Another house just like the first. The bride stepped out of one palace
into another. With their five or six thousand a year, the young couple
could just manage to make both ends meet. The husband was devoted; the
wife had everything that she could wish. Who could be happier than this
pair in a nest so luxurious, their life so padded, their days so full
of sunshine?
It was a year after marriage. The wife, contrary to her usual custom,
was the first at breakfast. A few letters were waiting for her--chiefly
invitations. She opened and read them. Among them lay one addressed to
her husband. Not looking at the address, she opened and read that as
well:
"DEAR REGINALD,--I venture to address you as an old friend of your own
and schoolfellow of your mother's. I am a widow with four children.
My husband was the Vicar of your old parish--you remember him and me.
I was left with a little income of about two hundred a year. Twelve
months ago I was persuaded in order to double my income--a thing which
seemed certain from the prospectus--to invest everything in a new and
rich gold mine. Everything. And the mine has never paid anything. The
Company--it is called the Rynard Gold Reef Company--is in liquidation
because, though there is really the gold there, it costs too much to
get it. I have no relatives anywhere to help me. Unless I can get
assistance my children and I must go at once--to-morrow--into the
workhouse. Yes, we are paupers. I am ruined by the cruel lies of that
prospectus, and the wickedness which deluded me, and I know not how
many others, out of my money. I have been foolish, and am punished:
but those people, who will punish them? Help me, if you can, my dear
Reginald. Oh! for _God's_ sake, help my children and me. Help your
mother's friend, your own old friend."
"This," said Rosie, meditatively, "is exactly the kind of thing to make
Reggie uncomfortable. Why, it might make him unhappy all day. Better
burn it." She dropped the letter into the fire. "He's an impulsive,
emotional nature, and he doesn't understand the City. If people are so
foolish. What a lot of fibs the poor old pater does tell, to be sure.
He's a regular novelist--Oh! here you are, you lazy boy!"
"Kiss me, Rosie." He looked as handsome as Apollo and as cheerful.
"I wish all the world were as happy as you and me. Heigho! Some poor
devils, I'm afraid----"
"Tea or coffee, Reg?"
[Illustration: W. S. Stacey.]
_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._
JOHN LAWRENCE TOOLE.
Wherever the English tongue is spoken the name of J. L. Toole is a
household word. After winning his spurs in Dublin, he made his first
appearance in London at the St. James's Theatre, which was then under
the management of Mrs. Seymour. This was in 1855. From the St. James's
he migrated to the Lyceum, where he played, among other characters,
_Flip Flap_ to Charles Dillon's _Belphegor_, Mrs. Bancroft, then Marie
Wilton, being in the cast. It was but a step from the Lyceum to the
Adelphi; and his merry reign there, in conjunction with Paul Bedford,
will be always remembered in connection with that theatre. It was
during this period that our first two portraits were taken. The third
portrait represents him at forty-five years of age, before which time
he had produced Byron's "Dearer than Life" at the Queen's, Henry Irving
playing _Bob Gassett_, and Lionel Brough _Uncle Ben_. The theatre he
built for himself in King William-street was opened in 1879. Our fourth
portrait was taken in Dunedin, New Zealand, about five months ago, in
the course of his remarkably successful tour through the Australasian
colonies.
[Illustration: _From a_| AGE 20. |_Photo._]
[Illustration: AGE 25. _From a Photo._]
[Illustration: AGE 45. _From a Photo._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| PRESENT DAY. |_Burton Bros.,
Dunedin._]
For these portraits we are indebted to Mr. Toole's courtesy.
EDWARD S. WILLARD.
BORN 1854.
Mr. E. S. Willard, whose career at the Shaftesbury Theatre within the
last two years firmly established his claim to be regarded as one
of our few really great actors, made his first bow to a theatrical
audience at the Theatre Royal, Weymouth, in December, 1869, and
afterwards gained some useful experiences on the "Western Circuit." In
1875 he married Miss Emily Waters, now well known in literary circles
as "Rachel Penn," and then he made his first appearance in London at
the Covent Garden Theatre. Five years of hard work in the provinces
followed, leading to his engagement at the Princess's under the
management of Mr. Wilson Barrett. His performance of the _Spider_ in
"The Silver King" was no less popular than that of his chief. Although
Mr. Willard's position in the first rank of actors could not have been
long delayed, his sudden leap to the front was almost the result of a
fortunate accident. He had accepted a long engagement from Mr. Hare
for the new Garrick Theatre, which, fortunately for Mr. Willard, was
cancelled by him when he refused to play the opening part assigned
to him. This left him free to assume the reins of management at the
Shaftesbury Theatre, where his remarkable performances of _Cyrus
Blenkarn_ and _Judah_ established his claim to pre-eminence, and more
than justified the faith and confidence of his numerous admirers.
[Illustration: _From a_| AGE 18. |_Photograph._]
[Illustration: _From a_| AGE 27. |_Photograph._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 36. |_J. Templeton Grove._]
MISS KATE RORKE.
Miss Kate Rorke, at the age at which our first portrait represents
her, was already on the stage, in the character of one of the
little school-girls in "Olivia." At fourteen she was still a stage
school-girl, this time in the Bancrofts' production of "School" at the
Haymarket. Soon afterwards she joined Mr. Charles Wyndham's touring
company, and at the age of our third portrait was delighting the
audiences of the chief provincial theatres in a variety of characters.
These early studies, combined with great natural abilities, have borne
the fruit to be expected; and to-day Miss Rorke, as the frequenters of
the Garrick Theatre know to their delight, is one of the most charming
and finished actresses at present on the English stage.
[Illustration: AGE 12.]
[Illustration: AGE 14.]
[Illustration: AGE 16.]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.]
THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE.
BORN 1864.
At the age of seven Prince Albert Victor was receiving his education
at home. At fourteen--at which age he is here depicted in a Highland
costume--he was, like his brother George, a cadet on board H.M.S.
_Britannia_ at Dartmouth. At nineteen, he became an undergraduate at
Trinity College, Cambridge; after which he was transferred to Aldershot
to study military science.
These portraits are published by special arrangement with Messrs.
W. and D. Downey, whose permission thus to reproduce photographs of
celebrities from their enormous and unique assortment we are the first
to obtain.
[Illustration: AGE 5.
_From a Photo. by Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: AGE 7.
_From a Photo. by Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: AGE 14.
_From a Photo. by Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: AGE 19.
_From a Photo. by Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 26. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
THE DUCHESS OF FIFE.
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 3 MONTHS. |_Messrs. W. & D.
Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 6. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 10. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 15. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| PRESENT DAY. |_Messrs. W. & D.
Downey._]
The Duchess of Fife, as our readers are aware, inherits in no small
degree the conspicuous gifts of grace and beauty for which her Royal
mother is so pre-eminently distinguished. That such has been the case
throughout her life is manifested by the charming portraits which here
represent her from the age when, as a solemn baby, her first photograph
was taken, down to her appearance at the present day.
These portraits are reproduced by special arrangement with Messrs. W.
and D. Downey.
PRINCE GEORGE OF WALES.
BORN 1865.
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 3. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 5. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 14. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 18. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 25. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]
Of Prince George at the ages of three and five we have nothing to
record; but at the time at which our third portrait represents him, he
was a middy on board H.M.S. _Britannia_. A sailor is always a popular
member of all classes of society, and "our sailor prince" enjoys the
reputation of being among the most popular of his profession.
These portraits are reproduced by special arrangement with Messrs. W.
and D. Downey.
MME. ALBANI.
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 18. |_Levitsky, Paris._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 19. |_Bergamasco, St.
Petersburg._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 25. |_Sarony, New York._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| PRESENT DAY. |_Sarony, New York._]
The first portrait we give of Mme. Albani-Gye shows her at eighteen
years, when a student under M. Duprez, of Paris. The second represents
her at nineteen, as _La Sonnambula_, in which _rôle_ she made a
triumphant _début_ in 1872 at Covent Garden. Mme. Albani spent her
25th birthday in New York, where she created the part of _Elsa_. The
last photograph represents her as _Desdemona_, a character which
particularly appeals to her.
MISS AGNES JANSEN.
The first photograph we give of Miss Agnes Jansen brings her before
us at eighteen years of age, then a student at the Royal Academy of
Music in Stockholm. Under the guidance of her accomplished master, Hugo
Beyer, she made such marked progress that she was shortly afterwards
engaged to appear in the leading contralto _rôles_ at the Opera House
of her native city. In 1885, on pleasure bent, she came to England,
and, in the cause of a charity, made her _début_ at the Albert Hall,
since when she has been continually sought for concerts in town and
country. Only a few weeks back she appeared for the first time in a
London opera at Covent Garden, where she is now performing.
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 18. |_M. Hansen, Stockholm._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 24. |_Florman._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 27. |_Chancellor, Dublin._]
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| PRESENT DAY. |_The Stereoscopic
Co._]
_Humours of the Post Office._
WITH FAC-SIMILES.
II.
The pages in the "Post Office Album," through which we were looking
in our last number, are by no means exhausted. There is yet another
curiously addressed missive to Her Majesty--"To the lady queen
vicktorieha queens pallice London" (Fig. 1); the late Earl of
Beaconsfield was also signalled out for an hieroglyphic wrapper (Fig.
2); the gentleman occupying the civic chair at the Mansion House in
1886 was the recipient of a somewhat remarkable envelope--sufficiently
suggestive, however, to reach him (Fig. 3); whilst the Receiver and
Accountant-General of the Post Office received a veritable puzzle in
"Receive the county general Cheapy hall London" (Fig. 4). One remaining
specimen (Fig. 5) here reproduced--which was actually delivered to the
proper persons for whom it was intended--we will leave to those of our
readers who revel in the unravelling of the mysterious.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
Turn over another leaf, and you are requested to make yourself
acquainted with an interesting little Welsh town in Merionethshire,
familiarly known as "Llanllanfairpyllghyllgheryogogogoch"; and the next
page gives rise to unbounded sympathy for the unfortunate postman who
dutifully delivered a letter to--
"Mr. Paddy O'Rafferty O'Shaugnessy,
'The Beautiful Shamrock'
Next door to Barney Flynn's Whiskey Store.
