CHAPTER I

MURAD THE UNLUCKY

AND OTHER TALES

by Maria Edgeworth

Contents:

Introduction

Murad the Unlucky

The Limerick Gloves

Madame de Fleury

INTRODUCTION

Maria Edgeworth came of a lively family which had settled in Ireland in

the latter part of the sixteenth century. Her father at the age of five-

and-twenty inherited the family estates at Edgeworthstown in 1769. He

had snatched an early marriage, which did not prove happy. He had a

little son, whom he was educating upon the principles set forth in

Rousseau's "Emile," and a daughter Maria, who was born on the 1st of

January, 1767. He was then living at Hare Hatch, near Maidenhead. In

March, 1773, his first wife died after giving birth to a daughter named

Anna. In July, 1773, he married again, Honora Sneyd, and went to live in

Ireland, taking with him his daughter Maria, who was then about six years

old. Two years afterwards she was sent from Ireland to a school at

Derby. In April, 1780, her father's second wife died, and advised him

upon her death-bed to marry her sister Elizabeth. He married his

deceased wife's sister on the next following Christmas Day. Maria

Edgeworth was in that year removed to a school in London, and her

holidays were often spent with her father's friend Thomas Day, the author

of "Sandford and Merton," an eccentric enthusiast who lived then at

Anningsley, in Surrey.

Maria Edgeworth--always a little body--was conspicuous among her

schoolfellows for quick wit, and was apt alike for study and invention.

She was story-teller general to the community. In 1782, at the age of

fifteen, she left school and went home with her father and his third

wife, who then settled finally at Edgeworthstown.

At Edgeworthstown Richard Lovell Edgeworth now became active in the

direct training of his children, in the improvement of his estate, and in

schemes for the improvement of the country. His eldest daughter, Maria,

showing skill with the pen, he made her more and more his companion and

fellow-worker to good ends. She kept household accounts, had entrusted

to her the whole education of a little brother, wrote stories on a slate

and read them to the family, wiped them off when not approved, and copied

them in ink if they proved popular with the home public. Miss

Edgeworth's first printed book was a plea for the education of women,

"Letters to Literary Ladies," published in 1795, when her age was eight-

and-twenty. Next year, 1796, working with her father, she produced the

first volume of the "Parent's Assistant." In November, 1797, when Miss

Edgeworth's age was nearly thirty-one, her father, then aged fifty-three,

lost his third wife, and he married a fourth in the following May. The

fourth wife, at first objected to, was young enough to be a companion and

friend, and between her and Maria Edgeworth a fast friendship came to be

established. In the year of her father's fourth marriage Maria joined

him in the production of two volumes on "Practical Education." Then

followed books for children, including "Harry and Lucy," which had been

begun by her father years before in partnership with his second wife,

when Thomas Day began writing "Sandford and Merton," with the original

intention that it should be worked in as a part of the whole scheme.

In the year 1800 Miss Edgeworth, thirty-three years old, began her

independent career as a novelist with "Castle Rackrent;" and from that

time on, work followed work in illustration of the power of a woman of

genius to associate quick wit and quick feeling with sound sense and a

good reason for speaking. Sir Walter Scott in his frank way declared

that he received an impulse from Miss Edgeworth's example as a

story-teller. In the general preface to his own final edition of the

Waverley Novels he said that "Without being so presumptuous as to hope to

emulate the rich humour, pathetic tenderness, and admirable tact, which

pervade the works of my accomplished friend, I felt that something might

be attempted for my own country of the same kind with that which Miss

Edgeworth so fortunately achieved for Ireland--something which might

introduce her natives to those of the sister kingdom in a more favourable

light than they had been placed hitherto, and tend to procure sympathy

for their virtues and indulgence for their foibles."

Of the three stories in this volume, who--"Murad the Unlucky" and "The

Limerick Gloves"--first appeared in three volumes of "Popular Tales,"

which were first published in 1804, with a short introduction by Miss

Edgeworth's father. "Madame de Fleury" was written a few years later.

H. M.

MURAD THE UNLUCKY

CHAPTER I

It is well known that the grand seignior amuses himself by going at

night, in disguise, through streets of Constantinople; as the caliph

Haroun Alraschid used formerly to do in Bagdad.

One moonlight night, accompanied by his grand vizier, he traversed

several of the principal streets of the city without seeing anything

remarkable. At length, as they were passing a rope-maker's, the sultan

recollected the Arabian story of Cogia-Hassan Alhabal, the rope-maker,

and his two friends, Saad and Saadi, who differed so much in their

opinion concerning the influence of fortune over human affairs.

"What is your opinion on this subject?" said the grand seignior to his

vizier.

"I am inclined, please your majesty," replied the vizier, "to think that

success in the world depends more upon prudence than upon what is called

luck, or fortune."

"And I," said the sultan, "am persuaded that fortune does more for men

than prudence. Do you not every day hear of persons who are said to be

fortunate or unfortunate? How comes it that this opinion should prevail

amongst men, if it be not justified by experience?"

"It is not for me to dispute with your majesty," replied the prudent

vizier.

"Speak your mind freely; I desire and command it," said the sultan.

"Then I am of opinion," answered the vizier, "that people are often led

to believe others fortunate, or unfortunate, merely because they only

know the general outline of their histories; and are ignorant of the

incidents and events in which they have shown prudence or imprudence. I

have heard, for instance, that there are at present, in this city, two

men, who are remarkable for their good and bad fortune: one is called

Murad the Unlucky, and the other Saladin the Lucky. Now, I am inclined

to think, if we could hear their stories, we should find that one is a

prudent and the other an imprudent character."

"Where do these men live?" interrupted the sultan. "I will hear their

histories from their own lips before I sleep."

"Murad the Unlucky lives in the next square," said the vizier.

The sultan desired to go thither immediately. Scarcely had they entered

the square, when they heard the cry of loud lamentations. They followed

the sound till they came to a house of which the door was open, and where

there was a man tearing his turban, and weeping bitterly. They asked the

cause of his distress, and he pointed to the fragments of a china vase,

which lay on the pavement at his door.

"This seems undoubtedly to be beautiful china," said the sultan, taking

up one of the broken pieces; "but can the loss of a china vase be the

cause of such violent grief and despair?"

"Ah, gentlemen," said the owner of the vase, suspending his lamentations,

and looking at the dress of the pretended merchants, "I see that you are

strangers: you do not know how much cause I have for grief and despair!

You do not know that you are speaking to Murad the Unlucky! Were you to

hear all the unfortunate accidents that have happened to me, from the

time I was born till this instant, you would perhaps pity me, and

acknowledge I have just cause for despair."

Curiosity was strongly expressed by the sultan; and the hope of obtaining

sympathy inclined Murad to gratify it by the recital of his adventures.

"Gentlemen," said he, "I scarcely dare invite you into the house of such

an unlucky being as I am; but if you will venture to take a night's

lodging under my roof, you shall hear at your leisure the story of my

misfortunes."

The sultan and the vizier excused themselves from spending the night with

Murad, saying that they were obliged to proceed to their khan, where they

should be expected by their companions; but they begged permission to

repose themselves for half an hour in his house, and besought him to

relate the history of his life, if it would not renew his grief too much

to recollect his misfortunes.

Few men are so miserable as not to like to talk of their misfortunes,

where they have, or where they think they have, any chance of obtaining

compassion. As soon as the pretended merchants were seated, Murad began

his story in the following manner:--

"My father was a merchant of this city. The night before I was born he

dreamed that I came into the world with the head of a dog and the tail of

a dragon; and that, in haste to conceal my deformity, he rolled me up in

a piece of linen, which unluckily proved to be the grand seignior's

turban; who, enraged at his insolence in touching his turban, commanded

that his head should be struck off.

"My father awaked before he lost his head, but not before he had lost

half his wits from the terror of his dream. He considered it as a

warning sent from above, and consequently determined to avoid the sight

of me. He would not stay to see whether I should really be born with the

head of a dog and the tail of a dragon; but he set out, the next morning,

on a voyage to Aleppo.

"He was absent for upwards of seven years; and during that time my

education was totally neglected. One day I inquired from my mother why I

had been named Murad the Unlucky. She told me that this name was given

to me in consequence of my father's dream; but she added that perhaps it

might be forgotten, if I proved fortunate in my future life. My nurse, a

very old woman, who was present, shook her head, with a look which I

shall never forget, and whispered to my mother loud enough for me to

hear, 'Unlucky he was, and is, and ever will be. Those that are born to

ill luck cannot help themselves; nor can any, but the great prophet,

Mahomet himself, do anything for them. It is a folly for an unlucky

person to strive with their fate: it is better to yield to it at once.'

"This speech made a terrible impression upon me, young as I then was; and

every accident that happened to me afterwards confirmed my belief in my

nurse's prognostic. I was in my eighth year when my father returned from

abroad. The year after he came home my brother Saladin was born, who was

named Saladin the Lucky, because the day he was born a vessel freighted

with rich merchandise for my father arrived safely in port.

"I will not weary you with a relation of all the little instances of good

fortune by which my brother Saladin was distinguished, even during his

childhood. As he grew up, his success in everything he undertook was as

remarkable as my ill luck in all that I attempted. From the time the

rich vessel arrived, we lived in splendour; and the supposed prosperous

state of my father's affairs was of course attributed to the influence of

my brother Saladin's happy destiny.

"When Saladin was about twenty, my father was taken dangerously ill; and

as he felt that he should not recover, he sent for my brother to the side

of his bed, and, to his great surprise, informed him that the

magnificence in which we had lived had exhausted all his wealth; that his

affairs were in the greatest disorder; for, having trusted to the hope of

continual success, he had embarked in projects beyond his powers.

"The sequel was, he had nothing remaining to leave to his children but

two large china vases, remarkable for their beauty, but still more

valuable on account of certain verses inscribed upon them in an unknown

character, which were supposed to operate as a talisman or charm in

favour of their possessors.

"Both these vases my father bequeathed to my brother Saladin; declaring

he could not venture to leave either of them to me, because I was so

unlucky that I should inevitably break it. After his death, however, my

brother Saladin, who was blessed with a generous temper, gave me my

choice of the two vases; and endeavoured to raise my spirits by repeating

frequently that he had no faith either in good fortune or ill fortune.

"I could not be of his opinion, though I felt and acknowledged his

kindness in trying to persuade me out of my settled melancholy. I knew

it was in vain for me to exert myself, because I was sure that, do what I

would, I should still be Murad the Unlucky. My brother, on the contrary,

was nowise cast down, even by the poverty in which my father left us: he

said he was sure he should find some means of maintaining himself; and so

he did.

"On examining our china vases, he found in them a powder of a bright

scarlet colour; and it occurred to him that it would make a fine dye. He

tried it, and after some trouble, it succeeded to admiration.

"During my father's lifetime, my mother had been supplied with rich

dresses by one of the merchants who was employed by the ladies of the

grand seignior's seraglio. My brother had done this merchant some

trifling favours, and, upon application to him, he readily engaged to

recommend the new scarlet dye. Indeed, it was so beautiful, that, the

moment it was seen, it was preferred to every other colour. Saladin's

shop was soon crowded with customers; and his winning manners and

pleasant conversation were almost as advantageous to him as his scarlet

dye. On the contrary, I observed that the first glance at my melancholy

countenance was sufficient to disgust every one who saw me. I perceived

this plainly; and it only confirmed me the more in my belief in my own

evil destiny.

"It happened one day that a lady, richly apparelled and attended by two

female slaves, came to my brother's house to make some purchases. He was

out, and I alone was left to attend to the shop. After she had looked

over some goods, she chanced to see my china vase, which was in the room.

She took a prodigious fancy to it, and offered me any price if I would

part with it; but this I declined doing, because I believed that I should

draw down upon my head some dreadful calamity if I voluntarily

relinquished the talisman. Irritated by my refusal, the lady, according

to the custom of her sex, became more resolute in her purpose; but

neither entreaties nor money could change my determination. Provoked

beyond measure at my obstinacy, as she called it, she left the house.

"On my brother's return, I related to him what had happened, and expected

that he would have praised me for my prudence; but, on the contrary, he

blamed me for the superstitious value I set upon the verses on my vase;

and observed that it would be the height of folly to lose a certain means

of advancing my fortune for the uncertain hope of magical protection. I

could not bring myself to be of his opinion; I had not the courage to

follow the advice he gave. The next day the lady returned, and my

brother sold his vase to her for ten thousand pieces of gold. This money

he laid out in the most advantageous manner, by purchasing a new stock of

merchandise. I repented when it was too late; but I believe it is part

of the fatality attending certain persons, that they cannot decide

rightly at the proper moment. When the opportunity has been lost, I have

always regretted that I did not do exactly the contrary to what I had

previously determined upon. Often, whilst I was hesitating, the

favourable moment passed.[1] Now this is what I call being unlucky. But

to proceed with my story.

[1] "Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first deprive of

understanding."

"The lady who bought my brother Saladin's vase was the favourite of the

Sultan, and all-powerful in the seraglio. Her dislike to me, in

consequence of my opposition to her wishes, was so violent, that she

refused to return to my brother's house while I remained there. He was

unwilling to part with me; but I could not bear to be the ruin of so good

a brother. Without telling him my design, I left his house careless of

what should become of me. Hunger, however, soon compelled me to think of

some immediate mode of obtaining relief. I sat down upon a stone, before

the door of a baker's shop: the smell of hot bread tempted me in, and

with a feeble voice I demanded charity.

"The master baker gave me as much bread as I could eat, upon condition

that I should change dresses with him and carry the rolls for him through

the city this day. To this I readily consented; but I had soon reason to

repent of my compliance. Indeed, if my ill-luck had not, as usual,

deprived me at this critical moment of memory and judgment, I should

never have complied with the baker's treacherous proposal. For some time

before, the people of Constantinople had been much dissatisfied with the

weight and quality of the bread furnished by the bakers. This species of

discontent has often been the sure forerunner of an insurrection; and, in

these disturbances, the master bakers frequently lose their lives. All

these circumstances I knew, but they did not occur to my memory when they

might have been useful.

"I changed dresses with the baker; but scarcely had I proceeded through

the adjoining streets with my rolls before the mob began to gather round

me with reproaches and execrations. The crowd pursued me even to the

gates of the grand seignior's palace, and the grand vizier, alarmed at

their violence, sent out an order to have my head struck off; the usual

remedy, in such cases, being to strike off the baker's head.

"I now fell upon my knees, and protested I was not the baker for whom

they took me; that I had no connection with him; and that I had never

furnished the people of Constantinople with bread that was not weight. I

declared I had merely changed clothes with a master baker for this day,

and that I should not have done so but for the evil destiny which governs

all my actions. Some of the mob exclaimed that I deserved to lose my

head for my folly; but others took pity on me, and whilst the officer,

who was sent to execute the vizier's order, turned to speak to some of

the noisy rioters, those who were touched by my misfortune opened a

passage for me through the crowd, and thus favoured, I effected my

escape.

"I quitted Constantinople; my vase I had left in the care of my brother.

At some miles' distance from the city I overtook a party of soldiers. I

joined them, and learning that they were going to embark with the rest of

the grand seignior's army for Egypt, I resolved to accompany them. 'If

it be,' thought I, 'the will of Mahomet that I should perish, the sooner

I meet my fate the better.' The despondency into which I was sunk was

attended by so great a degree of indolence, that I scarcely would take

the necessary means to preserve my existence. During our passage to

Egypt I sat all day long upon the deck of the vessel, smoking my pipe,

and I am convinced that if a storm had risen, as I expected, I should not

have taken my pipe from my mouth, nor should I have handled a rope to

save myself from destruction. Such is the effect of that species of

resignation, or torpor, whichever you please to call it, to which my

strong belief in fatality had reduced my mind.

