CHAPTER II.

Time progressed, and though Mrs. Heartwell still laboured under

unaccountable agitation and alarm, yet there was a counteracting

influence that diffused itself through her frame and buoyed her up with

hope. Honest Ben more than once or twice entered the room, and with

diffidence inquired whether his mistress had any commands; he asked no

intrusive questions--he made no observations--the matter was something

beyond his comprehension, and it never for one moment entered into his

thoughts to speculate upon causes and effects; yet desirous of affording

all the comfort and consolation which suggested itself to his mind, he

took especial pains in making some excellent coffee, which he carried up

to the distressed lady.

"You are kind and considerate, my good friend," said she whilst accepting

the proffered refreshment. "I wish Mr. Heartwell was here to partake of

it with me. Surely something unusual must have happened to detain him."

"No doubt on it, my lady," returned the seaman; "an ould messmate or

shipmate mayhap, or an extra glass of grog or two."

The lady shook her head as she mournfully replied, "No, no, those would

not be inducements strong enough to keep your master away from his home."

"Bless you, my lady," responded the seaman earnestly, as he busied

himself about the parlour; "as to the strength of the deucements, all I

can say is, that they mixes 'em strong enough when they pleases--though

half-and-half ought to satisfy any reasonable man. But there, what's the

odds so as you're happy?"

"You must prepare yourself, Ben, to go to Lincoln's Inn, and see if your

master has been detained by business," said the lady, disregarding, or

perhaps not observing the poor fellow's mistake. "You know the office of

Mr. Brady."

"Yes, my lady," returned the seaman; "and I'll make sail as soon as ever

you pleases to give orders."

"Wait then a little longer," added Mrs. Heartwell, as she looked at the

watch: "go down now, and I will ring for you presently."

Accustomed to implicit obedience when afloat, the seaman still adhered to

it now that he was ashore; and therefore again descending to the kitchen,

he awaited the expected summons.

Drearily and heavily the minutes passed away, and yet as the fingers

of the dial moved progressively over the divisions of the hour into

quarters--marking the march of time--they seemed to have flown too

quickly, for they afforded additional evidence that some calamity

must have befallen the individual whose continued absence had caused

increasing pain. Yet there the mourning watcher sat, suffering the

extreme trial of human patience--waiting for those who came not.

Several times had the silent contemplations of Mrs. Heartwell been

disturbed by the loud ticking and sudden stopping of a clock or watch.

At first she scarcely heeded the noise, but the frequent repetition

drew her attention more strongly to it, and she sought for the cause:

it could not be the dial, for the vibrations of that were clear and

continuous--it could not be her own watch, the sound was so different;

but to satisfy herself, she wrapped it in a handkerchief and placed it in

the table-drawer. Again the ticking came; it seemed to fill every corner

of the apartment, sometimes heard in one place and sometimes in another;

and when Mrs. Heartwell fancied she had found the spot from which it

emanated, it suddenly ceased, and then commenced elsewhere. She rang the

bell for Ben, who promptly answered, and stood within the open door. "Did

Mr. Heartwell take his timepiece with him?" inquired she.

"Yes, my lady," responded Ben; "I saw the chain and seals hanging down as

he went out at the door."

"Is there any strange watch or clock in the house that you know of?"

demanded she again.

"No, my lady, not as I knows of," replied Ben, much surprised at the

question, and somewhat fearful that grief had unsettled the reason of his

mistress.

"Hark then, Ben,--listen, and tell me what is that," exclaimed she

energetically, as the ticking was loudly renewed. "There must be a clock

somewhere to produce such sounds."

Ben did listen as the eyes of his mistress were intently fixed upon him,

but the tar shook his head and was silent.

"It must be some trick," said Mrs. Heartwell; "can you hear it

distinctly?"

"It's easy enough to hear," responded the seaman with another slow shake

of his head; "and though it's some years since I heard it afore, yet

there's no mistaking _that_, my lady."

"What is it then?" demanded the excited woman in a tone assuming

peremptory command; "what is it that produces so loud and peculiar a

noise?"

"Bless you, my lady," returned the seaman solemnly, as he folded his arms

across his breast. "Them sounds are out of all natur, for the works were

never made by mortal fingers--there's no living hand as winds 'em up--no

human spring as sets 'em a-going--that my lady is the death-watch:" and

then Ben added his usual expletive, though his countenance was ruefully

sad, "but what's the odds so as you're happy?"

Mrs. Heartwell was perfectly aware that what had generally been called

"the death-watch," was nothing more than a small insect, and the noise

it produced was caused by striking its proboscis against hollow wood

to release itself from confinement; but her nervous system was greatly

relaxed and her mental energies impaired through the violent agitation

she had undergone during the night. For several minutes, therefore,

a superstitious dread came over her mind--it was the first time she

had ever heard the supposed monitor of the shroud and coffin, and

Ben's impressive manner as he announced its alleged character threw an

additional weight of gloom over her already oppressed spirits. But reason

was not long in resuming its sway, though it could not utterly banish

feelings which had been excited by such a visitation, especially acted

upon as she was by previous apprehensions of some direful but unknown

calamity.

The tapers on the table were nearly consumed, and the re-assured lady

directed Ben to supply others in their places: she then walked towards

the window, and unclosing one of the shutters, the bright gleams from a

beautiful daylight mingling with the fading light of the newly-risen moon

streamed full upon her.

Hallowed and tranquillising are the effects of a lovely dawn; darkness

has fled before a mighty conqueror--the face of nature is again unveiled,

and smiling beauty colours every feature with its rosy tints; the sorrows

of the heart are for a time absorbed in the universal peace which

prevails, and even the dying who cannot expect to see its close, rejoice

in the opening glory of another day.

The weary watcher as she looked up to the heavens felt relieved and

comforted; a prayer rose spontaneously from her heart to that Being who

had sent light from above to cheer her in the dreariness of night; and

now with humble adoration she poured forth her gratitude at being spared

to witness the early beams that illumed the east, and called man forth to

his daily labour.

Ben was again summoned--the servants were called up from their beds--Mrs

Heartwell went to the pillow of her sleeping boy, but his repose was

so calm, his rest so undisturbed, that she would not awake him; but

imprinting one gentle kiss on his fair forehead, she descended to the

parlour to commence active operations in search of her husband.

The seaman was despatched to Lincoln's Inn, as the first essay, and after

an absence of about an hour, he returned to report that he had waited

some time at the door of Mr. Brady's office, till the porter had told him

the office would not be open till nine o'clock, and he thought it best to

come and let his mistress know.

"It is fast approaching that hour," said the lady. "Be quick and get your

breakfast; I will go myself, and you and Frank shall accompany me."

"I wants no breakfast, my lady," returned the seaman. "I'm rigged and

ready at once, if so be as you wishes to get under weigh"--

"No,--do as I direct you "--responded the lady, firmly. "Frank is not yet

ready--we have had our meal whilst you were away, and you must not be

deprived of yours."

The tar made his bow and descended to the kitchen, where the servants

were assembled, and each endeavoured to catechise Ben on the events of

the night; but he could tell them nothing, for he had nothing to tell,

and even Sally failed in drawing forth any communication from the seaman.

When Frank entered the parlour, he ran and kissed his mother, but

looked astonished at beholding his father's vacant chair--he gazed

earnestly in his mother's face, and though she strove to smile upon her

boy, yet fatigue and anxiety had left too visible an impression on her

countenance--With the intuitive quickness of childhood Frank became

instantly aware that something was wrong, and throwing his arms round his

parent's neck, he burst into an agony of grief, whilst she strained him

to her heart, and the tears of the mother and the child ran mingling down

together.

As soon as emotion had subsided, Mrs. Heartwell briefly informed the

lad that she feared something had happened to his father, and that she

was about to make inquiries after him. The returning confidence and

self-command of the mother produced not only a soothing influence, but

also an animated spirit of investigation in the son; the mind of the

child was fresh and vigorous from a night's repose--he had cherished no

harassing fears, had endured no torturing suspense, and therefore, young

as he was, his courage was aroused, and he longed to set out on the

search which his mother had proposed.

His desire was soon gratified, and a very short time beheld Mrs.

Heartwell and Frank, followed by Ben, proceeding from their residence in

Ormond Street towards Lincoln's Inn. The streets were not much crowded,

for the worthy citizens were at that time accustomed to reside under

the same roofs with their shops and warehouses, and consequently were

always on the spot ready for business. Not that they are negligent in the

present day, for no class of men are more punctual than our merchants and

tradesmen; but the extension of commerce has compelled vast numbers to

convert their dwellings into storehouses; and the City is, to a certain

degree, deserted in the evening for the rural suburbs with their handsome

mansions--delightful villas and cottage retreats. Man has a natural love

for the country--the green fields--the pure air--and the fragrance of

flowers--these are the works of the Creator, and our grateful admiration

should be mingled with the worship which is his due.

The clock had not struck nine when they passed through the spacious area

of Lincoln's Inn Fields, the trees in which had already become leafless,

and gave an air of desolation to the dingy scenery. What a crowd of

reflections do our Inns of Court give rise to--and yet how few who pass

through them ever bestow one thought on the thousands who are toiling

daily, and many nightly, within those walls to render perfect and secure

for others the property which without the aid of the law would be unsafe!

A writer in an American work has remarked, "what a happy country that

would be where there were no lawyers;" but he must first people it with

immaculate beings, to whom the ten commandments would become as a dead

letter, and every one of the inhabitants must enjoy equality. To suppose

such a thing is an absurdity--human passions and human prejudices will

prevail, and it is to govern the one and guide the other--to protect the

right--avenge the injured, and to punish crime--that laws were framed;

and men indefatigably devoted themselves to study all their bearings

that they might be carried into full effect. An honourable, useful,

and manly profession is that of the lawyer; and though there are some

unworthy members amongst the fraternity--(and what community is without

them?)--yet, taken as a body, they bear a character of which England is

justly proud.

Exactly at nine they reached the chambers of Mr. Brady, and at the same

moment a tall, stout, boney man took a key from his pocket and opened the

door.

"Mr. Brady is not yet come, madam," said he, observing that Mrs.

Heartwell was about to address him. "His business-time is half-past nine,

and you will find him punctual to the moment. Would you like to wait, or

will you call again?"

"You are, I presume, in Mr. Brady's service?" said the lady, as she

passed within the door.

"His assistant, madam--his clerk--his confidential clerk," responded the

man, stiffly bowing and assuming a pompous manner.

But Mrs. Heartwell heeded not his conduct, her mind was too much

engrossed by other matters, and she earnestly remarked, "You are then

acquainted with all Mr. Brady's employers--"

"His clients, madam, I suppose you mean," interrupted the person

addressed, as he bent a keen look on the interesting countenance of the

lady. "Oh yes--I necessarily know his clients well--"

"Then," returned she, "you perhaps can inform me whether Mr.

Heartwell"--her voice became tremulous with emotion, but by a sharp

struggle she mastered her feelings and repeated "whether Mr. Heartwell

was here yesterday?"

"Lieutenant Heartwell of the Royal Navy, madam, I presume," said the

clerk, obsequiously bowing. "Have I the honour to address his worthy

lady?"

"He is my husband, sir," answered the lady, proudly, for there was

something in the manners of the man that excited unpleasant sensations--a

smirking attempt to please that but ill accorded with his look and

appearance. "Was Mr. Heartwell here yesterday?"

"Most assuredly he was, madam," responded the clerk. "I hope nothing

unpleasant has occurred."

"Confound the lubber, he seems to know it," mumbled Ben, whose keen gaze

had been fixed upon the man. "I wish my lady ud let me ax him a bit of

his catechiz."

"At what hour did Mr. Heartwell quit this office?" inquired the agitated

woman.

