{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_44350/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_44350","id":"gutenberg_44350","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44350","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","English literature -- 19th century"],"text":"Transcriber's Note:\n\n  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have\n  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.\n\n  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.\n\n\n\n\n    MY MISCELLANIES.\n\n    BY WILKIE COLLINS,\n\n    AUTHOR OF 'THE WOMAN IN WHITE,' 'NO NAME,' 'THE DEAD SECRET,'\n    &C. &C. &C.\n\n\n    IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II.\n\n\n    LONDON:\n\n    SAMPSON LOW, SON, & CO., LUDGATE HILL.\n\n    1863.\n\n    The Author reserves the right of Translation.\n\n          LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,\n                            AND CHARING CROSS.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF VOL. II.\n\n\n                                                     PAGE\n\n    CASES WORTH LOOKING AT: I.\n      Memoirs of an Adopted Son                         1\n\n    SKETCHES OF CHARACTER: IV.\n      The Bachelor Bedroom                             30\n\n    NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY: III.\n      A remarkable Revolution                          55\n\n    DOUGLAS JERROLD                                    75\n\n    SKETCHES OF CHARACTER: V.\n      Pray employ Major Namby!                         95\n\n    CASES WORTH LOOKING AT: II.\n      The Poisoned Meal                               114\n\n    SKETCHES OF CHARACTER: VI.\n      My Spinsters                                    173\n\n    DRAMATIC GRUB STREET. (Explored in Two Letters)   193\n\n    TO THINK, OR BE THOUGHT FOR?                      211\n\n    SOCIAL GRIEVANCES: IV.\n      Save Me from my Friends                         230\n\n    CASES WORTH LOOKING AT: III.\n      The Cauldron of Oil                             250\n\n    BOLD WORDS BY A BACHELOR                          281\n\n    SOCIAL GRIEVANCES: V.\n      Mrs. Bullwinkle                                 292\n\n\n\n\nMY MISCELLANIES.\n\n\n\n\nCASES WORTH LOOKING AT.--I.\n\nMEMOIRS OF AN ADOPTED SON.[A]\n\n\nI.--CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH PRECEDED HIS BIRTH.\n\nTowards the beginning of the eighteenth century there stood on a rock\nin the sea, near a fishing village on the coast of Brittany, a ruined\nTower with a very bad reputation. No mortal was known to have inhabited\nit within the memory of living man. The one tenant whom Tradition\nassociated with the occupation of the place, at a remote period, had\nmoved into it from the infernal regions, nobody knew why--had lived\nin it, nobody knew how long--and had quitted possession, nobody knew\nwhen. Under such circumstances, nothing was more natural than that this\nunearthly Individual should give a name to his residence; for which\nreason, the building was thereafter known to all the neighbourhood round\nas Satanstower.\n\nEarly in the year seventeen hundred, the inhabitants of the village were\nstartled, one night, by seeing the red gleam of a fire in the Tower, and\nby smelling, in the same direction, a preternaturally strong odour of\nfried fish. The next morning, the fishermen who passed by the building in\ntheir boats were amazed to find that a stranger had taken up his abode\nin it. Judging of him at a distance, he seemed to be a fine tall stout\nfellow: he was dressed in fisherman's costume, and he had a new boat of\nhis own, moored comfortably in a cleft of the rock. If he had inhabited\na place of decent reputation, his neighbours would have immediately made\nhis acquaintance; but, as things were, all they could venture to do was\nto watch him in silence.\n\nThe first day passed, and, though it was fine weather, he made no use of\nhis boat. The second day followed, with a continuance of the fine weather,\nand still he was as idle as before. On the third day, when a violent storm\nkept all the boats of the village on the beach--on the third day, in the\nmidst of the tempest, away went the man of the Tower to make his first\nfishing experiment in strange waters! He and his boat came back safe and\nsound, in a lull of the storm; and the villagers watching on the cliff\nabove saw him carrying the fish up, by great basketsful, to his Tower. No\nsuch haul had ever fallen to the lot of any one of them--and the stranger\nhad taken it in a whole gale of wind!\n\nUpon this, the inhabitants of the village called a council. The lead\nin the debate was assumed by a smart young fellow, a fisherman named\nPoulailler, who stoutly declared that the stranger at the Tower was\nof infernal origin. \"The rest of you may call him what you like,\" said\nPoulailler; \"I call him The Fiend-Fisherman!\"\n\nThe opinion thus expressed proved to be the opinion of the entire\naudience--with the one exception of the village priest. The priest said,\n\"Gently, my sons. Don't make sure about the man of the Tower, before\nSunday. Wait and see if he comes to church.\"\n\n\"And if he doesn't come to church?\" asked all the fishermen, in a breath.\n\n\"In that case,\" replied the priest, \"I will excommunicate him--and then,\nmy children, you may call him what you like.\"\n\nSunday came; and no sign of the stranger darkened the church-doors. He\nwas excommunicated, accordingly. The whole village forthwith adopted\nPoulailler's idea; and called the man of the Tower by the name which\nPoulailler had given him--\"The Fiend-Fisherman.\"\n\nThese strong proceedings produced not the slightest apparent effect on the\ndiabolical personage who had occasioned them. He persisted in remaining\nidle when the weather was fine; in going out to fish when no other boat\nin the place dare put to sea; and in coming back again to his solitary\ndwelling-place, with his nets full, his boat uninjured, and himself\nalive and hearty. He made no attempts to buy and sell with anybody;\nhe kept steadily away from the village; he lived on fish of his own\npreternaturally strong frying; and he never spoke to a living soul--with\nthe solitary exception of Poulailler himself. One fine evening, when the\nyoung man was rowing home past the Tower, the Fiend-Fisherman darted out\non to the rock--said, \"Thank you, Poulailler, for giving me a name\"--bowed\npolitely--and darted in again. The young fisherman felt the words run cold\ndown the marrow of his back; and whenever he was at sea again, he gave\nthe Tower a wide berth from that day forth.\n\nTime went on--and an important event occurred in Poulailler's life. He\nwas engaged to be married. On the day when his betrothal was publicly made\nknown, his friends clustered noisily about him on the fishing-jetty of the\nvillage to offer their congratulations. While they were all in full cry,\na strange voice suddenly made itself heard through the confusion, which\nsilenced everybody in an instant. The crowd fell back, and disclosed the\nFiend-Fisherman sauntering up the jetty. It was the first time he had ever\nset foot--cloven foot--within the precincts of the village.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the Fiend-Fisherman, \"where is my friend, Poulailler?\"\nHe put the question with perfect politeness; he looked remarkably well in\nhis fisherman's costume; he exhaled a relishing odour of fried fish; he\nhad a cordial nod for the men, and a sweet smile for the women--but, with\nall these personal advantages, everybody fell back from him, and nobody\nanswered his question. The coldness of the popular reception, however, did\nnot in any way abash him. He looked about for Poulailler with searching\neyes, discovered the place in which he was standing, and addressed him in\nthe friendliest manner.\n\n\"So you are going to be married?\" remarked the Fiend-Fisherman.\n\n\"What's that to you?\" said Poulailler. He was inwardly terrified, but\noutwardly gruff--not an uncommon combination of circumstances with men of\nhis class, in his mental situation.\n\n\"My friend,\" pursued the Fiend-Fisherman, \"I have not forgotten your\npolite attention in giving me a name; and I come here to requite it. You\nwill have a family, Poulailler; and your first child will be a boy. I\npropose to make that boy my Adopted Son.\"\n\nThe marrow of Poulailler's back became awfully cold--but he grew gruffer\nthan ever, in spite of his back.\n\n\"You won't do anything of the sort,\" he replied. \"If I have the largest\nfamily in France, no child of mine shall ever go near you.\"\n\n\"I shall adopt your first-born for all that,\" persisted the\nFiend-Fisherman. \"Poulailler! I wish you good morning. Ladies and\ngentlemen! the same to all of you.\"\n\nWith those words, he withdrew from the jetty; and the marrow of\nPoulailler's back recovered its temperature.\n\nThe next morning was stormy; and all the village expected to see the boat\nfrom the Tower put out, as usual, to sea. Not a sign of it appeared.\nLater in the day, the rock on which the building stood was examined\nfrom a distance. Neither boat nor nets were in their customary places.\nAt night, the red gleam of the fire was missed for the first time. The\nFiend-Fisherman had gone! He had announced his intentions on the jetty,\nand had disappeared. What did this mean? Nobody knew.\n\nOn Poulailler's wedding-day, a portentous circumstance recalled the\nmemory of the diabolical stranger, and, as a matter of course, seriously\ndiscomposed the bridegroom's back. At the moment when the marriage\nceremony was complete, a relishing odour of fried fish stole into the\nnostrils of the company, and a voice from invisible lips said: \"Keep up\nyour spirits, Poulailler; I have not forgotten my promise!\"\n\nA year later, Madame Poulailler was in the hands of the midwife of the\ndistrict, and a repetition of the portentous circumstance took place.\nPoulailler was waiting in the kitchen to hear how matters ended up-stairs.\nThe nurse came in with a baby. \"Which is it?\" asked the happy father;\n\"girl or boy?\" Before the nurse could answer, an odour of supernaturally\nfried fish filled the kitchen; and a voice from invisible lips replied:\n\"A boy, Poulailler--_and I've got him!_\"\n\nSuch were the circumstances under which the subject of this Memoir was\nintroduced to the joys and sorrows of mortal existence.\n\n\nII.--HIS BOYHOOD AND EARLY LIFE.\n\nWhen a boy is born under auspices which lead his parents to suppose\nthat, while the bodily part of him is safe at home, the spiritual part is\nsubjected to a course of infernal tuition elsewhere--what are his father\nand mother to do with him? They must do the best they can--which was\nexactly what Poulailler and his wife did with the hero of these pages.\n\nIn the first place, they had him christened instantly. It was observed\nwith horror that his infant face was distorted with grimaces, and that his\ninfant voice roared with a preternatural lustiness of tone the moment the\npriest touched him. The first thing he asked for, when he learnt to speak,\nwas \"fried fish;\" and the first place he wanted to go to, when he learnt\nto walk, was the diabolical Tower on the rock. \"He won't learn anything,\"\nsaid the master, when he was old enough to go to school. \"Thrash him,\"\nsaid Poulailler--and the master thrashed him. \"He won't come to his\nfirst communion,\" said the priest. \"Thrash him,\" said Poulailler--and the\npriest thrashed him. The farmers' orchards were robbed; the neighbouring\nrabbit-warrens were depopulated; linen was stolen from the gardens, and\nnets were torn on the beach. \"The deuce take Poulailler's boy,\" was the\ngeneral cry. \"The deuce has got him,\" was Poulailler's answer. \"And yet\nhe is a nice-looking boy,\" said Madame Poulailler. And he was--as tall,\nas strong, as handsome a young fellow, as could be seen in all France.\n\"Let us pray for him,\" said Madame Poulailler. \"Let us thrash him,\"\nsaid her husband. \"Our son has been thrashed till all the sticks in the\nneighbourhood are broken,\" pleaded his mother. \"We will try him with the\nrope's-end next,\" retorted his father; \"he shall go to sea and live in an\natmosphere of thrashing. Our son shall be a cabin-boy.\" It was all one to\nPoulailler Junior--he knew who had adopted him, as well as his father--he\nhad been instinctively conscious from infancy of the Fiend-Fisherman's\ninterest in his welfare--he cared for no earthly discipline--and a\ncabin-boy he became at ten years old.\n\nAfter two years of the rope's-end (applied quite ineffectually), the\nsubject of this Memoir robbed his captain, and ran away in an English\nport. London became the next scene of his adventures. At twelve years old,\nhe persuaded society in the Metropolis that he was the forsaken natural\nson of a French duke. British benevolence, after blindly providing for him\nfor four years, opened its eyes and found him out at the age of sixteen;\nupon which he returned to France, and entered the army in the capacity\nof drummer. At eighteen, he deserted, and had a turn with the gipsies.\nHe told fortunes, he conjured, he danced on the tight-rope, he acted,\nhe sold quack medicines, he altered his mind again, and returned to the\narmy. Here he fell in love with the vivandi\u00e8re of his new regiment. The\nsergeant-major of the company, touched by the same amiable weakness,\nnaturally resented his attentions to the lady. Poulailler (perhaps\nunjustifiably) asserted himself by boxing his officer's ears. Out flashed\nthe swords on both sides, and in went Poulailler's blade through and\nthrough the tender heart of the sergeant-major. The frontier was close at\nhand. Poulailler wiped his sword, and crossed it.\n\nSentence of death was recorded against him in his absence. When society\nhas condemned us to die, if we are men of any spirit how are we to return\nthe compliment? By condemning society to keep us alive--or, in other\nwords, by robbing right and left for a living. Poulailler's destiny was\nnow accomplished. He was picked out to be the Greatest Thief of his age;\nand when Fate summoned him to his place in the world, he stepped forward\nand took it. His life hitherto had been merely the life of a young\nscamp--he was now to do justice to the diabolical father who had adopted\nhim, and to expand to the proportions of a full-grown Robber.\n\nHis first exploits were performed in Germany. They showed such novelty\nof combination, such daring, such dexterity, and, even in his most\nhomicidal moments, such irresistible gaiety and good humour, that a band\nof congenial spirits gathered about him in no time. As commander-in-chief\nof the Thieves' army, his popularity never wavered. His weaknesses--and\nwhat illustrious man is without them?--were three in number. First\nweakness--he was extravagantly susceptible to the charms of the fair sex.\nSecond weakness--he was perilously fond of practical jokes. Third weakness\n(inherited from his adopted parent)--his appetite was insatiable in the\nmatter of fried fish. As for the merits to set against these defects,\nsome have been noticed already, and others will appear immediately. Let\nit merely be premised, in this place, that he was one of the handsomest\nmen of his time, that he dressed superbly, and that he was capable\nof the most exalted acts of generosity wherever a handsome woman was\nconcerned--let this be understood, to begin with; and let us now enter on\nthe narrative of his last exploit in Germany before he returned to France.\nThis adventure is something more than a mere specimen of his method of\nworkmanship--it proved, in the future, to be the fatal event of his life.\n\nOn a Monday in the week, he had stopped on the highway, and robbed of\nall his valuables and all his papers, an Italian nobleman--the Marquis\nPetrucci of Sienna. On Tuesday, he was ready for another stroke of\nbusiness. Posted on the top of a steep hill, he watched the road which\nwound up to the summit on one side, while his followers were ensconced on\nthe road which led down from it on the other. The prize expected, in this\ncase, was the travelling carriage (with a large sum of money inside) of\nthe Baron de Kirbergen.\n\nBefore long, Poulailler discerned the carriage afar off, at the bottom\nof the hill, and in advance of it, ascending the eminence, two ladies\non foot. They were the Baron's daughters--Wilhelmina, a fair beauty;\nFrederica, a brunette--both lovely, both accomplished, both susceptible,\nboth young. Poulailler sauntered down the hill to meet the fascinating\ntravellers. He looked--bowed--introduced himself--and fell in love with\nWilhelmina on the spot. Both the charming girls acknowledged in the\nmost artless manner that confinement to the carriage had given them\nthe fidgets, and that they were walking up the hill to try the remedy\nof gentle exercise. Poulailler's heart was touched, and Poulailler's\ngenerosity to the sex was roused in the nick of time. With a polite\napology to the young ladies, he ran back, by a short cut, to the ambush\non the other side of the hill in which his men were posted.\n\n\"Gentlemen!\" cried the generous Thief, \"in the charming name of Wilhelmina\nde Kirbergen, I charge you all, let the Baron's carriage pass free.\" The\nband was not susceptible--the band demurred. Poulailler knew them. He\nhad appealed to their hearts in vain--he now appealed to their pockets.\n\"Gentlemen!\" he resumed, \"excuse my momentary misconception of your\nsentiments. Here is my one half share of the Marquis Petrucci's property.\nIf I divide it among you, will you let the carriage pass free?\" The band\nknew the value of money--and accepted the terms. Poulailler rushed back\nup the hill, and arrived at the top just in time to hand the young ladies\ninto the carriage. \"Charming man!\" said the white Wilhelmina to the brown\nFrederica, as they drove off. Innocent soul! what would she have said\nif she had known that her personal attractions had saved her father's\nproperty? Was she ever to see the charming man again? Yes: she was to see\nhim the next day--and, more than that, Fate was hereafter to link her fast\nto the robber's life and the robbers doom.\n\nConfiding the direction of the band to his first lieutenant, Poulailler\nfollowed the carriage on horseback, and ascertained the place of the\nBaron's residence that night.\n\nThe next morning a superbly-dressed stranger knocked at the door. \"What\nname, sir?\" said the servant. \"The Marquis Petrucci of Sienna,\" replied\nPoulailler. \"How are the young ladies after their journey?\" The Marquis\nwas shown in, and introduced to the Baron. The Baron was naturally\ndelighted to receive a brother nobleman--Miss Wilhelmina was modestly\nhappy to see the charming man again--Miss Frederica was affectionately\npleased on her sister's account. Not being of a disposition to lose time\nwhere his affections were concerned, Poulailler expressed his sentiments\nto the beloved object that evening. The next morning he had an interview\nwith the Baron, at which he produced the papers which proved him to be\nthe Marquis. Nothing could be more satisfactory to the mind of the most\nanxious parent--the two noblemen embraced. They were still in each other's\narms, when a second stranger knocked at the door. \"What name, sir?\" said\nthe servant. \"The Marquis Petrucci of Sienna,\" replied the stranger.\n\"Impossible!\" said the servant; \"his lordship is now in the house.\" \"Show\nme in, scoundrel,\" cried the visitor. The servant submitted, and the two\nMarquises stood face to face. Poulailler's composure was not shaken in the\nleast; he had come first to the house, and he had got the papers. \"You are\nthe villain who robbed me!\" cried the true Petrucci. \"You are drunk, mad,\nor an impostor,\" retorted the false Petrucci. \"Send to Florence, where I\nam known,\" exclaimed one of the Marquises, apostrophising the Baron. \"Send\nto Florence by all means,\" echoed the other, addressing himself to the\nBaron also. \"Gentlemen,\" replied the noble Kirbergen, \"I will do myself\nthe honour of taking your advice\"--and he sent to Florence accordingly.\n\nBefore the messenger had advanced ten miles on his journey, Poulailler\nhad said two words in private to the susceptible Wilhelmina--and the pair\neloped from the baronial residence that night. Once more the subject of\nthis Memoir crossed the frontier, and re-entered France. Indifferent to\nthe attractions of rural life, he forthwith established himself with the\nbeloved object in Paris. In that superb city he met with his strangest\nadventures, performed his boldest achievements, committed his most\nprodigious robberies, and, in a word, did himself and his infernal patron\nthe fullest justice, in the character of the Fiend-Fisherman's Adopted\nSon.