CHAPTER V.

Ben Brailsford lost not a moment in raising the insensible Frank in

his arms, and was about to quit the ground, when he caught sight of

the prostrate lieutenant, who now began to recover something like

consciousness. He hesitated to depart, and that hesitation was fatal

to their freedom, for the enemy had rallied, and receiving a strong

reinforcement, became in turn the assailants. The allies were beaten

back, and in a few minutes Ben and his young charge were prisoners of

war under the guard of the very soldier who had so shortly before been

defeated by the seaman. In their progress to the rear they stopped at a

dilapidated house near Alcoule, which was occupied as an hospital, and

Frank's wound, which was not very serious, was dressed by a surgeon, and

the youth recovered.

In the same apartment were several wounded officers, amongst whom were

General O'Hara and the man who subsequently ruled the destinies of

France--Napoleon Buonaparte. But the young midshipman and his gallant

protector were not suffered to remain; they were placed with a number

of other prisoners under an escort, and proceeded on towards Paris. At

Louviers they were joined by another detachment from Toulon, and amongst

them was their old acquaintance Sambo. But the negro was not a prisoner:

with the cunning of his race, he had no sooner been captured than he

declared himself the servant of Monsieur Polverel, and that being forced

into the English service, he was endeavouring to escape. His story was

not at first credited; but being recognised by the younger Robespierre

(then acting as the chief of the commissariat before Toulon), who had

seen him in Paris, he was released. A plausible tale deceived the

Frenchman, and Sambo was sent round to join his master.

Ben hailed the black with great glee, and Frank addressed him, expressing

regret at his capture; but the wary negro pretended not to know them,

though when they halted for the night, he found means to supply them with

provisions, and clean straw to sleep upon.

At length they entered Paris, and were met by a revolutionary mob which

had just been witnessing the feeding of the guillotine with victims from

their own body. The appearance of the prisoners was hailed with loud

shouts, and numbers of both sexes rushed forward to wreak their still

unsatiated vengeance. Sambo had stood aloof; but when he saw the extreme

danger which his old friends were in, he joined them, fully determined

to afford all the protection in his power. The sight of a black seemed

to awaken a still greater degree of excitement amongst the rabble,

especially as the negro by his position manifested opposition to their

designs. Yells and shouts arose. "A bas les noirs!" "à la lanterne!"

"à la place de Grève!" "let us see what colour his blood is!" "an

experiment! an experiment!" "away with him to the guillotine!" "we have

had no negro yet! an experiment! an experiment!" A desperate rush was

made upon them, and both Sambo and the young midshipman were separated

from the rest and borne away by the mob.

It was perhaps well for Frank that he had been plundered of his uniform

soon after his capture; for such was the demoniac hatred of the English,

that, as an officer, he probably might have been torn to pieces. The

negro addressed them in their own language, announcing himself a native

of San Domingo, employed by Monsieur Polverel, but his voice was drowned

in the universal outcry, and then he joined in their shouts of "Vive la

Nation!" sung snatches of revolutionary songs, danced as they danced, and

tried by every means to appease their fury. But the wretches wanted to

see a black man die; it promised a new sensation.

The mob approached the Hôtel de Ville, when their progress was arrested

by a tall man who was supported on a post that elevated him so as to

be distinctly conspicuous to all. His dress was shabby in the extreme,

and on his head he wore the revolutionary cap, but both Frank and the

negro instantly recognised Monsieur Polverel. He spoke to the rabble,

and in a vehement address that drew down loud applause he approved of

their excesses, whilst the mob, to show that they had fresh victims to

immolate, thrust forward the negro and the youth, so that he might see

them. Polverel instantly descended, and, rushing amongst the throng,

clasped the negro in his arms.

"What do you?" exclaimed he; "in your just fury the eye of reason is

dimmed--is he not a man and a brother?" and again he embraced him, to the

great surprise of the black. "Cease, my friends," continued Polverel;

"know ye not that deputies have arrived from San Domingo to sit in the

great council of the nation? This is one of them; I am a member of the

Society of 'Les Amis des Noirs,' and know him well." He turned to Sambo,

"Pardon, citizen deputy, the zeal of the people." He took the arm of the

astonished negro, and pinching it most unmercifully, shouted "Vive le

peuple, vive la nation;" the _impressive_ hint was not lost, for Sambo's

voice rose high in chorus.

In an instant the scene was changed, the merciless wretches were diverted

from their purpose, and the negro whom they would have murdered in

pastime but for this fortunate intervention was raised upon the shoulders

of two stout men and greeted with cheers of welcome; they bore him along

to the Hôtel de Ville. In his joy for deliverance Sambo forgot his young

master, but it was only for the moment; and in turning to look for him,

he saw that Monsieur Polverel had taken him under his protection, and was

leading him away from the throng; for the Frenchman had not forgotten

the obligation he was under to Frank for saving him from the fury of an

English mob; he withdrew him cautiously from the dangerous company he

was in, and placing the youth under the charge of a friend, followed the

rabble in order to perfect the rescue of his servant.

The person to whose care Frank was entrusted was an elderly man

apparently verging upon sixty years of age, but there was a keenness

in his eye and a vivacity in his manner that manifested an active

and intelligent mind; his dress was slovenly, but he wore a handsome

tri-color sash round his loins, and carried a red cap in his hand. At

first he spoke to Frank in French, but something occurring to displease

him, he broke out into broad English, and muttered his anathemas against

the cause.

"You are an Englishman, then," said Frank, with symptoms of disgust which

did not escape the other's notice.

"Thou art right," returned the man; "I am an Englishman by birth, but a

citizen of the world--a friend to the whole human race on the principles

of universal liberty. Expatriated and driven from my country, this noble

and enlightened nation has adopted me; and here in brotherly affection I

can carry out into practice my theory of the rights of man. What is life,

my young friend, without the blessings of freedom!"

At this moment a municipal officer, attended by three or four

subordinates, stepped up to Frank's companion, and, grasping him by the

arm, uttered "Citizen Paine, you are our prisoner."

"By whose authority?" demanded the Englishman, his face assuming a deadly

paleness.

"The authority is here," returned the officer, showing a paper with

the signature of Robespierre attached to it, and, a fiacre immediately

stopping by their side, citizen Paine was hurried into it and driven off

to the Luxembourg, where, in the chamber which had been occupied by many

a victim to the revolutionary mania, he contemplated the paternal regard

of the nation that had adopted him, and sighed for the blessing of that

freedom of which he had so vainly boasted. He had sat in judgment on the

mock trial of the unfortunate Louis, but had given his vote against the

monarch's death. This had rendered the ambitious dictator his enemy,

and an opportunity was soon sought to take his life. The egotistical

boasting of Thomas Paine afforded a pretext for arresting him; he was

sent to prison, and would have been sacrificed by "his friends" but for

an accident which saved him.

Frank, hungry and thirsty, destitute of money, and but with few rags

to cover him, now stood alone in one of the by-streets of Paris. As

evening came on, he crept into the cellar-way of an uninhabited house.

At daylight he emerged from his concealment, and proceeded in the same

direction in which he had been going when parted from his guide. It was

yet early when, on turning a corner, he beheld a well-looking young man,

accompanied by a stout Amazonian female, who were hurrying forward, but,

on seeing the youth, suddenly stopped, and Frank felt his arm grasped by

the woman, whilst a chuckle of delight escaped from the young man, who

uttered in a whisper--

"Yah no for peak-a me, Massa Frank, hearee? Dere him, massa, for me

behind--tan lilly bit become for you."

Frank stared with astonishment--the voice was that of Sambo, but the skin

was fair. "How--what is this?" demanded he.

"Oh, it's all ship-shape enough, Master Frank," said the woman in a

masculine tone, and hitching up her petticoats in true nautical style.

"I'm bless'd, young gentleman, but you do shake a cloth or two in the

wind--but there, what's the odds so as you're happy? Mountseer Pulthebell

is coming up astarn, and a precious cruise they've had arter you."

"Yah no for tand palaver here, Missy Ben," muttered Sambo, with a grin of

mirth. "Golly me black deputy now, and dem debbil take off white head at

'em gullemtine, no sabby de citizen nigger," and he pushed forward with

his companion.

In spite of all his mishaps Frank could not refrain from laughing at the

awkwardness of the pretended female, who straddled along with swinging

arms, the petticoats evidently embarrassing the wearer. In a few minutes

the youth was joined by Monsieur Polverel, who cautioned him to preserve

silence and follow his movements. Shortly afterwards he stopped before

the entrance of a mean-looking building, and knocking at the door, was

immediately admitted. Frank followed, and was ushered into an apartment

poorly furnished, where he found Sambo and the seaman, and learned

that Polverel, by means of his influence and some little intrigue, had

procured Ben's release, and disguised in woman's clothes, under the

guidance of Sambo, whose face was concealed beneath a mask, had got him

clear away from present danger.

Refreshment was ordered, and Polverel led Frank through the house to some

back premises, where the apartments were fitted up in the most elegant

style, everything displaying an air of luxury which strongly contrasted

with the appearance of the front building, which served as a blind to the

populace, who had declared a lasting enmity to all things beyond their

own sphere of enjoyment, though themselves were the principal sufferers

through the want of demand for their manufactures and the consequent

stoppage of industrious labour.

Here Frank and Ben remained, and Polverel renewed his attempts to

undermine the youth's loyalty; he took him with him to the clubs; offers

of lucrative appointments were made, powerful inducements were held out,

but all were firmly rejected. He loved his country too well to swerve

from his allegiance; his heart yearned to see his mother once again;

but had there not been these incentives, the horrible atrocities he had

witnessed were too deeply impressed upon his mind to permit a willing

companionship with the wretches who perpetrated and sanctioned them.

In his evening excursions Frank had frequently encountered a tall man

whose features were familiar to him, and more than once or twice he

had observed him enter the house of Monsieur Polverel. An indefinable

curiosity induced him to watch this man, and being on one occasion in

a remote part of the room, when he and the deputy came in, he remained

perfectly still and undiscovered, and was not long in ascertaining by

their conversation that the stranger was an Englishman in the pay of the

Jacobins, and had brought over some important intelligence relative to

the designs of the English government, which he was now in a traitorous

manner betraying to the enemy.

Frank scarcely suppressed an indignant exclamation, but fortunately he

did suppress it, and rose to quit the room. This was the first intimation

they had of his presence, and as he passed the spy the youth looked

boldly in his face. In an instant the man's countenance underwent a

change; there was the peculiar rolling of the eye which Frank had never

forgotten, and lawyer Brady was revealed before him.

The young midshipman now resolved to attempt an escape, and Polverel

finding that all his endeavours to detain him were useless, at last

furnished him with the means. Stores were about to be forwarded to the

Army of the North, and it was proposed that the seaman and his young

officer should accompany them; the former habited as a Dutchwoman,

the latter as a volunteer, taking their chance to slip away wherever

and whenever they could; but the very night these arrangements were

completed, Polverel was seized by order of his _friend_, Robespierre, a

sham trial was hurried over, and the next day he was consigned to the

guillotine.

Frank did not delay another instant (for he was aware that the property

of the deputy would be plundered by the populace), and being provided

with the papers furnished by Polverel, set out on his journey,

accompanied by Ben in short petticoats, wooden shoes, and a large hat;

his whiskers were shaved off, but he would not part with his tail, and it

was therefore braided up round his head, and a fine buxom vrow he made.

