The magic of a lovely form in woman—the necromancy of female

gracefulness—was always a power which I had found it impossible

to resist, but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau

ideal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions. The figure,

almost all of which the construction of the box permitted to be

seen, was somewhat above the medium height, and nearly

approached, without positively reaching, the majestic. Its

perfect fullness and tournure were delicious. The head, of which

only the back was visible, rivalled in outline that of the Greek

Psyche, and was rather displayed than concealed by an elegant cap

of _gaze äérienne_, which put me in mind of the _ventum textilem_

of Apuleius. The right arm hung over the balustrade of the box,

and thrilled every nerve of my frame with its exquisite symmetry.

Its upper portion was draperied by one of the loose open sleeves

now in fashion. This extended but little below the elbow. Beneath

it was worn an under one of some frail material, close-fitting,

and terminated by a cuff of rich lace, which fell gracefully over

the top of the hand, revealing only the delicate fingers, upon

one of which sparkled a diamond ring, which I at once saw was of

extraordinary value. The admirable roundness of the wrist was

well set off by a bracelet which encircled it, and which also was

ornamented and clasped by a magnificent aigrette of

jewels—telling, in words that could not be mistaken, at once of

the wealth and fastidious taste of the wearer.

I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an hour, as

if I had been suddenly converted to stone; and, during this

period, I felt the full force and truth of all that has been said

or sung concerning “love at first sight.” My feelings were

totally different from any which I had hitherto experienced, in

the presence of even the most celebrated specimens of female

loveliness. An unaccountable, and what I am compelled to consider

a magnetic, sympathy of soul for soul, seemed to rivet, not only

my vision, but my whole powers of thought and feeling, upon the

admirable object before me. I saw—I felt—I knew that I was

deeply, madly, irrevocably in love—and this even before seeing

the face of the person beloved. So intense, indeed, was the

passion that consumed me, that I really believe it would have

received little if any abatement had the features, yet unseen,

proved of merely ordinary character; so anomalous is the nature

of the only true love—of the love at first sight—and so little

really dependent is it upon the external conditions which only

seem to create and control it.

While I was thus wrapped in admiration of this lovely vision, a

sudden disturbance among the audience caused her to turn her head

partially toward me, so that I beheld the entire profile of the

face. Its beauty even exceeded my anticipations—and yet there was

something about it which disappointed me without my being able to

tell exactly what it was. I said “disappointed,” but this is not

altogether the word. My sentiments were at once quieted and

exalted. They partook less of transport and more of calm

enthusiasm—of enthusiastic repose. This state of feeling arose,

perhaps, from the Madonna-like and matronly air of the face; and

yet I at once understood that it could not have arisen entirely

from this. There was something else—some mystery which I could

not develope—some expression about the countenance which slightly

disturbed me while it greatly heightened my interest. In fact, I

was just in that condition of mind which prepares a young and

susceptible man for any act of extravagance. Had the lady been

alone, I should undoubtedly have entered her box and accosted her

at all hazards; but, fortunately, she was attended by two

companions—a gentleman, and a strikingly beautiful woman, to all

appearance a few years younger than herself.

I revolved in my mind a thousand schemes by which I might obtain,

hereafter, an introduction to the elder lady, or, for the

present, at all events, a more distinct view of her beauty. I

would have removed my position to one nearer her own, but the

crowded state of the theatre rendered this impossible; and the

stern decrees of Fashion had, of late, imperatively prohibited

the use of the opera-glass in a case such as this, even had I

been so fortunate as to have one with me—but I had not—and was

thus in despair.

At length I bethought me of applying to my companion.

“Talbot,” I said, “you have an opera-glass. Let me have it.”

“An opera-glass!—no!—what do you suppose I would be doing with an

opera-glass?” Here he turned impatiently toward the stage.

“But, Talbot,” I continued, pulling him by the shoulder, “listen

to me will you? Do you see the stage-box?—there!—no, the next.—

Did you ever behold as lovely a woman?”

“She is very beautiful, no doubt,” he said.

“I wonder who she can be?”

“Why, in the name of all that is angelic, don’t you know who she

is? ‘Not to know her argues yourself unknown.’ She is the

celebrated Madame Lalande—the beauty of the day par excellence,

and the talk of the whole town. Immensely wealthy too—a widow,

and a great match—has just arrived from Paris.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes; I have the honor.”

“Will you introduce me?”

“Assuredly, with the greatest pleasure; when shall it be?”

“To-morrow, at one, I will call upon you at B—’s.”

“Very good; and now do hold your tongue, if you can.”

In this latter respect I was forced to take Talbot’s advice; for

he remained obstinately deaf to every further question or

suggestion, and occupied himself exclusively for the rest of the

evening with what was transacting upon the stage.

In the meantime I kept my eyes riveted on Madame Lalande, and at

length had the good fortune to obtain a full front view of her

face. It was exquisitely lovely—this, of course, my heart had

told me before, even had not Talbot fully satisfied me upon the

point—but still the unintelligible something disturbed me. I

finally concluded that my senses were impressed by a certain air

of gravity, sadness, or, still more properly, of weariness, which

took something from the youth and freshness of the countenance,

only to endow it with a seraphic tenderness and majesty, and

thus, of course, to my enthusiastic and romantic temperment, with

an interest tenfold.

While I thus feasted my eyes, I perceived, at last, to my great

trepidation, by an almost imperceptible start on the part of the

lady, that she had become suddenly aware of the intensity of my

gaze. Still, I was absolutely fascinated, and could not withdraw

it, even for an instant. She turned aside her face, and again I

saw only the chiselled contour of the back portion of the head.

After some minutes, as if urged by curiosity to see if I was

still looking, she gradually brought her face again around and

again encountered my burning gaze. Her large dark eyes fell

instantly, and a deep blush mantled her cheek. But what was my

astonishment at perceiving that she not only did not a second

time avert her head, but that she actually took from her girdle a

double eyeglass—elevated it—adjusted it—and then regarded me

through it, intently and deliberately, for the space of several

minutes.

Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet I could not have been more

thoroughly astounded—astounded only—not offended or disgusted in

the slightest degree; although an action so bold in any other

woman would have been likely to offend or disgust. But the whole

thing was done with so much quietude—so much nonchalance—so much

repose—with so evident an air of the highest breeding, in

short—that nothing of mere effrontery was perceptible, and my

sole sentiments were those of admiration and surprise.

I observed that, upon her first elevation of the glass, she had

seemed satisfied with a momentary inspection of my person, and

was withdrawing the instrument, when, as if struck by a second

thought, she resumed it, and so continued to regard me with fixed

attention for the space of several minutes—for five minutes, at

the very least, I am sure.

This action, so remarkable in an American theatre, attracted very

general observation, and gave rise to an indefinite movement, or

buzz, among the audience, which for a moment filled me with

confusion, but produced no visible effect upon the countenance of

Madame Lalande.

Having satisfied her curiosity—if such it was—she dropped the

glass, and quietly gave her attention again to the stage; her

profile now being turned toward myself, as before. I continued to

watch her unremittingly, although I was fully conscious of my

rudeness in so doing. Presently I saw the head slowly and

slightly change its position; and soon I became convinced that

the lady, while pretending to look at the stage was, in fact,

attentively regarding myself. It is needless to say what effect

this conduct, on the part of so fascinating a woman, had upon my

excitable mind.

Having thus scrutinized me for perhaps a quarter of an hour, the

fair object of my passion addressed the gentleman who attended

her, and while she spoke, I saw distinctly, by the glances of

both, that the conversation had reference to myself.

Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned toward the

stage, and, for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the

performance. At the expiration of this period, however, I was

thrown into an extremity of agitation by seeing her unfold, for

the second time, the eye-glass which hung at her side, fully

confront me as before, and, disregarding the renewed buzz of the

audience, survey me, from head to foot, with the same miraculous

composure which had previously so delighted and confounded my

soul.

This extraordinary behavior, by throwing me into a perfect fever

of excitement—into an absolute delirium of love—served rather to

embolden than to disconcert me. In the mad intensity of my

devotion, I forgot everything but the presence and the majestic

loveliness of the vision which confronted my gaze. Watching my

opportunity, when I thought the audience were fully engaged with

the opera, I at length caught the eyes of Madame Lalande, and,

upon the instant, made a slight but unmistakable bow.

She blushed very deeply—then averted her eyes—then slowly and

cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action had

been noticed—then leaned over toward the gentleman who sat by her

side.

I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had committed,

and expected nothing less than instant exposure; while a vision

of pistols upon the morrow floated rapidly and uncomfortably

through my brain. I was greatly and immediately relieved,

however, when I saw the lady merely hand the gentleman a

play-bill, without speaking; but the reader may form some feeble

conception of my astonishment—of my profound amazement—my

delirious bewilderment of heart and soul—when, instantly

afterward, having again glanced furtively around, she allowed her

bright eyes to set fully and steadily upon my own, and then, with

a faint smile, disclosing a bright line of her pearly teeth, made

two distinct, pointed, and unequivocal affirmative inclinations

of the head.

It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy—upon my

transport—upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever man was

mad with excess of happiness, it was myself at that moment. I

loved. This was my first love—so I felt it to be. It was love

supreme—indescribable. It was “love at first sight;” and at first

sight, too, it had been appreciated and returned.

Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant. What

other construction could I possibly put upon such conduct, on the

part of a lady so beautiful—so wealthy—evidently so

accomplished—of so high breeding—of so lofty a position in

society—in every regard so entirely respectable as I felt assured

was Madame Lalande? Yes, she loved me—she returned the enthusiasm

of my love, with an enthusiasm as blind—as uncompromising—as

uncalculating—as abandoned—and as utterly unbounded as my own!

These delicious fancies and reflections, however, were now

interrupted by the falling of the drop-curtain. The audience

arose; and the usual tumult immediately supervened. Quitting

Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to force my way into closer

proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in this, on account

of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and bent my steps

homeward; consoling myself for my disappointment in not having

been able to touch even the hem of her robe, by the reflection

that I should be introduced by Talbot, in due form, upon the

morrow.

This morrow at last came, that is to say, a day finally dawned

upon a long and weary night of impatience; and then the hours

until “one” were snail-paced, dreary, and innumerable. But even

Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and there came an end to

this long delay. The clock struck. As the last echo ceased, I

stepped into B——’s and inquired for Talbot.

“Out,” said the footman—Talbot’s own.

“Out!” I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces—“let me tell

you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly impossible and

impracticable; Mr. Talbot is not out. What do you mean?”

“Nothing, sir; only Mr. Talbot is not in, that’s all. He rode

over to S——, immediately after breakfast, and left word that he

would not be in town again for a week.”

I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavored to reply,

but my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my heel,

livid with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole tribe of the

Talbots to the innermost regions of Erebus. It was evident that

my considerate friend, il fanatico, had quite forgotten his

appointment with myself—had forgotten it as soon as it was made.

At no time was he a very scrupulous man of his word. There was no

help for it; so smothering my vexation as well as I could, I

strolled moodily up the street, propounding futile inquiries

about Madame Lalande to every male acquaintance I met. By report

she was known, I found, to all—to many by sight—but she had been

in town only a few weeks, and there were very few, therefore, who

claimed her personal acquaintance. These few, being still

comparatively strangers, could not, or would not, take the

liberty of introducing me through the formality of a morning

call. While I stood thus in despair, conversing with a trio of

friends upon the all-absorbing subject of my heart, it so

happened that the subject itself passed by.

“As I live, there she is!” cried one.

“Surprisingly beautiful!” exclaimed a second.

“An angel upon earth!” ejaculated a third.

I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing

slowly down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera,

accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her

box.

“Her companion also wears remarkably well,” said the one of my

trio who had spoken first.

“Astonishingly,” said the second; “still quite a brilliant air,

but art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than she

did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;—don’t you

think so, Froissart?—Simpson, I mean.”

“_Still!_” said I, “and why shouldn’t she be? But compared with

her friend she is as a rush-light to the evening star—a glow-worm

to Antares.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making

discoveries—original ones, I mean.” And here we separated, while

one of the trio began humming a gay _vaudeville_, of which I

caught only the lines—

Ninon, Ninon, Ninon à bas—

A bas Ninon De L’Enclos!

During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly

to console me, although it fed the passion by which I was

consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group,

I had observed that she recognized me; and more than this, she

had blessed me, by the most seraphic of all imaginable smiles,

with no equivocal mark of the recognition.

As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it

until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the

country. In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every

reputable place of public amusement; and, at length, at the

theatre, where I first saw her, I had the supreme bliss of

meeting her, and of exchanging glances with her once again. This

did not occur, however, until the lapse of a fortnight. Every

day, in the interim, I had inquired for Talbot at his hotel, and

every day had been thrown into a spasm of wrath by the

everlasting “Not come home yet” of his footman.

Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition

little short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a

Parisian—had lately arrived from Paris—might she not suddenly

return?—return before Talbot came back—and might she not be thus

lost to me forever? The thought was too terrible to bear. Since

my future happiness was at issue, I resolved to act with a manly

decision. In a word, upon the breaking up of the play, I traced

the lady to her residence, noted the address, and the next

morning sent her a full and elaborate letter, in which I poured

out my whole heart.

I spoke boldly, freely—in a word, I spoke with passion. I

concealed nothing—nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to the

romantic circumstances of our first meeting—even to the glances

which had passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt

assured of her love; while I offered this assurance, and my own

intensity of devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise

unpardonable conduct. As a third, I spoke of my fear that she

might quit the city before I could have the opportunity of a

formal introduction. I concluded the most wildly enthusiastic

epistle ever penned, with a frank declaration of my worldly

circumstances—of my affluence—and with an offer of my heart and

of my hand.

In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what seemed

the lapse of a century it came.

Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really

received a letter from Madame Lalande—the beautiful, the wealthy,

the idolized Madame Lalande. Her eyes—her magnificent eyes, had

not belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman as she was

she had obeyed the frank dictates of her reason—the generous

impulses of her nature—despising the conventional pruderies of

the world. She had not scorned my proposals. She had not

sheltered herself in silence. She had not returned my letter

unopened. She had even sent me, in reply, one penned by her own

exquisite fingers. It ran thus:

“Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle

tong of his contrée so vell as might. It is only de late dat I am

arrive, and not yet ave do opportunité for to—l’étudier.

“Vid dis apologie for the manière, I vill now say dat,

hélas!—Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say de

more? Hélas! am I not ready speak de too moshe?

“EUGENIE LALAND.”

This noble-spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed,

no doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that

have now escaped my memory. Still Talbot _would_ not return.

Alas! could he have formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering

his absence had occasioned his friend, would not his sympathizing

nature have flown immediately to my relief? Still, however, he

came _not_. I wrote. He replied. He was detained by urgent

business—but would shortly return. He begged me not to be

impatient—to moderate my transports—to read soothing books—to

drink nothing stronger than Hock—and to bring the consolations of

philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself,

why, in the name of every thing rational, could he not have

enclosed me a letter of presentation? I wrote him again,

entreating him to forward one forthwith. My letter was returned

by _that_ footman, with the following endorsement in pencil. The

scoundrel had joined his master in the country:

“Left S—— yesterday, for parts unknown—did not say where—or when

be back—so thought best to return letter, knowing your

handwriting, and as how you is always, more or less, in a hurry.

“Yours sincerely,

“STUBBS.”

After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the infernal

deities both master and valet:—but there was little use in anger,

and no consolation at all in complaint.

But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity.

Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make it

avail me to the end. Besides, after the correspondence which had

passed between us, what act of mere informality could I commit,

within bounds, that ought to be regarded as indecorous by Madame

Lalande? Since the affair of the letter, I had been in the habit

of watching her house, and thus discovered that, about twilight,

it was her custom to promenade, attended only by a negro in

livery, in a public square overlooked by her windows. Here, amid

the luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a sweet

midsummer evening, I observed my opportunity and accosted her.

The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this with

the assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a

presence of mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and,

to greet me, held out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The

valet at once fell into the rear, and now, with hearts full to

overflowing, we discoursed long and unreservedly of our love.

As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she wrote

it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In this sweet

tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to the impetuous

enthusiasm of my nature, and, with all the eloquence I could

command, besought her to consent to an immediate marriage.

At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of

decorum—that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the

opportunity for bliss has forever gone by. I had most imprudently

made it known among my friends, she observed, that I desired her

acquaintance—thus that I did not possess it—thus, again, there

was no possibility of concealing the date of our first knowledge

of each other. And then she adverted, with a blush, to the

extreme recency of this date. To wed immediately would be

improper—would be indecorous—would be outre. All this she said

with a charming air of naivete which enraptured while it grieved

and convinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me,

laughingly, of rashness—of imprudence. She bade me remember that

I really even knew not who she was—what were her prospects, her

connections, her standing in society. She begged me, but with a

sigh, to reconsider my proposal, and termed my love an

infatuation—a will o’ the wisp—a fancy or fantasy of the moment—a

baseless and unstable creation rather of the imagination than of

the heart. These things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet

twilight gathered darkly and more darkly around us—and then, with

a gentle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a single

sweet instant, all the argumentative fabric she had reared.

I replied as best I could—as only a true lover can. I spoke at

length, and perseveringly of my devotion, of my passion—of her

exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration. In

conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing energy, upon the perils

that encompass the course of love—that course of true love that

never did run smooth—and thus deduced the manifest danger of

rendering that course unnecessarily long.

This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigor of her

determination. She relented; but there was yet an obstacle, she

said, which she felt assured I had not properly considered. This

was a delicate point—for a woman to urge, especially so; in

mentioning it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her

feelings; still, for me, every sacrifice should be made. She

alluded to the topic of age. Was I aware—was I fully aware of the

discrepancy between us? That the age of the husband, should

surpass by a few years—even by fifteen or twenty—the age of the

wife, was regarded by the world as admissible, and, indeed, as

even proper; but she had always entertained the belief that the

years of the wife should never exceed in number those of the

husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural kind gave rise, too

frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now she was aware

that my own age did not exceed two and twenty; and I, on the

contrary, perhaps, was not aware that the years of my Eugénie

extended very considerably beyond that sum.

About all this there was a nobility of soul—a dignity of

candor—which delighted—which enchanted me—which eternally riveted

my chains. I could scarcely restrain the excessive transport

which possessed me.

