CHAPTER I. THE POCKETS.

Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have

been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

MY MISCELLANIES.

BY WILKIE COLLINS,

AUTHOR OF 'THE WOMAN IN WHITE,' 'NO NAME,' 'THE DEAD SECRET,'

&C. &C. &C.

IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II.

LONDON:

SAMPSON LOW, SON, & CO., LUDGATE HILL.

1863.

The Author reserves the right of Translation.

LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,

AND CHARING CROSS.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

PAGE

CASES WORTH LOOKING AT: I.

Memoirs of an Adopted Son 1

SKETCHES OF CHARACTER: IV.

The Bachelor Bedroom 30

NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY: III.

A remarkable Revolution 55

DOUGLAS JERROLD 75

SKETCHES OF CHARACTER: V.

Pray employ Major Namby! 95

CASES WORTH LOOKING AT: II.

The Poisoned Meal 114

SKETCHES OF CHARACTER: VI.

My Spinsters 173

DRAMATIC GRUB STREET. (Explored in Two Letters) 193

TO THINK, OR BE THOUGHT FOR? 211

SOCIAL GRIEVANCES: IV.

Save Me from my Friends 230

CASES WORTH LOOKING AT: III.

The Cauldron of Oil 250

BOLD WORDS BY A BACHELOR 281

SOCIAL GRIEVANCES: V.

Mrs. Bullwinkle 292

MY MISCELLANIES.

CASES WORTH LOOKING AT.--I.

MEMOIRS OF AN ADOPTED SON.[A]

I.--CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH PRECEDED HIS BIRTH.

Towards the beginning of the eighteenth century there stood on a rock

in the sea, near a fishing village on the coast of Brittany, a ruined

Tower with a very bad reputation. No mortal was known to have inhabited

it within the memory of living man. The one tenant whom Tradition

associated with the occupation of the place, at a remote period, had

moved into it from the infernal regions, nobody knew why--had lived

in it, nobody knew how long--and had quitted possession, nobody knew

when. Under such circumstances, nothing was more natural than that this

unearthly Individual should give a name to his residence; for which

reason, the building was thereafter known to all the neighbourhood round

as Satanstower.

Early in the year seventeen hundred, the inhabitants of the village were

startled, one night, by seeing the red gleam of a fire in the Tower, and

by smelling, in the same direction, a preternaturally strong odour of

fried fish. The next morning, the fishermen who passed by the building in

their boats were amazed to find that a stranger had taken up his abode

in it. Judging of him at a distance, he seemed to be a fine tall stout

fellow: he was dressed in fisherman's costume, and he had a new boat of

his own, moored comfortably in a cleft of the rock. If he had inhabited

a place of decent reputation, his neighbours would have immediately made

his acquaintance; but, as things were, all they could venture to do was

to watch him in silence.

The first day passed, and, though it was fine weather, he made no use of

his boat. The second day followed, with a continuance of the fine weather,

and still he was as idle as before. On the third day, when a violent storm

kept all the boats of the village on the beach--on the third day, in the

midst of the tempest, away went the man of the Tower to make his first

fishing experiment in strange waters! He and his boat came back safe and

sound, in a lull of the storm; and the villagers watching on the cliff

above saw him carrying the fish up, by great basketsful, to his Tower. No

such haul had ever fallen to the lot of any one of them--and the stranger

had taken it in a whole gale of wind!

Upon this, the inhabitants of the village called a council. The lead

in the debate was assumed by a smart young fellow, a fisherman named

Poulailler, who stoutly declared that the stranger at the Tower was

of infernal origin. "The rest of you may call him what you like," said

Poulailler; "I call him The Fiend-Fisherman!"

The opinion thus expressed proved to be the opinion of the entire

audience--with the one exception of the village priest. The priest said,

"Gently, my sons. Don't make sure about the man of the Tower, before

Sunday. Wait and see if he comes to church."

"And if he doesn't come to church?" asked all the fishermen, in a breath.

"In that case," replied the priest, "I will excommunicate him--and then,

my children, you may call him what you like."

Sunday came; and no sign of the stranger darkened the church-doors. He

was excommunicated, accordingly. The whole village forthwith adopted

Poulailler's idea; and called the man of the Tower by the name which

Poulailler had given him--"The Fiend-Fisherman."

These strong proceedings produced not the slightest apparent effect on the

diabolical personage who had occasioned them. He persisted in remaining

idle when the weather was fine; in going out to fish when no other boat

in the place dare put to sea; and in coming back again to his solitary

dwelling-place, with his nets full, his boat uninjured, and himself

alive and hearty. He made no attempts to buy and sell with anybody;

he kept steadily away from the village; he lived on fish of his own

preternaturally strong frying; and he never spoke to a living soul--with

the solitary exception of Poulailler himself. One fine evening, when the

young man was rowing home past the Tower, the Fiend-Fisherman darted out

on to the rock--said, "Thank you, Poulailler, for giving me a name"--bowed

politely--and darted in again. The young fisherman felt the words run cold

down the marrow of his back; and whenever he was at sea again, he gave

the Tower a wide berth from that day forth.

Time went on--and an important event occurred in Poulailler's life. He

was engaged to be married. On the day when his betrothal was publicly made

known, his friends clustered noisily about him on the fishing-jetty of the

village to offer their congratulations. While they were all in full cry,

a strange voice suddenly made itself heard through the confusion, which

silenced everybody in an instant. The crowd fell back, and disclosed the

Fiend-Fisherman sauntering up the jetty. It was the first time he had ever

set foot--cloven foot--within the precincts of the village.

"Gentlemen," said the Fiend-Fisherman, "where is my friend, Poulailler?"

He put the question with perfect politeness; he looked remarkably well in

his fisherman's costume; he exhaled a relishing odour of fried fish; he

had a cordial nod for the men, and a sweet smile for the women--but, with

all these personal advantages, everybody fell back from him, and nobody

answered his question. The coldness of the popular reception, however, did

not in any way abash him. He looked about for Poulailler with searching

eyes, discovered the place in which he was standing, and addressed him in

the friendliest manner.

"So you are going to be married?" remarked the Fiend-Fisherman.

"What's that to you?" said Poulailler. He was inwardly terrified, but

outwardly gruff--not an uncommon combination of circumstances with men of

his class, in his mental situation.

"My friend," pursued the Fiend-Fisherman, "I have not forgotten your

polite attention in giving me a name; and I come here to requite it. You

will have a family, Poulailler; and your first child will be a boy. I

propose to make that boy my Adopted Son."

The marrow of Poulailler's back became awfully cold--but he grew gruffer

than ever, in spite of his back.

"You won't do anything of the sort," he replied. "If I have the largest

family in France, no child of mine shall ever go near you."

"I shall adopt your first-born for all that," persisted the

Fiend-Fisherman. "Poulailler! I wish you good morning. Ladies and

gentlemen! the same to all of you."

With those words, he withdrew from the jetty; and the marrow of

Poulailler's back recovered its temperature.

The next morning was stormy; and all the village expected to see the boat

from the Tower put out, as usual, to sea. Not a sign of it appeared.

Later in the day, the rock on which the building stood was examined

from a distance. Neither boat nor nets were in their customary places.

At night, the red gleam of the fire was missed for the first time. The

Fiend-Fisherman had gone! He had announced his intentions on the jetty,

and had disappeared. What did this mean? Nobody knew.

On Poulailler's wedding-day, a portentous circumstance recalled the

memory of the diabolical stranger, and, as a matter of course, seriously

discomposed the bridegroom's back. At the moment when the marriage

ceremony was complete, a relishing odour of fried fish stole into the

nostrils of the company, and a voice from invisible lips said: "Keep up

your spirits, Poulailler; I have not forgotten my promise!"

A year later, Madame Poulailler was in the hands of the midwife of the

district, and a repetition of the portentous circumstance took place.

Poulailler was waiting in the kitchen to hear how matters ended up-stairs.

The nurse came in with a baby. "Which is it?" asked the happy father;

"girl or boy?" Before the nurse could answer, an odour of supernaturally

fried fish filled the kitchen; and a voice from invisible lips replied:

"A boy, Poulailler--_and I've got him!_"

Such were the circumstances under which the subject of this Memoir was

introduced to the joys and sorrows of mortal existence.

II.--HIS BOYHOOD AND EARLY LIFE.

When a boy is born under auspices which lead his parents to suppose

that, while the bodily part of him is safe at home, the spiritual part is

subjected to a course of infernal tuition elsewhere--what are his father

and mother to do with him? They must do the best they can--which was

exactly what Poulailler and his wife did with the hero of these pages.

In the first place, they had him christened instantly. It was observed

with horror that his infant face was distorted with grimaces, and that his

infant voice roared with a preternatural lustiness of tone the moment the

priest touched him. The first thing he asked for, when he learnt to speak,

was "fried fish;" and the first place he wanted to go to, when he learnt

to walk, was the diabolical Tower on the rock. "He won't learn anything,"

said the master, when he was old enough to go to school. "Thrash him,"

said Poulailler--and the master thrashed him. "He won't come to his

first communion," said the priest. "Thrash him," said Poulailler--and the

priest thrashed him. The farmers' orchards were robbed; the neighbouring

rabbit-warrens were depopulated; linen was stolen from the gardens, and

nets were torn on the beach. "The deuce take Poulailler's boy," was the

general cry. "The deuce has got him," was Poulailler's answer. "And yet

he is a nice-looking boy," said Madame Poulailler. And he was--as tall,

as strong, as handsome a young fellow, as could be seen in all France.

"Let us pray for him," said Madame Poulailler. "Let us thrash him,"

said her husband. "Our son has been thrashed till all the sticks in the

neighbourhood are broken," pleaded his mother. "We will try him with the

rope's-end next," retorted his father; "he shall go to sea and live in an

atmosphere of thrashing. Our son shall be a cabin-boy." It was all one to

Poulailler Junior--he knew who had adopted him, as well as his father--he

had been instinctively conscious from infancy of the Fiend-Fisherman's

interest in his welfare--he cared for no earthly discipline--and a

cabin-boy he became at ten years old.

After two years of the rope's-end (applied quite ineffectually), the

subject of this Memoir robbed his captain, and ran away in an English

port. London became the next scene of his adventures. At twelve years old,

he persuaded society in the Metropolis that he was the forsaken natural

son of a French duke. British benevolence, after blindly providing for him

for four years, opened its eyes and found him out at the age of sixteen;

upon which he returned to France, and entered the army in the capacity

of drummer. At eighteen, he deserted, and had a turn with the gipsies.

He told fortunes, he conjured, he danced on the tight-rope, he acted,

he sold quack medicines, he altered his mind again, and returned to the

army. Here he fell in love with the vivandière of his new regiment. The

sergeant-major of the company, touched by the same amiable weakness,

naturally resented his attentions to the lady. Poulailler (perhaps

unjustifiably) asserted himself by boxing his officer's ears. Out flashed

the swords on both sides, and in went Poulailler's blade through and

through the tender heart of the sergeant-major. The frontier was close at

hand. Poulailler wiped his sword, and crossed it.

Sentence of death was recorded against him in his absence. When society

has condemned us to die, if we are men of any spirit how are we to return

the compliment? By condemning society to keep us alive--or, in other

words, by robbing right and left for a living. Poulailler's destiny was

now accomplished. He was picked out to be the Greatest Thief of his age;

and when Fate summoned him to his place in the world, he stepped forward

and took it. His life hitherto had been merely the life of a young

scamp--he was now to do justice to the diabolical father who had adopted

him, and to expand to the proportions of a full-grown Robber.

His first exploits were performed in Germany. They showed such novelty

of combination, such daring, such dexterity, and, even in his most

homicidal moments, such irresistible gaiety and good humour, that a band

of congenial spirits gathered about him in no time. As commander-in-chief

of the Thieves' army, his popularity never wavered. His weaknesses--and

what illustrious man is without them?--were three in number. First

weakness--he was extravagantly susceptible to the charms of the fair sex.

Second weakness--he was perilously fond of practical jokes. Third weakness

(inherited from his adopted parent)--his appetite was insatiable in the

matter of fried fish. As for the merits to set against these defects,

some have been noticed already, and others will appear immediately. Let

it merely be premised, in this place, that he was one of the handsomest

men of his time, that he dressed superbly, and that he was capable

of the most exalted acts of generosity wherever a handsome woman was

concerned--let this be understood, to begin with; and let us now enter on

the narrative of his last exploit in Germany before he returned to France.

This adventure is something more than a mere specimen of his method of

workmanship--it proved, in the future, to be the fatal event of his life.

On a Monday in the week, he had stopped on the highway, and robbed of

all his valuables and all his papers, an Italian nobleman--the Marquis

Petrucci of Sienna. On Tuesday, he was ready for another stroke of

business. Posted on the top of a steep hill, he watched the road which

wound up to the summit on one side, while his followers were ensconced on

the road which led down from it on the other. The prize expected, in this

case, was the travelling carriage (with a large sum of money inside) of

the Baron de Kirbergen.

Before long, Poulailler discerned the carriage afar off, at the bottom

of the hill, and in advance of it, ascending the eminence, two ladies

on foot. They were the Baron's daughters--Wilhelmina, a fair beauty;

Frederica, a brunette--both lovely, both accomplished, both susceptible,

both young. Poulailler sauntered down the hill to meet the fascinating

travellers. He looked--bowed--introduced himself--and fell in love with

Wilhelmina on the spot. Both the charming girls acknowledged in the

most artless manner that confinement to the carriage had given them

the fidgets, and that they were walking up the hill to try the remedy

of gentle exercise. Poulailler's heart was touched, and Poulailler's

generosity to the sex was roused in the nick of time. With a polite

apology to the young ladies, he ran back, by a short cut, to the ambush

on the other side of the hill in which his men were posted.

"Gentlemen!" cried the generous Thief, "in the charming name of Wilhelmina

de Kirbergen, I charge you all, let the Baron's carriage pass free." The

band was not susceptible--the band demurred. Poulailler knew them. He

had appealed to their hearts in vain--he now appealed to their pockets.

"Gentlemen!" he resumed, "excuse my momentary misconception of your

sentiments. Here is my one half share of the Marquis Petrucci's property.

If I divide it among you, will you let the carriage pass free?" The band

knew the value of money--and accepted the terms. Poulailler rushed back

up the hill, and arrived at the top just in time to hand the young ladies

into the carriage. "Charming man!" said the white Wilhelmina to the brown

Frederica, as they drove off. Innocent soul! what would she have said

if she had known that her personal attractions had saved her father's

property? Was she ever to see the charming man again? Yes: she was to see

him the next day--and, more than that, Fate was hereafter to link her fast

to the robber's life and the robbers doom.

Confiding the direction of the band to his first lieutenant, Poulailler

followed the carriage on horseback, and ascertained the place of the

Baron's residence that night.

The next morning a superbly-dressed stranger knocked at the door. "What

name, sir?" said the servant. "The Marquis Petrucci of Sienna," replied

Poulailler. "How are the young ladies after their journey?" The Marquis

was shown in, and introduced to the Baron. The Baron was naturally

delighted to receive a brother nobleman--Miss Wilhelmina was modestly

happy to see the charming man again--Miss Frederica was affectionately

pleased on her sister's account. Not being of a disposition to lose time

where his affections were concerned, Poulailler expressed his sentiments

to the beloved object that evening. The next morning he had an interview

with the Baron, at which he produced the papers which proved him to be

the Marquis. Nothing could be more satisfactory to the mind of the most

anxious parent--the two noblemen embraced. They were still in each other's

arms, when a second stranger knocked at the door. "What name, sir?" said

the servant. "The Marquis Petrucci of Sienna," replied the stranger.

"Impossible!" said the servant; "his lordship is now in the house." "Show

me in, scoundrel," cried the visitor. The servant submitted, and the two

Marquises stood face to face. Poulailler's composure was not shaken in the

least; he had come first to the house, and he had got the papers. "You are

the villain who robbed me!" cried the true Petrucci. "You are drunk, mad,

or an impostor," retorted the false Petrucci. "Send to Florence, where I

am known," exclaimed one of the Marquises, apostrophising the Baron. "Send

to Florence by all means," echoed the other, addressing himself to the

Baron also. "Gentlemen," replied the noble Kirbergen, "I will do myself

the honour of taking your advice"--and he sent to Florence accordingly.

Before the messenger had advanced ten miles on his journey, Poulailler

had said two words in private to the susceptible Wilhelmina--and the pair

eloped from the baronial residence that night. Once more the subject of

this Memoir crossed the frontier, and re-entered France. Indifferent to

the attractions of rural life, he forthwith established himself with the

beloved object in Paris. In that superb city he met with his strangest

adventures, performed his boldest achievements, committed his most

prodigious robberies, and, in a word, did himself and his infernal patron

the fullest justice, in the character of the Fiend-Fisherman's Adopted

Son.

