CHAPTER V.

A luxurious apartment, of which the most salient features were excess of

heat and color. A glowing fire burned in the grate. Persian rugs,

richly-tinted curtains, tiger and leopard skins, light and gilding on

every side, threw into more miserable contrast Laidley's pinched, pallid

face as he stood in the midst. His back was to the fire, his claw-like

hands behind him, opening and shutting mechanically as if to grasp the

heat, his pale eyes blinking through his eye-glasses on Jane standing

before him.

"Do I understand what you say?" in a tone of blank amazement. "That you, a

child, come here to a dying man to assert your claim to his property! It

is incredible that you came of your own free will. Who sent you?"

"Nobody, Cousin Will. It seemed to me the thing I ought to do. I do wish

you would sit down," anxiously. "You are not able to stand."

He sank into a chair: "Bring me some wine."

She brought the wine, tucked the leopard skins about him, wiped his

forehead tenderly, placed a cushion beneath his feet. He shivered, closed

his eyes for a moment, then fixed them on her: "Now go on."

She did go on without the slightest hesitation, without even a flush of

color, quick as her blood was to come and go when she was moved. The

thing she had to do evidently seemed to her exceedingly simple and easy:

"I knew you did not see the matter just as it is, or there would be no

difficulty about it. No one else seemed willing to speak to you, and so I

came myself."

He put out his hand toward the wine: she set it within his reach, and

resumed her place, one arm resting on the mantel-shelf, looking down at

him. There was only that sorrowful pity in her face with which any

large-hearted, healthy woman would look at a diseased, dying man.

"I don't deny," he said, coughing feebly, "that at first sight you have a

crude, illegal claim on my property--"

"My father--not I," throwing out her hand hastily.

"But even your claim admits of argument--argument," staring into the fire.

"Yet what if I should meet Virginie Morot yonder, and she should tax me

with having wronged her child?" looking about him with a sudden turn.

A tricky girl could have gained her point now on the instant. But Jane,

dull and straightforward as usual, knelt quickly down and took his fingers

in her own cool, strong hands, as if she were dealing with a nervous

child.

"Put my mother out of the question. She is not going to blame you for

doing what seems to you just. I want you to see that it is not just. It is

of the living, not the dead, you ought to think."

"Give me that medicine, can't you? My blood is like fire. Oh, you stand

there," after he had swallowed it, "with your dogged, calm way of putting

the question, as if it were a matter of a new gown. Hush!" as she began to

speak. "You are but a child. You're not even a clever child. How can you

understand the relations of a dying man to his Maker? It has been shown to

me how with this money I could make peace with--with Him. The way has been

opened for me to give it to the poor and the churches. Why, the rich man

was commanded to 'sell all that he had and give to the poor, and he should

have treasure in heaven.' The place is marked in the Bible there." His

hands worked feebly together, and he looked from side to side, avoiding

the face in front with its steady dark eyes. "Why should I take from the

poor to give to your father?"

"Because it is not yours to take or give."

He waited for her to go on, but she said no more. "I haven't forgotten

you, Jane. I've planned for you as your father never would have done.

There's good-fortune waiting for you which any woman would envy you. Go

now--go!"

"I did not come to you with any claim of my own," the indignant lips

trembling. "You shall not think so meanly of me as that. I told you why my

father needs the money--all that he told to Mr. Neckart. Surely, you don't

understand?"

"Oh, I understand your father very well," smiling dryly. It suited him

just now to consider the captain a shrewd humbug, and his mysterious

ailment the last dodge to raise money and sympathy.

The man at that moment looked so ill, so small and spiteful, that Jane's

heart gave a sudden wrench of pity. It was a cruel, brutal thing, she

felt, in her to stop him on the edge of the grave and demand his money.

She put her hand to his forehead: it was cold and clammy. "Don't wrong my

father in this way," she said in a lower voice than before. "You have had

our money all the time, and our life has been hard--hard. I never said

that before, but it is true."

He looked at her now, his courage flickering up to meet the crisis: "I

hear you. Go on!"

"My father's life depends upon your honesty. I only ask you to remember

that."

"You use plain words. So shall I." He thrust his hand into a drawer of the

table before him, drew out a folded paper and pushed it toward her: "There

is your answer. That is my will. My property is left in the way it will do

God service. You can read it if you choose."

"And my father--?"

"I have not left him a dollar."

She turned on him, silent, a moment: he cowered and evaded her eyes.

"You shall not wrong him. He shall not die for the want of the money if I

can help it," in the same quiet voice. She took up the paper, passed him

and laid it on the fire, then watched it shrivel and burn to ashes. He

could not have detained her, any more than he could stay the scorching

flame with his hand.

She threw her cloak about her without a word, and drew the hood over her

head.

He pulled the bell violently: "You have only given me the trouble of

preparing a second copy. It shall be identical with the first."

Old Dave, coming in, observed that Miss Swendon's very lips were without

color. But as she went out of the room she halted to move a screen, so as

to protect Laidley from the draught.

She met her father on the stairs. "Do not go up," she said. "David is with

him, and I want you to take me home." ...

Before daylight the next morning Captain Swendon was summoned by David to

his master. A keen north-east wind had caused a sudden change in the

weather, and Mr. Laidley had sunk rapidly, and was now scarcely conscious.

"It is only what I anticipated," said the physician, meeting the captain

at the door. "Though if he had remained in the South he might have

lingered until midsummer. Not longer."

The captain nursed the dying man anxiously all day, and when he was dead

came home excited and haggard. It seemed to him by that time that one of

the most lovable fellows in the world had gone out of it. He always was

of that opinion at a funeral.

"Well, it's all over, Jane!" he cried, coming just at dusk into the room,

where she stood at the window, her back turned toward him. "Yes. Poor

Will! He was a good fellow years ago--witty, hospitable. You didn't know

him in his prime. Your mother liked him. That is, well--" He sat down by

the fire, staring at it with his owlish eyes, pulling off his old boots

and soaked coat, for it was raining hard, and wondering a little that Jane

had not a warm change of clothes ready for him as usual. But she did not

move. "Yes," with a groan. "He knows the great secret now, poor fellow! I

wish I'd been kinder to him. There's lots of things I might have done. But

that damned money! I suppose it soured me."

Jane turned. "I am glad _I_ did what was right to him," she said slowly.

The captain looked at her surprised. The shock had been too heavy on the

child, he thought: her eyes were quite sunken in her white face. "Yes,

yes. You were always a very nice, attentive little nurse. But when anybody

dies one is apt to remember one's shortcomings to them, and wish for even

an hour to set all right."

"I have done nothing to him which I would wish to set right," she said

again, her lips moving with difficulty.

Her father did not answer. But she was so unused to speak of herself in

any way that he observed her persistence now as peculiar.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

IRISH SOCIETY IN THE LAST CENTURY.

Nations as well as individuals have the defects of their qualities, and

the Irish race has its faults as well as its virtues; but it will be

conceded on all sides that the _humdrum_ is not one of its attributes.

During the eighteenth century the social state of Ireland was peculiarly

anomalous. The penal laws were in full force for the most of that time.

The great families, Irish or Norman--the latter having long before become

_Hibernis ipsis Hiberniores_--had either conformed to the ruling faith or

had betaken themselves to more friendly shores, or, having lost their

estates by confiscation or treachery, had become confounded with the

oppressed and suffering multitude. The Irish nation was practically

divided into a "Protestant garrison" and a pariah caste. It would have

been strange, therefore, if the faults incident to their position had not

been developed in each of these classes. And yet when the beautiful and

accomplished Mrs. Pendarves visited the island in 1731 she found social

life in the capital worthy of commendation. The generality of the people,

she said, were much the same as in England--a mixture of good and bad. All

she met behaved themselves very decently according to their rank. "Now and

then," she adds, "an oddity breaks out, but none so extraordinary but that

I could match them in England. There is a heartiness among them that is

more like _Cornwall_ than any I have known, and great sociableness."

Cornwall, it must be remembered, is largely Celtic. She writes, again,

that she has too much gratitude to find fault where she was treated

kindly, even if there were room for it, but declares that she was never in

a place that more deservedly claimed her good word than Ireland.

It was to the famous earl of Strafford that the viceregal court first owed

its brilliancy. When he came to Dublin as lord deputy he found the Castle

falling to ruins. He had it restored, and lived there in the manner

described by a traveled eye-witness, who says that a most splendid court

was kept there, and that he had seen nothing like it in Christendom except

that of the viceroy of Naples. In one point of grandeur the lord deputy

went beyond the Neapolitan, for he could confer honors and dub knights,

which that viceroy could not do, or indeed any other he knew of. This

splendor was interrupted by the civil wars, but burst forth anew under the

viceroyalty of the great duke of Ormond. Matters seem then to have been

somewhat irregularly managed. It was a time of great politico-religions

excitement, and "Papists" were forbidden to have residences in Dublin.

Nevertheless, complaints were made that several Catholic nobles and

gentlemen, among whom were Colonel Talbot and the earl of Clancarty, not

only took houses, but were received at the Castle, where they joined the

duke and the earl of Arran at play, which was often continued till three

o'clock in the morning. It was said that they then passed through the

gates with their coaches, and drew upon the guard if they attempted to

stop them. This good-fellowship did not serve to cement a very close

friendship between the parties, for Colonel Talbot was afterward thrown

into the Tower on the charge of attempting the duke's life. He was soon

freed from captivity and loaded with favors by James II., who made him

duke of Tyrconnel and lord lieutenant of Ireland.

When Mrs. Pendarves (_nee_ Mary Granville) paid her first visit to

Ireland, all was at least outwardly quiet. The Revolution was long past,

and the House of Hanover was firmly seated on the throne. The utmost

magnificence was displayed by the court at Dublin, and the lady's letters

are filled with descriptions of every kind of gayety. The witty dean of

St. Patrick's, though nearing the melancholy close of his career, was

still exciting by turns the wonder, the amusement and the gratitude of

the Irish public. In spite of much that would now be deemed very

inconsistent with his calling, Swift had a firm practical belief in the

truths he was bound to teach, and was scrupulously careful in the

discharge of his public duties. Mrs. Pendarves, who some years later

became the wife of Swift's friend, Dr. Delany, a celebrated preacher and

afterward dean of Down, was much attracted by the many virtues hidden

under the apparent misanthropy of this wonderful man, and kept up a

correspondence with him until his intellect failed. Her relative, Lord

Carteret, had been the dean's great friend long before he was sent to

Ireland as viceroy. A postscript which he added to one of his letters

written in 1737 shows what he thought of Swift as a patriot. It ran thus:

"When people ask me how I governed Ireland, I say that I pleased Dr.

Swift. 'Quaesitam meritis sume superbiam.'" Nevertheless, Swift was too

uncompromising to be trusted with power, even by Carteret. He wished very

much to be made a trustee of the linen manufactory or a justice of the

peace, and complained that he was refused because it was well known he

would not job or suffer abuses to pass, though he might be of service to

the public in both capacities; "but if he were a worthless member of

Parliament or a bishop who would vote for the court and betray his

country," then his request would be readily granted. Lord Carteret

replied: "What you say is literally true, and therefore you must excuse

me." When he asked the archbishop of Cashel and other trustees of the

linen manufacture why they would not elect him, the archbishop answered

that "he was too sharp a razor, and would cut them all."