Knock me down entirely street,
Stratford on Avon
In the County Cork if ye like Dublin."
[Illustration: FIG. 3.]
One gentleman is evidently partial to boxing--all his envelopes are
pugilistically illustrated, whilst another individual's wrappers
always bear a request--in big capitals--to carry his communication
by a British vessel, and on no account by a foreign one. A minister,
evidently just ordained, and residing in Jamaica, is depicted in the
pulpit with his old college cap and boots in the distance, with the
reminder to "Never forget old friends." One envelope strongly suggests
that somebody has a weakness for anything but toast and water, for the
gentleman is represented fast asleep, with a huge barrel of beer above
him, and the tap still flowing freely into his opened mouth, which is
waiting to receive it.
[Illustration: FIG. 4.]
[Illustration: FIG. 5.]
The volumes devoted to humours nearer at home are brimming over
with merriment, whilst not a few leaves contain somewhat serious
impressions. Suggestions of holiday making form a prominent feature.
Pretty and effective views of the sea and country lanes, picturesque
valleys and mountains, are liberally displayed on the various
envelopes. One lady is at Margate, attired in such masculine clothing,
with binocular under her arm, that the artist has added a flowing beard
to her face. There is a landlady presenting a bill, whilst the next
is really a very original idea of the various stages of matrimony. On
a number of boards resting on an easel, is one marked "1883," with a
pair of lovers drifting down a stream in a boat, whilst "1884" finds
the same pair in wedding garments. Other "years" are waiting for their
events in the lives of the young people.
[Illustration: FIG. 6.]
Poetical addresses are as numerous as they are varied. Here are one or
two examples. A postman read the following instructions:--
"Near Bristol City may patience lead thee;
At Totterdown Row--postman, heed me--
Stands Gordon House, 'tis passing fair,
And Mr. Brittain dwelleth there."
[Illustration: FIG. 7.]
Another envelope, bearing the Peckham post-mark, thus silently
appeals:--
"To Exeter fair city, by Western Mail,
Good postman, send me without fail;
And when in Devonshire I arrive,
Over Exe Bridge and through St. Thomas drive,
Past the old turnpike, and up the hill
Held sacred to Little John's [+] still,
Just where the road begins to turn,
You'll find Rose Cottage and Mrs. Hearn.
Ask her if there's a fair young lass
Come down from London her holidays to pass;
To her please deliver without delay,
For I'm postage paid, and so you need not stay."
The poetry is not great, but it is suggestive.
An eminent maker of umbrellas received a most artistic wrapper, with
numerous illustrations showing the position his umbrellas held amongst
the community. Gentlemen are using them as a means of roaming the seas,
whilst a more adventuresome spirit, remarking that "Umbrellas make
you rise in the world," is going up _à la_ balloon with one. Finally,
at the death of the worthy manufacturer his own umbrella is carried
in state followed by an appreciative populace, and the head of his
memorial stone is further decorated by a number of these very useful
protectors. The uncertainty of our glorious climate is the subject for
another wit, who has drawn a monumental stone over which a watering can
is freely flowing with the words--
Sacred
to the
memory of the fine weather
which departed from this land
June, 1888.
* * * * *
Also
the sun of the above.
[Illustration: FIG. 8.]
One envelope has an ingenious direction on it. It is intended for s.s.
_Kaisow_, lying in the Red Sea. It shows a very intelligent-looking sow
labelled K, with a belt round it in the form of the letter C painted
red.
A somewhat similarly addressed wrapper is one despatched to Wales.
Swansea is represented by a swan with a capital C in the immediate
vicinity of its tail (Fig. 6); whilst following the word South is a
representation of a number of enthusiastic fishermen making every
effort to harpoon some whales. A stalwart Highlander, in all his glory,
appears upon another, wishing "A guid New Year to ye," and as he holds
out a palm almost as large as himself, he merrily exclaims, "And here's
_a hand_, my trusty fren'!" An invalid is lying with a heavy box on
him, labelled appropriately "A Chest Complaint." John Bull and Young
Australia occupy two corners of the wrapper, shaking hands across the
sea, whilst the next is a loving message to an ocean roamer, showing an
energetic little nigger indulging in what is frankly admitted to be a
"mangled version of an old song," to the effect of--
"Good bye, John,
Don't stop long,
Come back soon to your numberless chickabiddies;
My heart is low,
The winds blow so,
And takes away my sailor."
[Illustration: FIG. 9.]
Niggers seem strong favourites for illustrative purposes. A magnificent
specimen of a black is that of a gentleman in a huge broad-brimmed
straw hat, with the name and address written on an equally prodigious
collar. The gentleman destined to receive the letter rejoiced in the
name of Black, hence the presence of our dark friend (Fig. 7). Here
(Fig. 11) is a merry little drummer boy, whose face is hidden by the
paper he is reading, which bears the postage stamp.
[Illustration: FIG. 10.]
A young lady residing at Port Elizabeth probably felt a shock when
she found on an envelope from "home," a gentlemanly but gluttonous
cannibal making a small lunch out of a venturesome white man, whom he
is swallowing at a single bite. "A Native Swallowing a Settler" is
the comforting inscription on it. Equally startled, too, probably,
was the lady who found that she had been singled out as "Lost,
Stolen, or Strayed," with a crowd of interested onlookers--including
representatives of the military and police--eagerly scanning the bill
on which was set forth her name and address (Fig. 8).
What looks like a sly hint at matrimony was sent by an amorous swain
to a young damsel at Cape Town. A gentleman's head, labelled "An
unfurnished flat," surely suggests house furnishing. Page after page
of the postal scrap-book is replete with illustrations: artists,
sculptors, eminent politicians, all classes of the community, all have
their own particular "skit"--a musician, probably, and a violinist to
wit, receiving his envelope with a pictorial representation suggesting
the weight of his instrument, so much so that it took a couple of men
to carry it between them, and even then the fiddle and case proved too
heavy, and was allowed to fall to the ground, much to the evident hurt
of one of those engaged in the job (Fig. 9).
"The lion is a noble animal, and to his keeper he appears to possess
no small degree of attachment." So says an envelope with the king of
beasts taking his unwary keeper into his paws.
It is needless to say that married people receive a fair share of
attention from the envelope artist. The "delighted parent" is in strong
evidence, whilst the nurse approaches with gladdened step and joyfully
exclaims "Twins, sir!"
And a wit winds the series up with a request on his missive addressed
to the care of a post-office to the effect:--"Don't give him this
unless he calls for it."
[Illustration: FIG. 11.]
We append a couple of illustrations which seem to have escaped the
usually keen eye of those at the Post Office, always on the look-out
for these little curiosities in envelopes. One is kindly forwarded by
a gentleman interested in these "Postal Humours," and shows a boar
partial to boating playfully flying a kite, on the tail of which is the
name and address. The sun looks on somewhat dubiously from above (Fig.
10). The second is a specimen of many similar ones which arrive at the
office of _Tit-Bits_, and depicts the various stages through which a
letter passes whilst on its way to compete for the weekly "Vigilance
Prize," until it is finally handed in at its proper destination (Fig.
12).
[Illustration: FIG. 12.]
_Celebrated Beauties._
"Woman, be fair, we must adore you;
Smile, and the world is all before you."
Looking back across the gulf of years which divides us from the latter
portion of the last century, we must be struck by the total change
that has passed over society generally. No men like those giants in
intellect, Chatham, Fox, Swift, Johnson, now fill the canvas; no fine
gentlemen, who, as Thackeray says, were in themselves a product of the
past, and for which the finikin, white-vested masher is but a poor
substitute. And the women!--those wondrously fair creatures, whose
faces have been handed down to us by Reynolds or Gainsborough, and who
smile at us from their gilt frames. What witchery in the almond-shaped
eyes, long and languishing; what pouting lips; what arched and lovely
necks; what queenly dignity in their gait and carriage, and withal
nothing of the voluptuous immodesty which marks the wanton beauties of
Charles II.'s Court: they were mistresses, these were wives.
[Illustration: ELIZABETH GUNNING (DUCHESS OF HAMILTON).
(_From the Picture by C. Read._)]
There was never a period when so much homage was paid to beauty as in
the last century. Men went mad for a lovely face, fought duels for
a smile or a flower given by their mistress to a rival, and threw
prudence to the winds to obtain her. We are now going to take a glance
at some of these fair magicians, whose stories read, many of them, like
fairy tales; Cinderella, for instance, pales before the history of the
two Irish girls who, more than 150 years ago, crossed the fish-pond
which divides the sister countries, and came to seek their fortunes,
with only their lovely faces _pour tout potage_. The surpassing beauty
of the sisters has become matter of history, nor, perhaps, is there a
parallel instance of mere beauty exciting so extraordinary a sensation
as that produced by these portionless girls.
Horace Walpole, writing to Sir Horace Mann, says:--"You who know
England in other times will find it difficult to conceive what
indifference reigns with regard to Ministers; the two Miss Gunnings
are twenty times more the subject of conversation than the Duke of
Newcastle or Lord Granville."
Again he says:--"The Gunning girls have no fortune, and are scarce
gentlewomen, but by their mother. (She was the Honourable Bridget
Bourke, third daughter to Theobald, sixth Viscount Mayo.) The Bourkes
have Plantagenet blood, quite enough to compensate for the inferior tap
of the Gunnings."
Maria was the eldest of "the goddesses," as Mrs. Montagu styles
the two girls. She was born in 1733, Elizabeth two years later.
