Chapter VIII.

Oh! Helen, fair Helen—type of the quiet, serene, unnoticed, deep-felt

excellence of woman! Woman, less as the ideal that a poet conjures from

the air, than as the companion of a poet on the earth! Woman who, with her

clear sunny vision of things actual, and the exquisite fibre of her

delicate sense, supplies the deficiencies of him whose foot stumbles on

the soil, because his eye is too intent upon the stars! Woman, the

provident, the comforting—angel whose pinions are folded round the heart,

guarding there a divine spring unmarred by the winter of the world! Helen,

soft Helen, is it indeed in thee that the wild and brilliant “lord of

wantonness and ease” is to find the regeneration of his life—the rebaptism

of his soul? Of what avail thy meek, prudent household virtues, to one

whom Fortune screens from rough trial?—whose sorrows lie remote from thy

ken?—whose spirit, erratic and perturbed, now rising, now falling, needs a

vision more subtle than thine to pursue, and a strength that can sustain

the reason, when it droops, on the wings of enthusiasm and passion?

And thou thyself, O nature shrinking and humble, that needest to be

courted forth from the shelter, and developed under the calm and genial

atmosphere of holy, happy love—can such affection as Harley L’Estrange may

proffer suffice to thee? Will not the blossoms, yet folded in the petal,

wither away beneath the shade that may protect them from the storm, and

yet shut them from the sun? Thou who, where thou givest love, seekest,

though meekly, for love in return;—to be the soul’s sweet necessity, the

life’s household partner to him who receives all thy faith and

devotion—canst thou influence the sources of joy and of sorrow in the

heart that does not heave at thy name? Hast thou the charm and the force

of the moon, that the tides of that wayward sea shall ebb and flow at thy

will? Yet who shall say—who conjecture how near two hearts can become,

when no guilt lies between them, and time brings the ties all its own?

Rarest of all things on earth is the union in which both, by their

contrasts, make harmonious their blending; each supplying the defects of

the helpmate, and completing, by fusion, one strong human soul! Happiness

enough, where even Peace does but seldom preside, when each can bring to

the altar, if not the flame, still the incense. Where man’s thoughts are

all noble and generous, woman’s feelings all gentle and pure, love may

follow, if it does not precede;—and if not—if the roses be missed from the

garland, one may sigh for the rose, but one is safe from the thorn.

The morning was mild, yet somewhat overcast by the mists which announce

coming winter in London, and Helen walked musingly beneath the trees that

surrounded the garden of Lord Lansmere’s house. Many leaves were yet left

on the boughs; but they were sere and withered. And the birds chirped at

times; but their note was mournful and complaining. All within this house,

until Harley’s arrival, had been strange and saddening to Helen’s timid

and subdued spirits. Lady Lansmere had received her kindly, but with a

certain restraint; and the loftiness of manner, common to the Countess

with all but Harley, had awed and chilled the diffident orphan. Lady

Lansmere’s very interest in Harley’s choice—her attempts to draw Helen out

of her reserve—her watchful eyes whenever Helen shyly spoke, or shyly

moved, frightened the poor child, and made her unjust to herself.

The very servants, though staid, grave, and respectful, as suited a

dignified, old-fashioned household, painfully contrasted the bright

welcoming smiles and free talk of Italian domestics. Her recollections of

the happy warm Continental manner, which so sets the bashful at their

ease, made the stately and cold precision of all around her doubly awful

and dispiriting. Lord Lansmere himself, who did not as yet know the views

of Harley, and little dreamed that he was to anticipate a daughter-in-law

in the ward whom he understood Harley, in a freak of generous romance, had

adopted, was familiar and courteous, as became a host. But he looked upon

Helen as a mere child, and naturally left her to the Countess. The dim

sense of her equivocal position—of her comparative humbleness of birth and

fortunes, oppressed and pained her; and even her gratitude to Harley was

made burthensome by a sentiment of helplessness. The grateful longing to

requite. And what could she ever do for him?

Thus musing, she wandered alone through the curving walks; and this sort

of mock country landscape—London, loud and even visible beyond the high

gloomy walls, and no escape from the windows of the square formal

house—seemed a type of the prison bounds of Rank to one whose soul yearns

for simple loving Nature.

Helen’s reverie was interrupted by Nero’s joyous bark. He had caught sight

of her, and came bounding up, and thrust his large head into her hand. As

she stopped to caress the dog, happy at his honest greeting, and tears

that had been long gathering to the lids fell silently on his face, (for I

know nothing that more moves us to tears than the hearty kindness of a

dog, when something in human beings has pained or chilled us), she heard

behind the musical voice of Harley. Hastily she dried or repressed her

tears, as her guardian came up, and drew her arm within his own.

“I had so little of your conversation last evening, my dear ward, that I

may well monopolize you now, even to the privation of Nero. And so you are

once more in your native land?”

Helen sighed softly.

“May I not hope that you return under fairer auspices than those which

your childhood knew?”

Helen turned her eyes with ingenuous thankfulness to her guardian, and the

memory of all she owed to him rushed upon her heart.

Harley renewed, and with earnest, though melancholy sweetness—“Helen, your

eyes thank me; but hear me before your words do. I deserve no thanks. I am

about to make to you a strange confession of egotism and selfishness.”

“You!—oh, impossible!”

“Judge yourself, and then decide which of us shall have cause to be

grateful. Helen, when I was scarcely your age—a boy in years, but more,

methinks, a man at heart, with man’s strong energies and sublime

aspirings, than I have ever since been—I loved, and deeply—”

He paused a moment, in evident struggle. Helen listened in mute surprise,

but his emotion awakened her own; her tender woman’s heart yearned to

console. Unconsciously her arm rested on his less lightly.

“Deeply, and for sorrow. It is a long tale, that may be told hereafter.

The worldly would call my love a madness. I did not reason on it then—I

can not reason on it now. Enough; death smote suddenly, terribly, and to

me mysteriously, her whom I loved. The love lived on. Fortunately,

perhaps, for me, I had quick distraction, not to grief, but to its inert

indulgence. I was a soldier; I joined our armies. Men called me brave.

Flattery! I was a coward before the thought of life. I sought death: like

sleep, it does not come at our call. Peace ensued. As when the winds fall

the sails droop—so when excitement ceased, all seemed to me flat and

objectless. Heavy, heavy was my heart. Perhaps grief had been less

obstinate, but that I feared I had cause for self-reproach. Since then I

have been a wanderer—a self-made exile. My boyhood had been ambitious—all

ambition ceased. Flames, when they reach the core of the heart, spread,

and leave all in ashes. Let me be brief: I did not mean thus weakly to

complain—I to whom heaven has given so many blessings! I felt, as it were,

separated from the common objects and joys of men. I grew startled to see

how, year by year, wayward humors possessed me. I resolved again to attach

myself to some living heart—it was my sole chance to rekindle my own. But

the one I had loved remained as my type of woman, and she was different

from all I saw. Therefore I said to myself, ’I will rear from childhood

some young fresh life, to grow up into my ideal.’ As this thought began to

haunt me, I chanced to discover you. Struck with the romance of your early

life, touched by your courage, charmed by your affectionate nature, I said

to myself, ’Here is what I seek.’ Helen, in assuming the guardianship of

your life, in all the culture which I have sought to bestow on your docile

childhood, I repeat, that I have been but the egotist. And now, when you

have reached that age, when it becomes me to speak, and you to listen—now,

when you are under the sacred roof of my own mother—now I ask you, can you

accept this heart, such as wasted years, and griefs too fondly nursed,

have left it? Can you be, at least, my comforter? Can you aid me to regard

life as a duty, and recover those aspirations which once soared from the

paltry and miserable confines of our frivolous daily being? Helen, here I

ask you, can you be all this, and under the name of—Wife?”

It would be in vain to describe the rapid, varying, indefinable emotions

that passed through the inexperienced heart of the youthful listener, as

Harley thus spoke. He so moved all the springs of amaze, compassion,

tender respect, sympathy, childlike gratitude, that when he paused, and

gently took her hand, she remained bewildered, speechless, overpowered.

Harley smiled as he gazed upon her blushing, downcast, expressive face. He

conjectured at once that the idea of such proposals had never crossed her

mind; that she had never contemplated him in the character of wooer; never

even sounded her heart as to the nature of such feelings as his image had

aroused.

“My Helen,” he resumed, with a calm pathos of voice, “there is some

disparity of years between us, and perhaps I may not hope henceforth for

that love which youth gives to the young. Permit me simply to ask, what

you will frankly answer—Can you have seen in our quiet life abroad, or

under the roof of your Italian friends, any one you prefer to me?”

“No, indeed, no!” murmured Helen. “How could I?—who is like you?” Then,

with a sudden effort—for her innate truthfulness took alarm, and her very

affection for Harley, child-like and reverent, made her tremble, lest she

should deceive him—she drew a little aside, and spoke thus:

“Oh, my dear guardian, noblest of all human beings, at least in my eyes,

forgive, forgive me if I seem ungrateful, hesitating; but I can not, can

not think of myself as worthy of you. I never so lifted my eyes. Your

rank, your position—”

“Why should they be eternally my curse? Forget them, and go on.”

“It is not only they,” said Helen, almost sobbing, “though they are much;

but I your type, your ideal!—I!—impossible! Oh, how can I ever be any

thing even of use, of aid, of comfort, to one like you!”

“You can, Helen—you can,” cried Harley, charmed by such ingenuous modesty.

“May I not keep this hand?”

And Helen left her hand in Harley’s, and turned away her face, fairly

weeping. A stately step passed under the wintry trees.

“My mother,” said Harley L’Estrange, looking up, “I present to you my

future wife.”

(To Be Continued.)

THE ORPHAN’S DREAM OF CHRISTMAS.

It was Christmas Eve—and lonely,

By a garret window high,

Where the city chimneys barely

Spared a hand’s-breadth of the sky,

Sat a child, in age—but weeping,

With a face so small and thin,

That it seem’d too scant a record

To have eight years traced therein.

Oh, grief looks most distorted

When his hideous shadow lies

On the clear and sunny life-stream

That doth fill a child’s blue eyes,

But _her_ eye was dull and sunken,

And the whiten’d cheek was gaunt,

And the blue veins on the forehead

Were the penciling of Want.

And she wept for years like jewels,

Till the last year’s bitter gall,

Like the acid of the story,

In itself had melted all;

But the Christmas time returned,

As an old friend, for whose eye

She would take down all the pictures

Sketch’d by faithful Memory,—

Of those brilliant Christmas seasons,

When the joyous laugh went around;

When sweet words of love and kindness

Were no unfamiliar sound

When, lit by the log’s red lustre,

She her mother’s face could see,

And she rock’d the cradle, sitting

On her own twin brother’s knee:

Of her father’s pleasant stories;

Of the riddles and the rhymes,

All the kisses and the presents

That had mark’d those Christmas times.

