Her outbreaks of impatience, her scarcely suppressed rebellion against

the dull ritual of our village life, her ill-disguised suspicion of

priestly influence, now rose before me; and I could see that the flame

which had burst forth at last, had been smouldering for many a year

within her. I could remember, too, the temper, little short of scorn, in

which she saw me devote myself to Jesuit readings, and labor hard at the

dry tasks the Sister Ursule had prescribed for me. And yet then all

my ambitions were of the highest and noblest. I could have braved

any dangers, or met any perils, in the career of a missionary! Labor,

endurance, suffering, martyrdom itself, had no terror for me. How was

it that this spirit did not touch her heart? Were all her sympathies

so bound up with the world that every success was valueless that won

no favor with mankind? Had she no test for nobility of soul save in

recognition of society? When I tried to answer these questions, I

suddenly bethought me of my own shortcomings. Where had this ambition

led me,--what were its fruits? Had I really pursued the proud path

I once tracked out for myself? or, worse thought again, had it no

existence whatever? Were devotion, piety, and single-heartedness nothing

but imposition, hypocrisy, and priestcraft? Were the bright examples

of missionary enterprise only cheats? were all the narratives of their

perilous existence but deception and falsehood? My latter experiences of

life had served little to exalt the world in my esteem. I had far more

frequently come into contact with corruption than with honesty. My

experiences were all those of fraud and treachery,--of such, too, from

men that the world reputed as honorable and high-minded. There was but

one step more, and that a narrow one, to include the priest in the same

category with the layman, and deem them all alike rotten and corrupted.

I must acknowledge that the Abbé himself gave no contradiction to this

unlucky theory. Artful and designing always, he scrupled at nothing to

attain an object, and could employ a casuistry to enforce his views far

more creditable to his craft than to his candor. I was no stranger to

the arts by which he thought to entrap myself. I saw him condescend to

habits and associates the very reverse of those he liked, in the hope

of pleasing me; and even when narrating the story of Margot's fall,--for

such he called it,---I saw him watching the impression it produced upon

me, and canvassing, as it were, the chances that here at length might

possibly be found the long-wished-for means of obtaining influence over

me.

“I do not ask of you,” said he, as he concluded, “to see all these

things as I see them. You knew them in their days of poverty and

downfall; you have seen them the inhabitants of an humble village,

leading a life of obscurity and privation,--their very pretension to

rank and title a thing to conceal; their ancient blood a subject of

scorn and insult. But I remember the Marquis de Nipernois a haughty

noble in the haughtiest court of Europe; I have see that very Marquis

receiving royalty on the steps of his own château, and have witnessed

his days of greatness and grandeur.”

“True,” said I, “but even with due allowance for all this, I cannot

regard the matter in the same light that you do. To my eyes, there is no

such dignity in the life of a nun, nor any such disgrace in that of an

actress.”

I said this purposely in the very strongest terms I could employ, to see

how he would reply to it.

“And you are right, Gervois,” said he, laying his hand affectionately on

mine. “You are right. Genius and goodness can ennoble any station, and

there are few places where such qualities exert such influence as the

stage.”

I suffered him to continue without interruption in this strain,

for every word he spoke served to confirm me in my suspicion of his

dishonesty. Mistaking the attention with which I listened for an

evidence of conviction, he enlarged upon the theme, and ended at last by

the conclusion that to judge of Margot's actions fairly we should first

learn her motives.

“Who can tell,” said he, “what good she may not have proposed to

herself!--by what years of patient endurance and study--by what passages

of suffering and sorrow--she may have planned some great and good

object! It is a narrow view of life that limits itself to the day we

live in. They who measure their station by the task they perform, and

not by its results on the world at large, are but shortsighted mortals;

and it is thus I would speak to yourself, Gervois. You are dissatisfied

with your path in life. You complain of it as irksome, and even ignoble.

Have you never asked yourself, is not this mere egotism? Have I the

right to think only of what suits me, and accommodates itself to

my caprices? Are there no higher objects than my pleasure or my

convenience? Is the great fabric of society of less account than my

likings or dislikings? Am I the judge, too, of the influence I may exert

over others, or how my actions may sway the destinies of mankind? None

should be more able to apply these facts than yourself,--you that in

a rank of which you were, I must say unjustly, ashamed, and yet

were oftentimes in possession of secrets on which thrones rested and

dynasties endured.”

He said much more in the same strain; some of his observations being

true and incontestable, and others the mere outpouring of his crafty and

subtle intellect. They both alike fell unheeded by me now. Enough for

me that I had detected, or fancied I had detected, him. I listened only,

from curiosity, and as one listens for the last time.

Yes! I vowed to myself that this should be our last meeting. I could not

descend to the meanness of dissimulation, and affect a friendship I did

not feel; nor could I expose myself to the chances of a temptation which

assailed me in so many shapes and forms. I resolved, therefore, that I

would not again visit the Abbé; and my only doubt was, whether I should

not formally declare my determination.

He had ceased to speak; and I sat, silently pondering this question in

my own mind. I forgot that I was not alone, and was only conscious of my

error when I looked up and saw his small and deep-set eyes firmly fixed

upon me.

“Well, be it so, Gervois,” said he, calmly; “but let us part friends.”

I started, and felt my face and forehead burning with a sudden flush

of shame. There are impulses that sway us sometimes stronger than our

reason; but they are hurricanes that pass away quickly, and leave the

bark of our destiny to sail on its course unswervingly.

“You 'll come back to me one of these days, and I will be just as ready

to say, 'Welcome!' as I now say 'Good-bye! good-bye!'” and, sorrowfully

repeating the last word as he went, he waved his hand to me, and

withdrew.

For a moment I wished to follow him, to say I know not what; but calmer

thoughts prevailed, and I left the house and wandered homewards. That

same evening I sent in my demand of resignation, and the next morning

came the reply according it. My first thought was a joyful sense of

liberty and freedom from a bondage I had long rebelled against; my next

was a dreary consciousness of my helpless and friendless condition

in life. I opened my little purse upon the table, and spread out its

contents before me. There were seven pounds and a few shillings. A

portion of my salary was still due to me, but now I would have felt it

a degradation to claim it, so odious had the career become in my eyes.

I began to think over the various things for which my capacity might fit

me. They seemed a legion when I stood in no need of them, and yet none

now rose to my mind without some almost impassable barrier. I knew no

art nor handicraft. My habits rendered me unequal to daily labor with

my hands. I knew many things en amateur, but not as an artist. I could

ride, draw, fence, and had some skill in music; but in not one of these

could I compete with the humblest of those who taught them. Foreign

languages, too, I could speak, read, and write well; but of any method

to communicate their knowledge I had not the vaguest conception. After

all, these seemed my best acquirements, and I determined to try and

teach them.

With this resolve I went out and spent two pounds of my little capital

in books. It was a scanty library, but I arrayed it on a table next

my window with pride and satisfaction. I turned over the leaves of my

dictionary with something of the feeling with which a settler in a new

region of the globe might have wandered through his little territory.

My grammars I regarded as mines whose ores were to enrich me; and

my well-thumbed copy of Telemachus, and an odd volume of Lessing's

comedies, were in themselves stores of pleasure and amusement. I suppose

it is a condition of the human mind that makes our enjoyments in the

ratio of the sacrifices they have cost us. I know of myself, that

since that day I now speak of, it has been my fortune to be wealthy, to

possess around me every luxury my wish could compass, and yet I will

own it, that I have never gazed on the well-filled shelves of a costly

library, replete with every comfort, with a tithe of the satisfaction I

then contemplated the two or three dog-eared volumes that lay before me.

My first few days of liberty were passed in planning out the future.

I studied the newspapers in hope of meeting something adapted to my

capacity; but though in appearance no lack of these, I invariably found

some fatal obstacle intervened to prevent my success. At one place,

the requirements were beyond my means; at another, the salary was

insufficient for bare support; and at one I remember my functions of

teacher were to be united with menial offices against which my

pride revolted. I resolved to adventure at last, and opened a little

school,--an evening school for those whose occupations made the day too

valuable to devote any part of it to education.

At the end of some five weeks I had three pupils; hard-working and

hard-worked men they were, who, steadily bent upon advancement in life,

now entered upon a career of labor far greater than all they had ever

encountered.

Two were about to emigrate, and their studies were geography, with some

natural history, and whatever I could acquire for them of information

about the resources of a certain portion of Upper Canada. The third

was a weaver, and desired to learn French in order to read the works of

French mathematicians, at that time sparingly translated into English.

He was a man of superior intellect, and capable of a high cultivation,

but poor to the very last degree. The thirst for knowledge had possessed

him exactly as the passion for gambling lays hold of some other men; he

lived for nothing else. The defeats and difficulties he encountered but

served to brace him to further efforts, and he seemed to forget all his

privations and his poverty in the aim of his glorious pursuit.

To keep in advance of him in his knowledge, I found impossible. All that

I could do was to aid him in acquiring French, which, strange to say,

presented great difficulties to him. He however made me a partaker of

his own enthusiasm, and I worked hard and long at pursuits for which my

habits of mind and thought little adapted me. I need scarcely say that

all this time my worldly wealth made no progress. My scholars were very

poor themselves, and the pittance I earned from them I had oftentimes to

refuse accepting. Each day showed my little resources growing smaller,

and my hopes held out no better prospect for the future.

Was I to struggle on thus to the last, and sink under the pressure? was

now the question that kept perpetually rising to my mind. My poverty

had now descended to actual misery; my clothes were ragged; my shoes

scarcely held together; more than once an entire day would pass without

my breaking my fast.

I lost all zest for life, and wandered about in lonely and unfrequented

places, in a half-dreamy state, too vague to be called melancholy. My

mind, at this time, vacillated between a childish timidity and a species

of almost savage ferocity. At some moments tears would steal along my

cheeks, and my heart vibrated to the very finest emotions; at others,

I was possessed with an almost demoniac fierceness, that seemed only in

search of some object to wreak its vengeance upon. A strange impression,

however, haunted me through both these opposite states, and this was,

that my life was menaced by some one or other, and that I went in hourly

peril of assassination. This sense of danger impressed me with either a

miserable timidity, or a reckless, even an insolent, intrepidity.

By degrees, all other thoughts were merged in this one, and every

incident, no matter how trifling, served to strengthen and confirm it.

Fortunately for my reader, I have no patience to trace out the fancies

by which I was haunted. I imagined that kings and emperors were in the

conspiracy against me, and that cabinets only plotted how to entrap me.

I sold the last remnant of my wardrobe and my few remaining books, and

quitted my dwelling, to forsake it again for another, after a few days.

Grim want was, at length, before me, and I found myself one morning--it

was a cold one of December--with only a few pence remaining. It chanced

to be one of my days of calmer temperament; for some previous ones I had

been in a state bordering on frenzy; and now the reaction had left me

weak and depressed, but reasonable.

I went over, to myself, as well as I was able, all my previous life; I

tried to recall the names of the few with whom my fate seemed to connect

me, and of whose whereabouts I knew nothing; I canvassed in my own mind

how much might be true of these stories which I used to hear of my

birth and parentage, and whether the whole might not possibly have been

invented to conceal some darker history. Such doubts had possibly not

assailed me in other times; but now, with broken hopes and shattered

strength, they took a bold possession of me. I actually possessed

nothing which might serve to confirm my pretension to station. Documents

or papers I had none; nor was there, so far as I knew, a living

witness to bear testimony to my narrative. In pondering thus I suddenly

remembered that, in the letter which I once had addressed to Mr. Pitt,

were enclosed some few memoranda in corroboration of my story.

