CHAPTER VI.

Mr. Egerton glanced over the pile of letters placed beside him, and

first he tore up some, scarcely read, and threw them into the

waste-basket. Public men have such odd out-of-the-way letters, that

their waste-baskets are never empty: letters from amateur financiers

proposing new ways to pay off the national debt; letters from America

(never free!) asking for autographs; letters from fond mothers in

country villages, recommending some miracle of a son for a place in the

king's service; letters from freethinkers in reproof of bigotry; letters

from bigots in reproof of freethinking; letters signed Brutus Redivivus,

containing the agreeable information that the writer has a dagger for

tyrants, if the Danish claims are not forthwith adjusted; letters signed

Matilda or Caroline, stating that Caroline or Matilda has seen the

public man's portrait at the Exhibition, and that a heart sensible to

its attractions may be found at No. -- Piccadilly; letters from beggars,

impostors, monomaniacs, speculators, jobbers--all food for the

waste-basket.

From the correspondence thus winnowed, Mr. Egerton first selected those

on business, which he put methodically together in one division of his

pocket-book; and, secondly, those of a private nature, which he as

carefully put into another. Of these last there were but three--one from

his steward, one from Harley L'Estrange, one from Randal Leslie. It was

his custom to answer his correspondence at his office; and to his

office, a few minutes afterward, he slowly took his way. Many a

passenger turned back to look again at the firm figure, which, despite

the hot summer day, was buttoned up to the throat; and the black

frock-coat thus worn, well became the erect air, and the deep full chest

of the handsome senator. When he entered Parliament-street, Audley

Egerton was joined by one of his colleagues, also on his way to the

cares of office.

After a few observations on the last debate, this gentleman said:

"By the way, can you dine with me next Saturday, to meet Lansmere? He

comes up to town to vote for us on Monday."

"I had asked some people to dine with me," answered Egerton, "but I will

put them off. I see Lord Lansmere too seldom, to miss any occasion to

meet a man whom I respect so much."

"So seldom! True, he is very little in town; but why don't you go and

see him in the country? Good shooting--pleasant old-fashioned house."

"My dear Westbourne, his house is '_nimium vicina Cremonæ_,' close to a

borough in which I have been burned in effigy."

"Ha--ha--yes--I remember you first came into Parliament for that snug

little place; but Lansmere himself never found fault with your votes,

did he?"

"He behaved very handsomely, and said he had not presumed to consider me

his mouthpiece; and then, too, I am so intimate with L'Estrange."

"Is that queer fellow ever coming back to England?"

"He comes, generally every year, for a few days, just to see his father

and mother, and then goes back to the Continent."

"I never meet him."

"He comes in September or October, when you, of course, are not in town,

and it is in town that the Lansmeres meet him."

"Why does not he go to them?"

"A man in England but once a year, and for a few days, has so much to do

in London, I suppose."

"Is he as amusing as ever?"

Egerton nodded.

"So distinguished as he might be!" continued Lord Westbourne.

"So distinguished as he is!" said Egerton, formally; "an officer

selected for praise, even in such fields as Quatre Bras and Waterloo; a

scholar, too, of the finest taste; and as an accomplished gentleman,

matchless!"

"I like to hear one man praise another so warmly in these ill-natured

days," answered Lord Westbourne. "But, still, though L'Estrange is,

doubtless, all you say, don't you think he rather wastes his

life--living abroad?"

"And trying to be happy, Westbourne? Are you sure it is not we who waste

our lives? But I can't stay to hear your answer. Here we are at the door

of my prison."

"On Saturday, then?"

"On Saturday. Good-day."

For the next hour, or more, Mr. Egerton was engaged on the affairs of

the state. He then snatched an interval of leisure (while awaiting a

report, which he had instructed a clerk to make him), in order to reply

to his letters. Those on public business were soon dispatched; and

throwing his replies aside, to be sealed by a subordinate hand, he drew

out the letters which he had put apart as private.

He attended first to that of his steward: the steward's letter was long;

the reply was contained in three lines. Pitt himself was scarcely more

negligent of his private interests and concerns than Audley

Egerton--yet, withal, Audley Egerton was said, by his enemies, to be an

egotist.

The next letter he wrote was to Randal, and that, though longer, was far

from prolix: it ran thus:

"DEAR MR. LESLIE--I appreciate your delicacy in consulting me, whether

you should accept Frank Hazeldean's invitation to call at the Hall.

Since you are asked, I can see no objection to it. I should be sorry if

you appeared to force yourself there; and, for the rest, as a general

rule, I think a young man who has his own way to make in life, had

better avoid all intimacy with those of his own age, who have no kindred

objects, nor congenial pursuits.

"As soon as this visit is paid, I wish you to come to London. The report

I receive of your progress at Eton, renders it unnecessary, in my

judgment, that you should return there. If your father has no objection,

I propose that you should go to Oxford, at the ensuing term. Meanwhile,

I have engaged a gentleman, who is a fellow of Baliol, to read with you;

he is of opinion, judging only by your high repute at Eton, that you

may at once obtain a scholarship in that college. If you do so, I shall

look upon your career in life as assured.

"Your affectionate friend, and

sincere well-wisher,

"A.E."

The reader will remark that, in this letter, there is a certain tone of

formality. Mr. Egerton does not call his _protégé_ "Dear Randal," as

would seem natural, but coldly and stiffly, "Dear Mr. Leslie." He hints,

also, that the boy has his own way to make in life. Is this meant to

guard against too sanguine notions of inheritance, which his generosity

may have excited?

The letter to Lord L'Estrange was of a very different kind from the

others. It was long, and full of such little scraps of news and gossip

as may interest friends in a foreign land; it was written gayly, and as

with a wish to cheer his friend; you could see that it was a reply to a

melancholy letter; and in the whole tone and spirit there was an

affection, even to tenderness, of which those who most liked Audley

Egerton would have scarcely supposed him capable. Yet, notwithstanding,

there was a kind of constraint in the letter, which perhaps only the

fine tact of a woman would detect. It had not that _abandon_, that

hearty self-outpouring, which you might expect would characterize the

letters of two such friends, who had been boys at school together, and

which did breathe indeed in all the abrupt rambling sentences of his

correspondent. But where was the evidence of the constraint? Egerton is

off-hand enough where his pen runs glibly through paragraphs that relate

to others; it is simply that he says nothing about himself--that he

avoids all reference to the inner world of sentiment and feeling. But

perhaps, after all, the man has no sentiment and feeling! How can you

expect that a steady personage in practical life, whose mornings are

spent in Downing-street, and whose nights are consumed in watching

Government bills through a committee, can write in the same style as an

idle dreamer amidst the pines of Ravenna or on the banks of Como.

Audley had just finished this epistle, such as it was, when the

attendant in waiting announced the arrival of a deputation from a

provincial trading town, the members of which deputation he had

appointed to meet at two o'clock. There was no office in London at which

deputations were kept waiting less than at that over which Mr. Egerton

presided.

The deputation entered--some score or so of middle-aged,

comfortable-looking persons, who nevertheless had their grievance--and

considered their own interests, and those of the country, menaced by a

certain clause in a bill brought in by Mr. Egerton.

The Mayor of the town was the chief spokesman, and he spoke well--but in

a style to which the dignified official was not accustomed. It was a

slap-dash style--unceremonious, free, and easy--an American style. And,

indeed, there was something altogether in the appearance and bearing of

the Mayor which savored of residence in the Great Republic. He was a

very handsome man, but with a look sharp and domineering--the look of a

man who did not care a straw for president or monarch, and who enjoyed

the liberty to speak his mind, and "wallop his own nigger!"

His fellow-burghers evidently regarded him with great respect; and Mr.

Egerton had penetration enough to perceive that Mr. Mayor must be a rich

man, as well as an eloquent one, to have overcome those impressions of

soreness or jealousy which his tone was calculated to create in the

self-love of his equals.

Mr. Egerton was far too wise to be easily offended by mere manner; and,

though he stared somewhat haughtily when he found his observations

actually pooh-poohed, he was not above being convinced. There was much

sense and much justice in Mr. Mayor's arguments, and the statesman

civilly promised to take them into full consideration.

He then bowed out the deputation; but scarcely had the door closed

before it opened again, and Mr. Mayor presented himself alone, saying

aloud to his companions in the passage, "I forgot something I had to say

to Mr. Egerton; wait below for me."

"Well, Mr. Mayor," said Audley, pointing to a seat, "what else would you

suggest?"

The Mayor looked round to see that the door was closed; and then,

drawing his chair close to Mr. Egerton's, laid his forefinger on that

gentleman's arm, and said, "I think I speak to a man of the world, sir."

Mr. Egerton bowed, and made no reply by word, but he gently removed his

arm from the touch of the forefinger.

MR. MAYOR.--"You observe, sir, that I did not ask the members whom we

return to Parliament to accompany us. Do better without 'em. You know

they are both in Opposition--out-and-outers."

MR. EGERTON.--"It is a misfortune which the Government can not remember,

when the question is whether the trade of the town itself is to be

served or injured."

MR. MAYOR.--"Well, I guess you speak handsome, sir. But you'd be glad to

have two members to support Ministers after the next election."

MR. EGERTON, smiling.--"Unquestionably, Mr. Mayor."

MR. MAYOR.--"And I can do it, Mr. Egerton. I may say I have the town in

my pocket; so I ought, I spend a great deal of money in it. Now, you

see, Mr. Egerton, I have passed a part of my life in a land of

liberty--the United States--and I come to the point when I speak to a

man of the world. I'm a man of the world myself, sir. And if so be the

Government will do something for me, why, I'll do something for the

Government. Two votes for a free and independent town like ours--that's

something, isn't it?"

MR. EGERTON, taken by surprise.--"Really, I--"

MR. MAYOR, advancing his chair still nearer, and interrupting the

official.--"No nonsense, you see, on one side or the other. The fact is,

that I've taken it into my head that I should like to be knighted. You

may well look surprised, Mr. Egerton--trumpery thing enough, I dare say;

still, every man has his weakness, and I should like to be Sir Richard.

Well, if you can get me made Sir Richard, you may just name your two

members for the next election--that is, if they belong to your own set,

enlightened men, up to the times. That's speaking fair and manful, isn't

it?"

MR. EGERTON, drawing himself up.--"I am at a loss to guess why you

should select me, sir, for this very extraordinary proposition."