III.--HIS CAREER IN PARIS.

Once established in the French metropolis, Poulailler planned and executed

that vast system of perpetual robbery and occasional homicide which made

him the terror and astonishment of all Paris. In-doors, as well as out,

his good fortune befriended him. No domestic anxieties harassed his mind,

and diverted him from the pursuit of his distinguished public career.

The attachment of the charming creature with whom he had eloped from

Germany, survived the discovery that the Marquis Petrucci was Poulailler

the robber. True to the man of her choice, the devoted Wilhelmina shared

his fortunes, and kept his house. And why not, if she loved him?--in the

all-conquering name of Cupid, why not?

Joined by picked men from his German followers, and by new recruits

gathered together in Paris, Poulailler now set society and its safeguards

at flat defiance. Cartouche himself was his inferior in audacity and

cunning. In course of time, the whole city was panic-stricken by the new

robber and his band--the very Boulevards were deserted after nightfall.

Monsieur Hérault, lieutenant of police of the period, in despair of

laying hands on Poulailler by any other means, at last offered a reward

of a hundred pistoles and a place in his office worth two thousand livres

a-year to any one who would apprehend the robber alive. The bills were

posted all over Paris--and, the next morning, they produced the very last

result in the world which the lieutenant of police could possibly have

anticipated.

Whilst Monsieur Hérault was at breakfast in his study, the Count de

Villeneuve was announced as wishing to speak to him. Knowing the Count by

name only, as belonging to an ancient family in Provence, or in Languedoc,

Monsieur Hérault ordered him to be shown in. A perfect gentleman appeared,

dressed with an admirable mixture of magnificence and good taste. "I

have something for your private ear, sir," said the Count. "Will you give

orders that no one must be allowed to disturb us?"

Monsieur Hérault gave the orders.

"May I enquire, Count, what your business is?" he asked, when the door

was closed.

"To earn the reward you offer for taking Poulailler," answered the Count.

"I am Poulailler."

Before Monsieur Hérault could open his lips, the robber produced a pretty

little dagger and some rose-coloured silk cord. "The point of this dagger

is poisoned," he observed; "and one scratch of it, my dear sir, would be

the death of you." With these words Poulailler gagged the lieutenant of

police, bound him to his chair with the rose-coloured cord, and lightened

his writing-desk of one thousand pistoles. "I'll take money, instead of

taking the place in the office which you kindly offer," said Poulailler.

"Don't trouble yourself to see me to the door. Good morning."

A few weeks later, while Monsieur Hérault was still the popular subject of

ridicule throughout Paris, business took Poulailler on the road to Lille

and Cambrai. The only inside passenger in the coach besides himself, was

the venerable Dean Potter of Brussels. They fell into talk on the one

interesting subject of the time--not the weather, but Poulailler.

"It's a disgrace, sir, to the police," said the Dean, "that such a

miscreant is still at large. I shall be returning to Paris, by this road,

in ten days' time, and I shall call on Monsieur Hérault, to suggest a plan

of my own for catching the scoundrel."

"May I ask what it is?" said Poulailler.

"Excuse me," replied the Dean; "you are a stranger, sir,--and, moreover,

I wish to keep the merit of suggesting the plan to myself."

"Do you think the lieutenant of police will see you?" asked Poulailler;

"he is not accessible to strangers, since the miscreant you speak of

played him that trick at his own breakfast-table."

"He will see Dean Potter of Brussels," was the reply, delivered with the

slightest possible tinge of offended dignity.

"Oh, unquestionably!" said Poulailler,--"pray pardon me."

"Willingly, sir," said the Dean--and the conversation flowed into other

channels.

Nine days later the wounded pride of Monsieur Hérault was soothed by a

very remarkable letter. It was signed by one of Poulailler's band, who

offered himself as King's evidence, in the hope of obtaining a pardon.

The letter stated that the venerable Dean Potter had been waylaid and

murdered by Poulailler, and that the robber, with his customary audacity,

was about to re-enter Paris by the Lisle coach, the next day, disguised

in the Dean's own clothes, and furnished with the Dean's own papers.

Monsieur Hérault took his precautions without losing a moment. Picked

men were stationed, with their orders, at the barrier through which the

coach must pass to enter Paris; while the lieutenant of police waited at

his office, in the company of two French gentlemen who could speak to the

Dean's identity, in the event of Poulailler's impudently persisting in

the assumption of his victim's name.

At the appointed hour the coach appeared, and out of it got a man in the

Dean's costume. He was arrested in spite of his protestations; the papers

of the murdered Potter were found on him, and he was dragged off to the

police office in triumph. The door opened, and the posse comitatus entered

with the prisoner. Instantly the two witnesses burst out with a cry of

recognition, and turned indignantly on the lieutenant of police. "Gracious

Heaven, sir, what have you done!" they exclaimed in horror; "this is not

Poulailler--here is our venerable friend; here is the Dean himself!" At

the same moment, a servant entered with a letter. "Dean Potter. To the

care of Monsieur Hérault, Lieutenant of Police." The letter was expressed

in these words: "Venerable sir,--Profit by the lesson I have given you.

Be a Christian for the future, and never again try to injure a man unless

he tries to injure you. Entirely yours, Poulailler."

These feats of cool audacity were matched by others, in which his

generosity to the sex asserted itself as magnanimously as ever.

Hearing, one day, that large sums of money were kept in the house of a

great lady, one Madame de Brienne, whose door was guarded, in anticipation

of a visit from the famous thief, by a porter of approved trustworthiness

and courage, Poulailler undertook to rob her in spite of her precautions,

and succeeded. With a stout pair of leather straps and buckles in his

pocket, and with two of his band, disguised as a coachman and footman,

he followed Madame de Brienne one night to the theatre. Just before the

close of the performance, the lady's coachman and footman were tempted

away for five minutes by Poulailler's disguised subordinates to have

a glass of wine. No attempt was made to detain them, or to drug their

liquor. But, in their absence, Poulailler had slipped under the carriage,

had hung his leather straps round the pole--one to hold by, and one to

support his feet--and, with these simple preparations, was now ready

to wait for events. Madame de Brienne entered the carriage--the footman

got up behind--Poulailler hung himself horizontally under the pole, and

was driven home with them, under those singular circumstances. He was

strong enough to keep his position after the carriage had been taken into

the coach-house; and he only left it when the doors were locked for the

night. Provided with food beforehand, he waited patiently, hidden in the

coach-house, for two days and nights, watching his opportunity of getting

into Madame de Brienne's boudoir.

On the third night the lady went to a grand ball--the servants relaxed in

their vigilance while her back was turned--and Poulailler slipped into

the room. He found two thousand louis d'ors, which was nothing like the

sum he expected, and a pocket-book, which he took away with him to open

at home. It contained some stock-warrants for a comparatively trifling

amount. Poulailler was far too well off to care about taking them, and

far too polite, where a lady was concerned, not to send them back again,

under those circumstances. Accordingly, Madame de Brienne received her

warrants, with a note of apology from the polite thief.

"Pray excuse my visit to your charming boudoir," wrote Poulailler, "in

consideration of the false reports of your wealth, which alone induced

me to enter it. If I had known what your pecuniary circumstances really

were, on the honour of a gentleman, Madam, I should have been incapable

of robbing you. I cannot return your two thousand louis d'ors by post,

as I return your warrants. But if you are at all pressed for money in

future, I shall be proud to assist so distinguished a lady by lending her,

from my own ample resources, double the sum of which I regret to have

deprived her on the present occasion." This letter was shown to royalty

at Versailles. It excited the highest admiration of the Court--especially

of the ladies. Whenever the robber's name was mentioned, they indulgently

referred to him as the Chevalier de Poulailler. Ah! that was the age of

politeness, when good-breeding was recognised, even in a thief. Under

similar circumstances, who would recognise it now? O tempora! O mores!

On another occasion, Poulailler was out, one night, taking the air

and watching his opportunities on the roofs of the houses; a member

of the band being posted in the street below to assist him in case

of necessity. While in this position, sobs and groans proceeding from

an open back-garret window caught his ear. A parapet rose before the

window, which enabled him to climb down and look in. Starving children

surrounding a helpless mother, and clamouring for food, was the picture

that met his eye. The mother was young and beautiful; and Poulailler's

hand impulsively clutched his purse, as a necessary consequence. Before

the charitable thief could enter by the window, a man rushed in by the

door, with a face of horror; and cast a handful of gold into the lovely

mother's lap. "My honour is gone," he cried; "but our children are

saved! Listen to the circumstances. I met a man in the street below; he

was tall and thin; he had a green patch over one eye; he was looking up

suspiciously at this house, apparently waiting for somebody. I thought of

you--I thought of the children--I seized the suspicious stranger by the

collar. Terror overwhelmed him on the spot. 'Take my watch, my money, and

my two valuable gold snuff-boxes,' he said--'but spare my life.' I took

them." "Noble-hearted man!" cried Poulailler, appearing at the window.

The husband started; the wife screamed; the children hid themselves. "Let

me entreat you to be composed," continued Poulailler. "Sir! I enter on

the scene for the purpose of soothing your uneasy conscience. From your

vivid description, I recognise the man whose property is now in your

wife's lap. Resume your mental tranquillity. You have robbed a robber--in

other words, you have vindicated society. Accept my congratulations on

your restored innocence. The miserable coward whose collar you seized,

is one of Poulailler's band. He has lost his stolen property, as the fit

punishment for his disgraceful want of spirit."

"Who are you?" exclaimed the husband.

"I am Poulailler," replied the illustrious man, with the simplicity of an

ancient hero. "Take this purse; and set up in business with the contents.

There is a prejudice, Sir, in favour of honesty. Give that prejudice

a chance. There was a time when I felt it myself; I regret to feel it

no longer. Under all varieties of misfortune, an honest man has his

consolation still left. Where is it left? Here!" He struck his heart--and

the family fell on their knees before him.

"Benefactor of your species!" cried the husband--"how can I show my

gratitude?"

"You can permit me to kiss the hand of madame," answered Poulailler.

Madame started to her feet, and embraced the generous stranger. "What more

can I do?" exclaimed this lovely woman eagerly--"Oh, Heavens! what more?"

"You can beg your husband to light me down stairs," replied Poulailler.

He spoke, pressed their hands, dropped a generous tear, and departed. At

that touching moment, his own adopted father would not have known him.

This last anecdote closes the record of Poulailler's career in Paris.

The lighter and more agreeable aspects of that career have hitherto

been designedly presented, in discreet remembrance of the contrast which

the tragic side of the picture must now present. Comedy and Sentiment,

twin sisters of French extraction, farewell! Horror enters next on the

stage--and enters welcome, in the name of the Fiend-Fisherman's Adopted

Son.

IV.--HIS EXIT FROM THE SCENE.

The nature of Poulailler's more serious achievements in the art of

robbery may be realised by reference to one terrible fact. In the police

records of the period, more than one hundred and fifty men and women are

reckoned up as having met their deaths at the hands of Poulailler and his

band. It was not the practice of this formidable robber to take life as

well as property, unless life happened to stand directly in his way--in

which case he immediately swept off the obstacle without hesitation and

without remorse. His deadly determination to rob, which was thus felt by

the population in general, was matched by his deadly determination to

be obeyed, which was felt by his followers in particular. One of their

number, for example, having withdrawn from his allegiance, and having

afterwards attempted to betray his leader, was tracked to his hiding-place

in a cellar, and was there walled up alive in Poulailler's presence; the

robber composing the unfortunate wretch's epitaph, and scratching it on

the wet plaster with his own hand. Years afterwards, the inscription was

noticed, when the house fell into the possession of a new tenant, and was

supposed to be nothing more than one of the many jests which the famous

robber had practised in his time. When the plaster was removed, the

skeleton fell out, and testified that Poulailler was in earnest.

To attempt the arrest of such a man as this by tampering with his

followers, was practically impossible. No sum of money that could be

offered would induce any one of the members of his band to risk the fatal

chance of his vengeance. Other means of getting possession of him had

been tried, and tried in vain. Five times over, the police had succeeded

in tracking him to different hiding-places; and on all five occasions,

the women--who adored him for his gallantry, his generosity, and his good

looks--had helped him to escape. If he had not unconsciously paved the

way to his own capture, first by eloping with Mademoiselle Wilhelmina

de Kirbergen, and secondly by maltreating her, it is more than doubtful

whether the long arm of the law would ever have reached far enough to

fasten its grasp on him. As it was, the extremes of love and hatred met

at last in the bosom of the devoted Wilhelmina; and the vengeance of a

neglected woman accomplished what the whole police force of Paris had been

powerless to achieve.

Poulailler, never famous for the constancy of his attachments, had

wearied, at an early period, of the companion of his flight from

Germany--but Wilhelmina was one of those women whose affections, once

aroused, will not take No for an answer. She persisted in attaching

herself to a man who had ceased to love her. Poulailler's patience became

exhausted; he tried twice to rid himself of his unhappy mistress--once

by the knife and once by poison--and failed on both occasions. For the

third and last time, by way of attempting an experiment of another kind,

he established a rival to drive the German woman out of the house. From

that moment his fate was sealed. Maddened by jealous rage, Wilhelmina cast

the last fragments of her fondness to the winds. She secretly communicated

with the police--and Poulailler met his doom.

A night was appointed with the authorities; and the robber was invited

by his discarded mistress to a farewell interview. His contemptuous

confidence in her fidelity rendered him careless of his customary

precautions. He accepted the appointment; and the two supped together,

on the understanding that they were henceforth to be friends, and nothing

more. Towards the close of the meal, Poulailler was startled by a ghastly

change in the face of his companion.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked.

"A mere trifle," she answered, looking at her glass of wine. "I can't

help loving you still, badly as you have treated me. You are a dead man,

Poulailler--and I shall not survive you."

The robber started to his feet, and seized a knife on the table.

"You have poisoned me?" he exclaimed.

"No," she replied. "Poison is my vengeance on myself; not my vengeance

on _you_. You will rise from this table as you sat down to it. But your

evening will be finished in prison; and your life will be ended on the

Wheel."

As she spoke the words, the door was burst open by the police, and

Poulailler was secured. The same night the poison did its fatal work;

and his mistress made atonement with her life for the first, last, act of

treachery which had revenged her on the man she loved.

Once safely lodged in the hands of justice, the robber tried to gain time

to escape in, by promising to make important disclosures. The manoeuvre

availed him nothing. In those days, the Laws of the Land had not yet

made acquaintance with the Laws of Humanity. Poulailler was put to the

torture--was suffered to recover--was publicly broken on the Wheel--and

was taken off it alive, to be cast into a blazing fire. By those murderous

means, Society rid itself of a murderous man--and the idlers on the

Boulevards took their evening stroll again in recovered security.

* * * * *

Paris had seen the execution of Poulailler--but, if legends are to be

trusted, our old friends, the people of the fishing village in Brittany

saw the end of him afterwards. On the day and hour when he perished, the

heavens darkened, and a terrible storm arose. Once more, and for a moment

only, the gleam of the unearthly fire reddened the windows of the old

Tower. Thunder pealed and struck the building into fragments. Lightning

flashed incessantly over the ruins; and, in the scorching glare of it, the

boat which, in former years, had put off to sea whenever the storm rose

highest, was seen to shoot out into the raging ocean from the cleft in

the rock--and was discovered, on this final occasion, to be doubly manned.

The Fiend-Fisherman sat at the helm; his Adopted Son tugged at the oars;

and a clamour of diabolical voices, roaring awfully through the roaring

storm, wished the pair of them a prosperous voyage.

SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.--IV.

THE BACHELOR BEDROOM.

The great merit of this subject is that it starts itself.

The Bachelor Bedroom is familiar to everybody who owns a country house,

and to everybody who has stayed in a country house. It is the one especial

sleeping apartment, in all civilised residences used for the reception of

company, which preserves a character of its own. Married people and young

ladies may be shifted about from bedroom to bedroom as their own caprice

or the domestic convenience of the host may suggest. But the bachelor

guest, when he has once had his room set apart for him, contrives to

dedicate it to the perpetual occupation of single men from that moment.

