But not at all. The officers and men of the English brig had been all

impatience to encounter their superior antagonist, and desired nothing

better than to try their fourteen four-pounders and their forty men and

some boys against the thirty-two long guns of their opponent, and their

crew of some three hundred men. Lord Cochrane--for he it was who

commanded the Speedy--on learning this disposition of his crew, promised

them, if he again fell in with the Spaniard, to give full scope to

their wishes. “On the 6th of May, at daylight, the Speedy being close

off Barcelona, descried a sail, standing towards her. Chase was given,

but owing to light winds it was nearly nine o’clock before the two

vessels got within mutual gun-shot. The Speedy soon discovered that the

armed zebec, approaching her was her old friend the Gamo. The former,

then close under the latter’s lee, tacked and commenced action. After a

forty-five minutes’ cannonade, in which the Speedy, with all her

manœuvring, could not evade the heavy broadsides of the Gamo, and had

sustained in consequence a loss of three seamen killed and five wounded,

Lord Cochrane determined to board. With this intent the Speedy ran close

along side the Gamo; and the crew of the British vessel, headed by their

gallant commander, made a simultaneous rush from every part of her upon

the deck of the Spaniard. For about ten minutes the combat was

desperate, especially in the waist; but the impetuosity of the assault

was irresistible; the Spanish colours were struck, and the Gamo became

the prize of the Speedy!”

There is more to interest the imagination in a detail of this

comparatively insignificant combat than in the manœuvres and engagement

of a whole fleet. They are the episodes in the great war that supply the

naval historian with his most stirring narratives. Even the frigate’s

tender has a more romantic history than the frigate herself, combining

in her solitary cruise all the charms of adventure with all the perils

and enterprise of war. Few, we suspect, go steadily through Mr James’s

history of the battle of the Nile; and there are few, perhaps, who do

not retrace their steps to read a second time his account, succinct and

unadorned as it is, of the tender of the Abergavenny. We will indulge

our own readers with a portion of it.

“Amongst the many weary hours,” writes Mr James, “to which a naval life

is subject, none surely can equal those passed on board a stationary

flag-ship; especially in a port where there is a constant egress and

regress of cruisers; some sailing forth to seek prizes, others returning

with prizes already in their possession. During the whole of 1799 and a

great part of 1800 the fifty-four-gun ship Abergavenny, as she lay

moored in Port Royal harbour, Jamaica, daily exposed her officers and

men to these Tantalusian torments. At length it was suggested that a

small tender sent off the east end of the island might acquire for the

parent ship some share of the honours that were reaping around her. A

thirty-eight-gun frigate’s launch having been obtained, and armed with a

swivel in the bow, the next difficulty was to find an officer who, to a

willingness, would add the other requisites for so bold and hazardous an

enterprise. It was not every man who would like to be cramped up night

and day in an open boat, exposed to all kinds of weather, as well as to

capture from some of the many pickaroons that infested the coast. An

acting lieutenant of the Abergavenny, one on whom nature had conferred

an ardent mind,--habit, an indifference about personal comfort,--and

eighteen or twenty years of active service an experience in all the

duties of his profession, consented to take charge of the cruiser-boat.

Mr Michael Fitton soon gave proofs of his fitness for the task he had

undertaken; and the crew of the Abergavenny could now and then greet a

prize of their own among the many that dropped anchor near them.

“Late in December 1800, Lieutenant Fitton transferred himself and his

crew to one of their prizes, a Spanish privateer, a felucca of about

fifty tons, mounting one long twelve-pounder on a traversing carriage,

with a screw to raise it from the hold when wanted for use. Having

embarked on board of her, and stowed as well as he could his crew of

forty-four men and officers, Lieutenant Fitton, early in January, sailed

out to cruise on the Spanish main.”

After destroying many of the small craft of the enemy which had been

committing vexatious depredations on the West Indian commerce, and

having suffered much himself from a succession of storms, and refitted

his now crazy vessel to the best of his power, “he bore up to

Carthagena, intending to coast down the main to Portobello, in the

hopes of being able to capture or cut out some vessel that might answer

to carry his crew and himself to Jamaica. On the 23d of January, early

in the morning, as the tender was hauling round Cape Rosario, a schooner

was discovered, to which she immediately gave chase. The schooner, which

was the Spanish guarda-costa Santa Maria of six (pierced for ten) long

six-pounders, ten swivels, and sixty men, commanded by Don José Corei, a

few hours only from Carthagena, bore down to reconnoitre the lugger. As

the latter had her gun below, and as many of her men hid from view as

the want of a barricade would permit, the former readily approached

within gun-shot. Lieutenant Fitton could not resist the opportunity of

showing how well his men could handle their twelve-pounder. It was soon

raised up, and discharged repeatedly in quick succession, with evident

effect.

“After about thirty minutes’ firing with cannon and musketry, the Santa

Maria sheered off, and directed her course for the Isle of Varus,

evidently with intent to run on shore. Her persevering opponent, with

his one gun, stuck close to her, plying her well with shot great and

small; but the tender was unable to grapple with the schooner because

the latter had the wind. At length the Santa Maria grounded, and

Lieutenant Fitton, aware that if the schooner landed her men in the

bushes, no attempt of his people would avail, eased off the lugger’s

sheets, and ran her also on shore about ten yards from the Santa Maria.

The musketry of the latter, as she heeled over, greatly annoyed the

tender’s men, who had no barricades to shelter them; but Lieutenant

Fitton leaped overboard, and _with his sword in his mouth_, followed by

the greater part of his crew, _similarly armed_, swam to, boarded, and,

after a stout resistance, carried the schooner.

“Four or five that were on the sick list, heedless alike of the doctor’s

injunctions and their own feeble state, sprang over the side with their

comrades; and one or two of them nearly perished in consequence of their

inability to struggle with the waves.

“The Spanish inhabitants having collected along, and opened a fire from,

the shore, and the prize having grounded too fast to be got off,

Lieutenant Fitton took out of her what was most wanted for his own

vessel, landed the prisoners (for whom, being without a ’tween-decks, he

had no room) and even the dead, and then set the vessel on fire. Having

effectually destroyed this Spanish guarda-costa, the Abergavenny’s

tender sailed back to Jamaica, and on the fourth day reached Black River

with scarcely a gallon of water on board.”--(_James’s Naval History_,

vol. ii. p. 563.) These sea-tigers, swimming with their swords in their

mouths--climbing in this fashion the steep sides of a defended

vessel--assailing, taking it--then landing safely the conquered and

their very dead, before they set fire to it--here is war in all its

pristine ferocity, while the fight is forward, and in its most humanised

and generous mood when the victory is won.

How the present writer, Sir Harris Nicolas, will acquit himself in the

description of naval engagements, we can hardly judge, as the first

volume only of his work is yet published, and this does not bring him

into the era of broadsides, and “tremendous cannonading.” This volume

addresses itself rather to the naval antiquarian than to the

professional seaman, or the enthusiast in naval exploits. It contains

much interesting material; and it is rather our object to give some

account of its contents, than to pass an elaborate criticism, which

would be somewhat premature, upon a work of which we have merely the

commencement before us.

In a manly, distinct, and well written preface, the author gives a

statement of the sources of his details, and of the course which he has

prescribed for himself in the treatment of his subject. Our old

chroniclers have hitherto, it seems, been the sole source from which

historians have derived their accounts of the naval transactions of the

earlier reigns of the Kings of England. Sir Harris Nicolas has

illustrated, corrected, and enlarged the scanty and often precarious

information which these old chroniclers afford, by a variety of details

extracted from the public records. These details cannot be supposed to

be always of an interesting or popular character, but their utility will

not be questioned, and the industry which is here displayed in

collecting them will meet with its due acknowledgment and undisputed

praise.

In the treatment of his subject our author has made two great divisions.

“I. The civil history--containing the formation, economy, and government

of the navy.

“II. The military history.

“To the first division belong the construction, the size, rig,

appearance, tonnage, armament, stores, equipment, and expense of the

various classes of vessels; the manner in which ships and seamen were

obtained by the crown, and the number and description of the officers

and crews, their pay, provisions, prize-money, and discipline. Under

this division, every thing else relating to the navy has been noticed;

namely the Cinque Ports, dock-yards, lighthouses, pilotage, maritime

laws, the law of wreck, taxes and other contributions for naval

subsidies, the Court of Admiralty, the right of England to the

sovereignty of the seas, the invention of the compass and of the modern

rudder, the national flag, &c. To these statements are added

biographical notices of the admirals, and other persons, who have been

eminently distinguished for their talents or prowess at sea.

“The second division treats only of active naval proceedings; that is to

say, the employment of ships in piratical acts, military expeditions,

remarkable voyages, and, of course, all sea-fights.”

Here, it will be observed, is a wide range of subjects on which

information is promised, and so far as the work has advanced, the

performance by no means belies the promise: on almost all these topics

something is added, of more or less importance, to the stock of our

knowledge. The classification, however, here adopted has this great

inconvenience, it obliges the author to travel twice over the same

epoch, first for his civil, and then for his military history of the

navy. As the same public events are necessarily alluded to in both

departments, an air of repetition is thrown over the book, and the

reader finds himself on two or three occasions brought back to the

commencement of some king’s reign,--an Alfred or a Richard

Cœur-de-Lion,--whom he thought he had left long ago behind him. This

repetition Sir Harris Nicolas is not unconscious of, but thinks it

“inevitable;” we cannot help thinking that a little more pains bestowed

on the arrangement of his materials might have obviated this

disagreeable effect, produced by the retracing of his steps. With a

little more labour of the _artistic_ kind, with a little more attention

to the subordinate toils of composition, he might, we imagine, have so

kept his materials together as to have come down the stream of time in

one voyage, with both civil and military equipage on board. This

ascending again and descending a second time, with a cargo which to all

appearance might have been stowed away on the first voyage, gives an

unusual tediousness to our mode of progression. This want of a skilful

arrangement, and dexterous blending of his materials, together with the

dryness of some of the details--which many readers will think should

have been relegated to an appendix--will operate against the popularity

of the work. But a popular work it was not the ambition of Sir Harris

Nicolas to produce: he has compiled one which will be highly useful to

the laborious student of history. We must add, too, lest we should be

creating a false impression, that the idlest of readers, allowing for a

little _skipping_, may peruse it with interest. And in point of style,

the work has one invariable charm: it is free from all

affectation--simple, manly, straightforward--a charm which, next to that

of the highest order of eloquence, is the greatest and the rarest.

