He therefore waved as perfectly impossible that item of the treaty. For

the public, however, the evidence of that gentleman is hardly necessary

to bring them acquainted with the manner in which the trust imposed on

the Registrar and his Deputy is performed; for while the Deputy

Registrar and Mr. William Wallace are settling their differences over

the next clause of their treaty, we shall dip into the reports of the

Ecclesiastical Commission issued in 1832, to show what the state of

things was at that time; and to any one who can prove that those

venerable documents have been by any means rescued from decay since that

year, the public will doubtless be much obliged. At page one hundred and

seventy of the report, Mr. Edward Protheroe, M.P., states, on oath, that

in the instance of every Court he had visited the records suffered more

or less from damp and the accumulation of dust and dirt. Then, speaking

of the Registry of this same Cathedral number two, he declares its

documents to have been in a scandalous state. "I found them," he

continues, "perfectly to accord with the description I had received from

various literary and antiquarian characters who had occasion to make

searches in the office; and I beg leave to remark that the place must

have been always totally inadequate as a place of deposit for the

records, both as to space and security." Some of the writings he found

in two small cells, "in a state of the most disgraceful filth;" others

in "two apertures in the thick walls, scarcely to be called windows; and

the only accommodation for these records are loose wooden shelves, upon

which the wills are arranged in bundles, tied up with common strings,

and without any covering to them; exposed to the effect of the damp of

the weather and the necessary accumulation of dirt." To these

unprotected wills the Deputy Registrar was perhaps wise in his

generation to deny access; for Mr. Protheroe says in addition that, "if

it was the object of any person to purloin a will, such a thing might be

accomplished." Perfectly and safely accessible copies might be made, at

"an expense quite trifling." What? Mr. Protheroe, would you rob these

poor Registrars of a shilling of their hard earnings, just to save

landed and other property, of some millions value, from litigation and

fraud? Would you discount their twenty thousand a year by even a

fraction per cent?

The clause of the treaty, offensive and defensive, which was being

negotiated all this while, between the Deputy Registrar and his visitor,

was drawn up by the former in these concise words, "How long do you want

to be here?"

That, Mr. Wallace replied, would depend upon the facilities afforded

him, the condition of the calendars and indexes, and the assistance he

might be allowed to call in. After much battling, the conference ended

by Mr. William Wallace, and a friend who accompanied him, being allowed

to set to work upon the calendars of such wills as had been deposited

before the year 1500.

The two antiquaries would have commenced their researches immediately;

only, on examining their dress, they found it in such a state of filth

from the smoke with which the office had been filled during the

arrangement of this important compact, that they were obliged to return

to the hotel to change their linen. The prospect of spending a week in

such a place was not altogether agreeable. Mr. Wallace did not enjoy

the notion of being smoke-dried; and of returning to the Middle Temple a

sort of animated ham. A sojourn in the place was not to be thought of

without terror; yet the poor clerks endured their smoking fate with

fortitude. Use was to them a second nature; and every man connected with

these Registries must be completely inured to dust. But the man of the

Middle Temple was a kind of knight-errant in the matter of rescuing

ancient documents from their tombs of filth; and not to be daunted. He

and his friend opened the campaign directly in the face of the enemy's

fire--which, so great was their ardor, they only wished would become a

little more brisk and less smoky.

That day and the next day they bored on with patience and perseverance

through every obstacle. When they found in the calendar a reference to

what they wanted, every possible obstacle was thrown in their way. The

required document was either lost, or had been stolen, or had strayed.

Nor was there the slightest reason to doubt that this was true. It was

well known to the searchers that one class of documents at least had

been actually made away with by a former Deputy Registrar. Dr. Thelwall,

of Newcastle, wrote in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1819, page four

hundred and ninety:--"It is a fact well known that, by a Canon of James

the First, the clergyman of every parish was required to send a copy of

the Register annually to the Bishop of the Diocese. The most shameful

negligence is attributable to the person (the Deputy Registrar) in whose

keeping they have been placed. Indeed I have some reason to suppose

this, as I lately saw in the possession of a friend, a great number of

extracts from the Register of a certain parish in this neighborhood,

and, on questioning him as to the way in which he became possessed of

them, I was informed they were given to him by his cheesemonger, and

that they were copies forwarded by the clergyman of the parish to the

proper officer in a bordering diocese, and had been allowed through the

negligence of their keeper to obtain the distinguished honor of wrapping

up cheese and bacon."

The sale of Records, for waste paper, was the mode adopted to revenge

the meanness of the legislature, in not providing the under-paid

Registrars with remuneration for this addition to their duties. Was it

possible to keep life and soul together upon the ten or fifteen thousand

sterling per annum which these two poor fellows were then obliged to

starve upon? Certainly not! Therefore, to eke out a wretched existence,

they found themselves driven to sell the property of the public, if not

for the necessaries, for the luxuries, of life. They had, perhaps,

managed to keep their families, by a rigid, pinching economy in

bread--dry bread; but to butter it; to indulge themselves with the

proper diet of even Church mice, they were obliged to dispose of

paper--worth, perhaps, thousands and thousands of pounds to the parties

whose names were inscribed on it--at a few pence per pound, to the

cheesemonger.

From this doom of some of the parochial records of the province, Mr.

William Wallace inferred the degree of care and exactitude with which

the wills were kept. Previous knowledge had prepared him for it; but he

was not prepared to find that _the whole_ of another and most important

class of records, up to a comparatively late date, had been abstracted,

in the lump, from the Registry of this Cathedral number two. The case

was this:--

In the course of his investigations, it was necessary for him to refer

to a "marriage allegation,"--that is, a copy of the statement made by a

bridegroom previous to converting himself, by the help of the Bishop's

license, into a husband. He then learnt that most of such documents are

the "private property" of one of the clerks, who kept them in his own

private house; that he had bought them of a deceased member of the

Herald's College, and that for each search into them he charged

according to a sliding scale, arranged according to the station of the

applicant, the maximum of which was five pounds for the simple search,

and five pounds more if what the party wanted were found. The English of

this is, that the present custodier of these papers purchased of a dead

Herald what did not belong to him; and what there could have been no

difficulty whatever in restoring to the true owner; (because no one

could have known better than the purchaser that they were public

property); and that their proper place was not his private house, but

the provincial Registry. The produce of this abstraction is an illegal

income better possibly than the legal gains of an Admiral or a

Government Commissioner; double that of a physician in good practice, or

of a philanthropist in easy circumstances,--and treble that of our best

dramatist, or our best poet.

Besides these hindrances, which could not be helped, a certain number of

wilful obstructions were thrown in the way of our inquiring friends,

because they had been desired by the Archbishop to be placed on the fee

free-list. They were watched by the entire office; for it became Argus

for the occasion. Remarks of a satirical character were discharged

point-blank from behind the desks, whenever a good opening occurred. The

non-paying searchers were "in the way"--(this was true, so unfit is the

apartment for public accommodation); "what people got they ought to pay

for, as other people did." Spies slid silently out from behind the

ramparts, or desks, to look over their shoulders, and to see that they

did not purloin any information posterior to the fifteenth century.

Mr. William Wallace stood all this manfully; but his ally was obliged to

retire at the expiration of the second day. Mr. William Wallace at

length found he could not advance the objects of his inquiries any more

efficiently at this Cathedral number two, than he had advanced them at

Cathedral number one; so, at the end of a week, he beat a dignified

retreat with all the honors of war. He then turned his face towards the

unimpeachable Registry of Cathedral number three, hoping for better

success.

CATHEDRAL NUMBER THREE.

The core of the inquiry which Mr. William Wallace had a heart, lay

imbedded in the depositories of unimpeachable Ecclesiastical Registry

number three. To the city of that See he therefore repaired, warmed by

that flaming zeal which only burns in the breast of an earnest

antiquary, and which no amount of disappointment can quench. Though

sanguine, even for an antiquity-hunter, the hopes which rebounded from

his previous failures, sunk within him, when he remembered that whereas

he was in former instances fortified with letters of recommendation--almost

of command--from the Bishops of each Diocese; on this occasion, he had

to fight single-handed, (like another St. George,) the dragons that

"guarded" the treasures he sought. He had no better introduction to the

third Deputy-Registrar than an honest purpose; and, his former

experience taught him that that was about as unpromising an usher into

such a Presence as could be imagined. Mr. Wallace therefore commenced

this new attack with no strong presentiment of success.

Strengthened with an ally, in the person of a friendly attorney, Mr.

William Wallace marched boldly to the great functionary's house, a

splendid edifice in the Cathedral Close, with thirty-three windows in

front, extensive grounds behind, detached stables and a tasteful

boat-house at the edge of what is here called the "Minster Pool."