Who else is to have the room afterwards, when the very atmosphere of

it is altered by tobacco-smoke? Who can venture to throw it open to

nervous spinsters, or respectable married couples, when the footman is

certain, from mere force of habit, to make his appearance at the door,

with contraband bottles and glasses, after the rest of the family have

retired for the night? Where, even if these difficulties could be got

over, is any second sleeping apartment to be found, in any house of

ordinary construction, isolated enough to secure the soberly reposing

portion of the guests from being disturbed by the regular midnight party

which the bachelor persists in giving in his bedroom? Dining-rooms and

breakfast-rooms may change places; double-bedded rooms and single-bedded

rooms may shift their respective characters backwards and forwards

amicably among each other--but the Bachelor Bedroom remains immovably

in its own place; sticks immutably to its own bad character; stands out

victoriously whether the house is full, or whether the house is empty,

the one hospitable institution that no repentant after-thoughts of host

or hostess can ever hope to suppress.

Such a social phenomenon as this, taken with its surrounding

circumstances, deserves more notice than it has yet obtained. The bachelor

has been profusely served up on all sorts of literary tables; but,

the presentation of him has been hitherto remarkable for a singularly

monotonous flavour of matrimonial sauce. We have heard of his loneliness,

and its remedy; of his solitary position in illness, and its remedy;

of the miserable neglect of his linen, and its remedy. But what have we

heard of him in connexion with his remarkable bedroom, at those periods

of his existence when he, like the rest of the world, is a visitor at his

friend's country house? Who has presented him, in his relation to married

society, under those peculiar circumstances of his life, when he is away

from his solitary chambers, and is thrown straight into the sacred centre

of that home circle from which his ordinary habits are so universally

supposed to exclude him? Here, surely, is a new aspect of the bachelor

still left to be presented; and here is a new subject for worn-out readers

of the nineteenth century, whose fountain of literary novelty has become

exhausted at the source.

Let me sketch the history--in anticipation of a large and serious work

which I intend to produce, one of these days, on the same subject--of the

Bachelor Bedroom, in a certain comfortable country house, whose hospitable

doors fly open to me with the beginning of summer, and close no more until

the autumn is ended. I must beg permission to treat this interesting topic

from the purely human point of view. In other words, I propose describing,

not the Bedroom itself, but the succession of remarkable bachelors who

have passed through it in my time.

* * * * *

The hospitable country-seat to which I refer is Coolcup House, the

residence of that enterprising gentleman-farmer and respected chairman of

Quarter Sessions, Sir John Giles. Sir John's Bachelor Bedroom has been

wisely fitted up on the ground-floor. It is the one solitary sleeping

apartment in that part of the house. Fidgety bachelors can jump out on

to the lawn, at night, through the bow-window, without troubling anybody

to unlock the front door; and can communicate with the presiding genius

of the cellar by merely crossing the hall. For the rest, the room is

delightfully airy and spacious, and fitted up with all possible luxury.

It started in life, under Sir John's careful auspices, the perfection

of neatness and tidiness. But the bachelors have corrupted it long

since. However carefully the servants may clean, and alter, and arrange

it, the room loses its respectability again, and gets slovenly and

unpresentable the moment their backs are turned. Sir John himself, the

tidiest man in existence, has given up all hope of reforming it. He peeps

in occasionally, and sighs and shakes his head, and puts a chair in its

place, and straightens a print on the wall, and looks about him at the

general litter and confusion, and gives it up and goes out again. He is a

rigid man and a resolute in the matter of order, and has his way all over

the rest of the house--but the Bachelor Bedroom is too much for him.

The first bachelor who inhabited the room when I began to be a guest at

Coolcup House, was Mr. Bigg.

Mr. Bigg is, in the strictest sense of the word, what you call a fine

man. He stands over six feet, is rather more than stout enough for his

height, holds his head up nobly, and dresses in a style of mingled gaiety

and grandeur which impresses everybody. The morning shirts of Mr. Bigg

are of so large a pattern that nobody but his haberdasher knows what that

pattern really is. You see a bit of it on one side of his collar which

looks square, and a bit of it on the other side which looks round. It

goes up his arm on one of his wristbands, and down his arm on the other.

Men who have seen his shirts off (if such a statement may be permitted),

and scattered loosely, to Sir John's horror, over all the chairs in the

Bedroom, have been questioned, and have not been found able to state that

their eyes ever followed out the patterns of any one of them fairly to

the end. In the matter of beautiful and expensive clothing for the neck,

Mr. Bigg is simply inexhaustible. Every morning he appears at breakfast

in a fresh scarf, and taps his egg magnificently with a daily blaze

of new colour glowing on his capacious chest, to charm the eyes of the

young ladies who sit opposite to him. All the other component parts of

Mr. Bigg's costume are of an equally grand and attractive kind, and are

set off by Mr. Bigg's enviable figure to equal advantage. Outside the

Bachelor Bedroom, he is altogether an irreproachable character in the

article of dress. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, he is essentially a man

of the world, who can be depended on to perform any part allotted to him

in any society assembled at Coolcup House; who has lived among all ranks

and sorts of people; who has filled a public situation with great breadth

and dignity, and has sat at table with crowned heads, and played his part

there with distinction; who can talk of these experiences, and of others

akin to them, with curious fluency and ease, and can shift about to other

subjects, and pass the bottle, and carve, and draw out modest people, and

take all other social responsibilities on his own shoulders complacently,

at the largest and dreariest county dinner party that Sir John, to his

own great discomfiture, can be obliged to give. Such is Mr. Bigg in the

society of the house, when the door of the Bachelor Bedroom has closed

behind him.

But what is Mr. Bigg, when he has courteously wished the ladies good

night, when he has secretly summoned the footman with the surreptitious

tray, and when he has deluded the unprincipled married men of the party

into having half an hour's cozy chat with him before they go up-stairs?

Another being--a being unknown to the ladies, and unsuspected by the

respectable guests. Inside the Bedroom, the outward aspect of Mr. Bigg

changes as if by magic; and a kind of gorgeous slovenliness pervades

him from top to toe. Buttons which have rigidly restrained him within

distinct physical boundaries, slip exhausted out of their buttonholes;

and the figure of Mr. Bigg suddenly expands and asserts itself for the

first time as a protuberant fact. His neckcloth flies on to the nearest

chair, his rigid shirt-collar yawns open, his wiry under-whiskers ooze

multitudinously into view, his coat, waistcoat, and braces drop off

his shoulders. If the two young ladies who sleep in the room above, and

who most unreasonably complain of the ceaseless nocturnal croaking and

growling of voices in the Bachelor Bedroom, could look down through the

ceiling now, they would not know Mr. Bigg again, and would suspect that

a dissipated artisan had intruded himself into Sir John's house.

In the same way, the company who have sat in Mr. Bigg's neighbourhood at

the dinner-table at seven o'clock, would find it impossible to recognise

his conversation at midnight. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, if his talk

has shown him to be anything at all, it has shown him to be the exact

reverse of an enthusiast. Inside the Bachelor Bedroom, after all due

attention has been paid to the cigar-box and the footman's tray, it

becomes unaccountably manifest to everybody that Mr. Bigg is, after all,

a fanatical character, a man possessed of one fixed idea. Then, and then

only, does he mysteriously confide to his fellow revellers that he is the

one remarkable man in Great Britain who has discovered the real authorship

of Junius's Letters. In the general society of the house, nobody ever

hears him refer to the subject; nobody ever suspects that he takes more

than the most ordinary interest in literary matters. In the select society

of the Bedroom, inspired by the surreptitious tray and the midnight

secrecy, wrapped in clouds of tobacco smoke, and freed from the restraint

of his own magnificent garments, the truth flies out of Mr. Bigg, and the

authorship of Junius's Letters becomes the one dreary subject which this

otherwise variously gifted man persists in dilating on for hours together.

But for the Bachelor Bedroom, nobody alive would ever have discovered that

the true key to unlock Mr. Bigg's character is Junius. If the subject is

referred to the next day by his companions of the night, he declines to

notice it; but, once in the Bedroom again, he takes it up briskly, as if

the attempted reference to it had been made but the moment before. The

last time I saw him was in the Bachelor Bedroom. It was three o'clock in

the morning; two tumblers were broken; half a lemon was in the soap-dish,

and the soap itself was on the chimney-piece; restless married rakes,

who were desperately afraid of waking up their wives when they left us,

were walking to and fro absently, and crunching knobs of loaf-sugar under

foot at every step; Mr. Bigg was standing, with his fourth cigar in his

mouth, before the fire; one of his hands was in the tumbled bosom of his

shirt, the other was grasping mine, while he pathetically appointed me his

literary executor, and generously bequeathed to me his great discovery

of the authorship of Junius's Letters. Upon the whole, Mr. Bigg is the

most incorrigible bachelor on record in the annals of the Bedroom; he

has consumed more candles, ordered more footmen's trays, seen more early

daylight, and produced more pale faces among the gentlemen at breakfast

time, than any other single visitor at Coolcup House.

* * * * *

The next bachelor in the order of succession, and the completest contrast

conceivable to Mr. Bigg, is Mr. Jeremy.

Mr. Jeremy is, perhaps, the most miserable-looking little man that

ever tottered under the form of humanity. Wear what clothes he may, he

invariably looks shabby in them. He is the victim of perpetual accidents

and perpetual ill-health; and the Bachelor Bedroom, when he inhabits it,

is turned into a doctor's shop, and bristles all over with bottles and

pills. Mr. Jeremy's personal tribute to the hospitalities of Coolcup House

is always paid in the same singularly unsatisfactory manner to his host.

On one day in the week, he gorges himself gaily with food and drink, and

soars into the seventh heaven of convivial beatitude. On the other six,

he is invariably ill in consequence, is reduced to the utmost rigours

of starvation and physic, sinks into the lowest depths of depression,

and takes the bitterest imaginable views of human life. Hardly a single

accident has happened at Coolcup House in which he has not been personally

and chiefly concerned; hardly a single malady can occur to the human frame

the ravages of which he has not practically exemplified in his own person

under Sir John's roof. If any one guest, in the fruit season, terrifies

the rest by writhing under the internal penalties in such cases made

and provided by the laws of nature, it is Mr. Jeremy. If any one tumbles

up-stairs, or down-stairs, or off a horse, or out of a dog-cart, it is Mr.

Jeremy. If you want a case of sprained ankle, a case of suppressed gout, a

case of complicated earache, toothache, headache, and sore-throat, all in

one, a case of liver, a case of chest, a case of nerves, or a case of low

fever, go to Coolcup House while Mr. Jeremy is staying there, and he will

supply you, on demand, at the shortest notice and to any extent. It is

conjectured by the intimate friends of this extremely wretched bachelor,

that he has but two sources of consolation to draw on, as a set-off

against his innumerable troubles. The first is the luxury of twisting his

nose on one side, and stopping up his air-passages and Eustachian tubes

with inconceivably large quantities of strong snuff. The second is the

oleaginous gratification of incessantly anointing his miserable little

beard and mustachios with cheap bear's-grease, which always turns rancid

on the premises before he has half done with it. When Mr. Jeremy gives a

party in the Bachelor Bedroom, his guests have the unexpected pleasure

of seeing him take his physic, and hearing him describe his maladies

and recount his accidents. In other respects, the moral influence of the

Bedroom over the characters of those who occupy it, which exhibits Mr.

Bigg in the unexpected literary aspect of a commentator on Junius, is

found to tempt Mr. Jeremy into betraying a horrible triumph and interest

in the maladies of others, of which nobody would suspect him in the

general society of the house.

"I noticed you, after dinner to-day," says this invalid bachelor, on such

occasions, to any one of the Bedroom guests who may be rash enough to

complain of the slightest uneasiness in his presence; "I saw the corners

of your mouth get green, and the whites of your eyes look yellow. You

have got a pain here," says Mr. Jeremy, gaily indicating the place to

which he refers on his own shattered frame, with an appearance of extreme

relish--"a pain _here_, and a sensation like having a cannon-ball inside

you, _there_. You will be parched with thirst and racked with fidgets

all to-night; and to-morrow morning you will get up with a splitting

headache, and a dark-brown tongue, and another cannon-ball in your inside.

My dear fellow, I'm a veteran at this sort of thing; and I know exactly

the state you will be in next week, and the week after, and when you will

have to try the sea-side, and how many pounds' weight you will lose to

a dead certainty, before you can expect to get over this attack. Suppose

we look under his ribs, on the right side of him?" continues Mr. Jeremy,

addressing himself confidentially to the company in general. "I'll lay

anybody five to one we find an alarming lump under the skin. And that lump

will be his liver!"

Thus, while Mr. Bigg always astonishes the Bedroom guests on the subject

of Junius, Mr. Jeremy always alarms them on the subject of themselves.

Mr. Smart, the next, and third bachelor, placed in a similar situation,

displays himself under a more agreeable aspect, and makes the society that

surrounds him, for the night at least, supremely happy.

* * * * *

On the first day of his arrival at Coolcup House, Mr. Smart deceived us

all. When he was first presented to us, we were deeply impressed by the

serene solemnity of this gentleman's voice, look, manner, and costume. He

was as carefully dressed as Mr. Bigg himself, but on totally different

principles. Mr. Smart was fearfully and wonderfully gentlemanly in his

avoidance of anything approaching to bright colour on any part of his

body. Quakerish drabs and greys clothed him in the morning. Dismal black,

unrelieved by an atom of jewellery, undisturbed even by so much as a

flower in his button-hole, encased him grimly in the evening. He moved

about the room and the garden with a ghostly and solemn stalk. When the

ladies got brilliant in their conversation, he smiled upon them with a

deferential modesty and polite Grandisonian admiration that froze the

blood of "us youth" in our veins. When he spoke, it was like reading

a passage from an elegant moral writer--the words were so beautifully

arranged, the sentences were turned so musically, the sentiment conveyed

was so delightfully well regulated, so virtuously appropriate to nothing

in particular. At such times he always spoke in a slow, deep, and gentle

drawl, with a thrillingly clear emphasis on every individual syllable. His

speech sounded occasionally like a kind of highly-bred foreign English,

spoken by a distinguished stranger who had mastered the language to such

an extent that he had got beyond the natives altogether. We watched

enviously all day for any signs of human infirmity in this surprising

individual. The men detected him in nothing. Even the sharper eyes of

the women only discovered that he was addicted to looking at himself

affectionately in every glass in the house, when he thought that nobody

was noticing him. At dinner-time we all pinned our faith on Sir John's

excellent wine, and waited anxiously for its legitimate effect on the

superb and icy stranger. Nothing came of it; Mr. Smart was as carefully

guarded with the bottle as he was with the English language. All through

the evening he behaved himself so dreadfully well that we quite began to

hate him. When the company parted for the night, and when Mr. Smart (who

was just mortal enough to be a bachelor) invited us to a cigar in the

Bedroom, his highly-bred foreign English was still in full perfection; his

drawl had reached its elocutionary climax of rich and gentle slowness; and

his Grandisonian smile was more exasperatingly settled and composed than

ever.

The Bedroom door closed on us. We took off our coats, tore open our

waistcoats, rushed in a body on the new bachelor's cigar-box, and summoned

the evil genius of the footman's tray.

At the first round of the tumblers, the false Mr. Smart began to

disappear, and the true Mr. Smart approached, as it were, from a

visionary distance, and took his place among us. He chuckled--Grandison

chuckled--within the hearing of every man in the room! We were surprised

at that; but what were our sensations when, in less than ten minutes

afterwards, the highly-bred English and the gentle drawl mysteriously

disappeared, and there came bursting out upon us, from the ambush of

Mr. Smart's previous elocution, the jolliest, broadest, and richest

Irish brogue we had ever heard in our lives! The mystery was explained

now. Mr. Smart had a coat of the smoothest English varnish laid over

him, for highly-bred county society, which nothing mortal could peel

off but bachelor company and whiskey-and-water. He slipped out of his

close-fitting English envelope, in the loose atmosphere of the Bachelor

Bedroom, as glibly as a tightly-laced young lady slips out of her stays

when the admiring eyes of the world are off her waist for the night. Never

was man so changed as Mr. Smart was now. His moral sentiments melted like

the sugar in his grog; his grammar disappeared with his white cravat.

Wild and lavish generosity suddenly became the leading characteristic

of this once reticent man. We tried all sorts of subjects, and were

obliged to drop every one of them, because Mr. Smart would promise to

make us a present of whatever we talked about. The family mansion in

Ireland contained everything that this world can supply; and Mr. Smart

was resolved to dissipate that priceless store in gifts distributed to

the much-esteemed company. He promised me a schooner yacht, and made

a memorandum of the exact tonnage in his pocket-book. He promised my

neighbour, on one side, a horse, and, on the other, a unique autograph

letter of Shakespeare's. We had all three been talking respectively of

sailing, hunting, and the British Drama; and we now held our tongues for

fear of getting new presents if we tried new subjects. Other members of

the festive assembly took up the ball of conversation, and were prostrated

forthwith by showers of presents for their pains. When we all parted in

the dewy morning, we left Mr. Smart with dishevelled hair, checking off

his voluminous memoranda of gifts with an unsteady pencil, and piteously

entreating us, in the richest Irish-English, to correct him instantly if

we detected the slightest omission anywhere.

