_B_. Well, well! I give it up then: it was your own idea. We'll try

again. Cannot you create some difficulty or dilemma, in which to throw

her, so that the hero may come to her rescue with _eclat_.

_A_. Her grey palfrey takes fright.

_B_. So will your readers; stale--quite stale!

_A_. A wild bull has his horns close to her, and is about to toss her.

_B_. As your book would be!--away with contempt. Vapid--quite vapid!

_A_. A shipwreck--the waves are about to close over her.

_B_. Your book would be closed at the same moment--worn out--quite worn

out.

_A_. In the dead of the night, a fire breaks out--she is already in the

midst of the flames--

_B_. Where your book would also be by the disgusted reader--worse and

worse.

_A_. Confound it--you will not allow me to expose her to earth, air,

fire, or water. I have a great mind to hang her in her garters, and

make the hero come and cut her down.

_B_. You might do worse--and better.

_A_. What--hang myself?

_B_. That certainly would put an end to all your difficulties. But,

Ansard, I think I can put your heroine in a situation really critical

and eminently distressing, and the hero shall come to her relief, like

the descent of a god to the rescue of a Greek or Trojan warrior.

_A_. Or of Bacchus to Ariadne in her distress.

_B_. Perhaps a better simile. The consequence will be, that eternal

gratitude in the bosom of the maiden will prove the parent of eternal

love, which eternity of passion will of course until they are married.

_A_. I'm all attention.

_B_. Get up a splendid dinner party for their first casual meeting.

Place the company at table.

_A_. Surely you are not going to choke her with the bone of a chicken.

_B_. You surely are about to murder me, as Sampson did the

Philistines--

_A_. With the jaw-bone of a fashionable novel-writer, you mean.

_B_. Exactly. But to proceed:--they are seated at table; can you

describe a grand dinner?

_A_. Certainly, I have partaken of more than one.

_B_. Where?

_A_. I once sat down three hundred strong at the Freemasons' Tavern.

_B_. Pshaw! a mere hog feed.

_A_. Well, then, I dined with the late lord mayor.

_B_. Still worse. My dear Ansard, it is however of no consequence.

Nothing is more difficult to attain, yet nothing is more easy to

describe, than a good dinner. I was once reading a very fashionable

novel by a very fashionable bookseller, for the author is a mere

nonentity, and was very much surprised at the accuracy with which a good

dinner was described. The mystery was explained a short time

afterwards, when casually taking up Eustache Eude's book in Sams's

library, I found that the author had copied it out exactly from the

injunctions of that celebrated gastronome. You can borrow the book.

_A_. Well, we will suppose that done; but I am all anxiety to know what

is the danger from which the heroine is to be rescued.

_B_. I will explain. There are two species of existence--that of mere

mortal existence, which is of little consequence, provided, like Caesar,

the hero and heroine die decently: the other is of much greater

consequence, which is fashionable existence. Let them once lose caste

in that respect, and they are virtually dead, and one mistake, one

oversight, is a death-blow for which there is no remedy, and from which

there is no recovery. For instance, we will suppose our heroine to be

quite confounded with the appearance of our hero--to have become

_distraite, reveuse_--and, in short, to have lost her recollection and

presence of mind. She has been assisted to _filet de soles_. Say that

the only sauce ever taken with them is _au macedoine_--this is offered

to her, and, at the same time, another, which to eat with the above dish

would be unheard of. In her distraction she is about to take the wrong

sauce--actually at the point of ruining herself for ever and committing

suicide upon her fashionable existence, while the keen grey eyes of Sir

Antinous Antibes, the arbiter of fashion, are fixed upon her. At this

awful moment, which is for ever to terminate her fashionable existence,

the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, who sits next to her, gently touches

her _seduisante_ sleeve--blandly smiling, he whispers to her that the

_other_ is the sauce _macedoine_. She perceives her mistake, trembles

at her danger, rewards him with a smile, which penetrates into the

deepest recesses of his heart, helps herself to the right sauce, darts a

look of contemptuous triumph upon Sir Antinous Antibes, and, while she

is dipping her sole into the sauce, her soul expands with gratitude and

love.

_A_. I see, I see. Many thanks; my heroine is now a fair counterpart

of my hero.

"Ah, sure a pair were never seen,

So justly form'd to meet by nature."

_B_. And now I'll give you another hint, since you appear grateful. It

is a species of clap-trap in a novel, which always takes--to wit, a rich

old uncle or misanthrope, who, at the very time that he is bitterly

offended and disgusted with the hero, who is in awkward circumstances,

pulls out a pocketbook and counts down, say fifteen or twenty thousand

pounds in bank notes, to relieve him from his difficulties. An old coat

and monosyllables will increase the interest.

_A_. True. (_sighing_.) Alas! there are no such uncles in real life;

I wish there were.

_B_. I beg your pardon; I know no time in which _my uncle_ forks out

more bank notes than at present.

_A_. Yes, but it is for value, or more than value, received.

_B_. That I grant; but I am afraid it is the only "uncle" left now;

except in a fashionable novel. But you comprehend the value of this new

auxiliary.

_A_. Nothing can be better. Barnstaple, you are really --, but I say

no more. If a truly great man cannot be flattered with delicacy, it

must not be attempted at all; silence then becomes the best tribute.

Your advice proves you to be truly great. I am silent, therefore you

understand the full force of the oratory of my thanks.

_B (bowing_.) Well, Ansard, you have found out the cheapest way of

paying off your bills of gratitude I ever heard of. "Poor, even in

thanks," was well said by Shakespeare; but you, it appears, are rich, in

having nothing at all wherewith to pay. If you could transfer the same

doctrine to your tradesmen, you need not write novels.

_A_. Alas! my dear fellow, mine is not yet written. There is one

important feature, nay, the most important feature of all--the style of

language, the diction--on that, Barnstaple, you have not yet

doctrinated.

_B (pompously_.) When Demosthenes was asked what were the principal

attributes of eloquence, he answered, that the first was action; on

being asked which was the second, he replied, action; and the third,

action; and such is the idea of the Irish _mimbers_ in the House of

Commons. Now there are three important requisites in the diction of a

fashionable novel. The first, my dear fellow, is--flippancy; the

second, flippancy; and flippancy is also the third. With the dull it

will pass for wit, with some it will pass for scorn,--and even the witty

will not be enabled to point out the difference, without running the

risk of being considered invidious. It will cover every defect with a

defect still greater; for who can call small beer tasteless when it is

sour, or dull when it is bottled and has a froth upon it?

_A_. The advice is excellent; but I fear that this flippancy is as

difficult to acquire an the tone of true eloquence.

_B_. Difficult! I defy the writers of the silver-fork school to write

out of the style flippant. Read but one volume of --, and you will be

saturated with it; but if you wish to go to the fountain-head, do as

have done most of the late fashionable novel-writers, repair to their

instructors--the lady's-maid, for flippancy in the vein _spirituelle_!

to a London footman for the vein critical; but, if you wish a flippancy

of a still higher order, at once more solemn and more empty, which I

would call the vein political, read the speeches of some of our members

of Parliament. Only read them, I wish no man so ill an to inflict upon

him the torture of hearing them--read them, I say, and you will have

taken the very highest degree in the order of inane flippancy.

_A_. I see it at once. Your observations are as true as they are

severe. When we would harangue geese, we must condescend to hiss; but

still, my dear Barnstaple, though you have fully proved to me that in a

fashionable novel all plot is unnecessary, don't you think there ought

to be a catastrophe, or sort of a kind of an end to the work, or the

reader may be brought up short, or as the sailors say, "all standing,"

when he comes to the word "Finis," and exclaim with an air of

stupefaction--"And then--"

_B_. And then, if he did, it would be no more than the fool deserved.

I don't know whether it would not be advisable to leave off in the

middle of a sentence, of a word, nay of a syllable, if it be possible: I

am sure the winding-up would be better than the lackadaisical

running-down of most of the fashionable novels. Snap the mainspring of

your watch, and none but an ass can expect you to tell by it what it is

o'clock; snap the thread of your narrative in the same way, and he must

be an unreasonable being who would expect a reasonable conclusion.

Finish thus, in a case of delicate distress; say, "The Honourable Mr

Augustus Bouverie was struck in a heap with horror. He rushed with a

frantic grace, a deliberate haste, and a graceful awkwardness, and

whispered in her ear these dread and awful words, `IT IS TOO LATE!'"

Follow up with a -- and Finis.

_A_. I see; the fair and agitated reader will pass a sleepless night in

endeavouring to decipher the mutilated sentence. She will fail, and

consequently call the book delightful. But should there not have been a

marriage previously to this happy awful climax?

_B_. Yes; everything is arranged for the nuptials--carriages are sent

home, jewellery received but not paid for, dresses all tried on, the

party invited--nay, assembled in the blue-and-white drawing-room. The

right reverend my lord bishop is standing behind the temporary altar--he

has wiped his spectacles and thumbed his prayer-book--all eyes are

turned towards the door, which opens not--the bride faints, for the

bridegroom cometh not--he's not "i' the vein"--a something, as like

nothing as possible, has given him a disgust that is surmountable--he

flings his happiness to the winds, though he never loved with more

outrageous intensity than at the moment he discards his mistress; so he

fights three duels with the two brothers and father. He wounds one of

the young men dangerously, the other slightly; fires his pistol in the

air when he meets her father--for how could he take the life of him who

gave life to his adored one? Your hero can always hit a man just where

he pleases--vide every novel in Mr C's collection. The hero becomes

misanthropical, the heroine maniacal. The former marries an antiquated

and toothless dowager, as an escape from the imaginary disgust he took

at a sight of a matchless woman; and the latter marries an old brute,

who threatens her life every night, and puts her in bodily fear every

morning, as an indemnity in full for the loss of the man of her

affections. They are both romantically miserable; and then comes on

your tantalising scenes of delicate distress, and so the end of your

third volume, and then finish without any end at all. _Verb. sap. sat_.

Or, if you like it better, kill the old dowager of a surfeit, and make

the old brute who marries the heroine commit suicide; and, after all

these unheard-of trials, marry them as fresh and beautiful as ever.

_A_. A thousand thanks. Your _verba_ are not thrown to a _sap_. Can I

possibly do you any favour for all this kindness?

_B_. Oh, my dear fellow! the very greatest. As I see yours will be, at

all points, a most fashionable novel, do me the inestimable favour _not_

to ask me _to read it_.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

HOW TO WRITE A BOOK OF TRAVELS.

MR ANSARD'S _Chambers_.

_Ansard_. (alone.) Well, I thought it hard enough to write a novel at

the dictate of the bibliopolist; but to be condemned to sit down and

write my travels--travels that have never extended farther than the

Lincoln's Inn Coffee House for my daily food, and a walk to Hampstead on

a Sunday. These travels to be swelled into Travels up the Rhine in the

year 18--. Why, it's impossible. O that Barnstaple were here, for he

has proved my guardian angel! Lazy, clever dog!

_Enter_ BARNSTAPLE.

_Barnstaple_. Pray, my dear Ansard, to whom did you apply that last

epithet?

_Ansard_. My dear Barnstaple, I never was more happy to see you. Sit

down, I have much to tell you, all about myself and my difficulties.

_Barnstaple_. The conversation promises to be interesting to me, at all

events.

_Ansard_. Everything is interesting to true friendship.

_Barnstaple_. Now I perceive that you do want something. Well, before

you state your case, tell me, how did the novel go off?

_Ansard_. Wonderfully well. It was ascribed to Lord G--: the bait

took, and 750 went off in a first edition, and the remainder of the

copies printed went off in a second.

_Barnstaple_. Without being reprinted?

_Ansard_. Exactly. I was surprised at my success, and told my

publisher so; but he answered that he could sell an edition of any trash

he pleased.

_Barnstaple_. That was not flattering.

_Ansard_. Not very; but his bill was honoured, and that consoled me.

However, to proceed to business--he has given me another order--A

Journey up the Rhine, in two volumes, large octavo, in the year 18--.

Now, Barnstaple, what's to be done?

_Barnstaple_. Write it, to be sure.

_Ansard_. But you well know I have never been out of England in my

life.

_Barnstaple_. Never mind, write it.

_Ansard_. Yes, it's very well to say write it; but how the devil am I

to write it? Write what I have never seen--detail events which never

occurred--describe views of that which I have not even an idea--travel

post in my old arm-chair. It's all very well to say write it, but tell

me, how.

_Barnstaple_. I say again, write it, and pocket the money. Ansard,

allow me to state that you are a greenhorn. I will make this mountain

of difficulties vanish and melt away like snow before the powerful rays

of the sun. You are told to write what you have never seen; but if you

have not, others have, which will serve your purpose just as well. To

detail events which have never occurred--invent them, they will be more

amusing. Describe views, etcetera, of which you are ignorant--so are

most of your readers; but have we not the art of engraving to assist

you? To travel post in your arm-chair--a very pleasant and a very

profitable way of travelling, as you have not to pay for the horses and

postilions, and are not knocked to pieces by continental roads. Depend

upon it, the best travels are those written at home, by those who have

never put their foot into the Calais packet-boat.