“My sweetest Eugénie,” I cried, “what is all this about which you

are discoursing? Your years surpass in some measure my own. But

what then? The customs of the world are so many conventional

follies. To those who love as ourselves, in what respect differs

a year from an hour? I am twenty-two, you say; granted: indeed,

you may as well call me, at once, twenty-three. Now you yourself,

my dearest Eugénie, can have numbered no more than—can have

numbered no more than—no more than—than—than—than—”

Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame

Lalande would interrupt me by supplying her true age. But a

Frenchwoman is seldom direct, and has always, by way of answer to

an embarrassing query, some little practical reply of her own. In

the present instance, Eugénie, who for a few moments past had

seemed to be searching for something in her bosom, at length let

fall upon the grass a miniature, which I immediately picked up

and presented to her.

“Keep it!” she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles. “Keep

it for my sake—for the sake of her whom it too flatteringly

represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket you may

discover, perhaps, the very information you seem to desire. It is

now, to be sure, growing rather dark—but you can examine it at

your leisure in the morning. In the meantime, you shall be my

escort home to-night. My friends are about holding a little

musical _levée_. I can promise you, too, some good singing. We

French are not nearly so punctilious as you Americans, and I

shall have no difficulty in smuggling you in, in the character of

an old acquaintance.”

With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The mansion

was quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good taste. Of

this latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to judge; for

it was just dark as we arrived; and in American mansions of the

better sort lights seldom, during the heat of summer, make their

appearance at this, the most pleasant period of the day. In about

an hour after my arrival, to be sure, a single shaded solar lamp

was lit in the principal drawing-room; and this apartment, I

could thus see, was arranged with unusual good taste and even

splendor; but two other rooms of the suite, and in which the

company chiefly assembled, remained, during the whole evening, in

a very agreeable shadow. This is a well-conceived custom, giving

the party at least a choice of light or shade, and one which our

friends over the water could not do better than immediately

adopt.

The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious of

my life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical abilities

of her friends; and the singing I here heard I had never heard

excelled in any private circle out of Vienna. The instrumental

performers were many and of superior talents. The vocalists were

chiefly ladies, and no individual sang less than well. At length,

upon a peremptory call for “Madame Lalande,” she arose at once,

without affectation or demur, from the chaise longue upon which

she had sat by my side, and, accompanied by one or two gentlemen

and her female friend of the opera, repaired to the piano in the

main drawing-room. I would have escorted her myself, but felt

that, under the circumstances of my introduction to the house, I

had better remain unobserved where I was. I was thus deprived of

the pleasure of seeing, although not of hearing, her sing.

The impression she produced upon the company seemed

electrical—but the effect upon myself was something even more. I

know not how adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no

doubt, from the sentiment of love with which I was imbued; but

chiefly from my conviction of the extreme sensibility of the

singer. It is beyond the reach of art to endow either air or

recitative with more impassioned expression than was hers. Her

utterance of the romance in Otello—the tone with which she gave

the words “Sul mio sasso,” in the Capuletti—is ringing in my

memory yet. Her lower tones were absolutely miraculous. Her voice

embraced three complete octaves, extending from the contralto D

to the D upper soprano, and, though sufficiently powerful to have

filled the San Carlos, executed, with the minutest precision,

every difficulty of vocal composition—ascending and descending

scales, cadences, or fiorituri. In the final of the Somnambula,

she brought about a most remarkable effect at the words:

Ah! non guinge uman pensiero

Al contento ond ’io son piena.

Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original phrase

of Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor G, when,

by a rapid transition, she struck the G above the treble stave,

springing over an interval of two octaves.

Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal

execution, she resumed her seat by my side; when I expressed to

her, in terms of the deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her

performance. Of my surprise I said nothing, and yet was I most

unfeignedly surprised; for a certain feebleness, or rather a

certain tremulous indecision of voice in ordinary conversation,

had prepared me to anticipate that, in singing, she would not

acquit herself with any remarkable ability.

Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and

totally unreserved. She made me relate many of the earlier

passages of my life, and listened with breathless attention to

every word of the narrative. I concealed nothing—felt that I had

a right to conceal nothing—from her confiding affection.

Encouraged by her candor upon the delicate point of her age, I

entered, with perfect frankness, not only into a detail of my

many minor vices, but made full confession of those moral and

even of those physical infirmities, the disclosure of which, in

demanding so much higher a degree of courage, is so much surer an

evidence of love. I touched upon my college indiscretions—upon my

extravagances—upon my carousals—upon my debts—upon my

flirtations. I even went so far as to speak of a slightly hectic

cough with which, at one time, I had been troubled—of a chronic

rheumatism—of a twinge of hereditary gout—and, in conclusion, of

the disagreeable and inconvenient, but hitherto carefully

concealed, weakness of my eyes.

“Upon this latter point,” said Madame Lalande, laughingly, “you

have been surely injudicious in coming to confession; for,

without the confession, I take it for granted that no one would

have accused you of the crime. By the by,” she continued, “have

you any recollection—” and here I fancied that a blush, even

through the gloom of the apartment, became distinctly visible

upon her cheek—“have you any recollection, _mon cher ami_, of

this little ocular assistant, which now depends from my neck?”

As she spoke she twirled in her fingers the identical double

eye-glass which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at the

opera.

“Full well—alas! do I remember it,” I exclaimed, pressing

passionately the delicate hand which offered the glasses for my

inspection. They formed a complex and magnificent toy, richly

chased and filigreed, and gleaming with jewels, which, even in

the deficient light, I could not help perceiving were of high

value.

“_Eh bien! mon ami_,” she resumed with a certain _empressment_ of

manner that rather surprised me—“_Eh bien! mon ami_, you have

earnestly besought of me a favor which you have been pleased to

denominate priceless. You have demanded of me my hand upon the

morrow. Should I yield to your entreaties—and, I may add, to the

pleadings of my own bosom—would I not be entitled to demand of

you a very—a very little boon in return?”

“Name it!” I exclaimed with an energy that had nearly drawn upon

us the observation of the company, and restrained by their

presence alone from throwing myself impetuously at her feet.

“Name it, my beloved, my Eugénie, my own!—name it!—but, alas! it

is already yielded ere named.”

“You shall conquer, then, _mon ami_,” said she, “for the sake of

the Eugénie whom you love, this little weakness which you have at

last confessed—this weakness more moral than physical—and which,

let me assure you, is so unbecoming the nobility of your real

nature—so inconsistent with the candor of your usual

character—and which, if permitted further control, will assuredly

involve you, sooner or later, in some very disagreeable scrape.

You shall conquer, for my sake, this affectation which leads you,

as you yourself acknowledge, to the tacit or implied denial of

your infirmity of vision. For, this infirmity you virtually deny,

in refusing to employ the customary means for its relief. You

will understand me to say, then, that I wish you to wear

spectacles;—ah, hush!—you have already consented to wear them,

for my sake. You shall accept the little toy which I now hold in

my hand, and which, though admirable as an aid to vision, is

really of no very immense value as a gem. You perceive that, by a

trifling modification thus—or thus—it can be adapted to the eyes

in the form of spectacles, or worn in the waistcoat pocket as an

eye-glass. It is in the former mode, however, and habitually,

that you have already consented to wear it for my sake.”

This request—must I confess it?—confused me in no little degree.

But the condition with which it was coupled rendered hesitation,

of course, a matter altogether out of the question.

“It is done!” I cried, with all the enthusiasm that I could

muster at the moment. “It is done—it is most cheerfully agreed. I

sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this dear

eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my heart; but with the

earliest dawn of that morning which gives me the pleasure of

calling you wife, I will place it upon my—upon my nose,—and there

wear it ever afterward, in the less romantic, and less

fashionable, but certainly in the more serviceable, form which

you desire.”

Our conversation now turned upon the details of our arrangements

for the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my betrothed, had just

arrived in town. I was to see him at once, and procure a

carriage. The _soirée_ would scarcely break up before two; and by

this hour the vehicle was to be at the door; when, in the

confusion occasioned by the departure of the company, Madame L.

could easily enter it unobserved. We were then to call at the

house of a clergyman who would be in waiting; there be married,

drop Talbot, and proceed on a short tour to the East; leaving the

fashionable world at home to make whatever comments upon the

matter it thought best.

Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went in

search of Talbot, but, on the way, I could not refrain from

stepping into a hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the

miniature; and this I did by the powerful aid of the glasses. The

countenance was a surpassingly beautiful one! Those large

luminous eyes!—that proud Grecian nose!—those dark luxuriant

curls!—“Ah!” said I, exultingly to myself, “this is indeed the

speaking image of my beloved!” I turned the reverse, and

discovered the words—“Eugénie Lalande—aged twenty-seven years and

seven months.”

I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint him

with my good fortune. He professed excessive astonishment, of

course, but congratulated me most cordially, and proffered every

assistance in his power. In a word, we carried out our

arrangement to the letter, and, at two in the morning, just ten

minutes after the ceremony, I found myself in a close carriage

with Madame Lalande—with Mrs. Simpson, I should say—and driving

at a great rate out of town, in a direction northeast by north,

half-north.