The next morning, at breakfast, we rather wondered which nation

our friend would turn out to belong to. He set all doubts at rest

the moment he opened the door, by entering the room with the old

majestic stalk; saluting the ladies with the serene Grandison smile;

trusting we had all rested well during the night, in a succession of

elegantly-turned sentences; and enunciating the highly-bred English with

the imperturbably-gentle drawl which we all imagined, the night before,

that we had lost for ever. He stayed more than a fortnight at Coolcup

House; and, in all that time, nobody ever knew the true Mr. Smart except

the guests in the Bachelor Bedroom.

The fourth Bachelor on the list deserves especial consideration and

attention. In the first place, because he presents himself to the reader,

in the character of a distinguished foreigner. In the second place,

because he contrived, in the most amiable manner imaginable, to upset

all the established arrangements of Coolcup House--inside the Bachelor

Bedroom, as well as outside it--from the moment when he entered its doors,

to the moment when he left them behind him on his auspicious return to his

native country. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a rare, probably a unique,

species of bachelor; and Mr. Bigg, Mr. Jeremy, and Mr. Smart have no claim

whatever to stand in the faintest light of comparison with him.

When I mention that the distinguished guest now introduced to notice is

Herr von Müffe, it will be unnecessary for me to add that I refer to the

distinguished German poet, whose far-famed Songs Without Sense have aided

so immeasurably in thickening the lyric obscurities of his country's

Harp. On his arrival in London, Herr von Müffe forwarded his letter of

introduction to Sir John by post, and immediately received, in return,

the usual hospitable invitation to Coolcup House.

The eminent poet arrived barely in time to dress for dinner; and made his

first appearance in our circle while we were waiting in the drawing-room

for the welcome signal of the bell. He waddled in among us softly and

suddenly, in the form of a very short, puffy, florid, roundabout old

gentleman, with flowing grey hair and a pair of huge circular spectacles.

The extreme shabbiness and dinginess of his costume was so singularly set

off by the quantity of foreign orders of merit which he wore all over the

upper part of it, that a sarcastic literary gentleman among the guests

defined him to me, in a whisper, as a compound of "decorations and dirt."

Sir John advanced to greet his distinguished guest, with friendly right

hand extended as usual. Herr von Müffe, without saying a word, took the

hand carefully in both his own, and expressed affectionate recognition

of English hospitality, by transferring it forthwith to that vacant space

between his shirt and his waistcoat which extended over the region of the

heart. Sir John turned scarlet, and tried vainly to extricate his hand

from the poet's too affectionate bosom. The dinner-bell rang, but Herr

von Müffe still held fast. The principal lady in the company half rose,

and looked perplexedly at her host--Sir John made another and a desperate

effort to escape--failed again--and was marched into the dining-room,

in full view of his servants and his guests, with his hand sentimentally

imprisoned in his foreign visitor's waistcoat.

After this romantic beginning, Herr von Müffe rather surprised us by

showing that he was decidedly the reverse of a sentimentalist in the

matter of eating and drinking.

Neither dish nor bottle passed the poet, without paying heavy tribute,

all through the repast. He mixed his liquors, especially, with the most

sovereign contempt for all sanitary considerations; drinking champagne

and beer, the sweetest Constantia and the tawniest port, all together,

with every appearance of the extremest relish. Conversation with Herr

von Müffe, both at dinner, and all through the evening, was found to be

next to impossible, in consequence of his knowing all languages (his

own included) equally incorrectly. His German was pronounced to be a

dialect never heard before; his French was inscrutable; his English was

a philological riddle which all of us guessed at and none of us found

out. He talked, in spite of these difficulties, incessantly; and, seeing

that he shed tears several times in the course of the evening, the

ladies assumed that his topics were mostly of a pathetic nature, while

the coarser men compared notes with each other, and all agreed that the

distinguished guest was drunk. When the time came for retiring, we had

to invite ourselves into the Bachelor Bedroom; Herr von Müffe having no

suspicion of our customary midnight orgies, and apparently feeling no

desire to entertain us, until we informed him of the institution of the

footman's tray--when he became hospitable on a sudden, and unreasonably

fond of his gay young English friends.

While we were settling ourselves in our places round the bed, a member of

the company kicked over one of the poet's capacious Wellington boots. To

the astonishment of every one, there instantly ensued a tinkling of coin,

and some sovereigns and shillings rolled surprisingly out on the floor

from the innermost recesses of the boot. On receiving his money back, Herr

von Müffe informed us, without the slightest appearance of embarrassment,

that he had not had time, before dinner, to take more than his watch,

rings, and decorations, out of his boots. Seeing us all stare at this

incomprehensible explanation, our distinguished friend kindly endeavoured

to enlighten us further by a long personal statement in his own polyglot

language. From what we could understand of this narrative (which was not

much), we gathered that Herr von Müffe had started at noon, that day, as a

total stranger in our metropolis, to reach the London-bridge station in a

cab; and that the driver had taken him, as usual, across Waterloo-bridge.

On going through the Borough, the narrow streets, miserable houses, and

squalid population, had struck the lively imagination of Herr von Müffe,

and had started in his mind a horrible suspicion that the cabman was

driving him into a low neighbourhood, with the object of murdering a

helpless foreign fare, in perfect security, for the sake of the valuables

he carried on his person. Chilled to the very marrow of his bones by

this idea, the poet raised the ends of his trousers stealthily in the

cab, slipped his watch, rings, orders, and money into the legs of his

Wellington boots, arrived at the station quaking with mortal terror, and

screamed "Help!" at the top of his voice, when the railway policeman

opened the cab door. The immediate starting of the train had left him

no time to alter the singular travelling arrangements he had made in the

Borough; and he arrived at Coolcup House, the only individual who had ever

yet entered that mansion with his property in his boots.

Amusing as it was in itself, this anecdote failed a little in its effect

on us at the time, in consequence of the stifling atmosphere in which we

were condemned to hear it.

Although it was then the sultry middle of summer, and we were all smoking,

Herr von Müffe insisted on keeping the windows of the Bachelor Bedroom

fast closed, because it was one of his peculiarities to distrust the

cooling effect of the night air. We were more than half inclined to go,

under these circumstances; and we were altogether determined to remove,

when the tray came in, and when we found our German friend madly mixing

his liquors again by pouring gin and sherry together into the same

tumbler. We warned him, with a shuddering prevision of consequences, that

he was mistaking gin for water; and he blandly assured us in return that

he was doing nothing of the kind. "It is good for My ----" said Herr von

Müffe, supplying his ignorance of the word stomach by laying his chubby

forefinger on the organ in question, with a sentimental smile. "It is bad

for Our ----" retorted the wag of the party, imitating the poet's action,

and turning quickly to the door. We all followed him--and, for the first

time in the annals of Coolcup House, the Bachelor Bedroom was emptied of

company before midnight.

Early the next morning, one of Sir John's younger sons burst into my room

in a state of violent excitement.

"I say, what's to be done with Müffe?" inquired the young gentleman, with

wildly staring eyes.

"Open his windows, and fetch the doctor," I answered, inspired by the

recollections of the past night.

"Doctor!" cried the boy; "the doctor won't do--it's the barber."

"Barber?" I repeated.

"He's been asking me _to shave him_!" roared my young friend, with

vehement comic indignation. "He rang his bell, and asked for 'the Son of

the House'--and they made me go; and there he was, grinning in the big

arm-chair, with his mangy little shaving-brush in his hand, and a towel

over his shoulder. 'Good morning, my dear. Can you shave My ----' says he,

and taps his quivering old double chin with his infernal shaving-brush.

Curse his impudence! What's to be done with him?"

I arranged to explain to Herr von Müffe, at the first convenient

opportunity, that it was not the custom in England, whatever it might be

in Germany, for "the Son of the House" to shave his father's guests; and

undertook, at the same time, to direct the poet to the residence of the

village barber. When the German guest joined us at breakfast, his unshaven

chin, and the external results of his mixed potations and his seclusion

from fresh air, by no means tended to improve his personal appearance. In

plain words, he looked the picture of dyspeptic wretchedness.

"I am afraid, sir, you are hardly so well this morning as we could all

wish?" said Sir John, kindly.

Herr von Müffe looked at his host affectionately, surveyed the company

all round the table, smiled faintly, laid the chubby forefinger once

more on the organ whose name he did not know, and answered with the most

enchanting innocence and simplicity:

"I am _so_ sick!"

There was no harm--upon my word, there was no harm in Herr Von Müffe.

On the contrary, there was a great deal of good-nature and genuine

simplicity in his composition. But he was a man naturally destitute of

all power of adapting himself to new persons and new circumstances; and

he became amiably insupportable, in consequence, to everybody in the

house, throughout the whole term of his visit. He could not join one of

us in any country diversions. He hung about the house and garden in a

weak, pottering, aimless manner, always turning up at the wrong moment,

and always attaching himself to the wrong person. He was dexterous in a

perfectly childish way at cutting out little figures of shepherds and

shepherdesses in paper; and he was perpetually presenting these frail

tributes of admiration to the ladies, who always tore them up and threw

them away in secret the moment his back was turned. When he was not

occupied with his paper figures, he was out in the garden, gathering

countless little nosegays, and sentimentally presenting them to everybody;

not to the ladies only, but to lusty agricultural gentlemen as well,

who accepted them with blank amazement; and to schoolboys, home for

the holidays, who took them, bursting with internal laughter at the

"molly-coddle" gentleman from foreign parts. As for poor Sir John, he

suffered more than any of us; for Herr von Müffe was always trying to kiss

him. In short, with the best intentions in the world, this unhappy foreign

bachelor wearied out the patience of everybody in the house; and, to our

shame be it said, we celebrated his departure, when he left us at last,

by a festival-meeting in the Bachelor Bedroom, in honour of the welcome

absence of Herr von Müffe.

I cannot say in what spirit my fellow-revellers have reflected on our

behaviour since that time; but I know, for my own part, that I now look

back at my personal share in our proceedings with rather an uneasy

conscience. I am afraid we were all of us a little hard on Herr von

Müffe; and I hereby desire to offer him my own individual tribute of tardy

atonement, by leaving him to figure as the last and crowning type of the

Bachelor species presented in these pages. If he has produced anything

approaching to a pleasing effect on the reader's mind, that effect shall

not be weakened by the appearance of any more single men, native or

foreign. Let the door of the Bachelor Bedroom close with our final glimpse

of the German guest; and permit the present chronicler to lay down the

pen when it has traced penitently, for the last time, the name of Herr

von Müffe.

NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY.

III.

A REMARKABLE REVOLUTION.

A revolution which is serious enough to overthrow a reigning

sovereign--which is short enough to last only nine hours--and which is

peaceable enough to begin and end without the taking of a single life or

the shedding of a drop of blood, is certainly a phenomenon in the history

of human affairs which is worth being carefully investigated. Such a

revolution actually happened, in the empire of Russia, little more than a

century and a quarter ago. The narrative here attempted of its rise, its

progress, and its end, may be trusted throughout as faithful to the truth.

Extraordinary as they may appear, the events described in this fragment

of history are matters of fact from first to last.

We start with a famous Russian character--Peter the Great. His son, who

may be not unfairly distinguished as Peter the Small, died in the year

seventeen hundred and thirty. With the death of this last personage the

political difficulties arose, which ended in the easy pulling down of one

sovereign ruler at midnight, and the easy setting up of another by nine

o'clock the next morning.

Besides the son whom he left to succeed him, Peter the Great had a

daughter, whose title was princess, and whose name was Elizabeth. Peter's

widow, the famous Empress Catherine, being a far-seeing woman, made a will

which contained the expression of her wishes in regard to the succession

to the throne, and which plainly and properly designated the Princess

Elizabeth (there being no Salic law in Russia) as the reigning sovereign

to be chosen after the death of her brother, Peter the Small. Nothing,

apparently, could be more straightforward than the course to be followed,

at that time, in appointing a new ruler over the Russian people.

But there happened to be living at Court two noblemen--Prince d'Olgorowki

and Count Osterman--who had an interest of their own in complicating the

affairs connected with the succession.

These two distinguished personages had possessed considerable power and

authority, under the feeble reign of Peter the Small, and they knew enough

of his sister's resolute and self-reliant character to doubt what might

become of their court position and their political privileges after the

Princess Elizabeth was seated on the throne. Accordingly they lost no

time in nominating a rival candidate of their own choosing, whom they

dexterously raised to the Imperial dignity, before there was time for the

partisans of the Princess Elizabeth to dispute the authority under which

they acted. The new sovereign, thus unjustly invested with power, was a

woman--Anne, Dowager Duchess of Courland--and the pretence under which

Prince d'Olgorowki and Count Osterman proclaimed her Empress of Russia,

was that Peter the Small had confidentially communicated to them, on

his death-bed, a desire that the Dowager Duchess should be chosen as the

sovereign to succeed him.

The main result of the Dowager Duchess's occupation of the throne was the

additional complication of the confused political affairs of Russia. The

new empress had an eye to the advancement of her family; and, among the

other relatives for whom she provided, was a niece, named Catherine, whom

she married to the Prince of Brunswick, brother-in-law of the King of

Prussia. The first child born of the marriage was a boy named Ivan. Before

he had reached the age of two years, the new Empress died; and, when her

will was opened, it was discovered, to the amazement of every one, that

she had appointed this child to succeed her on the throne of Russia.

The private motive which led the Empress to take this extraordinary

course, was her desire to place the sovereign power in the hands of one

of her favourites, the Duke de Biren, by nominating that nobleman as the

guardian of the infant Ivan. To accomplish this purpose, she had not only

slighted the legitimate claims of Peter the Great's daughter, the Princess

Elizabeth, but had also entirely overlooked the interests of Ivan's

mother, who naturally felt that she had a right to ascend the throne,

as the nearest relation of the deceased empress, and the mother of the

child who was designated to be the future emperor. To the bewilderment and

dissatisfaction thus produced, a further element of confusion was added by

the total incapacity of the Duke de Biren to occupy creditably the post

of authority which had been assigned to him. Before he had been long in

office, he gave way altogether under the double responsibility of guiding

the affairs of Russia and directing the education of the future emperor.

Ivan's mother saw the chance of asserting her rights which the weakness

of the duke afforded to her. She was a resolute woman; and she seized her

opportunity by banishing Biren to Siberia, and taking his place as Regent

of the Empire and guardian of her infant son.

Such was the result, thus far, of the great scramble for the crown which

began with the death of the son of Peter the Great. Such was the position

of affairs in Russia at the time when the revolution broke out.

Through all the contentions which distracted the country, the Princess

Elizabeth lived in the retirement of her own palace, waiting secretly,

patiently, and vigilantly for the fit opportunity of asserting her rights.

She was, in every sense of the word, a remarkable woman, and she numbered

two remarkable men among the adherents of her cause. One was the French

ambassador at the court of Russia, the Marquis de la Chétardie. The other

was the surgeon of Elizabeth's household, a German, named Lestoc. The

Frenchman had money to spend; the German had brains to plot. Both were

men of tried courage and resolute will; and both were destined to take

the foremost places in the coming struggle. It is certainly not the least

curious circumstance in the extraordinary revolution which we are now

about to describe, that it was planned and carried out by two foreigners.

In the struggle for the Russian throne, the natives of the Russian soil

were used only as instruments to be handled and directed at the pleasure

of the French ambassador and the German surgeon.

The Marquis and Lestoc, watching the signs of the times, arrived at the

conclusion that the period of the banishment of the Duke de Biren and

of the assumption of the supreme power by the mother of Ivan, was also

the period for effecting the revolution which was to place the Princess

Elizabeth on the throne of her ancestors. The dissatisfaction in Russia

had, by this time, spread widely among all classes. The people chafed

under a despotism inflicted on them by foreigners. The native nobility

felt outraged by their exclusion from privileges which had been conceded

to their order under former reigns, before the aliens from Courland had

seized on power. The army was for the most part to be depended on to

answer any bold appeal that might be made to it, in favour of the daughter

of Peter the Great. With these chances in their favour, the Frenchman

and the German set themselves to the work of organising the scattered

elements of discontent. The Marquis opened his well-filled purse; and

Surgeon Lestoc prowled about the city and the palace with watchful eyes,

with persuasive tongue, with delicately-bribing hands. The great point

to be achieved was to tamper successfully with the regiment on duty at

the palace; and this was skilfully and quickly accomplished by Lestoc.