Our history of the navy begins, as may be supposed, from the invasion of

Cæsar, and with the scanty notices he has recorded of the maritime skill

of these barbarian islanders whom he both discovered and conquered. From

these notices it would appear that our British ancestors, at the time of

the invasion of Cæsar, were more advanced in naval architecture than

were the Anglo-Saxons, who, at the decline of the Roman Empire, took

possession of the island. But the British navy, whatever it might have

been, seemed to pass away with the Roman name and the Roman protection,

and our history may be said to have its true commencement with the

shipping of our northern invaders and settlers. There is no line of

_filiation_ between the Saxon and the British navy; it is the northmen

we must regard as our direct naval ancestors. We open the work of Sir

Harris at the description he gives of the Anglo-Saxon shipping.

“However much the vessels Anglo-Saxons may have differed from each other

in length, it may be safely concluded that though described as ‘ships’

or ‘long ships,’ these vessels were, in fact, only large, deep, open,

undecked boats, and that none of them exceeded fifty tons in burden.

Their prows and sterns were considerably elevated; and one or both were

usually ornamented with effigies of men, birds, lions, or other animals,

which were sometimes gilded. To a single mast, supported by a few

shrouds, or rather stays, a large square sail was suspended, which could

only have been useful when going large, or before the wind; hence their

main dependence in contrary winds and calms was upon their oars. The

modern rudder being unknown for many centuries after this period, they

were steered by paddles fixed to the quarter. While the steersman, who

was also the captain or master, and perhaps, too, the pilot, held the

paddle in one hand, he kept the sheet of the sail in the other, thus

guiding and providing for the safety of his vessel at the same time. It

is doubtful if for any purpose these vessels ever carried more than

fifty or sixty men; and when not employed they were drawn up on the

sea-shore....

“A very interesting account is given by northern historians of the

Danish fleets which so frequently harassed this country. The crews

obeyed a single chief, whom they styled their ‘King,’ and who also

commanded them on land; who was always the bravest of the brave, who

never slept beneath a raftered roof, nor ever drained the bowl by a

sheltered hearth--a glowing picture of their wild and predatory habits.

To these qualities a celebrated sea-chieftain, called Olaf, added

extraordinary eloquence, and great personal strength and agility. He was

second to none as a swimmer, could walk upon the oars of his vessel

while they were in motion, could throw three darts into the air at the

same time, and catch two of them alternately, and could moreover hurl a

lance with each hand; but he was impetuous, cruel, and revengeful, and

‘prompt to dare and do.’”--(P. 9.)

To enter more minutely into the naval antiquities of this period would

appear to be a hopeless enterprise. There were a class of vessels, we

are told, called “ceols,” probably longer, narrower, and of less burden

than others, but which Sir Harris will not venture to describe more

accurately. “In a later document,” he adds, “they are classed with

‘hulks,’ but there is as much uncertainty about an ancient ‘hulk,’ as

about an ancient ‘ceol.’”

Alfred, our first admiral, as he has been justly called, was also the

best shipwright of his day; he not only led the way to naval victory,

but he also built ships of an improved structure, and of a greater

magnitude than had over been seen before. “They were full-nigh twice as

long as the others;” says the chronicler, “some had sixty oars, and some

had more; they were both swifter and steadier, and also higher than the

others. They were shapen neither like the Frisian nor the Danish; but so

as it seemed to him that they would be most efficient.” Evidently a man

of original genius, this Alfred. Taking himself the command of his “long

ships,” he conquered the Danes in several battles, and in particular

repelled a certain invasion of one Hasting who had made a camp at

_Boulogne_! where he had collected his infantry and cavalry and a fleet

of two hundred and fifty sail.

In the reign of Edgar, if our ships were still small, they were numerous

enough. If we are to believe the monkish historians of this reign, his

fleet consisted of three thousand six hundred sail, “all very stout

ones;” some say four thousand, and others four thousand eight hundred.

But these monkish historians were not only tempted, in gratitude to

their munificent patron, to extol his power to their utmost; they were

probably quite ignorant of nautical affairs. They were not likely to be

much better informed on the shipping of their own country than they were

of the geography of the island on which they were living; and of the

singular notions on this subject sometimes entertained by these

recluses, we have authentic testimony. _Here_ their ignorance can be

convicted. Edgar’s fleet, “all stout ones,” as they were, have passed

away, and none can tell what their number may have been; but the hills,

and seas, and rivers, which they misdescribed in their maps, still

remain to speak for themselves. “In some of these maps of the twelfth

century,” (discovered in the monasteries at the time of their

suppression by Henry VIII.,) “Scotland is represented as an island

separated from England by an arm of the sea. Ireland is also divided in

two by the river Boyne, which is represented as a canal connecting the

Irish Channel with the Atlantic. The towns are drawn in them of a

disproportionate size, and the _abbeys_, with the walls, gates, and

belfreys, occupy so great a space as to leave little room for the

rivers,” &c.[12]

If the Anglo-Saxons had been capable of manning such a fleet as is here

described, they must have been sad poltroons to have succumbed as they

did to the Danes under Swain and Canute--the naval heroes who next

appear in review before us. This Canute, after all his victories, is

remembered chiefly, and remembered by every man, woman, and child

amongst us, by the singular dialogue he is said once to have held with

the sea. We must quote the story again for the sake of the commentary

which is here attached to it. We are glad to find, by the way, that the

story has escaped--it is a very narrow escape--from the clutches of

historical criticism.

“The anecdote by which the name of Canute is best known to posterity,

though unnoticed by the Saxon annalist, stands on the authority of an

early historian. ‘Besides many splendid warlike deeds,’ says Henry of

Huntingdon, who flourished about the middle of the twelfth century,

‘Canute did three elegant and celebrated things, of which the following

was the most memorable: Being at Southampton in all regal pomp, he

placed himself on a seat on the sea-shore, and addressing the flowing

tide with an air of authority, said, ‘Thou, O sea! art subject to me, as

is the land on which I sit; nor is there any one therein who dare resist

my commands; now I enjoin thee neither to approach my land, nor presume

to wet the feet or garments of thy sovereign.’ But the tide rising, as

usual, soon wetted his feet and legs, and the king, retreating,

exclaimed,--‘Let every inhabitant of the world know that the power of

kings is a vain and trifling thing, nor is there any one worthy of the

name of king but He at whose nod the heavens, and earth, and sea, and

all that in them are, obey his eternal laws.’ From this time Canute

never wore the crown, but placing it upon the head of an image of the

crucifixion, set a great example of humility to future kings.

“The world,” adds our author, “has always seen, in this beautiful

anecdote, a striking lesson to courtly sycophants; but it was reserved

for two profound lawyers to discover in it an important political fact,

they having gravely insisted that the king thereby most expressly

asserted the sea to be a part of his dominions.”--(P. 18.)

How far the two profound lawyers in their argument for England’s

dominion of the seas, could strengthen their case from the title which

Canute the Dane chose to bear, we stop not to inquire; but it gives its

full meaning and point to the popular anecdote to understand of Canute,

that he claimed a dominion over the sea as well as the land, and that

his title proclaimed him to be lord of the ocean. Otherwise, his refusal

to wear the crown after the contumacious rising of the waters, and his

suspending it on the holy image, would be devoid of any peculiar

significance. It was as monarch of the sea that he declared himself

dethroned by the rebellious waves.

However numerous the fleets which our Anglo-Saxon kings were capable of

occasionally collecting--as, for instance, Edward the Confessor when

threatened by an invasion from Norway--it is evident but little progress

had been made towards establishing a permanent naval force. For when

William the Conqueror invaded England, although his great preparations

were matter of notoriety, and he had taken no pains whatever to conceal

his design, the attempt was not made to encounter him at sea; all was

left to the issue of the battle upon land. And William himself had so

little appreciation of any naval power attached to the possession of the

island, that he burned his ships as soon as he had landed, merely to

give his men an additional motive for their courage.

Sir Harris Nicolas has given us here an engraving of the vessel in which

William himself set sail from Normandy--a copy from the celebrated

Bayeux tapestry; and on several other occasions we are presented with

etchings taken from some antique representation. These are well to have,

and curious to look at; but it is very difficult to extract any

information whatever from such designs, it being impossible to know what

is to be attributed to the rude state of the pictorial art, and what to

the rude condition of naval architecture. It would be almost as safe to

take our notion of a Chinese _junk_ from the ships we see sailing in the

sky upon their porcelain ware, as to derive our ideas of William the

Conqueror’s ship from the tapestry of the Empress Matilda and her

ladies. Though needle-work was in such repute and perfection, that we

are told by Miss Strickland, quoting Malmsbury, how “the proficiency of

the four sisters of King Athelstane in weaving and embroidery procured

these royal spinsters the addresses of the greatest princes of Europe,”

we must still take leave to think that the fidelity of representation

was often somewhat sacrificed to the exigencies of the worsted work. In

this engraving, the unhappy pilot or steersman, while he is working his

paddle-rudder with one hand, holds the sail in the other, holds it

bodily by the sheet in his extended hand, without the assistance of any

belaying pin, or even of a rope. Are we to infer from this, that the

simple expedient of turning a rope round a pin to hold the sail the

firmer and the easier, with capability of slackening it at pleasure, was

unknown in these times, or that the fair artist had but slender

knowledge of the management of sailing craft? We are informed that the

original exhibits a tri-coloured sail of three broad stripes, brown,

yellow, and red: who can tell us whether these gay colours had any other

origin than the taste of the needle-woman, and the claims of the worsted

work? Sir Harris Nicolas has gravely observed that there are more

shields hung round the outside of the vessel than there are men within

it--which might have been anticipated without counting them, as it was

much easier to work a round shield than even such figures as are here

intended to pass for men. We must plainly be content with as many men as

she of the needle can manage.