What they were exactly, and to what extent they went, I could not recall

to memory; but it was enough that they were, in some shape, evidences

of that which already to my own mind was assuming the character of a

delusion.

To this faint chance I now attached myself with a last effort of

desperation. Some clew might possibly be found in these papers to guide

my search, and my whole thoughts were now bent upon obtaining them.

With this object I sat down and wrote a few most respectful lines to the

minister, stating the nature of my request, and humbly excusing myself

for the intrusion on his attention. A week passed over,--a week of

almost starvation,--and yet no reply reached me. I now wrote again more

pressingly than before, adding that my circumstances did not admit

of delay, and that if, by any mischance, the papers had been lost or

mislaid, I still would entreat his Excellency's kindness to--I believe

I said recall what he could remember of these documents, and thus supply

the void left by their loss. This letter shared the same fate as my

former one. I wrote a third time, I knew not in what terms, for I wrote

late at night, after a day of mad and fevered impatience. I had fasted

for nigh two entire days. An intense thirst never ceased to torture me;

and as I wandered wildly here and there, my state alternated between

fits of cold shuddering, and a heat that seemed to be burning my very

vitals. The delusions of that terrible interval were, doubtless, the

precursors of actual madness. I bethought me of every torture I had ever

heard of,--of all the sufferings martyrdom had ever borne, but to which

death came at last as the comforter; but to me no such release seemed

possible. I felt as though I had done all that should invoke it.

“Want--sickness--suffering--despair,--are these not enough,” I asked

myself,--“must guilt and self-murder be added to the terrible list?”

And it was, I remember, with a kind of triumphant pride I determined

against this. “If mankind reject me,” said I,--“if they make of me an

outcast and a victim, on them shall lie all the shame and all the sin.

Enough for me the misery,--I will not have the infamy of my death!”

I have said I wrote a third letter; and to make sure of its coming to

hand, I walked with it to Hounslow. The journey occupied me more than

half the night, for it was day when I arrived. I delivered it into the

hands of a servant, and, saying that I should wait for the answer, I

sat down upon a stone bench beside the door. Overcome with fatigue,

and utterly exhausted, I fell off asleep,--a sound and, strange to say,

delicious sleep, with calm and pleasant dreams. From this I was aroused

by a somewhat rude shake, and on looking up saw that a considerable

number of persons were around me.

“Stand up, my good fellow,” cried a man, who, though in plain clothes

and unarmed, proclaimed by his manner of command that he was in

authority; “stand up, if you please.”

I made an effort to obey, but sank down again upon the bench, faint and

exhausted.

“He wants a drink of water,” cried one.

“He wants summut to eat,--that's what he wants,” said a laboring man in

front of me.

“We'll take him where he'll be properly looked after,” said the first

speaker. “Just stand back, good people, and leave me to deal with

him.” The crowd retired as he spoke, while, coming nearer, he bent down

towards me and said, “Is your name Paul Gervois?”

“I have gone by that name,” I replied.

“And is this in your handwriting?--Mind, you need n't say so if you

don't like; I only ask the question out of curiosity.”

“Yes,” said I, eagerly; “what does Mr. Pitt say?--what reply does he

make me?”

“Oh, you 'll hear all that time enough. Just try now if you could

n't come along with me as far as the road; I 've a carriage there

a-waiting.”

I did my best to rise, but weakness again overcame me, and I could only

stammer out a few faint words of excuse.

“Don't you see that the man is dying?” said some one, half indignantly;

but the constable--for such he was--made some rough answer, and then,

stooping down, he passed his arm round me, and lifted me to my feet at

once. As he half carried, half pushed me along, I tried to obtain an

answer to my former question, “What reply had the minister made me?”

“You 'll know all that time enough, my good friend,” was all the answer

I could obtain, as, assisting me into the carriage, he took his place at

my side, and gave the word to proceed “to town.”

Not a word passed between us as we went along; for my part, I was too

indifferent to life itself to care whither he was conducting me, or with

what object. As well as utter listlessness would permit me to think, I

surmised that I had been arrested. Is it not a strange confession, that

I felt a sense of pleasure in the thought that I had not been utterly

forgotten by the world, and that my existence was recognized, even at

the cost of an accusation. I conclude that to understand this feeling

on my part, one must have been as forlorn and desolate as I was. I

experienced neither fear nor curiosity as to what might be the charge

against me; nor was my indifference that of conscious innocence,--it was

pure carelessness!

I slept that night in a prison, and ate of prison fare,--ravenously and

eagerly too; so much so that the turnkey, compassionating me, fetched me

some of his own supper to satisfy my cravings. I awoke the next day with

a gnawing sense of hunger, intensely painful, far more so than my former

suffering from want. That day, and I believe the two following ones,

I spent in durance, and at last was conveyed in the prison-cart to the

office of a magistrate.

The court was densely crowded, but the cases called seemed commonplace

and uninteresting,--at least so they appeared to me, as I tried in vain

to follow them. At length the crier called out the name of Paul Gervois,

and it was less the words than the directed looks of the vast assembly,

as they all turned towards me, showed that I was the representative of

that designation.

My sense of shame at this moment prevented my observing accurately what

went forward; but I soon rallied, and perceived that my case was then

before the court, and my accuser it was who then addressed the bench.

The effort to follow the speaker, to keep up with the narrative that

fell from his lips, was indescribably painful to me. I can compare my

struggle to nothing save the endeavor of one with a shattered limb to

keep pace with the step of his unwounded comrades. The very murmurs of

indignation that at times stirred the auditory, increased this feeling

to a kind of agony. I knew that it was all-important I should hear and

clearly understand what was said, and yet my faculties were unequal to

the effort.

The constable who arrested me came forward next, and spoke as to the

few words which passed between us, affirming how I had confessed to a

certain letter as being written by myself, and that I alone was to be

held responsible for its contents. When he left the table, the judge

called on me for my defence. I stared vaguely from side to side, and

asked to what charge?

“You have been present, prisoner, during the whole of this examination,

and have distinctly heard the allegation against you,” replied he.

“The charge is for having written a threatening letter to one of his

Majesty's ministers of state,--a letter which in itself constitutes

a grave offence, but is seriously aggravated as being part of a

long-pursued system of intimidation, and enforced by menaces of the most

extreme violence.”

I was now suddenly recalled to a clearness of comprehension, and able

to follow him as he detailed how a certain Mr. Conway--the private

secretary of the minister--proved the receipt of the letter in question,

as well as two others in the same hand. The last of these--which

constituted the chief allegation against me--was then read aloud; and

anything more abominable and detestable it would be hard to conceive.

After recapitulating a demand for certain documents,--so vaguely worded

as to seem a mere invented and trumped-up request,--it went to speak

of great services unrewarded, and honorable zeal not only neglected

but persecuted. From this--which so far possessed a certain degree of

coherency and reason--it suddenly broke off into the wildest and most

savage menaces. It spoke of one who held life so cheaply that he felt no

sacrifice in offering it up for the gratification of his vengeance.

“Houseless, friendless, and starving; without food, without a

name,---for you have robbed me of even that,--I have crawled to your

door to avenge myself and die!”

Such were the last words of this epistle; and they ring in my ears even

yet, with shame and horror.

“I never uttered such sentiments as these,--words like those never

escaped me!” cried I, in an agony of indignation.

“There is the letter,” said the magistrate; “do you deny having written

it?”

“It is mine,--it is in my own hand,” muttered I, in a voice scarcely

audible; and I had to cling to the dock to save myself from falling.

Of what followed I know nothing, absolutely nothing. There seemed to be

a short debate and discussion of some kind; and I could catch, here and

there, some chance phrase or word that sounded compassionately towards

me. At last I heard the magistrate say,--

“If you tell me, Mr. Conway, that Mr. Pitt does not wish to press the

charge, nor do more than protect himself from future molestation, I am

willing to admit the prisoner to bail--good and sufficient bail--for his

conduct hereafter. In default of this, however, I shall feel bound to

commit him.”

Again some discussion ensued, terminated by some one asking me if I

could produce the required securities.

By this time a slight reaction to my state of debility had set in,--that

fevered condition in which passion assumed the ascendant; and I

answered, haughtily,--

“Bail for whom? Is it for him to whom they refused bread that they will

go surety? Look at these rags, sir,--see these wasted arms,--hear this

voice, hoarse as it is with hunger,--and ask yourself who could pledge

himself for such misery?”

He uttered some commonplaces--at least so they sounded to me--about

there being no necessary connection between want and crime; but I

stopped him short, saying,--

“Then you have never fasted, sir,--never known what it was to struggle

against the terrible temptations that arise in a famished heart; to sink

down upon a bed of straw, and think of the thousands at that moment in

affluence, and think of them with hate! No link between want and

crime! None, for they are one. Want is envy--want is malice. Its evil

counsellors are everywhere,--in the plash of the wave at midnight; in

the rustle of the leaves in a dark wood; in the chamber of the sick man:

wherever guilt can come, a whispering voice will say, 'Be there!'”

Some friendly bystander here counselled me to calm myself, and not

aggravate my position by words of angry impatience. The air of sympathy

touched me, and I said no more.

I was committed to prison--remanded, I believe they said--to be called

up at some future day, when further inquiries had been made into my mode

of life and habits. The sentence--so well as I could understand it--was

not a severe one,--imprisonment without labor or any other penalty. I

was told that I had reason to be grateful! but gratitude was then at a

low ebb within me; for whatever moralists may say, it is an emotion that

never thrives on misery. As I was led away, I overheard some comments

that were passed upon me. One called me mad, and pitied me; another

said I was a practised impostor, far too leniently dealt with; a third

classed me with the vile herd of those who live by secret crimes, and

hoped for some stringent act against such criminals.

There was not one to ask, Why has he done this thing? and how shall

others be saved from his example?

They who followed me with looks of contempt and aversion never guessed

that the prison was to me a grateful home; that if the strong door shut

out liberty, it excluded starvation too; and that if I could not stray

at will through the green lanes, yet my footsteps never bore me to the

darksome pond where the black depth whispered--oblivion!

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE STREETS

I was liberated from prison at the end of eight days. I begged hard to

be allowed to remain there, but was not permitted. This interval, short

as it was, had done much to recruit my strength and rally my faculties;

it served besides to instil into me a calm and patient resolve to depend

solely on myself; and effacing, so far as I might, all hopes of tracing

out my family, I determined now to deem no labor too humble by which I

might earn a livelihood.

I am now speaking of fifty years ago, and the world has made rapid

strides since that. The growing necessities of our great population, and

the wide field for enterprise offered by our colonies, have combined to

produce a social revolution few could have predicted once. The well-born

and the tenderly-nurtured have now gone forth in thousands to try their

fortunes in far-away lands, to brave hardships and encounter toil that

the hard sons of labor themselves are fain to shrink from; but at the

time I speak of, this bold spirit had not burst into life,--the world

was insolent in its prosperity, and never dreamed of a reverse.

By transcribing letters and papers for one of the officials while in

jail, I had earned four shillings; and with this sum, my all in the

world, I now found myself following the flood-tide of that host which

moves daily along the Strand in London. I had breakfasted heartily

before I left the prison, and resolving to hoard up my little treasure,

determined to eat nothing more on that day. As I walked along I felt

that the air, sharp and frosty as it was, excited and invigorated me.