In the course of a few days only, he contrived to make sure of all the

considerable officers of the regiment, and of certain picked men from the

ranks besides. On counting heads, the members of the military conspiracy

thus organised came to thirty-three. Exactly the same number of men had

once plotted the overthrow of Julius Cæsar, and had succeeded in the

attempt.

Matters had proceeded thus far when the suspicions of the Duchess

Regent (that being the title which Ivan's mother had now assumed) were

suddenly excited, without the slightest apparent cause to arouse them.

Nothing dangerous had been openly attempted as yet, and not one of the

conspirators had betrayed the secret. Nevertheless the Duchess Regent

began to doubt; and, one morning, she astonished and alarmed the Marquis

and Lestoc by sending, without any previous warning, for the Princess

Elizabeth, and by addressing a series of searching questions to her at a

private interview. Fortunately for the success of the plot, the daughter

of Peter the Great was more than a match for the Duchess Regent. From

first to last Elizabeth proved herself equal to the dangerous situation

in which she was placed. The Duchess discovered nothing; and the heads of

the thirty-three conspirators remained safe on their shoulders.

This piece of good fortune operated on the cunning and resolute Lestoc

as a warning to make haste. Between the danger of waiting to mature the

conspiracy, and the risk of letting it break out abruptly before the

organisation of it was complete, he chose the latter alternative. The

Marquis agreed with him that it was best to venture everything, before

there was time for the suspicions of the Duchess to be renewed; and the

Princess Elizabeth, on her part, was perfectly ready to be guided by the

advice of her two trusty adherents. The fifteenth of January, seventeen

hundred and forty-one, had been the day originally fixed for the breaking

out of the revolution. Lestoc now advanced the period for making the great

attempt by nine days. On the night of the sixth of January the Duchess

Regent and the Princess Elizabeth were to change places, and the throne

of Russia was to become once more the inheritance of the family of Peter

the Great.

Between nine and ten o'clock, on the night of the sixth, Surgeon Lestoc

strolled out, with careless serenity on his face, and devouring anxiety

at his heart, to play his accustomed game of billiards at a French

coffee-house. The stakes were ten ducats, and Lestoc did not play quite

so well as usual that evening. When the clock of the coffee-house struck

ten, he stopped in the middle of the game, and drew out his watch.

"I beg ten thousand pardons," he said to the gentleman with whom he was

playing; "but I am afraid I must ask you to let me go before the game

is done. I have a patient to see at ten o'clock, and the hour has just

struck. Here is a friend of mine," he continued, bringing forward one

of the bystanders by the arm, "who will, with your permission, play in

my place. It is quite immaterial to me whether he loses or whether he

wins: I am merely anxious that your game should not be interrupted. Ten

thousand pardons again. Nothing but the necessity of seeing a patient

could have induced me to be guilty of this apparent rudeness. I wish you

much pleasure, gentlemen, and I most unwillingly bid you good night."

With that polite farewell, he departed. The patient whom he was going to

cure was the sick Russian Empire.

He got into his sledge, and drove off to the palace of the Princess

Elizabeth. She trembled a little when he told her quietly that the hour

had come for possessing herself of the throne; but, soon recovering

her spirits, dressed to go out, concealed a knife about her in case of

emergency, and took her place by the side of Lestoc in the sledge. The

two then set forth together for the French embassy to pick up the second

leader of the conspiracy.

They found the Marquis alone, cool, smiling, humming a gay French tune,

and quietly amusing himself by making a drawing. Elizabeth and Lestoc

looked over his shoulder, and the former started a little when she

saw what the subject of the drawing was. In the background appeared a

large monastery, a grim prison-like building, with barred windows and

jealously-closed gates; in the foreground were two high gibbets and two

wheels of the sort used to break criminals on. The drawing was touched

in with extraordinary neatness and steadiness of hand; and the Marquis

laughed gaily when he saw how seriously the subject represented had

startled and amazed the Princess Elizabeth.

"Courage, madam!" he said. "I was only amusing myself by making a sketch

illustrative of the future which we may all three expect if we fail in

our enterprise. In an hour from this time, you will be on the throne,

or on your way to this ugly building." (He touched the monastery in the

background of the drawing lightly with the point of his pencil.) "In an

hour from this time, also, our worthy Lestoc and myself will either be the

two luckiest men in Russia, or the two miserable criminals who are bound

on these" (he touched the wheels) "and hung up afterwards on those" (he

touched the gibbets). "You will pardon me, madam, for indulging in this

ghastly fancy? I was always eccentric from childhood. My good Lestoc, as

we seem to be quite ready, perhaps you will kindly precede us to the door,

and allow me the honour of handing the Princess to the sledge?"

They left the house, laughing and chatting as carelessly as if they were

a party going to the theatre. Lestoc took the reins. "To the palace of

the Duchess Regent, coachman!" said the Marquis, pleasantly. And to the

palace they went.

They made no attempt to slip in by backdoors, but boldly drove up to the

grand entrance, inside of which the guard-house was situated.

"Who goes there?" cried the sentinel as they left the sledge and passed in.

The Marquis took a pinch of snuff.

"Don't you see, my good fellow?" he said. "A lady and two gentlemen."

The slightest irregularity was serious enough to alarm the guard at

the Imperial palace in those critical times. The sentinel presented his

musket at the Marquis, and a drummer-boy who was standing near, ran to

his instrument and caught up his drum-sticks to beat the alarm.

Before the sentinel could fire, he was surrounded by the thirty-three

conspirators, and was disarmed in an instant. Before the drummer-boy could

beat the alarm, the Princess Elizabeth had drawn out her knife and had

stabbed--not the boy, but--the drum! These slight preliminary obstacles

being thus disposed of, Lestoc and the Marquis, having the Princess

between them, and being followed by their thirty-three adherents, marched

resolutely into the great hall of the palace, and there confronted the

entire guard.

"Gentlemen," said the Marquis, "I have the honour of presenting you to

your future empress, the daughter of Peter the Great."

Half the guard had been bribed by the cunning Lestoc. The other half,

seeing their comrades advance and pay homage to the Princess, followed the

example of loyalty. Elizabeth was escorted into a room on the ground-floor

by a military court formed in the course of five minutes. The Marquis and

the faithful thirty-three went up-stairs to the sleeping apartments of

the palace. Lestoc ran out, and ordered a carriage to be got ready--then

joined the Marquis and the conspirators. The Duchess Regent and her child

were just retiring for the night, when the German surgeon and the French

ambassador politely informed them that they were prisoners. Entreaties

were of no avail; resistance was out of the question. Both mother and son

were led down to the carriage that Lestoc had ordered, and were driven

off, under a strong guard, to the fortress of Riga.

The palace was secured, and the Duchess was imprisoned, but Lestoc and

the Marquis had not done their night's work yet. It was necessary to make

sure of three powerful personages connected with the government. Three

more carriages were ordered out when the Duchess's carriage had been

driven off; and three noblemen--among them Count Osterman, the original

cause of the troubles in Russia--were woke out of their first sleep with

the information that they were state prisoners, and were started before

daylight on their way to Siberia. At the same time, the thirty-three

conspirators were scattered about in every barrack-room in St. Petersburg,

proclaiming Elizabeth Empress, in right of her illustrious parentage,

and in the name of the Russian people. Soon after daylight, the moment

the working population was beginning to be astir, the churches were

occupied by trusty men under Lestoc's orders, and the oaths of fidelity

to Elizabeth were administered to the willing populace as fast as they

came in to morning prayers. By nine o'clock the work was done; the people

were satisfied; the army was gained over; Elizabeth sat on her father's

throne, unopposed, unquestioned, unstained by the shedding of a drop of

blood; and Lestoc and the Marquis could rest from their labours at last,

and could say to each other with literal truth, "The government of Russia

has been changed in nine hours, and we two foreigners are the men who have

worked the miracle!"

* * * * *

This was the Russian revolution of seventeen hundred and forty-one. It

was not the less effectual because it had lasted but a few hours, and had

been accomplished without the sacrifice of a single life. The Imperial

inheritance which it had placed in the hands of Elizabeth was not snatched

from them again. The daughter of the great Czar lived and died Empress of

Russia.

And what became of the two men who had won the throne for her? The story

of the after-conduct of the Marquis and Lestoc must answer that question.

The events of the revolution itself are hardly more strange than the

events in the lives of the French Ambassador and the German surgeon,

when the brief struggle was over, and the change in the dynasty was

accomplished.

To begin with the Marquis. He had laid the Princess Elizabeth under

serious obligations to his courage and fidelity; and his services were

repaid by such a reward as, in his vainest moments, he could never have

dared to hope for. His fidelity had excited Elizabeth's gratitude, but his

personal qualities had done more--they had touched her heart. As soon as

she was settled quietly on the throne, she proved her admiration of his

merits, his services, and himself by offering to marry him.

This proposal, which conferred on the Marquis the highest distinction in

Russia, fairly turned his brain. The imperturbable man who had preserved

his coolness in a situation of the deadliest danger, lost all control over

himself the moment he rose to the climax of prosperity. Having obtained

leave of absence from his Imperial mistress, he returned to France to ask

leave from his own sovereign to marry the Empress. This permission was

readily granted. After receiving it, any man of ordinary discretion would

have kept the fact of the Empress's partiality for him as strictly secret

as possible, until it could be openly avowed on the marriage-day. Far from

this, the Marquis's vanity led him to proclaim the brilliant destiny in

store for him all over Paris. He commissioned the King's genealogist to

construct a pedigree which should be made to show that he was not unworthy

to contract a royal alliance. When the pedigree was completed he had the

incredible folly to exhibit it publicly, along with the keepsakes which

the Empress had given to him, and the rich presents which he intended

to bestow as marks of his favour on the lords and ladies of the Russian

court. Nor did his imprudence end even here. When he returned to St.

Petersburg, he took back with him, among the other persons comprising his

train, a woman of loose character, dressed in the disguise of a page. The

persons about the Russian court, whose prejudices he had never attempted

to conciliate--whose envy at his success waited only for the slightest

opportunity to effect his ruin--suspected the sex of the pretended page,

and took good care that the report of their suspicions should penetrate

gradually to the foot of the throne. It seems barely credible, but it

is, nevertheless, unquestionably the fact, that the infatuated Marquis

absolutely allowed the Empress an opportunity of seeing his page.

Elizabeth's eye, sharpened by jealousy, penetrated instantly to the truth.

Any less disgraceful insult she would probably have forgiven, but such

an outrage as this, no woman--especially no woman in her position--could

pardon. With one momentary glance of anger and disdain, she dismissed the

Marquis from her presence, and never, from that moment, saw him again.

The same evening his papers were seized, all the presents that he had

received from the Empress were taken from him, and he was ordered to

leave the Russian dominions for ever, within eight days' time. He was

not allowed to write, or take any other means of attempting to justify

himself; and, on his way back to his native country, he was followed to

the frontier by certain officers of the Russian army, and there stripped,

with every mark of ignominy, of all the orders of nobility which he had

received from the Imperial court. He returned to Paris a disgraced man,

lived there in solitude, obscurity, and neglect for some years, and died

in a state of positive want--the unknown inhabitant of one of the meanest

dwellings in the whole city.

* * * * *

The end of Lestoc is hardly less remarkable than the end of the Marquis.

In their weak points, as in their strong, the characters of these

two men seem to have been singularly alike. Making due allowance for

the difference in station between the German surgeon and the French

ambassador, it is undeniable that Elizabeth showed her sense of the

services of Lestoc as gratefully and generously as she had shown her

sense of the services of the Marquis. The ex-surgeon was raised at once

to the position of the chief favourite and the most powerful man about

the Court. Besides the privileges which he shared equally with the highest

nobles of the period, he was allowed access to the Empress on all private

as well as on all public occasions. He had a perpetual right of entry

into her domestic circle, which was conceded to no one else; and he held

a place, on days of public reception, that placed him on an eminence to

which no other man in Russia could hope to attain. Such was his position;

and, strange to say, it had precisely the same maddening effect on his

vanity which the prospect of an imperial alliance had exercised over

the vanity of the Marquis. Lestoc's audacity became ungovernable; his

insolence knew no bounds. He abused the privileges conferred upon him by

Elizabeth's grateful regard, with such baseness and such indelicacy, that

the Empress, after repeatedly cautioning him in the friendliest possible

terms, found herself obliged, out of regard to her own reputation and to

the remonstrances which assailed her from all the persons of her Court,

to deprive him of the privilege of entry into her private apartments.

This check, instead of operating as a timely warning to Lestoc, irritated

him into the commission of fresh acts of insolence, so wanton in their

nature that Elizabeth at last lost all patience, and angrily reproached

him with the audacious ingratitude of his behaviour. The reproach was

retorted by Lestoc, who fiercely accused the Empress of forgetting the

great services that he had rendered her, and declared that he would turn

his back on her and her dominions, after first resenting the contumely

with which he had been treated by an act of revenge that she would

remember to the day of her death.

The vengeance which he had threatened proved to be the vengeance of a

forger and a cheat. The banker in St. Petersburg who was charged with the

duty of disbursing the sums of state money which were set apart for the

Empress's use, received an order, one day, to pay four hundred thousand

ducats to a certain person who was not mentioned by name, but who, it was

stated, would call, with the proper credentials, to receive the money. The

banker was struck by this irregular method of performing the preliminaries

of an important matter of business, and he considered it to be his duty to

show the document which he had received to one of the Ministers. Secret

inquiries were immediately set on foot, and they ended in the discovery

that the order was a false one, and that the man who had forged it was no

other than Lestoc.

For a crime of this kind the punishment was death. But the Empress

had declared, on her accession, that she would sign no warrant for the

taking away of life during her reign, and, moreover, she still generously

remembered what she had owed in former times to Lestoc. Accordingly, she

changed his punishment to a sentence of exile to Siberia, with special

orders that the life of the banished man should be made as easy to him as

possible. He had not passed many years in the wildernesses of Siberia,

before Elizabeth's strong sense of past obligation to him, induced her

still further to lighten his punishment by ordering that he should be

brought back to St. Petersburg, and confined in the fortress there,

where her own eyes might assure her that he was treated with mercy and

consideration. It is probable that she only intended this change as a

prelude to the restoration of his liberty; but the future occasion for

pardoning him never came. Shortly after his return to St. Petersburg,

Lestoc ended his days in the prison of the fortress.

So the two leaders of the Russian revolution lived, and so they died. It

has been said, and said well, that the only sure proof of a man's strength

of mind is to be discovered by observing the manner in which he bears

success. History shows few such remarkable examples of the truth of this

axiom as are afforded by the lives of the Marquis de la Chétardie and

the German surgeon Lestoc. Two stronger men in the hour of peril and two

weaker men in the hour of security, have not often appeared in this world

to vanquish adverse circumstances like heroes, and to be conquered like

cowards afterwards by nothing but success.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.[B]

Some seventy years ago, there lived a poor country player, named Samuel

Jerrold. His principal claim to a prominent position among the strolling

company to which he was attached, consisted in the possession of a pair of

shoes once belonging to the great Garrick himself. Samuel Jerrold always

appeared on the stage in these invaluable "properties"--a man, surely,

who deserves the regard of posterity, as the only actor of modern times

who has shown himself capable of standing in Garrick's shoes.

Samuel Jerrold was twice married--the second time to a wife so much his

junior that he was older than his own mother-in-law. Partly, perhaps,

in virtue of this last great advantage on the part of the husband, the

marriage was a very happy one. The second Mrs. Samuel was a clever,

good-tempered, notable woman; and helped her husband materially in his

theatrical affairs, when he rose in time (and in Garrick's shoes) to be

a manager of country theatres. Young Mrs. Samuel brought her husband a

family--two girls to begin with; and, on the third of January, eighteen

hundred and three, while she was staying in London, a boy, who was

christened Douglas William, and who was destined, in after life, to make

the name of the obscure country manager a household word on the lips of

English readers.

In the year eighteen hundred and seven, Samuel Jerrold became the

lessee of the Sheerness Theatre; and little Douglas was there turned to

professional account, as a stage-child. He appeared in _The Stranger_ as

one of the little cherubs of the frail and interesting Mrs. Haller; and

he was "carried on" by Edmund Kean, as the child in _Rolla_. These early

theatrical experiences (whatever influence they might have had, at a later

time, in forming his instincts as a dramatist) do not appear to have at

all inclined him towards his father's profession when he grew older. The

world of ships and sailors amid which he lived at Sheerness, seems to

have formed his first tastes and influenced his first longings. As soon

as he could speak for himself on the matter of his future prospects, he

chose the life of a sailor; and, at ten years old, he entered on board

the guardship, Namur, as a first-class volunteer.