MR. MAYOR, nodding good-humoredly.--"Why, you see, I don't go all along

with the Government; you're the best of the bunch. And maybe you'd like

to strengthen your own party. This is quite between you and me, you

understand; honor's a jewel!"

MR. EGERTON, with great gravity.--"Sir, I am obliged by your good

opinion; but I agree with my colleagues in all the great questions that

affect the government of the country, and--"

MR. MAYOR, interrupting him.--"Ah, of course, you must say so; very

right. But I guess things would go differently if you were Prime

Minister. However, I have another reason for speaking to you about my

little job. You see you were member for Lansmere once, and I think you

came in but by two majority, eh?"

MR. EGERTON.--"I know nothing of the particulars of that election; I was

not present."

MR. MAYOR.--"No; but luckily for you, two relatives of mine were, and

they voted for you. Two votes, and you came in by two! Since then, you

have got into very snug quarters here, and I think we have a claim on

you--"

MR. EGERTON.--"Sir, I acknowledge no such claim; I was and am a stranger

to Lansmere; and, if the electors did me the honor to return me to

Parliament, it was in compliment rather to--"

MR. MAYOR, again interrupting the official.--"Rather to Lord Lansmere,

you were going to say; unconstitutional doctrine that, I fancy. Peer of

the realm. But, never mind, I know the world; and I'd ask Lord Lansmere

to do my affair for me, only I hear he is as proud, as Lucifer."

MR. EGERTON, in great disgust, and settling his papers before

him.--"Sir, it is not in my department to recommend to his Majesty

candidates for the honor of knighthood, and it is still less in my

department to make bargains for seats in Parliament."

MR. MAYOR.--"Oh, if that's the case, you'll excuse me; I don't know much

of the etiquette in these matters. But I thought that, if I put two

seats in your hands, for your own friends, you might contrive to take

the affair into your department, whatever it was. But, since you say you

agree with your colleagues, perhaps it comes to the same thing. Now, you

must not suppose I want to sell the town, and that I can change and chop

my politics for my own purpose. No such thing! I don't like the sitting

members; I'm all for progressing, but they go _too_ much ahead for me;

and, since the Government is disposed to move a little, why I'd as lief

support them as not. But, in common gratitude, you see (added the Mayor,

coaxingly), I ought to be knighted! I can keep up the dignity, and do

credit to his Majesty."

MR. EGERTON, without looking up from his papers.--"I can only refer you,

sir, to the proper quarter."

MR. MAYOR, impatiently.--"Proper quarter! Well, since there is so much

humbug in this old country of ours, that one must go through all the

forms and get at the job regularly, just tell me whom I ought to go to."

MR. EGERTON, beginning to be amused as well as indignant.--"If you want

a knighthood, Mr. Mayor, you must ask the Prime Minister; if you want to

give the Government information relative to seats in Parliament, you

must introduce yourself to Mr. ----, the Secretary of the Treasury."

MR. MAYOR.--"And if I go to the last chap, what do you think he'll say."

MR. EGERTON, the amusement preponderating over the indignation.--"He

will say, I suppose, that you must not put the thing in the light in

which you have put it to me; that the Government will be very proud to

have the confidence of yourself and your brother electors; and that a

gentleman like you, in the proud position of Mayor, may well hope to be

knighted on some fitting occasion. But that you must not talk about the

knighthood just at present, and must confine yourself to converting the

unfortunate political opinions of the town."

MR. MAYOR.--"Well, I guess that chap there would want to do me! Not

quite so green, Mr. Egerton. Perhaps I'd better go at once to the

fountain-head. How d'ye think the Premier would take it?"

MR. EGERTON, the indignation preponderating over the

amusement.--"Probably just as I am about to do."

Mr. Egerton rang the bell; the attendant appeared.

"Show Mr. Mayor the way out," said the Minister.

The Mayor turned round sharply, and his face was purple. He walked

straight to the door; but, suffering the attendant to precede him along

the corridor, he came back with a rapid stride, and clenching his hands,

and with a voice thick with passion, cried, "Some day or other I will

make you smart for this, as sure as my name's Dick Avenel!"

"Avenel!" repeated Egerton, recoiling--"Avenel!"

But the Mayor was gone.

Audley fell into a deep and musing reverie, which seemed gloomy, and

lasted till the attendant announced that the horses were at the door.

He then looked up, still abstractedly, and saw his letter to Harley

L'Estrange open on the table. He drew it toward him, and wrote, "A man

has just left me, who calls himself Aven--" in the middle of the name

his pen stopped. "No, no," muttered the writer, "what folly to re-open

the old wounds there," and he carefully erased the words.

Audley Egerton did not ride in the Park that day, as was his wont, but

dismissed his groom; and, turning his horse's head toward Westminster

Bridge, took his solitary way into the country. He rode at first slowly,

as if in thought; then fast, as if trying to escape from thought. He was

later than usual at the House that evening, and he looked pale and

fatigued. But he had to speak, and he spoke well.

ANECDOTE OF A DOG.

The Lyons diligence was just going to start from Geneva. I climbed on

the roof, and chose my place next the postillion: there was still a

vacant seat, and the porter, after closing the door of the _coupé_,

called "Monsieur Dermann!" A tall young man, with a German style of

countenance, advanced, holding in his arms a large black grayhound,

which he vainly tried to place on the roof.

"Monsieur," said he, addressing me, "will you have the kindness to take

my dog?"

Bending over, I took hold of the animal, and placed him on the straw at

my feet. I observed that he wore a handsome silver collar, on which the

following words were tastefully engraved: "_Bevis--I belong to Sir

Arthur Burnley, given him by Miss Clary_."

His owner was, therefore, an Englishman; yet my fellow-traveler, who had

now taken his place by my side, was evidently either a Swiss or a

German, and his name was Dermann. Trifling as was the mystery, it

excited my curiosity, and, after two or three hours' pleasant

conversation had established a sort of intimacy between us, I ventured

to ask my companion for an explanation.

"It does not surprise me," he answered, "that this collar should puzzle

you; and I shall have great pleasure in telling you the story of its

wearer. Bevis belongs to me, but it is not many years since he owned

another master whose name is on his collar. You will see why he still

wears it. Here Bevis! speak to this gentleman."

The dog raised his head, opened his bright eyes, and laying back his

long ears, uttered a sound which might well pass for a salutation.

M. Dermann placed the animal's head on his knees, and began to unfasten

the collar.

Instantly Bevis drew back his head with a violent jerk, and darted

toward the luggage on the hinder part of the roof. There, growling

fiercely, he lay down, while his muscles were stiffened, and his eyes

glowing with fury.

"You see, Monsieur, how determined he is to guard his collar; I should

not like to be the man who would try to rob him of it. Here, Bevis!"

said he, in a soft, caressing tone, "I won't touch it again, poor

fellow! Come and make friends!"

The grayhound hesitated, still growling. At length he returned slowly

toward his master, and began to lick his hands; his muscles gradually

relaxed, and he trembled like a leaf.

"There, boy, there," said M. Dermann, caressing him. "We won't do it

again, lie down now, and be quiet."

The dog nestled between his master's feet, and went to sleep. My

fellow-traveler then turning toward me, began:

"I am a native of Suabia, but I live in a little village of the

Sherland, at the foot of the Grimsel. My father keeps an inn for the

reception of travelers going to St. Gothard.

"About two years since, there arrived at our house one evening a young

Englishman, with a pale, sad countenance; he traveled on foot, and was

followed by a large grayhound, this Bevis, whom you see. He declined

taking any refreshment, and asked to be shown to his sleeping-room. We

gave him one over the common hall, where we were all seated round the

fire. Presently we heard him pacing rapidly up and down; from time to

time uttering broken words, addressed no doubt to his dog, for the

animal moaned occasionally as if replying to, and sympathizing with his

master. At length we heard the Englishman stop, and apparently strike

the dog a violent blow, for the poor beast gave a loud howl of agony,

and seemed as if he ran to take refuge under the bed. Then his master

groaned aloud. Soon afterward he lay down, and all was quiet for the

night. Early next morning he came down, looking still more pale than on

the previous evening, and having paid for his lodging, he took his

knapsack and resumed his journey, followed by the grayhound, who had

eaten nothing since their arrival, and whose master seemed to take no

further notice of him, than to frown when the creature ventured to

caress him.

"About noon, I happened to be standing at the door looking toward the

direction which the Englishman had taken when I perceived a dark object

moving slowly along. Presently I heard howls of distress, proceeding

from a wounded dog that was dragging himself toward me. I ran to him,

and recognized the Englishman's grayhound. His head was torn, evidently

by a bullet, and one of his paws broken. I raised him in my arms, and

carried him into the house. When I crossed the threshold he made evident

efforts to escape; so I placed him on the ground. Then, in spite of the

torture he was suffering, which caused him to stagger every moment, he

dragged himself up-stairs, and began to scratch at the door of the room

where his master had slept, moaning at the same time so piteously, that

I could scarce help weeping myself. I opened the door and with a great

effort he got into the room, looked about, and not finding whom he

sought he fell down motionless.

"I called my father, and, perceiving that the dog was not dead, we gave

him all possible assistance, taking indeed as much care of him as though

he had been a child, so much did we feel for him. In two months he was

cured, and showed us much affection; we found it, however, impossible to

take off his collar, even for the purpose of binding up his wounds. As

soon as he was able to walk, he would often go toward the mountain and

be absent for hours. The second time this occurred we followed him. He

proceeded as far as a part of the road where a narrow defile borders a

precipice; there he continued for a long time, smelling and scratching

about. We conjectured that the Englishman might have been attacked by

robbers on this spot, and his dog wounded in defending him. However, no

event of the kind had occurred in the country, and, after the strictest

search, no corpse was discovered. Recollecting, therefore, the manner in

which the traveler had treated his dog, I came to the conclusion that he

had tried to kill the faithful creature. But wherefore? This was a

mystery which I could not solve.

"Bevis remained with us, testifying the utmost gratitude for our

kindness. His intelligence and good-humor attracted the strangers who

frequented our inn, while the inscription on his collar, and the tale we

had to tell of him, failed not to excite their curiosity.

"One morning in autumn, I had been out to take a walk, accompanied by

Bevis. When I returned, I found seated by the fire, in the common-hall,

a newly-arrived traveler, who looked round as I entered. As soon as he

perceived Bevis, he started and called him. The dog immediately darted

toward him with frantic demonstrations of joy. He ran round him,

smelling his clothes and uttering the sort of salutation with which he

honored you just now, and finally placing his fore-paws on the

traveler's knees began to lick his face.