Into this great house of a great man, Mr. William Wallace was ushered by

his friend. Nothing could exceed the obsequiousness of the man of law,

and great was the civility of the man of wills. The interview was going

on pleasantly and the antiquary was beginning to believe that at last he

had found a pattern Deputy-Registrar, when the lawyer happened to

mention that Mr. William Wallace was a literary man. Mr. Wallace felt

that this would be fatal--and it was so. He knew the condign contempt

Ecclesiastical Registrars entertained for the literary world, from the

little circumstance of hearing only the week before in another Registry,

the most eminent historian of the present day, and our best archaic

topographer, designated as "contemptible penny-a-liners." Mr. Wallace

was therefore not at all astonished when the Deputy-Registrar folded up

his smiling countenance into a frown. He evidently knew what was coming.

Literary men never pay, and Mr. William Wallace wanted to consult "his"

registers gratis.

When this shrewd surmise was, by a word from the attorney, realized, the

Registrar struggled hard to smoothe his face again to a condition of

bland composure; but in vain. The wound which had pierced through his

pocket, rankled within. The depravity of literary people in endeavoring

to dig and delve for historical information without paying for the

privilege of benefitting the public by their researches, was _too_

abominable! The Registrar was so good as to say that he would grant Mr.

Wallace the privilege of consulting any wills he pleased--on the usual

terms: namely, two shillings and sixpence for every document.

With this condescending permission (which placed Mr. Wallace on exactly

the same footing as the great body of the public which had not done

itself the honor of visiting the Deputy-Registrar) he repaired to the

Searching Office. The point he had set himself to ascertain at this

Cathedral Registry number three, hinged upon an authentic attestation of

the decease of the father of a distinguished general under Charles the

First. The name was a very common one in the diocese, and of course

continually occurred in the index. Will after will was produced by the

clerks; half-crown after half-crown fell glibly out of Mr. Wallace's

pocket. Still no success. This proved an expensive day. Mr. Wallace had

had to pay, in the course of it, twenty-five pounds; although he was not

allowed, as at the other places, to make a single extract.

The income of the office even of Deputy Registrar sometimes admits of

the maintenance of from six to a dozen race-horses, but the expense of

compiling paper calendars could never be tolerated. To make indexes of

wills that have never been catalogued would be quite out of the

question; for the Registrar charges his clients for the _time_ of his

clerks in making searches, and it was owned to Mr. Wallace that it would

take a year (at from one to two guineas per day) to find any will dated

before the year 1526.

The searching office of this Registry was, like the others,

inconvenient, small, and often crowded. The policy of the clerks was,

therefore, to despatch the inquirers as fast as possible, so as to

ensure a rapid change of visitors and a streaming influx of half-crowns.

On the second day of Mr. Wallace's search the trouble he had given on

the previous day for his money was intelligibly hinted to him. He was

broadly told that he was "very much in the way;" for room was so much

required that some applicants were plainly told that they must "come

again to-morrow." To others who had not their inquiries ready cut and

dried, in a business form, and who threatened long explanations

respecting testators, a deaf ear was turned, or a pretended search was

made, and they were told "there was no such will in the place." A

pleasant case occurred on the second morning. An illiterate laborer

tried to make the officials understand that an uncle of his wife had, he

had heard, left him a legacy, and "he wanted to know the rights o' it."

He gave the name and the exact date of the death, and a clerk retired

under pretence of searching for the document. In a very short time he

returned with--

"No such will in the place--half-a-crown, please."

"Half-a-croone?" said the countryman, "Wat vor?"

"Half-a-crown!" repeated the clerk.

"Wat, vor telling me nought?"

"Half-a-crown!" was again let off with a loud explosion, over the stiff

embrasure of white cravat.

"But darn me if oi pay't," persisted the expectant legatee.

"Half-a-crown!"

The countryman went on raising a storm in the office, in midst of which

the "Half-a-crown!" minute guns were discharged with severe regularity.

At length, however, the agriculturist was obliged to succumb, and after

a mighty effort to disinter the coin from under a smock-frock, and out

of the depths of a huge pocket and a leather purse, the poor man was

obliged to produce and pay over what was probably a fifth of his week's

earnings.

This circumstance having attracted Mr. Wallace's attention and pity, he

took a note of the name of the testator; and, after the inquirer had

left, found it in the Calendar, and by-and-by, by dint of a little

manoeuvring, got a sight of the will. In it he actually found that the

poor man _had_ been left a small legacy.

Meanwhile Mr. William Wallace had been actively employed in calling for

wills and paying out half-crowns. It was quite evident from the

calendars that no greater care was taken of paper and parchment here

than in the other Registries. Several wills entered in it, as having

been once in the depository--wherever that was--had against them the

words "wanting" and "lost." That ancient records should in the course of

centuries fall aside, cannot be wondered at, even in a Registry, which

produces at present to its officers from seven to ten thousand per

annum; but what excuse can there be for the loss of comparatively modern

ones? Certain wills were not to be found of the years 1746; 1750; 1753;

and 1757.

Mr. Wallace soon found that in a place where dropping half-crowns into

the till and doing as little as possible in return for them, is

considered the only legitimate business, he was looked upon even at

twenty-five pounds per day as a sort of bad bargain, who required a

great deal too much for his money. They could not coin fast enough by

Mr. William Wallace, and the Deputy-Registrar indulged the office with

his august presence to inform him, that as he gave so much trouble for

the searches he was making, he must pay, besides two-and-six-pence for

every future search, two guineas per diem for the use of the office!

It happened that the Bishop of Cathedral number three was then in the

city, officiating at an ordination, and to him Mr. William Wallace

determined to apply for relief from this extortion. He enclosed to his

Lordship his letters from other prelates and stated his case. The answer

he received was the Bishop's _unqualified authority_ to search wherever

and for whatever he wanted in the Registers of his Lordship's diocese.

Although this letter was addressed by the Bishop to the servant or

deputy of _his_ servant, the Registrar, yet Mr. Wallace's dear-bought

sagacity had taught him to place very little faith in a Bishop's power

over his inferiors. As it turned out, he found himself one of those who

are blessed, because, expecting nothing, they are not disappointed. The

Deputy-Registrar received his superior's mandate with supercilious

_sang-froid_. The old story--"The Bishop had no jurisdiction whatever

over him," but this once, &c. &c.

Mr. William Wallace had met in Cathedrals numbers one and two, repulses

and rudeness. But each Cerberus who pretended to guard the documentary

treasures of those dioceses, honestly showed his teeth. _They_ had not

been guilty of deceit. Deputy-Registrar number three was wiser in his

generation. He gave a cold assent to the Bishop's mandate in Mr.

Wallace's behalf; but with it such wily instructions to his clerks, as

rendered it as nugatory as if he had put it in his waste basket or had

lighted his cigar. During the two days that half-crowns rained in silver

showers from the Antiquary's purse, nearly every Will he asked for was

produced; but now, on the third day, when the Bishop's letter had closed

his purse-strings, Mr. Wallace demanded document after document, and was

told by the "Conservators" of this important kind of public property,

that they had "been lost," "could not be found," "mislaid." But the most

frequent return was, "destroyed at the siege of the City, in the year

1643"--stolen away with the Tomb of Marmion when

"Fanatic Brooke

The fair Cathedral storm'd and took."

The result of the three days' investigations stood thus: "During the two

paying days, out of a hundred Wills asked for, eighty were produced.

Throughout the non-paying day, out of ninety Wills asked for, only _one_

was produced!"

When half-crowns were rife, not one word was said about "the siege of

the City, in the year 1643," although nearly all the Wills Mr. Wallace

was obliged with a sight of, were dated anterior to that destructive

event.

For some explanation Mr. Wallace repaired to the Deputy-Registrar's

abode. It was too late. The clever sub. knew what was coming--and

retreated from the field. The servant's answer to Mr. Wallace was,

"Out of town, sir!"

But Mr. William Wallace was foiled even more completely in another

point: he had a great desire to see where and how the Wills were kept.

He knew their condition in 1832, from what Ulster King-at-Arms said

before the Ecclesiastical Commission, "I consider the records very

dirty; they have not, apparently, been dusted for many years." The

remarkable result of Mr. Wallace's urgent inquiries was that not a soul

he asked could, or would, tell in what place the ecclesiastical records

of Cathedral number three were deposited.

Mr. Wallace gave up this investigation in despair and left the city.

The _locus_ of the documents was to him a mystery and a wonder!

The habits of the antiquary do not, however, dispose him to indulge in

listless despair. To find out the secret masses of the records of

Cathedral number three was a task Mr. William Wallace had so earnestly

set himself, that next to his domestic relations and his literary

labors, it grew into one of the duties of his existence; therefore, on

his way to Cathedral number four, he paid another visit to the city of

Cathedral number three, fortified with letters to some of its clergy. To

be sure _they_ could clear up the mystery.