Sambo had no inducement to remain behind; so securing what money he could

find, and taking his fiddle, he joined his young master, and all three

proceeded on their way. The stores for the army were not ready, and they,

therefore, resolved to travel as "independent" characters.

In the evening they stopped at a small village, about thirty miles from

Paris, and entering the kitchen of a cabaret, they ordered supper; but

finding they were objects of notice, Frank directed Sambo to tune his

violin, and he chanted forth a chansonette with much taste and feeling,

to the great gratification of several young demoiselles, who honoured the

performance with applause, and pronounced it "bien bon!"

Sambo next struck up a lively tune, and footing it first to one and then

to another, the company caught up the humour, and to dancing they went

with great glee. Frank, selecting a pretty little girl for a partner,

joined in the sport; and Ben, in short, quilted, red petticoats,

nearly up to his knees--his stout sustainers covered with blue worsted

stockings and heavy sabots--with a tight-fitting woman's jacket and red

neckerchief as a body-dress, and his pipe raised in the air, footed it

merrily enough to Sambo and his violin. Frank, in a jacket with silver

lace on the collar and cuffs, and diminutive worsted epaulettes on the

shoulders--striped gingham trousers, and a tri-color sash round his

loins, wheeled with grace and agility through the mazy figures with

his beautiful little partner. She was tastefully arrayed in a white

frock, embroidered with flowers, (for it was the festival of her tutelar

saint,) and her hair was wreathed with vine-leaves, jasmine, and roses.

Several young females, who had come to visit her on the occasion, were

clad in their best attire, and, as a matter of course, the youths of the

neighbourhood had joined them after their day's labour; and now they were

all in motion, till dark night put an end to the revelry; and the trio,

accommodated in a barn, soon forgot their cares and their pleasures in

sweet, refreshing sleep.

The next morning the three quitted the cabaret--at the door they were

accosted by a gendarme; but the youth told his ready tale, showed

his papers, and they received no further molestation. Numerous were

their adventures as they progressed--sometimes in extreme danger of

detection--at others, enjoying themselves in perfect confidence. Two days

they passed in the woods without food, journeying only by night.

[Illustration: Frank, Ben, and Sambo, amusing the Natives.

London, Tilt & Bogue, 86 Fleet Street.]

At length they abandoned the direct road, and kept away to the left

for the coast; hoping to reach some place in the neighbourhood of

Blankenberg, a fishing village on the sea-shore. This they accomplished,

and arrived about midnight on the beach, which they crept along, at

some distance from the vessels, lest they should be detected. Not a

boat to suit their purpose could they find at liberty--all were fast

secured by chains, and their oars removed, as if some such visitation as

the present had been feared. In this dilemma they cautiously returned

to the village, and searched amongst the cottages; but here they were

again doomed to disappointment, and were about to retreat to some place

of concealment till the following night, when the sound of voices was

heard in a small cabin, and Frank, stealthily approaching to listen, at

length got near enough to a chink in the window to see the interior,

and ascertained that an Englishman, with two females, was endeavouring,

by the offer of a considerable sum, to bribe three or four fishermen to

convey them either to Holland or to England. The men at first seemed

disinclined to listen to any proposals that might bring upon them the

vengeance of the police, and they talked of surrendering them to the

authorities.

"That will at once seal my doom!" exclaimed the Englishman, in agony.

"Have not the wretches denounced me, because of the money they owed me,

and their base designs upon my child? Oh, God! do thou appear for me in

this trying moment!"

The fishermen consulted together in whispers, whilst the females clung to

the Englishman; and Frank ascertained by their discourse that the elder

lady was the wife, and the younger the daughter, of the man. Again the

latter earnestly urged his appeal to their generosity, their humanity,

and every better principle of human nature--the ladies, too, joined

their entreaties. Frank was half-tempted to the hazardous experiment of

bringing up his companions and forcing them into compliance.

At length the fishermen consented to embark them for Holland, or any

place occupied by the Allies, on condition that they gave up all the

money and every valuable in their possession previously to their

departure, and insured a still further sum on reaching a place of safety.

Elated at the prospect of escape, the terms were immediately complied

with; and now Frank became aware of the extreme danger he should have

incurred had he attempted to attack them, for whilst the Englishman and

the females were divesting themselves of their cash and every valuable

they had, three other athletic men came from an inner apartment--making

seven in all--to claim their share of the spoil.

As soon as the division had taken place, they departed to launch their

boat, commanding the Englishman and the ladies to remain quietly in the

cottage till they were sent for. Frank concealed himself in an adjacent

shed, occupied by his companions, till they were gone.

"It's all plain enough, young gen'l'man," whispered Ben; "they will get

the great vessel afloat--come ashore in the punt for the passengers--we

must seize on her, shove off, and capture the big craft--then take the

ladies on board, and make sail for the North Foreland--though the wind is

dead again us; but what's the odds--"

"That," interrupted Frank, "could only be effected by leaving our

countryman and the ladies behind; an idea I will not for one moment

entertain. Remain here--if I want you, I will whistle--then come without

delay."

The youth returned to the cottage, and addressing the gentleman in

French, he acknowledged that he had overheard their scheme, and

earnestly implored him to permit himself, a female servant, and a negro,

to embark in the same vessel, provided they could gain the consent of the

crew. The gentleman steadfastly refused--"he would not endanger his own

safety by acceding to it."

Rather mortified at being thus harshly treated--especially as he knew

that he might ensure his own safety by leaving them behind--Frank would

have answered indignantly, but he preferred remonstrance, avowed himself

a royalist desirous of joining the Allies, and assured him that no danger

could occur by giving his consent. The man continued inflexible, till

the ladies, won by the youth's earnestness, interceded, and an unwilling

assent was obtained.

The light of coming day had become visible when one of the fishermen

returned, and great was his apparent vexation to find other suppliants

for a passage in the vessel. However, he offered but slight objection,

and in a few minutes they were all down on the beach. Here a difficulty

arose as to their embarkation. The punt would carry no more than two

passengers beside the men that pulled, and the gentleman was unwilling

to leave either his wife or his daughter behind, nor would the females

consent to go without him.

"Do not fear," said one of the fishermen. "Time is precious with us--we

ought to be all on board now; and rely upon it we are not such fools as

to leave any one behind to betray our movements."

The latter argument was the most conclusive, and the gentleman embarked

with his wife, leaving his daughter to the care of Frank, who spoke

soothingly to her, and tried to allay her alarm; he took off his jacket

and wrapped it round her shoulders, as a protection from the cold air,

and in her fear she clung to his arm whilst he supported her.

The punt was not long away--all were soon aboard--the anchor was weighed,

and they hauled off from the shore. The father with the females took up

his station abaft, whilst Frank and his party occupied the midships,

and the seaman and the negro were soon fast asleep; but the young

midshipman's thoughts were too pleasantly occupied by his escape, and the

prospects of an interview with his mother, to compose himself to slumber.

Another object too now presented itself; it was the fair young creature

who had so confidingly clung to him on the beach. However, to prevent

observation, and the better to indulge in meditation, he closed his eyes,

and pretended to be oblivious to all that passed. Whilst thus reclining,

he overheard a sort of muttered conversation between two of the fishermen

which, though he could only catch disjointed sentences, apprised him

that treachery was at work; and he now readily understood the reason

that greater obstruction had not been offered to the embarkation. The

crew doubted the promise to receive further recompense, and expecting

to be rewarded for delivering them up as prisoners, had come to the

determination of making for a French port. Frank's ears tingled whilst

listening to this avowal of abominable treachery, but he cautiously

abstained from exciting any suspicion that he was aware of their designs.

He determined to watch them narrowly, and when opportunity offered, he

got close to Ben, who, on making a tack to windward, had roused up, and

without mentioning particulars, told him "they were betrayed unless they

could master the crew, and directed him to be ready for an attack at a

moment's warning." He then briefly conveyed a similar communication to

Sambo, and vainly tried to catch the eye of the gentleman abaft for the

purpose of inciting him to wariness.

The breeze was to the northward, with a lee tide running, so that, though

apparently working to windward between the sands and the shore, they were

rapidly drifting down towards Ostend, which was then in the hands of the

French. Ben comprehended the whole of this in an instant, and saw, what

the others, from their want of nautical knowledge, did not observe, that

the helmsman frequently edged off from the wind, so as to facilitate

their approach to Ostend, which was soon upon their lee-bow, and the boat

standing for the harbour.

The gentleman, wholly insensible to the danger which threatened them, sat

between his wife and daughter, and was speaking words of cheering import,

relative to their being rescued from the enemy, and the prospect of soon

enjoying the comforts of their native land. Everything was perfectly

tranquil in the vessel, which was lightly dancing over the smooth waters

and breaking the sun-light upon its surface. He also remarked upon the

quietude of their fellow-passengers, and even ventured a joke upon the

apparently solid countenance of the Dutchwoman, when suddenly--in an

instant, as if madness ruled the moment, they saw her spring to her feet,

and, grasping the pump-brake in her hand, she flourished it right and

left, laying a fisherman prostrate at every blow. Sambo also grappled an

opponent, whom he lifted over the gunwale, hurled into the sea and then

attacked another, whilst Frank rushed aft to the steersman, shouting to

the gentleman, "We are Englishmen, it is a French port under our lee, and

we are betrayed; for the sake of those you love--hurrah!--do not remain

inactive."

Nothing could exceed the amazement of the gentleman at this wholly

unexpected occurrence, and his astonishment was still more increased

when the supposed Dutchwoman, came bounding aft, flourishing her weapon,

and shouting in the nautical language of his native land, as he hurled

the steersman from his place,--"Ware hause, you lubber--what's the odds,

so as you're happy?" and taking the tiller, he put the vessel right

before the wind. "Bear a hand, Master Frank," continued Ben, "and keep

her as she goes: and I'm saying, ould gentleman, jist you show yourself

smart, and let 'em know as you've a little English blood in your veins.

Hurrah!--what's the odds?"--and again he rushed forward to assist Sambo,

who was stoutly contesting it with his foes.

British prowess triumphed--the struggle, though severe, did not last

long--the Blankenbergers were conquered; the punt was cast adrift for

those who were swimming--the remainder were bound hand and foot; the

sails were trimmed to stand off from the land; and great indeed was

the gratitude of the husband and the father, and still more delightful

were the acknowledgments of the ladies, when they ascertained the

great service that had been rendered to them. Mutual explanations

ensued--hearty congratulations were given; and in the afternoon they

fell in with an English brig which received them all on board. The

fishermen, after a sound rope's-ending for their treachery, had their

vessel restored; and the rescued party were the next morning gratified by

entering the river Thames.

[Illustration]

THE MUFFIN-MAN

A little man who muffins sold,

When I was little too,

Carried a face of giant mould,

But tall he never grew.

His arms were legs for strength and size,

His coat-tail touch'd his heels;

His brows were forests o'er his eyes,

His voice like waggon-wheels.

When fallen leaves together flock,

And gusts begin to squall,

And suns go down at six o'clock,

You heard his muffin call.

Born in the equinoctial blast,

He came and shook his bell;

And with the equinox he pass'd,

But whither none could tell.