Consequently, when they appeared in London, one was nineteen, the other
seventeen.
The character of the beauty of the Gunnings will be seen in the
accompanying portrait of Elizabeth--long swimming eyes, and small,
delicate mouth, and the soft, composed face, breaking from between the
two lace lappets, secured in a top-knot over the head.
Soon both sisters had admirers. "Lord Coventry, a grave lord of the
remains of the patriot breed," dangled after Maria, while Elizabeth was
singled out by the Duke of Hamilton, who was wild and dissipated. He
fell desperately in love with the young beauty, who, on her side, was
well tutored by her Plantagenet mother how to play the noble fish she
had on her line. The sequel is well known; how the Duke, inflamed by
Elizabeth's coyness and coquetry, insisted upon the extempore marriage
at midnight, the curtain-ring doing duty for a golden fetter. Her
sister's good fortune decided the fate of Maria, who in a short time
wedded her grave lord.
It is an old maxim that "Nothing succeeds like success," and the furore
caused by the "goddesses" increased after their elevation to the
peerage. "The world is still mad about the Gunnings.[1] The Duchess
of Hamilton was presented on Friday; the crowd was so great that
even the noble crowd in the drawing-room clambered upon chairs and
tables to look at her. There are mobs at their doors to see them get
into their chairs, and people go early to get places at the theatre
when it is known they will be there. Doctor Sacheverell never made
more fuss than these two beauties." A shoemaker got two guineas for
showing a shoe he was making for Lady Coventry. But the mind of her
ladyship was not equal to her beauty, the fact being that neither of
the girls had been educated decently. The Duchess, however, concealed
her deficiency better than Lady Coventry, who, Horace Walpole tells
us, said every day some new "sproposits." Stories flew about of her
sayings which, no doubt, lost nothing in the repetition; as when she
told the good-natured king that the only sight she wished to see was a
coronation. It was to him she also complained that she could not walk
in the park, the people stared at her so much; upon which George II.
sent her a guard to keep the starers in order. This incident caused the
circulation of the accompanying ballad, composed by Horace Walpole:--
[1] Horace Walpole's letters.
"Shut up the park, I beseech you,
Lay a tax upon staring so hard;
Or, if you're afraid to do that, sir,
I'm sure you will grant me a guard.
"The boon thus requested was granted,
The warriors were drawn up with care.
With my slaves and my guards I'm surrounded,
Come, stare at me now, if you dare!"
The beautiful Coventry enjoyed her title but a short time, killing
herself by the excessive use of white paint. She died at the early age
of twenty-eight, and it was a tribute to her that she was regretted by
all who had known her; even the heartless set who made up her world
have a word of sorrow for this beautiful simpleton.
Elizabeth was more prosperous. Her life from end to end was a success.
She was double-duchessed, marrying, a second time, after a year's
widowhood, Colonel Campbell, who succeeded to the Dukedom of Argyle.
The Duke of Bridgewater had also proposed for her. She was created
Baroness in her own right, and given the office of Lady of the
Bedchamber to Queen Charlotte. She died in 1791, having been mother to
four dukes and wife to two, a dignity which few women could claim.
Here come another pair of charming sisters, Catherine and Mary Horneck,
daughters to Reynolds' kinsman, Captain Kane Horneck; they are best
known to this generation through the medium of Oliver Goldsmith's
admiration for them, just as the Miss Berrys' best claim to celebrity
is Horace Walpole's quasi-Platonic friendship. The loving nicknames
of the "Jessamy Bride" and "Little Comedy," which were given to the
sisters by Oliver, show the terms of intimacy upon which he stood. And
this friendship seems to have brought out some of the best points in
the character of the lovable author of the "Immortal Vicar." Now we
see him leading them through the crowded masquerade at the Pantheon,
arrayed in his plum-coloured suit and laced hat; or he is conducting
them and their mother on a trip to Paris, his simple, harmless vanity
highly pleased at being the escort of such a lovely trio (for Mrs.
Horneck was as handsome as her daughters). As usual, his innocent pride
was misinterpreted. Boswell, whom Horace Walpole calls the "Mountebank
to a Zeno," talks of his envious disposition, and adds that when
accompanying two beautiful young women with their mother on a tour in
France, he was seriously angry that more attention was paid to them
than to him. But Boswell seems always to have hated Goldsmith.
Of the two sisters, Mary, the younger, the "Jessamy Bride," seems to
have exerted a strange fascination over him. "Heaven knows," as his
biographer, Mr. Forster says, "what impossible dreams may have come to
the awkward, unattractive man of letters, but he never aspired to other
regard than his genius and simplicity might claim at least, for the
sisters heartily liked him, and perhaps the happiest years of his life
were passed in their society."
[Illustration: MARY AND CATHERINE HORNECK. (_From the Picture by Sir
Joshua Reynolds._)]
One is glad to hear of even a ray of happiness crossing the path of the
poor, sensitive poet; but it was nevertheless through his admiration
for the "Jessamy Bride" that he met one of those mortifications which
press keenly upon one of his highly strung, nervous temperament. This
annoyance came when he was in the full tide of the success of "She
Stoops to Conquer." We may assume that the sweetest part of this
success had been that it raised him in the eyes of his dear Mary.
Nine days after, _The London Packet_, in an abusive article directed
against the author of the new comedy, attacked him coarsely. "Goldsmith
had patiently suffered worse attacks, and would doubtless here have
suffered as patiently, if baser matters had not been introduced, but
the libeller had invaded private life and dragged in the 'Jessamy
Bride.' 'Was but the lovely H---- k as much enamoured, you would not
sigh, my gentle swain, in vain.'"
On reading this, Goldsmith fell into one of his sudden furies. He
rushed off to the publisher, Evans, and beat him with his cane. Evans,
who was a sturdy man, returned the blows; the combatants were at last
separated, and Goldsmith was sent home in a coach much disfigured.
The affair did not end here; the poor, sensitive poet was abused in
every newspaper of the day, all steadily ignoring the _real_ ground of
offence. He had in the end to pay fifty pounds to Evans for the assault.
It is pleasant to think that during the lifetime of the poet no rival
disturbed his peace of mind. Catherine, "Little Comedy," married early
Mr. Bunbury, second son to Sir Charles Bunbury, of good Suffolk family,
but up till the time of Oliver's death, the "Jessamy Bride" had no
declared lover, nor did she marry Colonel Gwynn until three years
later. Both sisters mourned their gentle friend sincerely. At their
request his coffin was opened that a lock of hair might be cut from his
head for them. It was in Mrs. Gwynn's possession when she died nearly
seventy years later. She lived to a great age, preserving her beauty
even in years. The Graces in her case had triumphed over Time. Haslett
met her at Northcote, the artist's; she was talking of her favourite,
Dr. Goldsmith, with recollection and affection, unabated by age.
"I could almost fancy the shade of Goldsmith in the room," adds
Haslett, "looking round with complacency."
Let us make place now for the most lovely of all Sir Joshua's lovely
creations--and the woman in the flesh was quite as beautiful. Her
beauty got her a royal husband, hers legally with all sanction of
Church, but not of State. Ah! there was the sore place. It was, in
fact, her beguiling of the Duke from the right path of royalty that
induced the famous Marriage Act of 1772. The Duke of Cumberland, third
brother to George III., was little more than an overgrown school-boy;
his manners, Wraxall says, made his faculties, which were limited
enough, appear even meaner. He was immensely attracted by Lady Anne
Horton, recently a widow, and daughter to Colonel Simon Luttrell, of
famous, or rather infamous memory; an Irishman of wild, roistering
habit, who had been put forward to fight Wilkes, and so made Lord
Carhampton.
Anne Horton is described as having bewitching, languishing eyes,
which she could animate to enchantment if she pleased. Her coquetry
was so active, so varied, and yet so habitual, that it was difficult
not to see through it, and yet as difficult to resist. She danced
divinely, sang charmingly, and was by no means deficient in talent.
Like all the members of her family, who were cunning and specious,
she laid her snares for the weak prince so adroitly that he fell in
with all her plans; and, her marriage being duly witnessed, she had
none of the heart-burnings and uncertainty which poisoned the life of
Lady Waldegrave, who had married the Duke of Gloucester, but had left
matters very much to his honour. Both ladies, to say the truth, had a
troublous time. It was hardly worth the fuss and the turmoil, the ups
and the downs, the humiliations and the slights inflicted upon them by
the Royal pair, and their subservient Court.
[Illustration: ANN, DUCHESS OF CUMBERLAND.
(_From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds._)]
Here we have another group of sisters--Irish too--the Miss Montgomerys,
daughters to Sir William Montgomery. They are painted by Sir Joshua as
twining wreaths round a statue of Hymen, a pretty allegory, for the
three girls were standing hand in hand on the threshold of Hymen, one
of them being engaged to Mr. Gardiner, afterwards Lord Blessington; the
other to the Honourable J. Beresford; the third and handsomest to the
Marquis of Townshend, then Viceroy of Ireland. The Marquis, who was
son to the odd Lady Audrey, who figures in Walpole and Selwyn, was a
frank and fearless soldier, having fought at Dettingen and Fontenoy.
His fancy had been taken by Miss Montgomery, whom he had seen some two
years before performing in a Masque of Comus at Marlay, the residence
of Mr. Latouche. He had then prophesied she would be a lovely woman,
and felt bound to set the seal of his approval upon the fair creation.
Mrs. Delaney says that the women did not admire Lady Townshend, which,
no doubt, is a proof that she attracted the admiration of the worthier
sex. In Sir Joshua's picture she fills the canvas--her attitude is
commanding, her smile bewitching. Her sisters are of a less majestic
type.