"At what hour, madam?" repeated the clerk, casting his eyes up to a clock

that hung, or rather stood, in the corner; "why really I cannot call to

recollection the precise hour--I was so busily engaged upon the will

of Mr. Checkwell, the rich banker, who was not expected to live many

hours--indeed he died this morning, and if that last testament had not

been made out as quick as it was, so as to enable him to sign it, all

his property would have gone amongst his poor relations--but now he has

bequeathed it to a favorite niece"--and the man smiled--"he will be a

fortunate fellow who wins her favour--two hundred thousand pounds and--"

"Oh, what's the odds so as you're happy?" exclaimed Ben, peevishly

interrupting him. "Jist tell my lady when the leftenant hauled his wind

out of this."

"Hauled his wind out of this?" reiterated the clerk, giving the worthy

tar a sidelong glance of contempt. "Speak English, my friend."

Ben was about to reply in no very gentle terms, but his mistress raised

her hand, and the tar was silent. She then turned to the clerk. "I have

put a plain and simple question to you, sir; will you oblige me with an

answer?"

"Why really, madam, I beg pardon--but the question has escaped my

memory," responded the man, as if desirous of gaining time.

"I asked you at what hour Mr. Heartwell quitted this place," repeated the

lady, her heart swelling almost to bursting.

"Oh--ay--I trust you will excuse me. I remember now," answered the

clerk, as he retired to his desk; "but the will, madam, the will of Mr.

Checkwell occupied my whole attention. Yet let me see: it must have been

eight o'clock. No, it was later than that; but Mr. Brady can inform you

most correctly, I have no doubt: he will be here in a few minutes. Will

you walk in, and the young gentleman with you?" and, rising, he opened

the door to an inner room. "There are chairs: as for my friend here, he

will perhaps remain in the outer office."

Mrs. Heartwell entered a spacious apartment, the windows admitting an

unobstructed light, which was thrown upon a large oblong table, bearing

innumerable packages of letters and documents tied up with red tape or

green ribbon, according to the rank of the client. The walls of the room

were nearly concealed behind law-books and japanned boxes with painted

initials on their fronts--though some bore in full the names of highly

respectable firms and companies, and one or two displayed the titles of

noblemen. On the floor were pieces of carpet resembling ancient tapestry,

and there were three chairs of dark oak, the seats cased with leather,

the original colour of which it was impossible to detect.

The lady, with her son by her side, retired into a part of the apartment

that was somewhat obscured by shade; and here, as she sate awaiting the

coming of the individual on whose knowledge seemed to rest her future

happiness or misery, her thoughts reverted to the previous evening when

her husband was in that very same apartment; and as there were two

chairs placed at a part of the table that was cleared from papers, she

conjectured that one had been occupied by the lieutenant; and small

as the matter might seem in the estimation of others, she would have

given much to have known which of the two it was. Then arose other

contemplations: one of the chairs was doubtless for the clients--the

other, at a more respectful distance, for the suppliants who came to

entreat for delay against the execution of the law, or to appeal for the

extension of mercy from his creditor. Oh! how many sorrowing spirits

grieving over blighted hopes and desolated prospects--how many breaking

hearts, crushed beneath the torturing pressure of affliction that verged

upon despair--how many upbraiding consciences, filled with remorse at

past deeds of shame or extravagance--had been there! Parents, who had

reduced their offspring from affluence to poverty, through crime or

indiscretion--husbands that had wasted their substance, and brought

their wives to want--ruined merchants and tradesmen who had borne a good

name in the world, but, surrounded by difficulties which they could not

master, were compelled to have their names announced in the Gazette. What

a wide field for reflection was there!

At length Mr. Brady arrived; and, after a short consultation with

his clerk, the door of his room opened, and Mrs. Heartwell beheld a

gentlemanly-looking man of about thirty years of age, whose firm-set

frame gave evidence of strong muscular powers. His limbs were large,

but yet in just proportion to the rest of his body; and a handsomely

formed pair of legs were well displayed in tight black silk stockings.

His features were of a repulsive cast: a round, bullet-head, with high

cheek-bones and protruding bushy eyebrows that frowned above a pair

of large but piercing black eyes, which, like the rattlesnake's, had

something of fascination in them.

There is a world of language in the human eye that carries with it its

own translation; and when Mrs. Heartwell saw the bright orbs of the

lawyer as he looked round the room, a strange thrill came over her

bosom--an indefinable sensation that sickened her very heart: she had

never, to her recollection, seen Mr. Brady before that moment; yet the

piercing keenness of his eyes was vividly pictured on her memory--they

were familiar to the mind as having at some former period occasioned much

distress, but where or when, or with what connexion, baffled remembrance

was utterly at fault.

The lady tremblingly arose as the lawyer approached; but her agitation

was considerably diminished when a voice, soft and gentle, and sweetly

harmonious, requested her "to be seated," and she again resumed the

chair; whilst Frank, overawed by the presence of Mr. Brady, took up a

position nearly behind his mother so as scarcely to be seen, though he

commanded a perfect view of all that was going on. The lawyer retired to

the corner of the table, against which he reclined with his left hand

resting on the corner; he raised his right to his chin, and fixing his

eyes on the distressed lady, seemed to devote himself to mute attention.

Mrs. Heartwell told her name and related the cause of her visit, which

drew forth no remark nor a single token that she was heard, till the

narrative was ended, and even then he continued for a minute or two in

deep and unmoved silence. At length he uttered in accents of soothing

kindness--

"I trust, my dear lady, that you will not distress yourself

unnecessarily. Affairs may not be so bad as you anticipate; and yet--" he

paused for a moment, and then inquired, "Had Mr. Heartwell no friends in

your neighbourhood on whom he could call in his way home?"

"We have but few acquaintances, sir, and but fewer friends," returned the

lady mournfully; "besides, I am certain that my husband would not have

willingly remained away from home all night."

"Was Mr. Heartwell at all addicted--you will excuse my putting so plain

a question, nothing but the urgency of the occasion would compel me--but

was Mr. Heartwell at all addicted to drinking,--I mean so as to become

inebriated?" inquired the lawyer.

"No, sir, never--never," said the lady firmly; "a better husband, a

kinder father, a more sober man never existed--and these very qualities

do but increase my fears for his safety."

"I am gratified to hear it," responded the lawyer. "Mr. Heartwell

transacted business with me yesterday to a very large extent; we had some

wine together, and what with his good fortune and the generous liquor, I

must own he was somewhat elevated when we parted."

Mrs. Heartwell paused for a moment or two before she responded. The

affection she had always cherished for her husband had produced unbounded

confidence in all his actions: she knew that sailors were fond of the

social glass, but she had never seen him indulge to excess, nor witnessed

anything that could induce her to suppose that he had done so; and the

thought that Mr. Brady implied, that he was drunk, went with thrilling

anguish to her very soul, for it wounded her pride whilst it increased

her fears. "Oh, do not say so, sir," said she; "do not say he was

intoxicated; indeed he was ever too guarded to yield to intemperance."

[Illustration: _Mrs. Heartwell and Frank's first interview with Mr.

Brady._

London, Tilt & Bogue, Fleet Street]

"You are labouring under error, my dear lady," said the lawyer mildly;

"I did not say that he was intoxicated, but merely elevated--a single

glass of wine when joy is overpowering the heart will oftentimes

produce the semblance of inebriety. I know you are not aware of the

whole fact, for he mentioned his intention to surprise you, and great

was his gratification at the thoughts of it--the property of his uncle

exceeded his expectations--the whole was converted into gold, and notes,

and securities, to the amount of many thousand pounds; he received it in

this office from an agent of the bank, and at nine o'clock last night,

both himself and the bags were deposited in a hackney-coach--the number

of which, I dare say, can be ascertained--though, probably, my clerk,

who is very particular in all matters of business, may recollect it--and

the coachman was ordered to drive to Ormond Street." The lawyer touched

a bell, and the clerk entered. "Pray, Mr. Shipkins, do you remember the

number of the coach in which Mr. Heartwell left here last night?"

"Four hundred and seventy-five," replied the clerk; "coachman, red face,

carbuncle nose--small eyes--drab box-coat, with seven capes; each cape

bound with scarlet,--he held the light whilst we put in the bags."

The superior nodded, and the clerk withdrew. "Thus far then, my dear

lady, it will not be difficult to trace your husband's progress; but it

is necessary that we should claim the assistance of a magistrate."

Whilst these explanations were going on, Mrs. Heartwell felt almost

crushed beneath the weight of perplexity that appeared to accumulate

at every step. The mention of many thousand pounds as being in the

possession of her husband had conjured up fearful visions; but when, in

addition to this, she found that he was sent away in a coach alone, and

that too in at least a state of elevation, her mind was wrought up to a

pitch of indescribable anguish; she sprang from her chair, and wildly

exclaimed, "It is but too plain, sir--it is but too plain! You send him

in a coach with large sums of money. When he left me he mentioned his

intention to surprise me--he would have returned--delightedly returned;

but he has never been home--Oh my God, sustain me--he is dead--he is

murdered!" and sinking back into her chair, she buried her face in her

handkerchief, and sobbed hysterically, whilst little Frank clung to his

mother, and fixing his tearful eyes upon Mr. Brady, who he supposed had

caused her distress, he observed a twitching spasm convulse the lawyer's

face, and a peculiar cast in one of his eyes, which had so fierce an

expression as to terrify the lad, and which from that moment was never

forgotten. The whole did but occupy a passing instant--the lawyer's face

resumed its usual expression as he uttered,

"No, no, no; do not think that, my dear lady--do not give way to so

horrid a thought. But come, no time should be lost." He started from the

table and put on his hat. "We will walk to the nearest coach-stand, and

proceed to Bow Street."

In accordance with this proposition they left the office; and Ben was

despatched back to Ormond Street for the purpose of ascertaining whether

anything had transpired during their absence, and with instructions to

join his mistress with all expedition at Bow Street. The mother and son,

with Mr. Brady, hastened to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where they found the

very coach 475, in which the clerk had stated that the lieutenant had

quitted the office the night before. The quick eye of Frank was the first

to detect this; and he directly pointed it out to his mother, who at the

first glance saw that the coachman perfectly answered the description

given by Shipkins; and she would have instantly questioned him but for

the request of Mr. Brady, who cautioned her to take no notice lest it

might excite his suspicion. He called him off the stand to receive a fare.

"To Bow Street Police Office," said the lawyer, as the coachman stood

waiting for orders; and the door was closed, the box mounted, and off he

drove. But who can describe the sensations of the agitated wife as she

entered and took her seat in the very vehicle in which it was alleged

that her husband had been conveyed from the office of the lawyer! her

whole frame trembled and her heart grew sick. Mr. Brady was not idle--he

examined every nook and corner of the interior of the carriage in which

the lady assisted him, and every spot on the padded cushions raised a

horrible terror in her breast as she fancied that it might be blood; but

they discovered nothing that could in the slightest degree elucidate the

matter. On reaching their destination, the coachman was directed to wait

for the purpose of conveying them back again.

The doors of the office were thronged with a miscellaneous assemblage

of characters, principally of the lower classes; but there were also

many well-dressed persons in the crowd, for the notorious pickpocket

George Waldron, or, as he named himself, George Barrington, had that

morning been brought up for examination, charged with stealing a purse

of money and a gold watch from the person of a gentleman in Drury Lane

Theatre, and numbers of curious individuals of all ranks were desirous of

beholding a man who by education and manners was the finished gentleman,

but in habit a confirmed thief.

Through this crowd the lawyer and his party pushed their way into the

outer office; and what a scene was presented there!--squalid poverty

in rags--maudlin sensibility awaking from intoxication, and feverish

from the night's debauch--the bucks of fashion, as the dandies of that

day were called, still labouring under the influence of liquor, and

detained to answer for a midnight spree--the detected pickpocket glorying

in the mechanism of his profession, and only ashamed that he should

have practised the art so clumsily as to be caught: these and numerous

others occupied distinct portions to themselves--attended by the various

peace-officers and watchmen, who hoped to profit, and largely too, by

their earnest zeal in protecting his Majesty's liege subjects from let,

hindrance, and molestation.