"'Where is your master, Bevis? Where is Sir Arthur?' said the stranger,

in English.

"The noble dog howled piteously, and lay down at the traveler's feet.

Then the latter begged us to explain his presence. I did so; and as he

listened, I saw a tear fall on the beautiful head of the grayhound, whom

he bent over to caress.

"'Monsieur,' said he, addressing me, 'from what you tell me, I venture

to hope that Sir Arthur still lives. We have been friends from

childhood. About three years since, he married a rich heiress, and this

dog was presented to him by her. Bevis was highly cherished for his

fidelity, a quality which unhappily was not possessed by his mistress.

She left her fond and loving husband, and eloped with another man. Sir

Arthur sued for a divorce and obtained it; then, having arranged his

affairs in England, he set out for the Continent, followed only by his

dog. His friends knew not whither he went; but it now appears that he

was here last spring. Doubtless, the presence of Bevis, evermore

recalling the memory of her who had so cruelly wronged him, must have

torn his heart, and at length impelled him to destroy the faithful

creature. But the shot not having been mortal, the dog, I imagine, when

he recovered consciousness, was led by instinct to seek the house where

his master had last slept. Now, Monsieur, he is yours, and I heartily

thank you for the kindness you have shown him.'

"About ten o'clock the stranger retired to his room, after having

caressed Bevis, who escorted him to his door, and then returned to his

accustomed place before the fire. My parents and the servants had

retired to rest, and I prepared to follow their example, my bed being

placed at one end of the common-hall. While I was undressing, I heard a

storm rising in the mountains. Just then there came a knocking at the

door, and Bevis began to growl. I asked who was there? A voice

replied--'Two travelers, who want a night's lodging.' I opened a small

chink of the door to look out, and perceived two ragged men, each

leaning on a large club. I did not like their look, and knowing that

several robberies had been committed in the neighborhood, I refused them

admission, telling them that in the next village they would readily find

shelter. They approached the door, as though they meant to force their

way in; but Bevis made his voice heard in so formidable a manner, that

they judged it prudent to retire. I bolted the door and went to bed.

Bevis, according to his custom, lay down near the threshold, but we

neither of us felt inclined to sleep.

"A quarter of an hour passed, when suddenly, above the wailing of the

wind, came the loud shrill cry of a human being in distress. Bevis

rushed against the door with a fearful howl; at the same moment came the

report of a gun, followed by another cry. Two minutes afterward I was on

the road, armed with a carbine, and holding a dark lantern; my father

and the stranger, also armed, accompanied me. As for Bevis, he had

darted out of the house, and disappeared.

"We approached the defile which I mentioned before, at the moment when a

flash of lightning illumined the scene. A hundred yards in advance, we

saw Bevis grasping a man by the throat. We hurried on, but the dog had

completed his work ere we reached him; for two men, whom I recognized as

those who had sought admittance at our inn, lay dead, strangled by his

powerful jaws. Farther on, we discovered another man, whose bloody

wounds the noble dog was licking. The stranger approached him, and gave

a convulsive cry: it was Sir Arthur, the master of Bevis!"

Here M. Dermann paused; the recollection seemed to overcome him; and he

stooped to caress the sleeping grayhound, in order to hide his emotion.

After awhile, he finished his recital in a few words.

"Sir Arthur was mortally wounded, but he lived long enough to recognize

his dog, and to confess that, in a moment of desperation, he had tried

to kill the faithful creature, who now avenged his death, by slaying the

robbers who attacked him. He appointed the stranger his executor, and

settled a large pension on Bevis, to revert to the family of the

inn-keeper, wishing thus to testify his repentant love toward his dog,

and his gratitude to those who had succored him.

"The grief of Bevis was excessive; he watched by his master's couch,

covering his dead body with caresses, and for a long time lay stretched

on his grave, refusing to take nourishment; and it was not until after

the lapse of many months that the affection of his new master seemed to

console him for the death of Sir Arthur."

As my fellow-traveler finished his recital, the diligence stopped to

change horses at the little town of Mantua. Here M. Dermann's journey

ended, and having taken down his luggage, he asked me to assist the

descent of his dog. I shook hands with him cordially, and then called

Bevis, who, seeing me on such good terms with his master, placed his

large paws on my breast, and uttered a low, friendly bark. Shortly

afterward they both disappeared from my sight, but not from my memory,

as this little narrative has proved to my readers.

THE DOMESTIC LIFE OF ALEXANDER, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA.

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, TRANSLATED BY MISS STRICKLAND.

The tragedy of which Paul I. was the victim, called Alexander to the

throne of all the Russias in the twenty-fourth year of his age. He had

been carefully educated under the eye of his grandmother, the able

Catharine. Her choice of a preceptor in La Harpe, a Swiss republican,

who had fraternized with the revolutionists of France, was a problem the

sovereigns of Europe could not solve; but after all, republicanism can

not be very far removed from despotism, if we may judge from its

consequences, since history shows us that republics end in despotic

sovereignties. Catharine was doubtless aware of this fact when she gave

La Harpe the direction of her grandson's education. It was prudent to

avoid Russian ascendency in a matter so important to herself, for

Catharine was a foreigner and a usurper, a fact of which a native

instructor might have availed himself to her disadvantage. In educating

her grandsons, the great empress excluded the fine arts. She wished to

make them rulers, not professors of music and painting; and she was

right; La Harpe inspired, it is said, his imperial pupil with lessons of

generosity and truth it was no easy task to eradicate during his

eventful life. The policy of Catharine made her determine to give wives

to her grandsons as soon as they were marriageable. Her jealousy, or her

profound judgment, made her overlook Paul in the succession of Russia,

by a mental but not a public exclusion. Alexander was destined by her to

the throne of which she had robbed his father Constantine, she proudly

hoped to place on one she designed to win from the Sultan, an ambitious

desire which was never realized.

Three German princesses came to the court of St. Petersburg, in order

that Catharine might make choice of suitable brides for her grandsons.

The empress thoughtfully expected the arrival of her guests, whose

approach she watched from a window of her palace.

The empress, whose motions were dignified and graceful, attached great

importance to deportment; she formed her opinions of young people by

that standard. The destinies of these princesses were decided the

instant they alighted from their traveling carriage. The first leaped

down without availing herself of the step. The empress shook her head,

"She will never be empress of Russia, she is too precipitate," was her

internal remark. The second entangled her feet in her dress, and with

difficulty escaped a fall. "She is not the empress, for she is too

awkward," and Catharine again turned her eyes on the carriage with

anxious curiosity. The third princess descended very gracefully; she was

beautiful, majestic, and grave. "Behold the future Empress of Russia,"

said Catharine. This princess was Louisa of Baden.

Catharine introduced these ladies to her grandsons, as the children of

the Duchess of Baden-Durlack, born Princess of Darmstadt, her early

friend, whose education she wished to finish at her court, since the

possession of their country by the French had left them without a home.

The great dukes saw through this artifice, and upon their return to

their own palace talked much of Catharine's _élèves_.

"I think the eldest very pretty," said Alexander.

"For my part," rejoined Constantine, "I consider them neither pretty nor

plain. They ought to be sent to Riga to the princes of Courland; they

are really quite good enough for them."

The Empress Catharine was informed, that very day, of the opinion of her

grandsons. The admiration of Alexander for Louisa of Baden sympathized

with her intentions. The Grand Duke Constantine had done the personal

attractions of this young princess great injustice, for Louisa of Baden,

besides the freshness of her youth, had lovely fair ringlets, hanging in

rich profusion on her magnificent shoulders, a form light and flexible

as that of a fairy, and large blue eyes full of sweetness and

sensibility. The following day, the empress brought the princesses to

the palace of Prince Potemkin, which she had appointed for their

residence. While they were at their toilet, she sent them dresses,

jewels, and the cordon of St. Catharine. After chatting with them upon

the topics she considered suitable to their age, she asked to see their

wardrobe, which she examined, article by article, with interest and

curiosity. Having finished her scrutiny, she kissed the princesses, and

remarked, with an emphatic smile,

"My friends, I was not so rich as you when I came to St. Petersburg." In

fact, Catharine was very poor when she arrived in Russia, but she left

her adopted country a heritage in Poland and the Crimea.

The predilection of Alexander for Louisa of Baden was responded to by

that lovely princess. The grand duke at that time was a charming young

man, full of benevolence and candor, with the best temper in the world,

and the young German did not attempt to disguise her tenderness for him.

Catharine, in announcing to them that they were destined for each other,

believed she was rendering them perfectly happy.

The behavior of the bride was admirably adapted to the circumstances in

which she was placed. She acquired the Russian language with grace and

facility, and accepted a new name with the tenets of the Greek religion.

She received those of Elizabeth Alexiowena, the same borne by the

imperial daughter of Peter the Great.

Notwithstanding the fortunate presages of the Empress Catharine, this

early marriage was not one of happiness. The inconstancy of Alexander,

indeed, withered the nuptial garland while yet green on the brow of the

bride, and made it for her a crown of thorns.

The tragedy that elevated Alexander to the throne, restored to the

devoted wife the wandering affections of her husband. His profound grief

made her sympathy necessary to him, and the young empress, almost a

stranger to Paul, wept for him like a true daughter. The secret tears of

Alexander were shed at night on the bosom of his consort, whose tender

concern for him consoled him for the restraint he imposed upon his

feelings during the day.

The regretful remembrance of Alexander for his father, outlasted the

reviving affection he had during that dolorous period felt for his wife.

The empress, still a young woman, was an old spouse, and the emperor had

inherited the passionate and inconstant temperament of Catharine. But,

gracious and smiling as he always was with the ladies, or polite and

friendly to the gentlemen, there crossed his brow from time to time a

gloomy shadow, the mute but terrible memorial of that dreadful night,

when he heard the death struggle of his father, and was conscious of his

agony without the power to save him. His perpetual smile was the mask

beneath which he disguised the anguish of his mind, and as he advanced

in life, this profound melancholy threatened to deepen into malady. He

did not yield, however, without maintaining a warfare with his remorse.

He combated memory with action. His reforms, his long and laborious

journeys, had but one aim. In the course of his reign, he is supposed to

have traversed fifty thousand leagues. But, however rapidly he performed

these journeys, he never deviated from the time he fixed for his setting

off or return, even by an hour, and he undertook them without guards and

without an escort. He, of course, met with many strange adventures, and

was amused with rendering his personal assistance whenever he met with

accidents or encountered difficulties by the wayside. In his journey to

Finland in company with Prince Pierre Volkouski, the imperial carriage

in traversing a sandy mountain rolled back, notwithstanding the efforts

of the coachman, upon which the emperor jumped out, and literally lent

his shoulder to the wheel, leaving his companion asleep.