Lord Carteret was a true courtier, and managed to keep fairly with both

parties. He had much wit and readiness, and parried the attacks of Swift

with such dexterity that on one occasion, the latter exclaimed, "What, in

God's name! do you do here? Get back to your own country, and send us our

boobies again." When we recollect that in London Swift enjoyed the

society of the first literary characters of the day, we need not wonder

that he looked on a residence in Ireland as a sort of banishment, and yet

he did not fail to use every opportunity of doing good in private and in

public. He gave half his annual income to decayed families, and kept five

hundred pounds in hand for the sole service of the industrious poor, which

he lent out in five pounds at a time, and took payment back by

installments of two shillings--of course without interest. He was thus the

means of helping them to help themselves, a species of charity which was

not then so well understood as it is now in process of becoming. His

indignation at the oppressive conduct of the English government in

destroying Irish trade and manufactures vented itself in many ways. "Do

not the corruptions and villainies of men eat your flesh and exhaust your

spirits?" said he to his friend Dr. Delany; and in another burst of the

same _saeva indignatio_ he exclaimed, on hearing some one spoken of as a

"fine old gentleman," "What! have you yet to learn that there is no such

thing as a fine old gentleman? If the man you speak of had either a mind

or a body worth a farthing, they would have worn him out long ago."

An incidental notice of the state of Irish trade at that date is afforded

in a letter of Mrs. Delany's to a friend in England: "They make mighty

good gloves here, but I shall not be able to send you any: _they are

prohibited_." Mrs. Delany was herself much interested for the people, and

brought Irish poplins into fashion at the viceregal court. She lost no

opportunity of expressing her liking for the tone of Irish society. When

herself residing in England she writes to her sister, Ann Granville,

afterward Mrs. Dewes, expressing a wish that they could both be

conveniently transported to Ireland for one year, that no place would suit

her sister's taste so well, and that "the good-humor and conversableness

of the people would please her extremely." This lady's descriptions of

life in the country parts of Ireland are perhaps more interesting than

even her experiences in the capital. At one time she describes her

entertainment after a picnic in a thatched house which she calls a

"cabin," and remarks that the people did not seem solicitous of having

good dwellings or more furniture than was absolutely necessary--hardly so

much--but they made it up in eating and drinking; adding that no people

could be more hospitable or obliging, and that there was not only great

abundance, but "great order and neatness." There is, unfortunately, a

reverse to the medal. She remarks that they cut down all their trees

instead of preserving them; that the poverty of the people as she passed

through the country "made her heart ache," as she never saw a greater

appearance of misery; and that they lived in great extremes, either

profusely or wretchedly. The same testimony is borne by all who knew the

state of Ireland at that time.

A family with which Mrs. Delany had much friendly intercourse was that of

the Wesleys, who then and long after lived at Dangan Castle in the county

of Meath, within two miles of Laracor, Dean Swift's first Irish living.

This residence is generally supposed to have been the birthplace of the

duke of Wellington, though No. 24 Upper Merrion street, Dublin, disputes

that honor. Mrs. Delany describes Dangan Castle as being a large, handsome

and convenient house. Mr. Richard Colley Wesley, who was then the

proprietor, planted and laid out the grounds with much taste. They lived

magnificently, and at the same time without ceremony. There was "a

charming large hall" with an organ and harpsichord, where all the company

met when they had a mind to be together, and where "music, dancing,

draughts, shuttlecock and prayers took their turn." The house is now in

ruins, having been sold to Roger O'Connor, and burnt accidentally

afterward. Mrs. Delany speaks of her friend, Richard Colley Wesley, the

ancestor of the duke, as having more virtues and fewer faults than any man

she knew. She adds a curious circumstance in connection with the ruins of

a castle in the town of Dangan. It belonged to King John, and his _butler,

gentleman-usher and standard-bearer_ were the ancestors of the duke of

Ormond (Butler), Mr. Usher (high sheriff of Dublin that year, 1733), and

Mr. Wesley. The first connection of these families with Ireland is

sometimes stated to have been in the time of Henry II., the surname of

Butler arising from the circumstance that Henry conferred the chief

butlership of Ireland on Theobald Fitzwater in 1177. It is also said that

_Wesley_ was the original form of the duke of Wellington's family name. On

the other hand, De Quincey says that _Wellesley_ was shortened to _Wesley_

by the same process which leads people to pronounce Marjoribanks

"Marshbanks," and St. Leger "Silliger." It was probably resumed to

distinguish a particular branch of the family. However this may be, it is

to be regretted that the "iron duke," who was Irish both by birth and long

descent, should have habitually affected Anglicanism. When in a celebrated

speech he frequently used the words "As an Englishman," he provoked the

remark of an Irish wit: "The duke reminds me of a countryman of mine who

was accosted by President Jefferson in the United States: 'Well, Paddy,

and why have you come to America?'--'Begor, yer honor, I jist come over to

be a native.'"

The viceregal court has never been without its traditions of beauty, wit

and fashion. The two Gunnings, whose fame has come down to our day in the

letters of Walpole, made their debut at the Castle when the earl of

Harrington was lord lieutenant. They were the daughters of an Irish

gentleman of old family who had married the Hon. Bridget Bourke, a

daughter of Lord Mayo. Their father seems to have been improvident, for

they were said to be so poor that they thought of being actresses, and

when they were presented they had to borrow clothes from Mrs. Woffington.

Walpole speaks of them as two young Irish girls of no fortune who were

declared the handsomest women alive, and says that they could not walk in

the Park or go to Vauxhall but such crowds followed them that they were

generally obliged to go away. Some years after he writes to Miss Berry:

"The two beautiful sisters (Gunning) were going on the stage when they

were at once exalted almost as high as they could be--were countessed and

double-duchessed." This last expression was in allusion to the marriage of

one of the sisters first to the duke of Hamilton, and afterward to the

duke of Argyll. She thus united two rival families and became the

ancestress of the present duke.

A still more remarkable belle in many respects was Miss Eleanor Ambrose.

This lady, who was exquisitely beautiful and of very fascinating manners,

was the brightest star in the viceregal court of the celebrated earl of

Chesterfield. She was the daughter of a Catholic gentleman of good family

and connected with the leading Catholic aristocracy. The professions were

at that time closed against members of the old faith, and, in spite of the

prejudice which then existed against trade, some of the younger sons of

good Catholic families betook themselves to commerce. Hence the father of

Miss Ambrose gained wealth as a brewer in Dublin, and left a considerable

sum between his two daughters. The earl of Chesterfield, being warned

before he came to Ireland that he would have much trouble from the

Catholic party, wrote back soon after his arrival that the only "dangerous

Papist" he met was Miss Ambrose, a title by which she was known ever

after. Many graceful compliments paid to her by the courtly earl testify

to his admiration of her beauty and accomplishments. On seeing her wear an

orange lily on the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne he addressed her

in the following impromptu:

Say, lovely traitress, where's the jest

Of wearing orange on thy breast,

When underneath that bosom shows

The whiteness of the rebel rose?

On another occasion, Miss Ambrose being present when the freedom of the

corporation of Drogheda was presented to the viceroy in a gold box of

exquisite workmanship, she laughingly asked him to give it to her.

"Madame," said Chesterfield, "you have too much of my freedom already."

The lady eventually married a county Mayo gentleman of large fortune

named Palmer, and lived to the age of ninety-eight, forming a connecting

link between two very distant periods. In her extreme old age Sheil paid

her a visit, the admiration which Lord Chesterfield was known to entertain

for her having induced him to seek an introduction to her. Although rich,

he found her occupying a small lodging in Henry street, where she lived

secluded and alone. "Over the chimney-piece of the front drawing-room was

suspended the picture of her Platonic idolater. It was a half-length

portrait, and had been given her by the man of whose adoration she was so

virtuously vain." While Sheil was striving to image to himself the

fascinations of the "dangerous Papist," the door was opened: a volume of

smoke had previously filled the room, and the rush of air causing it to

spread in huge wreaths around her, "a weird and withered form stood in the

midst of the dispersing vapor." Lady Palmer was a most vehement Catholic.

Lord Chesterfield and the Catholic question were the only subjects in

which she seemed to take any interest. On the wrongs of her country she

expatiated with both energy and eloquence, but when her visitor remarked

that he was not surprised at Lord Chesterfield's having called her "a

dangerous Papist," the patriot relapsed into the woman, and she looked up

at the picture with a melancholy smile.

The subject of society in Ireland during the eighteenth century would be

singularly incomplete without some notice of the disabilities under which

so large a portion of the nation lay. The penal laws were designed to

transfer all the property of the country to the hands of Protestants, and

they were effectual to a great extent, but in many instances they were

evaded by the friendship and good feeling of Protestants themselves.

Intermarriages often took place, and individuals of the favored party in

several cases held property secretly in trust for the real owners. By this

and other devices a portion of their estates was saved for Catholic

families. It may not be amiss to relate two or three illustrations of the

working of these laws, and also of the way in which they were evaded.

In the year 1776, Mr. Thomas Stephen Coppinger lived on his family estate

of Carhue in the county of Cork. His ancestors had eschewed politics, and

had retained their property and their religion for a century and a half

without molestation. Now, however, his first cousin, Thomas John

Coppinger, laid claim to half the estate on the plea that it should have

been "gaveled," or divided between the sons, when his grandfather died

without leaving a Protestant heir, such being the law at the time. In

order to force his cousin to consent, Thomas John became a Protestant and

threatened to file a bill of discovery; which meant that he would give

formal notice that his cousin was "discovered" to be a Catholic. By going

through this form he could claim the whole estate. Thomas Stephen was

advised to _go through the ceremony of conforming_, but refused on

principle. The case was tried, but in the existing state of the law there

was no redress, and half the estate, with the family residence, was given

up to Thomas John. It tells well for the family affection and forgiving

disposition of the Irish that far from this transaction originating a feud

between the Protestant and Catholic branches of the Coppingers, they were

always on the best terms. The year after this occurrence the law was

altered and some of the severest restrictions on the Catholics removed.

A few years before this change in the law a Mr. Duggan resided at the

"Park," near Killarney, a property which is still held by his descendants,

who have adopted the name of Cronin. A Protestant gentleman having taken

some dislike to Mr. Duggan, and being besides a furious bigot, resolved to

file a bill against him. Before he had time to execute his design a

relative named McCarthy, who had been living in Paris, came to see him.

This relative told him that he was very badly off and about to leave for

America. "Never mind," said Mr. ----: "I'm going to file a bill against

Duggan. The fellow is a Papist. I will get his property, and you shall

have a share." It is probable that Mr. ---- might have tried to quiet his

conscience by this intended application of the money, and to persuade

himself that he was not acting through love of gain. In a day or two after

the above conversation McCarthy was staying with Mr. Deane Freeman of

Castle Cor in the county of Cork. This gentleman being a Protestant and a

Tory, his guest told him of the plan against Duggan. But Mr. Freeman was

quite a different person from the others, and was besides a friend of Mr.

Duggan's. He went immediately to Mr. ---- 's house, and learned from his

own lips that he was about to commit this wrong. Mr. Freeman then said

that he also had business at Dublin, and proposed that they should go

together. Traveling was at that time both slow and dangerous, and Mr.

---- was glad of the addition to his party. They stopped the first night at

the house of a friend, who on a hint from Freeman managed to induce the

intended filer of the bill to partake so largely of his hospitality that

he was carried to bed the next morning in a state of insensibility. His

companion being thus put _hors de combat_, Mr. Freeman hastened to Dublin

and filed a bill in his own name. While this was on the file no other bill

could be proceeded with, but for further security he got Mr. Duggan to

make a fictitious sale of the property to him, and thus saved it for

better times.

The MacMahon estates in the county of Clare were saved in the following

way: Suspecting a "discoverer," a Miss MacMahon--who must have been own

cousin to Lever's Miss Betty O'Shea--resolved to become a Protestant. She

first, however, consulted a friar, and was told by him that if she did so

she would peril her soul. "Here goes, then!" cried the doughty damsel:

"better that the soul of an old maid should go the wrong way than that the

property of the MacMahons should go to the Protestants." She conformed and

saved the property. More than one estate was preserved to the Catholic

owner by the singular proceeding of his filing a bill against himself

under an assumed name.

