CHAPTER IV.

Never was there a more instructive lesson issued to the nations of the

earth than that which marked the origin, progress, and termination of

the French Revolution, with all its concomitant circumstances and final

results.

England with free institutions, and increasing in population, industry,

and commerce, had set a bright example of what may be achieved under

constitutional means; and as the English were ardent lovers of liberty,

it cannot be supposed that they were indifferent to its extension on the

Continent. Nor were they inactive at home; the changes in France had

caused a feverish excitement amongst the working classes here, which

interested traders in politics were not slow in turning to their own

advantage. In order to counteract and defeat the evil machinations of

such men, the government took into pay a number of individuals to act as

spies in the camp of the disaffected; and as their wages depended upon

the continuance of commotion, it very naturally followed that in numerous

cases they were the secret promoters of agitation. But the political

movement was not confined exclusively to the lower ranks in life; many of

the middle grade had joined in it, and amongst the active disseminators

of revolutionary principles was Mr. Jocelyn Brady. But he moved in an

elevated sphere, and was looked upon and treated with confidence by

his party, both high and low. His legal practice was reported to be

extensive, and he was said to be possessed of considerable property. He

had both a town and a country residence, and he gave excellent dinners.

But he was unrelenting in his avarice, vindictive when offended.

The principal associate of Mr. Brady in most of his political

transactions was a Mr. Acteon Shaft, an acute intelligent man, whose

grey hairs proclaimed him to be of an advanced age; and to him the

lawyer was greatly indebted for much of the information and knowledge he

obtained. Mr. Shaft had travelled far, and had visited foreign courts,

and though his manners were rather uncouth, yet there was a charm in his

conversation that rendered his society courted by men of talent. He was

an ardent lover of rational liberty, and his generosity was the theme of

universal praise.

Why two men so opposite in temper and disposition should form

companionship must remain amongst those anomalies which every day's

experience displays; even the pure metal requires a base alloy before it

can be converted into sterling coin. But to return to Mrs. Heartwell,

who had once more a comfortable residence, and devoted herself in

every way to the improvement of her son. Frank, on his part, was most

affectionately attached to his mother, whom he revered with an intensity

of feeling that was truly gratifying to her heart, and she was pleased

to see that he evinced a kindly and generous feeling towards his

fellow-creatures. He was mirthful, but inoffensive, mild and forbearing,

except when aroused by severe injury to himself or others, and then his

rage was uncontrollable.

The first lodger that occupied Mrs. Heartwell's apartments was a Monsieur

Polverel, a French deputy, who under the specious pretext of visiting and

studying the institutions of England, availed himself of the opportunity

to disseminate the doctrines of "liberty and equality;" nor was he

long in finding an enlarged circle of congenial spirits--members of

revolutionary clubs and corresponding societies, who, though advocating

"equality," took especial care that no one below a certain rank should

be admitted to their meetings; and the minister of liberty from France,

Monsieur Polverel, finding that his black servant was accustomed to go

out during his absence, actually locked him up in his room whenever he

himself went in an evening to enjoy festivity amongst his friends, and to

preach up the blessings of freedom.

Ben and Frank, however, could not reconcile such tyranny to their minds,

and a duplicate key being procured, the door was speedily thrown open,

and forth issued Sambo to join in their amusements, and many hours did

the youth listen to the negro's narratives of his native place--Port

au Prince, in San Domingo--but care was always taken that he was again

placed in confinement before the time of his master's return.

Monsieur Polverel was one of those finicking, all legs-and-wings sort

of Frenchmen who when in conversation throw themselves into attitudes

not inaptly resembling the wooden harlequins of children whose members

are put into motion by pulling a string, only that his body was more

elongated and had something of the greyhound build; his head was very

large, and when he stood erect he looked like a beadle's staff with a

globe on the top; in fact, it would have been no difficult task to have

doubled him up like a two-foot rule, or to have put his body between his

legs like a clasp knife. Although a leveller, and affecting to despise

distinctions, his clothes were richly ornamented and his fingers were

brilliant with costly rings.

When he passed an evening at home without company, he generally contrived

to get Frank and Ben, and the negro into his room, where, in broken

English, he propounded to them the doctrines of republicanism. Sometimes

Mr. Peach was admitted, and the discussions, whilst they afforded mirth

to Frank, and offence to the seaman, tended to open the understanding of

the youth to subjects to which he had hitherto been a stranger.

Frank had now passed his thirteenth year. His predilection was for the

sea; but his mother, who still had numerous difficulties to contend

against, and looked upon her child as her best hope and encouragement,

endeavoured by earnest persuasion to prevail upon him to settle on shore.

In this she was supported by Mr. Peach; but the lad's longings could

not be overcome, though he was deterred from proclaiming them, and thus

balancing between affection for his parent and the desire to become a

sailor, he remained undetermined and inactive.

It was about this time that, to the great regret of Mrs. Heartwell, and

the almost inconsolable grief of her son, Ben Brailsford was pressed;

and disdaining to be anything but a volunteer in the service of his king

and country, he entered for a ship-of-the line, then commanded by the

Honourable Keith Elphinstone (afterwards, Lord Keith). He wrote to inform

them of this event, hoped that he should make prize-money--wished Frank

was with him on the quarter-deck as an officer--expressed sorrow at

parting with them, but wound up all with his old expletive--"But what's

the odds, so as you're happy?"

The youth fretted, and almost sickened at the loss of his old and

faithful associate; he neglected his studies, became melancholy and

restless, and adhered closer to Monsieur Polverel, so as to be noticed

by a distinguished visitor to the deputy, no other than the Duke of

Orleans, who had been prevailed upon to visit London, by Lafayette, in

order to get him out of the way of doing mischief. Frank became a great

favourite with the Duke, who treated him with much kindness, and made

Mrs. Heartwell a very handsome present to assist in promoting the lad's

welfare; and ultimately offered to take him to Paris and provide for him;

but this was declined--the mother could not part with her child.

The beheading of the King of France excited a general feeling of horror

and indignation throughout England. War was declared. The utmost activity

prevailed in the dockyards; and a naval armament was put in motion. The

aristocracy, the clergy, the corporate bodies, the landed proprietors,

the merchants, the bankers, became alarmed, and took the lead in the

re-action that ensued. The Sectarians looked upon the French as infidels,

and hailed the approach of war as the mighty engine which was to restore

religion and morality.

In this state of things the situation of Monsieur Polverel was not of

the most pleasant description. He was well known to the French emigrants

who crowded the metropolis; and on his returning one afternoon from

a republican party, he was pointed out as a disseminator of those

principles which had compelled them to abandon their country. A crowd

collected, who vented their abhorrence in groans and hisses. He quickened

his pace, but his pursuers increased as they progressed, till the deputy

was urgently persuaded to run, by hearing the clattering of stones

along the pavement, and feeling more than one or two hard blows on his

back. Now it was that the length of his legs rendered him good service,

and a chase commenced that caused roars of laughter to the spectators,

who clapped their hands and shouted with delight. On reaching Mrs.

Heartwell's he knocked and rung violently, but Sambo was locked up, and

the maid-servant being busy, was in no great hurry to let him in. Frank,

however, had been looking out at the window, and instantly suspecting the

cause of the uproar, he ran and opened the door, and the Frenchman had

just time to enter as his assailants were ascending the steps. It was at

first feared that they would attack the house, but on being assured that

Monsieur Polverel had taken his departure by the back way, the mob again

set out in pursuit, but the deputy distanced them; for without waiting

for bag or baggage, he hurried to Dover as fast as a chaise-and-four

could convey him, and at this latter place he received a no very gentle

intimation that his presence on British ground could be entirely

dispensed with; and elated was Monsieur Polverel when he once more found

himself within the gates of Calais.

Nothing could exceed the joy of Sambo at his master's departure--the

door was no longer locked upon him--he was free. Since Ben's departure

Frank had greatly attached himself to the negro, whose good humour and

constant willingness to oblige rendered him a favourite in the house.

Other lodgers came to Mrs. Heartwell's; and as Sambo had become useful,

his services were retained.

Frank continued at school for a few months longer, when a new scene

opened before him. He had heard of a seventy-four to be launched at

Deptford, and never having witnessed a ship-launch, he went, accompanied

by Sambo, to see it. But the press-gangs were abroad, and they both fell

into their hands; for such was, at that time, the demand for men and

lads to complete the complements of the ships of war, that respectable

shopkeepers, who had formerly been to sea, were impressed at their own

doors, and youths of "gentle blood" forced away by the gangs if found

near the water-side.

Sambo would have resisted when he saw that Frank was seized, but the

youth saw how unavailing it would be, and desired him to desist. He

told the officer that he was the son of a lieutenant in the navy, and

requested to be allowed to return to his home; but this was positively

refused. He then entreated that some one might be sent to apprise his

mother of his detention, and the officer promised that it should be

done, and the lad, who suffered most on his parent's account, became

more appeased, till on being put on board the Tender, off the Tower, a

spectacle presented itself that filled his very soul with disgust.

The receiving-ship was an old sloop of war, and in her hold were not less

than three hundred human beings crowded together on the shingle ballast,

without a single seat except the bundles which some few possessed, and

sat upon for safe protection. Here were crowded together seamen and

landsmen, pickpockets, the refuse of the streets, and shabby-genteel

gentlemen. Many a countenance was marked by sorrow, but the principal

portion was composed of wild, reckless, and even lawless, men. The

gratings were over the hatchways, above which sentinels were placed, and

the atmosphere in the hold was hot and fetid. Several of the impressed

men were in a state of intoxication, which produced repeated quarrels;

and though there was scarcely room to move, blows were exchanged, and

heavy falls upon the shingle or against the timbers in the side caused

swollen and blackened eyes, and severe contusions. Some had received

cuts and injuries in their contest with the gangs, and lacerated faces

presented a hideous and sickening spectacle.