\n\n\nIII.--HIS CAREER IN PARIS.\n\nOnce established in the French metropolis, Poulailler planned and executed\nthat vast system of perpetual robbery and occasional homicide which made\nhim the terror and astonishment of all Paris. In-doors, as well as out,\nhis good fortune befriended him. No domestic anxieties harassed his mind,\nand diverted him from the pursuit of his distinguished public career.\nThe attachment of the charming creature with whom he had eloped from\nGermany, survived the discovery that the Marquis Petrucci was Poulailler\nthe robber. True to the man of her choice, the devoted Wilhelmina shared\nhis fortunes, and kept his house. And why not, if she loved him?--in the\nall-conquering name of Cupid, why not?\n\nJoined by picked men from his German followers, and by new recruits\ngathered together in Paris, Poulailler now set society and its safeguards\nat flat defiance. Cartouche himself was his inferior in audacity and\ncunning. In course of time, the whole city was panic-stricken by the new\nrobber and his band--the very Boulevards were deserted after nightfall.\nMonsieur H\u00e9rault, lieutenant of police of the period, in despair of\nlaying hands on Poulailler by any other means, at last offered a reward\nof a hundred pistoles and a place in his office worth two thousand livres\na-year to any one who would apprehend the robber alive. The bills were\nposted all over Paris--and, the next morning, they produced the very last\nresult in the world which the lieutenant of police could possibly have\nanticipated.\n\nWhilst Monsieur H\u00e9rault was at breakfast in his study, the Count de\nVilleneuve was announced as wishing to speak to him. Knowing the Count by\nname only, as belonging to an ancient family in Provence, or in Languedoc,\nMonsieur H\u00e9rault ordered him to be shown in. A perfect gentleman appeared,\ndressed with an admirable mixture of magnificence and good taste. \"I\nhave something for your private ear, sir,\" said the Count. \"Will you give\norders that no one must be allowed to disturb us?\"\n\nMonsieur H\u00e9rault gave the orders.\n\n\"May I enquire, Count, what your business is?\" he asked, when the door\nwas closed.\n\n\"To earn the reward you offer for taking Poulailler,\" answered the Count.\n\"I am Poulailler.\"\n\nBefore Monsieur H\u00e9rault could open his lips, the robber produced a pretty\nlittle dagger and some rose-coloured silk cord. \"The point of this dagger\nis poisoned,\" he observed; \"and one scratch of it, my dear sir, would be\nthe death of you.\" With these words Poulailler gagged the lieutenant of\npolice, bound him to his chair with the rose-coloured cord, and lightened\nhis writing-desk of one thousand pistoles. \"I'll take money, instead of\ntaking the place in the office which you kindly offer,\" said Poulailler.\n\"Don't trouble yourself to see me to the door. Good morning.\"\n\nA few weeks later, while Monsieur H\u00e9rault was still the popular subject of\nridicule throughout Paris, business took Poulailler on the road to Lille\nand Cambrai. The only inside passenger in the coach besides himself, was\nthe venerable Dean Potter of Brussels. They fell into talk on the one\ninteresting subject of the time--not the weather, but Poulailler.\n\n\"It's a disgrace, sir, to the police,\" said the Dean, \"that such a\nmiscreant is still at large. I shall be returning to Paris, by this road,\nin ten days' time, and I shall call on Monsieur H\u00e9rault, to suggest a plan\nof my own for catching the scoundrel.\"\n\n\"May I ask what it is?\" said Poulailler.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" replied the Dean; \"you are a stranger, sir,--and, moreover,\nI wish to keep the merit of suggesting the plan to myself.\"\n\n\"Do you think the lieutenant of police will see you?\" asked Poulailler;\n\"he is not accessible to strangers, since the miscreant you speak of\nplayed him that trick at his own breakfast-table.\"\n\n\"He will see Dean Potter of Brussels,\" was the reply, delivered with the\nslightest possible tinge of offended dignity.\n\n\"Oh, unquestionably!\" said Poulailler,--\"pray pardon me.\"\n\n\"Willingly, sir,\" said the Dean--and the conversation flowed into other\nchannels.\n\nNine days later the wounded pride of Monsieur H\u00e9rault was soothed by a\nvery remarkable letter. It was signed by one of Poulailler's band, who\noffered himself as King's evidence, in the hope of obtaining a pardon.\nThe letter stated that the venerable Dean Potter had been waylaid and\nmurdered by Poulailler, and that the robber, with his customary audacity,\nwas about to re-enter Paris by the Lisle coach, the next day, disguised\nin the Dean's own clothes, and furnished with the Dean's own papers.\nMonsieur H\u00e9rault took his precautions without losing a moment. Picked\nmen were stationed, with their orders, at the barrier through which the\ncoach must pass to enter Paris; while the lieutenant of police waited at\nhis office, in the company of two French gentlemen who could speak to the\nDean's identity, in the event of Poulailler's impudently persisting in\nthe assumption of his victim's name.\n\nAt the appointed hour the coach appeared, and out of it got a man in the\nDean's costume. He was arrested in spite of his protestations; the papers\nof the murdered Potter were found on him, and he was dragged off to the\npolice office in triumph. The door opened, and the posse comitatus entered\nwith the prisoner. Instantly the two witnesses burst out with a cry of\nrecognition, and turned indignantly on the lieutenant of police. \"Gracious\nHeaven, sir, what have you done!\" they exclaimed in horror; \"this is not\nPoulailler--here is our venerable friend; here is the Dean himself!\" At\nthe same moment, a servant entered with a letter. \"Dean Potter. To the\ncare of Monsieur H\u00e9rault, Lieutenant of Police.\" The letter was expressed\nin these words: \"Venerable sir,--Profit by the lesson I have given you.\nBe a Christian for the future, and never again try to injure a man unless\nhe tries to injure you. Entirely yours, Poulailler.\"\n\nThese feats of cool audacity were matched by others, in which his\ngenerosity to the sex asserted itself as magnanimously as ever.\n\nHearing, one day, that large sums of money were kept in the house of a\ngreat lady, one Madame de Brienne, whose door was guarded, in anticipation\nof a visit from the famous thief, by a porter of approved trustworthiness\nand courage, Poulailler undertook to rob her in spite of her precautions,\nand succeeded. With a stout pair of leather straps and buckles in his\npocket, and with two of his band, disguised as a coachman and footman,\nhe followed Madame de Brienne one night to the theatre. Just before the\nclose of the performance, the lady's coachman and footman were tempted\naway for five minutes by Poulailler's disguised subordinates to have\na glass of wine. No attempt was made to detain them, or to drug their\nliquor. But, in their absence, Poulailler had slipped under the carriage,\nhad hung his leather straps round the pole--one to hold by, and one to\nsupport his feet--and, with these simple preparations, was now ready\nto wait for events. Madame de Brienne entered the carriage--the footman\ngot up behind--Poulailler hung himself horizontally under the pole, and\nwas driven home with them, under those singular circumstances. He was\nstrong enough to keep his position after the carriage had been taken into\nthe coach-house; and he only left it when the doors were locked for the\nnight. Provided with food beforehand, he waited patiently, hidden in the\ncoach-house, for two days and nights, watching his opportunity of getting\ninto Madame de Brienne's boudoir.\n\nOn the third night the lady went to a grand ball--the servants relaxed in\ntheir vigilance while her back was turned--and Poulailler slipped into\nthe room. He found two thousand louis d'ors, which was nothing like the\nsum he expected, and a pocket-book, which he took away with him to open\nat home. It contained some stock-warrants for a comparatively trifling\namount. Poulailler was far too well off to care about taking them, and\nfar too polite, where a lady was concerned, not to send them back again,\nunder those circumstances. Accordingly, Madame de Brienne received her\nwarrants, with a note of apology from the polite thief.\n\n\"Pray excuse my visit to your charming boudoir,\" wrote Poulailler, \"in\nconsideration of the false reports of your wealth, which alone induced\nme to enter it. If I had known what your pecuniary circumstances really\nwere, on the honour of a gentleman, Madam, I should have been incapable\nof robbing you. I cannot return your two thousand louis d'ors by post,\nas I return your warrants. But if you are at all pressed for money in\nfuture, I shall be proud to assist so distinguished a lady by lending her,\nfrom my own ample resources, double the sum of which I regret to have\ndeprived her on the present occasion.\" This letter was shown to royalty\nat Versailles. It excited the highest admiration of the Court--especially\nof the ladies. Whenever the robber's name was mentioned, they indulgently\nreferred to him as the Chevalier de Poulailler. Ah! that was the age of\npoliteness, when good-breeding was recognised, even in a thief. Under\nsimilar circumstances, who would recognise it now? O tempora! O mores!\n\nOn another occasion, Poulailler was out, one night, taking the air\nand watching his opportunities on the roofs of the houses; a member\nof the band being posted in the street below to assist him in case\nof necessity. While in this position, sobs and groans proceeding from\nan open back-garret window caught his ear. A parapet rose before the\nwindow, which enabled him to climb down and look in. Starving children\nsurrounding a helpless mother, and clamouring for food, was the picture\nthat met his eye. The mother was young and beautiful; and Poulailler's\nhand impulsively clutched his purse, as a necessary consequence. Before\nthe charitable thief could enter by the window, a man rushed in by the\ndoor, with a face of horror; and cast a handful of gold into the lovely\nmother's lap. \"My honour is gone,\" he cried; \"but our children are\nsaved! Listen to the circumstances. I met a man in the street below; he\nwas tall and thin; he had a green patch over one eye; he was looking up\nsuspiciously at this house, apparently waiting for somebody. I thought of\nyou--I thought of the children--I seized the suspicious stranger by the\ncollar. Terror overwhelmed him on the spot. 'Take my watch, my money, and\nmy two valuable gold snuff-boxes,' he said--'but spare my life.' I took\nthem.\" \"Noble-hearted man!\" cried Poulailler, appearing at the window.\nThe husband started; the wife screamed; the children hid themselves. \"Let\nme entreat you to be composed,\" continued Poulailler. \"Sir! I enter on\nthe scene for the purpose of soothing your uneasy conscience. From your\nvivid description, I recognise the man whose property is now in your\nwife's lap. Resume your mental tranquillity. You have robbed a robber--in\nother words, you have vindicated society. Accept my congratulations on\nyour restored innocence. The miserable coward whose collar you seized,\nis one of Poulailler's band. He has lost his stolen property, as the fit\npunishment for his disgraceful want of spirit.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" exclaimed the husband.\n\n\"I am Poulailler,\" replied the illustrious man, with the simplicity of an\nancient hero. \"Take this purse; and set up in business with the contents.\nThere is a prejudice, Sir, in favour of honesty. Give that prejudice\na chance. There was a time when I felt it myself; I regret to feel it\nno longer. Under all varieties of misfortune, an honest man has his\nconsolation still left. Where is it left? Here!\" He struck his heart--and\nthe family fell on their knees before him.\n\n\"Benefactor of your species!\" cried the husband--\"how can I show my\ngratitude?\"\n\n\"You can permit me to kiss the hand of madame,\" answered Poulailler.\n\nMadame started to her feet, and embraced the generous stranger. \"What more\ncan I do?\" exclaimed this lovely woman eagerly--\"Oh, Heavens! what more?\"\n\n\"You can beg your husband to light me down stairs,\" replied Poulailler.\nHe spoke, pressed their hands, dropped a generous tear, and departed. At\nthat touching moment, his own adopted father would not have known him.\n\nThis last anecdote closes the record of Poulailler's career in Paris.\nThe lighter and more agreeable aspects of that career have hitherto\nbeen designedly presented, in discreet remembrance of the contrast which\nthe tragic side of the picture must now present. Comedy and Sentiment,\ntwin sisters of French extraction, farewell! Horror enters next on the\nstage--and enters welcome, in the name of the Fiend-Fisherman's Adopted\nSon.\n\n\nIV.--HIS EXIT FROM THE SCENE.\n\nThe nature of Poulailler's more serious achievements in the art of\nrobbery may be realised by reference to one terrible fact. In the police\nrecords of the period, more than one hundred and fifty men and women are\nreckoned up as having met their deaths at the hands of Poulailler and his\nband. It was not the practice of this formidable robber to take life as\nwell as property, unless life happened to stand directly in his way--in\nwhich case he immediately swept off the obstacle without hesitation and\nwithout remorse. His deadly determination to rob, which was thus felt by\nthe population in general, was matched by his deadly determination to\nbe obeyed, which was felt by his followers in particular. One of their\nnumber, for example, having withdrawn from his allegiance, and having\nafterwards attempted to betray his leader, was tracked to his hiding-place\nin a cellar, and was there walled up alive in Poulailler's presence; the\nrobber composing the unfortunate wretch's epitaph, and scratching it on\nthe wet plaster with his own hand. Years afterwards, the inscription was\nnoticed, when the house fell into the possession of a new tenant, and was\nsupposed to be nothing more than one of the many jests which the famous\nrobber had practised in his time. When the plaster was removed, the\nskeleton fell out, and testified that Poulailler was in earnest.\n\nTo attempt the arrest of such a man as this by tampering with his\nfollowers, was practically impossible. No sum of money that could be\noffered would induce any one of the members of his band to risk the fatal\nchance of his vengeance. Other means of getting possession of him had\nbeen tried, and tried in vain. Five times over, the police had succeeded\nin tracking him to different hiding-places; and on all five occasions,\nthe women--who adored him for his gallantry, his generosity, and his good\nlooks--had helped him to escape. If he had not unconsciously paved the\nway to his own capture, first by eloping with Mademoiselle Wilhelmina\nde Kirbergen, and secondly by maltreating her, it is more than doubtful\nwhether the long arm of the law would ever have reached far enough to\nfasten its grasp on him. As it was, the extremes of love and hatred met\nat last in the bosom of the devoted Wilhelmina; and the vengeance of a\nneglected woman accomplished what the whole police force of Paris had been\npowerless to achieve.\n\nPoulailler, never famous for the constancy of his attachments, had\nwearied, at an early period, of the companion of his flight from\nGermany--but Wilhelmina was one of those women whose affections, once\naroused, will not take No for an answer. She persisted in attaching\nherself to a man who had ceased to love her. Poulailler's patience became\nexhausted; he tried twice to rid himself of his unhappy mistress--once\nby the knife and once by poison--and failed on both occasions. For the\nthird and last time, by way of attempting an experiment of another kind,\nhe established a rival to drive the German woman out of the house. From\nthat moment his fate was sealed. Maddened by jealous rage, Wilhelmina cast\nthe last fragments of her fondness to the winds. She secretly communicated\nwith the police--and Poulailler met his doom.\n\nA night was appointed with the authorities; and the robber was invited\nby his discarded mistress to a farewell interview. His contemptuous\nconfidence in her fidelity rendered him careless of his customary\nprecautions. He accepted the appointment; and the two supped together,\non the understanding that they were henceforth to be friends, and nothing\nmore. Towards the close of the meal, Poulailler was startled by a ghastly\nchange in the face of his companion.\n\n\"What is wrong with you?\" he asked.\n\n\"A mere trifle,\" she answered, looking at her glass of wine. \"I can't\nhelp loving you still, badly as you have treated me. You are a dead man,\nPoulailler--and I shall not survive you.\"\n\nThe robber started to his feet, and seized a knife on the table.\n\n\"You have poisoned me?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"No,\" she replied. \"Poison is my vengeance on myself; not my vengeance\non _you_. You will rise from this table as you sat down to it. But your\nevening will be finished in prison; and your life will be ended on the\nWheel.\"\n\nAs she spoke the words, the door was burst open by the police, and\nPoulailler was secured. The same night the poison did its fatal work;\nand his mistress made atonement with her life for the first, last, act of\ntreachery which had revenged her on the man she loved.\n\nOnce safely lodged in the hands of justice, the robber tried to gain time\nto escape in, by promising to make important disclosures. The manoeuvre\navailed him nothing. In those days, the Laws of the Land had not yet\nmade acquaintance with the Laws of Humanity. Poulailler was put to the\ntorture--was suffered to recover--was publicly broken on the Wheel--and\nwas taken off it alive, to be cast into a blazing fire. By those murderous\nmeans, Society rid itself of a murderous man--and the idlers on the\nBoulevards took their evening stroll again in recovered security.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nParis had seen the execution of Poulailler--but, if legends are to be\ntrusted, our old friends, the people of the fishing village in Brittany\nsaw the end of him afterwards. On the day and hour when he perished, the\nheavens darkened, and a terrible storm arose. Once more, and for a moment\nonly, the gleam of the unearthly fire reddened the windows of the old\nTower. Thunder pealed and struck the building into fragments. Lightning\nflashed incessantly over the ruins; and, in the scorching glare of it, the\nboat which, in former years, had put off to sea whenever the storm rose\nhighest, was seen to shoot out into the raging ocean from the cleft in\nthe rock--and was discovered, on this final occasion, to be doubly manned.\nThe Fiend-Fisherman sat at the helm; his Adopted Son tugged at the oars;\nand a clamour of diabolical voices, roaring awfully through the roaring\nstorm, wished the pair of them a prosperous voyage.\n\n\n\n\nSKETCHES OF CHARACTER.--IV.\n\nTHE BACHELOR BEDROOM.\n\n\nThe great merit of this subject is that it starts itself.\n\nThe Bachelor Bedroom is familiar to everybody who owns a country house,\nand to everybody who has stayed in a country house. It is the one especial\nsleeping apartment, in all civilised residences used for the reception of\ncompany, which preserves a character of its own. Married people and young\nladies may be shifted about from bedroom to bedroom as their own caprice\nor the domestic convenience of the host may suggest. But the bachelor\nguest, when he has once had his room set apart for him, contrives to\ndedicate it to the perpetual occupation of single men from that moment.\nWho else is to have the room afterwards, when the very atmosphere of\nit is altered by tobacco-smoke? Who can venture to throw it open to\nnervous spinsters, or respectable married couples, when the footman is\ncertain, from mere force of habit, to make his appearance at the door,\nwith contraband bottles and glasses, after the rest of the family have\nretired for the night? Where, even if these difficulties could be got\nover, is any second sleeping apartment to be found, in any house of\nordinary construction, isolated enough to secure the soberly reposing\nportion of the guests from being disturbed by the regular midnight party\nwhich the bachelor persists in giving in his bedroom? Dining-rooms and\nbreakfast-rooms may change places; double-bedded rooms and single-bedded\nrooms may shift their respective characters backwards and forwards\namicably among each other--but the Bachelor Bedroom remains immovably\nin its own place; sticks immutably to its own bad character; stands out\nvictoriously whether the house is full, or whether the house is empty,\nthe one hospitable institution that no repentant after-thoughts of host\nor hostess can ever hope to suppress.