The first object of Mr. Brady was to detain the coachman; and on applying

to one of the superiors, an officer was promptly set to watch his

movements, with orders to take him into custody should he attempt to

drive away. But the jarvey did not manifest the slightest intention to

depart, for he sat apparently contented on his seat eyeing the different

groups, and perhaps moralising on the instability of human affairs--for

men of sedentary habits are generally found to be moralists, however

humble their pretensions.

The urgency of Mrs. Heartwell's case procured an immediate admission to

the office where the magistrates were sitting; but as they were at that

moment busily engaged, the party was requested to stand aside till the

hearing was disposed of.

At the bar was a tall man of very genteel appearance, whose habit and

demeanour might readily have introduced him to society as a highly

respectable clergyman. He appeared to be about thirty years of age; his

countenance was sedate and indicative of benevolence; but there was

at the same time an arch look in his small sharp eyes that evidenced

pleasantry and wit. His hair was frizzed out and powdered according

to the fashion of the times, and a queue with a plentiful expenditure

of black silk hung down behind. His left hand was raised to his face,

and displayed amazingly long fingers ornamented with rings, and he

bowed occasionally in the most graceful manner to Mr. Bond, the sitting

magistrate, when he had to reply to questions that were put to him. At

the entrance of Mrs. Heartwell, he had turned and cast a rapid but sharp

glance at the lady; and for the moment his dark sallow complexion assumed

a more sickly hue; but finding that she was a stranger, he politely

inclined his head, and resumed his position.

This was Barrington, the notorious pickpocket; and near him stood, in

remarkable contrast, a smart well-made dapper little man, sprucely

dressed, with silver buckles in his shoes, both of which were brightly

polished; his head combed smooth and straight, so that not a hair was

misplaced or out of order, but with a "natty curl" on each side--much in

the same way as in after years the friseur was accustomed to ornament his

brown wig;--his eyes were keen and hawk-like; and diminutive as he was,

there was a something in his manner which strongly marked him as a man

not to be trifled with. This was the afterwards celebrated Townsend.

On the bench with the magistrates, were two or three noblemen and

gentlemen in high life, who had been summoned to give evidence; and

amongst them was the well-known Major Hanger and General St. John, who

deposed to "the previous capture of the pickpocket at the Theatre, his

being taken to the lobby and searched, and the purse and watch found upon

him."

"Pardon me, General," said the prisoner, respectfully bowing; "your

memory has not served you correctly--neither purse nor watch was found

upon my person, for this very simple but convincing reason--they had

never been there."

"I remember now," resumed the General; "they were not found upon your

person, but upon the floor close to where you were taken into custody."

"And I saw you drop them," exclaimed Major Hanger, hastily interrupting

the witness.

Barrington bowed his head in the most bland manner, and gracefully

waving his hand, uttered with much seeming good-humour, "One at a time,

gentlemen, if you please--it is neither fair nor honourable to try and

crush a man whom misfortune loves to sport with."

It is not necessary to go through the whole of the examination, which

proved that from the Theatre, Barrington had been conveyed to the Brown

Bear in Bow Street, where he contrived to escape from the charge of the

constable, and since then had been levying contributions in different

parts of the country, assuming a variety of characters as best suited his

purpose.

He was subsequently detected in a northern town, mingling in the first

circles, and dexterously carrying on his depredations; from thence he

was conveyed to the metropolis. The charge was considered sufficiently

proven to commit; and this "king of thieves" was removed from the bar

without evincing outwardly the slightest want of self-command.

As soon as he was gone, and the buzz arising from the conversation of

the noblemen and gentlemen had subsided by their taking their departure,

the next case was about to be called, when Mr. Brady earnestly solicited

the private hearing of the magistrates for a few minutes, on a charge of

some magnitude, involving, as it was supposed, the life and property of

an officer in his Majesty's navy.

This was not spoken aloud, but only within the hearing of a few of the

officers, and the request was promptly granted; Mr. Bond passed into a

private room, where Mr. Brady having stated the case, Mrs. Heartwell

was called in to give her deposition, which narrated every circumstance

relative to the lieutenant's quitting his home the afternoon before, and

promising "to be back early, and that he would then communicate something

that would delight and astonish them." The lawyer and the magistrate

looked earnestly at each other, for the former had mentioned that the

circumstance of the officer having to receive considerable property had

been concealed from the wife.

"Were you not at all acquainted with the object to which your husband

alluded?" inquired Mr. Bond.

"Not to its full extent, sir," replied the lady; "I knew that he had

business to transact with Mr. Brady, but was not informed of its purport,

though I supposed it was in some measure connected with the decease of an

uncle in the East Indies."

"My client," remarked the lawyer, "mentioned that his wife was not

cognisant of the transactions between us; and he expressed great delight

at the idea of communicating to her the intelligence that he was now able

to raise his family to affluence."

"I must beg of you to compose yourself as much as possible, madam," said

Mr. Bond with kindness; "the affair is certainly mysterious, but my best

assistance shall be given."

The magistrate then went on with the examination, and Ben having in

the mean time arrived, made his statement, corroborating that of his

mistress--the lawyer also gave his testimony, and ultimately, the

coachman was brought forward. His deposition went in substance to state,

that "his name was Gervase Simpson, and on the night before, he had been

hired off the stand in the 'Fields' shortly before nine o'clock, to take

up a fare in Lincoln's Inn--that he went, and a middle-aged man brought

out a light, which he held, whilst four or five small, but apparently

heavy bags were put into the vehicle; the light was then taken away, and

a navy officer came out with another gentleman; the former getting into

the coach, and the latter bidding the navy officer 'good night,' told the

deponent to drive to Ormond Street, and then he believed went in again.

That he accordingly drove to Ormond Street, and felt the check-string

pulled; he drew up, dismounted, and opened the door--the navy officer

alighted, and having removed the bags, paid him his fare, and went down

the street; but deponent took no further notice of his proceedings,

remounted his box, and drove to the stand in Charles Street, Covent

Garden. He then got another fare to the Borough, and afterwards went home

to the stables at Newington."

"All this, if true, can easily be traced," said the magistrate; "it

certainly is extremely mysterious--And the lieutenant did not go to his

residence, nor has he been seen since? Was he a man of sober habits and

reputable character?"

"Most unexceptionable in both," replied the lawyer; "it is true that he

had taken a glass or two of wine, but he was perfectly master of his

actions--though I cannot altogether account for his leaving the coach

where he did."

"Pray," said the magistrate, addressing the coachman, "had you sufficient

light or opportunity to observe the person of the officer?"

"Vy not exactly, your vurship," answered Jehu; "it vas wery dark in

Linkun's Inn, and them lamps arn't much good, only to blind people; but I

saw the glittering of his buttons and his hanger, and could jist make out

he vas a tall man; but he vhipped in in sich a hurry, that I hadn't much

time to notice; nor did I think of anything of this here kind happening,

for as long as I'm civil and gets my full fare, your vurship, I seldom

troubles myself about other consarns."

"But in Ormond Street," urged the magistrate, "there you possibly had

better light and more time--what took place there?"

"Vell, your vurship, I've tould you all as I knows," responded the

witness. "The lamps in Ormond Street arn't never no better nor the rest

in regard of lighting--they're pretty much like an ould watchman's eye.

I seed as he was an officer of the navy, but arter he tipped the fare,

and there was somut handsome over and above the reglar, I was too busy

reckoning my money to take much notice--he went off with the bags, some

on 'em he had got tied up in a handkercher; but what he had in em' I

never guv a moment's thought to."

"Was the officer sober?" inquired the magistrate.

"Vell, your vurship, it arn't ezactly clear vot sobriety is," answered

the coachman; "he might or he might not, for I took no perticklar notice,

only he seemed to valk avay steady enough. He guv me five shillings; I

said 'Thanky, yer honor,' and he says 'Good night,' and that vos all."

"Should you know the gentleman again?" asked the lawyer, bending his keen

gaze upon the man.

"Vy, yes, I think I should, if I vos to see him as I did last night,"

responded the coachman; "but daylight alters people's looks, and I

shouldn't like to svear."

After other questions of no very material consequence, the magistrate

decided that "the affair should be put into the hands of an experienced

officer, who should thoroughly investigate the whole, and he would be

ready to attend to any information as soon as it was obtained; but if no

further light was thrown upon the transaction, and the lieutenant still

remained absent, then he must request Mr. Brady to be in attendance at

eleven o'clock the following morning, accompanied by his clerk, the

bank agent, and all the evidence he could procure." In the mean time he

recommended that intelligence should be given at the other offices, and

diligent inquiry made at the hospitals; though in the first instance

it would be best to commence the investigation in the neighbourhood of

Ormond Street. Mr. Brady promised strict attention, and the parties

withdrew.

[Illustration]

LOVE HAS LEGS.

Strolling about from bower to hall,

Love paid Lavinia a morning call.

An hour soon went--she chatted and sang--

He staid--till at last the dinner-bell rang.

He staid, still charm'd; and rather alarm'd,

Lavinia felt she must ask him to stay.

"To tell you the truth," cried the radiant youth,

"I'm here for life, I shall ne'er go away."

Love's fire shot through her in one wild flush,

Till her heart itself might be seen to blush;

Love saw, and finding it faithful and kind,

Exclaim'd, "O Beauty, how long I've been blind!"

More grateful grew he, more fervent she,

More watchful, sensitive, warm, and fond;

So much like light was he to her sight,

She could not trust him a step beyond.

Still more she cherish'd him year by year,

Till at last each joy came tinged with fear;

She fear'd, if he stroll'd where wild flowers meet,

Lest thorns might pierce his delicate feet;

Or a reptile's sting beneath his wing

She fear'd, if he lay in the greenwood asleep;

Or walk'd he awake by the moonlit lake--

In dread of an ague, how would she weep!

She chatted and sang to Love no more,

Lest music and chat should prove "a bore;"

But she hung on his steps wherever he went,

And shut from the chamber the rose's scent.

She slept not a wink, for fear he should think

She dream'd not of Love--so her eyes grew dim;

She took no care of her beautiful hair,

For she could not spare one moment from him.

Love's bright fireside grew dark with doubt,

Yet home was a desert if Love went out;

In vain were his vows, caresses, and sighs;

"O Love," cried the lady, "I've given you eyes!

And ah! should some face of a livelier grace

Than mine ever meet them! Ah! _should_ you stray!"

Love, wearied at last, was in slumber lock'd fast;--

"Those wings!" said the watcher, "he _might_ fly away."

One awful moment! Oh! could she sever

Those wings from Love, he is hers for ever!

With trembling hand she gathers the wings--

She clips--they are off! and up Love springs.

"Adieu!" he cried, as he leapt from her side,

"Of folly's cup you have drunk the dregs;

My home was here; it is now with the deer;

Thank Venus, though wingless, _Love has legs!_" L. B.

BERNARD CAVANAGH,

THE IRISH CAMELEON.

Bernard Cavanagh is the name of a person who is now raising

considerable sums of money in Dublin by professing to work

miracles--the greatest of them all consisting in his ability to

live without any food whatever--which he is now said to have done

for several months. Crowds flock to him to be cured of their

lameness, deafness, &c.--_Irish Papers._

Marvellous Erin! when St. Patrick's feat

Thy hills, vales, plains, and bogs from reptiles freed,

He little dream'd what monsters would succeed;

Sinners who drink not, saints who never eat!

And is there one, in whom the piece of meat

Which Paris raves about, no care can breed!

One who can never know a time of need,

Though corn be trampled by the tempest's feet!

Poor fellow! what enjoyment he foregoes!

Nothing but air, a scrap of summer cloud,

Fog with the chill off, is to him allow'd;

A fine thick mist, or rainbow when it shows;

But ah! for him no kitchen's steam up-flows;

No knives, forks, spoons, or plates, a pilèd crowd,

No dishes, glasses, salts, make music loud!

Sad sinecurists all--mouth, ears, and nose!

THE ASS ON THE LADDER.