It had been determined for us by Talbot, that, as we were to be

up all night, we should make our first stop at C——, a village

about twenty miles from the city, and there get an early

breakfast and some repose, before proceeding upon our route. At

four precisely, therefore, the carriage drew up at the door of

the principal inn. I handed my adored wife out, and ordered

breakfast forthwith. In the meantime we were shown into a small

parlor, and sat down.

It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I gazed,

enraptured, at the angel by my side, the singular idea came, all

at once, into my head, that this was really the very first moment

since my acquaintance with the celebrated loveliness of Madame

Lalande, that I had enjoyed a near inspection of that loveliness

by daylight at all.

“And now, _mon ami_,” said she, taking my hand, and so

interrupting this train of reflection, “and now, _mon cher ami_,

since we are indissolubly one—since I have yielded to your

passionate entreaties, and performed my portion of our

agreement—I presume you have not forgotten that you also have a

little favor to bestow—a little promise which it is your

intention to keep. Ah! let me see! Let me remember! Yes; full

easily do I call to mind the precise words of the dear promise

you made to Eugénie last night. Listen! You spoke thus: ‘It is

done!—it is most cheerfully agreed! I sacrifice every feeling for

your sake. To-night I wear this dear eye-glass as an eye-glass,

and upon my heart; but with the earliest dawn of that morning

which gives me the privilege of calling you wife, I will place it

upon my—upon my nose,—and there wear it ever afterward, in the

less romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the more

serviceable, form which you desire.’ These were the exact words,

my beloved husband, were they not?”

“They were,” I said; “you have an excellent memory; and

assuredly, my beautiful Eugénie, there is no disposition on my

part to evade the performance of the trivial promise they imply.

See! Behold! they are becoming—rather—are they not?” And here,

having arranged the glasses in the ordinary form of spectacles, I

applied them gingerly in their proper position; while Madame

Simpson, adjusting her cap, and folding her arms, sat bolt

upright in her chair, in a somewhat stiff and prim, and indeed,

in a somewhat undignified position.

“Goodness gracious me!” I exclaimed, almost at the very instant

that the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my nose—“_My!_

goodness gracious me!—why, what can be the matter with these

glasses?” and taking them quickly off, I wiped them carefully

with a silk handkerchief, and adjusted them again.

But if, in the first instance, there had occurred something which

occasioned me surprise, in the second, this surprise became

elevated into astonishment; and this astonishment was

profound—was extreme—indeed I may say it was horrific. What, in

the name of everything hideous, did this mean? Could I believe my

eyes?—could I?—that was the question. Was that—was that—was that

rouge? And were those—and were those—were those wrinkles, upon

the visage of Eugénie Lalande? And oh! Jupiter, and every one of

the gods and goddesses, little and big!—what—what—what—_what_ had

become of her teeth? I dashed the spectacles violently to the

ground, and, leaping to my feet, stood erect in the middle of the

floor, confronting Mrs. Simpson, with my arms set a-kimbo, and

grinning and foaming, but, at the same time, utterly speechless

with terror and with rage.

Now I have already said that Madame Eugénie Lalande—that is to

say, Simpson—spoke the English language but very little better

than she wrote it, and for this reason she very properly never

attempted to speak it upon ordinary occasions. But rage will

carry a lady to any extreme; and in the present care it carried

Mrs. Simpson to the very extraordinary extreme of attempting to

hold a conversation in a tongue that she did not altogether

understand.

“Vell, Monsieur,” said she, after surveying me, in great apparent

astonishment, for some moments—“Vell, Monsieur?—and vat den?—vat

de matter now? Is it de dance of de Saint itusse dat you ave? If

not like me, vat for vy buy de pig in the poke?”

“You wretch!” said I, catching my breath—“you—you—you villainous

old hag!”

“Ag?—ole?—me not so ver ole, after all! Me not one single day

more dan de eighty-doo.”

“Eighty-two!” I ejaculated, staggering to the wall—“eighty-two

hundred thousand baboons! The miniature said twenty-seven years

and seven months!”

“To be sure!—dat is so!—ver true! but den de portraite has been

take for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go marry my segonde usbande,

Monsieur Lalande, at dat time I had de portraite take for my

daughter by my first usbande, Monsieur Moissart!”

“Moissart!” said I.

“Yes, Moissart,” said she, mimicking my pronunciation, which, to

speak the truth, was none of the best,—“and vat den? Vat you know

about de Moissart?”

“Nothing, you old fright!—I know nothing about him at all; only I

had an ancestor of that name, once upon a time.”

“Dat name! and vat you ave for say to dat name? ’Tis ver _goot_

name; and so is Voissart—dat is ver goot name too. My daughter,

Mademoiselle Moissart, she marry von Monsieur Voissart,—and de

name is bot _ver_ respectable name.”

“Moissart?” I exclaimed, “and Voissart! Why, what is it you

mean?”

“Vat I mean?—I mean Moissart and Voissart; and for de matter of

dat, I mean Croissart and Froissart, too, if I only tink proper

to mean it. My daughter’s daughter, Mademoiselle Voissart, she

marry von Monsieur Croissart, and den again, my daughter’s grande

daughter, Mademoiselle Croissart, she marry von Monsieur

Froissart; and I suppose you say dat _dat_ is not von _ver_

respectaable name.”

“Froissart!” said I, beginning to faint, “why, surely you don’t

say Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart?”

“Yes,” she replied, leaning fully back in her chair, and

stretching out her lower limbs at great length; “yes, Moissart,

and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart. But Monsieur

Froissart, he vas von _ver_ big vat you call fool—he vas von ver

great big donce like yourself—for he lef _la belle France_ for

come to dis stupide Amérique—and ven he get here he went and ave

von _ver_ stupid, von _ver, ver_ stupide sonn, so I hear, dough I

not yet av ad de plaisir to meet vid him—neither me nor my

companion, de Madame Stéphanie Lalande. He is name de Napoleon

Bonaparte Froissart, and I suppose you say dat _dat_, too, is not

von ver respectable name.”

Either the length or the nature of this speech, had the effect of

working up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraordinary passion indeed;

and as she made an end of it, with great labor, she jumped up

from her chair like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the floor

an entire universe of bustle as she jumped. Once upon her feet,

she gnashed her gums, brandished her arms, rolled up her sleeves,

shook her fist in my face, and concluded the performance by

tearing the cap from her head, and with it an immense wig of the

most valuable and beautiful black hair, the whole of which she

dashed upon the ground with a yell, and there trammpled and

danced a fandango upon it, in an absolute ecstasy and agony of

rage.

Meantime I sank aghast into the chair which she had vacated.

“Moissart and Voissart!” I repeated, thoughtfully, as she cut one

of her pigeon-wings, and “Croissart and Froissart!” as she

completed another—“Moissart and Voissart and Croissart and

Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart!—why, you ineffable old serpent,

that’s me—that’s me—d’ye hear? that’s me”—here I screamed at the

top of my voice—“that’s me-e-e! I am Napoleon Bonaparte

Froissart! and if I havn’t married my great, great, grandmother,

I wish I may be everlastingly confounded!”

Madame Eugénie Lalande, _quasi_ Simpson—formerly Moissart—was, in

sober fact, my great, great, grandmother. In her youth she had

been beautiful, and even at eighty-two, retained the majestic

height, the sculptural contour of head, the fine eyes and the

Grecian nose of her girlhood. By the aid of these, of

pearl-powder, of rouge, of false hair, false teeth, and false

tournure, as well as of the most skilful modistes of Paris, she

contrived to hold a respectable footing among the beauties _en

peu passées_ of the French metropolis. In this respect, indeed,

she might have been regarded as little less than the equal of the

celebrated Ninon De L’Enclos.

She was immensely wealthy, and being left, for the second time, a

widow without children, she bethought herself of my existence in

America, and for the purpose of making me her heir, paid a visit

to the United States, in company with a distant and exceedingly

lovely relative of her second husband’s—a Madame Stéphanie

Lalande.

At the opera, my great, great, grandmother’s attention was

arrested by my notice; and, upon surveying me through her

eye-glass, she was struck with a certain family resemblance to

herself. Thus interested, and knowing that the heir she sought

was actually in the city, she made inquiries of her party

respecting me. The gentleman who attended her knew my person, and

told her who I was. The information thus obtained induced her to

renew her scrutiny; and this scrutiny it was which so emboldened

me that I behaved in the absurd manner already detailed. She

returned my bow, however, under the impression that, by some odd

accident, I had discovered her identity. When, deceived by my

weakness of vision, and the arts of the toilet, in respect to the

age and charms of the strange lady, I demanded so

enthusiastically of Talbot who she was, he concluded that I meant

the younger beauty, as a matter of course, and so informed me,

with perfect truth, that she was “the celebrated widow, Madame

Lalande.”