\n\nSuch a social phenomenon as this, taken with its surrounding\ncircumstances, deserves more notice than it has yet obtained. The bachelor\nhas been profusely served up on all sorts of literary tables; but,\nthe presentation of him has been hitherto remarkable for a singularly\nmonotonous flavour of matrimonial sauce. We have heard of his loneliness,\nand its remedy; of his solitary position in illness, and its remedy;\nof the miserable neglect of his linen, and its remedy. But what have we\nheard of him in connexion with his remarkable bedroom, at those periods\nof his existence when he, like the rest of the world, is a visitor at his\nfriend's country house? Who has presented him, in his relation to married\nsociety, under those peculiar circumstances of his life, when he is away\nfrom his solitary chambers, and is thrown straight into the sacred centre\nof that home circle from which his ordinary habits are so universally\nsupposed to exclude him? Here, surely, is a new aspect of the bachelor\nstill left to be presented; and here is a new subject for worn-out readers\nof the nineteenth century, whose fountain of literary novelty has become\nexhausted at the source.\n\nLet me sketch the history--in anticipation of a large and serious work\nwhich I intend to produce, one of these days, on the same subject--of the\nBachelor Bedroom, in a certain comfortable country house, whose hospitable\ndoors fly open to me with the beginning of summer, and close no more until\nthe autumn is ended. I must beg permission to treat this interesting topic\nfrom the purely human point of view. In other words, I propose describing,\nnot the Bedroom itself, but the succession of remarkable bachelors who\nhave passed through it in my time.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe hospitable country-seat to which I refer is Coolcup House, the\nresidence of that enterprising gentleman-farmer and respected chairman of\nQuarter Sessions, Sir John Giles. Sir John's Bachelor Bedroom has been\nwisely fitted up on the ground-floor. It is the one solitary sleeping\napartment in that part of the house. Fidgety bachelors can jump out on\nto the lawn, at night, through the bow-window, without troubling anybody\nto unlock the front door; and can communicate with the presiding genius\nof the cellar by merely crossing the hall. For the rest, the room is\ndelightfully airy and spacious, and fitted up with all possible luxury.\nIt started in life, under Sir John's careful auspices, the perfection\nof neatness and tidiness. But the bachelors have corrupted it long\nsince. However carefully the servants may clean, and alter, and arrange\nit, the room loses its respectability again, and gets slovenly and\nunpresentable the moment their backs are turned. Sir John himself, the\ntidiest man in existence, has given up all hope of reforming it. He peeps\nin occasionally, and sighs and shakes his head, and puts a chair in its\nplace, and straightens a print on the wall, and looks about him at the\ngeneral litter and confusion, and gives it up and goes out again. He is a\nrigid man and a resolute in the matter of order, and has his way all over\nthe rest of the house--but the Bachelor Bedroom is too much for him.\n\nThe first bachelor who inhabited the room when I began to be a guest at\nCoolcup House, was Mr. Bigg.\n\nMr. Bigg is, in the strictest sense of the word, what you call a fine\nman. He stands over six feet, is rather more than stout enough for his\nheight, holds his head up nobly, and dresses in a style of mingled gaiety\nand grandeur which impresses everybody. The morning shirts of Mr. Bigg\nare of so large a pattern that nobody but his haberdasher knows what that\npattern really is. You see a bit of it on one side of his collar which\nlooks square, and a bit of it on the other side which looks round. It\ngoes up his arm on one of his wristbands, and down his arm on the other.\nMen who have seen his shirts off (if such a statement may be permitted),\nand scattered loosely, to Sir John's horror, over all the chairs in the\nBedroom, have been questioned, and have not been found able to state that\ntheir eyes ever followed out the patterns of any one of them fairly to\nthe end. In the matter of beautiful and expensive clothing for the neck,\nMr. Bigg is simply inexhaustible. Every morning he appears at breakfast\nin a fresh scarf, and taps his egg magnificently with a daily blaze\nof new colour glowing on his capacious chest, to charm the eyes of the\nyoung ladies who sit opposite to him. All the other component parts of\nMr. Bigg's costume are of an equally grand and attractive kind, and are\nset off by Mr. Bigg's enviable figure to equal advantage. Outside the\nBachelor Bedroom, he is altogether an irreproachable character in the\narticle of dress. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, he is essentially a man\nof the world, who can be depended on to perform any part allotted to him\nin any society assembled at Coolcup House; who has lived among all ranks\nand sorts of people; who has filled a public situation with great breadth\nand dignity, and has sat at table with crowned heads, and played his part\nthere with distinction; who can talk of these experiences, and of others\nakin to them, with curious fluency and ease, and can shift about to other\nsubjects, and pass the bottle, and carve, and draw out modest people, and\ntake all other social responsibilities on his own shoulders complacently,\nat the largest and dreariest county dinner party that Sir John, to his\nown great discomfiture, can be obliged to give. Such is Mr. Bigg in the\nsociety of the house, when the door of the Bachelor Bedroom has closed\nbehind him.\n\nBut what is Mr. Bigg, when he has courteously wished the ladies good\nnight, when he has secretly summoned the footman with the surreptitious\ntray, and when he has deluded the unprincipled married men of the party\ninto having half an hour's cozy chat with him before they go up-stairs?\nAnother being--a being unknown to the ladies, and unsuspected by the\nrespectable guests. Inside the Bedroom, the outward aspect of Mr. Bigg\nchanges as if by magic; and a kind of gorgeous slovenliness pervades\nhim from top to toe. Buttons which have rigidly restrained him within\ndistinct physical boundaries, slip exhausted out of their buttonholes;\nand the figure of Mr. Bigg suddenly expands and asserts itself for the\nfirst time as a protuberant fact. His neckcloth flies on to the nearest\nchair, his rigid shirt-collar yawns open, his wiry under-whiskers ooze\nmultitudinously into view, his coat, waistcoat, and braces drop off\nhis shoulders. If the two young ladies who sleep in the room above, and\nwho most unreasonably complain of the ceaseless nocturnal croaking and\ngrowling of voices in the Bachelor Bedroom, could look down through the\nceiling now, they would not know Mr. Bigg again, and would suspect that\na dissipated artisan had intruded himself into Sir John's house.\n\nIn the same way, the company who have sat in Mr. Bigg's neighbourhood at\nthe dinner-table at seven o'clock, would find it impossible to recognise\nhis conversation at midnight. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, if his talk\nhas shown him to be anything at all, it has shown him to be the exact\nreverse of an enthusiast. Inside the Bachelor Bedroom, after all due\nattention has been paid to the cigar-box and the footman's tray, it\nbecomes unaccountably manifest to everybody that Mr. Bigg is, after all,\na fanatical character, a man possessed of one fixed idea. Then, and then\nonly, does he mysteriously confide to his fellow revellers that he is the\none remarkable man in Great Britain who has discovered the real authorship\nof Junius's Letters. In the general society of the house, nobody ever\nhears him refer to the subject; nobody ever suspects that he takes more\nthan the most ordinary interest in literary matters. In the select society\nof the Bedroom, inspired by the surreptitious tray and the midnight\nsecrecy, wrapped in clouds of tobacco smoke, and freed from the restraint\nof his own magnificent garments, the truth flies out of Mr. Bigg, and the\nauthorship of Junius's Letters becomes the one dreary subject which this\notherwise variously gifted man persists in dilating on for hours together.\nBut for the Bachelor Bedroom, nobody alive would ever have discovered that\nthe true key to unlock Mr. Bigg's character is Junius. If the subject is\nreferred to the next day by his companions of the night, he declines to\nnotice it; but, once in the Bedroom again, he takes it up briskly, as if\nthe attempted reference to it had been made but the moment before. The\nlast time I saw him was in the Bachelor Bedroom. It was three o'clock in\nthe morning; two tumblers were broken; half a lemon was in the soap-dish,\nand the soap itself was on the chimney-piece; restless married rakes,\nwho were desperately afraid of waking up their wives when they left us,\nwere walking to and fro absently, and crunching knobs of loaf-sugar under\nfoot at every step; Mr. Bigg was standing, with his fourth cigar in his\nmouth, before the fire; one of his hands was in the tumbled bosom of his\nshirt, the other was grasping mine, while he pathetically appointed me his\nliterary executor, and generously bequeathed to me his great discovery\nof the authorship of Junius's Letters. Upon the whole, Mr. Bigg is the\nmost incorrigible bachelor on record in the annals of the Bedroom; he\nhas consumed more candles, ordered more footmen's trays, seen more early\ndaylight, and produced more pale faces among the gentlemen at breakfast\ntime, than any other single visitor at Coolcup House.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next bachelor in the order of succession, and the completest contrast\nconceivable to Mr. Bigg, is Mr. Jeremy.\n\nMr. Jeremy is, perhaps, the most miserable-looking little man that\never tottered under the form of humanity. Wear what clothes he may, he\ninvariably looks shabby in them. He is the victim of perpetual accidents\nand perpetual ill-health; and the Bachelor Bedroom, when he inhabits it,\nis turned into a doctor's shop, and bristles all over with bottles and\npills. Mr. Jeremy's personal tribute to the hospitalities of Coolcup House\nis always paid in the same singularly unsatisfactory manner to his host.\nOn one day in the week, he gorges himself gaily with food and drink, and\nsoars into the seventh heaven of convivial beatitude. On the other six,\nhe is invariably ill in consequence, is reduced to the utmost rigours\nof starvation and physic, sinks into the lowest depths of depression,\nand takes the bitterest imaginable views of human life. Hardly a single\naccident has happened at Coolcup House in which he has not been personally\nand chiefly concerned; hardly a single malady can occur to the human frame\nthe ravages of which he has not practically exemplified in his own person\nunder Sir John's roof. If any one guest, in the fruit season, terrifies\nthe rest by writhing under the internal penalties in such cases made\nand provided by the laws of nature, it is Mr. Jeremy. If any one tumbles\nup-stairs, or down-stairs, or off a horse, or out of a dog-cart, it is Mr.\nJeremy. If you want a case of sprained ankle, a case of suppressed gout, a\ncase of complicated earache, toothache, headache, and sore-throat, all in\none, a case of liver, a case of chest, a case of nerves, or a case of low\nfever, go to Coolcup House while Mr. Jeremy is staying there, and he will\nsupply you, on demand, at the shortest notice and to any extent. It is\nconjectured by the intimate friends of this extremely wretched bachelor,\nthat he has but two sources of consolation to draw on, as a set-off\nagainst his innumerable troubles. The first is the luxury of twisting his\nnose on one side, and stopping up his air-passages and Eustachian tubes\nwith inconceivably large quantities of strong snuff. The second is the\noleaginous gratification of incessantly anointing his miserable little\nbeard and mustachios with cheap bear's-grease, which always turns rancid\non the premises before he has half done with it. When Mr. Jeremy gives a\nparty in the Bachelor Bedroom, his guests have the unexpected pleasure\nof seeing him take his physic, and hearing him describe his maladies\nand recount his accidents. In other respects, the moral influence of the\nBedroom over the characters of those who occupy it, which exhibits Mr.\nBigg in the unexpected literary aspect of a commentator on Junius, is\nfound to tempt Mr. Jeremy into betraying a horrible triumph and interest\nin the maladies of others, of which nobody would suspect him in the\ngeneral society of the house.\n\n\"I noticed you, after dinner to-day,\" says this invalid bachelor, on such\noccasions, to any one of the Bedroom guests who may be rash enough to\ncomplain of the slightest uneasiness in his presence; \"I saw the corners\nof your mouth get green, and the whites of your eyes look yellow. You\nhave got a pain here,\" says Mr. Jeremy, gaily indicating the place to\nwhich he refers on his own shattered frame, with an appearance of extreme\nrelish--\"a pain _here_, and a sensation like having a cannon-ball inside\nyou, _there_. You will be parched with thirst and racked with fidgets\nall to-night; and to-morrow morning you will get up with a splitting\nheadache, and a dark-brown tongue, and another cannon-ball in your inside.\nMy dear fellow, I'm a veteran at this sort of thing; and I know exactly\nthe state you will be in next week, and the week after, and when you will\nhave to try the sea-side, and how many pounds' weight you will lose to\na dead certainty, before you can expect to get over this attack. Suppose\nwe look under his ribs, on the right side of him?\" continues Mr. Jeremy,\naddressing himself confidentially to the company in general. \"I'll lay\nanybody five to one we find an alarming lump under the skin. And that lump\nwill be his liver!\"\n\nThus, while Mr. Bigg always astonishes the Bedroom guests on the subject\nof Junius, Mr. Jeremy always alarms them on the subject of themselves.\nMr. Smart, the next, and third bachelor, placed in a similar situation,\ndisplays himself under a more agreeable aspect, and makes the society that\nsurrounds him, for the night at least, supremely happy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the first day of his arrival at Coolcup House, Mr. Smart deceived us\nall. When he was first presented to us, we were deeply impressed by the\nserene solemnity of this gentleman's voice, look, manner, and costume. He\nwas as carefully dressed as Mr. Bigg himself, but on totally different\nprinciples. Mr. Smart was fearfully and wonderfully gentlemanly in his\navoidance of anything approaching to bright colour on any part of his\nbody. Quakerish drabs and greys clothed him in the morning. Dismal black,\nunrelieved by an atom of jewellery, undisturbed even by so much as a\nflower in his button-hole, encased him grimly in the evening. He moved\nabout the room and the garden with a ghostly and solemn stalk. When the\nladies got brilliant in their conversation, he smiled upon them with a\ndeferential modesty and polite Grandisonian admiration that froze the\nblood of \"us youth\" in our veins. When he spoke, it was like reading\na passage from an elegant moral writer--the words were so beautifully\narranged, the sentences were turned so musically, the sentiment conveyed\nwas so delightfully well regulated, so virtuously appropriate to nothing\nin particular. At such times he always spoke in a slow, deep, and gentle\ndrawl, with a thrillingly clear emphasis on every individual syllable. His\nspeech sounded occasionally like a kind of highly-bred foreign English,\nspoken by a distinguished stranger who had mastered the language to such\nan extent that he had got beyond the natives altogether. We watched\nenviously all day for any signs of human infirmity in this surprising\nindividual. The men detected him in nothing. Even the sharper eyes of\nthe women only discovered that he was addicted to looking at himself\naffectionately in every glass in the house, when he thought that nobody\nwas noticing him. At dinner-time we all pinned our faith on Sir John's\nexcellent wine, and waited anxiously for its legitimate effect on the\nsuperb and icy stranger. Nothing came of it; Mr. Smart was as carefully\nguarded with the bottle as he was with the English language. All through\nthe evening he behaved himself so dreadfully well that we quite began to\nhate him. When the company parted for the night, and when Mr. Smart (who\nwas just mortal enough to be a bachelor) invited us to a cigar in the\nBedroom, his highly-bred foreign English was still in full perfection; his\ndrawl had reached its elocutionary climax of rich and gentle slowness; and\nhis Grandisonian smile was more exasperatingly settled and composed than\never.\n\nThe Bedroom door closed on us. We took off our coats, tore open our\nwaistcoats, rushed in a body on the new bachelor's cigar-box, and summoned\nthe evil genius of the footman's tray.\n\nAt the first round of the tumblers, the false Mr. Smart began to\ndisappear, and the true Mr. Smart approached, as it were, from a\nvisionary distance, and took his place among us. He chuckled--Grandison\nchuckled--within the hearing of every man in the room! We were surprised\nat that; but what were our sensations when, in less than ten minutes\nafterwards, the highly-bred English and the gentle drawl mysteriously\ndisappeared, and there came bursting out upon us, from the ambush of\nMr. Smart's previous elocution, the jolliest, broadest, and richest\nIrish brogue we had ever heard in our lives! The mystery was explained\nnow. Mr. Smart had a coat of the smoothest English varnish laid over\nhim, for highly-bred county society, which nothing mortal could peel\noff but bachelor company and whiskey-and-water. He slipped out of his\nclose-fitting English envelope, in the loose atmosphere of the Bachelor\nBedroom, as glibly as a tightly-laced young lady slips out of her stays\nwhen the admiring eyes of the world are off her waist for the night. Never\nwas man so changed as Mr. Smart was now. His moral sentiments melted like\nthe sugar in his grog; his grammar disappeared with his white cravat.\nWild and lavish generosity suddenly became the leading characteristic\nof this once reticent man. We tried all sorts of subjects, and were\nobliged to drop every one of them, because Mr. Smart would promise to\nmake us a present of whatever we talked about. The family mansion in\nIreland contained everything that this world can supply; and Mr. Smart\nwas resolved to dissipate that priceless store in gifts distributed to\nthe much-esteemed company. He promised me a schooner yacht, and made\na memorandum of the exact tonnage in his pocket-book. He promised my\nneighbour, on one side, a horse, and, on the other, a unique autograph\nletter of Shakespeare's. We had all three been talking respectively of\nsailing, hunting, and the British Drama; and we now held our tongues for\nfear of getting new presents if we tried new subjects. Other members of\nthe festive assembly took up the ball of conversation, and were prostrated\nforthwith by showers of presents for their pains. When we all parted in\nthe dewy morning, we left Mr. Smart with dishevelled hair, checking off\nhis voluminous memoranda of gifts with an unsteady pencil, and piteously\nentreating us, in the richest Irish-English, to correct him instantly if\nwe detected the slightest omission anywhere.\n\nThe next morning, at breakfast, we rather wondered which nation\nour friend would turn out to belong to. He set all doubts at rest\nthe moment he opened the door, by entering the room with the old\nmajestic stalk; saluting the ladies with the serene Grandison smile;\ntrusting we had all rested well during the night, in a succession of\nelegantly-turned sentences; and enunciating the highly-bred English with\nthe imperturbably-gentle drawl which we all imagined, the night before,\nthat we had lost for ever. He stayed more than a fortnight at Coolcup\nHouse; and, in all that time, nobody ever knew the true Mr. Smart except\nthe guests in the Bachelor Bedroom.\n\nThe fourth Bachelor on the list deserves especial consideration and\nattention. In the first place, because he presents himself to the reader,\nin the character of a distinguished foreigner. In the second place,\nbecause he contrived, in the most amiable manner imaginable, to upset\nall the established arrangements of Coolcup House--inside the Bachelor\nBedroom, as well as outside it--from the moment when he entered its doors,\nto the moment when he left them behind him on his auspicious return to his\nnative country. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a rare, probably a unique,\nspecies of bachelor; and Mr. Bigg, Mr. Jeremy, and Mr. Smart have no claim\nwhatever to stand in the faintest light of comparison with him.\n\nWhen I mention that the distinguished guest now introduced to notice is\nHerr von M\u00fcffe, it will be unnecessary for me to add that I refer to the\ndistinguished German poet, whose far-famed Songs Without Sense have aided\nso immeasurably in thickening the lyric obscurities of his country's\nHarp. On his arrival in London, Herr von M\u00fcffe forwarded his letter of\nintroduction to Sir John by post, and immediately received, in return,\nthe usual hospitable invitation to Coolcup House.\n\nThe eminent poet arrived barely in time to dress for dinner; and made his\nfirst appearance in our circle while we were waiting in the drawing-room\nfor the welcome signal of the bell. He waddled in among us softly and\nsuddenly, in the form of a very short, puffy, florid, roundabout old\ngentleman, with flowing grey hair and a pair of huge circular spectacles.\nThe extreme shabbiness and dinginess of his costume was so singularly set\noff by the quantity of foreign orders of merit which he wore all over the\nupper part of it, that a sarcastic literary gentleman among the guests\ndefined him to me, in a whisper, as a compound of \"decorations and dirt.\"\nSir John advanced to greet his distinguished guest, with friendly right\nhand extended as usual. Herr von M\u00fcffe, without saying a word, took the\nhand carefully in both his own, and expressed affectionate recognition\nof English hospitality, by transferring it forthwith to that vacant space\nbetween his shirt and his waistcoat which extended over the region of the\nheart. Sir John turned scarlet, and tried vainly to extricate his hand\nfrom the poet's too affectionate bosom. The dinner-bell rang, but Herr\nvon M\u00fcffe still held fast. The principal lady in the company half rose,\nand looked perplexedly at her host--Sir John made another and a desperate\neffort to escape--failed again--and was marched into the dining-room,\nin full view of his servants and his guests, with his hand sentimentally\nimprisoned in his foreign visitor's waistcoat.\n\nAfter this romantic beginning, Herr von M\u00fcffe rather surprised us by\nshowing that he was decidedly the reverse of a sentimentalist in the\nmatter of eating and drinking.\n\nNeither dish nor bottle passed the poet, without paying heavy tribute,\nall through the repast. He mixed his liquors, especially, with the most\nsovereign contempt for all sanitary considerations; drinking champagne\nand beer, the sweetest Constantia and the tawniest port, all together,\nwith every appearance of the extremest relish. Conversation with Herr\nvon M\u00fcffe, both at dinner, and all through the evening, was found to be\nnext to impossible, in consequence of his knowing all languages (his\nown included) equally incorrectly. His German was pronounced to be a\ndialect never heard before; his French was inscrutable; his English was\na philological riddle which all of us guessed at and none of us found\nout. He talked, in spite of these difficulties, incessantly; and, seeing\nthat he shed tears several times in the course of the evening, the\nladies assumed that his topics were mostly of a pathetic nature, while\nthe coarser men compared notes with each other, and all agreed that the\ndistinguished guest was drunk. When the time came for retiring, we had\nto invite ourselves into the Bachelor Bedroom; Herr von M\u00fcffe having no\nsuspicion of our customary midnight orgies, and apparently feeling no\ndesire to entertain us, until we informed him of the institution of the\nfootman's tray--when he became hospitable on a sudden, and unreasonably\nfond of his gay young English friends.\n\nWhile we were settling ourselves in our places round the bed, a member of\nthe company kicked over one of the poet's capacious Wellington boots. To\nthe astonishment of every one, there instantly ensued a tinkling of coin,\nand some sovereigns and shillings rolled surprisingly out on the floor\nfrom the innermost recesses of the boot. On receiving his money back, Herr\nvon M\u00fcffe informed us, without the slightest appearance of embarrassment,\nthat he had not had time, before dinner, to take more than his watch,\nrings, and decorations, out of his boots. Seeing us all stare at this\nincomprehensible explanation, our distinguished friend kindly endeavoured\nto enlighten us further by a long personal statement in his own polyglot\nlanguage. From what we could understand of this narrative (which was not\nmuch), we gathered that Herr von M\u00fcffe had started at noon, that day, as a\ntotal stranger in our metropolis, to reach the London-bridge station in a\ncab; and that the driver had taken him, as usual, across Waterloo-bridge.\nOn going through the Borough, the narrow streets, miserable houses, and\nsqualid population, had struck the lively imagination of Herr von M\u00fcffe,\nand had started in his mind a horrible suspicion that the cabman was\ndriving him into a low neighbourhood, with the object of murdering a\nhelpless foreign fare, in perfect security, for the sake of the valuables\nhe carried on his person. Chilled to the very marrow of his bones by\nthis idea, the poet raised the ends of his trousers stealthily in the\ncab, slipped his watch, rings, orders, and money into the legs of his\nWellington boots, arrived at the station quaking with mortal terror, and\nscreamed \"Help!\" at the top of his voice, when the railway policeman\nopened the cab door. The immediate starting of the train had left him\nno time to alter the singular travelling arrangements he had made in the\nBorough; and he arrived at Coolcup House, the only individual who had ever\nyet entered that mansion with his property in his boots.\n\nAmusing as it was in itself, this anecdote failed a little in its effect\non us at the time, in consequence of the stifling atmosphere in which we\nwere condemned to hear it.\n\nAlthough it was then the sultry middle of summer, and we were all smoking,\nHerr von M\u00fcffe insisted on keeping the windows of the Bachelor Bedroom\nfast closed, because it was one of his peculiarities to distrust the\ncooling effect of the night air. We were more than half inclined to go,\nunder these circumstances; and we were altogether determined to remove,\nwhen the tray came in, and when we found our German friend madly mixing\nhis liquors again by pouring gin and sherry together into the same\ntumbler. We warned him, with a shuddering prevision of consequences, that\nhe was mistaking gin for water; and he blandly assured us in return that\nhe was doing nothing of the kind. \"It is good for My ----\" said Herr von\nM\u00fcffe, supplying his ignorance of the word stomach by laying his chubby\nforefinger on the organ in question, with a sentimental smile. \"It is bad\nfor Our ----\" retorted the wag of the party, imitating the poet's action,\nand turning quickly to the door. We all followed him--and, for the first\ntime in the annals of Coolcup House, the Bachelor Bedroom was emptied of\ncompany before midnight.\n\nEarly the next morning, one of Sir John's younger sons burst into my room\nin a state of violent excitement.\n\n\"I say, what's to be done with M\u00fcffe?\" inquired the young gentleman, with\nwildly staring eyes.\n\n\"Open his windows, and fetch the doctor,\" I answered, inspired by the\nrecollections of the past night.\n\n\"Doctor!\" cried the boy; \"the doctor won't do--it's the barber.\"\n\n\"Barber?\" I repeated.\n\n\"He's been asking me _to shave him_!\" roared my young friend, with\nvehement comic indignation. \"He rang his bell, and asked for 'the Son of\nthe House'--and they made me go; and there he was, grinning in the big\narm-chair, with his mangy little shaving-brush in his hand, and a towel\nover his shoulder. 'Good morning, my dear. Can you shave My ----' says he,\nand taps his quivering old double chin with his infernal shaving-brush.\nCurse his impudence! What's to be done with him?\"\n\nI arranged to explain to Herr von M\u00fcffe, at the first convenient\nopportunity, that it was not the custom in England, whatever it might be\nin Germany, for \"the Son of the House\" to shave his father's guests; and\nundertook, at the same time, to direct the poet to the residence of the\nvillage barber. When the German guest joined us at breakfast, his unshaven\nchin, and the external results of his mixed potations and his seclusion\nfrom fresh air, by no means tended to improve his personal appearance. In\nplain words, he looked the picture of dyspeptic wretchedness.\n\n\"I am afraid, sir, you are hardly so well this morning as we could all\nwish?\" said Sir John, kindly.\n\nHerr von M\u00fcffe looked at his host affectionately, surveyed the company\nall round the table, smiled faintly, laid the chubby forefinger once\nmore on the organ whose name he did not know, and answered with the most\nenchanting innocence and simplicity:\n\n\"I am _so_ sick!\"\n\nThere was no harm--upon my word, there was no harm in Herr Von M\u00fcffe.\nOn the contrary, there was a great deal of good-nature and genuine\nsimplicity in his composition. But he was a man naturally destitute of\nall power of adapting himself to new persons and new circumstances; and\nhe became amiably insupportable, in consequence, to everybody in the\nhouse, throughout the whole term of his visit. He could not join one of\nus in any country diversions. He hung about the house and garden in a\nweak, pottering, aimless manner, always turning up at the wrong moment,\nand always attaching himself to the wrong person. He was dexterous in a\nperfectly childish way at cutting out little figures of shepherds and\nshepherdesses in paper; and he was perpetually presenting these frail\ntributes of admiration to the ladies, who always tore them up and threw\nthem away in secret the moment his back was turned. When he was not\noccupied with his paper figures, he was out in the garden, gathering\ncountless little nosegays, and sentimentally presenting them to everybody;\nnot to the ladies only, but to lusty agricultural gentlemen as well,\nwho accepted them with blank amazement; and to schoolboys, home for\nthe holidays, who took them, bursting with internal laughter at the\n\"molly-coddle\" gentleman from foreign parts. As for poor Sir John, he\nsuffered more than any of us; for Herr von M\u00fcffe was always trying to kiss\nhim. In short, with the best intentions in the world, this unhappy foreign\nbachelor wearied out the patience of everybody in the house; and, to our\nshame be it said, we celebrated his departure, when he left us at last,\nby a festival-meeting in the Bachelor Bedroom, in honour of the welcome\nabsence of Herr von M\u00fcffe.\n\nI cannot say in what spirit my fellow-revellers have reflected on our\nbehaviour since that time; but I know, for my own part, that I now look\nback at my personal share in our proceedings with rather an uneasy\nconscience. I am afraid we were all of us a little hard on Herr von\nM\u00fcffe; and I hereby desire to offer him my own individual tribute of tardy\natonement, by leaving him to figure as the last and crowning type of the\nBachelor species presented in these pages. If he has produced anything\napproaching to a pleasing effect on the reader's mind, that effect shall\nnot be weakened by the appearance of any more single men, native or\nforeign. Let the door of the Bachelor Bedroom close with our final glimpse\nof the German guest; and permit the present chronicler to lay down the\npen when it has traced penitently, for the last time, the name of Herr\nvon M\u00fcffe.\n\n\n\n\nNOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY.\n\nIII.\n\nA REMARKABLE REVOLUTION.\n\n\nA revolution which is serious enough to overthrow a reigning\nsovereign--which is short enough to last only nine hours--and which is\npeaceable enough to begin and end without the taking of a single life or\nthe shedding of a drop of blood, is certainly a phenomenon in the history\nof human affairs which is worth being carefully investigated. Such a\nrevolution actually happened, in the empire of Russia, little more than a\ncentury and a quarter ago. The narrative here attempted of its rise, its\nprogress, and its end, may be trusted throughout as faithful to the truth.\nExtraordinary as they may appear, the events described in this fragment\nof history are matters of fact from first to last.\n\nWe start with a famous Russian character--Peter the Great. His son, who\nmay be not unfairly distinguished as Peter the Small, died in the year\nseventeen hundred and thirty. With the death of this last personage the\npolitical difficulties arose, which ended in the easy pulling down of one\nsovereign ruler at midnight, and the easy setting up of another by nine\no'clock the next morning.\n\nBesides the son whom he left to succeed him, Peter the Great had a\ndaughter, whose title was princess, and whose name was Elizabeth. Peter's\nwidow, the famous Empress Catherine, being a far-seeing woman, made a will\nwhich contained the expression of her wishes in regard to the succession\nto the throne, and which plainly and properly designated the Princess\nElizabeth (there being no Salic law in Russia) as the reigning sovereign\nto be chosen after the death of her brother, Peter the Small. Nothing,\napparently, could be more straightforward than the course to be followed,\nat that time, in appointing a new ruler over the Russian people.\n\nBut there happened to be living at Court two noblemen--Prince d'Olgorowki\nand Count Osterman--who had an interest of their own in complicating the\naffairs connected with the succession.\n\nThese two distinguished personages had possessed considerable power and\nauthority, under the feeble reign of Peter the Small, and they knew enough\nof his sister's resolute and self-reliant character to doubt what might\nbecome of their court position and their political privileges after the\nPrincess Elizabeth was seated on the throne. Accordingly they lost no\ntime in nominating a rival candidate of their own choosing, whom they\ndexterously raised to the Imperial dignity, before there was time for the\npartisans of the Princess Elizabeth to dispute the authority under which\nthey acted. The new sovereign, thus unjustly invested with power, was a\nwoman--Anne, Dowager Duchess of Courland--and the pretence under which\nPrince d'Olgorowki and Count Osterman proclaimed her Empress of Russia,\nwas that Peter the Small had confidentially communicated to them, on\nhis death-bed, a desire that the Dowager Duchess should be chosen as the\nsovereign to succeed him.\n\nThe main result of the Dowager Duchess's occupation of the throne was the\nadditional complication of the confused political affairs of Russia. The\nnew empress had an eye to the advancement of her family; and, among the\nother relatives for whom she provided, was a niece, named Catherine, whom\nshe married to the Prince of Brunswick, brother-in-law of the King of\nPrussia. The first child born of the marriage was a boy named Ivan. Before\nhe had reached the age of two years, the new Empress died; and, when her\nwill was opened, it was discovered, to the amazement of every one, that\nshe had appointed this child to succeed her on the throne of Russia.\n\nThe private motive which led the Empress to take this extraordinary\ncourse, was her desire to place the sovereign power in the hands of one\nof her favourites, the Duke de Biren, by nominating that nobleman as the\nguardian of the infant Ivan. To accomplish this purpose, she had not only\nslighted the legitimate claims of Peter the Great's daughter, the Princess\nElizabeth, but had also entirely overlooked the interests of Ivan's\nmother, who naturally felt that she had a right to ascend the throne,\nas the nearest relation of the deceased empress, and the mother of the\nchild who was designated to be the future emperor. To the bewilderment and\ndissatisfaction thus produced, a further element of confusion was added by\nthe total incapacity of the Duke de Biren to occupy creditably the post\nof authority which had been assigned to him. Before he had been long in\noffice, he gave way altogether under the double responsibility of guiding\nthe affairs of Russia and directing the education of the future emperor.\nIvan's mother saw the chance of asserting her rights which the weakness\nof the duke afforded to her. She was a resolute woman; and she seized her\nopportunity by banishing Biren to Siberia, and taking his place as Regent\nof the Empire and guardian of her infant son.\n\nSuch was the result, thus far, of the great scramble for the crown which\nbegan with the death of the son of Peter the Great. Such was the position\nof affairs in Russia at the time when the revolution broke out.\n\nThrough all the contentions which distracted the country, the Princess\nElizabeth lived in the retirement of her own palace, waiting secretly,\npatiently, and vigilantly for the fit opportunity of asserting her rights.\nShe was, in every sense of the word, a remarkable woman, and she numbered\ntwo remarkable men among the adherents of her cause. One was the French\nambassador at the court of Russia, the Marquis de la Ch\u00e9tardie. The other\nwas the surgeon of Elizabeth's household, a German, named Lestoc. The\nFrenchman had money to spend; the German had brains to plot. Both were\nmen of tried courage and resolute will; and both were destined to take\nthe foremost places in the coming struggle. It is certainly not the least\ncurious circumstance in the extraordinary revolution which we are now\nabout to describe, that it was planned and carried out by two foreigners.\nIn the struggle for the Russian throne, the natives of the Russian soil\nwere used only as instruments to be handled and directed at the pleasure\nof the French ambassador and the German surgeon.\n\nThe Marquis and Lestoc, watching the signs of the times, arrived at the\nconclusion that the period of the banishment of the Duke de Biren and\nof the assumption of the supreme power by the mother of Ivan, was also\nthe period for effecting the revolution which was to place the Princess\nElizabeth on the throne of her ancestors. The dissatisfaction in Russia\nhad, by this time, spread widely among all classes. The people chafed\nunder a despotism inflicted on them by foreigners. The native nobility\nfelt outraged by their exclusion from privileges which had been conceded\nto their order under former reigns, before the aliens from Courland had\nseized on power. The army was for the most part to be depended on to\nanswer any bold appeal that might be made to it, in favour of the daughter\nof Peter the Great. With these chances in their favour, the Frenchman\nand the German set themselves to the work of organising the scattered\nelements of discontent. The Marquis opened his well-filled purse; and\nSurgeon Lestoc prowled about the city and the palace with watchful eyes,\nwith persuasive tongue, with delicately-bribing hands. The great point\nto be achieved was to tamper successfully with the regiment on duty at\nthe palace; and this was skilfully and quickly accomplished by Lestoc.\nIn the course of a few days only, he contrived to make sure of all the\nconsiderable officers of the regiment, and of certain picked men from the\nranks besides. On counting heads, the members of the military conspiracy\nthus organised came to thirty-three. Exactly the same number of men had\nonce plotted the overthrow of Julius C\u00e6sar, and had succeeded in the\nattempt.\n\nMatters had proceeded thus far when the suspicions of the Duchess\nRegent (that being the title which Ivan's mother had now assumed) were\nsuddenly excited, without the slightest apparent cause to arouse them.\nNothing dangerous had been openly attempted as yet, and not one of the\nconspirators had betrayed the secret. Nevertheless the Duchess Regent\nbegan to doubt; and, one morning, she astonished and alarmed the Marquis\nand Lestoc by sending, without any previous warning, for the Princess\nElizabeth, and by addressing a series of searching questions to her at a\nprivate interview. Fortunately for the success of the plot, the daughter\nof Peter the Great was more than a match for the Duchess Regent. From\nfirst to last Elizabeth proved herself equal to the dangerous situation\nin which she was placed. The Duchess discovered nothing; and the heads of\nthe thirty-three conspirators remained safe on their shoulders.