What a lovely creature have we here--Elizabeth Linley, whose talents
and mental endowments were something surprising, joined as they were
to a beauty which seems to have captivated every soul who came near
her; indeed, we have only to look at her portraits by Sir Joshua and
Gainsborough, both evidently stimulated by love of their subject, to
gather an idea of the spell she worked. The expression of the faultless
face is so divinely sweet, there is such a mixture of archness and
intelligence in the wondrous eyes, that we can make a guess at what
the impression must have been when life animated the lovely picture.
So, too, it was with her singing; she was possessed of the double power
of delighting an audience equally in pathetic strains and songs of
brilliant execution, a combination allowed to few vocalists.
[Illustration: MRS. BERESFORD.
LADY TOWNSHEND.
(THE MISS MONTGOMEREYS.)
(_From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds._)
MRS. GARDINER.]
The life of this gifted being was a troubled one. It began in a
romance, which added to her interest in the eyes of the public. The
Linleys were all musicians; her father, Dr. Linley, was a teacher of
great eminence, living at Bath. When the Sheridans came to reside
there, the two brothers fell at once in love with the siren Elizabeth,
who had already more lovers than she knew how to manage. She preferred,
however, Richard Sheridan, and eloped with him to France, to avoid
an importunate lover, Captain Matthews. On their arriving in France,
the astute Richard worked on his companion's feelings and persuaded
her to be married to him at Lille by a clergyman who performed these
irregular marriages. The bride at once retired to a convent, where she
remained until her father came to fetch her. Of late this version of
the incident has been denied, and it is said there was no marriage;
anyhow, the father, daughter, and Sheridan returned to London. Richard
fought two duels with Captain Matthews, and finally the course of true
love ran smooth, and he and Elizabeth were publicly wedded, with all
pomp and ceremony, in April, 1773. From the first the public took the
young pair under its protection; they made friends everywhere. It was
in truth an ideal union of beauty and talent. Mrs. Sheridan's lovely
voice would have ensured them a good income; but her husband would
not allow her to sing in public. This resolution on his part earned
him the hearty commendation of Johnson:--"He has acted wisely and
nobly. Would not a gentleman be disgraced by having his wife singing
publicly for hire? No, sir, there can be no doubt here." _Autre temps,
autres moeurs_--a gentleman does not now disdain to live by his wife's
earnings!
Meantime, admirers crowded round the beautiful Mrs. Sheridan. Sir
Joshua's portrait of her as "St. Cecilia" was exhibited in the Academy
of 1775. Most simple and beautiful, was the praise of the carping
critic, Horace Walpole. Even the excellent and most virtuous King took
notice of the young beauty, and it was said ogled her when she sang in
oratorios.
The struggle in which Sheridan was more or less engaged during his
whole life had begun. A brilliant, erratic genius, such as was the
author of the "Rivals," is not a safe guard of domestic happiness; but,
after all is said and done, Sheridan was not so much to blame, and
even his worst enemy cannot deny that he had a warm heart.
Moore tells us that, with all her beauty and talent, Mrs. Sheridan
was not happy, nor did she escape the censure of the world; but that
Sheridan was ever unmindful of her, Moore declares to be untrue. On
the contrary, he says he followed her with a lover's eye throughout.
Her letters to him would certainly give the reader the idea that she
was on the best terms with her husband. They are delightful, fresh,
and natural, and perfectly frank.... This gifted woman died early. She
was only thirty-one when consumption laid its fatal hand upon her....
During her last illness Sheridan was devoted to her. His grief and his
remorse for any shortcomings in his married life are most touching!
Miss Le-Fanu, writing an account of the last days to Miss Sheridan,
says: "Your brother behaved most wonderfully, although his heart was
breaking, and at times his feelings were so violent that I feared he
would be quite ungovernable at the last. Yet he summoned up courage
to kneel by the bedside till he felt the last pulse of expiring
excellence." And Mr. Moore tells us that, some weeks after his wife's
death, "a friend, happening to sleep in the room next his, could hear
him sobbing through the greater part of the night." But soon after he
fell in love with Pamela, and married a Miss Ogle in two years.
[Illustration: MISS LINLEY.
(_From the Picture by Gainsborough._)]
And now we come to the most beautiful woman of her time, Isabella,
Duchess of Rutland. Looking at her picture by Sir Joshua, we cannot
but be struck by the infinite grace of the attitude, the queenly
dignity mixed with womanly sweetness. The Duchess was in fact eminently
womanly, although acknowledged to be a queen of beauty. No word
of scandal touched her name; and this in an age of Sneerwells and
Backbites.
In _The European Magazine_ of 1782 there is this curious testimony to
her Grace's devotion to her lord:--"Annexed to the respective names are
the amusements which the following women of fashion principally delight
in:--
Lady Spencer, riding.
Lady Salisbury, dancing.
Lady Craven, acting.
Lady Pembroke, Viol de Gambe.
Mrs. Damer, platonics.
Mrs. Greville, poetry.
Duchess of Devonshire, admiration.
Lady Weymouth, mankind.
Lady Huntingdon, The Tabernacle.
Lady South, the last word.
The Duchess of Rutland, her husband."
In 1782 the Duchess accompanied the Duke to Ireland, where he filled
the post of Lord Lieutenant. She was well fitted to win the hearts of
the Irish people, who were then, as now, easily impressed by beauty.
The magnificence of the little Court had never been equalled, while at
the same time decorum and a certain order were preserved, which had
not always been the case. Under Lords Chesterfield and Townshead, Mrs.
Deans talks of the guests carrying the dishes off the supper tables,
and in Lady Hardwicke's time there it was that the romping bouts and
the famous Cutchacutchoo prevailed, but no wicked tales are told of
our Duchess's Viceroyalty. Once only did she descend from her pedestal
of dignity: it might be that the breath of frolic was too strongly in
the air for even a Saxon nature to resist. Anyhow she _did_ repair to
the Irish Ranelagh Gardens to see the fun, disguised in the dress of
one of her own waiting-women She was of course recognised, and mobbed.
On another occasion, her jealousy was excited by hearing the Duke say
he had accidentally seen the loveliest woman he had ever beheld. She
never rested until she found out the residence of this Mrs. Dillon, and
forced her way into her presence, when a glance told her she was both
beautiful and virtuous. Ashamed of her suspicions, she frankly told
what had brought her, and warmly invited the other to return the visit.
This, however, Mrs. Dillon had the good sense and dignity to decline.
In Mr. Gilbert's interesting history of Dublin, he mentions that the
body of the Duke was waked (according to the Irish custom) in the House
of Lords for three nights. The coffin was then carried by bearers to
Christ Church Cathedral, where it lay in State. The Duchess returned to
England, and never married again.
[Illustration: ISABELLA, DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.
(_From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds._)]
_Three Birds on a Stile._
BY B. L. FARJEON.
A learned bishop has declared that the night before men and women are
married should be spent in solitude, and devoted to prayer, repentance,
and meditation; but a bishop may be very learned, and yet deficient
in common sense. Miss Adelaide Dorr, who was to be married to-morrow
to Mr. Arthur Gooch, had several sisters, two brothers, and the usual
number of parents. With all these around her, popping in and out,
asking questions, making remarks, laughing, crying, teasing, and
kissing, and trying on things, you may imagine the state she was in.
Arthur had put in an appearance, but he had gone away early, he had so
much to do to complete his arrangements for to-morrow. There was, of
course, a tender leave-taking in the passage, from which Adelaide came
in rather quieter than usual, but she was not allowed to be quiet long.
The entire house was in a flutter of excitement, and had the charming
girl expressed a desire for solitude, for the purpose of following the
learned bishop's advice, it would instantly have been feared that the
prospect of approaching bliss had turned her head. She had no wish
for solitude, and as to her having anything to repent, the idea was
monstrous and absurd. There is little doubt that before she fell asleep
on this important night in her young life she would breathe a prayer,
but it would not be exactly such a prayer as the bishop had in view.
And it is true she thought a great deal of Arthur; indeed, she thought
of little else--a statement, perhaps, which my female readers will
dispute when they take into consideration the wedding dress and the
trousseau. All I can advance in proof of my assertion is that Adelaide
was very much in love, and that there are circumstances--rare, I
grant--in which dress does not occupy the first place in a woman's mind.
Neither did Arthur Gooch, who was as much in love as Adelaide, spend
the last night of his bachelor existence in solitude and repentance.
When he left Adelaide, he jumped into a hansom, and was driven to his
chambers, where he expected to find a letter of pressing importance.
He was not a man of fortune; he had good prospects, which were almost
certain of realisation, and he had a little investment or two which
paid him fair interest, and which could not, without loss, be turned
immediately into cash. Now, the expenses of the coming wedding, and the
furnishing and decoration of a house he had taken on lease, had made
more serious inroads on his bank balance than he expected. Calculating
the expenses of the honeymoon trip on the Continent, he found that he
would run short of money, and in this dilemma he applied to a friend,
Jack Stevens by name, for a loan of seventy-five pounds, which, with
seventy-five of his own, which he had by him, would carry him and his
pretty bride comfortably through. It was Jack Stevens' answer to his
letter asking for the loan that he was expecting as he rode to his
chambers with the image of Adelaide in his mind. What a dear girl she
was! Was there ever such another? Was he not the happiest man in the
world? And so on, and so on. Who is not familiar with a true lover's
rhapsodies? Arthur was the sort of man who would have rivalled Orlando,
had the positions been similar. He would have carved Adelaide's name on
every tree.
Running up to his rooms, which were at the top of the house, he found
half a dozen letters in his letter box, and among them one from his
friend. It may be mentioned that Jack Stevens would have been his
best man, had it not been that his presence was imperatively demanded
in another part of the country on the day of the wedding. It was
provoking, but it could not be helped.