The rough motion of the carriage disturbed the slumbers of the prince,

who found himself at the bottom of the carriage and alone. He looked

about him with astonishment, when he perceived the emperor, with his

brow bedewed with perspiration, from the effects of his toil in

assisting to drag him and the vehicle to the top of the mountain, the

precise point at which he had awakened from his sleep.

At another time, while traversing Little Russia, while the horses were

changing at a certain station, the emperor expressed his determination

to travel on foot for a few miles, ordering his people not to hasten

their arrangements, but to let him walk forward. Alone, with no mark of

distinction, dressed in a military great-coat, that gave no clew to the

rank of the wearer, the emperor traversed the town without attracting

attention, till he arrived at two roads, and found himself obliged to

inquire his way of an individual who was sitting before the door of the

last house smoking a pipe. This personage, like the emperor wore a

military great-coat, and by his pompous air seemed to entertain no small

opinion of his own consequence.

"My friend, can you tell me which of these roads will bring me to ----?"

asked the emperor.

The man of the pipe scanned him from head to foot, apparently surprised

at the presumption of a pedestrian, in speaking to such a dignitary as

himself, and between two puffs of smoke he growled out very disdainfully

the ungracious reply, "The right."

"Thank you, sir," said the emperor, raising his hat with the respect

this uncivil personage seemed by his manner to command. "Will you permit

me to ask you another question?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Your rank in the army, if you please."

"Guess," returned he of the pipe.

"Lieutenant, perhaps?"

"Go higher."

"Captain?" rejoined the emperor.

"Much higher;" and the smoker gave a consequential puff.

"Major, I presume?"

"Go on," replied the officer.

"Lieutenant-colonel?"

"Yes, you have guessed it at last, but you have taken some trouble to

discover my rank."

The low bow of the emperor made the man with the pipe conclude he was

speaking to an inferior, so, without much ceremony, he said, "Pray, who

are you? for I conclude you are in the army."

"Guess," replied the emperor, much amused with the adventure.

"Lieutenant?"

"Go on."

"Captain?"

"Much higher."

"Major?"

"You must still go on."

"Lieutenant-colonel?"

"You have not yet arrived at my rank in the army."

The officer took his pipe out of his mouth. "Colonel, I presume."

"You have not yet reached my grade."

The officer assumed a more respectful attitude. "Your Excellency is then

Lieutenant-general?"

"You are getting nearer the mark."

The puzzled lieutenant-colonel kept his helmet in his hand, and looked

stupid and alarmed.

"Then it appears to me that your Highness is Field-Marshal?"

"Make another attempt, and perhaps you will discover my real position."

"His Imperial Majesty!" exclaimed the officer, trembling with

apprehension, and dropping the pipe upon the ground, which was broken

into twenty pieces.

"The same, at your service," replied the emperor, laughing.

The poor lieutenant-colonel dropped upon his knees, uttering the words

in a pitiful tone, "Ah! sire, pardon me."

"What pardon do you require?" replied the emperor. "I asked my way of

you, and you pointed it out, and I thank you for that service.--Good

day."

The good-tempered prince then took the road to the right, leaving the

surly lieutenant-colonel ashamed and astonished at the colloquy he had

held with his sovereign.

He gave a proof of intrepidity and presence of mind during a tempest

which befell him on a lake near Archangel, when, perceiving the pilot

overwhelmed with the responsibility his imperial rank laid upon him, he

said, "My friend, more than eighteen hundred years have elapsed, since a

Roman general, placed in similar circumstances, said to his pilot, 'Fear

not, for thou hast with thee Cæsar and his fortunes.' I am, however,

less bold than Cæsar; I therefore charge thee to think no more of the

emperor than of thyself or any other man, and do thy best to save us

both." The pilot took courage, and relieved from his burden by the

wisdom of his sovereign, guided the helm with a firm hand, and brought

the tempest-tossed skiff safely to the shore.

The Emperor Alexander was not always so fortunate. He met with several

dangerous accidents, and his last journey to the provinces of the Don

nearly cost him his life. A fall from his droski hurt his leg, and left

him incurably lame. This misfortune was aggravated by his disregarding

the advice of his medical attendant, who prescribed rest for some days;

but Alexander, who was a strict disciplinarian, did not choose to delay

his return to St. Petersburg an hour beyond the time he had fixed.

Erysipelas attacked the limb, and the emperor was confined to his bed

for many weeks, and never recovered his lameness. The sight of his wife,

pale and melancholy, whom his infidelity had injured, increased his

mental despondency. That princess watched over him with the conjugal

tenderness which no neglect could extinguish, but her fair face had

forever lost the smile which once lighted up, like a sunbeam, every

beautiful feature, and he felt himself the cause of that secret sorrow

which had banished the bloom from her cheek and the smile from her lips.

Elizabeth had borne him two daughters, but her children had not survived

their fifth and seventh years. A childless mother and forsaken wife,

Elizabeth the Empress resembled no longer the bright Louisa of Baden,

the object of Alexander's first love, the princess who had shed tears of

happiness when the joyful start and impassioned look of her lover had

assured the Empress Catharine how willingly he accepted the hand of the

princess she had destined for him. The heart of the wife had never

swerved from her devotion; her love had increased with time, but she

knew not how to share his affections with a rival.

Alexander was solitary in his habits; repose was necessary to a man who

loved privacy, and hated those prestiges of power which had surrounded

him from infancy. He had inherited his imperial grandmother's love for

Tzarsko Zelo, a palace situated between three and four leagues from St.

Petersburg. This palace stood upon the site of a cottage formerly

belonging to an old Dutch-woman named Sarah, a person well known to

Peter the Great, with whom that mighty prince was accustomed to chat and

drink milk.

The fruitful plains covered with grass and waving corn, lately redeemed

by the plow from their native sterility, pleased the legislator who was

an _habitué_ at the abode of Sarah, and at the death of the old woman,

he presented the cottage to the Empress Catharine, with the surrounding

lands, as a suitable situation for a farm-house. Catharine, as simple in

her tastes as her imperial consort, gave her architect proper directions

respecting this grange. He, however, thought fit to build her a fine

mansion. Her daughter, the Empress Elizabeth, found this house too

costly for a farm-house, and too mean for an imperial residence. She

pulled it down and built a magnificent palace after the design of Count

Rastreti. This Russian had the barbarous taste to gild the building

within and without. The bas-reliefs, statues, caryatides, roof and

basement, glittered with a waste of this precious metal. The count

wished to make this palace surpass Versailles, and so it did in wealth

undoubtedly. The Empress Elizabeth invited the French embassador to the

fête she gave at the inauguration of her golden house, which outshone

even the celebrated one built by Nero. The palace of Tzarsko Zelo, was

considered by the whole court the eighth wonder of the world.

The silence of the Marquis de Chetardie surprised her majesty, who with

some pique requested his opinion, adding, he appeared to think something

was wanting.

"I am seeking for the case of this jewel, Madam," dryly replied the

embassador; a _bon mot_ which ought to have gained him a sitting in the

academy of St. Petersburg, where wit was a surer passport than learning.

The golden roof of Tzarsko Zelo was ill-calculated to stand the rigor of

a Russian winter. The noble architect had built it for summer. Cold had

been forgotten in his calculation. The expensive repairs every spring

brought in its course, compelled Catharine the Great to sacrifice the

gilding. She had scarcely issued her orders, before a customer appeared

for the article she was excluding from her palace, for which a

speculator offered her an immense sum. The empress thanked him for a

liberal offer none but a Russian sovereign would have declined, assuring

him with a smile, "that she never sold her old chattels."

This empress loved Tzarsko Zelo where she built the little palace for

her grandson Alexander, and surrounded it with spacious gardens, which

she was aware he loved. Bush, her architect, could discover no supply

from whence he could obtain water in the immediate neighborhood, yet he

prepared lakes, canals and fish-ponds, upon the responsibility of the

empress, being sure that his reservoirs would not long be empty if she

ordered water to come. His successor Baner did not leave the empress to

discover its source. He cast his eyes upon the estate of Prince

Demidoff, who possessed a super-abundant quantity of the precious fluid

the imperial gardens wanted. He mentioned the aridity of Tzarsko Zelo,

and the courteous subject dutifully bestowed his superfluous moisture

upon the imperial gardens. In despite of nature, copious streams rushed

forward, and at the bidding of the architect rose into cascades, ran

into canals, filled fish-ponds, and spread in expansive lakes. The

Empress Consort Elizabeth, upon beholding these wonders, playfully

remarked, "We may fall out with all Europe, but we must take care not to

quarrel with Prince Demidoff." In fact, that obliging noble could have

killed the whole court with thirst, by stopping the supply of water he

allowed to the imperial family.

Educated at Tzarsko Zelo, Alexander was attached to a place filled with

the recollections of his infancy. He had learned there to walk; to

speak, to ride, to sail, to row. He had passed there the brightest and

happiest part of his life. He came with the first fine days, and only

left his favorite residence when the snows of winter compelled him to

take up his abode in the winter palace.

Even in this luxurious solitude, where the emperor wished to enjoy the

repose which affords to princes the same pleasure amusement offers to

persons of less exalted rank, Alexander found his privacy invaded and

his attention claimed by those who had the temerity to break through the

invisible circle with which Russian etiquette fenced round a despotic

sovereign.

A foreigner at St. Petersburg, in the summer of 1823, ventured to seek

the Emperor Alexander in the delicious gardens of Tzarsko Zelo, in order

to present a petition, with which delicate commission he had been

charged by a friend. He thus relates his adventure:

"After a bad breakfast at the Hotel de la Restauration, I entered the

park, into which the sentinels permitted every body to walk without

opposition. Respect alone prevented the Russian subject from entering

the gardens, I knew, yet I was about to break this boundary and to

intrude myself upon the emperor's notice. I was told he passed a great

deal of his time in the shady walks, and I hoped chance would obtain for

me the interview I sought. Wandering about the grounds, I discovered the

Chinese town, a pretty group of five houses, each of which had its own

ice-house and garden. In the centre of this town, which is in the form

of a star, whose rays it terminates, stands a pavillion, which is used

either for a ball or concert-room, which surrounds a green court, at the

four corners of which are placed four mandarins, the size of life,

smoking their pipes. This Chinese town is inhabited by the

_aid-de-camps_ of the sovereign. Catharine, attended by her court, was

walking in this part of her garden, when she beheld, to her surprise,

the mandarins puffing forth real smoke, while their eyes appeared to

ogle her, and their heads to bow in the most familiar manner in the

world. She approached in order to find out the cause of this sudden

animation on the part of these statues. Immediately the loyal mandarins

descended from their pedestals, and made Chinese prostrations at her

feet, reciting some complimentary verses to the imperial lady, to please

whom they had transformed themselves into the images of the men with

pig-tails. She smiled, and quickly recognized them for the Prince de

Ligne, Potemkin, Count Segur, and M. de Cobentzal.