His first application was to one of the Canons. Did he know where the

ecclesiastical records were kept? Well, it was odd, but it never entered

his head to inquire. He really did _not_ know. Perhaps some of the

Chapter officials could tell.

To one of these, hies Mr. Wallace. Even that functionary--whose

courteousness, together with that of his colleague, was pleasant to the

applicant by the force of mere contrast--was equally unable to reveal

the secret. "But surely," he added, "such a place cannot, when one sets

about it, be so impenetrable a mystery. I have an idea that the _Miller_

could enlighten you."

"The Miller?"

"Yes. He knows everything about the town. Try him."

Mr. Wallace had business at the searching office, and having transacted

it, determined to make another effort in this legitimate quarter. The

following short dialogue occurred between him and the clerk:--"Pray,"

said Mr. Wallace, "where are the Wills kept?"

"That's not your business!" was the answer. Mr. Wallace returned to the

charge but the clerk became deaf, and went on with some writing,

precisely as if Mr. William Wallace were invisible and inaudible.

The Miller was the only resource. He was from home, and his wife gave

the same answer as everybody else had done. "But," she said, pointing to

an individual who was sauntering into the Close, "there's one as can

tell 'ee. He's a _rachetty_ man--he is." Without waiting to inquire the

meaning of this strange expression, off starts the record-hunter upon

the new secret. He runs down his game in no time. It consists of a burly

biped, bearing a cage of fine ferrets. Round his person is displayed the

broad insignia of office,--he is a rat-catcher.

Here Mr. William Wallace's perseverance triumphs. The Rat-catcher knows

all about it. "Why you see, Sir," he said, "I contracts for the

Registrar."

"What for?"

"What for? Why, I catches the rats for him at so much a-year."

"And where do you catch them?"

"Where do I catch them? Why, where the old wills is."

"And where is that?"

"Where is that? Why, _there_."

The Rat-catcher points to a sort of barn that rises from the edge of the

Minster Pool. It has no windows on the ground-floor. On the first-floor

are six--two in the front of the building and four at the

end,--twenty-seven windows less than are displayed in the front of the

Registrar's beautifully glazed house; but much of the little glass

afforded to the registry is broken. To mend it upon seven thousand

a-year would never do, especially when old parchment is lying about in

heaps. Why pay glaziers' charges when ancient wills and other

ecclesiastical records keep out wind and weather as well as glass?--for

light is a thing rather to be shunned than admitted into such places.

Accordingly, as the Rat-catcher points to the shed, Mr. Wallace observes

numberless ends of record rolls and bundles of engrossed testaments

poked into the broken windows: in some places variegated with old rags.

Judging from the exterior, and from the contract for rat-catching, the

interior of this depository of the titles of hundreds of thousands of

pounds worth of property, must be an archæological Golgotha, a dark

mouldy sepulchre of parchment and dust.

Lawyers say that there is not an estate in this country with an

impregnable title; in other words, it is on the cards in the game of

ecclesiastical and common law, for any family to be deprived of their

possessions in consequence of being unable to establish a perfect title

to them. How can it be otherwise when the very deeds by which they have

and hold what they enjoy, are left to be eaten by rats, or to be stuffed

into broken windows?

CATHEDRAL NUMBER FOUR.

An antiquary cannot approach the city of Chester from London, even in an

express railway train, without emotions more lively than that class of

observers generally have credit for. Despite a sensation akin to that of

being fired off in a rocket, and a pardonable fancy that the hedges are

endless bands of green ribbon in eternal motion, that the houses, and

cottages, and churches, and trees, and villages, as they dart past the

confines of the carriage window, are huge missiles shot across fields

which are subjected to a rapid dispensation of distorted perspective;

yet these mighty evidences of the Present do not dull his mind to the

Past. He remembers, with wonder, that two thousand years ago, it was

over this identical line of country that the legions of Suetonius lagged

along after they had blunted the scythes of Boadicea, routed her hordes,

and driven her to suicide.

We will not say that our own fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, Mr.

William Wallace, retrojected his imagination so far into the past while

crossing the Chester platform with his carpet-bag, because we are led to

believe, from his report to us, that his views were immediately directed

to the more modern times of St. Werburgh, who founded the Abbey of

Chester (once the most splendid in England); seeing that it is in the

still-standing gateway of that obsolete establishment, that the objects

of Mr. Wallace's especial solicitude are now, and always have been

deposited, since Henry the Eighth erected Chester into a diocese.

His hopes of success in seeking out certain facts from the testamentary

records of this see, were more slender than they had been while entering

upon his errand at the other three cathedrals. He had written to the

bishop for that permission to search which had been by other prelates so

readily granted, but which had been rendered by the respective

Registrars so utterly nugatory, and had received no answer. Awkward

reminiscences of the state of this Registry, as disclosed before the

last Parliamentary Committee on the Ecclesiastical Courts, fell like a

dark shadow over his hopes. Up to the year 1832, the gateway where the

wills are kept was, upon the Deputy Registrar's own showing, neither

"fire-proof, sufficiently large, nor absolutely free from plunder." The

searching-office was a part of the gateway; and was as inadequate as

other searching offices. The Chief Registrar in 1837 was a sinecurist in

the _seventieth_ year of office, and was verging towards the hundredth

of his age; having received, in his time, not less than three hundred

and fifty thousand pounds of the public money for doing nothing. The

fees for searches and extracts were heavy, and nobody was allowed, as in

most other Registries, to see how the wills were kept.

Such were the gloomy prepossessions of Mr. William Wallace, as he

approached the archway which held the testamentary treasures of Diocese

Number Four. He sought the searching office in vain, and at length was

fain to address himself to the first passenger--a burly blacksmith--who,

at once, in answer to his inquiry, pointed to a handsome new stone

building, that stood within the Abbey Square.

Mr. William Wallace ascended the steps doubtingly; and when he found

himself in the wide passage of an evidently well-planned public

office--so contrary was the whole aspect of the place to his

preconceptions of it, and to his previous experience of other

ecclesiastical Registries--that he would have retired, had not the

words, "Searching Office," as plain as paint and capitals could make

them, stared him full in the face from a door on his right. This he

boldly opened, and beheld a handsome apartment, so mounted with desks,

counters, and every appurtenance for public convenience, as to put him

in mind of the interior of a flourishing assurance office. "The room,"

says Mr. William Wallace, in his report to us, "is furnished with a

counter of ample size, extending round it, on which you examine the

indexes. On calling for one or two modern wills, the clerks brought me a

substantial, well-bound book, in which he informed me all modern wills

have been, since the appointment of the present Registrar, enrolled at

length, in a round text, so distinct and plain, that illiterate persons

might read them; and not engrossed, so as to become a source of revenue,

as at Doctor's Commons, where the unlearned, in what is called

'court-hand,' are obliged to call in the aid of a clerk, and disburse a

fee for the wills to be read to them. I was informed that I could see

the originals on giving a satisfactory reason to the Registrar, or, in

his absence, to a principal clerk. So promptly is business done here,

that I found the wills which had been received from Manchester and other

places that day, had been already indexed--very different to York, where

wills are sometimes not indexed for six or eight months, and,

consequently, often not at all. I next inquired for some earlier wills,

and stated that I might probably want to have two or three days'

research, for a literary purpose. On hearing this, the clerk informed me

that the Registrar made no charge under such circumstances, except for

the clerks' time. I then called for about six early wills, and only one

of the six could not be found. Afterwards I asked for the returns of

several Parish Registers; each set of which are well and substantially

bound in a separate volume; for this a fee of three shillings and

eight-pence is demanded; at York, for the production of a similar

quantity of records, fifteen pounds is the price, without clerks' fees;

and at Lincoln it would be impossible to collect them at all, many

having been used to bind up modern wills, and for other such purposes."

Mr. William Wallace, pleasingly surprised at the contrast this Registry

number four presented to others he had visited, and where he had been so

egregiously snubbed, determined to learn and see as much respecting it

as possible. With this view, he applied, without any other introduction

than his card, to the Registrar; whose excellent custom it was, he

understood, to be in attendance daily for several hours. At that time

he was examining witnesses in a case for the Ecclesiastical Court, and

handed the card to the bishop's secretary, who was also in official

attendance. "That gentleman," says Mr. Wallace, "immediately came down,

and informed me that the Bishop had written to me, in answer to my

application, two days before, giving me permission to search, at

reasonable hours, and that the Registrar, as was his usual custom, had

not the slightest objection. I then asked to be shown the various parts

of the building, the modes of preserving the records, which request was

granted without the smallest hesitation."