A tragic occurrence, arising out of the working of these laws, is

commemorated by a tombstone in Kilcrea Abbey near Cork. Arthur O'Leary, a

member of the old Catholic family of that name, had served for a few years

in the Hungarian army, as the laws against the Catholics did not permit

them to hold commissions in the British service. On his return to Ireland

he married a daughter of the O'Connell who lived then at Derrynane, an

aunt of the "Liberator." He settled at a place called Raleigh, situated on

the river Lee, and became a country gentleman, holding considerable

personal property. From his descent and creed he was looked on as a

chieftain by the peasantry, which made him unpopular among his neighbors

of English blood. One of them, a Mr. Morris, took great pride in a fine

stud of horses. Having lost a race to O'Leary on which a heavy wager

depended, he was greatly mortified. Some one, perceiving his vexation,

unfortunately reminded him that the "Papist" could not legally keep a

horse exceeding five pounds in value. He tendered this sum to O'Leary, who

indignantly refused to give up his favorite animal. On his resisting the

warrant which was then made out for his arrest, he was outlawed. A party

of soldiers was sent after him, and he was shot in the encounter that

followed. This took place in the year 1773, when O'Leary was only

twenty-six years old. The tragedy did not end here. A brother of O'Leary's

was seized with an insane desire of vengeance, and made several attempts

on Mr. Morris's life, till the latter, in a state of chronic terror, left

his country residence and came into Cork to live. Here O'Leary watched day

after day, and at length succeeded in wounding him fatally. He then

escaped to America, where he died some years after. An ancestor of the

writer afterward resided at Hanover Hall, the place which Mr. Morris had

been thus forced to leave, and a member of the family used to relate how

she was shown when a child the marks of O'Leary's bullets in the doors and

wainscoting. It would seem as if a desire to brave the laws of the

"Saxon" was inherent in this family. A noted professor of the name in Cork

appeared a few years ago at a fancy ball clad in his ancestral clothing of

the sixteenth century and wearing the insignia of the chieftainship. He

boasted that in doing so he broke no fewer than three statute laws. But

times are altered now, and the learned professor was permitted to indulge

his whim in peace. No clansmen gathered round him, and no "Sassenach"

soldiery rent away his saffron robe.

Attempts at the abduction of heiresses were then of more frequent

occurrence than a lover of Ireland could desire. Mr. Froude has made the

most of this blot on their civilization, but he has forgotten that such

outrages were not in those days peculiar to Ireland. Mrs. Delany relates a

flagrant case which came under her immediate notice. Miss MacDermot was a

Connaught lady who with her sister had inherited a large estate. They were

originally Catholics, but decided on becoming Protestants. Their intention

was suspected, and their maternal uncle, whose name was Flinn, asked them

to his house to dine, the distance not being so great as to prevent them

from returning home in the evening. They had never had a quarrel with this

uncle, and could not well refuse the invitation, though they would rather

not have gone, the eldest sister having rejected an offer of marriage from

Flinn's only son. After dinner they prepared to leave, but the uncle

insisted on their remaining for the night. They refused firmly but

politely, and were then told that the chaise and servants had gone home,

but would return for them the next day. Miss MacDermot was much

frightened, but, as they had no redress, she concealed her feelings, and

they sat down to cards. While engaged in this way four men with masks

rushed into the room. The two sisters made their escape into the next

apartment, but were followed by the masked men. One of these seized upon

Miss Maria MacDermot, who had hid behind a bed, but when he saw which he

had he flung her from him with an oath, saying that she was not the right

sister. The portion of the elder being double that of the other explains

this ungallant proceeding. Miss MacDermot was then seized and dragged back

into the room, where her uncle was still standing by the fire. He took no

notice of her tears and entreaties, but allowed her to be forced into the

hall, where a crowd of Flinn's friends and followers were assembled. They

set her on a pillion behind the principal mask. She was a tall, strong

woman, and struggled so violently that she succeeded in getting off the

horse. While they were endeavoring to put her back again, she managed to

get the sword of one of the men, for they were all armed with swords and

bludgeons. Then, like a true Amazon,

Her back against a tree she bore,

And firmly placed her foot before,

and defended herself for some time, till one of the gang ran a sword up

her arm from her wrist to her elbow, and obliged her to drop her weapon.

Being no longer able to resist between extreme pain and loss of blood, she

was taken to a cabin, where the cousin came in with a priest and some

others. The priest told her that if she submitted to the ceremony of

marriage with Mr. Flinn, she should be treated with kindness and respect.

She declared she would rather die than marry one who had been guilty of

such outrageous conduct. They tried to force the ring on her finger, and

the priest was proceeding with the ceremony when the lady seized a jug of

milk which stood on a table near and dashed it in the face of "His

Reverence." Some of the party coming in gave the alarm to Flinn, saying in

a whisper that the country was raised and in pursuit of them. More

messengers came to confirm the news. The lady's arm was still bleeding

profusely, and they carried her out and plunged her up to the shoulder in

a bog, two men being left to guard her. This singular treatment stopped

the bleeding, but, though she was soon rescued, she remained twenty-one

days in great pain and danger. Her sister had previously escaped in time

to give the alarm. Some months after they came to Dublin and read their

recantation in Dr. Delany's church.

Miss MacDermot's courage was certainly admirable, but it must be admitted

that Mr. Flinn was not without his share of the same quality. Few men in

these degenerate times would care to have so brave a wife. Indeed, some of

these Irish dames were quite capable of defending both their rights and

their privileges against assailants belonging to what is called the

"stronger sex." Sir Jonah Barrington's great-aunt, Mrs. Elizabeth

Fitzgerald, and her husband held the castle of Moret against the O'Cahils,

who claimed it as having been originally theirs and taken from them by

another Elizabeth, the queen of England. They were repulsed with much

slaughter, but Squire Fitzgerald had the imprudence to venture outside the

walls, and was carried off by the survivors of the hostile faction. They

approached the castle again with their prisoner, and one of the party,

exhibiting a white cloth on a pike, came forward: "I'm a truce, my lady.

Look here!" (showing the terrified squire): "we have your husband in

hault: yees have yer castle sure enough. Now we'll change, if you please:

we'll render the squire, and you'll render the keep; and if yees won't do

that same, the squire will be throttled before your two eyes in half an

hour."--"Flag of truce," said the heroine with due dignity and without the

slightest hesitation, "mark the words of Elizabeth Fitzgerald of Moret

Castle: they may answer for your own wife upon some future occasion. Flag

of truce, I _won't_ render my keep, and I'll tell you why: Elizabeth

Fitzgerald may get another husband, but Elizabeth Fitzgerald may never get

another castle; so I'll keep what I have; and if you can't get off faster

than your legs can readily carry you, my warders will try which is the

hardest--your skull or a stone bullet." It were too long a story to relate

how this Irish Penelope, unsustained by the hope of the return of her

Ulysses, inasmuch as she had seen him hanged before her eyes, defended her

castle and her liberty against all the neighboring squires, who had agreed

to decide by lot which should carry her off. Nearly every one of them had

previously tried to persuade her to accept his hand, the proposal being

made by "flag of truce," till at length she threatened to hang the next

messenger.

These events took place in 1690. Later on, such women as Elizabeth

Fitzgerald became more rare, but there is one noted example of womanly

daring which must not be passed over. The celebrated "Lady Freemason"

confronted the terrors of a Masonic lodge, and, unlike our mother Eve, the

forbidden knowledge has brought no evil consequences on her posterity, who

continue to be reckoned among the most estimable and most respected

families of the county of Cork. The Hon. Elizabeth St. Leger, daughter to

Lord Doneraile, was descended from Robert de St. Leger, who accompanied

William the Conqueror to England, and cousin to the General St. Leger who

instituted the Doncaster St. Leger race. When a young girl she was seized

with a desire to see the mysteries of the initiation of a Mason which were

about to be celebrated at her father's house. The generally-received

tradition is that she concealed herself behind a large old-fashioned

eight-day clock, but another version of the story is that some alterations

being in progress, she picked a brick out of the partition which divided

the room occupied by the Masons from the adjoining apartment. However this

may be, the young lady got frightened and attempted to escape, but was

detected by the Mason on guard. Her life was spared, it is said, at the

intercession of her brother, but on condition of her becoming a member.

She afterward married Richard Aldworth of Newmarket, and lived and died

much respected. On public occasions she walked at the head of the

Freemasons wearing the apron and insignia of the order. Her portrait in

this attire is in the lodge-rooms of several Irish lodges and also in the

family mansion of the Aldworths. This family is of English descent, and

settled in the north-west of the county of Cork, where an ancestor of

theirs got a grant of land from James I. They patronized Curran's father,

and appointed him seneschal of their manor of Newmarket, in which town the

great wit and patriot was born.

The remarkable prevalence of dueling, which rose in Ireland to almost an

insane height toward the end of the eighteenth century, had at least the

good effect of encouraging a chivalrous feeling toward women, who

thenceforward depended on their male relatives and friends for protection.

It is said that if any gentleman presumed to pass between a lady and the

wall in walking the streets of Dublin, he was considered as offering a

personal affront to her escort, and if the parties wore swords, as was

then customary, the first salutation to the offender was usually "Draw,

sir!" However, such affairs mostly ended in an apology to the lady for

inadvertence. But if a man ventured to intrude into the boxes of the

theatre in his surtout or boots or with his hat on, it was regarded as a

general insult to every lady present, and he had little chance of escaping

without a shot or a thrust before the following night. It must be

confessed that this species of punctiliousness was carried too far. Some

say that dueling reached to such an extravagant pitch in Ireland because

the Protestant gentry were a garrison in a hostile country, and were

obliged to cultivate familiarity with the means of defence. It is possible

that this state of affairs may have originally led to the remarkable

prevalence of the custom, for when such transactions as that between Mr.

Morris and Arthur O'Leary were of frequent occurrence, there must have

been much to provoke the bitterest enmity. Nevertheless, it would seem

that there was really a good deal in the practice to warrant the old

saying that "the English fight for liberty, the French for glory and the

Irish for _fun_." A gentleman who is said to have been one of the most

humane men existing quieted his little son in this wise when the child was

crying for something: "Come, now, do be a good boy. Come, now, don't cry,

and I'll give you a case of nice little pistols to-morrow. Come, now,

don't cry, and _we'll shoot them all in the morning_."--"Yes, yes,"

responded the child, drying his little eyes and delighted at the

notion--"Yes, we'll shoot them all in the morning." In the regulations for

dueling, called in Galway the "Thirty-six Commandments," one of the rules

laid down was that when the seconds disagreed and resolved to exchange

shots, they should stand at right angles with the principals and all fire

together. A duel of this nature took place near Glinsk, the seat of Sir J.

Bourke, between that gentleman and a Mr. Bodkin, when the old family

steward and other servants brought out the son, then a child, and held him

on men's shoulders to see papa fight! Professed duelists were called

"fire-eaters," and the first two questions always asked as to a young

gentleman's respectability and qualifications, particularly when he

proposed for a wife, were, "What family is he of? Did he ever blaze?"

A Mr. Bagenal in the county Carlow, called King Bagenal from his absolute

sway within his extensive territories, was a polished gentleman of Norman

race. He used to have a brace of pistols laid before him on the

dinner-table, and when the claret was brought in after dinner--which was

always in an unbroached cask--Bagenal tapped it with a bullet from one

pistol, and kept the other _in terrorem_ for any of his guests who should

fail to do justice to the liquor. Some pigs belonging to a neighboring

gentleman having strayed into his flower-garden, Bagenal had them docked

of ears and tails, sending these trophies to the gentleman with an

intimation that the owner merited a like punishment. The gentleman, who

had only recently settled there, sent him a challenge, which he accepted

with alacrity, stipulating, however, that as he was nearly eighty, he

should fight sitting in his arm-chair. The duel was fought in this strange

fashion: Bagenal wounded his antagonist, but escaped unhurt himself.

