CHAPTER II.

Transcriber's note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.

* * * * *

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

NO. CCCCXXXVII. MARCH, 1852. VOL. LXXI.

CONTENTS.

MISS MITFORD'S "RECOLLECTIONS," 259

STRUGGLES FOR FAME AND FORTUNE. PART III., 272

SKETCHES FROM THE CAPE, 289

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. PART XIX., 298

ENGLISH ADMINISTRATIONS, 320

TIBET AND THE LAMAS, 335

FOREST LIFE IN CANADA WEST, 355

FAREWELL TO THE RHINE, 366

THE REFORM MEASURES OF 1852, 369

EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET; AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW,

LONDON.

_To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed._

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

NO. CCCCXXXVII. MARCH, 1852. VOL. LXXI.

MISS MITFORD'S "RECOLLECTIONS."[1]

[1] _Recollections of a Literary Life; or, Books, Places, and

People._ By MARY RUSSELL MITFORD, author of "Our Village," &c.

No one can have glanced at _Our Village_, or any of the charming

sketches of Miss Mitford, without having been struck by the peculiar

elegance, the raciness, the simplicity of her style. It is as free

in all its movements as that pet of hers, the Italian greyhound

she has made so familiar to us all--as free and as graceful. A

beautiful style is no singularity in our days, and there are many

orders of such beauty; nevertheless, Miss Mitford has a dialect of

her own. It is a style gathered from familiarity with the classic,

and especially the dramatic poets, and with whatever is most terse

and elegant amongst our prose writers, and yet applied with perfect

ease to the simplest details of life, to the real transaction and

the daily scene before her. You would think every one was talking in

the same manner; it is only Miss Mitford who speaks this dialect.

It is as if any one should learn Italian from the works of Petrarch

or Tasso, or any other of their classics, and be able to apply

the language he had thus acquired without the least restraint to

the common purposes of life; every Italian would understand him,

and seem to speak like him, and yet he would remain in exclusive

possession of his own Tuscan speech.

Miss Mitford is one of those who have made the discovery that there

is always a "California" under our feet, if we look for it. She

detected, by her own independent sagacity, and before the truth was

so generally known and so generally acted upon as it is at present,

that what most interests in books is precisely that which is nearest

to us in real life. She did not find it necessary to go to the Alps

or the Pyrenees for her landscape, nor to Spain or Constantinople

for her men and women; she looked down the lane that led from

her own cottage-door; she saw the children in it, and the loaded

hay-cart; she saw Arabia with all her tents in that gipsy encampment

where the same kettle seems to swing for ever between the same three

poles--nomadic race, eternally wandering and never progressing. She

looked out of her own window, and within it her own home--always

cheerful, or always deserving to be such, from the cheerful spirit

of its owner; and she found in all these things, near and dear to

her, sufficient subjects for her pencil. And very faithfully she

paints the village scene--with, at least, as much fidelity to truth

as a graceful womanly spirit could summon up resolution enough to

practise. A light something too golden falls uniformly over the

picture.

A work professing to be the _Recollections of a Literary Life_, and

that literary life Miss Mitford's, could not fail to attract us.

The subject is one of the most interesting an author could select;

for, in addition to whatever charm it may acquire from personal

narrative, the recollections in which it deals are in themselves

thoughts, in themselves literature. They must always have this

twofold interest--whatever they gain from the reminiscent, and

whatever they possess themselves of sterling value. The subject is

excellent, and we are persuaded that Miss Mitford is capable of

doing ample justice to it; all we have to regret here is that she

has not thrown herself completely and unreservedly into her subject;

she never seems, indeed, quite to have determined what should be the

distinct scope and purpose of her work. This apparent indecision

or hesitation on her part is, we suspect, the sole cause of any

disappointment which some of its readers may possibly feel.

Our authoress has been unwilling to launch herself on the full

stream or current of her own personal reminiscences and feelings,

to write what would be, in fact, little else than an autobiography;

she has shrunk back, afraid of the charge of being too personal,

too egotistical. A delicacy and sensitiveness very natural; and yet

the very nature of her subject required that she should brave this

charge. It was not a mere selection of extracts and quotations,

accompanied by a few critical remarks, which she intended to give

us. If this had been her sole, original, and specific purpose, we

venture to say that it would have been, in many respects, a very

different series of extracts she would have brought together.

Now, if Miss Mitford had boldly recalled her own intellectual

history--giving us the favourite passages of her favourite authors,

as they were still living in her memory and affections, (for of

that which has _ceased_ to be admired the faintest glance is

sufficient)--she would have produced a far superior work to that

which lies before us. Or if, discarding altogether her own personal

history, she had merely gone into her library, and, pulling down

from the shelves a certain number of favourite authors, had selected

from each what she most approved, accompanying her quotations with

some critical and biographical notices, and arranging them in

something like harmonious order, so that we should not be tossed

too abruptly from one author to another of quite different age and

character, she could not have failed, here also, of producing a

work complete of its kind. In the first case, we should have had

the unity and the interest of a continuous and personal narrative;

in the second case, we should have had a higher order of selections

and criticisms; the beauty of the quotation would have been the sole

motive for inserting it; and her clear critical faculty would have

been unbiassed by the amiable partialities of friendship.

As we cannot tell, however, with what anticipations the reader may

open a book of this description, (which, in its premises, must be

always more or less vague,) we are perhaps altogether wrong in

supposing that he is likely to feel any disappointment whatever.

There is much in it which cannot fall to interest him. But if he

does experience to any degree this feeling of disappointment, it

will be traceable to the simple fact we have been pointing out--the

want of a settled plan or purpose in the work itself. No one knows

better than Miss Mitford that, if a writer is not quite determined

in the scope and object of his own book, he is pretty sure to leave

a certain indistinct and unsatisfactory impression on his reader.

Having said thus much in the absence of a definite purpose, we

ought to permit the authoress to explain herself upon this head.

"The title of this book," she says in the preface, "gives a very

imperfect idea of the contents. Perhaps it would be difficult

to find a short phrase that would accurately describe a work so

miscellaneous and so wayward; a work where there is far too much of

personal gossip and of local scene-painting for the grave pretension

of critical essays, and far too much of criticism and extract for

anything approaching in the slightest degree to autobiography. The

courteous reader must take it for what it is."

We hope to rank amongst "courteous readers," and will "take it

for what it is." _Recollections of a Literary Life_ was a title

which promised too much; but there was no help for it: a title the

book must have, and we can easily understand that, under certain

circumstances, the choice of a name may be a very difficult matter.

Whatever name may best become it, the book is, without doubt, full

of pleasant and agreeable reading. A better companion for the

summer's afternoon we could not recommend. That "personal gossip"

of which the preface speaks, is written in the most charming manner

imaginable; and it will be impossible, we think, for any one,

however familiar with our literature, not to meet, amongst the

quotations, with some which he will sincerely thank the authoress

for having brought before him.

Having thus discharged our critical conscience by insisting, perhaps

with a more severe impartiality than the case demanded, on the one

apparent defect in the very structure and design of this book, we

have now only to retrace our steps through it, pausing where the

matter prompts an observation, or where it affords an apt example of

the kind of interest which pervades it. And first we must revert to

that "personal gossip," to which we have a decided predilection, and

in which Miss Mitford pre-eminently excels: in her hands it becomes

an art. Here is something about "Woodcock Lane." She is about to

introduce her old favourites, Beaumont and Fletcher, and carries

us first to a certain pleasant retreat where she was accustomed to

read these dramatists. "I pore over them," she says, "in the silence

and solitude of a certain green lane, about half a mile from home;

sometimes seated on the roots of an old fantastic beech, sometimes

on the trunk of a felled oak, or sometimes on the ground itself,

with my back propped lazily against a rugged elm."

"In that very lane," she continues, "am I writing on this sultry

June day, luxuriating in the shade--the verdure, the fragrance

of hay-field and bean-field, and the absence of all noise,

except the song of birds, and that strange mingling of many

sounds, the whir of a thousand forms of insect life, so often

heard among the general hush of a summer noon....

"Occasional passengers there are, however, gentle and simple.

My friend, Mr B., for instance, has just cantered past on

his blood-horse, with a nod and a smile, saying nothing, but

apparently a good deal amused with my arrangements. And here

comes a procession of cows going to milking, with an old

attendant, still called the cow-boy, who, although they have

seen me often enough, one should think, sitting underneath a

tree writing, with my little maid close by hemming flounces,

and my dog, Fanchon, nestled at my feet--still _will_ start as

if they had never seen a woman before in their lives. Back they

start, and then they rush forward, and then the old drover emits

certain sounds, which it is to be presumed the cows understand;

sounds so horribly discordant that little Fanchon--although to

her too they ought to be familiar, if not comprehensible--starts

up in a fright on her feet, deranging all the economy of my

extempore desk, and wellnigh upsetting the inkstand. Very much

frightened is my pretty pet, the arrantest coward that ever

walked upon four legs! And so she avenges herself, as cowards

are wont to do, by following the cows at safe distance, as soon

as they are fairly past, and beginning to bark amain when they

axe nearly out of sight. Then follows a motley group of the

same nature--colts, yearlings, calves, heifers, with a shouting

boy, and his poor shabby mongrel cur, for driver. The poor cur

wants to play with Fanchon, but Fanchon, besides being a coward,

is also a beauty, and holds her state; although I think, if he

could but stay long enough, that the good-humour of the poor

merry creature would prove infectious, and beguile the little

lady into a game of romps. Lastly appears the most solemn troop

of all, a grave company of geese and goslings, with the gander

at their head, marching with the decorum and dignity proper to

the birds who saved Rome. Fanchon, who once had an affair with a

gander, in which she was notably worsted, retreats out of sight,

and ensconces herself between me and the tree.

"Such are our passers-by. Sometimes we have what I was about to

call settled inhabitants, in the shape of a camp of gipsies."

After describing this camp of gipsies, and how the men carry on a

sort of "trade in forest ponies," and how the women make and sell

baskets "at about double the price at which they might be bought at

the dearest shop in the good town of Belford Regis," she proceeds to

tell us how, notwithstanding her perfect knowledge of this fact, she

is induced to become a purchaser.

"Last Saturday I happened to be sitting on a fallen tree

somewhat weary, my little damsel working as usual at the other

end, and Fanchon balancing himself on the trunk between us; the

curls of her brown coat--she is entirely brown--turning into

gold as the sunshine played upon them through the leaves.

"In this manner were we disposed, when a gipsy, with a pair

of light baskets in her hand, came and offered them for sale.

She was a middle-aged woman, who, in spite of her wandering

life--perhaps because of that hardy out-of-door life--had

retained much of her early beauty: the flashing eyes, the

pearly teeth, the ruddy cheeks, the fine erect figure. It

happened that, not wanting them, my companion had rejected these

identical baskets when brought to our door in the morning. She

told me so, and I quietly declined them. My friend the gipsy

apparently gave the matter up, and, claiming me as an old

acquaintance, began to inquire after my health, and fell into

the pleasantest strain of conversation possible; spoke of my

father, who, she said, had been kind to her and to her tribe,

(no doubt she said truly; he was kind to everybody, and had a

liking for the wandering race,) spoke of her children at the

gipsy school in Dorsetshire; of the excellent Mr Crabbe, the

friend of her people, at Southampton; then she began stroking

Fanchon, (who actually, to my astonishment, permitted the

liberty; in general she suffers no one to touch her that is not

gentleman or lady;) Fanchon she stroked, and of Flush, the dear

old dog, now lying buried under the rose-tree, she talked; then,

to leave no one unpropitiated, she threw out a word of pleasant

augury, a sort of gratuitous fortune-telling, to the hemmer of

flounces; then she attacked me again with old recollections,

trusting, with singular knowledge of human nature, to the power

of the future upon the young, and of the past upon the old--to

me she spoke of happy memories, to my companion of happiness to

come; and so--how could I help it?--I bought the baskets."

After this little excursion into Woodcock Lane, we are introduced to

Messrs Beaumont and Fletcher. The quotations from these authors we

should have no object in reproducing here. One thing we cannot help

noticing. Both on this and on some other occasions we are struck by

an omission, by a silence. Though she may think fit to represent

these dramatists as her favourite companions, we are morally certain

that it was a far greater than either of them who was generally her

delight and her study in that shady solitude. Could we have looked

over the page as she sate there leaning so amiably against that

"rugged elm," we are sure that it would have been Shakspeare that

we should have found in her hands. But why no word of Shakspeare?

We think we can conjecture the cause of this omission; and, if our

surmise is correct, we quite sympathise with the feeling that led

to it. Miss Mitford is a sincere and ardent admirer of Shakspeare;

she must be so--in common with every intelligent person who reads

poetry at all. But Miss Mitford likes to keep her senses; has a

shrewd, quiet intelligence; has little love for what is vague or

violent in criticism any more than in poetry; and she has felt that

the extravagant, rhodomontade style of panegyric now prevalent

upon our greatest of poets, reduced her to silence. She could not

out-Herod Herod; she could not outbid these violent declaimers who

speak of Shakspeare as if he were a god, who admire all they read

which bears his name--the helter-skelter entangled confusion and

obscurity, the wretched conceit, the occasional bombast--admire all,

and thereby prove they have no right to any admiration whatever. She

was, therefore, like many others who love and reverence him most,

reduced to silence. Some years hence a sensible word may be written

of Shakspeare. At present, he who would praise with discrimination

must apparently place himself in the rank of his detractors.

Miss Mitford's critical taste leads her to an especial preference

of what is distinct and intelligible in all the departments of

literature. To some it may appear that she is more capable of

doing justice to poetry of the secondary than of the higher and

more spiritual order. However that may be, we, for our own part,

congratulated ourselves on an escape from that vague and mystical

criticism which is so prevalent in our day. There are two words

which a certain class of writers never pronounce without going

off into frenzy or delirious raving. "Shakspeare" is one of these

words; the "Infinite" is the other. They have made the discovery

that this poet or that painter talks or paints the "infinite."

They find in every obscurity of thought, in every violence of

passion, the "infinite." There is no such thing as "sound and fury

signifying nothing." They always signify the "infinite." If there

is the "infinite" in criticism, they certainly have reached it. In

Goldsmith's time, it was "Shakspeare and the musical glasses;" it

is now "Shakspeare and the Infinite." We suspect that the musical

glasses were more amusing, and are sure that they had quite as much

meaning.

We go back to Woodcock Lane. We rather cruelly abridged our last

extract, on purpose that we might have space for one other of the

same description. We make no apology for clinging to this "personal

gossip." Very few of the poetical quotations throughout the work

have more of beauty and of pathos than the concluding paragraph of

the next extract we shall give. _Apropos_ of Sir Philip Sydney's

_Arcadia_, she makes us participators in her country rambles;

and _apropos_ of these she introduces us to an old friend, a

walking-stick--"pretty nearly as well known as ourselves in our

Berkshire village." Some sixty years ago it was "a stick of

quality," having belonged to a certain Duchess-Dowager of Atholl;

but the circumstance that her own mother had taken to using it,

during her latter days, had especially endeared it to her.

"And then," as she observes with finest tact, "everybody knows

how the merest trifles which have formed part of the daily

life of the loved and lost, especially those things which they

have touched, are cherished, and cared for, and put aside; how

we dare not look upon them for very love; and how, by some

accident that nobody can explain, they come to light in the

course of time, and after a momentary increase of sadness, help

to familiarise and render pleasant the memory by which they are

endeared."

This is very beautifully expressed, and it is the tone of right

sentiment; truthful, natural, the unaffected sadness that tempers

into a sweet and pleasant memory.

"So the stick," she continues, "reappeared in the hall, and,

from some whim which I have never rightly understood myself, I,

who had no more need of such a supporter than the youngest woman

in the parish--who was, indeed, the best walker of my years for

a dozen miles round, and piqued myself not a little upon so

being--took a fancy to use this stick in my own proper person,

and most pertinaciously carried this fancy into execution. Much

was I laughed at for this crotchet, and I laughed too. Friends

questioned, strangers stared; but, impassive to stare or to

question, I remained constant to my supporter. Except when I

went to London, (for I paid so much homage to public opinion as

to avoid such a display _there_,) I should as soon have thought

of walking out without my bonnet as without my stick. That stick

was my inseparable companion."

The staff had met with its share of misadventures and accidents;

"one misfortune, so to say personal, which befel it, was the loss of

its own head;" but its loss from the pony-chaise, its fall from the

chaise into a brook which had been passed through the day before, is

the especial calamity here celebrated. By this time we learn with

regret that the stick has become more than a whim--has grown into a

useful and necessary friend:--

"I might have observed that something was amiss in our small

household; that Sarah answered the bell, and that the hemmer of

flounces, when she did appear, seemed flurried and fatigued.

But I was thinking of Sir Philip Sydney, of the _Defence of

Poetry_, of the _Arcadia_, and of my own resolution to proceed

to the green lane, and to dissect that famous pastoral, and

select from the mass, which even to myself I hardly confessed to

be ponderous, such pages as might suit an age that by no means

partakes of my taste for folios. So I said to her, 'That the

afternoon being cool, and I less lame than usual, I thought we

should not need Sam and the pony-chaise, but that I could manage

by the help of my stick.'

"At that word out burst the terrible tidings. My stick, my poor

old stick, my life-long friend, the faithful companion of so

many walks, was missing, was gone, was lost! Last night, on our

return from the lane, the place in the pony-chaise where Sam

and I had carefully deposited it was found vacant. Already hue

and cry had everywhere been made. 'And really, ma'am,' quoth

she, 'there is some comfort in the interest people take in the

stick. If it were anything alive, the pony or Fanchon, or little

Henry, or we ourselves, they could not be more sorry. Master

Brent, ma'am, at the top of the street, he promises to speak to

everybody; so does William Wheeler, who goes everywhere; and

Mrs Bromley at the shop; and the carrier; and the postman. I

dare say the whole parish knows it by this time! I have not been

outside the gate to-day, but a dozen people have asked me if we

had heard of _our_ stick. It must turn up soon. If one had but

the slightest notion where it was lost!'

. . . . . .

"Well! we at last sate down on our old turf seats, not far

from the entrance of a field, where an accident (in the

wheat-carrying, which was then in full activity) had evidently

taken place; a loaded waggon must have knocked against the gate,

and spilt some of its topmost sheaves. The sheaves were taken

away, but the place was strewed with relics of the upset, and

a little harvest of the long yellow straw and the rich brown

ears remained to tempt the gleaners. As we were talking over

this misfortune, and our own, and I was detailing my reasons

for believing that my poor stick had found a watery grave, we

became aware of two little girls, who stole timidly and quietly

up to the place, and began gladly and thankfully to pick up the

scattered corn.

"Poor little things, we knew them well! We had known their

father died of consumption scarcely a month ago; and affecting

it was to see these poor children, delicate girls of seven and

five years old, already at work to help their widowed mother,

and rejoicing over the discovery of these few ears of fallen

wheat, as if it were the gold mines of California. A drove of

pigs was looming in the distance; and my little damsel flung

down her work, and sprang up at once to help the poor children.

She has a taste for helping people, has my little maid, and puts

her whole heart and soul into such kindnesses. It was worth

something to see how she pounced upon every straggling straw,

clearing away all round the outside, and leaving the space

within for the little girls. The ground was cleared before the

drove came near.

"Pleasant it was to see her zealous activity, and the joy and

surprise of the little creatures, who, weak, timid, and lonely,

had till then only collected about a dozen ears, when they found

themselves loaded with more than they could carry. Their faded

frocks were by her contrivance pinned up about them, filled with

the golden wheat-ears, and the children went home happy.... Many

a rich mother might be proud of the two gleaners that we have

seen this afternoon. They so pleased and so thankful to carry

their poor store to that poor home; they carried thither better

things than wheat."

