CHAPTER VII.

From the moment that war was declared against the French republic,

the navy of England reigned supreme upon the ocean; and such was the

vigilance and gallantry of our tars, that scarcely a cruiser showed her

nose out of an enemy's harbour, but she was quickly led by it into a

British port. The captain of the Thunderbolt was a thorough seaman of

the hard-fighting school, and with such an example in his commander, and

with a private tutor like honest Ben, to teach him the practical details,

young Heartwell could not fail to become well versed in his several

duties. In Lord Bridport's action, off L'Orient, his ship was one of

those most actively engaged, and gained great credit; but on her return

into port, she was paid off, and the whole of her company transferred to

a noble three-decker, which subsequently took the lead in the mutiny at

Spithead.

It is unnecessary to enter into details of this event--in which the

enemies of England sought to injure and humble the flag of Britannia,

through the disaffection of her hardy seamen. Emissaries were constantly

at work, endeavouring to inflame their passions, and poison the source

of honour; but though the gallant tars were true to themselves, and to

each other, they were also faithful to their country. Ben, as a matter of

course, had joined his brother sailors in their equitable demands, and

Sambo had very naturally followed the example. Frank's conduct, during

this eventful period, was governed by the strictest sense of integrity.

He was well aware that the claims of the seamen had been utterly

disregarded by the government; and though averse to insubordination, yet

he felt that they had been driven to extremities through the neglect

of their remonstrances. But on all occasions in which the most violent

counselled outrage, he boldly stood forward to counteract and oppose

their schemes, and by appeals to those who only sought to obtain redress

of grievances he was generally successful; especially in one instance,

when Sir Alan Gardner, Sir John Colpoys, and Sir Maurice Pole, came on

board the Queen Charlotte, to hold a conference with the delegates. Sir

Alan, a rigid disciplinarian, who had been extremely irritable throughout

the proceedings, was so exasperated by a fresh demand, that he swore at

the delegates as "A set of mutinous dogs," and declared he would "have

every one of them hanged--together with every fifth man in the fleet."

The circumstance spreading through the ship like wildfire, the after-part

of the main-deck was crowded by hundreds, ready to support their leaders.

The sturdy admiral gave them a look of defiance, and shouting "Make a

lane there!" spread his hands out on each side to force his way to the

entrance-port--nor was he sparing of blows. Frank had witnessed the

whole of the proceedings, and now saw with apprehension, that a number

of the most violent characters were closing in upon Sir Alan. In all

commotions, Ben and the black made it a point to keep near their young

officer, and at this moment they were close to him. Frank spoke to the

seaman, who passed the word to Sambo, and then all three rushed forward;

Ben exclaiming, "Avast there--don't go for to touch the admiral!" Numbers

of the better-minded caught up the impulse, and followed the three, who

cleared a road for Sir Alan to retreat; Ben and the black levelling the

opposition. The admiral got down the side into his boat, and immediately

shoved off for the shore.

Sir Alan Gardner did not forget this timely aid of the young midshipman,

for on Earl Howe coming down to settle the disputes, Frank was appointed

to steer Sir Alan's barge; when the noble earl and his countess,

accompanied by several persons of distinction, embarked to pay an

amicable visit to the ships at St. Helen's and Spithead.

It was a most interesting spectacle; the barges of the men-of-war each

carrying its delegates assembled, on a May morning, and pulled in for

the sally-port. The men were dressed in their best clothes, and the most

perfect order and regularity was preserved, whilst the seamen on board

the ships were anxiously watching them, for rumours were current that

the earl had brought down the required proclamation, ensuring a general

pardon.

On landing, the delegates proceeded to the governor's house, where they

had an audience of the earl, and an affecting scene it was. The venerable

nobleman in his seventy-second year--his head silvered over with age and

arduous service, and arrayed in the uniform in which he had so nobly

maintained British supremacy on the ocean, received the rebellious seamen

graciously; and it was curious to observe the downcast and schoolboy

looks of many of the hardy tars, who, but a few hours before, were in

open and daring mutiny. But when the noble admiral, in the affectionate

language of a father to his children, exhorted them to obedience and

subordination, and even shed tears, as he declared that a continuance of

the mutinous proceedings would break his heart, the rough dispositions

of the seamen gave way, not in childish weakness--no! they evinced their

stern emotion in habits peculiar to themselves, though it was evident

every soul was moved. There stood their chief who had led them on to

victory, subdued by the weight of calamity which had threatened his

country.

After partaking of refreshment, in which the bold tars were waited upon

by female youth and beauty, a procession was formed, and Earl Howe and

his lady, with the admirals and captains, several accompanied by their

families, walked to the sally-port.

During the interval Frank had proceeded to the Royal Sovereign's barge;

and when first recognised, he was pointed out as the midshipman who had

been instrumental in resisting the indignation of the Queen Charlotte's

men, and rescuing Sir Alan Gardner, and numbers of the disaffected

loudly expressed their disapprobation. Ben held the distinguished post

of coxswain to Lord Bridport; but as a lieutenant was expected to steer

Earl Howe out to the fleet, he had resigned the rudder in the Queen

Charlotte's barge, and stationed himself at the stroke oar. The moment

the honest fellow saw the feeling that prevailed against his officer, he

addressed the boat's crew in a few energetic words, appealing to them who

knew the merits of the midshipman, as a smart officer, but a seaman's

firm friend. It was a day of joy and reconciliation; and they felt it;

for whilst the tumult against Frank was increasing, the bargemen of the

Queen Charlotte simultaneously approached him, and having given a hearty

cheer, he was hoisted on the shoulders of two of the stoutest amongst

them, and in procession with the Union Jack in front, they carried

him to and fro the beach, amidst the reiterated plaudits of thousands

who had collected to witness the embarkation. This demonstration from

his shipmates was enough; the bargemen of the other men-of-war were

satisfied; and those who but a few minutes before had been loud in their

anger, were now equally vociferous in their praise.

In the midst of their joyousness, Earl Howe and the delegates reached the

sally-port, and instantly the boats were manned; and as they shoved off,

and formed in order, the roars of the saluting cannon and the shouts of

the populace mingled together in one vast burst of enthusiasm; and as

the boats neared the ships, their armed sides poured forth responsive

peals--the yards were manned--and joy sparkled in every eye.

Frank acquitted himself with great dexterity throughout the day, and all

differences being adjusted with the seamen, they returned to the shore,

where Earl Howe landed, about seven o'clock in the evening, and was

carried on the shoulders of the delegates to the governor's house. Thus

peace and harmony were restored to the Channel fleet, which put to sea on

the following day, to meet the enemy.

Frank had now been three years away from his mother, without seeing her;

and though they frequently corresponded, he earnestly longed to visit her

again. The capture of an extremely valuable ship from Senegal, in which

Frank was placed as second prize-master, afforded him an opportunity of

returning to England, and as on her arrival at Portsmouth she was ordered

to proceed up the Thames to Deptford, he now was enabled to repair to

Finchley. It would be impossible to describe the young midshipman's

feelings as he approached the cottage. Helen was for the moment

forgotten: he opened the door, and in a few moments was in the embrace

of his parent. The interesting scene was not unobserved, for in a remote

part of the room sat a young lady, a gratified but agitated spectator

of all that passed. As soon as the ebullition of joy had subsided, Mrs.

Heartwell called her visitor to remembrance, and Frank and Helen met--at

first with a degree of embarrassment, for they had in their memory

pictured each other as they had last parted, nearly four years before,

when both were in the gradual advance from childhood to maturity. Frank

was then but a youth, but now he appeared the full-grown man, and seldom

could there be seen a handsomer, or more candid countenance. Now he saw

Helen before him in the perfection of female beauty, just entered upon

womanhood; and yet both heart and features were the same, for as soon as

the first few minutes had flown, reserve was banished and they conversed

with ease as old acquaintances.

In private retirement the young officer learned from his mother and Mr.

Unity Peach, (who came purposely to see him, and to grumble at all that

he had done) that Brothers, the supposed prophet, had been apprehended

under a warrant from the privy council; and after careful examination by

two able physicians, had been declared insane, and placed in Fisher's

Lunatic Asylum, at Islington--that nothing had been heard respecting

Brady, who it was supposed, had quitted the kingdom for ever.

The young people had now frequent opportunities of seeing each other, and

every interview served to strengthen the ardent attachment which both

cherished, but neither of them confessed. A little incident, in which

Frank had relieved Helen from an importunate and insulting mendicant, who

had intruded upon the grounds, first opened the eyes of Mr. Wendover. The

merchant loved money, and he had, in a great measure, set his heart upon

aggrandising his name and family, through Helen's union with a man of

rank and opulence.

Without leading her to think that he was aware of her regard, he spoke

to her on the subject of Frank's attentions, gained a full and perfect

knowledge of her secret, and ascertained that in no instance had Frank

addressed her in what is termed the language of love, nor had at any

time openly avowed his affection. Mr. Wendover at once acquitted both

Mrs. Heartwell and her son of sinister and dishonourable conduct; but

his own line of procedure was determined upon, and he resolved to remove

his daughter without delay to an estate he had recently purchased on the

coast of Cornwall, where he trusted that absence would effect a change in

the bosom of his child.

Great was the consternation of the young officer, when on his next visit

he heard of their sudden and unexpected departure; and his impassioned

and incoherent expressions when it was announced to him, betrayed the

state of his heart to his mother. It was the first disappointment of the

kind he had ever experienced, and its suddenness had overpowered him;

but the reasoning and remonstrances of his parent restored him to more

tranquil feelings. She encouraged him "to persevere in his profession,

and by gaining an honoured and distinguished name, he perhaps might

remove the bar which parental authority had seen fit to interpose between

them."

"You are right, mother," said he with firmness. "I will yet prove to Mr.

Wendover that I am not unworthy of his daughter's regard."

The prize he had come home in was condemned, and the prize-crew were

removed to the guard-ship at the Nore; but Frank obtained leave to pass

a few days at Finchley previous to his joining them, and the indulgence

thus extended was a source of great relief to his irritated feelings.

[Illustration: _Frank Heartwell discovering the treasure._

London, Tilt & Bogue, Fleet Street.]

A night or two before his departure, he was awoke by a strange noise. At

first he conjectured it might be caused by rats, and he endeavoured to

compose himself to sleep again; but the sounds were so continuous and

harsh, that after some time he rose and looked out at the window, when it

instantly ceased. He stood for several minutes, earnestly gazing towards

the splendid mansion of Mr. Wendover, his thoughts wholly absorbed by

remembrances of Helen; and when he again laid himself down, sleep had

utterly departed. In a few minutes the strange noise was renewed. Frank

listened, and the hollow grating sounds seemed to be caused by some one

scraping the outer wall of the building. He arose, and wrapping his

cloak round him, crept noiselessly down to the door--the knocking on

the building still continued, but ceased as he undid the fastenings,

so that when he stood in the open air everything was again still. He

had descended without his shoes, which he returned to put on, and then

walked round the cottage and through the garden, but nothing whatever

appeared to elucidate the mystery. The next night he was aroused again by

a noise rather more dull and heavy; as the rear of the building seemed

to be the place of operation, he crept down to the back-door, and rushed

out just in time to see a man jump down from a ladder reared against

the gable-end. The intruder sprang over the wall and escaped. Without

removing the ladder, Frank determined to watch; and though once or twice

he fancied he could perceive a commotion amongst the foliage of the

adjoining plantation, yet he remained unmolested till broad daylight,

when he ascertained that the intruder had been working with a pick, to

loosen several bricks in a part of the wall that was covered with ivy,

and at a few feet below the eavings. A little reflection prompted Frank

to further search; and by removing the thick mantling ivy he discovered

that, at some period or other, an addition had been made to the side of

the building, and that there was a considerable space between the outside

and the in. His curiosity was strongly excited--the apartment he had

slept in appeared to be everywhere the same; but on sounding round it, he

ascertained that the part next to that where an attempt had been made to

open an aperture, was of stout wood-work, carefully covered with the same

papering as that which was on the other walls of the room.