Barristers who were good shots were retained at elections as "fighting"

counsel. A lawyer of this stamp, having conducted an election more

peaceably than his wont, was asked why he acted contrary to his usual

custom. He answered coolly, "Because my client does not pay me fighting

price." It was not usual for the Irish bar or the Irish members of

Parliament to calculate in this way when a chance of "blazing" was in

question. Mr. Toler, afterward Lord Norbury of punning celebrity, had some

words with Sir Jonah Barrington. They left the House to settle the dispute

outside, but the Speaker, perceiving them, sent the sergeant-at-arms with

his attendants to bring them back. They caught Toler just as the skirts of

his coat had become so entangled in a door-handle that they were torn

completely off. Sir Jonah, resisting the sergeant's satellites, was caught

up by one of them, brought back like a sack of meal on the man's

shoulders, and thrown down in the body of the House. The Speaker required

them both to pledge their honor that the matter should end there. When

Toler rose to reply the dilapidated condition of his coat became apparent,

upon which Curran stood up and said gravely that "it was the most

unparalleled insult ever offered to the House, as it appeared that one

honorable member had _trimmed_ another honorable member's _jacket_ within

those walls, and nearly within view of the Speaker."

The incessant play of wit and drollery then animating the Irish capital

has perhaps never had a parallel in any society. The House and the bar

were both overflowing with it. When the dull, matter-of-fact Lord

Redesdale first came over to take the position of lord chancellor, he felt

some curiosity as to the reputation of the latter for these qualities

which had reached his ears in England. At one of his first dinners to the

judges and higher law-officers he found himself unable to see any wit, or

perhaps any meaning, in Toler's jests, and turning to another barrister,

Mr. Garrat O'Farrell, he said that he believed his name and family were

very numerous and reputable in the county of Wicklow, as he had met

several of them in his late tour there. "Yes, my lord," said O'Farrell,

"we _were_ very numerous, but so many of us have been lately hanged for

sheepstealing that the name is getting rather scarce in that county."

This reply reduced his lordship to silence, and it was probably some time

before he made up his mind as to whether he had really been associating

with law-breakers of so disreputable a class. Mr. Plunket afterward

puzzled Lord Redesdale still more when arguing a cause in chancery. The

question was about "flying kites" (fictitious bills). His lordship took

the word literally, and declared he did not understand the matter. "It is

not to be expected that you should, my lord," said Plunket, "for in

England the wind raises the kite, but in Ireland the kite raises the

wind." The lord chancellor was no wiser than before, and the counsel was

obliged to have recourse to a less metaphorical explanation.

So late as the time of the Union old Irish families lived in the way

described by De Ounce. When a lad of fifteen he visited Ireland with his

young friend Lord Westport. He was even then a keen observer, and his

remarks on the Irish nobility of that date are worthy of attention. He

first notices that the tardiness and difficulty of communication, the want

of newspapers, etc., must in those times have kept the provinces two or

three generations in the rear of the metropolis, and accordingly the old

Irish rural nobility stood in this relation to English manners and

customs. The houses were often large and rambling, in the style of antique

English manorial chateaux, ill-planned as regarded convenience and

economy, with long winding galleries and innumerable windows, but

displaying in the dwelling-rooms a comfort and "coziness," combined with a

magnificence, not always so effectually attained in modern times. "Here

were old libraries, old butlers and old customs that seemed to belong to

the era of Cromwell, or even an earlier era than his; whilst the ancient

names, to one who had some acquaintance with the great events of Irish

history, often strengthened the illusion." In fact, the aristocracy of

Ireland was divided into two sections--the native Irish, who were

territorial fixtures, and those who spent so much of their time and

revenues at Bath, Cheltenham, Weymouth, London, etc. as to have become

almost entirely English. It was the former whom De Quincey saw most of,

and though they lived in the amplest comfort and exercised the most

unbounded hospitality, still they were greatly behind the English

commercial gentry as to modern refinements of luxury. There was at the

same time a strength of character and a raciness of manner which could not

fail to interest and impress a stranger. Although there was much sterling

worth to be found in this class, a high-handed lawlessness broke out now

and then. Doubtless, a daily familiarity with the wrongs perpetrated under

cover of the penal laws undermined their natural sense of justice. A

remarkable instance of the tyranny sometimes practiced occurred in a

family well known to the writer. A gentleman rented several hundred acres

of land from the earl of B----, a nobleman whose title is now extinct. The

tenant exercised some right that was permitted by the terms of his lease,

which had been granted by the former owner of the estate. Lord B----, who

was a haughty and irascible man, disputed the right, and the tenant came

with his lease in his pocket to explain the matter. It was winter, and

there was a large fire in the room. Lord B---- asked to see the lease, and

when he got it into his hands suddenly thrust it into the middle of the

fire, near which he stood. He then told the gentleman that he would

continue to let him hold _half the land_, but that he had another tenant

for the rest. As there were no witnesses to the transaction except Lord

B---- and the tenant, and the law's delays are always in favor of the

rich, the gentleman thought it better to submit. It is believed that a sum

of money had been paid on receiving the lease, which made the proceeding

the more unjust.

Irish roads in those days were probably as bad as those in England. They

could hardly have been worse, for De Quincey tells of his childish

interest in watching the postilions, who were employed, not by fits and

starts, but "always and eternally," in _quartering_--a word which he

explains to mean going from side to side to avoid the ruts and large

stones. A natural consequence of bad roads and inefficient police was the

prevalence of highwaymen, who were then to be met with in both countries.

They usually infested the roads which had to be passed by traders at fairs

or by men employed in collecting rents. A noted highwayman named Brennan

was the terror of all who traveled in the northern part of the county of

Cork. After some outrages more than usually daring, no one in the service

of a gentleman in that neighborhood could be found brave enough to pass

the lonely mountain-road to bring home a balance of rent remaining due. A

young lad volunteered, saying that he would go in his every-day garb, and

that no one would suspect him of carrying money about him. Having received

and secreted the cash, he was returning in apparent safety, but just as he

arrived at the loneliest part of the road Brennan leaped out from behind a

hedge and presented a loaded pistol. "Give up that money," said he to the

boy.--"Sure, then, I will if you give me time, but you won't have me go

home wid my finger in my mouth, widout looking as if I made a stand for

it, anyhow. Look here!" continued Jerry, dismounting and holding up the

ragged skirt of his coat, "couldn't you put a ball through this for

me?"--"'Tis riddled enough in all conscience, but here goes," said the

highwayman, firing off a pistol at it.--"Here's my ould caubeen now, and

I'll just give my face a scratch to draw the blood if you put a hole

through that too." The hat was riddled for him in the same way. "Well,

now, that's grand; but I think if the other skirt was tore, they couldn't

say a word then."--"Why, you omadhaun! haven't you enough of it? Give me

the rint. Do you think I have any more powder and ball to be wasting on

you, you spalpeen?"--"If you haven't, I have," cried Jerry, springing on

his horse, and pulling out a loaded pistol he was off and away before the

astonished highwayman had time to prevent him or to reload his weapon.

The legislative union forms a distinct epoch in Irish social life, and we

cannot more fitly close this paper than by giving an account of the last

meeting of the Irish House of Lords in the words of an observant and

dispassionate eye-witness. After expressing his surprise at the facility

with which their consent was gained, De Quincey adds: "They all rose from

their couches peers of Parliament, individual pillars of the realm,

indispensable parties to every law that could pass. To-morrow they will be

nobody--men of straw--_terrae filii_. What madness has persuaded them to

part with their birthright, and to cashier themselves and their children

for ever into mere titular lords?... The bill received the royal assent

without a muttering or a whispering or the protesting echo of a sigh.

Perhaps there might be a little pause, a silence like that which follows

an earthquake, but there was no plainspoken Lord Belhaven, as on the

corresponding occasion in Edinburgh, to fill up the silence with: 'So

there's an end of an auld sang.' All was, or looked, courtly and free from

vulgar emotion. Thus we were set at liberty from Dublin. Parliaments and

installations and masked balls, with all other secondary splendors in

celebration of primary splendors, reflex glories that reverberated the

original glories, at length had ceased to shine upon the Irish metropolis.

The 'season,' as it is called in great cities, was over--unfortunately,

the last season that was ever destined to illuminate the society or to

stimulate the domestic trade of Dublin."

ELIZA WILSON.

VINA'S "OLE MAN."

[Illustration: "DE LORD HAS DONE 'P'INTED YER TO BE A GUARDIAN ANGEL TO

DAT PO' CHILE."]

"Vina's got an idee she wants to git married." The speaker was a venerable

darkey, who stood twirling his rimless hat with a sheepish air in the

probate-office.

"Rather hard for you, Father Abram," said the judge kindly, "but it's a

way girls have. I presume my daughter will be leaving me some day in the

same ungrateful fashion. Bring around Vina's man and I will make out the

license."

Father Abram's manner became at once more confused and ludicrous: he

poised himself alternately on either foot, and scratched his head

vigorously, while his facial expression was something too comical for

description. Finally, through a series of embarrassed chuckles and

gurgles, he rippled into a broad guffaw, articulating indistinctly between

its paroxysms, "Bress de Lord, sah! I'se de man!"

"Shades of the mighty!" exclaimed the judge, in his astonishment dropping

his pen upon a virgin page in his docket. "But the United States is a

Christian country, Abram, and a man can't marry his own daughter here:

it's contrary to law and gospel."

"Yes, sah?" said the negro submissively. "Den dar ain't no way for me an'

Vina to git married, not even if we go over to Platte City? Vina'll be

mightily disappointed."

"Good Heavens! no. 'Twould be a State's prison offence, and I don't see

what ever put such a revolting idea into your head anyway, you

hoary-headed old sinner!"

'"Deed, sah, 'tain't no idee ob mine. I done tole yer dat it was all 'long

ob Vina, but I wouldn't see her outed for a sight" (_outed_ being a negro

expression for displeased). "An' don't yer t'ink, sah, de law might be

changed, jus' for dis one time, or dat Vina an' I could be sent to de

penitentium togedder? It's rather hard on both on us, 'specially on

Vina--'specially as she ain't no more my darter than you be."

"Why didn't you say so before, instead of having all this talk about it? I

don't know whether to believe you now: it is more than likely only a lie

that you have trumped up as a last resort."

"Wish I may die, sah, ef it ain't de honest truf; an' de fus' time dat

ebber I set eyes on Vina war in a slabe-pen in New Orleans eight years

ago, when we war sold to de same marster. Ef Massa John Brown war libbin'

he could prove it to yer; but dar ain't no udder libbin' human 'cept de

slabe-driber--and he war blowed up on his nex' trip up de ribber--dat

knows anyting about it."

The judge believed now that Abram had spoken the truth, for the time

When Old John Brown, Ossawattomie Brown,

Shall be a name to swear by in backwoods and in town,

had come. The time was the commencement of the war, and any reference to

his name on the part of a negro was equivalent to the most solemn oath.

"What did John Brown ever know about it?" asked the judge.