But for the fate of the stick, and how it was found, and what was

done that day with Sir Philip Sydney's _Arcadia_, we must refer the

reader to the book itself. We must now proceed to take some general

survey of the far larger portion of the work, which consists of

extracts, with some biographical and critical notices.

The series of quotations does not open very auspiciously: we are

presented with some Irish ballads of Mr Thomas Davis, which we do

not think will excite in many readers the same amount of admiration

they appear to have done in Miss Mitford. We must prefer the song

she has given, as by Mr Banim, the author of the _Tales of the

O'Hara Family_. It is simple and graceful:--

"'Tis not for love of gold I go,

'Tis not for love of fame;

Though Fortune may her smile bestow,

And I may win a name,

Ailleen;

And I may win a name.

"And yet it _is_ for gold I go,

And yet it _is_ for fame--

That they may deck another brow,

And bless another name,

Ailleen;

And bless another name.

* * * * *

"Oh! when the bays are all my own,

I know a heart will care!

Oh! when the gold is sought and won,

I know a brow will wear,

Ailleen;

I know a brow will wear.

"And when with both returned again,

My native land I see,

I know a smile will meet me then,

And a hand will welcome me,

Ailleen;

And a hand will welcome me."

There is a brief notice of another writer, a countryman of Mr

Banim's, which is very touching. Gerald Griffin seems to have

sounded every note of that gay and sad and mournful destiny which

the young poet has to endure, who, with a proud, aspiring, sensitive

nature, fronts the terrible commonplace of human life--who out

of dreams and imagery and sentiment has to coin the means of

subsistence. We see him starting from some place near Limerick, with

his pocket full of plays. Alas! we see him labouring in London,

almost friendless and alone, at mere literary toils, some hopeless

love added to his other despondencies, till, broken down in health

and courage, and despairing of success, he quits the field, and

"joins the Society of Christian Brethren at Cork." No need to go

back to the middle ages for romance, if the romance of life consists

in suffering and the alternation of hope and despondency, or of

hopes transplanted from this world to the next. The soldier and

the monastery; the dramatic poet and the "Christian Brethren at

Cork"--there is the same tale in both.

We have another contemporary instance brought before us, where the

poetic fervour or ambition led to a far sadder retreat than this

Society, whatever it may be, of Christian Brethren. John Clare,

while following the plough, had looked on nature with the eye of

a poet. Pity that he could not have written his poetry, and still

clung to his plough. But he left the fields for life in cities, and,

instead of singing for the song's sake, commenced singing for the

support of wife and family. Hence came madness--in this instance,

that actual insanity which the physician can catalogue and describe.

It is worth noticing that his first patron, Lord Exeter, had

really entertained the design of so assisting the rustic poet that

he should be able to unite his favourite pursuit with his early,

healthy, invigorating occupations of husbandry. Surely there is

nothing incompatible between them. "Lord Exeter," we are told, "sent

for him to Burleigh, and hearing that he earned thirty pounds per

annum by field-labour, settled an annuity of fifteen pounds upon

him, with a view to his devoting half his time to agricultural

pursuits, and half to literary pursuits." We like this idea of his

noble patron; it bespeaks, we think, a very reflective as well

as a generous mind. But there were patrons of a very different

stamp, or rather, according to the account we have here, a number

of officious, vulgar admirers of poor John Clare, who rendered the

design abortive; who had nothing to offer to the village poet,

but who disturbed his quiet, intelligent, safe, unostentatious,

and healthy existence, by their absurd and idle curiosity. He was

called away from his fields--to be looked at! "He was frequently

interrupted, as often as three times a-day, during his labours in

the harvest-field, to gratify the curiosity of admiring visitors."

We cannot blame poor John Clare for leaving his labours in the

harvest-field; it has always been the weakness of the poet to love

praise too much; without this weakness he would hardly have been

a poet, at least he would have been a very careless one; but we

think those "admiring visitors" showed their taste and their love

of poetry in a most extraordinary manner. Whatever else they felt,

they felt no respect for the dignity of the man. They ought to have

understood that visits of such a kind, for such an idle purpose,

whatever flattering shape they may have assumed, were insults.

Miss Mitford terminates the painful history by the following

singular account:--

"A few years ago he was visited by a friend of mine, who

gave me a most interesting account of the then state of his

intellect. His delusions were at that time very singular in

their character: whatever he read, whatever recurred to him from

his former reading, or happened to be mentioned in conversation,

became impressed on his mind as a thing that he had witnessed

and acted in. My friend was struck with a narrative of the

execution of Charles the Fist, recounted by Clare as a

transaction that had occurred yesterday, and of which he was

an eye-witness--a narrative the most graphic and minute, with

an accuracy as to costume and manners far exceeding what would

probably have been at his command if sane. It is such a lucidity

as the disciples of Mesmer claim for clairvoyance. Or he would

relate the battle of the Nile and the death of Lord Nelson

with the same perfect keeping, especially as to seamanship,

fancying himself one of the sailors who had been in the action,

and dealing out nautical phrases with admirable exactness and

accuracy, although it is doubtful if he ever saw the sea in his

life."

As might have been expected, and is both graceful and natural, the

poets of her own sex occupy a considerable space in Miss Mitford's

selections. In some cases the names were new to us, but the

extracts given made us feel that they ought not to have been so. An

Englishman may be very proud, we think, when he reflects how many

highly cultivated minds there are amongst his countrywomen, minds

so gentle and so intelligent, whose cultivation goes hand in hand

with the truest refinement of character. Here in one chapter we

have four names strung together, most of which, we suspect, will be

new to the majority of readers--"Mrs Clive, Mrs Acton Tindal, Miss

Day, Mrs Robert Dering"--yet the extracts in this chapter will bear

comparison with those of any other part of the work. A little poem

called "The Infant Bridal," is, as Miss Mitford describes it to be,

one of the most perfect paintings we ever _read_. Its subject is the

marriage of Richard Duke of York, second son of Edward IV., with

Anne Mowbray, Duchess of Norfolk. The bridegroom was not five years

old, and the bride scarcely three. The procession, where, at the

head of "belted barons" and courtly dames,

"Two blooming children led the way

With short and doubtful tread;"

the ceremony, where the venerable prelate gives his

blessing to this infant bride and bridegroom, and

"Their steady gaze these children meek

Upon the old man bent,

As earnestly they seemed to seek

The solemn words intent."

Every part of the narrative is so charmingly told that we cannot

consent to mar the effect by any broken quotation. It is too long to

be extracted entirely.

From the poem which follows, of Miss Day's, it will be easier to

break off a fragment.

"I have now to introduce," says Miss Mitford, "another fair

artist into the female gallery of which I am so proud; an artist

whose works seem to me to bear the same relation to sculpture

that those of Mrs Acton Tindal do to painting. The poetry of

Miss Day is statuesque in its dignity, in its purity, in its

repose. Purity is perhaps the distinguishing quality of this

fine writer, pervading the conception, the thoughts, and the

diction. But she must speak for herself. As 'The Infant Bridal'

might form a sketch for an historical picture, so 'Charlotte

Corday' is a model, standing ready to be chiselled in Parian

stone."

"Stately and beautiful and chaste,

Forth went the dauntless maid,

Her blood to yield, her youth to waste,

That carnage might be stayed.

This solemn purpose filled her soul,

There was no room for fear;

She heard the cry of vengeance roll

Prophetic on her ear.

"She thought to stem the course of crime

By one appalling deed;

She knew to perish in her prime

Alone would be her meed.

No tremor shook her woman's breast,

No terror blanched her brow;

She spoke, she smiled, she took her rest,

And hidden held her vow.

"She mused upon her country's wrong,

Upon the tyrant's guilt;

Her settled purpose grew more strong

As blood was freshly spilt.

What though the fair, smooth hand were slight!

It grasped the sharpened steel;

A triumph flashed before her sight--

The death that it should deal.

"She sought her victim in his den--

The tiger in his lair;

And though she found him feeble then,

There was no thought to spare.

Fast through his dying, guilty heart,

That pity yet withstood,

She made her gleaming weapon dart,

And stained her soul with blood."

In another chapter of her work Miss Mitford gives us a slight

biographical sketch of one who needs no introduction here or

elsewhere--of the now celebrated Mrs Browning. The sketch is very

interesting, but the extract given from her poems is not very

happily selected. Miss Mitford does not seem to have ventured to

trust herself among the more daring beauties--the bolder and more

spiritual flights of her friend Mrs Browning. Her taste clings, as

we have said, to what is distinct and definite. Of this we have

rather an amusing instance in the criticism she passes on Shelley's

_Alastor_. There is good sense and some truth in the criticism, and

yet it is not all that ought to have been said of such a poem:--

"The first time," she says, "I ever met with any of his works,

this vagueness brought me into a ludicrous dilemma. It was in

the great library of Tavistock House that Mr Perry one morning

put into my hand a splendidly printed and splendidly bound

volume, (_Alastor_, as I think,) and desired me to read it, and

give him my opinion. 'You will at least know,' he said, 'whether

it be worth anybody else's reading.'

"Accordingly I took up the magnificent presentation copy, and

read conscientiously till visitors came in. I had no marker,

and the richly-bound volume closed as if instinctively; so that

when I resumed my task, on the departure of the company, not

being able to find my place, I was obliged to begin the book

at the first line. More visitors came and went, and still the

same calamity befell me; again, and again, and again I had to

search in vain amongst a succession of melodious lines, as like

each other as the waves of the sea, for buoy or landmark, and

had always to put back to shore and begin my voyage anew. I do

not remember having been ever in my life more ashamed of my own

stupidity, than when obliged to say to Mr Perry, in answer to

his questions as to the result of my morning's studies, that

doubtless it was a very fine poem--only, that I never could

tell, when I took up the book, where I had left off half an hour

before--an unintended criticism, which, as characteristic both

of author and reader, very much amused my kind and clever host."

Now, if, instead of the magnificent presentation copy, read in the

great library of Tavistock House, where visitors were coming in

and going out, Miss Mitford had taken a little homely manageable

volume down Woodcock Lane, and there read _Alastor_, undisturbed,

beneath the shadow of the trees, she must, we think, have had to

record a very different impression of the poem. She would have

needed no "marker." Perhaps there would have lived in her memory an

hour of intellectual pleasure as great as any that the page of the

poet had ever procured for her. Though not the highest effort of

Shelley's genius, _Alastor_ is probably the most pleasing. There is

no tortuosity of thought to pardon or to forget; it is one unbroken

interwoven strain of music, of imagery, of sentiment. Those who have

defined poetry as the luxury of thought, could nowhere find a better

example to illustrate their meaning--it is all music, imagination,

feeling. Oh, when the summer months come round, let us entreat

Miss Mitford _to try it in Woodcock Lane_! How could she trust to

anything she had read out of a magnificent presentation copy, in the

great library at Tavistock House?

The quotation from Keats is very skilfully selected; it must

please the most fastidious taste, and is yet sufficiently peculiar

to suggest that no one but Keats could have written it. From the

writings of W. S. Landor she might have gathered much better, and

without devoting to them any larger space than she has done. If she

had turned to the miscellaneous poems which conclude his collected

works, she might have extracted two or three of the most polished

and perfect lyrics in our language, and which have the precise

qualification, in this case so indispensable, of being very brief.

Mr Landor, by the way, will be much amused to find himself

praised--for what will our readers think?--for modesty! "I prefer,"

says Miss Mitford, "to select from the Hellenics, that charming

volume, because very few have given such present life to classical

subjects. _I begin with the preface, so full of grace and modesty._"

In the lady's mind, grace and modesty are no doubt inseparable

companions; and, finding abundance of the one in Mr Landor's

style, she concluded that the other must be there also. Of _that

other_ there is not an atom in all his writings, and there never

was intended to be. It is a maidenly quality which he never had

the remotest design of laying claim to. The very preface which she

quotes is a piece of undisguised sarcasm. We doubt if there is much

grace in it, certainly there is no modesty. Here is the commencement

of this modest preface. "It is hardly to be expected that ladies

and gentlemen will leave on a sudden their daily promenade, skirted

by Turks, and shepherds, and knights, and plumes, and palfreys _of

the finest Tunbridge manufacture_, to look at these rude frescoes,

delineated on an old wall, high up, and sadly weak in colouring. _As

in duty bound, we can wait._"

If Miss Mitford should ever read this preface again, she will pass

her hand over her brow, a little puzzled where it was she saw the

"modesty." She will appeal to Fanchon, who will be sitting in her

lap, looking very intently over the page, and ask him what he thinks

of the matter. Fanchon will laugh out obstreperously, will bark

delighted, at the amiable blunder of his mistress.

We remarked that we had been occasionally struck with an omission,

or a silence. It seems to us a characteristic circumstance that

we hear no mention made of Lord Byron. Wordsworth and Southey,

Coleridge and Shelley, get some space allotted to them, larger or

smaller; but he who occupied so conspicuous a position among these

very contemporaries has none whatever. It is not because he still

holds a very high rank amongst our poets--though by no means the

same eminence that was once assigned to him--that we notice this

omission; but because his writings had so strong and peculiar an

influence on most minds open to the influence of poetry, that we

naturally expect to meet with his name in the literary recollections

of one who, we way venture to say without any ungallant reference to

chronology, must have lived in that period when Lord Byron was in

the ascendant. There are few persons who, in acknowledging the happy

influence of Wordsworth's poetry, would not have to commence their

confession by some account of the very opposite influence of Lord

Byron's. We should have said that the Byronic fever was a malady

which hardly any of our contemporaries, who are liable to catch a

fever of any kind from books, had entirely escaped. Miss Mitford,

however, hints at no such calamity. Her excellent constitution seems

to have preserved her from it. She bore a charm against all such

plagues, in her clear sense and cheerful temper. She was thereby

preserved from some very absurd misery--very absurd, but most

indisputable misery; and she also lost some experience of a not

unprofitable nature--certain lessons of wisdom which, being _burnt

into one_, are never afterwards to be obliterated from the mind.

If the subject were but one shade more attractive, or less repulsive

than it is, we would, for the benefit of such exempted persons as

Miss Mitford, describe the course and the symptoms of this Byronic

fever. We would describe how, some luckless day, the youth who

ought to be busy with his Greek or his Euclid plays truant over the

poetry of _Childe Harold_ and _Manfred_; how it makes him brimful

of unaccountable misery; how, as is most natural, he reads on the

faster--reads on insatiate and insensate.

But what tossings and throbbings and anguish the patient endures

we have no wish to depict. The one thing worth noticing is this,

that although the sufferer is perfectly convinced that the whole

world is, or ought to be, as wretched as himself, he has not, in

all his compositions, one jot of compassion left--not one jot for

any species of misery, not even that which resembles and re-echoes

his own. Some calamities are said to teach us sympathy with the

calamities of others--so sings Virgil, we remember--but this misery

has the property of hardening the heart against any human sympathy

whatever. One of these imaginary misanthropes cannot even tolerate

the lamentations of another. You may listen to his outcries and

denunciations if you will, but if, in your turn, you wish to bellow

ever so little, you must go into the next field--go many fields off.

Very curious is the hardness of heart bred out of a morbid passion

of meditative discontent. Why does he _live_? why does he continue

his miserable existence? is the only reflection which the sufferings

of another man excite in our moody philosopher. For every lamenting

wretch he has daggers, bowels of poison--no pity. If mankind could

commit one simultaneous, universal act of suicide, it would be a

most sublime deed--perhaps the only real act of wisdom and sublimity

mankind has it in its power to perform.

Well, this absurd and horrible, this very ridiculous and most

afflictive of morbid conditions, our clear-minded authoress never

seems to have passed through. She never gave the beggar a shilling,

muttering some advice to buy a rope withal. If the money were spent

in that way, and more were wanted, he should have _two_. She never

lent her friend a brace of pistols by way of consolation for his

losses. Or, since ladies, even when misanthropically disposed, have

seldom anything to do with pistols, she never wove or platted for

him a silken bowstring, and sent it in a perfumed envelope, with

compliments and instructions how to use it. All this chapter of

mental history has been a sealed book to her. We, for our parts,

have no desire to open or to read further in it.

The happiest step made by those whose temper and mode of thinking

were likely to be formed by practical literature, was when they

deserted Byron for Wordsworth, the _Childe Harold_ for the

_Excursion_. If we were to indulge in "Recollections" of our own, we

should have much to say--and to say with pleasure--of this second

epoch, this Wordsworthian era. A very beautiful _Flora_ appeared

upon the earth during this period. Life smiled again; nature and

humanity were no longer divorced; one might love the solitude and

beauty of hill and valley, lake and river, without hating man, or

breathing any other sentiment than that of gratitude to Him who gave

this life, who gave this nature.

Wordsworth was peculiarly fitted to be the successor of Byron. He

had himself shared in the dark and desponding spirit of the age

just so much as enabled him to understand and portray it, to assail

or to alleviate. He had scanned the abyss looking down from the

precipice, but his feet were well planted on the jutting rock.

He threw his vision down; he stood firm himself. He drew many an

inspiration from the dark gulf below; but nothing betrays that he

had ever plunged into the abyss. His poetry will at all times have a

genial influence, but it can never again exert the same power, or,

as a consequence, excite the same enthusiastic plaudits, which it

did amongst the generation who have now advanced to manhood. It then

fell upon the ear of the tired pupil of doubt and discontent. It had

a healing power; it was sweet music, and it was more--it was a charm

that allayed a troubled spirit.

Why should any poet, it may be asked, capable of moving the human

heart, exert so much more power at one period than another? He has

but his book to conjure with; his book is still, and always, with

us. The answer is very simple, and yet may be worth recalling to

mind. The book is with us, but it is only when it first comes forth

that we are all reading it _at once_. When numbers are reading this

same book at the same time, the poet shares in the advantages of the

orator: he adresses an audience who kindle each other's passions,

each one of whom contributes something to the enthusiasm of the

multitude, and receives back in his bosom the gathering enthusiasm

of the crowd. When novelty, or any other circumstance, directs all

eyes to the same page, that page is no longer read with the same

calmness, the same perspicuity and judgment, that we bring to any

other composition. The enthusiasm of friends, of neighbours, of the

whole country, is added to our own. And thus the genuine poet may

descend somewhat in public estimation, and yet retain a lasting

claim upon our admiration. It was one thing to read him when all

the world were reading too, talking of him, and applauding him; and

quite another when the solitary student takes down his book from the

shelf and reads it in its turn, and reads it separately--he and the

author alone together.

One advantage of works of the description we are now reviewing, is

that they bring together popular specimens of the poetry of very

different ages. Miss Mitford gives us a few from Cowley, and still

earlier writers. The impression they made upon us led to some trains

of thought upon the manifest progress of taste, which we have not

space here to pursue, and which would be wearisome on the present

occasion, if we were to attempt to follow them out. But we cannot

help observing that even quite secondary writers are daily producing

amongst us far better verses, in every respect, than many of those

which have acquired, and seem still to retain, a high traditional

celebrity. We are not altogether blind, we think, to the literary

foibles of our own age, although we cannot, of course, hope to

appreciate them as clearly as those who come after us will do. We

suspect that the poets of our own day are exposed to the charge of

vagueness, of being what is sometimes called mystical, of verging

too closely, in their subtilty and spiritual refinement, upon the

land of no-meaning; but this is "a better bad habit" than that

very mechanical manner of verse-making, so obvious in many of

those specimens which are handed down to us in our "Speakers," and

"Elegant Extracts," as choice selections from the old standard

poetry of England. The least possible quantity of thought seems to

have sufficed for their manufacture; one image suggests another,

either by resemblance or contrast; and thus the writer goes on,

contriving new verses, with never a new thought. If a pleasing image

is introduced, it is spoilt by the incessant _variations_ that are

forthwith composed upon the same theme; if a fine expression is

struck out, it is marred the next moment by the mechanical changes

that are rung upon it. Here is a noble line of Cowley's:--

"Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!"