There was but little light during the day; but when night arrived, only a

solitary lantern shed its feeble rays, and the prowling thieves commenced

their work of plunder upon their unfortunate fellow-captives. Resistance

was vain; cries of distress arose, but they were quickly subdued; two

or three held down the victim whilst his pockets were rifled: the means

of obtaining liquor were thus in the power of the abandoned; nor was

it scantily, though stealthily supplied; and drunkenness increased the

disorder that prevailed till a general fight took place, which was only

quelled by an armed party of seamen being sent down to preserve order.

[Illustration: Frank and Sambo, attacked by Ruffians, in the hold of the

Tender.]

Horrible, indeed, was that night to poor Frank. To sleep was impossible.

The noise was almost deafening; and his heart sickened at the oaths

and imprecations he was compelled to hear. A miscreant had forcibly

grappled with him and demanded his money; but Sambo, who had patiently

borne with the jokes and the taunts, and even the mischievous pranks

of his fellow-captives, would not endure this; he manfully resisted,

exclaiming, "Me young massa good massa for me! Ye nebber for do him harm

while Sambo here!" Nor did the youth tamely yield to the plunderers: his

spirit was aroused, and placing himself in attitude, he not only repelled

the attack, but with determined resolution he stood up to his assailants,

whilst the negro dealt out sturdy blows and kept them in check. One

fellow was struck down, but another immediately came on, whom Frank

met with vigorous boldness; and thanks to the instructions of Ben, his

opponent found that he had both courage and science to contend against;

and having no love for fighting, and seeing Sambo come to the assistance

of his young master, he drew back. But the thieves commenced another

desperate attack. One of them rushed in and seized Frank by the throat;

another gathered up a handful of shingle to throw in his face; whilst a

third drew a large knife, and laying hold of the youth's long hair, was

about to inflict a deadly wound, when a stout old man-of-war's man, who

had been leaning against the mast, suddenly seized the cowardly rascal

by the wrist, and twisting his arm round so as nearly to throw him on

his back, exclaimed, "Avast there, you lubber! do you call that English

fashion? bright blades again a countryman's fist? drop the knife, and let

the lad alone--drop it, I say!" and another twist compelled the fellow to

obey. The seaman gave him a kick in the stern that sent him flying away

amongst the crowd, and then springing to Frank's rescue, the robbers were

driven off.

"What cheer, what cheer, my lad, eh?" said the tar, taking the youth's

hand; "you tackled to 'em bravely, the picarooning vagabones. But here,

keep under my lee, and no soul fore and aft shall mislest you. Have you

ever been to sea?"

"No," returned Frank, placing himself by the side of the seaman, "I

have never been to sea, but I am the son of a sailor; my father was a

lieutenant in the navy."

"Indeed!" said the tar, "and pray what name did he hail by?--the son of

a British officer ought to have better usage."

Frank felt the justice of the latter remark, but he did not allude to it,

and merely replied, "His name was Heartwell."

"What?" exclaimed the seaman, looking earnestly in the youth's face,

"Heartwell,--Muster Frank Heartwell as was in the ould Robust?"

"Yes, he was the senior lieutenant of the Robust," responded the youth,

who had through Ben's means made himself acquainted with his father's

history.

"Then I sailed with him," rejoined the tar, "and a better officer never

had charge of a quarter-deck. And what's become of him, my boy?"

The youth briefly related the circumstances of his father's

disappearance, and a conversation ensued, the seaman fully performing his

promise to preserve Frank from further molestation; he also praised the

negro for standing up for his young master, and Sambo remarked, "Ah Massa

Frank, dis no laand o' liberty board a ship."

Still Frank's wretchedness was great; he reflected on the delightful

dictures of enjoyment from universal freedom and equality which Monsieur

Polverel had powerfully delineated, and he contrasted them with the scene

before him, where the defenders of their country were treated worse than

brutes by the hand of power. It is probable that he would have sunk under

the infliction, but the hope that he cherished of seeing his mother come

to his rescue. Yet even that hope was mingled with many misgivings, lest

the officer should not have communicated with her, and he might be sent

away without being able to acquaint her where he was.

The morning came, a cutter was hauled alongside the Tender, and Frank

and Sambo, with about one hundred and fifty others, were put on board;

her sails were set, and with a fair breeze she was soon gliding down the

river. But Frank, though aware that they were on the move, could see

nothing of the proceedings; the impressed men were all confined in the

hold, and so crowded together that to sit down was impossible.

At length they reached the Nore, and the impressed hands were transferred

to a gun-brig that immediately got under-weigh for the Downs. Confinement

was now at an end, the men were permitted to be on deck, and the

refreshing breeze came delightful to the wearied frame of the youth.

Provisions were also served out, and by the time they had reached their

first destination he had in a great measure recovered his proper tone.

But the brig did not anchor here; a signal was made for her to proceed to

Plymouth, and without delay she made sail through the Straits of Dover.

The noble white cliffs and the beautiful scenery of the coast delighted

Frank. The sun sparkled upon the waves of the blue ocean, and threw its

golden gleams upon the fertile land of his nativity, whose lofty barriers

rose in grandeur to defend its shores, and whose "wooden walls" floated

in pride to protect its commerce. The horizon was studded with the white

sails of distant vessels, and the ships as they approached or passed,

hoisting their ensigns, gave a bright break in the picture.

Still the thoughts of his mother's uneasiness operated on Frank's heart,

and he determined to write to her as soon as they got to Plymouth;

but even this satisfaction was denied to him, for when abreast of

Torbay a seventy-four came out and received a draft of hands from the

brig, amongst whom was the disappointed lad and the negro, and without

communicating with the shore she spread her canvas for the Mediterranean.

This preyed upon the lad's mind, but no time was allowed him to indulge

in dejection; he was ordered to go to the purser's steward and get

supplied with sailor's apparel, which having dressed himself in, he

was mustered before the first lieutenant, who questioned him as to his

abilities in order to give him a station. Frank at once told him he was

the son of an officer, and had never been to sea before; he named his

father, and as the circumstances of his disappearance were pretty well

known, Mr. Evans not only took the lad by the hand, but declared himself

an old friend and messmate of Mr. Heartwell's, and the emotion he evinced

plainly indicated what his feelings towards him were. He was requested

to stand on one side till the muster was over, when the lieutenant

introduced him to the captain, a noble and generous-minded seaman, who

listened with attention and commiseration to Frank's narrative, inquired

whether he wished to continue in the service, and finding the lad was

desirous to do so he sent for the clerk, and the rating of midshipman was

entered against the name of Frank in the muster-book.

It would be impossible to describe the varied feelings of Frank at this

favourable change in his fortune, which he regretted he could not at once

communicate to his mother. On the passage out, however, they fell in with

a corvette homeward bound, and the newly-made midshipman having a letter

ready written describing the events that had occurred, he was enabled to

send it by this conveyance, and his mind became more tranquil, and his

heart more buoyant.

As for Sambo, he was very soon reconciled to his lot, especially when he

saw that his young friend and master was made an officer, and treated

with kindness and respect. The negro was stationed in the main-top, and

showed himself desirous to learn his duty.

History has recorded the events connected with the occupation of Toulon

by the allied forces; and here it was that Frank first beheld a scene of

warfare. Splendid was the spectacle to his young and ardent mind. There

lay the combined fleets of England and Spain, their bright colours and

floating pennants flashing in the sun; whilst in the background rose the

almost perpendicular mountains of granite, relieved at the base by the

white batteries and buildings of the town. As they approached the noble

harbour, the smoke from the cannon and musketry proclaimed that active

hostility was going on; and Frank felt his heart swell at the thoughts of

being engaged with the enemies of his country.

They had scarcely moored the ship, when reinforcements were demanded for

the shore; and a party of seamen and marines was landed under the command

of Lieutenant Evans, and Frank was permitted to accompany him on duty in

the town.

Here he had indeed opportunity of beholding all the pomp, the

circumstances, and the cruelties of war; for scarcely a day passed that

did not bring with it a skirmish with the enemy. It was not, however,

till several weeks had elapsed that Frank was engaged in hostility.

It was on the night of the sortie made by General O'Hara against the

masked battery that had been constructed by Buonaparte to play upon Fort

Malbosquet.

Armed with a cutlass, a brace of pistols, and a pike, the young

midshipman accompanied his party to the attack. He felt that he was now

an officer in the service of his country; and though his heart palpitated

at the thoughts of going into battle, he determined not to flinch.

The night was dark; and silently and stealthily they proceeded up the

mountain.

This enemy had suspected the design, and were in readiness to receive

them; and then began the terrible affray. Frank kept as close to Mr.

Evans as he could; he had in some measure become used to the peals of

musketry, but not to the consequences of the murderous discharge; and his

heart quailed when he beheld body after body rolling down the declivity,

and heard the shrieks of the wounded as they lay bleeding on the ground,

or fell from crag to crag mangled and dying.

This dread did not last long, for he was hurled into the very thick of

the mêlée, and desperation lent strength to his arm. Encouraged by Mr.

Evans, who cheered on his men, he rushed forward with the advance, his

spirit rising as the strife increased. For a short time he was separated

from the lieutenant, but the tide of contest ranging back, he once more

joined him at the moment that he had been brought to the earth by a blow

from the butt of a French musket; and the soldier was about to repeat

the stroke, when Frank with his pike charged with the utmost violence he

could muster against the man; the sharpened iron entered his breast so

as to throw the soldier off his balance, the blow descended short of the

intended victim, and the weapon was shattered to pieces.