"Why, yer see, he war dar, sah: he come down de ribber on de same boat wid

de driber an' Vina. De driber he'd done bought up a heap ob likely young

gals all de way down t'roo' Missouri an' de udder towns what neighbored

on to de ribber--han'somest young women he could find, what'd bring a high

price in New Orleans--an' when he gits dar, what's he do but go roun' to

all de slabe-pens an' buy up a heap ob worn-out, or'nary old niggers, what

had been worked to def in de rice-swamps, an' nobody wouldn't gib five

dollars for. Den he marries de peartest ob de gals to de mizzablest ob de

ole men. When de time fur de auction come, dar was plenty ob buyers for de

gals, but nobody wanted dem good-for-nuffin' ole husbands. 'Can't help

it,' says de driber--'Can't help it, no way whatsumebber: it's ag'in our

principles to part families. Ef yer want de woman, yer mus' take her ole

man too.' An' so dey gin'rally did, an' paid a high price fur him too, fur

de sake ob gittin' de gal. Wall, as I was a-sayin', Massa John Brown he

come down in de same boat wid Vina: he'd took notice ob her, and he knowed

she hadn't any ole man. De nex' day he come walkin' down to de slabe-pen,

a-purtendin' to be a planter, and a-axin' de price ob de niggers. When dey

tole him I was Vina's husband, he says, 'Why, he's too ole to be anybody's

husband: I don't believe he's got a toof in his head.'--'Yes I has,

massa,' says I: 'I'se got t'ree left, and can chaw hoecake powerful, but I

don't crack no pecans in my mouf. Better buy me, sah: dar's a heap ob

sarbice in me yet. I'se only drawed up wid de rheumatiz, dat's

all.'--'Come ober heah to de light,' says he, 'an' let me look in yo'

mouf, an' see whedder yer _hab_ got any teef.' So I went wid him, an'

while he was a-purtendin' to find out my p'ints he says to me, very quiet,

'Yer ain't dat gal's husband, nohow,' says he, 'an' yer knows it.':--'I

knows it, massa,' says I, 'an' I'se skeered for my life ob her, fur she

done said she'd kill any one dey dar'd to mate wid her: she's done got a

husband ob her own up de ribber, I reckon.'--'Yes, dat am de truf,' says

Massa John Brown; 'but see here, uncle: de Lord has done 'p'inted yer to

be a guardian angel to dat po' chile. He calls yer to be a fader to her;

an' from dis day yer _is_ her fader--'member dat. But it may be jus' as

well for yer to purtend to be her husband: 'at will keep de udder boys

from pesterin' her. But 'member dis: de Lord will 'quire dat chile's

happiness of yo' han's, an' will so do by yer as yer do by her.'--'Be yer

de angel ob de Lord, massa?' says I. 'Clar' to goodness, sah! I was dat

skeered one knee knocked ag'in de udder like a woodpecker a-hammerin' a

rotten tree.--'Yes,' says he: 'I _be_ de messenger ob de Lord, an' my name

is John Brown, but I don't s'pose yer ebber heern tell ob it.'--'No,

massa,' says I, 'we don't see no powerful sight ob angels down in de

rice-swamps.'--'Well, keep a-watchin' an' a-waitin',' says he, 'an' yer

_will_ heer from me ag'in.' Wid dat de driber come up, and he tole him he

guessed he wouldn't buy me dat day; and den he went away.

"Vina said dis mornin' she 'lowed to go up to yo' house to do some washin'

for de missus; an' yer can ax her, sah, an' she'll tell yer dat all I'se

been a-sayin' is de libbin' truf."

The judge hardly needed any confirmation--Abram's story was too

straightforward and naif to have been coined--but, telling him to call at

his house toward evening, and that he would have the necessary papers

there, and make them out if satisfied as to the eligibility of the parties

for such a contract, he dismissed the aspirant for marital honors. As the

judge entered the shaded coolness of his library after a distracting day

spent in the discussion of a complicated will-case, the refreshing

atmosphere of refinement and quiet and home exercised so powerful an

influence over his tired nerves that he straightway forgot all

professional and other cares, and stretching himself in his favorite

lazy-chair, was soon fast asleep.

As he drifted back to a semi-conscious state he became aware of voices

conversing on the back veranda, which shaded one of the library windows.

The voices were those of his wife and the girl Vina, and the words which

he first clearly comprehended were--

"I tell yer what, Miss' Fairdealer, dar ain't no niggerism about ole Fader

Abram."

As Father Abram approached the nearest to a pure-blooded Congo African of

any negro that he knew, the judge rubbed his forehead in the gentle

stimulating way which he always employed when he wished to convince

himself that he had heard aright and to assure some sophomorical young

lawyer that he had not been asleep at all, but had caught every word of

his long-winded statement of the case. The judge's ideas came back to him

with their usual easy flow, and before the next sentence was enunciated he

had made a mental summing-up of the case and given judgment for the

plaintiff.

"I mean," continued Vina, "dat Fader Abe's got de whitest soul ebber yer

see: he couldn't do a mean ting, no matter how much money de debbil 'greed

to pay him for't. Fus' time I ebber see him war down in Lousianny. My ole

marster had sole me away from my husband an' from John Brown: she war a

little ting den, only six mo'ths, an' oughtn't to have been weaned, but I

don't s'pose he cared whether she libbed or died, and de slabe-driber

wouldn't take her--"

"How _did_ you," interrupted Mrs. Judge Fairdealer with the curiosity of a

true woman, "ever give your little girl such an unsuitable name as _John_

Brown?"

("Why couldn't the woman let her go on with her story?" thought the judge.

What did he care how that impish little creature, whom he had always

regarded as old Abram's granddaughter, and who glared at him with such

savage malignity from her piercing black eye (no figure of speech, for she

had but one) when with his foot and cane he gently rolled her off the

door-mat, where he found her coiled up asleep on his entrance to the

house,--what did he care how that mixture of chimpanzee and evil sprite,

to whom were to be attributed nine-tenths of the mischief done in the

neighborhood, came by her unmaidenly cognomen?)

"John Brown didn' hab no name den: she war jus' my baby, dat war all. I

use to t'ink I'd call her for her fader, an' his name war George--mos'

consniptious rascal ebber yer see, de han'somest man in de whole township

(John Brown takes arter him a sight), but so powerful ugly" (_ugly_ being

used here in reference to disposition) "dat de only way de oberseer could

make him mind was to hab a parcel ob de boys hold him down while he kicked

him in de mouf. Wall, short time befo' John Brown was born he kicked one

of his eyes out dat ar way, and I nussed him an' tended him till he got

well; an' when John Brown come, 'clar' to goodness ef she didn' have jus'

only one eye too! Wall, I lubbed dat ar George wid all my soul, Miss'

Fairdealer. Mean an' sneakin' a nigger as ebber libbed, but I didn' know

it den; an', anyway, he war John Brown's fader, an' powerful han'some; an'

dat _do_ count for sumfin'. When dey sole me away from him I jus' t'ought

I should die. Dey let me take my baby wid me down to de

partin'-plank--dat's what dey called de gangway dey t'row out from de

steamboat--but dar de gals had to bid good-bye to all dar fren's. Such a

hollerin' and yellin' an' takin'-on you nebber heerd, Miss' Fairdealer. It

was a little lonesome, landin' in de midst ob a right smart piece ob

timber, like a many another along de Big Muddy, whar de boats stop to wood

up--fearsome-enough place any day, but at night, wid dem tar-barrels

a-flarin' an' dem women a-screechin'--some on 'em gone clean crazy, and

all on 'em actin' zif dey had--it war more like _dat_ place dan any

'scription I ebber heerd any minister gib ob it. I 'members one face, dat

ob a man dat leaned ober de railin' and looked at us bein' dribben on

board, dat looked so wild and mad-like. I allus t'ink de Lord will look

dat way when on de day ob judgment he says, ''Part from me, all ye

onb'lievin', backslidin' workers ob pernickety: don't want to see no more

ob yer.' He spoke to me once on our way down de ribber. 'Hab patience,

chile,' said he: 'de Lord ain't clean forgot yer. He'll bring yer an' yo'

baby togedder ag'in ef yer kin only wait His own good time. I'm on de

Lord's business: He's sent me down dis yeah ribber, same as he sent Moses

into Egyp', to 'quire into dis matter an' to preach deliberance to de

captive. Yer will all be free some day, but yer mus' hab patience, for de

time is not yet.' I heern some one say dat dat war John Brown, and somehow

de name heartened me up a little, do' I'd nebber heern it befo'."

Vina next told the incident of her so-called marriage at the slave-mart

with old Abram.

"'Pears like," said Vina, "I could hab killed dat man when dey tole me he

was my husband; but when he tole me 'twan't no sech ting, an' axed me if I

hadn't ebber heern 'bout Fader Abram at camp-meetin', an' dat _he_ wan't

no fader till de Lord sent His angel and called him to be one--same as He

called him to be a fader to me--den I listened to him, an' 'gan to b'lieve

de Lord reely had sent him. Den he tole me how Abram went down into Egyp'

wid his cousin Sarer, an' ole Pharaoh wanted to marry her, an' Abram he

purtended dat Sarer was his wife, so Pharaoh shouldn't get her--leastways,

it was sumfin' like dat--an' how de Lord bressed 'em, an' how when dey

cl'ar'd out ob Egyp' dey stole 'bout ebberyting Pharaoh had; an' dat John

Brown had done tole him to be anudder Fader Abram; an' I promised him I'd

be anudder Sarer to him, an' we'd pull de wool ober de white folks's eyes,

an' serbe de Lord till it done pleased Him to set us free."

Vina and Father Abram were bought by a planter who, with so many others in

1855, swarmed to the irrepressible conflict which was to decide whether

Kansas was to be a free or slave State. By the repeal of the Missouri

Compromise this question had been left for settlement to the people of the

Territory. Emigration flowed in rapidly, both from the South and the

North, and the terrible days of Border Ruffianism followed. Vina's master

settled upon a farm in Southern Kansas, on the banks of a little stream

called then by the picturesque name of the Marais des Cygnes, which has

since been changed to one of a more prosaic character. Here they heard

frequently of old John Brown of Ossawattomie, and began to have a clearer

understanding of the man and his mission. Vina spoke of her life on the

Marais des Cygnes as not a hard one, but her heart ached for her baby and

for George, and the longing to see them again grew with every day and

night. She felt sure that John Brown could help her, and one night Father

Abram said to her, "I'se gwine to run away, honey--gwine to keep agwine

till I find John Brown: den, when I'se foun' him, I'll keep agwine and

agwine and agwine till I finds yo' George: den I'll come back arter yer.

Reckon I'll be here in about a munf: yer kin look for me ebbery night

arter dat down by de big cottonwood tree on de ribber." And when the month

expired Father Abram came back, but he did not come alone: John Brown and

he had found George. He only waited to see their rapturous meeting, and

then bade good-bye to his "darter Vina," and heroically trudged away. Vina

and George fled away to John Brown's camp near Ossawattomie. Her first

question was for her baby. It had been cared for by one of the

negro-women, and was now three years old. The family had removed to Platte

City, Missouri, nine miles from the Kansas frontier, but the child was

still with them when George left.

"An' yer done luff dat bressed baby? Didn' car' what 'come ob her, so yo'

own mizzable self was safe!" exclaimed Vina in much disgust. George

explained that this was the only way--that it would have been utterly

impossible for him to have got away with the child--and promised that if

ever a raid was made in that direction, he would join it and bring her

away, at no matter what risk. In 1857 affairs began to be more settled in

Kansas. John Brown, having ended his work here, had gone East: Vina and

George were living in Leavenworth. Little by little, she had found out

that it would have been better for her if they had never met. George was

satisfied: freedom for him meant being supported by Vina, getting drunk

whenever he pleased, and ill-treating her by way of showing his gratitude.