’Twas as well that there was no one

(For it were a mocking strain)

To wish _her_ a merry Christmas,

For _that_ could not come again.

How there came a time of struggling,

When, in spite of love and faith,

Grinding Poverty would only

In the end give place to Death;

How her mother grew heart-broken,

When her toil-worn father died,

Took her baby in her bosom,

And was buried by his side:

How she clung unto her brother

As the last spar from the wreck,

But stern Death had come between them

While her arms were around his neck

There were _now_ no loving voices;

And, if few hands offered bread,

There were none to rest in blessing

On the little homeless head.

Or, if any gave her shelter,

It was less of joy than fear;

For they welcom’d Crime more warmly

To the selfsame room with her.

But, at length they all grew weary

Of their sick and useless guest;

She must try a workhouse welcome

For the helpless and distressed.

But she pray’d; and the Unsleeping

In his ear that whisper caught;

So he sent down Sleep, who gave her

Such a respite as she sought;

Drew the fair head to her bosom,

Pressed the wetted eyelids close,

And with softly-falling kisses,

Lulled her gently to repose.

Then she dreamed the angels, sweeping

With their wings the sky aside,

Raised her swiftly to the country

Where the blessed ones abide:

To a bower all flushed with beauty,

By a shadowy arcade,

Where a mellowness like moonlight

By the Tree of Life was made:

Where the rich fruit sparkled, star-like,

And pure flowers of fadeless dye

Poured their fragrance on the waters

That in crystal beds went by:

Where bright hills of pearl and amber

Closed the fair green valleys round,

And, with rainbow light, but lasting,

Were there glistening summits crown’d

Then, that distant-burning glory,

’Mid a gorgeousness of light!

The long vista of Archangels

Could scarce chasten to her sight.

There sat One; and her heart told her

’Twas the same, who, for our sin,

Was once born a little baby

“In the stable of an inn.”

There was music—oh, such music!—

They were trying the old strains

That a certain group of shepherds

Heard on old Judea’s plains;

But, when that divinest chorus

To a softened trembling fell,

Love’s true ear discerned the voices

That on earth she loved so well.

At a tiny grotto’s entrance

A fair child her eyes behold,

With his ivory shoulders hidden

’Neath his curls of living gold;

And he asks them, “Is she coming?”

But ere any one can speak,

The white arms of her twin brother

Are once more about her neck.

Then they all come round her greeting;

But she might have well denied

That her beautiful young sister

Is the poor pale child that died;

And the careful look hath vanished

From her father’s tearless face,

And she does not know her mother

Till she feels the old embrace.

Oh, from that ecstatic dreaming

Must she ever wake again,

To the cold and cheerless contrast——

To a life of lonely pain?

But her Maker’s sternest servant

To her side on tiptoe stept;

Told his message in a whisper,——

And she stirred not as she slept!

Now the Christmas morn was breaking

With a dim, uncertain hue,

And the chilling breeze of morning

Came the broken window through;

And the hair upon her forehead,

Was it lifted by the blast,

Or the brushing wings of Seraphs,

With their burden as they pass’d?

All the festive bells were chiming

To the myriad hearts below;

But that deep sleep still hung heavy

On the sleeper’s thoughtful brow.

To her quiet face the dream-light

Had a lingering glory given;

But the child _herself_ was keeping

Her Christmas-day in Heaven!

WHAT CHRISTMAS IS IN THE COMPANY OF JOHN DOE. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

I have kept (among a store of jovial, genial, heart-stirring returns of

the season) some very dismal Christmasses. I have kept Christmas in

Constantinople, at a horrible Pera hotel, where I attempted the

manufacture of a plum-pudding from the maccaroni-soup they served me for

dinner, mingled with some Zante currants, and a box of figs I had brought

from Smyrna; and where I sat, until very late at night, endeavoring to

persuade myself that it was cold and “Christmassy” (though it wasn’t),

drinking Levant wine, and listening to the howling of the dogs outside,

mingled with the clank of a portable fire-engine, which some soldiers were

carrying to one of those extensive conflagrations which never happen in

Constantinople oftener than three times a day. I have kept Christmas on

board a Boulogne packet, in company with a basin, several despair-stricken

females, and a damp steward; who, to all our inquiries whether we should

be “in soon,” had the one unvarying answer of “pretty near,” to give. I

have kept Christmas, when a boy, at a French boarding-school, where they

gave me nothing but lentils and _bouilli_ for dinner, on the auspicious

day itself. I have kept Christmas by the bed-side of a sick friend, and

wished him the compliments of the season in his physic-bottles (had they

contained another six months’ life, poor soul!) I have kept Christmas at

rich men’s tables, where I have been uncomfortable; and once in a

cobbler’s shop, where I was excessively convivial. I have spent one

Christmas in prison. Start not, urbane reader! I was not sent there for

larceny, nor for misdemeanor: but for debt.

It was Christmas-eve; and I—my name is Prupper—was taking my walks abroad.

I walked through the crowded Strand, elate, hilarious, benignant, for the

feast was prepared, and the guests were bidden. Such a turkey I had

ordered! Not the prize one with the ribbons—I mistrusted that; but a

plump, tender, white-breasted bird, a king of turkeys. It was to be boiled

with oyster-sauce; and the rest of the Christmas dinner was to consist of

that noble sirloin of roast beef, and that immortal cod’s head and

shoulders! I had bought the materials for the pudding, too, some half-hour

previously: the plums and the currants, the citron and the allspice, the

flour and the eggs. I was happy.

Onward, by the bright grocers’ shops, thronged with pudding-purchasers!

Onward, by the book-sellers’, though lingering, it may be, for a moment,

by the gorgeous Christmas books, with their bright binding, and brighter

pictures. Onward, by the pastry cooks’! Onward, elate, hilarious, and

benignant, until, just as I stopped by a poulterer’s shop, to admire the

finest capon that ever London or Christmas saw, a hand was laid on my

shoulder!

“Before our sovereign lady the Queen”—“by the grace of God,

greeting”—“that you take the body of Thomas Prupper, and him safely

keep”—“and for so doing, this shall be your warrant.”

These dread and significant words swam before my dazzled eyelids, dancing

maniac hornpipes on a parchment slip of paper. I was to keep Christmas in

no other company than that of the once celebrated fictitious personage,

supposed to be the familiar of all persons similarly situated—JOHN DOE.

I remember with horror, that some fortnight previously, a lawyers’s clerk

deposited on my shoulder a slip of paper, which he stated to be the copy

of a writ, and in which her Majesty the Queen (mixed up for the nonce with

John, Lord Campbell) was pleased to command me to enter an appearance

somewhere, by such a day, in order to answer the plaint of somebody, who

said I owed him some money. Now, an appearance had not been entered, and

judgment had gone by default, and execution had been obtained against me.

The Sheriff of Middlesex (who is popularly, though erroneously, supposed

to be incessantly running up and down in his bailiwick) had had a writ of

_fieri facias_, vulgarly termed a _fi. fa._ against my goods; but hearing,

or satisfying himself by adroit espionage, that I had _no_ goods, he had

made a return of _nulla bona_. Then had he invoked the aid of a more

subtle and potential instrument, likewise on parchment, called a _capias

ad satisfaciendum_, abbreviated in legal parlance into _ca. sa._, against

my body. This writ he had confided to Aminadab, his man; and Aminadab,

running, as he was in duty bound to do, up and down in his section of the

bailiwick, had come across me, and had made me the captive of his bow and

spear. He called it, less metaphorically, “nabbing me.”

Mr. Aminadab (tall, aquiline-nosed, oleaginous, somewhat dirty; clad in a

green Newmarket coat, a crimson velvet waistcoat, a purple satin neckcloth

with gold flowers, two watch-guards, and four diamond rings)—Mr. Aminadab

proposed that “something should be done.” Would I go to White-cross-street

at once I or to Blowman’s, in Cursitor-street? or would I just step into

Peele’s Coffee-house for a moment? Mr. Aminadab was perfectly polite, and

indefatigably suggestive.

The capture had been made in Fleet-street; so we stepped into Peele’s, and

while Mr. Aminadab sipped the pint of wine which he had obligingly

suggested I should order, I began to look my position in the face.

Execution taken out for forty-five pounds nine and ninepence. _Ca. sa._, a

guinea; _fi. fa._, a guinea; capture, a guinea; those were all the costs

as _yet_. Now, some days after I was served with the writ, I had paid the

plaintiff’s lawyer, on account, thirty pounds. In the innocence of my

heart, I imagined that, by the County Court Act, I could not be arrested

for the balance, it being under twenty pounds. Mr. Aminadab laughed with

contemptuous pity.

“We don’t do business that way,” said he; “we goes in for the whole lot,

and then you pleads your set-off, you know.”

The long and the short of the matter was, that I had eighteen pounds,

twelve shillings, and ninepence, to pay, before my friend in the purple

neckcloth would relinquish his grasp; and that to satisfy the demand, I

had exactly the sum of two pounds two and a half-penny, and a gold watch,

on which a relation of mine would probably advance four pounds more. So, I

fell to writing letters, Mr. Aminadab sipping the wine and playing with

one of his watch-chains in the meanwhile.

I wrote to Jones, Brown, and Robinson—to Thompson, and to Jackson

likewise. I wrote to my surly uncle in Pudding-lane. Now was the time to

put the disinterested friendship of Brown to the test; to avail myself of

the repeated offers of service from Jones; to ask for the loan of that

sixpence which Robinson had repeatedly declared was at my command as long

as he had a shilling. I sealed the letters with an unsteady hand, and

consulted Mr. Aminadab as to their dispatch. That gentleman, by some feat

of legerdemain, called up from the bowels of the earth, or from one of

those mysterious localities known as “round the corner,” two sprites: one,

his immediate assistant; seedier, however, and not jeweled, who carried a

nobby stick which he continually gnawed. The other, a horrible little man

with a white head and a white neckcloth, twisted round his neck like a

halter. His eye was red, and his teeth were gone, and the odor of rum

compassed him about, like a cloak. To these two acolytes my notes were

confided, and they were directed to bring the answers like lightning to

Blowman’s. To Blowman’s, in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane, I was bound,

and a cab was straightway called for my conveyance there-to. For the

matter of that, the distance was so short, I might easily have walked, but

I could not divest myself of the idea that every body in the street knew I

was a prisoner.