_Ansard_. To me this is all a mystery. I certainly must be a

greenhorn, as you observe.

_Barnstaple_. Why, Ansard, my dear fellow, with a book of roads and a

gazetteer, I would write a more amusing book of travels than one half

which are now foisted on the public. All you have to do is to fill up

the chinks.

_Ansard_. All I want to do is to fill up the chinks in my stomach,

Barnstaple; for, between you and me, times are rather queer.

_Barnstaple_. You shall do it, if you will follow my advice. I taught

you how to write a fashionable novel; it will be hard, indeed, if I

cannot send you up the Rhine. One little expense must be incurred--you

must subscribe a quarter to a circulating library, for I wish that what

you do should be well done.

_Ansard_. Barnstaple, I will subscribe to--anything.

_Barnstaple_. Well, then, since you are so reasonable, I will proceed.

You must wade through all the various "Journeys on the Rhine", "Two

Months on the Rhine", "Autumns on the Rhine," etcetera, which you can

collect. This you will find the most tiresome part of your task.

Select one as your guide, one who has a reputation; follow his course,

not exactly--that I will explain afterwards--and agree with him in every

thing, generally speaking. Praise his exactitude and fidelity, and

occasionally quote him; this is but fair; after you rob a man (and I

intend you shall rifle him most completely), it is but decent to give

him kind words. All others you must abuse, contradict, and depreciate.

Now, there is a great advantage in so doing: in the first place, you

make the best writer your friend--he forgets your larcenies in your

commendation of him, and in your abuse of others. If his work be

correct, so must yours be; he praises it everywhere--perhaps finds you

out, and asks you to dine with him.

_Ansard_. How should I ever look at his injured face?

_Barnstaple_. On the contrary, he is the obliged party--your travels

are a puff to his own.

_Ansard_. But, Barnstaple, allowing that I follow this part of your

advice, which I grant to be very excellent, how can I contradict others,

when they may be, and probably are, perfectly correct in their

assertions?

_Barnstaple_. If they are so, virtue must be its own reward. It is

necessary that you write a book of travels, and all travellers

contradict each other--ergo, you must contradict, or nobody will believe

that you have travelled. Not only contradict, but sneer at them.

_Ansard_. Well, now do explain how that is to be done.

_Barnstaple_. Nothing more simple: for instance, a man measures a

certain remarkable piece of antiquity--its length is 747 feet. You must

measure it over again, and declare that he is in error, that it is only

727. To be sure of your being correct, measure it _twice_ over, and

then convict him.

_Ansard_. But surely, Barnstaple, one who has measured it is more

likely to be correct than one who has not.

_Barnstaple_. I'll grant you that he is correct to half an inch--that's

no matter. The public will, in all probability, believe you, because

you are the last writer, and because you have _decreased_ the

dimensions. Travellers are notorious for amplification, and if the

public do not believe you, let them go and measure it themselves.

_Ansard_. A third traveller may hereafter measure it, and find that I

am in the wrong.

_Barnstaple_. Ten to one if you are not both in the wrong; but what

matter will that be? your book will have been sold.

_Ansard_. Most true, O king! I perceive now the general outline, and I

feel confident that, with your kind assistance, I may accomplish it.

But, Barnstaple, the beginning is everything. If I only had the first

chapter as a start, I think I could get on. It is the _modus_ that I

want--the style. A first chapter would be a key-note for the remainder

of the tune, with all the variations.

_Barnstaple_. Well, then, take up your pen. But before I commence, it

may be as well to observe, that there is a certain method required, even

in writing travels. In every chapter you should have certain landmarks

to guide you. For instance, enumerate the following, and select the

works from which they may be obtained, so as to mix up the instructive

with the amusing. Travelling--remarks on country passed through--

anecdote--arrival at a town--churches--population--historical remarks--

another anecdote--eating and drinking--natural curiosities--egotism--

remarks on the women (never mind the men)--another anecdote--

reflections--an adventure--and go to bed. You understand, Ansard, that

in these memoranda you have all that is required; the rule is not to be

followed absolutely, but generally. As you observed, such is to be the

tune, but your variations may be infinite. When at a loss, or you think

you are dull, always call in a grisette, and a little mystery; and,

above all, never be afraid of talking too much about yourself.

_Ansard_. Many, many thanks; but now, my dear Barnstaple, for the first

chapter.

_Barnstaple_. Let your style be flowery--I should say florid--never

mind a false epithet or two in a page, they will never be observed. A

great deal depends upon the first two pages--you must not limp at

starting; we will, therefore, be particular. Take your pen.

[BARNSTAPLE _muses for a while, and then continues_.]

"A severe cough, which refused to yield even to the balmy influence of

the genial spring of 18--, and threatened a pulmonary complaint, induced

me to yield to the reiterated persuasions of my physicians to try a

change of air, as most likely to ward off the threatened danger. Where

to direct my steps was the difficult point to ascertain. Brighton,

Torquay, Cromer, Ilfracombe, had all been visited and revisited. At

either of these fashionable resorts I was certain to fall in with a

numerous acquaintance, whose persuasions would have induced me to depart

from that regularity of diet and of rest, so imperiously insisted upon

by my medical advisers. After much cogitation, I resolved upon a

journey up the Rhine, and to escape the ruthless winter of our northern

clime in the more genial land of history."

_Ansard_. Land of history--I presume you mean Italy; but am I to go

there?

_Barnstaple_. No, you may recover, and come back again to skate upon

the Serpentine, if you please. You observe, Ansard, I have not made you

a fellow with 50 pounds in his pocket, setting out to turn it into 300

pounds by a book of travels. I have avoided mention of Margate,

Ramsgate, Broadstairs, and all common watering-places; I have talked of

physicians in the plural; in short, no one who reads that paragraph, but

will suppose that you are a young man of rank and fortune, to whom money

is no object, and who spends hundreds to cure that which might be

effected by a little regularity, and a few doses of ipecacuanha.

_Ansard_. I wish it were so. Nevertheless, I'll travel _en grand

seigneur_--thats more agreeable even in imagination, than being rumbled

in a "_diligence_."

_Barnstaple_. And will produce more respect for your work, I can assure

you. But to proceed. Always, when you leave England, talk about

_hospitality_. The English like it. Have you no relations or friends

in whose opinion you wish to stand well? Public mention in print does

wonders, especially with a copy handsomely bound "from the author."

_Ansard_. Really, Barnstaple, I do not know any one. My poor mother is

in Cumberland, and that is not _en route_. I have a maternal uncle of

the name of Forster, who lives on the road--a rich, old, miserly

bachelor; but I can't say much for his hospitality. I have called upon

him twice, and he has never even asked me to dinner.

_Barnstaple_. Never mind. People like being praised for a virtue which

they do not possess--it may prove a legacy. Say, then, that you quitted

the hospitable roof of your worthy and excellent-hearted relation, Mr

Forster and felt--

_Ansard_. Felt how?

_Barnstaple_. How--why you felt, as he wrung your hand, that there was

a sudden dissolution of the ties of kindred and affection.

_Ansard_. There always has been in that quarter, so my conscience is so

far clear.

_Barnstaple_. You arrive at Dovor (mind you spell it Dovor)--go to bed

tired and reflective--embark early the next morning--a rough passage--

_Ansard_. And sea-sick, of course?

_Barnstaple_. No, Ansard; there I'll give you a proof of my tact--you

shan't be sea-sick.

_Ansard_. But I'm sure I should be.

_Barnstaple_. All travellers are, and all fill up a page or two with

complaints, _ad nauseam_--for that reason sick you shall not be.

Observe--to your astonishment you are not sea-sick: the other passengers

suffer dreadfully; one young dandy puffs furiously at a cigar in

bravado, until he sends it over the side, like an arrow from the

blow-pipe of a South American Indian. Introduce a husband with a pretty

wife--he jealous as a dog, until he is sick as a cat--your attentions--

she pillowed on your arms, while he hangs over the lee gunwale--her

gratitude--safe arrival at Calais--sweet smiles of the lady--sullen

deportment of the gentleman--a few hints--and draw the veil. Do you

understand?

_Ansard_. Perfectly. I can manage all that.

_Barnstaple_. Then when you put your foot on shore, you must, for the

first time, _feel sea-sick_.

_Ansard_. On shore?

_Barnstaple_. Yes; reel about, not able to stand--every symptom as if

on board. Express your surprise at the strange effect, pretend not to

explain it, leave that to medical men, it being sufficient for you to

state the _fact_.

_Ansard_. The _fact_! O Barnstaple!

_Barnstaple_. That will be a great hit for a first chapter. You

reverse the order of things.

_Ansard_. That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter

with that _fact_?

_Barnstaple_. No. Travellers always go to bed at the end of each

chapter. It is a wise plan, and to a certain degree it must be

followed. You must have a baggage adventure--be separated from it--some

sharp little urchin has seized upon your valise--it is nowhere to be

found--quite in despair--walk to the Hotel d'Angleterre, and find that

you are met by the landlord and garcons, who inform you that your

carriage is in the remise, and your rooms ready--ascend to your

bedroom--find that your baggage is not only there, but neatly laid out--

your portmanteau unstrapped--your trunk uncorded--and the little rascal

of a commissaire standing by with his hat in his hand, and a smile _de

malice_, having installed _himself_ as your _domestique de place_--take

him for his impudence--praise the "_Cotelettes_ and the _vin de

Beaune_"--wish the reader good night, and go to bed. Thus ends the

first chapter.

[ANSARD _gets up and takes_ BARNSTAPLE'S _hand, which he shakes warmly

without speaking_. BARNSTAPLE _smiles and walks out_. ANSARD _is left

hard at work at his desk_.]

ARTHUR ANSARD _in his Chambers, solus, with his pen in his hand_.

_Ansard_. Capital! that last was a _hit_. It has all the appearance of

reality. To be sure, I borrowed the hint, but that nobody will be able

to prove. (_Yawns_.) Heigho! I have only got half way on my journey

yet, and my ideas are quite exhausted. I am as much worn out and

distressed as one of the German post-horses which I described in my last

chapter. (_Nods, and then falls fast asleep_.)

BARNSTAPLE _taps at the door; receiving no answer, he enters_.

_Barnstaple_. So--quite fast. What can have put him to sleep? (_Reads

the manuscript on the table_.) No wonder, enough to put anybody to

sleep apparently. Why, Ansard!

_Ansard_. (_starting up, still half asleep_.) Already? Why, I've

hardly shut my eyes. Well, I'll be dressed directly; let them get some

_cafe_ ready below. Henri, did you order the hind-spring to be

repaired! (_Nods again with his eyes shut_.)

_Barnstaple_. Hallo! What now, Ansard, do you really think that you

are travelling?

_Ansard_. (_waking up_). Upon my word, Barnstaple, I was so dreaming.

I thought I was in my bed at the Hotel de Londres, after the fatiguing

day's journey I described yesterday. I certainly have written myself

into the conviction that I was travelling post.

_Barnstaple_. All the better--you have embodied yourself in your own

work, which every writer of fiction ought to do; but they can seldom

attain to such a desideratum. Now, tell me, how do you get on?

_Ansard_. Thank you--pretty well. I have been going it with four

post-horses these last three weeks.

_Barnstaple_. And how far have you got?

_Ansard_. Half way--that is, into the middle of my second volume. But

I'm very glad that you're come to my assistance, Barnstaple; for to tell

you the truth, I was breaking down.

_Barnstaple_. Yes, you said something about the hind-spring of your

carriage.

_Ansard_. That I can repair without your assistance; but my spirits are

breaking down. I want society. This travelling post is dull work.

Now, if I could introduce a companion--

_Barnstaple_. So you shall. At the next town that you stop at, buy a

_Poodle_.

_Ansard_. A _Poodle_! Barnstaple? How the devil shall I be assisted

by a poodle?

_Barnstaple_. He will prove a more faithful friend to you in your

exigence, and a better companion than one of your own species. A male

companion, after all, is soon expended, and a female, which would be

more agreeable, is not admissible. If you admit a young traveller into

your carriage--what then? He is handsome, pleasant, romantic, and so

forth; but you must not give his opinions in contradiction to your own,

and if they coincide, it is superfluous. Now, a poodle is a dog of

parts, and it is more likely that you fall in with a sagacious dog than

with a sagacious man. The poodle is the thing; you must recount your

meeting, his purchase, size, colour, and qualifications, and anecdotes

of his sagacity, vouched for by the landlord, and all the _garcons_ of

the hotel. As you proceed on your travels, his attachment to you

increases, and wind up every third chapter with "your faithful Mouton."