Vina could have borne all this willingly enough, but at last a perfectly

safe opportunity for the rescue of her baby occurred, and George refused

to attempt it. They were well enough off as they were: he didn't see "what

she wanted ob dat chile to support--he was _sho_' he wouldn't do it;" and

as for adventuring his precious self among the Philistines again, he

utterly declined the proposition. Then Vina's anger rose, and with her

lifted mop she drove her liege lord from her cabin-door, which he ever

after found barred against him. George soon consoled himself with another

wife, and about a year later departed for parts unknown. The years that

followed were hard and lonely ones for Vina, but she never wept for

George: to use her own expression, "He wan't no cry-tear-un (_criterion_),

he wan't, and she wasn't going to cry no tears for him."

Father Abram had found his way to Leavenworth too, but it was not till

1860 that Providence again threw them together. He stood erect now with a

sense of freedom and manhood: a comparatively easy life had untied the

knots that rheumatism had twisted in his muscles, and the weight of fully

twenty years seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders. He heard her

story. "'Pears like de Lord has got more work for Fader Abram," he said

simply; and shortly after he found a way to do the Lord's work. When Vina

reached this point in her story the judge became aware that his wife and

himself were not the only listeners. Father Abram, true to his

appointment, had come around to see if the judge's scruples had been

overcome, and to ask for the marriage license.

"Fader Abram," said Vina, "tell Miss' Fairdealer how yer done foun' John

Brown."

[Illustration: "I JUS' TOTED HER ROUN' TO DE ICE-CREAM STAN'."]

"Couldn't help findin' her," replied the old man. "Dar she was, right 'fo'

my eyes. I reckon yer'd a foun' her ef de Lord had sot her down squar' in

front ob yer, as he did ob me.--Ye see, madam, dat ar spring I was workin'

for de Risin' Sun libbery-stable: Colonel Trott an' Cap'n Gallup run it

den. De colonel was what yer call a fas' man, one ob yo' racin', bettin'

characters, but right smart ob a gentleman same time; while de cap'n

b'longed to de Church, and war de meanes' man out of Missouri. 'Bout dat

time de firm owned Challenger, de fas'est Kansas horse goin', an' dey made

a heap ob money a-racin' him at all de fairs. De colonel allus divided de

winnin's wid de cap'n, but when he lost on a race de cap'n made him stan'

it out ob his private puss, 'cause he said bettin' was ag'in his

principles, anyhow. Dis yeah spring dar was goin' to be a famous big race

at Platte City, an' de colonel he 'lowed he'd take Challenger ober. Now,

de colonel nebber rode a hoss on de track--'twan't t'ought to be de

correct ting for a gentleman to do--and he weighed a heap too much for

anyting short ob a elephant to race. I war de leanest man in de stables,

an' as de colonel war more dan usual pertik'lar 'bout Challenger carrying

light weight dis time, he took me 'long wid him. When we got dar he gabe

me a quarter an' tole me to loaf roun' until de races was called. Dis war

jus' what I wanted, fur I knowed dat de Skylarks who used to own Vina

libbed at Platte City, an' I t'ought likely some ob dem mought be at de

races. Dar was a right smart sprinklin' ob niggers on de groun's, mos' ob

dem hangin' roun' de 'freshment-stan's, an' I walked roun' 'mongst 'em

kinder careless, zif I wasn't t'inkin' ob nuffin' pertik'lar, when I see

standin' right in front ob me a little one-eyed gal dat 'minded me

mightily ob Vina's George. 'Whose little gal be yer?' says I.--'She's one

ob Judge Skylark's niggers,' says a woman standin' by. 'Don't see none ob

de udders here: shouldn't wonder if she'd runn'd away to see de racin'.'

Wall, I waited till nobody wan't lookin', an' den I axed her what her name

was.--'Dey calls me Vina's little gal,' says she.--'Who's Vina?' says

I.--'Dar ain't no Vina,' says she.--Who's yo' fader an' mudder?' says

I.--'George _was_ my fader,' says she, 'but de abolitioners done carried

him off an' chawed him up. I'se awful skeered ob de abolitioners, I is. I

ain't got no fader nor mudder: de buzzards done hatched me.' Wall, I was

dat sho' it was Vina's chile dat I didn' wait no longer, but jus' toted

her roun' to de ice-cream stan' an' filled her chock full of ice-cream.

Den I says, 'How would yer like a ride on one ob dem fancy hosses?' an'

showed her whar to hide outside de groun's until de races was ober, when

I'd gib her one. I knew de colonel 'lowed to send me home wid Challenger

dat night, and, do' it was mighty resky, _I_ 'lowed to take dat chile wid

me. Dat war de fus' race dat Challenger lost dat season, but I didn' put

him t'roo' his best paces, for I t'ought likely dar might be need ob tall

runnin' dat night, an' I didn' want him to play out den. De colonel war

mightily outed, fur de stakes was heavy, an' I was sorry 'nuff to see him

lose. He tole me I'd got to ride libelier dan dat ef I meant to git to de

Leavenworth ferry 'fo' de boat made its last trip for de day; and I knowed

dat as well as he did.

"I foun' little John Brown waitin' fur me jus' whar I tole her to hide:

she was too skeered to go home, fur she knowed dey would gib her a lickin'

fur runnin' away. I took her up befo' me on de hoss, an' we started fur

home, 'Pears like de road from Platte City to de Leavenworth ferry's jus'

'bout de lonesomes' in dis yeah worl', an' I hadn't trabelled more'n five

mile 'fore I knew I was follered. I could hear de clappetty, clappetty ob

de hosses a good piece behin' me, an' one place whar de road stretched

middlin' straight for nigh a half mile along de bluffs I see 'em, as many

as five men, a-ridin' like mad an' a-shakin' carbines in de arr. Den I

knowed dat dey was eder after John Brown or Challenger; an', hoss-thieves

_or_ kidnappers, I knew it would far' jus' about de same wid me. '_Go for

true_,' says I to Challenger; an' den I wraps John Brown in de

hoss-blanket so dey couldn't rightly tell what it was I was a-carryin'.

We'd a won de stakes easy ef I'd made Challenger lif' up his heels on de

track de way he did on dat ar road. De sun went down an' de moon riz, an'

I t'ink likely we trod on as many as twenty squirrels: dey didn' hab time

to cl'ar de road after dey heard us a-comin'. I rode into Slab Town jus'

about ten minutes ahead of my follerers, an' den I foun' dat de wus' dat

could happen had happened. De Ella had made her las' trip, an' was tied up

to de Kansas sho'. Dar wan't no time fur considerin' de matter. I see a

flatboat hauled up on de bank, an' I shubbed her off, led Challenger onto

her, an' poled her off into de ribber. Challenger didn' want to go

aboard, nohow--he knowed it wan't safe--but I struck him de fus' blow I

ebber gin a hoss of his blood, an' we were pretty well out in de current

when de Missourians come ridin' down to de sho'. Dey was dat mad when dey

see us dat dey fired all dar shot-guns at us, an' Challenger was dat

s'prised dat he jumped right into de arr, an' come down on his feet ag'in

like a jack-rabbit. Dat was a leetle too much for de ole raft, an' she

done went to pieces like a bundle of straw. John Brown was a-holdin' on to

Challenger's neck, an' she jus' held on, legs an' han's, wid her fingers

clenched into de mane, so dat I had to cut some ob it off arterward to git

'em away. We'se nebber been able to prise 'em clean open sence: dey look

more like birds' claws dan han's, anyway, do' 'tain't likely yer ebber

took notice on't. I was a-holdin' on to Challenger's tail, an' dar we all

t'ree was in de middle ob de ribber. Wall, fus' de current carried us down

a good piece, an' I t'ought it was all ober for dis nigger sho'; den de

saddle-girth bust, an' dat seemed to gib Challenger some 'couragement, fur

he drawed a long breff an' struck out fur de Kansas sho'. Wall, it war an

awful swim, an' no mistake, but bimeby we all landed, 'bout halfway down

to Quindaro, blowin' and snortin' like so many steamboats. I didn' try to

ride Challenger up to Leavenworth, but jis' walked by his side, a-huggin'

an' a-kissin' him as I nebber kissed no women-trash in all my young days,

an' John Brown a-lyin' 'crost his back as limp as a empty gunny-bag. I

took her roun' to Vina's 'fore I went to de libbery-stable, an' jes' 'fore

I come to de doah a t'ought come to me dat made me dat sick to de stomach

I could hardly stan'. S'posin', after all, she _wan't_ Vina's chile! But

she was--leastways, Vina was sure ob it--an' ob all de goin's-on dat gal

went into yer'd a t'ought 'twas sumfin' mighty consequentious, stead ob

nuffin' but a little nigger young 'un. 'Yer jus' take back dat hoss, Fader

Abram,' says she, 'an' den come back to yo' darter Vina; an' don't yer dar

lib anywhar else after dis.'

"I tole Cap'n Gallup I'd been chased by hoss-thieves, an' had swum de

ribber wid Challenger, but I didn' say nuffin' 'bout John Brown, for dat

war de name Vina gabe de chile dat very day. I went dar, as she tole me,

an' she got up de biggest dinnah, wid more chicken-fixin's an' pie an'

cake dan ebber I see; but dat arternoon I was taken down ag'in wid de

rheumatiz--couldn't do no work for more'n six munfs, an' don't reckon I'll

be much use any more, nohow. Vina's tuk car' ob me more'n two year now.

She's had a sight ob beaux, but she's allus tole 'em she couldn't leab her

ole fader. Las' one was dat spruce yaller schoolmarster from Oberlin. Says

I, 'Vina, why don't yer git married? 'Pears like yer'd feel less

onsettled an' lonesome ef yer had an ole man.' Says she, 'I'se got one ole

man: dat's 'nuff.' Says I, 'But don't yer nebber t'ink yer'd like to git

married, Vina?' An' says she, 'Yes, Fader Abram, I do. How does _you_ feel

'bout it?' and wid dat she--Beg yer pardon, sah, I didn' know _you_ war

dar, sah, but if yer've brought dem ar papers we was speakin' 'bout dis

mornin', sah, I t'ink Vina 'll let dis day's washin' go toward payin' for

'em, sah, an' I'll come down to de office an' tote up yer winter's coal

for de balance ob de damages."

LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.

TO SLEEP

I pray thee, timid Sleep, to bide with me.

Night after night do not affrighted be,

Like some wild bird,

Which, at the softest word

Or slightest rustle heard,

Afar from human presence swift doth flee.

I woo thee, gentle Sleep, with every art

That wistfullest desire can impart;

But cruelly

Thou still deniest me

Thy restful company,

And I am weary--body, mind and heart.

Yes, very tired my body is with pain,

And heart with care, while thoughts perplex my brain.

O sweet Repose!

If thou mine eyes wouldst close,

My wearied limbs compose,

And bind me till the morn with slumb'rous chain!

Not yet? Ah, cruel Sleep! soon I shall find

Thy brother, sterner called, to be more kind.

Most welcome guest,

Death bringeth gift of rest--

Rest undisturbed and blest,

When dream and care and pain are left behind.

EMILIE POULSSON.

THE PARIS CAFES.

