coke gives a description of his appearance in the prairies, on

the occasion of his purchase of an Indian pony fourteen hands high.

"He weighs fifteen stone, rides on a heavy saddle with a heavy pair

of holster pistols, carries very heavy rifle and telescope, a heavy

blanket and great-coat, a pouch full of ammunition, a girdle stuck

with small arms and bowie-knives, and always has his pockets crammed

with _et ceteras_."

Not altogether the right costume, for a stall in a cathedral,

although highly appropriate upon the trail to California.

Incompatibility of tastes and temper at last produced a split in

the caravan. Fred went on ahead, expecting to march thirty or

thirty-five miles a-day. Mr Coke and the parson kept together,

proposing to limit their daily progress to twenty-five miles. It was

much oftener sixteen or eighteen, Sometimes only seven or ten. The

men hired for the journey had become so mutinous and discontented,

and, upon the whole, were of so little use, that to two of them a

share of the provisions were given, and they were allowed to go

alone. Two others marched with Fred, the fifth and last went alone,

but occasionally joined company with Mr Coke and the parson, who

were otherwise without attendants, and who had eleven animals to

drive and look after--"an awful number for two men," especially

when they were unused to horse-driving and to the management of

the abominably vicious, obstinate, perverse brutes of American

mules, which were constantly kicking off their loads, biting their

masters, and straying from camp. The first day's march after the

separation was the most unpleasant they had yet had. The rain fell

in chilling torrents; a little black mule, the vixen of the party,

kicked Mr Coke to the ground; and a grey one, her rival in mischief,

who bit like a dog, made a furious attack upon his calves. The

distance accomplished was but six miles. There were worse times

coming, however, even than these. The trouble occasioned by the

mules and horses was soon diminished by the loss of three or four

of them, strayed, stolen, or foundered. The country was barren and

inhospitable, and destitute of game, and often grass and water were

for long distances unobtainable.

"Our provisions are barely sufficient to last, with the greatest

economy, to Fort Hall, even at the rate we are travelling at

now. Should the horses give up, it will be impossible for us to

carry enough food to reach that station on foot.... The only

way to get out of the scrape was to lighten the burthen of the

pack-mules, by throwing away every ounce of superfluous weight.

Turning out the contents of our bags on the ground, we selected

such things only as were absolutely necessary to existence.

What with lead, bullets, powder, geological specimens, and old

clothes, we diminished our load so as to make one pack out

of two, and left the ground strewed with warnings for future

emigrants."

Sand, sage bushes, and weeds uneatable by the horses, were now the

chief productions of the country. Wood for fires was often lacking;

raw ham is heating and unsatisfactory food; the sun was blazing hot,

and its rays were fiercely reflected from the sand. Mr Coke lost his

appetite, and suffered much from weakness. At last matters mended

a little. They came to a succession of small streams; caught some

trout, and obtained other fresh provisions; fell in with trappers,

and with an express despatch from Oregon to the States, escorted

by twelve soldiers. These had come by the same road the Englishmen

were about to travel, and the Boss, or head man of the party,

furnished information concerning grass, water, and halting places.

From Fort Hall, he told them, they were still two hundred miles, and

from Oregon nine hundred! A trifling distance in railroad-furrowed

Europe, but oh! what a weary way in yonder arid wastes, with those

fractious mules, and amidst incessant toils and hardships. "No

one," says Mr Coke "can form any idea of the real length of _one_

mile till he has travelled a thousand with pack-mules." By this

time, for various reasons, the travellers had given up the idea of

going straight to California, and had fixed upon Oregon as their

destination.

"_October 1st._--This month, please God, will see us through.

The animals, I am sure, will not survive another. As for

ourselves, we have but few provisions. The season, too, is

getting late; and if we are out much longer, I fear we shall

suffer greatly from cold. Already a blanket and a buffalo-robe

are little enough covering for the nights. My buffalo-robe,

which I spread over the blanket, is always frozen quite

stiff.... Yesterday I met with a disaster, which distresses me

exceedingly; I broke my pipe, and am able neither to repair

nor to replace it. Julius has one, the fumes of which we are

compelled to share. If this should go, (and it is already in

four pieces, and bound up like a mummy,) I tremble to think of

the consequences. In all our troubles the pipe is the one and

only consolation. _4th._--Oh, how cold it was this morning, and

how cold it was in the night! I could not sleep for the cold,

and yet I dreaded the approach of daylight, and the tugging at

the frozen ropes which it entailed.... Our poor beasts actually

cringed when the saddle touched the great raws on their backs;

the frost had made them so painful.... It seems as if this sort

of life were to last for ever. Day follows day, without the

slightest change."

Things got worse and worse. One after the other, the animals

perished. By-and-by Mr Coke found himself a-foot. They had nothing

to eat but salt meat and salmon, and little enough of that.

"Yesterday I tightened my belt to the last hole; we are becoming

more and more attenuated; and the waist of my gigantic companion

is almost as delicate as that of a woman." At last, on the 12th

October, in rags, and with two mules alone remaining out of their

once numerous team, but still of good courage and in reviving

spirits, Mr Coke and Julius reached the Dalles, an American military

post in Oregon, where they found Fred, who had arrived two days

before them, and received a kind welcome and good treatment from the

officers of the garrison.

After a few days' repose at the Soldier's House, as the post at the

Dalles is called, the three friends, who had again joined company,

boated down the Columbia. This was a rather amusing part of their

expedition. The boat was manned by a Maltese sailor and a man who

had been a soldier in the American army. The only passenger besides

themselves was a big officer of the Yankee Mounted Rifles, a regular

"heavy," and awful braggadocio, who boasted continually of himself,

his corps, his army and its campaigns. What were the Peninsular

campaigns to the Mexican war? Talk of Waterloo! Look at Chepultapec.

Wellington could not shine in the same crowd with General Scott.

All this vastly amused the Englishmen. What was less amusing was

the utter ignorance of seamanship displayed by the soldier-skipper,

who, as part-owner of the boat, assumed the command. They were

nearly swamped by his clumsiness, and Mr Coke, who has served in the

navy, was obliged to take the rudder. The rudder broke, the wind

freshened, the river was rough, the boat drifted into the surf and

narrowly escaped being dashed to splinters on the rocks. They drew

her up high and dry on the beach, lit a fire and waited for the

storm to blow over. Wrangling ensued. The Yankee, who had got drunk

upon his passengers' whisky, swore that, soldier though he was, he

knew as much about boat-sailing as any midshipman or post-captain in

the British navy. The "heavy" backed him, and the military skipper

swore he would be taught by none, and wound up with the stereotyped

Yankee brag, that "his nation could whip all creation."

"We had been laughing so much at his boasting that he doubtless

thought himself safe in accompanying the remark with an insolent

look of defiance. But what was his surprise when the parson,

usually a most pacific giant, suggested that if Fred would

take the Maltese, I the amphibious captain, he himself would

with great pleasure thrash the mounted rifle, and so teach the

trio to be more civil and submissive for the future. Whatever

the other two might have thought, the 'heavy' was by no means

inclined to make a target of his fat ribs for the sledge-hammer

blows of Julius's brawny arms; and with a few remarks upon the

folly of quarrelling in general, and of fighting on the present

occasion in particular, not forgetting to remind us of 'one

original stock,' 'Saxon race,' &c., the good-natured 'plunger'

effected an armistice, which was sealed and ratified with the

remains of the whisky-bottle."