I was soon within the hospitable doors of Mr. Blowman, officer to the

Sheriff of Middlesex. His hospitable doors were double, and, for more

hospitality, heavily barred, locked, and chained. These, with the

exceptions of barred windows, and a species of grating-roofed yard

outside, like a monster bird-cage, were the only visible signs of

captivity. Yet there was enough stone in the hearts, and iron in the

souls, of Mr. Blowman’s inmates, to build a score of lock-up houses. For

that you may take my word.

I refused the offer of a private room, and was conducted to the

coffee-room, where Mr. Aminadab left me, for a while, to my own

reflections; and to wait for the answers to my letters.

They came—and one friend into the bargain. Jones had gone to Hammersmith,

and wouldn’t be back till next July. Brown had been disappointed in the

city. Robinson’s money was all locked up. Thompson expected to be locked

up himself. Jackson was brief, but explicit: he said he “would rather

not.”

My friend brought me a carpet-bag, with what clothes I wanted in it. He

advised me, more over, to go to Whitecross-street at once, for a sojourn

at Mr. Blowman’s domicile would cost me something like a guinea per diem.

So, summoning Mr. Aminadab, who had obligingly waited to see if I could

raise the money or not, I announced my intention of being conveyed to jail

at once. I paid half-a-guinea for the accommodation I had had at Mr.

Blowman’s; I made a pecuniary acknowledgment of Mr. Aminadab’s politeness;

and I did not fail to remember the old man in the white halter and the

spirituous mantle. Then, when I had also remembered a red-headed little

Jew boy, who acted as Cerberus to this Hades, and appeared to be

continually washing his hands (though they never seemed one whit the

cleaner for the operation), another cab was called, and off I went to

Whitecross-street, with a heart considerably heavier than a paving stone.

I had already been three hours in captivity, and it was getting on for

eight o’clock. The cab was proceeding along Holborn, and I thought,

involuntarily, of Mr. Samuel Hall, black and grimy, making his progress

through the same thoroughfares, by the Oxford Road, and so on to Tyburn,

bowing to the crowd, and cursing the Ordinary. The foot-pavement on either

side was thronged with people at their Christmas marketing, or, at least,

on some Christmas business—so it seemed to me. Goose Clubs were being held

at the public houses—sweeps for sucking-pigs, plum-puddings, and bottles

of gin. Some ladies and gentlemen had begun their Christmas rather too

early, and were meandering unsteadily over the flag-stones. Fiddlers were

in great request, being sought for in small beershops, and borne off

bodily from bars, to assist at Christmas Eve merry-makings. An immense

deal of hand-shaking was going on, and I was very much afraid, a good deal

more “standing” than was consistent with the strict rules of temperance.

Every body kept saying that it was “only once a year,” and made that an

apology (so prone are mankind to the use of trivial excuses!) for their

sins against Father Mathew. Loud laughter rang through the frosty air.

Pleasant jokes, innocent “chaff,” passed; grocers’ young men toiled

lustily, wiping their hot faces ever and anon; butchers took no rest;

prize beef melted away from very richness before my eyes; and in the midst

of all the bustle and jollity, the crowding, laughing, drinking, and

shouting, I was still on my unvarying way to Whitecross-street.

There was a man resting a child’s coffin on a railing, and chattering with

a pot-boy, with whom he shared a pot of porter “with the sharp edge taken

off.” There are heavy hearts—heavier perchance than yours, in London, this

Christmas Eve, my friend Prupper, thought I. To-morrow’s dawn will bring

sorrow and faint-heartedness to many thousands—to oceans of humanity, of

which you are but a single drop.

The cab had conveyed me through Smithfield Market, and now rumbled up

Barbican. My companion, the gentleman with the crab-stick (to whose care

Mr. Aminadab had consigned me), beguiled the time with pleasant and

instructive conversation. He told me that he had “nabbed a many parties.”

That he had captured a Doctor of Divinity going to a Christmas, a

bridegroom starting for the honeymoon, a colonel of hussars in full fig

for her Majesty’s drawing-room. That he had the honor once of “nabbing”

the eldest son of a peer of the realm, who, however, escaped from him

through a second-floor window, and over the tiles. That he was once

commissioned to “nab” the celebrated Mr. Wix, of the Theatres Royal. That

Mr. Wix, being in the act of playing the Baron Spolaccio, in the famous

tragedy of “Love, Ruin, and Revenge,” he, Crabstick, permitted him, in

deference to the interests of the drama, to play the part out, stationing

an assistant at each wing to prevent escape. That the delusive Wix

“bilked” him, by going down a trap. That he, Crabstick, captured him,

notwithstanding under the stage, though opposed by the gigantic Wix

himself, two stage carpenters, a demon, and the Third Citizen. That Wix

rushed on the stage, and explained his position to the audience, whereupon

the gallery (Wix being an especial favorite of theirs) expressed a strong

desire to have his (Crabstick’s) blood; and, failing to obtain that, tore

up the benches; in the midst of which operation the recalcitrant Wix was

removed. With these and similar anecdotes of the nobility, gentry, and the

public in general, he was kind enough to regale me, until the cab stopped.

I alighted in a narrow, dirty street; was hurried up a steep flight of

steps; a heavy door clanged behind me; and Crabstick, pocketing his small

gratuity, wished me a good-night and a merry Christmas. A merry Christmas:

ugh!

That night I slept in a dreadful place, called the Reception ward, on an

iron bedstead, in a room with a stone floor. I was alone, and horribly

miserable. I heard the Waits playing in the distance, and dreamed I was at

a Christmas party.

Christmas morning in Whitecross-street Prison! A turnkey conducted me to

the “Middlesex side”—a long dreary yard—on either side of which were doors

leading into wards, or coffee-rooms, on the ground floor, and by

stone-staircases, to sleeping-apartments above. It was all very cold, very

dismal, very gloomy. I entered the ward allotted to me, Number Seven,

left. It was a long room, with barred windows, cross tables and benches,

with an aisle between; a large fire at the further end; “Dum spiro,

spero,” painted above the mantle-piece. Twenty or thirty prisoners and

their friends were sitting at the tables, smoking pipes, drinking beer, or

reading newspapers. But for the unmistakable jail-bird look about the

majority of the guests, the unshorn faces, the slipshod feet, the barred

windows, and the stone floor, I might have fancied myself in a large

tap-room.

There was holly and mistletoe round the gas-pipes; but how woeful and

forlorn they looked! There was roast-beef and plum-pudding preparing at

the fire-place; but they had neither the odor nor the appearance of free

beef and pudding. I was thinking of the cosy room, the snug fire, the

well-drawn curtains, the glittering table, the happy faces, when the

turnkey introduced me to the steward of the ward (an officer appointed by

the prisoners, and a prisoner himself) who “tables you off,” _i.e._, who

allotted me a seat at one of the cross-tables, which was henceforward mine

for all purposes of eating, drinking, writing, or smoking; in

consideration of a payment on my part of one guinea sterling. This sum

made me also free of the ward, and entitled to have my boots cleaned, my

bed made, and my meals cooked. Supposing that I had not possessed a guinea

(which was likely enough), I should have asked for time, which would have

been granted me; but, at the expiration of three days, omission of payment

would have constituted me a defaulter; in which case, the best thing I

could have done would have been to declare pauperism, and remove to the

poor side of the prison. Here, I should have been entitled to my

“sixpences,” amounting in the aggregate to the sum of three shillings and

sixpence a week toward my maintenance.

The steward, a fat man in a green “wide-awake” hat, who was incarcerated

on remand for the damages in an action for breach of promise of marriage,

introduced me to the cook (who was going up next week to the Insolvent

Court, having filed his schedule as a beer-shop keeper). He told me, that

if I chose to purchase any thing at a species of every-thing-shop in the

yard, the cook would dress it; or, if I did not choose to be at the

trouble of providing myself, I might breakfast, dine, and sup at his, the

steward’s, table, “for a consideration,” as Mr. Trapbois has it. I acceded

to the latter proposition, receiving the intelligence that turkey and

oyster-sauce were to be ready at two precisely, with melancholy

indifference. Turkey had no charms for me now.

I sauntered forth into the yard, and passed fifty or sixty

fellow-unfortunates, sauntering as listlessly as myself. Strolling about,

I came to a large grating, somewhat similar to Mr. Blowman’s bird-cage, in

which was a heavy gate called the “lock,” and which communicated with the

corridors leading to the exterior of the prison. Here sat, calmly

surveying his caged birds within, a turnkey—not a repulsive, gruff-voiced

monster, with a red neckerchief and top boots, and a bunch of keys, as

turnkeys are popularly supposed to be—but a pleasant, jovial man enough,

in sleek black. He had a little lodge behind, where a bright fire burned,

and where Mrs. Turnkey, and the little Turnkeys lived. (I found a direful

resemblance between the name of his office, and that of the Christmas

bird.) His Christmas dinner hung to the iron bars above him, in the shape

of a magnificent piece of beef. Happy turnkey, to be able to eat it on the

outer side of that dreadful grating! In another part of the yard hung a

large black board, inscribed in half-effaced characters, with the

enumerations of divers donations, made in former times by charitable

persons, for the benefit in perpetuity of poor prisoners. To-day, so much

beef and so much strong beer was allotted to each prisoner.

But what were beef and beer, what was unlimited tobacco, or even the

plum-pudding, when made from prison plums, boiled in a prison copper, and

eaten in a prison dining-room? What though surreptitious gin were carried

in, in bladders, beneath the under garments of the fairer portion of

creation; what though brandy were smuggled into the wards, disguised as

black draughts, or extract of sarsaparilla? A pretty Christmas market I

had brought my pigs to!

Chapel was over (I had come down too late from the “Reception” to attend

it); and the congregation (a lamentably small one) dispersed in the yard

and wards. I entered my own ward, to change (if any thing could change)

the dreary scene.

Smoking and cooking appeared to be the chief employments and recreations

of the prisoners. An insolvent clergyman in rusty black, was gravely

rolling out puff-paste on a pie-board; and a man in his shirt-sleeves,

covering a veal cutlet with egg and bread-crum, was an officer of

dragoons!

I found no lack of persons willing to enter into conversation with me. I

talked, full twenty minutes, with a seedy captive, with a white head, and

a coat buttoned and pinned up to the chin.