"We landed, however, safely, contrary to my melancholy forebodings. By a

trifling accident, not worth relating, I was detained longer than any of

my companions in the vessel when we disembarked, and I did not arrive at

the camp till late at night. It was moonlight, and I could see the whole

scene distinctly. There was a vast number of small tents scattered over

a desert of white sand; a few date-trees were visible at a distance; all

was gloomy, and all still; no sound was to be heard but that of the

camels feeding near the tents, and, as I walked on, I met with no human

creature.

"My pipe was now out, and I quickened my pace a little towards a fire

which I saw near one of the tents. As I proceeded, my eye was caught by

something sparkling in the sand: it was a ring. I picked it up and put

it on my finger, resolving to give it to the public crier the next

morning, who might find out its rightful owner; but, by ill-luck, I put

it on my little finger, for which it was much too large, and as I

hastened towards the fire to light my pipe, I dropped the ring. I

stooped to search for it amongst the provender on which a mule was

feeding, and the cursed animal gave me so violent a kick on the head that

I could not help roaring aloud.

"My cries awakened those who slept in the tent near which the mule was

feeding. Provoked at being disturbed, the soldiers were ready enough to

think ill of me, and they took it for granted that I was a thief, who had

stolen the ring I pretended to have just found. The ring was taken from

me by force, and the next day I was bastinadoed for having found it; the

officer persisting in the belief that stripes would make me confess where

I had concealed certain other articles of value which had lately been

missed in the camp. All this was the consequence of my being in a hurry

to light my pipe and of my having put the ring on a finger that was too

little for it, which no one but Murad the Unlucky would have done.

"When I was able to walk again, after my wounds were healed, I went into

one of the tents distinguished by a red flag, having been told that these

were coffee-houses. Whilst I was drinking coffee I heard a stranger near

me complaining that he had not been able to recover a valuable ring he

had lost, although he had caused his loss to be published for three days

by the public crier, offering a reward of two hundred sequins to whoever

should restore it. I guessed that this was the very ring which I had

unfortunately found. I addressed myself to the stranger, and promised to

point out to him the person who had forced it from me. The stranger

recovered his ring, and, being convinced that I had acted honestly, he

made me a present of two hundred sequins, as some amends for the

punishment which I had unjustly suffered on his account.

"Now you would imagine that this purse of gold was advantageous to me.

Far the contrary; it was the cause of new misfortunes.

"One night, when I thought that the soldiers who were in the same tent

with me were all fast asleep, I indulged myself in the pleasure of

counting my treasure. The next day I was invited by my companions to

drink sherbet with them. What they mixed with the sherbet which I drank

I know not, but I could not resist the drowsiness it brought on. I fell

into a profound slumber, and when I awoke, I found myself lying under a

date-tree, at some distance from the camp.

"The first thing I thought of when I came to my recollection was my purse

of sequins. The purse I found still safe in my girdle; but on opening

it, I perceived that it was filled with pebbles, and not a single sequin

was left. I had no doubt that I had been robbed by the soldiers with

whom I had drunk sherbet, and I am certain that some of them must have

been awake the night I counted my money; otherwise, as I had never

trusted the secret of my riches to any one, they could not have suspected

me of possessing any property; for ever since I kept company with them I

had appeared to be in great indigence.

"I applied in vain to the superior officers for redress: the soldiers

protested they were innocent; no positive proof appeared against them,

and I gained nothing by my complaint but ridicule and ill-will. I called

myself, in the first transport of my grief, by that name which, since my

arrival in Egypt, I had avoided to pronounce: I called myself Murad the

Unlucky. The name and the story ran through the camp, and I was

accosted, afterwards, very frequently, by this appellation. Some,

indeed, varied their wit by calling me Murad with the purse of pebbles.

"All that I had yet suffered is nothing compared to my succeeding

misfortunes.

"It was the custom at this time, in the Turkish camp, for the soldiers to

amuse themselves with firing at a mark. The superior officers

remonstrated against this dangerous practice, but ineffectually.

Sometimes a party of soldiers would stop firing for a few minutes, after

a message was brought them from their commanders, and then they would

begin again, in defiance of all orders. Such was the want of discipline

in our army, that this disobedience went unpunished. In the meantime,

the frequency of the danger made most men totally regardless of it. I

have seen tents pierced with bullets, in which parties were quietly

seated smoking their pipes, whilst those without were preparing to take

fresh aim at the red flag on the top.

"This apathy proceeded, in some, from unconquerable indolence of body; in

others, from the intoxication produced by the fumes of tobacco and of

opium; but in most of my brother Turks it arose from the confidence which

the belief in predestination inspired. When a bullet killed one of their

companions, they only observed, scarcely taking the pipes from their

mouths, 'Our hour is not yet come: it is not the will of Mahomet that we

should fall.'

"I own that this rash security appeared to me, at first, surprising, but

it soon ceased to strike me with wonder, and it even tended to confirm my

favourite opinion, that some were born to good and some to evil fortune.

I became almost as careless as my companions, from following the same

course of reasoning. 'It is not,' thought I, 'in the power of human

prudence to avert the stroke of destiny. I shall perhaps die to-morrow;

let me therefore enjoy to-day.'

"I now made it my study every day to procure as much amusement as

possible. My poverty, as you will imagine, restricted me from indulgence

and excess, but I soon found means to spend what did not actually belong

to me. There were certain Jews who were followers of the camp, and who,

calculating on the probability of victory for our troops, advanced money

to the soldiers, for which they engaged to pay these usurers exorbitant

interest. The Jew to whom I applied traded with me also, upon the belief

that my brother Saladin, with whose character and circumstances he was

acquainted, would pay my debts if I should fall. With the money I raised

from the Jew I continually bought coffee and opium, of which I grew

immoderately fond. In the delirium it created I forgot all my

misfortunes, all fear of the future.

"One day, when I had raised my spirits by an unusual quantity of opium, I

was strolling through the camp, sometimes singing, sometimes dancing,

like a madman, and repeating that I was not now Murad the Unlucky. Whilst

these words were on my lips, a friendly spectator, who was in possession

of his sober senses, caught me by the arm, and attempted to drag me from

the place where I was exposing myself. 'Do you not see,' said he, 'those

soldiers, who are firing at a mark? I saw one of them, just now,

deliberately taking aim at your turban; and observe, he is now reloading

his piece.' My ill luck prevailed even at this instant--the only instant

in my life when I defied its power. I struggled with my adviser,

repeating, 'I am not the wretch you take me for; I am not Murad the

Unlucky.' He fled from the danger himself; I remained, and in a few

seconds afterwards a ball reached me, and I fell senseless on the sand.

"The ball was cut out of my body by an awkward surgeon, who gave me ten

times more pain than was necessary. He was particularly hurried at this

time, because the army had just received orders to march in a few hours,

and all was confusion in the camp. My wound was excessively painful, and

the fear of being left behind with those who were deemed incurable added

to my torments. Perhaps, if I had kept myself quiet, I might have

escaped some of the evils I afterwards endured; but, as I have repeatedly

told you, gentlemen, it was my ill fortune never to be able to judge what

was best to be done till the time for prudence was past.

"During the day, when my fever was at the height, and when my orders were

to keep my bed, contrary to my natural habits of indolence, I rose a

hundred times, and went out of my tent in the very heat of the day, to

satisfy my curiosity as to the number of the tents which had not been

struck, and of the soldiers who had not yet marched. The orders to march

were tardily obeyed, and many hours elapsed before our encampment was

raised. Had I submitted to my surgeon's orders, I might have been in a

state to accompany the most dilatory of the stragglers; I could have

borne, perhaps, the slow motion of a litter, on which some of the sick

were transported; but in the evening, when the surgeon came to dress my

wounds, he found me in such a situation that it was scarcely possible to

remove me.

"He desired a party of soldiers, who were left to bring up the rear, to

call for me the next morning. They did so; but they wanted to put me

upon the mule which I recollected, by a white streak on its back, to be

the cursed animal that had kicked me whilst I was looking for the ring. I

could not be prevailed upon to go upon this unlucky animal. I tried to

persuade the soldiers to carry me, and they took me a little way; but,

soon growing weary of their burden, they laid me down on the sand,

pretending that they were going to fill a skin with water at a spring

they had discovered, and bade me lie still, and wait for their return.

"I waited and waited, longing for the water to moisten my parched lips;

but no water came--no soldiers returned; and there I lay, for several

hours, expecting every moment to breathe my last. I made no effort to

move, for I was now convinced my hour was come, and that it was the will

of Mahomet that I should perish in this miserable manner, and lie

unburied like a dog: 'a death,' thought I, 'worthy of Murad the Unlucky.'

"My forebodings were not this time just; a detachment of English soldiers

passed near the place where I lay: my groans were heard by them, and they

humanely came to my assistance. They carried me with them, dressed my

wound, and treated me with the utmost tenderness. Christians though they

were, I must acknowledge that I had reason to love them better than any

of the followers of Mahomet, my good brother only excepted.

"Under their care I recovered; but scarcely had I regained my strength

before I fell into new disasters. It was hot weather, and my thirst was

excessive. I went out with a party, in hopes of finding a spring of

water. The English soldiers began to dig for a well, in a place pointed

out to them by one of their men of science. I was not inclined to such

hard labour, but preferred sauntering on in search of a spring. I saw at

a distance something that looked like a pool of water; and I pointed it

out to my companions. Their man of science warned me by his interpreter

not to trust to this deceitful appearance; for that such were common in

this country, and that, when I came close to the spot, I should find no

water there. He added, that it was at a greater distance than I

imagined; and that I should, in all probability, be lost in the desert if

I attempted to follow this phantom.

"I was so unfortunate as not to attend to his advice: I set out in

pursuit of this accursed delusion, which assuredly was the work of evil

spirits, who clouded my reason, and allured me into their dominion. I

went on, hour after hour, in expectation continually of reaching the

object of my wishes; but it fled faster than I pursued, and I discovered

at last that the Englishman, who had doubtless gained his information

from the people of the country, was right; and that the shining

appearance which I had taken for water was a mere deception.

"I was now exhausted with fatigue: I looked back in vain after the

companions I had left; I could see neither men, animals, nor any trace of

vegetation in the sandy desert. I had no resource but, weary as I was,

to measure back my footsteps, which were imprinted in the sand.

"I slowly and sorrowfully traced them as my guides in this unknown land.

Instead of yielding to my indolent inclinations, I ought, however, to

have made the best of my way back, before the evening breeze sprang up. I

felt the breeze rising, and, unconscious of my danger, I rejoiced, and

opened my bosom to meet it; but what was my dismay when I saw that the

wind swept before it all trace of my footsteps in the sand. I knew not

which way to proceed; I was struck with despair, tore my garments, threw

off my turban, and cried aloud; but neither human voice nor echo answered

me. The silence was dreadful. I had tasted no food for many hours, and

I now became sick and faint. I recollected that I had put a supply of

opium into the folds of my turban; but, alas! when I took my turban up, I

found that the opium had fallen out. I searched for it in vain on the

sand, where I had thrown the turban.

"I stretched myself out upon the ground, and yielded without further

struggle to my evil destiny. What I suffered from thirst, hunger, and

heat cannot be described. At last I fell into a sort of trance, during

which images of various kinds seemed to flit before my eyes. How long I

remained in this state I know not: but I remember that I was brought to

my senses by a loud shout, which came from persons belonging to a caravan

returning from Mecca. This was a shout of joy for their safe arrival at

a certain spring, well known to them in this part of the desert.

"The spring was not a hundred yards from the spot where I lay; yet, such

had been the fate of Murad the Unlucky, that he missed the reality,

whilst he had been hours in pursuit of the phantom. Feeble and

spiritless as I was, I sent forth as loud a cry as I could, in hopes of

obtaining assistance; and I endeavoured to crawl to the place from which

the voices appeared to come. The caravan rested for a considerable time

whilst the slaves filled the skins with water, and whilst the camels took

in their supply. I worked myself on towards them; yet, notwithstanding

my efforts, I was persuaded that, according to my usual ill-fortune, I

should never be able to make them hear my voice. I saw them mount their

camels! I took off my turban, unrolled it, and waved it in the air. My

signal was seen! The caravan came towards me!

"I had scarcely strength to speak; a slave gave me some water, and, after

I had drunk, I explained to them who I was, and how I came into this

situation.

"Whilst I was speaking, one of the travellers observed the purse which

hung to my girdle: it was the same the merchant for whom I recovered the

ring had given to me; I had carefully preserved it, because the initials

of my benefactor's name and a passage from the Koran were worked upon it.

When he give it to me, he said that perhaps we should meet again in some

other part of the world, and he should recognise me by this token. The

person who now took notice of the purse was his brother; and when I

related to him how I had obtained it, he had the goodness to take me

under his protection. He was a merchant, who was now going with the

caravan to Grand Cairo: he offered to take me with him, and I willingly

accepted the proposal, promising to serve him as faithfully as any of his

slaves. The caravan proceeded, and I was carried with it."

CHAPTER II

"The merchant, who was become my master, treated me with great kindness;

but on hearing me relate the whole series of my unfortunate adventures,

he exacted a promise from me that I would do nothing without first

consulting him. 'Since you are so unlucky, Murad,' said he, 'that you

always choose for the worst when you choose for yourself, you should

trust entirely to the judgment of a wiser or a more fortunate friend.'

"I fared well in the service of this merchant, who was a man of a mild

disposition, and who was so rich that he could afford to be generous to

all his dependants. It was my business to see his camels loaded and

unloaded at proper places, to count his bales of merchandise, and to take

care that they were not mixed with those of his companions. This I

carefully did till the day we arrived at Alexandria; when, unluckily, I

neglected to count the bales, taking it for granted that they were all

right, as I had found them so the preceding day. However, when we were

to go on board the vessel that was to take us to Cairo, I perceived that

three bales of cotton were missing.

"I ran to inform my master, who, though a good deal provoked at my

negligence, did not reproach me as I deserved. The public crier was

immediately sent round the city, to offer a reward for the recovery of

the merchandise; and it was restored by one of the merchants' slaves with

whom we had travelled. The vessel was now under sail; my master and I

and the bales of cotton were obliged to follow in a boat; and when we

were taken on board, the captain declared he was so loaded, that he could

not tell where to stow the bales of cotton. After much difficulty, he

consented to let them remain upon deck; and I promised my master to watch

them night and day.

"We had a prosperous voyage, and were actually in sight of shore, which

the captain said we could not fail to reach early the next morning. I

stayed, as usual, this night upon deck, and solaced myself by smoking my

pipe. Ever since I had indulged in this practice at the camp at El

Arish, I could not exist without opium and tobacco. I suppose that my

reason was this night a little clouded with the dose I took; but towards

midnight I was sobered by terror. I started up from the deck on which I

had stretched myself; my turban was in flames--the bale of cotton on

which I had rested was all on fire. I awakened two sailors, who were

fast asleep on deck. The consternation became general, and the confusion

increased the danger. The captain and my master were the most active,

and suffered the most, in extinguishing the flames--my master was

terribly scorched.