The bright blue sky overhead, the clear outline of every object, the

brisk stir and movement of the population, all helped to cheer my

spirits, and I experienced a sense of freedom, as that of one who,

having thrown off a long-carried burden, is at last free to walk

unencumbered. A few hours before I fancied I could have been well

satisfied to wear out life within the walls of my prison, but now I felt

that liberty compensated for any hardship. The town on that morning

presented an aspect of more than ordinary stir and excitement. Men were

at work in front of all the houses, on ladders and scaffoldings; huge

frameworks, with gaudy paintings, were being hoisted from the roofs, and

signs of wonderful preparation of one kind or other were everywhere

visible. I stopped to inquire the meaning, and was told, not without a

stare of surprise, that London was about to illuminate in joyful

commemoration of the treaty of peace just signed with France. I thanked

my informant, and moved on. Assuredly there were few in either country

who had less reason to be interested in such tidings than myself. I

possessed nothing, not even a nationality, that I could safely lay claim

to. In the hope of approaching prosperity tomorrow, so forcibly

expressed in many an inscription,--in all those devices of enthusiastic

patriotism, I had no share. In fact, I was like one of another nation,

suddenly dropped in the midst of a busy population, whose feelings,

hopes, and aspirations were all new and strange to me.

As I came up to Charing Cross a dense crowd stopped the way, gazing with

wondering eyes at a great triumphal arch which spanned the thoroughfare,

and whose frail timbers gave but a sorry intimation of the splendor

it should exhibit after nightfall. Immense draperies floated from this

crazy framework, and vast transparencies displayed in tasteless allegory

the blessings of a peace. The enthusiasm of admiration was high among

the spectators; doubtless, the happy occasion itself suggested a

cordiality of approval that the preparations themselves did not warrant;

for at every step in the construction, a hearty cheer would burst forth

from the crowd, in recognition of the success of the work. My attention,

undisturbed by such emotions, was fixed upon one of the poles of the

scaffolding, which, thrown considerably out of its perpendicular,

swayed and bent at every step that approached it, and threatened, if not

speedily looked to, to occasion some disaster. I pointed this out to one

beside me, who as quickly communicated it to another, and in less than a

minute after, a panic cry was raised that the scaffold was falling.

The crowd fell back in terror, while the men upon the scaffolding, not

knowing in what quarter the danger existed, stood in terrified groups,

or madly rushed to the ladders to escape. The mad shouts and screams

of those beneath added to the confusion, and rendered it impossible

to convey warning to those in peril. At this instant a man was seen

approaching the weak part of the scaffold, and though at every step

he took, the ill-fated pole swerved further and further from the right

line, he was utterly unconscious of his danger, and seemed only bent on

gaining a rope, which, fastened by one end above, hung down to the porch

beneath. Wild cries and yells were raised to warn him of his peril, but,

not heeding, nor, perhaps, hearing them, he seized the cord and swung

himself free of the scaffold.

In an instant the fabric gave way, and, bending over, came down with a

terrible crash of falling beams and splintered timber. It fell so close

to where I stood that it struck down an old man with whom I had been

conversing the moment before. Strangely too, amidst that dense throng,

this was the only serious injury inflicted; but he was struck dead,--at

least, he only lingered for the few minutes it took to carry him to a

neighboring public-house, where he expired.

“It's old Harry; he always said he'd die at his crossing,” said the

publican, as he recognized the features.

“He thought it was them new-fashioned curricles would do for him,

though,” said another. “He said so to me last week, for he was getting

too old to escape when he saw them coming.”

“Old! I should think he was. He was on that there crossing at the

coronation,--a matter of fifty years ago.”

“Say forty, my good friend, and you'll be nigher the mark; but even

forty sufficed to leave him well off for the rest of his days, if he had

but had prudence to know it.”

As I stood thus listening, I leaned upon the broom which I had taken

from the old man's hand when I lifted him up.

“I 'll give you a matter of ten pounds for it, master,” said a

gruff-looking fellow, addressing me, while he touched the broom with his

knuckle. “Five down on the nail, and the rest ten shillings a-week. Do

you say done?” Before I could collect myself to understand what this

offer might mean, a dozen others were crowding around me with a number

of similar proposals.

“You don't know the rule amongst these fellows,” said the landlord,

addressing me; “but it is this, that whoever touches the broom first

after its owner is killed, succeeds to the crossing. It 's yours now, to

work or dispose of, as you like best.”

“He 'll never work it,--he does n't know the town,” said one.

“He'd not know Charley Fox from Big Hullescoat the tailor.”

“He 'd splash Colonel Hanyer, and sweep clean for the Duke of

Queensberry.”

“And forget to have change for Lord Bute,” cried another,--a sally

so generally applauded that it showed a full appreciation of its

truthfulness.

“I 'll try it, nevertheless, gentlemen,” said I, addressing the

company respectfully; “and if the landlord will only give me credit for

half-a-guinea's worth of liquor, we'll drink my accession to office at

once.”

This was agreeably received by all, even the landlord, who ushered us

into an inner room to enjoy ourselves.

If I had not transgressed too freely already on my reader's patience by

details which have no immediate bearing on my own life, I should have

been greatly tempted to revive some recollections of that evening,--one

of the strangest I ever passed. Assuredly the guild of which I suddenly

found myself a member was not one in which I could have either expected

laws and regulations, or looked for anything like a rigid etiquette; yet

such was precisely the case. The rules, if not many, were imperative,

while the requirements to obtain success were considerable. It was not

enough to know every remarkable character about town, but you should

also have a knowledge of their tone and temper. Some should be dunned

with importunity; others never asked for a farthing; a Scotch accent

went far with General Dundas; a jest never failed with Mr. Sheridan.

Besides this, an unfailing memory for every one who had crossed during

the day was indispensable, and if this gift extended to chairs and

coaches, all the better was it.

My brethren, I must do them the justice to say, were no niggards

of information. To me, perhaps, they felt a sense of exultation in

describing the dignity of the craft,--perhaps they hoped to deter me

from a career so surrounded with difficulties. They little knew that

they were only stimulating the curiosity of one to whom any object or

any direction in life was a boon and a blessing. Hardship and neglect

had so far altered my appearance that, even had I cared for it, any

artificial disguisement was unnecessary. My beard and moustache covered

the lower part of my face, and my hair, long and lank, hung heavily on

my neck behind. But, were it otherwise, how few had ever known me! There

were none to blush for me,--none to feel implicated in what they might

have called the disgrace of my position. I reasoned thus,--I went even

further, and persuaded myself there was something akin to heroism in

thus braving the current of opinion, and stemming the strong tide of

the world's prejudice. If this be my fitting station in life, thought I,

there is no impropriety in my abiding by it; and if, perchance, I might

have worthily filled a higher one, the disgrace is not with me, but with

that world that treated me so harshly.

Though all these arguments satisfied me thoroughly as I thought over

them, they did not give me the support I had hoped for. When the hour

came for me to assume my calling, I am almost ashamed to say how I

shrunk from it. I grieve to think how much more easy for me had it

been to commit a crime than to go forth, broom in hand, and earn my

livelihood! But I was determined to go on, and I did so. The first week

or so was absolute misery; I scarcely dared to look any one in the face.

If perchance I caught an eye fixed upon me, I imagined I was recognized.

I dreaded to utter a word, lest my voice might betray me. I was

repeatedly questioned about old Harry, and what had become of him; and

I could see, that with all my attempts at disguise, my accent attracted

attention, and men looked at me with curiosity, and even suspicion. Is

it not strange that there should be more real awkwardness in maintaining

a station that one deems below him than in the assumption of a rank as

unquestionably above his own? Perhaps our self-love is the cause of it,

and that, in our estimate of our own natures, we think nothing too great

or too exalted for us.

Be this as it may, my struggles were very painful; and, far from

conforming easily to the exigencies of my lot, each day's experience

rendered them still harder to me. Two entire days passed over without my

having received a farthing. I could not bring myself to ask for payment,

and the crowd passed on, unheeding me. Some who seemed prepared with the

accustomed mite replaced it in their pockets when they saw what seemed

my indifference. One young fellow threw me a penny as he went, but I

could not have stooped for it had my life been on the issue. What a

wonderful thing is fortune!--or rather, how rarely can we plot for

ourselves any combination of circumstances so successful as those that

arise from what we deem accident! These that seemed evidences of failure

were the first promises of prosperity. My comrades had given me the

nickname of “Gentleman Jack.” The sobriquet attracted notice to me and

to my habit of never making a demand; and long ere I came to learn the

cause, I found myself deriving all the advantage of it. Few now went

by without paying; many gave me silver, some even accompanying the gift

with a passing salutation, or a word of recognition. Slight as these

were, and insignificant, they were far more precious to me than any

praises I have ever listened to in my days of prosperity!

I gradually came to know all the celebrities of the town, and be myself

known by them. How like a dream does it seem to me, as I think over

those days! When Alderman Whitbread would give me a shilling, and Wilkes

borrow a crown of me; when Colonel O'Kelly would pay me with a wink,

and Sir Philip Francis with a curse; when Baron Geramb, frizzed,

moustached, and decorated, lounged lazily along on the arm of Admiral

Payne, followed by a gorgeously-equipped chasseur,--a rare sight in

those days! Nor is it altogether an old man's prejudice makes me think

that the leaders of fashion in those times had more unmistakably the

signs of being Grand Seigneurs than the men of our own day.

I have said that the tide of fortune had turned with me, and to an

extent scarcely credible. Many days saw my gains above a guinea; once

or twice they more than doubled that amount. I have frequently read in

newspapers announcements of the fortunes accumulated by men in the very

humblest stations,--statements which, with less experience than my own,

I might have hesitated to believe; but now I know them to be credible. I

know, too, that many of the donors who contemptuously threw their penny

as they passed were far poorer than the recipient of their bounty.

If time did not reconcile me to my lot, yet a certain hardihood to brave

destiny in any shape fortified me. I reasoned repeatedly with myself on

this wise: Fate can scarcely have anything lower in store for me; from

this there can be no descent in fortune. If, then, I can here maintain

within me the feelings which moved me in happier days, and live

unchanged in the midst of what might have been degradation, there is yet

a hope that I may emerge to hold a worthy station among my fellow-men.

I will not affirm that this feeling was not heightened by an almost

resentful sense of the world's treatment of me,--a feeling which, combat

how I would, hourly gained more and more possession of me. To struggle

against this growing misanthropy, I formed the resolve that I would

devote all my earnings of each Sunday to charity. It was but too easy,

in my walk of life, for me to know objects of want and suffering. The

little close in which I lived--near Seven Dials--was filled with such;

and amongst them I now dispensed the seventh of my gains,--in reality

far more, since Sunday almost equalled two entire days in profit. Thus

did I vacillate betwixt good and evil influences,--now yielding, now

resisting,--but always gaining some little advantage over

selfishness and narrow-mindedness, by the training of that best of

teachers,--adversity. How my trials might have ended, had the course of

my life gone on uninterruptedly, I cannot even guess. Whether the bad

might have gained the ascendant, or the good triumphed, I know not. An

incident, too slight to advert to, save in its influence upon my fate,

suddenly gave another direction to my destiny; and though, as I have

said, in itself a mere trifle, yet for its singularity, as well as in

its consequences, requires a mention, and shall have--albeit a short

one--a chapter of its own.

The incident I am about to relate has not--at least so far as I

know--ever been made public. Up to three years ago I could have called

a witness to its truth; but I am now the only survivor of those who once

could have corroborated my tale. Still, I am not without hope that

there are some living who, having heard the circumstances before, will

generously exonerate me from any imputation of being the inventor.

This preface may excite in my reader the false expectation of something

deeply interesting; and I at once and most explicitly own that I have

none such in store for him. It is, I repeat for the third time, an

incident only curious from those engaged in it, and only claiming a

mention in such a history as mine.