"Leaving the Chinese town, I saw the huts of the lamas, where these

inhabitants of the south are kept and acclimated to a temperature very

different from that at the foot of the Cordilleras. These animals were

presented to the emperor by the Viceroy of Mexico, and their original

number of nine has been reduced, by the rigor of the Russian winters, to

five; from which, however, a numerous race have succeeded, who bear the

cold much better than the parent stock.

"In the middle of the French garden stands a pretty dining-room,

containing the celebrated table of Olympus, imitated from a whim devised

by the Regent Orleans; where the wishes of the guests are supplied by

invisible hands from beneath. They have only to place a note in their

plate expressive of their desire, when the plate disappears, and in five

minutes after reappears with the article required. This magic originates

in a forecast which anticipates every possible want. A beautiful lady

finding her hair out of dress, wished for curling-irons, feeling assured

that such an odd request would defy even the enchantment of the Olympian

table to procure. She was astonished at finding her plate return with a

dozen pair. I saw the curious monument raised to commemorate three

favorite greyhounds, pets of the Empress Catharine. This pyramid,

erected by the French ambassador, Count Segur, contains two epitaphs:

one, by himself, is a sort of burlesque upon the old eulogistic style so

prevalent in the last century; the other is by Catharine, and may be

literally translated into English:--

"'Here lies the Duchess Anderson,

Who bit Mr. Rogerson.'

"I visited successively the column of Gregory Orloff, the pyramid

erected in honor of the conqueror of Tchesma, and the grotto of

Pausilippo, and passed four hours wandering along the borders of lakes,

and traversing the plains and forests inclosed in these delicious

gardens, when I met an officer in uniform, who courteously raised his

hat. I asked a lad employed in taking a walk 'the name of this fine

gentleman,' for such he appeared to me to be. 'It is the emperor,' was

his reply. I immediately took a path which intersected that he had

taken, yet, when I had advanced about twenty steps, I stopped upon

perceiving him near me.

"He divined, apparently, that respect to his person prevented me from

crossing his walk; he therefore kept on his way, while I awaited him in

the side walk, holding my hat in my hand. I perceived he limped in his

gait from the wound in his leg, which had lately re-opened; and I

remarked as he advanced the change that had taken place in his

appearance since I had seen him at Paris, nine years before. His

countenance, then so open and smiling, bore the expression of that deep

and devouring melancholy which it was said continually oppressed his

mind, yet his sorrowful features still were impressed with a character

of benevolence, which gave me courage to attempt the performance of my

hazardous commission. 'Sire,' said I, advancing a single step toward

him.

"'Put on your hat, sir,' was his kind and gracious reply; 'the air is

too keen for you to remain uncovered.'

"'Will your majesty permit--'

"'Cover your head, sir, then; cover your head;' but, perceiving my

respect rendered me disobedient to his commands, he took my hat from my

hand, and with his own imperial one replaced it on my head. 'Now,' said

he, 'what do you wish to say to me?'

"'Sire, this petition,' and I took the paper from my pocket, but the

action disturbed him, and I saw him frown.

"'Sir, why do you pursue me here with petitions? do you know that I have

left St. Petersburg to be free from such annoyances?'

"'Yes, sire, I am aware of it, nor dare I disguise the boldness of an

attempt for which I can only expect pardon from your benevolence. This,

however, seems to have some claim to your majesty's consideration, since

it is franked.'

"'By whom?' inquired the emperor, with some quickness in his manner.

"'By his Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Constantine, your majesty's

august brother.'

"'Ah!' exclaimed the emperor, putting out his hand, but as quickly

withdrawing it again.

"'I hope your majesty will for once infringe your custom, and will deign

to accept this supplication.'

"'No, sir; I will not receive it; for to-morrow, I shall have a

thousand, and shall be compelled to desert these gardens, where it seems

I can no longer hope to enjoy privacy.' He perceived my disappointment

in my countenance, and his natural kindness would not suffer him to

dismiss me with a harsh refusal. Pointing with hand toward the church of

St. Sophia, he said--'Put that petition into the post-office in the

city, and I shall see it to-morrow, and the day after, you will have an

answer.'

"I expressed my gratitude in animated terms.

"'Prove it,' was his quick reply.

"I declared my willingness to do any thing he required, as the test of

that feeling.

"'Well, tell nobody that you have presented me a petition and got off

with impunity,' and he resumed his walk.

"I followed his advice, and posted my paper, and three days after

received a favorable reply to my petition."

[From Eliza Cook's Journal.]

AN EMPTY HOUSE; OR, STRUGGLES OF THE POOR.

Who has not seen at some time an empty house which has struck them as

the picture of desolation? They may know a hundred uninhabited

tenements, but they look as well kept and prosperous, as though they

would soon be filled again. They do not impress the senses in the same

way as that peculiar one, which appears to be condemned, like some

outcast, to perpetual seclusion in the midst of happy neighbors, who

mock, and flout, and taunt it with their bright windows and clean steps,

and fresh paint and shining door knobs and knockers, just as Mr.

Well-to-do, who is making money, and dresses well, and lodges

luxuriously and feeds plentifully, may treat with scorn poor

Do-nothing, who, unable to find employment of any sort, wears a patched

threadbare coat, dwells in a leaky garret, and does not know where on

earth to look for to-morrow's dinner. Indeed there is something more in

this comparison than appears at first sight, for the world of the

streets is apt to treat the empty house much as it does the

poverty-stricken man. The ragged lads who play about the avenues of

streets, and bask about the sunshiny nooks, draw back and cease their

jokes and are decorous in the presence of Mr. Trim or Mr. Broadcloth,

but they have a sarcasm or a coarse epithet for poor Patch, and for

poorer Tatter possibly a sly pebble or a dab of mud.

Some years ago there was an empty house opposite to mine, which brought

such thoughts as these to my mind. There was a dirty bill in one of the

windows, and the remains of another upon one of the window shutters,

with directions where to inquire as to rent, &c., but nobody seemed to

dream of any body taking it. The neighborhood was a respectable one, and

in striking contrast with this one unfortunate tenement, and happy faces

at the windows of its neighbors seemed to make them crow over it, as

Mrs. Fruitful with her half-dozen of handsome children triumphs over

Mrs. Childless, who would give her ears to call the half of her friend's

little flock her own. Not that my empty house was utterly lonely either,

for its door-step was, in fine weather, the chosen resort of a group of

little specimens of humanity in dirt and rags, who from the seclusion of

some neighboring alley brought them chalk, and pieces of tiles and

slate, with which they scratched uncouth figures upon the doors and

shutters as high up as they could reach; and with mud from the gutter

they made their dirt pies, and left the remnants to accumulate upon the

dingy sill. There was a plentiful supply of stones, too, in the

macadamized road, and a large family of boys, unable to resist the

tempting opportunity for mischievous "shies," paid rough attentions to

the empty house with the flints, till the sunshine which had long been

denied admittance, through the dusty and begrimed panes, found its way

unimpeded through empty and dismantled sashes. Possibly, too, in

consequence of this, the very sparrows, usually so bold, which used to

build under the eaves and twitter upon the window sills and house-top,

forsook the ill-fated building and left it to its destiny.

I do not know what it was, but there was something which powerfully

attracted my attention to the place, and I often sat at my window and

mused upon it. Sometimes I thought it was in Chancery, for it had just

the look of a house which the lawyers had thoroughly riddled; and

sometimes I thought it had the reputation of being haunted, for somehow

or other people always give ghosts credit for the very worst taste, and

seem to think them incapable of choosing any but the most uncomfortable

habitations.

Passers-by would often stop to look at the house, and not unfrequently

some of them would look over it; and then the owner or his agent would

come with them, bringing the rusty key which turned with difficulty in

the lock, and setting free the creaking door, which moved so lazily upon

its hinges. This person was such a human likeness to the house, that I

sometimes wondered he did not, out of pure sympathy, come and live there

himself. He was a little battered-looking old man, whose rusty dirty

suit of black just matched the doors and shutters, and I could almost

fancy that his very spectacles, like the windows, were cracked and

broken by boys throwing stones at him.

These inquiries, however, always resulted in nothing, except the great

discomfiture of the children, who held dominion over the door-step, and

who were always summarily routed and driven off by peevish exclamations

and feeble cuffs from the rusty little old man. I suppose most of those

who came were merely actuated by curiosity. I was more than once tempted

by the same motive to go and look at the inside myself, and those who

really had serious designs of settling there were frightened out of them

by the combined dismalness of the place, and the warder who had charge

of it. At last, there really was some sign of the empty house being let.

I noticed one evening that a respectable, quiet-looking young couple,

with an old lady in widow's weeds, whom I immediately decided was the

widowed mother of either husband or wife (for of course they were

husband and wife) went to look at the empty house, attended by the

little old man; and from the fact, that after looking at the premises

for a longer time than visitors usually did, the party came out, and,

contrary to custom, all four walked away together, I was led to suppose

that I might have opposite neighbors.

The next morning, before I left home for business, I saw at once that I

was right as to the house having been taken. The little old man,

notwithstanding he looked so rusty, must have been a diligent, as well

as a quaint, old-fashioned fellow, for there were ladders and steps, and

painters, plumbers, bricklayers, and laborers all at work upon the

house. Some were upon the top replacing cracked tiles, others were

making the windows weather-proof, and others again were intent upon

counteracting the ravages of chalk, sharp slates, and dirt upon the

paint of the doors and window shutters. The group of children came as

usual, but they did not venture to attempt to take up their old station;

the apparition of the old man scared them from that, and perhaps they

were altogether too much struck with astonishment at the altered

character of the scene to attempt it. But they were very unwilling to

give up their old sovereignty and abandon the spot. They lingered

doubtfully for some days about the place, sometimes looking at the tall

ladders and the workmen, and sometimes sitting upon the heaps of broken

tiles and brickbats, watching the Irish hodman stirring the mortar

about, with much the same feelings, perhaps, as a red Indian lingers

about the white man's clearing, formerly the hunting-ground of his

fathers. Possibly the youngsters thought that all the men and ladders

might be cleared away, and that they would succeed to the again vacant

door-step, with the added advantages of a newly-painted door to scratch

upon, and these hallucinations were not thoroughly dispelled for about a

week, when they saw a charwoman scouring the passage and front steps.