But you must read it alone: the next line ruins it--

"Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!

_Hail, ye plebeian underwood!_"

Having written the word "patrician," it followed, as a

rule, that he must look about for something to be called "plebeian!"

Miss Mitford has placed amongst her extracts the song by Richard

Lovelace, supposed to be written when in prison, in which the

well-known lines occur:--

"Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage."

The mind being free, there is true liberty. A very

excellent theme for the poet. In the first verse, speaking of his

"divine Althæa," he says,

"When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered with her eye,

_The birds, that wanton in the air,

Know no such liberty_."

This is pretty; but unfortunately the birds in the air

suggest the fishes in the sea. So the next verse concludes thus:--

"When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

_Fishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty_."

We meet here also with that poem attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh,

called "The Lie," which seems to have a hereditary right to a

place in all poetical collections. Miss Mitford speaks of "its

extraordinary beauty." It is a very extraordinary delusion that

any one, with such poetry before him as the English language now

possesses, should call it beautiful. It is composed of the mere

commonplaces of satire, very rudely put together. The soul of the

speaker is sent forth to charge all the world with corruption; the

world defends itself, and then the soul gives it the lie--in other

words, repeats the charge in a manner which has been felt, it seems,

by many readers, to be peculiarly pungent. The first verse is by far

the best, and every subsequent verse seems to grow more loose and

jejune as the composition proceeds.

"Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand;

Fear not to touch the best,

The truth shall be thy warrant.

Go, since I needs must die,

And give the world the lie.

"Go tell the court it glows,

_And shines like rotten wood_;

Go tell the church it shows

_Men's good, and doth no good_:

If church and court reply,

Then give them both the lie."

And so it goes on through thirteen wrangling, jangling

verses. In some of them this virtuous soul makes a strange medley of

complaints:--

"Tell them that brave it most

They beg for more by spending,

Who in their greatest cost

Lack nothing but commanding:

And if they make reply,

Spare not to give the lie.

"Tell zeal it lacks devotion;

Tell love it is but lust;

_Tell time it is but motion_;

Tell flesh it is but dust:

And wish them not reply,

For thou must give the lie."

There must have been surely a great charm in this "giving the lie,"

to have secured for verses such as these the place they have so long

retained amongst our "Elegant Extracts."

But we are in danger of forgetting that Miss Mitford's selections

consist of prose as well as of poetry; and yet, though these occupy

a large space in her volumes, they cannot detain us long. We have

little room either for quotation or for comment.

There is, however, one extract from this portion of the work, which

we have all along promised ourselves the pleasure of giving to our

readers. When we saw the name of Richardson, the author of _Sir

Charles Grandison_, heading one of the chapters, our only impulse

was to hurry on as fast as possible. We have no other association

with his name but that of a mortal weariness, the result of a

conscientious but fruitless effort to read his novels. We laboured

conscientiously, and might been have labouring to this hour, if

a kind friend had not relieved us from our self-imposed task, by

his solemn assurance "that no living man had read them!" It was a

feat that had not been accomplished for years. When, therefore,

we saw the name of Samuel Richardson at the head of a chapter,

we ran for it--we _skipped_; but, in turning over the pages, the

name of Klopstock caught our eye, and we found ourselves reading

some letters of the wife of the poet Klopstock which had been

addressed to Richardson. They are the most charming of letters. The

foreigner's imperfect English could not be replaced with advantage

by the most classical elegance. One of these, we resolved, should

lend its interest to our own critical notice. Here it is--

"_Hamburg, May 6, 1758._

"It is not possible, sir, to tell you what a joy your letters

give me. My heart is very able to esteem the favour, that you in

your venerable age are so condescending good to answer so soon

the letters of an unknown young woman, who has no other merit

than a heart full of friendship, though at so many miles of

distance.

"It will be a delightful occupation for me, my dear Mr

Richardson, to make you more acquainted with my husband's poem.

Nobody can do it better than I, being the person who knows the

most of that which is not yet published; being always present at

the birth of the young verses, which begin always by fragments

here and there of a subject of which his soul is just then

filled. He has many great fragments of the whole work ready. You

may think that two people, who love as we do, have no need of

two chambers. We are always in the same. I, with my little work,

still, still, only regarding my husband's sweet face, which

is so venerable at that time! with tears of devotion, and all

the sublimity of the subject--my husband reading me his young

verses, and suffering my criticisms. Ten books are published,

which I think probably the middle of the whole. I will, as soon

as I can, translate you the arguments of these ten books, and

what besides I think of them. The verses of the poem are without

rhymes, and are hexameters, which sort of verses my husband has

been the first to introduce in our language; we being still

closely attached to the rhymes and the iambics.

"And our dear Dr Young has been so ill? But he is better, I

thank God, along with you. And you, my dear, dear friend, have

not hope of cure of a severe nervous malady? How I trembled as I

read it! I pray God to give to you, at the least, patience and

alleviation. Though I can read very well your handwriting, you

shall write no more, if it is incommodious to you. Be so good to

dictate only to Mrs Patty; it will be very agreeable for me to

have so amiable a correspondent. And then I will still more than

now preserve the two of your own handwriting as treasures.

"I am very glad, sir, that you will take my English as it is. I

knew very well that it may not always be English, but I thought

for you it was intelligible. My husband asked me, as I was

writing my first letter, if I would not write in French? 'No,'

said I, 'I will not write in this pretty but _fade_ language to

Mr Richardson.'...

"I wish, sir. I could fulfil your request of bringing you

aquainted with so many good people as you think of. Though

I love my friends dearly, and though they are good, I have,

however, much to pardon, except in the single Klopstock alone.

_He_ is good, really good--good at the bottom--in all the

foldings of his heart. I know him; and sometimes I think, if

we knew others in the same manner, the better we should find

them. For it may be that an action displeases us, which would

please us if we knew its true aim and whole extent. No one of my

friends is so happy as I am; but no one has had courage to marry

as I did. They have married as people marry, and they are happy

as people are happy.

"How long a letter is this again! But I can write no short ones

to you. Compliments from my husband," &c., &c.

There are several of these letters, and all distinguished by the

same tenderness and charming simplicity; and the sad fate and early

death of the writer of them are brought home to us very touchingly.

We have shown enough to justify our opinion, that every reader,

whatever his peculiar taste may be, will find something to interest

him in these volumes; and if, we repeat, he feels the least degree

of disappointment, it will only be because he compares them with

that imaginary work which he believes Miss Mitford _might_ have

written.

STRUGGLES FOR FAME AND FORTUNE.

PART III.

CHAPTER X.

I saw nothing of Catsbach for a whole week, but continued my

study of Hamlet, in perfect reliance that the so long wished-for

opportunity was at hand. Miss Claribel also was very constant at

our rehearsals. My mother's delight and admiration of us both knew

no bounds; but though she still wept at Ophelia, it was evident

that the philosophic Dane was her favourite. In gratitude for my

exertions to revenge my father's death, she forgave any little

demonstration of rudeness I made towards the Queen; and indeed

was always greatly rejoiced when I shook the cushion out of the

arm-chair in the energy of my expostulation with that ancient piece

of furniture, which generally did duty for the wicked Gertrude. In

fact, nothing could go off better than the whole play; and boxes,

pit, and gallery, all represented by one enraptured spectator,

were unanimous in their applause. There was one of the performers,

however, who did not seem to share in the enthusiasm. Miss Claribel

appeared discontented with the effects of her finest points, and

began to hint her doubts as to our ultimate success. "The words are

perfect in both of us," she said, "the actions appropriate, and all

Hamlet's own instructions to the players scrupulously obeyed"--

"Well," I interrupted, "what is there to fear? You see how our

audience here is affected."

"It is that very thing that gives me uneasiness. Nature on the

stage is quite different from nature off it. Whether it ought to

be so or not, I don't know; but it is so, and that is enough. We

give the passion of these characters as they affect ourselves, but

a real actor must give them as they affect others. We ought to

study the perspective of grief or rage, and give it so as to be

seen in the true light, not where Mrs de Bohun is sitting on that

sofa, but where crowds are seated at the farther end of a theatre;

and therefore the great and almost insurmountable difficulty of a

tragedian is to keep such a proportion in his performance as not to

appear absurdly exaggerated to people close at hand, or ridiculously

tame to the more distant spectators."

"You would, then, act by an inspiration from without, and not from

the divine fire within?" I answered, with a tone of indignation.

"No, no," she said; "keep all the fire you can; only let it be

seen and felt by all the audience. But if you trust on each

representation to the fiery impulse of the moment, you will

sometimes find it glow too much, and sometimes it will probably

be hidden in smoke. The genius feels the passion and grandeur of

a great Shaksperian creation, perhaps as entirely as Shakspeare

himself, but it is only the artist who can place it before others.

A poet could see the Venus of Canova in a block of marble, but

it was the hammer and chisel of the sculptor which gave it its

immortal form. I feel with regard to this very Ophelia that I know

every phase of her character; that I can identify myself with her

disappointments and sorrows; but the chances are, after the identity

is established, that I end by making Ophelia into Miss Claribel, and

not Miss Claribel into Ophelia."

"No, for you speak Shakspeare's language in Ophelia's situation, and

with Ophelia's feelings."

"But with Miss Claribel's lips, and shakings of the voice, and

tears in the eyes, which arise from the depths of Miss Claribel's

nature; and, in fact, I now feel convinced that, in order to

succeed on the stage, a flexibility of character that enables one

to enter into the minutest sentiments of the personage of the

drama, is by no means required, but only such a general conception

of the character as preserves the Shaksperian heroine from the

individualities of her representative; and gives to an intelligent

pit, the spectacle not of a real, living, breathing woman, born of

father and mother, but of a being of a more etherial nature--human,

yet not substantial--divine, yet full of weakness--the creation

of a splendid imagination, and not the growth of mortal years, or

supported by 'human nature's daily food.'"

My mother went on with her knitting in a most hurried and

persevering manner--a habit she indulged in whenever she was

puzzled. I might have followed her example if I had had the

knitting needles in my hand, for I did not see the drift of these

perplexing observations. Miss Claribel saw our bewilderment, and

translated her dark passages into ordinary prose by saying that her

oration had been a lecture against mannerism, or the display of the

individualities of an actor instead of a clear development of the

character represented. "It was also a theory," she added with a

smile, "that mannerism often arises from a too close appropriation

of a character, which makes a performer assimilate it with his own."

"From all which I conclude," I said, with a mortified air, "that

in spite of black bugles and silk stockings, I shall still be Mr

Charles de Bohun, and not Hamlet, prince of Denmark."

"'The hands are not the hands of Esau,'" she replied, "'but the

voice is the voice of Jacob.' Still there is no reason to despair,

nor even perhaps to augur a disappointment, for nobody can form an

opinion either as to success or failure till the experiment has been

fairly tried, and I trust we shall now not have much longer to wait."

"But with these misgivings--to call them by the gentlest name--I

wonder, Miss Claribel, you still insist on trying your fortune on

the boards."

"I made a vow, under very peculiar circumstances," she replied,

"that I would support myself by my dramatic powers; and though a

fortune of millions were to fall at my feet to-morrow, I would show

those who derided my ambition that it was justified by my talents. I

will be an actress, and the first on the stage!"

When I saw the play of her features, and heard the calm, subdued

energy of her voice, I felt little doubt that her prophecy would

be accomplished. I, however, began to feel some very lively doubts

as to Hamlet, and it required several criticisms from my mother,

and a great deal of stamping and grimacing before the mirror, to

restore me to the enjoyment of the sunshine of self-respect. At

last Catsbach returned. He sent to announce his arrival, and to

say he would join me that evening, and bring with him a literary

friend, who might be very useful to me in my dramatic career.

They came. "Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr Wormwood, the

orator and poet," said Catsbach, shaking me by the hand very warmly

himself. "You will be the best friends in the world; and Wormwood

has been very anxious for a long time to make your acquaintance."

The stranger bowed low, and so did I; not without a strong tickling

of my vanity at the wideness of my reputation. We sat down, and I

could contemplate my visitor at full leisure. He was a little man,

of whom the prevailing feature was a nose of astonishing prominence,

that overshadowed not only the remaining features of his face, but

the whole of his person. It formed the central point of his whole

organisation, and was, in fact, Mr Wormwood, without the help

either of face or figure. His brow retreated in apparent alarm,

pulling the eyebrows with it nearly to the top of the skull; his

chin also had retired into his neck, and there was nothing visible

but the one prevailing feature--a pyramid in a waste of sand. The

sudden retrocession of his brow was only seen in profile; and as he

was bald, and treated all the exposed skin of his head as forehead

up to the very crown, he presented a very intellectual appearance in

the eyes of those with whom high brows are considered "the dome of

thought, the temple of the soul." His side hair was carefully combed

off, so as to expose as great an expanse as possible; and it was

evident that great pains were bestowed on the picturesqueness and

poetry of the appearance--a small thin man, rather shabbily drest,

and with manners duly compounded of civility and pomp.

"I am delighted to know you, Mr De Bohun. I form a very high

estimate, indeed, of your genius and accomplishments; though I have

not yet had the pleasure of seeing any of your works."

"I am indebted to the good opinion--too much indebted, I fear--of

our friend, Mr Catsbach," I replied.

"By no means. You have had a play ignominiously rejected by a

brutal and unjudging world. Sir, I honour you on the triumph, and

congratulate you on the success."

The man seemed quite serious as he spoke; so I looked for some

explanation to his friend.

"Wormwood has achieved the same victory on several occasions," said

Catsbach; "and on carefully going over his plays, according to the

severest principles of art, he finds that they were ludicrously and

inhumanly laughed at, or still more inhumanly refused a place on the

stage, in exact proportion as their merits lifted them above the

intellectual level of an audience, or the narrow understanding of a

manager."

"Exactly so," said Wormwood; "and you will find it uniformly the

case. Success in literature is almost the surest sign of an author's

imbecility; and, _à fortiori_, public neglect a sign of his genius

and erudition. I have already heard that your tragedy is refused; I

hope to congratulate you on your Hamlet being hissed off the stage."

"Really, sir," I said, somewhat nettled, "I scarcely understand

whether you are in jest or earnest; and I sincerely hope to escape

your congratulations on my Hamlet, as I am not aware of any right I

have acquired to them on the fate of the play."

"Was it not returned on your hands, sir? Catsbach certainly gave me

to understand that you had attained that mark of eminence; but if

you are still in danger of being accepted, and performed, I must

withhold the expression of my praise till I see whether an audience

will be more propitious than the manager, and overwhelm your tragedy

with derision and contempt, as I have no doubt it deserves." After

accompanying this with a smile, which he evidently meant to be

propitiatory and complimentary, he seemed to retire for shelter

behind his nose, and employed himself in throwing on each side any

of the straggling locks that intruded on the sacred domain of his

expansive brow.

"What sort of fool is this you have brought?" I said to Catsbach,

availing myself of the temporary seclusion of our visitor behind the

promontory I have described.

"A tremendous author, I assure you. A poem in forty books, called

'The Brides of Solomon,' which nearly ruined him, for it never sold,

not even to the cheesemongers; a 'History of the World previous to

its Creation, an Epic in Seven Days," which it would take seven

years to read, was his next; then a dozen plays on the Roman

Emperors--a play to each--which were never acted; so now he is a

prodigious critic in the Hog in Armour, and talks German mysticism,

and gives dissertations on the Philosophy of Historic Research in a

review of Tom Thumb. I thought it as well to secure his help; for,

if you succeed, we can do without him; and if we fail, he will find

out a pleasant reason, and enlist you in the corps."

"That would be an honour I don't aspire to, and the use of such

assistance I cannot see."

"Pooh! Never mind the fool. Give him some brandy; let him talk; he

may be useful, and the day of trial is near at hand."

"You've got a theatre?" I inquired.

"Theatre, orchestra, company, and all," said Catsbach; "so let us

light our cigars, and hear some critical drivel."

Mr Wormwood, as if he had heard our conversation, emerged from his

shady situation, and turning his full face towards us, commenced a

dissertation on his principles of art, which, being founded on, and

exemplified by, his own writings, was a most comfortable doctrine

for candidates for fame, and made a pelting with oranges and apples

little less agreeable than a crowning with garlands and a shower of

bouquets.

CHAPTER XI.

"This will be a busy week, big with the fate of more than Cato

or of Rome," said Catsbach next day. "I have secured, for a very

moderate sum, the use of a theatre down the river; and dresses,

advertisements, and decorations are promised us on the most splendid

scale. All the second-rates I have already retained, being, in fact,

the regular company of the establishment; and I assure you they are

all in the highest state of excitement about the new Hamlet and your

friend Miss What's-her-name's Ophelia."

"Her name is Miss Claribel," I replied; "and I can't imagine how you

take so little interest in a person whom I consider so wonderful, as

to have forgotten it."

"Pardon, my dear fellow, I meant no offence either to her powers or

your discernment; but I probably forgot what you called her, from a

very strong idea I entertain that her name is fictitious. Don't you

remember the Montalbans and De la Roses of the Stepney Star? Her

name is Jones."

"How? Have you made any inquiry?" I exclaimed, rather astonished

myself at the interest I took in the personal history of the

beautiful actress.

"O! that's it, is it?" said Catsbach, with a shrug. "What! She has

played Ophelia to the perfect satisfaction of Polonius. She knows

you are heir of the De Bohuns."

"Polonius! My dear Mr Tooks, what can you possibly mean? You

remember that Polonius is the father of Ophelia."

"Well, I suppose Miss Claribel has a father also, or some person

who takes a tender interest in her prosperity. They are very often

captains in the army, those Poloniuses of modern life; and are a

little more strict in exacting an adhesion to promise, than the

courtier of Elsinore. I therefore advise all Hamlets to be very

cautious how they put pen to paper, or request a lady to be an

astronomical heretic as to the sun and stars, but never to doubt

their love; for, when Polonius is too old or too ill for work, there

is generally a Laertes or two who are masters of fence, and very

careful of their sisters' settlements."

"You try to put suspicions into my head. I will not yield to them. I

feel sure you would not harbour the slightest doubt of her perfect

openness and sincerity, if you only saw her for, half an hour."

"Possibly enough, if I only saw her for half an hour: what a few

days might do, is a different question. In the mean time, I will bet

your bill to Montalban that she turns out a deceiver, worming her

way into your mother's favour by false representations, and into her

son's, by arts which it does not need many months of the Stepney

Star to bring to perfection."

"Done!" I said; "with all my heart! I would stake all I have on her

perfect truth. See her, and judge for yourself."

"I shall see her at the theatre in plenty of time to prevent any

mischief; but, in the meanwhile, I rely on your assistance to-night

at a ball in Grosvenor Square, where I positively require you to

complete the band."

Our agreement was so binding that it was useless to offer any

opposition. I began to look on my flute as a frightful instrument of

degradation, and thought what a different position I ought to have

filled on my first introduction to the society of Grosvenor Square.

The position of the temporary orchestra, at the window of the middle

drawing-room, gave me a view of the whole company, both in the front

room, which was very large and lofty, and the more commodious and

luxuriously fitted up third apartment, at the left of where I sat.