"For my part, I was not suffered to do anything; the captain ordered that

I should be bound to the mast; and when at last the flames were

extinguished, the passengers, with one accord, besought him to keep me

bound hand and foot, lest I should be the cause of some new disaster. All

that had happened was, indeed, occasioned by my ill-luck. I had laid my

pipe down, when I was falling asleep, upon the bale of cotton that was

beside me. The fire from my pipe fell out and set the cotton in flames.

Such was the mixture of rage and terror with which I had inspired the

whole crew, that I am sure they would have set me ashore on a desert

island rather than have had me on board for a week longer. Even my

humane master, I could perceive, was secretly impatient to get rid of

Murad the Unlucky and his evil fortune.

"You may believe that I was heartily glad when we landed, and when I was

unbound. My master put a purse containing fifty sequins into my hand,

and bade me farewell. 'Use this money prudently, Murad, if you can,'

said he, 'and perhaps your fortune may change.' Of this I had little

hopes, but determined to lay out my money as prudently as possible.

"As I was walking through the streets of Grand Cairo, considering how I

should lay out my fifty sequins to the greatest advantage, I was stopped

by one who called me by my name, and asked me if I could pretend to have

forgotten his face. I looked steadily at him, and recollected to my

sorrow that he was the Jew Rachub, from whom I had borrowed certain sums

of money at the camp at El Arish. What brought him to Grand Cairo,

except it was my evil destiny, I cannot tell. He would not quit me; he

would take no excuses; he said he knew that I had deserted twice, once

from the Turkish and once from the English army; that I was not entitled

to any pay; and that he could not imagine it possible that my brother

Saladin would own me or pay my debts.

"I replied, for I was vexed by the insolence of this Jewish dog, that I

was not, as he imagined, a beggar: that I had the means of paying him my

just debt, but that I hoped he would not extort from me all that

exorbitant interest which none but a Jew could exact. He smiled, and

answered that if a Turk loved opium better than money this was no fault

of his; that he had supplied me with what I loved best in the world, and

that I ought not to complain when he expected I should return the favour.

"I will not weary you, gentlemen, with all the arguments that passed

between me and Rachub. At last we compromised matters; he would take

nothing less than the whole debt: but he let me have at a very cheap rate

a chest of second-hand clothes, by which he assured me I might make my

fortune. He brought them to Grand Cairo, he said, for the purpose of

selling them to slave merchants, who, at this time of the year, were in

want of them to supply their slaves; but he was in haste to get home to

his wife and family at Constantinople, and, therefore, he was willing to

make over to a friend the profits of this speculation. I should have

distrusted Rachub's professions of friendship, and especially of

disinterestedness, but he took me with him to the khan where his goods

were, and unlocked the chest of clothes to show them to me. They were of

the richest and finest materials, and had been but little worn. I could

not doubt the evidence of my senses; the bargain was concluded, and the

Jew sent porters to my inn with the chest.

"The next day I repaired to the public market-place; and, when my

business was known, I had choice of customers before night--my chest was

empty, and my purse was full. The profit I made upon the sale of these

clothes was so considerable, that I could not help feeling astonishment

at Rachub's having brought himself so readily to relinquish them.

"A few days after I had disposed of the contents of my chest, a Damascene

merchant, who had bought two suits of apparel from me, told me, with a

very melancholy face, that both the female slaves who had put on these

clothes were sick. I could not conceive that the clothes were the cause

of their sickness; but soon afterwards, as I was crossing the market, I

was attacked by at least a dozen merchants, who made similar complaints.

They insisted upon knowing how I came by the garments, and demanded

whether I had worn any of them myself. This day I had, for the first

time, indulged myself with wearing a pair of yellow slippers, the only

finery I had reserved for myself out of all the tempting goods. Convinced

by my wearing these slippers that I could have had no insidious designs,

since I shared the danger, whatever it might be, the merchants were a

little pacified; but what was my terror and remorse the next day, when

one of them came to inform me that plague-boils had broken out under the

arms of all the slaves who had worn this pestilential apparel! On

looking carefully into the chest, we found the word 'Smyrna' written, and

half effaced, upon the lid. Now, the plague had for some time raged at

Smyrna; and, as the merchants suspected, these clothes had certainly

belonged to persons who had died of that distemper. This was the reason

why the Jew was willing to sell them to me so cheap; and it was for this

reason that he would not stay at Grand Cairo himself to reap the profits

of his speculation. Indeed, if I had paid attention to it at the proper

time, a slight circumstance might have revealed the truth to me. Whilst

I was bargaining with the Jew, before he opened the chest, he swallowed a

large dram of brandy, and stuffed his nostrils with sponge dipped in

vinegar; he told me, he did to prevent his perceiving the smell of musk,

which always threw him into convulsions.

"The horror I felt when I discovered that I had spread the infection of

the plague, and that I had probably caught it myself, overpowered my

senses--a cold dew spread over all my limbs, and I fell upon the lid of

the fatal chest in a swoon. It is said that fear disposes people to take

the infection; however this may be, I sickened that evening, and soon was

in a raging fever. It was worse for me whenever the delirium left me,

and I could reflect upon the miseries my ill-fortune had occasioned. In

my first lucid interval I looked round, and saw that I had been removed

from the khan to a wretched hut. An old woman, who was smoking her pipe

in the farthest corner of my room, informed me that I had been sent out

of the town of Grand Cairo by order of the cadi, to whom the merchants

had made their complaint. The fatal chest was burnt, and the house in

which I had lodged razed to the ground. 'And if it had not been for me,'

continued the old woman, 'you would have been dead probably at this

instant; but I have made a vow to our great Prophet that I would never

neglect an opportunity of doing a good action; therefore, when you were

deserted by all the world, I took care of you. Here, too, is your purse,

which I saved from the rabble--and, what is more difficult, from the

officers of justice. I will account to you for every part that I have

expended; and will, moreover, tell you the reason of my making such an

extraordinary vow.'

"As I believed that this benevolent old woman took great pleasure in

talking, I made an inclination of my head to thank her for her promised

history, and she proceeded; but I must confess I did not listen with all

the attention her narrative doubtless deserved. Even curiosity, the

strongest passion of us Turks, was dead within me. I have no

recollection of the old woman's story. It is as much as I can do to

finish my own.

"The weather became excessively hot; it was affirmed by some of the

physicians that this heat would prove fatal to their patients; but,

contrary to the prognostics of the physicians, it stopped the progress of

the plague. I recovered, and found my purse much lightened by my

illness. I divided the remainder of my money with my humane nurse, and

sent her out into the city to inquire how matters were going on.

"She brought me word that the fury of the plague had much abated, but

that she had met several funerals, and that she had heard many of the

merchants cursing the folly of Murad the Unlucky, who, as they said, had

brought all this calamity upon the inhabitants of Cairo. Even fools,

they say, learn by experience. I took care to burn the bed on which I

had lain and the clothes I had worn; I concealed my real name, which I

knew would inspire detestation, and gained admittance, with a crowd of

other poor wretches, into a lazaretto, where I performed quarantine and

offered up prayers daily for the sick.

"When I thought it was impossible I could spread the infection, I took my

passage home. I was eager to get away from Grand Cairo, where I knew I

was an object of execration. I had a strange fancy haunting my mind; I

imagined that all my misfortunes, since I left Constantinople, had arisen

from my neglect of the talisman upon the beautiful china vase. I dreamed

three times, when I was recovering from the plague, that a genius

appeared to me, and said, in a reproachful tone, 'Murad, where is the

vase that was entrusted to thy care?'

"This dream operated strongly upon my imagination. As soon as we arrived

at Constantinople, which we did, to my great surprise, without meeting

with any untoward accidents, I went in search of my brother Saladin to

inquire for my vase. He no longer lived in the house in which I left

him, and I began to be apprehensive that he was dead, but a porter,

hearing my inquiries, exclaimed, 'Who is there in Constantinople that is

ignorant of the dwelling of Saladin the Lucky? Come with me, and I will

show it to you.'

"The mansion to which he conducted me looked so magnificent that I was

almost afraid to enter lest there should be some mistake. But whilst I

was hesitating the doors opened, and I heard my brother Saladin's voice.

He saw me almost at the same instant that I fixed my eyes upon him, and

immediately sprang forward to embrace me. He was the same good brother

as ever, and I rejoiced in his prosperity with all my heart. 'Brother

Saladin,' said I, 'can you now doubt that some men are born to be

fortunate and others to be unfortunate? How often you used to dispute

this point with me!'

"'Let us not dispute it now in the public street,' said he, smiling; 'but

come in and refresh yourself, and we will consider the question

afterwards at leisure.'

"'No, my dear brother,' said I, drawing back, 'you are too good: Murad

the Unlucky shall not enter your house, lest he should draw down

misfortunes upon you and yours. I come only to ask for my vase.'

"'It is safe,' cried he; 'come in, and you shall see it: but I will not

give it up till I have you in my house. I have none of these

superstitious fears: pardon me the expression, but I have none of these

superstitious fears.'

"I yielded, entered his house, and was astonished at all I saw. My

brother did not triumph in his prosperity; but, on the contrary, seemed

intent only upon making me forget my misfortunes: he listened to the

account of them with kindness, and obliged me by the recital of his

history: which was, I must acknowledge, far less wonderful than my own.

He seemed, by his own account, to have grown rich in the common course of

things; or rather, by his own prudence. I allowed for his prejudices,

and, unwilling to dispute farther with him, said, 'You must remain of

your opinion, brother, and I of mine; you are Saladin the Lucky, and I

Murad the Unlucky; and so we shall remain to the end of our lives.'

"I had not been in his house four days when an accident happened, which

showed how much I was in the right. The favourite of the sultan, to whom

he had formerly sold his china vase, though her charms were now somewhat

faded by time, still retained her power and her taste for magnificence.

She commissioned my brother to bespeak for her, at Venice, the most

splendid looking-glass that money could purchase. The mirror, after many

delays and disappointments, at length arrived at my brother's house. He

unpacked it, and sent to let the lady know it was in perfect safety. It

was late in the evening, and she ordered it should remain where it was

that night, and that it should be brought to the seraglio the next

morning. It stood in a sort of ante-chamber to the room in which I

slept; and with it were left some packages, containing glass chandeliers

for an unfinished saloon in my brother's house. Saladin charged all his

domestics to be vigilant this night, because he had money to a great

amount by him, and there had been frequent robberies in our

neighbourhood. Hearing these orders, I resolved to be in readiness at a

moment's warning. I laid my scimitar beside me upon a cushion, and left

my door half open, that I might hear the slightest noise in the

ante-chamber or the great staircase. About midnight I was suddenly

awakened by a noise in the ante-chamber. I started up, seized my

scimitar, and the instant I got to the door, saw, by the light of the

lamp which was burning in the room, a man standing opposite to me, with a

drawn sword in his hand. I rushed forward, demanding what he wanted, and

received no answer; but seeing him aim at me with his scimitar, I gave

him, as I thought, a deadly blow. At this instant I heard a great crash;

and the fragments of the looking-glass, which I had shivered, fell at my

feet. At the same moment something black brushed by my shoulder: I

pursued it, stumbled over the packages of glass, and rolled over them

down the stairs.

"My brother came out of his room to inquire the cause of all this

disturbance; and when he saw the fine mirror broken, and me lying amongst

the glass chandeliers at the bottom of the stairs, he could not forbear

exclaiming, 'Well, brother! you are indeed Murad the Unlucky.'

"When the first emotion was over, he could not, however, forbear laughing

at my situation. With a degree of goodness, which made me a thousand

times more sorry for the accident, he came downstairs to help me up, gave

me his hand, and said, 'Forgive me if I was angry with you at first. I

am sure you did not mean to do me any injury; but tell me how all this

has happened?'

"Whilst Saladin was speaking, I heard the same kind of noise which had

alarmed me in the ante-chamber; but, on looking back, I saw only a black

pigeon, which flew swiftly by me, unconscious of the mischief he had

occasioned. This pigeon I had unluckily brought into the house the

preceding day; and had been feeding and trying to tame it for my young

nephews. I little thought it would be the cause of such disasters. My

brother, though he endeavoured to conceal his anxiety from me, was much

disturbed at the idea of meeting the favourite's displeasure, who would

certainly be grievously disappointed by the loss of her splendid looking-

glass. I saw that I should inevitably be his ruin if I continued in his

house; and no persuasions could prevail upon me to prolong my stay. My

generous brother, seeing me determined to go, said to me, 'A factor, whom

I have employed for some years to sell merchandise for me, died a few

days ago. Will you take his place? I am rich enough to bear any little

mistakes you may fall into from ignorance of business; and you will have

a partner who is able and willing to assist you.'

"I was touched to the heart by this kindness, especially at such a time

as this. He sent one of his slaves with me to the shop in which you now

see me, gentlemen. The slave, by my brother's directions, brought with

us my china vase, and delivered it safely to me, with this message: 'The

scarlet dye that was found in this vase, and in its fellow, was the first

cause of Saladin's making the fortune he now enjoys: he therefore does no

more than justice in sharing that fortune with his brother Murad.'

"I was now placed in as advantageous a situation as possible; but my mind

was ill at ease when I reflected that the broken mirror might be my

brother's ruin. The lady by whom it had been bespoken was, I well knew,

of a violent temper; and this disappointment was sufficient to provoke

her to vengeance. My brother sent me word this morning, however, that

though her displeasure was excessive, it was in my power to prevent any

ill consequences that might ensue. 'In my power!' I exclaimed; 'then,

indeed, I am happy! Tell my brother there is nothing I will not do to

show him my gratitude and to save him from the consequences of my folly.'

"The slave who was sent by my brother seemed unwilling to name what was

required of me, saying that his master was afraid I should not like to

grant the request. I urged him to speak freely, and he then told me the

favourite declared nothing would make her amends for the loss of the

mirror but the fellow-vase to that which she had bought from Saladin. It

was impossible for me to hesitate; gratitude for my brother's generous

kindness overcame my superstitious obstinacy, and I sent him word I would

carry the vase to him myself.

"I took it down this evening from the shelf on which it stood; it was

covered with dust, and I washed it, but, unluckily, in endeavouring to

clean the inside from the remains of the scarlet powder, I poured hot

water into it, and immediately I heard a simmering noise, and my vase, in

a few instants, burst asunder with a loud explosion. These fragments,

alas! are all that remain. The measure of my misfortunes is now

completed! Can you wonder, gentlemen, that I bewail my evil destiny? Am

I not justly called Murad the Unlucky? Here end all my hopes in this

world! Better would it have been if I had died long ago! Better that I

had never been born! Nothing I ever have done or attempted has

prospered. Murad the Unlucky is my name, and ill-fate has marked me for

her own."

CHAPTER III

The lamentations of Murad were interrupted by the entrance of Saladin.

Having waited in vain for some hours, he now came to see if any disaster

had happened to his brother Murad. He was surprised at the sight of the

two pretended merchants, and could not refrain from exclamations on

beholding the broken vase. However, with his usual equanimity and good-

nature, he began to console Murad; and, taking up the fragments, examined

them carefully, one by one joined them together again, found that none of

the edges of the china were damaged, and declared he could have it mended

so as to look as well as ever.

Murad recovered his spirits upon this. "Brother," said he, "I comfort

myself for being Murad the Unlucky when I reflect that you are Saladin

the Lucky. See, gentlemen," continued he, turning to the pretended

merchants, "scarcely has this most fortunate of men been five minutes in

company before he gives a happy turn to affairs. His presence inspires

joy: I observe your countenances, which had been saddened by my dismal

history, have brightened up since he has made his appearance. Brother, I

wish you would make these gentlemen some amends for the time they have

wasted in listening to my catalogue of misfortunes by relating your

history, which, I am sure, they will find rather more exhilarating."