He was not long in deciding what to do. Seizing a tomahawk, which had

formerly belonged to Ben, he cut down the partition, and taking a light,

passed through the opening he had made into a long narrow room that ran

the whole depth of the house. Surprised as he was at this discovery, his

wonder was still more increased, when ranged in various parts he observed

several strong cases and boxes. On his right appeared an iron-bound oaken

chest, on the top of which lay a cushion now damp and mouldy, but it was

evident that it had formerly been used as a sort of seat or couch, as a

table was close to it, bearing a lantern, a wine-glass, an inkstand with

a pen in it, and remnants of writing-paper much torn by vermin. Suspended

against the wall above the table were a brace of handsomely-mounted

horseman's pistols, a dragoon's sword, a blunderbuss, and a bunch of

rusty keys, whilst beneath was a stone bottle containing a small quantity

of ardent spirits, and an empty wine-bottle. In other parts were books

and papers much defaced, and the writing scarcely legible, whilst in one

spot upon the floor were four or five canvas bags, part of the contents

of which (guineas) had escaped through holes gnawed at the bottom, and

now lay glittering before the eyes of the young officer.

In the floor of this room was a trap-door, which Frank raised up, and

perceived there was a ladder beneath, down which he descended, and found

himself in an apartment of the same dimensions as the one above, but

more lofty, and a strange sensation crept over him, as he beheld what

looked like coffins piled one upon the other, but on examination proved

to be arm-chests, painted black, and containing muskets and bayonets.

There were also several barrels (which Frank, from experience, knew at

once to be powder-barrels), placed apart by themselves; and the head

of one of them having been beaten-in, a quantity of ball-cartridge

became exposed;--in short, with pistols and sabres, and the necessary

accoutrements, there was good equipment in arms and ammunition for

several hundred men. From this room a flight of stone steps, slimy with

reptiles and the damp, led into a kind of cellar, having in one corner a

very large copper, and at a short distance from it a deep well; whilst

broken worms and shattered liquor-casks, with the remains of various

implements, offered proofs that an illicit distillery had formerly been

carried on here. On one side was a vaulted underground passage, arched

over, that was nearly filled with rubbish; but Frank, following its

apparent direction in the garden, ascertained that it led to a stable

(which was seldom used) at some distance in the rear of the cottage; and

here he found that attempts had been made to break through a doorway that

had been bricked-up, and an opening formed, large enough for a man to get

through, but the archway having fallen in, and the passage completely

stopped, further progress had been prevented that way.

Frank and his mother consulted together as to the best course to be

pursued; and Mrs. Heartwell recommended her son to go and apprise Mr.

Wendover's steward of the discovery. That individual promptly attended,

accompanied by a legal agent, who informed the young midshipman that he

had no claim whatever to the property, which belonged as a matter of

right to the lord of the manor, and he accordingly took possession for

Mr. Wendover; and before his departure, Frank saw the whole deposited in

security at the Hall.

HOW TO RAISE THE WIND.

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT, R.N.

The votaries of Fashion are considered heartless. Can they well be

otherwise, when they worship a deity so remorseless and so unfeeling?

Fashion not only ruins her own followers, but she is continually plunging

into poverty and distress those who know nothing of her until they find

that through her means they have become outcasts, deprived of their means

of subsistence, and that their children are crying for bread. It is no

matter how trifling may be the alteration which has been enforced by

this despotic goddess, this is certain, that that alteration has been

the cause of misery to hundreds; and if the step taken by her is one

of magnitude, not only thousands, but whole towns, nay provinces, on

the Continent are thrown from want of employment into misery. The town

of Woodstock is one proof, out of many, how severely a community may

suffer from change in fashion. The gloves formerly made there, and the

manufacture of which had become a trade and means of livelihood to so

many large families, are now no longer worn. The people had been brought

up to this trade, and were not competent to any other, until they had

begun anew and learnt one in their advanced life. Woodstock was once a

flourishing town; now it has dwindled into comparative obscurity. Thus

it has been, thus it is, and thus it will be with many more; for Fashion

ever changes, and every change is accompanied with a petty revolution,

attended with distress, which her votaries, glorying in their close

attendance upon her ear, either never hear of, or which, if heard by

them, is received with nonchalance and indifference.

I have been drawn into the above remarks in consequence of my whole story

depending upon an article which is now no longer to be seen--indeed, I

may add, is no longer to be mentioned but in a circuitous manner. Why

this extreme squeamishness has latterly taken place I really cannot

imagine. A garment is but a garment; and as we may talk of all other

garments used by either sex without fear of offence, why should this one

have latterly fallen into disgrace? At all events, I must either mention

this unmentionable article, or not tell my story. I have, therefore, only

now to give due notice to all ladies who may already surmise what the

article in question may be, that now is the proper time for them to close

the book, or to skip over to the next contribution, for my narrative is

wholly dependent upon a pair of them.

I remember when I was a boy, I should say about forty years ago, when

this article of dress was considered not only to be indispensable,

but also indispensable that it was made of buckskin. It was worn high

up, reaching to the chest, met with a very short waistcoat; add to

these a blue coat and metal buttons, and the hair well powdered, and

a fashionable man of 1800 stood before you. There were inconveniences

attending buckskin; but when Fashion dictates, her votaries overcome all

obstacles; _Pride knows no pain_, is an English proverb, met by one from

the opposite side of the Channel, _Il faut souffrir pour être belle_. The

difficulty of getting into a pair of these articles, after they had been

cleaned, was considerable; and when they became wet, they were anything

but comfortable to the wearer. However, they have passed away, and this

country has gained by their disappearance; for the leather out of which

they were made came from the Continent, and the wool of this country has

now occupied its place, in the cloth trousers which have succeeded them.

And now to my story.

Before railroads were dreamt of, and people were satisfied with eight

miles an hour, there was a certain person at Liverpool, who had gone

down there on some sort of speculation or another; but whether it was to

purchase cotton, or to attend the races, or to do a little business in

any other way, does not exactly appear. This, however, is certain, that

his speculations, whatever they might have been, failed, and that he

found himself in the widest street in the town with exactly one guinea

left in his pocket. One guinea would not pay his fare to London, whither

he had decided upon going. He was, therefore, left to his own resources;

that is, the resources of an ingenious mind, to help the one-pound-one,

which was in his waistcoat-pocket.

It was not until he had walked up and down the long street for at least

the tenth time that he came to any resolution: at last he slapped his

buckskins, as much as to say _I have it_, and walking on a little

farther, he looked at the clock which was in the coach-office, crossed

the street, and went over to the hotel, which was directly opposite.

But I must now describe the appearance and dress of the person in

question. He was a man of about thirty-five years of age, of handsome

exterior, tall, and well made; he wore powder, a white cravat, a blue

coat, very short figured waistcoat, and the articles in question, to

wit, a pair of buckskin inexpressibles, to which must be added a pair of

white top-boots. He had also a surtout-coat, of fine cloth, over all, but

which was unbuttoned when he entered the hotel. In short, he appeared

to be a dandied, rakish sort of gentleman of the time, with a look and

manner implying that he had plenty of money to spend, and did not care a

fig for anybody. No one could have ever imagined, with such an external

appearance, that he had no more than one guinea in his pocket. Our

gentleman walked into the coffee-room of the hotel, and took his seat in

one of the boxes, with an air of pretension. In an authoritative tone he

called the waiter, and when the waiter came, he called for the bill of

fare, which was humbly presented. Our gentleman ran down its contents.

"I'll have a bit of fish, waiter,--which do you recommend to day?"

"All good, sir; but cod and oyster-sauce just in season."

"Well, then, let it be so, with a broiled chicken and mushrooms. If I

recollect right, you had some good wine here once?"

"Yes, sir--we have the same bin now--the port you mean, sir?"

"Yes, the port; tell Mr.---- I forget the landlord's name."

"Mr. Bansom."

"Very true;--tell Bansom to let me have a bottle of his best, and a pint

of good madeira for dinner."

"Yes, sir. When will you have your dinner?"

"As soon as it can be got ready. In the mean time get me a newspaper."

In due time the dinner made its appearance, and ample justice was done

to it by our gentleman. After the cloth was removed, the port wine was

produced, and this he appeared determined to enjoy, as he remained at

table sipping it until every other person who had been in the coffee-room

had quitted it, and he was left alone. He then poured out the last glass,

rang the bell, and demanded his bill. It was all ready:--

£ _s._ _d._

Fish 0 2 6

Fowl and mushrooms 0 5 6

Madeira 0 4 0

Port 0 7 0

-------------

Total, including extras 1 4 6

"Not dear, I must say," observed the gentleman, after he had read the

bill; "I must patronise this house again. The port is really good wine;

I knew it again directly,--£1. 4_s._ 6_d._--half-a-crown for the waiter,

£1. 7_s._" Then the gentleman put his hand into his right waistcoat

pocket, and felt for his purse, found it not there, so he inserted his

other hand into his left waistcoat pocket, no purse there.--"Hum," says

he, with surprise; down went his right hand into the pocket of his

buckskins on the right side, no purse there; down into the left, even to

the bottom, no purse there.--"The devil!" exclaimed he, feeling his coat

pockets, as a last hope--both empty. "Why, waiter, I've left my purse!"

exclaimed he, rising up from his seat; "and now, I perceive, I've not

my watch and seals. I must have left them both on the table. You don't

recollect me--what must I do?"

"If you please," replied the waiter, respectfully, coming to the point,

"you must pay your bill."

"Of course I must," replied the gentleman; "I cannot expect you to trust

me; what can I do? I must leave you something in pledge."

"If you please, sir," replied the waiter.

"What shall it be--my surtout coat? I can spare that."

"Yes, sir," replied the waiter, who surveyed his coat, and was satisfied;

"that will do."

"Well, then, help me with it off. On second thoughts, I do not think

I can let you have my coat, I have suffered so dreadfully with the

rheumatism in my shoulders. I dare not, upon my soul, I daren't; you must

have something else. What shall it be--my boots, my new white top-boots?"

"I think, sir, you couldn't well walk away in stockings without getting

cold and rheumatism," replied the waiter.

"Very true, what a fool I am! but so unaccustomed to be placed in so

awkward a position, I do believe I've lost my senses--to give my boots

were madness. I'll tell you how it shall be, waiter, I'll give you my

buckskins--bran new--worth two pair of boots; I shan't miss them if I

walk fast and button up."

"As you please, sir," replied the waiter.

After a deal of trouble, the buckskins were in the hands of the waiter;

our gentleman pulled on his boots again, buttoned his surtout close in

front, and promising to redeem them faithfully by his servant the next

morning, quitted the hotel, holding himself very erect, that no opening

in the front of his surtout should discover that he was minus so very

important and indispensable an article of habiliment.

Our gentleman did not walk very far; he crossed the street and entered

the hotel which was opposite to the one which he had just quitted, and

from which he knew that the coaches went to London.

Again he walked into the coffee-room, took his seat without his

deficiencies being perceived, and calling the waiter, said to him--"The

coach starts from this hotel to London, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"At what hour?"

"At half-past five exactly, sir."

"Well, then, I shall take a supper and a bed; and here," continued he,

throwing his guinea down on the table, "book me an inside place by the

name of Mr. William Baring."

The waiter had heard of the name before, and bowed respectfully.

"Any luggage, sir?"

"No, I took my place this night by the mail, and was compelled to stay on

important business just as I was getting into the coach. My luggage went

on, I shall find it when I arrive."

Our gentleman ordered a good supper, and at half-past ten requested to be

shown to his bed-room.

"Boots," said he, "recollect you call me at half-past four exactly, as I

am hard of waking. Don't forget; and if you don't see me getting up in

five minutes, rouse me again."

"Yes, sir," replied the Boots.

At half-past four the Boots made his appearance with a lanthorn, and

after some considerable shaking, our gentleman roused up and sat by the

side of the bed. The Boots had lighted the candle, and stood by.

"Yaw--aw!" said our gentleman, shaking himself and yawning. "How horrid

it is to be up before daylight. Ah, well! Boots, give me my stockings."

"Yes, sir."

The stockings were slowly dragged on. "Now then Boots, my buckskins." The

Boots turned over the other garments, looked here and there, and upon

every chair; at the foot of the bed, and in the bed, under the pillow,

under the bolster.

"I can't see no buckskins, sir."

"Pooh, nonsense! man."