In the street, next morning, my great, great, grandmother

encountered Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance; and the

conversation, very naturally turned upon myself. My deficiencies

of vision were then explained; for these were notorious, although

I was entirely ignorant of their notoriety, and my good old

relative discovered, much to her chagrin, that she had been

deceived in supposing me aware of her identity, and that I had

been merely making a fool of myself in making open love, in a

theatre, to an old woman unknown. By way of punishing me for this

imprudence, she concocted with Talbot a plot. He purposely kept

out of my way to avoid giving me the introduction. My street

inquiries about “the lovely widow, Madame Lalande,” were supposed

to refer to the younger lady, of course, and thus the

conversation with the three gentlemen whom I encountered shortly

after leaving Talbot’s hotel will be easily explained, as also

their allusion to Ninon De L’Enclos. I had no opportunity of

seeing Madame Lalande closely during daylight; and, at her

musical _soirée_, my silly weakness in refusing the aid of

glasses effectually prevented me from making a discovery of her

age. When “Madame Lalande” was called upon to sing, the younger

lady was intended; and it was she who arose to obey the call; my

great, great, grandmother, to further the deception, arising at

the same moment and accompanying her to the piano in the main

drawing-room. Had I decided upon escorting her thither, it had

been her design to suggest the propriety of my remaining where I

was; but my own prudential views rendered this unnecessary. The

songs which I so much admired, and which so confirmed my

impression of the youth of my mistress, were executed by Madame

Stéphanie Lalande. The eyeglass was presented by way of adding a

reproof to the hoax—a sting to the epigram of the deception. Its

presentation afforded an opportunity for the lecture upon

affectation with which I was so especially edified. It is almost

superfluous to add that the glasses of the instrument, as worn by

the old lady, had been exchanged by her for a pair better adapted

to my years. They suited me, in fact, to a T.

The clergyman, who merely pretended to tie the fatal knot, was a

boon companion of Talbot’s, and no priest. He was an excellent

“whip,” however; and having doffed his cassock to put on a

great-coat, he drove the hack which conveyed the “happy couple”

out of town. Talbot took a seat at his side. The two scoundrels

were thus “in at the death,” and through a half-open window of

the back parlor of the inn, amused themselves in grinning at the

_dénouement_ of the drama. I believe I shall be forced to call

them both out.

Nevertheless, I am _not_ the husband of my great, great,

grandmother; and this is a reflection which affords me infinite

relief;—but I _am_ the husband of Madame Lalande—of Madame

Stéphanie Lalande—with whom my good old relative, besides making

me her sole heir when she dies—if she ever does—has been at the

trouble of concocting me a match. In conclusion: I am done

forever with _billets doux_, and am never to be met without

SPECTACLES.

KING PEST

A Tale Containing an Allegory.

The gods do bear and will allow in kings

The things which they abhor in rascal routes.

—_Buckhurst’s Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex._

About twelve o’clock, one night in the month of October, and

during the chivalrous reign of the third Edward, two seamen

belonging to the crew of the _>Free and Easy_, a trading schooner

plying between Sluys and the Thames, and then at anchor in that

river, were much astonished to find themselves seated in the

tap-room of an ale-house in the parish of St. Andrews,

London—which ale-house bore for sign the portraiture of a “Jolly

Tar.”

The room, although ill-contrived, smoke-blackened, low-pitched,

and in every other respect agreeing with the general character of

such places at the period—was, nevertheless, in the opinion of

the grotesque groups scattered here and there within it,

sufficiently well adapted to its purpose.

Of these groups our two seamen formed, I think, the most

interesting, if not the most conspicuous.

The one who appeared to be the elder, and whom his companion

addressed by the characteristic appellation of “Legs,” was at the

same time much the taller of the two. He might have measured six

feet and a half, and an habitual stoop in the shoulders seemed to

have been the necessary consequence of an altitude so enormous.

Superfluities in height were, however, more than accounted for by

deficiencies in other respects. He was exceedingly thin; and

might, as his associates asserted, have answered, when drunk, for

a pennant at the mast-head, or, when sober, have served for a

jib-boom. But these jests, and others of a similar nature, had

evidently produced, at no time, any effect upon the cachinnatory

muscles of the tar. With high cheek-bones, a large hawk-nose,

retreating chin, fallen under-jaw, and huge protruding white

eyes, the expression of his countenance, although tinged with a

species of dogged indifference to matters and things in general,

was not the less utterly solemn and serious beyond all attempts

at imitation or description.

The younger seaman was, in all outward appearance, the converse

of his companion. His stature could not have exceeded four feet.

A pair of stumpy bow-legs supported his squat, unwieldy figure,

while his unusually short and thick arms, with no ordinary fists

at their extremities, swung off dangling from his sides like the

fins of a sea-turtle. Small eyes, of no particular color,

twinkled far back in his head. His nose remained buried in the

mass of flesh which enveloped his round, full, and purple face;

and his thick upper-lip rested upon the still thicker one beneath

with an air of complacent self-satisfaction, much heightened by

the owner’s habit of licking them at intervals. He evidently

regarded his tall shipmate with a feeling half-wondrous,

half-quizzical; and stared up occasionally in his face as the red

setting sun stares up at the crags of Ben Nevis.

Various and eventful, however, had been the peregrinations of the

worthy couple in and about the different tap-houses of the

neighbourhood during the earlier hours of the night. Funds even

the most ample, are not always everlasting: and it was with empty

pockets our friends had ventured upon the present hostelrie.

At the precise period, then, when this history properly

commences, Legs, and his fellow Hugh Tarpaulin, sat, each with

both elbows resting upon the large oaken table in the middle of

the floor, and with a hand upon either cheek. They were eyeing,

from behind a huge flagon of unpaid-for “humming-stuff,” the

portentous words, “No Chalk,” which to their indignation and

astonishment were scored over the doorway by means of that very

mineral whose presence they purported to deny. Not that the gift

of decyphering written characters—a gift among the commonalty of

that day considered little less cabalistical than the art of

inditing—could, in strict justice, have been laid to the charge

of either disciple of the sea; but there was, to say the truth, a

certain twist in the formation of the letters—an indescribable

lee-lurch about the whole—which foreboded, in the opinion of both

seamen, a long run of dirty weather; and determined them at once,

in the allegorical words of Legs himself, to “pump ship, clew up

all sail, and scud before the wind.”

Having accordingly disposed of what remained of the ale, and

looped up the points of their short doublets, they finally made a

bolt for the street. Although Tarpaulin rolled twice into the

fire-place, mistaking it for the door, yet their escape was at

length happily effected—and half after twelve o’clock found our

heroes ripe for mischief, and running for life down a dark alley

in the direction of St. Andrew’s Stair, hotly pursued by the

landlady of the “Jolly Tar.”

At the epoch of this eventful tale, and periodically, for many

years before and after, all England, but more especially the

metropolis, resounded with the fearful cry of “Plague!” The city

was in a great measure depopulated—and in those horrible regions,

in the vicinity of the Thames, where amid the dark, narrow, and

filthy lanes and alleys, the Demon of Disease was supposed to

have had his nativity, Awe, Terror, and Superstition were alone

to be found stalking abroad.

By authority of the king such districts were placed under ban,

and all persons forbidden, under pain of death, to intrude upon

their dismal solitude. Yet neither the mandate of the monarch,

nor the huge barriers erected at the entrances of the streets,

nor the prospect of that loathsome death which, with almost

absolute certainty, overwhelmed the wretch whom no peril could

deter from the adventure, prevented the unfurnished and

untenanted dwellings from being stripped, by the hand of nightly

rapine, of every article, such as iron, brass, or lead-work,

which could in any manner be turned to a profitable account.

Above all, it was usually found, upon the annual winter opening

of the barriers, that locks, bolts, and secret cellars, had

proved but slender protection to those rich stores of wines and

liquors which, in consideration of the risk and trouble of

removal, many of the numerous dealers having shops in the

neighbourhood had consented to trust, during the period of exile,

to so insufficient a security.

But there were very few of the terror-stricken people who

attributed these doings to the agency of human hands.

Pest-spirits, plague-goblins, and fever-demons, were the popular

imps of mischief; and tales so blood-chilling were hourly told,

that the whole mass of forbidden buildings was, at length,

enveloped in terror as in a shroud, and the plunderer himself was

often scared away by the horrors his own depreciations had

created; leaving the entire vast circuit of prohibited district

to gloom, silence, pestilence, and death.

It was by one of the terrific barriers already mentioned, and

which indicated the region beyond to be under the Pest-ban, that,

in scrambling down an alley, Legs and the worthy Hugh Tarpaulin

found their progress suddenly impeded. To return was out of the

question, and no time was to be lost, as their pursuers were

close upon their heels. With thorough-bred seamen to clamber up

the roughly fashioned plank-work was a trifle; and, maddened with

the twofold excitement of exercise and liquor, they leaped

unhesitatingly down within the enclosure, and holding on their

drunken course with shouts and yellings, were soon bewildered in

its noisome and intricate recesses.

Had they not, indeed, been intoxicated beyond moral sense, their

reeling footsteps must have been palsied by the horrors of their

situation. The air was cold and misty. The paving-stones,

loosened from their beds, lay in wild disorder amid the tall,

rank grass, which sprang up around the feet and ankles. Fallen

houses choked up the streets. The most fetid and poisonous smells

everywhere prevailed;—and by the aid of that ghastly light which,

even at midnight, never fails to emanate from a vapory and

pestilential atmosphere, might be discerned lying in the by-paths

and alleys, or rotting in the windowless habitations, the carcass

of many a nocturnal plunderer arrested by the hand of the plague

in the very perpetration of his robbery.