Saladin consented, on condition that the strangers would accompany him

home and partake of a social banquet. They at first repeated the former

excuse of their being obliged to return to their inn; but at length the

sultan's curiosity prevailed, and he and his vizier went home with

Saladin the Lucky, who, after supper, related his history in the

following manner:--

"My being called Saladin the Lucky first inspired me with confidence in

myself; though I own that I cannot remember any extraordinary instances

of good luck in my childhood. An old nurse of my mother's, indeed,

repeated to me twenty times a day that nothing I undertook could fail to

succeed, because I was Saladin the Lucky. I became presumptuous and

rash; and my nurse's prognostics might have effectually prevented their

accomplishment had I not, when I was about fifteen, been roused to

reflection during a long confinement, which was the consequence of my

youthful conceit and imprudence.

"At this time there was at the Porte a Frenchman, an ingenious engineer,

who was employed and favoured by the sultan, to the great astonishment of

many of my prejudiced countrymen. On the grand seignior's birthday he

exhibited some extraordinarily fine fireworks; and I, with numbers of the

inhabitants of Constantinople, crowded to see them. I happened to stand

near the place where the Frenchman was stationed; the crowd pressed upon

him, and I amongst the rest; he begged we would, for our own sakes, keep

at a greater distance, and warned us that we might be much hurt by the

combustibles which he was using. I, relying upon my good fortune,

disregarded all these cautions; and the consequence was that, as I

touched some of the materials prepared for the fireworks, they exploded,

dashed me upon the ground with great violence, and I was terribly burnt.

"This accident, gentlemen, I consider as one of the most fortunate

circumstances of my life; for it checked and corrected the presumption of

my temper. During the time I was confined to my bed the French gentleman

came frequently to see me. He was a very sensible man; and the

conversations he had with me enlarged my mind and cured me of many

foolish prejudices, especially of that which I had been taught to

entertain concerning the predominance of what is called luck or fortune

in human affairs. 'Though you are called Saladin the Lucky,' said he,

'you find that your neglect of prudence has nearly brought you to the

grave even in the bloom of youth. Take my advice, and henceforward trust

more to prudence than to fortune. Let the multitude, if they will, call

you Saladin the Lucky; but call yourself, and make yourself, Saladin the

Prudent.'

"These words left an indelible impression on my mind, and gave a new turn

to my thoughts and character. My brother, Murad, has doubtless told you

our difference of opinion on the subject of predestination produced

between us frequent arguments; but we could never convince one another,

and we each have acted, through life, in consequence of our different

beliefs. To this I attribute my success and his misfortunes.

"The first rise of my fortune, as you have probably heard from Murad, was

owing to the scarlet dye, which I brought to perfection with infinite

difficulty. The powder, it is true, was accidentally found by me in our

china vases; but there it might have remained to this instant, useless,

if I had not taken the pains to make it useful. I grant that we can only

partially foresee and command events; yet on the use we make of our own

powers, I think, depends our destiny. But, gentlemen, you would rather

hear my adventures, perhaps, than my reflections; and I am truly

concerned, for your sakes, that I have no wonderful events to relate. I

am sorry I cannot tell you of my having been lost in a sandy desert. I

have never had the plague, nor even been shipwrecked: I have been all my

life an inhabitant of Constantinople, and have passed my time in a very

quiet and uniform manner.

"The money I received from the sultan's favourite for my china vase, as

my brother may have told you, enabled me to trade on a more extensive

scale. I went on steadily with my business, and made it my whole study

to please my employers by all fair and honourable means. This industry

and civility succeeded beyond my expectations: in a few years I was rich

for a man in my way of business.

"I will not proceed to trouble you with the journal of a petty merchant's

life; I pass on to the incident which made a considerable change in my

affairs.

"A terrible fire broke out near the walls of the grand seignior's

seraglio. As you are strangers, gentlemen, you may not have heard of

this event, though it produced so great a sensation in Constantinople.

The vizier's superb palace was utterly consumed, and the melted lead

poured down from the roof of the mosque of St. Sophia. Various were the

opinions formed by my neighbours respecting the cause of the

conflagration. Some supposed it to be a punishment for the sultan's

having neglected one Friday to appear at the mosque of St. Sophia; others

considered it as a warning sent by Mahomet to dissuade the Porte from

persisting in a war in which we were just engaged. The generality,

however, of the coffee-house politicians contented themselves with

observing that it was the will of Mahomet that the palace should be

consumed. Satisfied by this supposition, they took no precaution to

prevent similar accidents in their own houses. Never were fires so

common in the city as at this period; scarcely a night passed without our

being wakened by the cry of fire.

"These frequent fires were rendered still more dreadful by villains, who

were continually on the watch to increase the confusion by which they

profited, and to pillage the houses of the sufferers. It was discovered

that these incendiaries frequently skulked, towards evening, in the

neighbourhood of the bezestein, where the richest merchants store their

goods. Some of these wretches were detected in throwing _coundaks_, or

matches, into the windows; and if these combustibles remained a

sufficient time, they could not fail to set the house on fire.

"Notwithstanding all these circumstances, many even of those who had

property to preserve continued to repeat, 'It is the will of Mahomet,'

and consequently to neglect all means of preservation. I, on the

contrary, recollecting the lesson I had learned from the sensible

foreigner, neither suffered my spirits to sink with superstitious fears

of ill-luck, nor did I trust presumptuously to my good fortune. I took

every possible means to secure myself. I never went to bed without

having seen that all the lights and fires in the house were extinguished,

and that I had a supply of water in the cistern. I had likewise learned

from my Frenchman that wet mortar was the most effectual thing for

stopping the progress of flames. I, therefore, had a quantity of mortar

made up in one of my outhouses, which I could use at a moment's warning.

These precautions were all useful to me. My own house, indeed, was never

actually on fire; but the houses of my next-door neighbours were no less

than five times in flames in the course of one winter. By my exertions,

or rather by my precautions, they suffered but little damage, and all my

neighbours looked upon me as their deliverer and friend; they loaded me

with presents, and offered more, indeed, than I would accept. All

repeated that I was Saladin the Lucky. This compliment I disclaimed,

feeling more ambitious of being called Saladin the Prudent. It is thus

that what we call modesty is often only a more refined species of pride.

But to proceed with my story.

"One night I had been later than usual at supper at a friend's house;

none but the watch were in the streets, and even they, I believe, were

asleep.

"As I passed one of the conduits which convey water to the city, I heard

a trickling noise; and, upon examination, I found that the cock of the

water-spout was half turned, so that the water was running out. I turned

it back to its proper place, thought it had been left unturned by

accident, and walked on; but I had not proceeded far before I came to

another spout, and another, which were in the same condition. I was

convinced that this could not be the effect merely of accident, and

suspected that some ill-intentioned persons designed to let out and waste

the water of the city, that there might be none to extinguish any fire

that should break out in the course of the night.

"I stood still for a few moments, to consider how it would be most

prudent to act. It would be impossible for me to run to all parts of the

city, that I might stop the pipes that were running to waste. I first

thought of wakening the watch and the firemen, who were most of them

slumbering at their stations; but I reflected that they were perhaps not

to be trusted, and that they were in a confederacy with the incendiaries,

otherwise they would certainly before this hour have observed and stopped

the running of the sewers in their neighbourhood. I determined to waken

a rich merchant, called Damat Zade, who lived near me, and who had a

number of slaves whom he could send to different parts of the city, to

prevent mischief and give notice to the inhabitants of their danger.

"He was a very sensible, active man, and one that could easily be

wakened; he was not like some Turks, an hour in recovering their

lethargic senses. He was quick in decision and action; and his slaves

resembled their master. He despatched a messenger immediately to the

grand vizier, that the sultan's safety might be secured, and sent others

to the magistrates in each quarter of Constantinople. The large drums in

the janissary aga's tower beat to rouse the inhabitants; and scarcely had

they been heard to beat half an hour before the fire broke out in the

lower apartments of Damat Zade's house, owing to a _coundak_ which had

been left behind one of the doors.

"The wretches who had prepared the mischief came to enjoy it, and to

pillage; but they were disappointed. Astonished to find themselves taken

into custody, they could not comprehend how their designs had been

frustrated. By timely exertions, the fire in my friend's house was

extinguished; and though fires broke out during the night in many parts

of the city, but little damage was sustained, because there was time for

precautions, and, by the stopping of the spouts, sufficient water was

preserved. People were awakened and warned of the danger, and they

consequently escaped unhurt.

"The next day, as soon as I made my appearance at the bezestein, the

merchants crowded round, called me their benefactor, and the preserver of

their lives and fortunes. Damat Zade, the merchant whom I had awakened

the preceding night, presented to me a heavy purse of gold, and put upon

my finger a diamond ring of considerable value; each of the merchants

followed his example in making me rich presents; the magistrates also

sent me tokens of their approbation; and the grand vizier sent me a

diamond of the first water, with a line written by his own hand, 'To the

man who has saved Constantinople.' Excuse me, gentlemen, for the vanity

I seem to show in mentioning these circumstances. You desired to hear my

history, and I cannot, therefore, omit the principal circumstance of my

life. In the course of four-and-twenty hours I found myself raised, by

the munificent gratitude of the inhabitants of this city, to a state of

affluence far beyond what I had ever dreamed of attaining.

"I now took a house suited to my circumstances, and bought a few slaves.

As I was carrying my slaves home, I was met by a Jew, who stopped me,

saying, in his language, 'My lord, I see, has been purchasing slaves; I

could clothe them cheaply.' There was something mysterious in the manner

of this Jew, and I did not like his countenance; but I considered that I

ought not to be governed by caprice in my dealings, and that, if this man

could really clothe my slaves more cheaply than another, I ought not to

neglect his offer merely because I took a dislike to the cut of his

beard, the turn of his eye, or the tone of his voice. I, therefore, bade

the Jew follow me home, saying that I would consider of his proposal.

"When we came to talk over the matter, I was surprised to find him so

reasonable in his demands. On one point, indeed, he appeared unwilling

to comply. I required not only to see the clothes I was offered, but

also to know how they came into his possession. On this subject he

equivocated; I, therefore, suspected there must be something wrong. I

reflected what it could be, and judged that the goods had been stolen, or

that they had been the apparel of persons who had died of some contagious

distemper. The Jew showed me a chest, from which he said I might choose

whatever suited me best. I observed that, as he was going to unlock the

chest, he stuffed his nose with some aromatic herbs. He told me that he

did so to prevent his smelling the musk with which the chest was

perfumed; musk, he said, had an extraordinary effect upon his nerves. I

begged to have some of the herbs which he used himself, declaring that

musk was likewise offensive to me.

"The Jew, either struck by his own conscience or observing my suspicions,

turned as pale as death. He pretended he had not the right key, and

could not unlock the chest; said he must go in search of it, and that he

would call on me again.

"After he had left me, I examined some writing upon the lid of the chest

that had been nearly effaced. I made out the word 'Smyrna,' and this was

sufficient to confirm all my suspicions. The Jew returned no more; he

sent some porters to carry away the chest, and I heard nothing of him for

some time, till one day, when I was at the house of Damat Zade, I saw a

glimpse of the Jew passing hastily through one of the courts, as if he

wished to avoid me. 'My friend,' said I to Damat Zade, 'do not attribute

my question to impertinent curiosity, or to a desire to intermeddle with

your affairs, if I venture to ask the nature of your business with the

Jew who has just now crossed your court?'

"'He has engaged to supply me with clothing for my slaves,' replied my

friend, 'cheaper than I can purchase it elsewhere. I have a design to

surprise my daughter Fatima, on her birthday, with an entertainment in

the pavilion in the garden, and all her female slaves shall appear in new

dresses on the occasion.'

"I interrupted my friend, to tell him what I suspected relative to this

Jew and his chest of clothes. It is certain that the infection of the

plague can be communicated by clothes, not only after months, but after

years have elapsed. The merchant resolved to have nothing more to do

with this wretch, who could thus hazard the lives of thousands of his

follow-creatures for a few pieces of gold. We sent notice of the

circumstance to the cadi, but the cadi was slow in his operations; and

before he could take the Jew into custody the cunning fellow had effected

his escape. When his house was searched, he and his chest had

disappeared. We discovered that he sailed for Egypt, and rejoiced that

we had driven him from Constantinople.

"My friend, Damat Zade, expressed the warmest gratitude to me. 'You

formerly saved my fortune; you have now saved my life, and a life yet

dearer than my own: that of my daughter Fatima.'

"At the sound of that name I could not, I believe, avoid showing some

emotion. I had accidentally seen this lady, and I had been captivated by

her beauty and by the sweetness of her countenance; but as I knew she was

destined to be the wife of another, I suppressed my feeling, and

determined to banish the recollection of the fair Fatima for ever from my

imagination. Her father, however, at this instant threw into my way a

temptation which it required all my fortitude to resist. 'Saladin,'

continued he, 'it is but just that you, who have saved our lives, should

share our festivity. Come here on the birthday of my Fatima; I will

place you in a balcony which overlooks the garden, and you shall see the

whole spectacle. We shall have a _feast of tulips_, in imitation of that

which, as you know, is held in the grand seignior's gardens. I assure

you the sight will be worth seeing; and besides, you will have a chance

of beholding my Fatima, for a moment, without her veil.'

"'That,' interrupted I, 'is the thing I most wish to avoid. I dare not

indulge myself in a pleasure which might cost me the happiness of my

life. I will conceal nothing from you, who treat me with so much

confidence. I have already beheld the charming countenance of your

Fatima, but I know that she is destined to be the wife of a happier man.'

"Damat Zade seemed much pleased by the frankness with which I explained

myself; but he would not give up the idea of my sitting with him in the

balcony on the day of the feast of tulips; and I, on my part, could not

consent to expose myself to another view of the charming Fatima. My

friend used every argument, or rather every sort of persuasion, he could

imagine to prevail upon me; he then tried to laugh me out of my

resolution; and, when all failed, he said, in a voice of anger, 'Go,

then, Saladin: I am sure you are deceiving me; you have a passion for

some other woman, and you would conceal it from me, and persuade me you

refuse the favour I offer you from prudence, when, in fact, it is from

indifference and contempt. Why could you not speak the truth of your

heart to me with that frankness with which one friend should treat

another?'

"Astonished at this unexpected charge, and at the anger which flashed

from the eyes of Damat Zade, who till this moment had always appeared to

me a man of a mild and reasonable temper, I was for an instant tempted to

fly into a passion and leave him; but friends, once lost, are not easily

regained. This consideration had power sufficient to make me command my

temper. 'My friend,' replied I, 'we will talk over this affair

to-morrow. You are now angry, and cannot do me justice, but to-morrow

you will be cool; you will then be convinced that I have not deceived

you, and that I have no design but to secure my own happiness, by the

most prudent means in my power, by avoiding the sight of the dangerous

Fatima. I have no passion for any other woman.'

"'Then,' said my friend, embracing me, and quitting the tone of anger

which he had assumed only to try my resolution to the utmost, 'Then,

Saladin, Fatima is yours.'

"I scarcely dared to believe my senses; I could not express my joy! 'Yes,

my friend,' continued the merchant, 'I have tried your prudence to the

utmost, it has been victorious, and I resign my Fatima to you, certain

that you will make her happy. It is true I had a greater alliance in

view for her--the Pacha of Maksoud has demanded her from me; but I have

found, upon private inquiry, he is addicted to the intemperate use of

opium, and my daughter shall never be the wife of one who is a violent

madman one-half the day and a melancholy idiot during the remainder. I

have nothing to apprehend from the pacha's resentment, because I have

powerful friends with the grand vizier, who will oblige him to listen to

reason, and to submit quietly to a disappointment he so justly merits.