After his recent severe experience, it seemed unlikely that Mr

Coke would soon regret life in the prairies, with its painful

alternations of bitter cold and parching heat; its frequent

privations, hunger, thirst, fatigue, restive mules, hard labour, and

scanty rest. During a seven weeks' passage between Fort Vancouver

and the Sandwich Islands, on board the Mary Dare, a wretched little

coal-tub of a brig, he and his companions actually found themselves

vaunting the superior comforts of their late land-journey. Confined

by constant wet weather to a cabin twelve feet by eight, without a

mattress to lie on, but with a super-abundance of fleas, rats, and

cockroaches, they blessed the hour when they first caught sight of

the palm-crowned shores of the Sandwich group. Mr Coke's account of

his stay at the Hawaian court is lively enough, but of no particular

interest; and the sort of thing has been much better done before by

Herman Melville and others. After the adventurous journey across

the Rocky Mountains, this part of the book reads but tamely, and

we are not sorry to get Mr Coke back to North America. He and Fred

landed at San Francisco. A long letter which he wrote thence, after

a month's stay in the country, is here reprinted, having originally

been inserted in the _Times_ newspaper by the friend to whom it

was addressed. He adds some further particulars and characteristic

anecdotes. His account of the diggings, both wet and dry, but

especially of the latter, fully confirms the mass of evidence

already adduced as to their incalculable richness.

"The quartz rock," he says, "which is supposed to be the only

permanent source from which gold will eventually be derived,

extends north and south for more than a degree and a half of

latitude. At Mariposa, a society, possessing several 'claims,'

have established, at a great expense, machinery for crushing the

rock. They employ thirty men, whom they pay at the rate of 100

dollars each a month. This society is now making a clear gain of

1500 dollars a-day. This will show you what is to be expected

when capital sets to work in the country."

Some of the sketches at _table-d'hôtes_ and gambling-tables are

extremely natural and spirited. Mr Coke and Fred, whilst at San

Francisco, lived at El Dorado, the best hotel there; four meals

a-day, dinner as good as at Astor's at New York, venison, grizzly

bear, Sandhill crane and other delicacies; cost of board and lodging

eight dollars a-day--not dear for California. At the dinner-table

they made some queer acquaintances; amongst others a certain Major

M., whose first mark of good-will, after his introduction to them by

a judge, (judges and majors swarm at San Francisco,) was to offer to

serve as their friend in any "difficulty" into which they might get.

The judge suggested that the two English gentlemen might probably

have no need of a "friend" in that sense of the word. The Major's

reply will be our last extract.

"'Sir,' said the Major, 'they are men of honour; and as men of

honour, you observe, there is no saying what scrapes they may

get into. I remember--it can't be more than twenty years ago--a

brother officer and I were opponents at a game of poker.[59]

That officer and I were most intimately acquainted. Another

bottle of champagne, you nigger, and fill those gentlemen's

glasses. Very fine that, sir--I never tasted better wine,'

said the Major, as he turned his mustachios up, and poured the

gooseberry down. 'Where was I, Judge? Ah! precisely,--most

intimate acquaintance, you observe. I had the highest opinion of

that officer's honour--the highest possible opinion,' with an

oath. 'Well, sir, the luck was against me--I never won a point!

My partner couldn't stand it. 'Gad, sir, he _did_ swear. But my

friend--another slice of crane, nigger, and rather rare; come,

gentlemen, help yourselves and pass the bottle--that's what I

call a high old wine, you observe. Where was I, Judge? Ah! just

so--Well, my friend, you observe, did not say a word; but took

it all as coolly as could be. We kept on losing; they kept on

winning; when, as quick as greased lightning, what do you think

my partner did, sir? May I be stuck, forked end up, in a 'coon

hole, if he didn't whip out his knife and chop off three of my

friend's fingers. My friend, you observe, halloo'd loud enough.

"You may halloo," says my partner, "but (an oath) if you'd had

five trumps, sir, (an oath,) you'd have lost your hand," (an

oath.) My intimate friend, you observe, had been letting his

partner know how many trumps he had by putting out a finger for

each one; and, having the misfortune, you observe, to hold three

when my partner found him out, why, sir, you observe, he lost

three of his fingers.'"

[59] A sort of whist.

Between his roguish friend and his ruffianly partner, the Major felt

himself in a dilemma how to act.

"'I think,' said the Judge, 'I have heard the story before;

but, excuse me, I do not see exactly what relation it bears to

these gentlemen and your offer to serve them.' 'That,' said the

major, 'if you will give me time, is exactly what I am coming

to.--Nigger, bring me a dozen cigars.--The sequel is soon told.

Considering my duty as an officer, a friend, and a gentleman,

I cut my friend, and shot my partner for insulting him; and

if, you observe, these gentlemen shall honour me with their

friendship, I will be most happy to do the same by them.'"

Whilst deprecating the good offices of this Yankee O'Trigger in the

shooting or cutting line, Mr Coke and his companion availed of him

as a guide to an adjacent faro table, where the gallant Major lost

eight hundred dollars with infinite coolness, drank a cocktail,

buttoned his coat, and walked away.

As matter of mere amusement, Mr Coke's last chapter is his best.

It is crammed with diverting stories of "smart" Yankees and other

originals whom he encountered in California. The whole book,

although in parts a little drawn out, does him credit, and will

doubtless be extensively read and well liked. For various classes it

has features of attractive interest. The emigrant, the gold-seeker,

the sportsman, the mining speculator, the lover of adventure for

mere adventure's sake, will all derive pleasure from its pages, and

occasionally glean from them a hint worth remembering.

STRUGGLES FOR FAME AND FORTUNE.

PART II.

CHAPTER VI.

When the curtain drew up, the stage was occupied by the two heroes

of the establishment, who said not a word, but rushed at each other

with prodigious swords, and hacked and hewed with the most amazing

vigour. The fight had a running accompaniment from the partisans of

the two belligerents. "Go it, Fitz-Neddie!" (this was familiar for

Fitz-Edward) was answered with outcries of "At him, Martingale!"