A city Croesus was the giver of the feast,--a short thin man, very

pale and very silent, who stood at the centre door, and bowed coldly

and formally to his visitors as they were announced. His lady-wife,

on the other hand, was as gorgeous as feathers and silk could make

her; an immense expanse of humanity, covered with at least an equal

expanse of pride, for she sailed through the apartments as if the

weight of empires, or at least the price of kingdoms, lay on her

shoulders; and round her gathered, at respectful distance, the

lesser plumb-holders of the commercial world, like a set of yachts

and merchantmen round a first-rate at Spithead. Mrs Willox was quite

aware of the position she held, and made no secret that a cousin of

hers had married an Irish baronet, and that her aunt was the widow

of a city knight. Connected to this extent with the aristocracy, she

felt she had a right to look down on Mr Willox, who had begun his

career as purser in an Indiaman, and accordingly she looked down

upon him from morn to night. At my left hand stood two gentlemen,

pilloried so immovably in white neckcloths that they could not turn

their heads without an effort that made them red in the face. Two

young patricians they were from the India Docks, whose conversation

was very loud about their shootings in Scotland, and hunting-boxes

at Melton. This enlivening conversation, though apparently addressed

to each other, was in reality intended for me. So fond of admiration

are some of our weaker brothers, that they will angle for it

even from a professional player on the flute. They soon saw that

I attended to what they were saying, and they launched out into

various subjects, evidently for my improvement and edification. "Sir

Peter, and Lady Potts, and Miss Emmeline Potts," were announced in

stentorian sounds, and Mr Willox made his customary bow.

"That Emmeline Potts," said one of my instructors, "is no go. She

has been trying it on with Harry Buglefield of the Guards; but the

father won't fork out the coin, and Harry fights shy. He told me

so himself when I was selling him my brown filly last season in

Leicestershire."

"He ought to give her a hundred thousand down," said the other, "and

the rest when he's run to earth; but he's a jaded old screw, and

can't last long. I would advise Harry to wait."

"He says he's very willing to wait if his creditors could be

persuaded to wait too. A fine generous fellow as ever lived; and a

very intimate friend of mine. He has never paid me a farthing for

the brown filly, though he sold her to his uncle, Lord Silliveer, at

a profit of a hundred and fifty."

"Mr Hoddie, and the two Miss Hoddie's!" bawled the footman at the

drawing-room door, and the individuals announced sailed into the

room. Dancing was now in full force, so that I missed the first

appearance of the party, but I heard the criticism of the two

arbiters of fashion on my left.

"That Malvina Hoddie is the vainest little fool in England," said

the senior Petronius, whose name was Baggles, to Mr Hooker--both in

the West India trade--as expectant heirs and successors of their

respective fathers. "She believes every word that a fellow says to

her, and tells her father all the soft speeches from her partner,

as if they were proposals of marriage. Hoddie is therefore for ever

sending letters to ascertain what men's intentions are, as, after

the very warm manner in which his little darling was informed that

the hope of meeting her was the only thing that kept Mr So-and-so

from committing suicide, if not murder, it is impossible to doubt

that Mr So-and-so cannot intend to leave matters as they are."

"What an old fool," replied Mr Hooker. "Why didn't you tell me this

before? for I met her last night in Harley Street, at the Molasses';

and when she put up her absurd little face to my shirt pin, when

we were in the middle of the Row Polka, and asked if I didn't think

love in a cottage was better than a gay and festive scene like this,

I said, 'Ah! certainly, if you had the choice of the partner of your

bliss.' 'Do you mean it?' she lisped, and looked very hard at me.

'Certainly,' I said. 'Papa will be so delighted,' she continued, and

swung round, with her chin fairly resting on my shoulder; and when

the dance was over, tript up to the old snob, on which I took the

opportunity of rushing out of the house."

"You'll get a note to-morrow morning, to a certainty, demanding

what your next step is to be; and then, if you shuffle out, they

will be very industrious in circulating a report that you have been

ignominiously rejected."

"There she goes," exclaimed Hooker, "dancing with Hugs of Blackwall.

I hope she'll catch him, for it would be very awkward if she spread

any nonsensical report about my having either proposed for her, or

being rejected."

"It might be very unpleasant, old fellow," replied Mr Baggles, "if

it reached the good people at Muswell Hill."

"Mr, Mrs, and Miss Pybus!" shouted out the St Peter of the

drawing-room door; and the well-remembered name gave me such a shock

that in a moment my accompaniment attenuated itself into a feeble

whistle, and suddenly the music stopped. I looked at Catsbach,

who returned my look with no very complimentary expression, as he

discovered that the astonished dancers, and, in fact, the whole

brilliant assemblage of the fair and brave, had fixed their eyes

on the performers. The whistle, also, in which I had concluded my

musical exercise, was so irresistibly ludicrous, that there was a

wonderful display of white teeth, and a not very inaudible laugh.

"What's the matter with the band?" inquired Mr Willox, coming up,

red with rage. "Mr Conductor, you must have, at all events, one

very poor performer in your number, which, considering the sum you

charge, I consider inexcusable--quite inexcusable, sir. I insist on

your turning him out, or, at all events, telling him to be quiet the

rest of the evening."

"Encore!" exclaimed Mr Catsbach, striking his bow across the fiddle.

"Donner und blitzen!--der teufel!--now, den!" and the dancing was

once more resumed. So I sat silent and horror-struck, with my flute

lying quietly on the ledge of the music-desk before me. I had

blackened my eyebrows, and wore a false beard, with a tuft on the

lower lip. There was no chance of recognition, and I had a curiosity

to see the gentleman who had been so generous and friendly at the

examination of Puddlecombe-Regis school. I was anxious, also, to see

the beautiful little girl who had made such an impression on the

hearts of all the scholars, and deepest, perhaps of all, on mine.

"Very odd," continued Mr Baggles, renewing the conversation with

his friend, "that we should be speaking of the Pybuses at the very

moment they made their appearance. Emily, I suppose, would never

forgive you if she thought you cared a straw for Malvina Hoddie?"

"She would be very severe," replied Mr Hooker. "She's very sharp,

and can say such cutting things." At which words he seemed to

shudder, as if at some appalling recollection of her powers of

repartee.

"Why don't you read _Punch_ and _Joe Miller_, and learn to retort?

She's very young, and ought to be put down."

"She doesn't think sixteen so very young; and as she is the pet

at home, and an immense heiress, it is not so very easy to gain

a victory over her, if you were as witty as the Honourable Bob

Chockers of the Blues."

"Your true plan is to keep in with the father. He is a jolly old

ass, and very fond of high society. If you were a lord, you might

have Emily for the asking."

"I know a good many lords," replied Mr Hooker, "and that's the next

thing to being one myself. But here comes Emily and the ancients."

O, the change that two years produce on a girl of fourteen!--two

years of health, and wealth, and education! There came towards

us, from the outer drawing-room, a figure as perfect as ever was

revealed to sculptor--with intelligence and sweetness radiating from

a countenance such as no sculptor could ever fix in marble. She did

not walk, she touched the floor with her feet, and seemed to repress

a bound at every step, that would have sent her dancing in like a

Hebe holding forth a wine-cup, or like one of the nymphs of Venus,

who are all far prettier, I beg to say, than Venus herself--tripping

forward and scattering roses on the pathway of the goddess. Never

did I see so radiant a beauty, combined (when you examined the

features, the firm lip, and high imperial brow) with as much dignity

and power. The dignity and power were hidden, to be sure, below the

transparent veil of her sixteen summers; but there they were, ready

to expand when that veil was removed--a dissolving view, as it were,

where the solid outlines and severe majesty of a Grecian temple

were already faintly visible over the disappearing lineaments of a

bower in fairyland. From this glorious apparition I looked to Mr

Hooker--good features, but inexpressive; eyes blue and feeble; nose

finely chiselled, but effeminate; lips well shaped, but uneducated;

and a bearing mock-easy, mock-aristocratic--loud, conceited,

contemptible! I could have killed him with ineffable delight.

Her father was unchanged; the same stately presence, the same

benevolent smile, the same appearance of having Golconda in one

pocket, and the Bank of England in the other, and a chuckle in

his voice as if his throat was filled with guineas. How is it,

thought I, as I looked at the father and daughter, that wealth

always softens and refines the woman, while it only swells out and

amplifies the man? In the man, we see the counting-house resisting,

or ill accommodating itself to the drawing-room. There is either an

uneasy effort to escape from the ledger, or a still more painful

attempt to convert it into a book of fashionable life. He has had

fights about sugar in the morning, disquisitions with underwriters,

reports of bankruptcies in Ceylon, of short crops in Jamaica,

or a fall in the funds in Mexico, and he finds it impossible to

give himself up entirely to the careless enjoyment of an evening

assemblage of friends, and yet cannot relieve his mind by making

the objects of his thoughts the subject of his conversation. So he

takes to political talk, by way of doing the genteel, and discusses

Lord George, or Sir Robert, or Lord John, in the violent effort

he makes to escape from indigo and muscovadoes. With the daughter

how different! Here wealth merely represents the absence of those

petty and worrying annoyances which narrow the circle of thought,

when a grim vision of the weekly bills is seldom long absent from

the mind. She has magnificence, luxury, refinement all round her,

and imbibes a grace from the very furniture and ornaments of her

room. A blue sea with its tossing waves, by Stanfield, insinuates

its life and freshness into her habitual thoughts--vases from the

antique, statues from Canova, and flowers from Chiswick, are her

daily and homely companions. Her nature gets raised to what it works

in; and though her mother is not very intimate with Lindley Murray,

and her father has some strange ideas about the letter H, she is as

graceful, as pure, and elegant, as if she could trace up her lineage

to the Plantagenets.

"O, such a funny thing!" said Mr Hooker, as Emily came up to where

he stood. "Your very name made a conquest of one of the fiddlers,

and he broke down the moment you came in. He'll get such a wigging

from his commander-in-chief."

"Was it only one?" inquired Emily. "I thought the whole band had

come to a stop."

"The poor young fellow with the flute put 'em all out," replied

Hooker. "He went off in such a scream, as if the drawing-room was

hurrying right into a tunnel. He has never held his head up since."

"Poor man," said Emily; "which is it?"

"That foreign-looking, bewhiskered lad, with the pale face next to

us. A bad job for him, I guess."

"O no! As you say my coming in was the cause of his misfortune, I

must try and not let it be too serious."

In spite of all my efforts to appear ignorant of the conversation,

I found my cheeks growing alternately red and white, as anger or

confusion got the upper hand. I took up my flute, and had thoughts

of suddenly leaving the room--of knocking Mr Hooker down--of

introducing myself to Mr Pybus; but before I could make up my mind

what to do, I felt that her voice was addressed to me. I felt it, I

say, for I did not look to where she was. I looked upon vacancy, and

must have had an intellectual expression on my countenance congenial

to that interesting employment.

"He doesn't hear me," she said to Hooker. "Perhaps he doesn't

understand English."

"Hollo! you sir," said the gentleman, "don't you hear the lady

speaking to you? Do you only sprichen Dutch or parley-vous?"

His hand was laid roughly on my shoulder to call my attention to his

speech. I half sprang up, shook off his hand as if it had been a

toad and was on the point of saying or doing something very absurd,

when I was checked by the alarmed look of Emily, who evidently

thought I was going to commit murder on the unfortunate object of my

wrath.

"The dooce is in the fellow," said Mr Hooker; "he couldn't look more

lofty were he a prince in disguise."

"Will you pardon me, madam, that I did not hear you when you did me

the honour to address me?" I said.

"I merely regretted that your flute played false a few minutes ago,

and prevented me from the pleasure of hearing its accompaniment. It

seems a beautiful instrument. I suppose the keys are very apt to get

out of order?"

"Yes; and the slightest tremor in hand or breath is fatal."

"Of course, that holds good in all musical performances. Have you

professed music long?"

"Not long."

"It requires immense practice to excel in it--longer time and harder

study than would make a first classman at Oxford, I have heard it

said; and, after all, the reward of it is very poor."

I sat horror-struck. Did the girl recognise me, and twit me with the

profession I had chosen, as well as the career I had refused?

"No profession is poorly paid," I replied, "that brings with it

independence and self-respect."

"O, surely not. Do you give lessons?"

"No."

"Ah! many people refuse to become teachers from false pride, and a

notion that it degrades. I don't think so. Do you?"

What was I to say? The girl certainly had discovered me in spite of

beard and eyebrow. I looked at her full in the face. No--there was

no consciousness there. Nothing but kindness, and a strange look of

compassion, with which it was impossible to take offence, for there

was an appearance of deep interest in it, which was flattering to my

self-love.

"Madam, I have never hitherto thought of having pupils."

"O, but you will now. I have long been anxious for a flute

accompaniment to my piano. I will speak to papa."

"Miss Pybus," whispered Mr Hooker, "if you have had a long enough

conversation with that fiddler, will you fulfil your promise of

dancing with me this dance?"

"Certainly," she said--"I never draw back from my promise;" and I

was left alone. In one of the pauses of the dance I saw her speak

to her father. He expanded into a smile like a gigantic sunflower,

and chucked her under the chin, and away she went, still followed

by that beaming smile. I grew tired of watching the happiness of Mr

Hooker, and was about to slip noiselessly away--Mr Pybus glowed up

to where I stood.

"My daughter tells me you have no objection to give her a few

lessons on music, and accompany her on the flute," he said.

"I am not aware, sir," I began. But at this moment I saw Emily's eye

fixed on me as she moved towards us in the dance.

"Well, well, if she's quite satisfied with your proficiency, I am.

Come up on Friday to Muswell Hill, Holly-Hock House--Mr Pybus.

Here's my card; we have a party on that evening, and you can

begin by accompanying the piano. Hire a cab, and let me know your

expenses. We shall not fall out about terms."

"I really, sir, scarcely know--"

"O, any one will point out Holly-Hock House," said the father. "The

cabman is sure to know it."

"I am so happy you have agreed to come," said the daughter, who had

again careered within earshot of our talk. "I shall expect you on

Friday."

What was to be done? I bowed--and the bargain was closed.

CHAPTER XII.

I must have been asleep when Catsbach came home, if that night he

came home at all. Frightful dreams haunted me all night. A thousand

demons came down on me, like the Guards at Waterloo, all playing on

broken-winded flutes. Twenty Hamlets, all in sable hat and tumbled

silk stockings, whistled "To be, or not to be," through the same

detestable instrument. Then I dreamt of Emily Pybus, and instantly

she turned into Miss Claribel in the costume of Ophelia. All the

scenes of my past life jumbled themselves up into one confused mass.

Well-known faces looked in upon me from all sides of the room--Mr

Montalban, the old schoolmaster at Puddlecombe, the examiners,

Miss de la Rose, and Fitz-Edward--all piping and screaming on that

inevitable flute. It showed that a deep blow on my vanity had been

inflicted by my failure at Mr Willox's ball. I tried when I awoke to

remember whether I had taken opium, I felt so feverish and confused;

but the excitement was caused by my injured self-love; and, waking

as well as sleeping, I entertained a frantic hatred against Mr

Hooker. I determined to take counsel of Catsbach, to whom I had

hitherto confided all parts of my history, with the sole concealment

of names. I resolved to lay the whole case before him, and ask his

advice how to proceed. Should I go to Muswell Hill and take the

very office of tutor in music which I had already so indignantly

refused in literature and classics? I found I was very much changed

since then--or rather that Emily was more attractive, as a pupil,

than I had thought her at fourteen years old. There was romance

also in becoming acquainted with her in a fictitious character; and

I felt less degraded as an unsuccessful musician than I had felt

as a disappointed schoolboy. But Catsbach should decide upon it

all. In the morning, however, a note was put into my hands--"The

incident last night," he said, "makes it too dangerous for us to

attend at private parties. You will never be able to preserve your

incog. I have got some intimation of the whereabouts of Ellinor.

You won't see me for two days. Meantime, go on with rehearsal with

Miss Claribel, and on Thursday take her to Chatham. The 'Paragon

Royal' will be in ecstasy at your approach, for I have said you

will give them five pounds and a supper after the play. I shall

be there in plenty of time for the overture, but at present I am

off to Guildford, where I suspect my charmer keeps a school. The

mistress has been described to me as a perfect angel; and what can

be a closer description of my Ellinor? Take care of Miss Claribel's

arts. Beauty is a fading flower. So am I.--AUGUSTUS TOOKS." I

followed the advice contained in this letter, and perfected myself

in Hamlet. Miss Claribel herself began to have hopes of my success;

and my mother, in the midst of her rapture with my performance, only

insisted more and more on a strict preservation of my incognito. My

uncle, she said, was about to return to England. She did not know

how he might like to hear that his nephew had gone upon the stage.

The Paragon Royal had scarcely a grander sound than the Stepney

Star. Critics might be hostile; for all literary people, she heard,

were unjust; and, at all events, I was to appear as Julian Gray

till my position was fairly assured, and I could announce myself as

the Shakspeare and Garrick of modern times. I smiled at all these

cautions; I smiled at the hostility of the critics; I frowned at

the possibility of a failure; I started when I heard her allusion

to my uncle; in fact, I found that I was a regular playactor, and

that I went through the gamut of stamps and facemakings exactly

like Messrs Martingdale and Fitz-Edward. Miss Claribel laughed. "You

rehearse very well," she said, "even when you are not repeating your

part. You have immense command of feature, as much, I should say, as

Grimaldi; but then he never attempted the tragic."

"I don't quite understand your meaning, Miss Claribel," I said,

looking as dignified as Coriolanus when he banished the Romans. "Do

you mean that I grimace too much?"

"Certainly, if you grimace at all. There is no surer sign of a man

being a mere actor, than a reliance on scorning lips and upturned

eyebrows. It is not natural. The words and passion must force their

own way from the heart, and make their mark on the countenance at

the moment of the burst. When you see a man throw himself back with

his arms stretched out, his one leg forward, his mouth gaping, and

his eyes ready to fall out of his head, in expectation of a ghost

or some other dreadful sight, he is a mere conventional figure of

fright, with no terror or apprehension whatever within. He should

wait for the apparition; he should show the pit the first glimpse he

gets of it; through his eyes they should see the undefined horror

grow into consistency; and without the palpable presence either

of the murdered Banquo or of Hamlet's father, they should feel a

graveyard air about them, and see the dreadful shadow take shape and

form. This is not produced by starts and grins."

"Then, in heaven's name! how is it produced?"

"By feeling it, by seeing it, by believing it."

"I feel it, see it, believe it, and my eyebrows ascend, my mouth

opens, my arms stretch out."

"So they would if you saw a house on fire. These are the hereditary

exponents of surprise and fear; but a ghost creates a different

feeling; it ought to be differently expressed: not surprise--it is

above it: not fear--for neither Macbeth nor Hamlet are capable of

such a feeling; but awe--something very different from any other

state of mind they ever experienced before. They should move little,

speak low, make no faces, and, above all things, show that the

sentiment comes from within. It will find its way, by sympathy,

to the pit. They will see the propriety of making little noise in

presence of a murdered general or a buried king. Martingdale roars

as if he were in presence of a murdered bull, and was triumphing

over its death. He bellows as if he felt he had conquered a rival,

and now had all the noise to himself. But more: I would invest the

whole character of Hamlet with an atmosphere of the supernatural.

No man who had held parley with the dead, and was marshalled on

to a great act by invisible hands, should ever be without an

impression of the awful presence. I would make him throw inquiring

glances round, even in his talk with the gravedigger. That ghost

should never leave the eyes of the pit; present or absent, the

supernatural should rule the stage. When Hamlet is silent, he should

be _distrait_--inattentive to what is going on, and holding inward

converse with his unearthly visitor. Don't you think he went really

mad? To be sure he did. Who wouldn't, if night and day he were

haunted by a ghost, commanding him to commit a murder, to revenge a

father, to break the heart of the girl who loved him? Of course he

went mad, though I don't found that belief on the crumpled state of

his stocking, but on the broad ground that no man can see ghosts,

and hear strange voices from the other world, and see a dreadful

action forced on him of which he doesn't know the result, and yet

remain as firm in his pulse, and collected in his faculties, as a

chairman of Quarter Sessions, or an alderman at a city feast."