And now, Saladin, have you any objection to seeing the feast of tulips?'

"I replied only by falling at the merchant's feet, and embracing his

knees. The feast of tulips came and on that day I was married to the

charming Fatima! The charming Fatima I continue still to think her,

though she has now been my wife some years. She is the joy and pride of

my heart; and, from our mutual affection, I have experienced more

felicity than from all the other circumstances of my life, which are

called so fortunate. Her father gave me the house in which I now live,

and joined his possessions to ours; so that I have more wealth even than

I desire. My riches, however, give me continually the means of relieving

the wants of others; and therefore I cannot affect to despise them. I

must persuade my brother Murad to share them with me, and to forget his

misfortunes: I shall then think myself completely happy. As to the

sultana's looking-glass and your broken vase, my dear brother," continued

Saladin, "we must think of some means--"

"Think no more of the sultana's looking-glass or of the broken vase,"

exclaimed the sultan, throwing aside his merchant's habit, and showing

beneath it his own imperial vest. "Saladin, I rejoice to have heard,

from your own lips, the history of your life. I acknowledge, vizier, I

have been in the wrong in our argument," continued the sultan, turning to

his vizier. "I acknowledge that the histories of Saladin the Lucky and

Murad the Unlucky favour your opinion, that prudence has more influence

than chance in human affairs. The success and happiness of Saladin seem

to me to have arisen from his prudence: by that prudence Constantinople

has been saved from flames and from the plague. Had Murad possessed his

brother's discretion, he would not have been on the point of losing his

head, for selling rolls which he did not bake: he would not have been

kicked by a mule or bastinadoed for finding a ring: he would not have

been robbed by one party of soldiers, or shot by another: he would not

have been lost in a desert, or cheated by a Jew: he would not have set a

ship on fire; nor would he have caught the plague, and spread it through

Grand Cairo: he would not have run my sultana's looking-glass through the

body, instead of a robber: he would not have believed that the fate of

his life depended on certain verses on a china vase: nor would he, at

last, have broken this precious talisman, by washing it with hot water.

Henceforward, let Murad the Unlucky be named Murad the Imprudent: let

Saladin preserve the surname he merits, and be henceforth called Saladin

the Prudent."

So spake the sultan, who, unlike the generality of monarchs, could bear

to find himself in the wrong, and could discover his vizier to be in the

right without cutting off his head. History farther informs us that the

sultan offered to make Saladin a pacha, and to commit to him the

government of a province; but, Saladin the Prudent declined this honour,

saying he had no ambition, was perfectly happy in his present situation,

and that, when this was the case, it would be folly to change, because no

one can be more than happy. What farther adventures befell Murad the

Imprudent are not recorded; it is known only that he became a daily

visitor to the Teriaky, and that he died a martyr to the immoderate use

of opium.

THE LIMERICK GLOVES

CHAPTER I

It was Sunday morning, and a fine day in autumn; the bells of Hereford

Cathedral rang, and all the world, smartly dressed, were flocking to

church.

"Mrs. Hill! Mrs. Hill!--Phœbe! Phœbe! There's the cathedral bell, I

say, and neither of you ready for church, and I a verger," cried Mr.

Hill, the tanner, as he stood at the bottom of his own staircase. "I'm

ready, papa," replied Phœbe; and down she came, looking so clean, so

fresh, and so gay, that her stern father's brows unbent, and he could

only say to her, as she was drawing on a new pair of gloves, "Child, you

ought to have had those gloves on before this time of day."

"Before this time of day!" cried Mrs. Hill, who was now coming downstairs

completely equipped--"before this time of day! She should know better, I

say, than to put on those gloves at all: more especially when going to

the cathedral."

"The gloves are very good gloves, as far as I see," replied Mr. Hill.

"But no matter now. It is more fitting that we should be in proper time

in our pew, to set an example, as becomes us, than to stand here talking

of gloves and nonsense."

He offered his wife and daughter each an arm, and set out for the

cathedral; but Phœbe was too busy in drawing on her new gloves, and her

mother was too angry at the sight of them, to accept of Mr. Hill's

courtesy. "What I say is always nonsense, I know, Mr. Hill," resumed the

matron: "but I can see as far into a millstone as other folks. Was it

not I that first gave you a hint of what became of the great dog that we

lost out of our tan-yard last winter? And was it not I who first took

notice to you, Mr. Hill, verger as you are, of the hole under the

foundation of the cathedral? Was it not, I ask you, Mr. Hill?"

"But, my dear Mrs. Hill, what has all this to do with Phœbe's gloves?"

"Are you blind, Mr. Hill? Don't you see that they are Limerick gloves?"

"What of that?" said Mr. Hill, still preserving his composure, as it was

his custom to do as long as he could, when he saw his wife was ruffled.

"What of that, Mr. Hill! why, don't you know that Limerick is in Ireland,

Mr. Hill?"

"With all my heart, my dear."

"Yes, and with all your heart, I suppose, Mr. Hill, you would see our

cathedral blown up, some fair day or other, and your own daughter married

to the person that did it; and you a verger, Mr. Hill."

"God forbid!" cried Mr, Hill; and he stopped short and settled his wig.

Presently recovering himself, he added, "But, Mrs. Hill, the cathedral is

not yet blown up; and our Phœbe is not yet married."

"No; but what of that, Mr. Hill? Forewarned is forearmed, as I told you

before your dog was gone; but you would not believe me, and you see how

it turned out in that case; and so it will in this case, you'll see, Mr.

Hill."

"But you puzzle and frighten me out of my wits, Mrs. Hill," said the

verger, again settling his wig. "_In that case and in this case_! I

can't understand a syllable of what you've been saying to me this half-

hour. In plain English, what is there the matter about Phœbe's gloves?"

"In plain English, then, Mr. Hill, since you can understand nothing else,

please to ask your daughter Phœbe who gave her those gloves. Phœbe,

who gave you those gloves?"

"I wish they were burnt," said the husband, whose patience could endure

no longer. "Who gave you those cursed gloves, Phœbe?"

"Papa," answered Phœbe, in a low voice, "they were a present from Mr.

Brian O'Neill."

"The Irish glover!" cried Mr. Hill, with a look of terror.

"Yes," resumed the mother; "very true, Mr. Hill, I assure you. Now, you

see, I had my reasons."

"Take off the gloves directly: I order you, Phœbe," said her father, in

his most peremptory tone. "I took a mortal dislike to that Mr. Brian

O'Neill the first time I ever saw him. He's an Irishman, and that's

enough, and too much for me. Off with the gloves, Phœbe! When I order

a thing, it must be done."

Phœbe seemed to find some difficulty in getting off the gloves, and

gently urged that she could not well go into the cathedral without them.

This objection was immediately removed by her mother's pulling from her

pocket a pair of mittens, which had once been brown, and once been whole,

but which were now rent in sundry places; and which, having been long

stretched by one who was twice the size of Phœbe, now hung in huge

wrinkles upon her well-turned arms.

"But, papa," said Phœbe, "why should we take a dislike to him because he

is an Irishman? Cannot an Irishman be a good man?"

The verger made no answer to this question, but a few seconds after it

was put to him observed that the cathedral bell had just done ringing;

and, as they were now got to the church door, Mrs. Hill, with a

significant look at Phœbe, remarked that it was no proper time to talk

or think of good men, or bad men, or Irishmen, or any men, especially for

a verger's daughter.

We pass over in silence the many conjectures that were made by several of

the congregation concerning the reason why Miss Phœbe Hill should appear

in such a shameful shabby pair of gloves on a Sunday. After service was

ended, the verger went, with great mystery, to examine the hole under the

foundation of the cathedral; and Mrs. Hill repaired, with the grocer's

and the stationer's ladies, to take a walk in the Close, where she

boasted to all her female acquaintance, whom she called her friends, of

her maternal discretion in prevailing upon Mr. Hill to forbid her

daughter Phœbe to wear the Limerick gloves.

In the meantime, Phœbe walked pensively homewards, endeavouring to

discover why her father should take a mortal dislike to a man at first

sight, merely because he was an Irishman: and why her mother had talked

so much of the great dog which had been lost last year out of the tan-

yard; and of the hole under the foundation of the cathedral! "What has

all this to do with my Limerick gloves?" thought she. The more she

thought, the less connection she could perceive between these things: for

as she had not taken a dislike to Mr. Brian O'Neill at first sight,

because he was an Irishman, she could not think it quite reasonable to

suspect him of making away with her father's dog, nor yet of a design to

blow up Hereford Cathedral. As she was pondering upon these matters, she

came within sight of the ruins of a poor woman's house, which a few

months before this time had been burnt down. She recollected that her

first acquaintance with her lover began at the time of this fire; and she

thought that the courage and humanity he showed, in exerting himself to

save this unfortunate woman and her children, justified her notion of the

possibility that an Irishman might be a good man.

The name of the poor woman whose house had been burnt down was Smith: she

was a widow, and she now lived at the extremity of a narrow lane in a

wretched habitation. Why Phœbe thought of her with more concern than

usual at this instant we need not examine, but she did; and, reproaching

herself for having neglected it for some weeks past, she resolved to go

directly to see the widow Smith, and to give her a crown which she had

long had in her pocket, with which she had intended to have bought play

tickets.

It happened that the first person she saw in the poor widow's kitchen was

the identical Mr. O'Neill. "I did not expect to see anybody here but

you, Mrs. Smith," said Phœbe, blushing.

"So much the greater the pleasure of the meeting; to me, I mean, Miss

Hill," said O'Neill, rising, and putting down a little boy, with whom he

had been playing. Phœbe went on talking to the poor woman; and, after

slipping the crown into her hand, said she would call again. O'Neill,

surprised at the change in her manner, followed her when she left the

house, and said, "It would be a great misfortune to me to have done

anything to offend Miss Hill, especially if I could not conceive how or

what it was, which is my case at this present speaking." And as the

spruce glover spoke, he fixed his eyes upon Phœbe's ragged gloves. She

drew them up in vain; and then said, with her natural simplicity and

gentleness, "You have not done anything to offend me, Mr. O'Neill; but

you are some way or other displeasing to my father and mother, and they

have forbid me to wear the Limerick gloves."

"And sure Miss Hill would not be after changing her opinion of her humble

servant for no reason in life but because her father and mother, who have

taken a prejudice against him, are a little contrary."

"No," replied Phœbe; "I should not change my opinion without any reason;

but I have not yet had time to fix my opinion of you, Mr. O'Neill."

"To let you know a piece of my mind, then, my dear Miss Hill," resumed

he, "the more contrary they are, the more pride and joy it would give me

to win and wear you, in spite of 'em all; and if without a farthing in

your pocket, so much the more I should rejoice in the opportunity of

proving to your dear self, and all else whom it may consarn, that Brian

O'Neill is no fortune-hunter, and scorns them that are so narrow-minded

as to think that no other kind of cattle but them there fortune-hunters

can come out of all Ireland. So, my dear Phœbe, now we understand one

another, I hope you will not be paining my eyes any longer with the sight

of these odious brown bags, which are not fit to be worn by any Christian

arms, to say nothing of Miss Hill's, which are the handsomest, without

any compliment, that ever I saw, and, to my mind, would become a pair of

Limerick gloves beyond anything: and I expect she'll show her generosity

and proper spirit by putting them on immediately."

"You expect, sir!" repeated Miss Hill, with a look of more indignation

than her gentle countenance had ever before been seen to assume.

"Expect!" "If he had said hope," thought she, "it would have been

another thing: but expect! what right has he to expect?"

Now Miss Hill, unfortunately, was not sufficiently acquainted with the

Irish idiom to know that to expect, in Ireland, is the same thing as to

hope in England; and, when her Irish admirer said "I expect," he meant

only, in plain English, "I hope." But thus it is that a poor Irishman,

often, for want of understanding the niceties of the English language,

says the rudest when he means to say the civillest things imaginable.

Miss Hill's feelings were so much hurt by this unlucky "I expect" that

the whole of his speech, which had before made some favourable impression

upon her, now lost its effect: and she replied with proper spirit, as she

thought, "You expect a great deal too much, Mr. O'Neill; and more than

ever I gave you reason to do. It would be neither pleasure nor pride to

me to be won and worn, as you were pleased to say, in spite of them all;

and to be thrown, without a farthing in my pocket, upon the protection of

one who expects so much at first setting out.--So I assure you, sir,

whatever you may expect, I shall not put on the Limerick gloves."

Mr. O'Neill was not without his share of pride and proper spirit; nay, he

had, it must be confessed, in common with some others of his countrymen,

an improper share of pride and spirit. Fired by the lady's coldness, he

poured forth a volley of reproaches; and ended by wishing, as he said, a

good morning, for ever and ever, to one who could change her opinion,

point blank, like the weathercock. "I am, miss, your most obedient; and

I expect you'll never think no more of poor Brian O'Neill and the

Limerick gloves."

If he had not been in too great a passion to observe anything, poor Brian

O'Neill would have found out that Phœbe was not a weathercock: but he

left her abruptly, and hurried away, imagining all the while that it was

Phœbe, and not himself, who was in a rage. Thus, to the horseman who is

galloping at full speed, the hedges, trees, and houses seem rapidly to

recede, whilst, in reality, they never move from their places. It is he

that flies from them, and not they from him.

On Monday morning Miss Jenny Brown, the perfumer's daughter, came to pay

Phœbe a morning visit, with face of busy joy.

"So, my dear!" said she: "fine doings in Hereford! But what makes you

look so downcast? To be sure you are invited, as well as the rest of

us."

"Invited where?" cried Mrs. Hill, who was present, and who could never

endure to hear of an invitation in which she was not included. "Invited

where, pray, Miss Jenny?"

"La! have not you heard? Why, we all took it for granted that you and

Miss Phœbe would have been the first and foremost to have been asked to

Mr. O'Neill's ball."

"Ball!" cried Mrs. Hill; and luckily saved Phœbe, who was in some

agitation, the trouble of speaking. "Why, this is a mighty sudden thing:

I never heard a tittle of it before."

"Well, this is really extraordinary! And, Phœbe, have you not received

a pair of Limerick gloves?"

"Yes, I have," said Phœbe, "but what then? What have my Limerick gloves

to do with the ball?"

"A great deal," replied Jenny. "Don't you know that a pair of Limerick

gloves is, as one may say, a ticket to this ball? for every lady that has

been asked has had a pair sent to her along with the card; and I believe

as many as twenty, besides myself, have been asked this morning."

Jenny then produced her new pair of Limerick gloves, and as she tried

them on, and showed how well they fitted, she counted up the names of the

ladies who, to her knowledge, were to be at this ball. When she had

finished the catalogue, she expatiated upon the grand preparations which

it was said the widow O'Neill, Mr. O'Neill's mother, was making for the

supper, and concluded by condoling with Mrs. Hill for her misfortune in

not having been invited. Jenny took her leave to get her dress in

readiness: "for," added she, "Mr. O'Neill has engaged me to open the ball

in case Phœbe does not go; but I suppose she will cheer up and go, as

she has a pair of Limerick gloves as well as the rest of us."