Another useless turn round the room. "Well, I'm sure, sir, I can't see

them."

"How very odd!" exclaimed our gentleman; "perhaps I'm sitting on them."

He rose, but there were no buckskins under him. "How excessively strange!

You didn't take them away with you when you took the boots, did you?"

"No, sir; I never comed into the room. You put your boots outside."

"So I did, now I recollect; but still the buckskins must be found."

Another ineffectual search of five minutes, during which our gentleman

gradually showed that the serenity of his temper was ruffling, till at

last he became in a furious passion.

"By heavens! this is too bad: in a respectable house, too. Boots, go up

to your master, and tell him I must see him immediately--say immediately,

and without delay--Mr. William Baring--recollect, instantly!"

In a few minutes the landlord of the hotel made his appearance, half

dressed, and not very well pleased at being compelled to turn out at such

an unseasonable hour; but the name of Baring had been mentioned, and was

not to be trifled with.

"You wish to speak to me, sir?"

"Yes, sir, I do wish to speak to you. I came here last night, having been

obliged to give up my place in the seven o'clock mail, in consequence

of pressing and important business which detained me. I booked myself

by the fast coach, supped and slept here, desiring that I might be

called in good time, as my immediate return to London is important.

On my being called and getting up, I found that somebody had stole my

buck-skins--that's all--nothing more. My buckskins--buckskins, sir, have

disappeared!"

"I'm very sorry, sir--very sorry; can't imagine how. Some mistake, I

presume," stammered the landlord.

"My buckskins are gone, sir, and no mistake," replied our gentleman. "I

considered this a respectable honest house, sir, but it appears----"

This attack upon the respectability of the house made the landlord

angry--it was a sore point.

"My house is respectable, sir--always has been respectable, sir--always

will be, I trust. No gentleman ever lost his buckskins here before, sir.

What they brought they have always taken away!"

"Why, sir!" exclaimed our gentleman, in a towering passion, "what do

you mean to imply, sir? Do you suppose that a gentleman would come here

_without_ such an _indispensable_ article of dress?"

"No, sir, no," replied the landlord, who cooled down as his adversary

became excited; "I didn't mean to say that, sir."

"Then you'll just hear what I have to say, sir," replied our gentleman:

"I'm not to be robbed in this barefaced way;--and the credit of your

house, sir, is gone; for as soon as I arrive in town, I will write a

letter to the Times, Chronicle, Herald, Post, and Morning Advertiser,

stating the whole of the infamous transaction, and sign it with _my own

name_, sir--with my own name; and then we shall see how long you are in

a position to rob the public in this way. Yes, sir, and my lawyer shall

send you a letter, as soon as I arrive in town, for an action of damages

and recovery, sir."

Then our gentleman walked rapidly up and down the room, his shirt waving

to and fro as if it was as much excited as himself.

"I'm very sorry, sir--very sorry," said the landlord; "but, sir, I have

a pair of double-milled trousers which I think would fit you, so as to

enable you to go to town, until the buckskins can be replaced."

"Double-milled! thank you, sir. You appear to consider my loss as only

amounting to a pair of buckskins, Mr. Landlord; but who, sir, is to repay

me the forty pounds and upwards, in bank-notes, which were in the pockets

of my buckskins--heh! sir?"

This was, indeed, a new feature in the case, which the landlord did not

expect.

"Forty pounds odd, sir!" exclaimed the landlord.

"Yes, sir, forty pounds. Let me see, forty-four pounds exactly. Now, sir,

is that money to be forthcoming?--in one word, sir--there is no time to

lose. If I miss the coach, I post all the way to town at your expense, as

soon as I have procured something to put on. The house of Baring can't

go to town in its shirt--the house of Baring will be revenged, sir--your

treatment is past bearing, and--I give you five minutes to decide."

The landlord did decide. The buckskins had disappeared--the credit of

his house was at stake--the house of Baring was his enemy--there was no

help for it. The double-milled and £45 were handed over--the wrath of

our gentleman was appeased--he even, before he slipped into the coach,

promised to patronise the hotel.

The coach had been on the road about six hours, when the waiter stepped

over to his chum, the waiter of the hotel opposite, to tell him what

a shindy there had been about a pair of buckskins; the other waiter

produced the buckskins left in pledge; and on their description of our

gentleman, no doubt was left but that, although not probable, it was

very possible that a gentleman could come into an hotel _without his

inexpressibles_.

The landlord was almost frantic at having been so imposed upon; but,

as usual in all such cases, he soon made up the loss incurred by our

gentleman's visit to the hotel, by charging it upon those who came there,

not only with buckskins, but with money in their buckskins-pockets; and

thus ends my story of "How to raise the Wind; or, the Buckskins."

A PEEP AT BARTHOLOMEW FAIR.

"Out, out, brief candle!"--MACBETH.

Something whispers us that we should here commence moralising, that

we should first expatiate on the nothingness of worldly gaud and

greatness--enlarge on the changefulness of human prospects, and discover

to our readers' view the myriads of blanks with which that fraudulent

jade Fortune dilutes the few prizes she dispenses from her wheel. But

then again, another something whispers us, we had far better get on with

our subject, and we think we had.

Be it known then, that ever since a certain morning, (Anno Domini

something,) when our nursery-maid walked us through Bartholomew Fair,

and showed us _all_ the pretty things, and treated our little palate

to one or two of the nice ones, we have felt a remarkable passion for

fairs--Bartholomew fair in particular. We will adventure to measure our

love for it against that of its tutelar saint--but alas! we forget--it

has no tutelar saint now; he has long since turned his back upon it.

Yes, when prosperity went hand in hand with it, when joy, mirth, and

splendour, were its friends, _then_ could that faithless guardian--but,

we must commence again, this is too moral--too moral by half. Once more

then.

It was the last day of Bartholomew Fair, and from some unaccountable

cause, we had not been near the spot. But it was not yet too late. We

bustled up at the thought, hastily pinned our handkerchief inside our

hat, emptied all our pockets--save one, divested our person of watch and

jewelry, (for we hold it heinous to encourage picking and stealing,)

and then hurried out in the direction of Smithfield, resolving in the

plenitude of our joy to visit every show, have a ride in every swing,

take a chance at every penny turn, roll the marble down every tower of

Babel, and pink with every winning needle, for the sake of lang syne.

Five years had we been away from England--five years had we been absent

from our own dear Fair; and yet, how well we remembered our last walk

over the same ground, about the same hour, and on the same errand. What

pleasure it was now to see that so little change had taken place in the

streets! There, stood the old oyster-rooms exactly the same as ever;

yonder, was the public-house beside the gateway, just as dirty, just

the same people at the doors, just the same noise within as when we

last passed by. There was even the same crooked old post at the corner.

Recollection seemed as it were to shake hands with these objects as old

familiar friends, and we pushed on with even yet more joy in our bosom,

and ardent expectation in our heart, to the great--the Prince of Fairs.

Our heart leaped for joy as we shot past a little shop, displaying

drums, dolls, kettles, portable tea-services, singing cuckoos, bow-wow

poodles, and armies of soldiers barracked in flat deal boxes, with

a background of whips, scratchers, trumpets, squeakers, diminutive

culinary apparatus, and Waterloo-crackers: we say, our heart leaped for

very joy at the sight; but it leaped no more that night, for, from that

moment disappointment marked us for her own. There now insensibly crept

upon us strange forebodings and presentiments that all was not right,

for although close upon the fair, we felt no wonted squeeze, heard no

confusion of tongues, saw no confluence of people all driving and pouring

up the road to one point. No announcements of hot green peas, fried

sausages, cooked eels, or other Bartholomew delicacies, came wafted on

the breeze;--no ginger-beer stands, corn-plaster venders, brass-sovereign

sellers, or spiced-elder-wine compounders, lined the street: the throng

was even less than we had seen upon an ordinary cattle-day. We grew

frightened; and rushing forward, peeped into the fair itself. In that

peep, the thermometer of our joy fell full five hundred degrees below

zero. Why, where are the shows? where are the swings? where are the

turn-abouts--the round-abouts? where are the people? where, _where_ is

the Fair? But down, struggling feelings, down, and let me write calmly.

In 1841 there were but TWO SHOWS in the Great Bartholomew Fair! We now

walked up the gingerbread walk--the _only_ gingerbread walk. Time had

been, when our first act was to store a pocket with the best spiced

nuts, for until we had eaten a few of those little cakes, we never felt

ourself in the fair; but now, we hadn't the heart to taste one. Nor

nuts nor any gauds had charms for us. We gazed with a pitying eye on

all. We saw black ruin hovering over and already darkening Smithfield's

grandeur--we beheld destruction suspended only by the last weak thread

of custom, which Time with his scythe, or pocket-scissors, was about to

sever, to the extinction, the total annihilation, of our own--our beloved

fair. In consequence of the prohibitory price asked for the lawful

groundage, _two_ shows had been forced to take unfurnished lodgings

in Hosier-lane. This, was indeed a blow! To see two, old, aboriginal

exhibitions--one miscellaneous, the other mechanical, with waxen kings,

clock-work queens, and spring-wire princes, barbarously driven from

their native fair--unhappy refugees, and sojourners in narrow-streets

and Hosier-lanes! Rumours there were too, that one other miserable exile

had sought an asylum in a neighbouring farrier's shop; that there,

in the front of certain festoons of dirty red cloth which veiled an

ugly forge, the pincers, hammers, anvils, and other appurtenances of

farriery, wizards were manufacturing puddings in the company's hats,

causing real beer to stream from any given part of any little boy, and

pulverising watches in mortars, as choice ingredients for soup; but we

lacked curiosity to go and test the truth of such reports--these shows

were not _in_ the fair, therefore over us possessed no magic influence.

With a heavy heart we next sauntered by the groups of stalls, whereon

were spread various fruits and seductive viands--articles of savour for

such as were edaciously disposed; but nobody seemed hungry; people passed

and repassed, and scarcely glanced at the temptations. True, oysters

appeared somewhat in demand, as did certain vinegary relishes in tiny

white saucers, but as to the more substantial boiled tripe, fried fish,

pigs' feet, pickled salmon, &c., none but the smallest boys approached

the stalls, and they, not to buy--only to enjoy a look. The very cries of

the doll and toy women, as they recommended this article or that to the

dreamy by-standers, seemed muffled with sadness; and the gipsy gambler

who was casting dice upon an old tea-tray, and relieving one or two

dirty-faced urchins of their farthings, seemed to be realising scarcely

sufficient to pay for the flaring candle which lighted his dishonesty.

We now stood opposite Wombwell's menagerie. This was the star, the

Hyperion of the fair--it stood out bright and undaunted as in happier

times--it was the last gallant upholder of poor Smithfield's dying

splendour. We admit that there was a crowd before this show, but it was

not a Bartholomew-fair crowd. There was wanting--that pulling, that

pushing, that hallooing, that hooting, that screaming of women, that

shrieking of children, that treading on toes, that losing of shoes,

that knocking in of hats, that demolishing of bonnets, that crying

for help, that squeezing of ribs, that contest between "stream up"

and "stream down," which there always was in days of yore. Such, do

we remember as the features of a legitimate Bartholomew crowd; whilst

from the surrounding shows, there thundered the clanging of gongs, the

firing of pistols, the springing of rattles, the bellowing of speaking

trumpets, the ringing of bells, the crashing of horns, with fiddles, bag

pipes, cymbals, organs, drums, and the hoarse voices of the showmen, all

uniting and confusing into one loud, discordant, ceaseless roar--Oh!

happy, thrice happy days! To the left of the mighty Wombwell, like some

tributary satellite, was a smaller--very much smaller show--a sort of

domestic _multum in parvo_--a wee locomotive ark, as it were--into which,

on some curious principle of condensation, the ingenious proprietor

had compressed a dwarf, an Abyssinian princess with vermilion eyes and

snow-white hair, a living skeleton, a remarkably accomplished pig, and

several other monstrosities--exclusive of drum, barrel organ, household

furniture, and his family. Over the doorway of this accommodative cabin

swung an iron dish, in which flared some grease and oakum, that threw

a dull flickering light upon the portraiture above the van, which

represented, among other things, the ruby-eyed princess combing her

silver locks in the presence of company, the dwarf poised in a giant's

hand, and the Crichton of pigs engaged in a game of cards. On the steps

of this exhibition, dressed in a green velveteen shooting-coat with large

moon buttons, and a red shawl wound about his neck, stood the proprietor

himself. From top to toe he looked the showman; but the care upon his

brow--the spiritless voice in which he reminded the scant mob about him

of its being the last night of the fair, and exhorted them not to neglect

the golden opportunity of witnessing his pig, dwarf, &c., told us that

he, like ourself, was the victim of chagrin and disappointment. There had

been a time when his hoarse voice rehearsing his catalogue of prodigies

would have been drowned in the clamouring din around him, but now every

word, every sentence he uttered, was pitiably distinct.