And, inspired by these demonstrations, the battle was prolonged till

the combatants were fairly out of breath. While they were resting on

their swords, and grinning horribly at each other, Miss de la Rose

rushed upon the stage, with dishevelled locks and white satin shoes,

and explained, in a very long soliloquy, the state of affairs. Baron

Fitz-Edward had made various attempts to storm Baron Martingdale's

castle, in search of his runaway ward--who, of course, was Miss

de la Rose herself; and, on the present occasion, he had been

surprised by the watchful Martingdale in the very act of applying a

ladder to the donjon wall. But virtue such as Miss de la Rose's has

surer guards than even the courage of Martingdale; for when that

noble warrior is likely to be overcome, there uniformly appears

the "sylvan demon, or the blood-red knight," whose strokes it is

impossible to resist. When this exposition of the state of affairs

had given breath enough to the still panting enemies to enter into

conversation, Fitz-Edward sneered, and scorned, and threatened, and

walked up the stage, and across it, and stamped with his feet, and

clenched his hands, in a way that brought down thunders of applause,

which, from another part of the house, were answered by rival peals,

when Martingdale gave full career to the rage that was in his heart,

and roared to an extent that shook the scene on which his baronial

castle was painted, "as if a storm passed by." If it had not been

of very strong canvass, it must have burst. While this dialogue

was going on, it was painful to observe that some duplicity was

at work, for several bearded fellows slipt across the stage in a

mysterious manner, and were evidently posted between Adelgiza--Miss

de la Rose--and the castle. The discovery of this stratagem was made

too late, and Fitz-Edward grasped the arm of Adelgiza in triumph,

and was about to lead her out for the purpose of being married to

her on the spot by a convenient old priest, who accompanied all his

expeditions with a special license, when suddenly a dead silence

fell upon the stage, and, with noiseless steps, a tall knight, with

visor closed, and a whole bush of red feathers growing luxuriantly

out of his helmet, marched towards Fitz-Edward, touched his arm with

his sword, and motioned majestically for Adelgiza to retire in

safety to her home. At this point of the story I was summoned to go

behind the scenes, where Mr Montalban wished to have a few minutes'

conversation.

"Difficulties have arisen, my dear sir," said the manager, "about

your very excellent play. Mr Martingdale says he is willing to be

quiet and subdued in presence of Fitz-Edward; but, to make up for

it, he must have one or two 'bits' entirely to himself. He doesn't

care whether it be as part of a scene with others or a soliloquy. He

suggests a description of a shipwreck, though he thinks his powers

of voice would qualify him more for a bull-fight. Perhaps you can

put him asleep for a few minutes, and then he can give us his dream."

"It might be managed, no doubt," I said; "but how would it help the

progress of the play?"

"O, he doesn't care for that. He is an ignorant ass; but if he gets

sulky, he may spoil the run."

"Is there anything else?"

"You must omit that young girl who attends Edith and says nothing.

Miss de la Rose complains that her beauty is so great, and her

action so graceful, that nobody attends to anything else while she

is on the stage."

"Why don't you put an ugly person in her place?"

"I have more sense," chuckled the manager. "These here ugly critturs

may be as clever as they like, but the house is always pleased with

the sight of a pretty girl: and there she is. Here!" he added,

beckoning condescendingly to a young lady, who had been looking at

us for some time, "come and speak to the author of our next new

play."

She came up; and, in spite of the absurd apparel she was in--a dress

composed of Greek and Turkish and Hindoo articles indiscriminately,

she being a feasting lady in Baron Martingdale's castle--she struck

me to be the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. She did not

seem above twenty years of age; tall, and exquisitely made; with an

expression that led one to expect a higher position for her than a

walking figure.

"I will tell you some other suggestions they make," said Mr

Montalban. "In the mean time, I must go and get the daggers ready

for the next scene."

"Do you think they are going to bring out your play?" inquired the

young lady.

"Certainly. I should say it will be acted in a month."

"It will never be acted here, I assure you of that. Notice is

already given of a play which our translator has just finished from

the French; and if you have advanced any money, it is to buy dresses

for that. We keep a translator at twenty-five shillings a-week, and

as much gin as he requires, and I am told this next spectacle will

be very fine indeed."

When I had recovered my breath after this astounding communication,

I replied, "I am afraid you see everything in this theatre in an

unfavourable light. Your own position is certainly not equal to your

merits."

"And therefore I tell you that Hengist and Horsa is never meant to

appear? It doesn't seem to follow; but, nevertheless, what I tell

you is true. My situation here is exactly what I wish."

"Then your ambition is easily satisfied, for I am told you are never

allowed to speak."

"I am Miss de la Rose's double," she replied, "and gain confidence

and a knowledge of the stage."

"Her double?" I inquired.

"Yes. I learn every part that she learns; so that if she were taken

unwell, or were run over by a cab, I should be able to take her

place; and, once give me the chance, she should never get it again!"

"And for this remote hope you hang on here every night, and probably

have a very small salary?"

"No salary at all--is not worth mentioning," she said. "It is not

for money I devote myself to the stage, and I don't require any

profession for my support. Will you let me read your play?"

"With all my heart," I answered. I have another copy at home."

"Give me your address," she said, "and I will send for it to-morrow.

Say nothing in the mean time of what I have told you, but be

prepared for disappointment; for now I am off to preside at the

second table." A round of applause saluted her graceful walk

across the stage, which rose into a tempest of admiration when she

acknowledged the compliment by a salaam of the deepest respect.

Miss de la Rose touched me on the shoulder. "She's the vainest fool,

that Miss Claribel, that ever stept on boards. Why can't she walk

quietly to her place without such coquetting with the pit?"

"Has she been an actress here long?"

"Never an actress at all, and never will be," replied the first

tragedienne. "She has long watched for an opening; but we stop it

up, sir, as if it were a rat-hole. So she may practise her Ophelia

to the glass in the green-room. She shall never sing her ballads

or spread out her hair before the lamps, I can tell her that. More

applause!--what is it? It makes me quite nervous to hear all those

disgusting noises. It is only Miss Claribel presenting a cup of wine

to that brute Martingdale."

"She is so very beautiful," I said, and so majestic in her motion."

"Is she? You and I differ very much on that point. She certainly

limps with the left leg; and--oh! there they're applauding again! It

kills me, this nonsense! Why, she has only made her exit in search

of me, for I am now going on to quarrel with the baron." So saying,

she settled her dagger in her belt, and glided on to the stage.

Miss Claribel came to me again.

"Miss de la Rose is a severe critic--as most people are who are

ignorant and vain," she began.

"I assure you I did not agree with her judgments; but one thing she

told me that gives me great pleasure, and that is, that you are

prepared to make a _debût_ in Ophelia."

"And why should that give you pleasure?" she inquired. "It is a

beautiful character, and I think I can enter into its simple purity

and poetic charm."

"I have no doubt you can; and, in fact"--but here her bright eye was

so fixed on me, that I coloured and hesitated.

"Oh," she said, "I see; you have the boy's fever on you yet, and

think you could shake the spheres in Hamlet."

"I certainly have studied the character."

"And can you declaim?"

"I think so."

"Will you let me hear you?"

"Most proudly."

"Then I'll come for the play myself to-morrow, and we can rehearse a

scene."

"My mother will be delighted to see you. I shall expect you at

twelve o'clock." She nodded her consent to the appointment, and we

parted.

"Are you quite sure, Mr Montalban," I said, "that Hengist and Horsa

will be produced without delay?"

"Call me no gentleman if I deceive you," replied the manager, laying

his hand on his waistcoat, a little above the left side pocket; "and

the day that sees me forfeit my word of honour, will be the last of

my management of this here theatre."

What could I say? I determined to wait for more certain information

from Miss Claribel, and, in rather a desponding frame of mind, I

slipt out of the theatre before the play was over, and wended my way

home.