CHAPTER XXXIX. A STRANGE INCIDENT TO BE A TRUE ONE

It was on one of the coldest of a cold December days, when a dry north

wind, with a blackish sky, portended the approach of a heavy snow-storm,

that I was standing at my usual post, with little to occupy me, for the

weather for some time previous had been dry and frosty. Habit, and the

security that none could recognize me, had at length inured me to my

condition; and I was beginning to feel the same indifference about my

station that I felt as to my future.

Pride may, in reality, have had much to say to this, for I was proud to

think that of the thousands who flowed past me each day I could claim

equality with a large share, and perhaps more than equality with many.

This pride, too, was somehow fostered by a sense of hope which I could

have scarcely credited; for there constantly occurred to me the thought

that one day or other I should be able to say: “Yes, my Lord Duke, I

have known you these twenty years. I remember having swept the crossing

for you in the autumn after the Peace. Ay, ay, Right Honorable Sir, I

owe you my gratitude, if only for this that you never passed me without

saying, 'Good day, Jack!'”

Was it not strange, too, how fondly I clung to, what importance I

attached to, these little passing recognitions; they seemed to me the

last remaining ties that bound me to my fellow-men, and that to deny

them to me was to declare me an outcast forever. To this hour I feel my

thankfulness to those who thus acknowledged me; nor can I even yet

conquer an unforgiving memory of some chance, mayhap unintentional,

rudeness which, as it were, seemed to stamp my degradation more deeply

upon me. Stranger still that I must own how my political bias was

decided by these accidental causes; for while the great Tory leaders

rarely or never noticed me, the Whigs--a younger and more joyous section

in those times--always flung me a passing word, and would even

occasionally condescend to listen to my repartee.

I must guard myself from giving way to the memories which are already

crowding fast about me. Names, and characters, and events rise up

before my mind in myriads, and it is with difficulty I can refrain from

embarking on that flood of the past which now sweeps along through my

brain. The great, the high-born, the beautiful, the gifted, all dust and

ashes now!--they who once filled the whole page of each day's history

utterly ignored and forgotten! It is scarcely more than fifty years

ago; and yet of all the eloquence that shook the “House,” of all the

fascinations that stirred the hearts of princes, of the high ambitions

that made men demigods in their time, how much have reached us? Nothing,

or less than nothing. A jest or a witticism that must be read with a

commentary, or told with an explanation,--the repartee that set the

table in a roar, now heard with a cold, half-contemptuous astonishment,

or a vacant inquiry “if such were really the wits of those times.”

Amongst those with whose appearance I had become familiar were three

young men of very fashionable exterior, who always were seen together.

They displayed, by the dress of blue coat and buff waistcoat, the

distinctive colors of the Whigs; but their buttons more emphatically

declared their party in the letters P. F., by which the friends of the

Prince then loved to designate themselves. The “Bucks” of that age had

one enormous advantage over the Dandies of ours,--they had no imitators.

They stood alone and unapproachable in all the glories of tight leathers

and low top-boots. No spurious copies of them got currency; and the man

of fashion was unmistakable amongst a thousand. The three of whom I have

made mention were good specimens of that school, which dated its

birth from the early years of the Prince, and by their habits and tone

imparted a distinctive character to the party. They dressed well,

they looked well, they comported themselves as though life went ever

pleasantly with them; and in their joyous air and easy bearing one might

read the traits of a set well adapted to be the friends and companions

of a young prince, himself passionately devoted to pleasure, and

reckless in regard to its price.

I am now speaking of long ago, and have no hesitation in giving the real

names of those to whom I allude. One was a captain in the navy, called

Payne; the second was a young colonel in the foot-guards, Conway; and

the third was an Irishman named O'Kelly, whom they called the Count or

the Chevalier, about town, from what cause or with what pretension I

never ascertained.

Even in my own narrow sphere of observation it was clear to me that this

last exercised a great influence over his companions. The tone of

his voice, his air, his every gesture, bespoke a certain degree of

dictation, to which the others seemed to lend a willing obedience.

It was just that amount of superiority which a greater buoyancy of

character confers,--a higher grade of vitality some would call it,--but

which never fails through life to make itself felt and acknowledged.

The three kept a bachelor house at Kensington, whose fame ran a close

rivalry with that of the more celebrated Carlton House. O'Kelly lived

below, Conway occupied the drawing-room story, and Payne the third

floor; and with one or other of these all the great characters of the

Opposition were constant guests. Here, amidst brilliant sallies of

wit and loud bursts of laughter, the tactics of party were planned and

conned over. While songs went round and toasts were cheered, the subtle

schemes of politics were discussed and determined on; and many a sudden

diversion of debate that seemed the accident of the moment took its

origin in some suggestion that arose in these wild orgies. The Prince

himself was a frequent guest, since the character of these meetings

allowed of many persons being admitted to his society whose birth and

position might not have warranted their being received at his own table;

and here also were many presented to him whose station could not have

claimed a more formal introduction.

It was rumored that these same meetings were wild and desperate orgies,

in which every outrage on morality was practised, and that the spirit of

libertinism raged without control or hindrance. I have not of myself any

means of judging how far this statement might be correct, but I rather

incline to believe it one of those calumnies which are so constantly

levelled at any society which assumes to itself exclusiveness and

secrecy. They who were admitted there assuredly were not given to

divulge what they saw, and this very reserve must have provoked its

interpretation.

A truce to these speculations; and now back to my story. I was standing

listlessly on the edge of the flag-way, while a long funeral procession

was passing. The dreary day and drearier object seemed to harmonize well

together. The wheels of the mourning-coaches grated sorrowfully on the

half-frozen ground, and the leaden canopy of sky appeared a suitable

covering to the melancholy picture. My thoughts were of the very

saddest, when suddenly a merry burst of laughing voices broke in upon

my ear; and without turning my head, I recognized the three young men of

whom I have just spoken, as standing close behind me.

Some jocular allusion to the slow march of the procession had set them

a-laughing; and O'Kelly said,--

“Talk as men will about the ills of life, see how tardily they move out

of it.”

“That comes of not knowing the road before them,” cried Payne.

“Egad! they might remember, though, that it is a well-worn highway by

this time,” chimed in Conway; “and now that poor Dick has gone it, who's

to fill his place?”

“No very hard matter,” said O'Kelly. “Take every tenth fellow you 'll

meet from this to Temple Bar, and you 'll have about the same kind of

intelligence Harvey had. You gave him credit for knowing everything,

whereas his real quality was knowing everybody.”

“For that matter, so does Jack here,” cried Conway.

“And capital company he'd be, too, I've no doubt,” added Payne.

A moment of whispering conversation ensued, and O'Kelly said, half

aloud,--

“I 'll lay five hundred on it!”

“By Jove! I 'll have no hand in it,” said Conway.

“Nor I neither,” chimed in Payne.

“Courageous allies both,” said O'Kelly, laughing. “Happily I need not

such aid,--I 'll do it myself. I only ask you not to betray me.”

[Illustration: 460]

Without heeding the protestations they both poured forth, O'Kelly

stepped forward and whispered in my ear,--

“Will you dine with me to-morrow, Jack?”

I stared at him in silent astonishment, and he went on:

“I have a wager on it; and if I win, you shall have five guineas

for your share; and, to show you my confidence of success, I pay

beforehand.”

He opened his purse as he spoke; but I stopped him suddenly with,--

“No need of that, sir; I accept your invitation. The honor alone is

enough for me.”

“But you must have a coat, Jack, and ruffles, man.”

“I 'll not disgrace you, sir,--at least, so far as appearance goes,”

said I.

He stared at me for a second or two, and then said,--

“By Jove! I was certain of it. Well, seven o'clock is the hour.

Kensington,--every one knows the Bird Cage.”

I touched my cap and bowed. He gravely returned my salute, and walked

on between his friends, whose loud laughter continued to ring out for a

long way down the street.

My first impressions were, I own, the reverse of agreeable, and I felt

heart-sick with shame for having accepted the invitation. The very

burst of laughter told me in what point of view they regarded the

whole incident. I was, doubtless, to be the ignoble instrument of some

practical joke. At first I tortured my ingenuity to think how I could

revenge myself for the indignity; but I suddenly remembered that I had

made myself a willing party to the scheme, whatever it might be. I had

agreed to avail myself of the invitation, and should, therefore, accept

its consequences.

With what harassing doubts did I rack my suffering brain! At one time,

frenzied with the idea of an insult passed upon my wretchedness and

poverty; at another, casuistically arguing myself into the belief that,

whatever the offence to others, to me there could be none intended.

But why revive the memory of a conflict which impressed me with all the

ignominy of my station, and made me feel myself, as it were, selected

for an affront that could not with impunity have been practised towards

another?

I decided not to go, and then just as firmly determined I would

present myself. My last resolve was to keep my promise, to attend the

dinner-party; to accept, as it were in the fullest sense, the equality

tendered to me; and, if I could detect the smallest insult, or even a

liberty taken with me, to claim my right to resent it, by virtue of

the act which admitted me to their society, and made me for the

time then-companion. I am not quite sure that such conduct was very

justifiable. I half suspect that the easier and the better course

would have been to avoid a situation in which there was nothing to be

anticipated but annoyance or difficulty.

My mind once made up, I hastened to prepare for the event, by

immediately ordering a handsome dress-suit. Carefully avoiding what

might be deemed the impertinence of assuming the colors of party, I

selected a claret-colored coat, with steel buttons; a richly-embroidered

waistcoat; and for my cravat one of French cambric, with a deep fall of

Mechlin lace. If I mention matters so trivial, it is because at the time

to which I refer, the modes of dress were made not only to represent the

sections of politics, but to distinguish between those who adhered to

an antiquated school of breeding and manners, and those who now avowed

themselves the disciples of a new teaching. I wished, if possible, to

avoid either extreme, and assumed the colors and the style usually worn

by foreigners in English society. Like them, too, I wore a sword and

buckles; for the latter I went to the extravagance of paying two guineas

for the mere hire.

If you have ever felt in life, good reader, what it was to have awaited

in anxious expectancy for the day of some great examination whose issue

was to have given the tone to all your future destiny, you may form some

notion of the state of mental excitement in which I passed the ensuing

twenty-four hours. It was to no purpose that I said to myself all that

my reason could suggest or my ingenuity fancy; a certain instinct,

stronger than reason, more convincing than ingenuity, told me that this

was about to be an eventful moment of' my life.

The hour at length arrived; the carriage that was to convey me stood at

the door; and as I took a look at myself, full dressed and powdered, in

the glass, I remember that my sensations vibrated between the exulting

vanity and pride of a gallant about to set out for a fête, and the

terrors of a criminal on his way to the block. My head grew more and

more confused as I drove along. At moments I thought that all was a

dream, and I tried to arouse and wake myself; then I fancied that it was

the past was fictitious,--that my poverty, my want, and my hardship were

all imaginary; that my real condition was one of rank and affluence.

I examined the rich lace of my ruffles, the sparkling splendor of my

sword-knot, and said, “Surely these are not the signs of squalid misery

and want.” I called to mind my impressions of the world, my memories of

life and society, and asked, “Can these be the sentiments of a miserable

outcast?” Assuredly, my poor brain was sorely tried to reconcile these

strong contradictions; nor do I yet understand how I obtained

sufficient mastery over my emotions to present myself at the house of my

entertainer.

“What name, sir?” said the obsequious servant, who, with noiseless

footsteps, had preceded me to the drawing-room door.

“What name shall I announce, sir?” said he a second time, as,

overwhelmed with confusion, I still stood speechless before him. Till

that very moment all thought on the subject had escaped me, and I

utterly forgot that I was actually without a designation in the world.