The accession of William the Conqueror, owing to the contempt which the

Norman had of commerce, and the little care he took to protect or honour

the merchant--(little would he have dreamed of ennobling, as did the

Saxon, the man who had made three voyages!)--must have retarded the

progress of England as a naval power. Land and castles, forests and

hunting-fields, were all the Normans thought of. But though chivalry was

no friend to commerce or to navigation, the crusading spirit which

seized upon all the knights of Europe, gave fresh employment and a new

impetus to our marine. It is thus that the reign of Richard Cœur-de-Lion

came to be an important epoch in our naval history. His expedition to

the Holy Land incurred the necessity of building many and large vessels;

voyages were to be performed to the Mediterranean; and the British navy

made its first conquest in distant seas--the isle of Cyprus.

“The English navy at this time seems to have consisted chiefly, if not

entirely, of large galleys, afterwards called galliasses and galiones,

small and light galleys for war, and of _busses_, which were large ships

of burden, with a bluff bow and bulging sides, chiefly used for the

conveyance of troops, stores, provisions, and merchandise. No drawing or

description of English ships before the reign of King Edward II.

justifies the idea that they had ever more than one mast; but some of

the busses in the fleet which accompanied King Richard I. from Messina

to Cyprus, are said to have had ‘a three-fold expansion of sails’--an

ambiguous expression, which may mean that they had three sails on one

mast, or that the sails were affixed to two or more masts.”--(P. 75.)

These small craft, so gaily decorated, sailing and rowing together in

even lines, and in such close order that each ship was within hail of

its neighbour, with the armour of the knights, their spears and their

pennons, seen glittering within them, and their shields ranged on the

outside, must have presented a very picturesque appearance, especially

when spread out in the calm blue waters of the Mediterranean. “As soon

as the people heard of the arrival of Richard at the port of Messina,”

says a contemporary writer, Vinesauf, “they rushed in crowds to the

shore to behold the glorious King of England, and at a distance saw the

sea covered with innumerable galleys; and the sounds of trumpets from

afar, with the sharper and shriller blasts of clarions, resounded in

their ears; and they beheld the galleys rowing in order nearer to the

land, adorned and furnished with all manner of arms, countless pennons

floating in the winds, ensigns at the ends of the lances, the beaks of

the galleys distinguished by various paintings, and glittering shields

suspended to the prows. The sea appeared to boil with the multitude of

the rowers; the clangour of their trumpets was deafening; the greatest

joy was testified at the arrival of the various multitudes: when thus

our magnificent King, attended by crowds of those who navigated the

galleys--as if to see what was unknown to him, or to be beheld by those

to whom he was unknown,--stood on a prow more ornamented and higher than

the others; and landing, displayed himself elegantly adorned, to all who

pressed to the shore to see him.”

Richard was as much distinguished for bravery on sea as on land, and

during his expedition to Palestine he zealously performed the duties of

admiral of his fleet. He sailed in the rear--which in him must have been

a remarkable self-denial--for the better protection of the convoy.

During a tempest which overtook them and threatened their destruction,

he remained cool and collected, encouraging all around him by his

speeches and his example. And when the gale abated, the King’s ship,

which was indicated during the night by a light at the mast-head,

brought to, that the scattered vessels might gather round her. “In

truth,” says Vinesauf, “the King watched and looked after his fleet as a

hen doth after her chickens.”

These, his “chickens,” however, he was by no means disposed to spare, if

any thing like battle was going forward. Sailing along the coast of

Syria, an immense ship was discovered a-head. It proved a Turk. It was

the largest vessel the English had ever seen, and excited great wonder

and admiration. Some chroniclers, call her a “dromon,” others a “buss,”

while one of them exclaims, “A marvellous ship! a ship than which,

except Noah’s ship, none greater was ever read of!--the queen of ships!”

It had three masts, and was reported, though it is incredible, to have

had on board fifteen hundred men. It was on its way to Acre to assist in

the defence of that place, and was laden with bows, arrows, and other

weapons, an abundance of Greek fire in jars, and “two hundred most

deadly serpents prepared for the destruction of Christians.”

Lingard has, in his severe classical manner, described the contest of

Richard’s fleet with this gigantic Turk. But the account which our

present author gives of it, being in great part immediately translated

from the original of Vinesauf, is so highly graphic, and withal so

characteristic of our _Cœur-de-Lion_, that we must find room for a

portion of it.

“The moment the galley (which had been sent to reconnoitre the strange

vessel) came alongside of the ship, the Saracens threw arrows and Greek

fire into her. Richard instantly ordered the enemy to be attacked,

saying, ‘Follow, and take them! for if they escape ye lose my love

forever; and if ye capture them, all their goods shall be yours.’

Himself foremost in the fight, and summoning his galleys to the royal

vessel, he animated all around by his characteristic valour. Showers of

missiles flew on both sides, and the Turkish ship slackened her way; but

though the galleys rowed round and about her in all directions, her

great height and the number of her crew, whose arrows fell with deadly

effect from her decks, rendered it extremely difficult to board her. The

English consequently became discouraged, if not dismayed; when the King

cried out, ‘Will ye now suffer that ship to get off untouched and

uninjured? Oh, shame! after so many triumphs do ye now give way to sloth

and fear? Know that if this ship escape, every one of ye shall be hung

upon the cross or put to extreme torture.’ The galley-men making, says

the candid historian, a virtue of necessity, jumped overboard, and

diving under the enemy’s vessel, fastened ropes to her rudder, steering

her as they pleased; and then, catching hold of ropes and climbing up

her sides, they succeeded at last in boarding her. A desperate conflict

ensued; the Turks were forced forward, but being joined by those from

below, they rallied and drove their assailants back to their galleys.

Only one resource remained, and it instantly presented itself to the

King’s mind. He ordered his galleys to pierce the sides of the enemy

with the iron spurs affixed to their prows. These directions were

executed with great skill and success. The galleys, receding a little,

formed a line; and then, giving full effect to their oars, struck the

Turkish ship with such violence that her sides were stove in many

places, and the sea immediately rushing in, she soon foundered.”--(P.

120.)

Of the Greek fire, which is here incidentally mentioned, Sir Harris

Nicolas gives us a terrible description. He thinks it an instrument of

war more dreadful than gunpowder, or than any other discovery of modern

chemistry. “It was propelled in a fluid state through brazen tubes from

the prows of vessels and fortifications with as much precision as water

is now thrown from a fire-engine. The moment it was exposed to the air

it ignited, and became a continuous stream of fire, bringing with it

excruciating torture and inevitable destruction. Unlike any other

combustible, water increased its properties, and it could only be

extinguished by vinegar, or stifled with sand;[13] while to its other

horrors were added a thick smoke, loud noise, and disgusting stench.”

A stream of fire playing upon a vessel presents a terrible enough

picture to the imagination; but we doubt very much if this Greek fire

would have ever been replaced by gunpowder, if there had not been very

good reasons for the preference. To have your instruments of destruction

under complete control is one of the first requisites of war; and it is

probable that this continuous stream of fire, which might be avoided by

a slight movement to the right or left, was often utterly wasted, and

that its preparation and employment was almost as perilous to those who

used it, as to those against whom it was directed. The sagacity of man

is rarely at fault in the work of destruction, and we have perfect

confidence that he would in this matter make choice of the most

effective means at his disposal.

If the impression on the imagination, or the terror excited in a

spectator, were any test of the efficacy of these terrible

contrivances, many of the earliest and rudest would claim our

preference. We might look with respect upon that expedient which an old

traveller, Carpini, attributes to the fabulous hero and monarch, Prester

John. “This Prester John (whom he places somewhere in India) caused a

number of hollow copper figures to be made, resembling men, which were

stuffed with combustibles and set upon horses, each having a man behind

on the horse with a pair of bellows to stir up the fire. At the first

onset of the battle these mounted figures were set forward to the

charge; the men who rode behind them set fire to the combustibles, and

then blew strongly with the bellows. Immediately the Mongul men and

horses were burned with wildfire, and the air was darkened with smoke.

Then the Indians fell upon the Monguls, who were thrown into confusion

by this new mode of warfare, and routed them with great

slaughter.”--(_Maritime and Inland Discovery_, vol. i. p. 258.)

These fiery cavaliers must have been fearful enough to look upon,

darting flames from eyes and mouth like so many Apollyons; but it must

also have been a fearful business to act as faithful squire to one of

these combustible knights; and, after all, a single piece of artillery,

one long black cylinder of iron with its sooty charge, were worth a

whole regiment of them.