Some thought the monster turn'd to dew,

When muffins ceased to reign,

And lay in buds the summer through

Till muffin-time again.

Or Satyr, used the woods to rove,

Or ev'n old Caliban;

Drawn by the lure of oven-stove

To be a muffin-man.

The dwarf was not a churlish elf,

Who thought folks stared to scoff;

But used deformity itself

To set his muffins off.

He stood at doors, and talk'd with cooks,

While strangers took his span,

And grimly smiled with childhood's looks

At him, the muffin-man.

When others fled from nipping frost,

And fled from drenching skies,

And when in fogs the street was lost,

You saw his figure rise.

One night his tinkle did not sound,

He fail'd each 'custom'd door;

'Twas first of an eternal round

Of nights he walk'd no more.

When, borne in arms, my infant eye

The restless search began,

The nursery-maid was wont to cry,

"See John, the muffin-man!"

My path, with things familiar spread,

Death's foot had seldom cross'd;

And when they said that John was dead,

I stood in wonder lost.

New muffin-men from lamp to lamp,

With careless glance I scan;

For none can ever raze thy stamp,

Oh John, thou muffin-man!

Thou standest snatch'd from time and storm,

A statue of the soul;

And round thy carved and goblin form,

Past days--past days unroll.

We will not part--Affection dim

This song shall help to fan;

And Memory, firmer bound to him,

Shall keep her Muffin-man.

A TIGER-HUNT IN ENGLAND.

"Who has let loose my tiger?" demanded Sir Pimpleton Pettibones of his

butler, whom he had summoned to the breakfast parlour by the sound of the

bell in a manner that indicated great impatience. "Who has dared to let

him loose? I locked him up last night for robbing the larder, and this

morning he is missing; where is he?"

The butler obsequiously bowed. "Extremely sorry, Sir Pimpleton; but

really, Sir Pimpleton, I am ignorant and innocent of the whole affair."

"Somebody must have let him out," responded the irascible baronet, "and

I shall be too late for the meet. Let search be instantly made--such a

tiger as that is not to be caught every day."

The butler bowed and withdrew; whilst his master, arrayed in a scarlet

hunting-coat, sat down to his repast, venting imprecations upon the

tiger, whom he declared it was his determination to catch before he

should accomplish further mischief. This happened at a beautiful mansion

in Kent, whither Sir Pimpleton had gone down for the hunting season,

taking his tiger (who was a great favourite) with him. Whilst the

search was still in progress, word was brought to the baronet that the

"creature" had been seen early that morning in the stable-yard, and a

beautiful swift-footed pony was missing, which--as the tiger had shown

great partiality to horse-flesh--it was supposed he had made away with.

"Hillio--hillio!--quick--saddle every horse in the stables," shouted the

baronet, "we'll scour the country--the game is up--hark forward--hark

forward!--yoicks, tally ho!" and away he went with grooms and keepers

down to the stalls, where he himself saddled his best hunter, and in a

few minutes he was flying away across the park, with a long straggling

tail like a comet after him, towards the village.

"Have you seen my tiger?" demanded the baronet, reining up his gallant

steed in front of the Pettibones Arms, and addressing the landlord--a

red, platter-faced man of some seventeen stone; "have you seen him? he

broke cover and stole away this morning--he must be prowling somewhere

about--have you seen him?"

"Lor love yer honour, no," responded mine host, with a grin of

astonishment and stupidity. "Them tigers are thirsty sowls; but he's

never been here to drink."

"Hillio, hillio!" shouted Sir Pimpleton, as his attendants came riding

up, "handle your whips and follow me;" and dismounting, he entered the

hostelry, where the good dame was busy in culinary operations. "Where's

my tiger?" was again the cry. "He's crouching somewhere here."

"Now laws ha' mercy upon us, I hope not, yer honour!" exclaimed the old

dame in dreadful alarm. "What, a real tiger, yer honour? Be em a live un

or a stuffed un?"

"Fool!" vociferated the baronet, "a live one to be sure, with large

goggle eyes and a fang tooth. I must find his lair." The entire premises

were examined, but the tiger was not there.

"To horse, to horse," commanded the baronet, to the great relief of

the old lady; "and hark ye, dame, if he should come here, shut him up

directly, and let me know. Away, my men, away." Sir Pimpleton rushed

forth, mounted his horse, and away he scoured like a madman, or what is

next of kin to a madman, a break-neck squire.

"Jeames, Jeames," called the hostess as soon as the cavalcade had

departed, "come in, Jeames, fasten the door, and get thees blunderbusk,

and load un wi' bullocks" (bullets probably), "and if so be the crittur

comes this way, shoot un, Jeames--shoot un without benefit of clargy."

On rode the baronet full pelt, and tailing after him followed

half-a-dozen attendants in scarlet coats and black velvet caps. The

coverts were tried, every nook was searched, but without effect, and they

soon afterwards entered another village.

"My tiger! my tiger!" exclaimed the baronet as he burst into the first

cottage, which contained a female with five or six children playing and

sprawling about the floor. "Have you seen the tiger? he has broke loose,

and cannot be far off."

"The tiger!" repeated the woman, terribly alarmed for the safety of her

infants, which she speedily gathered up and thrust into a capacious

closet. "Oh dear, what shall we do!" The cottage was searched, as were

also several others, to the great consternation of the villagers. Then

arose the cries of mothers for "Johnnies" and "Billies" and "Kitties" and

"Sukies" and "Tommies," to collect the stray lambs of the fold, or, in

other words, the toddling children that were playing on the green; and in

a few minutes not a soul of that population was to be seen.

A turnpike was close at hand, and thither Sir Pimpleton galloped; and

after a few words with the 'pikeman, his sonorous voice was heard.

"Hillio--hillio!--stole away--hark forward--hark forward!" and clapping

spurs to his steed, onwards they pressed, flying over hedges and ditches

to make a short cut.

Now it so happened that the hounds of a neighbouring squire were out, and

as the muster at the meet was pretty strong, and Sir Pimpleton was well

known for an eccentric, several members of the hunt rode up and inquired

"what game they had started?"

"A tiger! a tiger!" shouted the baronet; "we're hard upon him--hark

forward--yoicks--tally ho!"

A tiger-hunt in England was something new in the annals of sporting; and

though they thought it strange to chase the animal without dogs, yet they

were aware that Sir Pimpleton had passed many years in the East Indies,

and probably accustomed to the sport, they concluded it was "all right;"

and desirous of witnessing the novelty, many joined in the pursuit,

amongst whom was the master of the hounds and his pack.

The cavalcade drew near a large town, and in they dashed, the baronet

still shouting, out of breath, "The tiger!--the tiger! Have you seen my

Ben--g-g-gal?" The words were quickly caught up; and the announcement

that a fierce Bengal tiger was adrift in the town spread like wildfire.

The tradesmen shut up their shops; the inhabitants fastened their doors;

there was a brief running to and fro in terror, but the streets were

speedily cleared; and from many an up-stairs window was protruded a

blunderbuss, a fowling-piece, or a pistol, the proprietors of which were

eagerly intent upon destroying the furious animal, though some few even

thus elevated scarcely considered themselves safe from his bound. The cry

of the hounds, the shouting of the hunters, the rattling of horses' hoofs

upon the stones, and the wailings of women, with the cheers of the men,

produced a clamour such as had never before been heard in that place.

Mothers clasped their children and concealed them in beaufets, or turned

them up in press-bedsteads--fathers armed themselves with defensive

weapons, and a body of volunteers mustered in the inn yard with loaded

muskets, taking good care however to keep the gates shut.

"Have you seen the tiger?" was still the cry; and Sir Pimpleton having

obtained some information, "Stole away--hark forward," was again the word.

They shot up Shooter's-hill without stopping to breathe, and when on the

brow, an animal, with apparently a blood-red back, was seen scouring

towards Blackheath. The baronet, with the lungs of a northerly gale,

uttered the "view halloo," which was caught up and repeated by the rest.

The hounds gave tongue and made play. It was a beautiful burst. The whip

and spur were plied. The steeds, though jaded, knew well by instinct that

the "warmint" was in sight, and kept up their speed, and down the hill

they swept like a mountain torrent.

But the tiger was not to be easily caught. There was no jungle or hollow

to hide in, and away he scudded over the heath with great velocity, as

if sensible that the enemy was behind him. Once he was missed, and it

was supposed had run to earth in a sand-pit; but the next moment he was

seen on the other side climbing the bank to shorten his distance, and in

a few minutes he was over the brow of the hill past the Green Man, and

descending at a tremendous rate. The hunters followed hard upon him, the

hounds in full cry, and again rose the shout from a dozen voices--"The

tiger! the tiger!" But the tiger had disappeared amongst the horses, and

they had now no clue to his advance, except from the amazed spectators,

who hastily cleared the road at the novel and somewhat alarming

spectacle. "The tiger! the chase!" exclaimed Sir Pimpleton. Three or four

hands were extended to point out the direction he had taken; and those

who had not "dropped off" still followed the hounds. Away they rattled

through the Broadway, Deptford, amidst cries and cheers of "Go it, you'll

catch him directly. Hurrah!" And they once more caught sight of the

tiger on the line of road towards New Cross. Cheerily again sounded the

"view halloo,"--the animal seemed to be sensible that his pursuers were

spurring in hot haste after him--the turnpike-men enjoyed the sport and

threw open their gates--hounds and horses, and men rattled through--the

Bricklayers' Arms, the Elephant and Castle, Westminster-bridge, saw them

rush past like a whirlwind, the tiger still in advance; nor did the chase

cease till the baronet's town mansion, close to St. James's Park, was

reached. A reeking pony stood at the door, which was open. Sir Pimpleton

dismounted, cheering the hunters on--the game was all alive; the whole

threw themselves from their horses, and hounds and men following,

the baronet bounced into the drawing-room, where Lady Pettibones was

receiving morning visits from dashing young spinsters and elderly

dowagers.

"The tiger--my tiger," exclaimed Sir Pimpleton, in a wild and loud voice,

"he has broke loose, and is now in the house."

Dreadful was the consternation at this announcement--a mouse crossing

the floor would have been terrific, but to have a savage and sanguinary

tiger ranging about, the thought was horrible. Shrieks and screams

abounded--some ladies threw themselves into the arms of the gentlemen,

others ran hurriedly about, and many, in their terror, could not

distinguish between the ferocious animal and a hound, so as to tell "vich

vos the tiger and vich vos the dog." At length, one of the whippers-in

rushed through the door-way, exclaiming "We've got him, your honour,

they're bringing him along." The confusion grew tenfold. Screams and

shrieks mingled with the loud cheers of the hunters, and the mouthing of

the hounds, when a couple of grooms appeared, dragging in a diminutive

being in a scarlet jacket, buckskin tights, and white top-boots, with

several dirty and ragged fish hanging by a long string in his hand; they

placed him in the middle of the floor right before the baronet, and it

was with difficulty that the hounds could be kept off.

"You rascal," vociferated Sir Pimpleton, raising his whip, "what

do you mean by leading me such a dance! Didn't I lock you up for

thieving--didn't I?"

"Vy yes, your honour," responded this perfect miniature of man; "but

afore that, you ordered me to carry a bundle o' red-herrings to town, and

give this here letter to deliver to her ladyship, and, when I came back,

to bring down the cab; so I only obeyed orders." He held up the letter,

and whilst trying to conceal the tattered fish, he looked smirkingly in

the baronet's face, and added, "I say, your honour, that 'ere pony's

worth his weight in gowld."