Our informant then goes on to say that he found the building--which was

raised solely at the expense of the present Registrar, since his

appointment in 1837--conveniently divided into different departments

like the best of the Government offices,--each department legibly

indicated for the benefit of the inquirer, on the different doors.

The manner in which the records are preserved at this Cathedral number

four, is spoken of by our friend with satisfaction. His report to us is

silent on rats, wet, mildew, smoke, broken windows, torn testaments, and

illegible calendars. "Modern wills," he repeats, "are copied at length

into volumes, by the present Registrar, a practice which I regret is not

adopted at York, Lincoln, Lichfield, Winchester, and other places I have

visited. If wills of an earlier date than that of the enrolment books

are required to be taken out of the office for production in any Court

of Law, &c., an examined copy made for the purpose, is deposited in its

place during its temporary removal from the Registry. The principal

portion of the wills are deposited in a dry, but not a fire-proof

building, in good repair, called the Abbey Gateway; where, during the

office hours, two clerks are constantly kept at work in copying wills

that come in. These are kept in boxes, arranged upon shelves with just

sufficient space to admit them, like drawers; and upon the top of the

wills is a sheet of pasteboard fitting the box, as a further protection

from dust. The wills are alphabetically arranged in the boxes, which are

of uniform size, and contain more or less letters; the first box for

1835, for instance, contains the wills of testators whose names commence

with A. or B. The wills of each letter are placed separately, and are

divided into packets of one month each, so that the exact date of

Probate being known, the will is found immediately."

Before the period of its renovation, the Registry of Chester was as

inefficient and exacting as the other three we have described. To whom

the merit of the change and the contrast is really due, is not easily to

be ascertained, although the present incumbent of the office must

necessarily have the largest share of credit for it. We suspect,

however, that the proximate impetus of the reform can be traced to the

geographical position of the see. It includes the busiest of the

manufacturing towns, and the most business-like, practical, and

hard-handed examples of the English character. The thorough-going

Manchester or Liverpool legatee would not endure, beyond a certain point

and a certain time, the impositions, delays, destructions, and muddling

confusion of the will offices in the more easy-going districts. Time

with him is cash. What he wants he must have at once, especially if he

pays for it. He may be put off once or twice with a rotten, illegible

index, or a "Come again to-morrow;" but when he once sees that these may

be obviated, he takes care to let there be no delay on his part, and

agitates immediately. To engage a Free Trade Hall, and get up a public

meeting, is with him a matter of no more consideration than scolding

his clerk, or bringing a creditor to book. He has discredited the maxim

that "talking is not doing;" and a constant iteration of pertinent

speeches, ending with stinging "resolutions," has been found to _do_

greater feats, to perform much greater wonders than setting

ecclesiastical registries in order. It is possible, therefore, that the

lay authorities of the Chester Registry, having the dread of an

uncompromising community before their eyes, saw their safety in

renovation; and, like sensible men, made it, without that whining

sophistication, that grim tenacity, with which abuses are excused and

clung to, in exact proportion to their absurdity, profitableness, and

injustice.

Part XX.

DISAPPEARANCES.

Now, my dear cousin, Mr. B., charming as he is in many points, has the

little peculiarity of liking to change his lodgings once every three

months on an average, which occasions some bewilderment to his country

friends, who have no sooner learnt the 19 Belle Vue Road, Hampstead,

than they have to take pains to forget that address, and to remember the

27-1/2, Upper Brown Street, Camberwell; and so on, till I would rather

learn a page of "Walker's Pronouncing Dictionary," than try to remember

the variety of directions which I have had to put on my letters to Mr.

B. during the last three years. Last summer it pleased him to remove to

a beautiful village not ten miles out of London, where there is a

railway station. Thither his friend sought him. (I do not now speak of

the following scent there had been through three or four different

lodgings, where Mr. B. had been residing, before his country friend

ascertained that he was now lodging at R----.) He spent the morning in

making inquiries as to Mr. B.'s whereabouts in the village; but many

gentlemen were lodging there for the summer, and neither butcher nor

baker could inform him where Mr. B. was staying; his letters were

unknown at the post-office, which was accounted for by the circumstance

of their always being directed to his office in town. At last the

country friend sauntered back to the railway office, and while he

waited for the train he made inquiry, as a last resource, of the

book-keeper at the station. "No, sir, I cannot tell you where Mr. B.

lodges--so many gentlemen go by the trains; but I have no doubt but that

the person standing by that pillar can inform you." The individual to

whom he directed the inquirer's attention had the appearance of a

tradesman--respectable enough, yet with no pretensions to "gentility,"

and had, apparently, no more urgent employment than lazily watching the

passengers who came dropping in to the station. However, when he was

spoken to, he answered civilly and promptly. "Mr. B.? tall gentleman,

with light hair? Yes, sir, I know Mr. B. He lodges at No. 8 Morton

Villas--has done these three weeks or more; but you'll not find him

there, sir, now. He went to town by the eleven o'clock train, and does

not usually return until the half-past four train."

The country friend had no time to lose in returning to the village, to

ascertain the truth of this statement. He thanked his informant, and

said he would call on Mr. B. at his office in town; but before he left

R---- station, he asked the book-keeper who the person was to whom he

had referred him for information as to his friend's place of residence.

"One of the detective police, sir," was the answer. I need hardly say,

that Mr. B., not without a little surprise, confirmed the accuracy of

the policeman's report in every particular.

When I heard this anecdote of my cousin and his friend, I thought that

there could be no more romances written on the same kind of plot as

Caleb Williams; the principal interest of which, to the superficial

reader, consists in the alternation of hope and fear, that the hero may,

or may not, escape his pursuer. It is long since I have read the story,

and I forget the name of the offended and injured gentleman, whose

privacy Caleb has invaded; but I know that his pursuit of Caleb--his

detection of the various hiding-places of the latter--his following up

of slight clews--all, in fact, depended upon his own energy, sagacity,

and perseverance. The interest was caused by the struggle of man against

man; and the uncertainty as to which would ultimately be successful in

his object; the unrelenting pursuer, or the ingenious Caleb, who seeks

by every device to conceal himself. Now, in 1851, the offended master

would set the detective police to work; there would be no doubt as to

their success; the only question would be as to the time that would

elapse before the hiding-place could be detected, and that could not be

a question long. It is no longer a struggle between man and man, but

between a vast organised machinery, and a weak, solitary individual; we

have no hopes, no fears--only certainty. But if the materials of pursuit

and evasion, as long as the chase is confined to England, are taken away

from the storehouse of the romancer, at any rate we can no more be

haunted by the idea of the possibility of mysterious disappearances; and

any one who has associated much with those who were alive at the end of

the last century, can testify that there was some reason for such fears.

When I was a child I was sometimes permitted to accompany a relation to

drink tea with a very clever old lady, of one hundred and twenty--or, so

I thought then; I now think she, perhaps, was only about seventy. She

was lively and intelligent, and had seen and known much that was worth

narrating. She was a cousin of the Sneyds, the family whence Mr.

Edgeworth took two of his wives; had known Major Andre; had mixed in

the old Whig Society that the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire and "Buff

and Blue Mrs. Crewe" gathered round them; her father had been one of the

early patrons of the lovely Miss Linley. I name these facts to show that

she was too intelligent and cultivated by association, as well as by

natural powers, to lend an over easy credence to the marvellous; and yet

I have heard her relate stories of disappearances which haunted my

imagination longer than any tale of wonder. One of her stories was

this:--Her father's estate lay in Shropshire, and his park gates opened

right on to a scattered village, of which he was landlord. The houses

formed a straggling, irregular street--here a garden, next a gable end

of a farm, there a row of cottages, and so on. Now, at the end of the

house or cottage lived a very respectable man and his wife. They were

well known in the village, and were esteemed for the patient attention

which they paid to the husband's father, a paralytic old man. In winter

his chair was near the fire; in summer they carried him out into the

open space in front of the house to bask in the sunshine, and to receive

what placid amusement he could from watching the little passings to and

fro of the villagers. He could not move from his bed to his chair

without help. One hot and sultry June day all the village turned out to

the hay fields. Only the very old and the very young remained.

The old father of whom I have spoken was carried out to bask in the

sunshine that afternoon, as usual, and his son and daughter-in-law went

to the hay making. But when they came home, in the early evening, their

paralyzed father had disappeared--was gone! and from that day forwards

nothing more was ever heard of him. The old lady, who told this story,

said, with the quietness that always marked the simplicity of her

narrations, that every inquiry which her father could make was made, and

that it could never be accounted for. No one had observed any stranger

in the village; no small household robbery, to which the old man might

have been supposed an obstacle, had been committed in his son's dwelling

that afternoon. The son and daughter-in-law (noted, too, for their

attention to the helpless father) had been afield among all the

neighbors the whole of the time. In short, it never was accounted for,

and left a painful impression on many minds.