"For lowliness is young Ambition's ladder."--_Julius Cæsar._

At the end of the second volume of a Hebrew MS of the Bible,

written on beautiful vellum, is the following passage, in fine

large Hebrew characters:--"I, Meyer, the son of Rabbi Jacob, the

scribe, have finished this book for Rabbi Abraham, the son of

Rabbi Nathan, the 5052nd year (A.D. 1292); and he has bequeathed

it to his children and his children's children for ever. Amen.

Amen. Amen. Selah. Be strong and strengthened. May this book

not be damaged, neither this day nor for ever, until the ASS

ascends the LADDER." After which the accompanying rude figure is

drawn.--_Pettigrew's Bibliotheca Sussexiana_, part I. vol. i.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

It would appear from the curious sentence copied above, that no longer

ago than five centuries and a half, the feat which is pictured to the

spectator in a fac-simile of the original drawing was regarded as an

event of extremely improbable occurrence. The inference indeed may be,

that it was deemed an impossibility. The prayer of the inscription is,

"May this book be undamaged for ever."--May it be preserved "until the

ass ascends the ladder!"

"Till Birnam wood shall come to Dunsinane," is the unlikely occurrence

which the weird sisters specify as the omen of Macbeth's fall; and "That

will never be!" is the cry of the confident thane. In modern days we wish

a man "good luck till he's tired of it;" or "prosperity till the sky

falls." The despairing and lovelorn damsel in the ditty sings--

"When fishes fly, and swallows dive,

Young men they will prove true."

And one of the same ballad-family sets out with the affecting

declaration, that--

"When gooseberries grow on the stem of a daisy,"

the singer's passion will be no more. These, and a thousand examples

of the "Not till then," are but versions of the Hebrew assumption

of impossibility, expressed in the grotesque fancy of "the ass on

the ladder." But it is clear that Meyer the son of Rabbi Jacob was

not in Moorfields last year; it is certain that Abraham, the son of

Rabbi Nathan, little dreamed of what would be doing at Pimlico in the

nineteenth century; for whether at Mayfair or at Bethnal Green, at

Wapping or at Islington, one or both must have seen the impossibility

realised, in the elevation of the donkey, before the upturned wondering

eyes of a crowd of lingering mortals in the public thoroughfares.

Lest there should be some who never saw the modern street-mountebank,

going forth like Leporello with his ladder, and like Sancho with his

donkey, we must describe his performance. His greatest feat consisted

in balancing upon his chin a ladder with an ass on it. All other tricks

performed, and all eyes and mouths opened, curiosity on tiptoe and

incredulity on the stretch, forth came the wooden machine, and with legs

twisted through the staves, up went the animal. "Who," exclaims the

minstrel, "Ah who can tell how hard it is to climb!" But what poet ever

found a steep so difficult as that _gradus ad Parnassum_ to the seemingly

dislocated donkey? To the topmast round, you would see him clinging like

Shakspeare's giddy sea-boy on the mast; and surveying the mountebank who

had taught him to be such an astonishing ass, with a look that seemed to

say, "You're another!" Then would his master send round the hat upon its

last and greatest voyage of discovery; then would the halfpence therein

be rattled harmlessly in the vacant faces of boys with vacant pockets,

and then would the irresistible appeal be heard, "Come, good gen'lemen,

be liberal, be liberal--tuppence more, and up goes the donkey." Then

bending up each corporal agent for the terrible feat, up indeed would go

the ladder, donkey and all; high up in air, until its lowest stave rested

fairly and firmly on the protruded chin of the mountebank, where it stood

poised, fixed, moveless--the astonishing type, or rather the exact model,

of the balance of power in Europe.

The amazement now should be transferred from the balanced to the

balancer; for what is the difficulty of such a _gradus ad Parnassum_ to

the ass, compared with the sore trial of the man below, who has made the

bridge of his nose a _pons asinorum_! But in rivalship with the donkey,

the human being shrinks into insignificance; the grotesque patience of

the brute beats the strength and dexterity of the man hollow; the gazers

are all wrapped in ecstasy to see how the ass hangs on, not how the

cunning mountebank balances him. The sympathies of the crowd, men and

boys, are triumphantly borne off by the four-legged performer, and every

one of them goes away more convinced of the uncommon cleverness of the

ass, and consequently on better terms with himself.

But the obstinacy of the long-eared animal is proverbial; and in nothing

is it more strikingly exhibited than in the fact that he _will_ eat if

he can. So was it before the days of Æsop's ass, that cropped a thistle

and was torn in pieces for confessing it; and so has it been before and

since the hour when Sterne's ass consumed the macaroon which curiosity

and not charity presented to him. It is possibly this expensive habit

that has led the mountebank, of late, to cast off the donkey, and to

substitute a boy for him, in the feat of the ladder. The performance to

this hour is the same, with that exception--a two-legged juvenile for

a four. Perhaps the mountebank was jealous of the ass! Can we assume

that, in the nature of a mountebank balancing on his chin a ladder

surmounted by a long-eared brute, there is no room for vanity? Can we

imagine a donkey-balancer incapable of feeling annoyed, when he sees

his subordinate--the agent through whom his own abilities are to be

demonstrated--creating peals of laughter by doing nothing, trotting off

with the spoils he did not win, and cropping every thistle of fame that

belongs to another? There is no mind too shallow for vanity to take root

in, no talent too small for it to twine itself round, no competitor too

contemptible to pique and wound it. "Why, Edmund Kean couldn't get a hand

of applause, with such a noisy brute as that in the piece!" said an actor

in the drama of the _Dog of Montargis_, when the quadruped was howling

over the murdered body of his master, and breaking the hearts of the

audience.

[Illustration]

At all events the Boy _has_ taken the Ass's place on the ladder. The

change may have arisen out of that tenderness for the brute creation

which is too amiable a feeling--when in excess--to pass unadmired. There

is a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; and to risk a

donkey's life on a ladder, for the sport of a heedless crowd, might be

dangerous to the mountebank. In _this_ age, society at large knows what

is due to donkeys; we can all enter into their feelings. But as there is

no law, and no moral principle, against the elevation of a human urchin,

even to the top stave of the ladder, there is no reason why the sport

should not continue. Philosophers will explain to you, that a boy is a

free agent, and has a right to be balanced on a human chin, if he likes;

but a donkey has no will of his own at all--_except_--except when you've

hired him for an hour, at Ramsgate, and are endeavouring to persuade

yourself that you're trotting him out of the town.

The last boy we saw balanced was worthy of the chin that sustained

him. The mountebank to be sure was a miracle, and could have balanced

anything. If the books of the Bank of England were to get into disorder,

every sum confused, and every figure out of its place--he could balance

them. But the boy was at least two miracles rolled into one--a more than

Siamese prodigy--a boy, and yet an ass too. He looked more like one than

the reality, his predecessor. He evidently felt the past importance

of his elevation, high above his compeers. He seemed quite conscious

that every inhabitant, not of _that_ simply, but of the _next_ parish,

was gazing at him in profound amazement. He turned no glance, whether

of contempt or benignant pity, on the open eyes and mouths around, but

looked unutterable things at the knocker of a door opposite.

"So stands the statue that enchants the world!"

This, however, was only at the commencement of the performance, while

the spectators were being coaxed to contribute, and while several among

them, not knowing exactly what they were doing, were giving a half-penny.

But when the ladder was deliberately hoisted up, and fixed on the chin,

then came the utter hopelessness of presenting a true resemblance of

the ass's face--the boy's we mean;--of the conscious pride in its own

blankness, of its self-complacency, tinged with a slight touch of fear,

amounting only to a pleasurable excitement! He was a boy picked out of

the crowd around,--yet he was matchless. You saw at once that he was not

_employed_ by the mountebank--that he was not _paid_ for being balanced.

There was something in his look that distinguished him at a glance from

the hired professor. It might be supposed that, the boy not being hired,

there would be a little difficulty in procuring a substitute for the ass:

not so; only blow a trumpet or beat a drum in the street, and you are

surrounded in less than no time with able and willing volunteers. This

boy entered into the soul of the ass's part; he did not hug, and hang

on the ladder mechanically, or like one who had done the same thing a

dozen times before, that very day. There was the freshness of the young

aspiration, the delicious novelty of the first grand step in life--in the

attempt. It was young Ambition (as Brutus says) just mounting his ladder.

He was animated by the glorious intoxication of getting up in the world.

He looked direct forward; not at, but through, the brick wall opposite,

into futurity. If one of his schoolfellows had called out, "Master's

a coming;" or, "Here's your father with the cartwhip;" or, "Bill, I'm

blessed if here arn't the woman what we stole the apples on;"--no, even

these notes of alarm would have failed to disturb his equanimity--or his

equilibrium. "Have a slice o' cold pudden, Bill?" might have communicated

perhaps to some part of his frame a momentary touch of human weakness--we

can't say positively--boys are but men;--but nothing short of such an

appeal to the weak side of his nature could have disturbed his rapt and

lofty musings.

Since the days of the Hebrew with which we set out, when the Ass on

the Ladder was but a fiction, history has recorded the doings--we had

almost said the sayings--of scores of wonderful quadrupeds. We have had

gifted horses, who should have been elected F.R.S.'s; learned pigs,

who should have been chosen LL.D.'s; humane dogs, who merit statues

like Howard's; and industrious fleas, who do the work of hot water in

putting lobsters to the blush. But such an ass as the Lad on the Ladder

eye never beheld but that once. His face spread before our curious and

inquiring gaze, like a map of the world, and we traced in recollection

an infinite variety of character. What it more immediately suggested

was the expression in the face of a successful candidate at the moment

of "chairing," elevated in some fantastic car, surrounded with banners

bearing patriotic mottoes and devices, and accompanied by roaring

raggamuffins. It also conjured up a vision of a youthful aspirant, fresh

from the office or the shop, strutting in Richard, or fretting in Hamlet,

before eight long sixes, and a full bench of aunts, in a private theatre.

The ass on the ladder brings to memory a thousand other spectacles. When

we behold an orator (to listen is impossible) flourishing his arms on the

hustings, and ever and anon placing his hand upon his crimson waistcoat,

or declaiming for an hour together before a private company to the

exclusion of conversation, in full force of lungs, but in virtue of no

mental superiority, we are forcibly reminded of the ass on the ladder.

When we see a sprig of fashion, who only obtained his nobility yesterday,

and whose worth, if put up to auction, would be dear at the price of a

mushroom, insolently claiming precedence of the untitled bearer of an

ancient and honourable name; or when we observe the high-born, starched

up to the eyes, sneering at humble birth, however associated with merit,

and cutting modest respectability for a parvenu; in these cases we cannot

help thinking of the ass on the ladder.

When we see a vulgar jack, in virtue of his office raised to the rank of

gentleman, treating a poor suitor, who asks for his own, as if he were

a beggar asking alms; or a sleek-headed, rosy-gilled idiot, who lives

only in his own breeches-pocket, pretending to patronise talent because

he doles out, for its exercise, what scarcely keeps its possessor from

starving, we are very apt to call to recollection the ass on the ladder.

When a connoisseur, influential by position, sits down to decide, in

just ten minutes, upon the merits of a work of art or science, which has

cost the producer years of anxious study and ceaseless labour; or when a

military despot lives but to harass, irritate, and torture the sensitive

and honourable minds of those ill-fated officers, who, superior perhaps

in everything else, happen to be below him in rank and fortune,--we

immediately recur for a parallel to the ass on the ladder.

When we see a millionnaire, who has crawled along the road to riches

until he can't stand upright, grasping with usurious hands at the little

still retained by those who helped him to rise; or when a sudden puff

of fortune has blown an adventurer into power and affluence, and we see

him so giddy that he doesn't know his own poor relations, and actually

can't recognise in broad daylight the struggling friend who lent him five

pounds three months before,--then, and under all similar circumstances,

we are sure to think of the ass on the ladder.