"Dear Arthur," said Jack Stevens in his letter, "certainly you can have
the money, and more if you want it. As time is so short, I do not care
risking it through the post, and a crossed cheque might not suit you.
I have to catch an early train in the morning for Manchester, as you
know, but I shall be at Lady Weston White's 'At Home' between eleven
and twelve o'clock to-night. I saw a card for the crush stuck in your
looking glass. Look me up there, and I will hand you the notes. I am
awfully sorry to give you the trouble, but I can't come to you, and I
am anxious to be certain that you are properly furnished before you
and your bride start for Paradise. Always yours, dear boy, JACK."
Lady Weston White was not one of Arthur's intimate friends, but he was
on her list, and he generally received cards from her three or four
times in the course of the year. He had not intended to go to her house
in Grosvenor-street on this occasion, but Jack's letter settled it,
and he got out his swallow-tail. The money he must have, and there was
no other way of getting it. There were letters to write, and a lot of
things to be attended to which he calculated would keep him up till one
o'clock in the morning. Well, he would have to stop up another hour
or so, that was all. At half-past eleven he was in Grosvenor-street,
engulfed in one of those London crowds of ladies and gentlemen which
contribute to the success of a London season. The beautiful house was
literally packed; to ascend a staircase was a work of several minutes,
and to find his friend Jack in such a vast assemblage a matter of
considerable difficulty. It was a notable gathering; the _élite_ of
society were present, distinguished men and fair women, and Arthur,
as he squeezed his way along, thought he had never seen so wonderful
a profusion of diamonds and lovely dresses. The ladies seemed to vie
with each other in the display of jewels. They glittered in the hair,
round the necks, in the ears, on the arms and bosoms, on shoes, and
fans, and ravishing gowns; and Arthur observed that a new fashion was
coming into vogue, diamond buttons on ladies' gloves. "If any of the
light-fingered fraternity were here," thought Arthur, "they could
gather a fine harvest." And said aloud, "Allow me." A lady had dropped
her fan, and Arthur managed to rescue it from the crush of feet. It
sparkled with diamonds. At length Arthur reached the hostess, who held
out two fingers to him.
[Illustration: "ALWAYS YOURS--JACK."]
Lady Weston White was a woman of great penetration, and, as became a
society leader, of perfect self-possession. She never forgot a face
or a circumstance, and, busy as she was at present in the performance
of her arduous duties, she remembered that Arthur Gooch was to be
married within a few hours; she remembered, also, that to her R. S.
V. P. she had received a line from him regretting he could not accept
her kind invitation. She said nothing, however, but gave him rather a
questioning look as he passed on to allow other guests behind him to
pay their respects to their hostess. The look puzzled him somewhat; it
seemed to ask, "What brings you here?" He had quite forgotten that he
had declined her invitation. At length, after much polite squeezing
and hustling, after dropping his handkerchief and picking it up again,
to the annoyance of some neighbours who had become fixtures and could
scarcely move for the crush, he saw Jack Stevens in the distance. They
were both tall men, and communication being established between them
they made simultaneous efforts to get to each other. This accomplished,
Arthur hooked Jack's arm, and said:
"Let us get out of this as quick as we can."
It happened that Lady Weston White was close enough to hear the words,
of which fact Arthur was oblivious, but as they moved on he turned in
her direction, and caught another strange look from her. "What on earth
does she look at me in that manner for?" he thought. "One might suppose
I came without an invitation." He and Jack got their hats and coats,
and going from the house, stopped at the corner of a street a few yards
off.
"I haven't a moment to spare, Arthur," said Jack, "nor have you, I
should imagine. I had almost given you up; it is a mercy we met each
other in that crowd." He took out his pocket-book. "I would walk home
with you, old fellow, if I had time; you must take the will for the
deed."
"All right, old man," said Arthur; "it was very good of you to take
all this trouble for me. I don't know how it was I miscalculated my
finances so stupidly."
"Oh, these accidents happen to all of us. Feel nervous about
to-morrow?"
"It makes me rather serious, you know."
"Of course. Wish I could be there. Now, no nonsense, Arthur. Will
seventy-five be enough? Isn't it cutting it rather close? Don't spoil
the honeymoon for a ha'porth of tar. You can have a couple of hundred
if you like. I've got it by me."
"Well, make it a hundred," said Arthur. "It will be safer perhaps.
Adelaide might take a fancy to a new bonnet."
"Or to some chocolate creams, or to the moon and stars," said Jack,
with a good-humoured smile, "and you'd get them for her. Say a hundred
and fifty."
"All right. A hundred and fifty."
Jack Stevens, shaded by his friend's tall form--for several persons
passed them as they were talking--counted out thirty five-pound Bank of
England notes, and slipped them into Arthur's hand.
"Thank you, Jack."
"Not necessary. Good night, old fellow, and good luck to you. Kiss the
pretty bride for me, and give her my love."
"I will, old man."
A few minutes afterwards Arthur Gooch was in his chambers, "clearing
up," as he called it. He wanted to leave things as orderly as he
could, and in the accomplishment of this laudable design there was a
great deal to do. All the time he was writing and tearing up papers
and burning them, and packing bags and portmanteau, he was thinking of
Adelaide.
"Dear little woman! I wonder if she is asleep. She hasn't left things
to the last as I have done. Altogether too tidy for that. While I am
fussing about in this musty room--what a cosy nest we shall come home
to after the honeymoon!--there she lies, with a smile on her pretty
mouth, dreaming of me. Your health, my darling!"
[Illustration: "LET US GET OUT OF THIS AS QUICK AS WE CAN."]
He had opened a bottle of champagne, of which he had already drunk a
glass, and now he poured out another, and as he held it up to the light
he saw Adelaide's bright eyes amid the sparkling bubbles.
"Your health, my darling, and God bless you!"
He drained the glass, and set it down.
It was really a love match, of which there are more in this prosaic
world than cynics will admit. These young people were all the world to
each other, and if anything had occurred to prevent the wedding coming
off their hearts would have been broken.
Arthur set the glass upon the table with a tender light in his eyes,
and as he did so he heard a ring at the street door below. As has been
stated, his chambers were at the top of the house, but everything was
very quiet, and that is why he heard the bell so plainly. The window of
the room in which he was working looked out upon the street. He took
no notice of the ringing, and proceeded dreamily with his packing.
The wine he had drunk intensified his sentimental mood, and he paused
many times to gaze upon the portrait of his darling which stood in the
centre of the mantelpiece. It was a speaking likeness of the beautiful
face; the eyes seemed to look at him with looks of love; the lovely
lips seemed to say, "I love you, I love you." And Arthur pressed his
lips to the sweet face, and murmured in response, "I love you, I love
you! With all my heart and soul, I love you, and will be true to you."
Suddenly it occurred to him that the street door bell continued to
ring. The sound jarred upon his ears. Throwing up his window he leaned
forward, and at the top of his voice inquired who it was that continued
to ring so pertinaciously.
"I have come to see Mr. Arthur Gooch," was the answer.
"To see me?" he cried in wonder.
"Yes, you, if you are Mr. Gooch."
"What for?"
"On most particular business."
[Illustration: "YOUR HEALTH, MY DARLING!"]
Wondering more and more, the young man ran down the stairs and opened
the street door. In the dim light he saw the figure of a gentleman with
whose face he was not familiar.
"What do you want with me?" he asked.
"It will be best for us to speak privately," replied the stranger. "It
is a most delicate matter."
"A most delicate matter!" stammered Arthur.
"A most delicate matter!" repeated the stranger in a grave tone.
The young man did not reflect upon the imprudence of asking a stranger
up to his rooms at such an hour of the night. With the exception of
the housekeeper, who occupied the basement, and who had been heard to
declare that nothing less than an earthquake would wake her, once she
was asleep, Arthur Gooch was the only night resident in the house.
All the chambers, with the exception of his, were let as offices, and
were tenanted only during the day. It is scarcely probable, however,
if Arthur had given the matter a thought, that he would have acted
differently. Here was a stranger paying him a visit, at an untimely
hour it was true, but upon a delicate matter, which had best be
disclosed in private. Arthur was a man of muscle, and stood six feet
and half an inch in his stocking feet. The man who had intruded himself
upon him was about five feet eight, a weed of a man in comparison with
him. There was, moreover, no lack of physical courage in Arthur--a
quality, it may be remarked, very different indeed from moral courage,
in which respect a pigmy may be superior to a giant.
"Come up," said Arthur, and the two men ascended the stairs. "Now," he
said, when they were together in his room, with the door closed, "you
see that I am very busy. Explain your errand as briefly as possible.
What is this delicate matter you speak of? I have not the pleasure of
your acquaintance. Oh," he said, looking at a card presented by his
visitor, "Mr. P. Foreman. Your name is as strange to me as your face.
Who are you? What are you?"
"I am a private detective," said Mr. P. Foreman.
"A private detective!" cried Arthur, with an ominous frown. "And what
business can you have with me at this hour of the night? I've a mind to
pitch you out of window."
"Don't try it," said Mr. P. Foreman. "I should be bound to resist, and
my shouts would be certain to bring someone to my assistance. As to my
business, it is, as I have informed you, of a delicate nature."
"Speak in plain English if you have any regard for yourself."
"It is a very simple affair," said Mr. P. Foreman, "and it rests with
you whether I shall take my leave of you with an apology, or adopt
other measures. You were at Lady Weston White's 'At Home' a couple of
hours ago."
"I was. What of it?"
"I am employed by her ladyship," proceeded Mr. P. Foreman. "She has
given other 'At Homes' this season."
[Illustration: "DON'T TRY IT."]
"She has, and I have been present at them."
"So I understand. Very serious things have occurred at those parties of
her ladyship's at which you were present. Some of her guests have made
complaints to her, and it is only at great expense and trouble that
these complaints, and their very serious nature, have been kept out of
the society papers."