But the French soldier was not defeated; and snatching at the prostrate

officer's sword he possessed himself of it, and prepared to take ample

revenge on the stripling who had no other weapon to oppose to his

gigantic strength than his cutlass. Frank gazed at his powerful adversary

and believed his last hour was come; but he determined not to abandon the

lieutenant. One thought--one moment's thought of his mother intruded--a

pang of bitterness and anguish passed through his heart; and then placing

himself on the defensive, and purposing if possible to elude his enemy

by activity, he saw him advance. At this instant, however, a British

corporal interposed, and lunged at the Frenchman with his bayonet; but

the brave fellow had been previously wounded and his strength was failing

him; still his spirit was indomitable, and a sharp conflict ensued, Frank

occasionally getting a cut at the Frenchman, whose superior fencing gave

him an admirable command of his weapon; and the youth with horror saw the

sword of Mr. Evans passed through and through the body of the corporal:

it was done with the rapidity of lightning, and the gallant man fell to

the ground with one deep and parting groan.

A laugh--a horrible laugh of triumph issued from the enemy as he now

considered his young victim safe to satiate his revenge. The body of the

lieutenant lay between them; and as he began to give tokens of returning

animation, the soldier seemed undecided whether he should attack

the youth or give the officer the _coup-de-grace_. Frank beheld him

advance--he would not retreat, but with cool determination parried the

thrust; but the superior strength of his opponent prevailed; his guard

was beat down, and the sword that had so recently taken life was again

wet with blood; the youth was borne backward on its point, and in all

probability another second would have stretched him lifeless by the side

of Mr. Evans, had not a bold athletic seaman flung himself against the

soldier, who promptly recovered his blade, but not till he was staggered

by a blow from the tar, who shouted in a voice that Frank instantly

recognised, "Ware hawse, you lubber--puckalow that--what's the odds, so

as you're happy?"--it was Ben Brailsford.

A cry of delight burst from the youth as he incautiously hailed his old

companion; for Ben was not aware who it was that he had preserved; but

on hearing the well-remembered tongue of his young friend, he turned

suddenly round. The Frenchman instantly perceived his advantage, and

made a pass that must have dangerously wounded if not killed the worthy

seaman, but that the tar, intuitively sensible of his error, sprang on

one side, and the sword of his antagonist did but graze his arm. For

several minutes the conflict was desperate; Ben was unskilled in the

practices of scientific fencing, but he was perfect master of the guards

and cuts; and the Frenchman's vigour began to relax through the wounds

he had received, and the excessive exertions he had undergone. At last

finding resistance futile, the soldier dropped the point of his sword in

token of surrender, and the seaman, after disarming him, hastened to the

side of the youth, who had fallen to the ground inanimate.

THE LIVERY--OUT OF LONDON.

At my friend the squire's, when he lived down at Grassby Farm in

Cheshire, I was a constant visitor; and for nothing was that pleasant

hospitable house more remarkable than for the eccentric animals that

found their way into it, whether as guests or as servants. Of both

classes, in the course of a very few years, there were several queer

specimens. I laugh as I recal them to mind.

Delightful Grassby, what joyous hours have rolled away there! Well

content should I have been to have remained a welcome guest there for

ever, if I could but have secured the privilege of dining as sparingly as

I liked, and of taking just as few glasses of the old ale or the old port

as suited _me_, rather than my friend. But with the old-fashioned notions

of hospitality prevalent there, the comfort of "enough" was out of the

question. It was a word never used at the squire's table. If you desired

to taste a second or a third dish, good bountiful Mrs. N. sent you a

second or third _dinner_; and not to eat _all_ that was placed before

you, though already long past the point where appetite and desire cease,

was to break through every principle of their establishment, and violate

all their simple ideas of etiquette and good breeding. If you left the

remaining wing of the turkey, they would be wretched for the rest of the

day--"You didn't like it," "you were not comfortable." After a year or

two, Mrs. N. did so far relax, and mingle mercy with her hospitality, as

to say when placing two ribs of roast beef upon one's plate, "I hope if

there's more than you wish for, that you won't scruple to leave it." The

reader will be lucky if he can secure as much indulgence as this, at many

country-houses where old fashions and principles yet prevail, and my Lady

Bountiful reigns supreme.

Consequences the most alarming sometimes ensued from this sense of the

necessity of consuming whatsoever was placed before you by your host.

A travelling acquaintance of the squire's (one Mr. Joseph Miller) paid

him a flying visit one morning; and as he could not possibly stay one

moment, and insisted upon not taking any refreshment at all, he was

let off with a tankard of ale, and some of the finest cheese in the

county. The traveller threw upward a look of despair as he saw about

half a magnificent "Cheshire" introduced to his notice; but as time was

precious, he went to work, and ate with vigour for half-an-hour, when the

postboy knocked to remind him of the necessity of completing that stage

in a given time, or the journey would be fruitless. The answer returned

was, that the traveller "would come as soon as he could;" and upon the

cheese he fell again with increased energy. Another thirty minutes

elapsed, when he paused to gaze, with evident symptoms of exhaustion, on

the semicircle of Cheshire, not yet visibly diminished; a second rap now

summoned him, but his reply was an anxious, hopeless look, and the faint

ejaculation "Wait!" The attack on the cheese was once more renewed, but

by no means fiercely. "Gad," cried the squire, at last, "had I guessed

you could ha' staid so long, we'd a hastened dinner a bit." "So long!"

exclaimed the traveller in a tone of despair; "let me tell you such a

piece of cheese as that isn't to be got through so soon as you think for!"

Another case, and a still more piteous one, was that of a young and

simple damsel from a neighbouring county, who brought with her to Grassby

Farm the established consciousness (prevailing still over a large portion

of the country) of the unpardonable rudeness of sending away anything

presented by the host. Accordingly, one day at dinner, when cheese was

sent round, and a plate containing several pieces was handed to the young

lady, she presumed it to be meant for her, and as in duty bound devoured

the whole supply. It so happened that she did not visit at the squire's

again for some considerable time; and then, when remonstrated with for

not calling upon her friends at the farm, she said, "Well, I will call,

I shall be delighted to dine with you again; but--pray don't give me so

much cheese!"

All who entered the farm seemed alike under the influence of one dreary

and imperative necessity; that they must take whatever was offered

them--which never failed to be too much. A French gentleman one evening

underwent with exemplary politeness the martyrdom of drinking sixteen

cups of tea, simply from not knowing that he was expected, when tired, to

put the spoon in the cup. This at last he did, by mere accident, or good

Mrs. N. would have gone on pouring out for him all night, to her great

felicity.

[Illustration]

Never but once--only once--was that excellent lady convicted of a fit

of moderation in the arrangements of her table, and that was when some

fine London acquaintances had been persuading her to transform a rustic

lout of a stripling into a page, and assuring her that thick pieces of

bread at dinner were quite barbarous and vulgar. She did so far forget

her original nature, as to decorate the boy with roley-poley buttons,

to turn his Christian name of Colin into the surname of Collins, and to

admonish him on the subject of bread thus--"Collins, don't cut up so many

loaves when we have company at dinner; I don't like very small pieces,

but then there shouldn't be too many; you should _count heads_; you must

know how much bread will be wanted, and cut accordingly. Now mind!" Kind,

hospitable dame, how was she punished for her precaution! When the next

dinner-party assembled, and a dozen persons had taken their seats at the

table, Collins proceeded to hand the bread round after the provincial

fashion of twenty years ago; but by the time he reached his mistress, the

last person of the dozen, the bread was gone. "Collins," said she, in a

low discreet whisper, "some bread, some more bread." Collins's whisper

in reply was meant to be equally discreet, but it was more audible.

"Please, ma'am, I did count heads, and cut twelve bits, but that 'ere

gentleman _has took two pieces_!"

Collins, the page, was but the folly of a day; he speedily disappeared;

yet there remained for some time in the heart of his mistress a lurking

desire to engraft a few of the best London usages upon the more

substantial country customs, and if not to keep pace with the spirit

of the present age, at least to emerge out of the deep recesses of the

past. Robin, the successor of Collins, was a victim to this spirit of

innovation. He was a rustic of one idea; which was, to do whatever he was

ordered as well as he could. If told to make haste, he would simply start

off at the top of his speed; if told to fly, he would assuredly attempt

with his arms and coatflaps an imitation of the action of a bird, and fly

as well as he was able. He understood all instructions literally; Robin

had no imagination. To bring in everything upon a waiter, was an order

he could easily comprehend; mistake was impossible. "Well, I declare!"

cried Mrs. N. to some visitors one morning, "you haven't yet seen my

pets;" (some pups of an illustrious breed, that had just seen the light;)

"Robin, bring in the pets--they are miracles." There was considerable

delay, however, in the execution of this order; and more than one inquiry

went forth, why Robin did not bring in the pups. At last, when curiosity

was at its height, and expectation on tiptoe, Robin did contrive, after a

"to do" outside the door, to make a formal appearance with the pups, and

to explain the delay:--"Here be pups, ma'am, only dang it they won't keep

on waiter."

[Illustration]

Where the squire picked up the Imperturbable who came next, I never

understood. At this distance of time it is not unreasonable to doubt

whether he was in reality a human being; he might have been a talking

automaton. He never appeared to have "organs, dimensions, senses,

affections, passions;" he seemed to be simply a thing of clock-work.

"Master wants a bit more muffin," or "The ice has broke and master's

drownded in the pond," would be uttered by him in exactly the same formal

tone of voice, with exactly the same stiff and deliberate air. It was all

one to him whether he had to announce--"There's a cricket-match on the

common," or "the French have landed." Never shall I forget his walking

into the room one day, an hour after dinner, and fixing himself beside

his master's chair while the squire was telling us one of his sporting

stories which were sometimes rather long; waiting patiently until the

close for the signal to proceed, and then when the Squire had turned

round leisurely to know what he wanted, saying in his slow tone, "When

I went up stairs, sir, a little while ago, the house was a-fire! It's

burning now."