Whitecross-street, he told me (or Burdon’s Hotel, as in the prison slang

he called it), was the only place where any “life” was to be seen. The

Fleet was pulled down; the Marshalsea had gone the way of all

brick-and-mortar; the Queen’s Prison, the old “Bench,” was managed on a

strict system of classification and general discipline; and

Horsemonger-lane was but rarely tenanted by debtors; but in favored

Whitecross-street, the good old features of imprisonment for debt yet

flourished. Good dinners were still occasionally given; “fives” and

football were yet played; and, from time to time, obnoxious attorneys, or

importunate process-servers—“rats” as they were called—were pumped upon,

floured, and bonneted. Yet, even Whitecross-street, he said with a sigh,

was falling off. The Small Debts Act and those revolutionary County Courts

would be too many for it soon.

That tall, robust, bushy-whiskered man, (he said) in the magnificently

flowered dressing-gown, the crimson Turkish smoking cap, the velvet

slippers, and the ostentatiously displayed gold guard-chain, was a

“mace-man:” an individual who lived on his wits, and on the want of wit in

others. He had had many names, varying from Plantagenet and De Courcy, to

“Edmonston and Co.,” or plain Smith or Johnson. He was a real gentleman

once upon a time—a very long time ago. Since then, he had done a little on

the turf, and a great deal in French hazard, roulette, and _rouge et

noir_. He had cheated bill-discounters, and discounted bills himself. He

had been a picture-dealer, and a wine-merchant, and one of those

mysterious individuals called a “commission agent.” He had done a little

on the Stock Exchange, and a little billiard-marking, and a little

skittle-sharping, and a little thimble-rigging. He was not particular.

Bills, however, were his passion. He was under a cloud just now, in

consequence of some bill-dealing transaction, which the Commissioner of

Insolvency had broadly hinted to be like a bill-stealing one. However, he

had wonderful elasticity, and it was to be hoped would soon get over his

little difficulties. Meanwhile, he dined sumptuously, and smoked cigars of

price; occasionally condescending to toss half-crowns in a hat with any of

the other “nobs” incarcerated.

That cap, and the battered worn-out sickly frame beneath (if I would have

the goodness to notice them) were all that were left of a spruce,

rosy-cheeked, glittering young ensign of infantry. He was brought up by an

old maiden aunt, who spent her savings to buy him a commission in the

army. He went from Slowchester Grammar School, to Fastchester Barracks. He

was to live on his pay. He gambled a year’s pay away in an evening. He

made thousand guinea bets, and lost them. So the old _denouement_ of the

old story came round as usual. The silver dressing-case, got on

credit—pawned for ready money; the credit-horses sold; more credit-horses

bought; importunate creditors in the barrack-yard; a letter from the

colonel; sale of his commission; himself sold up; then Mr. Aminadab, Mr.

Blowman, Burdon’s Hotel, Insolvent Court, a year’s remand; and, an after

life embittered by the consciousness of wasted time and talents, and

wantonly-neglected opportunities.

My informant pointed out many duplicates of the gentleman in the

dressing-gown. Also, divers Government clerks, who had attempted to

imitate the nobs in a small way, and had only succeeded to the extent of

sharing the same prison; a mild gray-headed old gentleman who always

managed to get committed for contempt of court; and the one inevitable

baronet of a debtor’s prison, who is traditionally supposed to have eight

thousand a year, and to stop in prison because he likes it—though, to say

the truth, this baronet looked, to me, as if he didn’t like it at all.

I was sick of all these, and of every thing else in Whitecross-street,

before nine o’clock, when I was at liberty to retire to my cold ward. So

ended my Christmas-day—my first, and, I hope and believe, my last

Christmas-day in prison.

Next morning my welcome friend arrived and set me free. I paid the

gate-fees, and I gave the turnkeys a crown, and I gave the prisoners

unbounded beer. I kept New Year’s day in company with a pretty cousin with

glossy black hair, who was to have dined with me on Christmas-day, and who

took such pity on me that she shortly became Mrs. Prupper. Our eldest boy

was born, by a curious coincidence, next Christmas-day—which I kept very

jovially, with the doctor, after it was all over, and we _didn’t_ christen

him Whitecross.

WHAT CHRISTMAS IS, AS WE GROW OLDER. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Time was, with most of us, when Christmas-day encircling all our limited

world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound

together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped every

thing and every one around the Christmas fire; and made the little picture

shining in our bright young eyes, complete.

Time came, perhaps, all so soon! when our thoughts overleaped that narrow

boundary; when there was some one (very dear, we thought then, very

beautiful, and absolutely perfect) wanting to the fullness of our

happiness; when we were wanting too (or we thought so, which did just as

well) at the Christmas hearth by which that some one sat; and when we

intertwined with every wreath and garland of our life that some one’s

name.

That was the time for the bright visionary Christmases which have long

arisen from us to show faintly, after summer rain, in the palest edges of

the rainbow! That was the time for the beatified enjoyment of the things

that were to be, and never were, and yet the things that were so real in

our resolute hope that it would be hard to say, now, what realities

achieved since, have been stronger!

What! Did that Christmas never really come when we and the priceless pearl

who was our young choice were received, after the happiest of totally

impossible marriages, by the two united families previously at

daggers-drawn on our account? When brothers and sisters in law who had

always been rather cool to us before our relationship was effected,

perfectly doted on us, and when fathers and mothers overwhelmed us with

unlimited incomes? Was that Christmas dinner never really eaten, after

which we arose, and generously and eloquently rendered honor to our late

rival, present in the company, then and there exchanging friendship and

forgiveness, and founding an attachment, not to be surpassed in Greek or

Roman story, which subsisted until death? Has that same rival long ceased

to care for that same priceless pearl, and married for money, and become

usurious? Above all, do we really know, now, that we should probably have

been miserable if we had won and worn the pearl, and that we are better

without her?

That Christmas when we had recently achieved so much fame; when we had

been carried in triumph somewhere, for doing something great and good;

when we had won an honored and ennobled name, and arrived and were

received at home in a shower of tears of joy; is it possible that _that_

Christmas has not come yet?

And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that, pausing as we

advance at such a noticeable mile-stone in the track as this great

birthday, we look back on the things that never were, as naturally and

full as gravely as on the things that have been and are gone, or have been

and still are? If it be so, and so it seems to be, must we come to the

conclusion, that life is little better than a dream, and little worth the

loves and strivings that we crowd into it?

No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear Reader, on

Christmas-day! Nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmas spirit,

which is the spirit of active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge

of duty, kindness, and forbearance! It is in the last virtues especially,

that we are, or should be, strengthened by the unaccomplished visions of

our youth; for who shall say that they are not our teachers to deal gently

even with the impalpable nothings of the earth!

Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of

our Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring, expands!

Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to take their places by

the Christmas hearth.

Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to your

shelter underneath the holly! We know you, and have not outlived you yet.

Welcome, old projects and old loves, however fleeting, to your nooks among

the steadier lights that burn around us. Welcome, all that was ever real

to our hearts; and for the earnestness that made you real, thanks to

Heaven! Do we build no Christmas castles in the clouds now? Let our

thoughts, fluttering like butterflies among these flowers of children,

bear witness! Before this boy, there stretches out a Future, brighter than

we ever looked on in our old romantic time, but bright with honor and with

truth. Around this little head on which the sunny curls lie heaped, the

graces sport, as prettily, as airily, as when there was no scythe within

the reach of Time to shear away the curls of our first-love. Upon another

girl’s face near it—placider but smiling bright—a quiet and contented

little face, we see Home fairly written. Shining from the word, as rays

shine from a star, we see how, when our graves are old, other hopes than

ours are young, other hearts than ours are moved; how other ways are

smoothed; how other happiness blooms, ripens, and decays—no, not decays,

for other homes and other bands of children, not yet in being nor for ages

yet to be, arise, and bloom, and ripen to the end of all!

Welcome, every thing! Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was,

and what we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly, to your

places round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open-hearted! In

yonder shadow, do we see obtruding furtively upon the blaze, an enemy’s

face? By Christmas-day we do forgive him! If the injury he has done us may

admit of such companionship, let him come here and take his place. If

otherwise, unhappily, let him go hence, assured that we will never injure

nor accuse him.

On this day, we shut out nothing!

“Pause,” says a low voice. “Nothing? Think!”

“On Christmas-day, we will shut out from our fireside, nothing.”

“Not the shadow of a vast city where the withered leaves are lying deep?”

the voice replies. “Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe? Not the

shadow of the City of the Dead?”

Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces toward that

city upon Christmas-day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved,

among us. City of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are gathered

together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us according

to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear

to us!

Yes. We can look upon these children-angels that alight, so solemnly, so

beautifully, among the living children by the fire, and can bear to think

how they departed from us. Entertaining angels unawares, as the Patriarchs

did, the playful children are unconscious of their guests; but we can see

them—can see a radiant arm around one favorite neck, as if there were a

tempting of that child away. Among the celestial figures there is one, a

poor mis-shapen boy on earth, of a glorious beauty now, of whom his dying

mother said it grieved her much to leave him here, alone, for so many

years as it was likely would elapse before he came to her—being such a

little child. But he went quickly, and was laid upon her breast, and in

her hand she leads him.

There was a gallant boy, who fell, far away, upon a burning sand beneath a

burning sun, and said, “Tell them at home, with my last love, how much I

could have wished to kiss them once, but that I died contented and had

done my duty!” Or there was another, over whom they read the words,

“Therefore we commit his body to the dark!” and so consigned him to the

lonely ocean, and sailed on. Or there was another who lay down to his rest

in the dark shadow of great forests, and, on earth, awoke no more. O shall

they not, from sand and sea and forest, be brought home at such a time!

There was a dear girl—almost a woman—never to be one—who made a mourning

Christmas in a house of joy, and went her trackless way to the silent

City. Do we recollect her, worn out, faintly whispering what could not be

heard, and falling into that last sleep for weariness? O look upon her

now! O look upon her beauty, her serenity, her changeless youth, her

happiness! The daughter of Jairus was recalled to life, to die; but she,

more blest, has heard the same voice, saying unto her, “Arise forever!”

We had a friend who was our friend from early days, with whom we often

pictured the changes that were to come upon our lives, and merrily

imagined how we would speak, and walk, and think, and talk, when we came

to be old. His destined habitation in the City of the Dead received him in

his prime. Shall he be shut out from our Christmas remembrance? Would his

love have so excluded us? Lost friend, lost child, lost parent, sister,

brother, husband, wife, we will not so discard you! You shall hold your

cherished places in our Christmas hearts, and by our Christmas fires; and

in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, we

will shut out nothing!