But it lay not in the power of images, or sensations, or

impediments such as these, to stay the course of men who,

naturally brave, and at that time especially, brimful of courage

and of “humming-stuff,” would have reeled, as straight as their

condition might have permitted, undauntedly into the very jaws of

Death. Onward—still onward stalked the grim Legs, making the

desolate solemnity echo and re-echo with yells like the terrific

war-whoop of the Indian; and onward, still onward rolled the

dumpy Tarpaulin, hanging on to the doublet of his more active

companion, and far surpassing the latter’s most strenuous

exertions in the way of vocal music, by bull-roarings _in basso_,

from the profundity of his stentorian lungs.

They had now evidently reached the strong hold of the pestilence.

Their way at every step or plunge grew more noisome and more

horrible—the paths more narrow and more intricate. Huge stones

and beams falling momently from the decaying roofs above them,

gave evidence, by their sullen and heavy descent, of the vast

height of the surrounding houses; and while actual exertion

became necessary to force a passage through frequent heaps of

rubbish, it was by no means seldom that the hand fell upon a

skeleton or rested upon a more fleshly corpse.

Suddenly, as the seamen stumbled against the entrance of a tall

and ghastly-looking building, a yell more than usually shrill

from the throat of the excited Legs, was replied to from within,

in a rapid succession of wild, laughter-like, and fiendish

shrieks. Nothing daunted at sounds which, of such a nature, at

such a time, and in such a place, might have curdled the very

blood in hearts less irrevocably on fire, the drunken couple

rushed headlong against the door, burst it open, and staggered

into the midst of things with a volley of curses.

The room within which they found themselves proved to be the shop

of an undertaker; but an open trap-door, in a corner of the floor

near the entrance, looked down upon a long range of wine-cellars,

whose depths the occasional sound of bursting bottles proclaimed

to be well stored with their appropriate contents. In the middle

of the room stood a table—in the centre of which again arose a

huge tub of what appeared to be punch. Bottles of various wines

and cordials, together with jugs, pitchers, and flagons of every

shape and quality, were scattered profusely upon the board.

Around it, upon coffin-tressels, was seated a company of six.

This company I will endeavor to delineate one by one.

Fronting the entrance, and elevated a little above his

companions, sat a personage who appeared to be the president of

the table. His stature was gaunt and tall, and Legs was

confounded to behold in him a figure more emaciated than himself.

His face was as yellow as saffron—but no feature excepting one

alone, was sufficiently marked to merit a particular description.

This one consisted in a forehead so unusually and hideously

lofty, as to have the appearance of a bonnet or crown of flesh

superadded upon the natural head. His mouth was puckered and

dimpled into an expression of ghastly affability, and his eyes,

as indeed the eyes of all at table, were glazed over with the

fumes of intoxication. This gentleman was clothed from head to

foot in a richly-embroidered black silk-velvet pall, wrapped

negligently around his form after the fashion of a Spanish cloak.

His head was stuck full of sable hearse-plumes, which he nodded

to and fro with a jaunty and knowing air; and, in his right hand,

he held a huge human thigh-bone, with which he appeared to have

been just knocking down some member of the company for a song.

Opposite him, and with her back to the door, was a lady of no

whit the less extraordinary character. Although quite as tall as

the person just described, she had no right to complain of his

unnatural emaciation. She was evidently in the last stage of a

dropsy; and her figure resembled nearly that of the huge puncheon

of October beer which stood, with the head driven in, close by

her side, in a corner of the chamber. Her face was exceedingly

round, red, and full; and the same peculiarity, or rather want of

peculiarity, attached itself to her countenance, which I before

mentioned in the case of the president—that is to say, only one

feature of her face was sufficiently distinguished to need a

separate characterization: indeed the acute Tarpaulin immediately

observed that the same remark might have applied to each

individual person of the party; every one of whom seemed to

possess a monopoly of some particular portion of physiognomy.

With the lady in question this portion proved to be the mouth.

Commencing at the right ear, it swept with a terrific chasm to

the left—the short pendants which she wore in either auricle

continually bobbing into the aperture. She made, however, every

exertion to keep her mouth closed and look dignified, in a dress

consisting of a newly starched and ironed shroud coming up close

under her chin, with a crimpled ruffle of cambric muslin.

At her right hand sat a diminutive young lady whom she appeared

to patronise. This delicate little creature, in the trembling of

her wasted fingers, in the livid hue of her lips, and in the

slight hectic spot which tinged her otherwise leaden complexion,

gave evident indications of a galloping consumption. An air of

extreme _haut ton_, however, pervaded her whole appearance; she

wore in a graceful and _dégagé_ manner, a large and beautiful

winding-sheet of the finest India lawn; her hair hung in ringlets

over her neck; a soft smile played about her mouth; but her nose,

extremely long, thin, sinuous, flexible and pimpled, hung down

far below her under lip, and in spite of the delicate manner in

which she now and then moved it to one side or the other with her

tongue, gave to her countenance a somewhat equivocal expression.

Over against her, and upon the left of the dropsical lady, was

seated a little puffy, wheezing, and gouty old man, whose cheeks

reposed upon the shoulders of their owner, like two huge bladders

of Oporto wine. With his arms folded, and with one bandaged leg

deposited upon the table, he seemed to think himself entitled to

some consideration. He evidently prided himself much upon every

inch of his personal appearance, but took more especial delight

in calling attention to his gaudy-colored surtout. This, to say

the truth, must have cost him no little money, and was made to

fit him exceedingly well—being fashioned from one of the

curiously embroidered silken covers appertaining to those

glorious escutcheons which, in England and elsewhere, are

customarily hung up, in some conspicuous place, upon the

dwellings of departed aristocracy.

Next to him, and at the right hand of the president, was a

gentleman in long white hose and cotton drawers. His frame shook,

in a ridiculous manner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin called “the

horrors.” His jaws, which had been newly shaved, were tightly

tied up by a bandage of muslin; and his arms being fastened in a

similar way at the wrists, prevented him from helping himself too

freely to the liquors upon the table; a precaution rendered

necessary, in the opinion of Legs, by the peculiarly sottish and

wine-bibbing cast of his visage. A pair of prodigious ears,

nevertheless, which it was no doubt found impossible to confine,

towered away into the atmosphere of the apartment, and were

occasionally pricked up in a spasm, at the sound of the drawing

of a cork.

Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was situated a singularly

stiff-looking personage, who, being afflicted with paralysis,

must, to speak seriously, have felt very ill at ease in his

unaccommodating habiliments. He was habited, somewhat uniquely,

in a new and handsome mahogany coffin. Its top or head-piece

pressed upon the skull of the wearer, and extended over it in the

fashion of a hood, giving to the entire face an air of

indescribable interest. Arm-holes had been cut in the sides, for

the sake not more of elegance than of convenience; but the dress,

nevertheless, prevented its proprietor from sitting as erect as

his associates; and as he lay reclining against his tressel, at

an angle of forty-five degrees, a pair of huge goggle eyes rolled

up their awful whites towards the ceiling in absolute amazement

at their own enormity.

Before each of the party lay a portion of a skull, which was used

as a drinking cup. Overhead was suspended a human skeleton, by

means of a rope tied round one of the legs and fastened to a ring

in the ceiling. The other limb, confined by no such fetter, stuck

off from the body at right angles, causing the whole loose and

rattling frame to dangle and twirl about at the caprice of every

occasional puff of wind which found its way into the apartment.

In the cranium of this hideous thing lay quantity of ignited

charcoal, which threw a fitful but vivid light over the entire

scene; while coffins, and other wares appertaining to the shop of

an undertaker, were piled high up around the room, and against

the windows, preventing any ray from escaping into the street.

At sight of this extraordinary assembly, and of their still more

extraordinary paraphernalia, our two seamen did not conduct

themselves with that degree of decorum which might have been

expected. Legs, leaning against the wall near which he happened

to be standing, dropped his lower jaw still lower than usual, and

spread open his eyes to their fullest extent: while Hugh

Tarpaulin, stooping down so as to bring his nose upon a level

with the table, and spreading out a palm upon either knee, burst

into a long, loud, and obstreperous roar of very ill-timed and

immoderate laughter.

Without, however, taking offence at behaviour so excessively

rude, the tall president smiled very graciously upon the

intruders—nodded to them in a dignified manner with his head of

sable plumes—and, arising, took each by an arm, and led him to a

seat which some others of the company had placed in the meantime

for his accommodation. Legs to all this offered not the slightest

resistance, but sat down as he was directed; while the gallant

Hugh, removing his coffin tressel from its station near the head

of the table, to the vicinity of the little consumptive lady in

the winding sheet, plumped down by her side in high glee, and

pouring out a skull of red wine, quaffed it to their better

acquaintance. But at this presumption the stiff gentleman in the

coffin seemed exceedingly nettled; and serious consequences might

have ensued, had not the president, rapping upon the table with

his truncheon, diverted the attention of all present to the

following speech:

“It becomes our duty upon the present happy occasion—”

“Avast there!” interrupted Legs, looking very serious, “avast

there a bit, I say, and tell us who the devil ye all are, and

what business ye have here, rigged off like the foul fiends, and

swilling the snug blue ruin stowed away for the winter by my

honest shipmate, Will Wimble, the undertaker!”

At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original

company half started to their feet, and uttered the same rapid

succession of wild fiendish shrieks which had before caught the

attention of the seamen. The president, however, was the first to

recover his composure, and at length, turning to Legs with great

dignity, recommenced:

“Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the

part of guests so illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know then

that in these dominions I am monarch, and here rule with

undivided empire under the title of ‘King Pest the First.’