As I applied the latch-key, the door was opened by the lodger on the

upper floor, whose performances on the violin we had often heard,

but whom I had never encountered before. He was enveloped in whisker

and moustache to an extent that nearly hid his features. He wore a

braided coat, very wide in the tails; loose trousers, and glossy

boots. He grinned when he saw me, and revealed a row of white teeth

which looked like some mother-o'-pearl ornaments set in hair; and,

lifting up the low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat which adorned his

head, he said, "Ver' fine night for de valk--I hope you quite vell?"

And with a very gracious bow he replaced his hat, tucked a long

green baize parcel under his arm, and left the house. It is quite

possible for people who live at the opposite ends of any great city

not to meet, but London is the only place in the world where the

inhabitants of the same house shall never come in each other's way.

This foreigner had been our fellow-lodger for several months, and

we had never thought of making his acquaintance. He continued to

be an abstraction as long as we merely listened to his fiddle, and

heard his step on the floor; but now that our eyes had actually met,

and we had exchanged words, he became a real existence, and I felt

ashamed of our unsocial reserve.

Punctually at twelve Miss Claribel made her appearance, plainly

dressed, modest in her demeanour, and low-toned in the voice. There

was very little in her present style to recal the feasting lady of

the night before. There was still great beauty in her face, and

great elegance in her motion, but they had no resemblance to stage

features or stage attitudes. My mother received her very kindly.

"Your acquaintance with the interior workings of a theatre," she

said, "will be of great use to my son, if you will be kind enough to

give him the results of your experience."

"My experience is very small, except in so far as the actors in a

theatre are concerned. With authors we have never had anything to

do, except on this occasion."

"How?--not with authors?" I broke in. "Then how do you get

possession of new plays?"

"Steal them," replied Miss Claribel quietly. "I told you we keep a

translator--a remarkably clever man while he is sober; and we owe

everything to the French and Germans."

"But when a new play is offered to the management?"

"The management laughs, and puts in a few advertisements in the

papers about the encouragement to native talent; gets a little

money, if it can, from the vanity of the aspirant, and ends with a

fresh version from Scribe or Kotzebue."

"Charles, my dear," said my mother, "I wish we had known Miss

Claribel some days ago."

"But still, Miss Claribel," I said, "there must be some exceptions

at the Stepney Star, for Mr Montalban told me his principle was

novelty and home manufacture. He did not profess the Shakspearian

drama, but laid himself out for the poets of the present day."

"He has an original pantomime at Christmas-time every year, and no

other poets are ever engaged in our service; but, perhaps, the merit

of Hengist may open the eyes even of Mr Montalban. Will you let me

judge of it for myself?"

I gave her the copy I had promised.

"There was another thing you talked of last night," I added. "You

have not forgotten your promise about Ophelia?" In a moment she took

off her bonnet, slung it across her arm in the manner of a basket,

let loose her hair, which fell in wavy ringlets down to the middle

of her back, assumed a wandering expression in the eyes, but still

retained intellect enough in their look to give full effect to the

pathos, and began, "There's rosemary--that's for remembrance; pray

you, love, remember; and there is pansies--that's for thoughts." And

it was not many minutes before my mother was in tears. I was a great

deal too manly to follow her example, but I felt a choaking at the

throat which was very uncomfortable.

"Is it possible," I inquired, "that you have never had the

opportunity of showing your delightful talents on the stage?"

"Very possible, indeed," she replied; "and, unless by some accident,

I feel sure also I never shall. In fact, the rise of a junior

performer entirely depends on the health or longevity of the senior.

There have been limping old men tottering through Ranger and Charles

Surface, exactly as they had done for forty years; and keeping in

those parts for the express purpose of debarring younger men from

them, whose talents, they think, would eclipse their reputation."

"But can't a manager give the part to any one he likes?"

"O, no. It is down in Miss de la Rose's engagement that she is to

have all the principal characters."

"But when there are two principal characters in one play?" inquired

my mother.

"Mrs Ferdinand Windleshaw has secured all the second characters. She

is always the Emilia to Miss de la Rose's Desdemona."

"And you!" I cried--"is there no part left for you?"

"Both those ladies would leave the theatre at once if I were allowed

to speak one line."

"Then, my dear Miss Claribel," said my mother, greatly won by the

simple openness of the visitor, "why do you remain on the stage, or

rather not on the stage, but behind the scenes? You could surely

find some other way of making your extraordinary talents of use."

"I draw a little in the intervals of study," she replied, "and

compose a little music. I make quite enough for my own support; and,

in short, there are reasons why I continue true to the stage."

"I have known you too short a time," replied my mother, "to ask you

for your confidence; but I assure you I take a great interest in

your success, and I hope you will always consider me a friend."

Miss Claribel took my mother's hand. "I won't try to thank you," she

said; "for such kindness overcomes me. If you knew the loneliness

of a poor actress's life, the solitude of the desolate room she

goes back to after the glare of the lamps, the friendlessness she

experiences in the very midst of the clapping of innumerable hands,

you would know how doubly valuable to her heart is the kind sympathy

of a lady in your position. You give me a new tie to existence in

letting me feel assured of your goodwill, and I will come and see

you whenever I feel my griefs too much for me to sustain alone."

Things had now got a great deal too sentimental for me to say a

word about Hamlet. I believe both the ladies had utterly forgotten

the existence of the Danish prince, and, for a while, the presence

of his representative. There was a feeling of disappointment in my

heart as I shook hands with Miss Claribel at the door. I did not

acknowledge the reason of it even to myself; but I have no doubt now

it arose from her neglect of my dramatic powers. Neglect is the most

difficult to bear of all the ills that theatric flesh is heir to.

My mother was delighted with her visitor. She felt sure there was a

mystery about her; and she was determined to unravel it. In the mean

time I determined to wait patiently for a week, as requested by Mr

Montalban, and then go to the rehearsal of Hengist and Horsa.

CHAPTER VII.

That same evening the landlady brought me a polite message from

Mr Catsbach, the occupant of the upper floor, and an invitation

to visit him at eight o'clock. I was received with many apologies

for the liberty he had taken--with many apologies also for not

having taken it before--for he had long had a violent inclination

to make my acquaintance--the more especially as he perceived, from

my excellent touch on the flute, that I was as great a musical

enthusiast as himself. I returned his compliment by declaring my

gratification at catching the sounds of his violin; and ventured to

hope that, now that we were acquainted, we might practise sometimes

together.