The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea it makes a rosy

path, as if the Sacred tread were fresh upon the water. A few more

moments, and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in

the prospect. On the hill-side beyond the shapelessly diffused town, and

in the quiet keeping of the trees that gird the village-steeple,

remembrances are cut in stone, planted in common flowers, growing in

grass, entwined with lowly brambles around many a mound of earth. In town

and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather, there

are flaming logs heaped high, there are joyful faces, there is healthy

music of voices. Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples of

the Household Gods, but be those remembrances admitted with tender

encouragement! They are of the time and all its comforting and peaceful

reassurances; and of the history that reunited even upon earth the living

and the dead; and of the broad beneficence and goodness that too many men

have tried to tear to narrow shreds.

HELEN CORRIE.—LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A CURATE.

Having devoted myself to the service of Him who said unto the demoniac and

the leper, “Be whole,” I go forth daily, treading humbly in the pathway of

my self-appointed mission, through the dreary regions, the close and

crowded streets, that exist like a plague ground in the very heart of the

wealthy town of L——.

They have an atmosphere of their own, those dilapidated courts, those

noisome alleys, those dark nooks where the tenements are green with damp,

where the breath grows faint, and the head throbs with an oppressive pain;

and yet, amid the horrors of such abodes, hundreds of our fellow-creatures

act the sad tragedy of life, and the gay crowd beyond sweep onward,

without a thought of those who perish daily for want of the bread of

eternal life. Oh! cast it upon those darkened waters, and it shall be

found again after many days. There we see human nature in all its unvailed

and degraded nakedness—the vile passions, the brutal coarseness, the

corroding malice, the undisguised licentiousness. Oh, ye who look on and

abhor, who pass like the Pharisee, and condemn the wretch by the wayside,

pause, and look within: education, circumstances, have refined and

elevated your thoughts and actions; but blessed are those who shall never

know by fearful experience how want and degradation can blunt the finest

sympathies, and change, nay, brutalize the moral being.

How have I shuddered to hear the fearful mirth with whose wild laughter

blasphemy and obscenity were mingled—that mockery of my sacred profession,

which I knew too well lurked under the over-strained assumption of

reverence for my words, when I was permitted to utter them, and the shout

of derision that followed too often my departing steps, knowing that those

immortal souls must one day render up their account; and humbly have I

prayed, that my still unwearied zeal might yet be permitted to scatter

forth the good seed which the cares and anxieties should not choke, nor

the stony soil refuse!

Passing one evening through one of those dilapidated streets, to which the

doors, half torn from their hinges, and the broken windows, admitting the

raw, cold, gusty winds, gave so comfortless an aspect, I turned at a

sudden angle into a district which I had never before visited. Through the

low arch of a half-ruined bridge, a turbid stream rolled rapidly on,

augmented by the late rains. A strange-looking building, partly formed of

wood, black and decaying with age and damp, leaned heavily over the

passing waters; it was composed of many stories, which were approached by

a wooden stair and shed-like gallery without, and evidently occupied by

many families. The lamenting wail of neglected children and the din of

contention were heard within. Hesitating on the threshold, I leant over

the bridge, and perceived an extensive area beneath the ancient tenement;

many low-browed doors, over whose broken steps the water washed and

rippled, became distinguishable. As I gazed, one of them suddenly opened,

and a pale haggard woman appeared, shading a flickering light with her

hand. I descended the few slippery wooden steps leading to the strange

abodes, and approached her. As I advanced, she appeared to recognize me.

“Come in, sir,” she said hurriedly; “there is one within will be glad to

see you;” and, turning, she led me through a winding passage into a dreary

room, whose blackened floor of stone bore strong evidence that the flood

chafed and darkened beneath it.

In an old arm-chair beside the rusty and almost fireless grate, sat, or

rather lay, a pale and fragile creature, a wreck of blighted loveliness.

“Helen,” said the woman, placing the light on a rough table near her,

“here is the minister come to see you.”

The person she addressed attempted to rise, but the effort was too much,

and she sank back, as if exhausted by it. A blush mantled over her cheek,

and gave to her large dark eyes a faint and fading lustre. She had been

beautiful, _very_ beautiful; but the delicate features were sharpened and

attenuated, the exquisite symmetry of her form worn by want and illness to

a mere outline of its former graceful proportions; yet, even amid the

squalid wretchedness that surrounded her, an air of by-gone superiority

gave a nameless interest to her appearance, and I approached her with a

respectful sympathy that seemed strange to my very self.

After a few explanatory sentences respecting my visit, to which she

assented by a humble yet silent movement of acquiescence, I commenced

reading the earnest prayers which the occasion called for. As I proceeded,

the faint chorus of a drinking song came upon my ears from some far

recesses of this mysterious abode; doors were suddenly opened and closed

with a vault-like echo, and a hoarse voice called on the woman who had

admitted me; she started suddenly from her knees, and, with the paleness

of fear on her countenance, left the room. After a moment’s hesitating

pause, the invalid spoke in a voice whose low flute-like tones stole upon

the heart like aerial music.

“I thank you,” she said, “for this kind visit, those soothing prayers. Oh,

how often in my wanderings have I longed to listen to such words! Cast

out, like an Indian pariah, from the pale of human fellowship, I had

almost forgotten how to pray; but you have shed the healing balm of

religion once more upon my seared and blighted heart, and I can weep glad

tears of penitence, and dare to hope for pardon.”

After this burst of excitement, she grew more calm, and our conversation

assumed a devotional yet placid tenor, until she drew from her bosom a

small packet, and gave it to me with a trembling hand.

“Read it, sir,” she said; “it is the sad history of a life of sorrow. Have

pity as you trace the record of human frailty, and remember that you are

the servant of the Merciful!”

She paused, and her cheek grew paler, as if her ear caught an unwelcome

but well-known sound. A quick step was soon heard in the passage, and a

man entered, bearing a light; he stood a moment on the threshold, as if

surprised, and then hastily approached us. A model of manly beauty, his

haughty features bore the prevailing characteristics of the gipsy

blood—the rich olive cheek, the lustrous eyes, the long silky raven hair,

the light and flexible form, the step lithe and graceful as the leopard’s;

yet were all these perfections marred by an air of reckless

licentiousness. His attire, which strangely mingled the rich and gaudy

with the worn and faded, added to the ruffianism of his appearance; and as

he cast a stern look on the pale girl, who shrank beneath his eye, I read

at once the mournful secret of her despair. With rough words he bade me

begone, and, as the beseeching eye of his victim glanced meaningly toward

the door, I departed, with a silent prayer in my heart for the betrayer

and the erring.

A cold drizzling rain was falling without, and I walked hastily homeward,

musing on the strange scene in which I had so lately mingled. Seated in my

little study, I drew my table near the fire, arranged my reading-lamp, and

commenced the perusal of the manuscript confided to my charge. It was

written in a delicate Italian hand upon uncouth and various scraps of

paper, and appeared to have been transcribed with little attempt at

arrangement, and at long intervals; but my curiosity added the links to

the leading events, and I gradually entered with deeper interest into the

mournful history.

“How happy was my childhood!” it began. “I can scarcely remember a grief

through all that sunny lapse of years. I dwelt in a beautiful abode,

uniting the verandas and vine-covered porticoes of southern climes with

the substantial in-door comforts of English luxury. The country around was

romantic, and I grew up in its sylvan solitudes almost as wild and happy

as the birds and fawns that were my companions.

“I was motherless. My father, on her death, had retired from public life,

and devoted himself to her child. Idolized by him, my wildest wishes were

unrestrained; the common forms of knowledge were eagerly accepted by me,

for I had an intuitive talent of acquiring any thing which contributed to

my pleasure; and I early discovered that, without learning to read and

write, the gilded books and enameled desks in my father’s library would

remain to me only as so many splendid baubles; but a regular education, a

religious and intellectual course of study, I never pursued. I read as I

liked, and when I liked. I was delicate in appearance, and my father

feared to control my spirits, or to rob me of a moment’s happiness. Fatal

affection! How did I repay such misjudging love!

“Time flowed brightly on, and I had already seen sixteen summers, when the

_little cloud_ appeared in the sky that so fearfully darkened my future

destiny. In one of our charitable visits to the neighboring cottages, we

formed an acquaintance with a gentleman who had become an inhabitant of

our village; a fall from his horse placed him under the care of our worthy

doctor, and he had hired a small room attached to Ashtree farm, until he

recovered from the lingering effects of his accident. Handsome, graceful,

and insinuating in his address, he captivated my ardent imagination at

once. Unaccustomed to the world, I looked upon him as the very ‘mould of

form;’ a new and blissful enchantment seemed to pervade my being in his

presence and my girlish fancy dignified the delusion with the name of

love? My father was delighted with his society; he possessed an

inexhaustible fund of anecdotes and strange adventures, was an excellent

musician, and had the agreeable tact of accommodating himself to the mood

of the moment. He was a constant visitor, and at length became almost

domesticated in our household. Known to us by the name of Corrie, he spoke

of himself as the son of a noble house, who, to indulge a poetic

temperament, and a romantic passion for rural scenery, had come forth on a

solitary pilgrimage, and cast aside for a while what he called the iron

fetters of exclusive society. How sweet were our moonlight ramblings

through the deep forest glens; how fondly we lingered by the Fairies’ Well

in the green hollow of the woods, watching the single star that glittered

in its pellucid waters! And, oh, what passionate eloquence, what romantic

adoration, was poured forth upon my willing ear, and thrilled my

susceptible heart!

“Before my father’s eye he appeared gracefully courteous to me, but not a

word or glance betrayed the passion which in our secret interviews

worshiped me as an idol, and enthralled my senses with the ardency of its

homage. This, he told me, was necessary for my happiness, as my father

might separate us if he suspected that another shared the heart hitherto

exclusively his own. This was my first deception. Fatal transgression! I

had departed from the path of truth, and my guardian angel grew pale in

the presence of the tempter. Winter began to darken the valleys; our

fireside circle was enlivened by the presence of our accomplished guest.

On the eve of my natal day, he spoke of the birth-day fetes he had

witnessed during his Continental and Oriental rambles, complimented my

father on the antique beauty and massy richness of the gold and silver

plate which, rarely used, decorated the sideboard in honor of the

occasion; and, admiring the pearls adorning my hair and bosom, spoke so

learnedly on the subject of jewels, that my father brought forth from his

Indian cabinet my mother’s bridal jewels, diamonds, and emeralds of

exquisite lustre and beauty. I had never before seen these treasures, and

our guest joined in the raptures of my admiration.

“ ‘They will adorn my daughter,’ said my father, with a sigh, as he closed

the casket, and retired to place it in its safe receptacle.