There was a silence for some minutes after Jenny's departure, which was

broken by Phœbe, who told her mother that, early in the morning, a note

had been brought to her, which she had returned unopened, because she

knew, from the handwriting of the direction, that it came from Mr.

O'Neill.

We must observe that Phœbe had already told her mother of her meeting

with this gentleman at the poor widow's, and of all that had passed

between them afterwards. This openness on her part had softened the

heart of Mrs. Hill, who was really inclined to be good-natured, provided

people would allow that she had more penetration than any one else in

Hereford. She was, moreover, a good deal piqued and alarmed by the idea

that the perfumer's daughter might rival and outshine her own. Whilst

she had thought herself sure of Mr. O'Neill's attachment to Phœbe, she

had looked higher, especially as she was persuaded by the perfumer's lady

to think that an Irishman could not but be a bad match; but now she began

to suspect that the perfumer's lady had changed her opinion of Irishmen,

since she did not object to her own Jenny's leading up the ball at Mr.

O'Neill's.

All these thoughts passed rapidly in the mother's mind, and, with her

fear of losing an admirer for her Phœbe, the value of that admirer

suddenly rose in her estimation. Thus, at an auction, if a lot is going

to be knocked down to a lady who is the only person that has bid for it,

even she feels discontented, and despises that which nobody covets; but

if, as the hammer is falling, many voices answer to the question, "Who

bids more?" then her anxiety to secure the prize suddenly rises, and,

rather than be outbid, she will give far beyond its value.

"Why, child," said Mrs. Hill, "since you have a pair of Limerick gloves;

and since certainly that note was an invitation to us to this ball; and

since it is much more fitting that you should open the ball than Jenny

Brown; and since, after all, it was very handsome and genteel of the

young man to say he would take you without a farthing in your pocket,

which shows that those were misinformed who talked of him as an Irish

adventurer; and since we are not certain 'twas he made away with the dog,

although he said its barking was a great nuisance; there is no great

reason to suppose he was the person who made the hole under the

foundation of the cathedral, or that he could have such a wicked thought

as to blow it up; and since he must be in a very good way of business to

be able to afford giving away four or five guineas' worth of Limerick

gloves, and balls and suppers; and since, after all, it is no fault of

his to be an Irishman, I give it as my vote and opinion, my dear, that

you put on your Limerick gloves and go to this ball; and I'll go and

speak to your father, and bring him round to our opinion, and then I'll

pay the morning visit I owe to the widow O'Neill and make up your quarrel

with Brian. Love quarrels are easy to make up, you know, and then we

shall have things all upon velvet again, and Jenny Brown need not come

with her hypocritical condoling face to us any more."

After running this speech glibly off, Mrs. Hill, without waiting to hear

a syllable from poor Phœbe, trotted off in search of her consort. It

was not, however, quite so easy a task as his wife expected, to bring Mr.

Hill round to her opinion. He was slow in declaring himself of any

opinion; but when once he had said a thing, there was but little chance

of altering his notions. On this occasion Mr. Hill was doubly bound to

his prejudice against our unlucky Irishman; for he had mentioned with

great solemnity at the club which he frequented the grand affair of the

hole under the foundation of the cathedral, and his suspicions that there

was a design to blow it up. Several of the club had laughed at this

idea; others, who supposed that Mr. O'Neill was a Roman Catholic, and who

had a confused notion that a Roman Catholic must be a very wicked,

dangerous being, thought that there might be a great deal in the verger's

suggestions, and observed that a very watchful eye ought to be kept upon

this Irish glover, who had come to settle at Hereford nobody knew why,

and who seemed to have money at command nobody knew how.

The news of this ball sounded to Mr. Hill's prejudiced imagination like

the news of a conspiracy. "Ay! ay!" thought he; "the Irishman is cunning

enough! But we shall be too many for him: he wants to throw all the good

sober folks of Hereford off their guard by feasting, and dancing, and

carousing, I take it, and so to perpetrate his evil design when it is

least suspected; but we shall be prepared for him, fools as he takes us

plain Englishmen to be, I warrant."

In consequence of these most shrewd cogitations, our verger silenced his

wife with a peremptory nod when she came to persuade him to let Phœbe

put on the Limerick gloves and go to the ball. "To this ball she shall

not go, and I charge her not to put on those Limerick gloves as she

values my blessing," said Mr. Hill. "Please to tell her so, Mrs. Hill,

and trust to my judgment and discretion in all things, Mrs. Hill. Strange

work may be in Hereford yet: but I'll say no more; I must go and consult

with knowing men who are of my opinion."

He sallied forth, and Mrs. Hill was left in a state which only those who

are troubled with the disease of excessive curiosity can rightly

comprehend or compassionate. She hied her back to Phœbe, to whom she

announced her father's answer, and then went gossiping to all her female

acquaintance in Hereford, to tell them all that she knew, and all that

she did not know, and to endeavour to find out a secret where there was

none to be found.

There are trials of temper in all conditions, and no lady, in high or low

life, could endure them with a better grace than Phœbe. Whilst Mr. and

Mrs. Hill were busied abroad, there came to see Phœbe one of the widow

Smith's children. With artless expressions of gratitude to Phœbe this

little girl mixed the praises of O'Neill, who, she said, had been the

constant friend of her mother, and had given her money every week since

the fire happened. "Mammy loves him dearly for being so good-natured,"

continued the child; "and he has been good to other people as well as to

us."

"To whom?" said Phœbe.

"To a poor man who has lodged for these few days past next door to us,"

replied the child; "I don't know his name rightly, but he is an Irishman,

and he goes out a-haymaking in the daytime along with a number of others.

He knew Mr. O'Neill in his own country, and he told mammy a great deal

about his goodness."

As the child finished these words, Phœbe took out of a drawer some

clothes, which she had made for the poor woman's children, and gave them

to the little girl. It happened that the Limerick gloves had been thrown

into this drawer; and Phœbe's favourable sentiments of the giver of

those gloves were revived by what she had just heard, and by the

confession Mrs. Hill had made, that she had no reasons, and but vague

suspicious, for thinking ill of him. She laid the gloves perfectly

smooth, and strewed over them, whilst the little girl went on talking of

Mr. O'Neill, the leaves of a rose which she had worn on Sunday.

Mr. Hill was all this time in deep conference with those prudent men of

Hereford who were of his own opinion, about the perilous hole under the

cathedral. The ominous circumstance of this ball was also considered,

the great expense at which the Irish glover lived, and his giving away

gloves, which was a sure sign he was not under any necessity to sell

them, and consequently a proof that, though he pretended to be a glover,

he was something wrong in disguise. Upon putting all these things

together, it was resolved by these over-wise politicians that the best

thing that could be done for Hereford, and the only possible means of

preventing the immediate destruction of its cathedral, would be to take

Mr. O'Neill into custody. Upon recollection, however, it was perceived

that there was no legal ground on which he could be attacked. At length,

after consulting an attorney, they devised what they thought an admirable

mode of proceeding.

Our Irish hero had not that punctuality which English tradesmen usually

observe in the payment of bills; he had, the preceding year, run up a

long bill with a grocer in Hereford, and, as he had not at Christmas cash

in hand to pay it, he had given a note, payable six months after date.

The grocer, at Mr. Hill's request, made over the note to him, and it was

determined that the money should be demanded, as it was now due, and

that, if it was not paid directly, O'Neill should be that night arrested.

How Mr. Hill made the discovery of this debt to the grocer agree with his

former notion that the Irish glover had always money at command we cannot

well conceive, but anger and prejudice will swallow down the grossest

contradictions without difficulty.

When Mr. Hill's clerk went to demand payment of the note, O'Neill's head

was full of the ball which he was to give that evening. He was much

surprised at the unexpected appearance of the note: he had not ready

money by him to pay it; and after swearing a good deal at the clerk, and

complaining of this ungenerous and ungentleman-like behaviour in the

grocer and the tanner, he told the clerk to be gone, and not to be

bothering him at such an unseasonable time: that he could not have the

money then, and did not deserve to have it at all.

This language and conduct were rather new to the English clerk's

mercantile ears: we cannot wonder that it should seem to him, as he said

to his master, more the language of a madman than a man of business. This

want of punctuality in money transactions, and this mode of treating

contracts as matters of favour and affection, might not have damned the

fame of our hero in his own country, where such conduct is, alas! too

common; but he was now in a kingdom where the manners and customs are so

directly opposite, that he could meet with no allowance for his national

faults. It would be well for his countrymen if they were made, even by a

few mortifications, somewhat sensible of this important difference in the

habits of Irish and English traders before they come to settle in

England.

But to proceed with our story. On the night of Mr. O'Neill's grand ball,

as he was seeing his fair partner, the perfumer's daughter, safe home, he

felt himself tapped on the shoulder by no friendly hand. When he was

told that he was the king's prisoner, he vociferated with sundry strange

oaths, which we forbear to repeat. "No, I am not the king's prisoner! I

am the prisoner of that shabby, rascally tanner, Jonathan Hill. None but

he would arrest a gentleman in this way, for a trifle not worth

mentioning."

Miss Jenny Brown screamed when she found herself under the protection of

a man who was arrested; and, what between her screams and his oaths,

there was such a disturbance that a mob gathered.

Among this mob there was a party of Irish haymakers, who, after returning

late from a hard day's work, had been drinking in a neighbouring

ale-house. With one accord they took part with their countryman, and

would have rescued him from the civil officers with all the pleasure in

life if he had not fortunately possessed just sufficient sense and

command of himself to restrain their party spirit, and to forbid them, as

they valued his life and reputation, to interfere, by word or deed, in

his defence.

He then despatched one of the haymakers home to his mother, to inform her

of what had happened, and to request that she would get somebody to be

bail for him as soon as possible, as the officers said they could not let

him out of their sight till he was bailed by substantial people, or till

the debt was discharged.

The widow O'Neill was just putting out the candles in the ball-room when

this news of her son's arrest was brought to her. We pass over Hibernian

exclamations: she consoled her pride by reflecting that it would

certainly be the most easy thing imaginable to procure bail for Mr.

O'Neill in Hereford, where he had so many friends who had just been

dancing at his house; but to dance at his house she found was one thing

and to be bail for him quite another. Each guest sent excuses, and the

widow O'Neill was astonished at what never fails to astonish everybody

when it happens to themselves. "Rather than let my son be detained in

this manner for a paltry debt," cried she, "I'd sell all I have within

half an hour to a pawnbroker." It was well no pawnbroker heard this

declaration: she was too warm to consider economy. She sent for a

pawnbroker, who lived in the same street, and, after pledging goods to

treble the amount of the debt, she obtained ready money for her son's

release.

O'Neill, after being in custody for about an hour and a half, was set at

liberty upon the payment of his debt. As he passed by the cathedral in

his way home, he heard the clock strike; and he called to a man, who was

walking backwards and forwards in the churchyard, to ask whether it was

two or three that the clock struck. "Three," answered the man; "and, as

yet, all is safe."

O'Neill, whose head was full of other things, did not stop to inquire the

meaning of these last words. He little suspected that this man was a

watchman whom the over-vigilant verger had stationed there to guard the

Hereford Cathedral from his attacks. O'Neill little guessed that he had

been arrested merely to keep him from blowing up the cathedral this

night. The arrest had an excellent effect upon his mind, for he was a

young man of good sense: it made him resolve to retrench his expenses in

time, to live more like a glover and less like a gentleman; and to aim

more at establishing credit, and less at gaining popularity. He found,

from experience, that good friends will not pay bad debts.

CHAPTER II

On Thursday morning our verger rose in unusually good spirits,

congratulating himself upon the eminent service he had done to the city

of Hereford by his sagacity in discovering the foreign plot to blow up

the Cathedral, and by his dexterity in having the enemy held in custody,

at the very hour when the dreadful deed was to have been perpetrated. Mr.

Hill's knowing friends farther agreed it would be necessary to have a

guard that should sit up every night in the churchyard; and that as soon

as they could, by constantly watching the enemy's motions, procure any

information which the attorney should deem sufficient grounds for a legal

proceeding, they should lay the whole business before the mayor.

After arranging all this most judiciously and mysteriously with friends

who were exactly of his own opinion, Mr. Hill laid aside his dignity of

verger, and assuming his other character of a tanner, proceeded to his

tan-yard. What was his surprise and consternation, when he beheld his

great rick of oak bark levelled to the ground; the pieces of bark were

scattered far and wide, some over the close, some over the fields, and

some were seen swimming upon the water! No tongue, no pen, no muse can

describe the feelings of our tanner at this spectacle--feelings which

became the more violent from the absolute silence which he imposed on

himself upon this occasion. He instantly decided in his own mind that

this injury was perpetrated by O'Neill, in revenge for his arrest; and

went privately to the attorney to inquire what was to be done, on his

part, to secure legal vengeance.

The attorney unluckily--or at least, as Mr. Hill thought, unluckily--had

been sent for, half an hour before, by a gentleman at some distance from

Hereford, to draw up a will: so that our tanner was obliged to postpone

his legal operations.

We forbear to recount his return, and how many times he walked up and

down the close to view his scattered bark, and to estimate the damage

that had been done to him. At length that hour came which usually

suspends all passions by the more imperious power of appetite--the hour

of dinner: an hour of which it was never needful to remind Mr. Hill by

watch, clock, or dial; for he was blessed with a punctual appetite, and

powerful as punctual: so powerful, indeed, that it often excited the

spleen of his more genteel or less hungry wife. "Bless my stars! Mr.

Hill," she would oftentimes say, "I am really downright ashamed to see

you eat so much; and when company is to dine with us, I do wish you would

take a snack by way of a damper before dinner, that you may not look so

prodigious famishing and ungenteel."

Upon this hint, Mr. Hill commenced a practice, to which he ever

afterwards religiously adhered, of going, whether there was to be company

or no company, into the kitchen regularly every day, half an hour before

dinner, to take a slice from the roast or the boiled before it went up to

table. As he was this day, according to his custom, in the kitchen,

taking his snack by way of a damper, he heard the housemaid and the cook

talking about some wonderful fortune-teller, whom the housemaid had been

consulting. This fortune-teller was no less a personage than the

successor to Bampfylde Moore Carew, king of the gipsies, whose life and

adventures are probably in many, too many, of our readers' hands.

Bampfylde, the second king of the gipsies, assumed this title, in hopes

of becoming as famous, or as infamous, as his predecessor: he was now

holding his court in a wood near the town of Hereford, and numbers of

servant-maids and 'prentices went to consult him--nay, it was whispered

that he was resorted to, secretly, by some whose education might have

taught them better sense.

Numberless were the instances which our verger heard in his kitchen of

the supernatural skill of this cunning man; and whilst Mr. Hill ate his

snack with his wonted gravity, he revolved great designs in his secret

soul. Mrs. Hill was surprised, several times during dinner, to see her

consort put down his knife and fork, and meditate. "Gracious me, Mr.

Hill! what can have happened to you this day? What can you be thinking

of, Mr. Hill, that can make you forget what you have upon your plate?"

"Mrs. Hill," replied the thoughtful verger, "our grandmother Eve had too

much curiosity; and we all know it did not lead to good. What I am

thinking of will be known to you in due time, but not now, Mrs. Hill;

therefore, pray, no questions, or teasing, or pumping. What I think, I

think; what I say, I say; what I know, I know; and that is enough for you

to know at present: only this, Phœbe, you did very well not to put on

the Limerick gloves, child. What I know, I know. Things will turn out

just as I said from the first. What I say, I say; and what I think, I

think; and this is enough for you to know at present."