"I fear, Miss Claribel, you form such an estimate of an actor's

requirements, that you will never fulfil your own expectations." I

spoke with a slight tone of displeasure.

"You are very severe," she replied; "but I will fulfil my own

expectations, for they are not very high. I will enter into

Ophelia's feelings--they shall enter into me; and I and Ophelia

shall be one and indivisible."

"Now, you are not afraid of the 'mannerism' you spoke of some days

ago?"

"It is the rock people who enter into a character are apt to split

on; but I will endeavour to bear Juliet and Desdemona, and Viola,

all with a difference."

"We shall see," I said, in no good humour. "On Thursday we shall go

down to the Paragon Royal. My mother will go and be spectatress of

the fight; and, come what may, I will show the world a true reading

of the noble Dane." Miss Claribel smiled, and so did my mother,

exemplifying the numerous meanings that can be conveyed by that

position of the lips. Miss Claribel's was the more beautiful mouth,

but I liked the expression of my mother's more.

I pass over the preparations, the journey, the disappointment at the

sight of the ugly street and hideous building in which our fortunes

were to be tried. At six I was dressed and on the stage, Miss

Claribel in her dressing-room, my mother in a stage-box; not a soul

in the pit, nobody at the door; two orange-women standing beside

their baskets near the orchestra, and the whole house, as seen by me

through a hole in the green curtain, deserted and uncomfortable in

the extreme. The manager, a most polite little gentleman, who was

great in comedy, and enacted the part of Osric, was at my side. I

pointed out the discouraging aspect of the theatre. "O, you'll see

in half an hour," he said, "crowds filling every seat. My Osric is a

poor part, but very popular."

Polonius joined us, an old man, who at Christmas was a great

favourite as Pantaloon in the pantomime.

"It will be a great house, I feel sure," he mumbled through his

toothless gums. "Old Jack Ivory as Polonius is sure to draw." Not

one of them attributed the expected multitude in any respect to the

debutant in Hamlet, or the beauty of the Ophelia.

"The worst thing I see about it is, that the band with your friend,

the foreign gentleman, has not arrived," said Count Osric; "and if

a Paragon audience are disappointed, they always throw ginger-beer

bottles at the manager's head. I wish we had opened in Coriolanus: I

should have worn a helmet."

"I feel quite certain my friend, Mr Catsbach, will not disappoint

us," I said; "and from the present appearance of the boxes, pit,

and gallery, I think I may congratulate you on the small number of

bottles you will have to sustain."

"Wait a little, I beg, my dear sir; Osric has never failed me yet,

and the artisans and mechanics are not able to appear here much

before seven."

"The nobility and gentry?" I inquired.

"O, some of the garrison will come in after mess, at half price, in

time to make bets on the fencing scene."

"I am glad they take so deep an interest," I began.

"Lor' bless ye! they very often jump on the stage and take a turn

with Laertes themselves; and once a very curious thing happened:

Two of the young officers gave ten shillings apiece to the Hamlet

to tire Laertes down. Hamlet was an excellent fencer. He wouldn't

on any account accept the button on any part of his clothes--there

was no palpable hit--the whole house took a great interest in the

Shaksperian drama, and half-crowns were posted in all parts of

the boxes on the bout. I was afraid the buttons might come off

the foils, and made them exchange their rapiers for single-stick.

Laertes at last planted a hit on Hamlet's nose, and upwards of £20

changed hands on the occasion. Hamlet drew every night after that

for three weeks, until the colonel-commandant interfered, and we

were driven from the bard of Avon to the "Miller and his Men." There

is no freedom for the legitimate drama; but I hope to-night, sir,

the tragic muse will be reinstated on these boards. I expect a great

house, for I have let it be pretty generally known that you are a

master of fence."

"If the worst comes to the worst," said Polonius, "and the fiddlers

don't make their appearance, I think old Jack Ivory can always

appease a storm. Pray, sir, do you play on any instrument?"

"The flute," I said, hesitatingly, and with a look of inquiry what

the object of his question could be.

"That makes it quite safe," replied Polonius; "you shall accompany

me by way of an overture, for there ain't a man in England gets more

applause in 'Hot Codlins' than myself."

I tried to laugh, as if I considered the proposition an excellent

joke; but I have every reason to believe the wretch was serious. I

began to perceive that every person engaged on the stage, though

only to deliver a message, thinks himself the principal performer;

he also is of opinion that there is no disparity of rank upon the

boards, but that what the clown does, may also be done by the

tragedian. I have no doubt Diavolo Antonio looked down on Edmund

Kean. I was on the point of renewing the conversation, when an

enormous noise at the pit-entrance attracted my notice. A thrill

of gratification came into my heart. All regard for Shakspeare is

not yet extinct, in spite of fencing Hamlets and ignorant managers.

The rush into the pit was prodigious. I looked through the green

curtain once more. Her Majesty's ship, the Periander, 44, had

been paid off that morning, and the gallant crew and their wives

filled every bench. The majority of the valiant defenders of their

country were polygamists to the most undeniable amount, and seemed

rather proud of the extent to which they broke the law. Those who

rejoiced in single blessedness limited themselves to one wife. The

trebly blessed were numerous, and the boatswain had six to share

his heart and fortunes. Here I perceived the manager's perils, but

not from ginger-beer. There were cans of gin and rum, that would

have supplied a tavern for a week. Single bottles of whisky were

brandished in the air, as on festive occasions landsmen wave their

hats; and in a short time the calls for music became overpowering,

and the manager sent secretly for a company of marines and a

division of the police.

"If that hairy-cheeked foreigner doesn't come," said Osric, with

unaffected fear, "there will be a row, like the boarding of an

enemy's ship. They always think us foreigners when we wear slashed

doublets; and in the war time they shipped off my predecessor, who

was acting a Parisian marquis, in a cartel that was just starting

with a batch of French prisoners to be exchanged. The poor man died

in the hulks at Toulon, for he had been counted against an English

captain, and they kept him in captivity because the captain refused

to return."

I looked at my watch: it only wanted ten minutes to seven, and the

storm rising every moment. If Catsbach plays me false, I shall

rescue my mother, I thought, and fight my way into the street. I

looked at my sword; it was of silver-gilt tin, and couldn't have

committed manslaughter on the body of Tom Thumb. A universal cheer

proclaimed an arrival; and I declare the first scrape of the fiddle

was the sweetest music I ever heard. It gave quite a new turn to

the behaviour of the sailors. They ordered "God save the Queen" and

"Rule Britannia," and then roared lustily for a hornpipe. Catsbach

gratified them in whatever they asked. At last they called for

a gangway to be placed from the orchestra on to the stage, and

proposed commencing the dramatic proceedings of the evening by a

miscellaneous country dance. This, however, was not accorded--the

little bell rang--and the serious overture began.

At this moment Mr Wormwood, out of breath, and enraptured apparently

with my approaching triumph, caught me by the hand. "Let me

introduce you," he said, "to the three greatest critics in Europe.

We have hurried from London to see your _debût_. I have the highest

opinion of your genius, and feel sure you will be most unanimously

and ignominiously cat-called--as _we_ were."

The three gentlemen bowed, and retired into the stage-box beside my

mother, to write a description of my reception. I was too indignant

to speak, and suddenly the curtain rose, and the play began. The

ghost was received with the most vociferous applause, and seemed

to strike the naval mind as the liveliest personage in the play.

His silence was considered a remarkably comic piece of character,

and evidently assumed to cover his forgetfulness of the words. Many

exhortations were offered to him to take another spell at the book,

or spin them a yarn out of his own head. Allusions were also made to

his obesity, which evidently did not accord with the forecastle's

idea of a ghost; and when, in spite of all the advice and suggestion

that had been offered him, he maintained an imperturbable silence,

they got into a violent state of indignation at having been

defrauded of the speeches; for they could not believe it possible

for a personage to stalk across the stage and look so very solemn

without having anything to say. Whereupon Count Osric went forward

and soothed them by a solemn promise that in some of the succeeding

scenes the ghost would be as talkative as they chose. Satisfied with

this, they received the opening scene of the court of Denmark with

several rounds of applause, which were duly responded to by each of

the performers on the stage.

With a dignity befitting the crown-prince of a gallant nation,

I maintained my position on the left of the king, and made no

recognition of the welcome offered me in so tumultuous a manner. I

observed an orange glide within a few inches of my face, and splash

on the back of the royal chair; but affairs advanced so rapidly from

this point that I had no time to take notice of the insult. When

the king had arrived at about the middle of the first speech, a

quarrel took place in the pit between two captains of the maintop,

and a challenge was rapidly exchanged. A sudden whistle from the

boatswain called attention to the interesting fact, and the play was

suspended for a few minutes till the belligerents gave and received

the satisfaction which their injured honours required. While the

two captains were belabouring each other, to the admiration of all

the audience, the manager slipt up to where I was standing, and

whispered, "I feel greatly obliged for the five-pound note, and also

for the three guineas you have left for the supper to-night; but my

advice to you is to slip off the stage as fast as you can; convey

the lady who accompanied you to the coach-office--and----"

"Why?" I said. "This riot will soon be over."

"A worse is coming; for a dreadful disappointment has occurred. Do

as I advise you, or I won't answer that we shan't all be ducked in

the river--lady, too, if she's found out to belong to your party."

"And not a word of my part yet spoken! Perhaps they will be stilled

when they hear the voice of Hamlet."

"My dear sir, they've taken a disgust to you already. If you spoke,

they would throw the benches at your head. There! one of the men is

going to give in, and I must announce that the play is changed for

three farces and some rope-dancing."

I saw the pit looking rather excited, and Bill Hatches was declared

the winner. I was hurrying off the stage to change my clothes. I

was stopt by Mr Wormwood and his friends. "Your attitude, my dear

friend, offended them at once. It was sublime. Princes should always

stand on tiptoe; it was above their comprehension. They have stamped

you a great and original genius with the seal of their unqualified

disapprobation. I congratulate you heartily, and feel sure of your

unanimous reception in the brotherhood we have established, called

the Unappreciables--entrance fee one guinea--and undying hatred to

successful mediocrity."

"I have no time for such offensive absurdity," I said, and hurried

away, in imitation of the whole of the Danish court, which had gone

off to dress for the rope-dancing and the farce. I merely slipped

my cloak over the spangled grandeurs of Elsinore, and was rushing

towards the dressing-room of the ladies, to warn Miss Claribel,

and place her along with my mother in safety from the predicted

storm, when I heard Count Osric, now dressed as a heavy father, in a

domestic drama of George I.'s time, addressing the audience, which

was for a moment hushed in grim repose to hear what he had to say.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "such a grievous calamity has

befallen this establishment, that it is impossible on this occasion

to proceed with the play of Hamlet."

"Pipe all hands to quarters," shouted a voice at the end of the

pit; "prepare for boarding;" and the obedient crew stood up, ready

to cast themselves over the side of the pit, and carry the orchestra

and stage, bottle in hand.

"The fact is, that a serious mishap has occurred to the

representative of the innocent and beautiful Ophelia."

"'Vast with all that palaver," cried a hundred voices. "Why don't

you clap all sail on her, and bring her into line?"

"She has this moment eloped with one of the fiddlers," resumed the

manager, "and we throw ourselves on your indulgence, to allow us to

withdraw the immortal Hamlet, and offer you 'Hot Codlings,' by your

old friend Jack Ivory, in its place."

"Scoundrel!" I said, and seized the manager by the neckcloth, as he

came behind the scenes after this eloquent address. "What do you

mean by such ribald impertinence, inventing such an infamous lie

to save your wretched theatre, and more wretched carcass, at the

expense of Miss Claribel's reputation?"

"It's a perfect truth, sir; they're off; the dirty foreigner led her

out of the theatre, and told me not to expect them again. I'll hold

him answerable for all damage."

I contented myself with giving the heavy father a hearty shake;

sent round for my mother to join me behind the scenes; and amazed,

bewildered, horror-struck, and sick at heart, conducted her to the

coach-office, leaving the manager to sustain the assaults of his

exasperated audience as he best could.

"Miss Claribel has deceived us," said my mother.

"Not me," I said bitterly, "I suspected her to be no better than

she should be, from the strange notions of acting she entertained.

Besides, Catsbach warned me of her from the beginning; and betted he

would prove her to be an impostor and hypocrite. He has won his bet."

"I can't believe it yet," replied my mother; "but time will show."

"If Catsbach ever comes into my presence," I said, "I will horsewhip

him like a hound."

"My dear," said my mother, "I am afraid you admire Miss Claribel too

much yourself."

"Psha!" I replied, "I hate her, and Catsbach more; and if I ever see

them, I will tell them so."

CHAPTER XIII.

I saw them often and often after that, but never told him anything

of the sort. On waking next morning, I saw the bugled satins and

silver-buckled shoes of the Prince of Denmark, in which I had

performed my hurried retreat to London, lying near my bed. They

were like basilisks, and offended my eyes, though they did not

altogether strike me dead. Disappointed in my hopes of theatric

glory, I held a calm consultation with myself on the state of

affairs. It took several days to come to a final resolve, for there

were many counsellors who interested themselves in the question,

and held fierce debates on every point laid before them. Above all,

there was the Hope of nineteen, and the Vanity of a spoilt child.

How warmly they argued the matter against the cold objections of

common sense and experience, I need not tell. Most people have gone

through the dreadful process of awakening to the knowledge of their

own inferiority. The pertinacity of that spirit of self-inquiry,

that strips off a man's delusions one by one, "till fold after fold

to the piercing air," his mediocrity, dulness, and insufficiency

are all laid open, brings with it, at one time or other of our

existence, a wholesome lesson that alters our whole being. There

are probably not two neighbourhoods in England that do not boast of

embryo Shakspeares and future Lord Chancellors--clever, flippant,

superficial young fellows, who, relying on the real abilities which

they possess, and comparing themselves only with the sober old

curate, the uncultivated surgeon, the turnip-growing squire, and

a bevy of old maids and dowagers, believe that, when the world is

opened to their ambition, they will retain the same superiority in

that wider field which they have undoubtedly achieved at home.

Their aspirations being greater than their powers, they gain fresh

food for their self-conceit, from the failures of other men; and,

comparing what they fancy they can do with what they see actually

done by others, they look down with ill-disguised contempt on

authors whom they can only half understand, and betake themselves

to criticism before they have learned to write. The more foolish

of them, and the vainest, persist in their fancied superiority, or

attempt to drag down others to the miserable level to which they

feel they have sunk themselves. The wiser and honester shake off

these sable stains, measure their stature with that of the great

and good, and give up the race before they have either become

broken-winded or are made a laughing-stock to the spectators. I took

a pair of scissors and deliberately reduced the small-clothes of

Hamlet into shreds. I removed the buckles from His Royal Highness's

shoes, and used them as comfortable slippers. But I did more: With

self-devoting hands, I laid Hengist and Horsa on the fire; saw the

noble speeches of heroes and heroines ascend the chimney in smoke,

and sat and watched the shrivelled-up paper as it alternately glowed

and blackened on the top of the coals. It was delightful; and I

felt happier than if I were bowing from a private box, amidst the

unanimous acclamations of the Stepney Star.

A week had elapsed since the display at the Paragon Royal. I started

up all of a sudden, rushed up stairs, dressed as if for an evening

party, took my flute in my pocket, and was going out of the house.

"What are you going to do?" said my mother, alarmed at the excessive

energy of my proceedings.

"I'll tell you when I come back," I said. "I am going to look out

for honest occupation." A cab hurried me rapidly to Muswell Hill.

We entered a handsome gateway. Mr Pybus was at home, and I was

ushered into the drawing-room. There was nobody in the room when I

entered. Two candles were burning on the mantel-piece, and left the

other portions of the magnificently furnished and large apartment

completely in shade. I had announced myself merely as a gentleman

who wished to see Mr Pybus. I had hoped for a private interview,

in which to explain to him, if possible, the reasons of my past

conduct, and ask him to accept me as a clerk in his counting-house.

My pride was broken at last, and I never entertained either a

thought or a wish that he would renew his offer of sending me to

the university. I determined even to accommodate myself so entirely

to my altered prospects, as to undertake the office of music-master

to his daughter. I was immersed in these meditations, when I was

suddenly conscious of a presence at my side. It was Emily, who had

slipt in over the luxurious carpet, without her footfall being heard.

"I expected you last week," she said, without the least apparent

surprise at my altered appearance; for I had discarded, of course,

the false beard and mustaches that preserved my incognito in

Grosvenor Square. "You are faithless to your engagement with papa;

but I felt sure you would come."

"At one time I had determined never to present myself at your house;

but late events have opened my eyes to the folly of my conduct. I am

come to thank your father for his great kindness."

"Not at all: it's all my doing and mamma's; and now we take a

greater interest in you than ever. It was a dreadful business that

murder of poor Hamlet at the Paragon."

"You amaze me!" I began. "How have you possibly heard of that

ridiculous catastrophe?"

"O! we know all about it--and about the Hengist and Horsa, and the

Stepney Star. Some bill, or other extravagance of yours, has come

into papa's hands in the way of business, and he has paid the full

value of it to Mr Montalban. So he laughs, and says he is your

creditor now; and if you don't give good lessons, he will put you in

prison."

"I wasn't aware that my proceedings were of so much importance," I

said, "as to have required such a number of spies to find them out."

I suppose I frowned.

"You needn't be angry again," she replied. "You will be soon

beginning to remember that your name is De Bohun."

"That, at all events," I said, with a lingering feeling of pride,

"is a satisfaction of which it is impossible to deprive me."

"Don't be too sure of that," replied Emily, with a gay and slightly

sarcastic laugh. "We may have as many dramatic surprises here as

in a tragedy. But, in the mean time, till papa comes up from the

dining-room, do accompany me on the flute."

She flew rather than walked, towards the piano, seated herself in a

moment, and dashed into a florid piece of music, which it required

all my skill on the instrument to keep up with. "Bravo!--bravo!"

she said, at intervals; "you play beautifully. This is better than

Hamlet. What would Fitz-Edward say--or Miss de la Rose?"

I stopt. "Will you save me from insanity," I said, "or prevent me

from thinking you a witch, by telling me how you know all those

horrid names?"

"Perhaps I'm a clairvoyante--perhaps you are magnetised; but go

on--I can't lose the concert."

So we played--turned over page after page--tried overtures, and

operas, and dances--and took no note of anything, except what we

were engaged on. Suddenly I was aware that we were no longer in

the dark--the room was comfortably lighted. We were also no longer

alone. While absorbed in our music, several persons had entered the

room, and were standing behind our chairs in deep attention.

"Capital!--capital!" cried a well-known voice, laying a hand roughly

on my shoulder; "better a hundred times than your attempts on

Shakspeare, or your triumphs at the Paragon Royal."

I looked round, and saw my friend Catsbach, or rather Mr Tooks,

for he was shorn of his foreign ornaments, and was an honest,

plain-faced, handsome English gentleman.

"You don't know Mrs Tooks," he continued. "Ellinor, my love, give

your hand to Mr de Bohun."

Miss Claribel stood before me, radiant with beauty, and leaning on

Mr Tooks's arm.

"You are his Ellinor?" I stammered, endeavouring to recall the

story of Catsbach's woes. "You left him at the door of the

church--he advertised for you in vain--went in search of you to a

boarding-school at Guildford--"

"And found her, my boy, in the act of going on the stage as

Ophelia--wrote a penitent letter to this good lady, her aunt, Mrs

Pybus--was accepted as a returned prodigal--and here I introduce

you to our family circle:--my uncle, Mr Pybus--my cousin, Emily--my

grandaunt, or grandmother, I forget which, Mrs Bone, from Bath;

for she is my relation through my wife. And, now that we are all

at home, we had better consult what is best to be done." We did

consult, and the result was satisfactory. I declined the army--I

declined the university--I accepted the chair in Mr Pybus's office,

vacated by my friend Tooks. I was to continue my accompaniments in

music, and my lessons in Latin and mathematics every Saturday, and

determined to begin on the very next morning.