“ ‘Yes, my Helen,’ said my lover, ‘they shall glitter on that fair brow in

a prouder scene, when thy beauty shall gladden the eyes of England’s

nobles, and create envy in her fairest daughters.’

“I listened with a smile, and, on my father’s return, passed another

evening of happiness—my last!

“We retired early, and oh, how bright were the dreams that floated around

my pillow, how sweet the sleep that stole upon me as I painted the

future—an elysium of love and splendor! I was awakened by a wild cry that

rang with agonizing horror through the midnight stillness: it was the

voice of my father. I sprang hastily from my couch, threw on a wrapper,

seized the night-lamp, and hurried to his chamber. Ruffians opposed my

entrance; the Indian cabinet lay shattered on the floor, and I beheld my

father struggling in the fierce grasp of a man, who had clasped his throat

to choke the startling cry. With maniac force I reached the couch, and,

seizing the murderous hand, called aloud for help. The robber started with

a wild execration, the mask fell from his face, and I beheld the features

of Gilbert Corrie!...

“When I recovered consciousness, I found that I had suffered a long

illness—a brain fever, caused, the strange nurse said, by some sudden

shock. Alas, how dreadful had been that fatal cause! Sometimes I think my

head has never been cool since; a dull throb of agony presses yet upon my

brow; sometimes it passes away; my spirits mount lightly, and I can laugh,

but it has a hollow sound—oh, how unlike the sweet laughter of by-gone

days!...

“We were in London. My apartments were sumptuous: all that wealth could

supply was mine; but what a wretch was I amid that scene of splendor! The

destroyer was now the arbiter of my destiny. I knew his wealth arose from

his nefarious transactions at the gaming-table. I knew my father was dead;

the severe injuries he had received on that fatal night and the mysterious

disappearance of his daughter had laid him in his grave. Gilbert Corrie

was virtually his murderer, yet still I loved him! A passion partaking of

delirium bound me to his destiny. I shrank not from the caress of the

felon gamester—the plague-stain of sin was upon me—the burning plow-shares

of the world’s scorn lay in my path, and how was the guilty one to dare

the fearful ordeal? For fallen woman there is _no return;_ no penitence

can restore her sullied brightness; the angel-plumes of purity are

scattered in the dust, and never can the lost one regain the Eden of her

innocence. The world may pity, may pardon, but never more _respect;_ and,

oh, how dreadful to mingle with the pure, and feel the mark of Cain upon

your brow!...

“A change came suddenly upon Gilbert. There was no longer the lavish

expenditure, the careless profusion: his looks and tone were altered. A

haggard expression sat upon his handsome features, and the words of

endearment no longer flowed from his lips; a quick footstep beneath the

window made him start, strange-looking men visited him, his absences were

long, his garments often changed: the vail was about to be lifted from my

_real_ position.

“One night he entered hastily, snatched me from the luxurious fauteuil on

which I rested, and led me, without answering my questions, to a

hackney-coach. We were speedily whirled away, and I never again beheld

that home of splendor. By by-paths we entered a close and murky street,

the coach was discharged, I was hurried over a dark miry road, and,

passing through a court-yard, the gate of which closed behind us, was led

without ceremony into a wretched apartment, thronged with fierce,

ill-looking men, seated round a table well supplied with wines and ardent

spirits. Our entrance was hailed with shouts. Gilbert was called by the

name of ‘noble captain’ to the head of the table, and I was suffered

disregarded to weep alone. I seated myself at length by the blazing fire,

and then first knew the real horrors of my destiny.

“From their discourse I gathered that Gilbert had committed extensive

forgeries, and had that night escaped the pursuit of justice. Bumpers of

congratulation were drunk; plans of robberies discussed, and the gipsy

captain chosen as the leader of the most daring exploits contemplated.

“Since that night, how fearful have been my vicissitudes! Sometimes, as

the splendidly-dressed mistress of private gambling-rooms, I have received

the selected dupes in a luxurious boudoir, decoying the victims by

fascinating smiles into the snare laid for them by Gilbert and his

associates. Sometimes, encamping with the wild gipsy tribe in some hidden

dell or woodland haunt, where their varied spoils were in safe keeping.

Anon, the painted and tinseled queen of an itinerant show, where Gilbert

enacted the mountebank, and by the brilliance of his fascinating eloquence

drew into his treasury the hard-earned savings of the rustic gazers.

“To all those degredations have I submitted, and now, oh, now, more than

ever, has the iron entered into my soul! He has ceased to love me. I have

become an encumbrance; my beauty has faded from exposure and neglect. I

have sunk beneath his blows, have writhed beneath the bitterness of his

sarcasms, his brutal jests, his scornful mockery of my penitence and

tears. I have endured the agony of hunger while he rioted with his

companions in profligate luxury; and yet, if the old smile lights up his

countenance, the old look shines forth from his lustrous eyes, he is again

to me the lover of my youth, and the past is a hideous dream. Oh, woman’s

heart, how unfathomable is thy mystery!”

The manuscript here ended abruptly. How sad a moral might be drawn from

the history of this unfortunate! What rare gifts of mind and beauty had

the want of religion marred and blighted! Had the Sun of Righteousness

shone upon that ardent heart, its aspirations had been glorious, its

course

“Upward! upward!

Through the doubt and the dismay

Upward! to the perfect day!”

What mournful tragedies are ever around us, flowing on with the perpetual

under-current of human life, each hour laden with its mystery and sorrow,

sweeping like dim phantoms through the arch of time, and burying the

fearful records in the oblivion of the abyss beyond! How few of the

floating wrecks are snatched from the darkening tide!

I returned the next day to the dwelling of Helen, but it was shut up, and

in the day-time appeared as if long deserted. To all inquiries, the

neighbors answered reluctantly that it had long been uninhabited, and that

its last occupants had been a gang of coiners, who were now suffering the

penalty of transportation. I often visited the same district, but all my

after-search was in vain, and the fate of Helen Corrie still remains an

undiscovered mystery.

THE GOOD OLD TIMES IN PARIS.

The world, since it was a world at all, has ever been fond of singing the

praises of the good old times. It would seem a general rule, that so soon

as we get beyond a certain age, whatever that may be, we acquire a high

opinion of the past, and grumble at every thing new under the sun. One

cause of this may be, that distance lends enchantment to the view, and

that the history of the past, like a landscape traveled over, loses in

review all the rugged and wearisome annoyances that rendered it scarcely

bearable in the journey. But it is hardly worth while to speculate upon

the causes of an absurdity which a little candid retrospection will do

more to dissipate than whole folios of philosophy. We can easily

understand a man who sighs that he was not born a thousand years hence

instead of twenty or thirty years ago, but that any one should encourage a

regret that his lot in life was not cast a few centuries back, seems

inexplicable on any rational grounds. The utter folly of praising the good

old times may be illustrated by a reference to the wretched condition of

most European cities; but we shall confine ourselves to the single case of

Paris, now one of the most beautiful capitals in the world.

In the thirteenth century the streets of Paris were not paved; they were

muddy and filthy to a very horrible degree, and swine constantly loitered

about and fed in them. At night there were no public lights, and

assassinations and robberies were far from infrequent. At the beginning of

the fourteenth century public lighting was begun on a limited scale; and

at best only a few tallow candles were put up in prominent situations. The

improvement, accordingly, did little good, and the numerous bands of

thieves had it still pretty much their own way. Severity of punishment

seldom compensates the want of precautionary measures. It was the general

custom at this period to cut off the ears of a condemned thief after the

term of his imprisonment had elapsed. This was done that offenders might

be readily recognized should they dare again to enter the city, banishment

from which was a part of the sentence of such as were destined to be

cropped. But they often found it easier to fabricate false ears than to

gain a livelihood away from the arena of their exploits; and this measure,

severe and cruel as it was, was found inefficient to rid the capital of

their presence.

Among the various adventures with thieves, detailed by an author

contemporaneous with Louis XIII., the following affords a rich example of

the organization of the domestic brigands of the time, and of the wretched

security which the capital afforded to its inhabitants:

A celebrated advocate named Polidamor had by his reputation for riches

aroused the covetousness of some chiefs of a band of brigands, who

flattered themselves that could they catch him they would obtain

possession of an important sum. They placed upon his track three bold

fellows, who, after many fruitless endeavors, encountered him one evening

accompanied only by a single lackey. Seizing fast hold of himself and

attendant, they rifled him in a twinkling; and as he had accidentally left

his purse at home, they took his rich cloak of Spanish cloth and silk,

which was quite new, and of great value. Polidamor, who at first resisted,

found himself compelled to yield to force, but asked as a favor to be

allowed to redeem his mantle. This was agreed to at the price of thirty

pistoles; and the rogues appointed a rendezvous the next day, at six in

the evening, on the same spot, for the purpose of effecting the exchange.

They recommended him to come alone, assuring him that his life would be

endangered should he appear accompanied with an escort. Polidamor repaired

to the place at the appointed hour, and after a few moments of expectation

he saw a carriage approaching in which were seated four persons in the

garb of gentlemen. They descended from the vehicle, and one of them,

advancing toward the advocate, asked him in a low voice if he were not in

search of a cloak of Spanish cloth and silk. The victim replied in the

affirmative, and declared himself prepared to redeem it at the sum at

which it had been taxed. The thieves having assured themselves that he was

alone, seized him, and made him get into the carriage; and one of them

presenting a pistol to his breast, bade him hold his tongue under pain of

instant death, while another blindfolded him. As the advocate trembled

with fear, they assured him that no harm was intended, and bade the

coachman drive on.