It is worthy of remark how few of these schemes for the wholesale

destruction of an enemy, or his fleet, have ever succeeded. They have

raised great expectations on one side, and great alarm on the other, but

have generally ended in some very paltry result. Even in modern times,

when the use of explosive materials is so much better understood,

fire-ships, and the like inventions, have proved of little efficacy. The

means of destruction are great, but they are not sufficiently under the

control of those who would use them. In the late war, in order to

destroy the flotilla at Boulogne, we despatched four fire-ships in

succession--“catamarans” as they were called, horribly stuffed with

gunpowder and all sorts of inflammable matter. They exploded one after

the other with a terrible noise, but effected nothing. Those who have

read Cooper’s History of the American Navy, will remember the disastrous

issue of that “floating mine” which was to destroy the fleet and arsenal

at Tripoli. This “infernal,” as it was called, was filled with a hundred

barrels of gunpowder, a hundred and fifty shells, a large quantity of

shot, great and small, and all manner of fragments of iron. In the dead

of night it was to sail unperceived into the harbour of Tripoli, and the

officer and men who had the charge of it, after having lit the fuse,

were to return in their boats to the frigate Nautilus from which they

had proceeded. The men on board the frigate, watched the “Infernal” till

its dim sail was lost in a pitch-dark night. Then came a fierce and

sudden blaze--a torrent of fire like the great eruption of Vesuvius, and

a concussion that made the vessel tremble from its keel to its topmost

spar. Tenfold night succeeded--and silence; and every eye was vigilant

to discover the returning boats. Some leaned over the sides of the

vessel, holding lights to guide them; others placed their ears near the

water, to detect the sound of their oars. They never reappeared; not a

single man of them returned. By some unexplained accident, all had

perished in the explosion; and the morning dawned, and the enemy was

untouched and uninjured.

Amongst the many subjects which Sir Harris Nicolas has occasion to treat

in the course of his naval history, none is more curious than that of

the _law of wreck_. A rude and barbarous people concluded that what was

thrown by the tempest on their coast was a sort of god-send, and the

property of the first finder. The king, as general finder of all lost

treasure, was not long before he put in his paramount claim; and the

common law sanctioned it, proceeding, we are told, upon the principle,

that by the loss of the ship all property had passed away from the

original owner. With equal gravity it might have sanctioned any species

of theft or spoliation, by promulgating the principle, that when a man

can no longer keep possession of his goods, “all property has passed

away from the original owner.” This was indeed “adding sorrow to sorrow,

and injustice to misfortune. Henry I. has the merit of having first

mitigated this cruelty of the common law. “He ordained that if any

person escaped alive from the ship, it should not be considered a

wreck:” on the principle, we suppose--for the law loves what it calls a

principle, and if it partakes of the nature of a fiction loves it the

more--that the person who escaped might be considered as an agent for

the merchant or proprietor, retaining in his name a possession of the

goods and the ship. But the next step in this humane course of

legislation was still more singular. A statute of Edward I.

enacts--“Concerning wrecks of the sea, it is agreed that when a man, _a

dog_, _or a cat_, escape quick out of the ship, that neither such ship

or barge, nor any thing within them, shall be adjudged wreck.” Here the

dog or the cat, which was so fortunate as to escape, must, in the eye of

the law, we presume, have been clothed with the character of an agent,

and looked upon, for the time being, as the servant of the hapless

merchant. Such, we suppose, must have been the legal reasoning; but

perhaps some prejudice of an ignorant people, which we cannot now follow

or define, was in reality taken advantage of by the legislation of those

days; and a rude selfishness, which would have been deaf to reason or

humanity, was assailed by the aid of some superstition as rude as

itself. However, after such a law, we hope no ship set sail without

having a supply of dogs and cats on board.

The extent to which piratical habits, and indeed all manner of robbing

and violence, prevailed in these early periods, is very well known; but

the reader will find some curious and startling instances in the work

before us. Between foreign countries there was generally a species of

private war being carried on; for it was an understood custom, that when

a native of one country was injured by a native of another, and could

get no redress, he was justified in obtaining what compensation or

revenge he could from the fellow-countrymen of the person who had

injured him. In such cases, his government granted him letters of

marque--“license to _mark_, retain, and appropriate,” the men and goods

of such foreign nation. Even on land the creditor of one foreigner, who

could not get paid, might attach the goods of any other foreigner--of

the same nation, we presume. It had to be enacted by Statute i. West. c.

23., that “no stranger who is of this realm shall be distrained in any

town or market for a debt wherein he is neither principal nor

security.”[14] Sir Harris Nicolas mentions a curious case at p. 235,

which shows how rooted this idea must have been in the general mind,

that the goods of all foreigners were liable for the debt of any one of

them. One Richard de Canne had captured a ship in Brittany, and Helen,

widow of Richard Clark, had lost a ship in Brittany; whereupon widow

Helen laid claim to Richard’s ship, and got possession of it. But the

king reversed the sentence of the justiciary of Ireland--“forasmuch that

it does not appear to us to be just that the said Richard should lose

the aforesaid ship, which he acquired in a land at war with us, on

account of a ship which the said Helen afterwards lost in the same

hostile land.”

The present volume of Sir H. Nicolas’s history carries us no further

than the reign of Edward II. We shall watch its future progress with

interest. Hitherto we have to familiarise the imagination with ships or

boats of very small dimensions, and their very limited exploits. And it

is singular what an effort of the imagination it requires here to reduce

sufficiently the scale of things. How complete is the contrast of that

Saxon ship, with its one sail held by the hand, its few oars, its paddle

at the quarter, and its sea-captain showing his dexterity in walking

upon the oars while in motion, and throwing, like a conjuror, three

darts in the air at once--with the stately man-of-war, and its calm and

intelligent commander! Nothing can exhibit more strikingly than this

contrast the gradual improvements which age after age may make and

transmit. Mast has been added to mast, and sail to sail, and rope to

rope; and in the hull, tier after tier of guns have been raised, till

the ship has become the hugest and most complicated piece of mechanism

the world has ever seen.

Who has not in his time gazed with wonder on those floating castles

which the citizen of England from time to time sees hovering on his

coast, the watchful and moving fortresses of his island home? You are a

dweller in cities--you are lying, in some holiday and summer month,

listlessly upon the beach--the great ocean is spread before you,

illimitable--and it almost terrifies the imagination to think of men

passing _out there_, in that wild waste of waters, given up to the two

unthinking and gigantic powers of wind and wave, that have no more

respect for man or his structures than if they were still in the liberty

of chaos. That men _do_ go forth to the uttermost ends of the world

seems a thing almost fabulous--incredible. You have eaten of the lotus

leaf: why _should_ they go?--go from the firm and sheltering earth, to

lay their lives upon the winds? But now comes in sight a sail; the

extended wing floats unfluttered; the tall tapering masts are visible;

it moves imperturbable, like a god upon the waters. And look at that

tongue of flame drawn back with a serpent’s swiftness, and that wreath

of whitest vapour that steals out from its side so soft and

graceful!--is that the deadly shot that levels stoutest walls, and puts

to silence the bastion and the fort? So beautiful--so strong!--it walks

the waves, how fearless!--and nothing on the sea can harm it, and

nothing on the shore resist.

Where now are the great waters that swallowed up all enterprise, and

smote the heart with despair? The sea is ours!--we live, we revel, we

fight, we conquer on it.

The ship casts anchor, and you rush with many others upon the shore, and

you enter a skiff, which will take you off to a nearer survey of this

great visitor. You approach, and mount the sides of this floating

arsenal. Is this the thing you saw moving light as a bird upon the

horizon? You look down as from a house-top. That yacht which bore its

pennon so gallantly in the air, and which is now moored under the stern,

can just lay its fluttering flag on the solid deck you are walking. Look

down--you are giddy with the height; look up--and you are again level

with the waters; for there rises the enormous mast, piercing the sky,

laying its steady spars against the blue ether, bearing its acre-broad

canvass, that makes the vast hull with all its iron stores, bound over

the surface of the wave. O _Clas merdin_!--thou “sea-defended green

spot,”--such, and so great, is the sacrifice thou art called to offer up

upon the deep to the god of war! May it avail to keep thy homes for ever

untouched by the invader!

EVENINGS AT SEA.

It has often been a matter of surprise that we should owe so little of

the contents of our treasury of literature to officers of the navy while

actually employed at sea. The abundant leisure at their disposal, the

endless variety of places visited, of events witnessed, of perils shared

in, which their noble and important profession forces upon them, would

appear to give every facility to those who are gifted with descriptive

or imaginative powers, and to be almost capable of creating such where

they do not originally exist.

But any one who has himself been for a long time on the desert of waters

can no longer regard this with astonishment; he will have felt the

difficulty of bringing the mind into active and continued exertion in

pursuits unconnected with passing events. Though the physical functions

may be stimulated into unusual vigour by the bracing air and healthful

life on board, the power and energy of the mind are far from being

proportionately increased.

Having just landed from a long and tedious voyage, I feel in my own

experience a reproachful confirmation of this accusation of idleness

against a life at sea. All the admirable resolutions of study and

self-improvement, formed with the firmness of a Brutus on the shore,

melted away with the weakness of an Antony when I trusted myself to the

faithless bosom of the deep.

But there is no place where the stores of memory are more brought into

use in the way of narration, than on board ship; perhaps it is that

those who are at all inclined to garrulity find patient and idle

listeners more readily than under any other circumstances.

My fellow-passengers, though not very numerous, were men of sundry

countries, characters, and pursuits, and their manners and conversation

made up in their odd and discordant variety, for what they lacked in

refinement and intellectuality. It appears to me always the wisest plan

for a traveller to join in the society of his fellow-passengers, whoever

or whatever they may be. It is our own fault if we ever meet any one so

dull as to be incapable of affording us some amusement, or so ignorant

that we can derive no instruction from their conversation. The fact is,

that we are sure to be thrown into communication with many men who have

travelled much, who have seen many countries, and tried many pursuits,

of which we have known but little, and of which it must be always

desirable that our information should be increased.