That sufficed to wither all their hopes; repairs they could have

survived, for they remembered something of the sort once in their own

alley, but scrubbing and washing were entirely unmistakable, they

understood at once that somebody was "coming in," and dispersed to seek

another place of resort.

It may be supposed that the diligence of the little old man, who never

left the laborers all day, soon had the little house fit for the

reception of its new inmates, in spite of occasional damages in the

glass department, till the boys became reconciled to its new smartness.

He was there the first thing in the morning, sitting on a three-legged

stool which I believe he brought with him, and he went to the public

house with the men when they had their meals, so that they should not

stay too long. Under such vigilant superintendence, the last ladder and

pair of steps were taken away in about a week, and the inmates--the two

young folks, and the old widow lady I have already mentioned, and their

household goods made their appearance. The furniture showed at a glance

that both the past and the present had contributed their quotas to the

household, for there were the old-fashioned, large-seated, heavy

high-backed chairs of half-a-century since, with a heavy, square table,

and a quaint, antique cabinet, matching well with the aged widowed

mother; while the light caned seats and other modern requisites,

represented the young people just entering upon life. I knew at once

what afterward I found to be the case, that by probably a hasty marriage

two households had been mingled into one.

I was always a solitary, secluded man, given to make observations and to

pick up information about those who interested me, but not to cultivate

acquaintances, and so it was from what I saw from my windows and from

hearsay, that I picked up what I knew of the new comers. Slight as this

source of information may seem to be, it is wonderful what a deal of

knowledge of a certain kind is obtained in this manner; indeed, if any

one were to examine the sources of his own knowledge, he would find that

if not the largest, a very large proportion had been picked up from the

chit-chat of society.

I was peculiarly favorably situated for acquiring knowledge in this way,

for my landlady, a chatty, good-tempered widow, knew the private history

of most of her neighbors, and was extremely well versed in the gossip

and scandal of the place; and her extensive knowledge, added to the

equally diversified lore of the fat old half-laundress, half-charwoman,

who had lived all her life in the vicinity (and was the very person who

had scared the before-mentioned urchins by scouring the once empty

house), and the tit-bits of sayings and doings, communicated by the

baker, butcher, green-grocer, and milkman, furnished a stock of history

which, reinforced by my own habits of observation, fully qualified me

for giving the little narrative which follows; and which I am tempted to

give to the world not so much for its intrinsic interest, or because it

contains any record of great deeds, but because it shows industry and

perseverance triumphing over the obstacles of the world, and bearing the

burdens of misplaced benevolence.

To begin then our tale in earnest. The head of the house opposite was

Thomas Winthorpe, who acted as book-keeper to a large outfitting house

in the city. He was a rather taciturn, grave young man, and bore these

characteristics upon his face, but he was fond of knowledge, and had

acquired no small portion for a man in his position. Well-principled,

and untiringly energetic, and industrious, he had risen from a low

station more from the passive habit of steady good conduct, than the

active exercise of any brilliant qualities, and he felt a pride in the

fact; never hesitating, though he did not parade it, to utter the truth

that he was first hired to sweep the offices, light the fires, and do

other menial jobs. There was a striking similarity between him and his

little wife, Kate Winthorpe (who had just changed her name from

Stevens), which you saw in their faces, for Kate was grave, and

habitually rather silent too. But her gravity had a shade more of

pensiveness in it than Thomas's, which might have told the keen observer

that it had not the same origin.

Such indeed was the fact, for what difficulty and early poverty had done

for Thomas, youthful plenty and after troubles had done for Kate though

the bright smiles which I could now and then see chasing the shadows

over Kate's comely but not pretty face, as she bade her husband good-by

in the morning or welcomed him home at night, told that happiness was

bringing back much of her original character.

The old lady, Mrs. Stevens, Kate's mother, was a good sort of old lady,

so far as I could learn, with a respectful tenderness for Thomas, and a

fond affection for Kate, who had been the prop of her age and the solace

of her troubles; but without any thing remarkable in her character

beyond a meek resignation, which well supplied the place of a higher

philosophy, and led her cheerfully to accept the present and be content

with the past.

So far as I could glean, Mrs. Stevens was the widow of a once affluent

yeoman in one of the western counties, who lived in the "good old

English style," liked his dogs, and gun, and horses, was not averse to

a run with the hounds--had a partiality for parish and club dinners, and

was fond of plenty of company at home. This sort of life might have done

tolerably well in the palmy times of farming, when with war prices, corn

was, as Hood has it, "at the Lord knows what per quarter;" but when

lower prices came with peace, and more industry and less expenditure was

required, poor Stevens was one of the first to feel the altered times,

and as he could not give up his old habits, difficulties began to press

upon and thicken around him. After a few years, creditors became

clamorous, and the landlord urgent for the payment of rent in arrear,

and the result was that he was compelled to give up his farm and sell

his stock, to save himself from a prison. This left him a small remnant

upon which, if he had been a prudent, self-denying man, he might have

begun the world afresh, but he took his downfall so much to heart, that

in a few months he died of his old enemy, the gout.

Mrs. Stevens was thus left a widow with two children, Kate, a young girl

of fifteen or sixteen, and Charles, a fine young man of three or four

and twenty, who held a small farm in that neighborhood, and had hitherto

depended more upon his father's purse than his own industry. Little as

Mrs. Stevens knew of the world, she felt that it would not do to depend

upon Charles, who was one of those jolly, good-tempered, careless

fellows every body knows--men who go on tolerably well so long as all is

smooth, but wanting providence and foresight, are pretty sure to founder

upon the first dangerous rock ahead. To do Charles justice, however, he

would willingly have shared his home with his mother and sister, and for

a long time managed to remit enough to them to pay their rent.

When the first grief of widowhood was over, Mrs. Stevens and her

daughter, without any very definite plan, but drawn by that strange

attraction that impels alike the helpless, the inexperienced, and the

ambitious to the great centres of population, came up to London with the

small sum of money which, after every debt had been scrupulously

discharged, was left to her. Beyond that resource she had none, save the

address of a first cousin who, report said, had grown very rich in

trade, and to whom she hoped she might look for aid and advice. In this,

however, she was speedily undeceived, for upon calling upon her cousin,

and introducing herself and Kate, she was received by the withered old

miser very curtly, and told that as he came up to London a poor boy with

five and ninepence in his pocket, and had managed to get on fairly, she

with fifty pounds in her pocket could do very well without help. Perhaps

if the widow had let Kate plead her suit she might have fared better,

for the old man patted Kate's back, and seemed to dip his hand in his

pocket with the half intention of making her a present, but it was only

a half intention, and the widow went away with a heavy heart, convinced

that she must not look for assistance in that quarter.

I need not tell what little I know of the efforts of Mrs. Stevens to

find for herself a useful place in the great, busy, unfriendly, or at

least, coldly-indifferent world of London-life--how she found thousands

as eager and as anxious as herself--how, although she pinched and

stinted, and denied herself every luxury, she saw her small stock of

money silently wasting away, and no apparent means of getting more; all

these things are unhappily so every-day and commonplace, such mere

ordinary vulgar troubles, that every body knows them, and nobody cares

to hear more about them.

At last one day, after a weary walk, under a scorching sky, in search of

employment, the widow and her daughter saw in the window of an

outfitter's shop, the welcome announcement "good shirt hands wanted." So

the widow and Kate entered, and with some little trembling saw the

person whose business it was to give work to the needlewomen, and made

known their errand. Mr. Sturt, a sharp, rather rough man, who had the

management of this department, said, "Yes, they did want 'hands,' but

they required some one to become security for the work given out."

The widow's chagrin was as great now as her hopes had been high a few

minutes before, and she said at once that she did not know any one who

would become security, at which Mr. Sturt was turning coldly away; but

suddenly thinking of her cousin, she said to herself that he would

surely not refuse her this one favor, and she told Mr. Sturt that she

would try and come again, and timidly gave that gentleman her address.

As soon as the widow's back was turned, Mr. Sturt threw the address on

the floor, for he was perfectly sure of having plenty of applications,

and it did not matter to him whether the widow ever came again or not;

but Thomas Winthorpe, who was employed in a different department of the

business, happened to be a witness of the scene, had seen the widow's

hand shake, and lips quiver with hope and disappointment, and had marked

the anxious look of Kate; and with that sympathy which past poverty so

often begets for the poor, he picked up the "rejected address,"

resolving that he would inquire, and if Mrs. Stevens and her daughter

deserved it, he would help them to the work.

It was more than a year since Mrs. Stevens had seen her rich cousin, and

when she hastened to his house to prefer her humble petition it was shut

up, and all the information she could gain from the neighbors was, that

Mr. Norton had gone no one knew whither. This was a sad blow to Mrs.

Stevens and Kate; what to do they knew not, and as they wended their way

back to their now almost destitute home, their poverty appeared more

hopeless than ever; for disappointment is far harder to bear than mere

trouble, just as the sky never looks so dismal and threatening as when a

bright ray has just departed, and the sun has sunk behind a thick, dark

cloud.

Thomas Winthorpe, however, carried his good intention into effect

directly he left business, and little as he was able to glean in their

neighborhood of their life and past history, he was convinced that Mrs.

Stevens and her daughter deserved help. How, however, to afford them

assistance without wounding their feelings was for some time a difficult

question; but at last he determined to become surety for them at the

shop without their knowledge, and then to call, as if it were a matter

of business, and tell them that they could have work.