[Illustration]

But I ought to relate one more example of the manner in which the

patience of the Squire's lady was tried, by the rusticity of her

attendants, during the short season of her attempt to elevate her

household arrangements into something like fashionable dignity. One day,

when the Squire had sent off, upon some frivolous errand, every servant

in the house except cook and coachman, in dropped a very important

visitor who proffered his company at dinner, to the consternation of the

lady: hospitable as she was, she was in a dilemma; but it could not be

helped. The services of the coachman were duly called into requisition

to wait at table, greatly to his chagrin, for he detested the duty, and

whenever he chanced to be called upon to perform it, was sure to find

some means of letting all the room know that he did. He abhorred indoor

work, and took a pride in proclaiming himself to be coachee. On this

occasion, having some apple-dumplings to bring in (vulgarities to which

the Squire was considerably attached), the coachman, not qualified by

daily practice for the duty, let some of them slip off the dish; but

recovering himself, he contrived to balance the dish as he held it out,

and to steady the rolling dumplings therein, with a "Who-o, whoo-oo,

_whut!_" Neither the Squire nor his lady ever affected the "gentilities"

after this, or allowed their honest hearts to be disconcerted about

trifles; and with this last "tray" of domestic awkwardness, I for the

present take my leave of the Livery.

RUS IN URBE.

OMNIBUS CHAT.

"Easy travelling this, sir; smooth roads, no turnpikes; no dirt thrown

about, no splashing. Pleasant for me, who have just arrived from Van

Diemen's Land," (we all looked up at our new visitor V. D. L.)--"yes,

sir, where they are 'mending their ways,' as you are here, only not quite

so fast; haven't got to Indian-rubber roads yet, though advanced beyond

the point at which the traveller in my legend was obliged to stop." This

allusion being evidently preparatory to the production of a story, V.

D. L. was invited to explain, which he instantly did by chanting the

following

LEGEND OF VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.

Long time ago, when public roads

In far Van Diemen's Land,

Were only fit for frogs and toads,

Composed of pools and sand;

(For folks had not tried newest modes

Of making wood-ways grand);

And narrow wheels, and heavy loads,

Made ups and downs on every hand:

Long time ago,

When things were so,

By some arch wag it was averr'd

The following incident occurr'd.--

It chanced, on one of old October's days,

A traveller was travelling along,

And, as he jolted in his strong-spring'd chaise,

"Beguiled the tedious minutes" with a song:

When, lo! a hat upon a pool he sees,

That did not seem to feel the "balmy breeze,"

But in the middle kept its place!

As if it had resolved, with honest pride,

Not to be driven down upon the side,

When it might hold the central space.

The traveller got out, and took it up,--

Most strange!--a head beneath the hat appears,

Whose hair had of the puddle ta'en a sup,

And now was weeping dirty-looking tears:--

"How?" said the traveller, "why! how is this?

You've sunk a precious depth, my friend, in mud;

How did you 'come to go' so much amiss,

As walk in muddy water--in cold blood?--

Ye gods! why, sir, you must have been like lead,

So deep into this puddle to have gone."

"If _I'm so deep_," the other gruffly said,

"_Where, where, must be the horse that I am on?_"

"Accidents of that sort will happen in the best regulated countries,"

remarked a modern Traveller, who had now, with an air of subdued

jollity, taken his place amongst us, and who was distinguished among his

familiars as Illustrious Tom, "though I can't say I ever witnessed such

an adventure in Cheapside. But you call to mind a home-adventure, a scene

at Bolton. Most towns, you must know, in almost every county, can boast

of their little evening coterie, in which the affairs of the nation are

more or less learnedly discussed, and where the wags of the place play

off their jokes, practical, comical, or serious. It generally happens,

too, that these congregated sons of smoke (for smokers they all are) take

up some district name; as the 'Bolton Trotters,' the 'Wigan Badgers,' the

'Item Dolls,' the 'Corporation of the King's Arms Kitchen,' the 'Quarter

of Hundred Bricks,' or a hundred other names that might be mentioned; and

all these coteries are composed of about the same materials, the doctors,

lawyers, retired tradesmen, country squires, and budding wags. It may be

my province by and by to detail a few of the farcicalities which I have

either taken part in, or heard related by some old Brick-Badger, Trotter,

or Doll. For the present, here is a tale, related to me with many a deep

sigh by an old one, whose trot is now reduced to a most miserable shamble.

"It had been a stormy November day, when a commercial traveller alighted

at the door of the Swan Inn. It was almost dark. He was a gentleman

from Leeds, in the cloth trade, and had ridden over the moors--not as

the young ones do now who drive--but on a strong Cleveland bay cob,

wrapped in a good Devon kersey coat, that would defy all weathers, much

better than your nasty Mackintoshes. Well, sir, there was a good deal

o' guessing, among us who were having a bit o' trot, at who he was. The

waiter was called in, and 'thowt he was a new chap,'--he didn't know

him. In about an hour he made his appearance, and begged to be allowed

to join us. He was a strapping Leeds win'er, and no toy to play with, I

assure you. The trotting was very slow for a time, when the bold wag, Jem

Brown, went in to win, and filled his pipe. Mr. A., the lawyer, sat on

one side the fire; the traveller, in what was called Travellers' Chair,

on the other. Up got Jem to ring the bell, and then, as he passed by

him--'You must have had a rough day,' says Jem; 'didn't I see you ride

in about an hour ago?' 'Mebby ye did, I come in about that toime,' was

the answer. 'On a bay cob?' says Jem. 'Eigh, a did.' 'A clever little

hack, I be bound,' says Jem again. 'Eigh,' rejoins the traveller, 'the

fastest in any town he goes inta.' 'Wew!' says Jem, 'I'll upo'd him a

good 'un, but that's going ow'er far.' 'I'll bet a pound on't,' says the

traveller. 'Nay, I never bet money--but I'll bet brandies round, I've a

faster.' 'Dun,' says the traveller. 'Order in the brandy, and book it,'

says Mr. A. Down went the bet, and down went the brandy, and the horses

were ordered out. The traveller was soon mounted, and sure enough it was

as nice a tit as onny man need wish throw a leg over. The traveller began

to be impatient, when Jem at last made his appearance at the door, pipe

in hand. What's that your fast hoss? let's see him walk.' On he went.

'Here, come back, and come in, for ye've lost.' 'Lost, how?' 'Why,' says

Jem, 'mine's been stuck fast at Bolton-moor clay-pit this three days, and

gone dead this afternoon.' 'A fair trot,' cried the whole party, amidst

a roar o' laughter, as Jem retreated out o' the way of the strapping and

irritated loser. (Now it was on the same evening, and at the expense of

this same sturdy Yorkshireman, to provoke whom was no joke, that a joke

was played off, which is commemorated in an oil painting that now hangs

up in the commercial room of the Swan. Mr. A.'s leg was covered with a

black silk stocking; the traveller's was cased in stout leather; when a

bet was laid that the wearer of the silks would hold his leg longer in

hot water than the wearer of the leathers. The experiment was tried in

boiling water. In two minutes the Yorkshireman was in agony, while the

lawyer looked on with astonishing composure-for his was a _cork leg_.")

"But a Yorkshireman may be a philosopher," observed C.E.W., who now

interposed a remark, "and philosophy can stand every description of hot

water, save that which love brings us into. Practical jokes are of many

kinds; a kiss is very often but a practical joke; and as an appropriate

successor to your tale of the silk stocking and the boot, let me give you

the story of

THE GIRL AND THE PHILOSOPHER.

As Kate went tripping up the town

(No lassie e'er looked prettier),

An "unco chiel" in cap and gown

(No mortal e'er looked grittier)

Accosted Kitty in the street,

As she was going to cross over,

And robb'd her of a kiss--the cheat,

Saying, "I'm a _philosopher_!"

"A what?" said Kitty, blushing red,

And gave his cap a toss over;

"Are you? Oh, _phi_!" and off she sped,

Whilst he bewail'd the "_los-oph-er!_"

"The learned lover, sir, who bewailed the '_los-oph-er_'(said a visitor,

who now favoured us with his company) was the last man in the world to

die of love. No man ever died of love, who did not kill himself; and no

man ever killed himself, who knew what philosophy was. True philosophy

may buy prussic-acid, but, like Tantalus, taste not a drop; true

philosophy saunters to the Serpentine, and then saunters back to supper

and a cigar. This," said Dr. Bulgardo, L.S.D., "I shall endeavour to

illustrate in a poetical tribute to

THE GRAVE OF THE SUICIDE (WHO THOUGHT BETTER OF IT).

My eye grew as dull as a half-scallop'd oyster,

And soon would my death in the _Times_ have rejoiced her;

So to Battersea-fields, for no meadows are moister,

I hurried to drown both myself and my woes.

Down life's sunny stream many seasons I'd floated

Till pleasures now bored me, on which I had doted;

So I vowed that my death should by lovers be quoted

Where the pale, sentimental asparagus grows.

Alas! I exclaim'd, with a half-broken hiccup,

The soft crumbs of comfort no more can I pick up;

My sorrows are mix'd as it were in a tea-cup,

Without any sugar to take off the taste.

But sorrows are often inflicted to try us;

Kind fortune, invisibly, often stands by us;

And now on the roof of the famous eel-pie house

The blinker-eyed goddess was luckily placed.

She kindly assured me my views were mistaken,

That really by Betty I wasn't forsaken;

So I walk'd back to town and got into the Fakenham

coach, to return to my Betty again.

Four lovers already had tried to divert her

Attentions from me, but their eagerness hurt her;

She said that she knew that I wouldn't desert her,

And now is the suicide gayest of men!"

[Illustration]

A RIGID SENSE OF DUTY.