During our voyage, we usually assembled, in the fine calm evenings of a

southern latitude, on the poop of the vessel, guarded from the evils of

the dewy air by a tent-like tarpaulin attached to the mizen-mast

overhead, with the friendly glass and the pipe or cigar to aid our

social chat. After a little time our conversation often lapsed into

narrative. As the thread of our discourse twisted through the various

textures of our different minds, a subject would at times strike on the

strong point or favourite idea of some one of our party, and with a half

passive, half interested attention, we would hear him to the end.

A few of these men had lived active and adventurous lives, and witnessed

stirring scenes; indeed, there was hardly one of them who had not some

experience of interest, wherewith to contribute to the armoury with

which we waged war against time, that enemy whose strength becomes

almost a tyranny on board ship. Frequently, on the following morning, I

used to endeavour to record the most striking of these narratives in the

best manner my memory permitted--but I fear in a way which will prove

but a too strong evidence of the soundness of the assertion I commenced

by putting forth, as to the difficulty of any literary effort while at

sea. The first narrative which I find noted in my manuscript was related

to us by the agent of an English mining company in Peru: he was then on

his way to London on business connected with his calling, and seemed a

man of quick intelligence, information, and kindly feelings. His

description of the golden and beautiful region whence he had come, and

the adventurous and prosperous labours of our own countrymen in that

distant land, were highly interesting; but a simple story of the noble

conduct of one of his miners--a rude and illiterate Cornish man--caught

my attention far more than any thing else, and added another strong link

to the chain of sympathy which binds my heart in love and kindly feeling

to my fellow beings. I give you his tale as I best can.

EVENING FIRST.--THE MINER.

In the spring of the year 1838 a vessel sailed from Falmouth, with

thirty-two Cornish miners and artisans on board, engaged by different

companies for Peru. They were principally young and adventurous men, who

were readily induced to change the certainty of hard work and

indifferent remuneration at home for the chances of a strange land. Some

of them took their families to share their fate, others left them

behind, to await their return if unsuccessful, or to follow the next

year if fortune should befriend the emigrants.

Among these latter was John Short, a man of about four-and-thirty years

of age; his brother-in-law, William Wakeham, five or three years his

junior, accompanied him: both were skilled and experienced miners. Mary

Short, the, wife of the former, remained with old Wakeham, her father,

who was a small farmer, living in the neighbourhood of Penzance. She had

been married some twelve years before this separation from her husband,

and had two surviving children, both of them young and helpless.

Her father had been much angered at her marriage; as in those days her

young husband bore no very steady character, and was better known in the

tap-room of the alehouse than at the labour-muster of the Captain of the

mine. Indeed, the father had threatened to turn her out of doors for

persisting in keeping acquaintance with the idle miner; and her brother,

William Wakeham, a very robust and quick-tempered young man, had beaten

her lover severely in a drunken quarrel, originating in the same cause.

The injuries were so severe that John Short was carried to an hospital,

where his kind-hearted but violent assailant paid him the most careful

and anxious attention. A friendship was there formed which resulted in

William Wakeham becoming a miner and John marrying his sister. The

father was finally and with much difficulty reconciled to both these

arrangements.

The young couple toiled on well enough through their hard life; the

alehouse was abandoned, and but that poor John was sometimes weak and

ailing and could not work, Polly had no reason to regret her choice.

William, who lived with them, was not quite so steady as they could have

wished: he often staid out all night, and they were not without

suspicion that the employment of these hours of darkness was scarcely

reconcileable with strict obedience to the very arbitrary game-laws. In

short, he was “had up” several times, and more indebted to good luck,

than either his innocence or any mild weakness of legislation, that he

did not become one of those whom we have driven forth from among

ourselves to be the founders of that great future empire, whose

principal geographical feature is Botany Bay.

But whenever his brother was too ill to go down to the mines, he worked

double tides; and neither the heathery moors nor shady coverts had

charms enough to tempt him away, when his sister or her family wanted

half the loaf his labour was to purchase. At length hard times came upon

the neighbourhood: work was scarce and wages low; the consequence was

that the game in the adjoining preserves suffered considerably, and the

tap-room of the village alehouse echoed with the voice of sedition and

discontent, instead of the coarse but good-humoured gossip and song

which had formerly been wont to be heard within its walls. This proved

an excellent opportunity for the mining agent to secure good workmen for

some speculations then being entered upon in South America. Accordingly

a flaming advertisement in huge red and blue letters was posted up all

over the country,--“Speedy fortune to be realised--gold mines of

Peru--wanted some steady and experienced miners--high wages--free

passage and a bounty.”

Poor William Wakeham’s literary acquirements but just enabled him to

make out the drift of the offer: Peru or Palestine, it was all the same

to him; no change could make him much worse off than he already was. A

picture at the top of the advertisement, of a man with a broad-brimmed

hat, a pickaxe in one hand, and an enormously plethoric purse in the

other, had great weight with him; and a strong hint from a neighbouring

magistrate who preserved pheasants, quite determined his acceptance of

the opportunity, if he could only persuade his brother-in-law to join

the venture. After a good deal of argument and many consultations, John

Short consented to go. He was threatened with ejectment from his cottage

for arrears of rent, which the company’s promised bounty would be more

than sufficient to discharge; but what overcame his greatest difficulty

was, that he received a promise from the agent, that Polly and the

little ones should follow them out next spring, for in this present

voyage the number of women allowed to accompany the emigrants had been

already completed. In the mean time she was to receive a portion of her

husband’s and brother’s wages, which would make her comfortable and

independent in her father’s house. Poor thing! she combated the scheme

strenuously; and all the prospects of making their fortune, and their

present dire necessity, could scarcely induce her to agree to so long a

separation.

Her husband and brother embarked after a cheerful but affectionate

parting. She went home to her father’s, who treated her kindly enough,

and cried her eyes out for a week; but then the toils and anxieties of

daily life distracted the sadness of her mind, and the strong hope of

soon joining her husband again, and of their returning to England in a

few years’ time, supported her through the tedious interval.

The brothers were astonished at all they saw on board. The ship

itself--the rudder--the compass, every thing was new to them: they had

scarcely ever been out of their own remote parish before, and the

strangeness and novelty of what they saw diverted their simple minds for

a time even from poor Polly and her parting sorrow. But when the vessel

was once fairly under way, and the verdant slopes and woody hills of

their fatherland had begun to grow dim in the distance, and the gloomy

monotony of the great sea lay around instead, a dreary anxiety possessed

their minds, and a vague feeling, almost of terror, sank into their

stout hearts. They would then have gladly sacrificed all their gilded

prospects, to be back once again in their little cottage, with poor

Polly and their poverty. It was, however, too late; they could scarcely

tell, in the fading light of evening, whether it were a cloud or a dim

line of hills which stretched close along the horizon, in the direction

where lay the home they had left behind, perhaps for ever.

Before them was the ocean; to them a confused and indistinct

idea--unknown and uncertain as their future fate.

I am sorry to say William Wakeham’s education had been by no means

elaborate. Perhaps he was not altogether to blame for this; for though

the masters he had laboured under cared very closely for the development

of his stout and vigorous limbs, his moral improvement by no means

interested them. But, worse than all, his ideas on theological subjects

were exceedingly indistinct--the only religious instruction he had ever

received having been in a small chapel of the Ranting persuasion, which,

as the only house of worship close at hand, he occasionally attended.

Indeed his stock of knowledge on these subjects consisted in a vague

notion that the Pope and the Devil were perpetually engaged in mining

operations, with explosive intentions, under houses of parliament.

But there was an instinct of reverence in his rude mind, an impression

of awe and love for that God of whom he had heard his mother often

speak, many years ago when he was a little child, before her early

death. Sometimes in the bright summer nights, when he was labouring in

the bowels of the earth, he would rest awhile from his work, and gaze up

through the shafts at the blue sky, till the dim but holy memories of

the past crowded on his brain. He fancied then that the Great Being

looked down from the high Heaven through a million starry eyes, into the

deep mine--into his simple heart; and he felt that there was One far

greater than the Captain of the workmen, or even than Squire Trebeck the

neighbouring magistrate, and to whom the strength of his vigorous limbs

was but the weakness of a child.

When in the summer Sunday afternoon, he rambled on the pleasant surface

of the earth, in the fresh open air, with his brother and sister, and

felt the warm sunshine, and saw the golden corn, and the lazy cattle,

and the trout leaping in the pool; and heard little fidgety birds with

very big voices, singing with all their might to tell how happy they

were; he felt that He who is great is also good.--that He who has all

power has boundless mercy too.

But ignorance and evil companions very often led poor William astray;

and when temptations pulled one way and his good instincts another, it

sometimes ended that he would poach, and drink, and fight as much as any

of them, and prove very sore and penitent the next morning. John Short

was what is called “a good kind of man,” with few of the faults or

virtues of his brother-in-law. He was quiet, industrious, and a good

husband, but of a weakly constitution, and not much character or

peculiarity one way or the other. Ever since their first quarrel these

two had continued in hearty favour and good-will one towards the other.

And this friendship helped them through many a pinch, and cheered many a

rough day.

It would be needless to follow the miners all through their voyage,--to

tell at length how they wondered that the sea could be so wide and the

world so large,--how the sun, as they went westward, seemed to travel so

much faster--and that, in spite of all they could do, their great fat

watches could not keep up with him;--and how a great storm arose, and

blew for three whole days and nights in their teeth, and raised up

monstrous waves to drive the vessel back;--then how the calm came, and

the sails, wet with the heavy dews, hung idly on the spars, like Polly’s

washing on the lines in the back-yard at home.