Up to this time the father had given the son as good an education as it

lay within his means to command. Douglas had been noted as a studious

boy at school; and he brought with him a taste for reading and for quiet

pursuits when he entered on board the Namur. Beginning his apprenticeship

to the sea as a Midshipman, in December, eighteen hundred and thirteen,

he was not transferred from the guardship to active service until April,

eighteen hundred and fifteen, when he was drafted off, with forty-six men,

to his Majesty's gun-brig, Ernest.

Those were stirring times. The fierce struggle of Waterloo was at hand;

and Douglas's first cruise was across the Channel to Ostend, at the head

of a fleet of transports carrying troops and stores to the battle-field.

Singularly enough, his last cruise connected him with the results of the

great fight, as his first had connected him with the preparations for

it. In the July of the Waterloo year, the Ernest brought her share of the

wounded back to Sheerness. On the deck of that brig, Jerrold first stood

face to face with the horror of war. In after life, when other pens were

writing glibly enough of the glory of war, his pen traced the dark reverse

of the picture, and set the terrible consequences of all victories,

righteous as well as wicked, in their true light.

The great peace was proclaimed, and the nations rested at last. In

October, eighteen hundred and fifteen, the Ernest was "paid off." Jerrold

stepped on shore, and never returned to the service. He was without

interest; and the peace virtually closed his professional prospects. To

the last day of his life he had a genuinely English love for the sea and

sailors; and, short as his naval experience had been, neither he nor his

countrymen were altogether losers by it. If the Midshipman of the Ernest

had risen to be an Admiral, what would have become then of the author of

Black-Eyed Susan?

Douglas's prospects were far from cheering when he returned to his home

on shore. The affairs of Samuel Jerrold (through no fault of his own) had

fallen into sad confusion. In his old age his vocation of manager sank

from under him; his theatre was sold; and, at the end of the Waterloo

year, he and his family found themselves compelled to leave Sheerness.

On the first day of eighteen hundred and sixteen they sailed away in the

Chatham boat, to try their fortune in London.

The first refuge of the Jerrolds was at Broad Court, Bow Street. Poor

old Samuel was now past his work; and the chief dependence of the ruined

family rested on Douglas and his mother. Mrs. Samuel contrived to get

some theatrical employment in London; and Douglas, after beginning life

as an officer in the navy, was apprenticed to a printer, in Northumberland

Street, Strand.

He accepted his new position with admirable cheerfulness and resolution;

honestly earning his money, and affectionately devoting it to the

necessities of his parents. A delightful anecdote of him, at this time

of his life, is told by his son. On one of the occasions when his mother

and sister were absent in the country, the little domestic responsibility

of comforting the poor worn-out old father with a good dinner, rested

on Douglas's shoulders. With the small proceeds of his work, he bought

all the necessary materials for a good beef-steak pie--made the pie

himself, succeeding brilliantly with the crust--himself took it to the

bake-house--and himself brought it back, with one of Sir Walter Scott's

novels, which the dinner left him just money enough to hire from a

library, for the purpose of reading a story to his father in the evening,

by way of dessert. For our own parts, we shall henceforth always rank that

beef-steak pie as one among the many other works of Douglas Jerrold which

have established his claim to remembrance and to regard. The clue to the

bright affectionate nature of the man--sometimes lost by those who knew

him imperfectly, in after life--could hardly be found in any pleasanter

or better place, now that he is gone from among us, than on the poor

dinner-table in Broad Court.

Although he was occupied for twelve hours out of the twenty-four at the

printing-office, he contrived to steal time enough from the few idle

intervals allowed for rest and meals, to store his mind with all the

reading that lay within his reach. As early as at the age of fourteen,

the literary faculty that was in him seems to have struggled to develop

itself in short papers and scraps of verse. Only a year later, he made

his first effort at dramatic composition, producing a little farce, with

a part in it for an old friend of the family, the late Mr. Wilkinson, the

comedian. Although Samuel Jerrold was well remembered among many London

actors as an honest country manager; and although Douglas could easily

secure, from his father's friends, his admission to the theatre whenever

he was able to go to it, he does not appear to have possessed interest

enough to gain a reading for his piece when it was first sent in to the

English Opera House. After three years had elapsed, however, Mr. Wilkinson

contrived to get the lad's farce produced at Sadler's Wells, under the

title of More Frightened than Hurt. It was not only successful on its

first representation, but it also won the rare honour of being translated

for the French stage. More than this, it was afterwards translated back

again, by a dramatist who was ignorant of its original history, for the

stage of the Olympic Theatre; where it figured in the bills under the new

title of Fighting by Proxy, with Liston in the part of the hero. Such is

the history of Douglas Jerrold's first contribution to the English drama.

When it was produced on the boards of Sadler's Wells, its author's age

was eighteen years.

He had appeared in public, however, as an author, before this time; having

composed some verses which were printed in a forgotten periodical called

Arliss's Magazine. The loss of his first situation, through the bankruptcy

of his master, obliged him to seek employment anew in the printing-office

of one Mr. Bigg, who was also the editor of a newspaper called the _Sunday

Monitor_. In this journal appeared his first article--a critical paper

on _Der Freischütz_. He had gone to the theatre with an order to see the

opera; and had been so struck by the supernatural drama and the wonderful

music to which it was set, that he noted down his impressions of the

performance, and afterwards dropped what he had written, anonymously, into

the editor's box. The next morning, his own article was handed to him to

set up in type for the forthcoming number of the Sunday Monitor.

After this first encouragement, he began to use his pen frequently in

the minor periodicals of the time; still sticking to the printer's work,

however, and still living at home with his family. The success of his

little farce at Sadler's Wells led to his writing three more pieces for

that theatre. They all succeeded; and the managers of some of the other

minor theatres began to look after the new man. Just at this time, when

his career as dramatist and journalist was beginning to open before him,

his father died. After that loss, the next important event in his life was

his marriage. In the year eighteen hundred and twenty-four, when he was

twenty-one years of age, he married his "first love," Miss Mary Swann, the

daughter of a gentleman who held an appointment in the Post Office. He and

his bride settled, with his mother and sister and a kind old friend of his

boyish days, in Holborn; and here--devoting his days to the newspapers,

and his evenings to the drama--the newly-married man started as author by

profession, and met the world and its cares bravely at the point of the

pen.

The struggle at starting was a hard one. His principal permanent

source of income was a small weekly salary paid to him as dramatist

to the establishment, by one Davidge, manager of the Coburg (now the

Victoria) Theatre. This man appears to have treated Jerrold, whose dramas

brought both money and reputation to his theatre, with an utter want

of common consideration and common gratitude. He worked his poor author

pitilessly; and it is, on that account, highly satisfactory to know that

he overreached himself in the end, by quarrelling with his dramatist, at

the very time when Jerrold had a theatrical fortune (so far as managers'

interests were concerned) lying in his desk, in the shape of Black-Eyed

Susan. With that renowned play (the most popular of all nautical dramas)

in his hand, Douglas left the Coburg to seek employment at the Surrey

Theatre--then under the management of Mr. Elliston. This last tradesman in

plays--who subsequently showed himself to be a worthy contemporary of the

other tradesman at the Coburg--bid rather higher for Jerrold's services,

and estimated the sole monopoly of the fancy, invention, and humour of

a man who had already proved himself to be a popular, money-bringing

dramatist, at the magnificent rate of five pounds a week. The bargain

was struck; and Jerrold's first play produced at the Surrey Theatre was

Black-Eyed Susan.

He had achieved many enviable dramatic successes before this time. He

had written domestic dramas--such as Fifteen Years of a Drunkard's Life,

and Ambrose Gwinett--the popularity of which is still well remembered by

play-goers of the old generation. But the reception of Black-Eyed Susan

eclipsed all previous successes of his or of any other dramatist's in

that line. Mr. T. P. Cooke, who, as the French say, "created" the part

of William, not only found half London flocking into the Borough to see

him; but was actually called upon, after acting in the play, as a first

piece, at the Surrey Theatre, to drive off in his sailor's dress, and

act in it again on the same night, as the last piece, at Covent Garden

Theatre. Its first "run" mounted to three hundred nights: it afterwards

drew money into the empty treasury of Drury Lane: it remains, to this day,

a "stock-piece" on which managers and actors know that they can depend;

and, strangest phenomenon of all, it is impossible to see the play now,

without feeling that its great and well-deserved dramatic success has been

obtained with the least possible amount of assistance from the subtleties

and refinements of dramatic art. The piece is indebted for its hold on the

public sympathy solely to the simple force, the irresistible directness,

of its appeal to some of the strongest affections in our nature. It has

succeeded, and it will succeed, not because the dialogue is well, or, as

to some passages of it, even naturally written; not because the story is

neatly told, for it is (especially in the first act) full of faults in

construction; but solely because the situations in which the characters

are placed appeal to the hearts of every husband and every wife in the

theatre. In this aspect of it, and in this only, the play is a study to

any young writer; for it shows on what amazingly simple foundations rest

the main conditions of the longest, the surest, and the widest dramatic

success.

It is sad, it is almost humiliating, to be obliged to add, in reference

to the early history of Jerrold's first dramatic triumph, that his share

of the gains which Black-Eyed Susan poured into the pockets of managers

on both sides of the water was just seventy pounds. Mr. Elliston, whose

theatre the play had raised from a state of something like bankruptcy to

a condition of prosperity which, in the Surrey annals, has not since been

paralleled, not only abstained from presenting Jerrold with the smallest

fragment of anything in the shape of a token of gratitude, but actually

had the pitiless insolence to say to him, after Black-Eyed Susan had run

its three hundred nights, "My dear boy, why don't you get your friends to

present you with a bit of plate?"[C]

The extraordinary success of Black-Eyed Susan opened the doors of the

great theatres to Jerrold, as a matter of course. He made admirable

use of the chances in his favour which he had so well deserved, and

for which he had waited so long. At the Adelphi, at Drury Lane, and

at the Haymarket, drama after drama flowed in quick succession from

his pen. The Devil's Ducat, the Bride of Ludgate, the Rent Day, Nell

Gwynne, the Housekeeper--this last, the best of his plays in point of

construction--date, with many other dramatic works, from the period

of his life now under review. The one slight check to his career of

prosperity occurred in eighteen hundred and thirty-six, when he and his

brother-in-law took the Strand Theatre, and when Jerrold acted a character

in one of his own plays. Neither the theatrical speculation nor the

theatrical appearance proved to be successful; and he wisely abandoned,

from that time, all professional connection with the stage, except in his

old and ever-welcome character of dramatist. In the other branches of his

art--to which he devoted himself, at this turning-point of his career, as

faithfully as he devoted himself to the theatrical branch--his progress

was not less remarkable. As journalist and essayist, he rose steadily

towards the distinguished place which was his due among the writers of

his time. This middle term of his literary exertions produced, among other

noticeable results, the series of social studies called Men of Character,

originally begun in Blackwood's Magazine, and since republished among his

collected works.

He had now advanced, in a social as well as in a literary point of view,

beyond that period in the lives of self-made men which may be termed

the adventurous period. Whatever difficulties and anxieties henceforth

oppressed him were caused by the trials and troubles which, more or less,

beset the exceptional lives of all men of letters. The struggle for a

hearing, the fight for a fair field in which to show himself, had now been

bravely and creditably accomplished; and all that remains to be related

of the life of Douglas Jerrold is best told in the history of his works.

Taking his peculiar literary gifts into consideration, the first great

opportunity of his life, as a periodical writer, was offered to him,

unquestionably, by the starting of _Punch_. The brilliant impromptu

faculty which gave him a place apart, as thinker, writer, and talker,

among the remarkable men of his time, was exactly the faculty which such

a journal as Punch was calculated to develop to the utmost. The day on

which Jerrold was secured as a contributor would have been a fortunate day

for that periodical, if he had written nothing in it but the far-famed

Caudle Lectures, and the delightful Story of a Feather. But the service

that he rendered to Punch must by no means be associated only with the

more elaborate contributions to its pages which are publicly connected

with his name. His wit often flashed out at its brightest, his sarcasm

often cut with its keenest edge, in those well-timed paragraphs and short

articles which hit the passing event of the day, and which, so far as

their temporary purpose with the public is concerned, are all-important

ingredients in the success of such a periodical as Punch. A contributor

who can strike out new ideas from the original resources of his own

mind, is one man, and a contributor who can be depended on for the small

work-a-day emergencies which are felt one week and forgotten the next,

is generally another. Jerrold united these two characters in himself; and

the value of him to Punch, on that account only, can never be too highly

estimated.

At this period of his life, the fertility of his mental resources showed

itself most conspicuously. While he was working for Punch, he was also

editing and largely contributing to the Illuminated Magazine. In this

publication appeared, among a host of shorter papers, the series called

The Chronicles of Clovernook, which he himself always considered to be

one of his happiest efforts, and which does indeed contain, in detached

passages, some of the best things that ever fell from his pen. On the

cessation of The Illuminated Magazine, he started The Shilling Magazine,

and contributed to it his well-known novel, Saint Giles and Saint James.

These accumulated literary occupations and responsibilities would have

been enough for most men; but Jerrold's inexhaustible energy and variety

carried him on through more work still. Theatrical audiences now found

their old favourite addressing them again, and occupying new ground as

a writer of five act and three act comedies. Bubbles of the Day, Time

Works Wonders, The Catspaw, Retired from Business, Saint Cupid, were all

produced, with other plays, after the period when he became a regular

writer in Punch.

Judged from the literary point of view these comedies were all original

and striking contributions to the library of the stage. From the dramatic

point of view, however, it must not be concealed that they were less

satisfactory; and that some of them were scarcely so successful with

audiences as their author's earlier and humbler efforts. The one solid

critical reason which it is possible to assign for this, implies in itself

a compliment which could be paid to no other dramatist of modern times.

The perpetual glitter of Jerrold's wit seems to have blinded him to some

of the more sober requirements of the Dramatic art. When Charles Kemble

said, and said truly, that there was wit enough for three comedies in

Bubbles of the Day, he implied that this brilliant overflow left little

or no room for the indispensable resources of story and situation to

display themselves fairly on the stage. The comedies themselves, examined

with reference to their success in representation, as well as to their

intrinsic merits, help to support this view. Time Works Wonders was the

most prosperous of all, and it is that comedy precisely which has the

most story and the most situation in it. The idea and the management of

the charming love-tale out of which the events of this play spring, show

what Jerrold might have achieved in the construction of other plots, if

his own superabundant wit had not dazzled him and led him astray. As it

is, the readers of these comedies, who can appreciate the rich fancy,

the delicate subtleties of thought, the masterly terseness of expression,

and the exquisite play and sparkle of wit scattered over every page, may

rest assured that they rather gain than lose--especially in the present

condition of theatrical companies--by not seeing the last dramatic works

of Douglas Jerrold represented on the stage.

The next, and, sad to say, the final achievement of his life, connected

him most honourably and profitably with the newspaper press. Many readers

will remember the starting of Douglas Jerrold's Weekly Newspaper--its

great temporary success--and then its sudden decline, through defects

in management, to which it is not now necessary to refer at length.

The signal ability with which the editorial articles in the paper were

written, the remarkable aptitude which they displayed in striking straight

at the sympathies of large masses of readers, did not escape the notice

of men who were well fitted to judge of the more solid qualifications

which go to the production of a popular journalist. In the spring of

the year eighteen hundred and fifty-two, the proprietor of Lloyd's

Weekly Newspaper proposed the editorship to Jerrold, on terms of such

wise liberality as to ensure the ready acceptance of his offer. From

the spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-two, to the spring of eighteen

hundred and fifty-seven--the last he was ever to see--Jerrold conducted

the paper, with such extraordinary success as is rare in the history of

journalism. Under his supervision, and with the regular assistance of his

pen, Lloyd's Newspaper rose, by thousands and thousands a week, to the

great circulation which it now enjoys. Of the many successful labours of

Jerrold's life, none had been so substantially prosperous as the labour

that was destined to close it.

His health had shown signs of breaking, and his heart was known to be

affected, for some little time before his last brief illness; but the

unconquerable energy and spirit of the man upheld him through all bodily

trials, until the first day of June, eighteen hundred and fifty-seven.