_Ansard_. Will not all that be considered frivolous?

_Barnstaple_. Frivolous! by no means. The frivolous will like it, and

those who may have more sense, although they may think that Mouton does

not at all assist your travelling researches, are too well acquainted

with the virtues of the canine race, and the attachment insensibly

imbibed for so faithful an attendant, not to forgive your affectionate

mention of him. Besides it will go far to assist the verisimilitude of

your travels. As for your female readers, they will prefer Mouton even

to you.

_Ansard_. All-powerful and mighty magician, whose wand of humbug, like

that of Aaron's, swallows up all others, not excepting that of divine

Truth, I obey you! Mouton shall be summoned to my aid: he shall

flourish, and my pen shall flourish in praise of his endless

perfections. But, Barnstaple, what shall I give for him?

_Barnstaple_. (_thinks awhile_.) Not less than forty louis.

_Ansard_. Forty louis for a poodle!

_Barnstaple_. Most certainly; not a sou less. The value of any thing

in the eyes of the world is exactly what it costs. Mouton, at a

five-franc piece, would excite no interest; and his value to the reader

will increase in proportion to his price, which will be considered an

undeniable proof of all his wonderful sagacity, with which you are to

amuse the reader.

_Ansard_. But in what is to consist his sagacity?

_Barnstaple_. He must do everything but speak. Indeed, he must so far

speak as to howl the first part of "Lieber Augustin."

_Ansard_. His instinct shall put our boasted reason to the blush.

But--I think I had better not bring him home with me.

_Barnstaple_. Of course not. In the first place, it's absolutely

necessary to kill him, lest his reputation should induce people to seek

him out, which they would do, although, in all probability, they never

will his master. Lady Cork would certainly invite him to a literary

_soiree_. You must therefore kill him in the most effective way

possible, and you will derive the advantage of filling up at least ten

pages with his last moments--licking your hand, your own lamentations,

violent and inconsolable grief on the part of Henri, and tanning his

skin as a memorial.

_Ansard_. A beautiful episode, for which receive my best thanks. But,

Barnstaple, I have very few effective passages as yet. I have

remodelled several descriptions of mountains, precipices, waterfalls,

and such wonders of the creation--expressed my contempt and surprise at

the fear acknowledged by other travellers, in several instances. I have

lost my way twice--met three wolves--been four times benighted--and

indebted to lights at a distance for a bed at midnight, after the horses

have refused to proceed. All is incident, and I am quite hard up for

description. Now, I have marked down a fine passage in --'s work--a

beautiful description of a cathedral with a grand procession.

(_Reads_.) "What with the effect of the sun's brightest beams upon the

ancient glass windows--various hues reflected upon the gothic pillars--

gorgeousness of the procession--sacerdotal ornaments--tossing of

censers--crowds of people--elevation of the host, and sinking down of

the populace _en masse_." It really is a magnificent line of writing,

and which my work requires. One or two like that in my book would do

well to be quoted by impartial critics, before the public are permitted

to read it. But here, you observe, is a difficulty. I dare not borrow

the passage.

_Barnstaple_. But you shall borrow it--you shall be even finer than he

is, and yet he shall not dare to accuse you of plagiarism.

_Ansard_. How is that possible, my dear Barnstaple? I am all

impatience.

_Barnstaple_. His description is at a certain hour of the day. All you

have to do is to portray the scene in nearly the same words. You have

as much right to visit a cathedral as he has, and as for the rest--here

is the secret. You must visit it at _night_. Instead of "glorious

beams," you will talk of "pale melancholy light;" instead of "the

stained windows throwing their various hues upon the gothic pile," you

must "darken the massive pile, and light up the windows with the silver

rays of the moon." The glorious orb of day must give place to thousands

of wax tapers--the splendid fret--work of the roof you must regret was

not to be clearly distinguished--but you must be in ecstasies with the

broad light and shade--the blaze at the altar--solemn hour of night--

feelings of awe--half a Catholic--religious reflections, etcetera.

Don't you perceive?

_Ansard_. I do. Like the rest of my work, it shall be all _moonshine_.

It shall be done, Barnstaple; but have you not another idea or two to

help me with?

_Barnstaple_. Have you talked about cooks?

_Ansard_. As yet, not a word.

_Barnstaple_. By this time you ought to have some knowledge of

gastronomy. Talk seriously about eating.

_Ansard_. (_writes_.) I have made a memo.

_Barnstaple_. Have you had no affront?

_Ansard_. Not one.

B. Then be seriously affronted--complain to the burgomaster, or mayor,

or commandant, whoever it may be--they attempt to bully--you are

resolute and firm as an Englishman--insist upon being righted--they must

make you a thousand apologies. This will tickle the national vanity,

and be read with interest.

_Ansard_. (_writes_.) I have been affronted. Anything else which may

proceed from your prolific brain, Barnstaple?

_Barnstaple_. Have you had a serious illness?

_Ansard_. Never complained even of a headache.

_Barnstaple_. Then do everything but die--Henri weeping and

inconsolable--Mouton howling at the foot of your bed--kick the surgeons

out of the room--and cure yourself with three dozen of champagne.

_Ansard_. (_writes_.) Very sick--cured with three dozen of champagne--

I wish the illness would in reality come on, if I were certain of the

cure _gratis_. Go on, my dear Barnstaple.

_Barnstaple_. You may work in an episode here--delirium--lucid

intervals--gentle female voice--delicate attentions--mysterious

discovery from loquacious landlady--eternal gratitude--but no marriage--

an apostrophe--and all the rest left to conjecture.

_Ansard_. (_writes down_.) Silent attentions--conjecture--I can manage

that, I think.

_Barnstaple_. By the bye, have you brought in Madame de Stael?

_Ansard_. No--how the devil am I to bring her in?

_Barnstaple_. As most other travellers do, by the head and shoulders.

Never mind that, so long as you bring her in.

_Ansard_. (_writes_). Madame de Stael by the shoulders--that's not

very polite towards a lady. These hints are invaluable; pray go on.

_Barnstaple_. Why, you have already more hints this morning than are

sufficient for three volumes. But, however, let me see. (_Barnstaple

thinks a little_). Find yourself short of cash.

_Ansard_. A sad reality, Barnstaple. I shall write this part well, for

truth will guide my pen.

_Barnstaple_. All the better. But to continue--no remittances--awkward

position--explain your situation--receive credit to any amount--and

compliment your countrymen.

_Ansard_. (_writes_.) Credit to any amount--pleasing idea. But I

don't exactly perceive the value of this last hint, Barnstaple.

_Barnstaple_. All judicious travellers make it a point, throughout the

whole of their works, to flatter the nation upon its wealth, name, and

reputation in foreign countries; by doing so you will be read greedily,

and praised in due proportion. If ever I were to write my travels into

the interior of Africa, or to the North Pole, I would make it a point to

discount a bill at Timbuctoo, or get a cheque cashed by the Esquimaux,

without the least hesitation in either case. I think now, that what

with your invention, your plagiarism, and my hints, you ought to produce

a very effective Book of Travels; and with that feeling I shall leave

you to pursue your Journey, and receive, at its finale, your just

reward. When we meet again, I hope to see you advertised.

_Ansard_. Yes, but not exposed, I trust. I am _incognito_, you know.

_Barnstaple_. To be sure, that will impart an additional interest to

your narrative. All the world will be guessing who you may be. Adieu,

voyageur. [_Exit_ BARNSTAPLE.]

_Ansard_. And Heaven forfend that they should find me out! But what

can be done? In brief, I cannot get a brief, and thus I exercise my

professional acquirements how I can, proving myself as long-winded, as

prosy perhaps, and certainly as lying, as the more fortunate of my

fraternity.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

HOW TO WRITE A ROMANCE.

MR ARTHUR ANSARD, _standing at his table, selecting a steel pen from a

card on which a dozen are ranged up, like soldiers on parade_.

I must find a regular _graver_ to write this chapter of horrors. No

goose quill could afford me any assistance. Now then. Let me

see--(_Reads, and during his reading_ BARNSTAPLE _comes in at the door

behind him, unperceived_.) "At this most monstrously appalling sight,

the hair of Piftlianteriscki raised slowly the velvet cap from off his

head, as if it had been perched upon the rustling quills of some

exasperated porcupine--(I think that's new)--his nostrils dilated to

that extent that you might, with ease, have thrust a musket bullet into

each--his mouth was opened so wide, so unnaturally wide, that the

corners were rent asunder, and the blood slowly trickled down each side

of his bristly chin--while each tooth loosened from its socket with

individual fear.--Not a word could he utter, for his tongue, in its

fright, clung with terror to his upper jaw, as tight as do the bellies

of the fresh and slimy soles, paired together by some fisherwoman; but

if his tongue was paralysed, his heart was not--it throbbed against his

ribs with a violence which threatened their dislocation from the

sternum, and with a sound which reverberated through the dark, damp

subterrene--" I think that will do. There's _force_ there.

_Barnstaple_. There is, with a vengeance. Why, what is all this?

_Ansard_. My dear Barnstaple, you here! I'm writing a romance for B--.

It is to be supposed to be a translation.

_Barnstaple_. The Germans will be infinitely obliged to you; but, my

dear fellow, you appear to have fallen into the old school--that's no

longer in vogue.

_Ansard_. My orders are for the old school. B-- was most particular on

that point. He says that there is a re-action--a great re-action.

_Barnstaple_. What, on literature? Well, he knows as well as any man.

I only wish to God there was in everything else, and we could see the

good old times again.

_Ansard_. To confess the truth, I did intend to have finished this

without saying a word to you. I wished to have surprised you.

_Barnstaple_. So you have, my dear fellow, with the few lines I have

heard. How the devil are you to get your fellow out of that state of

asphyxia?

_Ansard_. By degrees--slowly--very slowly--as they pretend that we

lawyers go to heaven. But I'll tell you what I have done, just to give

you an idea of my work. In the first place, I have a castle perched so

high up in the air, that the eagles, even in their highest soar, appear

but as wrens below.

_Barnstaple_. That's all right.

_Ansard_. And then it has subterraneous passages, to which the sewers

of London are a mere song; and they all lead to a small cave at

high-water mark on the sea-beach, covered with brambles and bushes, and

just large enough at its entrance to admit of a man squeezing himself

in:

_Barnstaple_. That's all right. You cannot be too much underground; in

fact, the two first, and the best part of the third volume, should be

wholly in the bowels of the earth, and your hero and heroine should

never _come to light_ until the last chapter.

_Ansard_. Then they would never have been born till then, and how could

I marry them? But still I have adhered pretty much to your idea; and,

Barnstaple, I have such a heroine--such a love--she has never seen her

sweetheart, yet she is most devotedly attached, and has suffered more

for his sake than any mortal could endure.

_Barnstaple_. Most heroines generally do.

_Ansard_. I have had her into various dungeons for three or four years,

on black bread and a broken pitcher of water--she has been starved to

death--lain for months and months upon wet straw--had two brain fevers--

five times has she risked violation, and always has picked up, or found

in the belt of her infamous ravishers, a stiletto, which she has plunged

into their hearts, and they have expired with or without a groan.

_Barnstaple_. Excellent: and of course comes out of her dungeons each

time as fresh, as sweet, as lovely, as pure, as charming, and as

constant as ever.

_Ansard_. Exactly; nothing can equal her infinite variety of adventure,

and her imperishable beauty and unadhesive cleanliness of person; and,

as for lives, she has more than a thousand cats'. After nine months'

confinement in a dungeon, four feet square, when it is opened for her

release, the air is perfumed with the ambrosia which exhales from her

sweet person.

_Barnstaple_. Of course it does. The only question is, what ambrosia

smells like. But let me know something about your hero.

_Ansard_. He is a prince and a robber.

_Barnstaple_. The two professions are not at all incompatible. Go on.

_Ansard_. He is the chief of a band of robbers, and is here, there and

everywhere. He fills all Europe with terror, admiration, and love.

_Barnstaple_. Very good.

_Ansard_. His reasons for joining the robbers are, of course, a secret

(and upon my word they are equally a secret to myself); but it is

wonderful the implicit obedience of his men, and the many acts of

generosity of which he is guilty. I make him give away a great deal

more money than his whole band ever take, which is so far awkward, that

the query may arise in what way he keeps them together, and supplies

them with food and necessaries.

_Barnstaple_. Of course with _IOUs_ upon his princely domains.

_Ansard_. I have some very grand scenes, amazingly effective; for

instance, what do you think, at the moment after the holy mass has been

performed in Saint Peter's at Rome, just as the pope is about to put the

sacred wafer into his mouth and bless the whole world, I make him snatch

the wafer out of the pope's hand, and get clear off with it.