At one of our sea-port towns there stood (and, we believe, doth stand

there still) a fort, on the outside of which is a spacious field,

overlooking a delightful prospect of land and water. At the time we are

speaking of, a Major Brown was the commandant; and his family being fond

of a milk diet, the veteran had several cows that pastured in the land

aforesaid; a sentry was placed near the entrance, part of whose duty it

was to prevent strangers and stray cattle from trespassing therein. Upon

one occasion, an Irish marine, a stranger to the place, was on guard at

this post, and having received the regular orders not to allow any one

to go upon the grass but the major's cows, determined to adhere to them

strictly. He had not been long at his post, when three elegant young

ladies presented themselves at the entrance for the purpose of taking

their usual evening walk, and were quickly accosted by the marine with

"You can't go there!"

"Oh! but we may," uttered the ladies with one voice, "we have the

privilege to do so."

"Privilege," repeated the sentry; "fait an' I don't care what ye have,

but you mustn't go there, I tell ye; it's Major Brown's positive orders

to the conthrary."

"Oh--ay--yes--we know that," said the eldest of the ladies with dignity,

"but we are Major Brown's daughters."

"Ah, well, you don't go in there then anyhow," exclaimed Pat, bringing

his firelock to the post, "you may be Major Brown's daughters, but you're

not Major Brown's cows."

* * * * *

The answer to Mr. Sly's Enigma (in last No.) is a _liquid_[5], which

forms the _third_ part of _Rum_, the _fourth_ of Port, the _fifth_

of _Shrub_, the _sixth_ of _Brandy_, the _seventh_ of _Madeira_, the

_eighth_ of _Burgundy_, the _ninth_ of _Bordeaux_, the _tenth_ of

_Maraschino_. It is a letter which is not seen in _the alphabet_, forms

no part of a _syllable_, and yet is found in _every_ word.--V. D. L.

* * * * *

"Are there two 'S's' in St. Asaph?" asked Lord Dunce of a popular

humourist, as he was directing a letter to a learned Bishop who bore that

title. "Unless _you_ wish to make an 'ass' of his Lordship, decidedly

not," was the answer; and Lord Dunce finished the address without further

inquiry.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

_Driver_ (calling out). Tom, is that 'ere elderly lady come, as ve vaited

for last trip?

_Cad_. Vel, I _do_ think I sees her a coming.

_Driver_. But are you sure it's the same?

_Cad_. Oh yes--Vy I was in the office ven the Governor booked her, by the

name o' Mrs. Toddles, and eh?--hang me if she arn't a toddling off the

wrong vay arter all. Vel, drive on, ve can't wait for nobody. Some people

alvers _aire_ too late, and alvers vill be.

_Driver_. Vy, yes, Tom; but I reckon it must take _her_ a couple o' hours

to put on that bonnet afore she comes out. She must git up a little

earlier, or else I should reckimend her to put it on the night afore.

[Illustration: Oh my goodness there is a mouse!!!]

[Illustration: Oh! my good gracious! here is a great "Black Beadle" !!!

!!!!]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 5: The liquids are "l, m, n, r."--_Lindley Murray._]

[Illustration: Flying Beadles]

FRIGHTS!

There is no fever so contagious as fright. It runs, like a bell-wire,

through the house, communicating from one line of agitation to another.

Frights, in a national point of view, are called "clouds on the

political horizon." These clouds are very catching; if one nation in

Europe has the vapours, all have--as we have lately had an opportunity

of witnessing. In a civic, or we should say rather in a commercial,

sense, frights are called "panics;" they are wonderfully contagious.

No sooner is one house in danger, than another feels itself in peril.

You walk at such a season through some vast capital, amidst lines of

lofty and durable-looking mansions, and every one that begins to totter

puts at least a couple in mind of tottering also. As this nods to its

fall, that returns the nod instinctively. Once set the panic afoot,

and each seems inclined to be foremost, rather than hindmost, in the

road to ruin; let but a single firm topple down unexpectedly, and its

neighbours break too, from nothing but sheer apprehension of breaking.

Amidst large assemblages of people--in ball-rooms, theatres, often in

churches--fright is irresistible in its progress, if once kindled. The

cry of "fire," or a sound construed into the cracking of the wainscot, is

enough. The strong, the weak, the bold, the nervous, the old stager and

the young novice--are all reduced simultaneously to a common level: they

become one mass of flying, fluttering, struggling, shrieking, _selfish_

mortality--rushing to the door, and there effectually blocking up the

way; each bent on escape, and each helping to render escape impossible;

trampling, stifling, crushing one another, in hideous rout and disorder,

without one rational idea amongst the bewildered multitude of the reality

of the danger, or one courageous impulse to face it.

This wild alarm, like jealousy, makes the meat it feeds on. There is

something so contradictory in it, that the presence of numbers, which

should be its protection, increases its confusion. It sees its own pale,

glaring, terror-stricken image in each man's face, and its diseased

imagination multiplies the causes of fear, because its effects are

manifold.

While such panics prevail, as all veracious chronicles show they do,

amongst mankind, who shall presume ungallantly to laugh at thy innocent

objects of terror, oh, womankind! or, childhood, even at thine! All have

their favourite antipathies. Gentlemen ere now have been appalled at the

sight of a black-bottle; many a lady yet looks aghast at the intrusion

of a black-beetle; while the child still screams, affrighted at the idea

of black-bogy. Leaving the first to the satirist, and the last to the

schoolmaster, let us picture to the eyes of ladies a scene, in which

every fair reader almost must have been, at least _once_ in her life, an

actress.

We will suppose that scene to be a lady's "finishing establishment"--for

there are no schools now--the school went out of fashion with the shop,

and the "establishment" came in with the "depôt" and the "emporium."

The group is the prettiest possible, as a specimen of still-life; there

is not a whisper, scarcely a motion; the superior is silently calculating

the amount of her Michaelmas accounts; the assistant is mutely wondering

whether young Ariosto Jackson, whom she met at Northampton last holidays,

will again be there at the next breaking up; and several young ladies,

in process of tuition, are learning irregular verbs by heart, reading

treatises abstrusely scientific, and thinking all the time of nothing;

when--all of a sudden--but no, that is not the word--quicker than

lightning, transformed as by magic, the scene presents to the eye but one

image of consternation--to the ear but one note of terror and dismay.

In the centre of the sacred apartment has been detected a small sable

intruder. A cry of horror from one young lady--"Oh! my good gracious,

there's a great black _beadle_!" brings every other young lady's heart

into her mouth. In an instant the room resounds with wild piercing

screams. Every chair has its pedestalled votary of Fear, its statue

of Alarm exquisitely embodied; the sofa boasts a rare cluster of

affrighted nymphs--more agonised by far than if they had been, by some

wicked bachelor of a magician, locked for life into a nunnery. The

lady-president, to exhibit an example of presence of mind, has leaped

upon a chair for the purpose of pulling the bell; she at the same time

conveys a lesson of industry, for she agitates it like a "ringer" pulling

for a leg of mutton and trimmings. The bell-rope breaks, and the other

is out of reach. The screams increase; the servants are summoned by more

names than they were ever christened by. "Cook, Sarah, Betsy, Betsy,

Jane, Cook, Sarah," are called, together with several domestics who have

long since gone away.

In the mean time let us snatch a glance at the little dingy contemptible

insect, the sable agitator, the Christophe of entomology, who has

innocently created all this palpitation in tender bosoms, this distortion

of beautiful features, this trembling of limbs, and this discord in

voices the most musical. He stands a moment stupified, petrified with

astonishment at the rush and the roar around him; recovering from his

first surprise, he creeps a pace or two in blank perplexity; he wrestles

with his fears--for frightened he is out of his little black wits, you

may depend upon it--runs here and there, a few inches to the east, and

then a few inches westward, to and fro like a bewildered thing; and

then making up his mind, "away he cuts" as hard as he can pelt into the

obscurest corner. The enemy out of sight, the boldest of the party,

after a minute or two, ventures down and makes a desperate rush to the

door; others soon follow this heroine's example; and when they reach the

landing--there pale, though recent from the roasting jack, and peeping

up from one of the lower stairs of the kitchen flight, they perceive the

face of the cook--a face whose expression is half curiosity, half fear.

Aspects of wonder and wo-begone alarm are discernible beyond, and fill up

the picture of agitation.

"Oh, cook! where have you been?" cry the pretty tremblers.

"Oh, Miss! what _is_ the matter?" sighs the cook sentimentally, observing

at the same time that "her heart beats that quick as she ain't sure she

knows her own name when she hears it."

"Oh, cook!" cries the least exhausted of the party, "here's a

great--here's a great black beadle in the parlour!" On which a very small

scream, and a pretty shudder at the recollection, pervade the assembly.

"A black-beadle, Miss Higgins! _is that all_! Lauk, well that is

disappineting; we thought as you was all a being murdered, and so we

couldn't move, we was so frightened. Why, I minds a black-beadle no more

nor--no more nor--no, that I don't! But if it had bin a hearwig, Miss

Higgins!--ur-r-r-rh! now that's a ruptile as I never could abide!"

Had we rushed down stairs sooner, just before the first ring of the

bell, a kitchen-group might have presented itself, not unworthy of being

sketched. There should we have seen a feminine party of four seated

round a table spread with solid viands; the actresses have played their

parts to perfection; not like unfortunate players on the mimic stage,

who raise to their parched lips empty japan cups, and affect to eat

large slices of pasteboard turkeys. No; they have, in the fullest sense

of the word, _dined_; and are in that delicious state of dreamy repose,

induced by a hearty meal, about mid-day in summer, after having risen

early and "washed" till twelve! It is at this juncture they hear the loud

quick ring of the parlour-bell. At such a moment, when Missus know'd

they was at dinner! Again, again, again; nay, the peal is continuous,

and mingled with confused screams. Terror and the cold beef combined,

strong ale and intense alarm, prevent them from stirring. Still the bell

rings, the screams continue, and grow more distinct! Sarah faints, Betsy

manages about half a fit, and Jane staggers a few paces and falls into

the arms of Robert the gardener. A jug of ale, which the cook mistakes

for water, flung into the face of the fair insensible, causes a sensation

that arouses the whole party; and curiosity overcoming fear, leads them

towards the stairs, where, hushed and horror-stricken, they await the

dread intelligence that "a great black beadle has got into the parlour,"

his first appearance this season!