"What has all this rhodomontade to do with me?" demanded Arthur,
impatiently.
"I am about to tell you. Valuable diamonds have been lost at her
ladyship's 'At Homes,' and have not been recovered. Her ladyship is
naturally anxious to put a stop to this, and to bring the--" (Mr. P.
Foreman hesitated, and chose another word than the one he intended to
use)--"the offenders to justice."
"Quite proper," said Arthur. "Go on, and cut it short."
"The display to-night was brilliant, and knowing that it would be so
her ladyship employed me and one or two others to keep watch upon
suspicious persons. As you see"--he unbuttoned his light overcoat--"I
am in evening dress. I was supposed to be present as a guest, but I
was really there in my professional capacity, keeping my eyes open.
Had it been regular pickpockets whom her ladyship suspected I should
have found it an easy job, as I know most of them, but it was not. She
suspected certain gentlemen upon her list, to whom she was in the habit
of sending cards."
Mr. P. Foreman spoke in a significant tone, and there was no mistaking
his meaning. Arthur laughed.
"Does her ladyship do me the honour to suspect me?"
"I am not at liberty to say; my orders are to speak not one word that
might compromise her ladyship."
"A very prudent instruction. Well?"
"Certain articles of jewellery have been lost to-night in her
ladyship's house. A crescent diamond brooch, another with the device
of three birds on a stile, and a pin of brilliants with a pearl in the
centre. There may be other articles missing, but we have not heard
of them. Of the three ornaments I have mentioned the one most easily
traced is the three-birds-on-a-stile brooch. The birds are perched
upon a stile of gold; one is set with sapphires, one with brilliants,
and one with rubies. I remarked to her ladyship that it was a pretty
device. She is quite determined to make the matter public, and to bring
the--the offenders to justice without an hour's delay, if we are
fortunate enough to track them down."
"I infer," said Arthur, glaring at his visitor, "from the very guarded
answer you gave to a question I put to you that her ladyship really
does suspect me. I am greatly obliged to her ladyship." He recalled
the strange looks which Lady Weston White had given him, and believed
that he could now interpret them. He strode to the door and threw it
open. "If you have any regard for your bones, you will now take your
departure. I give you just one minute."
"If you send me away unsatisfied," said Mr. P. Foreman, composedly,
"I shall, in accordance with instructions received, have you arrested
the first thing in the morning, and brought before a magistrate on a
distinct charge."
Arthur's heart seemed suddenly to cease beating. There was no mistaking
that the man was in deadly earnest, and would carry out his threat.
What! To be arrested on the very morning of his wedding! True, the
charge was false and monstrous, but it would take time to prove it so,
and meanwhile--
[Illustration: "GO ON AND CUT IT SHORT."]
Yes, meanwhile, there was Adelaide in her bridal dress waiting for her
bridegroom. Indignant as he was he could not but inwardly acknowledge
that his best course would be to hush up the affair if possible--not
for his own sake, but for Adelaide's. The shock to her feelings would
be too great; she might never recover from it, and the happiness of
her life might be for ever destroyed. Mr. P. Foreman, standing rather
timidly near the open door, kept his eyes fixed upon Arthur's face. He
shrank back as Arthur approached him.
"I am not going to hurt you," said the young man. "Come in and shut the
door." Mr. P. Foreman obeyed. "You said at the commencement of this
interview that it rested with me whether you would take leave of me
with an apology, or adopt other measures. By other measures you meant
my arrest." Mr. P. Foreman nodded. "But how do you propose to arrive at
the apology?"
"It is entirely in your hands," replied Mr. P. Foreman. "You have
only to prove your innocence, and I apologise. Her ladyship trusts
everything to me, and will be guided entirely by the report I present
to her."
"I have only to prove my innocence!" exclaimed Arthur. "But how can
that be done if you will not take my word for it? I swear to you that I
am innocent, and I declare this to be a foul and monstrous charge, for
which, if I am put to any inconvenience or annoyance, I will make her
ladyship and all concerned in it suffer. Now are you satisfied?"
"That is not what I meant," said Mr. P. Foreman, quietly. "What I
require is _proof_ of your innocence. I cannot take your word. Any
other gentleman would say as much."
Arthur could not help admitting that this was true. "Again I ask you,"
he cried, "how can I prove my innocence, except by my word?"
"It is very easily done. You have not changed your clothes. You have on
your dress trousers and waistcoat; your dress coat hangs upon the back
of that chair. If none of the missing articles are in the pockets I
will offer you the completest apology in my power, and shall sincerely
regret that I have caused you so much uneasiness."
[Illustration: "HE SHRANK BACK AS ARTHUR APPROACHED."]
Mr. P. Foreman was a private detective, but he certainly spoke like
a gentleman. Throughout the interview he had conducted himself with
moderation; there was even a sadness in his manner which, now that so
reasonable a course was suggested, impressed itself upon Arthur.
"I am quite willing," he said, "to do what you ask, though I dispute
your right, mind."
"I understand that," said Mr. P. Foreman.
"It is only," continued Arthur, "because I am to be married in the
morning, and wish to spare a young lady's feelings, that I submit."
There was a deeper sadness in Mr. P. Foreman's voice as he observed,
"To be married in the morning! I must be mistaken." He took a step
towards the door.
"No, you don't go now," exclaimed Arthur. "I insist upon your stopping,
and being completely satisfied. There's my coat. Search the pockets."
But Mr. P. Foreman would not touch the garment. "If you insist," he
said, "you must go through the formality yourself. I should be ashamed
to have a hand in it."
"You are a good fellow, after all," said Arthur, with a great sigh of
relief. Will you have a glass of champagne?"
"Thank you," said Mr. P. Foreman. Arthur filled two glasses. "Your
health," he said.
"Your health," said Mr. P. Foreman. "Allow me to wish you joy and
happiness."
"Now you shall see," said Arthur, in a gay tone. "Come a little nearer;
I might be a master of legerdemain."
A melancholy smile crossed Mr. P. Foreman's mouth, and he stood,
apparently unconcerned, while Arthur turned out the pockets of his
waistcoat and trousers.
"Nothing there," he said.
"Nothing there," said Mr. P. Foreman, and again moved towards the door.
"Stop a moment," said Arthur, "there is my coat."
He turned out the pockets upon the table; from the breast pocket he
produced the bank notes he had received from his friend, Jack Stevens;
from the tail pockets a handkerchief and gloves. Nothing more. He
laughed aloud, and lifted the handkerchief from the table. The laugh
was frozen in his throat. As he lifted the handkerchief there fell from
it a jewelled brooch, the device a stile of gold, with three birds
perched thereon, one of sapphires, one of rubies, one of brilliants.
"My God!" he gasped, and sank into a chair.
Mr. P. Foreman did not break the silence that ensued. With sad eyes he
gazed upon the crushing evidence of guilt. At length Arthur found his
voice.
"You do not, you cannot," he cried in an agonised tone, "believe me
guilty!"
Mr. P. Foreman uttered no word. Arthur's face was like the face of
death. A vision of his ruined life rose before him, and in that vision
the image of his fair young bride, stricken with despair.
"What am I to do?" moaned the unhappy man. "What am I to do? As I hope
for mercy in heaven, I swear that I am innocent!"
Mr. P. Foreman in silence pointed to the brooch on the table. It was an
eloquent sign, but he seemed to sympathise with the hapless man before
him. Arthur rose to his feet, trembling in every limb.
"Have mercy upon me!" he murmured, stretching forth his hands. "Before
God I am innocent!"
"I am sorry for the young lady," said Mr. P. Foreman, "deeply, deeply
sorry. I have a daughter of my own, whom I hope one day to see happily
married. But she is in delicate health."
[Illustration: "HE GASPED, AND SANK INTO A CHAIR."]
There was a plaintiveness in his voice, and Arthur, overwhelmed as
he was, caught at the despairing hope which presented itself to his
distracted mind. He and the man who held his fate in his hands were
alone; there were no witnesses, and not a sound reached them from house
or street.
"Save me!" implored Arthur. "As you hope for your daughter's happiness,
save an innocent man--save an innocent girl from despair and death!"
Mr. P. Foreman put his hands before his eyes. "My duty!" he murmured.
"You owe a duty elsewhere," said Arthur, in a rapid, feverish voice.
"The lady who has employed you trusts you implicitly, and will receive
your report without question."
"I do not grasp your meaning," said Mr. P. Foreman.
"Your daughter is in delicate health, you say," continued Arthur. "You
hope to see her one day happily married. You are not rich?"
"I am very poor," said Mr. P. Foreman. "Do you think I would otherwise
follow this miserable occupation? Fortune has been against me all my
life."
"It smiles upon you now," pursued Arthur, desperately; "it offers you a
chance. You speak like a gentleman; you have a soul above your station.
See here. There are a hundred and fifty pounds in bank notes. Take
them; they are yours--and keep my secret, guiltless as I am. You are
not a young man; you have had experience of the world; you must know
the voice of innocence when you hear it. Could a guilty man plead as I
am pleading? By all your hopes of happiness, save me! No one is near;
no one knows but you and I. It is so easy, so easy!--and I shall bless
you all my life!"
"You tempt me sorely," said Mr. P. Foreman. "My daughter is ordered
abroad for her health, and I have no means to take her."
"You have means here, at your hand. Take the money--it is yours; I
give it to you freely. No one will be the wiser, and you will be an
instrument in the hands of Providence to save two innocent lives!"
"Let me think a moment," said Mr. P. Foreman, and he turned his head.
Arthur awaited his decision in an agony of despair. Presently he spoke
again. "I will express no opinion of your guilt or innocence, but you
have offered what I cannot resist. I will take the money, and will
keep your secret, for the sake of the lady you are about to marry, for
the sake of my poor daughter. It may be the means of restoring her to
health. As for this brooch----"
"Take it," cried Arthur, impetuously, "and do what you will with it. It
is one of my conditions. Heaven bless you--Heaven bless you!"