_Barnstaple_. What for, may I ask?

_Ansard_. That is a secret which I do not reveal. The whole

arrangement of that part of the plot is admirable. The band of robbers

are disguised as priests, and officiate, without being found out.

_Barnstaple_. But isn't that rather sacrilegious?

_Ansard_. No; it appears so to be, but he gives his reasons for his

behaviour to the pope, and the pope is satisfied, and not only gives him

his blessing, but shows him the greatest respect.

_Barnstaple_. They must have been very weighty reasons.

_Ansard_. And therefore they are not divulged.

_Barnstaple_. That is to say, not until the end of the work.

_Ansard_. They are never divulged at all; I leave a great deal to the

reader's imagination--people are fond of conjecture. All they know is,

that he boldly appears, and demands an audience. He is conducted in,

the interview is private, after a sign made by our hero, and at which

the pope almost leaps off the chair. After an hour he comes out again,

and the pope bows him to the very door. Every one is astonished, and,

of course, almost canonise him.

_Barnstaple_. That's going it rather strong in a Catholic country. But

tell me, Ansard, what is your plot?

_Ansard_. Plot; I have none.

_Barnstaple_. No plot!

_Ansard_. No plot, and all plot. I puzzle the reader with certain

materials. I have castles and dungeons, corridors and creaking doors,

good villains and bad villains. Chain armour and clank of armour,

daggers for gentlemen, and stilettoes for ladies. Dark forests and

brushwood, drinking scenes, eating scenes, and sleeping scenes--robbers

and friars, purses of gold and instruments of torture, an incarnate

devil of a Jesuit, a handsome hero, and a lovely heroine. I jumble them

all together, sometimes above, and sometimes underground, and I explain

nothing at all.

_Barnstaple_. Have you nothing supernatural?

_Ansard_. O yes! I've a dog whose instinct is really supernatural, and

I have two or three visions, which may be considered so, as they tell

what never else could have been known. I decorate my caverns and

dungeons with sweltering toads and slimy vipers, a constant dropping of

water, with chains too ponderous to lift, but which the parties upon

whom they are riveted, clang together as they walk up and down in their

cells, and soliloquise. So much for my underground scenery. Above, I

people the halls with pages and ostrich feathers, and knights in bright

armour, a constant supply of generous wine, and goblets too heavy to

lift, which the knights toss off at a draught, as they sit and listen to

the minstrel's music.

_Barnstaple_. Bravo, Ansard, bravo. It appears to me that you do not

want assistance in this romance.

_Ansard_. No, when I do I have always a holy and compassionate friar,

who pulls a wonderful restorative or healing balm, out of his bosom.

The puffs of Solomon's Balm of Gilead are a fool to the real merits of

my pharmacopoeia contained in a small vial.

_Barnstaple_. And pray what may be the title of this book of yours, for

I have known it take more time to fix upon a title than to write the

three volumes.

_Ansard_. I call it _The Undiscovered Secret_, and very properly so

too, for it never is explained. But if you please, I will read you some

passages from it. I think you will approve of them. For instance, now

let us take this, in the second volume. You must know, that

Angelicanarinella (for that is the name of my heroine) is thrown into a

dungeon not more than four feet square, but more than six hundred feet

below the surface of the earth. The ways are so intricate, and the

subterranean so vast, and the dungeons so numerous, that the base

Ethiop, who has obeyed his master's orders in confining her, has himself

been lost in the labyrinth, and has not been able to discover what

dungeon he put her in. For three days he has been looking for it,

during which our heroine has been without food, and he is still

searching and scratching his woolly head in despair, as he is to die by

slow torture, if he does not reproduce her--for you observe, the chief

who has thrown her into his dungeon is most desperately in love with

her.

_Barnstaple_. That of course; and that is the way to prove romantic

love--you ill treat--but still she is certainly in a dilemma, as well as

the Ethiop.

_Ansard_. Granted; but she talks like the heroine of a romance.

Listen. (ANSARD _reads_.) "The beauteous and divinely moulded form of

the angelic Angelicanarinella pressed the dank and rotten straw which

had been thrown down by the scowling, thick-lipped Ethiop for her

repose--she, for whom attendant maidens had smoothed the Sybaritic sheet

of finest texture, under the elaborately carved and sumptuously gilt

canopy, the silken curtains, and the tassels of the purest dust of

gold."

_Barnstaple_. Tassels of dust of gold! only figuratively, I suppose.

_Ansard_. Nothing more. "Each particular straw of this dank, damp bed

was elastic with delight, at bearing such angelic pressure; and, as our

heroine cast her ineffably beaming eyes about the dark void, lighting up

with their effulgent rays each little portion of the dungeon, as she

glanced them from one part to another, she perceived that the many

reptiles enclosed with her in this narrow tomb, were nestling to her

side, their eyes fixed upon her in mute expressions of love and

admiration. Her eclipsed orbs were each, for a moment, suffused with a

bright and heavenly tear, and from the suffusion threw out a more

brilliant light upon the feeling reptiles who paid this tribute to her

undeserved sufferings. She put forth her beauteous hand, whose `faint

tracery'--(I stole that from Cooper)--whose faint tracery had so often

given to others the idea that it was ethereal, and not corporeal, and

lifting with all the soft and tender handling of first love a venerable

toad, which smiled upon her, she placed the interesting animal so that

it could crawl up and nestle in her bosom, `Poor child of dank, of

darkness, and of dripping,' exclaimed she, in her flute-like notes, `who

sheltereth thyself under the wet and mouldering wall, so neglected in

thy form by thy mother Nature, repose awhile in peace where princes and

nobles would envy thee, if they knew thy present lot. But that shall

never be; these lips shall never breathe a tale which might endanger thy

existence; fear not, therefore, their enmity, and as thou slowly

creepest away thy little round of circumscribed existence, forget me

not, but shed an occasional pearly tear to the memory of the persecuted,

the innocent Angelicanarinella!'" What d'ye think of that?

_Barnstaple_. Umph! a very warm picture certainly; however, it is

natural. You know, a person of her consequence could never exist

without a little _toadyism_.

_Ansard_. I have a good many subterraneous soliloquies, which would

have been lost for ever, if I did not bring them up.

_Barnstaple_. That one you have just read is enough to make everybody

else bring up.

_Ansard_. I rather plume myself upon it.

_Barnstaple_. Yes, it is a feather in your cap, and will act as a

feather in the throat of your readers.

_Ansard_. Now I'll turn over the second volume, and read you another

_morceau_, in which I assume the more playful vein. I have imitated one

of our modern writers, who must be correct in her language, as she knows

all about heroes and heroines. I must confess that I've cribbed a

little.

_Barnstaple_. Let's hear.

_Ansard_. "The lovely Angelicanarinella _pottered_ for some time about

this fairy chamber, then `wrote journal.' At last, she _threw herself

down on the floor_, pulled out the miniature, _gulped_ when she looked

at it, and then _cried herself to sleep_."

_Barnstaple_. _Pottered_ and _gulped_! What language do you call that?

_Ansard_. It's all right, my dear fellow. I understand that it is the

refined slang of the modern boudoir, and only known to the initiated.

_Barnstaple_. They had better keep it entirely to their boudoirs. I

should advise you to leave it all out.

_Ansard_. Well, I thought that one who was so very particular, must

have been the standard of perfection herself.

_Barnstaple_. That does not at all follow.

_Ansard_. But what I wish to read to you is the way in which I have

managed that my secret shall never be divulged. It is known only to

four.

_Barnstaple_. A secret known to four people! You must be quick then.

_Ansard_. So I am, as you shall hear; they all meet in a dark gallery,

but do not expect to meet any one but the hero, whom they intend to

murder, each one having, unknown to the others, made an appointment with

him for that purpose, on the pretence of telling him the great secret.

Altogether the scene is well described, but it is long, so I'll come at

once to the _denouement_.

_Barnstaple_. Pray do.

_Ansard_. "Absenpresentini felt his way by the slimy wall, when the

breath of another human being caught his ear: he paused, and held his

own breath. `No, no,' muttered the other, `the _secret of blood and

gold_ shall remain with me alone. Let him come, and he shall find

death.' In a second, the dagger of Absenpresentini was in the

mutterer's bosom:--he fell without a groan. `To me alone the secret of

blood and gold, and with me it remains,' exclaimed Absenpresentini. `It

does remain with you,' cried Phosphorini, driving his dagger into his

back:--Absenpresentini fell without a groan, and Phosphorini,

withdrawing his dagger, exclaimed, `Who is now to tell the secret but

me?' `Not you,' cried Vortiskini, raising up his sword and striking at

where the voice proceeded. The trusty steel cleft the head of the

abandoned Phosphorini, who fell without a groan. `Now will I retain the

secret of blood and gold,' said Vortiskini, as he sheathed his sword.

`Thou shalt,' exclaimed the wily Jesuit, as he struck his stiletto to

the heart of the robber, who fell without a groan. `With me only does

the secret now rest, by which our order might be disgraced; with me it

dies,' and the Jesuit raised his hand. `Thus to the glory and the

honour of his society does Manfredini sacrifice his life.' He struck

the keen-pointed instrument into his heart, and died without a groan.

`Stop,' cried our hero."

_Barnstaple_. And I agree with your hero: stop, Ansard, or you'll kill

me too--but not without a groan.

_Ansard_. Don't you think it would act well?

_Barnstaple_. Quite as well as it reads; pray is it all like this?

_Ansard_. You shall judge for yourself. I have half killed myself with

writing it, for I chew opium every night to obtain ideas. Now again--

_Barnstaple_. Spare me, Ansard, spare me; my nerves are rather

delicate; for the remainder I will take your word.

_Ansard_. I wish my duns would do the same, even if it were only my

washerwoman; but there's no more tick for me here, except this old watch

of my father's, which serves to remind me of what I cannot obtain from

others--time; but, however, there is a time for all things, and when the

time comes that my romance is ready, my creditors will obtain the

_ready_.

_Barnstaple_. Your only excuse, Ansard.

_Ansard_. I beg your pardon. The public require strong writing

now-a-days. We have thousands who write well, and the public are

nauseated with what is called _good writing_.

_Barnstaple_. And so they want something bad, eh? Well, Ansard, you

certainly can supply them.

_Ansard_. My dear Barnstaple, you must not disparage this style of

writing--it is not bad--there is a great art in it. It may be termed

writing intellectual and ethereal. You observe, that it never allows

probabilities or even possibilities to stand in its way. The dross of

humanity is rejected: all the common wants and grosser feelings of our

natures are disallowed. It is a novel which is all mind and passion.

Corporeal attributes and necessities are thrown on one side, as they

would destroy the charm of perfectability. Nothing can soil, or defile,

or destroy my heroine; suffering adds lustre to her beauty, as pure gold

is tried by fire: nothing can kill her, because she is all mind. As for

my men, you will observe when you read my work--

_Barnstaple_. When I do!

_Ansard_. Which, of course, you will--that they also have their

appetites in abeyance; they never want to eat, or drink, or sleep--are

always at hand when required, without regard to time or space. Now

there is a great beauty in this description of writing. The women adore

it because they find their sex divested of those human necessities,

without which they would indeed be angels! the mirror is held up to

them, and they find themselves perfect--no wonder they are pleased. The

other sex are also very glad to dwell upon female perfectability, which

they can only find in a romance, although they have often dreamt of it

in their younger days.

_Barnstaple_. There is some truth in these remarks. Every milliner's

girl, who devours your pages in bed by the half-hour's light of tallow

stolen for the purpose, imagines a strong similarity between herself and

your Angelicanarinella, and every shop-boy measuring tape or weighing

yellow soap will find out attributes common to himself and to your hero.

_Ansard_. Exactly. As long as you draw perfection in both sexes, you

are certain to be read, because by so doing you flatter human nature and

self-love, and transfer it to the individual who reads. Now a picture

of real life--

_Barnstaple_. Is like some of Wouvermans' best pictures, which will not

be purchased by many, because his dogs in the foreground are doing

exactly what all dogs will naturally do when they first are let out of

their kennels.

_Ansard_. Wouvermans should have known better, and made his dogs better

mannered if he expected his pictures to be hung up in the parlour of

refinement.

_Barnstaple_ Very true.

_Ansard_. Perhaps you would like to have another passage or two.

_Barnstaple_. Excuse me: I will imagine it all. I only hope, Ansard,

this employment will not interfere with your legal practice.

_Ansard_. My dear Barnstaple, it certainly will not, because my legal

practice cannot be interfered with. I have been called to the bar, but

find no employment in my calling. I have been sitting in my gown and

wig for one year, and may probably sit a dozen more before I have to

rise to address their lordships. I have not yet had a guinea brief. My

only chance is to be sent out as judge to Sierra Leone, or perhaps to be

made a commissioner of the Court of Requests.