Even his medical attendant did not abandon all hope when his strength

first gave way. But he sank rapidly--so rapidly, that in one short week

the struggle was over. On the eighth day of June, surrounded by his family

and his friends, preserving all his faculties to the last, passing away

calmly, resignedly, affectionately, Douglas Jerrold closed his eyes on the

world which it had been the long and noble purpose of his life to inform

and to improve.

It is too early yet to attempt any estimate of the place which his

writings will ultimately occupy in English literature. So long as honesty,

energy, and variety are held to be the prominent qualities which should

distinguish a genuine writer, there can be no doubt of the vitality of

Douglas Jerrold's reputation. The one objection urged against the works,

which, feeble and ignorant though it was, often went to the heart of

the writer, was the objection of bitterness. Calling to mind many of the

passages in his books in which this bitterness most sharply appears, and

seeing plainly in those passages what the cause was that provoked it, we

venture to speak out our own opinion boldly, and to acknowledge at once,

that we admire this so-called bitterness as one of the great and valuable

qualities of Douglas Jerrold's writings; because we can see for ourselves

that it springs from the uncompromising earnestness and honesty of the

author. In an age when it is becoming unfashionable to have a positive

opinion about anything; when the detestable burlesque element scatters

its profanation with impunity on all beautiful and all serious things;

when much, far too much, of the current literature of the day vibrates

contemptibly between unbelieving banter and unblushing clap-trap, that

element of bitterness in Jerrold's writings--which never stands alone in

them; which is never disassociated from the kind word that goes before,

or the generous thought that comes after--is in our opinion an essentially

wholesome element, breathing that admiration of truth, and that hatred of

falsehood, which is the chiefest and brightest jewel in the crown of any

writer, living or dead.

This same cry of bitterness, which assailed him in his literary character,

assailed him in his social character also. Absurd as the bare idea of

bitterness must appear in connection with such a nature as his, to those

who really knew him, the reason why strangers so often and so ridiculously

misunderstood him, is not difficult to discover. That marvellous

brightness and quickness of perception which has distinguished him far and

wide as the sayer of some of the wittiest, and often some of the wisest

things also, in the English language, expressed itself almost with the

suddenness of lightning. This absence of all appearance of artifice or

preparation, this flash and readiness which made the great charm of his

wit, rendered him, at the same time, quite incapable of suppressing a good

thing from prudential considerations. It sparkled off his tongue before

he was aware of it. It was always a bright surprise to himself; and it

never occurred to him that it could be anything but a bright surprise to

others. All his so-called bitter things, were said with a burst of hearty

schoolboy laughter, which showed how far he was himself from attaching

a serious importance to them. Strangers apparently failed to draw this

inference, plain as it was; and often mistook him accordingly. If they

had seen him in the society of children; if they had surprised him in

the house of any one of his literary brethren who was in difficulty and

distress; if they had met him by the bedside of a sick friend, how simply

and how irresistibly the gentle, generous, affectionate nature of the man

would then have disclosed itself to the most careless chance acquaintance

who ever misunderstood him! Very few men have won the loving regard of so

many friends so rapidly, and have kept that regard so enduringly to the

last day of their lives, as Douglas Jerrold.

SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.--V.

PRAY EMPLOY MAJOR NAMBY!

[A Privileged Communication From A Lady in Distress.]

I have such an extremely difficult subject to write about, that I really

don't know how to begin. The fact is, I am a single lady--single, you

will please to understand, entirely because I have refused many excellent

offers. Pray don't imagine from this that I am old. Some women's offers

come at long intervals, and other women's offers come close together. Mine

came remarkably close together--so, of course, I cannot possibly be old.

Not that I presume to describe myself as absolutely young, either; so much

depends on people's points of view. I have heard female children of the

ages of eighteen or nineteen called young ladies. This seems to me to be

ridiculous--and I have held that opinion, without once wavering from it,

for more than ten years past. It is, after all, a question of feeling;

and, shall I confess it? I feel so young!

Dear, dear me! this is dreadfully egotistical; and, besides, it is not in

the least what I want. May I be kindly permitted to begin again?

Is there any chance of our going to war with somebody, before long? This

is such a dreadful question for a lady to put, that I feel called upon

to apologise and explain myself. I don't rejoice in bloodshed--I don't,

indeed. The smell of gunpowder is horrible to me; and the going off of the

smallest imaginable gun invariably makes me scream. But if on some future

occasion we--of course, I mean the government--find it quite impossible

to avoid plunging into the horrors of war--then, what I want to know is,

whether my next door neighbour, Major Namby, will be taken from his home

by the Horse Guards, and presented with his fit post of command in the

English army? It will come out sooner or later; so there is no harm in my

acknowledging at once, that it would add immeasurably to my comfort and

happiness if the major were ordered off on any service which would take

him away from his own house.

I am really very sorry, but I must leave off beginning already, and go

back again to the part before the beginning (if there is such a thing) in

order to explain the nature of my objection to Major Namby, and why it

would be such a great relief to me (supposing we are unfortunate enough

to plunge into the horrors of war), if he happened to be one of the first

officers called out for the service of his Queen and country.

* * * * *

I live in the suburbs, and I have bought my house. The major lives in the

suburbs, next door to me, and _he_ has bought his house. I don't object

to this, of course. I merely mention it to make things straight.

Major Namby has been twice married. His first wife--dear, dear! how can

I express it? Shall I say, with vulgar abruptness, that his first wife

had a family? And must I descend into particulars, and add that they

are four in number, and that two of them are twins? Well, the words are

written; and if they will do over again for the same purpose, I beg to

repeat them in reference to the second Mrs. Namby (still alive), who

has also had a family, and is----no, I really cannot say, is likely to

go on having one. There are certain limits, in a case of this kind, and

I think I have reached them. Permit me simply to state that the second

Mrs. Namby has three children, at present. These, with the first Mrs.

Namby's four, make a total of seven. The seven are composed of five girls

and two boys. And the first Mrs. Namby's family all have one particular

kind of constitution, and the second Mrs. Namby's family all have another

particular kind of constitution. Let me explain once more that I merely

mention these little matters, and that I don't object to them.

Now pray be patient: I am coming fast to the point--I am indeed. But

please let me say a little word or two about Major Namby himself.

In the first place, I have looked out his name in the Army List, and I

cannot find that he was ever engaged in battle anywhere. He appears to

have entered the army, most unfortunately for his own renown, just after,

instead of just before, the battle of Waterloo. He has been at all sorts

of foreign stations, at the very time, in each case, when there was no

military work to do--except once at some West Indian Island, where he

seems to have assisted in putting down a few poor unfortunate negroes

who tried to get up a riot. This is the only active service that he has

ever performed: so I suppose it is all owing to his being well off and to

those dreadful abuses of ours that he has been made a major for not having

done a major's work. So far as looks go, however, he is military enough

in appearance to take the command of the British army at five minutes'

notice. He is very tall and upright, and carries a martial cane, and wears

short martial whiskers, and has an awfully loud martial voice. His face

is very pink, and his eyes are extremely round and staring, and he has

that singularly disagreeable-looking roll of fat red flesh at the back

of his neck, between the bottom of his short grey hair and the top of his

stiff black stock, which seems to be peculiar to all hearty old officers

who are remarkably well to do in the world. He is certainly not more than

sixty years of age; and, if a lady may presume to judge of such a thing,

I should say decidedly that he had an immense amount of undeveloped energy

still left in him, at the service of the Horse Guards.

This undeveloped energy--and here, at length, I come to the point--not

having any employment in the right direction, has run wild in the wrong

direction, and has driven the major to devote the whole of his otherwise

idle time to his domestic affairs. He manages his children instead of

his regiment, and establishes discipline in the servants'-hall instead of

in the barrack-yard. Have I any right to object to this? None whatever,

I readily admit. I may hear (most unwillingly) that Major Namby has

upset the house by going into the kitchen and objecting to the smartness

of the servants' caps; but as I am not, thank Heaven, one of those

unfortunate servants, I am not called on to express my opinion of such

unmanly meddling, much as I scorn it. I may be informed (entirely against

my own will) that Mrs. Namby's husband has dared to regulate, not only

the size and substance, but even the number, of certain lower and inner

articles of Mrs. Namby's dress, which no earthly consideration will

induce me particularly to describe; but as I do not (I thank Heaven again)

occupy the degraded position of the major's wife, I am not justified in

expressing my indignation at domestic prying and pettifogging, though I

feel it all over me, at this very moment, from head to foot. What Major

Namby does and says, inside his own house, is his business and not mine.

But what he does and says, outside his own house, on the gravel walk of

his front garden--under my own eyes and close to my own ears, as I sit at

work at the window--is as much my affair as the major's, and more, for it

is I who suffer by it.

Pardon me a momentary pause for relief, a momentary thrill of

self-congratulation. I have got to my destination at last--I have taken

the right literary turning at the end of the preceding paragraph; and the

fair high-road of plain narrative now spreads engagingly before me.

My complaint against Major Namby is, in plain terms, that he transacts

the whole of his domestic business in his front garden. Whether it arises

from natural weakness of memory, from total want of a sense of propriety,

or from a condition of mind which is closely allied to madness of the

eccentric sort, I cannot say--but the major certainly does sometimes

partially, and sometimes entirely, forget his private family matters,

and the necessary directions connected with them, while he is inside

the house; and does habitually remember them, and repair all omissions,

by bawling through his windows, at the top of his voice, as soon as he

gets outside the house. It never seems to occur to him that he might

advantageously return in-doors, and there mention what he has forgotten

in a private and proper way. The instant the lost idea strikes him--which

it invariably does, either in his front garden, or in the roadway outside

his house--he roars for his wife, either from the gravel walk, or over

the low wall; and (if I may use so strong an expression) empties his mind

to her in public, without appearing to care whose ears he wearies, whose

delicacy he shocks, or whose ridicule he invites. If the man is not mad,

his own small family fusses have taken such complete possession of all

his senses, that he is quite incapable of noticing anything else, and

perfectly impenetrable to the opinions of his neighbours. Let me show

that the grievance of which I complain is no slight one, by giving a few

examples of the general persecution that I suffer, and the occasional

shocks that are administered to my delicacy, at the coarse hands of Major

Namby.

We will say it is a fine warm morning. I am sitting in my front room, with

the window open, absorbed over a deeply interesting book. I hear the door

of the next house bang; I look up, and see the major descending the steps

into his front garden.

He walks--no, he marches--half way down the front garden path, with

his head high in the air, and his chest stuck out, and his military

cane fiercely flourished in his right hand. Suddenly, he stops, stamps

with one foot, knocks up the hinder part of the brim of his extremely

curly hat with his left hand, and begins to scratch at that singularly

disagreeable-looking roll of fat red flesh in the back of his neck (which

scratching, I may observe, in parenthesis, is always a sure sign, in the

case of this horrid man, that a lost domestic idea has suddenly come back

to him). He waits a moment in the ridiculous position just described, then

wheels round on his heel, looks up at the first-floor window, and instead

of going back into the house to mention what he has forgotten, bawls out

fiercely from the middle of the walk:

"Matilda!"

I hear his wife's voice--a shockingly shrill one; but what can you expect

of a woman who has been seen over and over again, in a slatternly striped

wrapper, as late as two o'clock in the afternoon--I hear his wife's voice

answer from inside the house:

"Yes, dear."

"I said it was a south wind."

"Yes, dear."

"It isn't a south wind."

"Lor', dear!"

"It's south-east. I won't have Georgina taken out to-day." (Georgina is

one of the first Mrs. Namby's family, and they are all weak in the chest.)

"Where's nurse?"

"Here, sir!"

"Nurse, I won't have Jack allowed to run. Whenever that boy perspires,

he catches cold. Hang up his hoop. If he cries, take him into my

dressing-room, and show him the birch rod. Matilda!"

"Yes, dear."

"What the devil do they mean by daubing all that grease over Mary's hair?

It's beastly to see it--do you hear?--beastly! Where's Pamby?" (Pamby is

the unfortunate work-woman who makes and mends the family linen.)

"Here, sir."

"Pamby, what are you about now?"

No answer. Pamby, or somebody else, giggles faintly. The major flourishes

his cane in a fury.

"Why the devil don't you answer me? I give you three seconds to answer

me, or leave the house. One--two--three. Pamby! what are you about now?"

"If you please, sir, I'm doing something----"

"What?"

"Something particular for baby, sir."

"Drop it directly, whatever it is. Matilda! how many pair of trousers has

Katie got?"

"Only three, dear."

"Pamby!"

"Yes, sir."

"Shorten all Miss Katie's trousers directly, including the pair she's got

on. I've said, over and over again, that I won't have those frills of hers

any lower down than her knees. Don't let me see them at the middle of her

shins again. Nurse!"

"Yes, sir."

"Mind the crossings. Don't let the children sit down if they're hot. Don't

let them speak to other children. Don't let them get playing with strange

dogs. Don't let them mess their things. And, above all, don't bring Master

Jack back in a perspiration. Is there anything more, before I go out?"

"No, sir."

"Matilda! Is there anything more?"

"No, dear."

"Pamby! Is there anything more?"

"No, sir."

Here the domestic colloquy ends, for the time being. Will any sensitive

person--especially a person of my own sex--please to imagine what I must

suffer, as a delicate single lady, at having all these family details

obtruded on my attention, whether I like it or not, in the major's

rasping martial voice, and in the shrill answering screams of the women

inside? It is bad enough to be submitted to this sort of persecution

when one is alone; but it is far worse to be also exposed to it--as I am

constantly--in the presence of visitors, whose conversation is necessarily

interrupted, whose ears are necessarily shocked, whose very stay in my

house is necessarily shortened, by Major Namby's unendurably public way

of managing his private concerns.

Only the other day, my old, dear, and most valued friend Lady Malkinshaw

was sitting with me, and was entering at great length into the interesting

story of her second daughter's unhappy marriage engagement, and of

the dignified manner in which the family ultimately broke it off. For

a quarter of an hour or so our interview continued to be delightfully

uninterrupted. At the end of that time, however, just as Lady Malkinshaw,

with the tears in her eyes, was beginning to describe the effect of

her daughter's dreadful disappointment on the poor dear girl's mind and

looks, I heard the door of the major's house bang as usual; and, looking

out of the window in despair, saw the major himself strut half way down

the walk, stop, scratch violently at his roll of red flesh, wheel round

so as to face the house, consider a little, pull his tablets out of his

waistcoat-pocket, shake his head over them, and then look up at the front

windows, preparatory to bawling as usual at the degraded female members

of his household. Lady Malkinshaw, quite ignorant of what was coming,

happened at the same moment, to be proceeding with her pathetic story in

these terms:

"I do assure you, my poor dear girl behaved throughout with the heroism of

a martyr. When I had told her of the vile wretch's behaviour, breaking it

to her as gently as I possibly could; and when she had a little recovered,

I said to her----"

("Matilda!")

The major's rasping voice sounded louder than ever as he bawled out that

dreadful name, just at the wrong moment. Lady Malkinshaw started as if

she had been shot. I put down the window in despair; but the glass was

no protection to our ears--Major Namby can roar through a brick wall. I

apologised--I declared solemnly that my next-door neighbour was mad--I

entreated Lady Malkinshaw to take no notice, and to go on. That sweet

woman immediately complied. I burn with indignation when I think of what

followed. Every word from the Namby's garden (which I distinguish below by

parentheses) came, very slightly muffled by the window, straight into my

room, and mixed itself up with her ladyship's story in this inexpressibly

ridiculous and impertinent manner:

"Well," my kind and valued friend proceeded, "as I was telling you, when

the first natural burst of sorrow was over, I said to her----"

"Yes, dear Lady Malkinshaw?" I murmured, encouragingly.

"I said to her----"

("By jingo, I've forgotten something! Matilda! when I made my memorandum

of errands, how many had I to do?")

"'My dearest, darling child,' I said----"

("Pamby! how many errands did your mistress give me to do?")

"I said, 'my dearest, darling child----'"

("Nurse! how many errands did your mistress give me to do?")

"'My own love,' I said----"

("Pooh! pooh! I tell you, I had four errands to do, and I've only got

three of 'em written down. Check me off, all of you--I'm going to read my

errands.")

"'Your own proper pride, love,' I said, 'will suggest to you----'"

("Grey powder for baby.")

--"'the necessity of making up your mind, my angel, to----'"

("Row the plumber for infamous condition of back kitchen sink.")

--"'to return all the wretch's letters, and----'"

("Speak to the haberdasher about patching Jack's shirts.")

--"'all his letters and presents, darling. You need only make them up into

a parcel, and write inside----'"

("Matilda! is that all?")

--"'and write inside----'"

("Pamby! is that all?")