I will answer for it, the detective police would have ascertained every

fact relating to it in a week.

This story from its mystery was painful, but had no consequences to make

it tragical. The next which I shall tell, (and although traditionary,

these anecdotes of disappearances which I relate in this paper are

correctly repeated, and were believed by my informants to be strictly

true,) had consequences, and melancholy ones, too. The scene of it is in

a little country town, surrounded by the estates of several gentlemen of

large property. About a hundred years ago there lived in this small town

an attorney, with his mother and sisters. He was agent for one of the

'squires near, and received rents for him on stated days, which, of

course, were well known. He went at these times to a small public house,

perhaps five miles from ----, where the tenants met him, paid their

rents, and were entertained at dinner afterwards. One night he did not

return from this festivity. He never returned. The gentleman whose agent

he was employed the Dogberrys of the time to find him and the missing

cash; the mother, whose support and comfort he was, sought him with all

the perseverance of faithful love. But he never returned, and by and by

the rumor spread that he must have gone abroad with the money; his

mother heard the whispers all around her, and could not disprove it; and

so her heart broke, and she died. Years after, I think as many as fifty,

the well-to-do butcher and grazier of ---- died; but, before his death,

he confessed that he had waylaid Mr. ---- on the heath close to the town,

almost within call of his own house, intending only to rob him; but

meeting with more resistance than he anticipated, had been provoked to

stab him, and had buried him that very night deep under the loose sand

of the heath. There his skeleton was found; but too late for his poor

mother to know that his fame was cleared. His sister, too, was dead,

unmarried, for no one liked the possibilities which might arise from

being connected with the family. None cared if he was guilty or innocent

now.

If our detective police had only been in existence!

This last is hardly a story of unaccounted for disappearance. It is only

unaccounted for in one generation. But disappearances never to be

accounted for on any supposition are not uncommon, among the traditions

of the last century. I have heard (and I think I have heard it in one of

the earlier numbers of "Chambers's Journal") of a marriage which took

place in Lincolnshire about the year 1750. It was not then _de riguer_

that the happy couple should set out on a wedding journey; but instead,

they and their friends had a merry, jovial dinner at the house of either

bride or groom; and in this instance the whole party adjourned to the

bridegroom's residence, and dispersed; some to ramble in the garden,

some to rest in the house until the dinner hour. The bridegroom, it is

to be supposed, was with his bride, when he was suddenly summoned away

by a domestic, who said that a stranger wished to speak to him; and

henceforward he was never seen more. The same tradition hangs about an

old deserted Welsh hall, standing in a wood near Festiniog; there, too,

the bridegroom was sent for to give audience to a stranger on his

wedding day, and disappeared from the face of the earth from that time;

but there they tell in addition, that the bride lived long,--that she

passed her threescore years and ten, but that daily, during all those

years, while there was light of sun or moon, to lighten the earth, she

sat watching,--watching at one particular window, which commanded a view

of the approach to the house. Her whole faculties, her whole mental

powers, became absorbed in that weary watching; long before she died she

was childish, and only conscious of one wish--to sit in that long, high

window, and watch the road along which he might come. She was as

faithful as Evangeline, if pensive and inglorious.

That these two similar stories of disappearance on a wedding-day

"obtained," as the French say, shows us that any thing which adds to our

facility of communication, and organization of means, adds to our

security of life. Only let a bridegroom try to disappear from an untamed

_Katherine_ of a bride, and he will soon be brought home like a recreant

coward, overtaken by the electric telegraph, and clutched back to his

fate by a detective policeman.

Two more stories of disappearance, and I have done. I will give you the

last in date first, because it is the most melancholy; and we will wind

up cheerfully (after a fashion.)

Some time between 1820 and 1830, there lived in North Shields a

respectable old woman and her son, who was trying to struggle into

sufficient knowledge of medicine to go out as ship surgeon in a Baltic

vessel, and perhaps in this manner to earn money enough to spend a

session in Edinburgh. He was furthered in all his plans by the late

benevolent Dr. G----, of that town. I believe the usual premium was not

required in his case; the young man did many useful errands and offices

which a finer young gentleman would have considered beneath him; and he

resided with his mother in one of the alleys (or "chares,") which lead

down from the main street of North Shields to the river. Dr. G---- had

been with a patient all night, and left her very early on a winter's

morning to return home to bed; but first he stepped down to his

apprentice's home, and bade him get up, and follow him to his own house,

where some medicine was to be mixed, and then taken to the lady.

Accordingly the poor lad came, prepared the dose, and set off with it

some time between five and six on a winter's morning. He was never seen

again. Dr. G---- waited, thinking he was at his mother's house; she

waited, considering that he had gone to his day's work. And meanwhile,

as people remembered afterwards, the small vessel bound to Edinburgh

sailed out of port. The mother expected him back her whole life long;

but some years afterwards occurred the discoveries of the Hare and Burke

horrors, and people seemed to gain a dark glimpse at his fate; but I

never heard that it was fully ascertained, or indeed, more than

surmised. I ought to add, that all who knew him spoke emphatically as to

his steadiness of purpose and conduct, so as to render it improbable in

the highest degree that he had run off to sea, or suddenly changed his

plan of life in any way.

My last story is one of a disappearance which was accounted for after

many years. There is a considerable street in Manchester, leading from

the centre of the town to some of the suburbs. This street is called at

one part Garratt, and afterwards, where it emerges into gentility and

comparatively country, Brook Street. It derives its former name from an

old black-and-white hall of the time of Richard the Third, or

thereabouts, to judge from the style of building; they have closed in

what is left of the old hall now; but a few years since this old house

was visible from the main road; it stood low, on some vacant ground, and

appeared to be half in ruins. I believe it was occupied by several poor

families, who rented tenements in the tumble-down dwelling. But formerly

it was Gerard Hall, (what a difference between Gerard and Garratt!) and

was surrounded by a park, with a clear brook running through it, with

pleasant fish ponds, (the name of these was preserved, until very

lately, on a street near), orchards, dove-cotes, and similar

appurtenances to the manor-houses of former days. I am almost sure that

the family to whom it belonged were Mosleys; probably a branch of the

tree of the lord of the Manor of Manchester. Any topographical work of

the last century relating to their district would give the name of the

last proprietor of the old stock, and it is to him that my story refers.

Many years ago there lived in Manchester two old maiden ladies, of high

respectability. All their lives had been spent in the town, and they

were fond of relating the changes which had taken place within their

recollection; which extended back to seventy or eighty years from the

present time. They knew much of its traditionary history from their

father, as well; who, with his father before him, had been respectable

attorneys in Manchester, during the greater part of the last century;

they were, also, agents for several of the county families, who, driven

from their old possessions by the enlargement of the town, found some

compensation in the increased value of any land which they might choose

to sell. Consequently the Messrs. S----, father and son, were

conveyancers in good repute, and acquainted with several secret pieces

of family history; one of which related to Garratt Hall.

The owner of this estate, some time in the first half of the last

century, married young; he and his wife had several children, and lived

together in a quiet state of happiness for many years. At last, business

of some kind took the husband up to London; a week's journey those days.

He wrote, and announced his arrival; I do not think he ever wrote again.

He seemed to be swallowed up in the abyss of the metropolis, for no

friend (and the lady had many and powerful friends) could ever ascertain

for her what had become of him; the prevalent idea was that he had been

attacked by some of the street robbers who prowled about in those days,

that he had resisted, and had been murdered. His wife gradually gave up

all hopes of seeing him again, and devoted herself to the care of her

children; and so they went on, tranquilly enough, until the heir became

of age, when certain deeds were necessary before he could legally take

possession of the property. These deeds Mr. S---- (the family lawyer)

stated had been given up by him into the missing gentleman's keeping

just before the last mysterious journey to London, with which I think

they were in some way concerned. It was possible that they were still in

existence, some one in London might have them in possession, and be

either conscious or unconscious of their importance. At any rate, Mr.

S----'s advice to his client was that he should put an advertisement in

the London papers, worded so skilfully that any one who might hold the

important documents should understand to what it referred, and no one

else. This was accordingly done; and although repeated, at intervals,

for some time, it met with no success. But, at last, a mysterious answer

was sent, to the effect that the deeds were in existence, and should be

given up; but only on certain conditions, and to the heir himself. The

young man, in consequence, went up to London; and adjourned, according

to directions, to an old house in Barbacan; where he was told by a man,

apparently awaiting him, that he must submit to be blindfolded, and must

follow his guidance. He was taken through several long passages before

he left the house; at the termination of one of these he was put into a

sedan chair, and carried about for an hour or more; he always reported

that there were many turnings, and that he imagined he was set down

finally not very far from his starting-point.