_Barnstaple_. You are indeed humble in your aspirations. I recollect

the time, Ansard, when you dreamt of golden fame, and aspired to the

woolsack--when your ambition prompted you to midnight labour, and you

showed an energy--

_Ansard_. (_putting his hands up to his forehead, with his elbows on

the table_.) What can I do, Barnstaple? If I trust to briefs, my

existence will be but brief--we all must live.

_Barnstaple_. I will not reply as Richelieu did to a brother author,

"Je ne vois pas la necessite;" but this I do say, that if you are in

future to live by supplying the public with such nonsense, the shorter

your existence the better.

CHAPTER FIFTY.

THE LEGEND OF THE BELL ROCK.

There was a grand procession through the streets of the two towns of

Perth and Dundee. The holy abbots, in their robes, walked under gilded

canopies, the monks chanted, the censers were thrown, flags and banners

were carried by seamen, lighted tapers by penitents; Saint Antonio, the

patron of those who trust to the stormy ocean, was carried in all pomp

through the streets; and, as the procession passed, coins of various

value were thrown down by those who watched it from the windows, and, as

fast as thrown were collected by little boys dressed as angels, and

holding silver vessels to receive the largesses. During the whole day

did the procession continue, and large was the treasure collected in the

two towns. Every one gave freely, for there were few, indeed none, who,

if not in their own circle, at least among their acquaintances, had to

deplore the loss of some one dear to them, or to those they visited,

from the dangerous rock which lay in the very track of all the vessels

entering the Firth of Tay.

These processions had been arranged, that a sufficient sum of money

might be collected to enable them to put in execution a plan proposed by

an adventurous and bold young seaman, in a council held for the purpose,

of fixing a bell on the rock, which could be so arranged that the

slightest breath of wind would cause the hammer of it to sound, and

thus, by its tolling, warn the mariner of his danger; and the sums given

were more than sufficient. A meeting was then held, and it was

unanimously agreed that Andrew M'Clise should be charged with the

commission to go over to Amsterdam, and purchase the bell of a merchant

residing there, whom Andrew stated to have one in his possession, which,

from its fine tone and size, was exactly calculated for the purport to

which it was to be appropriated.

Andrew M'Clise embarked with the money, and made a prosperous voyage.

He had often been at Amsterdam, and had lived with the merchant, whose

name was Vandermaclin; and the attention to his affairs, the dexterity

and the rapidity of the movements of Andrew M'Clise, had often elicited

the warmest encomiums of Mynheer Vandermaclin; and many evenings had

Andrew M'Clise passed with him, drinking in moderation their favourite

scheedam, and indulging in the meditative merschaum. Vandermaclin had

often wished that he had a son like Andrew M'Clise, to whom he could

leave his property, with the full assurance that the heap would not be

scattered, but greatly added to.

Vandermaclin was a widower. He had but one daughter, who was now just

arrived at an age to return from the pension to her father's house, and

take upon herself the domestic duties. M'Clise had never yet seen the

beautiful Katerina.

"And so, Mynheer M'Clise," said Vandermaclin, who was sitting in the

warehouse on the ground-floor of his tenement, "you come to purchase the

famous bell of Utrecht; with the intention of fixing it upon that rock,

the danger of which we have so often talked over after the work of the

day has been done? I, too, have suffered from that same rock, as you

well know; but still I have been fortunate. The price will be heavy;

and so it ought to be, for the bell itself is of no small weight."

"We are prepared to pay it, Mynheer Vandermaclin."

"Nevertheless, in so good a cause, and for so good a purport, you shall

not be overcharged. I will say nothing of the beauty of the

workmanship, or even of the mere manufacture. You shall pay but its

value in metal; the same price which the Jew Isaacs offered me for it

but four months ago. I will not ask what a Jew would ask, but what a

Jew would give, which makes no small difference. Have you ten thousand

guilders?"

"I have, and more."

"That is my price, Mynheer M'Clise, and I wish for no more; for I, too,

will contribute my share to the good work. Are you content, and is it a

bargain?"

"It is; and the holy abbots will thank you on vellum, Mynheer

Vandermaclin, for your generosity."

"I prefer the thanks of the bold seamen to those of the idle churchmen;

but, never mind, it is a bargain. Now, we will go in; it is time to

close the doors. We will take our pipes, and you shall make the

acquaintance of my fair daughter, Katerina."

At the time we are speaking of, M'Clise was about six-and-twenty years

of age; he was above the middle size, elegant in person, and with a

frankness and almost nobility in his countenance, which won all who saw

him.

His manners were like those of most seamen, bold, but not offensively

so. His eye was piercing as an eagle's; and it seemed as if his very

soul spoke from it. At the very first meeting between him and the

daughter of Vandermaclin, it appeared to both as if their destinies were

to unite them.

They loved not as others love, but with an intensity which it would be

impossible to portray; but they hardly exchanged a word. Again and

again they met; their eyes spoke, but nothing more. The bell was put on

board the vessel, the money had been paid down, and M'Clise could no

longer delay. He felt as if his heart-strings were severed as he tore

himself away from the land where all remained that he coveted upon

earth. And Katerina, she too felt as if her existence was a blank; and

as the vessel sailed from the port, she breathed short; and when not

even her white and lofty topgallant sail could be discovered as a speck,

she threw herself on her couch and wept. And M'Clise as he sailed away,

remained for hours leaning his cheek on his hand, thinking of, over and

over again, every lineament and feature of the peerless Katerina.

Two months passed away, during which M'Clise was busied every ebb of the

tide in superintending the work on the rock. At last, all was ready;

and once more was to be beheld a gay procession; but this time it was on

the water. It was on a calm and lovely summer's morn, that the abbots

and the monks, attended by a large company of the authorities, and

others, who were so much interested in the work in hand, started from

the shore of Aberbrothwick in a long line of boats, decorated with

sacred and with other various banners and devices. The music floated

along the water, and the solemn chants of the monks were for once heard

where never yet they had been heard before, or ever will again. M'Clise

was at the rock, in a small vessel purposely constructed to carry the

bell, and with sheers to hang it on the supports imbedded in the solid

rock. The bell was in its place, and the abbot blessed the bell; and

holy water was sprinkled on the metal, which was for the future to be

lashed by the waves of the salt sea. And the music and the chants were

renewed; and as they continued, the wind gradually rose, and with the

rising of the wind the bell tolled loud and deep. The tolling of the

bell was the signal for return, for it was a warning that the weather

was about to change, and the procession pulled back to Aberbrothwick,

and landed in good time; for in one hour more, and the rocky coast was

again lashed by the waves, and the bell tolled loud and quick, although

there were none there but the sea-gull, who screamed with fright as he

wheeled in the air at this unusual noise upon the rock, which, at the

ebb he had so often made his resting-place.

M'Clise had done his work; the bell was fixed; and once more he hastened

with his vessel to Amsterdam. Once more was he an inmate of

Vandermaclin's house; once more in the presence of the idol of his soul.

This time they spoke; this time their vows were exchanged for life and

death. But Vandermaclin saw not the state of their hearts. He looked

upon the young seamen as too low, too poor, to be a match for his

daughter; and as such an idea never entered his head, so did he never

imagine that he would have dared to love. But he was soon undeceived;

for M'Clise frankly stated his attachment, and demanded the hand of

Katerina; and, at the demand, Vandermaclin's face was flushed with

anger.

"Mynheer M'Clise," said he, after a pause, as if to control his

feelings; "when a man marries, he is bound to show that he has

wherewithal to support his wife; to support her in that rank, and to

afford her those luxuries to which she has been accustomed in her

father's house. Show me that you can do so, and I will not refuse you

the hand of Katerina."

"As yet, I have not," replied M'Clise; "but I am young and can work; I

have money, and will gain more. Tell me what sum do you think that I

should possess to warrant my demanding the hand of your daughter?"

"Produce twelve thousand guilders, and she is yours," replied the

merchant.

"I have but three thousand," replied M'Clise.

"Then, think no more of Katerina. It is a foolish passion, and you must

forget it. And, Mynheer M'Clise, I must not have my daughter's

affections tampered with. She must forget you; and that can only be

effected by your not meeting again. I wish you well, Mynheer M'Clise,

but I must request your absence."

M'Clise departed from the presence of the merchant, bowed down with

grief and disappointment. He contrived that a letter, containing the

result of his application, should be put in the hands of Katerina. But

Vandermaclin was informed of this breach of observance, and Katerina was

sent to a convent, there to remain until the departure of her lover; and

Vandermaclin wrote to his correspondent at Dundee, requesting that the

goods forwarded to him might not be sent by the vessel commanded by

M'Clise.

Of this our young captain received information. All hope was nearly

gone; still he lingered, and delayed his departure. He was no longer

the active, energetic seaman; he neglected all, even his attire.

M'Clise knew in which convent his fair Katerina had been immured; and

often would he walk round its precincts, with the hope of seeing her, if

it were but for a moment, but in vain. His vessel was now laden, and he

could delay no longer. He was to sail the next morning; and once more

did the unhappy young man take his usual walk to look at those walls

which contained all that was dear to him on earth. His reverie was

broken by a stone falling down to his feet; he took it up; there was a

small piece of paper attached to it with a silken thread. He opened it;

it was the handwriting of Katerina, and contained but two words--"_The

Bell_."

The bell! M'Clise started; for he immediately comprehended what was

meant. The whole plan came like electricity through his brain. Yes;

then there was a promise of happiness. The bell was worth ten thousand

guilders; that sum had been offered, and would now be given by Isaacs

the Jew. He would be happy with his Katerina; and he blessed her

ingenuity for devising the means. For a minute or two he was

transported; but the re-action soon took place. What was he about to

attempt? sacrilege--cruelty. The bell had been blessed by the holy

church; it had been purchased by holy and devout alms. It had been

placed on the rock to save the lives of his brother seamen; and were he

to remove it, would he not be responsible for all the lives lost? Would

not the wail of the widow, and the tears of the orphan, be crying out to

Heaven against him? No, no! never! The crime was too horrible; and

M'Clise stamped upon the paper, thinking he was tempted by Satan in the

shape of woman; but when woman tempts, man is lost. He recalled the

charms of Katerina; all his repugnance was overcome; and he resolved

that the deed should be accomplished, and that Katerina should be

gained, even if he lost his soul.

Andrew M'Clise sailed away from Amsterdam, and Katerina recovered her

liberty. Vandermaclin was anxious that she should marry: and many were

the suitors for her hand, but in vain. She reminded her father, that he

had pledged himself, if M'Clise counted down twelve thousand guilders,

that she should be his wife; and to that pledge she insisted that he was

bound fast. And Vandermaclin after reasoning with her, and pointing out

to her that twelve thousand guilders was a sum so large, that M'Clise

might not procure until his old age, even if he were fortunate,

acknowledged that such was his promise, and that he would, like an

honest man, abide by it, provided that M'Clise should fulfil his part of

the agreement in the space of two years; after which he should delay her

settlement no longer. And Katerina raised her eyes to heaven, and

whispered, as she clasped her hands, "The Bell." Alas! that we should

invoke Heaven when we would wish to do wrong: but mortals are blind, and

none so blind as those who are impelled by passion.

It was in the summer of that year that M'Clise had made his

arrangements: having procured the assistance of some lawless hands, he

had taken the advantage of a smooth and glassy sea and a high tide to

remove the bell on board his own vessel; a work of little difficulty to

him, as he had placed it there, and knew well the fastenings. He sailed

away for Amsterdam, and was permitted by Heaven to arrive safe with his

sacrilegious freight. He did not, as before, enter the canal opposite

to the house of Vandermaclin, but one that ran behind the habitation of

the Jew Isaacs. At night, he went into the house, and reported to the

Jew what he had for sale; and the keen grey eyes of the bent-double

little Israelite sparkled with delight, for he knew that his profit

would be great. At midnight the bell was made fast to the crane, and

safely deposited in the warehouse of the Jew, who counted out the ten

thousand guilders to the enraptured M'Clise, whose thoughts were wholly

upon the possession of his Katerina, and not upon the crime he had

committed.

But, alas! to conceal one crime, we are too often obliged to be guilty

of even deeper; and thus it was with Andrew M'Clise. The people who had

assisted, upon the promise of a thousand guilders being divided among

them, now murmured at their share, and insisted upon an equal division

of the spoils, or threatened with an immediate confession of the black

deed.

M'Clise raved, and cursed, and tore his hair; promised to give them the

money as soon as he had wedded Katerina; but they would not consent.

Again the devil came to his assistance, and whispered how he was to act:

he consented. The next night the division was to be made. They met in

his cabin; he gave them wine, and they drank plentifully; but the wine

was poisoned, and they all died before the morning. M'Clise tied

weights to their bodies, and sunk them in the deep canal; broke open his

hatches, to make it appear that his vessel had been plundered; and then

went to the authorities denouncing his crew as having plundered him, and

escaped. Immediate search was made, but they were not to be found; and

it was supposed that they had escaped in a boat.