\n\nThis piece of good fortune operated on the cunning and resolute Lestoc\nas a warning to make haste. Between the danger of waiting to mature the\nconspiracy, and the risk of letting it break out abruptly before the\norganisation of it was complete, he chose the latter alternative. The\nMarquis agreed with him that it was best to venture everything, before\nthere was time for the suspicions of the Duchess to be renewed; and the\nPrincess Elizabeth, on her part, was perfectly ready to be guided by the\nadvice of her two trusty adherents. The fifteenth of January, seventeen\nhundred and forty-one, had been the day originally fixed for the breaking\nout of the revolution. Lestoc now advanced the period for making the great\nattempt by nine days. On the night of the sixth of January the Duchess\nRegent and the Princess Elizabeth were to change places, and the throne\nof Russia was to become once more the inheritance of the family of Peter\nthe Great.\n\nBetween nine and ten o'clock, on the night of the sixth, Surgeon Lestoc\nstrolled out, with careless serenity on his face, and devouring anxiety\nat his heart, to play his accustomed game of billiards at a French\ncoffee-house. The stakes were ten ducats, and Lestoc did not play quite\nso well as usual that evening. When the clock of the coffee-house struck\nten, he stopped in the middle of the game, and drew out his watch.\n\n\"I beg ten thousand pardons,\" he said to the gentleman with whom he was\nplaying; \"but I am afraid I must ask you to let me go before the game\nis done. I have a patient to see at ten o'clock, and the hour has just\nstruck. Here is a friend of mine,\" he continued, bringing forward one\nof the bystanders by the arm, \"who will, with your permission, play in\nmy place. It is quite immaterial to me whether he loses or whether he\nwins: I am merely anxious that your game should not be interrupted. Ten\nthousand pardons again. Nothing but the necessity of seeing a patient\ncould have induced me to be guilty of this apparent rudeness. I wish you\nmuch pleasure, gentlemen, and I most unwillingly bid you good night.\"\n\nWith that polite farewell, he departed. The patient whom he was going to\ncure was the sick Russian Empire.\n\nHe got into his sledge, and drove off to the palace of the Princess\nElizabeth. She trembled a little when he told her quietly that the hour\nhad come for possessing herself of the throne; but, soon recovering\nher spirits, dressed to go out, concealed a knife about her in case of\nemergency, and took her place by the side of Lestoc in the sledge. The\ntwo then set forth together for the French embassy to pick up the second\nleader of the conspiracy.\n\nThey found the Marquis alone, cool, smiling, humming a gay French tune,\nand quietly amusing himself by making a drawing. Elizabeth and Lestoc\nlooked over his shoulder, and the former started a little when she\nsaw what the subject of the drawing was. In the background appeared a\nlarge monastery, a grim prison-like building, with barred windows and\njealously-closed gates; in the foreground were two high gibbets and two\nwheels of the sort used to break criminals on. The drawing was touched\nin with extraordinary neatness and steadiness of hand; and the Marquis\nlaughed gaily when he saw how seriously the subject represented had\nstartled and amazed the Princess Elizabeth.\n\n\"Courage, madam!\" he said. \"I was only amusing myself by making a sketch\nillustrative of the future which we may all three expect if we fail in\nour enterprise. In an hour from this time, you will be on the throne,\nor on your way to this ugly building.\" (He touched the monastery in the\nbackground of the drawing lightly with the point of his pencil.) \"In an\nhour from this time, also, our worthy Lestoc and myself will either be the\ntwo luckiest men in Russia, or the two miserable criminals who are bound\non these\" (he touched the wheels) \"and hung up afterwards on those\" (he\ntouched the gibbets). \"You will pardon me, madam, for indulging in this\nghastly fancy? I was always eccentric from childhood. My good Lestoc, as\nwe seem to be quite ready, perhaps you will kindly precede us to the door,\nand allow me the honour of handing the Princess to the sledge?\"\n\nThey left the house, laughing and chatting as carelessly as if they were\na party going to the theatre. Lestoc took the reins. \"To the palace of\nthe Duchess Regent, coachman!\" said the Marquis, pleasantly. And to the\npalace they went.\n\nThey made no attempt to slip in by backdoors, but boldly drove up to the\ngrand entrance, inside of which the guard-house was situated.\n\n\"Who goes there?\" cried the sentinel as they left the sledge and passed in.\n\nThe Marquis took a pinch of snuff.\n\n\"Don't you see, my good fellow?\" he said. \"A lady and two gentlemen.\"\n\nThe slightest irregularity was serious enough to alarm the guard at\nthe Imperial palace in those critical times. The sentinel presented his\nmusket at the Marquis, and a drummer-boy who was standing near, ran to\nhis instrument and caught up his drum-sticks to beat the alarm.\n\nBefore the sentinel could fire, he was surrounded by the thirty-three\nconspirators, and was disarmed in an instant. Before the drummer-boy could\nbeat the alarm, the Princess Elizabeth had drawn out her knife and had\nstabbed--not the boy, but--the drum! These slight preliminary obstacles\nbeing thus disposed of, Lestoc and the Marquis, having the Princess\nbetween them, and being followed by their thirty-three adherents, marched\nresolutely into the great hall of the palace, and there confronted the\nentire guard.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the Marquis, \"I have the honour of presenting you to\nyour future empress, the daughter of Peter the Great.\"\n\nHalf the guard had been bribed by the cunning Lestoc. The other half,\nseeing their comrades advance and pay homage to the Princess, followed the\nexample of loyalty. Elizabeth was escorted into a room on the ground-floor\nby a military court formed in the course of five minutes. The Marquis and\nthe faithful thirty-three went up-stairs to the sleeping apartments of\nthe palace. Lestoc ran out, and ordered a carriage to be got ready--then\njoined the Marquis and the conspirators. The Duchess Regent and her child\nwere just retiring for the night, when the German surgeon and the French\nambassador politely informed them that they were prisoners. Entreaties\nwere of no avail; resistance was out of the question. Both mother and son\nwere led down to the carriage that Lestoc had ordered, and were driven\noff, under a strong guard, to the fortress of Riga.\n\nThe palace was secured, and the Duchess was imprisoned, but Lestoc and\nthe Marquis had not done their night's work yet. It was necessary to make\nsure of three powerful personages connected with the government. Three\nmore carriages were ordered out when the Duchess's carriage had been\ndriven off; and three noblemen--among them Count Osterman, the original\ncause of the troubles in Russia--were woke out of their first sleep with\nthe information that they were state prisoners, and were started before\ndaylight on their way to Siberia. At the same time, the thirty-three\nconspirators were scattered about in every barrack-room in St. Petersburg,\nproclaiming Elizabeth Empress, in right of her illustrious parentage,\nand in the name of the Russian people. Soon after daylight, the moment\nthe working population was beginning to be astir, the churches were\noccupied by trusty men under Lestoc's orders, and the oaths of fidelity\nto Elizabeth were administered to the willing populace as fast as they\ncame in to morning prayers. By nine o'clock the work was done; the people\nwere satisfied; the army was gained over; Elizabeth sat on her father's\nthrone, unopposed, unquestioned, unstained by the shedding of a drop of\nblood; and Lestoc and the Marquis could rest from their labours at last,\nand could say to each other with literal truth, \"The government of Russia\nhas been changed in nine hours, and we two foreigners are the men who have\nworked the miracle!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis was the Russian revolution of seventeen hundred and forty-one. It\nwas not the less effectual because it had lasted but a few hours, and had\nbeen accomplished without the sacrifice of a single life. The Imperial\ninheritance which it had placed in the hands of Elizabeth was not snatched\nfrom them again. The daughter of the great Czar lived and died Empress of\nRussia.\n\nAnd what became of the two men who had won the throne for her? The story\nof the after-conduct of the Marquis and Lestoc must answer that question.\nThe events of the revolution itself are hardly more strange than the\nevents in the lives of the French Ambassador and the German surgeon,\nwhen the brief struggle was over, and the change in the dynasty was\naccomplished.\n\nTo begin with the Marquis. He had laid the Princess Elizabeth under\nserious obligations to his courage and fidelity; and his services were\nrepaid by such a reward as, in his vainest moments, he could never have\ndared to hope for. His fidelity had excited Elizabeth's gratitude, but his\npersonal qualities had done more--they had touched her heart. As soon as\nshe was settled quietly on the throne, she proved her admiration of his\nmerits, his services, and himself by offering to marry him.\n\nThis proposal, which conferred on the Marquis the highest distinction in\nRussia, fairly turned his brain. The imperturbable man who had preserved\nhis coolness in a situation of the deadliest danger, lost all control over\nhimself the moment he rose to the climax of prosperity. Having obtained\nleave of absence from his Imperial mistress, he returned to France to ask\nleave from his own sovereign to marry the Empress. This permission was\nreadily granted. After receiving it, any man of ordinary discretion would\nhave kept the fact of the Empress's partiality for him as strictly secret\nas possible, until it could be openly avowed on the marriage-day. Far from\nthis, the Marquis's vanity led him to proclaim the brilliant destiny in\nstore for him all over Paris. He commissioned the King's genealogist to\nconstruct a pedigree which should be made to show that he was not unworthy\nto contract a royal alliance. When the pedigree was completed he had the\nincredible folly to exhibit it publicly, along with the keepsakes which\nthe Empress had given to him, and the rich presents which he intended\nto bestow as marks of his favour on the lords and ladies of the Russian\ncourt. Nor did his imprudence end even here. When he returned to St.\nPetersburg, he took back with him, among the other persons comprising his\ntrain, a woman of loose character, dressed in the disguise of a page. The\npersons about the Russian court, whose prejudices he had never attempted\nto conciliate--whose envy at his success waited only for the slightest\nopportunity to effect his ruin--suspected the sex of the pretended page,\nand took good care that the report of their suspicions should penetrate\ngradually to the foot of the throne. It seems barely credible, but it\nis, nevertheless, unquestionably the fact, that the infatuated Marquis\nabsolutely allowed the Empress an opportunity of seeing his page.\nElizabeth's eye, sharpened by jealousy, penetrated instantly to the truth.\nAny less disgraceful insult she would probably have forgiven, but such\nan outrage as this, no woman--especially no woman in her position--could\npardon. With one momentary glance of anger and disdain, she dismissed the\nMarquis from her presence, and never, from that moment, saw him again.\n\nThe same evening his papers were seized, all the presents that he had\nreceived from the Empress were taken from him, and he was ordered to\nleave the Russian dominions for ever, within eight days' time. He was\nnot allowed to write, or take any other means of attempting to justify\nhimself; and, on his way back to his native country, he was followed to\nthe frontier by certain officers of the Russian army, and there stripped,\nwith every mark of ignominy, of all the orders of nobility which he had\nreceived from the Imperial court. He returned to Paris a disgraced man,\nlived there in solitude, obscurity, and neglect for some years, and died\nin a state of positive want--the unknown inhabitant of one of the meanest\ndwellings in the whole city.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe end of Lestoc is hardly less remarkable than the end of the Marquis.\n\nIn their weak points, as in their strong, the characters of these\ntwo men seem to have been singularly alike. Making due allowance for\nthe difference in station between the German surgeon and the French\nambassador, it is undeniable that Elizabeth showed her sense of the\nservices of Lestoc as gratefully and generously as she had shown her\nsense of the services of the Marquis. The ex-surgeon was raised at once\nto the position of the chief favourite and the most powerful man about\nthe Court. Besides the privileges which he shared equally with the highest\nnobles of the period, he was allowed access to the Empress on all private\nas well as on all public occasions. He had a perpetual right of entry\ninto her domestic circle, which was conceded to no one else; and he held\na place, on days of public reception, that placed him on an eminence to\nwhich no other man in Russia could hope to attain. Such was his position;\nand, strange to say, it had precisely the same maddening effect on his\nvanity which the prospect of an imperial alliance had exercised over\nthe vanity of the Marquis. Lestoc's audacity became ungovernable; his\ninsolence knew no bounds. He abused the privileges conferred upon him by\nElizabeth's grateful regard, with such baseness and such indelicacy, that\nthe Empress, after repeatedly cautioning him in the friendliest possible\nterms, found herself obliged, out of regard to her own reputation and to\nthe remonstrances which assailed her from all the persons of her Court,\nto deprive him of the privilege of entry into her private apartments.\n\nThis check, instead of operating as a timely warning to Lestoc, irritated\nhim into the commission of fresh acts of insolence, so wanton in their\nnature that Elizabeth at last lost all patience, and angrily reproached\nhim with the audacious ingratitude of his behaviour. The reproach was\nretorted by Lestoc, who fiercely accused the Empress of forgetting the\ngreat services that he had rendered her, and declared that he would turn\nhis back on her and her dominions, after first resenting the contumely\nwith which he had been treated by an act of revenge that she would\nremember to the day of her death.\n\nThe vengeance which he had threatened proved to be the vengeance of a\nforger and a cheat. The banker in St. Petersburg who was charged with the\nduty of disbursing the sums of state money which were set apart for the\nEmpress's use, received an order, one day, to pay four hundred thousand\nducats to a certain person who was not mentioned by name, but who, it was\nstated, would call, with the proper credentials, to receive the money. The\nbanker was struck by this irregular method of performing the preliminaries\nof an important matter of business, and he considered it to be his duty to\nshow the document which he had received to one of the Ministers. Secret\ninquiries were immediately set on foot, and they ended in the discovery\nthat the order was a false one, and that the man who had forged it was no\nother than Lestoc.\n\nFor a crime of this kind the punishment was death. But the Empress\nhad declared, on her accession, that she would sign no warrant for the\ntaking away of life during her reign, and, moreover, she still generously\nremembered what she had owed in former times to Lestoc. Accordingly, she\nchanged his punishment to a sentence of exile to Siberia, with special\norders that the life of the banished man should be made as easy to him as\npossible. He had not passed many years in the wildernesses of Siberia,\nbefore Elizabeth's strong sense of past obligation to him, induced her\nstill further to lighten his punishment by ordering that he should be\nbrought back to St. Petersburg, and confined in the fortress there,\nwhere her own eyes might assure her that he was treated with mercy and\nconsideration. It is probable that she only intended this change as a\nprelude to the restoration of his liberty; but the future occasion for\npardoning him never came. Shortly after his return to St. Petersburg,\nLestoc ended his days in the prison of the fortress.\n\nSo the two leaders of the Russian revolution lived, and so they died. It\nhas been said, and said well, that the only sure proof of a man's strength\nof mind is to be discovered by observing the manner in which he bears\nsuccess. History shows few such remarkable examples of the truth of this\naxiom as are afforded by the lives of the Marquis de la Ch\u00e9tardie and\nthe German surgeon Lestoc. Two stronger men in the hour of peril and two\nweaker men in the hour of security, have not often appeared in this world\nto vanquish adverse circumstances like heroes, and to be conquered like\ncowards afterwards by nothing but success.\n\n\n\n\nDOUGLAS JERROLD.[B]\n\n\nSome seventy years ago, there lived a poor country player, named Samuel\nJerrold. His principal claim to a prominent position among the strolling\ncompany to which he was attached, consisted in the possession of a pair of\nshoes once belonging to the great Garrick himself. Samuel Jerrold always\nappeared on the stage in these invaluable \"properties\"--a man, surely,\nwho deserves the regard of posterity, as the only actor of modern times\nwho has shown himself capable of standing in Garrick's shoes.\n\nSamuel Jerrold was twice married--the second time to a wife so much his\njunior that he was older than his own mother-in-law. Partly, perhaps,\nin virtue of this last great advantage on the part of the husband, the\nmarriage was a very happy one. The second Mrs. Samuel was a clever,\ngood-tempered, notable woman; and helped her husband materially in his\ntheatrical affairs, when he rose in time (and in Garrick's shoes) to be\na manager of country theatres. Young Mrs. Samuel brought her husband a\nfamily--two girls to begin with; and, on the third of January, eighteen\nhundred and three, while she was staying in London, a boy, who was\nchristened Douglas William, and who was destined, in after life, to make\nthe name of the obscure country manager a household word on the lips of\nEnglish readers.\n\nIn the year eighteen hundred and seven, Samuel Jerrold became the\nlessee of the Sheerness Theatre; and little Douglas was there turned to\nprofessional account, as a stage-child. He appeared in _The Stranger_ as\none of the little cherubs of the frail and interesting Mrs. Haller; and\nhe was \"carried on\" by Edmund Kean, as the child in _Rolla_. These early\ntheatrical experiences (whatever influence they might have had, at a later\ntime, in forming his instincts as a dramatist) do not appear to have at\nall inclined him towards his father's profession when he grew older. The\nworld of ships and sailors amid which he lived at Sheerness, seems to\nhave formed his first tastes and influenced his first longings. As soon\nas he could speak for himself on the matter of his future prospects, he\nchose the life of a sailor; and, at ten years old, he entered on board\nthe guardship, Namur, as a first-class volunteer.\n\nUp to this time the father had given the son as good an education as it\nlay within his means to command. Douglas had been noted as a studious\nboy at school; and he brought with him a taste for reading and for quiet\npursuits when he entered on board the Namur. Beginning his apprenticeship\nto the sea as a Midshipman, in December, eighteen hundred and thirteen,\nhe was not transferred from the guardship to active service until April,\neighteen hundred and fifteen, when he was drafted off, with forty-six men,\nto his Majesty's gun-brig, Ernest.\n\nThose were stirring times. The fierce struggle of Waterloo was at hand;\nand Douglas's first cruise was across the Channel to Ostend, at the head\nof a fleet of transports carrying troops and stores to the battle-field.\nSingularly enough, his last cruise connected him with the results of the\ngreat fight, as his first had connected him with the preparations for\nit. In the July of the Waterloo year, the Ernest brought her share of the\nwounded back to Sheerness. On the deck of that brig, Jerrold first stood\nface to face with the horror of war. In after life, when other pens were\nwriting glibly enough of the glory of war, his pen traced the dark reverse\nof the picture, and set the terrible consequences of all victories,\nrighteous as well as wicked, in their true light.