"We are accomplices in a transaction that must not be spoken of," said
Mr. P. Foreman, who had put the money and the brooch into his pocket.
"I pity and despise you, as I pity and despise myself."
He did not wish Arthur good night; seemingly ashamed of the bargain
they had made, he went downstairs, accompanied by Arthur, who closed
the street door upon him.
Dazed and bewildered, the young man returned to his room, and with
great throbbings of his breast at the mysterious danger he had escaped,
completed his preparations for the wedding and the honeymoon. Before he
threw himself upon his bed in the vain attempt to seek oblivion for an
hour or two, he wrote a letter to his friend Jack Stevens, saying he
had unfortunately lost the money that had been lent to him, and begging
for another loan, which was to be forwarded to a hotel in Paris where
he intended to stop with his young wife for a few days.
[Illustration: "TAKE THE MONEY--IT IS YOURS!"]
There is no need to describe the wedding. Everything passed off well,
and everybody in church declared they had never seen a lovelier bride;
but they observed, at the same time, that the bridegroom appeared far
from happy, and one of the spectators remarked that he looked several
times over his shoulder, with the air of a man who feared that a ghost
was standing behind him. His own people and his new relatives, being
in a state of excitement, did not take the same view of it; they said
he was nervous, which was quite natural on such an occasion. Adelaide
was tremblingly happy, and she and her lover-husband departed on their
honeymoon amid the usual showers of rice and hurling of old slippers.
In Paris, Arthur received from Jack Stevens a draft for another hundred
and fifty pounds; but in the letter which accompanied the welcome draft
Jack said he could not understand how Arthur had managed to lose the
money. "I saw you," wrote Jack, "put the money in the side pocket of
your dress coat, and button your overcoat over it. How could you have
lost it? Did you have an adventure, and are you keeping it from me?
Make a clean breast of it, old fellow. I should like to know. And if
there is anything I can do for you while you are away, do not fail
to call upon me. I am in London for good, and am entirely at your
service." Arthur pondered over this letter, and pondered deeply, also,
over the events which had occurred on the night before the wedding;
and the more he pondered the more he was dissatisfied. Once his young
wife, who had noticed that something was weighing on her hero's
spirits, said to him:
"Arthur, dear, are you happy?"
"Very happy, darling."
"But quite happy, Arthur?"
"Yes, darling, quite happy. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know--only you seem so melancholy sometimes."
"All your fancy, darling."
"I suppose so, Arthur, dear."
But the young bride was not satisfied for all that. She was sure that
her hero was keeping something disagreeable from her. However, like a
sensible little woman, she did not worry him; no bride could expect
greater attention and devotion than he showed towards her, and she
lectured herself, and said that she could not expect to know everything
about her husband all at once. "I shall have to study him," she said,
"and when I know him thoroughly I will make him perfectly, perfectly
happy."
On the eighth day of the honeymoon something curious happened. They had
travelled from Paris to Geneva, and they put up at the Grand Hôtel de
la Paix. The first time they dined in the hotel, Arthur, looking up,
saw exactly opposite to him the forms of Mr. P. Foreman and a lady. He
turned red and white, and his heart beat furiously. There appeared,
however, to be no cause for apprehension; Mr. P. Foreman looked him
straight in the face, and evinced no sign of recognition. Perceiving
this, Arthur took courage, and glanced at the lady. Again he turned red
and white. On the bosom of the lady's dress was affixed a beautiful
brooch--a stile of gold, with its three little birds of rubies,
sapphires, and brilliants.
"Did you think the lady opposite to us was very pretty, Arthur?" asked
Adelaide, as she and her husband stood close together after dinner,
looking into the clear waters of the lake.
"I did not take particular notice, dear," replied Arthur, awkwardly.
"Oh, Arthur! I saw your eyes fixed upon her."
Arthur did not dare confess that it was the brooch he was staring at,
and not at the lady, so he diverted Adelaide's thoughts by means of
those tender secret caresses which render young brides supremely happy.
But he thought very seriously, nevertheless. The lady who accompanied
Mr. P. Foreman seemed to be in perfect health, and she was not young
enough to be his daughter, by a good many years. The dreadful position
in which he had stood upon the occasion of Mr. P. Foreman's nocturnal
visit to his chambers weighed terribly upon him. He knew himself to be
innocent; but the brooch which his accuser had now appropriated was
found in his pocket; he had taken it out himself. How had it got there?
That was the mystery that was perplexing him, and he felt that he could
not be at peace with himself until it was solved. That night he wrote
to Jack Stevens, and made a full confession of how he had lost the
money, and in his letter he gave a very faithful description of Mr. P.
Foreman.
"If you can clear up the mystery," he said in his letter, "for Heaven's
sake do so. I do not advise you to go to Lady Weston White to make
inquiries, for that might result in attracting attention which, as
things stand, I wish to avoid; but do what you can for me, and act as
you think best, for the sake of your old and unhappy friend, Arthur."
He directed Jack to reply to him at the Hôtel Victoria, Interlaken,
where he proposed to take Adelaide after a stay in Geneva. He made his
visit to this beautiful city shorter than he intended, so anxious was
he to receive Jack's reply. It was not there when he arrived, but on
the following mid-day it was delivered to him.
"My dear Arthur," (Jack wrote), "my dear simple friend, my timid
love-stricken swain, your letter astonished me, and in your interests
I set to work at once. I have a friend who is a real detective--a real
one, mark you--and when I entrusted him with your precious secret, and
read to him the careful description you have given of your saviour, Mr.
P. Foreman, he first looked at me in blank amazement, and then burst
into a fit of laughter. 'By Jove!' he cried, when he got over his fit,
'that is my friend Purdy. He's been at his tricks again.' 'Who is your
friend Purdy,' I inquired, 'and what are the particular tricks you
refer to?' He did not favour me with an answer, but stipulated that I
should pay an immediate visit to Lady Weston White, and ask whether
the jewels lost in her house on the night before your wedding had been
recovered. I did as he bade me, and learned from her ladyship--what
do you think? Why, that there were no jewels lost in her house, and
never had been, to her knowledge. I did not enlighten her, old fellow,
having some regard for your reputation for shrewdness. I went straight
from her to my friend the real detective. Learn from me, O wise young
bridegroom, that Mr. P. Foreman, _alias_ Purdy, is no more a detective
than I am, that he must have slipped the brooch (all false stones,
my boy) himself into your pocket, having previously ascertained that
you were to be married in a few hours, and that he practised upon you
a rather clever trick which he has practised successfully upon other
victims as simple as yourself. Now I come to think of it, I shouldn't
wonder if he was one of the men who passed us when I gave you the
thirty five-pound notes at the corner of the street. My friend the
real detective tells me that Purdy is one of the best actors he has
ever seen, and that his skill would beat the devil himself. Let us
hope he will soon have the chance of trying it on with his Satanic
majesty. Anyways, he is enjoying himself on the Continent with your
money and mine, and, as he has cast a cloud over the first fortnight
or so of your honeymoon, I should recommend you to lengthen it by just
as many days of happiness as he has robbed you of. And here is another
recommendation, my dear, simple, old fellow. Tell your little wife all
about it, and tell her at the same time that I have given an order for
a brooch, of which I shall beg her acceptance, with the very original
design of a gold stile and three little birds perched atop of it. Give
her my love, and accept the same from yours ever and ever."
[Illustration: "BY JOVE!" HE CRIED, "THAT IS MY FRIEND PURDY."]
Arthur danced about the room when he read this comforting letter.
Adelaide looked up from a novel in which she had been absorbed.
"Why, whatever is the matter with you," she cried, "you dear old goose?"
"Never mind the dear old goose," said Arthur. "Let us have a waltz
round the room, you dear young darling!"
A waltz they had, and they made some glasses on the table jingle so
that a chambermaid knocked at the door, and asked whether her services
were required.
"Not at all," replied Arthur, in very indifferent German. "I am only
giving madame a lesson."
At the end of which lesson Arthur related to his bride what it was
that had been disturbing him. How she pitied him! The tears ran down
her pretty face as she took his between her little hands, and gave him
kisses which he returned with interest. Of that you may be sure.
"Oh, Arthur," said Adelaide, with the fondest of looks, "I am glad I
married you; because, you know, you do want someone to look after you."
As for the rest of the honeymoon, I leave you to imagine it. All I will
say is, that I wish no newly married young couple a happier.
[Illustration]
_A Night in an Opium Den._
BY THE AUTHOR OF "A DEAD MAN'S DIARY."
Yes, I have smoked opium in Ratcliff Highway, and in the den which was
visited by Charles Dickens, and through the pipe which had the honour
of making that distinguished novelist sick.
"And did you have lovely dreams? and what were they like?" asks a fair
reader.
Yes, I had lovely dreams, and I have no doubt that by the aid of
imagination, and a skilful manipulation of De Quincey, I could concoct
a fancy picture of opium-smoking and its effects, which might pass for
a faithful picture of what really occurred. But, "My Lord and Jury"--to
quote the historic words of Mrs. Cluppins, when cross-examined by
Serjeant Buzfuz--"My Lord and Jury, I will not deceive you": what those
dreams were, I could not for the life of me now describe, for they were
too aërial and unsubstantial to be caught and fixed, like hard facts,
in words, by any other pen than that of a Coleridge, or a De Quincey.
I might as well attempt to convey to you, by means of a clay model, an
idea of the prism-fires and rainbow-hues that circle, and change, and
chase each other round the pictured sides of that floating fairy-sphere
which we call a soap-bubble, as attempt, unassisted, to describe my
dreams in words. Hence it is that in this narrative, I have confined
myself strictly to the facts of my experiences.