Once more M'Clise, whose conscience was seared, went to the house of

Vandermaclin, counted down his twelve thousand guilders, and claimed his

bride; and Vandermaclin, who felt that his daughter's happiness was at

stake, now gave his consent. As M'Clise stated that he was anxious to

return to England, and arrange with the merchants whose goods had been

plundered, in a few days the marriage took place; and Katerina clasped

the murderer in her arms. All was apparent joy and revelry; but there

was anguish in the heart of M'Clise, who, now that he had gained his

object, felt that it had cost him much too dear, for his peace of mind

was gone for ever. But Katerina cared not; every spark of feeling was

absorbed in her passion, and the very guilt of M'Clise but rendered him

more dear; for was it not for her that he had done all this? M'Clise

received her portion, and hasted to sail away; for the bodies were still

in the canal, and he trembled every hour lest his crime should be

discovered. And Vandermaclin bade farewell to his daughter: and, he

knew not why, but there was a feeling he could not suppress, that they

never should meet again.

"Down--down below, Katerina! this is no place for you," cried M'Clise,

as he stood at the helm of the vessel. "Down, dearest, down, or you

will be washed overboard. Every sea threatens to pour into our decks;

already have we lost two men. Down, Katerina! down, I tell you."

"I fear not; let me remain with you."

"I tell you, down!" cried M'Clise, in wrath; and Katerina cast upon him

a reproachful look, and obeyed.

The storm was at its height; the sun had set, black and monstrous

billows chased each other, and the dismasted vessel was hurried on

towards the land. The wind howled, and whistled sharply at each chink

in the bulwarks of the vessel. For three days had they fought the gale,

but in vain. Now, if it continued, all chance was over; for the shore

was on their lee, distant not many miles. Nothing could save them, but

gaining the mouth of the Firth of Tay, and then they could bear up for

Dundee. And there was a boiling surge, and a dark night, and roaring

seas, and their masts were floating far away; and M'Clise stood at the

helm, keeping her broadside to the sea: his heart was full of

bitterness, and his guilty conscience bore him down, and he looked for

death, and he dreaded it; for was he not a sacrilegious murderer, and

was there not an avenging God above?

Once more Katerina appeared on deck, clinging for support to Andrew.

"I cannot stay below. Tell me, will it soon be over?"

"Yes," replied M'Clise, gloomily; "it will soon be over with all of us."

"How mean you? you told me there was no danger."

"I told you falsely; there is death soon, and damnation afterwards; for

you I have lost my soul!"

"Oh! say not so."

"I say it. Leave me, leave me, woman, or I curse thee."

"Curse me, Andrew? Oh, no! Kiss me, Andrew; and if we are to perish,

let us expire in each other's arms."

"'Tis as well; you have dragged me to perdition. Leave me, I say, for

you have my bitter curse."

Thus was his guilty love turned to hate, now that death was staring him

in the face.

Katerina made no reply. She threw herself on the deck, and abandoned

herself to her feeling of bitter anguish. And as she lay there, and

M'Clise stood at the helm, the wind abated; the vessel was no longer

borne down as before, although the waves were still mountains high. The

seamen on board rallied; some fragments of sail were set on the remnants

of the masts, and there was a chance of safety. M'Clise spoke not, but

watched the helm. The wind shifted in their favour; and hope rose in

every heart. The Firth of Tay was now open, and they were saved! Light

was the heart of M'Clise when he kept away the vessel, and gave the helm

up to the mate. He hastened to Katerina, who still remained on the

deck, raised her up, whispered comfort and returning love; but she heard

not--she could not forget--and she wept bitterly.

"We are saved, dear Katerina!"

"Better that we had been lost!" replied she, mournfully.

"No, no! say not so, with your own Andrew pressing you to his bosom."

"Your bitter curse!"

"'Twas madness--nothing--I knew not what I said." But the iron had

entered into her soul. Her heart was broken.

"You had better give orders for them to look out for the Bell Rock,"

observed the man at the helm to M'Clise.

The Bell Rock! M'Clise shuddered, and made no reply. Onward went the

vessel, impelled by the sea and wind: one moment raised aloft, and

towering over the surge; at another, deep in the hollow trough, and

walled in by the convulsed element. M'Clise still held his Katerina in

his arms, who responded not to his endearments, when a sudden shock

threw them on the deck. The crashing of the timbers, the pouring of the

waves over the stern, the heeling and settling of the vessel, were but

the work of a few seconds. One more furious shock,--she separates,

falls on her beam ends, and the raging seas sweep over her.

M'Clise threw from him her whom he had so madly loved, and plunged into

the wave. Katerina shrieked, as she dashed after him, and all was over.

When the storm rises, and the screaming sea-gull seeks the land, and the

fisherman hasten his bark towards the beach, there is to be seen,

descending from the dark clouds with the rapidity of lightning, the form

of Andrew M'Clise, the heavy bell to which he is attached by the neck,

bearing him down to his doom.

And when all is smooth and calm, when at the ebbing tide, the wave but

gently kisses the rock, then by the light of the silver moon, the

occupants of the vessels which sail from the Firth of Tay, have often

beheld the form of the beautiful Katerina, waving her white scarf as a

signal that they should approach, and take her off from the rock on

which she is seated. At times, she offers a letter for her father,

Vandermaclin; and she mourns and weeps as the wary mariners, with their

eyes fixed on her, and with folded arms, pursue their course in silence

and in dread.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

MOONSHINE.

Those who have visited our West India possessions must have often been

amused with the humour and cunning which occasionally appear in a negro

more endowed than the generality of his race, particularly when the

master also happens to be a humourist. The swarthy servitor seems to

reflect his patron's absurdities; and having thoroughly studied his

character, ascertains how far he can venture to take liberties without

fear of punishment.

One of these strange specimens I once met with in a negro called

Moonshine, belonging to a person equally strange in his own way, who

had, for many years, held the situation of harbour-master at Port Royal,

but had then retired on a pension, and occupied a small house at Ryde,

in the Isle of Wight. His name was Cockle, but he had long been

addressed as Captain Cockle; and this brevet rank he retained until the

day of his death. In person he was very large and fat--not unlike a

cockle in shape: so round were his proportions, and so unwieldy, that it

appeared much easier to roll him along from one place to another, than

that he should walk. Indeed, locomotion was not to his taste: he seldom

went much farther than round the small patch of garden which was in

front of his house, and in which he had some pinks and carnations and

chrysanthemums, of which he was not a little proud. His head was quite

bald, smooth, and shining white; his face partook of a more roseate

tint, increasing in depth till it settled into an intense red at the tip

of his nose. Cockle had formerly been a master of a merchant-vessel,

and from his residence in a warm climate had contracted a habit of

potation, which became confirmed during the long period of his holding

his situation at Port Royal. He had purchased Moonshine for three

hundred dollars, when he was about seven years old, and, upon his return

to England, had taken him with him.

Moonshine was very much attached to his master, very much attached to

having his own way, and was, farther, very much attached to his master's

grog bottle.

The first attachment was a virtue: the second human nature; and the

third, in the opinion of old Cockle, a crime of serious magnitude. I

very often called upon Captain Cockle, for he had a quaint humour about

him which amused; and, as he seldom went out, he was always glad to see

any of his friends. Another reason was, that I seldom went to the house

without finding some entertainment in the continual sparring between the

master and the man. I was at that time employed in the Preventive

Service, and my station was about four miles from the residence of

Cockle. One morning I stalked in, and found him, as usual, in his

little parlour on the ground-floor.

"Well, Cockle, my boy, how are you?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, Bob, I'm all wrong. I'm on the stool of

repentance; to wit, on this easy chair, doing penance, as you perceive,

in a pair of duck trousers. Last night I was half-seas over, and

tolerably happy; this morning I am high and dry, and intolerably

miserable. Carried more sail than ballast last night, and lost my head;

this morning I've found it again, with a pig of ballast in it, I

believe. All owing to my good nature."

"How is that, Cockle?"

"Why, that Jack Piper was here last night; and rather than he should

drink all the grog and not find his way home, I drank some myself--he'd

been in a bad way if I had not, poor fellow!--and now, you see, I'm

suffering all from good nature. Easiness of disposition has been my

ruin, and has rounded me into this ball, by wearing away all my sharp

edges, Bob."

"It certainly was very considerate and very kind of you, Cockle,

especially when we know how much you must have acted at variance with

your inclinations."

"Yes, Bob, yes, I am the milk punch of human kindness. I often cry--

when the chimney smokes; and sometimes--when I laugh too much. You see,

I not only give my money, as others will do, but, as last night, I even

give my head to assist a fellow-creature. I could, however, dispense

with it for an hour or two this morning."

"Nay, don't say that; for although you might dispense with the upper

part, you could not well get on without your mouth, Cockle."

"Very true, Bob; a chap without a mouth would be like a ship without a

companion hatch;--talking about that, the combings of my mouth are

rather dry--what do you say, Bob, shall we call Moonshine?"

"Why it's rather broad daylight for Moonshine."

"He's but an eclipse--a total eclipse, I may say. The fact is, my head

is so heavy, that it rolls about on my shoulders; and I must have a

stiffener down my throat to prop it it up. So Moonshine, shine out, you

black-faced rascal!"

The negro was outside, cleaning his knives:--he answered, but continued

at his work.

"How me shine, Massa Cockle, when you neber gib me _shiner_?"

"No: but I'll give you a _shinner_ on your lower limb, that shall make

you feel planet-struck, if you don't show your ugly face," replied

Cockle.

"Massa Cockle, you full of dictionary dis marning."

"Come here, sir!"

"Why you so parsonal dis marning, sar," replied Moonshine, rubbing away

at the knifeboard--"my face no shine more dan your white skull widout

hair."

"I pulled one out, you scoundrel, every time you stole my grog, and now

they are all gone.--Hairs; what should I do with heirs when I've nothing

to leave," continued Cockle, addressing me--"hairs are like rats, that

quit a ship as soon as she gets old. Now, Bob, I wonder how long that

rascal will make us wait. I brought him home and gave him his freedom--

but give an inch and he takes an ell. Moonshine, I begin to feel

angry--the tip of my nose is red already."

"Come directly, Massa Cockle."

Moonshine gave two more rubs on the board, and then made his appearance.

"You call me, sar?"

"What's the use of calling you, you black rascal?"

"Now sar, dat not fair--you say to me, Moonshine, always do one thing

first--so I 'bey order and finish knives--dat ting done, I come and 'bey

next order."

"Well, bring some cold water and some tumblers."

Moonshine soon appeared with the articles, and then walked out of the

room, grinning at me.

"Moonshine, where are you going, you thief?--when did you ever see me

drink cold water, or offer it to my friend?"

"Neber see you drink it but once, and den you tipsy, and tink it gin;

but you very often gib notin but water to your friends, Massa Cockle."

"When, you scoundrel?"

"Why, very often you say dat water quite strong enough for me."

"That's because I love you, Moonshine. Grog is a sad enemy to us."

"Massa Cockle real fine Christian--he lub him enemy," interrupted

Moonshine, looking at me.

"At all events, I'm not ashamed to look mine enemy in the face--so hand

us out the bottle."

Moonshine put the bottle on the table.

"Now, Bob," said Cockle, "what d'ye say to a _seven bell-er_? Why,

hallo! what's become of all the grog?"

"All drank last night, Massa Cockle," replied Moonshine.

"Now, you ebony thief, I'll swear that there was half a bottle left when

I took my last glass; for I held the bottle up to the candle to

ascertain the ullage."

"When you go up tairs, Massa Cockle, so help me Gad! not one drop left

in de bottle."

"Will you take your oath, Moonshine, that you did not drink any last

night?"

"No, Massa Cockle, because I gentleman, and neber tell lie--me drink,

because you gib it to me."

"Then I must have been drunk indeed. Now, tell me, how did I give it to

you?--tell me every word which passed."

"Yes, Massa Cockle, me make you recollect all about it. When Massa

Piper go away, you look at bottel and den you say, `'Fore I go up to

bed, I take one more glass for _coming_ up.'--Den I say, `'Pose you do,

you nebber be able to _go up_.' Den you say, `Moonshine, you good

fellow (you always call me good fellow when you want me), you must help

me.' You drink you grog--you fall back in de chair, and you shut first

one eye, and den you shut de oder. I see more grog on the table: so I

take up de bottel and I say, `Massa Cockle, you go up stairs?' and you

say, `Yes, yes--directly.' Den I hold de bottel up and say to you,

`Massa, shall I help you?' and you say, `Yes, you must _help_ me.' So

den I take one glass of grog, 'cause you tell me to help you."