When we behold a gentleman turning jockey or stage-coachman, quitting the

legislature for the stable or the cockpit, winking at the worst vices

until he becomes himself tainted, and devoting his time and money to the

destruction of his own health and the demoralisation of his hangers-on;

or when we see a barrister, bullying with conscious impunity a trembling,

blushing, inexperienced witness (perhaps a woman) until common sense

becomes confused, truth begins to contradict herself, and honesty steps

out of the witness-box, looking very much like a rogue,--why, who can

fail to associate with spectacles like these, the ass on the ladder?

But it is not merely in the army and on the stage, at the bar and in

literature, in the walks of commerce and in the world of fashion, that

we daily detect some living prototype of the long-eared animal in the

ascendant. If public meetings exhibit them, public schools do so no

less abundantly. There is a great deal of ladder-climbing going on at

the universities; and not a proctor in the precincts of learning but

could tell many tales of asinine ambition. Who more irresistibly calls

to mind the ass on the ladder than the noble knocker-wrencher, or the

gentlemanly bell-destroyer, when brought up--many staves up the ladder

now--before a magistrate, and indulgently allowed to take his choice--a

fine of forty shillings, _or_ a month at the treadwheel? When the noble

and gentlemanly sport extends to the pummelling of police-officers, only

stopping within an ace of manslaughter, then the animal may be said to

have reached the topmost stave--an elevation where every kick with which

he indulges himself in his playful humour adds incalculably to his own

imminent danger. The higher the ascent, the greater the ass. We have seen

many instances, more melancholy than ludicrous, of asses falling from the

very top.

For ourselves, we must candidly confess to a painful consciousness of

having been--occasionally, and for not many days together--yet of having

been, ere now, beyond all mistake, upon the ladder adverted to. Nay,

emboldened by the virtuous frankness of this self-criminating admission,

we even venture to put it to our (male) readers, whether they cannot

recollect having had their own feet, at some time of their lives, on the

first round of the ladder; whether they do not feel sensible of having

placed just one foot on that lowest step of the ascent--one only--for we

would not dare to insinuate that they ever got farther, lest they should

turn upon us with the mortifying, and perhaps not altogether mistaken

discovery, that we ourselves, even in this moment of moralising, have

reached the top of it!

OMNIBUS CHAT.

The "Omnibus" had hardly started off, on the first of the month, from

the door of Messrs. Tilt and Bogue, and taken a westerly direction up

Fleet Street, commencing without the loss of an hour its monthly tour

in search of the picturesque, when it was stopped for the purpose of

taking in a passenger. This was at the corner of Bolt Court, out of

which classical and celebrated avenue tumbled rather than walked a

gentleman stout and elderly, with a bluff good-humoured countenance, all

the pleasanter for an air of sternness which was evidently affectation.

Having got in, he seated himself immediately opposite to us, that is to

say, at the left-hand corner of the vehicle next the door, and at once

began, as though he had been the ghost of Dr. Johnson, and possessed

the unquestionable right in that neighbourhood to take the lead in

conversation.

"Sir," he said, "you have made a fair start, but a start is not a

journey. Now there's a fact for you--and it's a fact which the producers

of Number-ones are deplorably prone to forget. With me, Sir, first

numbers go for nothing. Some people will tell you that your No. 1. is _a

proof as far as it goes_ of what you mean to do in this new vehicle of

yours. Sir, some people are very fond of a 'proof as far as it goes.' But

how far does it go? If you see a man in a black coat to-day, and you meet

the same man in a blue coat to-morrow, it's 'a proof as far as it goes,'

that he is the possessor of three hundred and sixty-five coats, or one

for every day in the year. But still, sir, you have made a fair start.

Let me warn you against stoppages; never stop but when you have to take

up or set down. Don't overload your vehicle. No racing, but go quietly.

All of which means, don't cut knotted oaks with razors, and when you have

a 'wee crimson-tipped flower' to paint, don't make a great red flare of

it. Above all, sir, never follow advice, however excellent, when it is

offered to you in a long speech; for the man who would presume to take up

two minutes and a half of your valuable time at one sitting, deserves to

be put into a Mile-end omnibus by mistake, when he's bound for Turnham

Green direct."

We had scarcely time to thank our gruff but good-humoured adviser--whom

we at once set down for a chip of that respectable old block, the Public

in General, and identified as a specimen of Middle-aged People in Town

and Country--we had barely time to assure him that his last important

suggestion at all events should be especially remembered, when a voice

burst forth from the further end of the vehicle, where in the dim light

the speaker was only just visible. He was a very young man, evidently of

the last new school, and in a tone of jocular familiarity he called out,

"I wish that gentleman from Bolt Court would explain the phenomenon of a

new work being started with a preface so totally unlike the prefaces of

all new works published during the last half-century, which invariably

begin with 'Dr. Johnson has observed.'"

The elderly passenger appealed to, frowned; but in less than a minute the

frown gave way to a smile, and without further noticing the challenge,

he said, "Dr. Johnson is not responsible for a ten-thousandth part

of what during the last half-century has been observed in his name.

His mimics are calumniators, and they have distorted his sentiments

as remorselessly as they have disfigured his style. Since subjects of

caricature are not prescribed in the present company, I may safely put

it to the vote whether any exaggeration is more gross than that which

commonly passes in the world for exact imitation. There are people who

can trace resemblances in the most opposite and unlikely forms. Old

ladies, stirring the fire, and tumbling the bright cinders into new

combinations, will often hit upon a favourite coal and cry, 'Well, I

declare if that isn't like Mrs. Jenkinson.' And no doubt the resemblance

is quite as perfect as that between the ridiculed manner of Johnson, and

the rumblings of his sneering mimics. He, with a full measure of language

but not an overflow, with nice inflexions, a studied balance, yet with a

simple elegance not destroyed by his formality, opens a story--stay, I

can give you a graceful passage of the Doctor's, and in the same breath

you shall hear how it would come spluttering forth from the clumsy pen of

his imitators.

"'DR. JOHNSON HIMSELF.

"'Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and

pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that age

will perform the promise of youth, and that the deficiencies of

the present day will be supplied by the morrow; attend to the

History of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.'

"'DR. JOHNSON IMITATED.

"'Ye who listen with ignorant credulity to the whispering

blandishments of fancy, and pursue with inconsiderate eagerness

the enchanting and seductive phantoms of hope; who idly expect

that grudging age will perform the rash but generous promise

of thoughtless youth, and that the glaring deficiencies of the

present day will be providentially supplied by the inexhaustible

profusion of the morrow; attend to the moral history of Rasselas,

Crown Prince of Abyssinia.'"

"There is much truth in what you observe," said a quiet modest-looking

passenger on our left to the talkative Johnsonite, who deprecated

long speeches; "much truth; and perhaps as you dislike exaggeration

in whatever professes to imitate, you might be entertained with one

of my 'Photographic Pictures,' warranted accurate. I am, sir, yours

respectfully, H. G. A. Now as there happens to be one of these pictures

distinctly present to my eye at this moment, though the scene is far from

Fleet Street, I think I can copy it to the life, and if you please we'll

call it--

"A SCENE NEAR HOGSNORTON.

"A ditch frequented much by water-rats,

With velvet-headed rushes borderèd;

Two little boys who fish for tittlebats

With sticks, and crooked pins, and bits of thread;

Three willow trees that stand with drooping boughs

Upon the banks, and look disconsolate;

A bull that flings his tail up as he lows--

He's coming at those boys, as sure as fate!

A church spire peeping from amid the trees,

With vane in semblance of a fiery cock;

And Farmer Stubbles lolling at his ease,

Across a gate to view his fleecy flock;

A barn that seems just ready to fall down,

And _would_, but for the shores that stay its falling;

And, where yon row of elms the green slopes crown,

Is Thomas Noakes, with hand to mouth, outcalling

To Simon Simpson in the fields below,

And telling him to mind that precious bull--

He's fresh from town, poor lad, and does not know

What danger lurks amid the beautiful;

Here a tall oak its branches flingeth out,

As if it said--"I am of trees the king!"

And there an aged hawthorn spreads about

Its crooked arms--a queer misshapen thing;

Far off you see a mill--more trees--some houses--

Look at this frisking colt, why what a kicker!--

_Feathers and parasols!_ here come the spouses

Of Dr. Dobbs, and Mr. Trench, the vicar,

The Smiths, the Joneses, and Jemimah Prescot--

I'm off, before they nail me for their escort!"

The reciter, who wore an air that bespoke him of the country, was here

addressed by a metropolitan gentleman seated in his vicinity, who

announced himself as a brother initialist, A. G. K. "Well, sir, Simon

Simpson, 'fresh from town,' was not more awkwardly situated than I once

was, in this very lane here, when fresh from the country. You see the

vehicle has just turned out of Fleet Street, and is making for Holborn;

so if you like to listen, I'll give you my impressions on first finding

myself in

"CHANCERY LANE.

"I meditated the desperate design of hastening to Holborn by the first

street which led thither; a desperate design, indeed, as I knew not the

street through which I should have to pass. As ill-luck would have it,

"Chancery Lane" was the first that offered, and well does it deserve the

name; dark, narrow, crooked, long, and tedious is this Elysium of the

Law! On every side I beheld long and careworn faces, and, as is generally

the case with legal suits, I might easily have got through it alone, had

I not been prevented by the many passengers, like the numerous little

cases put into causes to protract and swell the client's difficulties.

Perhaps it may be thought that I could have stepped into the middle of

the street, and so have managed to walk on; not so--the vehicles were as

numerous nearly as the passengers, and there was no resource but to wait.

On this, I began to look around me, to see if I could discover anything

that could take away the tedium of stoppage. I gazed on the persons

nearest to me; from the youngest to the oldest--from the poorest to the

richest, there was the same invariable careworn look.

"First there came the young office-boy, groaning under a large bag of

parchment and what not; then the unfortunate articled clerk, desponding

at the idea of five years in so gloomy a place, wherein his youth's best

years were to be spent. The needy clerks, who received a stipend, came

next; their little all had, with the characteristic theatrical mania of

lawyers' clerks, vanished the night previous at the Adelphi, or adjacent

tavern. But not alone did these wear a look of gloom: the fishermen, the

snarers, even the attorneys themselves, looked vexed; the stoppage of

the way teased them sadly. It was five minutes past the time when that

little bony wretch, the office boy, should have been screwed down to his

comfortless stool, far from the apparition of a fire, from the phantom

of heat! Last of all came the client: it will easily be surmised why he

looked gloomy.

"The sun never shines there--the houses take care of that; in fact,

the very 'fretwork' of the heavens seemed of a parchment yellow; the

air breathed of briefs! No merry laugh is heard in Chancery Lane; no

girl trips gaily along! No! the moaning of the dupe is heard there;

the decrepit, grief-worn widow totters there, to find that her hope

of subsistence is faded in useless expense. I have spoken of the

numerous conveyances in the street. The horses were half-starved, the

people within seemed bailiffs; and the omnibus proprietors (unlike our

'_Omnibus_') looked anxiously for in-comers.

"Chancery Lane is, indeed, a fit place for the law: the houses overhang

the street--the smoky windows, ay even the few shops seem impregnated

with it. I turned to a book-stall to relieve my aching gaze, when

a massive row of calf-bound volumes frowned upon me; I looked in a

fruiterer's stall,--dry musty raisins, bitter almonds, olives and sour

apples met my view. I then cast my eyes at a perfumery-shop; the wax

dummies were arrayed in judge's wigs and black legal drapery. In despair

I turned to a tailor's: a figure arrayed in black, on a wooden mould,

appeared; but it was swathed in a barrister's gown. There was another

figure with finely-cut clothes certainly; but allegorically, I suppose,

it had no head. Such is Chancery Lane. My associations with it are none

of the pleasantest. What are yours?"