The next morning accordingly, he told Mr. Sturt that he intended to

become surety for Mrs. Stevens, and took no notice of that individual's

shrugs, and winks, and inuendoes--which were meant to insinuate a

sinister motive upon the part of Thomas--further than by looking at him

so fixedly and composedly, and withal with such an expression of

contempt, that Mr. Sturt, although not a very bashful personage, was

fairly confused; and in the evening Thomas called and introduced himself

to Mrs. Stevens, and told her that, in consequence of inquiries which

had been made, she might have the work when she pleased. The widow and

Kate, who had not stirred out of the house that day, and were in the

depths of despair, not knowing which way to turn for help, looked upon

Thomas as a preserving angel, and could have almost worshiped him for

the unexpected good news of which he was the bearer; nor was their

estimation of him lessened when the widow, remembering what had been

said about security, questioned him as to how that obstacle had been

overcome; and, after a few awkward attempts at parrying and

equivocation, Thomas, who was but a poor dissembler, confessed the

kindly part he had acted, and was overwhelmed with their expressions of

gratitude. From that moment they became intimate, and before the

interview, which was a somewhat long one, concluded, Thomas saw, partly

from their conversation, partly from the relics of furniture they had

managed to transport to London, that they had moved in a more

comfortable station, and were simple country folks; and with a feeling

possibly prompted by an unconscious heart-leaning to the quiet Kate, and

a latent wish to keep her away from the shop, he offered, as he lived

close by, to take their work to and fro for them, and so to save them

the trouble of going into the city, an offer which Mrs. Stevens who, in

her depressed circumstances, shrunk from strangers, and had no wish to

face the rough Mr. Sturt, thankfully accepted.

From this time the widow and her daughter sat down earnestly to work,

and though luxuries are not the lot of those who live by shirt-making,

yet as the house they were employed by was a respectable one, and paid

something better than slop prices, and as Thomas contrived that they

should have the best description of work, and Charles Stevens, from

time to time, remitted to them sufficient to pay their rent, they, with

their simple wants, soon began to feel tolerably comfortable and

independent. Thomas, too, who was an orphan, did not neglect his

opportunities of knowing them better, and became a close and dear

acquaintance, whose coming every evening was regularly looked for. At

first, of course, he only made business calls, and now and then sat and

chatted afterward; then he brought a few flowers for their mantle-piece,

or a book, or newspaper, which he thought might amuse them; and,

by-and-by, he read to them: and, at last, business, instead of being the

primary object of his visits, was the last thing thought of, and left

till he was going away: occasionally, too, Thomas thought that they were

working too hard, and that a walk would do them good, and he became the

companion of their little promenades.

Of course the experienced reader will see in all this that Thomas was in

love with Kate; and so he was, but Thomas was a prudent man. Kate was

young as well as himself; he had but a small salary, and it was better

to wait till he could offer Kate such a home as he should like to see

her mistress of. And Kate, what of her? did she love Thomas Winthorpe,

too? Well, we don't know enough of the female heart to answer such a

question. How should an old bachelor, indeed, get such knowledge? But,

perhaps, our better informed lady friends may be enabled to form an

opinion, when they are told that Kate began to dress herself with more

care, and to curl her luxuriant dark hair more sedulously, and that she

was more fidgety than her mother as the time for Thomas to call

approached, and grew fonder of reading the books he brought, and the

flowers of his giving. Mrs. Stevens, however, saw nothing of all this,

and Thomas never spoke of love, and Kate never analyzed her feelings, so

that we suppose if she was in love, she had glided into it so gently,

that she did not know it herself.

Something like three years had passed away in this humble, but

tranquilly happy state of existence, during which Thomas had been

silently adding to his stock of furniture, and quietly saving money out

of his small salary, when a new misfortune fell upon the Stevenses. The

mother had had weak eyes when a child, but as she grew up to womanhood

the defect had disappeared. Still there was a latent tendency to

disease, which it seemed close application to needlework in her

declining years had developed. For a long time Mrs. Stevens had felt

this, but concealed it from Kate, till her eyes became so dim, that she

could not go on any longer, and Kate became aware of the truth. This was

a sad blow, and Kate, who had come to look instinctively to Thomas for

advice, took the opportunity, when her mother was out of the room for a

few minutes, at his next visit, to tell him the fact, and her fears that

her mother was going blind. This was their first confidence, which I

have been told goes a great way in love affairs, and from that time

they were drawn still closer together. Thomas advised immediate medical

assistance, and not liking to offer Kate the fee, arranged to get an

hour or two the next day but one, and accompany them to an eminent

oculist. This was done, and the surgeon, after examining the widow's

eyes, said that skill could do nothing for her, but that rest was

indispensable, and that she must not exert her sight.

The whole of the work was now thrown upon Kate, and unmurmuringly did

the noble girl bend herself to the task of providing for herself and her

nearly blind mother. The first dawn of light saw her, needle in hand,

and Thomas found her at night stooping over her task. Their little walks

were given up, and she denied herself almost the bare necessaries of

life, so that her mother might not feel the change. This could not go

long without Kate's health suffering, and Thomas saw with grief the pale

cheek, and the thinning figure, and the red tinge round the eyelids,

which spoke of over-work and failing strength. These changes did not

improve Kate's good looks, but when did true love ever think of beauty?

He saw that the poor girl must soon break down, and then there were but

two courses open, either to offer his hand, which he was sure would be

accepted, or to offer them assistance.

From motives of prudence, Thomas had rather that the time when he should

become a housekeeper for himself had been longer delayed; but he did not

like to offer her money, for he felt as though such an obligation would

make her feel dependent, and draw her from him; and so he resolved at

once to make her his wife, and save her from the fate which otherwise

seemed impending over her.

How the declaration was made, and where, and whether or not there were

many blushes or smiles, or tears or kisses, I really do not know; but

from Thomas's practical manner, and Kate's earnest, truthful,

straightforward mind, and the length of time they had been as intimate

and confidential as brother and sister, I should think that there was

little of what some folk choose to call "the sentimental," although,

perhaps, there was not any the less of true sentiment. But certain it

is, that Thomas was accepted, the widow did not object, and all the

neighborhood soon knew that Kate Stevens and Thomas Winthorpe were about

to be married.

Of course, as is usual upon such occasions, there was plenty of comment.

A good many young ladies who had done their best to "set their caps" at

Thomas, intensely pitied poor Kate for choosing such a quiet stupid sort

of fellow, and not a few old ladies, who would have jumped at Thomas for

a son-in-law, were "sincerely" glad that it was not their daughter. And

there was a universal chorus of prophecy, as to the troubles that

awaited the young couple; for what (said the prophets) could they do

with Thomas's small salary, and Kate's old mother, if they came to have

a family? and so forth.

Kate and Thomas knew nothing of all this, and if they had, it would not

have affected them much, for confident in their quiet earnest affection

for each other, they looked forward to the future, not as a period of

easy enjoyment, but as one of effortful, though hopeful industry. The

preliminaries were soon arranged; Thomas had no friends to consult, and

Charles Stevens was glad to hear that his sister was about to be

married--a license was dispensed with, and the vulgarity of banns

resorted to to save expense. The bride was given away by a young

mechanic, a friend of Thomas's, whose sister acted as bridesmaid; there

was a quiet dinner at Thomas's lodgings, no wedding tour, and the next

day they went into the empty house, which had been done up for their

reception, and suited their scanty means, and when filled with the new

furniture of Thomas, and the old relics of the widow, Kate thought, ay,

and so did Thomas too, it made the most comfortable home they had ever

seen. I have purposely hurried over this part of my story, because it is

so very commonplace. After people have been deluged with brides in white

satin and Brussels lace vails, supported by a splendid train of

bridesmaids, all deluging their cambric-worked handkerchiefs in

sympathetic tears, what could I say for a marriage with a bride in plain

white, and Miss Jones, in a dyed silk, for a bridesmaid, and dry

pocket-handkerchiefs, into the bargain, to make it interesting?

Obviously nothing. Yet for all that, it was, possibly, as happy a

wedding as was ever solemnized at St. George's, Hanover-square, and

chronicled in the _Morning Post_, with half a dozen flourishes of

trumpets.

My readers now know all about the people who came into the empty house,

and made it look as cheerful as it had before looked miserable. Of their

domestic life I, of course, knew little: they kept no servant, and Kate

was occasionally to be seen through the windows dusting and brushing

about; but long before Thomas came home she was neat, and even smart,

and her ready smile as she opened the door, told me how happy they were.

It made even me half romantic, and if I could have found just such

another Kate, I half thought that I should have renounced an old

bachelor's life. Of their pecuniary affairs I, of course, knew little,

but I saw that their baker called regularly, and that Kate went out with

her market-basket, and if they had run in debt I was sure that I should

have heard of it.

After a little while, though, I began to notice that Thomas had a habit

which gave me some uneasiness for the future of the young couple. When

he came home he staid for about an hour, or just long enough to have his

tea, and then went out again for about two hours. It is true that he did

not exhibit any symptoms of dissipation when he returned, but I did not

like the habit. My mind, however, was set at rest by my landlady, who

could tell me all about it. She knew young Jones the cabinet-maker, who

was present at the wedding, and informed me that Thomas Winthorpe, who

was a good mechanic, employed his spare time in working with Jones, and

that both of them prudently put by the earnings of their leisure time as

a fund for future contingencies, so that my mind was set at rest upon

this point.

In due time, a little Kate blessed the household of my opposite

neighbors, and next, a little Thomas, and every thing appeared to go on

as happily as ever; and the old grandmother who had only partially

recovered the use of her eyes, leading her little grand-daughter, and

led in her turn by Kate, who also carried the baby, would often go out

for a walk, leaving the servant girl in charge of the house (for

Thomas's salary having increased, they could afford to keep a girl now

without being extravagant), and a happier family group it would not be

easy to find.

It was about this time, I observed a new addition to the family in the

shape of a stout, ruddy young man, who wore a green coat, with bright

buttons, and looked like a country farmer. I at once guessed that this

was Kate's brother, of whom I had heard, on a visit to his sister, and

though I was right as to the person, the other part of my guess was

incorrect. It was Charles Stevens, but he was not there upon a visit.

The fact was, that Charles, whose foresight never went the length of

looking a year ahead, had been totally ruined by a failure in the wheat

crops of his farm. All his property had been sold, and he left destitute

of every thing except a few pounds in his pocket, and without any great

stock of energy and intelligence to fall back upon, had sought the

refuge of his brother-in-law's roof, which, no doubt, was at first

cheerfully afforded him. But it was soon evident that Charles was likely

to bear heavily upon the Winthorpes, for he did not seem disposed to

exert himself to gain a livelihood. He appeared to lounge about the

house all day, and toward the evening, evidently to Thomas's chagrin,

came out to lean on the gate and smoke his pipe in the open air, thus

giving the house an air somewhat different from its former aspect of

respectability. I saw, too, as I sat up late reading (a bad habit of

mine) that a light burned till midnight in the Winthorpes' windows, and

sometimes hearing a heavy knocking, I looked out and saw at their door

the bright buttons of Charles Stevens shining in the light of the gas

lamp.