"Be off then, and take every care of him," said the more appeased

baronet, looking at the fish and laughing. The lad, winking at the

grooms, waited for no further orders. "And now, ladies and gentlemen,"

continued Sir Pimpleton, "that is Ben Gall, my tiger. Men, take off

the hounds; we have had a capital run, gentlemen, which, no doubt,

must have given you good appetites. Your horses shall have every

attention--refreshment shall be immediately brought up for yourselves--a

bumper of brandy round shall open the entertainment, and since we are all

here together, why we'll wind up the day like true sons of Nimrod after

an English TIGER HUNT."

OMNIBUS CHAT.

Our monthly chat commences with a short dissertation on a very ample

topic--

INGENIOUS ROGUERIES.

It may be remarked by any one who chooses to note the fact, that the most

ingenious rogueries are seldom those which succeed best. The deep-laid

scheme will often explode of itself; the right hand that never lost its

cunning will sometimes miss its reward; the genius of knavery will walk

barefoot, with an appetite as keen as itself; while the common bungler,

the blundering rascal, the scoundrel who is idiot also, shall succeed in

all his stupid, shallow, contemptible designs, and ride home to dinner

quite convinced that, though not strictly honest, he is astonishingly

clever, or _talented_--for that is, in these cases, the more orthodox

word.

It is not the most skilful burglar that safely worms his way to the

butler's pantry, or insinuates with most success his hand into the

plate-chest; nor is it the most dexterous picker of pockets who is

permitted longest to ply his art, or earliest retires upon a Pelion of

purses piled upon an Ossa of bandannas. The blockheads in this, as in

some other professions, often carry off the palm. "Whom the gods love die

young." The thief of high and cultivated talent, the swindler of fine

taste and exquisite discernment, is frequently destined to suffer early

the fate which considerably later overtakes the fool. Somehow the world

does not do justice even to its rogues. It refuses to be taken in by the

profound rascal, while it readily falls a victim to the veriest dunce in

the great School for Scoundrels.

While we see so many expert horsemen breaking the necks of their nags, or

throwing involuntary summersets;--while we observe how extremely careful,

and how eminently well skilled, is every captain of every steamer that

happens to figure in a horrible collision in broad daylight;--while we

are called upon to bear witness to the excessive caution and singular

scientific proficiency of every soul associated with a railway; and

have to notice besides that all their care, and all their science, has

invariably been exercised whenever a frightful accident may have happened

upon their beat;--these failures of roguish talent, and misfortunes of

accomplished knavery, cease to be peculiarly wonderful.

This remark has been suggested by observing the signal failure of a

rather ingenious device, put forth in the form of an advertisement in

some of the daily papers. It is an invitation to everybody who may chance

to possess "unstamped receipts" for sums above £5, to communicate with

the advertiser, who is, of course, to reward the production of such

documents! Any simple person would suppose--as there are very droll

specimens of collectors yet alive--more curious by far than any of the

curiosities they collect--collectors of turnpike tickets, and of complete

sets of checks for readmission to the Opera for eleven successive

seasons!--that here was a gentleman who had taken a fancy for collecting

a perfect set of unstamped receipts from the year 1800 to the present

time. A little reflection, however, would show that his object _might_ be

to lay informations against the parties who had signed them. The design

has been penetrated into still further; for it appears that all parties

showing such receipts put themselves in the power of the advertiser, as

being equally liable with the signers for accepting them unstamped!

Yes, we are bound to say that here was considerable ingenuity exercised.

Here was a stone flung that seemed sure to kill two birds. The possessor

of such a document was more than likely to be tempted to show it, by the

reward of one sovereign; which the other party could well afford to pay

out of the many sovereigns extracted in the shape of penalty from the

said producer's pocket--to say nothing of the same amount drawn from

the signer of the receipt. Since the coaxing cry of "Biddy, come and be

killed" was first raised, no more seductive snare has been conceived.

"I have assembled you," said the considerate proprietor of live stock

in the story, "I have assembled you, my pretty birds, to learn from you

what sauce you would like to be eaten with." "But we don't want to be

eaten," said the birds with one voice. "You wander from the point," was

the answer. So, perhaps, would the collector of unstamped receipts have

said to the producers. "I have assembled you here to know what you would

like to pay me in lieu of the penalty you have incurred." "But we don't

want to pay any penalty." "You wander from the point."

We have all heard the most scandalous and groundless stories about

lawyers;--of opinions delivered concerning the genuineness of a half

sovereign, followed by the deduction of six-and-eightpence for the

advice;--of thirteen-and-fourpence charged for "attending, consulting,

and advising," when the occasion was a splendid dinner given by the

client--followed by a demand on the angry client's part for wine had and

consumed--and this succeeded in turn by an information against the said

client for selling wine without a licence. These, and a thousand such

libels, we can all remember; but the reality above recorded is at least

as striking as the most ingenious of such fictions.

To contrast with the non-success of this wily experiment upon a grand

scale, we may cite an instance of equal ingenuity, exercised in a much

humbler walk, and taking the form of knavery in its mixed character. We

distinctly remember it to have happened. The scene may be a seaport, or

the banks of the Thames below bridge. A seaman, bearing a huge stone

bottle, applies at the Nelson's Head for a gallon of whisky for Captain

Rope of the Matilda, lying off shore--to fill up the bottle already

half full. The spirit is duly poured in, and the cash demanded. "Oh!

the capp'n said nothen about that"--the whisky was to be added to his

account, and that was all he knew. But "mine host" did not know the

captain well enough, and couldn't let the whisky go. The gallon was

therefore poured back again into the landlord's measure, and set aside

to be called for. So far there appeared to be no knavery at all; but

the spirit so poured back, presently turned out to be, not whisky, but

excellent _one-water grog_; for the two-gallon bottle of the sailor

contained exactly one gallon of pure water when it was brought in, and

one gallon of pure whisky and water when it was taken out.

The means in this, as in myriads of cases, are curiously disproportioned

to the end. How miserably poor is the prize, considered in reference

to the risk; to the cleverness in the invention of the stratagem; to

the address demanded for the due execution of it, to the time consumed,

the trouble taken, the agencies employed! But the truth is, that the

very cleverest rascals are rarely more than half-cunning. The ablest of

knaves must be at best half a blockhead. When we remember how the great

Bardolph, having stolen a lute-case, "carried it twelve miles and sold it

for three half-pence," the perilous, profitless, toilsome, half-witted

nature of roguery needs no illustration. One would like to have seen him

walking back, thirsty and way-wearied, under a broiling sun, and never

sure but that the lady who once owned the lute-case might be walking that

way too!

That famous exploit of Master Bardolph's ought to be registered in large

letters over every judgment-seat, and on the door of every police-office.

The record would save much judicial breath, and supersede volumes of

admonition.

* * * * *

Shakspeare's illustrations of Vice might possibly have led us into a

dissertation at least as long upon Shakspeare's illustrations of Virtue,

but that the learned Dr. Bulgardo here honoured our humble vehicle

with his presence, and called general attention to a contrast equally

striking, under the following title:--

THE SISTER SCIENCES; OR, BOTANY AND HORTICULTURE.

By DR. BULGARDO, L. S. D.,

Treasurer of several Learned Societies, and Professor of Asparagus at the

University of Battersea.

BOTANY.

TO MARY, WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS.

Nay! say not faded--'tis despair

Has thus subdued them, for they see

That in themselves however fair,

They ne'er can hope to equal thee!

The Rose's joyous blush has fled,

With which no other lip could vie;

The Heartsease turns aside its head,

Fearing to meet thy deep-blue eye.

More sad the Myrtle's hue appears,

The Jasmine's silver star is dim;

Surpass'd by thee, thou seest the tears

That tremble on the Harebell's brim.

The Woodland Lily's silver cup

Was never seen to droop as now,

It dares not lift its flowerets up

To gaze upon thy gentle brow.

How canst thou look thus calmly on,

And watch them slowly die the while?

Recal them yet, ere life be gone,

Enchantress, with thy sunny smile!

HORTICULTURE.

TO MOLLY, WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT AND VEGETABLES.

Nay! say not shrivell'd--'tis despair

Has thus subdued them, for they see

That in themselves however fair,

They'll ne'er be relish'd, love, like thee!

A deeper blush the Raspberry paints,

Pale is the ruddy Beetroot's lip;

And e'en the red-cheek'd Apple faints,

As though it suffer'd from the pip.

Severely frown the Baking Pears;

The Artichoke's bold crest is down;

The awe-struck Medlar wildly stares

To see thy cheek a swarthier brown.

The icy Cucumber is hot,

The freckled Cauliflower wan;

The Mushroom has no longer got

A single leg to stand upon!

See how the rich, round-shoulder'd Figs

Bow to thy figure's graceful swell;

The sobbing Orange bursts its pigs

To find thee such a Nonpareil!

The Sister Sciences, female Siamese twins, having vanished from the

scene, our correspondent, Mr. H. G. Adams, presented a second specimen of

his curious

PHOTOGENIC PICTURES: A SCENE NEAR FOLKSTONE.

[Folkstone was made, says tradition, of the "odds and ends" left

after the rest of the world was finished; and any one who has

visited that jumble of heights and hollows, becomes impressed with

the conviction that tradition sometimes speaks the truth.]

Some weather-beaten men with clothes all tar-ry,

Keeping a sharp look-out upon the ocean,

And little Tom, and Jack, and Bill, and Harry,

Making upon the beach a dire commotion,--

Dabbling, like dab-chicks, in the billows briny,

Hunting for crabs, and other things crustaceous,

While a Newfoundland dog, in sport called "Tiny,"

Wags his huge bushy tail, and looks sagacious:

Here wades a shrimper to his waist in water,

There swims a bather, snorting like a grampus;

And lo! James Muddle, with his wife and daughter,

All in a boat, and crying out, "Don't swamp us!"

Far in the offing you may see a cutter,

Her white sails gleaming like the sea-gull's pinions,--

She means to overhaul that craft, with butter

Laden, and cheese, from swampy Scheldt's dominions;

I shouldn't wonder if _Schiedam_--however,

That's not my business;--turn our glances landward,

There's Farley in his garden--well, I never!--

A-talking down the chimney, to my landlord;

He says, "I see you've got some greens for dinner,

"And pickled pork," but can't say more for coughing;

That smoke just serves him right--the prying sinner!

He's always jeering folks, and at them scoffing:

White cliffs, and houses, underneath and over,

And roads that seem to lead to regions airy--

Old boats converted into roofs, that cover

Buildings, in shape and size that greatly vary,

Denote the place, which popular believings

Point out as being made of ends and leavings.

Here we were reminded by a particularly ample, and unprecedentedly

flaring wood-cut, borne on an appropriate pole past the vehicle, and

intended to describe the indescribable effects of the fireworks in the

Surrey Zoological Gardens, of a pleasant discourse which we overheard

in that suburban retreat. "Quite a gem," cried a lady from Portland

Place, contemplating the splendid pictorial model of Rome; "really quite

a monument of the artist's abilities." "I see _St. Paul's_," said a

lady from Shadwell, who was standing by, looking at the same time at

the crowning feature of the picture, "I see St. Paul's quite plain, but

_where's the Monument?_"

"How those butcher-boys do ride!" exclaimed an elderly gentleman in the

further corner, as one of the blue-frocked fraternity, with basket on

arm, and "spur on heel," dashed past at headlong speed. "Ay, sir, they

ride sharp enough," replied his next neighbour, whose bronzed features

and brawny shoulders bespoke him a son of old Ocean; "but of all the

rough-riding I have ever seen, nothing comes up to

A NEGRO BOY IN THE WEST INDIES.