[Illustration: THE PROPRIETOR.]
The proprietor of the den which I visited was a Chinaman named Chang,
who positively grinned me over from head to foot--not only when I
was first made known to him by the friend who had piloted me to the
establishment, but as long as I remained within grinning range. An
uninformed onlooker might not unnaturally have concluded that I was
stone-deaf and dumb, and that our host was endeavouring to express,
by his features, the cordiality he was unable to convey in words. In
reply to every casual remark made by my companion, the Chinaman would
glance up for a moment at his face, and then turn round to grimace
again at me, as though I, and I only, were the subject of their
conversation, and he was half afraid I might think he did not take a
becoming interest in it. In the few words which I exchanged with him,
I found him exceedingly civil, and he took great pains to explain
to me that his wearing no pigtail was attributable, not to his own
act and deed, but to the fact that that ornament had been cut off by
some person or persons unknown, when he was either drunk or asleep--I
could not quite make out which. The deadliest insult which can be
offered a Chinaman (so I understood him) is to cut off his pigtail,
and it was only when referring to this incident, and to his desire to
wreak a terrible vengeance upon the perpetrators, that there was any
cessation of his embarrassing smile. The thought of the insult to which
he had been subjected, and of his consequent degradation in the eyes
of his countrymen, brought so evil a look upon his parchment-coloured
features, and caused his small and cunning eyes to twist and turn
so horribly, that I was glad to turn the conversation to pleasanter
topics, even though it necessitated my being once more fixed by that
bland and penetrating smile so peculiarly his own. The smile became
more rigid than ever, when I informed him that I was anxious to smoke a
pipe of opium. The way in which he turned his face upon me (including
the smile, which enveloped and illumined me in its rays) was, for all
the world, like the turning-on by a policeman of a bull's-eye lantern.
With a final grin which threatened to distort permanently his features,
he bade us follow him, and led the way up the most villainously
treacherous staircase which it has ever been my lot to ascend.
[Illustration: A VILLAINOUS STAIRCASE.]
"Den" was an appropriate name for the reeking hole to which he
conducted us. It was dirty and dark, being lit only by a smoking
lamp on the mantel-shelf, and was not much larger than a full-sized
cupboard. The walls, which were of a dingy yellow (not unlike the
"whites" of the smokers' eyes) were quite bare, with the exception of
the one facing the door, on which, incongruously enough, was plastered
a coarsely-coloured and hideous print of the crucifixion. The furniture
consisted of three raised mattresses, with small tables on which were
placed pipes, lamps, and opium.
[Illustration: IN THE DEN.]
Huddled or curled up on these mattresses lay two wretched smokers--one
of them with the whites, or, I should say, "yellows," of his eyes
turned up to the ceiling, and another, whose slumbers we had
apparently disturbed, staring about him with a dazed and stupefied
air. Something in the look of these men--either the ghastly pallor of
their complexion, or the listlessness of their bearing--reminded me
not a little of the "white lepers" of Norway. I have seen patients
in the hospitals there whose general aspect greatly resembled that
of these men, although the skin of the white leper has more of a
milky appearance--as if it had been bleached, in fact--than that of
the opium-smoker, which is dirtier and more yellow. The remaining
occupants of the den, two of whom were Chinamen, were wide awake. The
third was a partly naked Malay of decidedly evil aspect, who shrank
back on my entrance, and coiled himself up in the recesses of a dark
corner, whence he lay furtively watching me, very much in the same way
in which the prisoned pythons in a serpent-house watch the visitors
who come to tap at the glass of their cages. The Chinamen, however,
seemed pleased to see me; and, after I had handed my cigar-case to the
nearest, begging that he and his friend would help themselves, they
became quite companionable. One of them, to my surprise, immediately
relinquished the drug which he had been smoking, and began to suck
with evident relish at the cigar. The other, after pocketing the
weed, lay down on his back with his arms behind his head, and with
his legs drawn up to his body, in which singularly graceful and easy
attitude he carried on a conversation with his friend, watching me
narrowly all the time, through the chink between his knees. At this
point of my visit, and before I could take any further stock of the
surroundings, I was not a little surprised by the entrance of a young,
and by no means ill-looking Englishwoman, to whom I gave a civil "good
evening," receiving, however, only a suspicious and surly nod in reply.
She occupied herself at first by tickling one of the Chinamen under
the armpits, evidently finding no little amusement in the fits of
wild, unearthly, and uncontrollable laughter into which he broke, but
growing weary of this, she seated herself on the raised mattress where
I was located, and proceeded to take stock of her visitor. Beginning
at my boots, and travelling up by way of trousers and waistcoat, up
to my collar and face, she examined me so critically and searchingly
from head to foot that I fancied once or twice I could see the row
of figures she was inwardly casting up, and could hear her saying to
herself, "Boots and trousers, say, sixty bob; and watch and chain, a
couple of flimsies each; which, with coat and waistcoat, bring it up to
thirty shiners; which, with a couple of fivers for links, loose cash
and studs make about forty quid--that's _your_ figure young man, as
near as I can reckon it."
[Illustration: A MALAY.]
While this was going on, my host, Mr. Chang, was busily making
preparations for my initiatory smoke by sticking small pellets of the
opium (a brownish, glue-like substance) upon a pin, and rolling and
re-rolling them against the pipe, which is about the size of a small
flute, and has a big open bowl with a tiny aperture at the base. Into
this aperture the drug-smeared pin is slipped, and the pipe is then
held over a lamp, and the fumes of the burning opium inhaled. The
occupation is by no means a luxurious one; for, as surely as I removed
the pipe from my lips to indulge in a furtive cough (and it did make
me cough a bit at first), it inevitably went out. By means of repeated
applications to the lamp, however, I managed to get through the
allotted number of pipes, and sank slowly and insensibly into the deep
waters of slumber, until at last they closed over my head, and I was
swept and borne unresistingly away upon the vast seaward setting tide
of sleep.
Of my dreams, as I have already said, I have but the haziest of
recollections. I can just recall a sensation of sailing, as on a cloud,
amid regions of blue and buoyant ether; of seeing, through vistas of
purple and gold, a scene of sunny seas and shining shores, where, it
seemed to me, I beheld the fabled "Blessed Isles," stretching league
beyond league afar; and of peeps of paradisial landscapes that swam up
to me as through a world of waters, and then softened and sank away
into a blending of beauteous colours, and into a vision of white warm
arms and wooing bosoms.
And so we slept on, I and my wretched companions, until, to quote
Rossetti:--
Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light, and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till, from some wonder of new woods and streams,
He woke and wondered more.
Yes, "I woke and wondered more"--woke to wonder where I was, and where
were my boots, my hat, and my umbrella; woke to find the faithless
friend, who had promised to guard my slumbers, sleeping peacefully
at his post; and woke with a taste in my mouth which can only be
likened to a cross between onions and bad tobacco. And this taste, in
conjunction with a splitting headache and a general lowness of spirits,
served, for the next day or two, to keep me constantly in remembrance
of my visit to the Opium Den in Ratcliff Highway.
[Illustration]
_Janko the Musician._
FROM THE POLISH OF SIENKIEWICZ.
[HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ is perhaps the most popular of contemporary
Polish novelists. He is a realist, but his realism is tempered
by a dash of romance. Keenly in sympathy with the poor, the
oppressed, the despised, and possessed of a genius for portraying
the character of Polish peasants, he has a particular gift for
depicting the sufferings of artistic natures dimly conscious of
their gifts, or blighted by the curse of mediocrity. Sienkiewicz
was born in 1845, and was educated at the University of Warsaw.
In 1876 he went to California, and first attracted attention by
letters descriptive of the New World contributed to the newspapers
of his native country. These sketches were collected, and, together
with some short tales, published at Warsaw in 1880 under the title
of "Pisma." To his American experiences we owe Sienkiewicz's
delightful story, "For Daily Bread," one of the most simple and
touching narratives possible. His chief work, "With Fire and
Sword," has been translated into English. This gifted writer was
almost entirely unknown in this country until recently. At the
present day he resides at Warsaw, where he edits a paper.]
Weak and frail came he into the world. The neighbours, assembled round
the bedside, shook their heads over mother and child. The blacksmith's
wife, the most experienced amongst them, began to comfort the sick
woman after her fashion.
"You just lie quiet," she said, "and I will light a blessed candle.
It's all up with you, poor dear, you must make your preparations for
another world. Someone had better run for the priest to give you the
last Sacraments."
"And the youngster must be baptized at once," said another. "I tell you
he won't live till the priest comes, and it will be some comfort not to
have an unbaptized ghost spooking about."
As she spoke, she lit a blessed candle, took the baby, sprinkled
it with holy water, till it winked its eyes, and at the same time
pronounced the words:
"I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost, and give thee the name of Jan," adding immediately (with a
vague recollection of the form of prayer used for the dying): "And now
depart, O Christian Soul! out of this world, and return to the place
you came from. Amen."
The Christian soul, however, had not the least intention of departing
out of this world. It began, on the contrary, to kick with the legs
of the body as hard as ever it could, and to cry, but in a fashion so
feeble and whimpering, that it sounded to the women like the mewing of
a kitten.
[Illustration: "THE PRIEST WAS SENT FOR."]
The priest was sent for, discharged his sacred office, and retired;
but, instead of dying, the mother recovered, and, after a week, went
back to work.
The life of the baby hung on a thread; he scarcely seemed to breathe,
but, when he was four years of age, the cuckoo cried three times over
the cottage roof--a good omen, according to Polish superstition--and
after that matters mended so that he somehow attained his tenth year.
To be sure, he was always thin and delicate, with a slouching body and
hollow cheeks. His hay-coloured hair fell over his clear, prominent
eyes, that had a far-away look in them, as if he saw things hidden from
others.