\n\nThe great peace was proclaimed, and the nations rested at last. In\nOctober, eighteen hundred and fifteen, the Ernest was \"paid off.\" Jerrold\nstepped on shore, and never returned to the service. He was without\ninterest; and the peace virtually closed his professional prospects. To\nthe last day of his life he had a genuinely English love for the sea and\nsailors; and, short as his naval experience had been, neither he nor his\ncountrymen were altogether losers by it. If the Midshipman of the Ernest\nhad risen to be an Admiral, what would have become then of the author of\nBlack-Eyed Susan?\n\nDouglas's prospects were far from cheering when he returned to his home\non shore. The affairs of Samuel Jerrold (through no fault of his own) had\nfallen into sad confusion. In his old age his vocation of manager sank\nfrom under him; his theatre was sold; and, at the end of the Waterloo\nyear, he and his family found themselves compelled to leave Sheerness.\nOn the first day of eighteen hundred and sixteen they sailed away in the\nChatham boat, to try their fortune in London.\n\nThe first refuge of the Jerrolds was at Broad Court, Bow Street. Poor\nold Samuel was now past his work; and the chief dependence of the ruined\nfamily rested on Douglas and his mother. Mrs. Samuel contrived to get\nsome theatrical employment in London; and Douglas, after beginning life\nas an officer in the navy, was apprenticed to a printer, in Northumberland\nStreet, Strand.\n\nHe accepted his new position with admirable cheerfulness and resolution;\nhonestly earning his money, and affectionately devoting it to the\nnecessities of his parents. A delightful anecdote of him, at this time\nof his life, is told by his son. On one of the occasions when his mother\nand sister were absent in the country, the little domestic responsibility\nof comforting the poor worn-out old father with a good dinner, rested\non Douglas's shoulders. With the small proceeds of his work, he bought\nall the necessary materials for a good beef-steak pie--made the pie\nhimself, succeeding brilliantly with the crust--himself took it to the\nbake-house--and himself brought it back, with one of Sir Walter Scott's\nnovels, which the dinner left him just money enough to hire from a\nlibrary, for the purpose of reading a story to his father in the evening,\nby way of dessert. For our own parts, we shall henceforth always rank that\nbeef-steak pie as one among the many other works of Douglas Jerrold which\nhave established his claim to remembrance and to regard. The clue to the\nbright affectionate nature of the man--sometimes lost by those who knew\nhim imperfectly, in after life--could hardly be found in any pleasanter\nor better place, now that he is gone from among us, than on the poor\ndinner-table in Broad Court.\n\nAlthough he was occupied for twelve hours out of the twenty-four at the\nprinting-office, he contrived to steal time enough from the few idle\nintervals allowed for rest and meals, to store his mind with all the\nreading that lay within his reach. As early as at the age of fourteen,\nthe literary faculty that was in him seems to have struggled to develop\nitself in short papers and scraps of verse. Only a year later, he made\nhis first effort at dramatic composition, producing a little farce, with\na part in it for an old friend of the family, the late Mr. Wilkinson, the\ncomedian. Although Samuel Jerrold was well remembered among many London\nactors as an honest country manager; and although Douglas could easily\nsecure, from his father's friends, his admission to the theatre whenever\nhe was able to go to it, he does not appear to have possessed interest\nenough to gain a reading for his piece when it was first sent in to the\nEnglish Opera House. After three years had elapsed, however, Mr. Wilkinson\ncontrived to get the lad's farce produced at Sadler's Wells, under the\ntitle of More Frightened than Hurt. It was not only successful on its\nfirst representation, but it also won the rare honour of being translated\nfor the French stage. More than this, it was afterwards translated back\nagain, by a dramatist who was ignorant of its original history, for the\nstage of the Olympic Theatre; where it figured in the bills under the new\ntitle of Fighting by Proxy, with Liston in the part of the hero. Such is\nthe history of Douglas Jerrold's first contribution to the English drama.\nWhen it was produced on the boards of Sadler's Wells, its author's age\nwas eighteen years.\n\nHe had appeared in public, however, as an author, before this time; having\ncomposed some verses which were printed in a forgotten periodical called\nArliss's Magazine. The loss of his first situation, through the bankruptcy\nof his master, obliged him to seek employment anew in the printing-office\nof one Mr. Bigg, who was also the editor of a newspaper called the _Sunday\nMonitor_. In this journal appeared his first article--a critical paper\non _Der Freisch\u00fctz_. He had gone to the theatre with an order to see the\nopera; and had been so struck by the supernatural drama and the wonderful\nmusic to which it was set, that he noted down his impressions of the\nperformance, and afterwards dropped what he had written, anonymously, into\nthe editor's box. The next morning, his own article was handed to him to\nset up in type for the forthcoming number of the Sunday Monitor.\n\nAfter this first encouragement, he began to use his pen frequently in\nthe minor periodicals of the time; still sticking to the printer's work,\nhowever, and still living at home with his family. The success of his\nlittle farce at Sadler's Wells led to his writing three more pieces for\nthat theatre. They all succeeded; and the managers of some of the other\nminor theatres began to look after the new man. Just at this time, when\nhis career as dramatist and journalist was beginning to open before him,\nhis father died. After that loss, the next important event in his life was\nhis marriage. In the year eighteen hundred and twenty-four, when he was\ntwenty-one years of age, he married his \"first love,\" Miss Mary Swann, the\ndaughter of a gentleman who held an appointment in the Post Office. He and\nhis bride settled, with his mother and sister and a kind old friend of his\nboyish days, in Holborn; and here--devoting his days to the newspapers,\nand his evenings to the drama--the newly-married man started as author by\nprofession, and met the world and its cares bravely at the point of the\npen.\n\nThe struggle at starting was a hard one. His principal permanent\nsource of income was a small weekly salary paid to him as dramatist\nto the establishment, by one Davidge, manager of the Coburg (now the\nVictoria) Theatre. This man appears to have treated Jerrold, whose dramas\nbrought both money and reputation to his theatre, with an utter want\nof common consideration and common gratitude. He worked his poor author\npitilessly; and it is, on that account, highly satisfactory to know that\nhe overreached himself in the end, by quarrelling with his dramatist, at\nthe very time when Jerrold had a theatrical fortune (so far as managers'\ninterests were concerned) lying in his desk, in the shape of Black-Eyed\nSusan. With that renowned play (the most popular of all nautical dramas)\nin his hand, Douglas left the Coburg to seek employment at the Surrey\nTheatre--then under the management of Mr. Elliston. This last tradesman in\nplays--who subsequently showed himself to be a worthy contemporary of the\nother tradesman at the Coburg--bid rather higher for Jerrold's services,\nand estimated the sole monopoly of the fancy, invention, and humour of\na man who had already proved himself to be a popular, money-bringing\ndramatist, at the magnificent rate of five pounds a week. The bargain\nwas struck; and Jerrold's first play produced at the Surrey Theatre was\nBlack-Eyed Susan.\n\nHe had achieved many enviable dramatic successes before this time. He\nhad written domestic dramas--such as Fifteen Years of a Drunkard's Life,\nand Ambrose Gwinett--the popularity of which is still well remembered by\nplay-goers of the old generation. But the reception of Black-Eyed Susan\neclipsed all previous successes of his or of any other dramatist's in\nthat line. Mr. T. P. Cooke, who, as the French say, \"created\" the part\nof William, not only found half London flocking into the Borough to see\nhim; but was actually called upon, after acting in the play, as a first\npiece, at the Surrey Theatre, to drive off in his sailor's dress, and\nact in it again on the same night, as the last piece, at Covent Garden\nTheatre. Its first \"run\" mounted to three hundred nights: it afterwards\ndrew money into the empty treasury of Drury Lane: it remains, to this day,\na \"stock-piece\" on which managers and actors know that they can depend;\nand, strangest phenomenon of all, it is impossible to see the play now,\nwithout feeling that its great and well-deserved dramatic success has been\nobtained with the least possible amount of assistance from the subtleties\nand refinements of dramatic art. The piece is indebted for its hold on the\npublic sympathy solely to the simple force, the irresistible directness,\nof its appeal to some of the strongest affections in our nature. It has\nsucceeded, and it will succeed, not because the dialogue is well, or, as\nto some passages of it, even naturally written; not because the story is\nneatly told, for it is (especially in the first act) full of faults in\nconstruction; but solely because the situations in which the characters\nare placed appeal to the hearts of every husband and every wife in the\ntheatre. In this aspect of it, and in this only, the play is a study to\nany young writer; for it shows on what amazingly simple foundations rest\nthe main conditions of the longest, the surest, and the widest dramatic\nsuccess.\n\nIt is sad, it is almost humiliating, to be obliged to add, in reference\nto the early history of Jerrold's first dramatic triumph, that his share\nof the gains which Black-Eyed Susan poured into the pockets of managers\non both sides of the water was just seventy pounds. Mr. Elliston, whose\ntheatre the play had raised from a state of something like bankruptcy to\na condition of prosperity which, in the Surrey annals, has not since been\nparalleled, not only abstained from presenting Jerrold with the smallest\nfragment of anything in the shape of a token of gratitude, but actually\nhad the pitiless insolence to say to him, after Black-Eyed Susan had run\nits three hundred nights, \"My dear boy, why don't you get your friends to\npresent you with a bit of plate?\"[C]\n\nThe extraordinary success of Black-Eyed Susan opened the doors of the\ngreat theatres to Jerrold, as a matter of course. He made admirable\nuse of the chances in his favour which he had so well deserved, and\nfor which he had waited so long. At the Adelphi, at Drury Lane, and\nat the Haymarket, drama after drama flowed in quick succession from\nhis pen. The Devil's Ducat, the Bride of Ludgate, the Rent Day, Nell\nGwynne, the Housekeeper--this last, the best of his plays in point of\nconstruction--date, with many other dramatic works, from the period\nof his life now under review. The one slight check to his career of\nprosperity occurred in eighteen hundred and thirty-six, when he and his\nbrother-in-law took the Strand Theatre, and when Jerrold acted a character\nin one of his own plays. Neither the theatrical speculation nor the\ntheatrical appearance proved to be successful; and he wisely abandoned,\nfrom that time, all professional connection with the stage, except in his\nold and ever-welcome character of dramatist. In the other branches of his\nart--to which he devoted himself, at this turning-point of his career, as\nfaithfully as he devoted himself to the theatrical branch--his progress\nwas not less remarkable. As journalist and essayist, he rose steadily\ntowards the distinguished place which was his due among the writers of\nhis time. This middle term of his literary exertions produced, among other\nnoticeable results, the series of social studies called Men of Character,\noriginally begun in Blackwood's Magazine, and since republished among his\ncollected works.\n\nHe had now advanced, in a social as well as in a literary point of view,\nbeyond that period in the lives of self-made men which may be termed\nthe adventurous period. Whatever difficulties and anxieties henceforth\noppressed him were caused by the trials and troubles which, more or less,\nbeset the exceptional lives of all men of letters. The struggle for a\nhearing, the fight for a fair field in which to show himself, had now been\nbravely and creditably accomplished; and all that remains to be related\nof the life of Douglas Jerrold is best told in the history of his works.\n\nTaking his peculiar literary gifts into consideration, the first great\nopportunity of his life, as a periodical writer, was offered to him,\nunquestionably, by the starting of _Punch_. The brilliant impromptu\nfaculty which gave him a place apart, as thinker, writer, and talker,\namong the remarkable men of his time, was exactly the faculty which such\na journal as Punch was calculated to develop to the utmost. The day on\nwhich Jerrold was secured as a contributor would have been a fortunate day\nfor that periodical, if he had written nothing in it but the far-famed\nCaudle Lectures, and the delightful Story of a Feather. But the service\nthat he rendered to Punch must by no means be associated only with the\nmore elaborate contributions to its pages which are publicly connected\nwith his name. His wit often flashed out at its brightest, his sarcasm\noften cut with its keenest edge, in those well-timed paragraphs and short\narticles which hit the passing event of the day, and which, so far as\ntheir temporary purpose with the public is concerned, are all-important\ningredients in the success of such a periodical as Punch. A contributor\nwho can strike out new ideas from the original resources of his own\nmind, is one man, and a contributor who can be depended on for the small\nwork-a-day emergencies which are felt one week and forgotten the next,\nis generally another. Jerrold united these two characters in himself; and\nthe value of him to Punch, on that account only, can never be too highly\nestimated.\n\nAt this period of his life, the fertility of his mental resources showed\nitself most conspicuously. While he was working for Punch, he was also\nediting and largely contributing to the Illuminated Magazine. In this\npublication appeared, among a host of shorter papers, the series called\nThe Chronicles of Clovernook, which he himself always considered to be\none of his happiest efforts, and which does indeed contain, in detached\npassages, some of the best things that ever fell from his pen. On the\ncessation of The Illuminated Magazine, he started The Shilling Magazine,\nand contributed to it his well-known novel, Saint Giles and Saint James.\nThese accumulated literary occupations and responsibilities would have\nbeen enough for most men; but Jerrold's inexhaustible energy and variety\ncarried him on through more work still. Theatrical audiences now found\ntheir old favourite addressing them again, and occupying new ground as\na writer of five act and three act comedies. Bubbles of the Day, Time\nWorks Wonders, The Catspaw, Retired from Business, Saint Cupid, were all\nproduced, with other plays, after the period when he became a regular\nwriter in Punch.\n\nJudged from the literary point of view these comedies were all original\nand striking contributions to the library of the stage. From the dramatic\npoint of view, however, it must not be concealed that they were less\nsatisfactory; and that some of them were scarcely so successful with\naudiences as their author's earlier and humbler efforts. The one solid\ncritical reason which it is possible to assign for this, implies in itself\na compliment which could be paid to no other dramatist of modern times.\nThe perpetual glitter of Jerrold's wit seems to have blinded him to some\nof the more sober requirements of the Dramatic art. When Charles Kemble\nsaid, and said truly, that there was wit enough for three comedies in\nBubbles of the Day, he implied that this brilliant overflow left little\nor no room for the indispensable resources of story and situation to\ndisplay themselves fairly on the stage. The comedies themselves, examined\nwith reference to their success in representation, as well as to their\nintrinsic merits, help to support this view. Time Works Wonders was the\nmost prosperous of all, and it is that comedy precisely which has the\nmost story and the most situation in it. The idea and the management of\nthe charming love-tale out of which the events of this play spring, show\nwhat Jerrold might have achieved in the construction of other plots, if\nhis own superabundant wit had not dazzled him and led him astray. As it\nis, the readers of these comedies, who can appreciate the rich fancy,\nthe delicate subtleties of thought, the masterly terseness of expression,\nand the exquisite play and sparkle of wit scattered over every page, may\nrest assured that they rather gain than lose--especially in the present\ncondition of theatrical companies--by not seeing the last dramatic works\nof Douglas Jerrold represented on the stage.\n\nThe next, and, sad to say, the final achievement of his life, connected\nhim most honourably and profitably with the newspaper press. Many readers\nwill remember the starting of Douglas Jerrold's Weekly Newspaper--its\ngreat temporary success--and then its sudden decline, through defects\nin management, to which it is not now necessary to refer at length.\nThe signal ability with which the editorial articles in the paper were\nwritten, the remarkable aptitude which they displayed in striking straight\nat the sympathies of large masses of readers, did not escape the notice\nof men who were well fitted to judge of the more solid qualifications\nwhich go to the production of a popular journalist. In the spring of\nthe year eighteen hundred and fifty-two, the proprietor of Lloyd's\nWeekly Newspaper proposed the editorship to Jerrold, on terms of such\nwise liberality as to ensure the ready acceptance of his offer. From\nthe spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-two, to the spring of eighteen\nhundred and fifty-seven--the last he was ever to see--Jerrold conducted\nthe paper, with such extraordinary success as is rare in the history of\njournalism. Under his supervision, and with the regular assistance of his\npen, Lloyd's Newspaper rose, by thousands and thousands a week, to the\ngreat circulation which it now enjoys. Of the many successful labours of\nJerrold's life, none had been so substantially prosperous as the labour\nthat was destined to close it.\n\nHis health had shown signs of breaking, and his heart was known to be\naffected, for some little time before his last brief illness; but the\nunconquerable energy and spirit of the man upheld him through all bodily\ntrials, until the first day of June, eighteen hundred and fifty-seven.\nEven his medical attendant did not abandon all hope when his strength\nfirst gave way. But he sank rapidly--so rapidly, that in one short week\nthe struggle was over. On the eighth day of June, surrounded by his family\nand his friends, preserving all his faculties to the last, passing away\ncalmly, resignedly, affectionately, Douglas Jerrold closed his eyes on the\nworld which it had been the long and noble purpose of his life to inform\nand to improve.\n\nIt is too early yet to attempt any estimate of the place which his\nwritings will ultimately occupy in English literature. So long as honesty,\nenergy, and variety are held to be the prominent qualities which should\ndistinguish a genuine writer, there can be no doubt of the vitality of\nDouglas Jerrold's reputation. The one objection urged against the works,\nwhich, feeble and ignorant though it was, often went to the heart of\nthe writer, was the objection of bitterness. Calling to mind many of the\npassages in his books in which this bitterness most sharply appears, and\nseeing plainly in those passages what the cause was that provoked it, we\nventure to speak out our own opinion boldly, and to acknowledge at once,\nthat we admire this so-called bitterness as one of the great and valuable\nqualities of Douglas Jerrold's writings; because we can see for ourselves\nthat it springs from the uncompromising earnestness and honesty of the\nauthor. In an age when it is becoming unfashionable to have a positive\nopinion about anything; when the detestable burlesque element scatters\nits profanation with impunity on all beautiful and all serious things;\nwhen much, far too much, of the current literature of the day vibrates\ncontemptibly between unbelieving banter and unblushing clap-trap, that\nelement of bitterness in Jerrold's writings--which never stands alone in\nthem; which is never disassociated from the kind word that goes before,\nor the generous thought that comes after--is in our opinion an essentially\nwholesome element, breathing that admiration of truth, and that hatred of\nfalsehood, which is the chiefest and brightest jewel in the crown of any\nwriter, living or dead.