The negro boys there are the most cunning imps I have ever had to do

with. I recollect on my last voyage to Jamaica, while my vessel was lying

in St. Anne's bay, I had to go to Port Maria to look for some cargo; and

on my way thither, near Ora Cabeça, I came to one of the numerous small

rivers that empty themselves into the little bays along the coast--I

think it was the Salt Gut. When at some distance, I had observed a negro

boy belabouring a mule most heartily; but before I got up he had left

off his thumping and dismounted, and now appeared in earnest talk with

his beast, which, with fore-legs stretched out firm, and ears laid down,

seemed proof against all arguments to induce him to enter the water.

Quashie was all animation, and his eyes flashed like fire-flies.

"Who--o! you no go ober? Berry well--me bet you fippenny me make you

go--No? Why for you no bet?--why for you no go ober?" Here the mule shook

his ears to drive off the flies, which almost devour the poor animals in

that climate. "Oh! you do bet--berry well--den me try."

The young rascal (he was not more than ten years old) disappeared in the

bush, and returned in a few seconds with some strips of fan-weed, a few

small pebbles, and a branch of the cactus plant. To put three or four

pebbles in each of the mule's ears, and tie them up with the fan-weed,

was but the work of a minute. He then jumped on the animal's back, turned

round, put the plant to his tail, and off they went, as a negro himself

would say, "like mad, massa." Into the water they plunged--the little

fellow grinning and showing his teeth in perfect ecstasy. Out they got on

the other side--head and ears down--tail and heels up--and the boy's arms

flying about as if they did not belong to him; and I lost sight of him as

he went over the rocky steep at full gallop, where one false step would

have precipitated them into the sea beneath, from whence there would have

been but small chance of escape. No, no, a butcher's boy is nothing to

a negro boy--the one may ride like the deuce, but the other is the very

deuce himself riding.

"Did you see any more of him, sir?" inquired a young lady opposite.

"Yes, madam, about two hours afterwards I reached Port Maria, and in

an open space near the stores, there sat, or rather lay, young Quashie

eating cakes; and there also stood the mule, eating guinea grass, and

looking much more cheerful than when I first saw him at the Salt Gut.

'Well, Quashie,' I said, 'you have got here I see, but which of you

won?'--'Quashie win, massa--Quashie never lose.'--'But will he pay?' I

inquired.--'Quashie pay himself, massa. You see, Massa Buccra, massa gib

Quashie tenpenny-bit for grass for mule. Quashie bet fippenny him make

him go ober de Gut--Quashie win--Quashie hab fippenny for cake, mule hab

fippenny for grass.'"

"Had that defrauded mule, sir," here interposed a stranger, "been born

in Ireland a brief while ago, he would have fallen to and devoured the

young nigger out of hand, for cheating him of half his grass; that is,

he would, if he had ever read the ancient records of that country, and

become acquainted with the fact I am about to relate--but stay, perhaps

you may relish it better in slip-shod verse."

THE TERRIFIC LEGEND OF THE KILKENNY CATS.

O'Flyn she was an Irishman, as very well was known,

And she lived down by Kilkenny, and she lived there all alone,

With only six great large tom-cats as knew their ways about,

And ev'ry body else besides she scrup'lously shut out.

Oh, very fond o' cats was she--(and whisky too, 'tis said,)

She didn't feed 'em very much, but she comb'd 'em well instead;

As may be guess'd, these large tom-cats, they didn't get very sleek

Upon a combing once a-day, and a "ha'porth" once a-week.

Now on one dreary winter's night, O'Flyn she went to bed,

The whisky-bottle under her arm, (the whisky in her head,)

The six great large tom-cats they sat all in a dismal row,

And horridly glared their hungry eyes--their tails wagg'd to and fro

At last one grim greymalkin spoke in accents dire to tell,

And dreadful were the words which in his awful whisper fell--

When all the other five tom-cats in answer loud did squall,

"Let's kill her--and let's eat her--body and bones and all!"

Oh horrible! oh terrible! oh deadly tale to tell!

When the sun shone in the window-hole all there seem'd still and well;

The cats they sat and lick'd their paws, all in a merry ring,

_But nothing else within the place looked like a living thing_;

Anon they quarrell'd savagely, and spit, and swore, and hollo'd,

Till at last these six great large tom-cats they one another swallow'd;

And nought but one long tail was left in that once peaceful dwelling,

And a very tough one too it was--it's the same as I've been telling.

[C. B.]

[Illustration: In the Character of Marie Stuart.]

MADEMOISELLE RACHEL.

Colley Cibber is the best theatrical critic we know, but if he had been

asked to describe Rachel, we should fancy him falling into one of his

old regrets. 'Could _how_ Rachel spoke be as easily known as _what_ she

spoke, then might you see the muse of Racine in her triumph, with all

her beauties in their best array, rising into real life and charming

her beholders. But, alas! since all this is so far out of the reach of

description, how shall I show you Rachel?'

The best attempt _we_ have been able to make, is printed on the opposite

page. Truth to say, a good portrait, such as one may bind up with one's

copy of Racine, is the only tolerable criticism after all. So, gentle

reader, there is Rachel for you: and to flatter your national likings, if

you have any, she is in the dress of Mary Stuart, though the woes of Mary

Stuart are not in Racine.

Quiet, earnest, intense, with a look of passion that has its spring in

tenderness, that is just the expression she should wear. It pervaded all

her performances, because in all of them she was the Woman. There it was,

as you see it, when she said for this unhappy _Mary_ that she was ready

to go to death, for that all which could bind her to the earth had passed

away; and as she said it, there came with its choking denial to her

heart a sense of the still living capacity for joy or grief about to be

quenched for ever. She wore that look, when, in _Camille_, she recalled

the transient and deceitful dream wherein everything had spoken of her

lover, and whispered happy issue to her love. It spread its mournful

radiance over her face, when, for the wronged and deserted _Hermione_,

she told the betrayer that she had loved him in his inconstancy, and with

what something surpassing love would she have rewarded his fidelity.

Je t'aimais inconstant; qu'aurais-je fait fidèle!

Exquisitely perfect, let us say, was that performance of Hermione.

Sometimes, it will not be heretical to whisper, her genius nodded or

even slept: never here. The _Roxane_ would not suffer her to do justice

to her finest qualities: in the _Emilie_ (for she was wilful) she

refused herself that justice: in the _Marie Stuart_ she was unequal: in

_Camille_, always great undoubtedly, she had yet a very limited range:

but in _Hermione_, she achieved a triumph of high and finished art, which

will never fade from the recollections of those who witnessed it. It

occurs to us, as we write, that it was in this very _Hermione_ the famous

Mademoiselle de Champmelé won the heart of Racine himself, who, after

the performance, flung himself at her feet in a transport of gratitude,

which soon merged into love. Luckless Rachel, that Champmelé should have

been beforehand with her. How the poet would have shaken out love and

gratitude upon _her_, from every curl of his full-bottomed peruke!

You have heard, no doubt, good reader--if you have not seen this

accomplished Frenchwoman--that she is a scold, a fury, a womanly Kean, in

a constant fret of passion. Do not believe it. Her forte is tenderness:

she is much greater in the gentle grasp with which she embraces the whole

intention of a part, than in the force with which she gives distinct

hits: she is more at home in those emotions we call domestic, than in

those which walk away from home on very lofty stilts. How the false

notion obtained currency, we do not know. The French critics are men

of lively imaginations, and it was perhaps natural that the feeling of

that start of surprise with which Rachel broke upon them, should seek

to ally itself to the occasionally sudden and terrible, the flighty and

impetuous, rather than to the various tenderness and quiet truth which

gave the actress her lasting victory.

What Rachel was before she was the first actress of France, probably the

reader knows. She sold oranges on the Boulevards. Her name was Rachel

Felix--an augury of fortune. An early hankering for the stage took her to

the GYMNASE in 1837, where she played bad parts badly enough. Not without

a gleam of something beyond, however: for Sanson the actor happened to

see her there, and thought it worth while to take her into teaching. He

cured her of a false accent (she was a Swiss Jewess), and brought her out

at the FRANCAIS in 1838, upon a salary of four thousand francs. She took

the audience by storm, and her four thousand went up to a hundred and

fifty thousand. Long may she flourish, to deserve and to enjoy them.

FRIGHTS!--No. II.

We now propose to turn to other illustrations of fright familiar to

every family, and susceptible of description. Let us take a night-scene,

conjured up by a sudden alarm of

THIEVES!

'Tis midnight, and "the very houses seem asleep," out-houses and all.

The "quiet family" has attained its utmost pitch of quietness. All

sleep soundly, where no sound is heard. A breathless hush pervades the

domicile. On a sudden, there is a smart crash, a rattling sound, below.

This sleeper starts up in bed; that, darts farther under the clothes.

"What's that?" is the inward question of everybody. The thought of

thieves occurs to each in turn; one is certain that the area-door has

been forced open; another is sure that the back-parlour sash has been

raised. They lie still, with panting hearts, and listen. Again there is

a noise; it is like creaking footsteps on the stairs, or the opening of

drawers; then all is silent again, and then the noise is renewed.

At last one little quaking Miss ventures half-stifled to whisper,

"Sarah, are you awake?" And Sarah faintly answers, "Yes, did you hear

that?" and both bury themselves in the bed, and dare not breathe. And

then they hear a door open softly, and they utter a low cry of terror;

and then in another minute the door of their own room opens, and with

a loud scream they start up--only to see their dear good mama with a

candle in her hand; but she is pale and frightened, and desires to know

if _they_ had made the noise--but they had not; only they distinctly

heard somebody getting in at the back-door, or the parlour-window. Then

papa commands the whole assembled family "not to be frightened," and

shakes dreadfully--with cold--as he looks at his blunderbuss, and avows

his determination to proceed down-stairs. And then there is a "hush!"

and a general listening. Yes, there _is_ a noise still, and to the

stairs he advances; while his better-half lights his way and holds his

garments tight to check his desperate enthusiasm; and the eldest daughter

hardly ventures beyond the chamber-door, but with astonishing boldness

and exemplary daring springs a rattle; and the others hold on each by

each, taking fresh fright from one another's fears. What an amount of

suffering, dread, terror--is in the bosom of the little quiet family, as

down to the scene of danger they creep with tortoise-pace! And what is

all this anxiety, this trepidation, this sickness of the heart, for! What

has occasioned so terrific a commotion! Perhaps the tongs have fallen

down, and the clatter has filled their ears with all sorts of imaginary

noises! Perhaps the cat is clawing at a string tied to the latch of

the pantry-door; or perhaps the stupid little kitten, having got her

tail into the catch of the last new patent mouse-trap, has dragged that

excellent invention off the dresser, and is whisking round at intervals

in a wearying and vain endeavour to extricate her unprehensile appendage!