Having finished dinner with this solemn speech, Mr. Hill settled himself

in his arm-chair, to take his after-dinner's nap: and he dreamed of

blowing up cathedrals, and of oak bark floating upon the waters; and the

cathedral was, he thought, blown up by a man dressed in a pair of woman's

Limerick gloves, and the oak bark turned into mutton steaks, after which

his great dog Jowler was swimming; when, all on a sudden, as he was going

to beat Jowler for eating the bark transformed into mutton steaks, Jowler

became Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies; and putting a horse-

whip with a silver handle into Hill's hand, commanded him three times, in

a voice as loud as the town-crier's, to have O'Neill whipped through the

market-place of Hereford: but just as he was going to the window to see

this whipping, his wig fell off, and he awoke.

It was difficult, even for Mr. Hill's sagacity, to make sense of this

dream: but he had the wise art of always finding in his dreams something

that confirmed his waking determinations. Before he went to sleep, he

had half resolved to consult the king of the gipsies, in the absence of

the attorney; and his dream made him now wholly determined upon this

prudent step. "From Bampfylde the Second," thought he, "I shall learn

for certain who made the hole under the cathedral, who pulled down my

rick of bark, and who made away with my dog Jowler; and then I shall

swear examinations against O'Neill, without waiting for attorneys. I

will follow my own way in this business: I have always found my own way

best."

So, when the dusk of the evening increased, our wise man set out towards

the wood to consult the cunning man. Bampfylde the Second, king of the

gipsies, resided in a sort of hut made of the branches of trees; the

verger stooped, but did not stoop low enough, as he entered this

temporary palace, and, whilst his body was almost bent double, his peruke

was caught upon a twig. From this awkward situation he was relieved by

the consort of the king; and he now beheld, by the light of some embers,

the person of his gipsy majesty, to whose sublime appearance this dim

light was so favourable that it struck a secret awe into our wise man's

soul; and, forgetting Hereford Cathedral, and oak bark, and Limerick

gloves, he stood for some seconds speechless. During this time, the

queen very dexterously disencumbered his pocket of all superfluous

articles. When he recovered his recollection, he put with great

solemnity the following queries to the king of the gipsies, and received

the following answers:--

"Do you know a dangerous Irishman of the name of O'Neill, who has come,

for purposes best known to himself, to settle at Hereford?"

"Yes, we know him well."

"Indeed! And what do you know of him?"

"That he is a dangerous Irishman."

"Right! And it was he, was it not, that pulled down, or caused to be

pulled down, my rick of oak bark?"

"It was."

"And who was it that made away with my dog Jowler, that used to guard the

tan-yard?"

"It was the person that you suspect."

"And was it the person whom I suspect that made the hole under the

foundation of our cathedral?"

"The same, and no other."

"And for what purpose did he make that hole?"

"For a purpose that must not be named," replied the king of the gipsies,

nodding his head in a mysterious manner.

"But it may be named to me," cried the verger, "for I have found it out,

and I am one of the vergers; and is it not fit that a plot to blow up the

Hereford Cathedral should be known _to_ me, and _through_ me?"

"Now, take my word,

Wise men of Hereford,

None in safety may be,

Till the bad man doth flee."

These oracular verses, pronounced by Bampfylde with all the enthusiasm of

one who was inspired, had the desired effect upon our wise man; and he

left the presence of the king of the gipsies with a prodigiously high

opinion of his majesty's judgment and of his own, fully resolved to

impart, the next morning, to the mayor of Hereford his important

discoveries.

Now it happened that, during the time Mr. Hill was putting the foregoing

queries to Bampfylde the Second, there came to the door or entrance of

the audience chamber an Irish haymaker who wanted to consult the cunning

man about a little leathern purse which he had lost whilst he was making

hay in a field near Hereford. This haymaker was the same person who, as

we have related, spoke so advantageously of our hero O'Neill to the widow

Smith. As this man, whose name was Paddy M'Cormack, stood at the

entrance of the gipsies' hut, his attention was caught by the name of

O'Neill; and he lost not a word of all that pasted. He had reason to be

somewhat surprised at hearing Bampfylde assert it was O'Neill who had

pulled down the rick of bark. "By the holy poker!" said he to himself,

"the old fellow now is out there. I know more o' that matter than he

does--no offence to his majesty; he knows no more of my purse, I'll

engage now, than he does of this man's rick of bark and his dog: so I'll

keep my tester in my pocket, and not be giving it to this king o' the

gipsies, as they call him: who, as near as I can guess, is no better than

a cheat. But there is one secret which I can be telling this conjuror

himself: he shall not find it such an easy matter to do all what he

thinks; he shall not be after ruining an innocent countryman of my own

whilst Paddy M'Cormack has a tongue and brains."

Now, Paddy M'Cormack had the best reason possible for knowing that Mr.

O'Neill did not pull down Mr. Hill's rick of bark; it was M'Cormack

himself who, in the heat of his resentment for the insulting arrest of

his countryman in the streets of Hereford, had instigated his fellow

haymakers to this mischief; he headed them, and thought he was doing a

clever, spirited action.

There is a strange mixture of virtue and vice in the minds of the lower

class of Irish: or rather, a strange confusion in their ideas of right

and wrong, from want of proper education. As soon as poor Paddy found

out that his spirited action of pulling down the rick of bark was likely

to be the ruin of his countryman, he resolved to make all the amends in

his power for his folly--he went to collect his fellow haymakers, and

persuaded them to assist him this night in rebuilding what they had

pulled down.

They went to this work when everybody except themselves, as they thought,

was asleep in Hereford. They had just completed the stack, and were all

going away except Paddy, who was seated at the very top, finishing the

pile, when they heard a loud voice cry out, "Here they are! Watch!

Watch!"

Immediately all the haymakers who could, ran off as fast as possible. It

was the watch who had been sitting up at the cathedral who gave the

alarm. Paddy was taken from the top of the rick and lodged in the watch-

house till morning. "Since I'm to be rewarded this way for doing a good

action, sorrow take me," said he, "if they catch me doing another the

longest day ever I live."

Happy they who have in their neighbourhood such a magistrate as Mr.

Marshal! He was a man who, to an exact knowledge of the duties of his

office, joined the power of discovering truth from the midst of

contradictory evidence, and the happy art of soothing or laughing the

angry passions into good-humour. It was a common saying in Hereford that

no one ever came out of Justice Marshal's house as angry as he went into

it.

Mr. Marshal had scarcely breakfasted when he was informed that Mr. Hill,

the verger, wanted to speak to him on business of the utmost importance.

Mr. Hill, the verger, was ushered in; and, with gloomy solemnity, took a

seat opposite to Mr. Marshal.

"Sad doings in Hereford, Mr. Marshal! Sad doings, sir."

"Sad doings? Why, I was told we had merry doings in Hereford. A ball

the night before last, as I heard."

"So much the worse, Mr. Marshal--so much the worse: as those think with

reason that see as far into things as I do."

"So much the better, Mr. Hill," said Mr. Marshal, laughing, "so much the

better: as those think with reason that see no farther into things than I

do."

"But, sir," said the verger, still more solemnly, "this is no laughing

matter, nor time for laughing, begging your pardon. Why, sir, the night

of that there diabolical ball our Hereford Cathedral, sir, would have

been blown up--blown up from the foundation, if it had not been for me,

sir!"

"Indeed, Mr. Verger! And pray how, and by whom, was the cathedral to be

blown up? and what was there diabolical in this ball?"

Here Mr. Hill let Mr. Marshal into the whole history of his early dislike

to O'Neill, and his shrewd suspicions of him the first moment he saw him

in Hereford: related in the most prolix manner all that the reader knows

already, and concluded by saying that, as he was now certain of his

facts, he was come to swear examinations against this villanous Irishman,

who, he hoped, would be speedily brought to justice, as he deserved.

"To justice he shall be brought, as he deserves," said Mr. Marshal; "but

before I write, and before you swear, will you have the goodness to

inform me how you have made yourself as certain, as you evidently are, of

what you call your facts?"

"Sir, that is a secret," replied our wise man, "which I shall trust to

you alone;" and he whispered into Mr. Marshal's ear that, his information

came from Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies.

Mr. Marshal instantly burst into laughter; then composing himself, said:

"My good sir, I am really glad that you have proceeded no farther in this

business; and that no one in Hereford, beside myself, knows that you were

on the point of swearing examinations against a man on the evidence of

Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies. My dear sir, it would be a

standing joke against you to the end of your days. A grave man like Mr.

Hill! and a verger too! Why you would be the laughing-stock of

Hereford!"

Now Mr. Marshal well knew the character of the man to whom he was

talking, who, above all things on earth, dreaded to be laughed at. Mr.

Hill coloured all over his face, and, pushing back his wig by way of

settling it, showed that he blushed not only all over his face, but all

over his head.

"Why, Mr. Marshal, sir," said he, "as to my being laughed at, it is what

I did not look for, being, as there are, some men in Hereford to whom I

have mentioned that hole in the cathedral, who have thought it no

laughing matter, and who have been precisely of my own opinion

thereupon."

"But did you tell these gentlemen that you had been consulting the king

of the gipsies?"

"No, sir, no: I can't say that I did."

"Then I advise you, keep your own counsel, as I will."

Mr. Hill, whose imagination wavered between the hole in the cathedral and

his rick of bark on one side, and between his rick of bark and his dog

Jowler on the other, now began to talk of the dog, and now of the rick of

bark; and when he had exhausted all he had to say upon these subjects,

Mr. Marshal gently pulled him towards the window, and putting a spy-glass

into his hand, bade him look towards his own tan-yard, and tell him what

he saw. To his great surprise, Mr. Hill saw his rick of bark re-built.

"Why, it was not there last night," exclaimed he, rubbing his eyes. "Why,

some conjuror must have done this."

"No," replied Mr. Marshal, "no conjuror did it: but your friend Bampfylde

the Second, king of the gipsies, was the cause of its being re-built; and

here is the man who actually pulled it down, and who actually re-built

it."

As he said these words Mr. Marshal opened the door of an adjoining room

and beckoned to the Irish haymaker, who had been taken into custody about

an hour before this time. The watch who took Paddy had called at Mr.

Hill's house to tell him what had happened, but Mr. Hill was not then at

home.

It was with much surprise that the verger heard the simple truth from

this poor fellow; but no sooner was he convinced that O'Neill was

innocent as to this affair, than he recurred to his other ground of

suspicion, the loss of his dog.

The Irish haymaker now stepped forward, and, with a peculiar twist of the

hips and shoulders, which those only who have seen it can picture to

themselves, said, "Plase your honour's honour, I have a little word to

say too about the dog."

"Say it, then," said Mr. Marshal.

"Plase your honour, if I might expect to be forgiven, and let off for

pulling down the jontleman's stack, I might be able to tell him what I

know about the dog."

"If you can tell me anything about my dog," said the tanner, "I will

freely forgive you for pulling down the rick: especially as you have

built it up again. Speak the truth, now: did not O'Neill make away with

the dog?"

"Not at all, at all, plase your honour," replied the haymaker: "and the

truth of the matter is, I know nothing of the dog, good or bad; but I

know something of his collar, if your name, plase your honour, is Hill,

as I take it to be."

"My name is Hill: proceed," said the tanner, with great eagerness. "You

know something about the collar of my dog Jowler?"

"Plase your honour, this much I know, any way, that it is now, or was the

night before last, at the pawnbroker's there, below in town; for, plase

your honour, I was sent late at night (that night that Mr. O'Neill, long

life to him! was arrested) to the pawnbroker's for a Jew by Mrs. O'Neill,

poor creature! She was in great trouble that same time."

"Very likely," interrupted Mr. Hill: "but go on to the collar; what of

the collar?"

"She sent me--I'll tell you the story, plase your honour, _out of the

face_--she sent me to the pawnbroker's for the Jew; and, it being so late

at night, the shop was shut, and it was with all the trouble in life that

I got into the house any way: and, when I got in, there was none but a

slip of a boy up; and he set down the light that he had in his hand, and

ran up the stairs to waken his master: and, whilst he was gone, I just

made bold to look round at what sort of a place I was in, and at the old

clothes and rags and scraps; there was a sort of a frieze trusty."

"A trusty!" said Mr. Hill; "what is that, pray?"

"A big coat, sure, plase your honour: there was a frieze big coat lying

in a corner, which I had my eye upon, to trate myself to: I having, as I

then thought, money in my little purse enough for it. Well, I won't

trouble your honour's honour with telling of you now how I lost my purse

in the field, as I found after; but about the big coat--as I was saying,

I just lifted it off the ground to see would it fit me; and, as I swung

it round, something, plase your honour, hit me a great knock on the

shins: it was in the pocket of the coat, whatever it was, I knew; so I

looks into the pocket to see what was it, plase your honour, and out I

pulls a hammer and a dog-collar: it was a wonder, both together, they did

not break my shins entirely: but it's no matter for my shins now; so,

before the boy came down, I just out of idleness spelt out to myself the

name that was upon the collar: there were two names, plase your honour,

and out of the first there were so many letters hammered out I could make

nothing of it at all, at all; but the other name was plain enough to

read, any way, and it was Hill, plase your honour's honour, as sure as

life: Hill, now."

This story was related in tones and gestures which were so new and

strange to English ears and eyes, that even the solemnity of our verger

gave way to laughter.

Mr. Marshal sent a summons for the pawnbroker, that he might learn from

him how he came by the dog-collar. The pawnbroker, when he found from

Mr. Marshal that he could by no other means save himself from being

committed to prison, confessed that the collar had been sold to him by

Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies.

A warrant was immediately despatched for his majesty; and Mr. Hill was a

good deal alarmed by the fear of its being known in Hereford that he was

on the point of swearing examinations against an innocent man upon the

evidence of a dog-stealer and a gipsy.

Bampfylde the Second made no sublime appearance when he was brought

before Mr. Marshal, nor could all his astrology avail upon this occasion.

The evidence of the pawnbroker was so positive as to the fact of his

having sold to him the dog-collar, that there was no resource left for

Bampfylde but an appeal to Mr. Hill's mercy. He fell on his knees, and

confessed that it was he who stole the dog, which used to bark at him at

night so furiously, that he could not commit certain petty depredations

by which, as much as by telling fortunes, he made his livelihood.

"And so," said Mr. Marshal, with a sternness of manner which till now he

had never shown, "to screen yourself, you accused an innocent man; and by

your vile arts would have driven him from Hereford, and have set two

families for ever at variance, to conceal that you had stolen a dog."

The king of the gipsies was, without further ceremony, committed to the

house of correction. We should not omit to mention that, on searching

his hat, the Irish haymaker's purse was found, which some of his

majesty's train had emptied. The whole set of gipsies decamped upon the

news of the apprehension of their monarch.

Mr. Hill stood in profound silence, leaning upon his walking-stick,

whilst the committal was making out for Bampfylde the Second. The fear

of ridicule was struggling with the natural positiveness of his temper.

He was dreadfully afraid that the story of his being taken in by the king

of the gipsies would get abroad; and, at the same time, he was unwilling

to give up his prejudice against the Irish glover.

"But, Mr. Marshal," cried he, after a long silence, "the hole under the

foundation of the cathedral has never been accounted for--that is, was,

and ever will be, an ugly mystery to me; and I never can have a good

opinion of this Irishman till it is cleared up, nor can I think the

cathedral in safety."