The whole party were delighted, especially the old woman from Bath,

who, after a minute inquiry into my father's Christian name--the

curacy he held--the name of his father, and dates of births and

marriages--fell on my neck in the midst of supper, and claimed me

for a second or third cousin. Oh! the agony of this last blow! What!

part with my connection, through twenty descents, with the Norman

knights--the English nobles--the heroes, warriors, statesmen--who

illustrated our family tree!

"I never had any relations of the name of De Bohun," said the old

lady; "but I remember my husband's uncle, which was George Bone,

which was senior partner in the firm, Bones, Brothers, in Milsom

Street, the dentists, took lofty notions into his head, and sold

his share of the business. He brought up his children with very

fine ideas, and was always engaged making out pedigrees proving he

was somebody else. So his son went the same way, and called himself

De Bohun, and never took any notice of his cousins, Philip and

Sampson, which carried on the business--which Ellinor is daughter

of Sampson, who died when she was a baby. And at last this Mr De

Bohun, as he called himself, he sent his son to Oxford, and a fine

gentleman he was, and believed all the rubbishy old names that his

father and grandfather had written out on parchment, and married the

sister of that good Colonel Bawls, which he looked down on, we used

to hear, because she wasn't a De Bohun; and so, my dear young man,

you see you are a near relation of Ellinor and me, and we are truly

happy to make your acquaintance."

I am afraid I did not respond so warmly as was expected to this

family recognition. Emily touched me on the shoulder--"Never mind,"

she said, "whether your name be De Bohun or not. Behave as if it

were De Mowbray. It will make no difference to any of us here."

A day or two reconciled me to my fate, especially as Saturday came

very rapidly round, and sometimes forced itself into the middle of

the week. I devoted myself to my new pursuits--was as attentive a

clerk as if I had never heard the name of a theatre--rose gradually

to a confidential post in the counting-house--and saw the origin of

the interest taken in me by Mr Pybus. He was agent for my uncle,

the general, and had instructions and authority from him to advance

whatever might be required for the comfort of my mother or my

advancement in life. I need not tell how kindly I was treated by

the Indian warrior when he came home on a special mission to the

Government--how I refused his offer to accompany him back to the

scene of his command--and how he winked and poked me in a facetious

manner in the ribs as he perceived the cause of my wishing to remain

in England. Modesty had now taken possession of me in place of the

vaulting ambition which had so often made me fall on the other side.

I never ventured to put into words the sentiments that filled my

heart with regard to Emily Pybus. A clerk in her father's office--a

dependant on my uncle's bounty--a rejected author--a broken-down

stage-player--I considered myself too far below her in position to

aspire so high.

But time rolled on--the Saturdays came round with unfailing

regularity; and when I was twenty-three, my kind old uncle, who had

distinguished himself greatly by some prodigious increase of the

Company's revenue, and probably his own, wrote me a letter to say he

entirely approved of my conduct--that he had accepted a baronetcy,

and got a clause inserted in the patent insuring the reversion of

the title to me;--and, in short, about three months ago, we sent

round to our friends a couple of nice little calling-cards, tied

together with a silver thread, on which was printed Mr and Mrs

Charles Bone, Wilton Place, Belgravia.

SKETCHES FROM THE CAPE.[2]

[2] _The Cape and the Kafirs; or, Notes of Five Years' Residence in

South Africa._ By ALFRED W. COLE. London, 1852.

In the year 1841, a young Englishman, without fortune, friends,

or prospects in his own country, not unwisely resolved to seek

all three in a land where the race of life is run upon a less

crowded course than in thickly-peopled Britain. He embarked for

the antipodes. His ship must have sailed on a Friday--unless,

indeed, we may attribute the mishaps and disasters she encountered

to a deficient outfit and an incompetent captain. Compelled to put

into Portsmouth to amend bad stowage, she next cast anchor--after

being buffeted by storms, wearisomely becalmed, and visited by

the small-pox--in a Brazilian port, there to take in live-stock

and fresh provisions. Once more at sea, it was soon discovered

that these--for whose reception three weeks had been idled away

at Bahia--would scarcely last three weeks longer. So a pause must

be made at the Cape. The ship was a tub, the captain a bungler,

the lighthouse (since removed) was invisible where most needed.

The vessel struck on the rocks of Table Bay, upon which, all night

long, the breakers furiously hurled her to and fro. The darkness

was profound, the ship full of water, rescue seemed hopeless, the

boom of the signal-guns was drowned by the roar of the storm. At

last succour came. Five gallant fellows perished in bringing it, but

perished not in vain. Crew and passengers were taken off the wreck.

Life was saved, but goods were lost. After five tedious months,

which, with ordinary skill and foresight, should have brought the

young emigrant to his final destination, he found himself stranded

at the Cape, instead of landed at New Zealand; his clothes, money,

letters--all he possessed, in short--buried, fathoms deep, beneath

the stormy billows of the South Atlantic.

To this calamity are we indebted for the spirited volume before us.

The proverb about "an ill wind" exactly fits the occasion. After a

while a ship was chartered for those who chose to proceed to New

Zealand. Mr Cole was not of the number. He had conceived a liking

for the Cape Colony, and proposed remaining there. He did so for

five years, with what amount of profit we are not informed, but

evidently passing his time pleasantly, and departing with regret. He

made himself well acquainted with Cape life in most of its phases,

and amongst all classes; and he has cleverly transferred to paper

the vivid impressions he received.

How Mr Cole occupied himself during his residence at the Cape does

not appear from his narrative. His active disposition, as well as

his own statement of his slender means, forbids the supposition of

rambling for mere amusement's sake. Whatever his employment, he

travelled much, and visited most parts of the colony, preferring

the rural districts to the towns. The first glimpse he gives of

South African scenery is pleasing enough. With a fellow-passenger he

drives out to Rondesbosch, "the Richmond of Cape Town," a pleasant

cluster of handsome houses, with large gardens. Thence, along an

excellent road, to Wynberg, another agreeable village.

"Beyond Wynberg the road loses its trim, pretty, artificial

appearance, and becomes more African and barren. No, not barren

either; for who could apply such a term to land covered with an

innumerable variety of Cape heaths in full bloom?--aloes, wild

stocks, and a thousand other delicate and lovely plants, making

a natural carpet, more beautiful than all the corn-fields and

gardens of civilisation. This road leads to Constantia, famed

for the delicious wine to which it gives its name."

A history of celebrated vineyards would be a work attractive alike

to the antiquarian and to the _bon vivant_. Strange that it has

never been written, considering how many it would interest. Its

author would not fail to note the peculiarity of certain small spots

of ground, differing to all appearance in no way from hundreds of

thousands of neighbouring acres, save in the quality of their grape

juice. Near at hand, the Rhine ascending, St John's Mount furnishes

an example. Far south of the line, thousands of leagues removed,

Constantia's hill repeats the marvel.

"There are but three farms, situated on the side of a hill,

where the grape producing this beautiful wine grows. It has

been tried, but without success, in various other parts of

the colony. Even a mile from the hill, the wine is of a very

inferior description. The hill is named after the wife of one

of the former governors of the Cape--whether from the lady's

too great fondness for its productions, history sayeth not.

The Constantia wine-farmers are rich men, and have elegant

and well-furnished houses, surrounded by gardens and their

vineyards. The names of the three farms and their proprietors

are--High Constantia, Van Reenen; Great Constantia, Cloete;

Little Constantia, Coligne. A visit to them is a treat."

So thought Jones, a thirsty Cockney, who shared the buggy with Mr

Cole. The "pikeman" grinned as they paid the toll and inquired the

way to the renowned vineyards. "He hoped," he said, "they'd look

as well when they comed back." A demand for an explanation was

met by the deprecatory reply, "that he meant no offence, but had

see'd many look very different arter swallowing the sweet stuff up

there--that's all." Whereupon Jones, indignant, savagely whipped the

hired nag, and they soon reached Great Constantia.

"We visited the vineyards, which are kept beautifully neat and

trim; and we then went to the storehouses, which are models of

cleanliness. Here we tasted a dozen varieties of the delicious

wine; and I began to have an exact idea of the pikeman's

observation. Nothing can be more seductively delicious than the

purest and best Constantia. I may remark, however, that I have

never tasted a perfect specimen of it in England. The greater

quantity of so-called Constantia, sold in London, is sweet

Pontac, a very inferior wine, grown all over the Cape colony--at

least, wherever there are wine farms.

"We afterwards visited the other two farms, and found everything

equally handsome, liberal, clean, and well-ordered; and we

tasted all the varieties of each of these also. I now began to

have a _very_ clear idea of the pikeman's meaning."

So did Jones, perhaps, when, with fishy eyes and uncertain gait, he

climbed the buggy, assumed the reins, and drove homewards, shaving

every gate he passed through and corner that he turned. At a certain

distance from the vineyard he informed his companion that the sweet

wine was "stunning," and, having expressed that opinion, astounded

him by the announcement that he had ordered three butts of the best

to be sent to his (Cole's) lodgings, which consisted of two very

minute rooms. Besides the difficulty of stowing so large a store

of liquor, Mr Cole made no doubt it would be booked to him, and

was equally certain he should have to pay for it, Jones being a

shipwrecked passenger, and copperless Cockney, already in his debt.

His first impulse was to pitch Jones out of the gig; his second,

to countermarch and countermand. But Jones, positively refusing to

return, drove valiantly onwards.

"After driving for about an hour along what seemed to me a very

circuitous route, we were approaching the entrance to some

grounds, very like those we had quitted. On coming still nearer,

Jones remarked that 'he did not recollect passing this d----d

place before.' I did. So I suggested that I would just run in

and ask the way. I left him for a minute, and returned with full

instructions as to our route, and with much persuasion managed

to keep my friend to the right road to Cape Town. I had no fears

about the wine now, for we had returned to Constantia, and I had

countermanded the order. Jones knew nothing about it next day."

Much valued by the wine-merchant, Cape wines, as a class, and with

the single exception of Constantia, are odious to the English

consumer. Theirs is the dog's misfortune;--they have a bad name,

which the growers do their best to keep up by sending to the

mother-country the worst product of their vines. Mr Cole frequently

pointed out to them the bad policy of this. The answer he got was,

that Cape wine is in such disesteem that it is bought in England

without distinction of vintage or class, the worst fetching as good

a price as the best. Yet, according to Mr Cole, there is a vast

difference in the qualities; and even the best are susceptible

of great improvement, if properly managed. On the subject of

wine-growing at the Cape, he makes some shrewd observations, which,

if ever the unlucky colony is restored to tranquillity and delivered

from dread of Kafirs, may be well worth the consideration of

speculators conversant with that class of cultivation.

"There is a great similarity between the Cape and the Madeira

grape. Both are cultivated much in the same manner, and in both

the natural acidity is great; but the grand point of difference

between the two is in the time of gathering the grapes. In

Madeira they are not gathered till so ripe that many begin to

fall, and are withered from over-ripeness: these, of course, are

rejected. By this means a smaller amount of wine is obtained

from a vineyard than would have been produced had the grapes

been gathered earlier; but the quality of the wine is improved

beyond conception. Every grape is full, ripe, and luscious,

and the wine partakes of its quality. Nothing can prove more

clearly the necessity of the grape being fully, and even _over_

ripe, than the difference of the wine produced on the north

side of the island of Madeira, where this perfection of the

grape can scarcely be attained, and that grown on the south

side: the latter is luscious and rich; the former is Cape, or

little better. Now, at the Cape, the object of the farmer always

is to get the greatest _quantity_ of wine from his vineyard;

and consequently he gathers his grapes when they are barely

ripe, and none have fallen or withered; whereby he fills his

storehouses with wine full of that acidity and vile twang which

all who have tasted shudder to recall. Some of the wine-growers

in the colony have lately pursued a different course, and with

vast success."

English colonists these, not Dutch, for the boers are wedded to old

systems. Had the first settlers at the Cape been Frenchmen from

Rheims and Bordeaux, instead of Dutchmen unused to more generous

drink than swipes and Geneva, the vintage of South Africa might now

be renowned instead of despised. One of Mr Cole's fellow-passengers

was a Frenchman, from Champagne, a smart, active fellow, who

had followed all sorts of occupations, from teaching French to

commanding a privateer. Shipwrecked and penniless, but far from

dejected, he prevailed on a companion in misfortune, an Englishman,

who had means, to take a wine-farm, and him for a partner. The

Cape champagne they made was excellent, and often since, Mr Cole

pathetically declares, when swallowing extract of gooseberries at

a public or private dinner-table, in England, he has sighed for a

bottle of their vintage. He sums up the subject as follows:--

"From observation and experience, I am inclined to think that a

company might be profitably established, here or at the Cape,

for cultivating the vine in the colony, and importing its

produce to Europe; but they must send out their own labourers

and superintendents, carefully selected from the best vineyards

in Germany or France; take care to adopt the Madeira plan of

gathering the grapes; agitate for a reduction of the duty on the

wine, which is too high; and do all they can to get rid of their

greatest obstacle--a bad name in the market."

Disguised as sherry or Madeira, who can tell how much Cape he

annually swallows? Port wine, too, is adulterated with a red Cape

called Pontac. Were the cultivation of the African wines improved,

and the best qualities imported, there is no reason why we should

despise, in its neat dress, that which we have so often accepted

under Spanish or Portuguese colours. And certainly it would be more

satisfactory to drink the produce of a British colony than that

of countries who show so little disposition to reciprocate the

liberality of our tariffs, and our immense consumption of articles

of their growth. Nor is the vine the only plant which, with proper

care and encouragement, might, in Mr Cole's opinion, and with every

appearance of probability, be raised at the Cape, to an extent that

would greatly diminish the necessity we are now under of purchasing

from the thankless foreigner.

"On the very spot where the village of Somerset now stands,

TOBACCO was first raised in the colony, under the care of a Dr

Makrill. Like almost everything else, it grew and flourished

admirably in a Cape soil, and is now raised in considerable

quantities in various parts of the colony. It is called

Boer's tobacco, to distinguish it from the various species of

the imported weed. Here, again, the want of proper energy,

so constantly observable in the colonists, whether Dutch or

English, is displayed. Every man smokes--and immense numbers

also chew--tobacco. The Hottentots of both sexes take heaps

of snuff--not, by the way, up their nostrils, but in their

mouths!--and yet tobacco has to be imported to a considerable

extent into a country which might not only grow enough for its

own wants, but sufficient to supply half the world besides.

Every one admits the fact; but the answer is, 'Want of labour,'

that eternal complaint of South Africa. There is much truth in

it; but there is a considerable 'want of energy' also."

There is no manifest reason why, with care and good cultivation,

we should not grow cigars at the Cape, such as might successfully

vie--if not with the _regalias_ of the Havannah--at least with the

indigenous cabbage, and with the coarser Cuban and South American

weed. If an ardent sun be one essential for obtaining a fine

description of tobacco--and we are led to suppose so by considering

the latitudes whence the best sorts come, and the inferiority of

those grown in Europe--there is no want of it in certain districts

of Cape Colony. At Fort Beaufort the heat is so terrible that

the sentries' buttons are said to melt and drop off. But it is a

delightful peculiarity of the Cape climate, that, even in these

desperately hot places, it is always healthy. As regards the "want

of labour," alleged by the colonists as an excuse for neglecting

many valuable sources of profit, it is only to be repaired by

encouraging a steady stream of emigration from the mother country to

the Cape. The general and most important impression left upon the

reader's mind by Mr Cole's book--which, although light and often

playful in style, contains valuable information, and is the book

of a sensible man--is, that, with its fertile soil and beautiful

climate, it ought to become a most prosperous and flourishing

country. Immigration and good government are all it wants. Of

course, neither of these has it any chance of obtaining so long as

Lord Grey rules its destinies; but we may venture to hope that he

will not do so long. The Cape, Mr Cole justly observes, has never

been a "pet" colony with our Colonial administration. Incompetent

governors, threats of convict importations, and Kafir wars, have

rendered it unpopular with every class of emigrants. And, doubtless,

they have all, more or less, contributed to the apathetic indolence

and discouragement which, as we gather from Mr Cole's volume, is to

be noted in most of the colonists. With the Dutch, apathy may be in

some degree constitutional; but it is not natural to Englishmen;

nor is it to be explained by any enervating or sickly properties of

the climate. As to the sheep-farmer, he is the very incarnation of

laziness.

"He turns out of bed about eleven, huddles on a pair of

trousers, with the shirt he slept in; thrusts his feet into a

pair of shoes, pulls a wide-awake hat over his head, and his

toilet is complete. He then sticks a short pipe into his mouth,

loiters about the homestead, and talks to Hottentots not _more_

lazy than himself, from the simple reason that _that_ were

impossible; takes a cup of coffee, and perhaps a chop; smokes

and dozes away the whole day; looks at the sheep as they come

home in the evening; 'slangs' the herds, eats mutton again, and

calls it 'dinner;' smokes again, and drinks '_smoke_,' (Cape

Smoke is a sort of brandy;) pulls off his shoes, hat, and nether

garments, and turns in again, to snooze till eleven the next

day, and then gets up, and goes through the same process once

more."

When the white man sets such example, what can be expected from the

black? The Hottentots are the general servants of the colony, both

farm and domestic, at least in all the eastern districts. Shocking

bad ones they are, but yet they get good wages, abundant food, and

are engaged without being asked for a character, which indeed were

superfluous trouble, one very bad one fitting them all.

"A Hottentot," says Mr Cole, "is the most improvident, lazy

animal on the face of the earth. He will work for a month, and,

as soon as he has pocketed his wages, leave his master, and be

drunk whilst he has a solitary sixpence left. He is a living

paradox; a drunkard, and a thief, and yet one that can practise

abstinence, and never rob his master. Sometimes you may trust

him with anything of any value, whilst in your service, and he

will not pick and steal. After he has left you, he will as soon

appropriate your Wellingtons (if he calls to see his successor

in office) as wear his own shoes. He is the dirtiest fellow on

earth, and will clean neither your rooms, your boots, nor your

knives and forks, unless you are eternally driving him to his

work; yet he will wash his hands with the utmost care before he

touches the food he is preparing for your dinner, though he has

the greatest natural antipathy to the contact of cold water."

These Hottentots have an ugly habit of leaving their master in a

body, without apparent cause, or previous notice. It is their way

of taking a holiday. They are sure to find employment, when willing

again to work; the demand, even for such labour as theirs, being

much greater than the supply. As yet civilisation has done little

for them. As to the result of missionary efforts, Mr Cole estimates

it as exceedingly small. There is considerable discrepancy between

his statements on this head and the glowing reports occasionally

issued by missionary societies, of their successful labours amongst

the heathens of Africa. Briefly, but forcibly, Mr Cole shows up

the humbug and delusion of the system. From personal experience he

declares himself convinced that, out of every hundred Hottentot

Christians, (so styled,) ninety-nine have no notion of a future

state.

"I have frequently been at the bedside of the sick and dying

Hottentot, who has been a constant attendant at some missionary

chapel, and I have asked him whether he has any fear of dying?

He has smiled, and said,

"'None.'

"I have asked him whether he expected to go to heaven? and he

has answered,

"'No.'

"'Where then?'

"'Nowhere.'

"I have endeavoured to explain to him that his minister must

have taught him the doctrine of a future state of rewards and

punishments. He has laughed and said, that perhaps it might

be so, 'for the master, but not for him; he lies down and

dies, that is all--that is enough.' This I have heard over and

over again from the lips of some of the 'pet' Christians of

missionaries--model men, whom they talk of and point out to

every 'griffin' in the colony, and write long communications

about, to their societies in England."