"Dear me! well I declare how I have been frightening myself!" cries every

member of the shivering family; and the very next night, should the very

same noises again be heard, the whole frightened family would start, turn

pale, quake, wonder, pant, scream, and spring rattles, exactly as before.

Where Fear has once taken possession, Experience does not always make

folks wise.

[Illustration: "Thieves"!!!]

[Illustration: The "Strange Cat".]

Let us take for another example of the daily domestic romance--

THE STRANGE CAT.

How vividly, among the events of our boyish days, do we remember the

"strange cat" that got into the lumber-room at the top of the house!

Our elder brother and "the boy" had endeavoured to dislodge the animal,

which figured in their description as a thing of intense blackness and

monstrous dimensions, with great frightful staring green eyes, horrid

long claws, and such a tail! Not "frightened of cats" were we, for we

had a favourite one of our own; but _this_--it trebled in magnitude and

horror the wildest and most savage inhabitants of the then Exeter Change.

Their own fears had magnified the "strange cat" into a monster; and then

they wilfully enlarged the picture to terrify _us_--a feat, in which they

succeeded, as we dared not go to the upper rooms alone. For two or three

days this "reign of terror" lasted; when, a favourable opportunity being

watched for, the "young master" and the "young man" marched up, broom

and brush in hand, to hunt out this strange secreted intruder--the black

tiger of the upper wilderness. As for our tiny self, we had ventured a

part of the way up-stairs to witness the result, imagining that the enemy

would make its exit by an attic window. Oh horror! A loud knocking was

heard above; a tremendous shouting next arose, succeeded instantly by an

appalling cry of "Here it comes!" This was, shall we say _enough_?--it

was too much; we turned and _flew_ down-stairs--the last "flight" of

stairs being, with the aid of the handrail, but one leap. The street

door! No, we could not open it. Against it then we set our back in an

agony of fear, and uttered a cry that would have terrified a whole

legion of cats. The hunters were in full cry. Down came the wild animal,

followed by brooms and brushes, bounding and rattling over the stairs--a

clatter that rent the roof. What saw we then? Not a poor half-starved

_frightened_ animal leaping over the banisters to get out of _our_ way,

and to escape through the garden-door; no, of this piteous, this actual

spectacle we saw nothing,--but in its place--_this_!

[Illustration]

This little "tail-piece" expanded to the dimensions of a full-sized

Newfoundland dog, surrounded by a blaze of fire, will convey some idea of

what, in the extremity of our apprehensions, we actually did see.

[Illustration]

A SHORT CRUISE AT MARGATE.

Being at Margate the other day, we strolled, in company with "THE OLD

SAILOR," down to the "Jetty," where we were accosted by the veteran

Hemptage, a boatman of the old school, who, with a salute, inquired "Will

you take a trip this morning, Sir?"

"Not if it blows," answered the Old Sailor, assuming as much as possible

the look and manners of a landsman, "I have made up my mind never to go

sailing if there's a breath of wind."

The old man gave him a look, which spoke as plainly as look

could--"Here's a precious lubber, to talk of sailing without wind."

"It would be on possible to move a-head and no breeze, Sir."

"I don't care for that," rejoined the Old Sailor, "I am very timid on the

water; but if you're sure there's no danger, and it will be quite calm

(it was nearly so), I will venture to take a sail."

"Danger!" repeated the veteran somewhat contemptuously, though there

was an expression of doubt and suspicion on his countenance that seemed

to say "I think you're a gammoning me."--"What danger can there be when

there's hardly wind enough to fill the canvas?"

After some further conversation relative to the perils of the ocean,

which drew forth some scornful glances from the veteran, we embarked in

a pretty green boat, with two masts or poles, one sticking up behind and

the other near the middle, to which sails were fastened. Whilst Hemptage

was loosing what we believe is named the main-sail, the Old Sailor jumped

aft to set what he called the "lug mizen," and he was shoving out a pole

from the stern, right over the water. We immediately informed the boatman

that our companion was "meddling with the things at the other end," and

the veteran promptly turned round and exclaimed, "You'd better let that

ere alone, Sir. You'll find somut as 'ull puzzle you there."

"Avast, old boy!" returned the Old Sailor, laughing; "I've rigged out as

many bumkins[6] as you have in my time."

"Ay, ay," drawled out the veteran--"hang me if I didn't think so by the

cut of your jib--I thought it was all gammon, and you knowed better than

to go sailing without wind."

"You have belonged to a man-of-war," said the Old Sailor, as we were

standing off from the shore.

"Why, yes, I've had a spell at it," returned Hemptage somewhat knowingly,

"I was in the owld Hyacinth with Tommy Ussher, and a better Captain never

walked a ship's quarter-deck. I was with him too in the Ondaunted frigate

up the Mediterranean----"

"What! were you in her, in Frejus Bay, when Buonaparte embarked for

Elba?" inquired the Old Sailor.

"Why to be sure I was, and remembers it well enough," returned he with

animation. "And the first thing Boney did when he got aboard was to come

forud on to the foksle and have a yarn with the foksle men[7]."

"What sort of a man was he?" we asked with quickness.

"What sort of a man," reiterated the veteran, "why a stout good-looking

chap enough, only very swarthy. Them images as the Italian boys brings

about is very like, only I never seed him in that little cocked hat."

"Why what did he wear then?" inquired we with some eagerness.

"Oh he wore a round hat[8]," replied Hemptage, "and he used to lean

against the breech of the foksle gun and spin yarns with us for the hour

together."

"Well!" we thought, "we never shall have done with Boney." We had

never drawn him in a round hat, and the temptation was too strong to

be resisted--so we have accordingly placed him at the head of this

article--and as of course he would have a fashionable beaver, we have

given him one of the shape of that period, and placed him in contrast

with himself.--Boney _versus_ Boney--cock'd hat against round.

It may be said "What's in a hat?" And when upon the head it becomes a

rather important question. In many cases the answer would be "not much,"

but with respect to Napoleon it certainly must be admitted that there was

_something_ in it.

"But (we asked in continuation of our conversation) how could you talk

with Buonaparte--did he speak English?"

"O yes, pretty well, considering--very well for him," replied Hemptage,

"he mixed a little of his own lingo up with it--but we made it out.

During the passage he used very often to come forud, and he told us he

liked English sailors, and one had wounded him once at Toulon."

Fully aware that the fact of Napoleon's being wounded at Toulon had long

been a disputed point, we questioned the man, and received the following

statement:--

"Why," said the veteran, "he told us the English made a _sortie_, as they

call it, and drove the French before them. Boney run as well as the rest,

and an English seaman chaced after him; but whether the man was tired,

or thought he'd gone far enough, he didn't know, but he gave him a shove

in the starn with his bagonet, and said, 'TAKE THAT, YOU FRENCH LUBBER.'

The sailor might have killed him if he had been so disposed, but he acted

generously and spared his life. 'And,' says Boney, 'if ever I could have

discovered the man who acted so nobly, I would have made him comfortable

for life.' The wound was in his thigh."

[Illustration]

Now had that Jack Tar taken one step further, or have made a deadly

thrust, the fate of _Major_ Buonaparte would have been sealed at Toulon,

and the world would never have heard of the EMPEROR NAPOLEON. We fancy

we hear some of our Hibernian friends exclaiming, "Faith, then, and it's

a pity the sailor didn't know that Boney would be after doing so much

mischief."

Thus conversing and moralising, we finished our "Short cruise at

Margate." Hemptage is approaching his seventieth year, and his

countenance displays the colours of a thorough seaman. He has been

several times wounded, but looking hale and hearty. When paid off he

was refused a pension--visitors will find him a pleasant shipmate in a

trip--and the lovers of the marvellous may enjoy the satisfaction of

conversing with a man who has seen and talked with "a live Bonyparty."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: The bumkin is the spar that projects out from the stern to

haul the mizen-sheet home.--_Naval Dictionary._ Here, however, it is

probable that a _double entendre_ was meant.]

[Footnote 7: In No. CXLIII. of the _United Service Journal_, Sir Thomas

Ussher has given an interesting account of the embarkation and conveyance

of Napoleon from Frejus to Elba, in which we find the following

passage:--"On arriving alongside, I immediately went up the side to

receive the Emperor on the quarter-deck. He took his hat off, and bowed

to the officers who were assembled on the deck. He then immediately

went forward to the forecastle amongst the people, and I found him

there talking to some of the men, conversing with those among them who

understood a little French."]

[Footnote 8: In another part of the same article, in the _United Service

Journal_, Sir Thomas Ussher says--"This evening a small trading vessel

passed near us, I ordered her to be examined; and as Napoleon was anxious

to know the news, I desired the Captain to be sent on board. Napoleon was

on the quarter-deck--he had a great coat and round hat on." At another

place, after their arrival at Elba--"At eight, the Emperor asked me for

a boat, as he intended taking a walk on the opposite side of the bay. He

wore a great coat and a round hat."]

EPIGRAMS.

"Buonaparte was certainly, as Sir John Carr called him, a 'splendid

scoundrel,' but he was a scoundrel still."--_Daily Paper._

Not so, for if a scoundrel--doubt who will--

Napoleon was a scoundrel, _never_ still!

_Scene_--OUTSIDE OF THE GREYHOUND INN.

"You'll take a glass of ale or so?

Here's _double X_ upon the door;"

"Is there," says John, "then I don't go--

It so reminds me of _a score_!"

THE MALADY OF DEBT.

Some people often have, they say,

What's call'd the "Maladie de pays"--

But Schneider of his customers was saying,

_They_ had the malady _of never paying_.

C. H. W.

PASSIONATE PEOPLE.

"So you will fly out! Why can't you be cool like me? What good

can passion do? Passion's of no use, you impudent, obstinate,

overbearing reprobate."--_Sir Anthony Absolute._

Of all the evils, all the injuries, all the calamities, by which

passionate people are liable to be visited, none are so perilous, so

overwhelming, as the encounter with a meek, cool, patient, unanswering

adversary--if adversary such a wretch can be called. There is no trial

in life like this. The bare idea of it puts one out of temper. To be

placed, when in the full swing of a violent fit of rage, when indulging

to an excess in the wildest transports of the soul, when giving loose to

the most riotous emotions of our nature; to be placed at such a juncture

right opposite some cold calm personification of indifference, some

compound of sadness and tranquillity, with an air of entire submission,

with drooping lids, and perhaps a smile not entirely free from _pity_; to

see some such person sitting there imperturbably philosophical, putting

the best construction possible upon one's violence, and evidently making

silent excuses for one's ungovernable fury! I put it to any rational

madman--that is to say to any man I know--whether this be not a species

of exasperation too great to be borne, and quite enough to make one start

off for Niagara, to enjoy the intense satisfaction, the indispensable

relief, of jumping down.

I wouldn't give one drop of ink for a man who never goes into terrific

passions, who never lets his blood boil over, at least now and then; but

I should feel peculiar pleasure in hurling any inkstand--the writing-desk

would be better--at the head of him whose fury did not instantly become

ten thousand times more inflamed by the mere presence of that smooth

oily virtue, that "ostentatious meekness," which at once sighs in

submissiveness and smiles in superiority.

