CHAPTER IV.

I reached Constantinople, and immediately inquired for the house of

a Franc whom I had known in former days: an Englishman, who might

enlighten my understanding concerning the objects of my mission, and

might inform me what might be the state of his country. He was a

sensible man,--a man done to a turn, who knew the difference between

justice and injustice, and whose words were not thrown into the air

without use. He frankly confirmed to me the truth of everything we had

heard reported at the gate of the asylum of the universe. I found him

seated on bales of merchandise in his warehouse, looking as if the world

had placed his heels where his head ought to be, and desponding over

his future prospects. Whatever I said to him upon the unreasonableness

of attempting to strive against the decrees of Providence was of no

avail. Instead of sitting down satisfied with his _takdeer_, or fate,

as I should have done, I found him poring over a large sheet of Franc

paper, printed, and therefore true, which he had just received from his

own land, and cursing in his teeth one of his household demons, as I

thought, which he called "_Dowlet_." He said that he verily believed

the father of madness had taken possession of his once flourishing

country; for what was always looked upon as right, was now called

wrong, and what used to be execrated as wrong was now adopted as right.

And, moreover, he asserted that the infatuation had gone so far, that

nobody seemed inclined to eat his figs, no one would buy his cotton:

there was an universal cry upon the miseries entailed by silk, and

more gloves now existed in the world than there were hands to wear

them. If such were the miseries of silk, thought I,--a produce which

comes from abroad,--what must be those of penknives which grow in

the country? I kept my thoughts to myself, and determined to set off

without delay to put my orders into execution. There was one thing I

was glad to ascertain in the interview with my friend, which was, that

I had not so entirely forgotten his language as I had feared, and that

I understood much of what he said. When I saw that large printed sheet

of paper, numerous were the recollections it gave rise to, and I was

struck with apprehension lest my thoughts, words, actions, even to the

dye of my beard, would be carefully registered therein day by day,

the moment I set my foot on English ground, if I did not take great

precautions against such an evil. I therefore determined to keep myself

as much unknown as possible; and, to that effect, resolved to leave

Constantinople without seeing the ambassador of the King of England, who

was residing there; and to make my way to the foot of his king's throne

with all the best haste I could.

In consequence of what I had heard from the Franc merchant, and from all

I had seen with my own eyes, I collected all my certainty into a heap,

and became quite satisfied that the madness for which all Francs are

celebrated, and particularly the English, was now beginning to be fully

developed, and, strange to say, that the Turks, a nation so unchanged

since the days of Seljuk, so fixed in _destour_, or custom, tied down

by ancient habit,--the Turks themselves were no longer the same; the

English disorder, Reform, had crept in amongst them, and had committed

woful ravages. The Sultan himself took the lead; and it was now a

question solemnly discussed among the elders and ulemah, whether heaven

had come down to earth amongst them, or whether earth had descended into

hell. Some asserted one thing, some another. Those who were for heaven

said, "Thank Allah, our souls are now becoming as free as our chins.

Where are now those odious beards that used to wave about the ends of

our faces like long grass on the mountain top; that took toll of every

mouthful of food that went into our mouths; that required more washing

and dyeing than a Franc's shirt; and that gave a handle to our enemies

without being of use to ourselves--where are they? Swept for ever from

the faces of the sons of Islam, and swimming through the currents of

the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. And where are now those great, those

awful, those capacious breeches, that could include within their folds

as many legs as would serve a whole company of soldiers, instead of

one pair of legs, which were eternally playing at hide-and-seek among

their immense involutions? They are gone for ever. The saving to the

Bab Homaioon--the gate of splendour--and to the treasury of the great

blood-drinker, in broad-cloth alone, will be worth ten thousand fighting

men per annum, let alone the inconvenience to the individuals. And

because we change the fashion of our clothes, does it follow that we

change that of our faith, as our enemies would have us to do? No. We can

kneel down on our praying-carpets as often and as easily in our tights,

as we before did in our slacks. And although smooth chins may be common

to unbelievers, yet it is certain that the paradise of Mahomet is as

open to the shaved as it is to the hairy."

On the other hand, those who were of the Jehanum faction insisted that

the whole dignity and consequence of the Turkish empire had been

sacrificed with the beards of its subjects; that, from looking a nation

of sages, they had been turned into a nation of monkeys; and that

although the rage of innovation had hitherto only seized the capital,

yet, so it was once argued, when once it was known in the provinces that

its emperor, the vicegerent of Allah upon earth, had cut off his beard,

it was likely that the whole of the population would do so likewise, and

thus universal degradation would ensue.

Then, as for the tight trousers which had been introduced, what lover

of decency would now venture to show his person in the nakedness of

unprotected legs, like the unblushing Francs? People might revile the

janissaries; but, at all events, they were decently clad men, wearing as

much cloth and muslin about their dress as would clothe a whole orta of

the poor starving-looking individuals of the new nizam. It might be very

well to say, that the faith of the heart did not change with the cut

of one's clothes; but it was plain that when once reform began, it was

impossible to say where it might stop; and true Mussulmans might perhaps

soon have to deplore its terrible effects, by seeing their wives walk

about without veils, with their faces exposed to the gaze of man. The

unclean beast would ere long be eaten with impunity from one end of the

celestial empire to the other; whilst all the holy Prophet's injunctions

against wine would be entirely set at nought;--all to follow the example

of unclean, faithless, and corrupt Francs, upon whom be all curses

poured!

Such were the subjects which I daily heard discussed among the Turks,

and every word which entered into my ears, only confirmed the reports

which had reached my own country. I therefore consulted with my friend

the Franc merchant upon the easiest mode of getting to England, quickest

in point of conveyance, and the most eligible in point of secrecy. He

recommended me to go by land, and first to proceed to the capital of the

Nemseh, or Germans, ascending the Balkan, descending into the plains

of Wallachia, by first crossing the Danube, and then making my way to

another chain of mountains culled Karpathos; which having crossed, I

should soon find myself among the Majar, and then all in good time,

meeting the Danube again, I should reach Vienna. This seemed mighty easy

to the Franc merchant, but to me it appeared very much like scaling

the six heavens to get at the seventh. However, I was on the Shah's

business; and therefore, putting my firm faith in Allah, I allied myself

with a party of Greek merchants, who were proceeding into Germany upon

matters of business. We resolved to set off as soon as we should hear

that no recent robberies had taken place on the road.

SONNET TO A FOG.

(WITH A CRITICAL NOTE.)

BY EGERTON WEBBE.

Hail to thee, Fog! most reverend, worthy Fog!

Come in thy full-wigg'd gravity; I much

Admire thee:--thy old dulness hath a touch

Of true respectability. The rogue

That calls thee names (a fellow I could flog)

Would beard his grandfather, and trip his crutch.

But I am dutiful, and hold with such

As deem thy solemn company no clog.

Not that I love to travel best incog.--

To pounce on latent lamp-posts, or to clutch

The butcher in my arms or in a bog

Pass afternoons; but while through thee, I jog,

I feel I am true English, and no Dutch,

Nor French, nor any other foreign dog

That never mixed his grog

Over a sea-coal fire a day like this,

And bid thee scowl thy worst, and found it bliss,

And to himself said, "Yes,

Italia's skies are fair, her fields are sunny;

But, d--n their eyes! Old England for my money."

"And do you call this a sonnet, sir?" I hear some reader say, with his

fingers resting on the twentieth line: "I hope I know what a sonnet is;

why, sir, sonnet is the Greek for _fourteen_, to be sure; and your lines

must always count just two over the dozen, or you make no sonnet of it;

everybody knows this same."

Have patience, good reader, while I proceed to convict thee of

impertinence. No man is so happy of an occasion of correcting others

as he who has recently learnt something. Now, behold! I have recently

learnt this,--that the Italian poets, when they want to be funny,

and at the same time to sonnetteer, (new verb,) outrage the gentle

proportions of Poetry's fairest daughter--her whose delicate form took

captive the soul of Petrarch--by ignominiously affixing to her hinder

parts that always unseemly appendage--_a tail_, which is no less a

tail, and therefore no less disgraceful to her who wears it, for being

called, in the more courtly language of those original conspirators,

_coda_ (from Latin _cauda_, observe;--see your dictionary.) This have

I learnt, astonished reader, by poking into the _Parnasso Italiano_,

as you may do, and there, beholding these prodigious baboon sonnets

in full tail,--for verily they resemble not the true birth more than

monkeys resemble men, and that is as much as to say they do resemble

them--in such a manner as to make you laugh at the difference. But

herein those Italian conspirators, who hatched the infernal plot, gained

their end; they diverted their readers at the expense of poetical

decency. Now, however, seeing that this second ("_caudatus_") species

of the sonnet has a real and lively existence in the land that gave

it birth; and seeing that we have freely imported from that land the

other, the _non-caudatus_, species, (for I suppose all young ladies and

gentlemen know to what country they are indebted for the fourteen-lined

happiness,) it seems but fair that we should improve our national stock

by bringing over the later breed, and applying it to the same uses as

our neighbours.

The above is the first avowed specimen of the _tailed sonnet_, I

believe, that has ever appeared in English; and I hope it may operate

as a useful example to better poets, and induce them to clap tails

continually to their sonnets, whenever they intend fun.[87] I say it

is the first _avowed_ specimen, because there exists one (unsuspected)

among the poems of no less a man than John Milton, who found nothing

admirable in any language but he quickly transplanted it. That most

accomplished of modern poetical critics, Leigh Hunt, was the first who

discovered the fact, and gave the alarm to Milton's editors; he showed

very clearly that that short poem, "On the New Forcers of conscience

under the Long Parliament," which is always published, ignorantly,

among the _miscellaneous_ pieces, is neither more nor less than a comic

_sonnet_ with the Italian tail to it. If the reader will take the

trouble to look into his Milton, he will find that this poem down to the

line,

"Your plots and packing worse than those of Trent,"

forms a regular fourteen-liner; then comes the little adjunct,--"That

so the parliament,"--which, rhyming with the foregoing, gains the right

of introducing a new couplet; then another, rhyming with that, and

lending to a second supernumerary. In this manner the Italian poets link

on couplet after couplet without end, and you may see some of their

sonnets with tails stretching through several pages; nay, for aught I

know, you might have a sonnet in two volumes octavo, without exceeding

your licence. But it must always be constructed on the above plan, with

links of a like thickness. By the bye, it is surprising that the late

editors of Milton's poems--men professedly conversant with Italian

literature--should still persist in placing this comic sonnet among the

"miscellaneous pieces," after the error has been pointed out to them!

As for the question--why a tail should be ridiculous?--it seems to me

one of considerable intricacy, and of the highest interest. Yes, Mr.

Editor, why _should_ tails be ridiculous? Coat-tails, pig-tails, all

tails whatsoever, are found to touch us with a sense of the jocose; nay,

your comet's tail itself is only a kind of _terrific absurdity_. I say,

therefore, without fear of contradiction, that there subsists in this

question a deep psychological truth, which demands the exploring hand of

philosophy; and if no better man will take the hint,--why, Mr. Editor,

I think I must myself present you, another time, with my ideas on this

subject, handling the matter in the Aristotelian mode, and dividing my

_tails_ into _heads_.

With respect to the tail of a comic sonnet, it may be briefly remarked,

that its comicality (of course I speak with reference to the Italian

models) arises in a great measure from the stumbling of the little

line, which always comes limping after the long one, as if something

were forgotten to be said in it, which the little one thus breathlessly

comes to adjoin; and then a succession of these _quasi_ oversights

makes us laugh, alternately at the seeming blunder and at the funny

haste with which it is redressed. Or it is like an orator in his cups,

speaking fairly enough his _prepared_ speech; but then--encouraged by

applause--spoiling all with drunken additions _ex tempore_.

[87] I understand that the distinguished writer mentioned below as

having first pointed attention to Milton's comic sonnet, had also in MS.

some specimen of his own composing.

HANDY ANDY.--No. III.

Squire Egan was as good as his word. He picked out the most suitable

horsewhip for chastising the fancied impertinence of Murtough Murphy;

and as he switched it up and down with a powerful arm, to try its weight

and pliancy, the whistling of the instrument through the air was music

to his ears, and whispered of promised joy in the flagellation of the

jocular attorney.

"We'll see who can make the sorest blister," said the squire. "I'll back

whalebone against Spanish flies any day. Will you bet, Dick?" said he to

his brother-in-law, who was a wild helter-skelter sort of fellow, better

known over the country as Dick the Devil than Dick Dawson.

"I'll back your bet, Ned."

"There's no fun in that, Dick, as there is nobody to take it up."

"Maybe Murtough will. Ask him before you thrash him; you'd better."

"As for _him_," said the squire, "I'll be bound he'll back my bet after

he gets a taste o' this;" and the horsewhip whistled as he spoke.

"I think he had better take care of his back than his bet," said Dick,

as he followed the squire to the hall-door, where his horse was in

waiting for him, under the care of the renowned Andy, who little dreamed

the extensive harvest of mischief which was ripening in futurity, all

from his sowing.

"Don't kill him quite, Ned," said Dick, as the squire mounted to his

saddle.

"Why, if I went to horsewhip a gentleman, of course I should only shake

my whip at him; but an attorney is another affair. And, as I'm sure

he'll have an action against me for assault, I think I may as well get

the worth o' my money out of him, to say nothing of teaching him better

manners for the future than to play off his jokes on his employers."

With these words, off he rode in search of the devoted Murtough, who was

not at home when the squire reached his house; but, as he was returning

through the village, he espied him coming down the street in company

with Tom Durfy and the widow, who were laughing heartily at some joke

Murtough was telling them, which seemed to amuse him as much as his

hearers.

"I'll make him laugh at the wrong side of his mouth," thought the

squire, alighting and giving his horse to the care of one of the little

ragged boys who were idling in the street. He approached Murphy with a

very threatening aspect, and, confronting him and his party so as to

produce a halt, he said, as distinctly as his rage would permit him to

speak, "You little insignificant blackguard, I'll teach you how you'll

cut your jokes on _me_ again; _I'll_ blister you, my buck!" and, laying

hands on the astonished Murtough with the last word, he began a very

smart horsewhipping of the attorney. The widow screamed, Tom Durfy

swore, and Murtough roared, with some interjectional curses. At last he

escaped from the squire's grip, leaving the lappel of his coat in his

possession; and Tom Durfy interposed his person between them when he

saw an intention on the part of the flagellator to repeat his dose of

horsewhip.

"Let me at him, sir; or by----"

"Fie, fie, squire--to horsewhip a gentleman like a cart-horse."

"A gentleman!--an attorney you mean."

"I say a gentleman, Squire Egan," cried Murtough fiercely, roused to

gallantry by the presence of a lady, and smarting under a sense of

injury and whalebone. "I'm a gentleman, sir, and demand the satisfaction

of a gentleman. I put my honour in your hands, Mr. Durfy."

"Between his finger and thumb you mean, for there's not a handful of

it," said the squire.

"Well, sir," replied Tom Durfy, "little or much, I'll take charge of

it.--That's right, my cock," said he to Murtough, who, notwithstanding

his desire to assume a warlike air, could not resist the natural impulse

of rubbing his back and shoulders, which tingled with pain, while he

exclaimed "Satisfaction! satisfaction!"

"Very well," said the squire: "you name yourself as Mr. Murphy's

friend?" added he to Durfy.

"The same, sir," said Tom. "Who do you name as yours?"

"I suppose you know one Dick the Divil."

"A very proper person, sir;--no better: I'll go to him directly."

The widow clung to Tom's arm, and, looking tenderly at him, cried "Oh,

Tom, Tom, take care of your precious life!"

"Bother!" said Tom.

"Ah, Squire Egan, don't be so bloodthirsty!"

"Fudge, woman!" said the squire.

"Ah, Mr. Murphy, I'm sure the squire's very sorry for beating you."

"Divil a bit," said the squire.

"There, ma'am," said Murphy; "you see he'll make no apology."

"Apology!" said Durfy;--"apology for a horsewhipping, indeed!--Nothing

but handing a horsewhip (which I wouldn't ask any gentleman to do), or a

shot can settle the matter."

"Oh, Tom! Tom! Tom!" said the widow.

"Ba! ba! ba!" shouted Tom, making a crying face at her. "Arrah, woman,

don't be makin' a fool o' yourself. Go in there to the 'pothecary's, and

get something under your nose to revive you; and let _us_ mind _our_

business."

The widow, with her eyes turned up, and an exclamation to Heaven, was

retiring to M'Garry's shop wringing her hands, when she was nearly

knocked down by M'Garry himself, who rushed from his own door, at the

same moment that an awful smash of his shop-window, and the demolition

of his blue and red bottles, alarmed the ears of the bystanders, while

their eyes were drawn from the late belligerent parties to a chase which

took place down the street, of the apothecary roaring "Murder!" followed

by Squire O'Grady with an enormous cudgel.

O'Grady, believing that M'Garry and the nurse-tender had combined to

serve him with a writ, determined to wreak double vengeance on the

apothecary, as the nurse had escaped him; and, notwithstanding all

the appeals of his poor frightened wife, he left his bed, and rode to

the village to "break every bone in M'Garry's skin." When he entered

the shop, the pharmacopolist was much surprised, and said, with a

congratulatory grin at the great man, "Dear me, Squire O'Grady, I'm

delighted to see you."

"Are you, you scoundrel!" said the squire, making a blow of his cudgel

at him, which was fended by an iron pestle the apothecary fortunately

had in his hand. The enraged O'Grady made a rush behind the counter,

which the apothecary nimbly jumped over, crying "Murder!" as he made for

the door, followed by his pursuer, who gave a back-handed slap at the

window-bottles _en passant_, and produced the crash which astonished the

widow, who now joined her screams to the general hue-and-cry; for an

indiscriminate chase of all the ragamuffins in the town, with barking

curs and screeching children, followed the flight of M'Garry and the

pursuing squire.

"What the divil is all this about?" said Tom Durfy, laughing. "By the

powers! I suppose there's something in the weather to produce all this

fun,--though it's early in the year yet to begin thrashing, for the

harvest isn't in yet. But, however, let us manage our little affair,

now that we're left in peace and quietness, for the blackguards are all

over the bridge afther the hunt. I'll go to Dick the Divil immediately,

squire, and arrange time and place."

"There's nothing like saving time and trouble on these occasions," said

the squire. "Dick is at my house, I can arrange time and place with you

this minute, and he will be on the ground with me."

"Very well," said Tom; "where is it to be?"

"Suppose we say the cross-roads halfway between this and Merryvale.

There's very pretty ground there, and we shall be able to get our

pistols, and all that, ready in the mean time between this and four

o'clock,--and it will be pleasanter to have it all over before dinner."

"Certainly, squire," said Tom Durfy; "we'll be there at four.--Till

then, good morning, squire;" and he and his man walked off; Tom having

left the widow under the care of the apothecary's boy, who was applying

asafoetida and other sweet-smelling things to the alleviation of the

faintings which the widow thought it proper and delicate to enact on the

occasion.

The squire rode immediately homewards, and told Dick Dawson the piece of

work that was before them.

"And so he'll have a shot at you, instead of an action," said Dick.

"Well, there's pluck in that: I wish he was more of a gentleman for your

sake. It's dirty work shooting attorneys."

"He's enough of a gentleman, Dick, to make it impossible for me to

refuse him."

"Certainly, Ned," said Dick.

"Do you know is he anything of a shot?"

"Faith, he makes very pretty snipe-shooting; but I don't know if he has

experience of the grass before breakfast."

"You must try and find out from any one on the ground; because, if the

poor divil isn't a good shot, I wouldn't like to kill him, and I'll let

him off easy--I'll give it to him in the pistol-arm, or so."

"Very well, Ned. Where are the flutes? I must look over them."

"Here," said the squire, producing a very handsome mahogany case of

Rigby's best. Dick opened the case with the utmost care, and took up

one of the pistols tenderly, handling it as delicately as if it were a

young child or a lady's hand. He clicked the lock back and forwards a

few times; and, his ear not being satisfied at the music it produced, he

said he should like to examine them: "At all events, they want a touch

of oil."

"Well, keep them out of the misthriss's sight, Dick, for she might be

alarmed."

"Divil a taste," says Dick; "she's a Dawson, and there never was a

Dawson yet that did not know men must be men."

"That's true, Dick. I wouldn't mind so much if she wasn't in a delicate

situation just now, when it couldn't be expected of the woman to be so

stout: so go, like a good fellow, into your own room, and Andy will

bring you anything you want."

Five minutes after, Dick was engaged in cleaning the duelling-pistols,

and Andy at his elbow, with his mouth wide open, wondering at the

interior of the locks which Dick had just taken off.

"Oh, my heavens! but that's a quare thing, Misther Dick, sir," said

Andy, going to take it up.

"Keep your fingers off it, you thief, do!" roared Dick, making a rap of

the turnscrew at Andy's knuckles.

"Sure I'll save you the throuble o' rubbin' that, Misther Dick, if you

let me; here's the shabby leather."

"I wouldn't let your clumsy fist near it, Andy, nor your _shabby_

leather, you villain, for the world. Go get me some oil."

Andy went on his errand, and returned with a can of lamp-oil to Dick,

who swore at him for his stupidity: "The divil fly away with you; you

never do anything right; you bring me lamp-oil for a pistol."

"Well, sure I thought lamp-oil was the right thing for burnin'."

"And who wants to burn it, you savage?"

"Aren't you goin' to fire it, sir?"

"Choke you, you vagabond!" said Dick, who could not resist laughing,

nevertheless; "be off, and get me some sweet oil, but don't tell any one

what it's for."

Andy retired, and Dick pursued his polishing of the locks. Why he used

such a blundering fellow as Andy for a messenger might be wondered at,

only that Dick was fond of fun, and Andy's mistakes were a particular

source of amusement to him, and on all occasions when he could have

Andy in his company he made him his attendant. When the sweet oil was

produced, Dick looked about for a feather; but, not finding one, desired

Andy to fetch him a pen. Andy went on his errand, and returned, after

some delay, with an ink-bottle.

"I brought you the ink, sir, but I can't find a pin."

"Confound your numskull! I didn't say a word about ink; I asked for a

pen."

"And what use would a pin be without ink, now I ax yourself, Misther

Dick?"

"I'd knock your brains out if you had any, you _omadhaun_! Go along and

get me a feather, and make haste."

Andy went off, and, having obtained a feather, returned to Dick, who

began to tip certain portions of the lock very delicately with oil.

"What's that for, Misther Dick, sir, if you plaze?"

"To make it work smooth."

"And what's that thing you're grazin' now, sir?"

"That's the tumbler."

"O Lord! a tumbler--what a quare name for it. I thought there was no

tumbler but a tumbler for punch."

"That's the tumbler you would like to be cleaning the inside of, Andy."

"Thrue for you, sir.--And what's that little thing you have your hand on

now, sir?"

"That's the cock."

"Oh dear, a cock!--Is there e'er a hin in it, sir?"

"No, nor a chicken either, though there _is_ a feather."

"The one in your hand, sir, that you're grazin' it with."

"No: but this little thing--this is called the feather-spring."

"It's the feather, I suppose, makes it let fly."

"No doubt of it, Andy."

"Well, there's some sinse in that name, then; but who'd think of sitch

a thing as a tumbler and a cock in a pistle? And what's that place that

opens and shuts, sir?"

"The pan."

"Well, there's sinse in that name too, bekaze there's fire in the thing;

and it's as nath'ral to say pan to that as to a fryin'-pan--isn't it,

Misther Dick?"

"Oh! there was a great gunmaker lost in you, Andy," said Dick, as he

screwed on the locks, which he had regulated to his mind, and began to

examine the various departments of the pistol-case, to see that it was

properly provided. He took the instrument to cut some circles of thin

leather, and Andy again asked him for the name "o' _that_ thing."

"This is called the punch, Andy."

"So, there _is_ the punch as well as the tumbler, sir?"

"Ay, and very strong punch it is, you see, Andy;" and Dick struck it

with his little mahogany mallet, and cut his patches of leather.

"And what's that for, sir?--the leather, I mane."

"That's for putting round the ball."

"Is it for fear 'twould hurt him too much when you hot him?"

"You're a queer customer, Andy," said Dick, smiling.

"And what weeshee little balls thim is, sir."

"They are always small for duelling-pistols."

"Oh, then _thim_ is jewellin' pistles. Why, musha, Misther Dick, is

it goin' to fight a jule you are?" said Andy, looking at him with

earnestness.

"No, Andy,--but the master is; but don't say a word about it."

"Not a word for the world. The masther goin' to fight!--God send him

safe out iv it!--Amin. And who is he going to fight, Misther Dick?"

"Murphy the attorney, Andy."

"Oh, won't the masther disgrace himself by fightin' the 'torney?"

"How dare you say such a thing of your master?"

"I ax your pard'n, Misther Dick; but sure you know what I mane.--I hope

he'll shoot him."

"Why, Andy, Murtough was always very good to you, and now you wish him

to be shot."

"Sure, why wouldn't I rather have him kilt more than the masther?"

"But neither may be killed."

"Misther Dick," said Andy, lowering his voice, "wouldn't it be an

iligant thing to put two balls into the pistle instid o' one, and give

the masther a chance over the 'torney?"

"Oh, you murdherous villain!"

"Arrah, why shouldn't the masther have a chance over him? sure he has

childre, and 'Torney Murphy has none."

"At that rate, Andy, I suppose you'd give the master a ball additional

for every child he has, and that would make eight. So, you might as well

give him a blunderbuss and slugs at once."

Dick locked the pistol-case, having made all right; and desired Andy to

mount a horse, carry it by a back road out of the domain, and wait at a

certain gate he named until he should be joined there by himself and the

squire, who proceeded at the appointed time to the ground.

Andy was all ready, and followed his master and Dick with great pride,

bearing the pistol-case after them to the ground, where Murphy and Tom

Durfy were ready to receive them, and a great number of spectators were

assembled; for the noise of the business had gone abroad, and the ground

was in consequence crowded.

Tom Durfy had warned Murtough Murphy, who had no experience as a

pistol-man, that the squire was a capital shot, and that his only chance

was to fire as quickly as he could.--"Slap at him, Morty, my boy, the

minute you get the word; and, if you don't hit him itself, it will

prevent his dwelling on his aim."

Tom Durfy and Dick the Devil soon settled the preliminaries of the

ground and mode of firing; and twelve paces having been marked, both the

seconds opened their pistol-cases, and prepared to load. Andy was close

to Dick all the time, kneeling beside the pistol-case, which lay on the

sod; and, as Dick turned round to settle some other point on which Tom

Durfy questioned him, Andy thought he might snatch the opportunity of

giving his master "the chance" he suggested to his second.--"Sure, if

Misther Dick wouldn't like to do it, that's no raison I wouldn't," said

Andy to himself; "and, by the powers! I'll pop in a ball _onknownst_ to

him." And, sure enough, Andy contrived, while the seconds were engaged

with each other, to put a ball into each pistol before the barrel was

loaded with powder, so that, when Dick took up his pistols to load,

a bullet lay between the powder and the touch-hole. Now this must

have been discovered by Dick, had he been cool; but he and Tom Durfy

had wrangled very much about the point they had been discussing, and

Dick, at no time the quietest person in the world, was in such a rage,

that the pistols were loaded by him without noticing Andy's ingenious

interference, and he handed a harmless weapon to his brother-in-law when

he placed him on his ground.

The word was given. Murtough, following his friend's advice, fired

instantly: bang he went, while the squire returned but a flash in

the pan. He turned a look of reproach upon Dick, who took the pistol

silently from him, and handed him the other, having carefully looked to

the priming, after the accident which happened to the first.

Durfy handed his man another pistol also; and, before he left his side,

said in a whisper, "Don't forget; have the first fire."

Again the word was given: Murphy blazed away a rapid and harmless shot;

for his hurry was the squire's safety, while Andy's murderous intentions

were his salvation.

"D--n the pistol!" said the squire, throwing it down in a rage. Dick

took it up with manifest indignation, and d--d the powder.

"Your powder's damp, Ned."

"No, it's not," said the squire; "it's you who have bungled the loading."

"Me!" said Dick, with a look of mingled rage and astonishment: "_I_

bungle the loading of pistols!--_I_ that have stepped more ground and

arranged more affairs than any man in the county!--Arrah, be aisy, Ned!"

Tom Durfy now interfered, and said, for the present it was no matter,

as, on the part of his friend, he begged to express himself satisfied.

"But it's very hard we're not to have a shot," said Dick, poking the

touch-hole of the pistol with a pricker which he had just taken from the

case which Andy was holding before him.

"Why, my dear Dick," said Durfy, "as Murphy has had two shots, and the

squire has not had the return of either, he declares he will not fire at

him again; and, under these circumstances, I must take my man off the

ground."

"Very well," said Dick, still poking the touch-hole, and examining the

point of the pricker as he withdrew it.

"And now Murphy wants to know, since the affair is all over and his

honour satisfied, what was your brother-in-law's motive in assaulting

him this morning, for he himself cannot conceive a cause for it."

"Oh, be _aisy_, Tom."

"'Pon my soul, it's true."

"Why, he sent him a blister,--a regular apothecary's blister,--instead

of some law-process, by way of a joke, and Ned wouldn't stand it."

Durfy held a moment's conversation with Murphy, who now advanced to

the squire, and begged to assure him there must be some mistake in the

business, for that he had never committed the impertinence of which he

was accused.

"All I know is," said the squire, "that I got a blister, which my

messenger said you gave him."

"By virtue of my oath, squire, I never did it! I gave Andy an enclosure

of the law-process."

"Then it's some mistake that vagabond has made," said the squire. "Come

here, you sir!" he shouted to Andy, who was trembling under the angry

eye of Dick the Devil, who, having detected a bit of lead on the point

of the pricker, guessed in a moment Andy had been at work; and the

unfortunate rascal had a misgiving that he had made some blunder, from

the furious look of Dick.

"Why don't you come here when I call you?" said the squire.--Andy laid

down the pistol-case, and sneaked up to the squire.--"What did you do

with the letter Mr. Murphy gave you for me yesterday?"

"I brought it to your honour."

"No, you didn't," said Murphy. "You've made some mistake."

"Divil a mistake I made," answered Andy very stoutly; "I wint home the

minit you give it to me."

"Did you go home direct from my house to the squire's?"

"Yis, sir, I did: I wint direct home, and called at Mr. M'Garry's by the

way for some physic for the childre."

"That's it!" said Murtough; "he changed my enclosure for a blister

there; and if M'Garry has only had the luck to send the bit o' parchment

to O'Grady, it will be the best joke I've heard this month of Sundays."

"He did! he did!" shouted Tom Durfy; "for don't you remember how O'Grady

was after M'Garry this morning."

"Sure enough," said Murtough, enjoying the double mistake. "By dad!

Andy, you've made a mistake this time that I'll forgive you."

"By the powers o' war!" roared Dick the Devil, "I won't forgive him

what he did now, though! What do you think?" said he, holding out the

pistols, and growing crimson with rage: "may I never fire another shot

if he hasn't crammed a brace of bullets down the pistols before I loaded

them: so, no wonder you burned prime, Ned."

There was a universal laugh at Dick's expense, whose pride in being

considered the most accomplished regulator of the duello was well known.

"Oh, Dick, Dick! you're a pretty second!" was shouted by all.

Dick, stung by the laughter, and feeling keenly the ridiculous position

in which he was placed, made a rush at Andy, who, seeing the storm

brewing, gradually sneaked away from the group, and, when he perceived

the sudden movement of Dick the Devil, took to his heels, with Dick

after him.

"Hurra!" cried Murphy; "a race--a race! I'll bet on Andy--five pounds on

Andy."

"Done!" said the squire; "I'll back Dick the Divil."

"Tare an' ouns!" roared Murphy; "how Andy runs! Fear's a fine spur."

"So is rage," said the squire. "Dick's hot-foot after him. Will you

double the bet?"

"Done!" said Murphy.

The infection of betting caught the bystanders, and various gages were

thrown down and taken up upon the speed of the runners, who were getting

rapidly into the distance, flying over hedge and ditch with surprising

velocity, and, from the level nature of the ground, an extensive view

could not be obtained; therefore Tom Durfy, the steeple-chaser, cried

"Mount, mount! or we'll lose the fun: into our saddles, and after them!"

Those who had steeds took the hint, and a numerous field of horsemen

joined in the chase of Handy Andy and Dick the Devil, who still

maintained great speed. The horsemen made for a neighbouring hill,

whence they could command a wider view; and the betting went on briskly,

varying according to the vicissitudes of the race.

"Two to one on Dick--he's closing."

"Done!--Andy will wind him yet."

"Well done!--there's a leap! Hurra!--Dick's down! Well done, Dick!--up

again, and going."

"Mind the next quickset hedge--that's a rasper; it's a wide gripe, and

the hedge is as thick as a wall--Andy'll stick in it.--Mind him!--Well

leap'd, by the powers!--Ha! he's sticking in the hedge--Dick'll catch

him now.--No, by jingo! he has pushed his way through--there he's

going again at the other side.--Ha! ha! ha! ha! look at him--he's in

tatthers!--he has left half of his breeches in the hedge."

"Dick is over now.--Hurra!--he has lost the skirt of his coat--Andy is

gaining on him.--Two to one on Andy!"

"Down he goes!" was shouted, as Andy's foot slipped in making a dash at

another ditch, into which he went head over heels, and Dick followed

fast, and disappeared after him.

"Ride! ride!" shouted Tom Durfy, and the horsemen put their spurs in

the flanks of their steeds, and were soon up to the scene of action.

There was Andy roaring murder, rolling over and over in the muddy

bottom of a deep ditch, with Dick fastened on him, pummelling away most

unmercifully, but not able to kill him altogether for want of breath.

The horsemen, in a universal _screech_ of laughter, dismounted, and

disengaged the unfortunate Andy from the fangs of Dick the Devil, who

was dragged from out of the ditch much more like a scavenger than a

gentleman.

The moment Andy got loose, away he ran again, and never cried stop till

he earthed himself under his mother's bed in the parent cabin.

The squire and Murtough Murphy shook hands, and parted friends in

half an hour after they had met as foes; end even Dick contrived

to forget his annoyance in an extra stoup of claret that day after

dinner,--filling more than one bumper in drinking _confusion_ to Handy

Andy, which seemed a rather unnecessary malediction.

EPIGRAM.

On Easter Sunday, Lucy spoke,

And said, "A saint you might provoke,

Dear Sam, each day, since Monday last;

But now I see your rage is past."

Said Sam, "What Christian could be meek!

You know, my love, 'twas _Passion Week_;

And so, you see, the rage I've spent

Was not my own--'twas only _Lent_."

S. LOVER.

INTRODUCTION TO THE BIOGRAPHY OF MY AUNT JEMIMA,

THE POLITICAL ECONOMIST.

BY FRIDOLIN.

PRELIMINARY DISQUISITION ON HUMAN GREATNESS,

TOUCHING UPON THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MATTER.

"Some men are born great,

some acquire greatness,

and some have greatness thrust upon them."

Thus read my aunt Jemima, and thus subsequently read I, in the

days of our respective and respectable minorities; but with this

difference--uncertain whether GREATNESS had not already clandestinely

made its _avatar_ into me at my birth, or whether it was destined

hereafter to yield coyly to my wooing, or would force me in future years

to cry in vain humility, "_Nolo magnificari_." I always felt confident

of eminence; whereas my aunt Jemima often feelingly reverted to the

misery of her young maidenly thoughts, when brooding over the certainty

that she could never, under any circumstances, become a "great man."

"Great women" were unknown in her early days. There were no such things;

save and except such as might be seen at St. Bartholomew's fair at

inexpensive cost,--giantesses, who lowered themselves to gain a living

by their height. But my aunt Jemima valued not such feminine _greatness_

as theirs. Her aspiring spirit looked not "to _measures_, but to men."

Our notions change!

It is very melancholy, and rather inconvenient, to drag through the last

and heaviest stage of life a martyr to a marvel.

Horace, who forbids all wise men to wonder, himself exhibited a

thriftless want of economy in the expenditure of his own wonder when he

marvelled, in excellent metre, that any man should eat garlic who had

not murdered his father; and also, that any mortal should have dared to

venture on the sea before the discovery of Kyan's anti-dry-rot patent.

Nor can I much sympathise in the great marvel of that renowned French

statesman, of esculent memory, who professed himself unable to discover

any principle in nature, or in philosophy, that could explain how a

certain Duke of Thuringia, passing through Strasburg on a diplomatic

mission, should not have stopped to dine, _en hâte, de foie gras_.

As for the "three, yea four," curious problems of olden time, which

consumed the wise king with their inexplicability, they are as clear

to modern apprehensions as plate-glass: nay, as my aunt Jemima used

to observe, in the days when glory and greatness had come upon

her,--"Thanks be praised!" (My aunt was a religious woman, and guarded

herself from profane expressions.)--"Thanks be praised! owing to the

enlightenment of the age in which we live, even in those seven wonders

of the world there is nothing so very wonderful now." There can be no

objection on my part to allow that eclipses were pretty marvellous

transactions as long as they occurred in consequence of a bilious dragon

needing a pill, and bolting the sun to correct digestion; but ever since

dragons have adopted a different treatment, and abandoned the solar

bolus, this phenomenon has subsided into one of common-place pretension.

The age of wonders, like the New Marriage-act, has passed.

But one wonder--single, solitary, omnipotent--oppresses me. It is, that

mankind, from ignorance of the meaning of true greatness, lay themselves

open to perpetual insult,--nay, court it. Do we not lie down patiently

as lambs, and bear impertinent biographies to be thrust before our eyes

of persons who are facetiously termed _great_? Great! implying, in a

paltry and indifferently disguised innuendo, that you, the reader, are

of course small,--stunted, as it were, in intellectual growth,--an

under-shrub,--a dwarf specimen. Without being in any way consulted in a

matter, or examined, or probed, to see what stuff may be in you, it is

taken for granted that the world has already made its odious comparisons

between your unobtrusive self and its GREAT MAN; and that, with the

promptness of a police magistrate, it has summarily decided against

you; that you, without knowing it, have been weighed in the scales and

found wanting; have flown upwards as a feather, have kicked the beam,

have moved lighter than a balloon textured of gossamer and inflated with

rarefied essence of hydrogen: a very pretty and gratifying assumption!

Our primitive lessons in emulation generally consist, in great part, in

a series of these insults.

The chubby little fellow, bribed to undergo the advantages of

scholarship by tardy permission to harass his young nether limbs with

trousers, usually of nankeen, finds himself immediately exhorted to

strive, in order that in time he may become a GREAT man. He images the

vague outline of a human mammoth, and sits down with scanty hope of

modelling himself accordingly. In the pride and pomp of baby ambition he

yearns to rival in stature and girth the sons of Amalek. He is small,

and perfectly conscious that he is so; but frets to exchange his little

pulpy fingers for a sinewy fist that can shake a weaver's beam: he

meditates upon great men as pumpkins, compared with which he is but a

gooseberry. He is not taught, by way of softening the injury done him by

an unnecessary contrast, that the one may be full of sweetness as the

other of insipidity.

He waxes in years and amplitude: still hears he of that obtrusive

department in natural history, the GREAT men. He thinks not of them

as before; he no longer deems their greatness to consist in the

mere admeasurement of their cubic contents, as in the days of his

young innocence, when an extensive pudding would, in his ceremonial,

have taken precedence of name and fame. He now understands, and, by

understanding, suffers the more acutely under the impertinence. If acts

of valour and command, or of senatorial display,--if a tyranny over

empires, or mighty influence over the minds and feelings of successive

generations,--if literary renown or public benefaction constitute

greatness, he is himself of most diminutive dimensions. He knows it. He

never for a moment dreamed of denying it. He has enjoyed no scope for

being otherwise. He is perfectly aware of the fact, and would at once

have admitted it. He needs not to have it perpetually pushed into his

face, and thrust before his eyes to glare at him. The pauper feels that

he is not one of the wealthy ones of the earth, without being reminded

at every instant of the incurious circumstance by some rich bullionist

shaking his pockets that the wretch may hear the voice of the gold

jingling. His memory requires not to be so jogged on the subject. He

recognises the truth of his meagre estate, and derives not a whit of

pleasure from such external corroboration. It is an insult; and any

raciness or merit of originality in it is altogether lost upon him. The

wit is purely thrown away.

How fares the boy when, like his primal sire, "he stands erect a man?"

and in what spirit does he study the philosophy of "greatness?" He may

bethink him of the false fruiterer's melon, how it lay on the stall, its

sunny side laughing and coquetting with the eye of the wayfarer,--its

rottenness and unsavoury portion in retirement and unseen below. He

discovers that the "great" are gigantic in one line, but that "the line

upon line" is not their predicate; in some matters they may perchance

be far smaller than their neighbours. He is no longer the boy without

experience of others, or the child who interprets literally; he measures

not the monsters by his own standard; he endeavours not to poise them

by his own weight,--with his own girth to buckle their circumference:

his acquaintance serve his turn; society establishes and confirms his

experience, that an average sprinkling of inherent "greatness" may be

detected in all, though the world hath not cared to trumpet it.

It becomes of difficult endurance to see our intimates thrust, as

it were, on one side,--morally cast into the mire,--their qualities

trampled as by heels. It mars our equability to find our friends in

intellectual, philosophical, or worldly utility insinuated as no

better than they should be,--to hear them classed as of the herd,

essentially and merely gregarious,--vague portions of an unmeritorious

whole,--negative existences, positive only in combination,--cyphers

without value, that multiply but by relative position. Whereas in our

young days we felt personally insulted by contrast with your "great

men," in maturity we resent the impertinence as offered to our friends;

for in our friends we can trace a "greatness," although the thing

may not have been blazoned. Even in a man's household shall he see

greatness, though it be obscure; and he shall discover that, whilst it

is true that no man is "great to his valet," the comfortable conundrum

is equally demonstrable, that ALL are GREAT. Your groom shall indite

you verses that shall stir the hearts and haunt the dreams of your

village maidens--will they compare Homer to him?--and your cook-maid

shall be no small domestic oracle on the unfathomable mysteries of

phrenology--what cares she for Combe and Spurzheim? Who lives, while yet

his father lives, that does not hear the old man "great" in prophecy on

the coming "crisis," and rich and ponderous upon the currency question?

Who, in the book of the generations of his family, might not inscribe

the name of some brother, a mighty man of valour, great amongst his

playmates; or a sister, whose attire has given tone for a season to

an emulous neighbourhood? And then, in the nineteenth century, who

possesses not "great" uncles, who during the war have swayed, although

unknown, victories by their strategy or disciplined obedience; or,

in more peaceful triumph, have mightily influenced the election of a

candidate by the despotism of their oratory? Of aunts--maiden ones--it

needs not to speak. They are of the fortunate who require not greatness

to be "thrust upon them." Of them it is safely assumed, that they are

"born great" prospectively. This privilege however, is guaranteed to

the "maiden" only; for marriage absorbs the bride into unity with her

combined-separate--and "the crown of a good wife is her husband."

Your village oracle, seated on his throne--the old oaken bench under

the village elm-tree, after his weekly labours, on the Saturday night

embalming his tongue in the aroma of the fragrant weed, and bribing his

lips into complacent humour by sips from the chirping old October, is

truly _great_. He is surrounded by listeners who love to pay homage to

his power. Whilst he whiffs, they consult him on great interests,--it

may be respecting the destiny of nations, or the desolating march of

hostile armies,--it may be on the devastations of the turnip-fly.

He lays his pipe aside; his words issue, like the syllables of the

Pythoness, in the midst of fragrant fumes. They fix at once the

unsettled,--they establish the doubtful,--they convict the speculative.

On points of international law, Puffendorf and Grotius would shrink into

nut-shells before him; they would discover their littleness: yet some

deem _them_ great!

Bilious disputants may deny that any can be great whom the world has not

thought fit to canonise. "Indeed!" do I reply with the sarcastic smile

of superiority with which it is customary to spill the arguments of men

of straw whom controversialists set up for the sake of knocking down

again--"Indeed! Were the Andes a whit smaller before their exact height

was proclaimed to the same arrogant world? Was not the moon as great a

ball in the days when the world esteemed it a green cheese, as it is

now, when men are acquainted with its diameter?"

"Ay," may reply my subtle disputant; "but these are physical facts,

independent of opinion: mental, moral, social greatness, are widely

different. They have no altitudes subject to trigonometrical survey by

an ordnance-board like the Andes; they admit not of parallax, like the

planets. Master Fridolin, your illustrations are no more worth than the

kernel of a vicious nut."

"What!" I answer, "you want a metaphysical instance, do you? Physics

are too coarse. Well, sir, '_Magna est veritas_--Truth is great,'--that

is to say, your canoniser, the _world_ say so. Now, pray, what does the

world, much more a man of straw, know about truth? Confessedly less than

it knows about my groom, who is _great_ in poetry,--my cook-maid, who is

_great_ in phrenology,--my father, who is _great_ on those hobgoblins

the coming crises; and, let me say, amazingly less than it knows, or

will know, of my aunt Jemima, who was _great_ in political economy; let

alone our village oracle, who is regarded, pipe and all, as _great_ by

a larger portion of the inhabitants of the _world_ than can boast any

intimate acquaintance with abstract verity.

"And now, man of straw! a word in your ear:--unless you are dull in

grain, methinks you will admit yourself answered."

No fallacy is more palpable when examined, and, consequently, none is

more preposterous, than that of connecting GREATNESS with the _world's_

applause; yet for this, men fume and fret, struggle and strive, elbow

their neighbours, and tread on their own bunnions, forgetting that they

might be quite as _great_ if they would only be quiet; nay, that their

chance of being so, without exertion, lies, according to Shakspeare's

nice and accurate calculation, in the very comfortable proportion of

two to one in their favour. Two GREAT men out of every three, find

themselves so, without the least trouble on their own parts. They are

born so, or their greatness "is thrust upon them." They have nothing

to do in life but to button in the morning, unbutton at night, sip,

masticate, and sleep, if their conscience and digestion will permit:

they find themselves not a whit less great. The third alone--the "odd

one"--acquires GREATNESS; and "odd" enough it is, to discover a sample

of this meagre class.

But the case may be settled to mathematical certainty. Statistical

inquirers--men, the breath of whose nostrils are the bills of

mortality--have discovered that a tenth part of all men born into the

world die and are buried before one brief year has passed. It follows,

therefore, as a corollary, that of those "born great" a great proportion

die _great_ when extremely little. Their nurses see one tenth of all

"the great men" born, fade and expire, hydrocephalic or rickety, ere

their tendencies and tastes have toddled beyond the pap-boat. What

does the world know about this evanescent tenth? What does mankind

trouble about the grave offence of the sepulchre in seizing and gobbling

up annually these great and small tithes? What say they against its

appropriating clause? Why, the world is clearly ignorant of the departed

great ones,--the buried little ones; yet their greatness is indisputable.

The true philosophy of the matter, is the philosophy of the matters

herein set forth; and, in her latter days, my aunt Jemima acknowledged

it, for she felt it. There were no great women when she was youthful;

but she lived to perceive greatness come upon her. It was not thrust--it

was inherent: but it took time and acted leisurely in developing

itself. It was not a creation or an acquisition, but a developement, an

exudation of that which would _out_,--_nolens volens_.

The real truth is this,--_All_ under circumstances are great, although

few are aware that they are so. Celebrity has nothing to do with the

affair; it may proclaim the fact, but does not constitute it;--as will

hereafter be shown in the instance of my aunt Jemima.

F. HARRISON RANKIN.

SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A GAMBLER.

"Lasciate ogni speranza voi che entrate."

Paris!--there was once a magic in the name--a music in the sound.

"Paris!" how often said I to myself when in another quarter of the

globe, "Yes, I will one day visit thee--will revive the memory of

the great events of which thou hast been the arena--thy Fronde--the

League--the Revolution--the Cent Jours--the history of thy chivalrous

François--thy noble-minded Henri--the Grand Monarque--the witty and

profligate Regent--thy unfortunate Louis, and still more pitiable

Empereur;--and then, the Gallery of the Louvre--the Museum of the

Luxembourg--Versailles--St. Cloud--the Tuileries!" My dream was about to

be realised.

I was then in my twenty-fifth year. I had health--a sufficiency of the

goods of fortune to purchase the enjoyment of the moderate pleasures

of life. My person and manners were agreeable; my acquirements greater

then those of most of my college contemporaries; and the fine arts were

"my passion and my enjoyment." All these advantages, with a pardonable

egotism, I had been canvassing during my solitary journey (solitary?

no, my mind was occupied with the most enchanting reveries--the most

intoxicating visions) from which I was only awakened at the barrier

of Montmartre. How my heart beat with delight as, from the eminence

that overlooks the city, I beheld its spires, and domes, and houses,

huddled in the vaporous gloom of an evening in May! The day had been

a glorious one; the air breathed balm. My caleche was open; and four

posters whirled me rapidly through the Boulevards, and entered the

gateway of the Hotel des Princes in the Rue Richelieu. This street was,

as all who are acquainted with it, know, the centre and focus of the

fashion,--the life and motion of Paris, and of the foreigners who then

flocked to it from all parts of Europe, (for it was the third year of

the Restoration,) and had caught some of the volatile spirit of its

mercurial people.

Times and dynasties change. Politics, that many-headed monster, now

reigns supreme. Instead of the goddess Pleasure,--at whose shrine

all sacrificed,--they have set up the Gorgon of parties. The army is

no "état"--the church is no "état." It is become a city of national

guards--reviewed by a king, with his three sons,--a family marked for

assassination. There is no court--no _ancienne noblesse_. Everywhere

distress and misery, hate and calumny, persecution and imprisonment,

ruin, the grippe, and bankruptcy. Such is a picture of the Paris of 1837.

But I was in the Rue Richelieu--the great artery of the life's blood

of Paris. From it, as from a floodgate, rushed along in conflicting

eddies, sweeping like a torrent, a crowd in quest of pleasure. Some

were hurrying to the gaming-houses; some _aux Italiens_, to the Ambigu,

of the Varietés, and the different theatres; others to the Palais

Royal, which in its magic circle comprehends all that vice or luxury

can invent to seduce the imagination or gratify the sense; then to

Tortoni's, or the innumerable cafés, there to enjoy the _al fresco_ of

the Boulevards Italiens seated under the trees, or to mingle with the

multitude, chatting, laughing, or whispering in delighted ears under the

well-lighted avenue of elms that had just put forth their young leaves.

I made one of the throng, and would that _Armida_ Paris had had no worse

enchantments--no more seductive pleasures. Alas! what have I now to do

with them?--they have lost their charm. My hair is grey,--my heart is

withered!

But I anticipate.

What do the phrenologists mean, by not having assigned to their chart

of the skull a place for play? Gall, during his long practice in Paris,

might surely have discovered it; for, of all people, the Parisians have

this passion the most strongly developed. It is common, indeed, to the

most savage, as well as the most civilised nations; for I have seen

the Hindu strip himself naked, and bet at chukra the last rag in his

possession; the African stakes his wife and children; but our neighbours

may plunge their families, to the third and fourth generation, in misery

and destitution. The pauper sells his only bed: the cradle of his child.

The manufacturer takes to the Mont de Pieté his tools; steals those of

his employers. The diplomatist and the figurante, the financier and the

mendicant, all fall down before one idol--a Moloch worse than that of

the Valley of Gehenna--a monster without pity or remorse, who delights

in the tears, and groans, and gnashings of teeth of his votaries, nor

quits his prey till he tracks them to the Morgue--name of horrid sound!

and yet, the last refuge and sole resting-place of his infatuated

victims.

How easy it is to moralise! I should like to know if I always had this

infernal bias, or if it was engrafted in me, or whether I was seized

at that time with the general epidemy, taking the infection, like the

cholera, from those about me, or from the air which I was respiring. Oh,

worse than wind-walking pestilence is play! It has a subtle poison, and

more kinds of death; no, not death! for, _I_ live,--if dying from day to

day can be called life.

The first weeks of my _séjour_ passed like days, nay hours; but I did

not confine myself to Paris itself. Few foreigners, or even natives,

know the beauty of the environs. These were the scenes of my rides by

day. In the evening I assisted at some French _réunion_, or mixed in

the _soirées_ of our own country; frequented the Opera Italienne, where

not a note is lost: and such notes!--for Pasta was the prima donna.

Being "_un peu friand_," I frequently dined at the Rocher de Concal. I

mention that restaurant because I have reason to remember it. The Rocher

de Concal boasts none of the magnificence of Very's, or Beauvilliers.

The entrance is encumbered with the shells of the _huitres d'Ostende_,

the most delicious of oysters. The rooms are not much larger than boxes

at the opera; but they enclose a world of fun. The rustling of silk is

often heard there, and one meets in the narrow passages veiled forms

hastening to some mysterious rendezvous.

It was here that I became acquainted with the Prince M----. His was a

fatal initial; and might have reminded me of what he proved to be,--my

Mephistophiles! M---- was one of those princes that "_fourmillent_" in

all the capitals of Europe. He was about thirty years of age. His figure

was tall, slight, and emaciated, and corresponded with his countenance,

that was of a paleness approaching to marble, and might be said to have

no expression, so complete a mastery had he obtained over his feelings.

His equipage had nothing at first sight remarkable. The cabriolet was of

a sombre colour, and the harness without ornaments; but the horse was

not to be matched for beauty and power. His dress seemed equally plain;

but, on closer inspection, you discovered it was of a studied elegance,

the colours being so well matched that the eye had nothing particular

on which to rest. He never was known to laugh, and seldom smiled; he

was rather cold, though not forbidding in his manners, and perfectly

indifferent whether he amused or not. He never spoke of the politics of

the day, of his domains, of his stud or family,--much less of himself,

his exploits, or his adventures. He never made an observation that was

worthy of being repeated, yet never said a foolish thing. With the sex

he was a great favourite, for he perfectly understood the science of

flattery; but it was with the utmost tact that he put it in requisition.

His address was perfect: he spoke French, and indeed several languages,

with that admirable choice of phrase for which the Russians are

remarkable. The sole occupation of his life was play; and to win or lose

seemed a matter of perfect indifference to him, whatever the stake.

There was also of the party that day another foreigner, Baron A----, who

had been a Jew. He was his _compagnon de voyage_. Castor and Pollux were

not more inseparable. This _alter ego_ was a little man, with a grey eye

of singular archness, and a light moustache, as most Germans have. His

whole fortune consisted of five hundred louis, which he carried about

with him;--an excellent nest-egg; for he contrived to double annually

this poor capital. One year he was at Rome, another at Florence, a

third at Vienna--no; there he was too well known. A gambler, like a

prophet, has no honour in his own country. The last spring he had passed

in London, where, of course, be had the _entrée_ at Almack's, and now

opened the campaign under the most promising auspices at Paris. The

baron was a sort of lion's-provider--the pilot-fish of the shark.

We separated at an early hour, and I afterwards met my new _friends_

at an hotel in the Fauxbourg St. Honoré, where there was, as usual, an

écarté-table. Ecarté was then all the rage; though, like our all-fours,

it had originally been the game of the _peuple_, or rather in Paris of

the _laquais_. It is a game uniting skill and chance; but it is a game

of countenance; a game, also, in which the cards played with, being

fewer in number than at whist, it is no difficult matter to scratch an

important one, so as to know in time of need where to find it, or to

_sauter le coup_. That evening, for the first time, I was induced to

take a hand, and, in my innocence of such manoeuvres, wondered that my

opponent turned up the king so much oftener than myself. In time my eyes

were opened, and I discovered that other _tricheries_ were practicable.

For instance, one morning, after a ball given by an English lady, there

were found rolled up in one corner of the room two queens and a knave;

and, on examining the écarté packs, these were missing,--had literally

been discarded,--a circumstance which rendered the success of two

officers of the _garde de corps_, who cleaned out the party, by no means

problematical. But I was now initiated; and a witty writer says,

"That where that pestilence, play, once leaves a taint,

It saps the bone, and pierces to the marrow,

And then 'tis easier to extract an arrow."

How willing we all are to put off the evil moment: to string anecdote

on anecdote, and weave parenthesis in parenthesis, rather than come to

the point! Does it not remind us of the tricks of the wrestler to avoid

the grasp of his more powerful antagonist? But it must come: so let me

proceed with my confession.

As I was leaving the room, the prince came up to me and said, "Demain

voulez-vous, Monsieur, être des notres?--There is a dinner at the

_salon_, and I will take you with me as my 'umbra,' and present you to

the Marquis--." In an evil hour I consented.

The _maisons de jeu_ at Paris are farmed by a society, who purchase of

the government the privilege of opening a certain limited number--if I

remember right, five. In order to prevent unfair play, a _commis_ of

the police is in daily attendance at the opening of the packs of cards,

and they are lodged in the office every night. So far so good. But the

advantages in favour of the bank are so great, that after the payment

of several hundred thousand pounds sterling to the revenue, after

defraying the expenses of hotels, cashiers, croupiers, lackeys, &c. &c.

the _associés_ divide twenty or thirty per cent. At the head of these

establishments is the _salon des étrangers_. The prime minister, or

master of the ceremonies, was then the Marquis de L----. He was the last

of the _aisles de pigeon_, which he wore _bien poudrées_. He had been

an _emigré_, and, like many of them, had passed twenty years in England

without knowing a word of the language. He was distinguished by an ease

of manner and a politeness, though rather exaggerated, of the _vieille

cour_. Soon after my introduction to him he lost his appointment, it

having been discovered that the cashier, _by some mistake_, nightly gave

him fifty napoleons in exchange for a billet of five hundred francs.

By-the-by, the office of president of the _salon_ was in considerable

request, and was afterwards filled by a general officer who had once

been in the English service.

It was one of the dinners that were given three times a-week. We

passed through a range of servants in splendid liveries, to the _salon

à manger_, where I found sixty guests, consisting, not only of the

foreigners most distinguished for rank, fortune, and consideration, but

_pairs de France, deputés_ of all parties,--in fact, the _élite_ of

Paris. Before each, was placed a _carte_. It was not one of your English

bills of fare, with its _plats de resistance_; but earth, air, and ocean

had been ransacked, and all the skill of the most consummate _artistes_

employed to furnish out the table. Every sort of wine circulated in

quick succession; but, when I looked around me, I saw no hilarity in

this assembly. The viands seemed to pall upon the taste, the goblet

passed unquaffed. Gambling is the most selfish of vices; it admits of no

society; every one seemed too much occupied with his own thoughts even

to address his neighbour. Was I happy myself? No. The soul instinctively

seems to foresee all the miseries that originate from a single false

step, inspiring us with certain vague apprehensions that with a vain

casuistry we endeavour to dissipate. In fact, I never enjoyed a dinner

less; and was as pleased at its termination as most of the party were

anxious for the real object of the meeting--_le commencement de la fin,

ou la fin du commencement--le jeu_.

The hotel where we assembled was of the time of Louis the Fifteenth,

and had belonged to one of his numerous mistresses; the taste, however,

of his predecessor reigned there. In front was a _cour d'honneur_,

large enough to drawn the rattle of carriages and noise from without;

and behind, was a garden laid out in the English style, and full

of odoriferous shrubs, then in full bloom, particularly the lilac,

the laburnum, and the red-thorn, that wafted their perfume through

the unfolded doors, whilst at intervals was heard the plashing of

a fountain. The three principal rooms, two of which were dedicated

to _rouge et noir_ and French hazard, were in shape octagonal; the

compartments, which were fantastically chased, and rich in gilding,

served as a frame-work to pictures in the manner of Watteau, and

probably by the hand of one of his pupils. The ceilings were similar in

taste, and described some exploits of Jupiter, whose representative was

the monarch himself according to the fashion of the day. The only light

in each of these apartments, proceeded from a lamp shaded by green silk,

that diffused its mellow and softened rays around, and threw a brilliant

and dazzling effulgence on the table. Along the centre were ranged the

dealers and bankers; and before them heaps of gold and silver, and

_billets de banc_, and red and white counters, their representatives.

On both sides were the players; and the broad glare, shadowless and

impending, displayed their features. Many of them were known to me by

name. There was, with his noble and portly figure and countenance, much

resembling the busts of Charles Fox, the late Earl of T----, who with

perfect _sangfroid_ lost his twenty-five thousand pounds a-year, and

thought the only use of money was to buy pieces of ivory marked with

numbers on them, and that the next pleasure in life to winning, was to

lose. To his right was B---- H----, with his handsome profile, Hyperion

locks, and unmeaning red-and-white face, incapable of an expression

either of joy or chagrin: Lord M----, who went by the sobriquet of Père

la Chaise; S----, bent double with care, and wrinkled with premature old

age; the young and emaciated Lord Y----, the only one of his family who

resembles his father, and inheriting from him the same propensity: and

by his side Benjamin Constant, whose ardent spirit, like the volcano

under Vesuvius, was for ever breaking out in the excitement of love, or

politics, or play; his hair was grey, as if scorched by the working of

his brain; his frame consumed as by an inward fire; his cheek bloodless

as that of a corpse, for which, but for his eye, he might have been

taken;--there was a desolateness in every trait of his countenance,

and nervous sensibility accompanied every cast of the die that it was

painful to witness. These were some of the _crêpes_ party. The Prince

M---- was not among them: he had found more attractive metal--was

closeted in a cabinet at écarté.

For some hours I looked on, as an indifferent spectator. I had come

fortified by a long colloquy held with myself, the result of which was

a determination not to be duped. I had had too much experience of the

world to fall into the snare--I had resisted many worse temptations--I

knew too well the chances to risk even the few napoleons cautiously put

into my purse. "Facilis descensus Averni," says the poet. Insensibly I

took an interest in the game. I flattered my self-vanity by thinking

that, when such a one threw in, I should not have been on the _contre_,

or should have withdrawn my money before he _sauted_,--that I should

have taken the odds, or betted them differently from Lord This or

Monsieur _Tel_. In short, for me the veil of Isis was lifted, the

mysteries of play revealed. I alone was inspired; and so for once it

was to prove. One of the circle left his seat, and I filled up the

vacancy. I sat writhing till my turn came. All had thrown out, and

all had backed the casters. I now took the box: by my clumsy way of

handling it, and shaking the dice, it was perceived that I was a tyro.

And now the _contre_ was covered with gold and notes: "Seven!" I cried;

"eleven's the nick!" I changed the main: still my luck continued. In

short, I threw in nine times, leaving all my winnings to accumulate, and

found myself in possession of twenty-four thousand francs. It was now

suggested to me that the bank was only responsible for twelve thousand.

Twice more did I tempt Fortune, and with equal success; and then handed

over the box, and gave up my place to a new comer; and, without any one

seeming to notice my departure, betook myself to my apartment--but not

to sleep. I was in a fever of delight; visions more enchanting than

those of Eldorado visited my couch. I had found the magic wand,--had

gained the golden branch in the Æneid,--opened to myself a mine of

wealth,--an inexhaustible treasure. At daybreak I raised myself in the

bed, and counted it,--arranged in heaps the glittering treasure. I

had all Paris in my hand! I would have an hotel, I would have horses,

carriages, all that wealth could purchase should be mine. That gold

which others sighed for, toiled for, sinned for, was mine, easily

obtained, and won expressly to be spent. Horace, when in his poetic

dream of immortality he cried "Album mutor in alitem," and soared above

the heads of the admiring world, felt no raptures compared with mine.

My success was soon blazoned abroad, and my gains exaggerated. In the

course of the day I had a visit of congratulation from the prince.

"There is a fête and ball at Frascati," said he, on taking leave; "you

will be there?" There was a devilish smile on his face. It was the first

time I had ever seen him smile.

It was ten o'clock, and that temple of Circe was flooded with light, and

filled with women and men of all ages;--no, not of all, for one of the

conditions of admission is, besides being well dressed, that a person

must be _of age_. _Le Jeu_ has no objection to the gold of a father, a

lover, or a husband; but he disdains the pocket-money of a minor. He has

great respect for all the decencies of life: he requires a well-filled

purse and an elegant toilette. Enter, ye rich and lively!--come, and

welcome! There is sure to be gold where there are women, and woman where

there is gold.

At the entrance of this hell, the _laquais_, after a scrutiny of my

person, took my hat, and, by means of an iron instrument attached to

a long pole, with a practised dexterity lifted it to peg 200, where

it assumed its place in the well-marshalled ranks of its comrades.

I afterwards observed that it was the only thing most of the owners

carried away with them.

The first room was occupied by a roulette table. The grand saloon,--of

which there is, or was, an admirable picture in the Oxford Street

Bazaar, containing the well-known portraits of very many who frequented

it,--is dedicated to _rouge et noir_, or _trente et quarante_, and was

encircled two or three deep by a crowd of both sexes, all preserving

a profound silence, only interrupted by the _Messieurs, faites votre

jeu!--Le jeu est fait!--Rien plus!_ of the dealer; for the noise of

the _ratliers_ that had shovelled the gold and five-franc pieces into

a heap had ceased, and all were breathlessly awaiting the _coup_.

The _coup_ was made: _quarante: Rouge gagne_. It was then a horrid

sight to mark the expression of the different feelings that agitated

this assembly--this Pandæmonium! Some tore their hair from their

heads in handsful,--some gnashed their teeth like the damned in the

Sistine chapel,--others, their eyes almost starting out of their

sockets, uttered horrid oaths, and blasphemous exclamations,--and one,

who had his hand in his breast, withdrew it, dyed in blood, without

being sensible of the wounds his nails had inflicted! But, as if this

spectacle of tortured and degraded humanity were not enough, it was

still more appalling to observe the countenances of the women, who had

staked their last louis on the turn of the card! Their splendid dresses,

their silks and gauze, their _cachemires de l'Inde_, that glitter of

gold and gems, their necklaces of pearl, and ear-rings of diamond,--all

that serves to heighten and embellish beauty, by a horrid contrast only

gave them a greater deformity, reminding us of Pauline Borghese on her

death-bed daubing her cadaverous cheeks with rouge, and tricking herself

out in the same magnificent costume she had worn in the Tuileries when

she shone the wonder and admiration of Paris; assuming in the last

agonies of dissolution the voluptuous attitude she had chosen for that

masterpiece of art, that wonderful creation of the greatest of modern

sculptors, Canova.

Oh! that these Phrynes could at that moment have seen in the mirrors

that on all sides reflected them, their hollow eyes--their violet

lips--their livid cheeks! The snakes of Leonardo's Medusa would have

made them perfect. No; they had no eyes or ears but for that hideous old

Sultan whose seraglio they had formed,--_le Jeu_.

The _rouge et noir_ table being thus _agreeably_ filled, I sat down to

roulette, and placed before me my packet of notes; being determined

this time to break the bank. I turned some of my _billets_ into gold,

and began, during the revolutions of the wheel of Fortune, to cover the

cyphers. Sixty-two times the original stake would be good interest for

less than as many seconds! Now for my inspiration--but this time my

spirit of prophecy had fled. There was no prize for me. The ball still

made its accustomed rounds, and lost itself in some number where I had

no stake: now it bounded along, and hung suspended like a bird hovering

over its nest; and then, just as it was about to crown my wishes, took

a new spring, and, with a provoking coquetry, lavished its favours on

one who had not courted them with half, perhaps only the twentieth

part, of the fervour I had done. Sometimes, as if to lead me on in the

pursuit, she tantalised me by hiding herself in the next number to that

I had chosen; and then, the succeeding minute crushed all my hopes, and

reduced them to nothing, with some zero rouge or zero blanc, or the

double misery of two zeros.

I now gave up the lottery of numbers, and betook myself to that of

colours. Still I was no diviner. If I made black my favourite, there

was sure to be a run on red; and _vice versâ_. I lost my coolness--my

temper. I doubled my stakes,--trebled them. Still the _ratliers_ did

their merciless office; the _croupiers_ still with imperturbable

nonchalance swept into a gulph, from which was no return, my notes

and gold. In short, in a few hours, I was not only stript of all my

winnings, but had borrowed of one of the lackeys three thousand francs,

which I was to return the next morning, with a premium of two per cent.

He was one of the myrmidons of the _salon des étrangers_, and knew I had

the _entrée_, and that the loan was a safe one; nay, he pressed me to

borrow more: but--_ohe, jam satis!_--I hurried to my porter's lodge, and

thence to my apartment, but in a widely different mood to that in which

I had entered it the night before. All the scenes of wealth and riches

that my imagination had conjured up, had vanished. I had horrid dreams.

The curtain was withdrawn; it showed me the sad reality of all that had

happened, and all that was to happen.

The next day I locked my room-door, and held a long dialogue with my

conscience. I felt two powers at work within me--two inclinations

striving for mastery--two persons, as it were, one acting against and

in spite of the other. I endeavoured to arm myself against myself. It

was a violent struggle between the principles of good and evil. Whether,

like Hercules, I should have made the same choice, I know not; but vice

never wants for arguments or supporters, and in the afternoon came an

invitation, by one of his emissaries, from the prince, to dine with him.

My foible--the rock on which I have made shipwreck--has been, that I

never could say, no. I accepted it.

Besides the inseparables, were present, on this occasion, a Prussian

colonel and a Polish count. The dinner was _recherché_; the dishes

having been sent from different _restaurants_ famous for their

_cuisine_: the _ravioli_, for instance, from an Italian house, and the

_omelette Russe_ from the _café de Paris_. The mock and real champagne

were well iced, and the Chambertín a bouquet of violets. I endeavoured

to find a Lethe in the glass, which circulated freely, though it only

circulated; for the prince, on the plea of health, drank lemonade, and

his guests, as the Italians say, baptised their Lafitte with water. Two

nights such as I had passed did not diminish the effect of the wine; and

when it was proposed to play at faro, though I knew nothing of the game,

I made no objection. It was suggested that the baron should be banker.

He had come ready prepared; opened his strong box, and produced his five

hundred louis. The practised neatness with which he turned up the cards,

the accuracy of his calculations, and correctness of his accounts, might

have excited the admiration of any _croupier_ at the _salon_; certainly

none of them understood his _métier_ better. I began with very small

stakes, which were unlimited. I soon, however, followed the example of

the circle, and played higher. I lost. The two strangers appeared to

lose also, and retired at an early hour.

I had added one hundred louis to the baron's capital. Whilst I was

in search of my hat to make my escape, A---- had been employed in

preparing an écarté pack, and offered to give me my _revanche_; our host

encouraging me to take it by saying he would back me.

I sat down; and, as the prince was interested in the result, I asked

his advice, but he told me, he never gave or took it. My adversary had

an extraordinary run of luck,--almost always _voled_ me when I did not

propose, and scored the king so often that I could not help observing

it. The prince in the mean time walked about the room, occasionally

looking over my cards; at length he declined participating in my stakes,

and betted with me largely on his own account. Ill fortune continued

to pursue me; still I played higher and higher, till my score had

swelled to a frightful amount. My immense losses sobered me, and I

then had my suspicions that all was not right. Opposite to the table

was a mirror over the chimney, which extended from the marble-slab to

the ceiling. I was fronting it, when I perceived by the reflection,

the prince standing over my shoulder: he was taking snuff, and, in the

act of so doing, raised up his fingers in a manner that excited my

attention. I now determined to watch the pair more closely. I observed

that the German always awaited the sign before he decided on proposing

or refusing; and once inadvertently did so, without even looking at his

own hand. It is true, we were both at four, but I had not an _atout_

or court-card: the consequence was, that I lost the game. It was now

clear that I had fallen into the hands of sharpers. I found myself

minus thirty thousand francs. Throwing down the pack, I got up, and

walked about the room for some time, in order to collect my thoughts and

consider how to act. Though confident of having been cheated; almost

unknown as I was in Paris, I was aware it would not be easy to convince

their numerous and powerful friends of the fact. I therefore determined

to pay the money, and insult one or the other so grossly that he must

give me my _revanche_ in a different way. Thinking that the scheme,

however concocted, had been put in execution at the prince's own house,

and that it was rendered still blacker by a breach of hospitality, I

made choice of him with perfect self-possession. I asked for pen, ink,

and paper; and having written cheques payable on demand at my bankers'

in London for the _par nobile fratrum_, I turned to the prince, and

said, presenting him with his share of the plunder, "Monsieur, voilà

votre argent: vous savez comment il étoit gagné." Running his eye over

the amount to ascertain if it were correct, he carefully folded up the

paper, and put it in his pocket; and then, with imperturbable coolness,

turned to me, and said, "Monsieur, vous m'avez insulté, et vous me

ferez l'honneur de m'en rendre raison." "Très, très volontiers," I

replied; "c'est ce que je cherchois." "The sooner the better," said the

prince; "I will leave my friend the baron to settle the preliminaries."

With these words he walked slowly to the door, and left me with his

associate. He had not been gone more than a few minutes, when the

Polish count, who was lodging in the same hotel, (it was in the Rue de

la Paix,) and had just returned from some orgies, made his appearance,

probably thinking to find us still engaged in play. The baron, without

entering into particulars, immediately explained to him that the prince

and myself had had a serious misunderstanding, and that it had ended

in his claiming satisfaction. I was not sufficiently intimate with any

one in Paris to disturb him at that hour in the morning; and, thinking

it a mere formality to have a second, readily asked the count to be

my friend. He consented with the best grace imaginable. It was now

explained to me, that it is the custom (though I believe such is not the

case) for the challenger to choose his own weapons.

"The prince," observed the baron, "has two blades of the finest Spanish

steel; they are beautifully watered, and it is a pleasure to look at

them. They have never yet been used: Monsieur," added he, addressing

the count, "shall have his choice." All this was said with the utmost

nonchalance, as though he had been only treating of a trial of skill,

and not a duel _à l'outrance_.

I had never taken a fencing-lesson since I was at school, and then

only for a few months of old Angelo. The prince I knew to be almost as

dexterous in the art as a _maître d'armes_. The first qualification for

an accomplished gambler is to be a duellist; foils were at that moment

lying in a corner of the room, and he had probably been practising the

very day before; indeed it was almost the only exercise he took at any

time.

To have made, however, my want of skill a plea for the adoption of

pistols, might, I knew, be answered by the baron's professing the

prince to be the worst of shots; besides its being a deviation from the

established rule in such cases for me to have a voice.

Strange to say, I felt little uneasiness on the subject: I had a quick

eye, great activity, and superior physical strength; and I had heard

that the most expert fencer is often at a loss to parry the determined

assault of an aggressor, even though he should hardly know the use of

his weapon. A sense, too, of my wrongs, and a desire of revenge, added

to that moral courage in which I was never deficient, rendered me bold

and confident.

It was now broad daylight. The _fiacre_ rattled up to the door, and

the count and I, got into it; the prince following in his cabriolet,

accompanied by A----. We drove through the _Champs Elyseés_, passed the

_Port Maillot_, and, without meeting a single carriage, arrived at our

destination. If there were ever a spot where a lover of nature might die

almost without regret, it is this favourite resort of the _beau monde_

of Paris. Avenues ankle-deep in sand, cut into straight lines; _allées_

without verdure, that lead to nothing; a wood without trees. Such is the

_Bois de Boulogne_.

The coachman, who had a perfect knowledge of the localities, and the

object of our morning ride, pulled up at a spot where four roads met;

and, having alighted, we followed an ill-defined path for a few hundred

yards, till we came to an opening in the brushwood that was scarcely

above our heads. It had served for a recent encounter, for I perceived

the prince step on one side to avoid a stain of blood on one of the

tufts of grass that here and there rose rankly among the sand. He

appeared not to notice it, and continued to talk on indifferent subjects

to his companion.

Having received our swords, all new, and bright, and glittering, as the

baron promised they should be, and taken up our ground, without waiting

to cross blades, I precipitated myself on my adversary, and endeavoured

to beat down his guard: so impetuous was my onset, that he retreated,

or, rather, I drove him before me for several yards. Those who have

not experienced it, may conceive what a strange grating sensation the

meeting of two pieces of steel produces; but they cannot be aware how

it quickens the pulse, and that there is in every electric shock, such

fierce rage, and hatred, and revenge, as burnt within me then. Still,

however, the prince parried my thrusts, and kept me at arm's length. All

I now remember is, that I made a last desperate lunge--that I almost

lost my balance--that I felt the point of my adversary's sword enter my

side, and then a film came over my eyes. When I awoke from this trance,

I found myself in a crowded hospital, with a _Soeur de Charité_

leaning over me.

LES POISSONS D'AVRIL.

REDDY O'DRYSCULL, SCHOOLMASTER, ETC., TO THE EDITOR.

_Water-grass-hill, 20th March._

SIR,--In answer to your application for further scraps of the late P.

P., and in reply to your just reproof of my remissness in forwarding,

as agreed upon, the monthly supplies to your Miscellany, I have only to

plead as my "apology" the "fast of Lent," which in these parts is kept

with such rigour as totally to dry up the genial moisture of the brain,

and desiccate the [Greek: kala reethra] of the fancy. In "justice to

Ireland" I must add, that, by the combined exertions of patriots and

landlords, we are kept at the proper starving-point all the year round;

a blissful state not likely to be disturbed by any provisions in the

new Irish "poor law." My correspondence must necessarily be _jejune_

like the season. I send you, however, an appropriate song, which our

late pastor used to chaunt over his red-herring whenever a friend from

Cork would drop in to partake of such lenten entertainment as his frugal

kitchen could afford.

THE SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC.

A GASTRONOMICAL CHAUNT.

Sunt Aries, Taurus, Cancer, Leo, Scorpio, Virgo,

Libraque et Arcitenens, Gemini, Caper, Amphora, Pisces.

I.

Of a tavern the Sun every month takes "the run,"

And a dozen each year wait his wishes;

One month with old Prout he takes share of a trout,

And puts up at the sign of THE FISHES.

'Tis an old-fashioned inn, but more quiet within

Than THE BULL or THE LION--both boisterous;

And few would fain dwell at THE SCORPION-hôtel,

Or THE CRAB...But this last is an oyster-house.

II.

At the sign of THE SCALES fuller measure prevails;

At THE RAM the repast may be richer:

Old Goëthe oft wrote at the sign of THE GOAT,

Tho' at times he'd drop in at THE PITCHER;

And those who have stay'd at the sign of THE MAID,

In desirable quarters have tarried;

While some for their sins must put up with THE TWINS,

Having had the mishap to get married.

III.

But THE FISHES combine in one mystical sign

A moral right apt for the banquet;

And a practical hint, which I ne'er saw in print,

Yet a Rochefoucault maxim I rank it:--

If a secret I'd hide, or a project confide,

To a comrade's good faith and devotion,

Oh! the friend whom I'd wish, though he _drank_ like a _fish_,

Should be _mute_ as the tribes of the ocean.

THE ANATOMY OF COURAGE.

BY PRINCE PUCKLER MUSKAU.

IN A LETTER TO A FRIEND.

As for the article of courage and its various manifestations, it is a

very peculiar thing: I have thought much about it, and observed a great

deal; and I am convinced that, except in romances, there are very few

men who at all times show distinguished, and _none at all_ who possess

_perfect_ courage. I should esteem any man who maintained the contrary

of himself, and who asserted that he did not know what fear was, a

mere braggart; but, nevertheless, I should not consider it my duty to

tell him so, to his face. There are endless _varieties_ of courage,

which may, however, be comprised under three general dispositions of

temperament, and six principal rubrics; within this arrangement a

thousand modifications still remain, but I cannot here pursue them.

We come, first, to three sorts of that courage which alone can be called

natural, and which, like all that nature gives _directly_, is perfect;

that is, without any mixture of fear so long as _it lasts_, and which,

therefore, has only a temporary influence. These are,

1. Courage from passion, such as love, anger, vengeance, and so forth.

2. From hunger, or the want of any thing indispensable to existence.

3. From habit, which, according to a law of nature, hardens completely

against particular kinds of permanent danger.

All the others are artificial, but not, therefore, imperfect; that is,

they are not always without admixture of fear, the result either of

a dawning, or on already advanced state of civilization. They may be

divided into

_a._ Courage out of vanity.

_b._ Out of a feeling of honour.

_c._ Out of duty; under which head may be reckoned the inspiration of

religion, and all kinds of enthusiasm; which is also closely allied

to _a_. At last we come to the physical conformation which supports

courage, or renders it difficult of exhibition, or puts it altogether

out of the question.

(There is certainly a fourth kind of courage, in some measure the shady

side of the others,--courage from avarice. I omitted it, because it is

rather an enormity, and can only produce criminals; it is, therefore,

allied to madness, of which I do not speak here.)

They are, firstly, a strong and healthy nervous system, and a sanguine

temperament.

Secondly, a weak and excitable constitution, which is called _par

excellence_ a nervous constitution.

Thirdly, that unfortunate defective formation, probably of the nerves

of the brain, which produces an unconquerable timidity, becomes real

suffering and a regular malady, rendering all manifestations of courage

next to impossible.

That these divisions are subject to more or less modification, and

often branch off into each other through inward motives, or external

influences, follows of course. I will in few words touch upon these

powers in their general and universal operation, and examine how the

different value of the chief combinations are classified.

One, two, and three, I give up; for every one knows that with both man

and beast, when a beloved object is in danger, or under the influence

of a natural impulse, or when animated by a blind rage, or pinched

by hunger, instinct alone acts, and timidity vanishes: but let the

excitement cease, and the courage disappears also. When full of food,

the lion flees before the feeblest man; and, when the hunger of the

terrible boa is quite appeased, it may be laid hold of, without danger.

It is equally well known that habit would make us forget the sword

suspended over our heads by a single hair. The soldier, continually in

battle, is as indifferent to bullets as the boy to the flying ball: and

yet the same soldier would shudder at a species of danger that the most

cowardly spy encounters in cold blood, and, in all probability, would

feel real terror if he were compelled to a conflict with a tiger, which

the timid Indian, armed with a short sword, and protected only by a

green shield, will go in search of and subdue. The boldest mariner is

often absurdly fearful in a carriage; and I have known a brave officer

who turned pale whenever he was obliged to leap his horse over a hedge

or a ditch.

But the case is very different when the courage of civilisation makes

common cause with the physical disposition. If No. 1, in its highest

perfection, be conjoined with _a_, _b_, and _c_, it is easy to see that

the individual uniting the whole will be the bravest possible man; when,

however, No. 1 stands alone, precious as it is, in, and for itself,

there is but little dependence on it. The weaker No. 2, united to _a_,

_b_, or _c_, is a rock compared to it: for the last motives have this

great and invaluable quality--they are lasting, while No. 1 depends

upon time and circumstance; and then will produce only the _so-called_

naturally brave, of whom the Spaniards say, _He was brave in his

day_; No. 1 reduced to his own resources would perhaps encounter with

vermilion cheeks and perfect cheerfulness, danger that would make No. 2

+ _a_, _b_, or _c_, pale and serious.

Notwithstanding this, it is by no means certain whether No. 1 would

not be seized with a panic in the fight, for all his red cheeks; but

No. 2, with his powerful auxiliary, certain that he must fight, is

quite secure, while the colour returns to his cheek even in the midst

of the danger. As soon as fear seizes No. 1, it must influence his

action; with No. 2 + _a_, _b_, or _c_, it is a matter of indifference

whether he feels fear or no, as it will be neutralized by the permanent

auxiliary qualifications, and its influence on his actions nullified.

And, although No. 1 + _a_, _b_, _c_, must always remain the _summum

perfectum_, yet No. 2 + _a_, _b_, _c_, will sometimes do bolder and more

surprising things, because the nervous excitement is more strongly acted

on; especially if enthusiasm be brought into play.

The other sex, for instance, never possess any other than this species

of courage; and if our manners had not, as well out of vanity, as a

feeling of honour and duty, entirely dispensed with courage in them, and

directed their whole education on this principle, then a lady, No. 2 +

_a_ alone, even without _b_ and _c_, would certainly have surpassed the

bravest man in point of courage, and would probably have been victor in

every combat, where only this courage and its endurance, and not merely

physical strength or skill, should decide.

No. 1 gifted also with _a_, _b_, _c_, would be brave sometimes, and

sometimes not; if No. 2, however, were equally _a_, _b_, _c_, then the

disadvantageous side of such a disposition would come into action, and

No. 2 would in this case be a regular portion, not so much _because_ he

_must_ be such, like No. 3, but because it would be far more convenient,

and more suitable to his nature: such would be many men in the lower,

and the whole dear sex in the highest, degree. The undeniably cowardly

disposition of the Jews has the same foundation. We have so long denied

them human and social rights, that the motives of vanity and the sense

of honour can operate but feebly on them, while that of duty in relation

to us can scarcely exist at all. Nothing but centuries of a more

reasonable and humane policy can render this otherwise.

The unfortunate No. 3 would only be courageous in two predicaments; in

half-frantic religious ecstacy, or in despair, itself the very extremity

of fear, when he might reach a point beyond the limits of courage. We

have seen, for example, people destroy themselves out of dread of death!

What I have here said, little as it is, appears to me sufficient

to point out a mode of drawing new deductions from every possible

combination; to determine their relative value; and, what is most

important of all, to excite further reflections, from which all may draw

practical benefit.

You may think, my dear friend, that I could not occupy myself with

subjects, without endeavouring to analyse my own portion of courage;

for who can undertake to study mankind without beginning and ending

with himself? Are you curious to be informed on this point? It is a

ticklish thing; but you know that I have a pleasure in being candid, and

therefore willingly withdraw, at times, the curtains of my most secret

chamber, to afford my good friends a glimpse. Listen, then: the result

will be found in that admired _juste milieu_, which certain well-known

governments have discovered without knowing it, and find that it answers

admirably well, because it may be translated by the German word _mittel

mässigkeit_ (moderation, or mediocrity.) This is just the case with me

also: in the first place, I must own to the feminine temperament No. 2,

although I would rather have belonged to No. 1; however, laws are not to

be prescribed to the Creator; and to say of myself what I think, without

maintaining it as certainly demonstrated, would be too vain on my part:

fortunately, in addition to my mediocre No. 2, I possess _a_, _b_, _c_,

thoroughly, at least in a high, if not in the highest degree.

I know the nervous agitation which in some is called bashfulness,

and in others fear, as do many who would not perhaps admit it so

candidly; but it does not conquer me, and acts merely as a shower of

rain does on a man wrapped in a waterproof cloak; the water remains

on the surface, and does not penetrate. I have before signified that

physical conditions, that is, stronger or weaker condition of the

nerves, produce great variations, particularly in the dispositions 1

and 2. The advantageous effect of a good breakfast on the courage has

become proverbial among the French; and all those who are in the least

"nervous" must acknowledge that there is a good deal of truth in it. The

young libertine in Gil Blas was perfectly in the right to answer, when

he was called at five in the morning to fight a duel, "That he would

not rise at such an hour for a rendezvous with a lady, much less to have

his throat cut by a man;" at eleven o'clock, when he had breakfasted,

and was thoroughly awake--not before--he got up, went out, and was run

through the body: a strong illustration of the folly of getting up, too

soon. However, when it must be, the admirable _a_, _b_, _c_, can conquer

even distasteful fasting, as they can everything else, whether they act

together or singly: with the help of this _æs triplex_, my littleness

has fought its way very comfortably through the world, as I hope it will

continue to do, without any great injury accruing, or being likely to

accrue, to my vanity, my sense of honour, or my sense of duty.

Being, in addition, half poet and half enthusiast, even the courage of

rashness was not unknown to me in my youthful days; notwithstanding

which, it is possible that, without my _a_, _b_, _c_, I might have run

away when it was dangerous to stay.

Now that I have grown up a civilised man, I observe one peculiar shade.

In danger, I think far less, sometimes not at all, of the danger itself;

but I am _afraid of my fear_; that is, I am afraid that others should

observe I am not quite so much at my ease, as my vanity and my sense

of honour (duty has nothing to do with it) require I should be. At the

very moment of danger, this feeling, as well as every other that can be

called anxiety, ceases of itself; because action makes stronger claims

on the spirit's strength, and the weaker affections fall naturally into

the background. This weakness (for such it certainly is) of extreme

anxiety respecting the opinion of men, is so characteristic of me, that

I feel it continually whenever I am called upon to do anything that

brings me under observation,--for example, whether I make a speech,

act a part, or encounter mortal danger. Herewith must not, however, be

reckoned more or less physical excitement, or when natural impulses such

as I, II, III, come into play. I can, without boasting, affirm, with a

good conscience, that the mortal danger is, in relation to the others,

the lightest of the three; and you will laugh when I tell you, that the

strongest fit of timidity that ever seized upon me was, absurdly enough,

on one occasion when I was to _sing_ in public!--an unlucky passion

that possessed me at one time in my foolish life, and which I renounced

merely out of vexation at this ridiculous bashfulness. If I were writing

about another, I should, out of civility, call such a disposition,

only an exaggerated sense of honour,--at most vanity, well-founded

vanity. But I dare not flatter myself, and therefore I give it its true

name,--the fear of men; for bashfulness is a part of fear, as audacity

is of courage, but of courage, so to say, without soul, consequently

without dignity, as bashfulness is fear without shame. It must not be

overlooked that the greatest courage cannot, at the bottom, dispense

with audacity, and the greatest men in profane history possessed it. It

is, however, one of the greatest gifts for the world; and many deceive

through their whole lives, by the help of audacity alone. It is not

necessary to say that it must, however, be coupled with understanding,

and so applied as we must in public go decently clothed. I am sorry

that I have it not, and can only obtain it by artificial means; but

it appears to me of so much importance, that I am half inclined, dear

Schefer, to favour you with a second dissertation, if it were not a

principal maxim of my book and letter-writing trade not to give too

much of what is valuable. You are quit for the fear this time; and, as

you are but too well acquainted with me, I see you smile, and hear you

distinctly exclaim, "Another fancy-piece to look like truth." My dear

Schefer, a good conjurer shows all the cards, and yet you only see what

he pleases to let you. You and the Secret Society understand me. Like

Wallenstein, I keep my last word _in petto_. This is my last but one.

THE SONG OF THE COVER.

(NOT A SPORTING ONE.)

My Dear Mr. Editor.--I have been for some time troubled by a slight

longing to illustrate the title-page (or rather the Cover and its pretty

_pages_) of the Miscellany. Today I was taken suddenly worse with this

desperate symptom of the _cacoethes scribendi_, but at length being

safely delivered of the following doggrel, you will be glad to hear that

I am now "as well as can be expected."

Ever, my dear Mr. Editor, yours truly,

R. J.

THE SONG OF THE COVER.

"SING a song of half-a-crown--

Lay it out this minute:

Buy the book, for half the town

Want to know what's in it.

Had you all the cares of Job,

You'd then forget your troubles,"

Cried Cupid, seated on the globe,

Busy blowing bubbles.

Rosy Summer, pretty Spring,

See them scattering flowers--

"Catch who can!" the song they sing:

Hearts-ease fall in showers.

Autumn, tipsy with the grape,

Plays a pipe and tabor;

Winter imitates the ape,

Mocking at his neighbour.

Bentley, Boz, and Cruikshank, stand,

Like expectant reelers--

"Music!"--"Play up!"--pipe in hand,

Beside the _fluted_ pillars!

Boz and Cruikshank want to dance,

None for frolic riper,

But Bentley makes the first advance,

Because he "pays the piper."

"Then sing a song of half-a-crown,

And make a merry race on't

To buy the book, all London town;

There's wit upon the _face_ on't.

Had you all the cares of Job,

You'd then forget your troubles,"

Cried Cupid, seated on the globe,

Busy blowing bubbles.

THE COBBLER OF DORT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MEPHISTOPHELES IN ENGLAND."

"Oh! the world's nothing more than a cobbler's stall,

Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!

And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall;

Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!

The great and the rich

Never want a new stitch;

They fit like a glove before and behind,

Are polished and neat, and always well lined,

And thus wear till they come to life's ending:

But the poor and the mean

Are not fit to be seen,--

They are things that none would borrow or steal,

Are out at the toes, and down at the heel,

And are always beyond any mending.

So the world's nothing more than a cobbler's stall,

Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!

And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall;

Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!

"Jacob!--Jacob Kats, I say!" exclaimed a shrill female voice.

"Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!" continued the singer.

"Are you deaf, mynheer?"

"And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall."

"Do leave off your singing, and open the door; the burgomaster will be

angry that I have stayed so long."

"Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!"

"You are enough to provoke the most patient girl in Dort. Open the door,

Jacob Kats! Open the door this instant, or you shall never have any more

work from me!"

"Ya?" drawled the cobbler interrogatively, as he slowly opened the door

of his stall.

"Is this the way you behave to your customers, mynheer?" asked a

smartly-dressed, plump-faced, pretty little woman, in rather a sharp

tone;--"keeping them knocking at the door till you please to open it?

It's not respectful to the burgomaster, Jacob Kats!"

"Ya!" replied the mender of leather.

"Here, I want you to do this very neatly," said the girl, producing

a small light shoe, and pointing to a place that evidently wanted

repairing.

"Ya!" said Jacob Kats, examining with professional curiosity the object

spoken of.

"The stitches have broken away, you see; so you must fill up the place

they have left, with your best workmanship," she continued.

"Ya!" he responded.

"And mind you don't make a botch of it, mynheer!"

"Ya!"

"And let me have it in an hour, for the burgomaster has given me leave

to go to a dance."

"Ya!"

"And be sure you make a reasonable charge."

"Ya."

"I shall be back in an hour," said the little woman, as she opened the

door to let herself out of the stall; "and I shall expect that it will

be ready by that time:" and away she went. "Ya!" replied Jacob for the

last time, as he prepared to set briskly about the job, knowing that his

fair customer was too important a personage to be disappointed. "It is

not every cobbler that can boast of being employed by a burgomaster's

nursery-maid," thought Jacob; and Jacob was right.

Now every one knows what sort of character a cobbler is; but a Dutch

cobbler is the _beau idéal_ of the tribe, and the cobbler of Dort

deserved to be king of all the cobblers in Holland. He was the finest

specimen of "the profession" it was possible to meet with; a profession,

by-the-by, which his forefathers from time immemorial had followed, for

none of them had ever been, or ever aspired to be, shoemakers. Jacob

could not be said to be tall, unless a height of five feet one is so

considered. His body was what is usually called "punchy;" his head round

like a ball, so that it appeared upon his shoulders like a Dutch cheese

on a firkin of butter; and his face, having been well seamed by the

ravages of the small-pox, closely resembled a battered nutmeg-grater,

with a tremendous gap at the bottom for a mouth, a fiery excrescence

just above it, for a nose, and two dents, higher still, in which were

placed a pair of twinkling eyes. It will easily be understood from this

description, that our hero was by no means handsome; but his father

and his grandfather before him, had been remarkable for the plainness

of their looks, and therefore Jacob had no earthly reason to desire to

put a better face on his business than his predecessors. Much cannot be

said of his dress, which had little in it differing from that of other

cobblers. A red woollen cap ornamented his head,--a part of his person

that certainly required some decoration; long sleeves, of a fabric which

could only be guessed at, in consequence of their colour, cased his

arms; half-a-dozen waistcoats of various materials covered the upper

part of his body; and his nether garments were hid under an immense

thick leather apron,--a sort of heir-loom of the family.

But Jacob had other _habits_ beside these; he drank much--he smoked

more--and had an equal partiality for songs and pickled herrings. Alone,

which is something like a paradox, he was the most sociable fellow

in existence; he sang to himself, he talked to himself, he drank to

himself, and was evidently on the most friendly terms with himself:

but when any one made an addition to the society, he became the most

reserved of cobblers; monosyllables were all he attempted to utter; nor

had he any great variety of these, as may have been observed in the

preceding dialogue. His stall was his kingdom; he swayed his hammer,

and ruled his lapstone vigorously; and, as other absolute monarchs have

done,--in his subjects he found his _tools_. His place of empire was

worthy of its ruler. It had originally been an outhouse, belonging to

one of those low Gothic-looking dwellings with projecting eaves and

bow windows that may be seen in the unfashionable parts of most Dutch

towns; and its interior, besides a multitude of objects belonging to the

trade, contained a variety of other matters peculiar to himself. Such

spaces on the wells as were not hidden from view by superannuated boots

and shoes, were covered with coloured prints from designs by Ostade,

Teniers, and others, representing boors drinking, playing at cards or

at bowls, and similar subjects. On a heavy three-legged stool, the

throne of the dynasty of the Kats, sat the illustrious Jacob, facing the

window to receive all the advantages the light could give: before him

were the paraphernalia of his vocation: on one side was a curious old

flask, smelling strongly of genuine Schiedam, which invariably formed "a

running accompaniment" to his labours; and on the other was an antique

pipe, short in the stem, and having a bowl on which the head of a satyr

had been carved, but constant use for several generations had made the

material so black, that it might have been taken for the frontispiece of

a more objectionable personage.

Jacob Kats had been diligently waxing some flax preparatory to

commencing the repairs of the burgomaster's nursery-maid's shoe,

occasionally stopping in his task to moisten his throat with the

contents of the flask, which, either from a prodigal meal of pickled

herrings having made him more thirsty than usual, or the Schiedam

appearing more excellent, had been raised to his mouth so often that

day, that it had tinged his nose to a more luminous crimson, and had

given to his eyes a more restless twinkling, than either had known

for some time; when, having prepared his thread, laid it carefully on

his knee ready for immediate use, and placed the object on which his

skill was to be exercised close at hand, he turned his attention to his

pipe,--it being an invariable rule of his progenitors never to attempt

anything of importance without first seeking the stimulating influence

of the Virginian weed. On examining his stock of tobacco, he discovered

that he had barely enough for one pipe.

"Donner und blitzen! no more? Bah! I wish to the Teufel my pipe would

never want refilling," exclaimed the cobbler of Dort, filling the bowl

with the remains of the tobacco; and then, having ignited it with the

assistance of flint, steel, and German tinder, puffed away at the tube,

consoling himself with the reflection that, when his labour was done,

he should be able to procure a fresh supply. He smoked and stitched,

and stitched and smoked, and smoked and stitched again, and, while his

fumigations kept pace with his arms, his thoughts were by no means idle;

for, to tell the exact truth, he became conscious of a flow of ideas

more numerous and more ambitious than he had ever previously conceived.

Among other notions which hurried one another through his pericranium,

was one particularly interesting to himself. He thought it was high time

to attempt something to prevent the ancient family of the Kats becoming

extinct, as he was now on the shady side of forty, enjoying in single

blessedness the dignities of Cobbler of Dort, and, if such a state

continued, stood an excellent chance of being the last of his name who

had filled that honourable capacity. He could not help condemning the

taste of the girls of his native town, who had never looked favourably

upon his advantages: even Maria Van Bree, a fair widow who had signified

her affection every day for fifteen years by repeating a joke upon his

nose, only last week had blighted his dearest hopes by marrying an old

fellow with no nose at all. Jacob thought of his solitary condition, and

fancied himself miserable. He became sentimental. His stitches were made

with a melancholy precision, and in the intensity of his affliction he

puffed his miserable pipe; but, as song was the medium through which

he always expressed his emotions, his grief was not tuneless: in tones

that, without any exaggeration, were wretched to a degree, he sung the

following exquisite example of Dutch sentiment:

"Ach! had ik tranen kon ik schreijen,

De smart knaagt mij het leven af;

Neen wanhoop spaargeen folte ringen,

Stort bij Maria mij in't graf."

Which is most appropriately rendered thus:

"Ah! had I tears, so fast they'd spring,

Nought from these eyes the flood could wipe out;

But had I songs, I could not sing,--

The false Maria's put my pipe out."

The conclusion of this pathetic verse brought to his mind the

extraordinary circumstance of his pipe (the one he had been smoking)

continuing to be vigorously puffed long after it had usually required

replenishing. He might have exhausted three in the same time. He

also became conscious of a curious burning sensation spreading from

immediately under his red cap to the very extremities of his ten

toes. The smoke he inhaled seemed very hot; and the alarm which his

observations on these matters created was considerably increased by

hearing a roar of small shrill laughter burst from under his very nose!

"Donner und blitzen!" exclaimed the bewildered cobbler, as he took the

pipe out of his mouth and looked around him to discover from whence the

sounds proceeded.

"Smoke away, old boy! Smoke away! You won't smoke me out in a hurry, I

can tell ye."

Jacob directed his eyes to the place from whence came this strange

address, and his astonishment may be imagined at perceiving that _the

words were uttered by his pipe!_ The ill-looking, black satyr, carved on

the bowl, seemed to cock his eye at him in the most impertinent manner,

twisted his mouth into all sorts of diabolical grimaces, and laughed

till the tears ran down his sooty cheeks. Jacob was, as he himself

expressed it, "struck all of a heap."

"You know you wished to the Teufel your pipe would never require

refilling," said the voice as plainly as it could, while laughing all

the time; "so your desire is now gratified. You may smoke me till the

day of judgement."

Jacob, in fear and trembling, recalled to mind his impious wish; and

even his regret for having been jilted by the widow Van Bree was

forgotten in the intensity of his alarm.

"Smoke away, Jacob Kats!--I'm full of capital tobacco," continued the

little wretch, with a chuckle.

The terrified cobbler was thinking of refusing, yet too much afraid of

the consequences; while his tormentor, distorting his hideous features

into a more abominable grin, shrieked out in his shrill treble,

"You _must_ smoke me--no use refusing _now_! Here I am, old boy, with a

full bowl that will never burn out--never, never, never! so you'd best

smoke." And then, as if noticing his indecision, he exclaimed, with a

fresh burst of horrid laughter, "Well, if you won't, I'll make you: so,

here goes!" and, before his wretched victim was aware of the

manoeuvre, he jumped stem foremost into his mouth.

"Now, smoke away, old boy, or worse will follow!" said the little satyr

threateningly.

Jacob was in such a state of fright that he did not dare to refuse; but

the first mouthful of smoke he inhaled seemed to choke him, as if it was

the burning flames of sulphur, and, gasping for breath, he brushed the

pipe from his mouth.

"Smoke away, Jacob!--capital tobacco!" screamed the voice in a roar of

more fiendish mirth, as he immediately regained his position. In vain,

with one hand after the other, the miserable cobbler knocked the pipe

from between his teeth: as fast as he struck it away, it returned to

the same place. "Smoke away, old boy!" continued his unrelenting enemy,

as often as his fits of laughter would allow. "Smoke away!--capital

tobacco!"

Jacob Kats seemed in despair, when, casting his eyes upon his lapstone,

a way of getting rid of the accursed pipe presented itself to his mind.

He threw down the grinning demon on the floor, and with his lapstone

raised above his head was about to crush it at a blow. "Smoke away,

old boy!" fixing itself again firmly between his teeth, before Jacob

had time to put his intention into execution, jeeringly continued the

detested voice; "smoke away!--capital tobacco!"

With one great effort, such as great minds have recourse to on great

occasions. Jacob let fall the stone, with a vigorous grasp caught hold

of the grinning pipe, and, as he thought, before it could make a guess

as to what he was about to do, dashed it into a thousand pieces upon the

lapstone at his feet.