"Had it been a mad dog, indeed!" they all cry. Yes, and if it had been

merely a tiny puppy with the smallest tin kettle tied to his tail,

retreating affrightedly from roguish boys, they themselves would have

been thrown into a fright indeed. Their instinct would have led them to

cry, "Oh here's a mad dog," and to run right in his way.

Every man has his "fright." Toads are exceedingly unpopular. The

deathwatch, like conscience, doth make cowards of us all. Spiders are

unwelcome visitors. Rats (politics apart) are eminently disagreeable.

One of a party who went out to kill buffaloes, happening to run away

just as all his courage was required, explained the circumstance to

his friends thus: "One man dislikes this, and another man that animal;

gentlemen, my antipathy is the buffalo." But in certain climates, people

are accustomed to horrors; they sup full of them. Nobody there screams

out, "Oh here's a scorpion!" or "Good gracious, here's an alligator!" The

visits of such common-places are not angelic, being neither few nor far

between. It is only some rarer monster that can hope to make a sensation.

Now, a hippopotamus, once a season, would come with a forty black-beetle

power to an evening party; and a group of timid ladies, kicking the mere

crocodiles and rattle-snakes away, may well be imagined rushing into a

corner, startled by an unlooked-for intruder, and crying out "Oh my! if

here isn't a mammoth! Mamma! here's a great large leviathan!"

[Illustration]

A PEEP AT A "LEG-OF-BEEF SHOP."

It is a melancholy sight to witness the half-starved, anatomical-looking

small youths, dressed in every variety of poverty's wardrobe, that linger

for hours near a certain little bow-window in St. Giles's; where the

nobility, gentry, and public are informed that by paying down the sum

of threepence they will be allowed peaceably to depart with an imperial

pint of leg-of-beef soup in their own jug. It is a moving sight. To

see the hungry looks--the earnest gazes, that are darted through that

little bow-window--to see with what intense relish they snuff up the

odoriferous vapours which occasionally ascend through the gratings

beneath that little bow-window, or roll out in their full fragrance

through the doorway adjacent to that little bow-window, ensnaring at

every other burst some new, hungry, unsuspecting wayfarer--to see this

is indeed a moving sight. Seldom, very seldom is it the good fortune of

these watchful youths to revel in such luxuries as leg-of-beef soup, or

its rival, alamode; they are beings destined only to view such things

afar off, and make vain speculations upon their ravishing flavour; to

contemplate them as amalgams expressly prepared for the affluent--those

happy ones who can spend threepence and not feel it. Oh! what felicity

to be the master of such a shop!--to eat as much as he likes and nothing

to pay--to be able to feast his eyesight with the savoury contents of

those bright tin kettles when _not_ hungry--to dress in a white apron and

striped jacket, and to have supreme command of that ladle--to be able to

look sternly upon those perturbed spirits without, and disregard their

earnest whisperings of "Oh, don't it smell jolly; and warn't that piece

prime, though!"--to be able to go on fishing up the delicious morsels

with the same provoking coolness. Oh! to what joys are some men born!

But see. Here come two that have had their enjoyment; maybe each has

eaten a whole three-penn'orth. No longer do the fumes possess any charm

for them; they can now walk composedly past those magic kettles. Now,

two happy beings are entering the elysium--two whose delights are yet to

come. One of them is a dustman in a spotted neckerchief, red wrist-cuffs,

and a cap peculiar to gentlemen in that line of business; the other is

his lady, glorying in the euphonic name of "Doll."

See with what a majestic air he strides in and takes his seat, as if he

could buy up the whole establishment twice over if he chose. Hark with

what a lordly voice he calls the waiting-boy, whose benevolent master,

for services rendered, rewards him with ninepence per week, and the

gratuitous licking of all the crockery soiled on the premises.

"Vater!" again vociferates he of the neckerchief. "Yes, sir," is the

reply. "Didn't you heear me call vater afore?" "Sorry, sir, but the

gen'l'm'n as is just gone was agoin' to forget to pay, sir--that's all,

sir." "That's nuffin to do vith me. Ven I calls 'vater,' I vants yer. I

can't afford to vaste my precious breath to no purpose as the members

o' parliament do, so just prick up them long ears of your'n, and then I

think you'll grow the viser." "Yes, sir." "Vell, then, bring this here

leddy and me a freeha'penny plate each, and two penny crusties, and ven a

gen'l'm'n calls agin, listen to his woice, or maybe it's not unpossible

he may get his bit o' wittles at some other ho-tel." With another

professional "Yes, sir," the urchin vanishes from the presence.

Once more the purveyor's ladle dives into the bright tin kettle. Again he

tortures the hungry beholders outside the window--as they look on with

outstretched necks and spasmodic mouths--with glimpses of its treasures.

They see the choice bits of gristle but for an instant, and no more; for

whilst gazing at the sight, in a paroxysm of longing and fever of desire,

the plates are borne off to that vile dustman.

"Now, Mr. Imperence," says the lady, addressing the purveyor's protégé,

at the same time, with much dexterity and elegance, converting a fork

she has discovered upon the seat into a toothpick. "Now, Mr. Imperence,

I hope you've brought a little less paddywack in it than there was

yesterday. As Will says," she continues, stirring and scrutinising the

contents of the plate, "bless'd if this house ain't quite losing its

caroter." "Brayvo! Doll!" ejaculates her lord approvingly, as leaning

backwards with extended leg he draws from his pocket a coin of the realm.

"Here, jist valk yer laziness across the vay, and travel back agin vith

a pint of half-and-half. Now, vot do you stand ringing o' the money for?

Do you think other people is as vicked as yerself?"--"Th' s'picious

little warmint!" rejoins the lady, swallowing a spoonful of the soup

with alarming expedition, and fulfilling the purposes of a napkin with

the back of her hand. "Did you see wot a imperent grin the little beast

give?" "Never mind, old gal, you get on," responds the dustman, lounging

with both elbows upon the table, and regarding with an air of much

complacency the thin-visaged youths outside. "You get on, for I must soon

be astirring."

In due time the boy and the solution of malt and hops present themselves,

and after a hearty draught of the grateful beverage, the dustman evinces

a disposition to become musical, and whistles an air or two with perhaps

rather more of good will than of good taste. He suddenly looks round, and

discovering his lady has finished the plate of soup and the last drain

of beer also, summons forth the juvenile waiter from behind a little

partition, just at the mortifying moment when his tongue is making clean

the interiors and exteriors of two recently-used plates.

"Now, then, young imp, wot's the damage?"--"Sixpence, please sir," said

the waiter, vainly endeavouring to quiet his tongue, which keeps playing

round the sides of his mouth; "two plates and three loaves, please, sir."

"We aint had free, you cheating little wagabond!" screams the lady;

"we've only had two--you know that!" "Oh! beg pardon, ma'am," replies the

boy, after a sly lick; "it was t'other box where the gen'lm'n was as had

three. Fippence, then, please sir--two plates and two new'uns--fippence."

"You're a nice sample o' thievery for your age," says the dustman,

contemplating the boy with one eye, and then counting out four penny

pieces and four farthings with curious deliberation. "You're a nice

article to cast a gen'l'm'n's bill. Do you happ'n to know a cove in

London by the name o' Ketch--Jack Ketch?" "Yes, sir." "Vell then, the

next time as you go his vay, have the goodness to leave your card, and

say you was strongly recommended to him by me. Now, Doll."

Having delivered himself to this effect, greatly to the moral benefit of

the boy, who mechanically replies at the conclusion of it, "Yes, sir,"

with a dignified step he leads the way to the door, merely condescending,

as he places his foot upon the sill, to inform the proprietor, that "he's

blow'd if there's a worser prog-shop in the whole blessed vurld!"

ALPHA.

A FEW NOTES ON UNPAID LETTERS.

The penny-postage has already wrought an extraordinary change in the

public ideas of the value of money. Formerly, according to the old maxim,

ninepence was but ninepence; but even twopence has now become a sum

sterling, to demand which is to stir men's blood as violently as if the

said coins were flung in their faces. To put a letter into the post, and

an intimate friend to the expense of twopence, was, only the other day,

perfectly natural; under the present system, it is fiendish.

A letter sent free costs the sender a penny; to receive a letter not

pre-paid, is to expend double the amount. In the degree of attention

shown to this little fact, it is not impossible to find a test of the

principles of mankind--of the whole corresponding portion of creation at

least.

The last post-office returns show, that there are upon an average 7654

persons--monsters in the human form, we should rather say--in this

metropolis alone, who walk about day by day dropping stampless epistles

into ravenous letter-boxes, from sheer misanthropy--hatred of their

fellow-creatures; which feeling they are pleased to call forgetfulness,

stamplessness, or copperlessness, as convenience may dictate.

Never become enraged when you receive a missive from one of them--never

storm when you pay double--lest you should chance to justify where you

mean to condemn.

At unpaid letters look not blue,

Nor call your correspondent scamp;

For if you storm, he proves that you

Received his letter--_with_ "a stamp!"

Reflect seriously upon the character of such a correspondent. The man

whose letters are not pre-paid may be thus denounced:--

He is selfish, because he would rather you should pay twice, than that he

should pay once.

He would rather inflict an injury on his friend, than act fairly himself.