All the mischiefs that arise from the excesses of anger and rage must be

conscientiously set down to the account of that provoking passiveness,

that calmness which irritates the fiery beholder past endurance. Let the

physician, who would minister to the mind diseased, take any shape but

that. Who is there that cannot bear testimony to its galling effects from

his own observation or experience! Only say to a man in a pet, "Now don't

lose your temper," and he falls naturally into a rage; say to one already

exasperated, and on the verge of a fit of fury, "Pray don't put yourself

into a passion, it's all a mistake, there's nothing to be angry about;"

and what so sure to set him off at a pace past stopping!

The image of "Patience on a monument smiling at Grief" has been greatly

admired, but as a design it would hardly hold together for five minutes.

Shakspeare was a little out for once. Patience _smiling_ at Grief! How

could Grief stand it! She would be transformed into Rage in no time. If

at all in earnest, she must necessarily be provoked to jump down in a

paroxysm, or to pitch Patience off the monument.

To the truly irritable, and I confess that I am one of them, all such

irritation, to say the least of it, is superfluous. To us who have "free

souls" no such provocation is wanting at any time. We are always ready to

go ahead without this high pressure; our quick blood renders the spur

unnecessary. We never wait for "the motive and the cue for passion" that

Hamlet speaks of.

The real relish and enjoyment of it consists in going into a rage about

nothing. The next pleasure to that consists in being roused to fury

about other people's affairs; in lashing oneself into madness about

some grievance borne by a person who seems perfectly indifferent to it.

There are numbers of people who may be thus said to go into passions

by proxy. They have experienced a slight, of which they give a cool

account to some susceptible friend, who stamps and raves at every word

of the narrative. They calmly inform you that they have been shamefully

ill-used; upon which they stroke their chins complacently, and leave

you to tear your hair. The man who has been cruelly wronged describes

with a glib tongue, while the uninjured auditor disinterestedly gnashes

his teeth. I have always admired that passage in one of George Colman's

plays, where a warm-hearted fellow, giving an account of some flagrant

act of oppression to which he had been a witness, observes,--"Well, you

know, that wasn't _no affair of mine_; no--and _so I felt all my blood

creeping into my knuckles_"--and the result shows that he fell, with

exemplary promptitude, into a glorious passion in behalf of the oppressed

but uncomplaining stranger.

This bit of fiction calls to mind a fact which may with no impropriety be

here related. It is an anecdote of a distinguished writer now no more, W.

G. He had complained to me of some ungracious conduct, by which he felt

hurt and insulted; he was helpless, and this made the sense of injury

more acute. He spoke with bitterness, though in gentle tones. I did not

echo those tones; for he was illustrious by his intellect, and venerable

by his years; and, as the phrase is, I at once "rapped out"--pouring a

torrent of reproach, and heaping a mountain of invectives, on the heads

of those, who, to use his own words, "had dared to put an indignity upon

him." He heard me, very quietly, until the full burst of indignation with

which his more moderate complaint had inspired me was exhausted, and then

said with an ejaculation short, sharp, and peculiar to him,--"I'm afraid

you've been picking up some queer doctrines of late; the principle of

them is, as far as I can understand, to be discontented with everything!"

Now as _he_ had taught me just then to be discontented, and as I was

moreover only discontented on his account, I did _not_ immediately leap

out of my fit of passion into one of philosophy; and I believe he was

upon that occasion much struck with certain metaphysical phenomena, on

which I left him to brood; with the curious distinction, that is to

say, between one fellow-creature undergoing the punishment of the knout

without exhibiting a symptom of distress, and another fellow-creature

looking on, all grief and anguish, shuddering at the spectacle, and

feeling every lash on his own heart.

These are the most generous bursts of rage that can be indulged in;

and, next to those that are altogether destitute even of the shadow of

a cause, are the most delicious to the irritable. The wrongs, troubles,

and perversities of individuals, from near relatives to total strangers,

generally form a plentiful supply; in fact, the smallest offence will

be thankfully received, as the history of irascible people amply shows.

Very good grounds for anger occur, as we can all remember, when a

fellow-traveller at an inn refuses to take mustard with his pork-chop;

or when another, in spite of every hint, persists in breaking his eggs

at the small end, or lighting his cheroot at the large end; or when a

sturdy fellow walks just before you through a smart shower of rain, and

won't put his umbrella up, though you obligingly tap him on the shoulder,

and remind him that it's pouring; or when an obstinate one declines the

adoption of somebody else's opinion, merely because he has not been

convinced of its reasonableness; or when an affected one pronounces the

word London "Lunnun," and Birmingham "Brummagem," and, while he asserts

in his justification that Lord Brougham calls the places by those names,

refuses to distinguish his lordship as Lord Bruffham.

If individual grievances or peculiarities should fail, which is scarcely

possible, national ones will do as well. Nay, I know a philanthropist

whose heart was broken fifty times a year, whose blood boiled hourly,

at the recollection of some great outrage that had happened in the dark

ages. Passion, moreover, has this convenience, that it is an essential

privilege of it to reason from the individual to the national; thus, if a

Russian government, or a Russian faction, inflict wrongs on Poland, all

Russia may be indiscriminately condemned; and thus too, if an American

visiting this country should be wanting in good manners, or give you any

cause of offence, you can with strict propriety launch out into a tirade

against the American people, their customs and institutions, laws and

dispositions--wrath will there find "elbow room." You may wind up with

the observation that, bad as is the brute whom you have just encountered,

you believe him to be quite as good as the very best of his countrymen.

This, indeed, may be laid down as a rule; when a Scotchman offends you,

abuse all Scotland, and offer to prove that Burns was no poet;--when an

Irishman puts you in a heat, be sure to denounce Ireland, and hint that

St. Patrick was no gentleman, nor were his ancestors decent people. With

an Englishman the case is rather different, because anything you may say

against John Bull is pretty sure to please, instead of annoying a member

of his family; who won't much mind a back-handed hit at himself, if you

direct the principal force of your attack against the national character.

It is expedient, therefore, to be less sweeping in your charge, to

concentrate your forces, and to content yourself with a small explosion,

fatal only to his immediate friends and relations. Point out how

remarkable it is that so many persons of the same name should have been

hanged for sheep-stealing; question the depth of his breeches-pocket,

where he rattles a bunch of keys, as though he had anything to lock up;

and pick out some cousin of his who is very badly off, and spitefully

ask him to dinner. But you will never vent your rage satisfactorily, by

merely abusing Old England in an Englishman's presence.

To get into a passion in the street is sometimes peculiarly awkward.

It makes you feel like a bottle of soda-water that wants to go off and

can't. Some people ought to have their hats wired down, cork-fashion.

Walking with an irascible friend the other day--I am fond of such

companions, and can boast a great variety of them--he worked himself

into as pretty a specimen of fury as I have lately seen; but what was

to be done? There was nothing to cause it, and there was no relief to

be had. Apple-stalls upset are but vulgar exploits; me, he could not

strangle in the open street; there was no temptation to smash a lamp in

the broad daylight, however agreeable and comforting at night; there was

no loitering schoolboy in the way, to be kicked "for _always_ tieing

that shoe;" yet, "as fires imprisoned fiercest burn," out the blaze must

burst, the volcano was not to be smothered up. Accordingly, just as we

reached the open window of a butcher's shop, on the board of which a lad

in blue sleeves, and black, glossy, curling hair, sat intently reading

the "Sorrows of Werter," my passionate friend stopped. Whether he meant

to snatch, a weapon, à la Virginius, was doubtful. I thought at least

he would have snatched the grease-marked volume out of the hands of the

sentimental butcher-boy, and trampled it under-foot; when instead, off

he darted across the wide street, I following--rushed up to a house

opposite, seized the large knocker, and plied it with the combined force

of forty footmen, or a legion of penny-postmen rolled into one! I stood,

looking on, amazed, while he knocked and knocked, without one moment's

cessation, until the door was torn open, and the knocker dropped from his

fingers. The servant-maid looked aghast, yet the accustomed spirit of

inquiry, Who was he? What _did_ he want? was uppermost in her face. "Oh!"

said my now subdued companion, "Oh! ah!-a-I'm sorry to have troubled you!

I-a-I don't want anybody--it's all right--thank you--I'm better now!"

Thus saying he quietly took my arm, and we sauntered off. I never saw a

fellow in a more charming flow of spirits than his were throughout the

rest of that day.

[Illustration]

But it is more judicious to choose a spot where you can fall into a rage

comfortably. It is a pity for example to get excited at Charing-cross,

merely by the sight of a Dover coach, with the name of the town upon

it spelt with two o's, "Dovor." "There goes one of those confounded

coaches again," said a companion the other day; "how savage they make

me! Do_vor_! Why can't they spell the name properly?" "Oh, what does

it signify?"--"Signify! why it's my native town! it puts me in such

a passion that I can't walk;" and by the pace at which he went there

appeared a probability of his overtaking the coach. As a man intoxicated

can run easily, when walking is difficult, so a man in a passion finds

similar relief. I have heard of a nervously-excited individual who was so

annoyed by the cry of "Bank, Bank" all down the Strand, that he jumped

into one of the vehicles, resolved to go to the Bank and draw out his

balance; nor did he remember, until he got there, that he had performed

that ceremony the day before.

What I should respectfully recommend to any one on whom the fit comes

suddenly out-of-doors, whether occasioned by some irritating train of

thought, or a casual encounter equally provocative, is to go directly

home, and give his family the benefit of it. Surely the best compliment

he can pay his wife is to presume that her attachment to him is so great

that she will endure any ill-usage--that she would rather see him return

home in a tremendous passion than have him stay longer away from her. A

man who truly relishes his fit of rage will find a sweet relief in making

his family uncomfortable. The children he can immediately order up to

bed in the dark; and if anything in the shape of protest falls from the

doting mother, he can take an opportunity, slyly, of upsetting a vase of

flowers, water and all, into her work-box, or of tilting the inkstand

upon the favourite autograph in her album.

In the case of a single man, who has neither fond parent nor devoted

partner to vent his fury on, a theatre is no bad resource; he can take

his seat in some quiet corner and hiss the performance,--he will find it

very soothing to his feelings; but he should choose, if possible, the

first night of a new drama, and be constantly on his guard, or he will be

tricked out of all his pleasure by the actors. I know a man who went in a

great passion on purpose to hiss a new comedy, but being off his guard,

he sat and laughed all the evening.

Brutus desires Cassius to "go show his slaves how choleric he is, and

make his bondmen tremble;" implying that it was still more vulgar and

degrading to go into a passion before servants. This notion prevails

amongst a certain class of the choleric to this day. It is not at all

uncommon in genteel families, where appearances must at all sacrifices

be kept up, for John to be desired to shut the door, and perhaps to

be despatched to the remotest part of the house, while his master and

mistress sit down to fight out a pitched battle with bated breath;

whispering their fierce retorts, and dealing out their virulence _sotto

voce_, that it may not reach the kitchen; recrimination, with savage

aspect, speaking in the blandest key, and threats of separate maintenance

breathing in tones that would have added a delicious tenderness to the

fondest sentiment. All of a sudden, perhaps, a violent crash is heard;

the lady, who "could bear it no longer," has commenced some sportive

sallies with the tea-cups, and the gentleman has promptly followed in

some equally lively experiments with the saucers; and John, when in wild

alarm he re-enters the apartment, perceives in an instant, as clear

as crockery itself, that naughty Dash has _not_ been jumping upon the

tea-table, and that it is _not_ that calumniated quadruped by whom the

best blue-and-gold service has been devoted to destruction.