In all my shame and misery it had been a kind of consolation to me that

the name of my father had never been degraded, and that whatever might

have been my portion of worldly hardship, the once-honored appellation

had not shared in it. To assume it at this instant was too perilous.

Another day, one short night, would again reduce me to the same

ignominious station; and I should have thus, by a momentary rashness,

compromised the greatest secret of my heart. A third time did he ask the

same question; and as I stood uncertain and overwhelmed, a quiet foot

was heard ascending the stairs, a handsome, bright-looking man came

forward, the door was flung open at his approach, and the servant called

out, “Mr. Sheridan.” I followed quickly, and the door closed behind us.

Hastily passing from Sheridan, O'Kelly came forward to me and shook

me cordially by the hand. Thanking me politely for my punctuality, he

welcomed me with all the semblance of old friendship.

“Colonel Conway and Payne you are already acquainted with,” said he;

“but your long absence from England excuses you for not knowing my

other friends. This is Mr. Sheridan,”--we bowed,--“Mr. Malcomb, Captain

Seymour, Sir George Begley,” and so on, with two or three more. He made

a rapid tour of the party, holding me by the arm as he went, till he

approached a chair where a young and very handsome man sat, laughing

immoderately at some story another at his side was whispering to him.

“What the devil am I to call you?” said O'Kelley to me in my ear. “Tell

me quickly.”

Before I could stammer out my own sense of confusion, the person seated

in the arm-chair called out,--

“By Jove! O'Kelly must hear that. Tell him, Wynd-ham.” But as suddenly

stopping, he said, “A friend of yours, O'Kelly?”

“Yes, your Royal Highness, a very old and valued friend, whom I have

not seen since our school-days. He has been vagabondizing over the whole

earth, fighting side by side with I know not how many of your Royal

Highness's enemies; and, having made his fortune, has come back to lose

it here amongst us, as the only suitable reparation in his power for all

his past misconduct.”

“With such excellent intentions, he could not have fallen into better

hands than yours, O'Kelly,” said the Prince, laughing; “and I wish all

the fellows we have been subsidizing these ten years no worse than to be

your antagonists at piquet.” Then, addressing me, he said, “An Irishman,

I presume?”

“Yes, your Royal Highness,” said I, bowing deeply.

“He started as an something, or Mac somebody,” said O'Kelly,

interrupting; “but having been Don'd in Spain, 'Strissemoed' in Italy,

and almost guillotined in France for calling himself Monsieur, he has

come back to us without any designation that he dares to call his own.”

“That is exactly what happened to a very well known character in the

reign of Charles I.,” said Conway, “who called himself by the title of

his last conquest in the fair sex, saying, 'When I take a reputation, I

accept all the reproach of the name.'”

“There was another authority,” said Sheridan,--“a fellow who called

himself the King of the Beggars, who styled himself each day after the

man who gave him most, and died inheriting the name of Bamfield Moore

Carew.”

“Carew will do admirably for my friend here, then,” said O'Kelly, “and

we 'll call him so henceforth.”

It may be imagined with what a strange rush of emotion I accepted this

designation, and laughingly joined in the caprice of the hour. I saw

enough to convince me that all around received O'Kelly's story as a mere

piece of jest, and that none had any suspicion of my real condition save

himself and his two friends. This conviction served to set me much at my

ease, and I went down to dinner with far less of constraint than might

have been supposed for one in my situation.

I will not disguise the fact that I thought for the first half-hour

that every eye was on me, that whatever I did or said was the subject

of general remark, and that my manner as I ate, and my tone as I spoke,

were all watched and scrutinized. Gradually, however, I grew to perceive

that I attracted no more notice than others about me, and that, to all

purposes, I was admitted to a perfect equality with the rest.

Conversation ranged freely over a wide field. Politics of every state of

Europe, the leading public characters and statesmen, their opinions and

habits, the modes of life abroad, literature and the drama, were all

discussed, if not always with great knowledge, still with the ready

smartness of practised talkers. Anecdotes and incidents of various

kinds were narrated, quips and sharp replies abounded; and amidst much

cleverness and agreeability, a truly good-humored, convivial spirit

leavened the whole mass, and made up a most pleasant party.

So interested had I become in the conversation about me that I did not

perceive how, by degrees, I had been drawn on to talk on a variety of

subjects which travel had made me familiar with, and to speak of persons

of mark and station whom I had met and known. Still less did I remark

that I was submitted to a species of examination as to my veracity, and

that I was asked for dates, and times, and place, in a manner that might

have startled one more susceptible. Warmed with what I may dare to call

my success, and heated with wine, I grew bolder; I stigmatized as gross

ignorance and folly the policy of the English Government in maintaining

a war for what no success could ever bring back again,--the prestige of

loyalty, and the respect once tendered to nobility.

I know not into what excesses my enthusiasm may have carried me. Enough

when I say that I encountered the most brilliant talkers without fear,

and entered the list with all that the day possessed of conversational

power, without any sense of faint-heartedness. On such questions as the

military system of France, the division of parties in that country,

the probable issue to which the struggle pointed, I was, indeed, better

informed than my neighbors; but when they came to discuss the financial

condition of the French, and what it had been in the late reigns, I at

once recalled all my conversations with Law, with every detail of whose

system I was perfectly familiar.

Of the anecdotes of that time--a most amusing illustration of society

as it then existed--I remembered many; and I had the good fortune to see

that the Prince listened with evident pleasure to my recitals; and, at

last, it was in the very transport of success I found myself ascending

the stairs to the drawing-room, while O'Kelly whispered in my ear,--

“Splendidly done, by Jove! The Prince is going to invite you to Carlton

House.”

After coffee was served, the party sat down to play of various

kinds,--dice, cards, and backgammon. At the Prince's whist-table there

was a vacant place, and I was invited to take it. I had twenty guineas

in gold in my pocket. They were my all in the world; but had they been

as many millions, I would not have scrupled to risk them at such a

moment. There was a strange, almost insane spirit that seemed to

whisper to me that nothing could be too bold to adventure--no flight too

high--no contrast with my real condition too striking to attempt! They

who have braved danger and death to ascend some great glacier, the

whole object the one triumphant moment on which they behold the blaze

of sunrise, may form some conception of the maddening ecstasy of my

sensations.

“Do you play at whist? If so, come and join us,” said the Prince.

“Take my purse,” whispered O'Kelly, endeavoring to slip it into my hand

as he spoke.

I accepted the invitation; and, without taking any notice of O'Kelly's

offer, took my place at the table.

“We play low stakes, too low, perhaps, for you,” said his Royal

Highness,--“mere guinea points; but there's Canthorpe, and Sedley, and

two or three more, will indulge you in any wager you fancy.”

“Fifty on the rubber, if you like, sir,” said Colonel Canthorpe, a tall,

soldier-like man, who stood with his back to the fire.

“If my friend O'Kelly will be my banker for to-night, I shall take your

offer.”

Without the slightest hesitation, O'Kelly replied, “To be sure, my boy!”

and the game began.

My mastery at the game was soon apparent; and the Prince complimented me

by saying,--

“I wish we could discover in what you are deficient; for up to this we

have certainly not hit upon it.”

It needed not all this flattery to make me feel almost mad with

excitement. I remember little of that scene; but still there is one

trait of it fast graven on my memory, to hold its place there forever.

It was this: that while I betted largely, and lost freely considerable

sums, O'Kelly, who had become the security for my debts, never

winced for a moment, nor showed the slightest mark of discomfiture or

uneasiness. My demand, in the first instance, was suggested by the not

over generous motive of making him pay the penalty he had incurred by

having invited me. He has called me his friend before the world, thought

I, and if he means this for a cruel jest, it shall at least cost him

dearly. In a sort of savage ferocity, I fed myself with thinking of the

tortures with which I should afflict him, in return for all the agony

and suffering I had myself gone through. He also shall know what it is

to act a lie, said I to myself; and with this hateful resolve I sat down

to play. His ready acceptance of my proposition, his gentleman-like

ease and calm, his actual indifference as I lost, and lost heavily, soon

staggered all my reasonings, and routed all my theory. And when at last

the Prince, complimenting me on my skill, deplored the ill-luck that

more than balanced it, O'Kelly said, gayly,--

“Depend on 't, you'll have better fortune after supper. Come and have a

glass of champagne.”

I was now impatient until we were again at the card-table.

All my former intentions were reversed, and I would have given my right

hand to have been able to repay my debt to him ere I said “Good night.”

Perhaps he read what was passing within me; I almost suspect that

he construed aright the restless anxiety that now beset me; for he

whispered, as we went back to the drawing-room,--

“You are evidently out of luck. Wait for your revenge on another

evening.”

“Now or never,” said I. And so was it in reality. I had secretly

determined within myself to try and win back O'Kelly's losses, and if

I failed, at once to stand forward and declare myself in my real

character. No false shame, no real dread of the ignominy to which I

should expose myself should prevent me; and with an oath to my own heart

I ratified this compact.

Again we took our places; the stakes were now doubled; and all the

excitement of mind was added to the gambler's infatuation. Colonel

Canthorpe, who had been for some minutes occupied with his note-book,

at last tore out the leaf he had been writing on, and handed it to me,

saying,--

“Is that correct?”

The figures were six hundred and fifty,--the amount of my loss.

I simply nodded an assent, and said,--

“We go on, I suppose?”

“We 'll double, if you prefer it,” said he.

“What says my banker?” said I.

“He says, 'Credit unlimited,'” cried O'Kelly, gayly.

“Egad! I wish mine would say as much,” said the Prince, laughing, as he

cut the cards for me to deal.

Although I had drunk freely, and talked excitingly, my head became

suddenly calm and collected, just as if some great emergency had

sufficed to dispel all illusions, and enabled my faculties to assume

their full exercise. Of O'Kelly I saw nothing more; he was occupied in

an adjoining room; and even this element of anxiety was spared me.

I will not ask my reader to follow me through the vicissitudes of play,

nor expect from him any share of interest in a passion which of all

others is the most bereft of good, and allied with the very lowest of

all motives, and the meanest of all ambitions. Enough that I tell the

result. After a long course of defeats and disasters, I rose, not only

clear of all my debts, but a winner of two hundred pounds.

The Prince heartily congratulated me on my good fortune, saying that

none could better deserve it. He complimented me much on my play, but

still more on my admirable temper as a loser,--a quality which, he

added, he never could lay claim to.

“I'm a bad beaten man, but you are the very reverse,” said he. “Dine

with me on Saturday, and I hope to see how you'll comport yourself as a

winner.”

I had but time to bow my humble acknowledgment of this gracious speech,

when O'Kelly came up, saying,--

“So Canthorpe tells me you beat him, after all; but I always knew how it

would end,--play must and will tell in the long run.”

“Non numen habes si sit Prudentia,--eh, O'Kelly?” said Conway.

“Prudentia means the ace of trumps, then,” said Sheridan.

“Where shall I send you my debt?” said Canthorpe to me, in a whisper.

“What's your club?”

“He's only just arrived in town,” interrupted O'Kelly; “but I intend to

put him up for Brooke's on Wednesday, and will ask you to second him.

You 're on the committee, I think?”

“Yes; and I 'll do it with great pleasure,” said Canthorpe.

“I'll settle your score for you,” said O'Kelly to Canthorpe; and now,

with much handshaking and cordiality, the party broke up.