"Dat vill most pleasant be," said Mr Catsbach; "and meantimes ve

vill have die branty and wader." In a short time the table was

replenished with bottles and glasses, the frost of non-acquaintance

rapidly wore off, and I examined my companion more minutely than

I had hitherto done. Though very much disguised, and, I thought,

disfigured by the mass of whisker, beard, and moustache, in which

he enveloped his countenance, I saw that his features were regular

and handsome; and if he had told me he was count or baron, I should

have believed him on the strength of his gentlemanly manners and

appearance. However, he did not mention anything of the kind. In

fact, he mentioned very little about himself at all; and I had the

pleasing reflection on the following morning that I had concealed

very few incidents of my own life, without getting the slightest

return of confidence from him. My forthcoming triumph at the Stepney

Star and my ambition to appear in Hamlet were not forgotten. I even

went so far as to tell him I had discovered an Ophelia who would

play up to me in very first-rate style, and that I thought of very

soon astonishing the world with my _debût_. There are few educated

foreigners now who do not understand and enjoy Shakspeare as much

as the generality of Englishmen. Catsbach was quite at home in

Hamlet, and, after the third tumbler of our brandy and water, gave

a recitation of "To be or not to be," which was very effective

to me, (who never drank so much before,) in spite of the foreign

pronunciation. There were now two points of sympathy between us; and

what music began, Shakspeare--not to mention the brandy--completed.

We parted that night as if we had been friends for years, and he was

to return my visit on the following night. All people are capable

of being thawed, however thick the coat of ice may appear to be at

first--only it takes longer to melt in some than in others. After my

mother had retired--for our fellow lodger returned my visit without

delay--when the second tumbler shone upon the table, and a small

shining brass kettle on the hob was singing its accompaniment to

our conversation, I began a few fishing questions as to his history

and position, for I felt rather ashamed of my own openness on the

previous evening.

"Have you been long in England?" I inquired.

"'Es--no; a few months--or 'ears. I not know."

"You speak the language extremely well, considering you have been

here so short a time."

The foreigner twirled his moustaches, and took a pull at the tumbler.

"I must say John Bull, though a little rough in his manner, is very

kind and generous to foreigners."

"Ver'; too mosh," said Catsbach.

"And this is truly and honourably called the home of the patriot and

the exile," I said.

"The fact is," said Mr Catsbach, in a perfectly English

pronunciation, and with some energy, "our friend Jack is the

greatest fool alive."

I started back. "Why, how well you speak," I cried; "but who is

Jack?"

"Why, John Bull," he said. "The shallowest, bellowingest old beast

that ever carried a horn. You talk of those exiles and fellows who

can find no living in their own country, and come over here to eat

up the fat of the land."

"You amaze me. Aren't you one of the refugees yourself?"

"Never was out of England in my life, and never will be," replied

Mr Catsbach. "But you must pardon me, my dear fellow, for not

having explained myself to you before. I am no foreigner, and

never was--only I wear these embellishments on cheek and chin for

a particular purpose; and fortunately Jack is fool enough for

anything, and never suspects any man if he speaks with a strange

accent and wears a queer-cut coat."

I drew back a little, not feeling quite sure of the reason for which

Mr Catsbach had assumed his disguise.

He saw my movement. "You're not such a fool as Jack, I perceive," he

said; "and suppose that all may not be right, in spite of foreign

garb and hairy countenance. Be easy on that score," he continued.

"You are a fine, honourable young fellow, full of learning and

genius--your mother is a perfect lady--the brandy also is excellent;

and I will tell you a small portion of my story, just to show you

that I am not altogether unworthy of the society of all three."

My mother was absent; the brandy, however, and I were present, and I

bowed to his compliment.

"As to birth, parentage, and education," he began, "these are

matters of no consequence; and I must say for Jack, if a man behaves

himself pretty well, it doesn't much matter whether his name be

Mowbray or Smith."

"I beg your pardon," I interposed. "I consider there is a very great

difference indeed."

"Ah! but Jack at large doesn't think so; and so I have no hesitation

in telling you my name is Tooks. When I came to years of discretion,

which I managed to do pretty early, I felt thankful it was not

Snooks, and looked out of the window of my private existence, as it

were, to see what was going on on the High Street of life. From my

earliest days I devoted myself to the study of Jack--that is short

for 'John Bull,' and prose for 'my country.' I took a personal

interest in all his concerns. He was no abstraction like Athens or

Rome, but a real breathing personage, with great peculiarities of

character, and the most extraordinary position the world had ever

seen. I studied the Army List, the Navy List, the Shipping Gazette,

and felt that Jack was the most astonishing potentate on the face

of the earth. I studied the Parliamentary debates--the reports

of public meetings--the list of railway directors and committee

men--and I was forced to confess that Jack was little better than an

ass. At sixteen I was secretary to the agglomerated association for

vindicating the rights of man. The rights of property, however, were

left to take care of themselves, and our chairman was transported

for theft. I lost a silver watch, the bequest of my grandmother, in

an unaccountable manner--an upper coat, and a gold pencil-case; so,

in case of being stript of everything, I resigned my secretaryship,

and had to pay half-a-year's rent of the cellar in which our

meetings were held. But Jack, after all, is a noble fellow; and

there are thieves and impostors in all parties. At seventeen I was

an eloquent speaker among the 'Constitutional Brothers.' We were

all great admirers of Jack, and would have died for the glorious

constitution, the envy of surrounding nations, and the glory of

our own; but we differed from the rest of the world on the date at

which this constitution had been in its purest and best condition.

We fixed on the reign of Harold, and were most hostile to the Norman

invaders. Whatever had been introduced since then we considered

a badge of conquest and subjection. We called the Parliament the

Wittenagemote, and hated the feudal system. Our innovations were all

in a backward sense. We wished to undo the Battle of Hastings, and

find out a lineal descendant of King Harold. It was reported that

one did exist in the person of a shoemaker at Northampton. We went

to see him, and found him one of the constables in the town, who

threatened to take us into custody if we tried on any more of our

nonsense. Low fellows have no ambition, though they were grandsons

of Julius Cæsar. We talked very high of what we should do in this

appalling absence of a legitimate possessor of the throne; and just

when we had nearly resolved to proceed to use the ancient privilege

of the English people and elect a king, an uncle of mine, a merchant

in Swithin's Alley, interfered with my royal candidature, and I

became a clerk in his counting-house, at a hundred a-year."

Here Mr Catsbach, or rather Mr Tooks, refreshed himself with the

whole remainder of his tumbler; made himself another with the utmost

expedition, and proceeded.

"I need a little support," he said, "for I am now coming to a

period when I fell in love. I will be very brief in my account of

the interesting event, for it sticks in my throat, and has made me

miserable for many months. She was the prettiest girl that ever

was seen--of course they are all that when we see them through

the spectacles of admiration and vanity; for a girl's principal

beauty consists in the willingness, more or less, with which she

reciprocates your feelings. That's the reason why misogynists are

all ugly fellows--it's the reason also why old men think the average

amount of beauty fallen off. The prettiest creature in the world

was Ellinor Bones, a niece of my aunt; so, in a sort of way, we

were cousins. She was a ward of my uncle's, with three thousand

pounds in the four per cents; and the moment I saw her, I said

there's my destiny. There have been few books, and no play of my

acquaintance, without a young fellow marrying his uncle's ward;

so I made up my mind at once, and had no doubt of converting the

beautiful Ellinor into Mrs Tooks. The course of true love never

did run smooth, our immortal friend says. Doesn't it?--ours flowed

like a mill-pond; so either ours was not true love, or William

for once is wrong. A divided allegiance now held my whole being,

the beauty of Ellinor and the political condition of Jack. There

was no room for bills of lading, and I hated the very sight of

a ledger, unless under its canonised form, when I betted on it

at Doncaster. I made love--I thought politics--I neglected my

three-legged stool. My love was reciprocated. Jack improved very

much; and my uncle shook his head with more ominous wisdom than

the Earl of Burleigh. Ellinor was the strangest character I ever

knew--a sort of miniature in enamel of Jack himself. She had all

his honesty and openness--his self-reliance and fixed determination.