When his eyes were unbandaged, he was in a decent sitting-room, with

tokens of family occupation lying about. A middle-aged gentleman

entered, and told him that, until a certain time had elapsed (which

should be indicated to him in a particular way, but of which the length

was not then named), he must swear to secrecy as to the means by which

he obtained possession of the deeds. This oath was taken, and then the

gentleman, not without some emotion, acknowledged himself to be the

missing father of the heir. It seems that he had fallen in love with a

damsel, a friend of the person with whom he lodged. To this young woman

he had represented himself as unmarried; she listened willingly to his

wooing, and her father, who was a shopkeeper in the city, was not averse

to the match, as the Lancashire 'squire had a goodly presence, and many

similar qualities, which the shopkeeper thought might be acceptable to

his customers. The bargain was struck; the descendant of a knightly race

married the only daughter of the city shopkeeper, and became a junior

partner in the business. He told his son that he had never repented the

step he had taken; that his lowly-born wife was sweet, docile and

affectionate; that his family by her was large; and that he and they

were thriving and happy. He inquired after his first (or rather, I

should say, his true) wife with friendly affection; approved of what she

had done with regard to his estate, and the education of his children;

but said that he considered he was dead to her, as she was to him. When

he really died he promised that a particular message, the nature of

which he specified, should be sent to his son at Garratt; until then

they would not hear more of each other; for it was of no use attempting

to trace him under his incognito, even if the oath did not render such

an attempt forbidden. I dare say the youth had no great desire to trace

out the father, who had been one in name only. He returned to

Lancashire; took possession of the property at Manchester; and many

years elapsed before he received the mysterious intimation of his

father's real death. After that he named the particulars connected with

the recovery of the title-deeds to Mr. S----, and one or two intimate

friends. When the family became extinct, or removed from Garratt, it

became no longer any very closely kept secret, and I was told the tale

of the disappearance by Miss S----, the aged daughter of the family

agent.

Once more, let me say, I am thankful I live in the days of the detective

police; if I am murdered, or commit a bigamy, at any rate my friends

will have the comfort of knowing all about it.

Part XXI.

LOADED DICE.

Several years ago I made a tour through some of the southern counties of

England with a friend. We travelled in an open carriage, stopping for a

few hours a day, or a week, as it might be, wherever there was any thing

to be seen; and we generally got through one stage before breakfast,

because it gave our horses rest, and ourselves the chance of enjoying

the brown bread, new milk, and fresh eggs of those country roadside

inns, which are fast becoming subjects for archæological investigation.

One evening my friend said, "To-morrow, we will breakfast at T----. I

want to inquire about a family named Lovell, who used to live there. I

met the husband and wife and two lovely children, one summer, at

Exmouth. We became very intimate, and I thought them particularly

interesting people, but I have never seen them since."

The next morning's sun shone as brightly as heart could desire, and

after a delightful drive, we reached the outskirts of the town about

nine o'clock.

"O, what a pretty inn!" said I, as we approached a small white house,

with a sign swinging in front of it, and a flower garden on one side.

"Stop, John," cried my friend; "we shall get a much cleaner breakfast

here than in the town, I dare say; and if there is any thing to be seen

there, we can walk to it;" so we alighted, and were shown into a neat

little parlor, with white curtains, where an unexceptionable rural

breakfast was soon placed before us.

"Pray do you happen to know any thing of a family called Lovell?"

inquired my friend, whose name, by the way, was Markham. "Mr. Lovell was

a clergyman."

"Yes, ma'am," answered the girl who attended us, apparently the

landlord's daughter, "Mr. Lovell is the vicar of our parish."

"Indeed! and does he live near here?"

"Yes, ma'am, he lives at the vicarage. It is just down that lane

opposite, about a quarter of a mile from here; or you can go across the

fields, if you please, to where you see that tower, it's close by

there."

"And which is the pleasantest road?" inquired Mrs. Markham.

"Well, ma'am, I think by the fields is the pleasantest, if you don't

mind a stile or two; and, besides, you get the best view of the abbey by

going that way."

"Is that tower we see part of the abbey?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered the girl; "and the vicarage is just the other

side of it."

Armed with these instructions, as soon as we had finished our breakfast

we started across the fields, and after a pleasant walk of twenty

minutes we found ourselves in an old churchyard, amongst a cluster of

the most picturesque ruins we had ever seen. With the exception of the

gray tower, which we had espied from the inn, and which had doubtless

been the belfry, the remains were not considerable. There was the outer

wall of the chancel, and the broken step that had led to the high

altar, and there were sections of aisles, and part of a cloister, all

gracefully festooned with mosses and ivy; whilst mingled with the

grass-grown graves of the prosaic dead, there were the massive tombs of

the Dame Margerys and the Sir Hildebrands of more romantic periods. All

was ruin and decay; but such poetic ruins! such picturesque decay! And

just beyond the tall great tower, there was the loveliest, smiling

little garden, and the prettiest cottage, that imagination could

picture. The day was so bright, the grass so green, the flowers so gay,

the air so balmy with their sweet perfumes, the birds sang so cheerily

in the apple and cherry trees, that all nature seemed rejoicing.

"Well," said my friend, as she seated herself on the fragment of a

pillar, and looked around her, "now that I see this place, I understand

the sort of people the Lovells were."

"What sort of people were they?" said I.

"Why, as I said before, interesting people. In the first place, they

were both extremely handsome."

"But the locality had nothing to do with their good looks, I presume,"

said I.

"I am not sure of that," she answered; "when there is the least

foundation of taste or intellect to set out with, the beauty of external

nature, and the picturesque accidents that harmonise with it, do, I am

persuaded, by their gentle and elevating influences on the mind, make

the handsome handsomer, and the ugly less ugly. But it was not alone the

good looks of the Lovells that struck me, but their air of refinement

and high breeding, and I should say high birth--though I know nothing

about their extraction--combined with their undisguised poverty and as

evident contentment. Now, I can understand such people finding here an

appropriate home, and being satisfied with their small share of this

world's goods; because here the dreams of romance writers about love in

a cottage might be somewhat realized; poverty might be graceful and

poetical here; and then, you know, they have no rent to pay."

"Very true," said I; "but suppose they had sixteen daughters, like a

half-pay officer I once met on board a steam packet?"

"That would spoil it, certainly," said Mrs. Markham; "but let us hope

they have not. When I knew them they had only two children, a boy and a

girl, called Charles and Emily; two of the prettiest creatures I ever

beheld."

As my friend thought it yet rather early for a visit, we had remained

chattering in this way for more than an hour, sometimes seated on a

tombstone, or a fallen column; sometimes peering amongst the carved

fragments that were scattered about the ground, and sometimes looking

over the hedge into the little garden, the wicket of which was

immediately behind the tower. The weather being warm, most of the

windows of the vicarage were open, and the blinds were all down; we had

not yet seen a soul stirring, and were just wondering whether we might

venture to present ourselves at the door, when a strain of distant music

struck upon our ears. "Hark!" I said; "how exquisite! It was the only

thing wanting to complete the charm."

"It is a military band, I think," said Mrs. Markham; "you know we passed

some barracks before we reached the inn."

Nearer and nearer drew the sounds, solemn and slow; the band was

evidently approaching by the green lane that skirted the fields we had

come by. "Hush!" said I, laying my hand on my friend's arm, with a

strange sinking of the heart; "they are playing the Dead March in Saul!

Don't you hear the muffled drums? It's a funeral, but where's the

grave?"

"There!" said she, pointing to a spot close under the hedge where some

earth had been thrown up; but the aperture was covered with a plank,

probably to prevent accidents.

There are few ceremonies in life at once so touching, so impressive, so

sad, and yet so beautiful as a soldier's funeral! Ordinary funerals,

with their unwieldy hearses and feathers, and the absurd looking mutes,

and the "inky cloaks" and weepers of hired mourners, always seem to me

like a mockery of the dead; the appointments border so closely on the

grotesque; they are so little in keeping with the true, the only view of

death that can render life endurable!

There is such a tone of exaggerated--forced, heavy, overacted gravity

about the whole thing, that one had need to have a deep personal

interest involved in the scene, to be able to shut one's eyes to the

burlesque side of it. But a military funeral, how different! There you

see death in life and life in death! There is nothing overstrained,

nothing overdone. At once simple and solemn, decent and decorous,

consoling, yet sad. The chief mourners, at best, are generally true

mourners, for they have lost a brother with whom "they sat but yesterday

at meat;" and whilst they are comparing memories, recalling how merry

they had many a day been together, and the solemn tones of that sublime

music float upon the air, we can imagine the freed and satisfied soul

wafted on those harmonious breathings to its heavenly home; and our

hearts are melted, our imaginations exalted, our faith invigorated, and

we come away the better for what we have seen.