“Don't go for a moment,” said O'Kelly to me, as he passed to accompany

the Prince downstairs. I sat down before the fire in the now deserted

room, and, burying my head between my hands, I endeavored to bring my

thoughts to something like order and discipline. It was to no use; the

whirlwind of emotions I had endured still raged within me, and I could

not satisfy myself which of all my characters was the real one. Was

I the outcast, destitute and miserable? or was I the friend of the

high-born, and the associate of a Prince? Where was this to end? Should

I awake to misery on the morrow, or was madness itself to be the issue

to this strange dream? Heaven forgive me if I almost wished it might be

so, and if in my abject terror I would have chosen the half-unconscious

existence of insanity to the sense of shame and self-upbraiding my

future seemed to menace!

While I sat thus, O'Kelly entered, and, having locked the door after

him, took his place beside me. I was not aware of his presence till he

said,--

“Well, Jack, I intended to mystify others; but, by Jove! it has ended in

mystifying myself. Who the devil are you? What are you?”

“If I don't mistake me, you are the man to answer that question

yourself. You presented me not alone to your friends, but to your

Prince; and it is but fair to infer that you knew what you were about.”

He stared at me steadily without speaking. I saw the state of confusion

and embarrassment from which he suffered, and I actually revelled in the

difficulty in which I had placed him. I perceived all the advantage of

my position, and resolved to profit by it.

“One thing is quite evident,” said I, calmly and collectedly, like a man

who weighed all his words, and spoke with deep deliberation,--“one

thing is quite evident, you could scarcely have presumed to take such

a liberty with your Prince as to present to him, and place at the same

table with him, a man whom you picked up from the streets,--one whose

very station marked him for an outcast, whose exterior showed his

destitution. This, I conclude, you could not have dared to do; and yet

it is in the direct conviction that such was my position yesterday, I

sit here now, trying to reconcile such inconsistency, and asking myself

which of us two is in the wrong.”

“My good friend,” said O'Kelly, with a deliberation fully the equal of

my own, and in a way that, I must confess, somewhat abashed me,--“my

good friend, do not embarrass yourself by any anxieties for me. I

am quite able and ready to account for my actions to any who deem

themselves eligible to question them.”

“From which number,” said I, interrupting, “you would, of course, infer

that I am to be excluded?”

“By no means,” said he, “if you can satisfy me to the contrary. I shall

hold myself as responsible to you as to any one of those gentlemen who

have just left us, if you will merely show me sufficient cause.”

“As how, for instance?” asked I.

“Simply by declaring yourself the rightful possessor of a station and

rank in life for which your habits and manners plainly show you to be

fitted. Let me be convinced that you have not derogated from this by any

act unworthy of a man of honor--”

“Stop, sir,” said I. “By what right do you dare to put me on my trial?

Of your own free will you presumed to ask for my companionship. You

extended to me an equality which, if not sincere, was an insult.”

“Egad! if you be really a gentleman, your reasons are all good ones,”

said O'Kelly. “I own, too, frankly, I intended my freak as the subject

of a wager. If I be caught in my own toils, I must only pay the

penalty.”

“And give me satisfaction?”

“That is what I mean,” replied he, bowing.

“Then you have done it already,” said I, rising. “I ask for no more than

the frank and manly readiness with which you acknowledge that poverty is

no disqualification to the assertion of an honorable pride, and that the

feeling of a gentleman may still throb in the heart of a ragged man.”

“You are surely not going to leave me this way,” said he, catching my

hand in both his own. “You'll tell me who you are,--you 'll let me know

at least something of you.”

“Not now, at all events,” said I. “I'm not in a mood to encounter more

at present. Good night. Before I leave you, however, I owe it, as some

return for your hospitality, to say that I shall not hazard your credit

with your Prince,--I do not mean to accept his invitation. You must

find the fitting apology, for I shall leave England to-morrow, in all

likelihood for years,--at all events, for a period long enough to make

this incident forgotten. Good-bye.”

“By Jove! I 'll never forgive myself if we part in this fashion,”

said O'Kelly. “Do--as a proof of some regard, or at least of some

consideration for me--do tell me your real name.”

“Carew,” said I, calmly.

“No, no; that was but a jest. I ask in all earnestness and sincerity;

tell me your name.”

“Jasper Carew,” said I, again; and before he could collect himself to

reply, I had reached the door, and, with a last “good-night,” I passed

out, and left him.

I could not bring myself to return to my miserable lodging again. I felt

as if a new phase of life had opened on me, and that it would be an act

of meanness to revert to the scenes of my former obscurity. I entered a

hotel, and ordered a room. My appearance and dress at once exacted every

respect and attention. A handsome chamber was immediately prepared for

me; and just as day was breaking, I fell off into a deep sleep which

lasted till late in the afternoon.

CHAPTER XL. AT SEA

I cannot attempt to describe my feelings on awaking, nor the lamentable

failure of all my efforts at recalling the events of the night before.

That many real occurrences seemed to me the mere effects of wine and a

heated imagination, and that some of the very wildest freaks of my fancy

were assumed by me as facts, I can now readily believe. In truth, my

head was in a state of the wildest credulity and the very narrowest

distrust, and my only astonishment now is, how I resisted impulses

plainly suggested by coming insanity.

At one time I thought of calling O'Kelly out; then my indignation was

directed against some other of the company, for either a real or a

fancied grievance. Perhaps they had all been in the league against

me, and that I had been invited merely to make a sport of my absurd

pretensions, and to afford laughter by my vanity. Then it occurred to me

that it was the Prince himself who was insulted by my companionship, and

that they who had dared to make me the means of such an outrage should

be held accountable.

Lastly came the thought, Is the whole a dream? Have I been drugged to

play some absurd and ridiculous part, and shall I be exposed to ridicule

when I appear abroad again? This impression was strengthened by the

appearance of my dress, so unlike anything I had ever worn before. Of

the incidents of the card-table I could remember next to nothing. A

few trivial facts of the game, an accidental event in the play itself,

remained in my memory, but that was all. I fancied I had been a heavy

loser; but how, when, or to whom, I knew not. I opened my pocket-book,

and found four notes for fifty pounds each; but how they came there I

could not conceive! And yet, said I, all this took place yesterday! and

what was I before that?--where did I live, and with whom associate? My

head began to turn, the strangest thoughts chased each other through my

brain. Incidents of the street, collisions and accidents of all kinds,

were mingled with events of the previous evening; want and squalor stood

side by side with splendor, and the bland accents of royalty blended

themselves with the brutal exclamations of my former fellows. Then there

flashed across me the thought that the drama in which I had been made

to perform was not yet played out. They mean me to figure further on the

boards, said I to myself; the money has been supplied to me to tempt

me into extravagance which shall make me even more ridiculous still. My

every action watched, my words listened to, my gestures noted down, I

am to be the butt of their sarcastic pleasure, and all my pretensions to

the' habits, the feelings, and the manners of a gentleman be held up as

a subject for mockery and derision.

I half dreaded to ring the bell and summon the waiter, lest I should be

exposing myself to a spy on my actions. When I approached the window to

look out, I fancied that every accidental glance of a passer-by was the

prying gaze of insolent curiosity. It was in a state of fever that I

dressed myself; and even then my costume of full dinner dress made

me feel ashamed to venture abroad. At last I took courage to order

breakfast. The respectful demeanor of the waiter gave me further

confidence, and I ventured to ask him a few questions on passing events.

I learned that the hotel was one usually frequented by foreigners, for

whose accommodation two or three Continental newspapers were taken. At

my request he fetched me one of these,--“La Gazette de Paris;” and with

this for my companion, I sat myself down at my fire, resolved to remain

a close prisoner for at least a day or two.

Towards evening I sent for a tailor and ordered two suits of clothes,

with linen, and, in fact, all that I stood in need of; and when night

set in, I issued forth to make several small purchases of articles I

wanted. It was late when I entered the hotel, and, not having eaten any

dinner, I felt hungry. The waiter showed me into the coffee-room, which

was arrayed in foreign fashion, and where they supped _à la carte_.

The general appearance of the company at once proclaimed their origin;

and a less practised eye than mine even, might have seen that they

were all natives of some Continental country. They talked loudly and

gesticulated wildly, careless to all seeming of being overheard

by strangers, and little regarding in whose presence they might be

standing. Their bearing was, in fact, such as speedily set me at ease

amongst them, and made me feel myself unnoticed and unremarked.

Seated at a small table by myself, I ordered my supper, and half

carelessly watched the others while it was being prepared. Whatever they

might have been by birth or station, they seemed now all in the very

narrowest circumstances. Threadbare coats and broken boots, worn hats

and gloveless hands, bespoke their condition; nor could all the swagger

of manner, or pretentious display of a ribbon or a cross, cover over the

evidences of real poverty that oppressed them.

Had I noticed these signs earlier, I should certainly have restricted

myself to a meal more befitting the place and its occupants. The humble

suppers I saw around me of bread and cheese now shocked me at what might

well appear display on my part; and had there been time to correct my

error, I should gladly have done so. It was, however, too late. Already

had the landlord carried in a silver tureen of soup, and set it before

me; and the tall neck of a champagne bottle rose amidst the mimic

icebergs at my side.

The others took no pains to hide their astonishment at all this; they

stood in knots and groups about, with eyes directed full upon me, and

as evidently made me the subject of their remarks. I could perceive that

the landlord was far from being at his ease, and that all his endeavors

were employed either to conceal from me these demonstrations, or to give

them some harmless interpretation.

“You have travelled, sir, and know well what foreigners are,” said he,

in a whisper; “and although all these are gentlemen by birth, from one

misfortune or other they are a bit down in the world now, and they look

with jealousy at any one better off than themselves.”

“Foreigners are usually better bred than to exhibit such feelings,” said

I.

“Nor would they, perhaps, sir, if at home and in prosperity; but so

many are ruined now by wars and revolutions--so many banished and

exiled--that one ought to make large allowances for their tempers. That

old man yonder, for instance, was a duke somewhere in Brittany; and the

thin, tall one, that is gesticulating with his stick, served as colonel

in the bodyguard of the King of France. And there, next the fire,--you

see he has taken off a kind of smock-frock and is drying it at the

blaze,--that is a Pomeranian count who owned a principality once, they

tell me.”

“He looks very poor now; what means of support has he?”

“None, I believe, sir; he was bred to nothing, and can neither teach

drawing, nor music, nor the sword-exercise, like Frenchmen or Italians;

and the consequence is, that he actually--you 'll not believe it, but it

is true, notwithstanding--he actually sweeps a crossing at Cheapside for

his living.”

I started, as he said this, as if I had been stung by a reptile. For a

moment I was convinced that the speech was a designed insult. I thought

that the very expression of his eyes as he turned them on me was

malignant. It was all I could do not to resent the insolence; but I

restrained myself and was silent.

“Heaven knows,” continued he, “if he have eaten once to-day.”

“Do you think,” said I, “it would be possible to induce him to join me

at supper,--I mean, could it be managed without offence?”

“Egad! I should say so, sir, and easily enough, too. These poor fellows

have gone through too much to carry any excess of pride about with

them.”

“Would you undertake the office, then?” asked I.

“With pleasure, sir;” and, as he spoke, he crossed the room, and,

standing over the old man's chair, whispered in his ear. I soon

perceived, by the manner of each, that the negotiation was not as simple

as he had fancied it. Remark, reply, and rejoinder seemed to follow

each other quickly; and I could almost detect something like an insolent

rejection of the landlord's suit in the old man's manner. Indeed, I had

not long to remain in doubt on the subject; for, rising from his seat,

the Count addressed some hurried words to those about him, to which they

replied by expressions of anger and astonishment. In vain the landlord

interposed, and tried to calm down their impatience; they grew more

and more excited, and I could detect expressions of insulting meaning

through what they uttered.