After a rapid flight, which was yet long enough to inspire the prisoner

with deadly terror, the carriage stopped in front of a large mansion, the

gate of which opened to receive them, and closed again as soon as they had

passed the threshold. The robbers alighted with their captive, from whose

eyes they now removed the bandage. He was led into an immense saloon,

where were a number of tables, upon which the choicest viands were

profusely spread, and seated at which was a company of gentlemanly-looking

personages, who chatted familiarly together without the slightest

demonstration of confusion or alarm. His guardians again enjoined him to

lay aside all fear, informed him that he was in good society, and that

they had brought him there solely that they might enjoy the pleasure of

his company at supper. In the mean while water was served to the guests,

that they might wash their hands before sitting at table. Every man took

his place, and a seat was assigned to Polidamor at the upper and

privileged end of the board. Astonished, or rather stupefied at the

strange circumstances of his adventure, he would willingly have abstained

from taking any part in the repast; but he was compelled to make a show of

eating, in order to dissemble his mistrust and agitation. When the supper

was ended and the tables were removed, one of the gentlemen who had

assisted in his capture accosted him with polite expressions of regret at

his want of appetite. During the interchange of courtesies which ensued,

one of the bandits took a lute, another a viol, and the party began to

amuse themselves with music. The advocate was then invited to walk into a

neighboring room, where he perceived a considerable number of mantles

ranged in order. He was desired to select his own, and to count out the

thirty pistoles agreed upon, together with one for coach-hire, and one

more for his share of the reckoning at supper. Polidamor, who had been

apprehensive that the drama of which his mantle had been the occasion

might have a very different _dénouement_, was but too well pleased to be

quit at such a cost, and he took leave of the assembly with unfeigned

expressions of gratitude. The carriage was called, and before entering it

he was again blindfolded; his former conductors returned with him to the

spot where he had been seized, where, removing the bandage from his eyes,

they allowed him to alight, presenting him at the same moment with a

ticket sealed with green wax, and having these words inscribed in large

letters, “_Freed by the Great Band_.” This ticket was a passport securing

his mantle, purse, and person against all further assaults. Hastening to

regain his residence with all speed, he was assailed at a narrow turning

by three other rascals, who demanded his purse or his life. The advocate

drew his ticket from his pocket, though he had no great faith in it as a

preservative, and presented it to the thieves. One of them, provided with

a dark lantern, read it, returned it, and recommended him to make haste

home, where he at last arrived in safety.

Early in the seventeenth century the Parisian rogues availed themselves of

the regulations against the use of snuff to pillage the snuff-takers. As

the sale of this article was forbidden by law to any but grocers and

apothecaries, and as even they could only retail it to persons provided

with the certificate of a medical man, the annoyance of such restrictions

was loudly complained of. The rogues, ever ready to profit by

circumstances, opened houses for gaming—at that period almost a universal

vice—where “snuff at discretion” was a tempting bait to those long

accustomed to a gratification all the more agreeable because it was

forbidden. Here the snuff-takers were diligently plied with wine, and then

cheated of their money; or, if too temperate or suspicious to drink to

excess, they were unceremoniously plundered in a sham quarrel. To such a

length was this practice carried, that an ordinance was at length issued

in 1629, strictly forbidding all snuff-takers from assembling in public

places or elsewhere, “_pour satisfaire leur goút_!”

The thieves of the good old times were not only more numerous in

proportion to the population than they are at present, but were also

distinguished by greater audacity and cruelty.—They had recourse to the

most diabolical ingenuity to subdue the resistance and to prevent the

outcries of their victims. Under the rule of Henry IV. a band of brigands

arose, who, in the garb, and with the manners of gentlemen, introduced

themselves into the best houses under the pretext of private business, and

when alone with the master, demanded his money at the dagger’s point. Some

of them made use of a gag—a contrivance designated at the period the

_poire d’angoisse_. This instrument was of a spherical shape, and pierced

all over with small holes; it was forced into the mouth of the person

intended to be robbed, and upon touching a spring sharp points protruded

from every hole, at once inflicting the most horrible anguish, and

preventing the sufferer from uttering a single cry. It could not be

withdrawn but by the use of the proper key, which contracted the spring.

This device was adopted universally by one savage band, and occasioned

immense misery not only in Paris, but throughout France.

An Italian thief, an enterprising and ingenious rogue, adopted a singular

expedient for robbing women at their devotions in church. He placed

himself on his knees by the side of his intended prey, holding in a pair

of artificial hands a book of devotion, to which he made a show of the

most devout attention, while with his natural hands he cut the watch or

purse-string of his unsuspecting neighbor. This stratagem, favored by the

fashion, then general, of wearing mantles, met with great success, and of

course soon produced a host of clumsy imitators, and excited the vigilance

of the police, who at length made so many seizures of solemn-faced

devotees provided with wooden kid-gloved hands, that it fell into complete

discredit, and was at last abandoned by the profession.

Cunning as were the rogues of a past age, they were liable to capture like

their modern successors. A gentleman having resorted to Paris on business,

was hustled one day in the precincts of the palace, and robbed of his

well-filled purse. Furious at the loss of a considerable sum, he swore to

be avenged. He procured a clever mechanic, who, under his directions,

contrived a kind of hand-trap for the pocket, managed in such a manner as

to preclude the possibility of an attempt at purse-stealing without

detection. Having fixed the instrument in its place, impatient for the

revenge he had promised himself, he sallied forth to promenade the public

walks, mingled with every group, and stopped from time to time gazing

about him with the air of a greenhorn. Several days passed before any

thing resulted from his plan; but one morning, while he was gaping at the

portraits of the kings of France in one of the public galleries, he finds

himself surrounded and pushed about, precisely as in the former instance;

he feels a hand insinuating itself gently into the open snare, and hears

immediately the click of the instrument, which assures him that the

delinquent is safely caught. Taking no notice, he walks on as if nothing

had happened, and resumes his promenade, drawing after him the thief, whom

pain and shame prevented from making the least effort to disengage his

hand. Occasionally the gentleman would turn round, and rebuke his

unwilling follower for his importunity, and thus drew the eyes of the

whole crowd upon his awkward position. At last, pretending to observe for

the first time the stranger’s hand in his pocket, he flies into a violent

passion, accuses him of being a cut-purse, and demands the sum he had

previously lost, without which he declares the villain shall be hanged. It

would seem that compounding a felony was nothing in those days; for it is

upon record that the thief, though caught in the act, was permitted to

send a messenger to his comrades, who advanced the money, and therewith

purchased his liberty.

The people were forbidden to employ particular materials in the

fabrication of their clothing, to ride in a coach, to decorate their

apartments as they chose, to purchase certain articles of furniture, and

even to give a dinner-party when and in what style they chose. Under the

Valois régime strict limits were assigned to the expenses of the table,

determining the number of courses of which a banquet should consist, and

that of the dishes of which each course was to be composed. Any guest who

should fail to denounce an infraction of the law of which he had been a

witness, was liable to a fine of forty livres; and officers of justice,

who might be present, were strictly enjoined to quit the tables of their

hosts, and institute immediate proceedings against them. The rigor of

these regulations extended even to the kitchen, and the police had the

power of entry at all hours, to enforce compliance with the statutes.

But it was during the prevalence of an epidemic that it was least

agreeable to live in France in the good old times. No sooner did a

contagious malady, or one that was supposed to be so, make its appearance,

than the inhabitants of Paris were all forbidden to remove from one

residence to another, although their term of tenancy had expired, until

the judge of police had received satisfactory evidence that the house they

desired to leave had not been affected by the contagion. When a house was

infected, a bundle of straw fastened to one of the windows warned the

public to avoid all intercourse with the inmates. At a later period two

wooden crosses were substituted for the straw, one of which was attached

to the front door, and the other to one of the windows in an upper story.

In 1596 the provost of Paris having learned that the tenants of some

houses infected by an epidemic which was then making great ravages, had

removed these badges, issued an ordinance commanding that those who

transgressed in a similar manner again should suffer the loss of the right

hand—a threat which was found perfectly efficient.

By an ordinance of 1533, persons recovering from a contagious malady,

together with their domestics, and all the members of their families, were

forbidden to appear in the streets for a given period without a white wand

in their hands, to warn the public of the danger of contact.—Three years

after, the authorities were yet more severe against the convalescents, who

were ordered to remain shut up at home for forty days after their cure;

and even when the quarantine had expired, they were not allowed to appear

in the streets until they had presented to a magistrate a certificate from

the commissary of their district, attested by a declaration of six

house-holders, that the forty days had elapsed. In the preceding century

(in 1498) an ordinance still more extraordinary had been issued. It was at

the coronation of Louis XII., when a great number of the nobles came to

Paris to take part in the ceremony. The provost, desiring to guard them

from the danger of infection, published an order that all persons of both

sexes, suffering under certain specified maladies, should quit the capital

in twenty-four hours, _under the penalty of being thrown into the river_!

VISION OF CHARLES XI.

We are in the habit of laughing incredulously at stories of visions and

supernatural apparitions, yet some are so well authenticated, that if we

refuse to believe them, we should, in consistency, reject all historical

evidence. The fact I am about to relate is guaranteed by a declaration

signed by four credible witnesses; I will only add, that the prediction

contained in this declaration was well known, and generally spoken of,

long before the occurrence of the events which have apparently fulfilled

it.

Charles XI. father of the celebrated Charles XII. was one of the most

despotic, but, at the same time, wisest monarchs, who ever reigned in

Sweden. He curtailed the enormous privileges of the nobility, abolished

the power of the Senate, made laws on his own authority; in a word, he

changed the constitution of the country, hitherto an oligarchy, and forced

the States to invest him with absolute power. He was a man of an

enlightened and strong mind, firmly attached to the Lutheran religion; his

disposition was cold, unfeeling, and phlegmatic, utterly destitute of

imagination. He had just lost his queen, Ulrica Eleonora, and he appeared

to feel her death more than could have been expected from a man of his

character. He became even more gloomy and silent than before, and his

incessant application to business proved his anxiety to banish painful

reflections.

Toward the close of an autumn evening, he was sitting in his dressing-gown

and slippers, before a large fire, in his private apartment. His

chamberlain, Count Brahe, and his physician, Baumgarten, were with him.

The evening wore away, and his Majesty did not dismiss them as usual; with

his head down and his eyes fixed on the fire, he maintained a profound

silence, weary of his guests, and fearing, half unconsciously, to remain

alone. The count and his companion tried various subjects of conversation,

but could interest him in nothing. At length Brahe, who supposed that

sorrow for the queen was the cause of his depression, said with a deep

sigh, and pointing to her portrait, which hung in the room,

“What a likeness that is! How truly it gives the expression, at once so

gentle and so dignified!”

“Nonsense!” said the king, angrily, “the portrait is far too flattering;

the queen was decidedly plain.”

Then, vexed at his unkind words, he rose and walked up and down the room,

to hide an emotion at which he blushed. After a few minutes he stopped

before the window looking into the court; the night was black, and the

moon in her first quarter.

The palace where the kings of Sweden now reside was not completed, and

Charles XI. who commenced it, inhabited the old palace, situated on the

Ritzholm, facing Lake Modu. It is a large building in the form of a

horseshoe: the king’s private apartments were in one of the extremities;

opposite was the great hall where the States assembled to receive

communications from the crown. The windows of that hall suddenly appeared

illuminated. The king was startled, but at first supposed that a servant

with a light was passing through; but then, that hall was never opened

except on state occasions, and the light was too brilliant to be caused by

a single lamp. It then occurred to him that it must be a conflagration;

but there was no smoke, and the glass was not broken; it had rather the

appearance of an illumination. Brahe’s attention being called to it, he

proposed sending one of the pages to ascertain the cause of the light, but

the king stopped him, saying, he would go himself to the hall. He left the

room, followed by the count and doctor, with lighted torches. Baumgarten

called the man who had charge of the keys, and ordered him, in the king’s

name, to open the doors of the great hall. Great was his surprise at this

unexpected command. He dressed himself quickly, and came to the king with

his bunch of keys. He opened the first door of a gallery which served as

an ante-chamber to the hall. The king entered, and what was his amazement

at finding the walls hung with black.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked he.