She said she would marry me, and I defied the Spanish Inquisition

to torture her into a recantation. But how was the ceremony to be

achieved? We put up the banns in Mary-le-Bone church. The number

of matrimonial candidates is infinite. The curate speaks as if his

mouth were full of hot potatoes; and you are at perfect liberty to

marry any of the lot, for there is no distinction made between 'any

of these parties respectively.' We had made calculations as to the

expense of housekeeping, and many plans for enlarging our income.

I had always one resource. Jack is the most generous of patrons,

and very fond of music. I relied on my fiddle, if the worst came to

the worst. I determined, in the mean time, to make myself a name,

if possible, in eloquence and statistics, that might be beneficial

to me if I thought of standing for a borough. I made a speech at

a preliminary meeting for Westminster, and was kicked out of the

room as a dishonest swindler, for advocating justice to the public

creditor; at the same time I was reported in the papers as having

been powerful in favour of the spunge. So, on the following morning,

I got notice from my uncle that he had no farther occasion for my

services. I saw Ellinor on the subject. What was to be done? We

resolved to marry, and trust to our talents and good fortune for the

rest. We met next morning at Mary-le-Bone church, and were bound for

ever, for better for worse. At our exit from the hymeneal altar,

who was waiting for us at the door? My uncle and two bailiffs!--my

aunt and the housekeeper! A hand was laid on my shoulder. 'Debt?--or

criminal?' I inquired. 'You'll see that in plenty of time,' growled

my uncle. 'But Jack,' I exclaimed, 'will never stand this; he has

too great a regard for the liberty of the subject. I will set

Habeas Corpus at work.' They tore me away. 'Where's my Ellinor?'

I exclaimed, as I sat in the cab, and was rapidly driven off to

Swithin's Alley; but echo made its usual unsatisfactory answer. A

few days put all straight. My uncle found his ruse of no use; and I

discovered myself one morning on the pavement, with no particular

amount of money, and a wife, without the power of offering her a

home. I hurried off to my uncle's. 'Where's my wife?' I distractedly

asked the cook--for I had taken the precaution to enter by the

kitchen. She was a Scotchwoman--very popular for sheep's-head broth.

'Gae wa' wi' ye, ye ne'er-do-weel, rinning awa' wi' bonny lasses for

the sake o' their siller.'

"'But where is she?' I again exclaimed.

"'She's as bad's yersel, and has gane aff in the search o' ye. She

eloupit within an hour o' her return; so ye had best keep out o' the

way, for the maister swears ye'll never get a fardin o' her tocher.'

"'Caledonian impostor!' I cried, 'I'll find my Ellinor, if she is

in _rerum natura_;' and I distractedly rushed off to commence my

search. But she is not in rerum natura, or I have never been lucky

enough to discover where _rerum natura_ is. I've tried the _Times_

till I'm tired. 'Ellinor! your distracted husband is perishing with

despair. A note addressed MISERRIMUS, Old Slaughter's, will make him

the happiest of men.'--'Has Ellinor forgotten her Augustus? Come to

me at the door of the New Hummums at eight to-night. Fortune smiles,

and a fig for uncles and aunts.'

"I can't tell you the annuity I settled for the first year on the

_Times_. There I was every morning. No answer at Old Slaughter's--no

appearance at the New Hummums. In the mean time, how was I to live?

My dear fellow, I must pause a little, for there are secrets about

John Bull, and the way he manages to grub on, which it requires some

ingenuity to discover, and a greater amount of ingenuousness to

confess." Mr Tooks paused, and occupied his leisure moments in the

concoction of another tumbler. "How do you think all the people in

this tremendous London live?" he continued. "Do you think they have

all money lying incubating in the bank; or with snug little farms in

Suffolk or Kent, doing nothing all day long but growing wheat and

hops for their benefit? What if they had? Why, every fellow would

live on his income, and eat his home-grown bread. There would be

nobody to do anything for anybody else, and the world would stand

still. Excuse my political economy, but I see great advantages in

poverty, in the abstract; but when it comes too close, it loses,

like many other things, the charm that distance gives them. I, sir,

had nothing. Ellinor had saved ninety-two pounds seven; but it was

in her reticule when we were separated at the door of Mary-le-Bone

church. I had not a farthing. Was I to lie down and die for that?

Had I studied Jack so ill? No. I was one of his children, and I

would show all the dogged unthrashability of my sire at Waterloo and

elsewhere. In short, I let my hair grow. I grew strong, like Samson,

under the process. I rough-paved my throat with German gutturals. I

put on pantaloons that seemed cut according to the pattern of the

cover of a celestial globe, with two little dependences in which to

insert the legs. I got a coat, with its tails widening like a fan.

I took my fiddle in my hand, and here I am--very comfortable as

regards income and enjoyment, and only miserable for the loss of my

beloved Ellinor. Come with me to-morrow night, and I will show you

how the world moves."

CHAPTER VIII.

But I couldn't give myself up to Mr Tooks's guidance, for my destiny

was now drawing near at the Stepney Star, and I had no spirits for

anything else till that was decided. Once or twice Miss Claribel

came, but her confidences were all to my mother. For several hours

at a time they would retire to my mother's room, and both would

reappear with their eyes rather red, as if they had been crying. Was

Miss Claribel growing despondent? Was there no chance of accident

or illness befalling the sempiternal Emily de la Rose? If she was

indeed in low spirits, she took remarkably good care that I should

bear her company. She was like the hero or heroine, I forget which,

in Moore's ballad, who held a feast of tears, and was social in the

deepest of woes. "You expect the rehearsal on Thursday?" she said.

"Not a chance of it. They are getting up a rhyming version of the

Miller and his Men, and Martingdale and Fitz-Edward are on the point

of borrowing the property pistols to fight a duel with, to decide

which of them goes into the sack. But come on Thursday, and then you

will see for yourself." On Thursday I went. With more politeness and

friendliness than usual, Mr Montalban invited me up to his room.

"Great news," he said; "I have great news for you. I think I may now

say our fortunes are made."

"Does the play go well at rehearsal?" I inquired, with a glow of

gratification not unmingled with triumph over the sinister auguries

of Miss Claribel.

"Never has been put in rehearsal at all. The Lord Chamberlain has

positively said no. It is not to be done."

"On what ground has the Lord Chamberlain put his veto?" I asked,

compressing my lips to restrain my anger. "Does he find anything

injurious to morals or religion in Hengist and Horsa?"