“This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the

shop of Will Wimble the undertaker—a man whom we know not, and

whose plebeian appellation has never before this night thwarted

our royal ears—this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our

Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to other

sacred and lofty purposes.

“The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, our Serene

Consort. The other exalted personages whom you behold are all of

our family, and wear the insignia of the blood royal under the

respective titles of ‘His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-Iferous’—‘His

Grace the Duke Pest-Ilential’—‘His Grace the Duke Tem-Pest’—and

‘Her Serene Highness the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.’

“As regards,” continued he, “your demand of the business upon

which we sit here in council, we might be pardoned for replying

that it concerns, and concerns alone, our own private and regal

interest, and is in no manner important to any other than

ourself. But in consideration of those rights to which as guests

and strangers you may feel yourselves entitled, we will

furthermore explain that we are here this night, prepared by deep

research and accurate investigation, to examine, analyze, and

thoroughly determine the indefinable spirit—the incomprehensible

qualities and nature—of those inestimable treasures of the

palate, the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly metropolis:

by so doing to advance not more our own designs than the true

welfare of that unearthly sovereign whose reign is over us all,

whose dominions are unlimited, and whose name is ‘Death’.”

“Whose name is Davy Jones!” ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping the

lady by his side to a skull of liqueur, and pouring out a second

for himself.

“Profane varlet!” said the president, now turning his attention

to the worthy Hugh, “profane and execrable wretch!—we have said,

that in consideration of those rights which, even in thy filthy

person, we feel no inclination to violate, we have condescended

to make reply to thy rude and unseasonable inquiries. We

nevertheless, for your unhallowed intrusion upon our councils,

believe it our duty to mulct thee and thy companion in each a

gallon of Black Strap—having imbibed which to the prosperity of

our kingdom—at a single draught—and upon your bended knees—ye

shall be forthwith free either to proceed upon your way, or

remain and be admitted to the privileges of our table, according

to your respective and individual pleasures.”

“It would be a matter of utter impossibility,” replied Legs, whom

the assumptions and dignity of King Pest the First had evidently

inspired some feelings of respect, and who arose and steadied

himself by the table as he spoke—“it would, please your majesty,

be a matter of utter impossibility to stow away in my hold even

one-fourth part of the same liquor which your majesty has just

mentioned. To say nothing of the stuffs placed on board in the

forenoon by way of ballast, and not to mention the various ales

and liqueurs shipped this evening at different sea-ports, I have,

at present, a full cargo of ‘humming-stuff’ taken in and duly

paid for at the sign of the ‘Jolly Tar.’ You will, therefore,

please your majesty, be so good as to take the will for the

deed—for by no manner of means either can I or will I swallow

another drop—least of all a drop of that villainous bilge-water

that answers to the name of ‘Black Strap.’”

“Belay that!” interrupted Tarpaulin, astonished not more at the

length of his companion’s speech than at the nature of his

refusal—“Belay that you lubber!—and I say, Legs, none of your

palaver! _My_ hull is still light, although I confess you

yourself seem to be a little top-heavy; and as for the matter of

your share of the cargo, why rather than raise a squall I would

find stowage-room for it myself, but—”

“This proceeding,” interposed the president, “is by no means in

accordance with the terms of the mulct or sentence, which is in

its nature Median, and not to be altered or recalled. The

conditions we have imposed must be fulfilled to the letter, and

that without a moment’s hesitation—in failure of which fulfilment

we decree that you do here be tied neck and heels together, and

duly drowned as rebels in yon hogshead of October beer!”

“A sentence!—a sentence!—a righteous and just sentence!—a

glorious decree!—a most worthy and upright, and holy

condemnation!” shouted the Pest family altogether. The king

elevated his forehead into innumerable wrinkles; the gouty little

old man puffed like a pair of bellows; the lady of the winding

sheet waved her nose to and fro; the gentleman in the cotton

drawers pricked up his ears; she of the shroud gasped like a

dying fish; and he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled up his

eyes.

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” chuckled Tarpaulin without heeding the general

excitation, “ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—I was

saying,” said he, “I was saying when Mr. King Pest poked in his

marlin-spike, that as for the matter of two or three gallons more

or less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to a tight sea-boat like

myself not overstowed—but when it comes to drinking the health of

the Devil (whom God assoilzie) and going down upon my marrow

bones to his ill-favored majesty there, whom I know, as well as I

know myself to be a sinner, to be nobody in the whole world, but

Tim Hurlygurly the stage-player!—why! it’s quite another guess

sort of a thing, and utterly and altogether past my

comprehension.”

He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At the

name Tim Hurlygurly the whole assembly leaped from their name

seats.

“Treason!” shouted his Majesty King Pest the First.

“Treason!” said the little man with the gout.

“Treason!” screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.

“Treason!” muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up.

“Treason!” growled he of the coffin.

“Treason! treason!” shrieked her majesty of the mouth; and,

seizing by the hinder part of his breeches the unfortunate

Tarpaulin, who had just commenced pouring out for himself a skull

of liqueur, she lifted him high into the air, and let him fall

without ceremony into the huge open puncheon of his beloved ale.

Bobbing up and down, for a few seconds, like an apple in a bowl

of toddy, he, at length, finally disappeared amid the whirlpool

of foam which, in the already effervescent liquor, his struggles

easily succeeded in creating.

Not tamely, however, did the tall seaman behold the discomfiture

of his companion. Jostling King Pest through the open trap, the

valiant Legs slammed the door down upon him with an oath, and

strode towards the centre of the room. Here tearing down the

skeleton which swung over the table, he laid it about him with so

much energy and good will, that, as the last glimpses of light

died away within the apartment, he succeeded in knocking out the

brains of the little gentleman with the gout. Rushing then with

all his force against the fatal hogshead full of October ale and

Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over and over in an instant. Out

burst a deluge of liquor so fierce—so impetuous—so

overwhelming—that the room was flooded from wall to wall—the

loaded table was overturned—the tressels were thrown upon their

backs—the tub of punch into the fire-place—and the ladies into

hysterics. Piles of death-furniture floundered about. Jugs,

pitchers, and carboys mingled promiscuously in the _mêlée_, and

wicker flagons encountered desperately with bottles of junk. The

man with the horrors was drowned upon the spot—the little stiff

gentleman floated off in his coffin—and the victorious Legs,

seizing by the waist the fat lady in the shroud, rushed out with

her into the street, and made a bee-line for the _Free and Easy_,

followed under easy sail by the redoubtable Hugh Tarpaulin, who,

having sneezed three or four times, panted and puffed after him

with the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.

THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK

“You hard-headed, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty,

fusty, old savage!” said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my grand

uncle Rumgudgeon—shaking my fist at him in imagination.

Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy _did_

exist, just then, between what I said and what I had not the

courage to say—between what I did and what I had half a mind to

do.

The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sitting

with his feet upon the mantel-piece, and a bumper of port in his

paw, making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty.

Remplis ton verre vide!

Vide ton verre plein!

“My _dear_ uncle,” said I, closing the door gently, and

approaching him with the blandest of smiles, “you are always so

very kind and considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in

so many—so very many ways—that—that I feel I have only to suggest

this little point to you once more to make sure of your full

acquiescence.”

“Hem!” said he, “good boy! go on!”

“I am sure, my dearest uncle (you confounded old rascal!), that

you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with

Kate. This is merely a joke of yours, I know—ha! ha! ha!—how very

pleasant you are at times.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! yes!”

“To be sure—of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, uncle, all

that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would oblige us

with your advice as—as regards the time—you know, uncle—in short,

when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding

shall—shall—come off, you know?”

“Come off, you scoundrel!—what do you mean by that?—Better wait

till it goes on.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—oh,

that’s good!—oh, that’s capital—_such_ a wit! But all we want

just _now_, you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time

precisely.”

“Ah!—precisely?”

“Yes, uncle—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself.”

“Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random—some

time within a year or so, for example?—_must_ I say precisely?”

“_If_ you please, uncle—precisely.”

“Well, then, Bobby, my boy—you’re a fine fellow, aren’t

you?—since you _will_ have the exact time I’ll—why I’ll oblige

you for once.”

“Dear uncle!”

“Hush, sir!” (drowning my voice)—“I’ll oblige you for once. You

shall have my consent—and the _plum_, we mus’n’t forget the

plum—let me see! when shall it be? To-day’s Sunday—isn’t it?

Well, then, you shall be married precisely—_precisely_, now

mind!—_when three Sundays come together in a week!_ Do you hear

me, sir! _What_ are you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and

her plum when three Sundays come together in a week—but not

_till_ then—you young scapegrace—not _till_ then, if I die for

it. You know me—_I’m a man of my word_—now be off!” Here he

swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in

despair.

A very “fine old English gentleman,” was my grand-uncle

Rumgudgeon, but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points.

He was a little, pursy, pompous, passionate semicircular

somebody, with a red nose, a thick skull, a long purse, and a

strong sense of his own consequence. With the best heart in the

world, he contrived, through a predominant whim of contradiction,

to earn for himself, among those who only knew him superficially,

the character of a curmudgeon. Like many excellent people, he

seemed possessed with a spirit of tantalization, which might

easily, at a casual glance, have been mistaken for malevolence.