"Now, walk for'ard, walk for'ard!" he exclaimed, his wife accompanying

his voice on the watchman's rattle _ad libitum_. "Only a penny remember!

one penny there! the last night--one penny!" But nobody moved, nobody

walked forward--the whole crowd seemed penniless.

"Don't stand fingrin' the suv'rins in yer pocket, young men, till yer

vares 'em as thin as vafers and nobody vont take 'em," he continued.

"Don't stand a-thinkin' yerselves inter consumptions, but treat yer

sveethearts to the vunder o' the fair--come and vitness the most

larn'd and eloquentest pig as wos iver born or created--a pig wot's a

human bein' in everything but his tail and wices!" He paused, looked

wistfully round, whilst his spouse performed a furious interlude upon

the watchman's rattle: he then resumed. "Here, here, here, ladies, is

the pritty cretur wot'll tell you the 'zact name o' the young man as

is dyin' for yer--vether he's dark or light--fat or thin, and vare his

country-'ouse is. The livin' skel'ton too, wot eats no other wittles but

light and vind! Vun penny; no more, remember! Jist agoin' to begin--vun

penny!" He paused again, but his oratory induced only two persons to

ascend the steps. "The African princess too," he continued, tapping the

illustrious portrait with a cane, "vith silver hair eight foot long,

every hair on her head vorth a goulden guinea! Yoye--yoye--yoye, there,

walk for'ard and don't be afear'd--Little children is as velcome as

big men--Nobody's shut out but dogs and blind people. Yoye--yoye, the

dwarf--the dwarf--the dwarf, here--so short, he can't vash his own face

vithout he stands on a high stool. Now my little boys, put yer four

fard'ns together and see vot you'll niver see agin if yer lives as long

as the most oldest donkey--come and see the vunderful pig Toby as'll tell

yer how old yer are--vare the key of yer master's till's kept, and vether

you're to pick up the five-pun-note a valking home to-night, or next

veek!"

But to little end is this budget of professional eloquence and strained

humour reiterated in the ears of his gaping listeners; very few are so

overcome by it as to "walk forward;" such as are, being kept in bondage

till their open mutiny and rebellious language compel the proprietor to

close the door; the exhibition then commences, and then concludes; and

then again comes the Sisyphian labour of refilling the van.

Apprehensive lest our distress of feeling should be observed in our

countenance, we turned our back upon the wretched spectacle, and gazed

into the gloomy field before us, till our heart verily ached again. We

had known a time when "Richardson's" in giant letters met our view--when

wreaths and stars of variegated lamps, brilliant as the rainbow, depended

and glittered from red festoons--when, side by side, the insidious

conspirator, the valiant disinherited, and beauteous betrothed, paced the

platform in mysterious communion--when funny clowns sang funny songs to

a sea of delighted faces--when ladies in Scotch costume danced Highland

flings--when countless people who had paid, stood conjecturing and

anxiously waiting outside for the conclusion of the tragedy and pantomime

then being executed inside, and feeling sensations of awe creep over them

as the spangled knights, the frowning desperadoes, and Indian chiefs with

bracelets on their arms and rings through their ears and noses, stalked

past them in their dignified parade. Oh! torturing memory! Once more in

thy dimless mirror do we behold "Pavilion Theatre"--see the equestrian

"Clarke's"--hear too their cry of "The riders, the riders"--see again

the savage combat between the two fierce bandits, who perform north-east

south-west, robbers' cut, and guard, with frantic bravery--again we see

Master Clarke and Miss Clarke waltzing round and round in the innocence

of childhood--again the din of Bartholomew rings in our ears--again

is Smithfield thronged with its roystering thousands--again are we

surrounded by booths, shows, dwarfs, giants, pigs link-eaters, fat boys,

swings, round-abouts, conjurers, and steam glass-works. We should, past

doubt, have swooned away at the vision we had raised, had we not turned

opportunely to the little show behind us, which made us conscious of

the chilling truth of the reality. Despairing and broken-spirited, the

proprietor had forsaken his post, and whilst his consort screamed forth

invitations to the inanimate crowd to walk forward, he leaned his back

dejectedly against the wheel of his yellow habitation. As he stood, he

was accosted by a man in knee corduroys, half-boots, and white stockings,

who, removing the short pipe from his mouth and looking hard in the

showman's face, exclaimed--

"Vot Bill!--vy I ardly know'd yer! Vot a precious long phiz you have got!

Vot has give you the blues?"

"Blues!" echoed the showman, for an instant raising his eyes; "Ain't

it enough to make a heart of stone bleed to see this here Fair? Ain't

it enough to--" but here his eyes again fell upon the ground, and

superintended a little hole which he was digging with his iron heel.

"Vell, but man," rejoined the corduroys, encouragingly, as he glanced

about him, "there arn't a wery great squeege to-night, to be sure, but

yer vosn't so thin yisterday, and the day afore, vos yer?"

"Wasn't we though," sighed the proprietor, with a significant nod, "in

that ere precious pourer yisterday--we wasn't thin, eh?--oh, not at

all!"--

"Vell, don't founder, old boy. Come, go up, go up, and then the people'll

follow you!"

"Not they," returned the dejected man; "They hasn't the sperit, Jim. They

sneeks avay to the gin-shops and destroys their morals--gets drunk, and

goes home and whacks their innercent wives--here's a precious state o'

things for a civilised country!"

"Vell, niver mind. See, your good woman's a-calling of yer; go up to

her, for down here yer looks as miserable as a fish out o' water. Ve all

regrets it, but if yer perfession is ruined, vy, try your hand in some

other line, that's all."

"Niver! niver, Jim!" cried the indomitable showman; "I wos _born_ in a

wan--I wos _edicated_ in a wan--I've _lived_ in a wan, and--I'll _die_

in a wan!" Saying which, he rushed frantically up the steps, vented the

first burst of his feelings in a terrific flourish upon the trumpet, and

ultimately calmed down at the barrel organ. Very soon after, St Paul's

sonorous voice spoke his dismal fiat, and as he tolled out the eleventh

hour, seemed to ring the knell of our dear departed Bartholomew Fair.

ALPHA.

OMNIBUS CHAT.

We were led by accident, the other day, into certain odd speculations upon

THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.

Who was it that astonished his hearers by declaring that

beefsteak-pudding always put him in mind of Westminster Abbey? It was the

same man who responded to the "Why?" by saying, "O! I don't know why, but

it _does_!"

"Association of Ideas" is arrangeable under two heads: the discoverable,

and the undiscoverable. Of the last, first. How often do we every day

jump from one point to another, as distinct in themselves as the sublime

and the ridiculous, and far more widely asunder? We are talking of A, and

Z starts up in the mind. White is the subject of the speculation, and

in walks Black. It may be said, that as likes beget likes, so opposites

beget opposites; and it may be very true that if you cannot directly call

Z to mind when you want him, it is advisable to recollect A, as likelier

to remind you of him than Y, or any other alphabetician. Granted; but,

on the same principle, when you want to think of water, you should

order in some brandy. The connexion may be close, although the elements

are opposite. In like manner, we are told, when trying to recal some

reprobate's _alias_, to think of a church of the same name; as we might

think of a duellist, to suggest the image of a practical Christian. So,

if we would be reminded of the truth and simplicity of Shakspeare, we

ought to remember how his plays are sometimes acted; we shall see the

high point from the low. Again, the image of a poor-box might be useful

to help us to the idea of fulness; as that of a medicine-chest might be,

to suggest the sense of turtle and venison. But we need not multiply

opposites; grant that suggestions arise thus, when ideas stand opposed

in straight lines--when the electric wire runs direct between them,

wonderfully connecting the remote--yet how are we to account for the

association of ideas in cross-roads, where there cannot possibly be the

slightest connexion--where the fancy starts off at all sorts of angles,

or wriggles through all kinds of crooked lines, without an apparent

chance of stumbling upon the image that nevertheless comes uppermost?

Cases constantly occur where there is not a particle of affinity. The

child-idea is born without a parent-idea; there is not the shadow of

a traceable relationship. We are discussing the merits of Cerito, and

one of Euclid's problems bursts upon us; we are quietly repeating to

ourselves some verses of the Odyssey, and suddenly the mind wanders to

the subject of muffins. What connexion is there between shirt-frills and

glass bottles? Yet how rapidly may one follow the other, like debtor and

creditor, and become as intimately related as needle and thread!

On the other hand the Discoverable links of association are often as

clear and connected as pearls strung on silver; and sometimes, it

must be owned, they are altogether as tangled and confused, though

still traceable by a nice curiosity. It needs no ghost to tell us why

twenty-one shillings suggest the idea of a guinea--though the one coin

be of the more precious metal; nor is it necessary to show why a Manton

at this season awakens associations of pheasants and partridges--the

consanguinity is obvious. But how comes it that my simple little cat

(Dummy by name) called up, the other evening, by a very ordinary

movement, the image of Cleopatra? How? Why, the mere sweep of her sable

tail reminded me of the black leopard in the Surrey Zoological Gardens:

where the gigantic model of Rome suggested a thought of the Cæsars;

Antony, of course, started up, and in the "hundred-thousandth part of

the _millionth_ division of a second," I was in Egypt old, gazing upon

the undying glory of Cleopatra! What so simple! Such chains lengthen

themselves incessantly in the mind--the links are drawn each to each, of

their "own sweet will," and bind us unawares. Lightning is slow compared

with the flight of thought. How quickly does an oyster beget the idea

of our first parents! Thus: an oyster--Milton oysters--Milton--Adam and

Eve! Let any reader who may happen to be thinking of wrought-iron, trace

back his speculation, and laugh to find that it had its origin perhaps

in camomiles; as camomiles had in turn been suggested by the "Pilgrim's

Progress!"

* * * * *

---- But all this is less an address to the patient reader than an

apology to an injured Correspondent. We wish to show, beyond mistake,

how we misnamed a valued illuminator of our vehicle, who last month

related an Incident of Travel. His name is _Copus_; we could not call it

to mind, and so we styled him _Quickly_. Observe. Quickly in this case

was the son of Mrs. Quickly; Mrs. Quickly was, in our imagination, the

mother of Sack; Sack is, to our knowledge, the brother of Copus. The

connexion is mysterious--yet mysteriously simple. Copus! How could we

forget thee?--thou wert companion of our youth. We knew thee well--thou

art a spicy fellow, and a cheerful! What youthful reveller in academic

relaxations recollects thee not, with thy wine and toast, thy lemon,

cloves, and seductive et ceteras! Here's a chant that particularises thy

pleasantries:--

"Bring ale, bring wine,

Bring lemon too,

With the nutmeg fine--

We'll brew, we'll brew!

The toast throw in, and the clove divine,

'Twill do, 'twill do, 'twill do!

Here's a draught to the Queen,

And the days we have seen,

And a health to you, sir, you!"

And now shall Copus, John Copus, (late Quickly) speak for himself, on

a subject which, by a natural sequence, treads on the heels of the

foregoing.

I sometimes speculate as to what little boys at school now-a-days talk

about, as to what form the chief subjects of their amusement. It is sadly

to be feared, that the innocent and ingenuous ignorance of my school-days

has been exchanged for a culpable smattering of sophisticated knowledge,

foolishly so called. Oh! who could wish when he calls to mind the days of

his boyhood--at least, who that has a particle of romance, the smallest

dash of sentiment, in his heart, could wish, that the boys of the present

day should be sceptical as to the soothing belief then so prevalent,

that the luscious preparation of sugar and peppermint which they eat,

is really and truly a portion of "Gibraltar Rock;" or that the "brandy

balls," with which they beguile their happy hours, and _clart_ their

fingers' ends, are indeed remnants of the lot of those very "Nelson's

bullets" which spread destruction on "Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar."