"I didn't tell you to help yourself though, you scoundrel!"

"Yes, Massa, when you tell me to help you with de bottel, I 'bey order,

and help myself. Den, sar, I waits little more, and I say, `Massa now

you go up 'tairs,' and you start up and you wake, and you say, `Yes,

yes;' and den I hold up and show you bottel again, and I say, `Shall I

_help_ you massa?' and den you say `Yes.' So I 'bey order again, and

take one more glass. Den you open mouth and you snore--so I look again

and I see one little glass more in bottel, and I call you, `Massa

Cockle, Massa Cockle,' and you say, `high--high!'--and den you head fall

on you chest, and you go sleep again--so den I call again and I say;

`Massa Cockle, here one lilly more drop, shall I drink it?' and you nod

you head on you bosom, and say noting--so I not quite sure, and I say

again, `Massa Cockle, shall I finish this lilly drop?' and you nod you

head once more. Den I say, `all right,' and I say, `you very good helt,

Massa Cockle;' and I finish de bottel. Now, Massa, you ab de whole

tory, and it all really for true."

I perceived that Cockle was quite as much amused at this account of

Moonshine's as I was myself, but he put on a bluff look.

"So, sir, it appears that you took advantage of my helpless situation,

to help yourself."

"Massa Cockle, just now you tell Massa Farren dat you drink so much, all

for good nature Massa Piper--I do same all for good nature."

"Well, Mr Moonshine, I must have some grog," replied Cockle, "and as

you helped yourself last night, now you must help me;--get it how you

can, I give you just ten minutes--"

"'Pose you give gib me ten shillings, sar," interrupted Moonshine, "dat

better."

"Cash is all gone. I havn't a skillick till quarter-day, not a shot in

the locker till Wednesday. Either get me some more grog, or you'll get

more kicks than halfpence."

"You no ab money--you no ab tick--how I get grog, Massa Cockle? Missy

O'Bottom, she tells me, last _quarter_ day, no pay _whole_ bill, she not

_half_ like it; she say you great deceiver, and no trust more."

"Confound the old hag! Would you believe it, Bob, that Mrs Rowbottom

has wanted to grapple with me these last two years--wants to make me

landlord of the Goose and Pepper-box, taking her as a fixture with the

premises. I suspect I should be the goose and she the pepper-box;--but

we never could shape that course. In the first place, there's too much

of her; and, in the next, there's too much of me. I explained this to

the old lady as well as I could; and she swelled up as big as a balloon,

saying, that, when people were really _attached_, they never _attached_

any weight to such trifling obstacles."

"But you must have been sweet upon her, Cockle?"

"Nothing more than a little sugar to take the nauseous taste of my long

bill out of her mouth. As for the love part of the story, that was all

her own. I never contradict a lady, because it's not polite; but since

I explained, the old woman has huffed, and won't trust me with half a

quartern--will she, Moonshine?"

"No, sar: when I try talk her over, and make promise, she say dat _all

moonshine_. But, sar, I try 'gain--I tink I know how." And Moonshine

disappeared, leaving us in the dark as to what his plans might be.

"I wonder you never did marry, Cockle," I observed.

"You would not wonder if you knew all. I must say, that once, and once

only, I was very near it. And to whom do you think it was--a woman of

colour."

"A black woman?"

"No: not half black, only a quarter--what they call a quadroon in the

West Indies. But, thank Heaven! she refused me."

"Refused you? hang it, Cockle, I never thought that you had been refused

by a woman of colour."

"I was, though. You shall hear how it happened. She had been the

quadroon wife (you know what that means) of a planter of the name of

Guiness; he died, and not only bequeathed her her liberty, but also four

good houses in Port Royal, and two dozen slaves. He had been dead about

two years, and she was about thirty, when I first knew her. She was

very rich, for she had a good income and spent nothing, except in jewels

and dress to deck out her own person, which certainly was very handsome,

even at that time, for she never had had any family. Well, if I was not

quite in love with her, I was with her houses and her money; and I used

to sit in her verandah and talk sentimental. One day I made my

proposal. `Massa Cockle,' said she, `dere two ting I not like; one is,

I not like your name. 'Pose I 'cept your offer, you must change you

name.'

"`Suppose you accept my offer, Mistress Guiness, you'll change your

name. I don't know how I am to change mine,' I replied.

"`I make 'quiry, Massa Cockle, and I find that by act and parliament you

get another name.'

"`An act of parliament!' I cried.

"`Yes, sar; and I pay five hundred gold Joe 'fore I hear people call me

Missy Cockle--dat _shell_ fish,' said she, and she turned up her nose.

"`Humph!' said I, `and pray what is the next thing which you wish?'

"`De oder ting, sar, is, you no ab _coat am arms_, no ab seal to your

watch, with bird and beast 'pon 'em; now 'pose you promise me dat you

take oder name, and buy um coat am arms; den, sar, I take de matter into

'sideration.'

"`Save yourself the trouble, ma'am,' said I, jumping up; `my answer is

short--I'll see you and your whole generation hanged first!'

"Well, that was a very odd sort of a wind-up to a proposal; but here

comes Moonshine."

The black entered the room, and put a full bottle down on the table.

"Dare it is, sar," said he, grinning.

"Well, done, Moonshine, now I forgive you; but how did you manage it?"

"Me tell you all de tory, sar--first I see Missy O'Bottom, and I say,

`How you do, how you find himsel dis marning? Massa come, I tink, by an

bye, but he almost fraid,' I said. She say, `What he fraid for?' He

tink you angry--not like see him--no lub him any more: he very sorry,

very sick at 'art--he very much in lub wid you."

"The devil you did!" roared Cockle; "now I shall be bothered again with

that old woman; I wish she was moored as a buoy to the Royal George."

"Massa no hear all yet. I say, `Miss O'Bottom, 'pose you no tell?' `I

tell.'--`Massa call for clean shirt dis morning, and I say, it no clean

shirt day, sar;' he say, `Bring me clean shirt;' and den he put him on

clean shirt and he put him on clean duck trowsers, he make me brush him

best blue coat. I say, `What all dis for, massa?' He put him hand up

to him head, and he fetch him breath and say--`I fraid Missy O'Bottom,

no hear me now--I no hab courage;' and den he sit all dress ready, and

no go. Den he say, `Moonshine, gib me one glass grog, den I hab

courage.' I go fetch bottle, and all grog gone--not one lilly drop

left; den massa fall down plump in him big chair, and say, `I neber can

go.' `But,' say Missy O'Bottom, `why he no send for some?' `'Cause,' I

say, `quarter-day no come--money all gone.'--Den say she, `If you poor

massa so _very_ bad, den I trust you one bottel--you gib my compliments

and say, I very appy to see him, and stay at home,'--Den I say, `Missy

O'Bottom pose massa not come soon as he take one two glass grog cut my

head off.' Dat all, sar."

"That's all, is it? A pretty scrape you have got me into, you

scoundrel! What's to be done now?"

"Why, let's have a glass of grog first, Cockle," replied I, "we've been

waiting a long while for it, and we'll then talk the matter over."

"Bob, you're sensible, and the old woman was no fool in sending the

liquor--it requires _Dutch_ courage to attack such a Dutch-built old

schuyt; let's get the cobwebs out of our throats, and then we must see

how we can get out of this scrape. I expect that I shall pay `dearly

for my whistle' this time I wet mine. Now, what's to be done, Bob?"

"I think that you had better leave it to Moonshine," said I.

"So I will.--Now, sir, as you have got me into this scrape, you must get

me out of it.--D'ye hear?"

"Yes, Massa Cockle, I tink--but no ab courage."

"I understand you, you sooty fellow--here, drink this, and see if it

will brighten up your wits. He's a regular turnpike, that fellow, every

thing must pay toll."

"Massa Cockle, I tell Missy O'Bottom dat you come soon as you hab two

glass grog; 'pose you only drink one."

"That won't do, Moonshine, for I'm just mixing my second; you must find

out something better."

"One glass grog, massa, gib no more dan one tought--dat you ab--"

"Well, then, here's another.--Now recollect, before you drink it, you

are to get me out of this scrape; if not, you get into a scrape, for

I'll beat you as--as white as snow."

"'Pose you no _wash_ nigger white, you no _mangle_ him white, Massa

Cockle," added Moonshine.

"The fellow's _ironing_ me, Bob, ar'n't he?" said Cockle, laughing.

"Now, before you drink, recollect the conditions."

"Drink first, sar, make sure of dat," replied Moonshine, swallowing off

the brandy; "tink about it afterwards.--Eh! I ab it," cried Moonshine,

who disappeared, and Cockle and I continued in conversation over our

grog, which to sailors is acceptable in any one hour in the twenty-four.

About ten minutes afterwards Cockle perceived Moonshine in the little

front garden. "There's that fellow, Bob; what is he about?"

"Only picking a nosegay, I believe," replied I, looking out of the

window.

"The rascal, he must be picking all my chrysanthemums. Stop him, Bob."

But Moonshine vaulted over the low pales, and there was no stopping him.

It was nearly an hour before he returned; and when he came in, we found

that he was dressed out in his best, looking quite a dandy, and with

some of his master's finest flowers, in a large nosegay, sticking in his

waistcoat.

"All right, sar, all right; dat last glass grog gib me fine idee; you

neber ab more trouble bout Missy O'Bottom."

"Well, let's hear," said Cockle.

"I dress mysel bery 'pruce, as you see, massa. I take nosegay."

"Yes, I see that, and be hanged to you."

"Neber mind, Massa Cockle. I say to Missy O'Bottom, `Massa no able

come, he very sorry, so he send me;' `well,' she say, `what you ab to

say, sit down, Moonshine, you very nice man.' Den I say, `Massa Cockle

lub you very much, he tink all day how he make you appy; den he say,

Missy O'Bottom very fine 'oman, make very fine wife.' Den Missy

O'Bottom say, `'Top a moment,' and she bring a bottel from cupboard, and

me drink something did make 'tomach feel really warm; and den she say,

`Moonshine, what you massa say?' den I say, massa say, `You fine 'oman,

make good wife;' but he shake um head, and say, `I very old man, no good

for noting; I tink all day how I make her appy, and I find out--

Moonshine, you young man, you 'andsome feller, you good servant, I not

like you go away, but I tink you make Missy O'Bottom very fine 'usband;

so I not care for myself, you go to Missy O'Bottom, and tell I send you,

dat I part wid you, and give you to her for 'usband.'"

Cockle and I burst out laughing. "Well, and what did Mrs Rowbottom say

to that?"

"She jump up, and try to catch me hair, but I bob my head, and she miss;

den she say, `You filthy black rascal, you tell you massa, 'pose he ever

come here, I break his white bald pate; and 'pose you ever come here, I

smash you woolly black skull.'--Dat all, Massa Cockle; you see all right

now, and I quite dry wid talking."

"All right! do you call it. I never meant to quarrel with the old

woman; what d'ye think, Bob--is it all right?"

"Why, you must either have quarrelled with her, or married her, that's

clear."

"Well, then, I'm clear of her, and so it's all right. It a'n't every

man who can get out of matrimony by sacrificing a nosegay and two

glasses of grog."

"Tree glasses, Massa Cockle," said Moonshine.

"Well, three glasses; here it is, you dog, and its dog cheap, too.

Thank God, next Wednesday's quarter day. Bob, you must dine with me--

cut the service for to-day."

"With all my heart," replied I, "and I'll salve my conscience by walking

the beach all night; but, Cockle, look here, there is but a drop in the

bottle, and you have no more. I am like you, with a clean swept hold.

You acknowledge the difficulty?"

"It stares me in the face, Bob; what must be done?"

"I'll tell you--in the first place, what have you for dinner?"

"Moonshine, what have we got for dinner?"

"Dinner, sar?--me not yet tink about dinner. What you like to eat,

sar?"

"What have we got in the house, Moonshine?"

"Let me see, sar? first place, we ab very fine piece picklum pork; den

we have picklum pork; and den--let me tink--den we ab, we ab picklum

pork, sar."

"The long and the short of it is, Bob, that we have nothing but a piece

of pickled pork; can you dine off that?"

"Can a duck swim, Cockle!"

"Please, sar, we ab plenty pea for _dog baddy_," said Moonshine.

"Well, then, Cockle, as all that is required is to put the pot on the

fire, you can probably spare Moonshine, after he has done that, and we

will look to the cookery; start him off with a note to Mr Johns, and he

can bring back a couple of bottles from my quarters."

"Really dat very fine tought, Massa Farren; I put in pork, and den I go

and come back in one hour."

"That you never will, Mr Moonshine; what's o'clock now? mercy on us,

how time flies in your company, Cockle, it is nearly four o'clock; it

will be dark at six."