Professing Christians abound amongst the Hottentots, for the sake

of the temporal advantages. Every missionary station has a tract of

land belonging to it, on which the Hottentot who attends school and

chapel regularly, and assumes a becoming appearance of piety, is

permitted to build a hut, and plant a garden. Seeds and tools are

given to him; and, with very little labour, he is enabled to pass

the rest of his time in idleness.

"It is notorious," says Mr Cole, "that these people, living at

the missionary stations, are the idlest and most useless set in

the colony. You cannot frighten a farmer more seriously than by

telling him that a missionary station is going to be established

near him. Visions of daily desertion by his servants float

across his mind's eye."

But if the Hottentot be a bad servant, and if, notwithstanding the

well-meant but misdirected efforts of missionaries, whose zeal

might find better employment at home, he still continues an idle,

besotted, and filthy savage, there yet is to be found, in his

immediate vicinity, a still more degraded and untractable race.

These are the Boschjesmen, or Bushmen, of whom specimens have been

exhibited in England. In their own land they live in a state of

barbarism, without clothes, often without huts, growing no corn or

vegetables, and subsisting upon such animals as they can kill with

their arrows--also upon locusts.

"In the year 1844 or 1845, a traveller in their country came

upon whole kraals, (or villages,) which appeared at first to

be deserted; but he found, on searching, that 'most of the

inhabitants were still there--dead! There were great quantities

of dead locusts in their huts, and the supposition was, that

they had died from eating them, either from some poison

contained in them, or from a surfeit."

They are fierce and cruel, and as mischievous as monkeys, to which

they bear a strong resemblance. On the first journey that he made

in a waggon, Mr Cole had as "leader"--the name given to the boy

who leads the two front oxen of the span--a Bushman lad, about four

feet high, the most hideous monster, according to the description

given of him, that ever walked on two legs. The expression of his

countenance was diabolical, his disposition equally so. The lash

was the only argument he understood; and even to that, owing to the

extraordinary toughness of his hide, he was long callous.

"On one occasion the waggon came to the brow of a hill, when it

was the leader's duty to stop the oxen, and see that the wheel

was well locked. It may readily be imagined that a waggon which

requires twelve oxen to draw it on level ground, could not

be held back at all by _two_ oxen, in its descent of a steep

hill, unless with the wheel locked. My interesting Bushman,

however, whom I had not yet offended in any manner, no sooner

found himself at the top of the hill, than he let go the oxen

with a yell and a whoop, which set them off at a gallop down

the precipitous steep. The waggon flew from side to side of the

road, destined, apparently, to be smashed to atoms every moment,

together with myself, its luckless occupant. I was dashed about,

almost unconscious of what could be the cause, so suddenly had

we started on our mad career. Heaven only knows how I escaped

destruction, but we positively reached the bottom of the hill

uninjured.

"The Bushman was by the waggon-side in an instant, and went

to his place at the oxen's head as coolly and unconcernedly

as if he had just performed part of his ordinary duties. The

Hottentot driver, on the contrary, came panting up, aghast with

horror. I jumped out of the waggon, seized my young savage by

the collar of his jacket, and, with a heavy sea-cow-hide whip, I

belaboured him with all my strength, wherein, I trust the reader

will think me justified, as the little wretch had made the most

barefaced attempt on my life. I almost thought my strength would

be exhausted before I could get a sign from the young gentleman

that he felt my blows; but at length he uttered a yell of pain,

and I knew he had had enough. Next day I dropped him at a

village, and declined his farther services."

Waggon-travelling in the Cape Colony is a slow, but not a

disagreeable, manner of locomotion. The same team of oxen takes you

through, however great the distance; and as grass and water are

all they get--and sometimes a scanty ration of these--the pace is

necessarily very moderate, twenty miles a-day being considered good

going. Of course you have abundant stores in your waggon; for inns

are scarce, and it is not usual to quarter yourself on the farmers,

as you do when travelling on horseback. A stretcher, with a mattress

on it, is slung in the waggon, to lounge on by day and sleep on by

night; or if the party be numerous, a tent is pitched at evening.

The Hottentots sleep under the waggon or round the fire. The start

is at six in the morning. At ten a two hours' halt is made, to eat

and smoke, to sketch or shoot. At noon, the cattle, which have been

turned out to graze, are "in-spanned," and the march continues till

three or four o'clock. Then another halt and another meal; a pipe,

a shot at an ostrich or bushbuck; and then once more on the road

for two hours, before "out-spanning" for the night. The bivouac

is delightful; the sky of a deep dark blue, the moon radiant, the

magnificent Southern Cross glittering in the heavens, underfoot a

carpet of scented and variegated blossoms, stillness over all, and

in the dark shadow of the bush a bright fire, with the wayfarers

stretched lazily around it. The whole thing is a pleasant sort of

picnic party, and it is easy to believe Mr Cole when he declares

that he never enjoyed a European trip so much as waggon-travelling

in South Africa. Of course this is the sunny side of the picture.

Disagreeable occurrences are by no means unfrequent. A bridgeless

rivulet, swollen to a torrent by recent rains, detains you for

a week upon its banks, on half rations or less. Your Hottentots

discover a hedge tavern, and whilst you take a stroll with your

gun during the "out-span," they get helplessly drunk, and you must

halt for the day. You thrash them and stop their tobacco; they

revenge themselves by accidentally upsetting you in the next river

you cross; or they neglect to watch the grazing oxen, which are

next heard of ten miles off, having been "pounded" by some surly

landholder, with whose green corn they had taken a liberty. The

traveller who dreads such mishaps and desires faster progress,

packs a valise, straps it on his saddle, and throws his leg over

a sturdy Cape horse, which will carry him fifty or sixty miles a

day without flinching. Here is Mr Cole's sketch of these useful,

ill-looking animals:--

"Generally speaking, a regular Cape horse, one whose pedigree

cannot be traced to any imported stallion, is an ugly brute.

He is about fourteen hands high, and his chief characteristics

are, a low narrow shoulder, a ewe neck, and a goose rump. His

'pins' are generally pretty good. He is villanously broken; his

mouth is as tough as an oak; his pace is a shuffling, tripping,

wriggling abomination, between an amble and a canter, with a

suspicion of a 'run' in it. Put him beyond this pace, and he

gallops as awkwardly as a cow. As for walking, he is innocent of

the pace beyond three miles an hour. Trotting, neither he, nor

his breaker, nor breeder, nor owner (if a Dutchman) ever heard

of. He is apt to be ill-tempered too--often given to kicking,

and occasionally to 'bucking.' So much for his evil qualities."

Some of his good ones have been already implied. He is hardy,

enduring, can live on grass, do without groom or stable. You may

shoot off his back--or sleep on it, for his pace is the easiest of

motions. He is never ill, save of one complaint, which resembles

glanders, (although it is a different disease,) and is always fatal.

This malady he evidently contracts in the pastures, for horses kept

in the stable, and never allowed to graze, are not subject to it. He

is cheap to buy.

"A horse good enough for all ordinary purposes may be bought

from £9 to £15. I once rode a journey of two hundred and thirty

miles with the same set of horses, (four in number, one for my

servant, one for myself, one for saddle-bags, and another for

changing) in four days. The most expensive of the four cost me

£12, and the cheapest £4, 10s. It is true that I fed them well

on the road, but a Dutch boer would have taken them the same

distance without a handful of corn all the way."

Mounted on one of these serviceable brutes, Mr Cole rambled about

the colony, sleeping at inns when he found them, but much oftener

profiting by the boundless hospitality of the Cape farmers, and

making acquaintance with all sorts of people, from puny Cockney

settlers to gigantic Dutch boers. The latter are--

"The finest men in the colony. I have seen them constantly

from six feet two to six feet six inches in height; broad and

muscular in proportion. Their strength is immense. They are

great admirers of feats of daring, strength, and activity. A

mighty hunter, such as Gordon Cumming, would be welcomed with

open arms by every Dutch boer in South Africa. Poor Moultrie,

of the 75th, the 'lion-hunter' _par excellence_, was one of

their idols. So is Bain, the 'long-haired,' who has made some

half-dozen excursions into the far wilderness in search of the

lord of the forest and all his subjects. They hunt far more than

the English farmers, and are, as I have said, 'crack' shots,

though they use a great, long, awkward, heavy, flint-locked gun,

that would make Purdey or Westley Richards shudder with disgust."

Frugal and industrious, these stalwart descendants of Hollanders

have one great fault, almost a fatal one in a new country. They have

a rooted antipathy to novelty and improvement. They use the same

lumbering plough their big-breeched forefathers imported from the

Low Countries some eighty years ago, although it requires twelve

strong oxen to draw it. They reject steam, and pound their corn

instead of grinding it. Despising flails, they completely spoil

their straw by having the grain trodden out by horses or oxen. Of

the English settlers, the Cockneys make the best farmers, "because,

coming without any previous knowledge of the art they intend to

follow, they take advice of those whom experience enables to give

it, instead of trying to manage things in South Africa as they do

in England." Stories are traditionally cited, of inexperienced

Londoners, just landed at the Cape, purchasing a flock of sheep as

breeding stock, and discovering them (too late) to be wethers; and

of another who planted split pease to raise a crop ready for use;

but such instances of ignorance, Mr Cole assures us, are by no means

common.

The present unfortunate condition of the Cape Colony, and the

destructive war now raging there, give peculiar interest to that

portion of Mr Cole's book which relates to the Kafirs. During the

greater part of his residence at the Cape, these troublesome

savages were on their good behaviour, and he was enabled to become

personally acquainted with them, and especially with their powerful

chief Macomo. Riding from Graham's Town to Fort Beaufort, through

that immense jungle and favourite Kafir lurking-place, Fish River

Bush, he paused to bait at a roadside inn, and entered into chat

with his host, who, on hearing that he had never been in Kafirland,

pointed out to him a distant mountain.

"A very noted place, sir," he said, "is that mountain. It is in

the territory of the Kafir chief Macomo. When that rascal wants

to attack the colony, or his neighbours, the other chiefs, he

lights a great fire on the top of that hill at night, and, on

seeing it, every Kafir in his dominions immediately flocks to

his standard, and he can collect ten thousand armed men, sir."

Mr Cole expressed a fervent hope that it would be long before Macomo

lit his fire, but the innkeeper expected it would shortly blaze;

and the innkeeper was right. At Fort Beaufort Mr Cole first saw the

great Kafir, dressed in cast-off European clothes, but without shirt

or stockings, and more than half-drunk. He won his favour by lending

him sixpence, and received an invitation to visit him at his kraal,

a very few miles from Fort Beaufort. Accordingly, next morning he

mounted his horse, and rode into Kafirland. From Chapter X. we glean

some of his first impressions.

"The Kafir is certainly a fine animal. He is tall, well-knit,

clean-limbed, and graceful in his motions. It is rare to see a

Kafir with any personal deformity, however trifling. I have seen

some dozen races of coloured people, and I have no hesitation

in pronouncing the Kafirs by far the finest of them. Their

features are not negro; though some of them (especially Macomo,

who is the ugliest man in his dominions) partake very much of

that character. Their colour varies from almost black to a

light copper hue. Amongst them I frequently met with Albinos.

These are certainly the most repulsive-looking creatures I

ever beheld. Their skin is dead white, not the whiteness of a

delicate European skin, but the colour of a white horse--it is

scaly and coarse; their eyes are pink like those of a ferret;

and their hair very much the colour of a ferret's coat, though

still woolly and tufted."

The Kafirs Mr Cole met upon the road scowled at him in no friendly

manner, but dared not rob a visiter to their chief. Macomo received

him well, regaled him on beefsteaks and coffee, tried hard to sell

him horses or cattle, expressed most hypocritical affection for the

English, and extracted another sixpence from him, in exchange for a

stick.

"I rode back to Fort Beaufort, well pleased with my visit,

but more than ever satisfied of the natural cunning, avarice,

craft, and dishonesty, the low moral nature, and utter

untrustworthiness of Kafirs in general, and, above all, of

Macomo."

Mr Cole makes some sensible suggestions for averting future wars

with the Kafirs, and securing the tranquillity of the colony. Whilst

justly disapproving certain points of the constitution tardily

granted to the Cape, he admits it to be a great improvement upon the

present state of things.

"When the Cape colonists," he says, "commence self-government,

doubtless one of their first acts will be to embody a militia

throughout the land. Every man in the country, between certain

ages, will be a soldier, and the most fit and effectual soldier

to contend with the savage enemies across the boundary. This

will be, in effect, a revival of the old Dutch Commando

system--a system, with all its faults, the most efficient in

repressing the rapine and murder of the Kafirs, and under which

no such war as the present could have originated."

The abolition of this system, which allowed the Dutch boers, when

aggrieved or plundered by the Kafirs, to muster in bodies, recover

their cattle by the strong hand, and chastise the robbers, has

always been a subject of bitter complaint and discontent with the

frontier farmers. They fear not the Kafirs, if they are but allowed

to defend themselves and their property, and to retaliate with the

strong hand. Give them thus much licence, and, says Mr Cole, "I have

no hesitation in saying that the colonists of the border would very

soon settle the Kafir question." Let it be clearly understood what

the Cape "bush" is. It is a dense thicket studded with thorns, and

impenetrable to persons in ordinary European garb. The Hottentots

and colonists wear leather "crackers"--as breeches are called at

the Cape--which in some degree protect them; and the Kafirs, naked

and with their bodies greased all over--blest, besides, with thick

skins--crawl through it on their bellies. Speaking of Fish River

Bush, Mr Cole says:--

"One of the greatest benefits that could be conferred on the

colony would be its entire destruction by fire. But I fear it

will not burn; and so it will continue to harbour wild beasts in

peace, and Kafirs in war time. All the Kafir nation could hide

in it, and be out of sight and out of reach of English eyes and

English bullets. At the first symptom of an impending attack on

the colony, the report always flies like wild-fire, 'The Fish

River Bush is full of Kafirs.'"

Then are sent out against these lithe and dusky savages, who can

writhe like snakes through the underwood, and whose brown hide is

scarce distinguishable from the tints of the rocks and branches,

and aloe-stems amongst which they lurk, a party of red-coated

Englishmen, to be shot down by invisible foes.

"A splendid target that same scarlet coat," exclaims Mr Cole.

"Even when those bushes intervene, though you see not the

man--neither his face, nor his shako, nor his trousers--yet

_there_ is the piece of scarlet cloth glaring through the

boughs; take steady aim at that, for a soldier's heart beats

behind it, and a bullet sent through the gaudy garment hurls one

more shilling target to the dust."

Nearly six years ago, when the subject of military punishments

was before Parliament, we proposed and urged certain reforms and

ameliorations in the equipment of the army, some of which are now

in process of adoption, whilst others, we have little doubt, will

ere long be forced upon the authorities by public opinion and their

manifest necessity. We then denounced scarlet, "first, because it is

tawdry, and, secondly, as rendering the soldier an easier mark than

a less glaring colour. Blue coats and grey trousers are the colours

we should like to see adopted in our service, preserving always

the green for the rifles, who ought to be ten times as numerous as

they are, as we shall discover whenever we come to a brush with the

Yankees, or with our old and gallant opponents, the French."[3]

[3] THE ARMY--_Blackwood's Magazine, No. CCCLXX._, for August

1846.

Our troops, it is understood, are about to get the rifles; of the

scarlet we hope soon to see them get rid. A very inferior foe to

either American or Frenchman has sufficed to show the necessity

of marching with the century, at least in matters military. The

long guns of the naked Kafirs outshoot our regulation muskets;

and earnest and unanswerable representations--amongst which must

prominently be reckoned the able letters of that practical and

experienced soldier, Sir Charles Shaw--have opened official eyes to

the advantages of grooved barrels over smooth bores. Soon we hope to

see scarlet replaced by a more rational and less brilliant colour,

knapsacks lightened, and pipe-clayed belts abolished. We advocated

blue for the soldier's dress, because tailors, professional and

amateur, have still so potential a voice in our military councils,

that we scarcely dare hope the adoption of less becoming tints;

otherwise, grey, green, or brown mixtures, although not showy

on parade, will be admitted by all military men who have seen

service--especially skirmishing service in bush, mountains, or

forest--to constitute by far the least visible uniform, and worst

mark. In time, perhaps, these sober but service-like colours may be

introduced. Perhaps, too, in time, the Horse Guards will discern

the wisdom of keeping heavy cavalry for home parades, or European

wars--should the latter unfortunately occur--and of sending the

lightest and most lightly-equipped of their dragoons in pursuit of

nimble savages, in colonies too distant to ship horses to, and where

chargers, up to the weight of the men, are unobtainable.

"When the 7th Dragoon Guards came out to the Cape, they had

considerable difficulty in horsing the regiment, though they

took as low a standard as fifteen hands for their chargers.

Even at this standard, the men in full dress, with their brass

helmets, carbines and accoutrements, looked rather absurdly

mounted, and reminded one forcibly of the hobby-horse figures in

a Christmas pantomime."[4]

[4] _The Cape and the Kafirs_, p. 110-11.

When we picture to ourselves these bravo "heavies"--so formidable

if opposed to French or German dragoons--inefficiently floundering,

on overweighted horses, through bush and brushwood, after the agile

barbarians of South Africa, and when we contrast them with the

really "_light_-horse" we have seen shipped from Provençal ports for

service in Algeria, we cannot but admit, however unwillingly, that

these things are better managed in France than on our side of the

Channel. May it soon be otherwise!

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

BOOK X--INITIAL CHAPTER.

It is observed by a very pleasant writer--read now-a-days only

by the brave pertinacious few who still struggle hard to rescue

from the House of Pluto the souls of departed authors, jostled and

chaced as those souls are by the noisy footsteps of the living--it

is observed by the admirable Charron, that "judgment and wisdom

is not only the best, but the happiest portion God Almighty hath

distributed amongst men; for though this distribution be made with

a very uneven hand, yet nobody thinks himself stinted or ill-dealt

with, but he that hath never so little is contented in _this_

respect."[5]

[5] Translation of _Charron on Wisdom_. By G. STANHOPE, D.D., late

Dean of Canterbury, (1729.) A translation remarkable for ease,

vigour, and (despite that contempt for the strict rules of grammar,

which was common enough amongst writers at the commencement of the

last century) for the idiomatic raciness of its English.

And, certainly, the present narrative may serve in notable

illustration of the remark so drily made by the witty and wise

preacher. For whether our friend Riccabocca deduce theories for

daily life from the great folio of Machiavel; or that promising

young gentleman, Mr Randal Leslie, interpret the power of knowledge

into the art of being too knowing for dull honest folks to cope with

him; or acute Dick Avenel push his way up the social ascent with a

blow for those before, and a kick for those behind him, after the

approved fashion of your strong New Man; or Baron Levy--that cynical

impersonation of Gold--compare himself to the Magnetic Rock in the

Arabian tale, to which the nails in every ship that approaches the

influence of the loadstone fly from the planks, and a shipwreck per

day adds its waifs to the Rock: questionless, at least, it is, that

each of those personages believed that Providence had bestowed on

him an elder son's inheritance of wisdom. Nor, were we to glance

towards the obscurer paths of life, should we find good Parson Dale

deem himself worse off than the rest of the world in this precious

commodity--as, indeed, he had signally evinced of late in that

shrewd guess of his touching Professor Moss;--even plain Squire

Hazeldean took it for granted that he could teach Audley Egerton

a thing or two worth knowing in politics; Mr Stirn thought that

there was no branch of useful lore on which he could not instruct

the Squire; and Sprott, the tinker, with his bag full of tracts and

lucifer matches, regarded the whole framework of modern society,

from a rick to a constitution, with the profound disdain of a

revolutionary philosopher. Considering that every individual thus

brings into the stock of the world so vast a share of intelligence,

it cannot but excite our wonder to find that Oxenstiern is popularly

held to be right when he said, "See, my son, how little wisdom it

requires to govern states;"--that is, Men! That so many millions of

persons, each with a profound assurance that he is possessed of an

exalted sagacity, should concur in the ascendency of a few inferior

intellects, according to a few stupid, prosy, matter-of-fact rules

as old as the hills, is a phenomenon very discreditable to the

spirit and energy of the aggregate human species! It creates no

surprise that one sensible watch-dog should control the movements

of a flock of silly grass-eating sheep; but that two or three silly

grass-eating sheep should give the law to whole flocks of such

mighty sensible watch-dogs--_Diavolo!_ Dr Riccabocca, explain _that_

if you can! And wonderfully strange it is; that notwithstanding

all the march of enlightenment, notwithstanding our progressive

discoveries in the laws of nature--our railways, steam-engines,

animal magnetism, and electro-biology--we have never made any

improvement that is generally acknowledged, since Men ceased to

be troglodytes and nomads, in the old-fashioned gamut of flats

and sharps, which attunes into irregular social jog-trot all the

generations that pass from the cradle to the grave;--still, "_the

desire for something we have not_" impels all the energies that keep

us in movement, for good or for ill, according to the checks or the

directions of each favourite desire.