Some of my readers may perhaps know--I confess my ignorance on this

point--what boys now are. Whether a Doudnean tunic and variegated cap of

divers kinds of cloth warm the possessor of as much solid understanding,

as the honest pepper-and-salt clothes and undoubted beaver hat did in

times gone by. I will, however, endeavour to illustrate what boys were in

the last generation. And first, you shall agree that they excelled as a

body in the inventive faculty. I scarcely need instance Walter Scott--the

following story will establish my point without further aid.

Let us suppose the scene--a moderate-sized room--with eighteen beds or so

in it, and the same number of boys in them, varying in age from eight to

twelve, with every variety of nightcap, from the cosey linen one fitting

"snod" to the head, and tied well under the chin, to the dignified and

manly double cotton with long tuft; these enclosing all the varieties

of hair, known as turnips, carrots, candles, &c. "Now Grant," shouts

the biggest of the lot, "it's your turn to tell a story to-night--don't

be afraid, (he was a new lad,) any thing will do, so fire away, and

I'll thrash the first that interrupts him." The youth thus addressed,

having evidently prepared his story, begins slowly and argumentatively

thus:--"Well, once upon a time there was a mill" (it was considered a

solecism to omit a mill or a castle,) "in a great plain--and a family

lived there--well--and so there were three men, and they went out one

night and walked across the plain--and it grew quite dark;" (here, one

of the youngest lads, frightened at the fearful ideas conjured up by the

last words, gives a faint sigh;) "and so after a bit they began to feel

hungry--and one said Look! there's a light! and they all swore a solemn

oath that they would go to where it was, and get something to eat, or

else kill one another." (Here evident proofs are given that the greater

portion of the audience are deeply interested in the progress of the

tale, for various small sighs are heard, indicative either of sympathy

with sufferers under the pangs of hunger, or of apprehension lest the

three "jurors," taking the Kilkenny cats as precedents, should eventually

become all of them homicides.) "Well--and so they went to the mill--and

one of them knocked--and then the miller got up, and sharpening a large

knife went to the door and asked who was there?--and the boldest of the

three told him, that they were three travellers, and wanted food and a

lodging. So the miller let them in, and they had a jolly good tuck-out of

tea and buttered toast, and then went to bed.----And so my story's ended."

"Grant--come here!" mildly observes the biggest of the crew. The

youth thus addressed rises cheerfully--advances boldly--and falls

precipitately--levelled by a well-aimed bolster. "Now Grant!" continues

the non-appreciator of a tale worthy for its simplicity of conception

of a Wordsworth--for its pensive dénouement of a Dickens;--"Now Grant,

just pick that up--and won't I lick you to-morrow morning, you precious

fool--that's all."

I cannot lay the flattering unction to my soul, of believing that the

modern dormitory could produce so striking a proof of talent. No sir;

from fountains such as these have risen the immortal strains of a ----

and a ---- (you can fill in the names). In vain will the survivors of

the next generation look for any similar display of talent. But if this

fail to convince you of the decided superiority of the boys of auld

lang syne in one branch of knowledge, give me your attention whilst I

recount an overpowering proof, that in appreciation of real wit and

talent for the ludicrous, they were indeed unrivalled. A new lad had

come, who from having liberally bestowed various "tucks" on almost every

one of his friends in the bed-room was popular on the whole, and received

very cordially by us all. At all our stories connected with the various

"masters," "monitors," "servants," boys that had left, and boys that

remained, (and some of them were by no means amiss,) he seemed rather to

sneer, so that he was voted a dull fellow--a spoon--a sap. When, however,

emboldened by acquaintance with us, he began to talk of the school he had

left, his delight, and even laughter, knew no bounds. "Oh! master was

such a jolly fellow"--he said one day to a select circle of friends--"and

such a funny fellow too he was you don't know--he! he! he! he used to

make us laugh so--he! he! I'll tell you such a funny story of him. There

was a lad called Brown, and master called him Jacky, because his name

was John--he! he! he! Well, one day at dinner, Jacky had only had once

of meat, but he'd two helps of pood;" "Of what?" we all exclaimed. "Oh!

we called _rolly_, _pood_, to distinguish it from _stick-jaw_," was the

explanation given. "So when master said, 'Well, Jacky, will you have any

more pudding?' he! he! he! Jacky said, he! he! 'Please sir,' he! he! ha!

and master said--he! he! '_Jacky's fond of pudding!_' he! he! he! wasn't

that funny?"

* * * * *

Having laughed immoderately at the profound and irresistible drollery of

Jack Brown's dominie, protesting, that two such schoolmasters would be

the death of us, we were all--that is, the whole Omnibus-fraternity in

vehicle assembled,--suddenly checked in our hilarity, and sat with solemn

visages to listen to

THE LACEMAN'S LAMENT.

"One struggle more and I am free From pangs that _rend_ my heart in

twain."--BYRON.

Oh! thou, who wert my all of hope--

Of love--of joy, in early years;

Ere aught I knew about the shop,

Or view'd life through a _veil_ of tears.

Some poet sings, that, "never yet,

The course of true love smooth did run;"

So mine, I'll take an even bet,

Must be the truest 'neath the sun!

'Tis long, long since I ceased to weep

O'er all thy broken vows of yore;

But, if you want some ribbon cheap,

I hope you'll not go past my door!

'Twas thee my youthful fancy drew

The fairest pattern of your kind;--

Lace patterns, now, alone I view,

And _fancy_ muslins rule my mind.

Dearest and fairest! oh, forgive

The thought that prompts this simple lay;

'Tis just to tell you where I live--

I see you passing, every day.

I may, perchance, have measured short

The lines that are not in my line;

For yards, not feet, are now my _forte_,

And rhymes are ill to match and join.

In visions of a future day,

I see thy long-lost form appear;

And, o'er the counter, whispering, say--

"Pray can you make it cheaper, _dear_?"

Then I'll not call thee all unkind,

Nor every hope untimely drop;

Unless, in after days, I find

You take your custom past my shop.

J. P.

* * * * *

This pleasantry not unnaturally called to mind the departed author of a

thousand similar essays; of a thousand songs, epigrams, odes, farces,

and operas; of a thousand proofs of natural talent and untiring activity

of mind. The allusion here made is to Thomas Dibdin, the son of the

great sea-songster, the brother of the already by-gone Charles, and

consequently, the last of the three! The remains of "Poor Tom" were

interred on the 21st of September, in the burial-ground of St. James's

Chapel, Pentonville, close by the grave of his old friend, _Grimaldi_.

May he sleep in peace nevertheless! The feeling of a friend seems to be

expressed in the subjoined tribute:--

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE THOMAS DIBDIN.

Alas! poor Tom! thy days are past,

Yet shall thy wit and humour last;

For few, of all the bay-crown'd train,

Could boast a more productive brain.

But what avails, if fleeting praise

Alone the poet's labour pays?

If, when the mind is worn away,

Pale misery waits on dim decay?

If talents rare no more can claim

Than idle transitory fame?

'Twas thine, poor Tom! in life's decline,

In sad reverse and want to pine;

Till Pity came, with angel-pow'r,

To soothe thee at thy latest hour.[10]

(Pity! on earth a heavenly guest,

And sweetest in a queenly breast.)

But rest thee well! nor let us grieve

Thou hadst no hoarded bags to leave;

One legacy of thine shall yet

Be valued more--thy CABINET.

J. A. WILLIAMS.

It is the fate of one author to be overlooked by the Great, and of

another to be overlooked by the Little. But we very much question,

whether any author, be he poet or pamphleteer, occupying what is

technically called a two-pair front, was ever subjected, whether sitting

down to dinner or getting into bed, to the inconvenience of being

Overlooked by the Great, after the fashion portrayed in the margin

hereof. Now this we really take to be

THE HEIGHT OF IMPUDENCE!

Impudence has many degrees. When a stranger in a coffee-room politely

requests to be allowed just to glance for one instant only at the

newspaper you are reading, merely to look at an advertisement, and then,

ordering candles into the next box, coolly sits down to read through the

parliamentary debate--when a friend borrows your horse, to lend to a

friend of his whom he would not trust with his own--a certain degree of

impudence has unquestionably been attained. There is impudence in looking

through a keyhole, in peeping over the parlour-blinds, in spying into the

first-floor from the window "over the way;" but surely the highest stage

of impudence is reserved for the man who stops as he strolls along at

night, to look into your bed-room window, on the second floor--tapping

at it probably with a request to be permitted to light his cigar at your

candle, as the gas-light has gone out.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 10: A few months before Mr. Dibdin's decease, and at the

intercession of some friends, he received 100 _l._ out of the Queen's

Bounty Fund. But he has left a widow and young family, for whom no

provision whatever has been made.]

AN APPARENT CASE OF DETERMINED SUICIDE.

[Illustration]

As we sauntered along the sea-beach the other day, in the neighbourhood

of Margate, we observed a female standing out at a considerable distance

from the cliffs, and at a point where she was likely to be cut off from

the shore. As the tide at the time was "making in fast," prompted by a

humane feeling (and not by an impertinent curiosity, in the hopes of

seeing a pretty face), we immediately hastened towards her; upon a nearer

approach the form was familiar to us--surely we had seen that figure

before--it must be--it is--Mrs. Toddles! What can she be about? She

stands motionless upon an elevated patch of sand--the white foam comes

boiling and gurgling and hissing around her. She heeds it not--she stirs

not; it begins to rain a little--she deliberately puts up her umbrella!

What can she mean? Horrible thought! does she meditate self-destruction?

Has she resolved to stand there until the mighty waters encompass her

about--engulfing herself--her little black stockings--her bonnet--her

shawl and all! in the deep, vast, salt, briny, hungry ocean. But what are

we about? Let us hasten to prevent such an awful catastrophe! Springing

forward therefore quickly, we exclaimed, "For heaven's sake, madam,

what are you about? Are you determined to destroy yourself, or are you

aware of your danger?" "Danger, sir?" cried Mrs. T. with a scream, "what

danger, sir? I am only watching the waves." "Danger, madam! why in

five minutes the waves will cut you off from all chance of escape," we

exclaimed, and expressed a hope that she could swim. "Swim!" screamed

Mrs. T.--"Swim! oh dear, oh dear!"--and away skuttled Mrs. T. along

the sands, her little bit black legs going at a most surprising rate.

However, leaving Mrs. T.'s legs to themselves, we took to our heels,

and encouraged her to increased exertion, when suddenly we heard the

little lady exclaim, "Oh, my basket,"--and upon looking round, we saw

those little bit black legs hurrying back to the place from whence she

started. We hallooed, we bawled--time and space were both narrowing with

fearful rapidity--"Now! madam--haste, haste!--quick--your hand!--there,

now!--ah!"--Ahah! too late! too late!--bang comes the wave--such a

squash--poor Mrs. T. went off dripping wet; but we dare say she would

find a little drop of comfort, in the shape of _smuggled_ Hollands at her

lodgings.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

We wonder _how_ Mrs. T. got to Margate, and suppose it was in search of

her friend, Colonel Walker--who, we presume, _must_ be out of town--or we

should have heard from him.

THE BITER BIT.

"Stop! stop!" cried a gentleman to an Omnibus cad[11], but the cad would

neither hear nor stop. "Stupid fellow!" said the gentleman,--"he'll find

it out, to his cost, bye-and-bye; for I have given him a counterfeit

five-shilling piece!" But, on looking at the change, he exclaimed--"Well,

I _never_! hang me if the rascal hasn't given me four shillings and

sixpence bad money! But, never mind; I've had my ride for nothing!"

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 11: Not attached to our establishment.]

[Illustration: A SKAITING PARTY

A Sliding Siute

A Skaiting Academy

Designed, Etched & Published by George Cruikshank No.^r 1 1841]

THE ARTIFICIAL FLOOR FOR SKATING.