This question, addressed to everybody, was answered by nobody. We had now

advanced to the upper end of Chancery Lane; and, passing those buildings

on the left, in which Equity presides over the affairs of suitors, a

passenger, who introduced himself under the designation of Sam Sly,

and in whose eye there was a pleasant twinkle not ill associated with

the appellation, observed in an inward tone, as if he were speaking to

himself, "A poor devil who has once got into that court, must soon feel

himself in the position of the letter _r_." As Mr. Sly's remark was

not intended to be heard at all--so at least it seemed--it of course

attracted general notice; and as there was a disposition manifested to

know "why," Mr. Sly politely explained, "Because, though far advanced

in Chancery, he can never get quite to the end of it. By the way," he

proceeded, "all law is but an enigma; and talking of enigmas, I happen

to have one--yes, here it is. Rather an old-fashioned sort of thing, an

enigma, eh? True, but so are epics, you know. Am I to read? oh! very

well, since you're all so pressing;"--and then to the following tune Mr.

Sly trolled out his

ENIGMA.

"A delinquent there is, and we ever shall scout him,

For roguery never would flourish without him.

We're lovers of peace; but regardless of quiet,

This knave is the first in a row or a riot;

A strange, paradoxical elf, we declare,

That shies at a couple but clings to a pair.

Though at first in the right, still he's found in the wrong;

And though harmony wakes him, yet dies in the song.

Three fifths of the error that poisons our youth,

Yet boasts of a formal acquaintance with truth.

Though not fond of boasting, yet given to brag;

And though proud of a dress, still content with a rag.

He sticks to our ribs, and he hangs by our hair,

And brings with him trouble, and torment and care;

Stands thick in our sorrows and floats in our tears,

Never leads us to Hope, but returns with our Fears;

To the worst of our passions is ever allied,

Grief, Anger, and Hatred, Rage, Terror, and Pride.

Yet still, notwithstanding, the rogue we might spare

If he kept back his old ugly phiz from the Fair."

We had by this time stopped at the end of Drury Lane to take up a

passenger, who now appeared, emerging from that very dirty avenue, with

an exceedingly small roll of MS. under his arm. The new-comer's eye was

evidently in a fine frenzy rolling, and it was at once suspected from

one end of the vehicle to the other, that he had just been writing a

German Opera for Drury-lane Theatre. "Gentlemen," said he, the instant

he had taken his seat, "you're all mistaken. Through that miserable

cranny I have been picking a path to the theatre for the sole purpose

of taking off my hat to the statue of Shakspeare, over the portico, in

celebration of the event which renders its presence there no longer a

libel and a mockery. You guess what I allude to. Mr. Macready has become

the lessee of Drury; and the noble task which he assigned to himself

in the management of Covent Garden, he purposes here to complete. The

whole public will rejoice in the renewal of his experiment, which should

be hailed in golden verse. I wish I could write sonnets like Milton or

Wordsworth. Here are two, such as they are, addressed to the regenerator

of the stage."

TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY,

ON HIS BECOMING THE LESSEE OF OLD DRURY.

I.

MACREADY, master of the Art supreme.

That shows to dazzled and else guideless eyes

(As doth Astronomy the starry skies)

The airy wonders of our Shakspeare's dream;

Com'st thou again to shed a wakening gleam

Of morals, taste, and learning, where the gloom

Most darkens, as around the Drama's tomb!

Oh, come, and show us yet the true Extreme;

Transcendent art, for coarse and low desire;

The generous purpose, for the sordid aim;

For noise and smoke, the music and the fire

Of time-crown'd poets; for librettos tame,

The emulous flashings of the modern lyre--

Come, and put scowling Calumny to shame!

II.

What though with thee come Lear, himself a storm

Of wilder'd passion, and the musing Dane,

The gallant Harry and his warrior-train,

Brutus, Macbeth, and truth in many a form

Towering! not therefore only that we warm

With hope and praise; but that thy glorious part

Is now to raise the Actor's trampled Art,

And drive from out its temple a loose swarm

Of things vice-nurtured--from the Porch and Shrine!

And know, Macready, midst the desert there,

That soon shall bloom a garden, swells a mine

Of wealth no less than honour--both most bare

To meaner enterprise. Let that be thine--

Who knowest how to risk, and how to share!

L. B.

Hereupon, a bard started up in the very remotest corner, and interposed

in favour of the epigram, seeing that such oddities as sonnets and

enigmas were allowed to pass current. Immediately, and by unanimous

invitation, he produced some lines written in the album of a fair damsel,

whose sire has but one leg, and complains of torture in the toes that he

has not.

"The heart that has been spurn'd by you

Can never dream of love again,

Save as old soldiers do of pain

In limbs they left at Waterloo."

We expressed our acknowledgments, and then heaved a sigh to the memory

of an old friend, who, having suffered from the gout before his limb was

amputated, felt all the pain, just as usual, at the extremity of his

wooden leg, which was regularly flannelled up and rubbed as its living

predecessor used to be. But here our reflections were broken off by a

stoppage, as if instinctively, at a chemist's shop, the door of which,

standing open, afforded a fair view of the scene which follows. On the

subject of hom[oe]opathy we profess to hold no opinion; but, considering

that it prescribes next to nothing to its patients, it must be an

excellent system for a man who has next to nothing the matter with

him. It is comical, at all events, to think of a doctor of that school

literally carrying his "shop" in his pocket, and compressing the whole

science of medicine into the smallest Lilliputian nut-shell. Imagine a

little customer going with

A LARGE ORDER

TO A HOMOEOPATHIC APOTHECARY.

[Illustration]

_Little Girl._ "Please, sir, I want the hundred-thousandth part of a

grain of magnesia."

_Young Chemist_ (Whose hair would certainly stand on end, were it not so

tightly pommaded down, at the simplicity of the little innocent in asking

for as much medicine as would kill or cure a whole regiment of soldiers).

"Very sorry, miss, but we don't sell anything in such large quantities;

you had better apply at Apothecaries' Hall." And he follows her to the

shop-door to see whether she had brought with her a hackney-coach or a

van to carry away the commodity she had inquired for!

* * * * *

_Driver._ I say, Tom, here's that there elderly lady a coming, as wanted

to go with us at our first start.

_Cad._ Ay, well, it's no use, Bill--she's too late _agen_--ve're

full--ALL RIGHT--GO ON!

[Illustration: _An Election Squib._]

"MY VOTE AND INTEREST."

A COMMUNICATION FROM MR. SIMPLETON SCHEMER, OF DOLTFORD-LODGE, CROOKSLEY.

Crooksley doesn't return members to Parliament--I wish it did. I'm sure I

took pains enough ten years ago to procure for it--all my property being

situate there--the privilege which was at that time accorded to other

towns of consideration and respectability; for although the population

doesn't much exceed three hundred and sixty, I took upon myself to make

a return of our numbers to the then Secretary of State, which _ought_ to

have prevailed in our favour; for I proved that the population amounted

to within a dozen of seven thousand, merely by including the churchyard,

which I well might do, as part and parcel of Crooksley itself, and adding

the affectionate wives, virtuous husbands, and filial prodigies, now no

more, to the estimate of the living inhabitants; also, by anticipating

the returns of christenings for a few succeeding years; which was easily

done by guessing, on the authority of Blandish (our medical man, with

whom I was at that time friendly), what number of children extra the

various increasing families within the boundaries of Crooksley were

likely to be blessed with.

Not the smallest notice, however, was taken of my memorial; and

Crooksley to this hour does not return a single representative. I read

an advertisement the other day in our county paper, of some new patent

strait-waistcoats; which advertisement was headed thus:--"Worthy the

attention of the Insane!" Now, if Crooksley had been enfranchised, that

is the very heading which might have been affixed to an advertisement

for an independent candidate to represent it at the present

crisis--"_Candidate wanted--worthy the attention of the Insane!_" for a

place more unlucky in its elections, more ill-omened and perverse in all

its contests, more predestined to choose the wrong candidate, or more

wilfully bent on self-destruction by scorning the advice of its best

friends and patrons, I never lived in, since the day I sold my stock and

good-will, and retired from the Old Jewry for ever.

To every other place with which I am acquainted entrance is obtained

by regular roads; to Crooksley, I verily believe, there is no

egress whatever but by _cross_-roads. I'm thinking of selling

Doltford-lodge--cheap.

The first contest that ever took place in Crooksley--for it is odd

enough, but they never could get up a contested election until I, having

retired from business, went to settle there in the enjoyment of concord,

harmony, and peace,--the first contest occurred several years ago. It was

a struggle--and well do I remember it--for the office of organist. No

sooner was the place vacant--almost, I might say, before the bellows of

the departed holder had lost their last breath of wind--than up started

half-a-dozen of the nobs of Crooksley, with Dr. Blandish at their head,

and down they came to me at the lodge with a flourishing testimonial to

sign--a testimonial in favour of Miss Cramper, as a fit and proper person

to fill the post of organist.

Miss Cramper! And who was Miss Cramper, I internally asked myself. But I

couldn't answer the question. I knew, in fact, little about her, except

that she had lived long in the place, had decent connexions, not over

rich, and happened to be a capital musician; the best organ-player, I

must admit, that anybody ever heard in or out of our village. But with

this exception she hadn't a single claim, not a pretension that I know

of, to the post of organist. She was not asthmatic--she had not nine

children, seven of them solely depending upon her for support--nor did

she even pretend to have lost her eyesight, "or any part thereof,"

as Knix the lawyer says; for she was ogling Blandish all throughout

the interview, as if she looked upon _him_ to be the first-fiddle in

Crooksley--Humph!

Well! I confess I didn't like the proceeding; and so, after assuring

the requisitionists, in the friendliest manner, that Miss Cramper

should certainly have my vote and interest--in the event, I added, more

to myself, perhaps, than to them--in the event of no candidate coming

forward to oppose her,--what did I do but I brought forward a candidate

of my own!

It so happened that I had taken down there with me from the Old Jewry

an elderly warehouseman, whom I couldn't well send adrift, and who was

of no earthly use to me, either in the house or in the grounds. Now,

poor Joggins, besides being bent double, chanced, very luckily, to have

eyes like an owl, and there were the strongest hopes of their becoming

speedily weaker; so that here at once was a qualification. In addition to

that, he had had two sons: one, a waterman, drowned by the usual means,

collision with a steamer, was easily elevated into a British seaman

dying in defence of his country; and the other, for whom I had obtained

a situation in the new police, was, of course, one of the brave devoted

guardians of his native land. To crown our good-luck, Joggins had been

very fond of playing the flute before wind got so very valuable to him,

and really did know something practically of that enchanting instrument,

so that his qualifications as an organist were more than indisputable.

Yet, strange to say, his nomination was the signal for violent

opposition; and a tremendous conflict ensued. I was determined that

Blandish, though backed by the vicar, should not carry everything before

him with a high hand, nor become, what, ever since the part I had taken

relative to the enfranchisement question, he was striving to be, the

dictator of Crooksley. My own influence was not slight, and a powerful

party rose up, notwithstanding our adversaries were earliest in the

field. The walls were everywhere placarded, families were everywhere

divided by circulars. "Vote for Joggins," "Vote for Cramper;" "Joggins

and grey hairs," "Cramper and Musical Accomplishments;" "Joggins the

veteran parent of our brave defenders," "Cramper and Female Virtue;"

"Joggins and the failure of eyesight." "Cramper and Organic changes:"

these were among the changes rung throughout the village, and a mile or

two round it, for upwards of three weeks. I called public meetings, at

which I took the chair, and personally carried the resolutions; and I

started a Crooksley Chronicle, of which I was at once the editor and

all the correspondents. In both capacities I defied our antagonists

to prove that their candidate had any one of the qualifications by

which ours was so abundantly distinguished. I dared them to prove that

there were any brave defenders on the other side; that there existed

any ocular weakness; that there was a single grey hair or any symptom

of decrepitude: while, on the other hand, I showed triumphantly that

the legitimate candidate for the office of organist was a veteran

flute-player, utterly and hopelessly incapable of any exertion whatever,

and unobjectionable by the excess of his infirmity.