The man replied, that he did not know what to make of it, adding, “When

the gallery was last opened, there was certainly no hanging over the oak

paneling.”

The king walked on to the door of the hall.

“Go no further, for heaven’s sake,” exclaimed the man; “surely there is

sorcery going on inside. At this hour, since the queen’s death, they say

she walks up and down here. May God protect us!”

“Stop, sire,” cried the count and Baumgarten together, “don’t you hear

that noise? Who knows to what dangers you are exposing yourself! At all

events, allow me to summon the guards.”

“I will go in,” said the king, firmly; “open the door at once.”

The man’s hand trembled so that he could not turn the key.

“A fine thing to see an old soldier frightened,” said the king, shrugging

his shoulders; “come count, will you open the door?”

“Sire,” replied Brahe, “let your Majesty command me to march to the mouth

of a Danish or German cannon, and I will obey unhesitatingly, but I can

not defy hell itself.”

“Well,” said the king, in a tone of contempt, “I can do it myself.”

He took the key, opened the massive oak door, and entered the hall,

pronouncing the words “With the help of God.” His three attendants, whose

curiosity overcame their fears, or who, perhaps, were ashamed to desert

their sovereign, followed him. The hall was lighted by an innumerable

number of torches. A black hanging had replaced the old tapestry. The

benches round the hall were occupied by a multitude, all dressed in black;

their faces were so dazzlingly bright that the four spectators of this

scene were unable to distinguish one among them. On an elevated throne,

from which the king was accustomed to address the assembly, sat a bloody

corpse, as if wounded in several parts, and covered with the ensigns of

royalty; on his right stood a child, a crown on his head, and a sceptre in

his hand; at his left an old man leant on the throne; he was dressed in

the mantle formerly worn by the administrators of Sweden, before it became

a kingdom under Gustavus Vasa. Before the throne were seated several

grave, austere looking personages, in long black robes. Between the throne

and the benches of the assembly was a block covered with black crape; an

ax lay beside it. No one in the vast assembly appeared conscious of the

presence of Charles and his companions. On their entrance they heard

nothing but a confused murmur, in which they could distinguish no words.

Then the most venerable of the judges in the black robes, he who seemed to

be their president, rose, and struck his hand five times on a folio volume

which lay open before him. Immediately there was a profound silence, and

some young men, richly dressed, their hands tied behind their backs,

entered the hall by a door opposite to that which Charles had opened. He

who walked first, and who appeared the most important of the prisoners,

stopped in the middle of the hall, before the block, which he looked at

with supreme contempt. At the same time the corpse on the throne trembled

convulsively, and a crimson stream flowed from his wounds. The young man

knelt down, laid his head on the block, the ax glittered in the air for a

moment, descended on the block, the head rolled over the marble pavement,

and reached the feet of the king, and stained his slipper with blood.

Until this moment surprise had kept Charles silent, but this horrible

spectacle roused him, and advancing two or three steps toward the throne,

he boldly addressed the figure on its left in the well-known formulary,

“If thou art of God, speak; if of the other, leave us in peace.”

The phantom answered slowly and solemnly, “King Charles, this blood will

not flow in thy time, but five reigns after.” Here the voice became less

distinct, “Woe, woe, woe to the blood of Vasa!” The forms of all the

assembly now became less clear, and seemed but colored shades: soon they

entirely disappeared; the lights were extinguished; still they heard a

melodious noise, which one of the witnesses compared to the murmuring of

the wind among the trees, another to the sound a harp string gives in

breaking. All agreed as to the duration of the apparition, which they said

lasted ten minutes. The hangings, the head, the waves of blood, all had

disappeared with the phantoms, but Charles’s slipper still retained a

crimson stain, which alone would have served to remind him of the scenes

of this night, if indeed they had not been but too well engraven on his

memory.

When the king returned to his apartment, he wrote an account of what he

had seen, and he and his companions signed it. In spite of all the

precautions taken to keep these circumstances private, they were well

known, even during the lifetime of Charles, and no one hitherto has

thought fit to raise doubts as to their authenticity.

STREET-SCENES OF THE FRENCH USURPATION.

A writer in Dickens’s Household Words gives a graphic sketch of a visit to

Paris during the recent usurpation of Louis Napoleon, and of the scenes of

butchery which occurred in the streets. On arriving in Paris, he says,

every thing spoke of the state of siege. The newspapers were in a state of

siege; for the Government had suspended all but its own immediate organs.

The offices of the sententious “Siècle,” the mercurial “Presse,” the

satiric “Charivari,” the jovial “Journal pour Rire,” were occupied by the

military; and, to us English, they whispered even of a park of artillery

in the Rue Vivienne, and of a government proof-reader in the

printing-office of “Galignani’s Messenger,” striking out obnoxious

paragraphs by the dozen. The provisions were in a state of siege, the milk

was out, and no one would volunteer to go to the _crêmiers_ for more; the

cabs, the _commissionnaires_ with their trucks, were besieged; the very

gas was slow in coming from the main, as though the pipes were in a state

of siege. Nobody could think or speak of any thing but this confounded

siege. Thought itself appeared to be beleaguered; for no one dared to give

it any thing but a cautious and qualified utterance. The hotel was full of

English ladies and gentlemen, who would have been delighted to go away by

the first train on any of the railways; but there might just as well have

been no railways, for all the good they were, seeing that it was

impossible to get to or from the termini with safety. The gentlemen were

valorous, certainly—there was a prevalence of “who’s afraid?” sentiments;

but they read the French Bradshaw earnestly, and gazed at the map of Paris

with nervous interest—beating, meanwhile, the devil’s tattoo. As for the

ladies, dear creatures, they made no secret of their extreme terror and

despair. The lone old lady, who is frightened at every thing, and who will

not even travel in an omnibus with a sword in a case, for fear it should

go off, was paralyzed with fear, and could only ejaculate, “Massacre!” The

strong-minded lady of a certain age, who had longed for the “pride, pomp,

and circumstance of glorious war,” had taken refuge in that excellent

collection of tracts, of which “The Dairyman’s Daughter,” is one; and gave

short yelps of fear whenever the door opened. Fear, like every other

emotion, is contagious. Remarking so many white faces, so much subdued

utterance, so many cowed and terrified looks, I thought it very likely

that I might get frightened, too. So, having been up all the previous

night, I went to bed.

I slept; I dreamt of a locomotive engine blowing up and turning into the

last scene of a pantomime, with “state of siege” displayed in colored

fires. I dreamt I lived next door to an undertaker, or a trunk-maker, or a

manufacturer of fire-works. I awoke to the rattle of musketry in the

distance—soon, too soon, to be followed by the roar of the cannon.

I am not a fighting man. “’Tis not my vocation, Hal.” I am not ashamed to

say that I did _not_ gird my sword on my thigh, and sally out to conquer

or to die; that I did not ensconce myself at a second floor window, and

pick off _à la Charles IX._, the leaders of the enemy below.—Had I been

“our own correspondent,” I might have written, in the intervals of

fighting, terrific accounts of the combat on cartridge paper, with a pen

made from a bayonet, dipped in gunpowder and gore. Had I been “our own

artist,” I might have mounted a monster barricade—waving the flag of

Freedom with one hand, and taking sketches with the other. But being

neither, I did not do any thing of the kind. I will tell you what I did: I

withdrew, with seven Englishmen as valorous as myself, to an apartment,

which I have reason to believe is below the basement floor; and there, in

company with sundry _carafons_ of particular cognac, and a large box of

cigars, passed the remainder of the day.

I sincerely hope that I shall never pass such another. We rallied each

other, talked, laughed, and essayed to sing; but the awful consciousness

of the horror of our situation hung over us all—the knowledge that within

a few hundred yards of us God’s image was being wantonly defaced; that in

the streets hard by, in the heart of the most civilized city of the world,

within a stone’s throw of all that is gay, luxurious, splendid, in Paris,

men—speaking the same language, worshiping the same God—were shooting each

other like wild beasts; that every time we heard the sharp crackling of

the musketry, a message of death was gone forth to hundreds; that every

time the infernal artillery—“nearer, clearer, deadlier than before”—broke,

roaring on the ear, the ground was cumbered with corpses. Glorious war! I

should like the amateurs of sham fights, showy reviews, and scientific

ball practice, to have sat with us in the cellar that same Thursday, and

listened to the rattle and the roar. I should like them to have been

present, when venturing up during a lull, about half-past four, and

glancing nervously from our _porte-cochère_, a regiment of dragoons came

thundering past, pointing their pistols at the windows, and shouting at

those within, with oaths to retire from them. I should like the young

ladies who waltz with the “dear Lancers,” to have seen _these_ Lancers, in

stained white cloaks, with their murderous weapons couched. I should like

those who admire the Horse Guards—the prancing steeds, the shining casques

and cuirasses, the massive epaulets and dangling sabres, the trim

mustache, irreproachable buckskins, and dazzling jack-boots—to have seen

these cuirassiers gallop by: their sorry horses covered with mud and

sweat; their haggard faces blackened with gunpowder; their shabby

accoutrements and battered helmets. The bloody swords, the dirt, the

hoarse voices, unkempt beards. Glorious war! I think the sight of those

horrible troopers would do more to cure its admirers than all the orators

of the Peace Society could do in a twelve-month!

We dined—without the ladies, of course—and sat up until very late; the

cannon and musketry roaring meanwhile, till nearly midnight. Then it

stopped—

To recommence again, however, on the next (Friday) morning. Yesterday they

had been fighting all day on the Boulevards, from the Madeleine to the

Temple. To-day, they were murdering each other at Belleville, at La

Chapelle St. Denis, at Montmartre. Happily the firing ceased at about nine

o’clock, and we heard no more.

I do not, of course, pretend to give any account of what really took place

in the streets on Thursday; how many barricades were erected, and how they

were defended or destroyed. I do not presume to treat of the details of

the combat myself, confining what I have to say to a description of what I

really saw of the social aspect of the city. The journals have given full

accounts of what brigades executed what manœuvres, of how many were shot

to death here, and how many bayoneted there.