If our grandfathers, and great-grandfathers, and great-grandmothers, and

great-great-grandmothers, (who, depend upon it, were all very little

people,) could only look down and see what is going on among us here

below, how they would, as an Irish friend remarks, turn up their eyes!

Those who were wont, while vegetaters in this world, to creep to bed

with the lamb, for want of a light to sit up by, (before man "found out

long-sixes,") must, upon peeping down now, be dazzled by the blaze of

gas; yet what is gas compared to the Bude-light, already superseding it?

Those who made their wills when they undertook a three-weeks journey from

York to London, must be abundantly startled by our railroads; yet what

is railway-travelling now to the velocity with which we are hereafter

to move--when, seated on a cannon-ball, we shall be shot into a distant

city in less time than it would take us to stop at home. But of all the

wonders that must make them open their unsubstantial eyes, and rub their

aerial spectacles, a Skating Assembly in a London drawing-room must

assuredly take the lead. Balloons pilotable and walks under the Thames,

iron ships and canals over carriage-ways,--these are mere common-places.

Earth, air, fire, and water, are old-fashioned things. _Artificial Ice_

is the new element that shall astonish the other four.

In America they are boasting the construction of a railroad to convey ice

to Charlestown, for the supply of the West Indies! Very well; but that

is _real_ ice. England has done something more; she has established her

independence of winter. She can do without frost altogether, and yet go

on skating all the year round. She has discovered more than Parry did at

the Pole; she has found out--Artificial Ice!

To Mr. Bradwell, whose ingenuity as a machinist has so long been

signalized in Covent Garden theatre, the public will be indebted for

the realization of this wonder. It is proposed that in what were once

the nursery-grounds in the New Road the infant art shall be nursed and

reared, and the New Road to Enjoyment be thrown open. Magnificent rooms,

on a scale of extraordinary magnitude, will be laid with sheets of patent

ice, upon which the common skate can be used with the same facility as

upon the frozen Serpentine. There will be rooms for learners and private

parties. The artificial ice has been put to the test of extreme heat, and

is unaffected by it. It may be used in private houses, and be carpeted

when skating is over.

Such is the accredited statement; and our inference naturally is, that

skating will soon become popular all over the world. The speculators who

long ago sent out skates to India will now make their fortunes. With

ourselves it will soon be _the_ national pastime. People will get up

in the dog-days, early, and go out for a morning's skating. They will

enjoy the sport with advantages hitherto undreamed of; there will be

no keen winter-wind to cut them in two--no "mobocracy" to mix with--no

rheumatisms to catch--no duckings to dread. The word "dangerous" will be

as a term in the unknown tongue. They will not anticipate a drawback in

the use of the drags, and though they mix in every society, the "Humane"

will be untroubled; there will be neither falling in nor falling out.

MR. AND MRS. SLIPPERS

REQUEST THE HONOUR OF

MR., MRS., AND MISS SLIDER'S

COMPANY TO AN EVENING PARTY,

ON THE 1ST OF JULY, 184--.

_Skates at 10._

Skating-floors will, of course, be laid down in the houses of all the

affluent, and invites will be issued from Portland-place and Park-lane,

after the fashion of the accompanying card. It will be the privilege of a

gentleman to solicit the hand of a lady for the next figure-of-eight, to

beseech her to take part with him in the date of the year, or to join him

in a true-lover's knot. Servants will skate in and out with real ice. The

text of Milton will be altered in the next edition, and his couplet will

be read--

"Come and trip it, long and late,

On the light fantastic skate."

But the skating-floor will be in equal request for family use as for

company. On a wet morning, when it is impossible to go out, the gentleman

will say--"Here's a soaker! no ride, no walk; James, bring me my skates."

Or perhaps the lady will cry--"What a horrid dry day! nothing but dust!

Why don't they put an awning all over Hyde Park! Eustace, my skates!"

What an immense saving will there be in families in the article of

firing, when people are thus irresistibly moved to "stir their stumps,"

instead of the fire.

But will the advantages end here? Certainly not. There can be no question

but that the experiment will be tried in the new Houses of Parliament,

where, should a skating-floor be laid down, notices of motion will be

far less abundant than motions without notice. Changing sides will be

a matter of constant practice; to cut figures, not to cultivate them,

will be the order of the day; the noble lord will "feel great reluctance

in reducing himself to the level of the honourable gentleman," and the

honourable gentleman "will very unwillingly adopt the position of the

noble lord." Supporting _pe_titions will be of less consequence than

supporting _par_titions; and the strong party measure that will be

necessary, will be a strong party wall.

Westminster-hall will of course be furnished with a floor for the use of

the lawyers, and the juries in waiting; the counsel will show where an

action may lie, the plaintiff will naturally go against the defendant,

and the defendant will as naturally move for a new trial. The town-halls

throughout the kingdom will be similarly supplied. But may not patent-ice

pavements be laid down in our popular thoroughfares? We have asphalte

promenades and wooden highways; but what are such inventions as these

to the convenience of ice-pavements, and the luxury of skating down

Cheapside to be early on 'Change! What a ninth of November will that

be which shows us the two Sheriffs skating away to Guildhall after the

new Lord Mayor, followed by the Court of Aldermen and the Companies.

A procession on skates! the Cabinet Ministers, the Judges,--the

sword-bearer, and the men in armour--all skating like Dutchmen!

[If herein we exaggerate, we have not exaggerated the ingenuity of Mr.

Bradwell, to whom we wish a signal success.]

DUNS DEMONSTRATED.

BY EDWARD HOWARD, AUTHOR OF "RATTLIN THE REEFER."

The dark ages of barbarism are generally supposed to have been more

prolific of monsters; but modern times,--the times of civilization

and refinement--have far excelled them in this respect. What are your

giants, your anthropophagi, and "men whose heads do grow beneath their

shoulders," as monsters, compared with that maximum of monstrosity,

_a dun_? He is an iniquity, who may claim Impudence and Usury for his

father and mother. He is a devouring Sin, a rampant atrocity, a thing

unendurable.

And then the double duplicity of the monster! He makes his first

approaches towards his victim smiling--he actually smiles!--he offers

to lend you money, the angel! or bestow upon you his goods; and then he

is nothing but the beneficent assister of the poor: for every man who

condescends to be in debt must be poor--if in want, pitiably poor in

fact; if not in want, poor in spirit beyond the approach of contempt. But

when his meshes have once entangled his prey, this seraph stands forth in

the sublimity of the horrible--THE DUN!

Come, as we are in a free nation, let us talk about the chains of

slavery, tyranny's oppression, the _morgue_ of aristocracy, and the

_fierté_ of those in authority; shall we not rise in arms against them

"'Sblood! shall we not be rebels?" Stop. Let us first conquer a tyrant

far stronger than any of these--a despot more despotic than any autocrat

who ever existed. This persecutor violates all the sanctities of private

life; he is with us at our meals, he penetrates the closet, even the

bedchamber affords us no asylum. There is no sanctuary from the dun.

Death? That may be, yet we know not. We should hesitate the accepting a

grave _gratis_, even were it a mausoleum, near the "remains" of a dun.

Nobody can answer for the force of habit.

The ancients had very correct notions on this subject. There was a dun

at the very entrance to their "shades below;" how could any place of

torment be complete without one? There was Charon, with his skinny hand

outstretched for a penny. It was not much, certainly; but it is a great

deal more than dutiful sons, affectionate nephews, and disconsolate

heirs, can now afford to bestow upon the illustrious departed. It is

a good thing for the modern dead that all this about Styx and the

ferry-boat is held to be fiction.

Detestable as is the dun, there is something heroic about him. It has

been matter of dispute among learned commentators whether the assertion

respecting this right valourous Thomas Thumb should be construed

literally or paraphrastically, "He made the giants first, and then he

killed them." There can be no doubt about the deeds of the dun. He

actually does "make his giants first, and then he kills them." Without

him there would be no debtors to destroy. If debt be a crime, the

creditor is more than _particeps criminis_. He is the originator of, and

tempter to, the deed. Justice should really punish the dun for drawing

his victim into debt. We deny not that lending money is glorious among

the virtues: nobody can appreciate that more than ourselves. But to

punish a poor devil for affording a fellow-creature an opportunity for

exercising the most exalted virtue, ranks next in heinousness to the

crime of that man who may degrade himself into a _dun_.

But what is a dun? the ignorant affluent may exclaim. It is this that the

abomination is: the quintessence of vexation; a single plague, a plaguey

deal worse than the whole ten that plagued Egypt. He is a substantial

ghost, perpetually haunting a man, and sucking away his substance more

eagerly than ever James the First imagined that a hobgoblin sucked a

witch. He is far more ravenous than "the horseleech, who always cries

'Give, give!'" In his voice he imitates the cuckoo, having but one note,

provided that he gets hold of yours--"Pay, pay! money, money!" He is a

troublesome fiend, not to be laid with Protestant prayers, or Papistical

holy water, and yet can be exorcised merely by a check.

The dun hath an extraordinary sympathy with a knocker. For him, a knocker

cannot be placed too high or too low, nor will his ready hand find it

too heavy or too light. It is the instrument on which he most loveth to

play. He can therewith simulate every man's tune; at the unobtrusive

"one modest tap" of the poor cousin, the quaker-like simplicity of the

postman's _appel_, the hearty rally of the intimate friend, and the

prolonged thunder of the crimson-thighed lacquey, he is equally expert.

The hypocrite can achieve every knock that has been or can be knocked in

this knocking world. And yet, he can hardly deceive the poor tremulous

debtor. Hence, since the times have become bad, and John Doe and Richard

Roe have stalked through our streets triumphant, gentlemen have left off

wearing certain appendages to the backs of their heads, as being too

typical and too much reminiscent of "iteration" of the pertinacious foe.

[Illustration]

What gentleman would like to have bobbing at his back an excrescence,

which, if he walked slowly, would remind him of his tailor's--if fast, of

his bootmaker's summons?

It would be planting an imp of importunity on his shoulders, which, like

Sinbad's old man, he might shake, but could not shake off.

Many are the doubts of the dun's pedigree. Some hold that he descends

from one of Nimrod's illegitimates, for he is a mighty hunter by

profession, as well as a tyrant by nature. A blood-hound he is, of a

notable quick scent to discover his game, with a deep mouth to pursue

it. His presumption is boundless; for he pretends to ape creation by

attempting to squeeze something out of nothing, and raise cash from a

vacuum.

Etymologists have laid it down that he is called a dun, by antiphrasis,

because he never will have done until he has undone you; and yet nothing

is more natural and pleasant than the doing of a dun, nothing worse than

his doings. Whether he repair to church or the meeting-house, he cannot

be accounted a true Christian, as he never either gives or forgives, but

merely lends in order to show that he has no forgiveness. He is the most

persevering of all bores and the most penetrable; nothing can divert

him from his persecutions; and 'tis very lucky for him that doors cannot

maintain actions of assault and battery.

The new penny postage is a fortunate measure for the afflicted victim of

the dun. If he live so far off that he cannot be dunned three times a

day, he will be punished to the amount only of what the good Samaritan

gave to the wounded wayfarer; but this punishment will be daily, punctual

as the day itself.

He is, this dun, the acutest mental torturer that exists, and the

greatest tempter to all manner of wickedness. Near, he almost annihilates

you; remote, he torments you, racking your very soul. He is to the poor

creditor what the guilty conscience is to the murderer; he can neither

eat, drink, sleep, or walk in quiet for him. Indeed, the tenter-hooks

upon which he puts a man, are enough to warp the best nature in the

world. With truth he will not be satisfied, and you are forced to rid

yourself of him by a lie. At length his importunity provokes you to swear

at him, and then he hardens you into a determination never to pay him at

all. He thus enacts the gentleman-usher to the black gentleman, leading

you on from lying to swearing, from swearing to dishonesty, till at last

you pave your way to a "certain place,"--more certainly than ever you

will pave it with your good intentions. It would not be difficult to

prove that your thorough-paced dun was the father of the seven deadly

sins.