After many weeks they touched at Rio Janeiro, when they went ashore for

a little while to stretch their limbs. They were astonished at all they

saw--the vast fleet of ships, the busy quays, the crowds of

strange-looking brown people, who were dressed like the man they had

seen in the play long ago at Penzance fair, and the queer way they all

talked, so that our friends could not understand a word they said; and

the priests with loose robes and comical hats, who made them wonder if

there were a parliament at Rio, for it would be surely blown up; mules

larger than horses, with coats as smooth as satin; and above all, they

were astonished at seeing a crowd of very ugly black people chained hand

to hand in one of the squares, tethered for all the world like sheep on

the market-green at home. They were fairly bewildered; and when they got

on board again they agreed that they could not attend to digging, even

for gold itself, if Peru were half so foreign a looking place as that.

They have left Rio, and steer along the Patagonian shore; the weather

grows colder, the seas more stormy. They pass the gloomy mountains of

the desolate and mysterious “Land of fire.” Sometimes in the dark and

tempestuous nights they can distinguish, far away over the western sea,

sudden bursts of volcanic flame issuing from these unknown solitudes,

illuming the frowning sky above, and the rocky wilderness around. In a

long-continued storm of wind, and sleet, and snow, they double Cape

Horn; then in a short time more, as they tend again towards the

delightful regions of the tropics, the soft breezes of the Pacific fill

their sails, and the calm sea and gentle climate repay them for the

storms and hardships they have struggled through.

They touch at Valparaiso for a few days, where their simple wonder is

again renewed; and finally, early in August, disembark at Lima, having

gone through their long voyage in health and strength. After a short

time allowed them to recruit, the emigrants were divided into several

parties, and pushed on to the different stations in the interior. The

mine which our friends were destined to aid in working, was about ten

days’ journey from the coast. At some remote period of time, it had

been worked with great success by the Indians; but till its recent

re-discovery by a singular accident, when it passed into the hands of a

wealthy English company, it had remained unknown: the secret of its

locality having died with the Indian chief, whose hatred of the

rapacious Spaniards had caused him to fill up the shaft, and hide all

traces by which it could be found. There was a continual ascent: for a

few days they passed through comparatively peopled lands, and usually

stopped at some village or hamlet by a river’s side, where provisions

and refreshments could be obtained for themselves and their mules,

without trenching on their stores. Indeed the abundant wild fruits, and

rich and luxuriant grasses, would have stood them in good stead with but

little other assistance.

But the last three days of their journey was through savage and sterile

hills, by rocky gorges cut in the hard soil by streams now nearly dry;

and the unbeaten track told them that travellers but rarely intruded on

this lonely district. At length they reached their journey’s end, and

set stoutly to work to erect huts, and establish themselves for the

coming winter. Numbers of Indians and half-castes soon joined them to

assist in the simpler labours of the mine, and supply the workmen with

provisions and other necessaries of life. Twelve of the Cornish men were

employed in this party. Their first labours were directed to sinking a

shaft of considerable depth in the mountain’s side, at the place which

the discoverer pointed out.

Some months elapsed before the miners arrived at any satisfactory

indications of precious ores; but, confident in ultimate success, our

friends had got the clerk to write for them to Polly to say “all’s

well,” and that she must not fail to come, as they were now housed and

ready to make her and the little ones comfortable in that strange

country.

At the time of the expected arrival of the ship which was to bear her,

the completion of the great shaft Was close at hand; the appearance of

the veins of ore were such as to create the most sanguine expectations,

and a day was fixed for finishing off the shaft previous to commencing

to raise the precious object of their labours. They worked till late on

the evening of the appointed day in boring and tamping for a large blast

Which was to clear away the last ledge of rock lying between them and

the vein of metal.

When the charge was completed, William Wakeham and John Short were left

below to fire it. The other workmen were raised upon a stage by the

windlass in the usual manner; and with most culpable carelessness

hastened off to the spirit shop which had already cursed the little

settlement with its presence, to make merry for having arrived at this

stage of their labours, leaving only a weakly boy of fourteen or fifteen

years of age at the windlass. There was some delay in fixing the match:

and ere all was ready, the short twilight of those sultry regions had

darkened into night, and William’s old friends, the stars, looked down

on him again through the deep well, as they had often done of yore. Then

he and John talked of the old times and the old country, and of Polly’s

coming soon, and how the little ones would have grown, and how, in a few

years, they would all go back home again over that terrible sea, and lay

their bones to rest at last under the Cornish soil. They had no business

to linger so long over their work; but once they began to talk over such

things as these, it was hard to stop them.

“Now we have done with this weary blast,” said Wakeham, as he lighted

the fuse, and stepped, with his brother, on to the stage. He then

sounded the whistle, the signal for working the windlass to raise them.

They rose very slowly--unpleasantly so, indeed, for the fuse would burn

but for five minutes. “Hurry on, wind faster,” shouted William. Instead

of that the stage stopped altogether, and a feeble childish voice from

the top of the deep pit cried, “You are too heavy, I can only raise one

at a time.” “Get help quickly or we’ll be blown up,” shouted William,

now seeing the imminent peril. For some twenty feet below in the dark

hole he saw the match burning rapidly down, fizzing and flashing as if

running a race with them for life. “Get help,” again he shouted. But the

feeble voice, now in a terrified tone, told them that all were gone

away but that one weak boy. “But I think I can raise one.” There was but

a moment to spare--perhaps not even that.

What passed through William Wakeham’s mind at that tremendous time no

tongue can ever tell. He dearly loved life; his pulse beat in the full

vigour of sturdy health; he had learned but little of that hope whose

fulfilment “passeth all understanding;” he had never read how the Roman

or the Greek sought death in a good cause, and gave their names to

brighten history’s page, and gain what in our vain human talk is

immortality. But that Great Being whose power and love had spoken to him

in the bright stars and pleasant fields, had planted in the rude miner’s

breast a good and gallant heart, and in that time of trial he did as

brave a deed as ever poet sang. “Good-by, John--look to poor Polly!” One

grasp of his brother’s hand, and he leaped from the stage down into the

darksome pit.

Now the windlass winds freely up: there is hope for the one left; but

the match burns quickly too, and writhes and flashes close down to the

charge. Lay on stoutly! lay on!--strain every nerve, weak boy!--on every

pull is the chance of a human life! John Short reaches the mouth of the

shaft in safety; but before he springs out on the ground he turns one

look below. His brother lay motionless on the bottom on one side of the

rich vein of metal; at the other, the terrible match blazed up just as

it reached the charge. Senseless with terror, he fell on his face at the

pit’s mouth, and the next moment up burst the mine, shooting the rent

rock and the heavy clay into the air above.

When John Short recovered himself from his stupor, he looked down the

gloomy hole with hopeless agony, from whence the heavy sulphurous smoke

of the powder still ascended; and as he wrung his hands he cried, “Oh!

poor Bill, dear boy, would that I had been there instead of you!” But

stop--surely that is a voice--listen closer--yes--God of mercy! he is

alive still. Up from the bowels of the earth comes that cheery, hearty

voice, not a tone the worse.

How my heart warms as I tell this tale! Would that words came now at my

desire to stir up the spirit to love and admiration! Gallant William

Wakeham--noble child of nature--chivalrous boor--hero unstained by

slaughter! Were there in the sight of the Omnipotent aught of glory in

any human action, surely your brave deed would shine before him in a

brighter light than “the sun of Austerlitz” shed upon the bloody field

where the power of an empire was trampled in the dust.

Down went the stage,--up came Bill, blackened and bruised a little to be

sure, but not to signify a jot; he had struck his head in falling

against the side of the shaft and was stunned by the blow. It so

happened, by one of those wonderful contingencies which sometimes occur

when, in human eyes, escape seems impossible, that he fell in a corner

protected by the tough metallic vein which projected a little above the

level of the bottom. The explosion bent this by its force, instead of

shattering it like the surrounding rock, and turned the ledge over him.

This in a great measure defended him from the stones which fell back

again into the mine. The shock aroused him from the stunning effect of

the blow which he had received in falling, and he shouted heartily, “All

right, John! all right!”

His reward soon came--Polly and the children arrived safe and well. When

she wept with joy and thanked him in her own simple way for having saved

her husband for her, he was so happy in their happiness that he would

readily have jumped into the bursting mine again, rather than they

should be parted any more. When our narrator, the mining agent, left

Peru, the brothers were preparing to return to England; they had got on

well enough, and had saved sufficient money to enable them to stock a

little farm, near the village in Cornwall where they were born.

By the time this long story was told, it was past the usual hour of

going to our berths; but I am ashamed to say that several of our party

had already taken a large instalment of their night’s rest, and knew no

more about our friend William Wakeham than of the man in the moon.

THE DOG OF ALCIBIADES.

In Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades the following passage occurs:--

“Alcibiades had a dog of an uncommon size and beauty, which cost him

seventy _minæ_, and yet his tail, which was his principal ornament, he

caused to be cut off. Some of his acquaintance found great fault with

his acting so strangely, and told him that all Athens rang with the

story of his foolish treatment of the dog. At which he laughed, and

said, ‘This is the very thing I wanted; for I would have the Athenians

talk of this, lest they should find something worse to say of me.’”