All these tamperings with passion are great mistakes; there can be no

enjoyment but in speaking out, and letting all the world hear if they

like. I always admired the unhesitating frankness of that respectable

tradesman (I forget his name, purposely) who about nine one summer

morning, after "some words" with his lady respecting the comparative

merits of Souchong and Mocha, deliberately opened the first floor

window, and dashed out the whole breakfast set, tray and all, into one

of the leading streets of the metropolis. People, it is said, put up

their umbrellas as they pass, to this day, in constant expectation of a

milky shower, with small squares of sugar for hailstones. But all such

experiments with cups and saucers, glasses, vases, mirrors, &c., are much

better performed, for obvious reasons, at other people's houses than

at your own. It is very pleasant, and quite pardonable, to sweep a few

glasses off the table in a fit of enthusiasm, now and then--when you are

dining out; but it is perfectly ridiculous to proceed to such extremities

at home, where the modes of venting rage are infinite. For a somewhat

similar reason, I differ from those who systematically tear their own

hair when they fall into a paroxysm; there is no occasion for it, because

you might happen to be wearing a wig, and the effect would be ludicrous.

It is far better to thrust your hand desperately into the loose locks of

somebody sitting next to you, tearing them violently for the space of an

instant, and then apologizing for the wildness of your excitement, and

the extreme susceptibility of your feelings. Your sensibility and the

frankness of your disposition will find many admirers; but to pull your

own hair has at best but an affected and theatrical look.

The practice common to many of the choleric--that of taking off their

hats, flinging them at the first object they see, and then kicking

them, regardless of expense--is one that seems to have arisen out of

an instinctive feeling, but until lately it was to be condemned as

ruinous to those who fall very frequently into a passion; it is less

exceptionable now; the cheap hats are immense conveniences to the

choleric. It is better however to snatch a friend's off his head,

and set your foot upon it, taking care to pick it up immediately,

tenderly putting it into shape a little, brushing its injured nap, and

returning it with your unfeigned regrets. I should not omit to mention

one ingenious expedient, which is sure to produce a speedy relief to

over-excited feelings. It is recommended on authority, as infallible.

You should first lock the door of your sitting-room, and then lie down

on your back upon the rug before the fire--taking at the same time one

of the long bell-ropes in either hand. In this position you will find a

little violent pulling very pleasant. But don't leave off, merely because

everybody in the house comes rattling at the door, desiring to know, not

for their own, but for Heaven's sake, what's the matter. Keep on tugging

at both bells, until the door is broken open--you will then come-to quite

comfortably.

The great have some advantages over the humble, but they lack the luxury

of giving a loose to rage at all seasons; they cannot storm and rave at

their own sweet will; while the lowest creature committed to prison by

the magistrate can always spring from the grasp of the constable and

break a window or two. This may seem a poor relief; not so; there is,

doubtless, an exquisite satisfaction in knowing that nothing less than a

large county must pay the damage. Suppose you only shatter a dozen panes,

or effect other wilful injury, is there not something grand in being

revenged upon Middlesex, or venting your fury on all Yorkshire?

Great or humble, Rage is sweet to all. Anger, not Love, is the universal

emotion. The mildest and most even-tempered man I ever met, let out the

secret of his fiery disposition the other day, and betrayed the violent

passions that sometimes seize him. Complaining of the extreme smallness

of his new library, in a figurative style, at once emphatic and elegant,

he said, "It isn't large enough to swing a cat in," adding, (evidently

with a reference to his habits when under the influence of passion)

"_which is very inconvenient_!" Cats are useful animals in a house. Is it

doubtful, when Sir Anthony Absolute had stormed at the Captain, and the

Captain in consequence had raved at Fag, and Fag in due succession had

pummelled the footboy, that the footboy went forthwith and kicked the cat?

L. B.

OUR NEW COOKS!

"Too many cooks"--"the proverb's something musty."

We have just had another new Cook; but too sure I am that, like the whole

tribe of Cooks that enter our family, she will never pass the boundaries

of the cognomen "New Cook." All our Cooks have been _new_. The oldest one

we have ever had, in my remembrance, was a prodigy of a month's service

in our kitchen; and although it must be confessed that, even during that

period, she was twice threatened or _warned_ by my mother, her long stay

was astonishing to us all. Compared with her predecessors she was quite

a fixture in the house.

It would take up "too much room in the Omnibus," to detail one half of

the discrepancies of our Cooks. The great Cook who circumnavigated the

globe--who traversed seas remote, and explored lands unknown, found no

such curiosities among the monsters of the great deep, or the uncivilized

eccentrics on shore. One, as my maiden aunt delicately observes, becomes

quite "inebriated"--off she goes; another has "followers"--off she goes;

another increases her "kitchen stuff" at the expense of the fat of the

meat, which she cuts off to a nicety (and my father is particularly

fond of fat)--off she goes--another cannot cook a potato--off she

goes; another forms a clandestine match with the butler after a week's

intimacy--off she goes--he too falling a victim and losing his place.

When I say that my mother seldom looks over the first offence, I explain

pretty clearly how it is that every week finds us with a new cook. On

the day of their engagement my sanguine parent invariably tells us "she

has found a treasure;" a cook with such a character--never drinks--no

followers--so honest--can cook anything;--such a woman for making "made

up" (sometimes called French) dishes, &c. In a few days this treasure

of a cook turns out to be, without a single exception, the very worst

we ever had to endure (for it rather singularly happens that each in

succession is "the very worst").--"Oh, that dreadful woman!" is the cry.

She boils what she should roast, and roasts what she should boil; she is

a snuff-taker, and almost everything she cooks is supposed to savour of

Lundyfoot or Prince's mixture. Off _she_ goes before we find out a fair

half of her intolerable propensities.

If it be but a chop to serve up, I like it served up in a style that I

can depend upon. Underdone or overdone is of less consequence, so that I

know beforehand, by experience of the cook's performances, _how_ it will

be done. But this continual succession of "treasures" subjects us to a

continual series of experiments.

If we don't settle soon, the office, so far as our family is concerned,

will be in danger of abolition. Already has my distracted mother

observed, on five different occasions, each time with deeper emphasis,

"I _wish_ it were possible to do _without_ a cook." Yesterday, when this

exclamation escaped her, my father, who, excepting in a taste for fat,

is a man of very philosophical notions, caught up the note, and said,

doubtingly, "My dear, do you consider it to be _quite_ necessary to have

a _dinner_ every day!"

The last treasure we had only cooked our dinner on one day! She must have

been a practitioner in some wholesale cooking establishment; cook to an

ordinary on a grand scale, where dinners for a hundred and forty were

daily prepared. We had to dine on cold meat for a week after she left

us. You must know, that on the first day of her instalment in office,

the butcher had been directed (we lived a few miles from town, and at

a distance from any market-place) to send us a supply of animal food

sufficient to last for about eight days. There were a leg of mutton--a

saddle of mutton--a sirloin of beef--a round of beef, and various small

nick-nacks for side dishes. Well, my dear credulous mother received the

new cook as usual. She found her to be a most enormous treasure; and

she can at this day make affidavit, if necessary, that she gave her

the proper directions about the dinner. On the day the circumstance I

am about to relate took place, we had merely the family at dinner. On

entering the dining-room, I observed my mother gently start, as her eye

encountered a great number of large dishes round the table. She, however,

suppressed her astonishment, took her place at the head of the table (my

father never carved), said grace, and was sinking slowly into her chair

as the servant raised the first cover. My mother instantly started up,

exclaiming, in a tone of alarm, and with turned-up eyes,

"Mercy on us! the leg of mutton!"

All eyes turned in a moment upon the uncovered mutton, and then on my

agitated mother. The servant, after a pause, laid his hand on the second

cover, upon which my mother had bent her looks. Up went the cover amidst

curling wreaths of steam.

"Good gracious! look at the sirloin!" cried my mother.

We all looked accordingly at the sirloin, but without discovering in it

anything peculiarly different from other sirloins.

The removal of the next cover exhibited the round of beef--another

exclamation from my mother. We now all commenced staring, first, at the

joints, then at my mother, and then at each other. We certainly began

to think, when a fourth joint had appeared in view, that there _was_

"something wrong." A pause ensued--my father broke it.

"In the name of wonder," said he, "what's the matter?"

"O that new cook," answered my mother, with a groan.

"What has she _done_?" inquired my father.

"_The whole weeks marketing!_" said my mother, sinking into her chair,

for she had been standing all this time.

"Stupid woman," continued my father, "send her off immediately."

"Did you ever hear of such a _dreadful_ creature?" said my mother. "Off

she goes the first thing in the morning;" and sure enough our new cook

gave place to another new one the very next day.

My chief object in taking a trip in the "Omnibus" is the hope of meeting

somebody, in the course of its rounds, who may recommend to us some

treasure of a cook, likely to suit my mother, and remain with her, say,

for a month or two; for this changing once a week worries the life out of

me. You all know the proverb that speaks of too many cooks. How true it

is in our case! We want _one_, instead of a multitude.

I shall not mention the name of the personage who is proverbially said to

"send cooks." Perhaps we have already had a protegée or two of his among

our professors; but a cook of anybody's sending would be eagerly welcomed

by me--so that she would but be a little steady, _and stop_!

W. S.

A SONG OF CONTRADICTIONS.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

"I am not what I am."--_Iago._

I.

The Passions, in festival meeting,

I saw seated round, in a dream;

And vow, by my hatred of cheating,

The Passions are not what they seem.

There's mirth under faces the gravest,

There's woe under visages droll;

There's fear in the breast of the bravest,

And light in the desolate soul.

II.

Thus Joy, in my singular vision,

Sat sobbing and gnashing his teeth;

While Gentleness scoff'd in derision,

And Hope pick'd the buds from his wreath.

Despair, her tight bodice unlacing,

With laughter seem'd ready to die;

And Hate, her companions embracing,

Won each with a smile or a sigh.

III.

There Peace bellow'd louder and louder,

For Freedom, sent off to the hulks;

Fear sat on a barrel of powder,

And Pleasure stood by in the sulks.

Here Dignity shoots like a rocket

Past Grace, who is rolling in fat;

There Probity's picking a pocket,

Here Pity sits skinning a cat.

IV.

Then Temperance reeling off, quite full,

Charged Friendship with drugging her draught;

_She_ vowed it was Love that was spiteful,

While Charity, blaming _all_, laugh'd;

When Rage, with the blandest expression,

And Vengeance, low-voiced like a child,

Cried, "Mercy, forgive the transgression!"

But Mercy look'd horribly wild.

V.

Old Wisdom was worshipping Fashion,

And Jollity dozing in gloom;

While Meekness was foaming with passion,

And Misery danced round the room.

Sweet Envy tripp'd off to her garret,

Bright Malice smiled worthy of trust,

Gay Want was enjoying his claret,

And Luxury gnaw'd a dry crust.

VI.

At Pride, as she served up the dinner,

Humility turn'd up her nose;

Suspicion shook hands with each sinner,

While Candour shunn'd all, as her foes.

There's mirth under faces the gravest,

There's woe under visages droll,

There's fear in the breast of the bravest,

And light in the desolate soul!

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.