So far as I could learn, Thomas Winthorpe never visited these offenses

of the brother upon his wife, but for her sake suppressed his

indignation at the careless, thoughtless, lazy habits of Charles, and

bore all in silence; but I heard that he talked of them to young Jones

and lamented the moral obligation he felt to support Charles even in

idleness. These feelings, we may be assured, were not lessened when Kate

made a third addition to the family, and passed through a long and

dangerous, and, of course, expensive illness, and I was told (the

gossips knew all this through Miss Jones, the bridesmaid) that Thomas

had been obliged to devote the earnings of his overtime to pay the

doctor's bill, and the quarter's rent, for which he had been unable

otherwise to provide.

When Kate got up and resumed her family duties, there were other

indications of poverty in the household, one of which was that the

servant girl was discharged, notwithstanding that there was more

necessity than ever for her assistance. Kate's morning walks were given

up--she, as well as her husband, looked more careworn--the old

grandmother acted the part of housemaid, and Thomas wore a more

threadbare coat than usual. Nobody looked jolly and comfortable, except

the "ne'er do well," who was the cause of these uncomfortable changes,

but he looked as ruddy and careless, and smoked his pipe at the front

gate as composedly as ever, disturbed only by the recollection that he

had once been so much better off, and the knowledge that he had not so

much money to spend as he used to have; for by this time the cash he had

brought with him from the country, and of which he had never offered

Thomas a penny, was well-nigh gone.

Still, Thomas, though hard-pressed, worked on patiently and

perseveringly, hoping for better times, and these fortunately were close

at hand. People say that "Troubles never come alone," and I am inclined

to think Fortune also sends her favors in showers. Be that as it may,

just at this time, Charles, who was getting disgusted at idleness

without plenty of pocket-money, received and accepted an offer to go out

to Australia, with an old farming acquaintance; and a few days more saw

his chest put into a cab, into which vehicle he followed, while Kate and

his mother (Thomas was away at business) bade him a tearful farewell;

and within a few days Thomas's employers, more than satisfied with his

conduct, promoted him to a post where his salary was doubled.

What a change came over the house and family! The old servant girl came

back, and seemed so glad and brisk that she was never tired of work, and

made the place look brighter and neater than ever. The walks, too, were

resumed, and Thomas, justified in ceasing his evening work, made one of

the party after tea. Kate's cheek grew round and rosy again, and

Thomas's eye was brighter, and his old grave smile came back, as he

enjoyed the happiness and comfort he had so well earned: and to crown

all, I am told that the young Winthorpes will be very rich, for that

little rusty, shabby old man, who used to show the empty house, is Mrs.

Stevens's rich cousin, whom Kate had not recognized, and the old lady

was too short-sighted to notice, and who had left his former house, and

assumed the name of Willis, so that he might not be found out and

worried by his poor relations. My landlady informs me that the old man,

who knew his relations from the first, was struck with Thomas's

punctuality in always paying the rent on the day it was due, and by his

untiring industry (qualities which probably found an echo in his own

nature), and that the beautiful children (strange that such a little,

withered old miser should love blooming, careless children), have

completed his liking for the family. Thomas, however, has refused all

the old man's offers of assistance, and insists on continuing to pay the

rent for the house; and the old gentleman, who is now a frequent

visitor, and really does not look half so rusty as he used, unable in

any other way to confer obligations upon the family, has claimed to

stand godfather for the third child, and has bequeathed to the

youngsters all his large property, so we may fairly presume that the

worst difficulties of the Winthorpes are over, and that a happy future

is in store for them.

Reader, my little tale, or, without plot as it is, you may say my long

gossip, is at an end. It began about an empty house, and has run through

the fortunes of a family. How like a path in life, where the first step

ushers us onward we know not where; or, to compare small things with

great, how like a philosopher picking up at random a simple stone, and

thence being led on to the comprehension of the physical history of the

world. But plotless tale, or rambling gossip, whichever it may be, I

hope it has not been without its usefulness, but that it has served as

one more piece of proof that integrity, charity, industry, and

self-denial, if they do not always command success, give a man the best

possible chance of obtaining it on the only condition which renders

success worth having, namely, the preservation of self-respect.

[From Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.]

COLDS AND COLD WATER.

Who has not had a cold? or rather, who has not had many colds? Who does

not know that malady which commences with slight chilliness, an uneasy

feeling of being unwell, which does not justify abstinence from the

ordinary business and occupations of the day, but deprives one of all

satisfaction and enjoyment in them, and takes away all the salt and

savor of life, even as it deprives the natural palate of its proper

office, making all things that should be good to eat and drink vapid and

tasteless? Who does not know the pain in the head, the stiff neck, the

stuffy nose, the frequent sneeze, the kerchief which is oftener in the

hand than in the pocket? Such, with a greater or less amount of

peevishness, are the symptoms of the common cold in the head; which

torments its victim for two or three days, or perhaps as many weeks, and

then departs, and is forgotten. Few people take much notice of colds;

and yet let any one, who is even moderately liable to their attacks,

keep an account of the number of days in each year when he has been shut

out by a cold from a full perception of the pleasures and advantages of

life, and he will find that he has lost no inconsiderable portion of

the sum total of happy existence through their malign influence. How

many speeches in Parliament and at the Bar, that should have turned a

division or won a cause, have been marred because the orator has had a

cold which has confused his powers, stifled his voice, and paralyzed all

his best energies! How many pictures have failed in expressing the full

thoughts of the artist, because he has had a cold at that critical stage

of the work when all his faculties of head and hand should have been at

their best to insure the fit execution of his design! How many bad

bargains have been made, how many opportunities lost in business,

because a cold has laid its leaden hand upon them, and converted into

its own dull nature what might have resulted in a golden harvest! How

many poems--but no: poetry can have nothing in common with a cold. The

Muses fly at the approach of flannel and water-gruel. It is not poems

that are spoiled, but poets that are rendered of impossible existence by

colds. Can one imagine Homer with a cold, or Dante? But these were

southerns, and exempt by climate from this scourge of the human race in

Boreal regions. But Milton or Shakspeare, could they have had colds?

Possibly some parts of "Paradise Regained" may have been written in a

cold. Possibly the use of the handkerchief in "Othello," which is

banished as an impropriety by the delicate critics of France from their

version of the Moor of Venice, may have been suggested by familiarity

with that indispensable accessory in a cold. Colds are less common in

the clear atmosphere of Paris than in the thick and fog-laden air of

London; and this may account for the difference of national taste, on

this point. It is said of the great German Mendelssohn, that he always

composed sitting with his feet in a tub of cold water. This was not the

musician, but his grandfather, the metaphysician, and father of that

happy and contentedly obscure intermediate Mendelssohn, who used to say,

"When I was young, I was known as the son of the great Mendelssohn; and

now that I am old, I am known as the father of the great Mendelssohn."

But who ever was known to compose any thing while sitting with his feet

in a tub of _hot_ water, and with the composing draught standing on the

table at his side, to remind him that in the matter of composition he is

to be a passive, and not an active subject? How many marriages may not

have been prevented by colds? The gentleman is robbed of his courage,

and does not use his opportunity for urging his suit; or the lady

catches a cold, and appears blowing her nose, and with blanched cheeks

and moist eyes:

"The sapphire's blue within her eyes is seen;

Her lips the ruby's choicest glow disclose;

Her skin is like to fairest pearls I ween;

But ah! the lucid crystal tips her nose."

And so the coming declaration of love is effectually nipped in the bud

by the unromantic realities of the present catarrh.

Napoleon, as is well known, lost the battle of Leipsig in consequence of

an indigestion brought on by eating an ill-dressed piece of mutton; and

Louis Philippe, in February, 1848, fled ignominiously from the capital

of his kingdom because he had a cold, and could not use the faculties

which at least might have secured for him as respectable a retreat to

the frontier as was enjoyed by his predecessor Charles the Tenth. He

might have shown fight; he might have thrown himself upon the army, or

upon the National Guard; he might have done a hundred things better for

his own fame, rather than get into a hack cab and run away. But it was

not to be: Louis Philippe had the influenza; and Louis Philippe with the

influenza was not the same man who had shown so much craft and decision

in the many previous emergencies of his long and eventful life. Louis

Philippe, without a cold, had acquitted himself creditably in the field

of battle, had taught respectably in schools, had contrived for himself

and his family the succession to a kingdom, had worked and plotted

through all the remarkable events with which his name is associated, and

by which it will ever be remembered in the romance of history; but Louis

Philippe, with a cold, subsided at once and ingloriously into simple

John Smith in a scratch-wig.

Of places in which colds are caught it is not necessary to be

particular. For, as a late Justice of the Court of Queen's Bench laid it

down in summing up to a jury, in a case of sheep-stealing, after some

time had been wasted in showing that the stolen sheep had been

slaughtered with a particular knife--any knife will kill a sheep--so it

may be said that a cold may be caught any where: on the moor or on the

loch; traveling by land or by water; by rail or by stage; or in a

private carriage, or walking in the streets; or sitting at home or

elsewhere, in a draught, or out of a draught, but more especially in it.

Upon a statistical return of the places in which colds have been caught,

by persons of both sexes, and under twenty-one years of age, founded

upon the answers of the patients themselves, it appears that more colds

are caught upon the journey in going to school, and at church, than at

the theatre and in ball-rooms. Upon a similar return from persons liable

to serve as jurymen in London and Middlesex, it appears that a majority

of colds is caught in courts of justice; to which statement, perhaps,

more confidence is due than to the former, as it is not known that Dr.

Reid has ventilated any of the churches or theatres in the metropolis.

Indeed, if the ancient physical philosophers, who had many disputes upon

the first cause of cold, had enjoyed the advantage of living in our days

and country, they might have satisfied themselves on this matter, and at

the same time have become practically acquainted with the working of our

system of jurisprudence, by attending in Westminster Hall, when they

would go away perhaps with some good law, but most certainly with a very

bad cold in their heads. Upon the returns from ladies with grown-up

daughters and nieces, it appears from their own statements, that more

colds are caught at evening parties than any where else; which is in

remarkable discrepancy with the statements of the young ladies

themselves, as before mentioned. The same curious want of agreement is

found to prevail as to the number of colds caught on water-parties,

pic-nics, archery-meetings, and the like, which, according to one set of

answers, never give rise to colds, but which would certainly be avoided

by all prudent persons if they gave implicit belief to the other.