"Far from it," replied Montalban. "You are aware that the Lord

Chamberlain is appointed for the express purpose of seeing that

plays are worthy of public approbation, both for their literary

merit and moral tendency. Well, his lordship--who is always the

most distinguished man in the Peerage for his literary tastes

and performances--has devoted several days to the study of your

excellent play, and his final decision is, that it deserves a wider

field than we can afford it here. He has ordered its representation

to be delayed till arrangements can be made for its appearance at

one of the great national theatres. What do you say to that, Mr

Dipbowing? Think of the thousands at Drury Lane! Think of the Queen

in the royal box, attended by all her court? I give you joy, upon

my honour, and feel highly charmed that it is through me that your

glory is to be secured." Here Mr Montalban shook hands with me

so heartily, that I couldn't resist the influence of his friendly

manner, and returned his pressure with a warmth equal to his own.

"Will it be long before arrangements can be made for its appearance

at Drury Lane?" I inquired, in the midst of our gratulations.

"Well, that is a sensible question," replied Montalban. "I must

consult his Lordship on the point. I have certainly made an offer

for it; but as the trustees are hard-hearted people, with no love

for the modern drama, they insist on a deposit towards the rent; and

as I am deficient to the amount of fifty pounds----"

"Is that the whole deficiency?" I said; "for if such a sum----"

"Forty-eight pound fifteen is the exact amount that would enable me

to table their demand; but with such enormous expenses as I am at

here, where could a man look for assistance, even to that paltry

extent? The Lord Chamberlain, I have no doubt, would forego his

fee----"

"What!" I inquired, "is there a fee on the production of a new play?"

"Isn't there?" answered Montalban. "The advantage of a censorship

of the press or of the stage, which is the same thing, is not to be

had for nothing. No, no: we pay his Lordship--per self or deputy--a

very handsome acknowledgment for the trouble he takes in correcting,

altering, and improving the tragedies that are submitted to his

approval."

"Has his Lordship condescended to amend any of the lines in

Hengist?" I asked with gratified interest.

"He has only blotted out all the Heavens, and put in a number of

skies. He has also done away with all the fiends and devils; for our

improver is a very devout man, and seems to have an awful veneration

for Beelzebub. O! it's well worth the money, I assure you, to

have the certificate that all's right from such high literary and

religious authority."

"And fifty pounds would do it," I said half to myself.

"Forty-eight pound fifteen," said Mr Montalban, altogether to the

same individual.

"It shall be done," I said, and shook his hand again. "Send in your

agreement to the trustees; I will give you the sum you require."

"I don't for a moment scruple to take your offer," replied the

manager, "for I feel--I know--I am only acting as your trustee in

doing so. Your terms, Mr Dipbowing, are quadrupled. You shall have

twenty pounds a-night from the very commencement of the run. And

old Drury shall feel the breath of the Legitimate again. Is there

anything else that strikes you?"

"Couldn't you find an opening for Miss Claribel?" I said. "I am

confident she has great dramatic powers, and only requires an

opportunity to display them in order to take the town by storm."

"Name what part you like, and she shall be in the bills, in letters

two inches long, on our opening night." Again I shook hands, and the

matter was satisfactorily settled.

"O," said Mr Montalban, calling me back, as if he had forgotten

something, "if you don't happen to have the money in hand, I can

tell you of a way which will be more easy for you, and quite as

agreeable to me."

I was delighted at his thoughtful friendship; and did not scruple to

confess that, till some money which we expected came from India, the

outlay would put me to inconvenience.

"Better and better," he exclaimed. "I can put you in clover in the

mean time, and you can do as you like when the payments for the

play begin. I have a friend who is oppressed with ready money, and

is always delighted to make a safe and honourable investment. Here

is a bill at two months for a hundred and fifty pounds. Just write

your name there, and this day week I will pay you a hundred, keeping

the other fifty as a loan for our Drury Lane transaction; and in

consequence of the play being now sure to go on at Old Drury, we

will have a dress rehearsal on that day. On Thursday, sir, you will

receive a hundred pounds, and see Hengist in all his glory."

I never signed a paper with so much pleasure in my life. I

considered it was merely receiving prepayment of part of my

theatrical gains; and felt now perfectly assured that the manager

had no doubt of my success, as he in a joking manner offered to

consider the money repaid, if I would give him an order on the

treasurer of Old Drury for my profits of the first ten nights.

"You look very happy," said Miss Claribel to me, as I passed the

wing, "and yet you have not been on the stage to see the rehearsal

of your play."

"It is not in rehearsal," I said; "and moreover, my dear Miss

Claribel, it isn't going to be rehearsed--to-day."

"I told you so," replied Miss Claribel, tying her bonnet and putting

on her shawl; "but as I have now got up my _rôle_ of standing behind

Miss de la Rose's chair, I will walk a part of the way home with

you, and hear what you have said to Montalban."

"What I have said to Montalban is this," I said, when we had got

out into the street, "that you were lost and buried here, and that

I requested a more prominent position for a young lady of so much

beauty and so much talent."

"And he said?"

"That you should very shortly make your appearance in whatever

character I chose to name."

"Did you name any character?"

"I resolved to consult you first. Will you try Desdemona or Ophelia?"

"You lent him money," said Miss Claribel, in a sad voice.

"On the contrary," I said, "he has advanced some to me." We walked

for five minutes in silence. I thought she was speechless with

gratitude for my interference in her behalf; I thought also it might

be with reverence of my genius, now that she saw it was appreciated

by the bestowers of wealth and fame.

"Will you tell my dear and kind Mrs de Bohun, that I will come to

her for an hour to-morrow at twelve o'clock? In the mean time, my

good young friend, I wish you good day." And without a word of

thanks or congratulation, she walked away.

As I saw her graceful figure and elegant motion, I again felt a gush

of gratification fill my heart at having interfered so effectually

in her favour. Beautiful and modest Miss Claribel! I thought; it

is to me you will owe your triumph at Drury Lane, and not solitary

shall you be in your success! No, there's a Hamlet shall respond to

all the divine tendernesses of the sweet Ophelia--an Othello who

will weep tears of blood over the death-couch of your Desdemona--a

Romeo--But here I was nearly run over by a West End omnibus; and

wondering whether Miss Claribel would be as delighted with my

support as I was with hers, I got into the 'bus, which awoke me from

my reverie, and returned home.

I met Catsbach in the passage. "My dear fellow," he said, "I insist

on your coming with me to-night. I have something very interesting

to show you."

"Where'er you like," I cried in a sort of rapture--"'whatever realms

to see.' My arm a nobler victory ne'er gained, and I am at your

command. 'Go on: I follow thee.'"

"Come up to me at seven; bring your flute. We shall have a cheerer

or two before we start; and you can tell me all about the rehearsal

of your play."

"Is all right about the rehearsal, Charles?" said my mother, as I

entered her room radiant with delight.

"Yes, mother--all is going charmingly--but not at the Stepney

Star. No! brighter skies are opening--more enduring glory and

wealth, mother--sweetened by the delightful thought that it has

been honourably won, and that it will all be spent in adding

comforts--ay! luxuries to you! I am to be paid a hundred pounds

next week; the play is to be brought out at Drury Lane; my uncle

will hear of my triumph the moment he steps on English ground,

and conscience will gnaw his prosaic heart for his neglect and

harshness; the Queen will probably attend the first night; horses,

and spectacles, and _tableaux vivants_ shall be banished from the

English stage; and when people in the street see you and me in the

nice little Brougham I intend to keep for you, they'll say the good

times of the drama are come back again; that's the author of Hengist

and Horsa."