Let us single out a specimen from a flock of dun-coloured duns: for

the true dun affecteth not brilliancy of colours. He has marked his

quarry. He pursues it cautiously, stealthily. He must be upon it, before

he takes the alarm. Whilst he approaches, he puckers up his face into

all the foldings of hypocrisy. He has gilded his countenance with a

villanous smile. He is on tiptoe. He touches his unsuspecting victim on

the shoulder--that victim was in the act of a triumphant pass with an

admiring companion. He turns round!--where is the smile of exultation? He

looks more affrighted than the flying hare, more ghastly than a tombstone

by moonlight. And yet he suffers his clammy hand to be grasped in the

horny palm of the dun--to be shaken: the contact is loathsome--he must

bear it, for he owes the man money.

"My little account----"

Then comes the shuffling, the lying, the fawning--if the wretch be, as

is generally the case, mean-spirited. One dun would go far to tame even

Hercules--but two, with the assistance of a rascally sheriff's-officer,

would subdue a whole army of heroes and demi-gods. It is a good thing

for the wild beasts that they know not the use of money. How easy would

have been Van Amburgh's task, could he but have lent his most violent

lions some loose cash, and have discounted the note of paw of his most

intractable tigers, they being amenable to mesne process! But that happy

consummation for the duns is still far distant. It will be long before

they induce carrion-crows to give an I O U, instead of a C A W; or that

they will persuade eagles to indorse bills, excepting in the backs of

their prey; so the dunning fraternity must be content with torturing

their fellow-sharers in humanity, until men grow so wise as to discover

that debt is nothing more than a moral obligation, and that it is both

wickedness and folly to punish it as a crime.

THE SECOND SLEEPER AWAKENED[12].

Translated by Ali.

"'Tis a long 'Lane' that has no _turning_."

OLD PROV.

[Illustration]

Know, O Prince of the Faithful! that my name is Jöhn Thómkeens, and my

father was Sháh Bandar of the merchants of Löhndöhn, and be resided

in the street which is called Oksphut; and he had great riches, and

possessed many stuffs, and jewels, and minerals, and female slaves, and

black male slaves, and memlooks; and a great desire came upon me to

travel, and divert myself with viewing the cities of the world; then

said I to my father, "By Allah! O my father, I conjure thee that thou

permittest me to travel from thee awhile, that I may divert myself with

viewing the cities of the world!" But my father was not willing to hinder

me from doing this, although it grieved him to part with me, so when I

conjured him to let me go, he hung his head awhile towards the earth, for

his bosom was contracted, and after a little space he raised his head,

and said to me, "O, my son! great grief has afflicted me, by reason of

this thy request; but as thou art eager to travel, may no harm befall

thee; be careful of thy substance, and associate not with those with whom

there is no avail to associate;" and he ceased not to advise me of that

which it was right for me to do, until the hour of prayer; and after

that he ordered his memlooks, and they prepared for me a mule, and put

on its saddle and equipments. So my father advanced to embrace me, for

the purpose of bidding me farewell, and he embraced me and wept until he

fainted, and when he recovered he recited these verses:--

"The man from the bad coin parteth without sorrow[13];

But the bosom of the father is contracted with the loss of his child.

The lamb was eager to leave the fold, despising the words of his mother;

But when the wolf appeared, he longed for the safety of the fold."

Then I bade him farewell, and recited these verses:--

"Youthful strength despises not labour;

And strange things meet the eye of him that travels[14]."

I then pursued my journey, not knowing whither I was going, and I

proceeded until I arrived upon the banks of a great river; and as I

looked, lo! a vast bridge was before me, and I considered my case, and

ascended upon the bridge, and a man met me, and said unto me, "By Allah!

O, my son, thou canst not pass here, until thou hast paid unto me a

penny!" So I gave him a penny, and proceeded; and the name of that river

was Thámez, and the name of that bridge Vockshál.

And I proceeded a little space, and I looked, and lo! a great palace

appeared before me, the doors of which were of the iron of China, and

the door-posts of brass, and the walls thereof were inlaid with jewels

and all kinds of precious stones, such as I had never before beheld. The

gates of the palace were open, so I descended from my mule and entered,

and lo! I found therein a spacious hall the like of which my eyes had

never before beheld; and within this great hall were many ghools, and

lo! they were busied about some great work; and I approached and beheld,

and lo! they were stamping with the signet of Sulezmán, the son of Dáood

(on both of whom be peace); and they were stamping the signets with

astounding quickness; and when I beheld them, I said within myself, "God

is great! What he willeth, that cometh to pass; and what he willeth not,

doth not happen."

After that I proceeded; and as I was walking from the palace, my foot

struck upon some hard substance, and I looked down, and lo! it was a

bottle of brass, filled with something, and having its mouth closed

with a stopper of lead, bearing the impression of the seal of Sulezmán,

the son of Dáood (on both of whom be peace); then said I to myself, "By

Allah, the great, the wonderful! I must open this and see what is in it."

So I took out a knife, and picked at the lead until I had extracted it

from the bottle of brass; and when I had so done, lo! a great quantity

of smoke came forth, and I heard a sound as if of a strong rushing wind;

and while I was looking, behold the smoke collected together, and shook,

and it became an Efreet, horrible in form. His head was like a dome, and

from it there rose a huge horn, like a great column; his hair was as

kohl; his eyes flashed forth fire, and from his mouth issued flames; and

when I beheld him the muscles of my sides quivered, my teeth were locked

together, my spittle dried up, and I saw not my way.

Then the Efreet, when he saw me, cried out and said to me, "Fear not, O

thou of the sons of Adam! for as thou hast released me from confinement,

there shall no harm befall thee; and lo! I will now convey thee where

thou mayest have all thy wants, and fulfil all thy desires; but keep thou

in thine hand the impression of the signet of Sulezmán, the son of Dáood

(on both of whom be peace), for thou wilt have need of it in thy way."

Then said I unto him, "Whither is it that thou wilt lead me, O! Márid?"

And he said, "I will lead thee to a place such as thou hast never before

beheld, and show unto thee sights such as thou hast never before looked

on. But fear not; for I swear to thee, by Allah, the good, the powerful!

that no harm shall befall thee."

Then the Efreet took me up in his arms--I suffering him all this time, by

reason of the extremity of my fear, which deprived me of all power over

my limbs--and seated me on his shoulders, and flew away with me through

the air. And he ceased not to fly until we came to a huge mountain, whose

top reached unto the Seventh Heaven; and in the side of this mountain

there was a great cavern, and I said unto the Efreet, "O, Efreet! enter

not with me into this cavern; for verily I am in great fear, and my heart

is contracted within my bosom." But the Márid answered, "Sit thou firm,

O, man! and keep thou the impression of the signet in thine hand; and

fear not." So I held firm the impression of the signet that was in my

hand, and clung to the Efreet, and we entered together into the cavern.

And I heard from within the cavern a great noise as if of the panting

of many horses, and of ten thousand chariot-wheels, and a smell such as

I had never before smelt the like of; my tongue clove to the roof of my

mouth, and the muscles of my sides quivered, by reason of my fear, and I

could not move by reason of my dread; and presently a great scream arose,

shrill and dreadful, and lo! many ghools and márids surrounded us, making

hideous faces, and grinning horribly.

And I clung to the Efreet who was carrying me, and he said to me, "Fear

not; for we shall soon have passed through this cavern, and the ghools

and the márids cannot approach thee; but thou must first behold and be

presented to the chief of the Ján, who will inform you of all you have to

do for the attainment of your wishes." Then said I, "I hear and obey;"

and after that we proceeded. And again I heard that great scream, and the

ghools, and the márids, and the jënnezeh, came around us; and the noise

of the panting and the snorting of horses increased, and the sounds of

the chariots became louder, and the whole air was filled with them; and I

quaked with fear, and put my fingers into my ears, for I could not bear

this great noise. And I looked, and lo! a great ján stood before us,

whose head reached the utmost roof of the cavern, and whose arms were

like winnowing forks, and his legs like masts; and when we stopped before

him, the Efreet said to me, "Do obeisance, O thou of the sons of Adam!"

And I kissed the ground before him, and humbled myself, and kissed his

feet; after which I waited, and presently he opened his mouth, and cried

unto me, saying,----"Station!"

And I found that, whilst sitting in the railway carriage, reading Lane's

"Arabian Nights," I had converted myself into--

ONE OF THE "_Sleepers_" ON THE RAILWAY.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: For the First, vide Lane's _Arabian Nights_,--"Abul Hassan,

or the Sleeper Awakened."]

[Footnote 13: Little sorrow at parting, as the man said to the bad

shilling.]

[Footnote 14: Travellers see strange things.]

JUST GOING OUT.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

"Going out" is sometimes a matter of exceeding difficulty; the phrase

should rather be "getting out."

Morning is the time for the trial to which we allude. You have an

appointment of very considerable importance, and it _must_ be kept;

or you have made up your mind, moved by the seductive serenity of

the day, to take an easy stroll, and clear off an arrear of pleasant

calls--you _must_ go. The sunny look-out is exhilarating after a week's

wind and rain, which has held you prisoner in your chambers, without

so much as wafting or washing a single visitor to your door. You are

tired of the house, and long for the fresh calm air, like a schoolboy

for a whole holiday, or a usurer for cent, per cent. Every thing is

looking quite gay, like a Christmas fire to one who has just come out

of a Christmas fog. The people go by with smiling faces, and in smart

attire; you consequently take a little more pains than usual with your

dress,--rejecting this waistcoat as too quakerish, and selecting your

liveliest pair of gloves to match--when, just as your personal equipments

are all but complete, not quite,--"rat-tat-tat--tat-tat--tat!" there is

a knock at the door.

Well, a knock at the door is no very astounding occurrence; but in

this knock there is something startling, something ominous, something

unwelcome. Nobody has knocked (nobody in the shape of a visitor) for

some days, and it has an unusual sound. Had it suddenly broke in upon

you while you were shaving, its effect might have been felt acutely;

but you were just fixing the last shirt-stud, and a slight crumple is

the sole consequence. You ring the bell hastily, rather anxious. "Tim,"

you cry softly, admonishing the sleepy little sinecurist that attends

to the door; "Tim, there's a knock. Now, pray be cautious; I'm going

out immediately; and can't see any stranger; you know whom I'm always

at home to--don't let anybody in that you don't know well--mind!" You

listen, with your hands uncomfortably stretched towards the back of your

neck, in the suspended action of fastening your stock; and distinctly

catch Tim's responsive "_Yes_, sir!" So, then, you _are_ at home to

somebody; and Tim immediately announces Mr. Bluff, your oldest and

best friend, who is ever welcome, and to whom you are at home at all

hours;--Yes,--only--only you are just now going out! But, never mind.

Will he wait five minutes? You won't be longer; and Tim hurries off to

him with the _Times_.

Two minutes more bring you almost to the completion of your toilet, and

one arm has already half insinuated itself into the--ay, in the hurry it

happens, of course, to be the wrong sleeve of the waistcoat, when alarm

the second sounds; there's another knock. "Tim, mind! pray mind! I'm

going out. I can't see a soul--unless it's somebody that I _must_ be at

home to. You'll see who it is."

Tim returns with a card,--"Mr. Joseph Primly." "Primly, Primly!

oh!--a--yes--that man, yes,--you didn't say I was at home?" Tim had

_not_ said you were at home, he had said that he didn't know whether you

would be at home to him or not, and that he would go and see! "Stupid

boy! Well, but this Primly--what can _he_ want? I never spoke to him but

once, I think--must see him, I suppose, as he's a stranger. Give him the

_Chronicle_, and say, I'm coming down in one minute--just going out."

But before you _can_ "come down," before you can quite coax on the

last article of attire, the knocker is again raised, and rap the third

resounds. Confusion thrice confounded! "Now, Tim, who _is_ that? I

can't be at home to anybody--you'll know whether I _can_ be denied--I'm

going out, Tim. Where are my gloves?--Pray mind!" And, with an anxious

face you await the third announcement. "Mr. Puggins Cribb." This _is_

provoking. You can't be out to _him_. He is your quarrelsome friend, to

whom you have just been reconciled; the irascible brother of your soul,

who suspects all your motives, makes no allowances for you, and charges

you with the perpetual ill-usage which he himself inflicts. Should you be

denied to _him_, he will be sure to suspect you are at home; and should

he find you really are, he will make the grand tour of the metropolis in

three days, visiting everybody who knows you, and abusing you everywhere.