--"'and write inside----'"

("Nurse! is that all?")

"'I have my mother's sanction for making one last request to you. It is

this----'"

("What have the children got for dinner to-day?")

--"'it is this: Return me my letters, as I have returned yours. You will

find inside----'"

("A shoulder of mutton and onion sauce? And a devilish good dinner, too.")

The coarse wretch roared out those last shocking words cheerfully, at the

top of his voice. Hitherto, Lady Malkinshaw had preserved her temper with

the patience of an angel; but she began--and who can wonder?--to lose it,

at last.

"It is really impossible, my dear," she said, rising from her chair, "to

continue any conversation while that very intolerable person persists in

talking to his family from his front garden. No! I really cannot go on--I

cannot, indeed."

Just as I was apologising to my sweet friend for the second time, I

observed, to my great relief (having my eye still on the window) that

the odious major had apparently come to the end of his domestic business

for that morning, and had made up his mind at last to relieve us of his

presence. I distinctly saw him put his tablets back in his pocket, wheel

round again on his heel, and march straight to the garden gate. I waited

until he had his hand on the lock to open it, and then, when I felt that

we were quite safe, I informed dear Lady Malkinshaw that my detestable

neighbour had at last taken himself off, and, throwing open the window

again to get a little air, begged and entreated her to oblige me by

resuming her charming narrative.

"Where was I?" inquired my distinguished friend.

"You were telling me what you recommended your poor darling to write

inside her enclosure," I answered.

"Ah, yes--so I was. Well, my dear, she controlled herself by an admirable

effort, and wrote exactly what I told her. You will excuse a mother's

partiality, I am sure--but I think I never saw her look so lovely--so

mournfully lovely, I should say--as when she was writing those last lines

to the man who had so basely trifled with her. The tears came into my eyes

as I looked at her sweet pale cheeks; and I thought to myself----"

("Nurse! which of the children was sick, last time, after eating onion

sauce?")

He had come back again!--the monster had come back again, from the very

threshold of the garden gate, to shout that unwarrantably atrocious

question in at his nursery window!

Lady Malkinshaw bounced off her chair at the first note of his horrible

voice, and changed towards me instantly--as if it had been _my_ fault!--in

the most alarming and unexpected manner. Her ladyship's face became

awfully red; her ladyship's head trembled excessively; her ladyship's eyes

looked straight into mine with an indescribable fierceness.

"Why am I thus insulted?" inquired Lady Malkinshaw, with a slow and

dignified sternness which froze the blood in my veins. "What do you mean

by it?" continued her ladyship, with a sudden rapidity of utterance that

quite took my breath away.

Before I could remonstrate with my friend for visiting her natural

irritation on poor innocent me: before I could declare that I had seen

the major actually open his garden gate to go away, the provoking brute's

voice burst in on us again.

"Ha! yes!" we heard him growl to himself, in a kind of shameless domestic

soliloquy. "Yes, yes, yes--Sophy was sick, to be sure. Curious. All Mrs.

Namby's step-children have weak chests and strong stomachs. All Mrs.

Namby's own children have weak stomachs and strong chests. _I_ have a

strong stomach _and_ a strong chest.--Pamby!"

"I consider this," continued Lady Malkinshaw, literally glaring at me,

in the fulness of her indiscriminate exasperation--"I consider this to be

unwarrantable and unladylike. I beg to know----"

"Where's Bill?" burst in the major, from below, before her ladyship could

add another word. "Matilda! Nurse! Pamby! where's Bill? I didn't bid Bill

good-bye--hold him up at the window, one of you!"

"My dear Lady Malkinshaw," I remonstrated, "why blame _me_? What have I

done?"

"Done!" repeated her ladyship. "Done!!!--all that is most unfriendly, most

unwarrantable, most unladylike----"

"Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a!" roared the major, shouting her ladyship down, and

stamping about the garden in fits of fond paternal laughter. "Bill, my

boy, how are you? There's a young Turk for you! Pull up his frock--I want

to see his jolly legs----"

Lady Malkinshaw screamed, and rushed to the door. I sank into a chair,

and clasped my hands in despair.

"Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! What calves the dog's got! Pamby! look at his calves.

Aha! bless his heart, his legs are the model of his father's! The Namby

build, Matilda: the Namby build, every inch of him. Kick again, Bill--kick

out, like mad. I say, ma'am! I beg your pardon, ma'am----"

_Ma'am?_ I ran to the window. Was the major actually daring to address

Lady Malkinshaw, as she passed, indignantly, on her way out, down my front

garden? He was! The odious monster was pointing out his--his, what shall

I say?--his _undraped_ offspring to the notice of my outraged visitor.

"Look at him, ma'am. If you're a judge of children, look at him. There's

a two-year-older for you! Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! Show the lady your legs,

Bill--kick out for the lady, you dog, kick out!"

* * * * *

I can write no more: I have done great violence to myself in writing

so much. Further specimens of the daily outrages inflicted on me by my

next-door neighbour (though I could add them by dozens) could do but

little more to illustrate the intolerable nature of the grievance of

which I complain. Although Lady Malkinshaw's naturally fine sense of

justice suffered me to call and remonstrate the day after she left my

house; although we are now faster friends than ever, how can I expect

her ladyship to visit me again, after the reiterated insults to which

she was exposed on the last occasion of her esteemed presence under my

roof? How can I ask my niece--a young person who has been most carefully

brought up--to come and stay with me, when I know that she will be taken

into the major's closest domestic confidence on the first morning of

her arrival, whether she likes it or not? Of all the dreary prospects,

stretching before all the single ladies in the world, mine seems the most

hopeless. My neighbours can't help me, and I can't help myself. The law

of the land contains no provision against the habitual management of a

wife and family in a front garden. Private remonstrance addressed to a

man so densely impenetrable to a sense of propriety as the major, would

only expose me to ridicule, and perhaps to insult. I can't leave my house,

for it exactly suits me, and I have bought it. The major can't leave his

house, for it exactly suits him, and he has bought it. There is actually

no remedy possible but the forcible removal of my military neighbour from

his home; and there is but one power in the country which is strong enough

to accomplish that removal--the Horse Guards, infuriated by the horrors

of war.

CASES WORTH LOOKING AT.--II.

THE POISONED MEAL.

[From The Records of the French Courts.]

CHAPTER I. THE POCKETS.

This case takes us across the Channel to Normandy; and introduces us to

a young French girl, named Marie-Françoise-Victoire Salmon.

Her father was a poor Norman labourer. Her mother died while she was a

child. From an early age Marie had learnt to get her own living by going

out to service. Three different mistresses tried her while she was a very

young girl, and found every reason to be satisfied with her conduct. She

entered her fourth place, in the family of one Monsieur Dumesnil, when

she was twenty years of age. This was the turning-point in her career;

and here the strange story of her life properly begins.

Among the persons who often visited Monsieur Dumesnil and his wife, was

a certain Monsieur Revel, a relation of Madame Dumesnil's. He was a man

of some note in his part of the country, holding a responsible legal

appointment at the town of Caen in Normandy; and he honoured Marie, when

he first saw her at her master's house, with his special attention and

approval. She had an innocent face, and a winning manner; and Monsieur

Revel became almost oppressively anxious, in a strictly paternal way, that

she should better her condition, by seeking service at Caen, where places

were plentiful and wages higher than in the country; and where, it is also

necessary to remember, Monsieur Revel himself happened to live.

Marie's own idea, however, of the best means of improving her condition

was a little at variance with the idea of her disinterested adviser. Her

ambition was to gain her living independently, if she could, by being a

sempstress. She left the service of Monsieur Dumesnil of her own accord,

without so much as the shadow of a stain on her character, and went to the

old town of Bayeux to try what she could do by taking in needlework. As

a means of subsistence, needlework soon proved itself to be insufficient;

and she found herself thrown back again on the old resource of going out

to service. Most unfortunately, as events afterwards turned out, she now

called to mind Monsieur Revel's paternal advice, and resolved to seek

employment as a maid-of-all-work at Caen.

She left Bayeux with the little bundle of clothes which represented all

the property she had in the world, on the first of August, seventeen

hundred and eighty-one. It will be well to notice this date particularly,

and to remember--in case some of the events of Marie's story should seem

almost incredible--that it marks the period which immediately preceded

the first outbreak of the French Revolution.

Among the few articles of the maid's apparel which the bundle contained,

and to which it is necessary to direct attention at the outset, were _two

pairs of pockets_, one of them being still in an unfinished condition.

She had a third pair which she wore on her journey. In the last century,

a country girl's pockets were an important and prominent part of her

costume. They hung on each side of her, ready to her hand. They were

sometimes very prettily embroidered, and they were almost always large

and of a bright colour.

On the first of August, seventeen hundred and eighty-one, Marie left

Bayeux, and early on the same day she reached Caen. Her good manners,

her excellent character, and the modesty of her demands in the matter of

wages, rendered it easy for her to find a situation. On the very evening

of her arrival she was suited with a place; and her first night at Caen

was passed under the roof of her new employers.

The family consisted of Marie's master and mistress, Monsieur and

Madame Huet Duparc (both highly respectable people); of two sons, aged

respectively twenty-one and eleven years; of their sister, aged seventeen

years; and of Monsieur and Madame de Beaulieu, the father and mother of

Madame Duparc, one eighty-eight years old, the other eighty-six.

Madame Duparc explained to Marie the various duties which she was expected

to perform, on the evening when she entered the house. She was to begin

the day by fetching some milk--that being one of the ingredients used

in preparing the hasty-pudding which formed the favourite morning meal

of the old gentleman, Monsieur de Beaulieu. The hasty-pudding was always

to be got ready by seven o'clock exactly. When this had been done, Marie

was next required to take the infirm old lady, Madame de Beaulieu, every

morning to mass. She was then to go to market, and get all the provisions

that were wanted for the daily use of the family; and she was, finally, to

look to the cooking of the food, and to make herself additionally useful

(with some occasional assistance from Madame Duparc and her daughter)

in every remaining branch of household work. The yearly wages she was to

receive for performing all these conflicting duties, amounted to precisely

two pounds sterling of English money.

She had entered her new place on a Wednesday. On Thursday she took her

first lesson in preparing the old gentleman's morning meal. One point

which her mistress then particularly impressed on her was, that she was

_not_ to put any salt in the hasty-pudding.

On the Saturday following, when she went out to buy milk, she made a

little purchase on her own account. Of course the purchase was an article

of dress--a piece of fine bright orange-coloured stuff, for which she paid

nearly the whole price on the spot, out of her small savings. The sum

of two sous six deniers (about a penny English) was all that Marie took

credit for. On her return to the house she showed the piece of stuff to

Madame Duparc, and asked to be advised whether she should make an apron

or a jacket of it.

The next day being Sunday, Marie marked the occasion by putting on all the

little finery she had. Her pair of festive pockets, striped with blue and

white, came out of her bundle along with other things. When she had put

them on, she hung the old work-a-day pockets which she had worn on leaving

Bayeux, to the back of a chair in her bed-chamber. This was a little room

on the ground-floor, situated close to the dining-room, and perfectly easy

of access to every one in the house. Long afterwards, Marie remembered

how pleasantly and quietly that Sunday passed. It was the last day of

happiness the poor creature was to enjoy in the house of Madame Duparc.

On the Monday morning, she went to fetch the milk as usual. But the

milkwoman was not in the shop to serve her. After returning to the house,

she proposed making a second attempt; but her mistress stopped her,

saying that the milk would doubtless be sent before long. This turned

out to be the case, and Marie, having cleaned the saucepan for Monsieur

de Beaulieu's hasty-pudding, received from the hands of Madame Duparc,

the earthen vessel containing the meal used in the house. She mixed this

flour and put it into the saucepan in the presence of Madame Duparc and

her daughter. She had just set the saucepan on the fire, when her mistress

said, with a very remarkable abruptness:

"Have you put any salt in it?"

"Certainly not, ma'am," answered Marie, amazed by the question. "You told

me yourself that I was never to put salt in it."

Upon this, Madame Duparc snatched up the saucepan without saying another

word, turned to the dresser, stretched out her hand towards one of

four salt-cellars which always stood there, and sprinkled salt into

the saucepan--or (to speak with extreme correctness, the matter being

important), if not salt something which she took for salt.

The hasty-pudding made, Marie poured it from the saucepan into a

soup-plate which her mistress held. Madame Duparc herself then took

it to Monsieur de Beaulieu. She and her daughter, and one of her sons

remained with the old man, while he was eating his breakfast. Marie, left

in the kitchen, prepared to clean the saucepan; but, before she could do

so, she was suddenly called in two different directions, by Madame de

Beaulieu, and Madame Duparc. The old lady wished to be taken to mass;

and her mistress wanted to send her on a number of errands. Marie did

not stop even to pour some clean water, as usual, into the saucepan. She

went at once to get her instructions from Madame Duparc, and to attend

on Madame de Beaulieu. Taking the old lady to church, and then running on

her mistress's errands, kept her so long away from the house, that it was

half-past eleven in the forenoon, before she got back to the kitchen.

The first news that met her on her return was that Monsieur de Beaulieu

had been suffering, ever since nine o'clock, from a violent attack of

vomiting and colic. Madame Duparc ordered her to help the old man to

bed immediately; and inquired, when these directions had been followed,

whether Marie felt capable of looking after him herself, or whether

she would prefer that a nurse should be sent for. Being a kind-hearted,

willing girl, always anxious to make herself useful, Marie replied that

she would gladly undertake the nursing of the old man; and, thereupon,

her bed was moved at once into Monsieur de Beaulieu's room.

Meanwhile, Madame Duparc fetched from a neighbouring apothecary's, one of

the apprentices of the shop, to see her father. The lad was quite unfit

to meet the emergency of the case, which was certainly serious enough

to require the attention of his master, if not of a regularly qualified

physician. Instead of applying any internal remedies, the apprentice

stupidly tried blistering. This course of treatment proved utterly

useless; but no better advice was called in. After he had suffered for

hours without relief, Monsieur de Beaulieu began to sink rapidly towards

the afternoon. At half-past five o'clock he had ceased to exist.

This shocking catastrophe, startling and suspicious as it was, did not

appear to discompose the nerves of Madame Duparc. While her eldest son

immediately left the house to inform his father (who had been absent in

the country all day) of what had happened, she lost no time in sending

for the nearest nurse to lay out the corpse of Monsieur de Beaulieu. On

entering the chamber of death, the nurse found Marie there alone, praying

by the old man's bedside.

"He died suddenly, did he not?" said the nurse.

"Very suddenly," answered Marie. "He was walking about only yesterday, in

perfect health."

Soon afterwards the time came when it was customary to prepare supper.

Marie went into the kitchen, mechanically, to get the meal ready. Madame

Duparc, her daughter, and her youngest son, sat down to it as usual.

Madame de Beaulieu, overwhelmed by the dreadful death of her husband, was

incapable of joining them.

When supper was over, Marie assisted the old lady to bed. Then, worn

out though she was with fatigue, she went back to the nurse to keep her

company in watching by the dead body. Monsieur de Beaulieu had been kind

to Marie, and had spoken gratefully of the little attentions she had

shown him. She remembered this tenderly now that he was no more; and

she could not find it in her heart to leave a hired mourner to be the

only watcher by his death-bed. All that night she remained in the room,

entirely ignorant of what was passing the while in every other part of

the house--her own little bed-room included, as a matter of course.

About seven o'clock the next morning, after sitting up all night, she went

back again wearily to the kitchen to begin her day's work. Her mistress

joined her there, and saluted her instantly with a scolding.

"You are the most careless, slovenly girl I ever met with," said Madame

Duparc. "Look at your dress; How can you expect to be decent on a Sunday,

if you wear your best pair of pockets on week-days?"

Surely Madame Duparc's grief for the loss of her father must have been

slight enough, if it did not prevent her from paying the strictest

attention to her servant's pockets! Although Marie had only known the

old man for a few days, she had been too deeply impressed by his illness

and its fatal end, to be able to think of such a trifle as the condition

of her dress. And now, of all the people in the world, it was Monsieur

de Beaulieu's daughter who reminded her that she had never thought of

changing her pockets, only the day after the old man's dreadful death.

"Put on your old pockets, directly, you untidy girl!" said Madame Duparc.

The old pockets were of course hanging where Marie had left them, at the

back of the chair in her own room--the room which was open to any one who

chose to go into it--the room which she herself had not entered during the

past night. She left the kitchen to obey her mistress; and taking the old

pair of pockets off the chair, tied them on as quickly as possible. From

that fatal moment the friendless maid-of-all-work was a ruined girl.