Alimentary, and not literary, is the modern cafe. Times are so changed

since Voltaire, Diderot and the rest sang and shouted in the Cafe

Procope--jested, reasoned and made themselves immortal there--there are so

many people who have the means to frequent cafes, and there is such an

immense floating population, eager, curious and bent on sightseeing, that

no clique can live. Its precincts, no matter how hallowed, are invaded by

the leering mob and His many-headed Majesty the Crowd. Still, certain

cafes are able to boast a _clientele_, with the military, journalistic,

artistic or commercial element in preponderating force--cafes where the

stockbrokers, students or officers go--but the old historic cafe, the cafe

of tradition, where you were sure to find some celebrity on exhibition--a

first-class poet or a philosopher--may be said to be defunct. The Grand

Cafe and the Cafe de la Paix under the Grand Hotel, being very central,

near the new Opera, and gorgeously fitted up, are the chief rendezvous of

the fashionable floating population, aristocratic loafers of all nations,

where representatives from the remotest parts of the earth meet to stare

at each other under the same roof--Persians, Greeks and Hindoos, Sandwich

Islanders and Yankees. Tortoni's is a restaurant and cafe of the highest

class, the most select in the city. Cafe Riche and Cafe Gretry, both fine

cafes, are much frequented by stockbrokers, who in the evening are wont to

assemble on the sidewalk near by, making the night air ring with their

wild shouts of "give" and "take:" if dispersed by the police, as they

often are, they generally gather into knots a little farther on. Cafe du

Helder is appropriated almost exclusively to the military, officers in

_bourgeois_ dress, students from the Polytechnic and St. Cyr, and

horse-jockeys. The Cafe des Varietes belongs to the actors--a noisy,

brilliant place--whilst the Cafe Madrid is the literary cafe of the

nineteenth century, if there is any. Under Napoleon III. it was the centre

of the radical opposition, being frequented by all the shades of Red, from

the delicate hue of the _Debats_ to the deep crimson of Flourens and

Rochefort. Under the Commune it continued to be notorious, and to-day it

is the resort of lawyers, journalists and Bohemians--lesser lights who

seem to like the location, on the confines of the bad Boulevard

Montmartre, and have no objection to the _cocottes_ who come there in the

evening. Like La Fontaine's mule,

Qui ne parlait incessament

Que de sa mere la jument,

they talk only of literature, their nurse, and speak disparagingly--it is

a peculiarity of the place--of all the fellow-beings she has suckled. It

is the typical French cafe, in the central _salon_ of which, in majestic

repose, sits the _dame de comptoir_, who has a little gray moustache--the

French like a little hair upon the upper lip of ladies--whilst overhead,

forming a part of the extraordinary decoration, is a Madonna, goddess,

angel--I can't say what--copied from one of the old masters in the palace

of the Luxembourg. Gold-dust blown across a blue oval, with white-and-rose

angels in the midst, shuts off the upward gaze in one of the other

_salons_, whilst all around medallions large and small of heads and

figures, male, female and infantile, with a variety of vine-wreathed

Bacchuses and bow-drawing Cupids, which are considered especially fit to

decorate cafes, cluster along the mouldings, encumber the panels or fill

up the niches. Huge mirrors reflect the pea-green walls, the crystal

chandeliers, the gilding, glass and divans; cats perambulate the

apartments; people come and go--black, elegant fellows, with broad-rimmed

hats, pretty canes, good clothes, good fits; absinthe-drinkers, with heavy

jaws and dreamy, evil eyes. Billiard-balls are clicking in the back room;

cards and dominoes are being played; cold-blooded, demoralized people lean

forward, gossip and gesticulate--men who would man a barricade on occasion

or put a sword-blade through a stomach.

With a very few exceptions, all the leading cafes of Paris have become

restaurants. You breakfast, dine and sup there; and in place of coffee

being the sole or leading article of consumption, an infinite variety of

drinks is now at the disposal of the thirsty wayfarer. Mocha, that product

of the East the preparation of which, like the making of bread, is the

stumbling-block of housekeepers in both hemispheres, is served in three

ways--as a _capucin_, a _mazagran_ or a _demi-tasse_. A capucin (the name

is but little used) is our cup of coffee--coffee with milk in it; a

mazagran is coffee in a glass, accompanying which a decanter of water is

brought. The name is derived from a village in Africa where the French had

a brilliant feat of arms, and where the soldiers, in the absence of milk

or brandy, had to water their coffee or drink it _au naturel_. The coffee

itself is precisely the same as that furnished for the demi-tasse, which

is served in a small china cup, accompanying which is a little decanter of

cognac, with a fairy glass for measuring it; for the French, in place of

cream, take brandy with coffee and rum with tea--to us an incomprehensible

mixture. After breakfast and dinner the Frenchman desires coffee, and if

he does not get it at home he goes to the cafe for it. To do without it,

or to do without claret at meals, would be a dreadful alternative to which

he would not long submit without, it might be, losing his reason and

taking his life. Strong, black and fragrant, he would die without that

beverage for which--and for Racine, by the way--Madame de Sevigne

prophesied an ephemeral popularity. Taken immediately after meals, it

removes the fumes of the claret and champagne he has drunk, and leaves him

feeling as clear-headed as Plato and grateful as a pensioner of the king.

Just before meal-time the cafes are crowded with people indulging in one

of the renowned trio of appetizers, one of the great triumvirate of

anteprandial potations--_bittere_, _vermouth_ and _absinthe_. Bittere is a

clear grateful drink of Hollandic derivation, considered more wholesome

than either of its fellows; vermouth is a wormwood wine the drinker does

not like at first (please draw the inference that he becomes immensely

fond of it at last); whilst absinthe--what shall we say of it? It is

execrable stuff--the milk of sirens mingled with sea-water. Of a

dirty-green color, pungent, all-powerful, it heats up the stomach,

expending itself at the extremities in half-developed throbs, perpetual

wavelets of rankling sting that break upon the shores of flesh. It mounts

to the hair-roots, fills the entrails with a furnace-glow, goes

everywhere. It is the worst of French drinks, representing and standing

for what is worst in French character, worst in France. It cannot be

tossed off at a throw: it must be toyed with, sipped. Stimulating,

enervating, poisonous, horrible--all the more so perhaps because it is not

intoxicating exactly--God has put a barrier against its use by making it

distasteful; but, strange to say, all those things men run after: rum,

tobacco, opium, absinthe, are always distasteful at first, if not for a

long time afterward.

But the French do not drink rum, gin, whiskey or _water_ to any great

extent. With the exception of absinthe and considerable brandy, their

drinking occupies a middle ground. They revel in a multitude of subtile,

delightful mixtures--_liqueurs_, _cremes_ and _sirops_. Very dear to the

heart of refined sensualists is the famous monks' liquor called

chartreuse, which deservedly ranks at the head of the long list of

liqueurs--anisette, curacao, maraschino, rosolio, alkermes, ratafia,

genievre, etc. It is made by the monks of the Grande Chartreuse, near

Grenoble, of certain aromatic herbs and brandy, the former gathered by

them in their summer wanderings amongst the Jura Mountains. It is a

sticky, sweet compound of a green or yellow color, and of such a fiery

nature that it must be sipped, not drunk. Many a hater of the priesthood,

holding up one of the little thimbleful glasses in which it is served, has

exclaimed, "Blessed be monks for making thee! Compound of devil, dew and

honey! in thee have they sought to indemnify themselves for lack of wife,

and partially have they succeeded."

All these liqueurs, indeed, are rather ladies' drinks. So too are the

cremes--mocha, tea, noyau, cumin, mint, ether, etc.; also the sirops,

including orgeat, very refreshing in the summer-time. Masculine

preferences are for beer, immense quantities of which are drunk,

especially in the evening, or for fine champagne, the name bestowed upon

superior brandy. However, ladies and gentlemen unite in disposing of

half-frozen punch (_sorbets_) or eating ices--say a _tutti frutti_ at the

Cafe Napolitain--ravishing mixtures of cold and passion, the fruits of the

tropics imbedded in a slice of the North Pole.

French drinks are, like French dishes, artistic preparations, and the

French cafes artistic, pretty places, indispensable to the scenic

completeness of things in France, if not to the comfort and well-being of

the people. A landscape without water, a bride without a veil, a house

without windows, would be something like France (Paris especially) without

cafes. To take away its cafes would be to pluck out its eyes, to leave it

dull and dead--food without appetite, marriage without love or the

honeymoon. Its industries may give it sinew, muscle, bone and nerve; the

Institute may give it brains; but the cafes--they are its life-blood and

its pulse.

The French cultivate even a love of home in going to the cafe. For what is

a love of home? It is certainly not a mere local attachment, such as the

cat has for the particular hearth-rug where she dozes by day or the

particular tiles and water-spouts where she howls by night. It is rather

the love of family and friendly union, in which the French take especial

delight, gathering together in little knots by the open window, in the

garden, on the sidewalk, or, it may be, in the cafe, talking in the

leaping, emancipated, touch-and-go style, in the merry, vaulting style in

which they excel, on all the lighter topics.

But the desire to economize keeps away a great many people, for the French

are very economical. In the great army of the _bourgeois_, as well as in

the great army of the _blouses_--many of whom could be bourgeois if they

chose--whole families, husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, abstain from

going to the cafe, either alone or accompanied, from Christmas to New

Year's and New Year's to Christmas. Neither would you find MacMahon,

Thiers or Victor Hugo at the cafe. The recognized great, the nobility and

high officials, contrary to what perhaps is commonly supposed, are rarely

to be seen there. They meet in some more private way.

But the cafe is nevertheless a very charming place. It is a place where it

is permitted to you to surrender yourself to the most delicious

reflections. You are in the presence of humming-birds, not ostriches or

owls. The people are smoking cigarettes, or cigars at worst, not

meerschaums. The establishment itself is a dazzle of decoration, a little

corner of the Louvre. There is no shouting or swearing, but a pleasing

hum. The calls of messieurs and the replies of garcons resolve themselves

into a confused lulling sound. If you are well, and your conscience does

not trouble you--and even if it does--you can select a quiet corner and

dream away the livelong day. The air is nerve-slackening. You feel

perfectly at your ease. You can think of nothing to apprehend--no

incursion of your lady friends designing to reason with the proprietor and

perhaps hold a prayer-meeting on the sidewalk; no incursion of the police,

no row. Everybody is placable and quiet--preserves indeed a sort of

deferential attitude toward his neighbor--and not only when he comes in,

but again when he goes out, salutes the dame de comptoir--the lady

superintendent, that is (not unfrequently the wife of the proprietor)--who

sits enthroned in a little boxlike place superintending the delivery of

drinks and making change. This matter of saluting, as the reader knows, is

a deference which every Frenchman considers due to the great man or woman

who, at the particular time of his entrance or exit, may chance to be in a

particular apartment; and in the case of cafes, if the dame de comptoir

were not in her place, he would salute the guests; and if there were but

one guest, that one would be expected to return the salute, it being meant

for him alone.

Sanctified in this way by the presence of a lady, the cafe does not seem

such a very bad place; and it isn't. Even the _estaminets_ and

_brasseries_, which are but second-rate cafes, and the ordinary

wine-shops, still lower in the scale, in which the coachman and

commissionnaire regale themselves, taking a _canon_ across the counter in

the morning and playing a game of cards in the back shop at night, are by

no means the hideous gulping-down places in which our land abounds.