I believe some such reflections as these were passing through our minds,

for we both remained silent and listening, till the swinging to of the

little wicket, which communicated with the garden, aroused us; but

nobody appeared, and the tower being at the moment betwixt us and it, we

could not see who had entered. Almost at the same moment a man came in

from a gate on the opposite side, and advancing to where the earth was

thrown up, lifted the plank and discovered the newly-made grave. He was

soon followed by some boys, and several respectable-looking persons came

into the enclosure, whilst nearer and nearer drew the sound of the

muffled drums; and now we descried the firing party and their officer,

who led the procession with their arms reversed, each man wearing above

the elbow a piece of black crape and a small bow of white satin ribbon;

the band still playing that solemn strain. Then came the coffin, borne

by six soldiers. Six officers bore up the pall, all quite young men; and

on the coffin lay the shako, sword, side-belt, and white gloves of the

deceased. A long train of mourners marched two and two, in open file,

the privates first, the officers last. Sorrow was imprinted on every

face; there was no unseemly chattering, no wandering eyes; if a word was

exchanged, it was in a whisper, and the sad shake of the head showed of

whom they were discoursing. All this we observed as they marched through

the lane that skirted one side of the churchyard. As they neared the

gate the band ceased to play.

"See there!" said Mrs. Markham, directing my attention to the cottage;

"there comes Mr. Lovell. O, how he has changed!" and whilst she spoke,

the clergyman, entering by the wicket, advanced to meet the procession

at the gate, where he commenced reading the funeral service as he moved

backwards towards the grave, round which the firing party, leaning on

their firelocks, now formed. Then came those awful words, "Ashes to

ashes, dust to dust," the hollow sound of the earth upon the coffin, and

three volleys fired over the grave finished the solemn ceremony.

When the procession entered the churchyard, we had retired behind the

broken wall of the chancel, whence, without being observed, we had

watched the whole scene with intense interest. Just as the words "Ashes

to ashes! dust to dust!" were pronounced, I happened to raise my eyes

towards the gray tower, and then, peering through one of the narrow

slits, I saw the face of a man--such a face! Never to my latest day can

I forget the expression of those features! If ever there was despair and

anguish written on a human countenance, it was there! And yet so young!

so beautiful! A cold chill ran through my veins as I pressed Mrs.

Markham's arm. "Look up at the tower!" I whispered.

"My God! What can it be?" she answered, turning quite pale. "And Mr.

Lovell, did you observe how his voice shook? At first I thought it was

illness; but he seems bowed down with grief. Every face looks awestruck!

There must be some tragedy here--something more than the death of an

individual!" and fearing, under this impression, that our visit might

prove untimely, we resolved to return to the inn, and endeavor to

discover if any thing unusual had really occurred. Before we moved I

looked up at the narrow slit--the face was no longer there; but as we

passed round to the other side of the tower, we saw a tall, slender

figure, attired in a loose coat, pass slowly through the wicket, cross

the garden, and enter the house. We only caught a glimpse of the

profile; the head hung down upon the breast; the eyes were bent upon

the ground; but we knew it was the same face we had seen above.

We went back to the inn, where our inquiries elicited some information

which made us wish to know more; but it was not till we went into the

town that we obtained the following details of this mournful drama, of

which we had thus accidentally witnessed one impressive scene.

Mr. Lovell, as Mrs. Markham had conjectured, was a man of good family,

but no fortune; he might have had a large one, could he have made up his

mind to marry Lady Elizabeth Wentworth, a bride selected for him by a

wealthy uncle who proposed to make him his heir; but preferring poverty

with Emily Dering, he was disinherited. He never repented his choice,

although he remained vicar of a small parish, and a poor man all his

life. The two children whom Mrs. Markham had seen were the only ones

they had, and through the excellent management of Mrs. Lovell, and the

moderation of her husband's desires, they had enjoyed an unusual degree

of happiness in this sort of graceful poverty, till the young Charles

and Emily were grown up, and it was time to think what was to be done

with them. The son had been prepared for Oxford by the father, and the

daughter, under the tuition of her mother, was remarkably well educated

and accomplished; but it became necessary to consider the future:

Charles must be sent to college, since the only chance of finding a

provision for him was in the church, although the expense of maintaining

him there could be ill afforded; so, in order in some degree to balance

the outlay, it was, after much deliberation, agreed that Emily should

accept a situation as governess in London. The proposal was made by

herself, and the rather consented to, that, in case of the death of her

parents, she would almost inevitably have had to seek some such means of

subsistence. These partings were the first sorrows that had reached the

Lovells.

At first all went well. Charles was not wanting in ability nor in a

moderate degree of application: and Emily wrote cheerily of her new

life. She was kindly received, well treated, and associated with the

family on the footing of a friend. Neither did further experience seem

to diminish her satisfaction. She saw a great many gay people, some of

whom she named; and, amongst the rest, there not unfrequently appeared

the name of Herbert. Mr. Herbert was in the army, and being a distant

connection of the family with whom she resided, was a frequent visitor

at their house. "She was sure papa and mamma would like him." Once the

mother smiled, and said she hoped Emily was not falling in love; but no

more was thought of it. In the mean time Charles had found out that

there was time for many things at Oxford, besides study. He was

naturally fond of society, and had a remarkable capacity for excelling

in all kinds of games. He was agreeable, lively, exceedingly handsome,

and sang charmingly, having been trained in part singing by his mother.

No young man at Oxford was more _fêté_; but alas! he was very poor, and

poverty poisoned all his enjoyments. For some time he resisted

temptation; but after a terrible struggle--for he adored his family--he

gave way, and ran in debt, and although his imprudence only augmented

his misery, he had not resolution to retrace his steps, but advanced

further and further on this broad road to ruin, so that he had come home

for the vacation shortly before our visit to T----, threatened with all

manner of annoyances if he did not carry back a sufficient sum to

satisfy his most clamorous creditors. He had assured them he would do

so, but where was he to get the money? Certainly not from his parents;

he well knew they had it not; nor had he a friend in the world from whom

he could hope assistance in such an emergency. In his despair he often

thought of running away--going to Australia, America, New Zealand, any

where; but he had not even the means to do this. He suffered

indescribable tortures, and saw no hope of relief.

It was just at this period that Herbert's regiment happened to be

quartered at T----. Charles had occasionally seen his name in his

sister's letters, and heard that there was a Herbert now in the

barracks, but he was ignorant whether or not it was the same person; and

when he accidentally fell into the society of some of the junior

officers, and was invited by Herbert himself to dine at the mess, pride

prevented his ascertaining the fact. He did not wish to betray that his

sister was a governess. Herbert, however, knew full well that their

visitor was the brother of Emily Lovell, but partly for reasons of his

own, and partly because he penetrated the weakness of the other, he

abstained from mentioning her name.

Now, this town of T---- was, and probably is, about the dullest quarter

in all England. The officers hated it; there was no flirting, no

dancing, no hunting, no any thing. Not a man of them knew what to do

with himself. The old ones wandered about and played at whist, the young

ones took to hazard and three-card loo, playing at first for moderate

stakes, but soon getting on to high ones. Two or three civilians of the

neighborhood joined the party, Charles Lovell among the rest. Had they

begun with playing high, he would have been excluded for want of funds;

but whilst they played low, he won, so that when they increased the

stakes, trusting to a continuance of his good fortune, he was eager to

go on with them. Neither did his luck altogether desert him; on the

whole he rather won than lost: but he foresaw that one bad night would

break him, and he should be obliged to retire, forfeiting his amusement

and mortifying his pride. It was just at this crisis, that one night, an

accident, which caused him to win a considerable sum, set him upon the

notion of turning chance into certainty. Whilst shuffling the cards he

dropped the ace of spades into his lap, caught it up, replaced it in the

pack, and dealt it to himself. No one else had seen the card, no

observation was made, and a terrible thought came into his head!

Whether loo or hazard was played, Charles Lovell had, night after night,

a most extraordinary run of luck. He won large sums, and saw before him

the early prospect of paying his debts and clearing all his

difficulties.

Amongst the young men who played at the table, some had plenty of money

and cared little for their losses; but others were not so well off, and

one of these was Edward Herbert. He, too, was the son of poor parents

who had straightened themselves to put him in the army, and it was with

infinite difficulty and privation that his widowed mother had amassed

the needful sum to purchase for him a company, which was now becoming

vacant. The retiring officer's papers were already sent in, and

Herbert's money was lodged at Cox and Greenwood's; but before the answer

from the Horse Guards arrived, he had lost every sixpence. Nearly the

whole sum had become the property of Charles Lovell.