This anecdote, move popularly known in France than in England, has there

been the origin of a proverbial metaphor. When a minor vice, folly, or

eccentricity is assumed as a cloak for a greater one, with a view to

throw dust in the eyes of all inquisitive public, and to veil from its

curiosity real motives, intentions, and inclinations, the pretext

paraded is called the Dog of Alcibiades. The true application of the

term may be better illustrated than exactly defined, and the former

course has been adopted in a French book of no distant date, entitled

_Le Chien d’Alcibiade_. A single volume, the only one its author has

produced--its wit, elegance of style, and general good taste would do

credit to the most experienced novelist; whilst the warm reception it

met from the Parisian public, ought, one would imagine, to have

encouraged a repetition of the attempt. On its title-page was found the

assumed name of Major Fridolin, the same under which a noted Parisian

_turfite_ enters his horses for the races at Chantilly and the Champ de

Mars. The _gentleman-rider_ (_vide_ the Anglo-Gallic vocabulary

patronised by the Paris _jochai-clubb_) who owns the fantastical

pseudonyme, is more esteemed for wealth than wit, better known as a

judge of horse-flesh than as a cultivator of literature, and generally

held more likely to achieve renown by the strength of his racers’ legs

than of his own head. So that when an ably-written novel appeared under

his _nom-de-guerre_, people asked one another if he were possibly its

author, and had previously kept his candle under a bushel, only to

dazzle the more when the shade was withdrawn. There could be no doubt

that the book was from the pen of a man of talent and refinement,

accustomed to good society, and seizing with peculiar felicity its

phases and foibles. The characters were so true to life, that it was

impossible for those moving in the circles portrayed to avoid

recognising the originals, not as individuals but as types of classes.

The gay world of Paris was painted with a sharp and delicate pencil,

without exaggeration or grotesque colouring. Some similarity might be

traced to the manner of Charles de Bernard, but in one respect the new

author had the advantage. His wit was as sparkling, his tone quite as

gentlemanly and agreeable, but he eschewed the caricature into which De

Bernard’s _verve_ not unfrequently seduces him. The name of the new

aspirant for literary fame soon oozed out, and to Monsieur Valbezene was

decerned the honour of having produced one of the most attractive novels

of the day. It at once gave him a reputation for ability, and is even

said to have conduced to his shortly afterwards receiving a government

appointment. It brought him under the notice of the bestowers of loaves

and fishes, as a man whose _finesse d’esprit_ and knowledge of the world

might be rendered serviceable to the state. M. Valbezene is now consul

of France at the Cape of Good Hope. It is to be desired that he may

there find leisure to cultivate his literary talents, and add others to

the favourable specimen of them he has already given. In Paris we should

have had less expectation of his so doing, for his book denotes him, if

a writer may her judged by his writings, to be a man of ease and

pleasure, more disposed and likely to sink into _far niente_ and form

the chief ornament of a brilliant circle, than to seclude himself in a

study, and apply seriously to literature.

The opening scene of M. Valbezene’s book is a brilliant ball-room in the

Faubourg St Honoré. At a whist-table sits the Count de Marsanne--a man

of forty years of age, at most; of robust health and handsome person.

His figure is stout without being corpulent; his ruddy countenance,

tanned by exposure to the weather, is not without distinction and grace;

his blue eyes are remarkably fine and intelligent; he wears his beard,

and his thick strong hair is cropped short. His dress denotes the

gentleman. His linen is exquisitely white, and the cut of his coat can

only be attributed to the skilful hand of Blin or Chevreuil. The Count,

who served previously to the July revolution in the hussars of the

Guard, and who, since leaving the service, has sought in field-sports

the peril, excitement, and activity essential to his ardent and

impetuous character, drives his dowager partner to despair by his

blunders at whist. He pays less attention to the game than to the

facetious whispers of his cousin, De Kersent--a young man of

five-and-twenty, short, fat, always happy and good-humoured, an eager

sportsman, and much more at his ease at a battue than a ball. The rubber

over, the Count leaves the heated card-room, to seek cooler air in an

outer apartment. M. Valbezene shall speak for himself.

“Whilst posted at the entrance door, Marsanne was accosted by a young

man of about eight-and-twenty, of elegant figure and most agreeable

countenance. The exquisitely polished tone of this new personage, the

tasteful simplicity of his costume, indicated a man of the best society,

to whom the epithet of _lion_ might with propriety have been applied,

were it not that, in these days of promiscuous lionism, the word has

lost its primitive acceptation.

“‘Well! my dear Vassigny,’ said Marsanne, breathing with difficulty,

‘did you ever experience such a temperature? For my part, I was never so

hot in my life, not even in Africa, when our soldiers blew out their

brains to escape the scorching sun. Refreshments, too, are scarce at the

whist-table; we did not see even a glass of water. Consequently, my

friend, I was so inattentive to the game, that, through my fault, my

very heinous fault, we lost the rub. The Baroness de Pibrac, my unlucky

partner, was tragically indignant. Ah! she will not forgive me in a

hurry! If heaven has any regard for her maledictions, I shall pay dearly

for the fourteen francs I made her lose.’

“‘Madame de Marsanne is here?’ inquired the young man.

“‘Of course. You know me well enough to be sure I should not remain from

choice in such a furnace. I am no great lover of balls, but this is the

last of the season; so, one hour’s patience, and a year’s holiday is

before me. Remember, we meet to-morrow morning at seven, sharp. Kersent

accompanies us to Rambouillet. At last, then, I shall revisit my horses,

my dogs, my forests; I shall have air--motion... _Tonton, tontaine,

tonton_’ ... hummed the sportsman, whose face beamed with joy at

thoughts of the chase.

“‘Certainly, I shall be exact.... But as you have been here some time,

you will perhaps be so good as to show me Mr Robinson, the master of the

house. None of my friends have been able to point him out, and I am

rather curious to make my bow to him.’

“‘_Ma foi!_ my dear fellow,’ replied Marsanne, ‘your question is not

easy to answer. I am inclined to think it is that crooked little

gentleman in black--unless, indeed, it be yonder portly handsome man in

the blue coat. Upon reflection, I vote for the latter. His wholesome

corpulence tells of the substantial and judicious nourishment of the

Anglo-Americans. In fact, I am as ignorant as yourself. On arriving, we

were met at this door by the Marchioness de Presle, who, as you know,

sent out the invitations for Mr Robinson; and as soon as we had paid our

respects to the Marchioness, Madame de Marsanne dragged me forward to

the third saloon, so that I know no more of our amphitryon than you do.

But here is little Movillez. He will settle our doubts.’

“The new personage whose coming Marsanne announced, owed to his age

alone the epithet applied to him, for he was above the ordinary height.

He was apparently about one-and-twenty: his insignificant countenance,

which in character bore some resemblance to that of a sheep, expressed

perfect self-satisfaction. An embroidered shirt, and a white satin

waistcoat, spangled with gold, might have made him suspected of a great

leaning to the frivolities of dress, had not a white flower in his

buttonhole revealed serious political predilections, and an unchangeable

attachment to the fallen House of Bourbon.

“‘Movillez,’ said Marsanne, ‘show Vassigny the master of the house; he

wishes to make his bow to him.’

“‘For what?’ inquired the youth, with adorable impertinence.

“‘For the sake of good breeding,’ replied Vassigny drily.

“‘Nonsense!’ cried Movillez, ‘you surely do not dream of such a thing:

If you knew Mr Robinson he would bow to you in the street, and that

would be very disagreeable.’

“‘There is pleasure in giving you parties; you are not even grateful for

your entertainment.’

“‘Perfectly true; and what is more, I consider Mr Robinson under an

obligation to me. Persons of his sort are too happy to get people like

us to go to their routs and help them to devour their dollars. But we do

not on that account become one of them; that, _parbleu_! would never do.

Thank heaven! even in these days of equality we have not come to that.

An unknown individual arrives at Paris, having made his fortune in

India, Peru, or Chili, in the slave-trade, in cotton, or in tallow. All

well and good; I have nothing to do with it. I go to his balls, I eat

his suppers; but I do not know him the more for that.’

“‘You have your theory, I have mine,’ replied Vassigny; ‘each of us

thinks his own the best, I suppose.’

“‘Come, come, confess candidly that you wish to do the eccentric,’ said

Movillez. ‘Well, for your government, that little gentleman in the black

coat, leaning against the chimney-piece, is the Robinson. He is very

ugly. I am heartily sorry the Marchioness de Presle did not suggest to

him to adopt the costume of his patron saint. The pointed hat and

palm-leaf inexpressibles would become him admirably. As to the ball, it

is tolerably brilliant: there is a good deal of faubourg St Germain and

faubourg St Honoré. _Dame!_ there are other sorts too--a little finance,

some beauties from the citizen-court, a few prudes from the Bal

Rambuteau. The company is mixed, certainly, but still it is astonishing

that this exotic has been able to collect so many people of fashion. You

know the report about _il Signor_ Robinson, that he was ten years in

prison at Philadelphia? Yes, he is an interesting victim of human

injustice; I am assured he reasons most eloquently on the penitentiary

system.’

“These silly and slanderous jokes seemed any thing but agreeable to the

two persons to whom they were addressed.

“‘Is your father’s counting-house still in the Rue Lepelletier?’ said

Vassigny, with freezing _sang froid_. ‘I want some bills on London, and

shall give him my custom in preference to any other banker.’

“These words brought a vivid flush to the cheek of the young dandy; he

replied only by an affirmative sign, left the two friends, and entered

the dancing-room.

“‘Do you know, Gaston,’ said Marsanne, ‘little Movillez was any thing

but well pleased by your promising his father your custom?’

“‘I both know and am delighted at it. The little puppy forgot, when he

sneered at the beauties of the citizen-court, that my sister belongs to

the household of the Duchess of.... I was very glad to remind him that

his father is neither more nor less than a banker, and that it takes

something more than a white rose in the buttonhole to make a Montmorency

or a Biron. But I must leave you.’

“So saying, Vassigny pressed his friend’s hand, addressed a few polite

words to the master of the house, who seemed touched and surprised at

this unusual piece of courtesy, and passed into the adjoining saloon.