"Neber mind, sar, me always ab _moonshine_ whereber I go," said the

black, showing his teeth.

"It will take two hours to boil the pork, Bob; that fellow has been so

busy this morning that he has quite forgot the dinner."

"All you business, Massa Cockle."

"Very true; but now start as soon as you can, and come back as soon as

you can; here's the note."

Moonshine took the note, looked at the direction, as if he could read

it, and in a few minutes was seen to depart.

"And now, Cockle," said I, "as Moonshine will be gone some time, suppose

you spin us a yarn to pass away the time."

"I'll tell you what, Bob, I am not quite so good at that as I used to

be. I've an idea that when my pate became bald, my memory oozed away by

insensible perspiration."

"Never mind, you must have something left, you can't be quite empty."

"No, but my tumbler is; so I'll just fill that up, and then I'll tell

you how it was that I came to go to sea."

"The very thing that I should like to hear, above all others."

"Well, then, you must know that, like cockles in general, I was born on

the sea-shore, just a quarter of a mile out of Dover, towards

Shakespeare's Cliff. My father was a fisherman by profession, and a

smuggler by practice, all was fish that came to his net; but his cottage

was small, he was supposed to be very poor, and a very bad fisherman,

for he seldom brought home many; but there was a reason for that, he

very seldom put his nets overboard. His chief business lay in taking

out of vessels coming down Channel, goods which were shipped and bonded

for exportation, and running them on shore again. You know, Bob, that

there are many articles which are not permitted to enter even upon

paying duty, and when these goods, such as silks, etcetera, are seized

or taken in prizes, they are sold for exportation. Now, it was then the

custom for vessels to take them on board in the river, and run them on

shore as they went down Channel, and the fishing-boats were usually

employed for this service; my father was a well-known hand for this kind

of work, for not being suspected, he was always fortunate; of course,

had he once been caught, they would have had their eyes upon him after

he had suffered his punishment. Now the way my father used to manage

was this: there was a long tunnel-drain from some houses used as

manufactories, about a hundred yards above his cottage, which extended

out into the sea at low-water mark, and which passed on one side of our

cottage. My father had cut from a cellar in the cottage into the drain,

and as it was large enough for a man to kneel down in, he used to come

in at low-water with his coble, and make fast the goods, properly

secured from the wet and dirt in tarpaulin bags, to a rope, which led

from the cellar to the sea through the drain. When the water had flowed

sufficiently to cover the mouth of the drain, he then threw the bags

overboard, and, securing the boat, went to the cottage, hauled up the

articles, and secured them too; d'ye understand? My father had no one

to assist him but my brother, who was a stout fellow, seven years older

than myself, and my mother, who used to give a helping hand when

required; and thus did he keep his own counsel, and grow rich; when all

was right, he got his boat over into the harbour, and having secured

her, he came home as innocent as a lamb. I was then about eight or nine

years old, and went with my father and brother in the coble, for she

required three hands, at least, to manage her properly, and like a

tin-pot, although not very big, I was very useful. Now it so happened

that my father had notice that a brig, laying in Dover harbour, would

sail the next day, and that she had on board of her a quantity of lace

and silks, purchased at the Dover custom-house for exportation, which he

was to put on shore again to be sent up to London. The sending up to

London we had nothing to do with; the agent at Dover managed all that;

we only left the articles at his house, and then received the money on

the nail. We went to the harbour, where we found the brig hauling out,

so we made all haste to get away before her. It blew fresh from the

northward and eastward, and there was a good deal of sea running. As we

were shoving out, the London agent, a jolly little round-faced fellow,

in black clothes, and a bald white head, called to us, and said that he

wanted to board a vessel in the offing, and asked whether we would take

him. This was all a ruse, as he intended to go on board of the brig

with us to settle matters, and then return in the pilot boat. Well, we

hoisted our jib, drew aft our foresheet, and were soon clear of the

harbour; but we found that there was a devil of a sea running, and more

wind than we bargained for; the brig came out of the harbour with a

flowing sheet, and we lowered down the foresail to reef it--father and

brother busy about that, while I stood at the helm, when the agent said

to me, `When do you mean to make a voyage?' `Sooner than father thinks

for,' said I, `for I want to see the world.' It was sooner than I

_thought for_ too, as you shall hear. As soon as the brig was well out,

we ran down to her, and with some difficulty my father and the agent got

on board, for the sea was high and cross, the tide setting against the

wind; my brother and I were left in the boat to follow in the wake of

the brig; but as my brother was casting off the rope forward, his leg

caught in the bight, and into the sea he went; however, they hauled him

on board, leaving me alone in the coble. It was not of much

consequence, as I could manage to follow before the wind under easy

sail, without assistance: so I kept her in the wake of the brig, both of

us running nearly before it at the rate of five miles an hour, waiting

till my father should have made up his packages, of a proper size to

walk through the tunnel drain.

"The Channel was full of ships, for the westerly winds had detained them

for a long time. I had followed the brig about an hour, when the agent

went on shore in a pilot boat, and I expected my father would soon be

ready; then the wind veered more towards the southward, with dirt: at

last it came on foggy, and I could hardly see the brig, and as it rained

hard, and blew harder, I wished that my father was ready, for my arms

ached with steering the coble for so long a while. I could not leave

the helm, so I steered on at a black lump, as the brig looked through

the fog: at last the fog was so thick that I could not see a yard beyond

the boat, and I hardly knew how to steer. I began to be frightened,

tired, and cold, and hungry I certainly was. Well, I steered on for

more than an hour, when the fog cleared up a little, and to my joy I saw

the stern of the brig just before me. I expected that she would

round-to immediately, and that my father would praise me for my conduct;

and, what was still more to the purpose, that I should get something to

eat and drink. But no: she steered on right down Channel, and I

followed for more than an hour, when it came on to blow very hard, and I

could scarcely manage the boat--she pulled my little arms off. The

weather now cleared up, and I could make out the vessel plainly; when I

discovered that it was not the _brig_, but a bark which I had got hold

of in the fog, so that I did not know what to do; but I did as most boys

would have done in a fright,--I sat down and cried; still, however,

keeping the tiller in my hand, and steering as well as I could. At

last. I could hold it no longer; I ran forward, let go the fore and jib

haul-yards, and hauled down the sails; drag them into the boat I could

not, and there I was, like a young bear adrift in a washing-tub. I

looked around, and there were no vessels near; the bark had left me two

miles astern, it was blowing a gale from the SE, with a heavy sea--the

gulls and sea-birds wheeling and screaming in the storm. The boat

tossed and rolled about so that I was obliged to hold on, but she

shipped no water of any consequence, for the jib in the water forward

had brought her head to wind, and acted as a sort of floating anchor.

At last I lay down at the bottom of the boat and fell asleep. It was

daylight before I awoke, and it blew harder than ever; and I could just

see some vessels at a distance, scudding before the gale, but they could

hardly see me. I sat very melancholy the whole day, shedding tears,

surrounded by nothing but the roaring waves. I prayed very earnestly: I

said the Lord's Prayer, the Belief, and as much of the Catechism as I

could recollect. I was wet, starving, and miserably cold. At night I

again fell asleep from exhaustion. When morning broke, and the sun

shone, the gale abated, and I felt more cheered; but I was now ravenous

from hunger, as well as choking from thirst, and was so weak that I

could scarcely stand. I looked round me every now and then, and in the

afternoon saw a large vessel standing right for me; this gave me courage

and strength. I stood up and waved my hat, and they saw me--the sea was

still running very high, but the wind had gone down. She rounded-to so

as to bring me under her lee. Send a boat she could not, but the sea

bore her down upon me, and I was soon close to her. Men in the chains

were ready with ropes, and I knew that this was my only chance. At

last, a very heavy sea bore her right down upon the boat, lurching over

on her beam ends, her main chains struck the boat and sent her down,

while I was seized by the scruff of the neck by two of the seamen, and

borne aloft by them as the vessel returned to the weather-roll. I was

safe. And, as soon as they had given me something to eat, I told my

story. It appeared that she was an East India-man running down Channel,

and not likely to meet with anything to scud me back again. The

passengers, especially the ladies, were very kind to me: and as there

was no help for it, why, I took my first voyage to the _East Indies_."

"And your father and your brother?"

"Why, when I met them, which I did about six years afterwards, I found

that they had been in much the same predicament, having lost the coble,

and the weather being so bad that they could not get on shore again. As

there was no help for it, they took their first voyage to the _West

Indies_; so there was a dispersion of an united family--two went west,

one went east, coble went down, and mother, after waiting a month or

two, and supposing father dead, went off with a soldier. All dispersed

by one confounded gale of wind from the northward and eastward, so

that's the way that I went to sea, Bob. And now it's time that

Moonshine was back."

But Moonshine kept us waiting for some time: when he returned it was

then quite dark, and we had lighted candles, anxiously waiting for him;

for not only was the bottle empty, but we were very hungry. At last we

heard a conversation at the gate, and Moonshine made his appearance with

the two bottles of spirits, and appeared himself to be also in high

spirits. The pork and peas-pudding soon were on the table. We dined

heartily, and were sitting over the latter part of the first bottle in

conversation, it being near upon the eleventh hour, when we heard a

noise, at the gate--observed some figures of men, who stayed a short

time and then disappeared. The door opened, and Moonshine went out. In

a few seconds he returned, bringing in his arms an anker of spirits,

which he laid on the floor, grinning so wide that his head appeared half

off. Without saying a word, he left the room and returned with another.

"Why, what the devil's this?" cried Cockle.

Moonshine made no answer, but went out and in until he had brought six

ankers in, one after another, which he placed in a row on the floor. He

then shut the outside door, bolted it, came in, and seating himself on

one of the tubs, laughed to an excess which compelled him to hold his

sides; Cockle and I looking on in a state of astonishment.

"Where the devil did all this come from?" cried Cockle, getting out of

his easy chair. "Tell me, sir, or by--"

"I tell you all, Massa Cockle:--you find me better friend dan Missy

O'Bottom. Now you hab plenty, and neber need scold Moonshine 'pose he

take lilly drap. I get all dis present to you, Massa Cockle."

Feeling anxious, I pressed Moonshine to tell his story.

"I tell you all, sar. When I come back wid de two bottle I meet plenty

men wid de tubs: dey say, `Hollo there, who be you?' I say, `I come

from station: bring massa two bottel, and I show um.' Den dey say,

`Where you massa?' and I say, `At um house at Ryde'--(den dey tink dat

you my massa, Massa Farren)--so dey say, `Yes, we know dat, we watch him

dere, but now you tell, so we beat you dead.' Den I say, `What for dat;

massa like drink, why you no gib massa some tub, and den he neber say

noting, only make fuss some time, 'cause of Admirality.' Den dey say,

`You sure of dat?' and I say, `Quite sure massa neber say one word.'

Den dey talk long while; last, dey come and say, `You come wid us and

show massa house.' So two men come wid me, and when dey come to gate I

say, `Dis massa house when he live at Ryde, and dere you see massa;'--

and I point to Massa Cockle, but dey see Massa Ferran--so dey say. `All

very good; tree, four hour more, you find six tub here; tell you massa

dat every time run tub, he alway hab six;' den dey go way, den dey come

back, leave tub; dat all, massa."

"You rascal!" exclaimed I, rising up, "so you have compromised me; why I

shall lose my commission if found out."

"No, sar; nobody wrong but de smuggler; dey make a lilly mistake; case

you brought to court-martial, I give evidence, and den I clear you."

"But what must we do with the tubs, Cockle?" said I, appealing to him.

"Do Bob?--why they are a present--a very welcome one, and a very

handsome one into the bargain. I shall not _keep_ them, I pledge you my

word; let that satisfy you--they shall be _fairly entered_."

"Upon that condition, Cockle," I replied, "I shall of course not give

information against you." (I knew full well what he meant by saying he

would not _keep_ them.)

"_How_ I do, Massa Cockle," said Moonshine, with a grave face; "I take

um to the Custom-house to-night or to-morrow morning."

"To-morrow, Moonshine," replied Cockle; "at present just put them out of

sight."

I did not think it prudent to make any further inquiries; but I

afterwards discovered that the smugglers, true to their word, and still

in error, continued to leave six tubs in old Cockle's garden whenever

they succeeded in running a cargo, which, notwithstanding all our

endeavours, they constantly did. One piece of information I gained from

this affair, I found that the numbers of the cargoes which were run

compared to those which were seized during the remainder of the time I

was on that station, was in the proportion of ten to one. The cargoes

run were calculated by the observations of old Cockle, who, when I

called upon him, used to say very quietly, "I shouldn't wonder if they

did not run a cargo last night, Bob, in spite of all your vigilance--was

it very dark?"

"On the contrary," replied I, looking at the demure face of the negro;

"I suspect it was _Moonshine_."