To every request, a positive “No!” was his immediate answer; but

in the end—in the long, long end—there were exceedingly few

requests which he refused. Against all attacks upon his purse he

made the most sturdy defence; but the amount extorted from him,

at last, was generally in direct ratio with the length of the

siege and the stubbornness of the resistance. In charity no one

gave more liberally or with a worse grace.

For the fine arts, and especially for the belles-lettres, he

entertained a profound contempt. With this he had been inspired

by Casimir Perier, whose pert little query “A quoi un poete est

il bon?” he was in the habit of quoting, with a very droll

pronunciation, as the ne plus ultra of logical wit. Thus my own

inkling for the Muses had excited his entire displeasure. He

assured me one day, when I asked him for a new copy of Horace,

that the translation of “Poeta nascitur non fit” was “a nasty

poet for nothing fit”—a remark which I took in high dudgeon. His

repugnance to “the humanities” had, also, much increased of late,

by an accidental bias in favor of what he supposed to be natural

science. Somebody had accosted him in the street, mistaking him

for no less a personage than Doctor Dubble L. Dee, the lecturer

upon quack physics. This set him off at a tangent; and just at

the epoch of this story—for story it is getting to be after

all—my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon was accessible and pacific only

upon points which happened to chime in with the caprioles of the

hobby he was riding. For the rest, he laughed with his arms and

legs, and his politics were stubborn and easily understood. He

thought, with Horsley, that “the people have nothing to do with

the laws but to obey them.”

I had lived with the old gentleman all my life. My parents, in

dying, had bequeathed me to him as a rich legacy. I believe the

old villain loved me as his own child—nearly if not quite as well

as he loved Kate—but it was a dog’s existence that he led me,

after all. From my first year until my fifth, he obliged me with

very regular floggings. From five to fifteen, he threatened me,

hourly, with the House of Correction. From fifteen to twenty, not

a day passed in which he did not promise to cut me off with a

shilling. I was a sad dog, it is true—but then it was a part of

my nature—a point of my faith. In Kate, however, I had a firm

friend, and I knew it. She was a good girl, and told me very

sweetly that I might have her (plum and all) whenever I could

badger my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon, into the necessary consent.

Poor girl!—she was barely fifteen, and without this consent, her

little amount in the funds was not come-at-able until five

immeasurable summers had “dragged their slow length along.” What,

then, to do? At fifteen, or even at twenty-one (for I had now

passed my fifth olympiad) five years in prospect are very much

the same as five hundred. In vain we besieged the old gentleman

with importunities. Here was a piece de resistance (as Messieurs

Ude and Careme would say) which suited his perverse fancy to a T.

It would have stiffed the indignation of Job himself, to see how

much like an old mouser he behaved to us two poor wretched little

mice. In his heart he wished for nothing more ardently than our

union. He had made up his mind to this all along. In fact, he

would have given ten thousand pounds from his own pocket (Kate’s

plum was her own) if he could have invented any thing like an

excuse for complying with our very natural wishes. But then we

had been so imprudent as to broach the subject ourselves. Not to

oppose it under such circumstances, I sincerely believe, was not

in his power.

I have said already that he had his weak points; but in speaking

of these, I must not be understood as referring to his obstinacy:

which was one of his strong points—“assurement ce n’ etait pas sa

foible.” When I mention his weakness I have allusion to a bizarre

old-womanish superstition which beset him. He was great in

dreams, portents, et id genus omne of rigmarole. He was

excessively punctilious, too, upon small points of honor, and,

after his own fashion, was a man of his word, beyond doubt. This

was, in fact, one of his hobbies. The spirit of his vows he made

no scruple of setting at naught, but the letter was a bond

inviolable. Now it was this latter peculiarity in his

disposition, of which Kate’s ingenuity enabled us one fine day,

not long after our interview in the dining-room, to take a very

unexpected advantage, and, having thus, in the fashion of all

modern bards and orators, exhausted in prolegomena, all the time

at my command, and nearly all the room at my disposal, I will sum

up in a few words what constitutes the whole pith of the story.

It happened then—so the Fates ordered it—that among the naval

acquaintances of my betrothed, were two gentlemen who had just

set foot upon the shores of England, after a year’s absence,

each, in foreign travel. In company with these gentlemen, my

cousin and I, preconcertedly paid uncle Rumgudgeon a visit on the

afternoon of Sunday, October the tenth,—just three weeks after

the memorable decision which had so cruelly defeated our hopes.

For about half an hour the conversation ran upon ordinary topics,

but at last, we contrived, quite naturally, to give it the

following turn:

CAPT. PRATT. “Well I have been absent just one year.—Just one

year to-day, as I live—let me see! yes!—this is October the

tenth. You remember, Mr. Rumgudgeon, I called, this day year to

bid you good-bye. And by the way, it does seem something like a

coincidence, does it not—that our friend, Captain Smitherton,

here, has been absent exactly a year also—a year to-day!”

SMITHERTON. “Yes! just one year to a fraction. You will remember,

Mr. Rumgudgeon, that I called with Capt. Pratol on this very day,

last year, to pay my parting respects.”

UNCLE. “Yes, yes, yes—I remember it very well—very queer indeed!

Both of you gone just one year. A very strange coincidence,

indeed! Just what Doctor Dubble L. Dee would denominate an

extraordinary concurrence of events. Doctor Dub—”

KATE. (Interrupting.) “To be sure, papa, it is something strange;

but then Captain Pratt and Captain Smitherton didn’t go

altogether the same route, and that makes a difference, you

know.”

UNCLE. “I don’t know any such thing, you huzzy! How should I? I

think it only makes the matter more remarkable, Doctor Dubble L.

Dee—”

KATE. “Why, papa, Captain Pratt went round Cape Horn, and Captain

Smitherton doubled the Cape of Good Hope.”

UNCLE. “Precisely!—the one went east and the other went west, you

jade, and they both have gone quite round the world. By the by,

Doctor Dubble L. Dee—”

MYSELF. (Hurriedly.) “Captain Pratt, you must come and spend the

evening with us to-morrow—you and Smitherton—you can tell us all

about your voyage, and we’ll have a game of whist and—”

PRATT. “Wist, my dear fellow—you forget. To-morrow will be

Sunday. Some other evening—”

KATE. “Oh, no, fie!—Robert’s not quite so bad as that. To-day’s

Sunday.”

PRATT. “I beg both your pardons—but I can’t be so much mistaken.

I know to-morrow’s Sunday, because-”

SMITHERTON. (Much surprised.) “What are you all thinking about?

Wasn’t yesterday, Sunday, I should like to know?”

ALL. “Yesterday indeed! you are out!”

UNCLE. “To-day’s Sunday, I say—don’t I know?”

PRATT. “Oh no!—to-morrow’s Sunday.”

SMITHERTON. “You are all mad—every one of you. I am as positive

that yesterday was Sunday as I am that I sit upon this chair.”

KATE. (Jumping up eagerly.) “I see it—I see it all. Papa, this is

a judgment upon you, about—about you know what. Let me alone, and

I’ll explain it all in a minute. It’s a very simple thing,

indeed. Captain Smitherton says that yesterday was Sunday: so it

was; he is right. Cousin Bobby, and uncle and I say that to-day

is Sunday: so it is; we are right. Captain Pratt maintains that

to-morrow will be Sunday: so it will; he is right, too. The fact

is, we are all right, and thus three Sundays have come together

in a week.”

SMITHERTON. (After a pause.) “By the by, Pratt, Kate has us

completely. What fools we two are! Mr. Rumgudgeon, the matter

stands thus: the earth, you know, is twenty-four thousand miles

in circumference. Now this globe of the earth turns upon its own

axis—revolves—spins round—these twenty-four thousand miles of

extent, going from west to east, in precisely twenty-four hours.

Do you understand, Mr. Rumgudgeon?—”

UNCLE. “To be sure—to be sure—Doctor Dub—”

SMITHERTON. (Drowning his voice.) “Well, sir; that is at the rate

of one thousand miles per hour. Now, suppose that I sail from

this position a thousand miles east. Of course I anticipate the

rising of the sun here at London by just one hour. I see the sun

rise one hour before you do. Proceeding, in the same direction,

yet another thousand miles, I anticipate the rising by two

hours—another thousand, and I anticipate it by three hours, and

so on, until I go entirely round the globe, and back to this

spot, when, having gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I

anticipate the rising of the London sun by no less than

twenty-four hours; that is to say, I am a day in advance of your

time. Understand, eh?”

UNCLE. “But Double L. Dee—”

SMITHERTON. (Speaking very loud.) “Captain Pratt, on the

contrary, when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this

position, was an hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four

thousand miles west, was twenty-four hours, or one day, behind

the time at London. Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday—thus,

with you, to-day is Sunday—and thus, with Pratt, to-morrow will

be Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is positively

clear that we are all right; for there can be no philosophical

reason assigned why the idea of one of us should have preference

over that of the other.”

UNCLE. “My eyes!—well, Kate—well, Bobby!—this is a judgment upon

me, as you say. But I am a man of my word—mark that! you shall

have her, boy, (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by Jove!

Three Sundays all in a row! I’ll go, and take Dubble L. Dee’s

opinion upon that.”