He is disloyal, because he ought to grace his letter with the head of his

Queen, and he declines doing so.

He prefers seeing his brother's _two_ pockets picked, to having a hand

thrust into one of his own.

He is an old fool, who wants to be thought young, and affects

carelessness, because it is a youthful fault.

Rather than take a bottle of wine out of his own cellar, he would drink

a couple at his neighbour's expense.

Sooner than experience a stamp on his toe, he would see his old father's

gouty feet trampled on.

He is ready to discharge a double-barrelled gun at anybody, to escape a

single shot at himself.

He would ride his friend's horse fifty miles, to save his own from a

journey of five-and-twenty.

To avoid an easy leap from the first-floor window, he would doom his

nearest connexion to jump from the roof.

Rather than submit to the privation of half a meal, he would subject any

human being to the misery of being dinnerless.

He is penny wise and twopence foolish. His penny saved is not a penny

got, since the damage he occasions will recoil upon himself.

He is more mindful of the flourishing finances of the postmaster-general,

than of the scanty funds of individuals who are dear to him.

He has no care for the revenue, for he shrinks from prompt payment.

He is dishonest, for rather than pay in advance he won't pay at all.

* * * * *

Above all, never listen to anything that may be urged in his defence.

Never attach the slightest importance to such arguments as these:--

He is the best of patriots, because he raises a sinking revenue.

He is the best of friends, for he impels all whom he addresses to do good

to the state at a slight cost to themselves.

He is the most loyal of men, for he cannot bear to part with his Queen's

likeness, even upon a penny-piece.

He is a gentleman, and never has vulgar halfpence within reach.

He is kind to street-beggars, and gives away the penny in charity before

he can get to the post-office.

He is well read in ancient literature, and knows that those who pay

beforehand are the worst of paymasters.

He is delicate-minded, and feels that a pre-paid letter implies a

supposition that the receiver would care about the postage.

His house is open to his acquaintances, who write so many notes there

that he never has a stamp to use.

He scorns to subject the portrait of his lady-sovereign to the indignity

of being tattooed like a New-Zealander.

He is a logician, and maintains that if a penny-postage be a good thing,

a twopenny-postage must be exactly twice as good.

He enables others to do a double service to their country, rather than by

doing half that service himself, prevent them from doing any.

He denies himself one pleasure that his fellow-creatures may have two.

He sympathises in the postman's joy at the receipt of twopence, as it

brings back old times, and restores to him his youth.

He is so anxious to write to those he loves, that the stamp, hastily

affixed, comes off in the letter-box.

Signing himself "your most obedient humble servant," of course he dares

not take the liberty of paying for what _you_ receive.

He is married, and leaves it to bachelors to pay _single_ postage.

Mark his hand-writing, nevertheless; and when his unpaid epistle arrives,

let your answer be, a copy of the "Times," supplement and all, sealed up

in an unstamped envelope.

FIRST DISCOVERY OF VAN _DEMONS_' LAND.

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT, C. B.

The vessel rose upon the mountain waves, with her bowsprit pointing

up to the northern star, and then plunged down into the trough of the

sea, as if she were diving like the porpoises which played across her

bows,--shaking and trembling fore and aft as she chopped through the

masses of water which impeded her wild course. Sea after sea struck her

on the chesstree or the beam, pouring over her decks and adding to the

accumulation of water in her hold. Her sides were without a vestige of

paint--her shrouds and standing rigging worn to less than inch-rope;

her running rigging as mere threads; the foresail, the only sail set,

as thin as gauze. Decay was visible in every part of her; her timbers

were like touchwood; even her capstan had half rotted away; and her

masts might have proved, if once ashore, a safe asylum to colonies of

ants and woodpeckers. How then could a vessel in this forlorn condition

continue afloat or contend with so fierce a gale? Because it was the

spectre-ship with her spectre-crew; Vanderdecken, in the Flying Dutchman,

still contending against the divine fiat, still persevering in his fatal

oath--that he would double the Cape. Vanderdecken stood at the break of

the weather-gangway with his chief officer, Jansen, by his side. The

crew were most of them sheltering themselves under the weather-side of

the deck; their large, flat, pale muffin faces sunk down deep in their

chests; shoulders, high and bony; their nether garments like bladders

half shrunken, as if there was nothing in them. When they shifted from

one part of the deck to the other, their broad, flat feet made no sound

as they passed along the planks, which were soft as pith.

Their dresses were now of the colour of mahogany or chocolate; seaweed

was growing here and there on their jackets; and to the seats of their

small-clothes, a crop of barnacles had become firmly attached. They all

looked melancholy and disheartened; and as they shivered, the rattle of

their bones was distinctly to be heard.

Vanderdecken put his speaking-trumpet to his lips--

"Another pull of the weather fore-brace," cried he.

"Yaw, yaw," replied the spectre-crew, put into motion by the order.

The boatswain piped belay--the sound could hardly be distinguished,

as from long use he had blown away much of the metal of which his

pipe was composed. Jansen, the mate, looked up at the fore-yard, and

then at Vanderdecken. He appeared at first irresolute when he looked

into the dogged countenance of Vanderdecken;--at last, he hitched up

his nether garments with both hands, and spoke--"It won't do, Captain

Vanderdecken,--and the men say it won't do--do you not, my lads, all of

you?"

"Yaw," was the hollow, melancholy response of the seamen.

"Donder und blitzen--what won't do?" replied the captain.

"We must bear up, Captain Vanderdecken," replied Jansen; "the ship leaks

like an old sieve; our hold is full of water; the men are worn out; every

sail we have has been bent and split; nothing but the foresail left. It's

no use, Captain Vanderdecken, we must bear up and refit."

"You forget mine oath," replied Vanderdecken, surlily. "Hold on, Jansen,

that sea is aboard of us."

Jansen shook his three jackets and ten pair of small-clothes, as soon as

the drenching had passed over.

"I tell you, Mynheer Vanderdecken, it won't do--we must bear up."

"Yaw, yaw," responded the crew.

"Mine oath!" cried the captain again, as he held on by one of the

belaying pins.

"Without sails, without provisions, and without fresh water on board, you

cannot keep your oath--which was to double the Cape. We must bear up,

refit, and then try it again."

"Mine Oath--I have sworn--I cannot--I will not bear up; Jansen, hold your

tongue."

"Well, you may keep your oath--for we will bear up for you against your

will."

"We will! Who will? Do you mutiny?"

"Yaw, yaw; we all mutiny," cried the sailors; "we have been now two years

trying to double this stormy Cape, and never had a dry jacket the whole

time; we must mend our small-clothes, and darn our stockings. For two

years and more we have had no fresh meat, and that is contrary to the

articles. Captain Vanderdecken we do not mutiny; but we will bear up;

with your will, if you please; if not, against your will."

"So you mutiny, you ungrateful rascals! Well, stop a moment, till I go

into my cabin; when I come out again, I will hear what you have to say,

and see if any man dares speak;" and Captain Vanderdecken in a great fury

rushed aft and went into his cabin.

"I know what he will do, my men," said Jansen; "he has gone for his

double-barrelled pistols, and will shoot us through the head;--we must

not let him come out again."

"Nein, nein," replied the seamen; and they ran to the cabin-doors, and

made them fast, so that Vanderdecken could not get out, and could shoot

nobody but himself.

"Now my lads," said Jansen, "put the helm up, and square the yards."

"What's the course to be, Mynheer Jansen," asked the man at the helm.

"Keep her right before it, my man; how's her head now?"

"About south-west."

"That will do--it will fetch somewhere--she walks fast through it.

Spielman, heave the log."

"What does she go?"

"Eighty-five miles an hour; but we must allow something for the heave of

the sea," replied the second mate.

"She don't sail as well as she did; but we are half full of water,"

replied Jansen.

[Illustration]

When a ship runs down more than two degrees of longitude in an hour, it

does not take her long to go half round the world. The Flying Dutchman,

as she flew along, was pursued by the demons of the storm visible to

the crew on board, although not to mortal eyes: some, with puffed-out

cheeks, were urging her through the water; others mouthed and yelled;

some kicked her stern in derision; others tumbled and curveted in the air

above her--ever keeping pace with the vessel, jibing and jeering at their

victory; for the Flying Dutchman no longer battled against the adverse

elements, but at last had yielded to them. The Dutchmen cared little for

the imps, they were used to them, and they smoked their pipes in silence,

all but Vanderdecken; the mutiny of the men had put his pipe out.

On the second day they had passed Cape Horn without perceiving it; the

wind veered more to the east, and they steered more to the northward.

On the fourth evening, the sailor on the look-out at the bow called out

"Land, hoh!" They steered right for it and entered a large bay; the

anchor, in many parts not thicker than a pipe-stem, was dropped, the

foresail clued up, and having first armed themselves, the seamen let the

captain loose. Vanderdecken was as savage as a bear. He ran out with a

pistol in each hand, but a pea-jacket was thrown over his head, and he

was disarmed.

"Cowardly villains!" exclaimed the captain, as soon as the jacket was

removed; "mutinous scoundrels--"

"We return to our duty, Captain Vanderdecken," replied the crew, "we will

obey your orders. What shall we do first? Shall we mend the sails, or

mend our clothes? Shall we darn our stockings, or go on shore for fresh

water? Shall we caulk the ship, or set up the rigging? Speak, Captain

Vanderdecken, you shall order us as you please."

"Tousend tyfels!" replied Vanderdecken, "go to----, all of you."

"Show us the way, captain, and we will follow you," replied the crew.

Gradually the captain's wrath was appeased; the ship required refitting

and watering; he never could have doubled the Cape in the state she was

in; the mutiny had prevented his breaking his oath--and now the seamen

were obedient.

"Shall we take possession of the land, in the name of his most Christian

Majesty?" said Jansen.