“What is the matter?” asked I of the landlord; but ere he could reply, a

tall, dark man, with the marked physiognomy of a Pole, came up to me and

said,--

“The Graf von Bildstein has received a grave provocation at your hands:

are you prepared to justify it?”

“I must first of all learn how I may have offended him,” said I, calmly.

“We all of us heard it,” said he, impatiently; “you insulted every man

in this room through him. Either, then, you leave it at once [and he

pointed insolently to the door], or you give him satisfaction.”

The only reply I made to this speech was a haughty laugh, as I filled my

glass with champagne. I had but done so when, with a blow of his cane,

he swept my bottle and the glasses from the table; and then, stepping

back and drawing a sword from the stick, threw himself into an attitude

of defence. I drew my sword and rushed in on him. Either that he was

not a skilful fencer, or unprepared for the suddenness of my attack, he

defended himself badly; his guards were all wide, and his eyes unsteady.

I felt my advantage in a moment, and, after a couple of passes, ran

my point through his side, just close to the ribs. A loud cry from the

bystanders, as the blood gushed forth, now stopped the encounter, and

they speedily dashed forward to catch him as he reeled and fell.

“Away with you, for Heaven's sake, or you are a murdered man,” cried the

landlord to me, while he pushed me violently from the room and out into

the street, barring and bolting the door within, at the same instant.

The terrible clamor inside, and the efforts to force a passage, now

warned me of my danger, and I fled at the very top of my speed, not

knowing nor caring whither. I had gone considerably above a mile ere

I ventured to halt and draw breath. I was in a part of the city with

narrow streets and tall warehouses, dark, gloomy, and solitary; a small,

mean-looking alley led me down to the river's side, from which I could

perceive the Tower quite close, and a crowd of shipping in the stream.

A small schooner, with a foresail alone set, was just getting under way,

and as she slowly moved along, boats came and went from the shore to

her.

“Want to go aboard, sir?” asked a waterman, who observed me as I stood

watching the movement of the craft. I nodded, and the next moment we

were alongside. I asked for the skipper, and heard that he was to join

us at Gravesend. The mate politely said I might go below; and, accepting

the permission, I descended to the cabin, and lay down on a bench. A boy

was cleaning plates and glasses in a little nook at one side, and from

him I learned that the schooner was the “Martha,” of Hull, bound for

Cherbourg; her captain was her owner, and usually traded between the

English coast and the Channel Islands. At all events, thought I, I am

safe out of England; and with that reflection I turned on my side and

went off to sleep.

Just as day broke, the skipper came on board, and I could perceive, by

the gushing noise beside my ear, that we were going fast through the

water. The craft lay over, too, and seemed as if under a press of

canvas. It was not for full an hour afterwards that the skipper

descended to the cabin, and, shaking me roughly by the shoulder, asked

how I came there.

I had gone asleep concocting a story to account for my presence; and so

I told him in a few words that I had just been engaged in a duel wherein

I had wounded my antagonist; that as the event had occurred suddenly,

I had no time for any preparation, but just threw myself on board the

first craft about to sail, ready and willing to pay liberally for the

succor it afforded me.

Either he disbelieved my narrative, or fancied that it might involve

himself in some trouble, for he doggedly said I had no right to come

aboard of her without his leave, and that he should certainly put in at

Ramsgate and hand me over to the authorities.

“Be it so,” said I, with an affected indifference. “The greater fool you

not to earn fifty guineas for a kind office than go out of your way to

do a churlish one.”

He left me at this to go up on deck, and came down again about half an

hour later. I heard enough to convince me that the wind was freshening,

and that a heavy sea, too, was getting up, so that in all likelihood he

would hesitate ere he 'd try to put in at Ramsgate. He did not speak to

me this time, but sat with folded arms watching me as I lay pretending

to be asleep. At length he said,--

“I say, friend, you 've got no passport, I suppose? How do you mean to

land in France? or, if there, how do you propose to travel?”

“These are matters I don't mean to trouble you about, Captain,” said I,

haughtily; and though I said the words boldly enough, it was exactly the

very puzzle that was then working in my brain.

“Ay, sir; but they are exactly matters that concern me; for you are not

on the schooner's manifest,--you are not one of her crew,--and I don't

mean to get into trouble on your behalf.”

“Put me ashore at night, or leave me to reach it in any way,” said I,

half angrily; for I was well-nigh out of patience at these everlasting

difficulties.

He made no reply to this speech, but starting suddenly up, like a man

who had hastily made up his mind on some particular course, he went

up on deck. I overheard orders given, and immediately after a stir and

bustle among the sailors, and in my anxiety at once connected myself

with these movements. What project had they regarding me? In what way

did they mean to treat me?--were the questions that rose to my mind. The

heavy working of the craft showed me that her course had been altered,

and I began to dread lest we should be turning again towards England.

From these thoughts my mind wandered back and back, reviewing the chief

events of my life, and wondering whether I were ever destined to reach

one spot that I could rest in, and where my weary spirit might find

peace. To be the sport of Fortune in her most wilful of moods seemed,

indeed, my lot; and to go on through life unattached to my fellows,

appeared my fate. I remember once to have read in some French author

that the attachment we feel to home, the sacred names of son and

brother, are not more than the instincts of habit; that natural

affection, as it is called, has no real existence; and that it is the

mere force of repetition that forms the tie by which we love those whom

we call father or mother. It is a cold and a cheerless theory, and yet

now it struck me with a certain melancholy satisfaction to think that,

save in the name of parentage, I was not worse off than others.

The hours glided on unnoticed as I lay thus dreaming, and night at last

fell, dark and starless. I had almost attained to a kind of careless

indifference as to my future, when the mate, coming up to me, said,--

“Wake up, master; we 're going to put you ashore here.”

I made no answer: half in recklessness, half in pride, I was silent.

“You 'd better throw my boat-cloak over you. It's blowing fresh, and a

heavy sea running,” said he, in a kindly voice.

“Thanks,” said I, declining; “but I 'm little used to care for my

comforts. Can I see the skipper?”

“He told me that he preferred not to see you,” said the mate,

hesitatingly, “and bade me arrange for putting you ashore myself.”

“It is a question of money--not of politeness--with me,” said I,

producing my purse. “Tell me what I owe him.”

“Not a farthing, sir. He 'd not touch a piece of money that belonged to

you. He only wants you to go your way, and part company with him.”

“Why--what does he take me for? What means this dread of me?”

The man looked confusedly up and down, to either hand, and was silent.

At last he said,--

“Come; all this is lost time. We 're close in now. Are you ready, sir?”

“Quite ready,” said I, rising, and following him.

The boat's crew was already mustered, and, springing into the boat,

she was lowered at once; and before I well knew of it, we were plunging

through a heavy sea, by the force of four strong oars.

Through the darkness and the showering spray we went,--now rising on

the crest of some swelling wave, now diving down between the foaming

cataracts. I never asked whither we were bound. I scarcely wished for

land. There was something so exciting in the sense of peril about, that

I only desired it might continue. Such a relief is physical danger to

the slow and cankering disease of a despairing heart!

CHAPTER XLI. LYS

A long, low line of coast loomed through the darkness, and towards this

we now rowed through a heavy, breaking surf. More than once did they lie

on their oars to consult as to the best landing-place, and again resume

their labor as before. At last, seeing that neither creek nor inlet

presented itself, they made straight for the shore, and when within

about thirty paces of the strand, they dropped anchor and suffered the

boat to drift into shallow water.

“There now, master,” said the steersman to me, “you'll have to wet your

feet, for we can't venture further in. Jump over, and you'll soon touch

land again.”

I obeyed without a word, and ere I reached the shore the boat was

already on her way back to the schooner. As I stood gazing on the dark

expanse of sea before me, and then turned to the gloomy outline of the

land, I felt a sense of desolation no words can render. I had not the

very vaguest notion where I was. So far as I could see, there were no

traces of habitation near; and as I wandered inland, the same unbroken

succession of sand hummocks surrounded me. How strange is it that in

this old Europe of ours, so time-worn by civilization, so crossed and

recrossed by man's labors, how many spots there are which, in this wild

solitude, might well be supposed to form parts of Africa or distant

America! The day broke to find me still wandering along these dreary

sand-hills; but to my great delight two church towers about a league off

showed me that a village was near; and thither I now proceeded to bend

my steps.

After walking about a mile I reached a high road which evidently led to

the village; and now it became necessary to bethink me what account I

should give of myself, and how explain my appearance when questioned, as

I inevitably should be, by the authorities.

My drenched and shrunk-up clothes and my way-worn look might well have

warranted the story of a shipwreck, and for some minutes I had almost

resolved to give that version of my calamity; but I was so weary of the

vicissitudes a false representation involved, so actually tired out by

the labor of sustaining a part that was not my own, that I determined to

take no heed of what was to follow, and leave myself to the chances of

destiny, without a struggle against them.

Fortune, thought I, has never been over kind to me when I did my best to

woo her; let me see if a little indifference on my part may not render

her more graciously disposed. From some peasants on their way to market

I learned that the village was called Lys, and was on the high road to

Montreuil. At all events, then, I was in France, which was almost as

much my country as England, and with even so much did I rally my spirits

and encourage my hopes. The country-people, with their pack-mules,

stared at my strange appearance, and evidently wondered what manner of

man I might be, for I still wore my full-dress suit; and my lace ruffles

and sabot, however discolored, showed undeniable signs of condition.

Many, however, saluted me respectfully, and touched their hats as to

one of rank above their own, and not one displayed anything approaching

levity or a jest at my singular exterior. It might possibly have been

the secluded character of the spot itself, or that the recent peace with

England had brought about the change; but whatever the cause, neither

police nor gendarmerie questioned me as to my passport, and I strolled

into the first café that presented itself, to take my breakfast, without

hindrance or impediment.

While I enjoyed my meal, I amused myself with the newspapers, at that

time filled with descriptions of festivities and court receptions, at

which the English were the honored guests. Instead of the accustomed

allusions to insular eccentricity, awkwardness, and boorish unsociality,

there were nothing but praises of English frankness and cordial

simplicity. I saw that the Government, for doubtless good reasons of its

own, had given the initiative to this new estimation of my countrymen;

and resolved, if possible, to reap the benefit of it, I repaired to the

Mairie and asked to see the “Maire.” In a few words, I told him that I

had laid a heavy wager to travel up to Paris and back to England without

a passport; that I had made this foolish bet at a dinner-party, which

I quitted to accomplish my undertaking. My intention had been to have

landed at Havre; but, by ill-luck, we were driven on shore to the

north'ard, and narrowly escaped shipwreck; from which having saved

myself, I reached Lys, destitute of everything save a small sum of money

I carried about me. I told this story with the air of one who really

felt that any impediment to so harmless a project must be impossible,

and with such success that the Maire invited me into his drawing-room to

repeat my tale to his family, as an excellent illustration of the length

to which English eccentricity could go.

My manners, the facility with which I spoke French, my calm assurance of

not requiring any other aid or assistance than the friendly offices of

the authorities, so gained his favor that he promised to think over the

matter, and give me his opinion in the morning. I asked for no more.

I was not impatient to get forward; and at that moment the little

grass-grown streets and alleys of Lys were as pleasing to me as the most

fashionable thoroughfares of a great city.

He did not send for me, as he promised, on the following morning. A

second day and a third passed over with the same results; and still I

remained loitering about the village and making acquaintance with every

notable monument, from its quaint old church to the little obelisk in

the marketplace, commemorating the birthplace of its great citizen, the

architect Mansard.