It is useless to describe our rapture. We got a map of London, and

looked over it all in search of a nice new street to go and live in.

My mother rather leant to the classic retirements of Brompton, but

I put a great splash of ink on Wilton Place. "Lord John Russell,"

I exclaimed, "began by writing a play, and I, too, will be a

Belgravian."

CHAPTER IX.

We left the house at half-past eight. Catsbach carried a long green

bag, and I my flute-case in my pocket. We got into an omnibus,

and, after a half-hour's drive, were put down at the end of a

wide street. We walked a few hundred yards, and went into a long

dark passage. We then mounted some steps, and, on opening a small

door, emerged on the upper floor of an orchestra, in an immense

assembly-room, magnificently lighted with numerous chandeliers, and

already occupied by two or three hundred people, very gaily dressed.

A clapping of hands saluted the appearance of my companion, who

bowed to his admirers, and took his place at a small desk in the

middle of the orchestra. I took up my station at his side. About

ten other musicians were seated at their desks, and we waited for

the amusements to begin. The floor on which the company promenaded

was about twenty feet wide, and was in the shape of the letter T.

It was surrounded on all sides by a raised platform about eight

feet in width and six feet in elevation; at the front of which

were banisters for the protection of a line of spectators, who had

already begun to assemble in considerable numbers. The floor was

exactly like the dried-up bed of a canal, with a great gathering of

observers on the banks. Six or eight elegantly-dressed gentlemen,

with silver bows at their breasts, and white wands in their hands,

were busy among the company, making introductions, arranging

partners, and placing the couples in their proper places. Suddenly

one of them stept into the middle of the floor, looked intently at

Catsbach, who had now stood up with the violin on his shoulder, and

clapping his hands three times, exclaimed, "_Valse a deu tang!_" and

with a crash from the whole orchestra, the music began, and the ball

was opened.

A pretty sight as ever I saw, though I have seen many assemblies of

higher pretensions since then. There was as much decorum and as much

politeness, as far as I could judge, as could be shown in a duke's

palace. There was a great amount of beauty; several groups were very

pleasant to look on; evidently parties made up for the purpose of

the evening's enjoyment: tradesmen, thought I to myself, and their

wives, with two or three daughters and a son--or perhaps a lover of

Marianne--dancing only with the families of their neighbours, and

enjoying the gay scene and exhilarating exercise at a very moderate

expense, and no damage to morals or reputation. Others, no doubt,

found their way in who were not so respectably guarded as by their

fathers or lovers; but from my lofty field of contemplation I saw no

evidence whatever that it was not a festival of the vestal virgins

held in the temple of Diana. Dance succeeded to dance; the masters

of the ceremonies were indefatigable in their attentions, and all

went happy as a marriage bell. Catsbach resumed all his German

incomprehensibility, scolded the inferior fiddlers with a plentiful

infusion of _donners_ and _blitzens_, and was in all respects a most

hairy and distinguished conductor of the band. In one of the pauses

of the music, he whispered to me to take out my flute and accompany

the next dance. With trembling hand I did so; and there was the heir

of the De Bohuns, the author of Hengist and Horsa, performing at a

Casino! However, one comfort is, I performed extremely well. There

were several rounds of applause as the new instrument made itself

heard above the violins and bassoons, and I thought I perceived a

greater liveliness in the movements of the dancers when they caught

the clear notes of the flute. I could have played all night; and

asked Catsbach how long the assembly would last.

"Do you see those three gentlemen," he said, "leaning over the

banisters, and enjoying so heartily the gay scene at their feet?"

"Yes--the stout old squire, with his two sons, probably?"

"They are very pleasant fellows--a constable and two other officers

of the detective police. When the clock strikes a quarter to twelve,

you will see the Essex freeholder, as you thought him, pull out his

watch, and in exactly fifteen minutes the hall will be deserted,

the lights out, and you and I sitting down to a jolly supper in the

refreshment parlour behind the assembly-room."

"Do they expect any crime to be committed at these places?" I

inquired.

"No, not a crime. Sometimes a row is threatened, but it is generally

by snobs whose fathers are in the peerage, or still lower snobs,

who think it shows gentle blood to behave like blackguards when

they have paid a shilling at the door. There's a young lord," he

continued, "with one of his parasites; I shouldn't be surprised if

you saw your friend the squire make his _debût_ on the floor."

"Country dance!--the haymakers!" exclaimed the senior master of the

ceremonies, and Catsbach resumed his fiddlestick.

It was most merrily and beautifully danced; and as I did not

contribute to the music, I was at full liberty to watch the whole

scene. I followed the young noble and his obsequious attendant in

all his motions. He was a fine-featured, tall-figured youth, with

soft eyes shaded by long silken lashes, a classically-shaped head,

and altogether a soft, almost feminine, expression, that was at

first sight very captivating, till you saw that, though the face

was eminently handsome, there was no intellect in its look, and

the lips, the great revealers of character, were selfish and cold.

When my eyes rested on the other, I felt a sudden thrill of some

strong feeling, which I could not define, rush to my heart like

an electric shock. In spite of the black neckcloth, the carefully

buttoned-up coat, the coloured gloves, and the green spectacles that

half hid his face, I knew I had seen him before. I couldn't tell

where nor when, but I felt it was in enmity we had met. At last I

saw a slavish smile put fresh slime on his thick blubber lips, and

I knew the man. Before I had time to ask advice from Catsbach how

I could revenge myself on my enemy, I lost them for a moment in

the crowd. Suddenly I saw a hand raised, and, after a sharp sound,

like a stroke with the flat hand on water, I saw the young nobleman

procumbent on the floor, and a stream of blood issuing from his nose

and mouth. My friend the Squire in an instant was on the spot; the

sufferer raised from the ground; and the music ceased. I hurried

round into the front.

"See if he's a gentleman, and get his card," said the noble, still

supported in the Squire's arms.

"He a gentleman, my lord! Nothing of the sort; but let us get out of

this; they're nothing but thieves and shop-boys. Do come, my lord;

I wouldn't have this known on any consideration," whispered the

sycophant, taking him by the arm.

"We must hear more of this," said the Squire. "Don't let that man

go." And one of the attendant freeholders touched the gentleman's

shoulder.

"You don't know who it is," he said to the officer. "You will repent

of this insolence, I assure you. He is the Right Honourable the

Earl Maudlin, eldest son of the Marquis of Missletoe. I must insist

on your letting us go, and punishing that low person who dared to

assault his lordship."

"Take down his name," said the Squire calmly; "and have the goodness

to give me your own."

A shade of despair fell on the follower's countenance.

"I am a friend of his lordship," he said; "but I won't give my name.

For heaven's sake! let us go."

"I say gub'nor," interposed his lordship, "this is a pretty mess we

have got into. You'll look rather queer before the beek to-morrow.

As to me, I'm used to it."