"What!" said Mr. Marshal, with an arch smile, "I suppose the verses of

the oracle still work upon your imagination, Mr. Hill. They are

excellent in their kind. I must have them by heart, that when I am asked

the reason why Mr. Hill has taken an aversion to an Irish glover, I may

be able to repeat them:--

"Now, take my word,

Wise men of Hereford,

None in safety may be,

Till the bad man doth flee."

"You'll oblige me, sir," said the verger, "if you would never repeat

those verses, sir, nor mention, in any company, the affair of the king of

the gipsies."

"I will oblige you," replied Mr. Marshal, "if you will oblige me. Will

you tell me honestly whether, now that you find this Mr. O'Neill is

neither a dog-killer nor a puller-down of bark-ricks, you feel that you

could forgive him for being an Irishman, if the mystery, as you call it,

of the hole under the cathedral was cleared up?"

"But that is not cleared up, I say, sir," cried Mr. Hill, striking his

walking-stick forcibly upon the ground with both his hands. "As to the

matter of his being an Irishman, I have nothing to say to it; I am not

saying anything about that, for I know we all are born where it pleases

God, and an Irishman may be as good as another. I know that much, Mr.

Marshal, and I am not one of those illiberal-minded, ignorant people that

cannot abide a man that was not born in England. Ireland is now in his

majesty's dominions. I know very well, Mr. Marshal; and I have no manner

of doubt, as I said before, that an Irishman born may be as good, almost,

as an Englishman born."

"I am glad," said Mr. Marshal, "to hear you speak--almost as reasonably

as an Englishman born and every man ought to speak; and I am convinced

that you have too much English hospitality to persecute an inoffensive

stranger, who comes amongst us trusting to our justice and good nature."

"I would not persecute a stranger, God forbid!" replied the verger, "if

he was, as you say, inoffensive."

"And if he was not only inoffensive, but ready to do every service in his

power to those who are in want of his assistance, we should not return

evil for good, should we?"

"That would be uncharitable, to be sure; and, moreover, a scandal," said

the verger.

"Then," said Mr. Marshal, "will you walk with me as far as the Widow

Smith's, the poor woman whose house was burnt last winter? This

haymaker, who lodged near her, can show us the way to her present abode."

During his examination of Paddy M'Cormack, who would tell his whole

history, as he called it, _out of the face_, Mr. Marshal heard several

instances of the humanity and goodness of O'Neill, which Paddy related to

excuse himself for that warmth of attachment to his cause that had been

manifested so injudiciously by pulling down the rick of bark in revenge

for the rest. Amongst other things, Paddy mentioned his countryman's

goodness to the Widow Smith. Mr. Marshal was determined, therefore, to

see whether he had, in this instance, spoken the truth; and he took Hill

with him, in hopes of being able to show him the favourable side of

O'Neill's character.

Things turned out just as Mr. Marshal expected. The poor widow and her

family, in the most simple and affecting manner, described the distress

from which they had been relieved by the good gentleman; and lady--the

lady was Phœbe Hill; and the praises that were bestowed upon Phœbe were

delightful to her father's ear, whose angry passions had now all

subsided.

The benevolent Mr. Marshal seized the moment when he saw Mr. Hill's heart

was touched, and exclaimed, "I must be acquainted with this Mr. O'Neill.

I am sure we people of Hereford ought to show some hospitality to a

stranger who has so much humanity. Mr. Hill, will you dine with him to-

morrow at my house?"

Mr. Hill was just going to accept of this invitation, when the

recollection of all he had said to his club about the hole under the

cathedral came across him, and, drawing Mr. Marshal aside, he whispered,

"But, sir, sir, that affair of the hole under the cathedral has not been

cleared up yet."

At this instant the Widow Smith exclaimed, "Oh! here comes my little

Mary" (one of her children, who came running in); "this is the little

girl, sir, to whom the lady has been so good. Make your curtsey, child.

Where have you been all this while?"

"Mammy," said the child, "I've been showing the lady my rat."

"Lord bless her! Gentlemen, the child has been wanting me this many a

day to go to see this tame rat of hers; but I could never get time,

never--and I wondered, too, at the child's liking such a creature. Tell

the gentlemen, dear, about your rat. All I know is that, let her have

but never such a tiny bit of bread for breakfast or supper, she saves a

little of that little for this rat of hers; she and her brothers have

found it out somewhere by the cathedral."

"It comes out of a hole under the wall of the cathedral," said one of the

older boys; "and we have diverted ourselves watching it, and sometimes we

have put victuals for it--so it has grown, in a manner, tame-like."

Mr. Hill and Mr. Marshal looked at one another during this speech; and

the dread of ridicule again seized on Mr. Hill, when he apprehended that,

after all he had said, the mountain might at last bring forth--a rat. Mr.

Marshal, who instantly saw what passed in the verger's mind, relieved him

from this fear by refraining even from a smile on this occasion. He only

said to the child, in a grave manner, "I am afraid, my dear, we shall be

obliged to spoil your diversion. Mr. Verger, here, cannot suffer rat-

holes in the cathedral; but, to make you amends for the loss of your

favourite, I will give you a very pretty little dog, if you have a mind."

The child was well pleased with this promise; and, at Mr. Marshal's

desire, she then went along with him and Mr. Hill to the cathedral, and

they placed themselves at a little distance from that hole which had

created so much disturbance. The child soon brought the dreadful enemy

to light; and Mr. Hill, with a faint laugh, said, "I'm glad it's no

worse, but there were many in our club who were of my opinion; and, if

they had not suspected O'Neill too, I am sure I should never have given

you so much trouble, sir, as I have done this morning. But I hope, as

the club know nothing about that vagabond, that king of the gipsies, you

will not let any one know anything about the prophecy, and all that? I

am sure I am very sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr. Marshal."

Mr. Marshal assured him that he did not regret the time which he had

spent in endeavouring to clear up all those mysteries and suspicions; and

Mr. Hill gladly accepted his invitation to meet O'Neill at his house the

next day. No sooner had Mr. Marshal brought one of the parties to reason

and good humour than he went to prepare the other for a reconciliation.

O'Neill and his mother were both people of warm but forgiving tempers--the

arrest was fresh in their minds; but when Mr. Marshal represented to them

the whole affair, and the verger's prejudices, in a humorous light, they

joined in the good-natured laugh; and O'Neill declared that, for his

part, he was ready to forgive and to forget everything if he could but

see Miss Phœbe in the Limerick gloves.

Phœbe appeared the next day, at Mr. Marshal's, in the Limerick gloves;

and no perfume ever was so delightful to her lover as the smell of the

rose-leaves in which they had been kept.

Mr. Marshal had the benevolent pleasure of reconciling the two families.

The tanner and the glover of Hereford became, from bitter enemies, useful

friends to each other; and they were convinced by experience that nothing

could be more for their mutual advantage than to live in union.

MADAME DE FLEURY

CHAPTER I

"There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,

The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall--

How can you, mothers, vex your infants so?"--POPE

"D'abord, madame, c'est impossible!--Madame ne descendra pas ici?" said

Francois, the footman of Madame de Fleury, with a half expostulatory,

half indignant look, as he let down the step of her carriage at the

entrance of a dirty passage, that led to one of the most

miserable-looking houses in Paris.

"But what can be the cause of the cries which I hear in this house?" said

Madame de Fleury.

"'Tis only some child who is crying," replied Francois; and he would have

put up the step, but his lady was not satisfied.

"'Tis nothing in the world," continued he, with a look of appeal to the

coachman, "it _can_ be nothing, but some children who are locked up there

above. The mother, the workwoman my lady wants, is not at home: that's

certain."

"I must know the cause of these cries; I must see these children" said

Madame de Fleury, getting out of her carriage.

Francois held his arm for his lady as she got out.

"Bon!" cried he, with an air of vexation. "Si madame la vent absolument,

a la bonne heure!--Mais madame sera abimee. Madame verra que j'ai

raison. Madame ne montera jamais ce vilain escalier. D'ailleurs c'est

au cinquieme. Mais, madame, c'est impossible."

Notwithstanding the impossibility, Madame de Fleury proceeded; and

bidding her talkative footman wait in the entry, made her way up the

dark, dirty, broken staircase, the sound of the cries increasing every

instant, till, as she reached the fifth storey, she heard the shrieks of

one in violent pain. She hastened to the door of the room from which the

cries proceeded; the door was fastened, and the noise was so great that,

though she knocked as loud as she was able, she could not immediately

make herself heard. At last the voice of a child from within answered,

"The door is locked--mamma has the key in her pocket, and won't be home

till night; and here's Victoire has tumbled from the top of the big

press, and it is she that is shrieking so."

Madame de Fleury ran down the stairs which she had ascended with so much

difficulty, called to her footman, who was waiting in the entry,

despatched him for a surgeon, and then she returned to obtain from some

people who lodged in the house assistance to force open the door of the

room in which the children were confined.

On the next floor there was a smith at work, filing so earnestly that he

did not hear the screams of the children. When his door was pushed open,

and the bright vision of Madame de Fleury appeared to him, his

astonishment was so great that he seemed incapable of comprehending what

she said. In a strong provincial accent he repeated, "_Plait-il_?" and

stood aghast till she had explained herself three times; then suddenly

exclaiming, "Ah! c'est ca;"--he collected his tools precipitately, and

followed to obey her orders. The door of the room was at last forced

half open, for a press that had been overturned prevented its opening

entirely. The horrible smells that issued did not overcome Madame de

Fleury's humanity: she squeezed her way into the room, and behind the

fallen press saw three little children: the youngest, almost an infant,

ceased roaring, and ran to a corner; the eldest, a boy of about eight

years old, whose face and clothes were covered with blood, held on his

knee a girl younger than himself, whom he was trying to pacify, but who

struggled most violently and screamed incessantly, regardless of Madame

de Fleury, to whose questions she made no answer.

"Where are you hurt, my dear?" repeated Madame de Fleury in a soothing

voice. "Only tell me where you feel pain?"

The boy, showing his sister's arm, said, in a surly tone--"It is this

that is hurt--but it was not I did it."

"It was, it _was_!" cried the girl as loud as she could vociferate: "it

was Maurice threw me down from the top of the press."

"No--it was you that were pushing me, Victoire, and you fell

backwards.--Have done screeching, and show your arm to the lady."

"I can't," said the girl.

"She won't," said the boy.

"She cannot," said Madame de Fleury, kneeling down to examine it. "She

cannot move it; I am afraid that it is broken."

"Don't touch it! don't touch it!" cried the girl, screaming more

violently.

"Ma'am, she screams that way for nothing often," said the boy. "Her arm

is no more broke than mine, I'm sure; she'll move it well enough when

she's not cross."

"I am afraid," said Madame de Fleury, "that her arm is broken."

"Is it indeed?" said the boy, with a look of terror.

"Oh! don't touch it--you'll kill me; you are killing me," screamed the

poor girl, whilst Madame de Fleury with the greatest care endeavoured to

join the bones in their proper place, and resolved to hold the arm till

the arrival of the surgeon.

From the feminine appearance of this lady, no stranger would have

expected such resolution; but with all the natural sensibility and

graceful delicacy of her sex, she had none of that weakness or affection

which incapacitates from being useful in real distress. In most sudden

accidents, and in all domestic misfortunes, female resolution and

presence of mind are indispensably requisite: safety, health, and life

often depend upon the fortitude of women. Happy they who, like Madame de

Fleury, possess strength of mind united with the utmost gentleness of

manner and tenderness of disposition!

Soothed by this lady's sweet voice, the child's rage subsided; and no

longer struggling, the poor little girl sat quietly on her lap, sometimes

writhing and moaning with pain.

The surgeon at length arrived: her arm was set: and he said "that she had

probably been saved much future pain by Madame de Fleury's presence of

mind."

"Sir,--will it soon be well?" said Maurice to the surgeon.

"Oh yes, very soon, I dare say," said the little girl. "To-morrow,

perhaps; for now that it is tied up it does not hurt me to signify--and

after all, I do believe, Maurice, it was not you threw me down."

As she spoke, she held up her face to kiss her brother.--"That is right,"

said Madame de Fleury; "there is a good sister."

The little girl put out her lips, offering a second kiss, but the boy

turned hastily away to rub the tears from his eyes with the back of his

hand.

"I am not cross now: am I, Maurice?"

"No, Victoire; I was cross myself when I said _that_."

As Victoire was going to speak again, the surgeon imposed silence,

observing that she must be put to bed, and should be kept quiet. Madame

de Fleury laid her upon the bed, as soon as Maurice had cleared it of the

things with which it was covered; and as they were spreading the ragged

blanket over the little girl, she whispered a request to Madame de Fleury

that she would "stay till her mamma came home, to beg Maurice off from

being whipped, if mamma should be angry."

Touched by this instance of goodness, and compassionating the desolate

condition of these children, Madame de Fleury complied with Victoire's

request; resolving to remonstrate with their mother for leaving them

locked up in this manner. They did not know to what part of the town

their mother was gone; they could tell only "that she was to go to a

great many different places to carry back work, and to bring home more,

and that she expected to be in by five." It was now half after four.

Whilst Madame de Fleury waited, she asked the boy to give her a full

account of the manner in which the accident had happened.

"Why, ma'am," said Maurice, twisting and untwisting a ragged handkerchief

as he spoke, "the first beginning of all the mischief was, we had nothing

to do, so we went to the ashes to make dirt pies; but Babet would go so

close that she burnt her petticoat, and threw about all our ashes, and

plagued us, and we whipped her. But all would not do, she would not be

quiet; so to get out of her reach, we climbed up by this chair on the

table to the top of the press, and there we were well enough for a little

while, till somehow we began to quarrel about the old scissors, and we

struggled hard for them till I got this cut."

Here he unwound the handkerchief, and for the first time showed the

wound, which he had never mentioned before.

"Then," continued he, "when I got the cut, I shoved Victoire, and she

pushed at me again, and I was keeping her off, and her foot slipped, and

down she fell, and caught by the press-door, and pulled it and me after

her, and that's all I know."

"It is well that you were not both killed," said Madame de Fleury. "Are

you often left locked up in this manner by yourselves, and without

anything to do?"

"Yes, always, when mamma is abroad, except sometimes we are let out upon

the stairs or in the street; but mamma says we get into mischief there."

This dialogue was interrupted by the return of the mother. She came

upstairs slowly, much fatigued, and with a heavy bundle under her arm.

"How now! Maurice, how comes my door open? What's all this?" cried she,

in an angry voice; but seeing a lady sitting upon her child's bed, she

stopped short in great astonishment. Madame de Fleury related what had

happened, and averted her anger from Maurice by gently expostulating upon

the hardship and hazard of leaving her young children in this manner

during so many hours of the day.

"Why, my lady," replied the poor woman, wiping her forehead, "every hard-

working woman in Paris does the same with her children; and what can I do

else? I must earn bread for these helpless ones, and to do that I must

be out backwards and forwards, and to the furthest parts of the town,

often from morning till night, with those that employ me; and I cannot

afford to send the children to school, or to keep any kind of a servant

to look after them; and when I'm away, if I let them run about these

stairs and entries, or go into the streets, they do get a little exercise

and air, to be sure, such as it is on which account I do let them out

sometimes; but then a deal of mischief comes of that, too: they learn all

kinds of wickedness, and would grow up to be no better than pickpockets,

if they were let often to consort with the little vagabonds they find in

the streets. So what to do better for them I don't know."

The poor mother sat down upon the fallen press, looked at Victoire, and

wept bitterly. Madame de Fleury was struck with compassion; but she did

not satisfy her feelings merely by words or comfort or by the easy

donation of some money--she resolved to do something more, and something

better.