"Yes, Tim, very right--I must be at home to him. But gracious goodness,

what's the time? I'm just going out!"

Misfortunes never come single, and visitors seldom come in twos and

threes. Before you are fairly at the bottom of the stairs, a fourth

arrival is in all probability announced. What can you do? There was an

excellent plan, first adopted by Sheridan, of getting rid of untimely

visitors; but then his visitors were creditors. They came early, at seven

in the morning, to prevent the possibility of being tricked with the

usual answer, "Not at home," and of course they would not go away. One

was shut up in one room, and another in another. By twelve o'clock in the

day there was a vast accumulation; and at that hour, the master of the

house would say, "James, are all the doors shut?" "All shut, sir." "Very

well, then open the _street_-door softly;" and Sheridan walked quietly

out between the double line of closed doors.

But this plan, though a thought of it darts across your mind, you cannot

put in operation against friends. You therefore face them, grasping this

one vigorously by the hand; then begging to be excused for a single

moment, while, with a ceremonious bow, you just touch the fingertips

of another to whom you have scarcely the honour to be known,--or nod

familiarly to a third in the farther corner, who, by the way, is

testifying to the intimacy of his friendship, by turning over your

favourite set of prints with the brisk manner of an accountant tumbling

over a heap of receipts and bills of parcels.

For each you have the same welcome, modified only by the tone and action

that accompany it! "You are so happy that they arrived in time, for you

were _just going out_, having a very important engagement;" and, curious

to remark, each has the same reply to your hospitable intimation; but

it is delightfully varied in voice and manner,--"_I_ shall not detain

you--don't let _me_ keep you a moment." But each does;--one because he's

an acquaintance only, and exacts formality; and another because he's a

devoted friend, and thinks it necessary to deprecate formality fifty

times over, with--"Nonsense, never mind _me_--come, no ceremony--I'm

going." In fact, those detain you longest with whom you can use most

freedom; and though you may bow out a formal visitor in twenty minutes,

it takes you half an hour to push out a friendly one.

There are so many reasons why you must be at home to people; to a first,

because he's a stranger, to a second because he's a relation; to one,

because he was married the other day, and you must wish him joy; to

another, because his play failed last night, and you must condole with

him; to this, because he doesn't come for money; to that, because he

does--which is the oddest of all.

After a succession of pauses, hints and gentle embarrassments, three

out of the four yield one by one to the pressure of appearances, and

as you are evidently "going out," allow you to get out by taking their

departure. Only one _will_ linger to say a few words that amount to

nonsense, on business that amounts to nothing, occupying professedly a

minute, but in fact fifteen; when, just as he is taking his fifth start,

and going in reality, crash comes the knocker once more; and that man of

all your acquaintances, who never stops to ask whether you are at home

or not, but stalks forward, in "at the portal," as the ghost of Hamlet

senior stalks out of it, now dashes rather than drops in, delighted to

catch you before you make your exit, and modestly claiming just half an

hour of your idle morning--not an instant more.

"My dear fellow, I'm going out--a particular engagement--been kept

in all the morning;--will Friday do? Or shall I see you at the

club?" No--nothing will do but listening; and your pertinacious and

not-to-be-denied detainer has just settled himself in the easiest chair,

and commenced his story with, "Now, come sit down, and I'll tell you all

about it."--when the knocker once more summons the half-tired Tim, who

forthwith enters with a proclamation in an under-tone, "Mr. Drone, sir,

comes by appointment."

Luckily this occasions no difficulty. Mr. Drone was appointed to come at

eleven, and it is now half-past two; he is therefore easily dismissed;

besides, appointments, in these cases, are never troublesome; you can

always be very sorry at a minute's notice, be particularly engaged very

unexpectedly, and appoint another hour and another day with perfect

convenience.--No, it is the dropper-in who blocks up your way--it is the

idler who interrupts you in your expedition;--the man of business who

comes by appointment may generally be despatched without ceremony or

delay!

You return again to your guest with a disconsolate air, though with a

desperate determination to look attentive; but _sit_ you will not; for

while you keep poking the fire almost out, you seem to be preparing for

your exit; and while you saunter listlessly about the room, you seem to

be going; till at last you are brought to a stand-still, and compelled to

submit to another bit of delay, by your visitor (who dined out, and staid

late somewhere the night before) asking for a glass of sherry, and some

soda-water! You hurry to the bell with the happiest grace in the world;

you are ashamed of not offering something of the sort before; you beg

pardon--really; and taking a seat with a smiling countenance and a heavy

heart, bid a mournful adieu to every thought about your hat for the next

quarter of an hour at least.

At last he does go, and you feel that although the cream of the morning

is skimmed off, it may still be worth while to take quietly what remains;

you may visit the scene of your broken engagement, though too late; you

may enjoy a diminished stroll, although the flower of the day is cropped;

and in this spirit, cane in hand, and hat actually on head, you advance

to the street-door delivered from every visitor. It is opened--you stand

in the very door-way;--and then--then, in that moment of liberty, when

you seemed free as air--you behold close to the step, and right in your

path, another unconscionable acquaintance who never takes a denial,

but always seizes a button instead! To retreat is impossible, to pass

him unseen is equally so. Your hope of going out dies of old age and

ill-usage within you--you can't _get_ out. Your start of vexation and

dismay is involuntary, and not to be concealed; but what cares he for

your disappointment, so that he catches you! "Well, now I _am_ lucky,"

he exclaims, "one moment more, and, presto! I had missed you for the

morning! Come, 'going out,' is not 'gone,' anyhow--so I must just trouble

you to turn back--I shan't keep you long!"

Of course, you explain, and protest, and are very civil and very sorry;

but all this is idle. A visitor of the class to which the new-comer

belongs knows very well the advantage he has over you. He smiles

triumphantly, in a superb consciousness of your helpless and destitute

condition. He is aware that you _can't_ shut the door in his face; that

if he persists in going in, under the pretence of a moment's interview,

you _must_ go in with him; that you are bound to be glad to see him, or

stand exposed to the imputation of rudeness and inhospitality; that he

may let you off if he likes, but that you cannot decently bolt without

his consent; in short, that you are at his mercy--and this conviction

teaches him to have no mercy upon you.

The result! who can ask it? You turn back, take off your hat, enter

the nearest room, and without the slightest movement of hospitality

beyond that--without the slightest hint to the remorseless being who

has followed you in that there is such a thing as a chair in the room,

you rest the fingers of one hand on the table, and with your hat held

resolutely in the other, await your tyrant's pleasure. _He!_--powers of

impudence in the garb of intimacy, where will ye find a limit? He, the

most domesticated of animals, at once finds himself in his own house.

He, when his foremost foot has once gained admittance into your sanctum,

feels perfectly and entirely at home. He flings himself into a chair,

and after a little parley about the weather (he acknowledges that it has

been the loveliest morning of the season), and the glorious effects of

exercise (he confesses that nothing on earth prevents him from taking his

diurnal round in the bracing period of the day), launches boldly into a

dissertation on some subject of immediate interest to himself--connected

perhaps with municipal institutions, and the risk he incurs if he

should decline to serve the office of sheriff; this suggests to him a

recollection of the sheriff, his grandfather, whose history he relates at

some length, followed by a narrative of his father's remarkable exploits

in the whale-trade, and of his own life down to the period of his second

marriage.

During all this time you have stood, too tired to interrupt--too

polite at least to interrupt to any purpose--until at last, reminded

by the shade creeping over the apartment that the beauty of the day is

vanishing, that your meditated excursion is all but hopeless, and that

you have been for the space of a brilliant summer's morning a prisoner in

your own house, you savagely endeavour to bring him to the point. What

_does_ he want with you? Nothing; nothing of course, except a little

rest after the pleasant saunter he has had--and a little refreshment

also;--for when he looks at his watch (as you fondly suppose with the

intention of going) he discovers that it happens to be his hour for "a

snack." In short, this inveterate and uncompromising customer forcibly

_has the tray up_; you haven't strength or courage to misunderstand

his wishes, feeling rather faint yourself, sick of hope deferred, and

inclining to potted beef. You place your hat and stick, both of which

you have all this time held, upon the table; you draw off one glove; you

fall-to with a famished fiend who has walked twice round the Park in the

bracing air; and another hour is gone.

So at length is he! And now, even now the promised stroll may be

seized--the coast is clear--you feel "like a giant refreshed," and after

all, you cannot help owning, that it's a horribly vulgar thing to be

seen strolling about before four o'clock in the day. You remember what

the delicate philosopher said about the world not being properly aired

before three; and bless your stars that what you have lost in health you

have gained in reputation. On go your gloves once more, and--rap goes the

knocker! It seems miraculous. All society is but one spiteful conspiracy

against you. You forget that the same fine morning which quickened life

in you kindled the fire of motion in others. No matter; the hour has at

length arrived for "not at home to any human being. No, Tim, not to a

living soul!" Unluckily, it is the fate of this most inflexible decree

to be countermanded; there is one exception to the rule of not at home

to anybody. "If the surveyor calls about the repairs"--ay, and it _is_

the surveyor. Well, the roof, and the cracked wall, must at once be

looked to; however, that will not occupy ten minutes, and to the needful

business you heroically devote yourself. Half-an-hour flies, and then

you are finally released; but, unhappily, just at that moment the man

brings home your two new coats; you must glance at one, for you may

wear it at dinner. And then crawls up to the door that dilatory fellow

whose tidings about the books you have been waiting for--yes, at least

for a fortnight; and while discussing with him a particular achievement

in binding on which you have set your heart, a letter arrives--a letter

marked "important and immediate," though of no earthly consequence, and

anything but pressing; still it must be answered, and accordingly the hat

is once more taken off, the gloves are petulantly flung down, the cane is

tossed anywhere, and--

Rat-tat-tat, &c. resound once more through the rooms; and following quick

as though he were the visible echo of a single rap, Cool Sam comes in. He

had found Tim at the open door chatting with the messenger in waiting.

Cool Sam! Now own frankly that there is small chance of your escape on

this side the dinner-hour--nay, there is none at all. An engagement you

may have, a determination you may have formed; but do you for a single

instant seriously expect to fulfil the one, or hold to the other? Then

you are a fool. We prophesy at once, that _you won't get out to-day_. A

man may be always going and going, and yet never be gone. You are Sam's

till dinner-time, you are Sam's then, and you are Sam's afterwards. Till

bed-time (and he himself fixes that hour) you are his. Mark our words if

you are not. True, you tell him you have to write a letter. "Write away,

boy," he responds, "I can wait." You warn him that the moment this feat

is accomplished, you must sally forth on urgent and especial business.

"All right," he rejoins, "I'll jump into a cab with you, and we'll come

back and dine. I came on purpose."

A glance tells you, if your ears did not, that your guest has settled

the thing. His looks, his tone, his bearing, are in exquisite agreement;

for a quiet conviction, that what _he_ has made up his mind to _must_

take place, there never was anything like it. You write a word or two,

and in agitation blot; another line, and then an erasure again. _Does_

he mean to _stop_! Your perplexity increases. No, this smudge of a note

will never do; you take another sheet and recommence your epistle. "Take

your time, boy, take your time; we shan't dine till seven I suppose."

Your eye wanders for an instant, and you discover that there is but _one_

hat in the room, and that the one is your own. His is hanging up with his

umbrella; he had disposed of both, like a man who means to stay, before

he entered the apartment.

To struggle with Cool Sam is in vain, to attempt it absurd. To cry like

the starling, "I can't get out," doesn't open the door of your cage.

Instead of complaining, you soon feel grateful to him for his great

consideration in allowing you to finish that letter. Instead of biting

your lips through and through, you laugh over your good luck in being

permitted to complete the work he had interrupted. But beyond that you

have no will of your own. _Out!_ You might as well attempt to go out

without your shadow. You may take a few turns at sunset, attended by your

Mephistophiles; but before you go you must issue orders for what he calls

"a light dinner with a few extras" at seven. You may mourn your day lost,

if you will, but you must lose your evening nevertheless; and when once

more alone at past midnight, you drop off to sleep, making to yourself

many delicious vows of reform; the foremost of which is, that you will be

up in good time in the morning, AND GET OUT.

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.