Blandish was so alarmed at the progress we made, that he began to give

out in reply that Miss Cramper was considerably more advanced in years

than had been insidiously suggested; that her eyesight was anything but

vivid; that what seemed to be her own hair might not bear examination;

and possibly he would have proceeded to other intimations tending to

balance her claims with those of Joggins, had she not stopped him with

the declaration that she would rather lose her election, rather retire

from the contest, than sanction such gross misrepresentations of fact.

Truth, she said, was everything, and it must prevail; her hair was her

own, and her eyes piercers, she thanked Heaven.

But notwithstanding this electioneering attack upon his own nominee,

I saw that Blandish was on the very best terms with Miss C.; and as

the interest he took in her success could not solely be attributed to

gratitude for her attendance at all his evening parties, to play his

guests into patients, by provoking headaches that demanded draughts

and powders in the morning, I issued, the day previously to the poll,

a placard containing surely a very inoffensive query, thus--"WHY is

Blandish the patron of Miss Cramper?" The "why" was in very large

capitals. Now will it be believed that this, though it asserted nothing

disrespectful, and merely put an innocent question, immediately created a

very strong sympathy throughout Crooksley in favour of our adversaries,

and that the popular feeling was instantly shown in tumultuous cries of

"Cramper for ever!" So it happened, however. The result was, that the

venerable Joggins had virtually lost his election before the expiration

of the first hour of polling. I then, feeling that every vote was

wanted, went forward to record my own; when perceiving Blandish (he had

a horsewhip in his hand), I turned back with the view of bringing up a

batch of electors from a distant part of the village; and on my return

all was at an end, and so my vote wasn't wanted; for Joggins, the old

idiot, had resigned. I had a disagreeable encounter afterwards with that

Blandish, who is, I really think, fonder of carrying a horsewhip than

any man I know; but gloriously was I at a subsequent period revenged;

for I shammed a long illness, sent off to a neighbouring town for an

apothecary, and paid him thirty-seven pounds odd for attendance which I

never required, and medicine which I never tasted! Poor Blandish was so

irritated, that he fell really ill himself, and took his own mixtures for

three weeks.

About a year after this we had another election in Crooksley. The

gravediggership became vacant. The Blandish party, who had the

churchwardens with them, wanted to get in young Digdum, the son of the

late official; and he would have walked the course sure enough, if I

hadn't brought forward little Spick the cross-sweeper to oppose him.

Party feeling never ran so high, I think, as on this memorable occasion.

Everybody felt the cause to be his own, and put forth his energies as

though the issue of the struggle depended upon his exertions. It was like

a life-and-death contest; and you would have thought that the consequence

of being beaten was the being buried alive by the victorious candidate.

I'm sure that if it had been to keep ourselves out of "apartments

furnished" in the churchyard, we Spickites could not have toiled harder.

Nor were the Digdumites idle.

On our side we had ranged, besides myself, who acted as chairman of

the committee, Lawyer Knix (who handsomely volunteered his gratuitous

services at two guineas a day); Fobbs, the landlord of the Crumpet

and Spade; Tipson, of the Vicar's Head; (both of them very fond of an

opposition, and always ready to further my views in bringing forward a

candidate, and in keeping the poll open to the latest moment allowed by

law;) then we had the crack printer of our town, whose charges were very

moderate; several of the neighbouring gentry, friends of my own; and one

Swarthy Sam, a character who had no fixed abode in Crooksley, nor indeed

anywhere else, and had not, therefore, a vote to give--but who kindly

took an interest in the contest, and who proved a most valuable agent,

for he particularly knew what he was about in a row, could drown by his

own unaided lungs the voice of the most stentorian speaker on the other

side, and would tear down, I do think, more of the enemy's placards in an

hour than they could stick up in a day. On their side, they had the fat

churchwarden, and the stately master of the workhouse; the skeleton of a

schoolmaster, the parish-lawyer (Knix was independent), and various other

paid functionaries or hirelings.

Well, there wasn't one of them that didn't wish himself well out of

Crooksley before the contest was over; for we left nothing of their

private history unraked, I can tell you. The "Crooksley Chronicle" came

again into play, and I wrote letters--in Junius's style--only under the

various signatures of Vindex, Justitia, A Spickite, Philo-Spickite,

Veritas, An Admirer of Crooksley, Anti-Digdum, &c. &c. We also raised

with remarkable success, a cry of "No brickdust, no pigs' bristles!" in

conjunction with the cry of "No Digdum." It did not in point of fact mean

anything in particular, as far as we were aware, but it vexed the Digdum

party amazingly, and made Spick surprisingly popular[4].

The best of the fun was that we had forestalled them in taking possession

of _both_ public-houses--the Crumpet and Spade, and the Vicar's Head--for

our committee-rooms; so that they had only a little bit of a beer-shop

to assemble in. This drove the Digdum party to distraction. They made

incredible exertions to get us out of the Vicar's Head; and a deputation

came privately to our worthy host's good dame, and offered, if Digdum

were returned, to bury her husband for nothing--for poor Tipson was

sadly apoplectic! Such were the too-powerful temptations (for so in

some instances they proved), such the demoralising practices, to which

our depraved and desperate opponents had resort. They went to Clank the

blacksmith, and promised, if he would but vote for Digdum, they would see

him and all his family buried with pleasure free of charge; but Clank

was not to be seduced, for having once had a turn-up with Swarthy Sam in

the skittle-ground, he preferred being on the same side _with_ Sam, you

see--not caring to fall out--and to say the truth, they were not a few

that had similar feelings. Sam was a capital canvasser, and it wasn't

everybody that would like to say "No" to him.

At last dawn'd the day, the important day,

"Big with the fate of Digdum or of Spick."

Every soul in Crooksley was out of doors; the excitement was intense;

seventeen pots of beer and best part of a round of beef were consumed

at the Crumpet and Spade alone before ten in the morning. Every chaise,

fly, and hack in old Wheeler's yard was in requisition. Both parties were

particularly well satisfied with the result of the canvass, and assembled

at the place of nomination with equal confidence. Our flags bore the

several inscriptions of "Spick the opponent of Corruption," "Spick and

Span," "Spades are trumps," &c.; theirs had, "No Cross-sweeper," "No

Sweeping Changes," "Digdum and the Rites of the Departed," &c. &c.

Blandish nominated Digdum, and then I proposed Spick in a neat and

appropriate speech.

Well we gained our election--that is, we gained it by a show of hands;

but the other party took the mean advantage of demanding a poll. There

was instantly a rush of upwards of a dozen on their side, and very

near a score on ours. To keep up the advantage we had gained was the

thing. Unfortunately some of our safest voters were now drunk, having

received eighteen-pence a piece to attend the nomination of candidates;

and instead of flocking to the poll, off they went to the Vicar's Head,

or the Crumpet and Spade, swearing they wouldn't vote at all unless

supplied with pots round; which Fobbs and Tipson very readily drew for

them: I having desired those disinterested persons in the morning not to

stand very nice about a measure or two of ale, and they promised me they

would not, as I was to pay. And this, in fact, I shouldn't have minded;

but, unluckily, the worthy electors got so drunk that they absolutely

forgot what colours they fought under, and went and voted for the wrong

candidate.

This turned the scale against us. What was to be done? I had already

got some of the Digdumites away; a tenant of mine, seven miles off,

having engaged to "coop" them, that is, to make them "fuddled," and to

prevent their return in time. A few more must be pounced upon. Swarthy

Sam (that invaluable election-agent) undertook to inveigle them and

manage the business. We got a vehicle or two; and partly by cajolery,

partly by intimidation, and a display of the enemy's colours, off

we carried in an opposite direction to the poll a batch of Digdum's

supporters. Away we drove, Sam conducting us, through by-lanes and across

ploughed-fields, I may say, so that I hardly knew where I was. Deaf to

all remonstrances, on we went, till, feeling pretty secure, I pretended

it was time to turn back or we should all be too late for the poll, and

jumped down to consult privately with Sam as to the expediency of further

stratagems; when--to my inexpressible astonishment and confusion, as you

may well imagine--my swarthy vagabond of an agent, whom I trusted on

account of his bad character, and because nobody else would, indulged

his lungs with the most vociferous roar of laughter I ever heard, to

which the entire party added a chorus. In one instant the whole line of

vehicles wheeled round and galloped off towards Crooksley, leaving me

staggering helplessly into a deep ditch on my left, overcome with rage,

mortification, and dismay.

They all arrived in time to vote for Digdum, Sam and all, who went up

arm in arm with Clank, the blacksmith. As for me, I never found my way

back until hours after the poll had closed; and as I approached the

scene with a foreboding heart, the first person I encountered was the

defeated Spick--Spick the rejected of Crooksley--who bitterly assailed me

as the sole cause of his total "ruination," having spoiled his trade of

cross-sweeping by exciting everybody against him, and reduced him to a

condition that promised his successful rival immediate employment in his

new profession. "I shouldn't ha' minded," he said, with a sneer, "your

not guving on me your wote, but what I complains on is, you would guv me

your hintrest!"

After this, as you may well suppose, I grew rather disgusted, and

a little sick of exercising one's public spirit and disinterested

philanthropy to no purpose; so I permitted Dr. Blandish to triumph on one

or two occasions, rather than subject the town to the inconvenience of a

contested election. I allowed the boy Bratts, whom he patronised, to get

elected into our Juvenile Asylum without opposition; and when Soppy put

up for the situation of turncock, full in the teeth of Blandish's pet

candidate, though he came to me and implored the favour of my vote and

interest, I gave him neither. I did not poll for him, nor did I solicit

a soul in his behalf; yet Soppy won the election by a considerable

majority. Indeed Blandish has been disgracefully beaten on more than one

occasion when I had disdained to interfere at all; though whenever I

_have_ interfered--when I have canvassed my very heart out, and talked

the teeth out of my head--bribing here, treating there--threatening this

man with the loss of my custom, and tempting the other with all sorts of

seductive promises--hang me (for it puts me in a passion!) if he hasn't

been triumphantly successful.

There was the election of a contractor to supply leather-shorts to the

charity school. I decided to take no part in it; but when I perceived

which way the election was sure to go, when I saw which man would beat

to a dead certainty, I changed my mind, threw all my influence into the

scale of the popular candidate, gave him my entire support, and would

have given him my vote--only he resigned on the morning of the election

not having a chance of winning; for directly I took up his cause, he

began to lose ground:--odd enough, you will say, but it so happened;

although I set a barrel flowing at Tipson's, promised old coats at

Christmas to two dozen ragged but independent electors, and gave at least

half that number of the better class permission to shoot on my property.

The last great battle that I fought was on behalf of widow Bricks,

candidate for the office of housekeeper to our Infirmary. Here Dr. B. was

"top-sawyer," as they say; this was carrying the war into the enemy's

country. All Crooksley was astonished, petrified almost, at my boldness;

but I was lucky in my choice of a candidate, the Bricks having been

resident in the place as long as Crooksley itself had been in existence,

and the widow being left with eleven small children; while the Doctor's

candidate hadn't the smallest scrap of offspring to go to the poll with.

So to the work of philanthropy I went; and notwithstanding a hint from

the Blandish faction, that if beaten the Doctor would certainly resign

his office in the institution, I was successful beyond my hopes.

We elected the eleven little Bricks upon our committee, and took them

about with us upon our canvas--a procession singularly imposing and

irresistible. Nothing could equal the popular enthusiasm; and the

greatest possible effect was created wherever they appeared, for we kept

them all without their dinners up till bed-time, to make them cry; which

is the only method of melting the public heart, since a constant drop,

we are told, will wear away a stone. The eldest of the Bricks, a boy,

had a turn for spouting; and we made him address the people from the

window of the Vicar's Head, by reciting "My name is Norval," which he

had heard done by some strolling-players. This was amazingly successful;

but unfortunately the mob consisted chiefly of non-electors, for it was

only the subscribers to the institution who had the privilege of voting.