Herbert was a fine young man, honorable, generous, impetuous, and

endowed with an acute sense of shame. He determined instantly to pay

his debts, but he knew that his own prospects were ruined for life; he

wrote to the agents to send him the money and withdraw his name from the

list of purchasers. But how was he to support his mother's grief? How

meet the eye of the girl he loved? She, who he knew adored him, and

whose hand, it was agreed between them, he should ask of her parents as

soon as he was gazetted a captain! The anguish of mind he suffered threw

him into a fever, and he lay for several days betwixt life and death,

and happily unconscious of its misery.

Meantime, another scene was being enacted elsewhere. The officers, who

night after night found themselves losers, had not for some time

entertained the least idea of foul play, but at length, one of them

observing something suspicious, began to watch, and satisfied himself,

by a peculiar method adopted by Lovell in "throwing his mains," that he

was the culprit. His suspicions were whispered from one to another, till

they nearly all entertained them, with the exception of Herbert, who,

being looked upon as Lovell's most especial friend, was not told. So

unwilling were these young men to blast for ever the character of the

visitor whom they had so much liked, and to strike a fatal blow at the

happiness and respectability of his family, that they were hesitating

how to proceed, whether to openly accuse him or privately reprove and

expel him, when Herbert's heavy loss decided the question.

Herbert himself, overwhelmed with despair, had quitted the room, the

rest were still seated around the table, when having given each other a

signal, one of them, called Frank Houston, arose and said: "Gentlemen,

it gives me great pain to have to call your attention to a very strange,

a very distressing circumstance. For some time past there has been an

extraordinary run of luck in one direction--we have all observed it--all

remarked on it. Mr. Herbert has at this moment retired a heavy loser.

There is, indeed, as far as I know, but one winner amongst us; but one,

and he a winner to a considerable amount; the rest are all losers. God

forbid that I should rashly accuse any man! Lightly blast any man's

character! But I am bound to say, that I fear the money we have lost has

not been fairly won. There has been foul play! I forbear to name the

party--the facts sufficiently indicate him."

Who would not have pitied Lovell, when, livid with horror and conscious

guilt, he vainly tried to say something? "Indeed--I assure you--I

never"--but words would not come; he faultered and rushed out of the

room in a transport of agony. They did pity him; and when he was gone,

agreed amongst themselves to hush up the affair; but unfortunately, the

civilians of the party, who had not been let into the secret, took up

his defence. They not only believed the accusation unfounded, but felt

it as an affront offered to their townsman; they blustered about it a

good deal, and there was nothing left for it but to appoint a committee

of investigation. Alas! the evidence was overwhelming! It turned out

that the dice and cards had been supplied by Lovell. The former, still

on the table, were found on examination to be loaded. In fact, he had

had a pair as a curiosity long in his possession, and had obtained

others from a disreputable character at Oxford. No doubt remained of his

guilt.

All this while Herbert had been too ill to be addressed on the subject;

but symptoms of recovery were now beginning to appear; and as nobody was

aware that he had any particular interest in the Lovell family, the

affair was communicated to him. At first he refused to believe in his

friend's guilt, and became violently irritated. His informants assured

him they would be too happy to find they were mistaken, but that since

the inquiry no hope of such an issue remained, and he sank into a gloomy

silence.

On the following morning, when his servant came to his room door, he

found it locked. When, at the desire of the surgeon, it was broken open,

Herbert was found a corpse, and a discharged pistol lying beside him. An

inquest sat upon the body, and the verdict brought in was _Temporary

Insanity_. There never was one more just.

Preparations were now made for the funeral--that funeral which we had

witnessed; but before the day appointed for it arrived, another chapter

of this sad story was unfolded.

When Charles left the barracks on that fatal night, instead of going

home, he passed the dark hours in wandering wildly about the country;

but when morning dawned, fearing the eye of man, he returned to the

vicarage, and slunk unobserved to his chamber. When he did not appear at

breakfast, his mother sought him in his room, where she found him in

bed. He said he was very ill--and so indeed he was--and begged to be

left alone; but as he was no better on the following day, she insisted

on sending for medical advice. The doctor found him with all those

physical symptoms that are apt to supervene from great anxiety of mind;

and saying he could get no sleep, Charles requested to have some

laudanum; but the physician was on his guard, for although the parties

concerned wished to keep the thing private, some rumors had got abroad

that awakened his caution.

The parents, meanwhile, had not the slightest anticipation of the

thunderbolt that was about to fall upon them. They lived a very retired

life, were acquainted with none of the officers, and they were even

ignorant of the amount of their son's intimacy with the regiment. Thus,

when news of Herbert's lamentable death reached them, the mother said to

her son, "Charles, did you know a young man in the barracks called

Herbert; a lieutenant, I believe? By the bye, I hope it's not Emily's

Mr. Herbert."

"Did I know him?" said Charles, turning suddenly towards her, for, under

pretence that the light annoyed him, he always lay with his face to the

wall. "Why do you ask, mother?"

"Because he's dead. He had a fever and----"

"Herbert dead!" cried Charles, suddenly sitting up in the bed.

"Yes, he had a fever, and it is supposed he was delirious, for he blew

out his brains; there is a report that he had been playing high, and

lost a great deal of money. What's the matter dear? O, Charles, I

shouldn't have told you! I was not aware that you knew him?"

"Fetch my father here, and mother, you come back with him!" said

Charles, speaking with a strange sternness of tone, and wildly motioning

her out of the room.

When the parents came, he bade them sit down beside him; and then, with

a degree of remorse and anguish that no words could portray, he told

them all; whilst they, with blanched cheeks and fainting hearts,

listened to the dire confession.

"And here I am," he exclaimed, as he ended, "a cowardly scoundrel, that

has not dared to die! O Herbert! happy, happy Herbert! Would I were with

you!"

At that moment the door opened, and a beautiful, bright, smiling,

joyous face peeped in. It was Emily Lovell, the beloved daughter, the

adored sister, arrived from London in compliance with a letter received

a few days previously from Herbert, wherein he had told her that by the

time she received it, he would be a captain. She had come to introduce

him to her parents as her affianced husband. She feared no refusal; well

she knew how rejoiced they would be to see her the wife of so kind and

honorable a man. But they were ignorant of all this, and in the fulness

of their agony, the cup of woe ran over, and she drank of the draught.

They told her all before she had been five minutes in the room. How else

could they account for their tears, their confusion, their bewilderment,

their despair?

Before Herbert's funeral took place, Emily Lovell was lying betwixt life

and death in a brain fever. Under the influence of a feeling easily to

be comprehended, thirsting for a self-imposed torture, that by its very

poignancy should relieve the dead weight of wretchedness that lay upon

his breast, Charles crept from his bed, and slipping on a loose coat

that hung in his room, he stole across the garden to the tower, whence,

through the arrow slit, he witnessed the burial of his sister's lover,

whom he had hastened to the grave.

Here terminates our sad story. We left T---- on the following morning,

and it was two or three years before any farther intelligence of the

Lovell family reached us. All we then heard was, that Charles had gone,

a self-condemned exile, to Australia; and that Emily had insisted on

accompanying him thither.

* * * * *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

to have taken taken entire possession=> to have taken entire possession

{pg 8}

whose sinster aspects=> whose sinister aspects {pg 13}

cooly informed him=> coolly informed him {pg 30}

which his conduet=> which his conduct {pg 45}

which had been abtsracted=> which had been abstracted {pg 110}

both of the clerk Dubarie=> both of the clerk Dubarle {pg 113}

Lavasseur, went down stairs=> Levasseur, went down stairs {pg 136}

Levassuer=> Levasseur {pg 139 x 2}

They were both apparantly=> They were both apparently {pg 145}

by there rude and insolent notice=> by thier rude and insolent notice

{pg 146}

Mr. Augustus Seville=> Mr. Augustus Saville {pg 162}

he mutered=> he muttered {pg 183}

client's will all be coming to us=> clients will all be coming to us {pg

260}

judgment againt him=> judgment against him {pg 263}

before the magistate=> before the magistrate {pg 268}

evidence repecting them=> evidence respecting them {pg 269}

But supposing it to be=> {pg 270}

doubt of its accuaracy=> doubt of its accuracy {pg 274}

Viotti's divison of violin-playing=> Viotti's division of violin-playing

{pg 281}

was held exeused=> was held excused {pg 286}

have satisfied him=> have sstisfied him {pg 294}

constant sucession of=> constant succession of {pg 294}

he will at at once appreciate=> he will at once appreciate {pg 306}

modest young recuit=> modest young recruit {pg 312}

giving a satifactory reason=> giving a satisfactory reason {pg 345}

and the the tower=> and the tower {pg 366}

as far as I I know=> as far as I know {pg 373}