The ball was at the gayest; the elegant costumes had lost nothing of

their freshness, the faces of the women, animated by pleasure, as yet

showed no traces of fatigue. The orchestra, conducted by Tolbecque, was

remarkable for its spirit and harmony. Every thing in this charming fête

was calculated to excite the indignation of those narrow-minded

reformers who cannot understand that the luxury of the rich gives bread

to the poor. Vassigny sauntered for some time through the crowd, shaking

hands with friends and bowing to ladies; but it was easy to judge from

his irregular movements and wandering glances, that he had not

undertaken this peregrination without an object. At last he reached the

door of a little boudoir--a delightful and mysterious asylum, hung with

silk and perfumed with flowers. A chosen few had taken refuge in this

sanctuary, where the murmur of the ball and the crash of the orchestra

arrived faint and subdued. Here Vassigny seemed to have attained the

goal he had proposed himself, as his eyes rested upon a lady gracefully

sunk in an arm-chair, and chatting familiarly with M. de Kersent. It

were necessary to borrow the swan-quill of Dorat, of gallant memory,

faithfully to trace a portrait of this young woman, then in the flower

of her age and beauty. Priding ourselves, unfortunately, on being of our

century, and consequently very ungallant, we shall merely say, that it

is impossible to imagine a sweeter or more charming countenance: without

having the regularity of a classic model, the features were replete with

fascination. Her eyelids, fringed with long curved lashes, protected

eyes whose liquid and languishing expression was exchanged at intervals

for bright and brilliant glances, indicative of a passionate and

powerful organisation. The arch of her eyebrows was accurately and

delicately pencilled; so affable was her smile, so white and regular her

teeth, that one dared not call her mouth large, or tax it with

extending--according to Bussy Rabutin’s expression--from ear to ear. Her

neck and shoulders, perfectly moulded and of dazzling whiteness, would

have enchanted a sculptor. Her dress, extremely plain, was of white

lace; a wreath of fresh-gathered corn-flowers decked her head--the

humble field-blossom seeming proud of its place in the midst of a

magnificent forest of golden hair, worthy to support a diadem. A bunch

of the same flowers in her hand, completed a costume whose simplicity

was equalled by its elegance.”

Thus, at setting off, M. Valbezene sketches the five principal actors in

his domestic drama; and we have little further to read before

discovering their virtues and vices, and the relation in which they

stand to each other. The Count de Marsanne is a man of strict honour,

and warm heart; generous instincts, and much delicacy of feeling.

Sincerely attached to his wife, he has, nevertheless, from a very early

period of their wedded life, greatly neglected her, leaving her to pine

in solitude, whilst he indulged his violent passion for field-sports.

The affection Amélie de Marsanne originally felt for her husband has

yielded to the neglect of years, and been replaced by a violent passion

for Vassigny, which he ardently reciprocates. So guarded, however, has

been their conduct, that none suspect the intrigue. Marsanne has perfect

confidence in his wife’s virtue; and the gay, good-humoured Kersent, who

is warmly attached to his beautiful cousin, and on terms of great

intimacy with Vassigny, has not the remotest idea of the good

understanding between the two persons he best loves. Movillez, an

admirable specimen of the pretensions young Frenchman just escaped from

college, and aping the vices and follies of more mature Parisian

_roués_, affords many comic scenes, which agreeably relieve the grave

and thrilling interest of the book. He also, unknown to himself, plays

an important part in the plot, and by his indiscretion, is the cause of

a world of unhappiness to the four persons already described. Francine,

a fifth-rate actress at a Paris theatre, vulgar, profligate, and

mercenary; and Major d’Havrecourt, a good-hearted old officer,

punctilious on the point of honour, and fancying himself a man of most

pacific dispositions, whilst in reality he is ever ready for a

duel,--complete the _dramatis personæ_. Although D’Havrecourt has

attained the ripe age of fifty, he still knows how to sympathise with

youth, to understand its tastes and excuse its follies; and Movillez is

one of the hopefuls whom he not unfrequently favours with his society

and benefits by his advice.

The day after the ball, Marsanne’s hunting-party takes place. A

wild-boar is killed, and poor Movillez, who has joined the chase in

hopes of distinguishing himself before the eyes of a fair English

amazon, meets with numerous disasters, principally occasioned by his bad

horsemanship, but which his indomitable conceit prevents his taking much

to heart. A week later we find him dining at the Café de Paris, in

company with D’Havrecourt, and listening to sundry narratives of

remarkable single combats which the old fire-eater had witnessed, heard

of, or shared in. Dessert is on table, when these bellicose

reminiscences are interrupted by the arrival of Kersent.

“‘Allow me to enjoy your society,’ said the new comer, until the arrival

of Marsanne, who is behind his time, as usual.’

“‘With great pleasure,’ replied the Major cordially. ‘What will you

take?’

“‘Nothing: I should spoil my dinner. Well! young man,’ continued

Kersent, addressing himself to Movillez, ‘so we are getting on in the

world, conquering a position, becoming a lion of the very first water.

The _Journal des Chasses_ talks of nothing but your exploits at the

Rambouillet hunt.’

“‘How so?’ cried Movillez, greatly surprised.

“‘Yes, in the account of the day’s sport it cites the elegant, the

courageous, the dauntless Movillez as first in at the death. Two pages

about you, neither more nor less, in the style of the passage of the

Rhine by defunct Boileau.’

“‘I did not deserve such praise. Henceforward, I will take the paper.’

“‘You cannot do less.’

“‘Read the article twice,’ said D’Havrecourt, who had listened

attentively to Kersent’s words. ‘You know me for a man of peaceable

temper and disposition, an enemy, both by nature and habit, of all

violence. Well, I read that article to-day, and it seemed to me that

under the form of praise it concealed a tendency to satire. I hesitated

to tell you of it, but since another has started the hare, you shall

have my candid opinion on the subject. We must not allow the press to

take liberties with us; a man of the world should be extremely severe

with those who dare to turn his private life into ridicule. Read the

article attentively, and if you are of opinion the affair should be

followed up, which in my conscience I think it ought to be, why, then,’

concluded the Major martially, ‘you may reckon on my services.’

“‘_Parbleu!_ D’Havrecourt,’ cried Kersent gaily, ‘you won’t succeed in

setting us by the ears.’

“‘What! the article is yours?’ exclaimed the two diners.

“‘Mine. Your astonishment does not indicate a very flattering estimate

of my literary capacity. Yes, my friends! I mean to make myself a

position, I aspire to become a legislator, and by way of getting my hand

in, I write for the _Journal des Chasses_. Electors like to find in

their candidate a man of letters, rich in the honours of pica and

long-primer. So I flatter the elective weakness; I sacrifice to the

parliamentary calf. Ah! only let me get into the Chamber,’ continued

Kersent, in the tone of a future tribune, ‘and you shall see me take up

a solid position. My plans are formed. Once in the Chamber, I defend the

partridge, I plead for the rabbit, I declare myself the champion of fur

and feather. Find a college of electors intelligent enough to return me,

and you shall have a game-law worthy of Solon. It is already framed in

my head. Death for the poacher, death for the snare-setter: the

philanthropical system of the Committee of Public Salvation! With such a

law, you would soon see prodigious results.... But I arrived only this

morning from Plessy, with Marsanne, and we set out again to-morrow for

the forest of Orleans. His hunting equipage has preceded us. Any fresh

scandal here? Are you successful with Lady Emilia? _Sapristie!_ if she

does not look favourably on you after your exploits of last week, her

heart must be granite.’

“‘Perhaps!’ muttered Movillez with an air of consummate coxcombry.

“‘The _perhaps_ is very significant; but I know your discretion, and

will question you no further. And Vassigny, how is he? what is he

doing? where is he?’

“‘I know a thing or two about him; and bye the bye, I will tell you what

I know. You may be able to help me in my researches.’

“‘I am all ears,’ said Kersent. ‘Ah! there you are, Marsanne! three

quarters of an hour late, that’s all: if I have an indigestion, I shall

know whom to thank. But hush! Movillez is about to unfold the mysteries

of Vassigny.’”

Marsanne, who had just arrived, nodded to his friends, and lent his

attention to Movillez, who began as follows:

“‘I have given up the new system of horsemanship, and devote myself

entirely to the equitation of the race-course; I am resolved to make a

brilliant appearance next spring upon the turf of Versailles. Every day

I take a sweating in the Bois de Boulogne, under the guidance of Flatman

the jockey, who meets me at nine in the morning at the corner of the

Allée de Marigny. I leave my house, therefore, at half-past eight, and

proceed to my appointment by the Rue de la Pépinière and the Rue de

Miromesnil. Several days together I met Vassigny at that unusual hour,

in that out-of-the-way quarter, and saw him enter a small house, No. 17,

in the Rue de Miromesnil, where it is impossible any acquaintance of his

can live. This very morning I saw him again, and I determined to solve

the riddle. I sauntered up and down the street, and, thank heaven! my

patience was not put to a very severe trial. A little blue hackney

coach, of mysterious aspect, with the blinds down, turned out of the Rue

Verte, and stopped at No 17. The coach-door opened, a lady tripped down

the steps with the rapidity of a frightened doe and darted into the

house. Impossible to say who it was. Her figure was elegant, she wore a

dark-coloured morning dress; an odious black veil, impenetrable to the

eye, fell from her velvet hat. But there was such an aristocratic air

about her, such a high-bred atmosphere environed her, that I would wager

my head it was some duchess or marchioness. The driver had resumed his

seat, and I was venting execrations on black veils, when the god of

scandal came to my aid. I perceived, on the pavement at my feet, a

little purse which the lady had dropped. In a second, I had picked it

up, thrust it in my pocket, and run away like a thief with the police at

his heels. As to the purse,’ continued Movillez, producing a small purse

of plain green silk network, ‘here it is. Let us see if you can guess

its owner; for my part I have not even a suspicion.’

“The purse, curiously examined by Kersent and D’Havrecourt, at last came

into the hands of Marsanne. He looked at it for a few moments, and then

with a severe expression of countenance, addressed Movillez: