"My dear baron," said he, gravely, when Steinfeld at last paused, "I

am sure you are too honourable a man to trifle with the affections of

any woman. I know you as the very opposite character to those

heartless and despicable male coquets, who ensnare susceptible hearts

for the cruel pleasure of bruising or breaking them, and sacrifice, in

their vile egotism, the happiness of others to the indulgence of

paltry vanity. I detect the motives of your present reserve, and,

believe me, I appreciate their delicacy. Rumour, that eternal and

impertinent gossip, has asserted that Baron Ernest von Steinfeld has

impaired, by his open hand and pursuit of pleasure, the heritage of

his forefathers. I do not mean that this has become matter of common

report; but we bankers have opportunities of knowing many things, and

can often read in our bill-books and ledgers the histories of families

and individuals. In short, it is little matter how I know that your

affairs, my dear baron, are less flourishing than they might be, or

than you could wish. But this, after all, is an unimportant matter.

The dirty acres are still there--the Schloss Steinfeld still stands

firm upon its foundation, and though there be a bit of a mortgage on

the domain, and some trouble with refractory Jews, it is nothing, I am

sure, but what a clear head, and a little ready cash, will easily

dispose of."

It was natural to suppose that a lover, whose position on the brink of

ruin made him scruple to ask the hand of his mistress of her nearest

male relative and protector, and who found his embarrassments suddenly

smoothed over and made light of by the very person who might be

expected to exaggerate them, would be the last man to place fresh

stumbling-blocks on the path to happiness thus unexpectedly cleared

before him. Steinfeld, however, appeared little disposed to chime in

with the banker's emollient view of his disastrous financial position.

With an eagerness that bespoke either the most honourable

punctiliousness, or very little anxiety to become the husband of

Mademoiselle Gonfalon, he set Fatello right.

"I heartily wish," said he, "matters were no worse than you suppose.

You quite underrate my real embarrassments. My estate is mine only

nominally; not a farthing it produces comes into my pocket; the very

castle and its furniture are pledged; some houses in Vienna, and a few

thousand florins of Austrian _rentes_, derived from my mother, melted

away years ago; I am deeply in debt, and harassed on all sides by duns

and extortioners. I calculated my liabilities the other day--why, I

know not, for I have no chance of clearing them--and I found it would

require three hundred thousand florins to release my lands and pay my

debts. You see, my dear M. Fatello, I am not a very likely match for

an heiress."

Fatello had listened with profound attention to the insolvent

balance-sheet exhibited by the baron.

"Three hundred thousand florins--six hundred thousand francs," said

he, musingly--"allowing for usury and overcharges, might doubtless be

got rid of for a hundred thousand less. Well, baron, when Sebastiana

marries, she will have more than that tacked to her apron. Her father

left her something like half a million, and I have not let the money

lie idle. She is a richer woman, by some thousand louis d'ors, than

she was at his death. I don't carry her account in my head, but I

daresay her fortune would clear your lands, and leave a nice nest-egg

besides. And although she certainly might find a husband in better

plight as regards money matters, yet, as you are so much attached to

each other, and happiness, after all, is before gold, I shall make no

difficulties. I noticed the girl was absent and sentimental of late,

but never guessed the real cause. Ah, baron! you fascinating dogs have

much to answer for!"

Whilst Fatello thus ran on, with, as usual, more bluntness than good

breeding, Steinfeld was evidently on thorns; and at the first

appearance of a pause in the banker's discourse, he impatiently struck

in.

"I must beg your attention, M. Fatello," said he, "whilst I repeat

what you evidently have imperfectly understood--that it has never

entered my head to gain Mademoiselle Gonfalon's affections, and that I

have no reason to believe I should succeed in the attempt. I again

repeat that nothing but the most innocent and unimportant flirtation

has passed between us. I am deeply sensible of your kind

intentions--grateful for your generous willingness to overlook my

unfortunate circumstances, and to promote my marriage with your

sister-in-law; but, flattering and advantageous as such a union would

be to me, I am not certain it would lead to that happiness which you

justly deem preferable to wealth. I doubt whether my disposition and

that of Mademoiselle Sebastiana would exactly harmonise. Moreover,

necessitous though I am, it goes against my pride to owe every thing

to my wife. It would pain me to see her dowry swallowed up by my

debts. Let us drop the subject, I entreat you. To-morrow you will

appreciate and rejoice at my hesitation. I fully comprehend the

generous impulse that prompts you. Having done me an injustice, you

would compensate me beyond my merits. Thanks, my good friend; but,

believe me, if happiness resides not in wealth, neither is it found in

hasty or ill-assorted unions. And, to tell you the truth, however

politic a rich marriage might be in the present critical state of my

affairs, I long ago made a vow against matrimony, which I still

hesitate to break."

"You are the best judge of your own motives," said Fatello, stiffly,

"but you quite misconstrue mine. It never entered my head to view you

as a victim, or to think myself called upon to atone, by providing you

with a rich and handsome wife, for the jealousy you so successfully

proved groundless. Such compensation would be excessive for so slight

an injury. No, no, baron--you have quite mistaken me. As the nearest

connexion and natural guardian of Mademoiselle Gonfalon, it is my duty

to watch over her, and not to allow her feelings to be trifled with.

For some time past, I have suspected her affections were engaged, but

it never occurred to me they were fixed upon you. Well--last night I

go to a ball, and, actuated by suspicions to which it is unnecessary

to recur, I listen to your conversation with my sister-in-law. To a

plain man like myself, it bore but one interpretation--that you have

sought and won her heart. You deny this, and assert your language to

have been that of common gallantry and compliment, such as may be

addressed to any woman without her inferring serious intentions. Here,

then, we are gravely at issue. You maintain my ears deceived me; I

persist in crediting their evidence. Fortunately, an arbiter is easily

found. I shall now return home, see my sister-in-law, and confess to

her my eaves-dropping, keeping its real motive and my visit to you

profoundly secret. From her I shall learn how matters really stand. If

her account agree with Baron Steinfeld's, I shall evermore mistrust my

hearing; if the contrary, and that the baron, himself a sworn foe to

marriage, has compromised the happiness of a young and confiding

woman, why, then, he will not be surprised if I seek of him, for so

grave an offence, the reparation which a short time ago I was ready to

afford him for one comparatively insignificant." And Fatello bowed

formally, and with severe countenance moved towards the door. But

before he could leave the room, Steinfeld, who had stood for a moment

thoughtful and perplexed, hurried to intercept him, and laid his hand

upon the lock.

"You are really too hasty, Fatello," said he, "and not altogether

reasonable. What ill weed have you trodden upon, that makes you so

captious this morning? Own that our conversation has taken an odd

turn! Would any one believe that you, Fatello the _millionnaire_,

press a marriage between your sister, the wealthy Mademoiselle

Gonfalon, and myself, the needy Baron Steinfeld--and that it is I, the

ruined spendthrift, from whom the obstacles to the match proceed?

Neither in romance nor in real life has the case a precedent. And you

may be assured the world will not applaud your wisdom, nor

Mademoiselle Sebastiana feel grateful for your zeal."

"For the world's applause I care not that," replied Fatello, snapping

his fingers. "As to my sister, I have neither will nor power to

constrain her. I do but afford her the protection she is entitled to

at my hands. I press her upon no man, but neither do I suffer her to

be trifled with. Sebastiana Gonfalon does not lack suitors, I can

assure you."

"Unquestionably," said Steinfeld, with an absent air; "Mademoiselle

Gonfalon is indeed a most charming person, and, were she penniless,

would still be a prize to any man. I only wish I enjoyed the place in

her good opinion you so erroneously imagine me to occupy."

"Well, well," said Fatello, striving to get at the door, before which

the baron had planted himself, "since error there is, it will soon be

cleared up. You cannot blame me, baron, for preferring, in so delicate

an affair, the testimony of my own ears to that of any one person. But

if two unite against me, I shall think myself crazed or bewitched, and

shall at least be silenced and confounded, if not entirely convinced."

"Answer me one question," said Steinfeld. "If yesterday, before you

overheard a part of my conversation with your sister, I had asked of

you her hand, exposing to you at the same time the state of my

fortunes, or rather of my misfortunes, would you then have sanctioned

my suit and pleaded my cause with Mademoiselle Gonfalon? Would you,

and will you now--for, believe me, I need it more than you think--add

the weight of your arguments and advocacy to the prepossession you

persist in thinking your sister has in my favour, a prepossession of

whose existence I hardly dare flatter myself?"

"Why not?" said Fatello, with an air of straightforward cordiality.

"Why not? You are not rich, certainly but Sebastiana is rich enough

for both. You have high birth, talents, interest with the Emperor,

and, once married, with your debts paid, and your wild oats sown, you

may take ambition instead of pleasure for a mistress, and aspire to

high employment. Why not return to diplomacy, for which you are so

admirably qualified, and come back to us as Austrian ambassador?

Believe me, baron, there is a fine career before you, if you will but

pursue it."

"Perhaps," said Steinfeld, smiling to himself, like a man to whom a

bright perspective is suddenly thrown open; "and, as you say, the

first step would be a suitable marriage, which, by ridding me of all

encumbrance, might enable me to climb lightly and steadily the hill of

wealth and honours."

"And a _millionnaire_ brother-in-law to give you an occasional push by

the way," added Fatello, with one of his heavy, purse-proud smiles;

"pushes you may repay in kind, for diplomatist and financier should

ever hunt in couples."

"My dear Fatello," said Steinfeld, "the prospect is too charming to be

lightly relinquished. You must think strangely of my first reluctance

to avail myself of your friendly disposition in my favour; but I so

little suspected it, I was so bewildered by its sudden revelation, so

embarrassed by my own difficulties--and then pride, you know--a morbid

fear of being thought mercenary; in short, you will make allowance for

my strange way of meeting your kind encouragement. I can only say,

that since you deem me worthy of her, and if you can obtain her

consent, (a more difficult task, I fear, than you imagine,) I shall be

the happiest of men as the husband of the adorable Sebastiana."

"That is speaking to the purpose," said Fatello; "and, for my part, I

repeat that I shall be happy to call you brother-in-law. I will do my

best for you with Sebastiana, to whom I will at once communicate your

formal demand in marriage. But, pshaw! you rogue," added he, with a

clumsy attempt at archness, "you have made pretty sure of her consent,

and need no brotherly advocate."

"Indeed you are mistaken," replied Steinfeld earnestly. "I only wish I

were as confident, and with good reason, as you think me."

"Well, well, no matter," said the banker. "You shall shortly hear your

fate."

"I shall be on thorns till I learn it," said the baron. "And, my dear

Fatello," said he, detaining the banker, who, after shaking hands with

him, was about to leave the room, "it is perhaps not necessary to

refer--at least not weigh upon--our conversation at last night's

masquerade. It might vex Mademoiselle Gonfalon--to learn that she had

been overheard--or--she might doubt your having heard, and think I had

been confiding to you a presumptuous and unfounded belief of her

partiality for myself. Women, you know, are susceptible on these

points; it might indispose her towards me, and lessen my chance. In

short," he added, with a smile, "if you will be guided by an

_ex-roué_, now reformed, but who has some little experience of the

female heart, you will confine yourself to the communication of my

proposals, without reference to any thing past, and apply all your

eloquence to induce Mademoiselle Sebastiana to receive them as

favourably as yourself."

Fatello nodded knowingly.

"Ay, ay," said he, "I see I need not despair of my ears. They do not

serve me so badly. But never fear, baron--I will know nothing, except

that you are desperately in love, and that your life depends on your

suit's success. That is the established formula, is it not?"

When the baron--after escorting Fatello, in spite of his resistance,

to the door of the pavilion, where the banker's carriage awaited

him--re-entered the breakfast-room, the joyous and hopeful expression

his countenance had worn during the latter part of his conversation

with his visitor was exchanged for one of anxiety and doubt. Instead

of returning to the breakfast, of which he had scarcely eaten a

mouthful, he drew his arm-chair to the fire, threw himself into it,

and fell into a brown study. The attentive valet, who came in full of

concern for his master's interrupted meal, was sharply dismissed, with

an order to admit no callers. After a short time, however, Steinfeld's

cogitations apparently assumed a rosier hue. The wrinkles on his brow

relaxed their rigidity, he ceased to gnaw his mustache, and at length

a smile dawned upon his features, and grew till it burst into a laugh.

Something or other inordinately tickled the baron's fancy; for he lay

back in his chair and laughed heartily, but silently, with the eyes

rather than the mouth, for nearly a minute. Then getting up, and

lounging pensively through the room, he indulged in a soliloquy of

muttered and broken sentences, which, like the secret cipher of a band

of conspirators, were unintelligible without a key. Their obscurity

was increased by a style of metaphor borrowed from the card-table, and

which a man of such correct taste as Steinfeld would doubtless have

scrupled to employ in conversation with any one but himself.

"What an odd caprice of fate!" he said. "A strange turn in the game,

indeed! The card I most feared turns up trumps! It rather deranges my

calculations; but perhaps it is as good a card as the other. Decidedly

as sure a one. What certainty that yonder pedantic booby is right in

his prognostics? And then there was no avoiding it. Provided, only,

Fatello is silent about last night. If not, all is spoilt. And if she

makes a scene! Your Spanish dames are reputed fiery as Arabs; but I

take her for one of the milder sort--rather a pining than a storming

beauty. What if I were to miss both, by some infernal _quiproquo_ or

other. Query, too, whether Sebastiana accepts; but I think, with

Fatello to back me, I need not fear much on that score. I detect his

motives. To your rich upstart, money is dirt compared with descent,

connexion, title. He would like to be an ambassador's brother-in-law,

the near connexion of a family dating from Charlemagne--he, the man of

nothing, with plebeian written on his front. Upwards of half a

million. Seven hundred thousand, I daresay. I had reckoned on nearly

double, and now I may lose both. Well, _à la grâce du diable_. I will

go take a gallop."

And in another half hour the aspirant to the hand and fortune of

Sebastiana Gonfalon was cantering round the Bois de Boulogne, followed

at the prescribed distance by Celestin, who, mounted on a fine English

horse, near sixteen hands high, bore no slight resemblance to an ape

exalted on an elephant.

CHAP. IV.--THE CAPTAIN'S ROOM.

The hotel of the Northern Eagle, situated in one of the most

respectable of the numerous small streets between the Rue St Honoré

and the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, is one of several hundred

establishments of the class, scattered over Paris, and which, although

bearing the ambitious title of "_hotel_," differ in no essential

respect from what in London are styled third or fourth-rate

lodging-houses. It is a tall, narrow, melancholy-looking edifice,

entered through an archway, which devours a great part of the

ground-floor, and is closed at night by a heavy coach-door, and in the

daytime by a four-foot palisade, painted a bright green, with a gate

in the middle, and a noisy bell that rings whenever the gate is

opened. Under the archway, and in the little paved court that

terminates it, there is always a strong smell of blacking in the

morning, and an equally strong smell of soup in the afternoon; the

former arising from the labours of Jean, a strapping, broad-shouldered

native of Picardy, who makes beds, cleans boots, and carries water for

the entire hotel; the latter emanating from a small, smoky den, not

unlike a ship's caboose, where a dingy cookmaid prepares the diurnal

_pot-au-feu_ for the mistress of the hotel, her son and husband, and

for a couple of pensioners, who, in consideration of the moderate

monthly payment of fifty francs each, are admitted to share the frugal

ragouts of Madame Duchambre's dinner-table. By an architectural

arrangement, common enough in old Paris houses, and which seems

designed to secure a comfortable gush of cold air through the crevices

of every door in the building, the foot of the staircase is in the

court, open to all weathers--a circumstance most painful to Jean, who

takes pride in the polish of his stairs, and is to be seen, whenever

his other avocations leave him a moment's leisure, busily repairing,

with a brush buckled on his foot, and a bit of wax in a cleft stick,

the damage done to their lustre by the muddy boots of the lodgers. The

hotel contains about five-and-twenty rooms, all let singly, with the

exception of the first floor, divided into two "_appartemens_" of two

rooms and a cupboard each, for which Madame Duchambre obtains the

extravagant rent of ninety and one hundred francs per month. Above the

first floor the rooms are of various quality--from the commodious

chamber which, by the French system of an alcove for the bed, is

converted in the daytime into a very tolerable imitation of a

parlour--to the comfortless attic, an oven in summer, an ice-house in

winter, dearly paid at five francs a-week by some struggling artisan

who works hard enough in the day to sleep anywhere at night.

At the period referred to by this narrative, a room upon the third

floor of the hotel of the Northern Eagle was occupied, as might be

ascertained by inspection of a lithographed visiting card, stuck upon

the door with a wafer, by Godibert Carcassonne, captain in the 1st

African Chasseurs, known emphatically amongst the permanent tenants of

the hotel as "The Captain." Not that military occupants were a rarity

under the wings of the Northern Eagle; captains were common enough

there--majors not very scarce--and it was upon record that more than

one colonel had occupied the yellow _salon_ upon the first floor. But

none of these warriors bore comparison with Captain Carcassonne in the

estimation of Madame Duchambre, an elderly lady with a game leg, and a

singularly plain countenance, who had seen better days, and had a

strong sense of the proprieties of life. In general she professed no

great affection for men of the sword, whom she considered too much

addicted to strong drink and profane oaths, and who did not always,

she said, respect _la pudeur de la maison_. The captain, however, had

completely won her heart--not by any particular meekness or

abstinence, for he consumed far more cognac than spring water, had a

voice like a deep-mouthed mastiff, and swore, when incensed, till the

very rafters trembled. Nevertheless he had somehow or other gained

her affections; partly, perhaps, by the regularity with which, upon

all his visits to Paris during the previous fifteen years, he had

lodged in her house and paid his bills; partly, doubtless, by the

engaging familiarity with which he helped himself from her snuff-box,

and addressed her as Maman Duchambre.

It was eight o'clock at night, and, contrary to his wont, Captain

Carcassonne, instead of contesting a pool at billiards in his

accustomed café, or occupying a stall at his favourite Palais Royal

theatre, was seated in his room, alone, a coffee-cup and a bottle on

the table beside him, the amber mouthpiece of a huge meerschaum pipe

disappearing under his heavy dark mustache, smoking steadily, and

reading the _Sentinelle de l'Armée_. He was a powerful active man,

about forty years of age, with a red-brown complexion, martial

features, and a cavalier air, in whom Algerine climate and fatigues

had mitigated, if it had not wholly checked, that tendency to

corpulence early observable in many French cavalry officers, for the

most part a sedentary and full-feeding race. Of a most gregarious

disposition, no slight cause would have induced the captain to pass in

slow solitude those evening hours, which, according to his creed,

ought invariably, in Paris, to dance merrily by in the broad light of

gas, and in the excitement of a theatre or coffee-house. Neither was

it, in his eyes, a trifle that had placed him, as he expressed it,

under close arrest for the evening. He was paying a small instalment

of a debt of gratitude, which many would have held expunged by lapse

of time, but which Carcassonne still remembered and willingly

acknowledged. Many years previously--within a twelvemonth after his

promotion from a sergeantcy in a crack hussar regiment to a cornetcy

in a corps of chasseurs, newly formed for African service, and in

which he had since sabred his way to the command of a troop--Godibert

Carcassonne, when on leave of absence at Paris, had been led, by

thoughtlessness and by evil associates, rather than by innate vice,

into a scrape which threatened to blast his prospects in the army, and

consequently in life, and of his extrication from which there was no

possibility, unless he could immediately procure five thousand francs.

The sum was trifling, but to him it seemed immense, for he estimated

it by the difficulty of obtaining it. Driven to desperation, thoughts

of suicide beset him, when at that critical moment a friend came to

the rescue. By the merest chance, he stumbled upon a former

school-fellow, a native of the same department as himself, and his

accomplice in many a boyish frolic. They had not seen each other for

years. When Carcassonne was taken by the conscription, his schoolmate

had already departed to seek fortune at Paris, the Eldorado of

provincials, and there, whilst the smart but penniless young soldier

was slowly working his way to a commission, he had taken root and

prospered. He was not yet a wealthy man, but neither was he a needy or

niggardly one, for, on hearing the tale of his friend's difficulties,

he offered him, after a few moments' internal calculation, the loan of

the sum on which his fate depended, and gruffly cut short the

impetuous expression of gratitude with which the generous offer was

joyfully accepted. The loan was in fact a gift, for when, some time

afterwards, Carcassonne remitted to his friend a small instalment of

his debt, scraped together by a pinching economy that did him honour,

out of his slender pay, the little draft was returned to him, with the

words, "You shall pay me when you are colonel." And as all subsequent

attempts were met by the same answer, the money was still unpaid. But

never did loan bear better interest of gratitude. Carcassonne had

never forgotten the obligation, was never weary of seeking

opportunities of requiting it. These were hard to find, for his friend

was now a rich man, and there was little the dragoon could do for him

beyond choosing his horses, and giving his grooms valuable veterinary

hints, derived from his long experience of the chevaline race in the

stables of the 1st Chasseurs. Once only was he fortunate enough to

hear his benefactor slightingly spoken of at a public table in Paris.

That was a happy day for Carcassonne, and a sad one for the offender,

who was taken home a few hours afterwards with pistol bullet in his

shoulder.

The object of this devoted attachment on the part of the rough but

honest-hearted soldier, was not insensible to the sincerity and value

of such friendship, and returned it after his own fashion,--that is to

say, somewhat as the owner of a noble dog permits its demonstrations

of affection, and requites them by an occasional caress. When

Carcassonne came to Paris, which he did as often as he could get leave

of absence from his duties in Africa, his first visit was always for

his benefactor, who invariably got up a dinner for him--not at his own

house, which the dragoon would have considered a tame proceeding, but

at some renowned restaurant--a regular _bamboche_, as the African

styled it, where champagne corks flew and punch flamed from six in the

evening till any hour after midnight. Then, the civilian's occupations

being numerous, and his sphere of life quite different from that of

the soldier, the two saw but little of each other, except through a

casual meeting in the rich man's stables, or on the boulevard, or

when--but this was very rare--Carcassonne was surprised in his room,

at the Northern Eagle, by an unexpected but most welcome visit from

his friend, come to smoke a passing cigar, and have ten minutes' chat

over boyish days and reminiscences.

These visits were a great treat to the captain; and it was the

anticipation of one of them that now kept him in his room. To his

astonishment, he had received that morning a note from his friend,

requesting him to remain at home in the evening, as he would call upon

and crave a service of him. Carcassonne was delighted at the

intimation, and not feeling quite certain when evening might be said

to begin, he shut himself up in his room at four o'clock, ordered in

dinner from a neighbouring _traiteur_, sipped his coffee in contented

solitude, and now awaited, with the dutiful patience of a soldier on

sentry, the promised coming of his friend. At last a cough and a heavy

footstep were heard upon the stairs; the captain took up a candle,

opened the door, and, stepping out into the gloomy corridor, the light

fell upon the tall ungainly figure, and sullen features, of Sigismund

Fatello.

"Come in, my dear fellow," cried Carcassonne in his stentorian tones,

and with a soldier's oath. "I've expected you these three hours.

What--wet? Snow? Come to the fire, and take a sup of cognac till the

punch is made."

It snowed heavily outside, and the banker's upper coat had caught a

few large flakes in crossing the court. He heeded them not, but

putting down, untasted, the glass of brandy handed to him by the

captain, he took a chair, and motioned Carcassonne to another.

"What the deuce is the matter with you, Sigismund?" said the captain,

looking hard at his friend. "Are you ill?"

"Better than I have for a long time been. Fresh from a wedding."

"Oho!" said Carcassonne. "I thought you had not put on full dress to

visit your old comrade in his den at the Northern Eagle. And whose

wedding was it?"

"A singular one," replied the banker, parrying the question.

"Strangely brought about, certainly. Would you like to hear its

history, Carcassonne?"

"By all means," said the captain, who always liked whatever Fatello

proposed. "But the business you came about?--you said I could do

something for you. What is it?"

"Plenty of time for that. It will keep. Let me tell you of this

marriage."

"Delighted to listen," said Carcassonne, settling himself in his

chair, and filling his pipe from a huge embroidered bag, once the

property of an Arabian Emir's lady, but which a razzia had degraded

into a receptacle for tobacco.

"You must know, then, Carcassonne," said Fatello, "that a friend of

mine, named Oliver, a man of middle age, more calculated to shine in a

counting-house than in a boudoir, was fool enough, not very long ago,

to fall in love with a beautiful girl, twenty years younger than

himself; and as he was rich, and her father avaricious, the marriage

was brought about, although not altogether with her good will."

"Bad," quoth the captain, between two puffs of his pipe. "An unwilling

bride is apt to prove a sour wife."

"Once married," continued Fatello, without heeding his friend's

interruption, "Oliver, who knew he had not his wife's love, spared no

pains to obtain her friendship. He was not such a man, either by

person, manners, or temper, as women are apt to fancy; but, to atone

for his deficiencies, he covered her with gold, was the slave of her

caprices, forestalled her slightest wish. Her amusement and happiness

were the whole study of his life; and after a while his efforts seemed

crowned with success. She treated him as a friend, and appeared

contented with her lot. This was all he had dared to hope, and, having

attained this, he was happy. His existence, from boyhood upwards, had

been agitated and laborious, but riches had rewarded his toils, and he

could now look forward to a long period of happiness and repose. At

the very moment he indulged these visions of a bright future, a single

word, whispered in his ear by a physician of high repute, crumbled the

entire fabric. That word was Consumption, and when he heard it he knew

his doom was sealed. His father, his elder brother, his sisters, all

had been carried off, in the prime of their strength, by the insidious

disease, whose germ, implanted in their system before they saw the

light, was ineradicable by the resources of art. The shock was

severe--it could not be otherwise--for most of the things were his for

which men prize life. But he was no poltroon, to pine at the approach

of death; and he nerved himself to meet like a man his inevitable

fate. Although with scarce a shadow of hope, he neglected no means of

combating the deadly malady; and, enjoining secrecy to his physician,

he concealed from every one his belief that his days were numbered and

his race wellnigh run. He was calm and resigned, if not hopeful, when

he one day received a letter that chilled his very soul. His wife, it

told him, loved another, whom she would meet that night at a

masquerade. Although anonymous, its indications were so precise, that

Oliver, spurred by fiercest jealousy, disguised himself and went

secretly to the ball. There he discovered his wife, in the company of

a foreign fopling, who, for some time previously, had been a frequent

visitor at his house. He kept near them, occasionally catching a

sentence confirmatory of his suspicions, until they withdrew from the

crowd, and sought a retired nook, where to converse uninterrupted. He

found means to secrete himself in their vicinity, and overheard--no

evidence of his dishonour, for then he had stabbed them where they

stood--but words whence he gathered the existence of the most

heartless, perfidious, and cold-blooded calculation.

"The wife of his bosom, to gain whose affection he had squandered

millions, and changed his very nature, impatiently awaited his death

to bestow her hand, and the fortune he should bequeath her, on the

smooth-tongued seducer whose arts had beguiled her. The secret of his

fatal malady had been divulged by the physician, to whom alone it was

known, in the hearing of this foreign adventurer, who, ever upon the

watch to redeem his broken fortunes by a wealthy marriage, profited by

the disclosure. He obtained an introduction to Oliver's house, and

applied every art and energy to gain his wife's affections. He was but

too successful. She listened to his protestations, and on learning her

husband's impending death, pledged herself to become his, when she

should be released by it from ties she abhorred. All this, and more,

Oliver gathered from their conversation, to which he had the courage

to listen to the end, although each sentence went to his heart like a

stab, leaving in the wound the venom of hate and jealousy, to rankle

there until the latest moment of his life. What had you done,

Carcassonne, had you been in his place?"

"_Pardieu!_" said the captain, who had listened with profound

attention, and great expenditure of smoke, to his friend's narrative;

"I can hardly say, Sigismund. If I had kept my hands off the butterfly

scoundrel when I heard him courting my wife, I should have followed

him when he had had his chat out, and requested the pleasure of

crossing swords with him at his earliest convenience; and had I got

one good cut at him, he should not have needed another. What did your

friend?"

"Very nearly what you have said. He went home and destroyed his will,

and made another. Then he sought his enemy, to challenge him to an

instant encounter. The mean villain denied his treachery, and swore

that her to whom his vows of love were addressed was not Oliver's

wife, but his sister-in-law. Oliver well knew this to be a lie, but he

affected to believe he had been deceived by similarity of dress and

imperfect hearing, for the subterfuge had suddenly suggested to him a

sure means of punishing his faithless wife, and defeating her

seducer's aim. He declared himself willing to aid the views of the

foreigner--one Baron Steinfeld, an Austrian of high family, but ruined

fortunes--and to urge his sister-in-law to accept his hand.

Disagreeably surprised at such willingness, where he had wished and

expected opposition, Steinfeld strove to recede, but found extrication

impossible from the trap he had rushed into. Finally he was compelled

to yield; the less unwillingly because the bride thus given him was

not without fortune, which Oliver exaggerated, the better to allure

him. So that, when Oliver left him, it was to convey his formal

proposals to the lady, who was nothing loath, and to-day they were

married."

"To-day!" exclaimed Carcassonne. "This, then, is the wedding you come

from. And what said Madame Oliver?"

"What could she say? Made all the secret opposition she could, no

doubt; and then, finding it in vain, for her sister seemed as much

fascinated by the Austrian Lothario as she was herself, she took ill

and kept her bed. It needed all her woman's pride, and her fear of

malicious comment, to carry her calmly through to-day's ceremonies and

festivities."

"A very strange tale!" cried the captain. "And all true, eh?"

"To the letter. But that is not all. To-day, after the marriage,

Oliver sought five minutes' conversation with his newly-made

brother-in-law; and his first act, when they were alone, was to hand

him the anonymous letter he had received on the day of the masquerade,

in which was mentioned the colour of the ribbons worn by Madame Oliver

at the ball, as a sign by which Steinfeld was to distinguish her

amongst the crowd of dominos."

"Good!" said Carcassonne emphatically. "And what said the Kaiserlic?"

"Denied every thing, until Oliver recapitulated, word for word,

certain phrases of the conversation he had overheard. This struck him

dumb; but soon he recovered his effrontery, and expressed surprise at

Oliver's reviving the subject, especially at that moment."

"'Since you deemed it advisable to overlook the offence at the time,

and to promote my marriage with your sister-in-law,' he said, 'I

cannot understand your motive for now raking up the grievance.'

"'I will explain,' replied Oliver. 'I married you to my sister-in-law

that you might never be my widow's husband, whether I die a few months

hence, by the hand of God, or to-morrow by yours, in the duel which

shall no longer be delayed.'"

"The devil!" shouted the captain, at this announcement. "Your friend

Oliver is the wrong man to jest with, I see that. But will he really

fight his sister's husband?"

"He really will," replied Fatello, calmly. "Should you scruple, in his

place?"

"By my soul, it's hard to say, till one is tried. We are used in

Africa to hear fellows reckoning on our boots before we think of

leaving them off. But that hurts neither us nor the boots, whilst a

man's wife----It is aggravating, certainly, particularly to a man of

your Oliver's temper. A saint or a priest might not approve, but, as a

soldier and sinner, I must say revenge, in such a case, seems sweet

and natural."

"Then," said Fatello, "I may reckon on your assistance to-morrow?"

"On my assistance!--I--you! What the devil do you mean?" cried

Carcassonne, dropping his pipe, and starting from his seat in

extraordinary perturbation.

"Merely that my friend Oliver and your friend Fatello are one and the

same person, whose business here to-night is to ask you to second him

in his duel to-morrow with Baron Ernest von Steinfeld, married this

morning to Mademoiselle Sebastiana Gonfalon."

CHAP. V.--THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING.

It may easily be imagined that Steinfeld, brave as he unquestionably

was, did not feel particularly pleased at finding himself called upon

to risk his life in a profitless duel, at the very moment when that

life had acquired fresh value in his eyes, through his acquisition of

a pretty wife and a handsome fortune. The former, it is true, the

baron, whose utter selfishness made him incapable of love in the

higher sense of the word, prized only as a child does a new plaything,

or an epicure a fresh dish presented to his sated palate. Pretty and

attractive as his bride was, her personal charms weighed far less with

him than her golden ones. Even in these he had been somewhat

disappointed. Although considerable, they were less than Fatello's

round-numbered generalities had led him to expect; and, moreover, when

the time came to discuss the settlements, the banker fought hard to

secure his sister-in-law's fortune upon her own head and that of her

children. This, however, Steinfeld vigorously resisted, urging the

necessity of extricating his estates from pawn; and Sebastiana,

enamoured of her handsome bridegroom, and whose ardent and jealous

imagination drew a romantic picture of a tête-à-tête existence in a

secluded chateau, far from the rivalries of a capital, expressed so

strongly her will to apply her fortune in the manner Steinfeld

desired, that Fatello, after much opposition, and with no good grace,

was compelled to yield the point. The sum thus placed in the

Austrian's power, although less than he had anticipated, was yet so

large to a man in his position, that its possession threw a pleasant

rose-coloured tint over his existence, of which the prospect of

poverty, and the annoyances of duns, had for some time past deprived

it. So that when, upon his wedding-day, Fatello fiercely taxed him

with his perfidy, repeated the words of insult he had addressed to him

on the morrow of the masquerade, and insisted upon a duel, the baron

did all in his power to pacify him, urging their new but near

connexion as an insuperable obstacle to a quarrel, and even humbling

himself to express contrition for his offence, which he persisted,

however, would have been viewed as but a venial one by any but so

morbid, jealous, and vindictive a person as Fatello, and which, in no

case, considering the relation they now stood in to each other, could

be held to justify them in seeking each other's life. But to his

expostulations, apologies, and arguments, Fatello replied with such

savage invective and ungovernable violence, taunting the baron with

cowardice, and threatening him, if he refused the reparation demanded,

with public exposure and manual chastisement--threats, of whose

execution Fatello's intemperate character and colossal frame (the

latter still muscular and powerful in spite of the disease mining it)

allowed very little doubt--that Steinfeld saw there was no alternative

but to accept the meeting; and, assuming the cold and haughty tone of

an injured man, he briefly arranged with Fatello its principal

conditions. To avoid scandal, and to insure, as far as possible, the

safety of the survivor, the duel was to take place in the grounds of a

country house belonging to the banker, at about a league from Paris,

and the seconds and surgeon were to be pledged to the strictest

secrecy. Fatello named Captain Carcassonne, and Steinfeld the Viscount

Arthur de Mellay, between whom the details of the affair were to be

settled.

Both the principals, however, in this singular duel, were destined to

experience difficulties from the friends they had fixed upon to second

them. Captain Carcassonne, who himself cared no more for a duel than

an English prizefighter does for a round with the gloves, and who

never slept a wink the fewer, or ate a mouthful less breakfast before

going out to fight one, was seized with a sudden trepidation when he

learned that his friend, whom he well knew to be unskilled in fence

and fire, was to enter the field with a man reputed expert in both.

At first he would not hear of the meeting taking place, swearing, in

direct opposition to what he had just before said, that he should not

think of fighting for such a trifle. When this plea was overruled, a

bright idea struck him. He would pick a quarrel with Steinfeld, and

wing him with a pistol-shot, or spoil his beauty with a sabre-cut,

just as Fatello chose; ay, would kill him outright, if nothing less

would satisfy his vindictive friend. But Fatello, whose morbid desire

of revenge had assumed the character of a monomania, rejected all the

captain's plans; and Carcassonne, whose affection and deference for

his old companion and benefactor were unbounded, ceased to make

objections, and fixed his thoughts solely upon the necessary

preliminaries. As to Fatello's announcement of the danger his life was

in from lurking disease, (a danger more remote, but also more certain

than that he would incur upon the morrow,) it would deeply have

grieved the worthy captain had he attached the least credit to it; but

his contempt for doctors and their prognostications prevented his

dwelling on it longer than to give a smile to the credulity of his

friend. Meanwhile Steinfeld had some trouble with de Mellay. It not

being the fashion in France for newly-married couples to escape from

the place of their wedding as fast as four posters can carry them, the

baron had taken his bride to his house in the Rue St Lazare, which a

little arrangement had adapted for their residence during the few days

that were to elapse before their departure for Germany. There, upon

the evening of his wedding-day, he had a conference with the viscount,

who, startled, like Carcassonne, at the news of the projected duel,

insisted on full explanations before consenting to render Steinfeld

the service required of him. These explanations Steinfeld was

compelled to give; and although he spread over them a varnish

favourable to himself, de Mellay plainly saw that the part the

Austrian had played in the whole affair did him no credit, and that

Fatello's extraordinary vindictiveness, if not justified, was in some

degree extenuated, by his adversary's perfidious manœuvres and

gross breach of hospitality. He at first insisted on attempting a

reconciliation, but Steinfeld having convinced him of its

impossibility, he would not refuse to stand by an intimate friend and

companion, who had more than once gone upon the ground with him. He

suggested, however--almost, indeed, made it a condition--that the

baron should fire wide, or not at all the first time, in doing which

he ran little risk, for Fatello was known to be unskilled with the

pistol. De Mellay resolved to place the duellists as far apart as

possible, and to make them fire together. He made sure Fatello would

miss the first shot, and that then, if Steinfeld had not fired, the

affair could easily be made up.

It was three in the afternoon, and the snow lay thick upon the ground,

when Steinfeld and his second entered a small door in the paling of

the banker's park, at a short distance from which they had dismissed

their hackney coach. Fatello, Carcassonne, and Dr Pilori, had preceded

them in the banker's carriage. The five men met upon a bowling-green

surrounded by trees, which, although leafless, were so thickly planted

as to form an impervious screen. More for form's sake and the

satisfaction of conscience, than with hope of success, the seconds

essayed a reconciliation. The attempt was rendered fruitless by

Fatello's firm determination; and after a brief conference between the

viscount and Carcassonne, the combatants were placed at twenty paces.

It was agreed they were to fire together, when six had been counted.

The seconds stepped aside. Carcassonne counted. When he came to

"_six_" a single report followed. Steinfeld staggered. De Mellay ran

to him.

"Nothing," said the baron. "My dear brother-in-law shoots better than

I thought, that is all." And he showed a rent made by Fatello's bullet

in the front of his tightly-buttoned surtout, near the waist. A button

had been cut away, and the ball had grazed the skin, but without

drawing blood.

"This shall not avail you, sir," cried Fatello, in a tone of

indescribable exasperation. "We came to fight, not to play. Fire,

sir!" And he stood sideways, expecting his adversary's bullet.

Steinfeld smiled bitterly. Then raising his pistol, he took aim at a

red-breast, which, scared from the bough by Fatello's fire, had again

settled, tamed by cold and hunger, upon a sapling five-and-twenty

paces off. Bark and feathers flew at the same time, and the unlucky

little bird lay disembowelled upon the snow. Carcassonne and de Mellay

exchanged a word or two, and advanced towards Fatello.

"Enough done, my dear Sigismund," said the captain. "After the baron's

forbearance, this can go no farther."

Fatello's reply was a torrent of imprecations. His eyes were

bloodshot, his cheeks pale as death: he was insane with passion. The

captain in vain endeavoured to soothe and calm him. He raged and

stormed like a madman.

"Monsieur Fatello," said de Mellay, with surprise--almost with

disgust--"for heaven's sake compose yourself. This persistence is

unworthy of you. What injury have you received to justify such

malignity? Neither your second nor myself can let this affair proceed,

otherwise than to a reconciliation."

There was a decision in the young man's tone and manner that seemed to

strike Fatello and check his fury. For a moment or two he gazed

silently at the viscount, as if recalled to reason by his

remonstrance. It was the trick of the maniac, to put the keeper off

his guard. Suddenly pushing Carcassonne aside, he reached, in two

bounds, a pistol-case that lay open at a short distance, and, seizing

one of the weapons, levelled it at Steinfeld. With a cry of horror, de

Mellay and Carcassonne threw themselves before the baron.

"This is murder!" exclaimed the viscount.

"Stop!" said Steinfeld, pale, but quite calm. "Wait a moment, sir, and

you shall be satisfied. There is no alternative, my dear de Mellay.

Monsieur Fatello insists. Give me the other pistol."

De Mellay hesitated, and looked at the captain.

"_Ma foi!_" said Carcassonne, shrugging his shoulders, as if he

thought a bullet more or less hardly worth so much discussion--"if

they _will_ have it!" The principals resumed their ground, and the

word was again given. This time both pistols were discharged.

Steinfeld stirred not, but Fatello fell to the ground and lay there

without motion. Dr Pilori ran forward, and, kneeling beside him,

unbuttoned his coat. There was a small blue spot on the breast, from

which oozed a drop or two of blood. The doctor seized the wrist of the

fallen man. Steinfeld and the seconds gazed anxiously in his face,

awaiting his verdict.

"I aimed at his arm," said Steinfeld gloomily, "but the cold made my

hand shake."

Carcassonne seemed not to hear the remark. De Mellay glanced at the

baron, and then at the bird that lay upon the blood-sprinkled snow

more than twenty yards off.

"Quite dead," said Pilori, letting the arm fall. "It is a painful

thing to kill a man," added the materialist doctor to Steinfeld, who

stood regarding his victim with a moody and regretful gaze. "It may be

satisfactory to you to know that he could not have lived six months

longer."

In France, a few years ago, duels, even when fatal in result, did not

necessarily entail strict judicial investigation, unless such

investigation was provoked by the friends of the fallen man. In the

instance here recorded, no one thought proper to take vindictive

steps. Fatello's coachman was instructed, and largely bribed, to say

that his master had been struck with apoplexy in his carriage, and

that, on discovering his condition, he had at once driven him to Dr

Pilori. The physician's arrival at the house, in company with the

corpse, and the absence of hemorrhage from the wound, rendered it easy

to conceal the latter, and gave plausibility to the story, which found

general credit. It was not till several days afterwards that a report

spread of the real cause of the banker's death. Even then it attained

little publicity, and by many was looked upon as a malicious

fabrication. Before it got wind, however, the survivors of the

domestic drama we have narrated, were far from its scene. By a will

made a month before his death, Fatello had left the whole of his

great riches, with the exception of some munificent donations to

public charities, and of an ample legacy to Captain Carcassonne, to a

cousin of his own name in Alsace. But he could not alienate his wife's

fortune, or deprive her of the splendid jointure secured to her by her

father's cautious greediness; and these constituted very large wealth,

with which his widow, shortly after his death, left Paris for her

native country. Her Parisian friends and acquaintances were edified,

in the highest degree, by the grief she displayed at Fatello's

decease. She was disconsolate; and, for at least a day and a half,

"_cette pauvre Madame Fatello_" was the prevailing topic of

conversation, and the object of universal sympathy. Hen-pecked

husbands held her up as a model of conjugal affection; and wicked

wives secretly wondered at the poignant regret shown by such a young,

rich, and handsome widow, for so ugly, unprepossessing, and morose a

man. But it occurred to no one to seek the cause of her excessive

grief in a bridal wreath instead of in a funeral shroud; to trace the

source of her sorrow to the loss of an expected husband whom she

passionately loved, not to that of a departed one, whom she never

regretted.

Although little apprehensive of persecution, many motives concurred to

render Paris an undesirable residence for the survivor of the duel in

which Fatello met his death. The day after the fatal meeting, a

travelling carriage left Paris by the road to Brussels. It contained

Ernest von Steinfeld and his bride. In spite of some practice in

duelling, and of the triple armour of selfishness in which he was

habitually cased, there was a cloud upon the baron's brow which change

of scene and the caresses of his young wife did not always suffice to

dissipate. And, although sensible to his bride's beauty and

fascination, and grateful, as far as it was in his nature to be so,

for the passionate affection she showed him, it may be doubted whether

he would not have repulsed her endearments, and spurned her from him,

had he detected a secret that lay buried in the innermost recesses of

her heart--had he recognised, in Sebastiana Gonfalon, the writer of

the two anonymous letters that tended so materially to bring about her

marriage, and the violent death of Sigismund Fatello.

As it was, the Baroness von Steinfeld had not long to congratulate

herself on the success of her culpable manœuvres, whose sole

extenuation was to be found in the fiery passions of her race, and in

a moral education totally neglected. Doubtless, when planning and

carrying out her guilty scheme, the possibility of so terrible a

result never occurred to her; and it were attributing improbable

depravity to one so young to doubt that she felt remorse at the

catastrophe. She did not long await her punishment. Bright as were her

hopes of happiness when led to the altar by the man she adored, she

soon was bitterly convinced, that no true or permanent felicity could

be the consequence of a union achieved by guilty artifice, and sealed

with a brother's blood. A few months were sufficient to darken her

destiny and blight her joys. Her fortune swallowed up by Steinfeld's

debts and extravagance, her person speedily became indifferent to the

sated and cold-hearted voluptuary; and whilst her reckless husband,

faithful to nothing but to his hatred of matrimonial ties, again

galloped upon the road to ruin, in the most dissipated circles of the

Austrian capital, she saw herself condemned to solitude and unavailing

regrets, in the very castle where she had anticipated an existence of

unalloyed bliss.

THE "GREEN HAND."

A "SHORT" YARN.[13]

[13] "_Short_"--nauticè, _unfinished_.

"Come, old ship, give us a yarn!" said the younger forecastle-men to

an old one, on board of an Indiaman then swiftly cleaving the waves of

the western Atlantic before the trade-wind, and outward-bound, with a

hearty crew and a number of passengers. It was the second of the two

dog-watches; and, the ship being still in the region of evening

twilights, her men, in a good humour, and with leisure, were then

usually disposed, as on this occasion, to make fast their roaming

thoughts by help of a good yarn, when it could be got. There were

plenty of individuals, amongst a crew of forty, calculated by their

experience, or else by their flow of spirits and fancy, to spin it.

Each watch into which they were divided had its especial story-teller,

with whose merits it twitted the other, and on opportunity of a

general _reunion_, they were pitted against one another like two

fighting-cocks, or a couple of rival novelists in more polished

literary society at home. The one was a grave, solemn, old North-Sea

whaler with one eye, who professed to look down with contempt upon all

raw head-work, on navigation compared with seamanship, and fiction

against fact. As for himself, he rested all his fame upon actual

experience, and told long dry narratives of old shipmates, of his

voyages and adventures, and sometimes of the most incredible

incidents, with a genuine briny gusto which pleased the veteran

stagers beyond expression. They were full of points of seamanship--

expedients for nice emergencies, tacks, knots, and splices; he gave

the very conversation of his characters, with all the "says he" and

"says I;" and one long recital of the old fellow's turned upon the

question between himself and a newfangled second-mate about the right

way to set up back-stays, in which he, the sailor, was proved correct

by the loss of the ship. The other story-teller, again, was a Wapping

man; a lively, impudent young Cockney, who had the most miraculous

faculty of telling lies--not only palpable lies, but lies absolutely

impossible: yet they were so sublimely told often, and he contrived to

lug into them such a quantity of gorgeous tinsel ornament, as, in his

happier efforts, decidedly to carry the day against his opponent. The

London hand had seen _life_ too, of which, with respect to what is

called the world, his competitor was as ignorant as a child. He had

his sentimental vein, accordingly, in which he took the last love-tale

out of some "Penny Story-Teller" or fashionable novel he had spelled

over below, and turned it over into a parody that would have thrown

its unfortunate author into convulsions of horror, and his critics

into shrieks of laughter. The fine language of lords and ladies, of

romantic heroines, or of foreign counts and bandits, was gravely

retailed and gravely listened to by a throng of admiring jack-tars;

while the old whaler smoked his pipe sulkily apart, gave now and then

a scornful glance out of his weather-eye, and called it "all

_high-dic_' and soger's gammon."

On this occasion, however, the group forward did not solicit the

services of either candidate, as they happened to have present among

them a shipmate who, by general confession, "took the shine" out of

both, although it was rarely they could get hold of him. "Old Jack,"

the captain's private steward, was the oldest seaman on board, and

having known the captain when the latter went to sea, had sailed with

him almost ever since he commanded a ship, as well as lived in his

house on shore. He did not now keep his watch, nor take his "trick at

the helm," except when he chose, and was altogether a privileged sort

of person, or one of "the idlers." His name was Jacobs, which afforded

a pretext for calling him "Old Jack," with the sailor's fondness for

that Christian cognomen, which it is difficult to account for, unless

because Jonah and St John were seafaring characters, and the Roman

Catholic holy clerk St Nicholas was baptised "Davy Jones," with sundry

other reasons good at sea. But Old Jack was, at any rate, the best

hand for a yarn in the Gloucester Indiaman, and had been once or twice

called upon to spin one to the ladies and gentlemen in the cuddy. It

was partly because of his inexhaustible fund of good-humour, and

partly from that love of the sea which looked out through all that the

old tar had seen and undergone, and which made him still follow the

bowsprit, although able to live comfortably ashore. In his blue

jacket, white canvass trousers edged with blue, and glazed hat, coming

forward to the galley to light his pipe, after serving the captain's

tea of an evening, Old Jack looked out over the bulwarks, sniffed the

sharp sea-air, and stood with his shirt-sleeve fluttering as he put

his finger in his pipe, the very embodiment of the scene--the model of

a prime old salt who had ceased to "rough it," but could do so yet if

needful.

"Come, old ship!" said the men near the windlass as soon as Old Jack

came forward, "give us a yarn, will ye?" "Yarn!" said Jack,

smiling--"what yarn, mates? 'Tis a fine night, though, for that

same--the clouds flies high, and she's balling off a good ten knots

sin' eight bells." "That she is, bo'--so give us a yarn now, like a

reg'lar old A. 1. as you are!" said one. "'Vast there, mate," said a

man-o'-war's-man, winking to the rest,--"you're always a-cargo-puddling,

Bill! D'ye think Old Jack answers to any other hail nor the Queen's? I

say, old three-decker in or'nary, we all wants one o' your close-laid

yarns this good night. Whaling Jim here rubs his down with a thought

overmuch o' the tar, an' young Joe dips 'em in yallow varnish,--so if

you says Nay, why, we'll all save our grog, and get drunk as soon as

may-be." "Well, well, mates," said Jack, endeavouring to conceal his

flattered feelings, "what's it to be, though?" "Let's see," said the

man-o'-war's-man--"ay, give us the Green Hand!" "Ay, ay, the Green

Hand!" exclaimed one and all. This "Green Hand" was a story Old Jack

had already related several times, but always with such amusing

variations, that it seemed on each repetition a new one--the listeners

testifying their satisfaction by growls of rough laughter, and by the

emphatic way in which, during a pause, they squirted their

tobacco-juice on the deck. What gave additional zest to this

particular yarn, too, was the fact of its hero being no less than the

captain himself, who was at this moment on the poop quarter-deck of

the ship, pointing out something to a group of ladies by the

round-house--a tall handsome-looking man of about forty, with all the

mingled gravity and frank good-humour of a sailor in his firm

weather-tinted countenance. To have the power of secretly contrasting

his present position and manners with those delineated by Old Jack's

episode from the "skipper's" previous biography, was the _acme_ of

comic delight to these rude sons of Neptune, and the narrator just hit

this point.

"Ye see," began he, "'tis about six-an'-twenty year gone since I was

an able seaman before the mast, in a small Indyman they called the

Chester Castle, lying at that time behind the Isle of Dogs in sight of

Grenidge Hospital. She was full laden, but there was a strong breeze

blowing up that wouldn't let us get underweigh; and, besides, we

waited for the most part of our hands. I had sailed with the same ship

two voyages before; so, says the captain to me one day, "Jacobs,

there's a lady over at Greenwich yonder wants to send her boy to sea

in the ship--for a sickening I s'pose. I'm a going up to town myself,"

says he, "so take the quarter-boat, and two of the boys, and go ashore

with this letter, and see the young fool. From what I've heard," says

the skipper, "he's a jackanapes as will give us more trouble than

thanks. However, if you find the lady's bent on it, why, she may send

him aboard to-morrow if she likes. Only we don't carry no young

gentlemen, and if he slings his hammock here, you must lick him into

shape. I'll make a sailor of him, or a cabin-boy." "Ay, ay, sir," says

I, shoving the letter into my hat; so in half an hour's time I knocks

at the door of the lady's house, rigged out in my best, and hands

over the screed to a fat fellow with red breeches and yallow swabs on

his shoulders, like a captain of marines, that looked frightened at my

hail, for I thou't he'd been deaf by the long spell he took before he

opened the door. In five minutes I heard a woman's v'ice ask at the

footman if there was a sailor awaiting below. "Yes, marm," says he;

and "show him up," says she. Well, I gives a scrape with my larboard

foot, and a tug to my hair, when I gets to the door of _such_ a fine

room above decks, all full o' tables, an' chairs, an' sofers, an'

piangers, an' them sort o' highflying consarns. There was a lady all

in silks and satins on one of the sofers, dressed out like a widow,

with a pretty little girl as was playing music out of a large

book--and a picter of a man upon the wall, which I at once logged it

down for him she'd parted company from. "Sarvint, ma'am," says I.

"Come in, my good man," says the lady. "You're a sailor?" says

she--asking, like, to be sure if I warn't the cook's mate in

dish-guise, I fancy. "Well, marm," I raps out, "I make bould to say as

I hopes I am!"--an' I catches a sight o' myself in a big looking-glass

behind the lady, as large as our sky-sail,--and, being a young fellow

in them days, thinks I, "Blow me, if Betsy Brown asked me that now,

I'd ask her if _she_ was a _woman_!" "Well," says she, "Captain Steel

tells me, in this here letter, he's agoing to take my son. Now," says

she, "I'm sore against it--couldn't you say some'at to turn his mind?"

"The best way for that, yer ladyship," says I, "is to let him go, if

was only the length of the Nore. The sea'll turn his stomach for him,

marm," I says, "an' then we can send him home by a pilot." "He wanted

for to go into the navy," says the lady again, "but I couldn't think

on that for a moment, on account of this fearful war; an', after all,

he'll be safer in sailing at sea nor in the army or navy--don't you

think so, my good man?" "It's all you knows about it," thinks I;

hows'ever, I said there wasn't a doubt on it. "Is Captain Steel a rash

man?" says she. "How so, marm?" says I, some'at taken aback. "I hope

he does not sail at night, or in storms, like too many of his

profession, I'm afeard," says she; "I hope he always weighs the anchor

in such cases, very careful." "Oh, in course," says I, not knowin',

for the life of me, what she meant. I didn't like to come the rig over

the poor lady, seein' her so anxious like; but it was no use, we was

on such different tacks, ye see. "Oh yes, marm," I says, "Captain

Steel al'ays reefs taups'ls at sight of a squall brewing to wind'rd;

and we're as safe as a church, then, ye know, with a man at the wheel

as knows his duty." "This relieves my mind," the lady says, "very

much;" but I couldn't think why she kept sniffing all the time at her

smelling bottle, as she wor agoin' to faint. "Don't take it to heart

so, yer ladyship," I says at last; "I'll look after the young

gentleman till he finds his sea-legs." "Thank you," says she; "but, I

beg your pardon, would ye be kind enough for to open the winder, and

look out if you see Edward? I think he's in the garding.--I feel sich

a smell of pitch and tar!" I hears her say to the girl; and says she

to me again, "Do you see Edward there?--call to him, please."

Accordingly, I couldn't miss sight of three or four young slips

alongside, for they made plenty of noise--one of 'em on top of a

water-barrel smoking a segar; another singing out inside of it for

mercy; and the rest roaring round about it, like so many Bedlamites.

"No wonder the young scamp wants to sea," thinks I, "he's got nothin'

arthly to do but mischief." "Which is the young gentleman, marm?" says

I, lookin' back into the room--"Is it him with the segar and the red

skull-cap?" "Yes," says the lady--"call him up, please." "Hallo!" I

sings out, and all runs off but him on the barrel, and "Hallo!" says

he. "You're wanted on deck, sir," I says; and in five minutes in comes

my young gemman, as grave as you please. "Edward," says the mother,

"this is one of Captain Steel's men." "Is he going to take me?" says

the young fellow, with his hands in his pockets. "Well, sir," I says,

"'tis a very bad look-out, is the sea, for them as don't like it.

You'll be sorry ten times over you've left sich a berth as this here,

afore you're down Channel." The young chap looks me all over from clue

to earing, and says he, "My mother told you to say that!" "No, sir,"

says I, "I says it on my own hook." "Why did you go yourself, then?"

says he. "I couldn't help it," answers I. "Oh," says the impertinent

little devil, "but you're only one of the common sailors, ain't you?"

"Split me, you little beggar!" thinks I, "if I doesn't show you the

odds betwixt a common sailor, as ye call it, and a lubber of a boy,

before long!" But I wasn't goin' to let him take the jaw out o' me, so

I only laughed, an' says I, "Why, I'm captain of the foretop at sea,

any how." "Where's your huniform, then?" says the boy, lowering his

tone a bit. "Oh," I says, "we doesn't al'ays wear huniform, ye know,

sir. This here's what we call ondress." "I'm sorry, sir," says the

lady, "I didn't ax you to sit down." "No offence at all, marm," I

says, but I took a couple o' glasses of brandy as was brought in. I

saw 'twas no use goin' against the young chap; so, when he asked what

he'd have to do aboard, I told him nothing to speak of, except count

the sails now and then, look over the bows to see how the ship went,

and go aloft with a spy-glass. "Oh," says his mother at this, "I hope

Captain Steel won't never allow Edward to go up those dangerous

ladders! It is my pertic'lar request he should be punished if he

does." "Sartainly, marm, I'll mention it to the captain," I says, "an'

no doubt he'll give them orders as you speak on." "The captain desired

me to say the young gentleman could come aboard as soon as he likes,"

says I, before goin' out of the door. "Very well, sir," says the lady,

"I shall see the tailor this same arternoon, and get his clothes, if

so be it must." The last word I said was, putting my head half in

again to tell 'em, "There was no use gettin' any huniforms at present,

seein' the ship's sailmaker could do all as was wanted arterwards,

when we got to sea."

Well, two or three days after, the captain sent word to say the ship

would drop down with the morning tide, and Master Collins had better

be aboard by six o'clock. I went ashore with the boat, but the young

gemman's clothes warn't ready yet; so it was made up he was to come on

board from Gravesend the day after. But his mother and an old lady, a

friend of theirs, would have it they'd go and see his bed-room, and

take a look at the ship. There was a bit of a breeze with the tide,

and the old Indiaman bobbed up and down on it in the cold morning; you

could hear the wash of water poppling on to her rudder, with her

running gear blown out in a bend; and Missus Collins thought they'd

never get up the dirty black sides of the vessel, as she called 'em.

The other said her husband had been a captain, an' she laid claim to a

snatch of knowledge. "Sailor," says she to me, as we got under the

quarter, "that there tall mast is the main-bowsprit, ain't it? and

that other is the gallant bowling you call it, don't you?" says she.

"No doubt, marm," says I, winking to the boys not to laugh. "It's all

right," I says. Howsoever, as to the bed-room, the captain showed 'em

over the cabin, and put 'em off by saying the ship was so out of order

he couldn't say which rooms was to be which yet, though they needn't

fear Master Ned would get all comfortable; so ashore the poor woman

went, pretty well pleased, considerin' her heart was against the whole

consarn.

Well, the next afternoon, lying off Gravesend, out comes a wherry with

young master. One of the men said there was a midshipman in it.

"Midshipman, be blowed!" says I; "did ye ever see a reefer in a

wherry, or sitting out o' the starn-sheets? It's neither more nor less

nor the greenhorn we've got." "Why don't the bo'sun pipe to man

side-ropes for him!" says th' other; "but, my eye, Bob," says he to

me, "what a sight of traps the chap's got in the boat!--'twill be

enough to heel the Chester Castle to the side he berths upon, on an

even keel. Do he mean to have the captain's cabin, I wonder!" Up the

side he scrambles, with the help of a side-ladder, all togged out to

the nines in a span-new blue jacket and anchor buttons, a cap with a

gould band, and white ducks made to fit--as jemmy-jessamy a looking

fellow as you'd see of a cruise along London parks, with the watermen

singing out alongside to send down a tackle for the dunnage, which it

took a pair of purchase-blocks to hoist them out on board. "What's all

this?" says the mate, coming for'ard from the quarter-deck. "'Tis the

young gemman's traps, sir," I says. "What the devil!" says the mate,

"d'ye think we've room to stow all this lumber? Strike it down into

the forehold, Jacobs--but get out a blue shirt or two, and a Scotch

cap, for the young whelp first, if he wants to save that smooth

toggery of his for his mammy. You're as green as cabbage, I'm feared,

my lad!" says he. By this time the boy was struck all of a heap, an'

didn't know what to say when he saw the boat pulling for shore, except

he wanted to have a sight of his bed-room. "Jacobs," says the mate,

laughing like an old bear, "take him below, and show him his bed-room,

as he calls it!" So down we went to the half-deck, where the

carpenter, bo'sun, and three or four of the 'prentices, had their

hammocks slung. There I left him to overhaul his big donkey of a

chest, which his mother had stowed it with clothes enough for a lord

ambassador, but not a blessed thing fit to use--I wouldn't 'a given my

bit of a black box for the whole on it, ten times over. There was

another choke-full of gingerbread, pots o' presarves, pickles, and

bottles; and, thinks I, "The old lady didn't know what _shares_ is at

sea, I reckon. 'Twill all be gone for footing, my boy, before you've

seen blue water, or I'm a Dutchman."

In a short time we was up anchor, going down with a fast breeze for

the Nore; and we stood out to sea that night, havin' to join a convoy

off Spithead. My gentleman was turned in all standing, on top o' some

sails below; and next day he was as sick as a greenhorn could be,

cleaning out his land-ballast where he lay, nor I didn't see him till

he'd got better. 'Twas blowing a strong breeze, with light canvass all

in aloft, and a single reef in the tops'ls; but fine enough for the

Channel, except the rain--when what does I see but the "Green Hand" on

the weather quarter-deck, holding on by the belaying-pins, with a

yumberella over his head. The men for'ard was all in a roar, but none

of the officers was on deck save the third mate. The mate goes up to

him, and looks in his face. "Why," says he, "you confounded

long-shore, picked-up son of a green-grocer, what _are_ you after?"

an' he takes the article a slap with his larboard-flipper, as sent it

flying to leeward like a puff of smoke. "Keep off the quarter-deck,

you lubber," says he, giving him a wheel down into the lea-scuppers,--"it's

well the captain didn't catch ye!" "Come aft here, some of ye," sings

out third mate again, "to brace up the mainyard; and you, ye lazy

beggar, clap on this moment and pull!" At this the greenhorn takes out

a pair o' gloves, shoves his fingers into 'em, and tails on to the

rope; behind. "Well, dammit!" says the mate, "if I ever see the likes

o' that! Jacobs, get a tar-bucket and dip his fists in it; larn him

what his hands was made for! I never could bear to see a fellow ashore

with his flippers shoed like his feet; but at sea, confound me, it

would make a man green-sick over again!" If you'd only seen how Master

Collins looked when I shoved his missy fingers into the tar, and

chucked the gloves o'board! The next moment he ups fist and made a

slap at me, when in goes the brush in his mouth; the mate gives him a

kick astarn; and the young chap went sprawling down' into the

half-deck ladder, where the carpenter had his shavin'-glass rigged to

crop his chin--and there he gets another clip across the jaws from

Chips. "Now," says the mate, "the chap'll be liker a sailor to-morrow.

He's got some spunk in him, though, by the way he let drive at you, my

lad," says he: "that fellow'll either catch the cat or spoil the

monkey. Look after him, Jacobs, my lad," says the third mate; "he's in

my watch, and the captain wants him to rough it out; so show him the

ropes, and let him taste an end now an' then. Ha! ha! ha!" says he

again, laughing, "'tis the first time I ever see a embreller loosed

out at sea, and but the second I've seen brought aboard even! He's the

greenest hand, sure enough, it's been my luck to come across! But

green they say's nigh to blue, so look out if I don't try to make a

sailor of the young spark!"

Well, for the next three or four days the poor fellow was knocked

about on all hands: he'd got to go aloft to the 'gallant cross-trees,

and out on the yard foot-ropes the next morning, before breakfast;

and, coming down, the men made him fast till he sent down the key of

his bottle-chest to pay his footing. If he closed his eyes moment in

the watch, slash comes bucketful o' Channel water over him; the third

mate would keep him two hours on end, larnin' to rig out a sternsail

boom, or grease a royal mast. He led a dog's life of it, too, in the

half-deck: last come, in course, has al'ays to go and fill the bread

barge, scrub the planks, an' do all the dirty jobs. Them _owners'

prentices_, sich as he had for messmates, is always worse to their own

kind by far nor the "_common sailors_," as the long-shore folks calls

a foremast-man. I couldn't help takin' pity on the poor lad, bein' the

only one as had seen the way of his upbringing, and I feelt a sort of

a charge of him like; so one night I had a quiet spell with him in the

watch, an' as soon's I fell to speak kind-ways, there I seed the water

stand i' the boy's eyes. "It's a good thing," says he, tryin' to gulp

it down--"it's a good thing mother don't see all this!" "Ho, ho!" says

I, "my lad, 'tis all but another way of bein' sea-sick! You doesn't

get the land cleared out, and snuff the blue breeze nat'ral like, all

at once! Hows'ever, my lad," says I, "take my advice--bring your

hammock an' chest into the fok'sle; swap half your fine clothes for

blue shirts and canvass trowsers; turn-to ready and willing, an' do

all that's asked you--you'll soon find the differ 'twixt the men and a

few petty officers an' 'prentices half out their time. The men'll soon

make a sailor of you: you'll see what a seaman is; you'll larn ten

times the knowledge; an', add to that, you'll not be browbeat and

looked jealous on!"

Well, next night, what does he do but follows what I said, and afore

long most of his troubles was over; nor there wasn't a willin'er nor a

readier hand aboard, and every man was glad to put Ned through any

thing he'd got to do. The mates began to take note on him; and though

the 'prentices never left off callin' him the Green Hand, before we

rounded the Cape he could take his wheel with the best of them, and

clear away a sternsail out of the top in handsome style. We were out

ten months, and Ned Collins stuck to the fork'sle throughout. When we

got up the Thames, he went ashore to see his mother in a check shirt,

and canvass trowsers made out of an old royal, with a tarpaulin hat I

built for him myself. He would have me to come the next day over to

the house for a supper; so, havin' took a kindness to the young chap,

why, I couldn't say nay. There I finds him in the midst of a lot o'

soft-faced slips and young ladies, a spinning the wonderfullest yarns

about the sea and the East Indgees, makin' 'em swallow all sorts of

horse-marines' nonsense, about marmaids, sea-sarpents, and sichlike.

"Hallo, my hearty!" says he, as soon as he saw me, "heave a-head here,

and bring to an anchor in this here blessed chair. Young ladies," says

he, "this is Bob Jacobs, as I told you kissed a marmaid his-self. He's

a wonderful hand, is Bob, for the fair!" You may fancy how

flabbergasted I was at this, though the young scamp was as cool as you

please, and wouldn't ha' needed much to make him kiss 'em all round;

but I was al'ays milk-an'-water alongside of women, if they topped at

all above my rating. "Well," thinks I, "my lad, I wouldn't ha' said

five minutes agone there was any thing of the green about ye yet, but

I see 'twill take another voy'ge to wash it all out." For to my

thinkin', mates, 'tis more of a land-lubber to come the rig over a few

poor creatures that never saw blue water, than not to know the ropes

you warn't told. "O Mister Jacobs!" says Missus Collins to me that

night, before I went off, "d'ye think Edward is tired of that 'ere

horridsome sea yet?" "Well, marm," I says, "I'm afeared not. But I'll

tell ye, marm," says I, "if you want's to make him cut the consarn,

the only thing ye can do is to get him bound apprentice to it. From

what I've seen of him, he's a lad that wont bear aught again his

liberty; an' I do believe, if he thought he couldn't get free, he'd

run the next day!" Well, after that, ye see, I didn't know what more

turned up of it; for I went myself round to Hull, and ships in a

timber-craft for the Baltic, just to see some'at new.

One day, the third voy'ge from that time, on getting the length of

Blackwall, we heard of a strong press from the men-o'-war; and as I'd

got a dreadful mislike to the sarvice, there was a lot of us

marchant-men kept stowed away close in holes an' corners till we could

suit ourselves. At last we got well tired, and a shipmate o' mine and

I wanted to go and see our sweethearts over in the town. So we hired

the slops from a Jew, and makes ourselves out to be a couple o'

watermen, with badges to suit, a carrying of a large parcel and a

ticket on it. In the arternoon we came back again within sight of the

Tower, where we saw the coast was clear, and made a fair wind along

Rosemary Lane and Cable Street. Just then we saw a tall young fellow,

in a brown coat, an' a broad-brim hat, standing in the door of a shop,

with a paper under his arm, on the look-out for some one. "Twig the

Quaker, Bob!" my shipmate says to me. As soon as he saw us, out the

Quaker steps, and says he to Bill, in a sleepy sort of a v'ice,

"Friend, thou'rt a waterman, I b'lieve?" "D---- it, yes," says Bill,

pretty short like, "that's what we hails for! D'ye want a boat,

master?" "Swear not, friend," says the broad-brim; "but what I want is

this, you see. We have a large vessel, belonging to our house, to send

to Havannah, and willin' to give double wages, but we can't find any

mariners at this present for to navigate. Now," says he, "I s'pose

this onfortunate state o' things is on account of the sinful war as is

agoin' on--they're afraid of the risk. Hows'ever, my friends," says

he, "perhaps, as you knows the river, ye could put us upon a way of

engagin' twenty or more bold mariners, as is not afeared of ventering

for good pay?" and with this he looks into his papers; and says Bill,

"Well, sir, I don't know any myself--do you Bob?" and he gives me a

shove, and says under the rose, "No fear, mate," says Bill, "he's all

over green--don't slip the chance for all hands of us at Jobson's."

"Why, master," I says, "what 'ud ye give them mariners you speaks on,

now?" "Six pound a-month, friend," says he, looking up; "but we gives

tea in place of spirits, and we must have steady men. We can't wait,

neither," says he, "more nor three days, or the vessel won't sail at

all." "My eye!" says Bill, "'t won't do to lose, Bob!--stick to him,

that's all." "Well, sir," I says, "I thinks I does have a notion of

some'at of the sort. If you sends your papers to Jobson's Tavern

to-night, in the second lane 'twixt Barnaby Street and the Blue Anchor

Road, over the water, why, I'll get ye as many hands to sign as you

wants!" "Thanks, friend," says the young broad-brim, "I will attend to

thine advice,"--so he bids us good-day, and stepped into his door

again. "Bill," says I, as we went off, "now I think on it, I can't

help a notion I've seen that chap's face afore!" "Very like," says

Bill, "for the matter o' that 'tis the same with me--them broad-brims

is so much of a piece! But that 'ere fellow don't know nothin' of

ships, sure enough, or he wouldn't offer what he did, and the crimps'

houses all of a swarm with hands!"

"Take my word, mate," says I, "it's a paying trip, or he wouldn't do

it--leave a Quaker alone for that! Why, the chap's a parfit youngster,

but I am blessed if he don't look as starched as if he'd sat over a

dask for twenty year!"

Well, strike me lucky, mates all, if the whole affair warn't a

complete trap! Down comes a clerk with the papers, sure enough--but in

ten minutes more the whole blessed lot of us was puckalowed, and hard

an' fast, by a strong press-gang. They put us into a cutter off

Redriff Stairs, an' the next noon all hands was aboard of the Pandora

frigate at Sheerness. The first time of being mustered on deck, says

Bill to me, "Cuss my eyes, Bob, if there isn't the 'farnal Quaker!" I

looked, and sees a midshipman in uniform like the rest, and so it was.

"The sly soft-sauderin' beggar!" says I. "All fair in war, and a

press-mate!" says one o' the frigate's men. All the while I kept

looking and looking at the midshipman; and at last I says to Bill when

we got below, giving a slap to my thigh, "Blessed if it ain't! it's

the _Green Hand_ himself!" "Green Hand!" says Bill, sulky enough,

"who's the Green Hand? Blow me, Bob, if I don't think we're the green

hands ourselves, if that's what you're upon!" So I told him the story

about Ned Collins. "Well," says he, "if a fellow was green as China

rice, cuss me if the reefers' mess wouldn't take it all out on him in

a dozen watches. The softest thing I know, as you say, Bob, just now,

it's to come the smart hand when you're a lubber; but to sham green

after that style, ye know, why 'tis a mark or two above either you or

I, messmate. So for my part, I forgives the young scamp, cause I ought

to ha' known better!"

By the time the frigate got to sea the story was blown over the whole

main-deck; many a good laugh it gave the different messes; and Bill,

the midshipman, and I, got the name of the "Three Green Hands."

One middle-watch, Mister Ned comes for'ard by the booms to me, and

says he, "Well, Bob Jacobs, you don't bear a grudge, I hope?" "Why,"

says I, "Mister Collins, 'twould be mutiny now, I fancy, you bein' my

officer!" so I gave a laugh; but I couldn't help feelin' hurt a

little, 'twas so like a son turnin' against his father, as 'twere.

"Why, Bob," says he, "did ye think me so green as not to know a seaman

when I saw him? I was afeared you'd known me that time." "Not I, sir,"

I answers: "why, if we hadn't sailed so long in company, I wouldn't

known ye now!" So Master Ned gave me to understand it was all for old

times he wanted to ship me in the same craft; but he knew my misliking

to the sarvice, though he said he'd rather ha' lost the whole haul of

'em nor myself. So many a yarn we had together of a dark night, and

for a couple of years we saw no small sarvice in the Pandora. But if

ye'd seen Ned the smartest reefer aboard, and the best liked by the

men, in the fore-taups'l bunt in a gale, or over the main-deck hatch,

with an enemy's frigate to leeward, or on a spree ashore at Lisbon or

Naples, you wouldn't ha' said there was any thing green in his eye, I

warrant ye! He was made acting lieutenant of a prize he cut out near

Chairboorg, before he passed examination; so he got me for prize

bo'sun, and took her into Plymouth. Soon after that the war was ended,

and all hands of the Pandora paid off. Master Ned got passed with

flying colours, and confirmed lieutenant besides, but he had to wait

for a ship. He made me say where I'd be found, and we parted company

for about a year.

Well, I was come home from a short trip, and one day Leftenant Collins

hunts me up at Wapping Docks, where I'd had myself spliced, six year

before, to Betsy Brown, an' was laid up for a spell, havin' seen a

good deal of the sea. Ye must know the young leftenant was fell deep

in love with a rich Indy Naboob's daughter, which had come over to

take her back to the East Ingees. The old fellow was hard close-hauled

again the match, notwithstanding of the young folks makin' it all up;

so, he'd taken out berths aboard of a large Company's ship, and bought

over the captain on no account to let any king's navy man within the

gang-ways, nor not a shoulder with a swab upon it, red or blue, beyond

the ship's company. But, above all, the old tyrant wouldn't have a

blue-jacket, from stem to starn, if so be he'd got nothing ado but

talk sweet; I s'pose he fancied his girl was mad after the whole

blessed cloth. The leftenant turns over this here log to me, and, says

he, "I'll follow her to the world's end, if need be, Bob, and cheat

the old villain!" "Quite right too, sir," says I. "Bob," says he,

"I'll tell ye what I wants you to do. Go you and enter for the

Seringpatam at Blackwall, if you're for sea just now; I'm goin' for to

s'cure my passage myself, an' no doubt doorin' the voy'ge something'll

turn up to set all square; at any rate, I'll stand by for a rope to

pull!" "Why here's a go!" thinks I to myself; "is Ned Collins got so

green again, spite of all that's come an' gone, for to think the waves

is a-goin' to work wonders, or ould Neptune under the line's to play

the parson and splice all!" "Well, sir," I says, "but don't you think

the skipper will smoke your weather-roll, sir, at sea, as you did Bill

Pikes an' me, you know, sir?" says I. "Oh, Bob, my lad," says the

leftenant, "leave you that to me. The fellow most onlikest to a sailor

on the Indyman's poop will be me, and that's the way you'll know me!"

Well, I did ship with the Seringpatam for Bombay: plenty of passengers

she had; but only clerks, naboobs, old half-pay fellows, and ladies,

not to speak o' children and nurses, black and white. She sailed

without my sein' Leftenant Collins, so I thought I was to hear no more

on it. When the passengers began to muster on the poop, by the time we

got out o' Channel, I takes a look over the ladies, in coilin' up the

ropes aft, or at the wheel; I knowed the said girl at once by her good

looks, and the old fellow by his grumpy, yallow frontispiece. All on a

sudden I takes note of a figger coming up from the cuddy, which I made

out at once for my Master Ned, spite of his wig and a pair o'

high-heeled boots, as gave him the walk of a chap treading amongst

eggs. When I hears him lisp out to the skipper at the round-house if

there was any fear of wind, 'twas all I could do to keep the juice in

my cheek. Away he goes up to windward, holding on by every thing, to

look over the bulwarks behind his sweetheart, givin' me a glance over

his shoulder. At night I see the two hold a sort of a collogue abaft

the wheel, when I was on my trick at the helm. After a while there was

a row got up amongst the passengers, with the old nabob and the

skipper, to find out who it was that kept a singing every still night

in the first watch, alongside of the ladies' cabin, under the poop. It

couldn't be cleared up, hows'ever, who it was. All sorts o' places

they said it comed from--mizen-chains, quarter-galleries, lower-deck

ports, and davit-boats. But what put the old hunks most in a rage was,

the songs was every one on 'em such as "Rule Britannia," "Bay of

Biscay," "Britannia's Bulwarks," and "All in the Downs." The captain

was all at sea about it, and none of the men would say any thing, for

by all accounts 'twas the best pipe at a sea-song as was to be heard.

For my part, I knowed pretty well what was afloat. One night a man

comed for'ard from the wheel, after steering his dog-watch out, and

"Well I'm blessed, mates," says he on the fok'sle, "but that chap aft

yonder with the lady--he's about the greenest hand I've chanced to

come across! What d'ye think I hears him say to old Yallow-chops an

hour agone?" "What was it, mate?" I says. "Says he, "Do ye know, Sar

Chawls, is the hoshun reelly green at the line--_green_ ye know, Sar

Chawls, _reely_ green?' 'No sir,' says the old naboob, ''tis blue.'

'Whoy, ye don't sa--ay so!' says the young chap, pullin' a long

face.'" "Why, Jim," another hand drops in, "that's the very chap as

sings them first-rate sea-songs of a night! I seed him myself come out

o' the mizen-chains!" "Hallo!" says another at this, "then there's

some'at queer i' the wind! I _thought_ he gave rather a weather-look

aloft, comin' on deck i' the morning! I'll bet a week's grog that

chap's desarted from the king's flag, mates!" Well, ye know, hereupon

I couldn't do no less nor shove in my oar, so I takes word from all

hands not to blow the gaff,[14] an' then gives 'em the whole yarn to

the very day, about the Green Hand--for somehow or another I was

al'ays a yarning sort of a customer. As soon as they heard it was a

love consarn, not a man but swore to keep a stopper on his jaw; only,

at findin' out he was a leftenant in the Royal Navy, all hands was for

touching hats when they went past.

[14] Let out the secret.

Hows'ever, things went on till we'd crossed the line a good while; the

leftenant was making his way with the girl at every chance. But as for

the old fellow, I didn't see he was a fathom the nearer with _him_;

though, as the Naboob had never clapped eyes on him to know him like,

'twa'n't much matter before heaving in sight o' port. The captain of

the Indyman was a rum old-fashioned codger, all for plain sailing and

old ways--I shouldn't say overmuch of a smart seaman. He read the

sarvice every Sunday, rigged the church an' all that, if it was

anything short of a reef-taups'l breeze. 'Twas queer enough, ye may

think, to hear the old boy drawling out, "As 'twas in the

beginning,"----then, in the one key, "Haul aft the mainsheet,"----"Is

now, and ever shall be,"----"Small pull with the weather-brace,"----

"Amen,"----"Well the mainyard,"----"The Lord be with you,"----"Taups'l

yard well! "As for the first orficer, he was a dandy know-nothing

young blade, as wanted to show off before the ladies; and the second

was afraid to call the nose on his face his own, except in his watch;

the third was a good seaman, but ye may fancy the craft stood often a

poor chance of being well handled.

'Twas one arternoon watch, off the west coast of Africay, as hot a day

as I mind on, we lost the breeze with a swell, and just as it got down

smooth, land was made out, low upon the starboard bow, to the

south-east. The captain was turned in sick below, and the first

orficer on deck. I was at the wheel, and I hears him say to the second

how the land breeze would come off at night. A little after, up comes

Leftenant Collins, in his black wig and his 'long-shore hat, an'

begins to squint over the starn to nor'west'ard. "Jacobs, my lad,"

whispers he to me, "how do ye like the looks o' things?" "Not

overmuch, sir," says I; "small enough sea-room for the sky there!" Up

goes he to the first officer, after a bit. "Sir," says he, "do ye

notice how we've risen the land within the last hour and a-half?" "No,

sir," says the first mate; "what d'ye mean?" "Why, there's a current

here, takin' us inside the point," says he. "Sir," says the Company's

man, "if I didn't know what's what, d'ye think I'd larn it off a

gentleman as is so confounded green? There's nothing of the sort," he

says. "Look on the starboard quarter then," says the leftenant, "at

the man-o'-war bird afloat yonder with its wings spread. Take three

minutes' look!" says he. Well, the mate did take a minute or two's

look through the mizen-shroud, and pretty blue he got, for the bird

came abreast of the ship by that time. "Now," says the leftenant,

"d'ye think ye'd weather that there point two hours after this, if a

gale come on from the nor'west, sir?" "Well," says the first mate, "I

daresay we shouldn't--but what o' that?" "Why, if you'd cruised for

six months off the coast of Africa, as I've done," says the leftenant,

"you'd think there was something ticklish about that white spot in the

sky, to nor'west! But on top o' that, the weather-glass is fell a good

bit since four bells." "Weather-glass!" the mate says, "why, that

don't matter much in respect of a gale, I fancy." Ye must understand,

weather-glasses wan't come so much in fashion at that time, except in

the royal navy. "Sir," says the mate again, "mind _your_ business, if

you've got any, and I'll mind mine!" "If I was you," the leftenant

says, "I'd call the captain." "Thank ye," says the mate,--"call the

captain for nothing!" "Well," in an hour more the land was quite plain

on the starboard bow, and the mate comes aft again to Leftenant

Collins. The clouds was beginning to grow out of the clear sky astarn

too. "Why, sir," says the mate, "I'd no notion you was a _seaman_ at

all! What would you do yourself now, supposin' the case you put a

little ago?" "Well, sir," says Mr Collins, "if you'll do it, I'll tell

ye, at once----"

At this point of Old Jack's story, however, a cabin-boy came from aft,

to say that the captain wanted him. The old seaman knocked the ashes

out of his pipe, which he had smoked at intervals in short puffs, put

it in his jacket pocket, and got up off the windlass end. "Why, old

ship!" said the man-o'-war's-man, "are ye goin' to leave us in the

lurch with a _short yarn_?" "Can't help it, bo'", said Old Jack;

"orders must be obeyed, ye know," and away he went. "Well, mates,"

said one, "what was the upshot of it, if the yarn's been overhauled

already? I did'nt hear it myself." "Blessed if I know" said

several--"Old Jack didn't get the length last time he's got now."

"More luck!" said the man-o'-war's-man; "'tis to be hoped he'll finish

it next time!"

EASTLAKE'S LITERATURE OF THE FINE ARTS.

We are surrounded by an external world, which it has pleased the great

Maker of the universe to clothe with infinite beauty, cognisable to us

through the senses, yet scarcely ours, until, by a more intimate

appropriation through the mind, we have added ourselves to it, made it

a part of, and in some no inconsiderable degree subject to, the will

of our own nature. The inventive faculties of the mind gather all

within their reach, which it is their province to combine, and

remodel, and revivify with human feeling; and thus, by becoming to a

limited extent creative ourselves, we are the more enabled to look up,

and in admiration adore the divine power that has made all things out

of nothing, and the divine goodness which has given us a perception of

a portion of His works. Through the senses we know indeed but

imperfectly--more imperfectly than those who have not considered the

subject will allow. They minister first to our actual wants,

presenting few charms and enticements but such as barely suffice to

refresh the mind under the weariness of its daily experience. The bulk

of mankind are under a hard necessity, which limits their senses to

the work of life: were they enlarged to a greater capacity, that work

would be the more irksome. The senses are then, like the air we

breathe, reduced from an extreme fineness and purity, for the

temporary use of yet unpolished humanity. But they are not intended to

continue ever in this state of imperfection.

The great business--the providing for the first wants of life--done,

industry is rewarded not by absolute rest and idleness, but by the

succession of new and higher wants, which the growing mind demands;

and it accordingly taxes the senses, and gives them command to be

purveyors, and cultivates them for the purpose of enlarged

gratification. They are thus capable of great extension, and, as it

were, of an influx of living power to awaken and spiritualise their

dormant or inert matter. All life is in progression: sciences must be

discovered; arts must be created; and could we conceive an entirely

sluggish and uncultivated social state, how few would see what may be

seen, or hear what may be heard! The earth, teeming with sights of

wonder, and breathed over with a divine music, would be to its

inhabitants, in such a condition, but a waste and thankless

wilderness. And which is nature--the bare, the imperceptible, for any

beauty it contains, or the riches of the mind's discovery, the

imaginative creation? We are inventive, that we may discover what

nature is; nor is that the less, but rather the more, nature which is

art. Art is but nature discovered--the hidden brought to light, and

home to us, and acknowledged and felt--more or less felt as we

cultivate reciprocally the mind through the senses, and the senses

through the mind. With this view, all the artificial enchantments of

life are nature--all arts, all sciences: for how could they be to

embellish society,--indeed without which there would be no

_society_--had they not an independent existence somewhere in the

great storehouse of infinity, and were they not bountifully thrown out

to us as truths to gather, as fruits to nourish and to gratify? We

would wish to vindicate all nature, and unfetter it from that petty

distinction which many are fond of drawing between nature and art.

These make but one whole. For why should we separate ourselves, with

all our faculties, perceptive and inventive, from our intimate and

purposed connexion with the great universe? It is nature, because it

is every where man's doing, to write and act plays, to compose music,

and to paint pictures, raise noble edifices, and make marble seem to

live in statues. And besides, as man himself is the chief work of

nature, so is that which he does, even out of a partial imitation of

other nature, the more natural, as it to a certain degree recedes from

its model, and participates in and adopts the feeling of him that

makes it. It is this nature which makes beauty perfect--which renders

the music of Handel better than the sounds of winds and waters, and of

a higher nature than they, as it is of a more extensive power, in all

variety of movement, to touch our feelings, and stir us at will. And

such is poetry, which influences us where fact fails. And all this not

by mere imitation, which some are so fond of thrusting forward as the

means; for there is nothing quite like to itself. With such means of

exquisite enjoyment within our reach--by this enlargement of the

boundary of our senses, of entering upon the improved faculties of our

minds--it does seem strange that any gifted with leisure and

understanding should neglect the cultivation of arts and sciences,

which offer in the pursuit and in the attainment such unlimited

riches. It is as if an heir to a large and beautiful estate, a mansion

opulent in treasures, should willingly turn his back upon his

inheritance, and be content to live in a hovel, and habitate with

swine that feed him. And so it is when life, that might be thus

embellished and enjoyed, is worse than wasted in low pursuits, and in

those meaner gratifications which the untutored senses supply.

We hold that a real taste for the Fine Arts is the _acme_ of a

nation's civilisation, and a greater, a more general happiness, the

certain result. We hold, too, that it is a creature of growth--that it

may spring up where once sown and tended with care, in apparently the

most unpromising soils. The revival of arts and of letters took place

in "Agresti Latio." And how is the whole world benefited by that era

of cultivation! There is no country under the sun that so much stands

in need of an education in the Arts as our own. With energy to

produce, and wealth at command, where shall we look for more favouring

national circumstances? This country has been the mart where the

finest productions of the genius of other times have found the most

liberal purchasers, neglected sadly by our governments; individual

collectors have enriched the nation. If we have suffered too many of

the finest works--the purchase of which would have been as nothing out

of the public purse--to leave our shores, and now to be the ornament

of foreign galleries; yet our private collectors are so numerous, that

at least a love for the arts has been more generally disseminated. But

we have had no previous education to qualify us for the taste which we

would possess. There have been no great works, to which the public eye

could be directed, growing up amongst us. Hitherto we have had no

Vaticans to embellish, and our temples have been closed against the

hand of genius; yet are we now, as it were, upon the turning-point of

the character of our cultivation: there is a general stir, a common

talk about art, an expressed interest, an almost universal appetence

in that direction. We are perfectly surprised at the very large sums

which have been recently given for works of even moderate pretensions.

There is much to observe that indicates the general desire, but less

that indicates a general knowledge. There is an incipient taste, but

there is a great want,--education--education for art and in art. How

is this to be promoted? The lectures of academies are thought to be

exclusively for the professors or rather students, and are too often

neglected by them. The lectures of Sir Joshua, of Fuseli, and others,

contain much valuable matter, but they scarcely reach the public. The

most interesting foreign publications remain untranslated. Vasari is

as yet unknown in our language. Transcripts, in outline or in more

full engraving, of the finest works, exist not among us: these are the

things that should be before the eyes of all, together with a

systematic reading education upon the principles. Whatever has been

done that is great, that is ennobling, should be, as far as is

possible, seen and known. As yet, in all this, there is a great

deficiency. The public is left to, at best, an incipient taste; which,

to judge from the kind of productions that find the readiest market,

is not good--at all events is not high, and scarcely improving. The

love is at present for picture imitation, that lowest condition in

which art may be said to flourish. We want an education in its

principles, that its just aim and proper influence may be understood.

The Fine Arts should be a part of our literature, and thus become a

branch of general education. We hail with pleasure every work of the

kind we see announced; we rejoice in the publication of our

"hand-books," and the many volumes on the arts, as they flourished in

other countries, which now begin in some measure to interest the

reading public. But is nothing done towards a foundation for education

in the principles of the arts? We are happy to say there is much done.

If the commission on the Fine Arts had done nothing more than the

drawing up their "reports" by their secretary, in that they have done

much. Valuable, however, as these "reports" are, they were nearly a

dead letter: the title was not enticing; few looked to reports as

other than statistical accounts; whereas, in reality, they contained

deep research, accurate knowledge, and clearly set forth the

principles upon which, as a foundation, true taste must rest. We are

happy that these most able essays have been rescued from the common

fate of "reports," by their being now preserved in a collected form,

together with other most valuable treatises from the pen of the

secretary to the commission, under the title of _Contributions to the

Literature of the Fine Arts_. Mr Eastlake has conscientiously imposed

upon himself an arduous undertaking, beyond the implied condition of

his secretaryship. In so doing, he deserves the greatest commendation,

for he has greatly increased the utility of the commission. Not

content with promoting the arts by these excellent theoretical

treatises, he has addressed the artists themselves, and led them to

the best practical views. He has, with great industry, labour, and

patient investigation, cleared away the common errors respecting the

"Old Masters." We have already noticed his _History of Painting in

Oil_--that is, the first volume, which treats of the practice of the

Flemish school. It is now no matter of conjecture what colours or what

vehicles were in use--we have sure documentary evidence before us. It

remains to make known the alterations and additions to that practice

by the Italian schools, and this will be the subject of his

forthcoming volume. In the first work, indeed, we have glimpses of the

Italian method, and recipes of the varnish supposed to be used by

Correggio; but we look to certain information, which is the fair

promise of the second volume.

In the _Contributions to the Literature of the Fine Arts_, in addition

to the essays on painting, sculpture, and architecture, taken from the

"reports," we have Mr Eastlake's review of Passavant's _Life of

Raphael_, extracted from the _Quarterly Review_; notes from Kugler's

_Hand-Book_, on the subject of the paintings in the Capella Sistina;

extracts from the translation of Goethe's _Theory of Colours_, on the

Decoration of a Villa; and, perhaps the most interesting of all, if we

may not say the most important, a fragment on "The Philosophy of the

Fine Arts," not noticed in the chapter of contents. To this last,

being so entirely speculative upon the very cause of beauty, and so

new in matter, we should feel disposed to invite discussion on the

side of doubt--partly because, it being professedly a fragment, by

suggesting the difficulties attending his theory, a clearer exposition

in the further prosecution of it may be the result.