Voters, therefore, I made in scores, simply by paying their subscriptions

for them. As fast as Blandish could extract promises from the old

subscribers, I produced new ones; the list of qualified electors exceeded

anything ever heard of in the annals of benevolence.

I spare you the speech I made at the nomination of candidates; merely

remarking, that I wasn't aware there was so much virtue in woman as

I discovered in the widow, and that I never knew there were half so

many charms and graces in infancy, as I detected in her eleven little

angels--who all stood in a heartrending row upon the hustings, crying

lustily, for they had not been allowed a bit of breakfast on that

important occasion. The effect was seen as the voting proceeded; the

compassionate rushed to the poll and voted for Bricks, I may say, _like_

bricks. Still our opponents mustered strongly, and I was compelled to

make a good many people benevolent that morning who had never spent a

shilling in charity in their lives.

The numbers for a considerable time were pretty nearly balanced; the

excitement grew more intense, the shouts of "Vote for Bricks and

Babbies," grew more vehement as the day advanced; till towards the close

of the poll, the Blandish faction appeared a little a-head of us, but

at last they were exhausted; they had polled their last Samaritan--the

Doctor himself had given his vote--while I had purposely reserved mine.

Now, mine alone was sufficient to win; mine alone would decide the

contest in the widow's favour; for, having trebled my usual subscription,

I had a right to six votes, and six would give us just a majority of

one. With a heart swelling with conscious triumph, exulting in the

cause of charity and the defeat of our factious adversaries, I walked

up to the ballot-box (we voted by ballot), and there what do you think

occurred? Directing a haughty look to the Doctor's generally red face,

now pale with rage, I was not sufficiently cautious in distinguishing

between the Y for "Yes," and the N for "No," painted on the front of

the balloting-machine; and inconsiderately turning my hand to the left

instead of the right, I dropped the six cork marbles into the enemy's

box--hang me, if I didn't vote against Widow Bricks. Dr. Blandish danced

for joy, and I really thought he never would stand still again. Not

another shilling will his infirmary get from me.

If Crooksley were to return four members to Parliament, _I_ wouldn't be

one of them.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 4: Our respectable correspondent must have visited the English

Opera in his younger days, or else Charles Mathews must have paid a visit

to Crooksley. He must also have seen the printed addresses circulated

lately in Deptford during a contest for the office of gravedigger, where

the proceedings were as outrageous as these that he describes.]

THE CENSUS.

Important days to all householders in the United Kingdom, were Sunday

and Monday, the 6th and 7th ult., and especially perplexing to those

whose ideas of reading and writing were at all circumscribed. Nor was the

discomfort confined to the said illuminated members of society. Ladies

of a very certain age bridled up at being obliged to tell the number of

summers that had passed over their heads: notwithstanding the loop-hole

of the "five years" which the gallantry of the commissioners allowed

them. Elderly gentlemen also, who wore dark wigs that hid those auricular

tell-tales of the _ci-devant jeune homme_, the ears, inwardly execrated

the system of exposure to which the census paper gave rise, and willingly

ran the risk of a fine "not more than five pounds, nor less than forty

shillings," rather than be classed as old bachelors.

From returns into which the commissioners have allowed us to peep, it

appears that of the middle-aged population of these kingdoms, one in

three has grown five years younger since the date of the last census; one

in seven two years younger; one in twelve remains of the same age; one in

thirty-eight, is five years older than at the period referred to; and one

in five hundred and sixty has attained the full age that might have been

anticipated from the lapse of years. We believe it has been distinctly

ascertained by these returns that the highest age among the unmarried

ladies in this country is twenty-nine--the average age is twenty-one

and seven-eighths. The widows willing to marry again, are mostly quite

juvenile; and it is a remarkable fact that many are younger now, as

widows, than they appear to be in the previous return as wives. Indeed

the effect of the whole calculation is to show, perhaps in compliment to

our young Queen, that her subjects are the most decidedly juvenile people

in Christendom.

Nor was the designation of the respective professions and callings

of our fellow-countrymen a task of less difficulty. Commonplace and

even plebeian, as is the simple question "Who are you?" widely as the

interrogation was diffused a short time back by the _gamins_ of London,

it is a query we opine, in common with the cool audacious Mr. Dazzle,

that would puzzle half the world to answer properly. Some are all

profession--others are not any. Thousands live by their wits--thousands

more by the total absence of them; many whom the world gives credit to

for working hard in an industrious _état_ for their income, privately

lead the lives of gentlemen; and many gentlemen whom we envy on account

of their ostensible otiose existence, labour perchance in secret much

harder than ourselves. Numbers would shrink if their employment was

known, and numbers more would be extremely indignant if any other than

their own was assigned to them.

The schedule stated that the professions of wives, or sons and daughters,

living with and assisting their parents, needed not to be inserted.

There was no mention at all made of the professions of faithless lovers,

election candidates, and false friends; probably these were imagined to

be of so little value as to be utterly beneath notice.

But although the commissioners were pleasantly minute and clear in their

instructions for filling up their circulars, they will still be wide

away from the real statistics of the population, when all the bills are

returned and the totals properly added. What industrious enumerator, we

would ask, did, with praiseworthy indefatigability, leave a schedule

at the temporary habitations of the thousand individuals who on the

Monday in question were located upon Ascot Heath, in anticipation of

the approaching races? Who dared to penetrate into the mysteries of the

yellow caravans there collected, or invade the Bohemian seclusion of the

tilted hovels? What account was taken of the roadside tent-holders, and

the number of the families of these real "potwallopers?" Is the following

paper relating to these people, which has fallen into our hands, the

mislaid document of a careless enumerator of the Sunning-hill district,

or is it an attempt to play upon our credulity:

(COPY.)

Name, (if any) of the House, or of the Village or } Caravan, No. 937,654.

Hamlet in which it stands. }

Name of the Street or other part of the Town, (if in } Winkfield Lane.

a Town), and No. of the House. }

----------------+-------+---------+--------------+---------+---------

Name and | | |Of what |If born |If born

surname of each| Age | | Profession, | in the | in

person who | of | Age | Trade, or | County. |Ireland,

abode or slept | Males.| of | Employment, | |

in this House | | Females.| or if of | |&c.

on the night | | | Independent | |

of June 6. | | | means. | |

----------------+-------+---------+--------------+---------+---------

Bill Soames | 45 | |Shoman. | No |don't Kno

| | | | |

Mary Soames | | 38 |Wife--vurks | No | No

| | | the barrul | |

| | | horgan outside| |

Gipsy Mike |not | |None. | No |No veres

| Nown | | | | pertickler

Phelim Conolly | 35 | |Black vild |not | never Knowd

| | | ingian. | sartin |

Sarah Cooper | | 24 |tellin off | No |

| | | fortuns. | |

Young Chubby a | 2 | |ired fur the |St. Giles's|

babby | | | Races. | |

Brummagim Harry | 40 | |keeps a | Yes |

| | | Thimble-rig. | |

----------------+-------+---------+--------------+---------+---------

But there were many, many others, who were excluded from the privilege

of registering their names amongst the population of their country. The

unfortunate individuals who slept throughout the night in the stony

precincts of the police-office lock-up cells, were deprived of this

honour. Even admitting that the police had received instructions to

take down the names of the stray-flocks under their charge, the ends

of the commissioners were still defeated, for it was not probable that

the Hon. Clarence Piercefield, who had kicked the head waiter at the

Cider-cellars, for telling him not to join in the glees so loudly--who

had thrashed the cabman in Holborn--who had climbed up behind King

Charles at Charing-cross, and who, finally, upon being pulled down again

by the police and taken into custody, had given his name as Thomas

Brown,--it was not probable, we repeat, that this honourable gentleman

would see any occasion to alter the name in the schedule, or recant his

alleged profession of "medical student." His rightful appellation found

no place in the paper, no more than the hundreds who slept out altogether

that night, from the wretched, shivering, poverty-stricken occupiers

of the embryo coal-cellars of future houses in the neighbourhood of

railway _termini_, to the tipsy gentleman who tumbled by mistake into

a large basket of turnip-tops and onions in Covent Garden-market, and

slept there until morning, dreaming that he was the inhabitant of an

Eastern paradise, with _houris_ pelting roses at him. Even the ill-used

Mr. Ferguson, whom everybody has heard of, but nobody knows, failing in

all his attempts to procure a lodging for the night, found no place in

the strictly-worded schedule. The real name of Mr. Ferguson is Legion,

yet he found a lodging nowhere. And many returns of the erratic youth

of respectable families must prove, that their very fathers did not

know they were out, to say nothing of their mothers: on the other hand,

probably many more would be found wanting in the real numbers, were

circumstances narrowly inquired into.

It is fortunate for the correctness of the statistics that Sunday was the

day fixed upon for enumerating the population. Had it been any other, the

numbers who _slept in the house_ would have materially swelled the lists.

The House of Commons might have furnished an imposing array of names

every night in the week to begin with. The various literary institutions

and scientific meetings of the metropolis, on their respective nights,

would not have been behind hand; and even the theatres, might have sent

in a tolerably fair muster-roll of slumberers, according to the nature of

their performances.

We presume that the guards of mail-coaches, drovers who were going

to the Monday's markets, watchmen of houses, newly-buried relations,

and medical men attending Poor Law Unions, will be allowed a future

opportunity of registering their names; for none of these individuals

were ever known--at least we believe not--to sleep or abide one night

in their houses. Are these hardworking and useful classes of society to

be accounted as nothing--to be placed in a scale even beneath "persons

sleeping over a stable or outhouse," who, although not worthy to be

inserted along with their betters in the schedule, are, at all events

allowed a paper to themselves? The care that arranged the manner of

enumerating the population ought to have put forward plans for taking the

census of the always-out-of-doors portion of the English on the night in

question, hackney-coachmen included; and a space might, at the same time,

have been appropriated in the schedule for "those who were not at home,

but ought to have been." We will not dwell upon the material difference

this important feature would have made to the calculations in many

points. We give the commissioners a peep at the fallacy of their plans,

and we leave it to them to remedy it. All we have to add, in conclusion

is, that we sent in our own name according to the prescribed ordinance,

but it was not

ROCKET.

[Illustration]

LOVE'S MASQUERADING.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

I.

Love never less surprises

Than when his tricks are tried;

In vain are all disguises,

Himself he cannot hide.

He came, the Masquerader,

To conscious Kate, one day,

Attempting to persuade her;

He then was--far away!

"Ah Love!" she cried, unfearing,

"Take any shape you will,

Strange, distant, or endearing,

This heart would know you still."

II.

Then Love came clad like Sorrow;

His robe was dark as night;

But like a golden morrow,

Flash'd forth his forehead's light;

She knew him, as with languor

He play'd the wounded dove:

Then fierce he frown'd--'twas Anger!

But still she knew 'twas Love!

III.

Then came he wreathed like Pleasure;

In vain he cried, "Rejoice!"

And sang a laughing measure--

She knew him, by his voice.

He tuned his tongue to railing,

Performing Envy's task;

His scowl was unavailing,

She saw him--through his mask.

IV.

Like cloak'd Revenge then stealing,

With poniard bare he came,

His limbs, his looks, concealing--

Yet still he seem'd the same.

Then he, his thoughts dissembling,

With Jealousy's wild air,

Stood raging, watching, trembling,--

Yet Love alone stood there.

V.

Next came he garb'd like Malice;

Yet wore his cheek the rose,

No poison crowns his chalice,

With wine it overflows.

And then as Joy, arrayed in

Rare colours from above;

He failed again--the maiden

In Joy saw only Love!

VI.

Then casting off his splendour,

He took black Hatred's guise;

But all his tones were tender,

She knew him--by his eyes.

In all he fail'd; when glancing

Like Fear, afraid to stir;

And when like Hope, half-dancing--

For Hope was Love to her.

"In vain," she cried, "your powers,

Take any shape you may;

Are hearts less wise than flowers,

That know the night from day?"

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.