Drinking in public places in France is not so completely separated from

all respectability and refinement as it is with us. It involves none of

that horrid nomenclature, "slings," "punches," "cocktails," "smashes,"

which carry with them all the terror and awfulness of oaths. The French

have pretty names for drinks, as well as a rather pretty, poetic way of

alluding to a man's inebriation. "He is a little gray;" "He has a little

corner in his head;" "He is in a condition for beating the wall;" "He is

heading pins," etc., etc., are favorite expressions. Of course, the

delicacy or waggishness with which we allude to an evil is no excuse for

it, but the French have little absolute drunkenness to excuse. They are

emphatically a sober people (being a good deal like intoxicated Yankees or

Dutchmen, anyway), and even in their cups neither rude nor quarrelsome. Of

the few French people I ever saw drunk (except peasants), all were begging

pardon of the owners of imaginary toes, and making various other polite

concessions to the people whom they believed to be around them. And yet

they drink prodigiously. The customary allowance of every man who can

afford it is a pint of claret at meals, themselves prefaced generally

speaking by an appetizer, and supplemented almost invariably by a cup of

coffee and cognac. He would be quite likely also in the course of the day

to assist in the destruction of a bottle of champagne (almost certain to

do so if a _bon vivant_), and during the afternoon and evening to drink

several glasses of beer, perhaps taking a "night-cap" of hot wine before

going to bed. All this would not necessarily make him drunk, but continued

day by day it keeps him under the influence of a continual stimulus, which

in time becomes indispensable and contributes to form the Hotspur

character of which we hear so much. Strange it should not make drunkards

outright, but it does not seem to produce that effect; and Paris, with all

its luxuries in drink, is not a drunken city. You see more drunken people

in a week in New York than in a year in Paris, and more people who, if not

drunk, are unmistakable topers. They drink hard in Brittany (it is no

unusual thing there to see a woman drunk), and so too in the manufacturing

places of Normandy and other parts of France, especially those that

produce no wine; and Champney, who doubtless studied from life, painted at

Ecouen the picture of an old peasant-woman hauling her husband home in a

hand-cart _dead drunk_; but, for all that, the French are emphatically a

sober people, either constitutionally or from climatic or other reasons: I

do not pretend to say which.

On the whole, therefore, the picture of the French cafes is a pleasant

one, and it is a pity the bar-rooms of America and the gin-shops of

England were not more like them. They are a compromise, it is true, but

that is better than the prohibitionist's vain fight.

Tortoni's, the last survivor of whose founders died only the other day,

has its historical reminiscences. Therein is to be found the salon, known

as the "blue salon," once hallowed by the occupancy of M. de Talleyrand.

The window is still pointed out at which the eminent diplomatist used to

sit surveying the crowds that thronged the Boulevards, with his usual fine

and cynical smile, like a Mephistopheles of the nineteenth century. A

little later, and one has a vision of a young man of short stature,

elegantly dressed, who every day or two rides up to door or window,

springs from his horse, calls for a particular kind of ice, which he

imbibes with a sort of nervous haste, and then disappears. This little

dandy, always in a hurry, alert, nervous and sharp-eyed, is a future ruler

of the nation: it is M. Thiers. Around Tortoni's there hovers too the

souvenir of that other gracious and graceful dandy, king of fashion in his

day, the count D'Orsay. It was at a breakfast at Tortoni's that the

preliminaries were arranged for the famous duel wherein D'Orsay appeared

as the champion of the Virgin Mary. Some irreverent jester having made

some slighting remark respecting the Virgin, D'Orsay took the matter up

and called the speaker to account. "For," said the count, "the Virgin is a

woman, and as such ought not to be slandered with impunity."

The cafes chantants of Paris form a division by themselves. The most noted

of these is the Eldorado, which has given more than one prominent

performer to the Parisian stage--Theresa, who, once a dishwasher in a

hotel, left her soap-suds and mop to become a Parisian celebrity, the

instructress of a princess, and now a really talented comic actress and

bouffe singer; Judic and Theo, the rival beauties of the Opera Bouffe; and

lively little Boumaine, now one of the stars of the Varietes. The career

of Madame Theo has been a strange one. She was originally a failure at the

Eldorado, and used to cry her eyes out behind the scenes at her own

ill-success. Finally, Offenbach discovered her and wrote for her his

_Jolie Parfumeuse_. The little beauty cut off her hair, put on a blonde

wig, and bloomed out a full-blown genius. Without voice, without talent,

by dint of a lovely figure, a face of babyish prettiness and an innocent

way of uttering speeches of atrocious naughtiness, she has become one of

the theatrical successes of the hour, has brought back a harvest of

diamonds from her recent Russian trip, and will probably retire into

private life with a fortune before she is thirty.

Pass to the Cafe Anglais, that hypocrite of the Boulevards, whitewashed,

decent, outwardly respectable, yet whose windows are ablaze all night long

in the Carnival season, and whose latest legend is the tradition of "Big

16." "Big 16" is a private cabinet in the entresol, numbered after the

fashion that has given it its title, and famed as being the scene of the

orgies of the young duke de Grammont-Caderousse, that maddest of the mad

_viveurs_ of the Second Empire, and his friend the prince of Orange. The

latter still maintains his reputation in Paris as the most dissipated of

European princes. Twice has he essayed to win the hand of an English

princess, or rather his high-minded and virtuous mother made the effort in

his behalf, but neither his prospective heirship to the crown of Holland

nor his Protestantism has availed to gain for him a royal English bride.

He is known among the society that he most affects by the sobriquet of

_Citron_ (Lemon), bestowed upon him by the duke de Grammont-Caderousse at

one of the little suppers of the day. The duke continued to call the

prince Monseigneur, to which His Royal Highness objected, declaring that

he wished all formality to be laid aside respecting his birth and title.

"Is that so?" cried the duke gayly. "Then, Citron, pass me the cheese."

And the nickname has survived the duke who gave it and the government

under which it was given. Sometimes, after one of the masked balls, a pink

domino at the Cafe Americain will call for champagne, with the

announcement, "M. Citron pays," without for a moment imagining that she is

speaking of the heir to a throne.

To take a final survey, let us enter the Cafe de la Paix, the most

imperial, cosmopolitan and stylish of cafes. That well-preserved man

sitting by himself is playing _solitaire_--a group of one. That

white-haired old gentleman sitting in the alcove yonder is drinking

sweetened water--surely not a beverage calculated to pollute the palate.

Those round-headed men, whose bald pates are fringed with gray, are now

settling up their score. It is only a franc or two, but each one pays his

share, "treating" not being common. You are often asked to drink, and left

to pay for what you drink--an arrangement greatly to be preferred,

provided it be understood. That stylish-looking man reading the _Figaro_

is drinking a green chartreuse, and every time he stoops to sip from the

little goblet that stands before him, his huge moustache, folding over it,

looks like two great black wings. That pale-faced man is probably a

professor. He has just sweetened his coffee, and is now pocketing the

lumps of sugar remaining over in the little dish (considered a perfectly

proper thing to do); and that stripling from the province, he is taking

account of everything--the velvet, marble, silver, glass, the flowers,

vases, pictured panels, the waiters in their white aprons, the

water-bottles in which the ice is frozen by artificial process, the

crinkle-crankle, gilding, glare, the plants in the doorway and the queen

behind her box.

Looking out upon the sidewalk, all the world is passing by--Guadeloupe

negroes with white servants at their heels; artillerymen with dangling

sabres; cocottes, Englishmen, zouaves; washerwomen and their daughters

carrying skirts suspended from the tops of poles; old men with goggles and

young men with canes and great show of cuffs; multitudes of

distinguished-looking people, _Francais a l'outrance_; people with beaked

noses and olive complexions; clerks and shop-girls, _gamins_ and _bonnes_;

policemen of inferior stature, who though armed with swords, look

incapable of dealing with desperate men; laborers in blouses and old

ladies in caps.

Sitting once in front of the Cafe de la Paix at five o'clock in the

afternoon, and looking through a line of promenaders such as that, I

counted two hundred 'busses, private carriages and hacks, most (or many at

least) of whose occupants were presumably bent on pleasure, to sixteen

carts and other vehicles devoted exclusively to business--eight of which,

by the way, were hand-carts. Oh the gay and happy town! I thought. Where

the turn-outs bear such a proportion to the drays, no wonder cafes thrive,

exquisite drinks are served, and a _corky_ people, who have a happy

faculty, as illustrated by the late war, of coming up the quicker the

farther they are pressed down, find the thing enjoyable.

A cafe-front indeed is better than an omnibus-top for studying Paris, and

the cafe itself is a club for everybody. People go to it to gossip and

regale themselves, play games, talk politics, read the newspapers, write

letters, transact business it may be, sit, think, dream, and rest

themselves. To the Anglo-Saxon the life that is led in it seems a good

deal like walking about in a botanical garden during the day and sleeping

in an observatory at night--a decidedly artificial existence; but so long

as we must drink or be amused at all, we shall do well to study the ways

of the French. They alone know how to eat and drink properly and amuse

themselves in a rational way.

GILMAN C. FISHER.

FOG.

Light silken curtain, colorless and soft,

Dreamlike before me floating! what abides

Behind thy pearly veil's

Opaque, mysterious woof?

Where sleek red kine, and dappled, crunch day-long

Thick, luscious blades and purple clover-heads,

Nigh me I still can mark

Cool fields of beaded grass.

No more; for on the rim of the globed world

I seem to stand and stare at nothingness.

But songs of unseen birds

And tranquil roll of waves

Bring sweet assurance of continuous life

Beyond this silvery cloud. Fantastic dreams,

Of tissue subtler still

Than the wreathed fog, arise,

And cheat my brain with airy vanishings

And mystic glories of the world beyond.

A whole enchanted town

Thy baffling folds conceal--

An Orient town, with slender-steepled mosques,

Turret from turret springing, dome from dome,

Fretted with burning stones,

And trellised with red gold.

Through spacious streets, where running waters flow,

Sun-screened by fruit trees and the broad-leaved palm,

Past the gay-decked bazaars,

Walk turbaned, dark-eyed men.

Hark! you can hear the many murmuring tongues,

While loud the merchants vaunt their gorgeous wares.

The sultry air is spiced

With fragrance of rich gums,

And through the lattice high in yon dead wall,

See where, unveiled, an arch, young, dimpled face,

Flushed like a musky peach,

Peers down upon the mart!

From her dark, ringleted and bird-poised head

She hath cast back the milk-white silken veil:

'Midst the blank blackness there

She blossoms like a rose.

Beckons she not with those bright, full-orbed eyes,

And open arms that like twin moonbeams gleam?

Behold her smile on me

With honeyed, scarlet lips!

Divine Scheherazade! I am thine.

I come! I come!--Hark! from some far-off mosque

The shrill muezzin calls

The hour of silent prayer,

And from the lattice he hath scared my love.

The lattice vanisheth itself--the street,

The mart, the Orient town;

Only through still, soft air

That cry is yet prolonged. I wake to hear

The distant fog-horn peal: before mine eyes

Stands the white wall of mist,

Blending with vaporous skies.

Elusive gossamer, impervious

Even to the mighty sun-god's keen red shafts!

With what a jealous art

Thy secret thou dost guard!

Well do I know deep in thine inmost folds,

Within an opal hollow, there abides

The lady of the mist,

The Undine of the air--

A slender, winged, ethereal, lily form,

Dove-eyed, with fair, free-floating, pearl-wreathed hair,

In waving raiment swathed

Of changing, irised hues.

Where her feet, rosy as a shell, have grazed

The freshened grass, a richer emerald glows:

Into each flower-cup

Her cool dews she distils.

She knows the tops of jagged mountain-peaks,

She knows the green soft hollows of their sides,

And unafraid she floats

O'er the vast-circled seas.

She loves to bask within the moon's wan beams,

Lying, night-long, upon the moist, dark earth,

And leave her seeded pearls

With morning on the grass.

Ah! that athwart these dim, gray outer courts

Of her fantastic palace I might pass,

And reach the inmost shrine

Of her chaste solitude,

And feel her cool and dewy fingers press

My mortal-fevered brow, while in my heart

She poured with tender love

Her healing Lethe-balm!

See! the close curtain moves, the spell dissolves!

Slowly it lifts: the dazzling sunshine streams

Upon a newborn world

And laughing summer seas.

Swift, snowy-breasted sandbirds twittering glance

Through crystal air. On the horizon's marge,

Like a huge purple wraith,

The dusky fog retreats.

EMMA LAZARUS.

THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE.

BY GEORGE MACDONALD, AUTHOR OF "MALCOLM."