"Take possession in the name of his Satanic Majesty," replied

Vanderdecken, turning sulkily away.

The captain had not quite recovered his good-humour--he returned to his

cabin, mixed a tumbler of brandy and gunpowder, set fire to it, and drank

it off--this tisane cooled him down, and when he came out, the crew

perceived that all was right, so they went aft and touched their hats.

"Liberty on shore for an hour or two if you please," said they; "it's a

long while that we've been treading the planks."

"Yes, you may go; but I'll keelhaul every man who's not off to his work

by daylight--recollect that," replied Vanderdecken.

Donder und blitzen--we will all be on board, captain.

"They be queer sort of people in this country," observed Jansen, who had

been surveying the shore of the bay with his telescope. "I can't make

them out at all. I see them put their heads down close to the ground,

and then they stand up again; they wear their breeches very low, and yet

they jump remarkably well--Hundred tousend tyfels!" continued he, as he

looked through the telescope again; "there's one of them six feet high at

least, and he has jumped twenty yards. It can't be a woman--if she is,

what a springy partner she would make in a dance!"

"We'll take the fiddle and schnapps on shore, and have a dance with the

natives," cried the boatswain.

"Mind you behave civilly and make friends with them," said Vanderdecken;

"don't be rude to the women."

"Nein, Mynheer," replied the crew, who now lowered the boats and were

very soon pulling for the shore--every man with his pipe in his mouth.

The spectre-crew gained the beach--quitted the boat, and took up a

position under a high rock. The pipes were refilled--the schnapps handed

round, and very soon they were as jolly as ghosts could be.

"Come, Jansen, give us a song," cried Spielman; "and you, Dirk Spattrel,

keep company with your fiddle."

"My windpipe is not quite so fresh as it was once," said Jansen, putting

his bony fingers up to his neck, "but here goes:--

"In spite of wind and weather,

In spite of mountain waves,

If our timbers hold together

And we sink not to our graves;

The Cape we still will double, boys,

The stormy Cape we'll clear,--

Who cares for toil or trouble, boys,

Who thinks of watery bier?

"We left our wives behind us,

Bright India's realms to gain,

Let nothing then remind us

Of them and home again;

Close luff'd with well-set sails, lads,

We still our course will steer,

And beaten back by adverse gales, lads,

Cry 'Thus, boys, and so near.'

"Who cares for mocking billows,

Or demons of the deep?

One half sleep on our pillows,

While t'others deck-watch keep;

Who cares for lightning's flashing, boys,

Or noisy thunder's roar?

We laugh at wild spray dashing, boys,

And clouds that torrents pour.

"The ocean is the seaman's slave,

Though mutiny it may;

Our beast of burden is the wave

As well by night as day;

To round the Cape we'll reckon, lads,

For so our captain will'd;

Three cheers for Vanderdecken, lads,

His vow shall be fulfill'd."

"Yaw--yaw," cried the crew, "we'll round the Cape yet. Drink, boys,

drink--three cheers for Vanderdecken! We'll caulk the old ship; we'll

repair our old sail; we'll mend our old clothes; we'll darn our old

stockings, and then to sea again. Hurrah!--hurrah!"

Thus did they continue to drink and carouse until, if they had had any

eyes left in their head, they never could have seen visually; but ghosts

see mentally, and in the midst of their mirth and jollity, they saw some

tall objects coming down gradually and peeping over the rocks, probably

attracted by the fiddle of Dirk Spattrel.

"The natives!"--cried Jansen, "the natives!--now, my men, recollect the

captain's orders--don't be rude to the women."

"Yaw--nein--yaw!" replied the reeling spectres; "oh, nein, but we'll get

them down here and have a dance; that's civility all over the world."

"But I say," hiccupped Spielman, "what rum beggars these islanders be!

only look, they are coming down to us, all of their own accord!"

This was true enough; a herd of kangaroos, attracted by the sound of the

music, but of course not able to distinguish the spectre seamen, who,

like all others of a similar nature, were invisible to mortal and to

kangaroo eyes, had come down fearlessly to the foot of the rock where the

crew were carousing.

The Dutchmen had never seen an animal so tall which stood erect like a

man, and they were all very drunk; it is not therefore surprising that

they mistook the kangaroos for natives clothed in skins, and as the

broadest part of their dress was down on the ground, of course they

fancied they were the women belonging to the island.

"Strike up, Dirk Spattrel," cried Jansen, taking hold of the paws of one

of the kangaroos. "Wel sie valtz, Fraulein?"

The kangaroo started back, although it saw nothing, and of course said

nothing.

[Illustration]

"Don't be shamming modest, Fraulein. Now then, strike up, Dirk;" and

Jansen passed his arm round the kangaroo, which appeared very much

alarmed, but, seeing nothing, did not hop away. The rest of the seamen

seized the other kangaroos by the paws or round the body, and in a short

time such a dance was seen as never took place before. Some of the

kangaroos stood upon their thick tails and kicked at their invisible

partners with their hind feet, so as to send their ghostships many yards

distant; others hopped and jumped in their fright many feet from the

ground, taking their partners with them; others struggled violently to

disengage themselves from their unseen assailants. Shouts, laughter,

and shrieks resounded from the drunken crew at this strange junketting;

at last, in their struggling to detain the animals, and the attempts

of the frightened kangaroos to escape, the Dutchmen found themselves

all mounted on the backs of the kangaroos, who, frightened out of their

senses, bounded away in every direction. Thus did the ball break up,

every kangaroo carrying off its partner in a different direction. Dirk

Spattrel was the only one left, but there was a kangaroo also unemployed;

determined not to be left behind, the fiddler jumped on its back, and

clinging fast by his legs, commenced such a furious screeching upon his

instrument that the animal made a bound of nearly forty yards every

time, Dirk Spattrel playing on like one possessed, until he had not only

gained, but was far in advance of his brother riders. Away they all

went over hill and dale, the fiddle still shrieking in advance, until

the exhausted animals fell down panting, and the Dutchmen, tired with

their own exertions, and overcome with liquor, dropped asleep where they

fell,--for ghosts do sleep as well as mortal men.

The next morning there was no one on board at eight o'clock, and

Vanderdecken was full of wrath.

At last Dirk Spattrel, the fiddler, made his appearance with the remains

of his instrument in his hand.

"Donder und vind--where are the crew?" cried Vanderdecken.

"All gone off with the natives," replied the fiddler.

"I thought as much," roared Vanderdecken, "and now I'll give you

something for your good news."

Vanderdecken seized the end of the fore-brace and commenced a most

furious attack upon the shoulders of Dirk Spattrel. The blows were given

with great apparent force, but there was no sound, it was like buffeting

a bag of wind; notwithstanding Dirk worked round and round, twisting and

wincing, and crying, "Ah, yaw, ah!"

"Take that, scoundrel!" cried Vanderdecken, as much out of breath as a

ghost could be.

"They're coming off now, captain," said Dirk Spattrel, rubbing his

shoulders.

Jansen and the rest of the crew now made their appearance, looking very

sheepish.

"Where have you been, scoundrels?"

"Mynheer Vanderdecken," replied Jansen, "the island is peopled with

ghosts and goblins, and demons and devils; one of them seized upon each

of us and carried us off the Lord knows where."

"Fools!--do you believe in such nonsense as ghosts and spectres?" replied

Vanderdecken, "or do you think me such an ass as to credit you? Who ever

saw a ghost or spectre! Stuff, Jansen, stuff--you ought to be ashamed of

yourself."

"It's all true, captain; they came down and ran away with us. Is it not

so, men?"

"Yaw, yaw," said the crew, "it's all true, Captain Vanderdecken; they

leaped with us as high as the moon."

"Much higher," cried Dirk Spattrel.

"You're a parcel of lying drunken dogs," roared Vanderdecken; "I stop all

your leaves--you sha'nt go on shore again."

"We don't want," replied Jansen, "we will never go on shore at such a

place--full of devils--it is really Van Demon's Land;--we will have the

fiddle on the forecastle."

"Nein," replied Dirk Spattrel, mournfully showing the fragments.

"De tyfel," exclaimed Jansen, "dat is the worst of all;--now, men, we

will work hard and get away from this horrid place."

"Yaw, yaw," exclaimed the crew.

They did work hard; the sails were repaired, the ship was caulked, their

clothes were mended, their stockings were darned, and all was ready.

The wind blew fiercely from off shore, roaring through the woods, and

breaking down heavy branches.

Vanderdecken held his hand up--"I think there is a light air coming off

the land, Jansen--Man the capstan."

"Only a cat's paw; it will not fill our sails, Captain Vanderdecken,"

replied the mate.

The gale increased until it was at the height of its fury. The lightning

flashed, the thunder roared, and the rain came down in torrents. The wind

howled in its rage.

"I think we shall have a light pleasant breeze soon," said Vanderdecken.

"Heave round, my lads, a little more of it and we shall do. Hoist blue

Peter and fire a gun." A colourless flag, thin as a cobweb, went to the

mast-head; the match was applied to the gun, which was so honeycombed and

worn out, that the smoke came out of it in every direction as if it had

been a sieve. The anchor was hove up by the spectre crew; the sails were

set, and once more the phantom-ship was under weigh, once more bounding

through the waves to regain her position, and fulfil her everlasting

doom. And as she flew before the hurricane, the crew, gathered together

on the forecastle, broke out in the following chorus:--

Away, away! once more away,

To beat about by night and day;

With joy, the Demons' land we leave,

Again the mountain waves to cleave.

With a Ha--Ha--Ha!

Once more the stormy Cape we'll view,

Again our fearless toil pursue;

Defy the spirits of the air,

Who scoffing bid us to despair.

With their Yaw--Yaw--Yaw!

Ha--Ha--Ha!

[Illustration]

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.