\n\nThis same cry of bitterness, which assailed him in his literary character,\nassailed him in his social character also. Absurd as the bare idea of\nbitterness must appear in connection with such a nature as his, to those\nwho really knew him, the reason why strangers so often and so ridiculously\nmisunderstood him, is not difficult to discover. That marvellous\nbrightness and quickness of perception which has distinguished him far and\nwide as the sayer of some of the wittiest, and often some of the wisest\nthings also, in the English language, expressed itself almost with the\nsuddenness of lightning. This absence of all appearance of artifice or\npreparation, this flash and readiness which made the great charm of his\nwit, rendered him, at the same time, quite incapable of suppressing a good\nthing from prudential considerations. It sparkled off his tongue before\nhe was aware of it. It was always a bright surprise to himself; and it\nnever occurred to him that it could be anything but a bright surprise to\nothers. All his so-called bitter things, were said with a burst of hearty\nschoolboy laughter, which showed how far he was himself from attaching\na serious importance to them. Strangers apparently failed to draw this\ninference, plain as it was; and often mistook him accordingly. If they\nhad seen him in the society of children; if they had surprised him in\nthe house of any one of his literary brethren who was in difficulty and\ndistress; if they had met him by the bedside of a sick friend, how simply\nand how irresistibly the gentle, generous, affectionate nature of the man\nwould then have disclosed itself to the most careless chance acquaintance\nwho ever misunderstood him! Very few men have won the loving regard of so\nmany friends so rapidly, and have kept that regard so enduringly to the\nlast day of their lives, as Douglas Jerrold.\n\n\n\n\nSKETCHES OF CHARACTER.--V.\n\nPRAY EMPLOY MAJOR NAMBY!\n\n[A Privileged Communication From A Lady in Distress.]\n\n\nI have such an extremely difficult subject to write about, that I really\ndon't know how to begin. The fact is, I am a single lady--single, you\nwill please to understand, entirely because I have refused many excellent\noffers. Pray don't imagine from this that I am old. Some women's offers\ncome at long intervals, and other women's offers come close together. Mine\ncame remarkably close together--so, of course, I cannot possibly be old.\nNot that I presume to describe myself as absolutely young, either; so much\ndepends on people's points of view. I have heard female children of the\nages of eighteen or nineteen called young ladies. This seems to me to be\nridiculous--and I have held that opinion, without once wavering from it,\nfor more than ten years past. It is, after all, a question of feeling;\nand, shall I confess it? I feel so young!\n\nDear, dear me! this is dreadfully egotistical; and, besides, it is not in\nthe least what I want. May I be kindly permitted to begin again?\n\nIs there any chance of our going to war with somebody, before long? This\nis such a dreadful question for a lady to put, that I feel called upon\nto apologise and explain myself. I don't rejoice in bloodshed--I don't,\nindeed. The smell of gunpowder is horrible to me; and the going off of the\nsmallest imaginable gun invariably makes me scream. But if on some future\noccasion we--of course, I mean the government--find it quite impossible\nto avoid plunging into the horrors of war--then, what I want to know is,\nwhether my next door neighbour, Major Namby, will be taken from his home\nby the Horse Guards, and presented with his fit post of command in the\nEnglish army? It will come out sooner or later; so there is no harm in my\nacknowledging at once, that it would add immeasurably to my comfort and\nhappiness if the major were ordered off on any service which would take\nhim away from his own house.\n\nI am really very sorry, but I must leave off beginning already, and go\nback again to the part before the beginning (if there is such a thing) in\norder to explain the nature of my objection to Major Namby, and why it\nwould be such a great relief to me (supposing we are unfortunate enough\nto plunge into the horrors of war), if he happened to be one of the first\nofficers called out for the service of his Queen and country.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI live in the suburbs, and I have bought my house. The major lives in the\nsuburbs, next door to me, and _he_ has bought his house. I don't object\nto this, of course. I merely mention it to make things straight.\n\nMajor Namby has been twice married. His first wife--dear, dear! how can\nI express it? Shall I say, with vulgar abruptness, that his first wife\nhad a family? And must I descend into particulars, and add that they\nare four in number, and that two of them are twins? Well, the words are\nwritten; and if they will do over again for the same purpose, I beg to\nrepeat them in reference to the second Mrs. Namby (still alive), who\nhas also had a family, and is----no, I really cannot say, is likely to\ngo on having one. There are certain limits, in a case of this kind, and\nI think I have reached them. Permit me simply to state that the second\nMrs. Namby has three children, at present. These, with the first Mrs.\nNamby's four, make a total of seven. The seven are composed of five girls\nand two boys. And the first Mrs. Namby's family all have one particular\nkind of constitution, and the second Mrs. Namby's family all have another\nparticular kind of constitution. Let me explain once more that I merely\nmention these little matters, and that I don't object to them.\n\nNow pray be patient: I am coming fast to the point--I am indeed. But\nplease let me say a little word or two about Major Namby himself.\n\nIn the first place, I have looked out his name in the Army List, and I\ncannot find that he was ever engaged in battle anywhere. He appears to\nhave entered the army, most unfortunately for his own renown, just after,\ninstead of just before, the battle of Waterloo. He has been at all sorts\nof foreign stations, at the very time, in each case, when there was no\nmilitary work to do--except once at some West Indian Island, where he\nseems to have assisted in putting down a few poor unfortunate negroes\nwho tried to get up a riot. This is the only active service that he has\never performed: so I suppose it is all owing to his being well off and to\nthose dreadful abuses of ours that he has been made a major for not having\ndone a major's work. So far as looks go, however, he is military enough\nin appearance to take the command of the British army at five minutes'\nnotice. He is very tall and upright, and carries a martial cane, and wears\nshort martial whiskers, and has an awfully loud martial voice. His face\nis very pink, and his eyes are extremely round and staring, and he has\nthat singularly disagreeable-looking roll of fat red flesh at the back\nof his neck, between the bottom of his short grey hair and the top of his\nstiff black stock, which seems to be peculiar to all hearty old officers\nwho are remarkably well to do in the world. He is certainly not more than\nsixty years of age; and, if a lady may presume to judge of such a thing,\nI should say decidedly that he had an immense amount of undeveloped energy\nstill left in him, at the service of the Horse Guards.\n\nThis undeveloped energy--and here, at length, I come to the point--not\nhaving any employment in the right direction, has run wild in the wrong\ndirection, and has driven the major to devote the whole of his otherwise\nidle time to his domestic affairs. He manages his children instead of\nhis regiment, and establishes discipline in the servants'-hall instead of\nin the barrack-yard. Have I any right to object to this? None whatever,\nI readily admit. I may hear (most unwillingly) that Major Namby has\nupset the house by going into the kitchen and objecting to the smartness\nof the servants' caps; but as I am not, thank Heaven, one of those\nunfortunate servants, I am not called on to express my opinion of such\nunmanly meddling, much as I scorn it. I may be informed (entirely against\nmy own will) that Mrs. Namby's husband has dared to regulate, not only\nthe size and substance, but even the number, of certain lower and inner\narticles of Mrs. Namby's dress, which no earthly consideration will\ninduce me particularly to describe; but as I do not (I thank Heaven again)\noccupy the degraded position of the major's wife, I am not justified in\nexpressing my indignation at domestic prying and pettifogging, though I\nfeel it all over me, at this very moment, from head to foot. What Major\nNamby does and says, inside his own house, is his business and not mine.\nBut what he does and says, outside his own house, on the gravel walk of\nhis front garden--under my own eyes and close to my own ears, as I sit at\nwork at the window--is as much my affair as the major's, and more, for it\nis I who suffer by it.\n\nPardon me a momentary pause for relief, a momentary thrill of\nself-congratulation. I have got to my destination at last--I have taken\nthe right literary turning at the end of the preceding paragraph; and the\nfair high-road of plain narrative now spreads engagingly before me.\n\nMy complaint against Major Namby is, in plain terms, that he transacts\nthe whole of his domestic business in his front garden. Whether it arises\nfrom natural weakness of memory, from total want of a sense of propriety,\nor from a condition of mind which is closely allied to madness of the\neccentric sort, I cannot say--but the major certainly does sometimes\npartially, and sometimes entirely, forget his private family matters,\nand the necessary directions connected with them, while he is inside\nthe house; and does habitually remember them, and repair all omissions,\nby bawling through his windows, at the top of his voice, as soon as he\ngets outside the house. It never seems to occur to him that he might\nadvantageously return in-doors, and there mention what he has forgotten\nin a private and proper way. The instant the lost idea strikes him--which\nit invariably does, either in his front garden, or in the roadway outside\nhis house--he roars for his wife, either from the gravel walk, or over\nthe low wall; and (if I may use so strong an expression) empties his mind\nto her in public, without appearing to care whose ears he wearies, whose\ndelicacy he shocks, or whose ridicule he invites. If the man is not mad,\nhis own small family fusses have taken such complete possession of all\nhis senses, that he is quite incapable of noticing anything else, and\nperfectly impenetrable to the opinions of his neighbours. Let me show\nthat the grievance of which I complain is no slight one, by giving a few\nexamples of the general persecution that I suffer, and the occasional\nshocks that are administered to my delicacy, at the coarse hands of Major\nNamby.\n\nWe will say it is a fine warm morning. I am sitting in my front room, with\nthe window open, absorbed over a deeply interesting book. I hear the door\nof the next house bang; I look up, and see the major descending the steps\ninto his front garden.\n\nHe walks--no, he marches--half way down the front garden path, with\nhis head high in the air, and his chest stuck out, and his military\ncane fiercely flourished in his right hand. Suddenly, he stops, stamps\nwith one foot, knocks up the hinder part of the brim of his extremely\ncurly hat with his left hand, and begins to scratch at that singularly\ndisagreeable-looking roll of fat red flesh in the back of his neck (which\nscratching, I may observe, in parenthesis, is always a sure sign, in the\ncase of this horrid man, that a lost domestic idea has suddenly come back\nto him). He waits a moment in the ridiculous position just described, then\nwheels round on his heel, looks up at the first-floor window, and instead\nof going back into the house to mention what he has forgotten, bawls out\nfiercely from the middle of the walk:\n\n\"Matilda!\"\n\nI hear his wife's voice--a shockingly shrill one; but what can you expect\nof a woman who has been seen over and over again, in a slatternly striped\nwrapper, as late as two o'clock in the afternoon--I hear his wife's voice\nanswer from inside the house:\n\n\"Yes, dear.\"\n\n\"I said it was a south wind.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear.\"\n\n\"It isn't a south wind.\"\n\n\"Lor', dear!\"\n\n\"It's south-east. I won't have Georgina taken out to-day.\" (Georgina is\none of the first Mrs. Namby's family, and they are all weak in the chest.)\n\"Where's nurse?\"\n\n\"Here, sir!\"\n\n\"Nurse, I won't have Jack allowed to run. Whenever that boy perspires,\nhe catches cold. Hang up his hoop. If he cries, take him into my\ndressing-room, and show him the birch rod. Matilda!\"\n\n\"Yes, dear.\"\n\n\"What the devil do they mean by daubing all that grease over Mary's hair?\nIt's beastly to see it--do you hear?--beastly! Where's Pamby?\" (Pamby is\nthe unfortunate work-woman who makes and mends the family linen.)\n\n\"Here, sir.\"\n\n\"Pamby, what are you about now?\"\n\nNo answer. Pamby, or somebody else, giggles faintly. The major flourishes\nhis cane in a fury.\n\n\"Why the devil don't you answer me? I give you three seconds to answer\nme, or leave the house. One--two--three. Pamby! what are you about now?\"\n\n\"If you please, sir, I'm doing something----\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Something particular for baby, sir.\"\n\n\"Drop it directly, whatever it is. Matilda! how many pair of trousers has\nKatie got?\"\n\n\"Only three, dear.\"\n\n\"Pamby!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Shorten all Miss Katie's trousers directly, including the pair she's got\non. I've said, over and over again, that I won't have those frills of hers\nany lower down than her knees. Don't let me see them at the middle of her\nshins again. Nurse!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Mind the crossings. Don't let the children sit down if they're hot. Don't\nlet them speak to other children. Don't let them get playing with strange\ndogs. Don't let them mess their things. And, above all, don't bring Master\nJack back in a perspiration. Is there anything more, before I go out?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Matilda! Is there anything more?\"\n\n\"No, dear.\"\n\n\"Pamby! Is there anything more?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\nHere the domestic colloquy ends, for the time being. Will any sensitive\nperson--especially a person of my own sex--please to imagine what I must\nsuffer, as a delicate single lady, at having all these family details\nobtruded on my attention, whether I like it or not, in the major's\nrasping martial voice, and in the shrill answering screams of the women\ninside? It is bad enough to be submitted to this sort of persecution\nwhen one is alone; but it is far worse to be also exposed to it--as I am\nconstantly--in the presence of visitors, whose conversation is necessarily\ninterrupted, whose ears are necessarily shocked, whose very stay in my\nhouse is necessarily shortened, by Major Namby's unendurably public way\nof managing his private concerns.\n\nOnly the other day, my old, dear, and most valued friend Lady Malkinshaw\nwas sitting with me, and was entering at great length into the interesting\nstory of her second daughter's unhappy marriage engagement, and of\nthe dignified manner in which the family ultimately broke it off. For\na quarter of an hour or so our interview continued to be delightfully\nuninterrupted. At the end of that time, however, just as Lady Malkinshaw,\nwith the tears in her eyes, was beginning to describe the effect of\nher daughter's dreadful disappointment on the poor dear girl's mind and\nlooks, I heard the door of the major's house bang as usual; and, looking\nout of the window in despair, saw the major himself strut half way down\nthe walk, stop, scratch violently at his roll of red flesh, wheel round\nso as to face the house, consider a little, pull his tablets out of his\nwaistcoat-pocket, shake his head over them, and then look up at the front\nwindows, preparatory to bawling as usual at the degraded female members\nof his household. Lady Malkinshaw, quite ignorant of what was coming,\nhappened at the same moment, to be proceeding with her pathetic story in\nthese terms:\n\n\"I do assure you, my poor dear girl behaved throughout with the heroism of\na martyr. When I had told her of the vile wretch's behaviour, breaking it\nto her as gently as I possibly could; and when she had a little recovered,\nI said to her----\"\n\n(\"Matilda!\")\n\nThe major's rasping voice sounded louder than ever as he bawled out that\ndreadful name, just at the wrong moment. Lady Malkinshaw started as if\nshe had been shot. I put down the window in despair; but the glass was\nno protection to our ears--Major Namby can roar through a brick wall. I\napologised--I declared solemnly that my next-door neighbour was mad--I\nentreated Lady Malkinshaw to take no notice, and to go on. That sweet\nwoman immediately complied. I burn with indignation when I think of what\nfollowed. Every word from the Namby's garden (which I distinguish below by\nparentheses) came, very slightly muffled by the window, straight into my\nroom, and mixed itself up with her ladyship's story in this inexpressibly\nridiculous and impertinent manner:\n\n\"Well,\" my kind and valued friend proceeded, \"as I was telling you, when\nthe first natural burst of sorrow was over, I said to her----\"\n\n\"Yes, dear Lady Malkinshaw?\" I murmured, encouragingly.\n\n\"I said to her----\"\n\n(\"By jingo, I've forgotten something! Matilda! when I made my memorandum\nof errands, how many had I to do?\")\n\n\"'My dearest, darling child,' I said----\"\n\n(\"Pamby! how many errands did your mistress give me to do?\")\n\n\"I said, 'my dearest, darling child----'\"\n\n(\"Nurse! how many errands did your mistress give me to do?\")\n\n\"'My own love,' I said----\"\n\n(\"Pooh! pooh! I tell you, I had four errands to do, and I've only got\nthree of 'em written down. Check me off, all of you--I'm going to read my\nerrands.\")\n\n\"'Your own proper pride, love,' I said, 'will suggest to you----'\"\n\n(\"Grey powder for baby.\")\n\n--\"'the necessity of making up your mind, my angel, to----'\"\n\n(\"Row the plumber for infamous condition of back kitchen sink.\")\n\n--\"'to return all the wretch's letters, and----'\"\n\n(\"Speak to the haberdasher about patching Jack's shirts.\")\n\n--\"'all his letters and presents, darling. You need only make them up into\na parcel, and write inside----'\"\n\n(\"Matilda! is that all?\")\n\n--\"'and write inside----'\"\n\n(\"Pamby! is that all?\")\n\n--\"'and write inside----'\"\n\n(\"Nurse! is that all?\")\n\n\"'I have my mother's sanction for making one last request to you. It is\nthis----'\"\n\n(\"What have the children got for dinner to-day?\")\n\n--\"'it is this: Return me my letters, as I have returned yours. You will\nfind inside----'\"\n\n(\"A shoulder of mutton and onion sauce? And a devilish good dinner, too.\")\n\nThe coarse wretch roared out those last shocking words cheerfully, at the\ntop of his voice. Hitherto, Lady Malkinshaw had preserved her temper with\nthe patience of an angel; but she began--and who can wonder?--to lose it,\nat last.\n\n\"It is really impossible, my dear,\" she said, rising from her chair, \"to\ncontinue any conversation while that very intolerable person persists in\ntalking to his family from his front garden. No! I really cannot go on--I\ncannot, indeed.\"\n\nJust as I was apologising to my sweet friend for the second time, I\nobserved, to my great relief (having my eye still on the window) that\nthe odious major had apparently come to the end of his domestic business\nfor that morning, and had made up his mind at last to relieve us of his\npresence. I distinctly saw him put his tablets back in his pocket, wheel\nround again on his heel, and march straight to the garden gate. I waited\nuntil he had his hand on the lock to open it, and then, when I felt that\nwe were quite safe, I informed dear Lady Malkinshaw that my detestable\nneighbour had at last taken himself off, and, throwing open the window\nagain to get a little air, begged and entreated her to oblige me by\nresuming her charming narrative.