I had by this time formed two or three slight acquaintanceships with

the townsfolk, who, although living on a high road much traversed by

travellers, were a simple-minded and maritime set of people. The little

routine of this quaint old spot also pleased me; and I persuaded myself

that I should ask nothing better from fortune than to be able to pass my

life and end my days in Lys. Vast numbers of English poured daily into

France at this time; and it was one of my chief amusements to sit at

the little café in front of the “poste,” and watch them as they changed

horses. I do not suppose that even yet our countrymen escape from what

would appear to be the almost inevitable blunders of foreign travel;

but at the time I speak of, these mistakes and misapprehensions were

far greater. The Continent and its languages were alike new to them.

National peculiarities were all more marked, and John Bull himself less

compliant and more exacting than he now is.

As the temper and tone of the day were, however, favorable to England,

and as Englishmen were remarkable for the liberality of their payments

for all services rendered them, the nation was popular, and whatever

errors or awkwardness they committed were speedily forgotten or

forgiven. I was seated, as was my custom, one morning, watching the

tide of travellers that rolled by unceasingly, when a large travelling

carriage, with eight horses and a mounted courier in front, drew up

at the “poste.” While the horses were being harnessed, two gentlemen

descended, and, crossing the “Place,” entered the café. One was a

large, full, and somewhat handsome man, with that florid look and air so

characteristic of an English country squire; the other I had not time to

remark ere he came up to me and said,--

“Happy to meet you again, Mr. Carew; I trust you don't forget me.'”

It was Colonel Canthorpe, whom I had met at O'Kelly's dinner-table.

“This chance meeting is a piece of good fortune,” continued he,

“since it enables me to pay a debt I owe you. On looking over my

memorandum-book, I discovered I had lost three hundred, and not two, to

you. Am I correct?”

I professed, with truth, that I had no recollection of the matter, nor

had anything to guide me to its memory.

“I'm quite positive that I'm right, however,” said he, “and you must

allow me to acquit myself of the obligation. Who is your banker at

Paris?”

I had to say that so many years had passed over since I was there, I

really had not thought of selecting one.

“But you are going on thither?” asked he.

“Yes, in a day or two; that is, as soon as I have arranged a difficulty

about my passport.”

“If that's the only thing that detains you,” said he, “pray accept of

mine. In travelling with my friend Mr. Fox, I need none.”

I turned at the sound of the name, and at once recognized, by the

resemblance to the prints, the bluff and manly features of the great

leader of the Opposition.

“This is our famous whist-player, Fox, Mr. Carew,” said Canthorpe,

presenting me; and the other rose and received me most courteously,

adding some little compliments on my reputed skill at the game.

While we were yet talking, their breakfast made its appearance, and I

was invited to partake of the meal,--a politeness which I accepted of

readily, while I congratulated myself by thinking that up to this time

at least O'Kelly had not divulged the secret of my former station.

The conversation turned principally on France and its relations with

England; and I was surprised to find the great parliamentary leader so

little acquainted with either the character of the people or of those

who ruled them. He seemed willing to accept all the present civil

overtures as guarantees of lasting and cordial friendship, and to regard

as antiquated and unworthy prejudices those expressions of distrust

to which, in my more intimate knowledge of France, I occasionally gave

utterance.

“Mr. Carew's whist experiences, I perceive',” said he, “are not his

guides in politics. He will not trust his partner.”

“There is this difference,” said I, “that in whist you sit opposite to

your ally: in politics, as in war, your vis-à-vis is your enemy.”

“For my part,” said he, good-humoredly, “I think, having fought against

each other--bravely fought, as France and England have--is one of the

very best elements towards a lasting peace. Each must by this time have

attained to a proper estimate of the other; and from that source alone

a degree of respect springs up, fit to become the foundation of true

friendship.”

“Your theory excludes all notion of a rivalry, sir.”

“Rivalry can exist only between small states or individuals. Great

countries have great ambitions, and these are usually above mere

rivalries.”

I have quoted, word for word, the expressions he made use of, less for

any importance of their own than for the sake of the man who spoke them.

They were, as I afterwards came to know, specimens of that careless

habit of talking in which he constantly indulged, and in which an

indolent goodnature rather swayed him than the use of those fine

faculties of judgment he so eminently possessed. My more intimate

acquaintance with France and its language gave me certain advantages

in our discussion which he soon perceived, and he questioned me closely

about the people and their natural tendencies.

Colonel Canthorpe came twice to announce that the horses were ready,

and yet still Mr. Fox stood, inquiring eagerly into points of which he

confessed himself quite uninformed.

“How glad I should be,” said he, “to have an opportunity of continuing

this conversation. Is there any chance of our meeting at Paris?”

I owned that the expression of his wish on the subject quite decided me

to go there.

“On what day, then, may I expect you? Shall we say Saturday, and at

dinner?”

“Most willingly,” said I, “if I can accomplish it.”

“As to the passport, nothing easier,” said Canthorpe. “This is mine--it

is perfectly regular--requires no _visé_; and once in Paris, my friend

here will obtain one for you in your own name.”

“Just so,” said Fox, shaking my hand cordially; and repeating

“Saturday--Quillac's Hotel,” away he went, leaving me almost incredulous

of all I had seen and been saying.

CHAPTER XLII. THE COMING SHADOW

I arrived in Paris a few days after, and took up my abode at the Hôtel

Quillac, then one of the most splendid in the capital. Mr. Fox and

Colonel Canthorpe received me most courteously, willingly accepting my

guidance in their visits to the various objects of interest that this

glorious city contains. Such a knowledge of the language as I possessed

was a rarer gift at that time than it now is, when education and foreign

travel are so widely enjoyed; and I could plainly see that they regarded

their chance acquaintanceship with me as quite a piece of good fortune.

This did not, however, prevent their feeling--as I could perceive they

felt--a most lively curiosity as to what might have been my former life,

where it had been passed, and how. Too well bred to suffer this anxiety

of theirs to appear, except by a mere accident, yet it was evident to

me, by a hundred little circumstances, how it formed a constant subject

of conversation between them.

I am far from implying that their intercourse with me was marked by

anything like distrust or suspicion; on the contrary, they talked freely

in my presence on every subject, and upon politics Mr. Fox especially

spoke with a degree of openness that, had he been less distinguished, I

should have presumed to call indiscreet. He made almost daily visits at

the Tuileries, and never hesitated, on his return, to recount to us what

had passed between the First Consul and himself.

The manly character of the English statesman contributed to give the

interviews many very interesting traits, to which also his imperfect

knowledge of French lent several amusing features. Were I not afraid

of repeating well-known anecdotes, I should avail myself of this

opportunity to recall some instances of these. At all events, I am happy

to have the occasion of saying that the veriest Tory that ever inveighed

against France never had a more thoroughly English heart and spirit than

Charles Fox. I have seen it imputed to him that in his partisanship

he would willingly have accepted a dishonorable peace, and made common

cause with the First Consul on any terms; and I affirm that I am in a

position to refute this foul charge, and prove it a calumny.

Neither, as was asserted at the time, did the unquestionable fascination

of Bonaparte's manner gain a complete ascendancy over the Englishman's

less-cultivated tact. It is true he came back--as who would not?--from

these meetings amazed at the extensive knowledge, the vast acquirements,

and the profound sagacity of that great man; nor did he hesitate to own

that even these were thrown into the shade by the charms of his manner

and the captivation of an address which I believe at that period had

reached its very point of perfection.

An attack of gout confined Mr. Fox for some time to his room, and thus

interfered with the progress of an intimacy that might be fairly called

friendship. Who can say now how far the highest interests of mankind,

the fortunes of the whole world, may not have been influenced by that

casual indisposition! It is certain that Fox had already been able to

disabuse Bonaparte's mind with regard to a variety of things in which

he judged erroneously. He had succeeded in setting him right on several

points of our national spirit and the spirit of our constitution. He had

even done much towards convincing him that England was not inspired with

an insane hatred to France, and would willingly live at peace with her,

only asking that a peace should have guarantees for its duration, and

not be, as it but too often is, but the interval of preparation for war.

I say then again what a change might there have been to the destinies of

mankind, had this intercourse gone on uninterruptedly! How differently

might Bonaparte have learned to regard and consider Englishmen, and

what allowances might he not have come to make for peculiarities purely

national!

How naturally might a great intelligence like his have seen that the

alliance of two such nations is the guarantee of civilization throughout

the globe, and that all our smaller rivalries and national jealousies

sink to insignificance when viewed in presence of the great perils to

which disunion exposes us,--perils that, at the hour in which I write

these lines, are neither vague nor visionary, and against which an

honest and cordial alliance can alone prevail. Let it be taken as

the tremulous terror of an old man's mind if I add, that even banded

together, and with all their energies to the task, they will not be more

than enough for the work that is before them.

I have spoken of the friendly reception I met with from Mr. Fox. I dined

constantly with him and Colonel Canthorpe alone, and accompanied them

frequently on their evening visits amongst their acquaintances. I joined

in everything, even to the high play which they both were passionately

devoted to, and lost and won without any decisive results. Meanwhile

my resources ran lower and lower. The style of living I maintained was

costly; and at the end of some weeks I saw myself with barely sufficient

to carry me through another fortnight. To this very hour I cannot

explain to myself the calm indifference with which I contemplated my

approaching and inevitable ruin. I really know nothing of the flatteries

by which I may have beguiled my own heart, and am left to the conclusion

that the intoxicating pleasures of the time had rendered me insensible

to every thought for the future. I went further, too, than might be

supposed possible. I accepted invitations to shoot in Scotland, and pass

my Christmas at Canthorpe's seat in Cumberland, promising everything

with the ease of one free to dispose of himself as he fancied.

Meanwhile time went on. I had asked Mr. Fox and Canthorpe to dine

with me at the Fleur-de-Pois, outside the barrier. It was a celebrated

restaurant of those times, as distinguished for the excellence of its

wine as the perfection of its cookery. I had often given myself the

airs of connoisseurship in these matters, and I was resolved that my

entertainment should not disparage my taste.

More than one morning had I passed in council over the bill of fare,

discussing the order of the courses, canvassing the appropriate sauces,

and tasting the various wines. It was to be a “Diner à soixante francs

par tête;” the reader may imagine the rest. I knew that my friends were

unacquainted with the repute this house enjoyed, and I congratulated

myself in fancying the surprise they would feel at the unexpected

perfection of every arrangement within doors. I went down early on the

morning of the eventful day to see that everything was in readiness. All

was perfect; the table was decorated with the choicest flowers, amidst

which an ornamental dessert lay scattered, as it were. The temperature

of the room, the lighting, all were cared for; and I returned to Paris

fully satisfied that nothing had been omitted or forgotten. Instead,

however, of repairing to my hotel, I went to a small restaurant near the

Luxembourg to breakfast, and lounged afterwards at the gardens there,

intending to keep myself “up” for the evening, and not dissipate any

of those conversational resources I wished to hoard for the hours of

conviviality. The reader may well smile at the inconsistency of the man

who could so collectedly devise a few hours of pleasure, and yet face

the whole future without a moment's thought or deliberation! Towards

five o'clock I sauntered slowly back to the hotel.

“A note for you, sir,” said the porter, presenting me with a letter as

I entered. “The gentleman said it was to be given to you the moment you

came in.”

I took it with a strange, half-sickening sense of coming evil. I broke

the seal, and read:--

Crillan, Three o'clock. Dear C,--We are off for England at

a moment's warning, and have only time to counsel you to the

same. There is some mischief brewing, and the d----d Tories

are likely to involve us in another war. Keep this to

yourself. Get your passport ready, and let us soon see you

across the water. With many regrets from F. and myself at

the loss of your good dinner to-day, believe me

Yours truly,

George Canthorpe.