A friend of mine once said to a _millionaire_, whom he saw for ever

engaged in making money which he never seemed to have any pleasure

in spending, "Pray, Mr ----, will you answer me one question: You

are said to have two millions, and you spend £600 a-year. In order

to rest and enjoy, what will content you?"

"A little more," answered the _millionaire_. That "little more" is

the mainspring of civilisation. Nobody ever gets it!

"Philus," saith a Latin writer, "was not so rich as Lælius; Lælius

was not so rich as Scipio; Scipio was not so rich as Crassus; and

Crassus was not so rich--as he wished to be!" If John Bull were once

contented, Manchester might shut up its mills. It is the "little

more" that makes a mere trifle of the National Debt!--Long life to

it!

Still, mend our law-books as we will, one is forced to confess

that knaves are often seen in fine linen, and honest men in the

most shabby old rags; and still, notwithstanding the exceptions,

knavery is a very hazardous game; and honesty, on the whole, by far

the best policy. Still, most of the Ten Commandments remain at the

core of all the Pandects and Institutes that keep our hands off our

neighbours' throats, wives, and pockets; still, every year shows

that the Parson's maxim--_non quieta movere_--is as prudent for the

health of communities as when Apollo recommended his votaries not

to rake up a fever by stirring the Lake Camarina; still people,

thank Heaven, decline to reside in parallelograms; and the surest

token that we live under a free government is, when we are governed

by persons whom we have a full right to imply, by our censure and

ridicule, are blockheads compared to ourselves! Stop that delightful

privilege, and, by Jove! sir, there is neither pleasure nor honour

in being governed at all! You might as well be--a Frenchman!

CHAPTER II.

The Italian and his friend are closeted together.

"And why have you left your home in ----shire? and why this new

change of name?"

"Peschiera is in England."

"I know it."

"And bent on discovering me; and, it is said, of stealing from me my

child."

"He has had the assurance to lay wagers that he will win the hand

of your heiress. I know that too; and therefore I have come to

England--first to baffle his design--for I do not think your fears

exaggerated--and next to learn from you how to follow up a clue

which, unless I am too sanguine, may lead to his ruin, and your

unconditional restoration. Listen to me. You are aware that, after

the skirmish with Peschiera's armed hirelings sent in search of

you, I received a polite message from the Austrian government,

requesting me to leave its Italian domains. Now, as I hold it the

obvious duty of any foreigner, admitted to the hospitality of a

state, to refrain from all participation in its civil disturbances,

so I thought my honour assailed at this intimation, and went at

once to Vienna to explain to the Minister there, (to whom I was

personally known,) that though I had, as became man to man, aided

to protect a refugee, who had taken shelter under my roof, from the

infuriated soldiers at the command of his private foe, I had not

only not shared in any attempt at revolt, but dissuaded, as far as I

could, my Italian friends from their enterprise; and that because,

without discussing its merits, I believed, as a military man and a

cool spectator, the enterprise could only terminate in fruitless

bloodshed. I was enabled to establish my explanation by satisfactory

proof; and my acquaintance with the Minister assumed something of

the character of friendship. I was then in a position to advocate

your cause, and to state your original reluctance to enter into

the plots of the insurgents. I admitted freely that you had such

natural desire for the independence of your native land, that,

had the standard of Italy been boldly hoisted by its legitimate

chiefs, or at the common uprising of its whole people, you would

have been found in the van, amidst the ranks of your countrymen;

but I maintained that you would never have shared in a conspiracy

frantic in itself, and defiled by the lawless schemes and sordid

ambition of its main projectors, had you not been betrayed and

decoyed into it by the misrepresentations and domestic treachery of

your kinsman--the very man who denounced you. Unfortunately, of this

statement I had no proof but your own word. I made, however, so far

an impression in your favour, and, it may be, against the traitor,

that your property was not confiscated to the State, nor handed

over, upon the plea of your civil death, to your kinsman."

"How!--I do not understand. Peschiera has the property?"

"He holds the revenues but of one half upon pleasure, and they

would be withdrawn, could I succeed in establishing the case that

exists against him. I was forbidden before to mention this to you;

the Minister, not inexcusably, submitted you to the probation

of unconditional exile. Your grace might depend upon your own

forbearance from farther conspiracies--forgive the word. I need not

say I was permitted to return to Lombardy. I found, on my arrival,

that--that your unhappy wife had been to my house, and exhibited

great despair at hearing of my departure."

Riccabocca knit his dark brows, and breathed hard.

"I did not judge it necessary to acquaint you with this

circumstance, nor did it much affect me. I believed in her

guilt--and what could now avail her remorse, if remorse she felt?

Shortly afterwards, I heard that she was no more."

"Yes," muttered Riccabocca, "she died in the same year that I left

Italy. It must be a strong reason that can excuse a friend for

reminding me even that she once lived!"

"I come at once to that reason," said L'Estrange gently. "This

autumn I was roaming through Switzerland, and, in one of my

pedestrian excursions amidst the mountains, I met with an accident,

which confined me for some days to a sofa at a little inn in an

obscure village. My hostess was an Italian; and, as I had left my

servant at a town at some distance, I required her attention till

I could write to him to come to me. I was thankful for her cares,

and amused by her Italian babble. We became very good friends.

She told me she had been servant to a lady of great rank, who had

died in Switzerland; and that, being enriched by the generosity of

her mistress, she had married a Swiss innkeeper, and his people

had become hers. My servant arrived, and my hostess learned my

name, which she did not know before. She came into my room greatly

agitated. In brief, this woman had been servant to your wife. She

had accompanied her to my villa, and known of her anxiety to see

me, as your friend. The government had assigned to your wife your

palace at Milan, with a competent income. She had refused to accept

of either. Failing to see me, she had set off towards England,

resolved upon seeing yourself; for the journals had stated that to

England you had escaped."

"She dared!--shameless! And see, but a moment before, I had

forgotten all but her grave in a foreign soil--and these tears had

forgiven her," murmured the Italian.

"Let them forgive her still," said Harley, with all his exquisite

sweetness of look and tone. "I resume. On entering Switzerland,

your wife's health, which you know was always delicate, gave way.

To fatigue and anxiety succeeded fever, and delirium ensued. She

had taken with her but this one female attendant--the sole one

she could trust--on leaving home. She suspected Peschiera to have

bribed her household. In the presence of this woman she raved of

her innocence--in accents of terror and aversion, denounced your

kinsman--and called on you to vindicate her name and your own."

"Ravings indeed! Poor Paulina!" groaned Riccabocca, covering his

face with both hands.

"But in her delirium there were lucid intervals. In one of these she

rose, in spite of all her servant could do to restrain her, took

from her desk several letters, and reading them over, exclaimed

piteously, 'But how to get them to him?--whom to trust? And his

friend is gone!' Then an idea seemed suddenly to flash upon her,

for she uttered a joyous exclamation, sate down, and wrote long

and rapidly; enclosed what she wrote, with all the letters, in one

packet, which she sealed carefully, and bade her servant carry to

the post, with many injunctions to take it with her own hand, and

pay the charge on it. 'For, oh!' said she (I repeat the words as

my informant told them to me)--'for, oh! this is my sole chance

to prove to my husband that, though I have erred, I am not the

guilty thing he believes me; the sole chance, too, to redeem my

error, and restore, perhaps, to my husband his country, to my child

her heritage.' The servant took the letter to the post; and when

she returned, her lady was asleep, with a smile upon her face.

But from that sleep she woke again delirious, and before the next

morning her soul had fled." Here Riccabocca lifted one hand from

his face, and grasped Harley's arm, as if mutely beseeching him to

pause. The heart of the man struggled hard with his pride and his

philosophy; and it was long before Harley could lead him to regard

the worldly prospects which this last communication from his wife

might open to his ruined fortunes. Not, indeed, till Riccabocca had

persuaded himself, and half persuaded Harley, (for strong, indeed,

was all presumption of guilt against the dead,) that his wife's

protestations of innocence from all but error had been but ravings.

"Be this as it may," said Harley, "there seems every reason to

suppose that the letters enclosed were Peschiera's correspondence,

and that, if so, these would establish the proof of his influence

over your wife, and of his perfidious machinations against yourself.

I resolved, before coming hither, to go round by Vienna. There I

heard with dismay that Peschiera had not only obtained the imperial

sanction to demand your daughter's hand, but had boasted to his

profligate circle that he should succeed; and he was actually on his

road to England. I saw at once that could this design, by any fraud

or artifice, be successful with Violante, (for of your consent,

I need not say, I did not dream,) the discovery of this packet,

whatever its contents, would be useless: his end would be secured. I

saw also that his success would suffice for ever to clear his name;

for his success must imply your consent, (it would be to disgrace

your daughter, to assert that she had married without it,) and your

consent would be his acquittal. I saw, too, with alarm, that to all

means for the accomplishment of his project he would be urged by

despair; for his debts are great, and his character nothing but new

wealth can support. I knew that he was able, bold, determined, and

that he had taken with him a large supply of money, borrowed upon

usury;--in a word, I trembled for you both. I have now seen your

daughter, and I tremble no more. Accomplished seducer as Peschiera

boasts himself, the first look upon her face, so sweet yet so noble,

convinced me that she is proof against a legion of Peschieras. Now,

then, return we to this all-important subject--to this packet. It

never reached you. Long years have passed since then. Does it exist

still? Into whose hands would it have fallen? Try to summon up all

your recollections. The servant could not remember the name of the

person to whom it was addressed; she only insisted that the name

began with a B, that it was directed to England, and that to England

she accordingly paid the postage. Whom, then, with a name that

begins with B, or (in case the servant's memory here mislead her)

whom did you or your wife know, during your visit to England, with

sufficient intimacy to make it probable that she would select such a

person for her confidant?"

"I cannot conceive," said Riccabocca, shaking his head. "We came

to England shortly after our marriage. Paulina was affected by the

climate. She spoke not a word of English, and indeed not even French

as might have been expected from her birth, for her father was poor,

and thoroughly Italian. She refused all society. I went, it is

true, somewhat into the London world--enough to induce me to shrink

from the contrast that my second visit as a beggared refugee would

have made to the reception I met with on my first--but I formed no

intimate friendships. I recall no one whom she could have written to

as intimate with me."

"But," persisted Harley, "think again. Was there no lady well

acquainted with Italian, and with whom, perhaps, for that very

reason, your wife became familiar?"

"Ah, it is true. There was one old lady of retired habits, but who

had been much in Italy. Lady--Lady--I remember--Lady Jane Horton."

"Horton--Lady Jane!" exclaimed Harley; "again! thrice in one day--is

this wound never to scar over?" Then, noting Riccabocca's look of

surprise, he said, "Excuse me, my friend; I listen to you with

renewed interest. Lady Jane was a distant relation of my own; she

judged me, perhaps, harshly--and I have some painful associations

with her name; but she was a woman of many virtues. Your wife knew

her?"

"Not, however, intimately--still, better than any one else in

London. But Paulina would not have written to her; she knew that

Lady Jane had died shortly after her own departure from England.

I myself was summoned back to Italy on pressing business; she

was too unwell to journey with me as rapidly as I was obliged to

travel; indeed, illness detained her several weeks in England. In

this interval she might have made acquaintances. Ah, now I see;

I guess. You say the name began with B. Paulina, in my absence,

engaged a companion; it was at my suggestion--a Mrs Bertram. This

lady accompanied her abroad. Paulina became excessively attached to

her, she knew Italian so well. Mrs Bertram left her on the road, and

returned to England, for some private affairs of her own. I forget

why or wherefore; if, indeed, I ever asked or learned. Paulina

missed her sadly, often talked of her, wondered why she never heard

from her. No doubt it was to this Mrs Bertram that she wrote!"

"And you don't know the lady's friends, or address?"

"No."

"Nor who recommended her to your wife?"

"No."

"Probably Lady Jane Horton?"

"It may be so. Very likely."

"I will follow up this track, slight as it is."

"But if Mrs Bertram received the communication, how comes it that it

never reached--O, fool that I am, how should it! I, who guarded so

carefully my incognito!"

"True. This your wife could not foresee; she would naturally imagine

that your residence in England would be easily discovered. But

many years must have passed since your wife lost sight of this Mrs

Bertram, if their acquaintance was made so soon after your marriage;

and now it is a long time to retrace--long before even your Violante

was born."

"Alas! yes. I lost two fair sons in the interval. Violante was born

to me as the child of sorrow."

"And to make sorrow lovely! how beautiful she is!"

The father smiled proudly.

"Where, in the loftiest houses of Europe, find a husband worthy of

such a prize?"

"You forget that I am still an exile--she still dowerless. You

forget that I am pursued by Peschiera; that I would rather see her

a beggar's wife--than--Pah, the very thought maddens me, it is so

foul. _Corpo di Bacco!_ I have been glad to find her a husband

already."

"Already! Then that young man spoke truly?"

"What young man?"

"Randal Leslie. How! You know him?" Here a brief explanation

followed. Harley heard with attentive ear, and marked vexation, the

particulars of Riccabocca's connection and implied engagement with

Leslie.

"There is something very suspicious to me in all this," said he.

"Why should this young man have so sounded me as to Violante's

chance of losing fortune if she married an Englishman?"

"Did he? O, pooh! excuse him. It was but his natural wish to seem

ignorant of all about me. He did not know enough of my intimacy with

you to betray my secret."

"But he knew enough of it--must have known enough to have made it

right that he should tell you I was in England. He does not seem to

have done so."

"No--_that_ is strange--yet scarcely strange; for, when we last met,

his head was full of other things--love and marriage. _Basta!_ youth

will be youth."

"He has no youth left in him!" exclaimed Harley, passionately. "I

doubt if he ever had any. He is one of those men who come into

the world with the pulse of a centenarian. You and I never shall

be as old--as he was in long-clothes. Ah, you may laugh; but I am

never wrong in my instincts. I disliked him at the first--his eye,

his smile, his voice, his very footstep. It is madness in you to

countenance such a marriage: it may destroy all chance of your

restoration."

"Better that than infringe my word once passed."

"No, no," exclaimed Harley; "your word is not passed--it shall not

be passed. Nay, never look so piteously at me. At all events, pause

till we know more of this young man. If he be worthy of her without

a dower, why, then, let him lose you your heritage. I should have no

more to say."

"But why lose me my heritage?"

"Do you think the Austrian government would suffer your estates to

pass to this English jackanapes, a clerk in a public office? O, sage

in theory, why are you such a simpleton in action!"

Nothing moved by this taunt, Riccabocca rubbed his hands, and then

stretched them comfortably over the fire.

"My friend," said he, "the heritage would pass to my son--a dowry

only goes to the daughter."

"But you have no son."

"Hush! I am going to have one; my Jemima informed me of it yesterday

morning; and it was upon that information that I resolved to speak

to Leslie. Am I a simpleton now?"

"Going to have a son," repeated Harley, looking very bewildered;

"how do you know it is to be a son?"

"Physiologists are agreed," said the sage positively, "that where

the husband is much older than the wife, and there has been a long

interval without children before she condescends to increase the

population of the world--she (that is, it is at least as nine to

four)--she brings into the world a male. I consider that point,

therefore, as settled, according to the calculations of statistics

and the researches of naturalists."

Harley could not help laughing, though he was still angry and

disturbed.

"The same man as ever; always the fool of philosophy."

"_Cospetto!_" said Riccabocca, "I am rather the philosopher of

fools. And talking of that, shall I present you to my Jemima?"

"Yes; but in turn I must present you to one who remembers with

gratitude your kindness, and whom your philosophy, for a wonder, has

not ruined. Some time or other you must explain that to me. Excuse

me for a moment; I will go for him."

"For him;--for whom? In my position I must be cautious; and--"

"I will answer for his faith and discretion. Meanwhile, order

dinner, and let me and my friend stay to share it."

"Dinner? _Corpo di Bacco!_--not that Bacchus can help us here. What

will Jemima say?"

"Henpecked man, settle that with your connubial tyrant. But dinner

it must be."

I leave the reader to imagine the delight of Leonard at seeing once

more Riccabocca unchanged, and Violante so improved; and the kind

Jemima, too. And their wonder at him and his history, his books and

his fame. He narrated his struggles and adventures with a simplicity

that removed from a story so personal the character of egotism. But

when he came to speak of Helen, he was brief and reserved.

Violante would have questioned more closely; but, to Leonard's

relief, Harley interposed.

"You shall see her whom he speaks of, before long, and question her

yourself."

With these words, Harley turned the young man's narrative into

new directions; and Leonard's words again flowed freely. Thus the

evening passed away happily to all save Riccabocca. But the thought

of his dead wife rose ever and anon before him; and yet when it did,

and became too painful, he crept nearer to Jemima, and looked in her

simple face, and pressed her cordial hand. And yet the monster had

implied to Harley that his comforter was a fool--so she was, to love

so contemptible a slanderer of herself, and her sex.

Violante was in a state of blissful excitement; she could not

analyse her own joy. But her conversation was chiefly with Leonard;

and the most silent of all was Harley. He sate listening to

Leonard's warm, yet unpretending eloquence--that eloquence which

flows so naturally from genius, when thoroughly at its ease, and not

chilled back on itself by hard unsympathising hearers--listened,

yet more charmed, to the sentiments less profound, yet no less

earnest--sentiments so feminine, yet so noble, with which Violante's

fresh virgin heart responded to the poet's kindling soul. Those

sentiments of hers were so unlike all he heard in the common

world--so akin to himself in his gone youth! Occasionally--at some

high thought of her own, or some lofty line from Italian song, that

she cited with lighted eyes, and in melodious accents--occasionally

he reared his knightly head, and his lip quivered, as if he had

heard the sound of a trumpet. The inertness of long years was

shaken. The Heroic, that lay deep beneath all the humours of his

temperament, was reached, appealed to; and stirred within him,

rousing up all the bright associations connected with it, and long

dormant. When he rose to take leave, surprised at the lateness of

the hour, Harley said, in a tone that bespoke the sincerity of the

compliment, "I thank you for the happiest hours I have known for

years." His eye dwelt on Violante as he spoke. But timidity returned

to her with his words--at his look; and it was no longer the

inspired muse, but the bashful girl that stood before him.

"And when shall I see you again?" asked Riccabocca disconsolately,

following his guest to the door.

"When? Why, of course, to-morrow. Adieu! my friend. No wonder you

have borne your exile so patiently,--with such a child!"

He took Leonard's arm, and walked with him to the inn where he had

left his horse. Leonard spoke of Violante with enthusiasm. Harley

was silent.