\n\n\"Where was I?\" inquired my distinguished friend.\n\n\"You were telling me what you recommended your poor darling to write\ninside her enclosure,\" I answered.\n\n\"Ah, yes--so I was. Well, my dear, she controlled herself by an admirable\neffort, and wrote exactly what I told her. You will excuse a mother's\npartiality, I am sure--but I think I never saw her look so lovely--so\nmournfully lovely, I should say--as when she was writing those last lines\nto the man who had so basely trifled with her. The tears came into my eyes\nas I looked at her sweet pale cheeks; and I thought to myself----\"\n\n(\"Nurse! which of the children was sick, last time, after eating onion\nsauce?\")\n\nHe had come back again!--the monster had come back again, from the very\nthreshold of the garden gate, to shout that unwarrantably atrocious\nquestion in at his nursery window!\n\nLady Malkinshaw bounced off her chair at the first note of his horrible\nvoice, and changed towards me instantly--as if it had been _my_ fault!--in\nthe most alarming and unexpected manner. Her ladyship's face became\nawfully red; her ladyship's head trembled excessively; her ladyship's eyes\nlooked straight into mine with an indescribable fierceness.\n\n\"Why am I thus insulted?\" inquired Lady Malkinshaw, with a slow and\ndignified sternness which froze the blood in my veins. \"What do you mean\nby it?\" continued her ladyship, with a sudden rapidity of utterance that\nquite took my breath away.\n\nBefore I could remonstrate with my friend for visiting her natural\nirritation on poor innocent me: before I could declare that I had seen\nthe major actually open his garden gate to go away, the provoking brute's\nvoice burst in on us again.\n\n\"Ha! yes!\" we heard him growl to himself, in a kind of shameless domestic\nsoliloquy. \"Yes, yes, yes--Sophy was sick, to be sure. Curious. All Mrs.\nNamby's step-children have weak chests and strong stomachs. All Mrs.\nNamby's own children have weak stomachs and strong chests. _I_ have a\nstrong stomach _and_ a strong chest.--Pamby!\"\n\n\"I consider this,\" continued Lady Malkinshaw, literally glaring at me,\nin the fulness of her indiscriminate exasperation--\"I consider this to be\nunwarrantable and unladylike. I beg to know----\"\n\n\"Where's Bill?\" burst in the major, from below, before her ladyship could\nadd another word. \"Matilda! Nurse! Pamby! where's Bill? I didn't bid Bill\ngood-bye--hold him up at the window, one of you!\"\n\n\"My dear Lady Malkinshaw,\" I remonstrated, \"why blame _me_? What have I\ndone?\"\n\n\"Done!\" repeated her ladyship. \"Done!!!--all that is most unfriendly, most\nunwarrantable, most unladylike----\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a!\" roared the major, shouting her ladyship down, and\nstamping about the garden in fits of fond paternal laughter. \"Bill, my\nboy, how are you? There's a young Turk for you! Pull up his frock--I want\nto see his jolly legs----\"\n\nLady Malkinshaw screamed, and rushed to the door. I sank into a chair,\nand clasped my hands in despair.\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! What calves the dog's got! Pamby! look at his calves.\nAha! bless his heart, his legs are the model of his father's! The Namby\nbuild, Matilda: the Namby build, every inch of him. Kick again, Bill--kick\nout, like mad. I say, ma'am! I beg your pardon, ma'am----\"\n\n_Ma'am?_ I ran to the window. Was the major actually daring to address\nLady Malkinshaw, as she passed, indignantly, on her way out, down my front\ngarden? He was! The odious monster was pointing out his--his, what shall\nI say?--his _undraped_ offspring to the notice of my outraged visitor.\n\n\"Look at him, ma'am. If you're a judge of children, look at him. There's\na two-year-older for you! Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! Show the lady your legs,\nBill--kick out for the lady, you dog, kick out!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI can write no more: I have done great violence to myself in writing\nso much. Further specimens of the daily outrages inflicted on me by my\nnext-door neighbour (though I could add them by dozens) could do but\nlittle more to illustrate the intolerable nature of the grievance of\nwhich I complain. Although Lady Malkinshaw's naturally fine sense of\njustice suffered me to call and remonstrate the day after she left my\nhouse; although we are now faster friends than ever, how can I expect\nher ladyship to visit me again, after the reiterated insults to which\nshe was exposed on the last occasion of her esteemed presence under my\nroof? How can I ask my niece--a young person who has been most carefully\nbrought up--to come and stay with me, when I know that she will be taken\ninto the major's closest domestic confidence on the first morning of\nher arrival, whether she likes it or not? Of all the dreary prospects,\nstretching before all the single ladies in the world, mine seems the most\nhopeless. My neighbours can't help me, and I can't help myself. The law\nof the land contains no provision against the habitual management of a\nwife and family in a front garden. Private remonstrance addressed to a\nman so densely impenetrable to a sense of propriety as the major, would\nonly expose me to ridicule, and perhaps to insult. I can't leave my house,\nfor it exactly suits me, and I have bought it. The major can't leave his\nhouse, for it exactly suits him, and he has bought it. There is actually\nno remedy possible but the forcible removal of my military neighbour from\nhis home; and there is but one power in the country which is strong enough\nto accomplish that removal--the Horse Guards, infuriated by the horrors\nof war.\n\n\n\n\nCASES WORTH LOOKING AT.--II.\n\nTHE POISONED MEAL.\n\n[From The Records of the French Courts.]\n\n\nCHAPTER I. THE POCKETS.\n\nThis case takes us across the Channel to Normandy; and introduces us to\na young French girl, named Marie-Fran\u00e7oise-Victoire Salmon.\n\nHer father was a poor Norman labourer. Her mother died while she was a\nchild. From an early age Marie had learnt to get her own living by going\nout to service. Three different mistresses tried her while she was a very\nyoung girl, and found every reason to be satisfied with her conduct. She\nentered her fourth place, in the family of one Monsieur Dumesnil, when\nshe was twenty years of age. This was the turning-point in her career;\nand here the strange story of her life properly begins.\n\nAmong the persons who often visited Monsieur Dumesnil and his wife, was\na certain Monsieur Revel, a relation of Madame Dumesnil's. He was a man\nof some note in his part of the country, holding a responsible legal\nappointment at the town of Caen in Normandy; and he honoured Marie, when\nhe first saw her at her master's house, with his special attention and\napproval. She had an innocent face, and a winning manner; and Monsieur\nRevel became almost oppressively anxious, in a strictly paternal way, that\nshe should better her condition, by seeking service at Caen, where places\nwere plentiful and wages higher than in the country; and where, it is also\nnecessary to remember, Monsieur Revel himself happened to live.\n\nMarie's own idea, however, of the best means of improving her condition\nwas a little at variance with the idea of her disinterested adviser. Her\nambition was to gain her living independently, if she could, by being a\nsempstress. She left the service of Monsieur Dumesnil of her own accord,\nwithout so much as the shadow of a stain on her character, and went to the\nold town of Bayeux to try what she could do by taking in needlework. As\na means of subsistence, needlework soon proved itself to be insufficient;\nand she found herself thrown back again on the old resource of going out\nto service. Most unfortunately, as events afterwards turned out, she now\ncalled to mind Monsieur Revel's paternal advice, and resolved to seek\nemployment as a maid-of-all-work at Caen.\n\nShe left Bayeux with the little bundle of clothes which represented all\nthe property she had in the world, on the first of August, seventeen\nhundred and eighty-one. It will be well to notice this date particularly,\nand to remember--in case some of the events of Marie's story should seem\nalmost incredible--that it marks the period which immediately preceded\nthe first outbreak of the French Revolution.\n\nAmong the few articles of the maid's apparel which the bundle contained,\nand to which it is necessary to direct attention at the outset, were _two\npairs of pockets_, one of them being still in an unfinished condition.\nShe had a third pair which she wore on her journey. In the last century,\na country girl's pockets were an important and prominent part of her\ncostume. They hung on each side of her, ready to her hand. They were\nsometimes very prettily embroidered, and they were almost always large\nand of a bright colour.\n\nOn the first of August, seventeen hundred and eighty-one, Marie left\nBayeux, and early on the same day she reached Caen. Her good manners,\nher excellent character, and the modesty of her demands in the matter of\nwages, rendered it easy for her to find a situation. On the very evening\nof her arrival she was suited with a place; and her first night at Caen\nwas passed under the roof of her new employers.\n\nThe family consisted of Marie's master and mistress, Monsieur and\nMadame Huet Duparc (both highly respectable people); of two sons, aged\nrespectively twenty-one and eleven years; of their sister, aged seventeen\nyears; and of Monsieur and Madame de Beaulieu, the father and mother of\nMadame Duparc, one eighty-eight years old, the other eighty-six.\n\nMadame Duparc explained to Marie the various duties which she was expected\nto perform, on the evening when she entered the house. She was to begin\nthe day by fetching some milk--that being one of the ingredients used\nin preparing the hasty-pudding which formed the favourite morning meal\nof the old gentleman, Monsieur de Beaulieu. The hasty-pudding was always\nto be got ready by seven o'clock exactly. When this had been done, Marie\nwas next required to take the infirm old lady, Madame de Beaulieu, every\nmorning to mass. She was then to go to market, and get all the provisions\nthat were wanted for the daily use of the family; and she was, finally, to\nlook to the cooking of the food, and to make herself additionally useful\n(with some occasional assistance from Madame Duparc and her daughter)\nin every remaining branch of household work. The yearly wages she was to\nreceive for performing all these conflicting duties, amounted to precisely\ntwo pounds sterling of English money.\n\nShe had entered her new place on a Wednesday. On Thursday she took her\nfirst lesson in preparing the old gentleman's morning meal. One point\nwhich her mistress then particularly impressed on her was, that she was\n_not_ to put any salt in the hasty-pudding.\n\nOn the Saturday following, when she went out to buy milk, she made a\nlittle purchase on her own account. Of course the purchase was an article\nof dress--a piece of fine bright orange-coloured stuff, for which she paid\nnearly the whole price on the spot, out of her small savings. The sum\nof two sous six deniers (about a penny English) was all that Marie took\ncredit for. On her return to the house she showed the piece of stuff to\nMadame Duparc, and asked to be advised whether she should make an apron\nor a jacket of it.\n\nThe next day being Sunday, Marie marked the occasion by putting on all the\nlittle finery she had. Her pair of festive pockets, striped with blue and\nwhite, came out of her bundle along with other things. When she had put\nthem on, she hung the old work-a-day pockets which she had worn on leaving\nBayeux, to the back of a chair in her bed-chamber. This was a little room\non the ground-floor, situated close to the dining-room, and perfectly easy\nof access to every one in the house. Long afterwards, Marie remembered\nhow pleasantly and quietly that Sunday passed. It was the last day of\nhappiness the poor creature was to enjoy in the house of Madame Duparc.\n\nOn the Monday morning, she went to fetch the milk as usual. But the\nmilkwoman was not in the shop to serve her. After returning to the house,\nshe proposed making a second attempt; but her mistress stopped her,\nsaying that the milk would doubtless be sent before long. This turned\nout to be the case, and Marie, having cleaned the saucepan for Monsieur\nde Beaulieu's hasty-pudding, received from the hands of Madame Duparc,\nthe earthen vessel containing the meal used in the house. She mixed this\nflour and put it into the saucepan in the presence of Madame Duparc and\nher daughter. She had just set the saucepan on the fire, when her mistress\nsaid, with a very remarkable abruptness:\n\n\"Have you put any salt in it?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, ma'am,\" answered Marie, amazed by the question. \"You told\nme yourself that I was never to put salt in it.\"\n\nUpon this, Madame Duparc snatched up the saucepan without saying another\nword, turned to the dresser, stretched out her hand towards one of\nfour salt-cellars which always stood there, and sprinkled salt into\nthe saucepan--or (to speak with extreme correctness, the matter being\nimportant), if not salt something which she took for salt.\n\nThe hasty-pudding made, Marie poured it from the saucepan into a\nsoup-plate which her mistress held. Madame Duparc herself then took\nit to Monsieur de Beaulieu. She and her daughter, and one of her sons\nremained with the old man, while he was eating his breakfast. Marie, left\nin the kitchen, prepared to clean the saucepan; but, before she could do\nso, she was suddenly called in two different directions, by Madame de\nBeaulieu, and Madame Duparc. The old lady wished to be taken to mass;\nand her mistress wanted to send her on a number of errands. Marie did\nnot stop even to pour some clean water, as usual, into the saucepan. She\nwent at once to get her instructions from Madame Duparc, and to attend\non Madame de Beaulieu. Taking the old lady to church, and then running on\nher mistress's errands, kept her so long away from the house, that it was\nhalf-past eleven in the forenoon, before she got back to the kitchen.\n\nThe first news that met her on her return was that Monsieur de Beaulieu\nhad been suffering, ever since nine o'clock, from a violent attack of\nvomiting and colic. Madame Duparc ordered her to help the old man to\nbed immediately; and inquired, when these directions had been followed,\nwhether Marie felt capable of looking after him herself, or whether\nshe would prefer that a nurse should be sent for. Being a kind-hearted,\nwilling girl, always anxious to make herself useful, Marie replied that\nshe would gladly undertake the nursing of the old man; and, thereupon,\nher bed was moved at once into Monsieur de Beaulieu's room.\n\nMeanwhile, Madame Duparc fetched from a neighbouring apothecary's, one of\nthe apprentices of the shop, to see her father. The lad was quite unfit\nto meet the emergency of the case, which was certainly serious enough\nto require the attention of his master, if not of a regularly qualified\nphysician. Instead of applying any internal remedies, the apprentice\nstupidly tried blistering. This course of treatment proved utterly\nuseless; but no better advice was called in. After he had suffered for\nhours without relief, Monsieur de Beaulieu began to sink rapidly towards\nthe afternoon. At half-past five o'clock he had ceased to exist.\n\nThis shocking catastrophe, startling and suspicious as it was, did not\nappear to discompose the nerves of Madame Duparc. While her eldest son\nimmediately left the house to inform his father (who had been absent in\nthe country all day) of what had happened, she lost no time in sending\nfor the nearest nurse to lay out the corpse of Monsieur de Beaulieu. On\nentering the chamber of death, the nurse found Marie there alone, praying\nby the old man's bedside.\n\n\"He died suddenly, did he not?\" said the nurse.\n\n\"Very suddenly,\" answered Marie. \"He was walking about only yesterday, in\nperfect health.\"\n\nSoon afterwards the time came when it was customary to prepare supper.\nMarie went into the kitchen, mechanically, to get the meal ready. Madame\nDuparc, her daughter, and her youngest son, sat down to it as usual.\nMadame de Beaulieu, overwhelmed by the dreadful death of her husband, was\nincapable of joining them.\n\nWhen supper was over, Marie assisted the old lady to bed. Then, worn\nout though she was with fatigue, she went back to the nurse to keep her\ncompany in watching by the dead body. Monsieur de Beaulieu had been kind\nto Marie, and had spoken gratefully of the little attentions she had\nshown him. She remembered this tenderly now that he was no more; and\nshe could not find it in her heart to leave a hired mourner to be the\nonly watcher by his death-bed. All that night she remained in the room,\nentirely ignorant of what was passing the while in every other part of\nthe house--her own little bed-room included, as a matter of course.\n\nAbout seven o'clock the next morning, after sitting up all night, she went\nback again wearily to the kitchen to begin her day's work. Her mistress\njoined her there, and saluted her instantly with a scolding.\n\n\"You are the most careless, slovenly girl I ever met with,\" said Madame\nDuparc. \"Look at your dress; How can you expect to be decent on a Sunday,\nif you wear your best pair of pockets on week-days?\"\n\nSurely Madame Duparc's grief for the loss of her father must have been\nslight enough, if it did not prevent her from paying the strictest\nattention to her servant's pockets! Although Marie had only known the\nold man for a few days, she had been too deeply impressed by his illness\nand its fatal end, to be able to think of such a trifle as the condition\nof her dress. And now, of all the people in the world, it was Monsieur\nde Beaulieu's daughter who reminded her that she had never thought of\nchanging her pockets, only the day after the old man's dreadful death.\n\n\"Put on your old pockets, directly, you untidy girl!\" said Madame Duparc.\n\nThe old pockets were of course hanging where Marie had left them, at the\nback of the chair in her own room--the room which was open to any one who\nchose to go into it--the room which she herself had not entered during the\npast night. She left the kitchen to obey her mistress; and taking the old\npair of pockets off the chair, tied them on as quickly as possible. From\nthat fatal moment the friendless maid-of-all-work was a ruined girl.\n\n\nCHAPTER II. THE ARSENIC.\n\nOn returning to the kitchen to go on with her work, the exhaustion against\nwhich Marie had hitherto fought successfully, overpowered her the moment\nshe sat down; her heavy head drooped, her eyes closed in spite of her, and\nshe fell into a broken, uneasy slumber. Madame Duparc and her daughter,\nseeing the condition she was in, undertook the preparation of the day's\ndinner themselves. Among the dishes which they got ready, and which\nthey salted from the cellars on the dresser, were two different kinds of\nsoup--one kind for themselves, made from fresh \"stock\"--the other, for\nMarie and the nurse, made from old \"stock.\" They were engaged over their\ncookery, when Monsieur Duparc arrived from the country; and Marie was\nawakened to take the horse he had ridden to the stables, to unsaddle the\nanimal, and to give him his feed of corn.\n\nWhile she was thus engaged, Madame Duparc and her daughter remained alone\nin the kitchen. When she left the stable it was time for her to lay the\ncloth. She was told to put plates for seven persons. Only six, however,\nsat down to dinner. Those six were, Madame de Beaulieu, Monsieur and\nMadame Duparc, the youngest of their two sons, Madame Beauguillot (sister\nof Madame Duparc), and Monsieur Beauguillot (her son). Mademoiselle Duparc\nremained in the kitchen to help Marie in serving up the dinner, and only\ntook her place at table after the soup had been put on. Her elder brother,\nafter summoning his father home, had not returned to the house.\n\nAfter the soup had been taken away, and while Marie was waiting at table\nduring the eating of the second course, young Duparc complained that he\nfelt something gritty between his teeth. His mother made precisely the\nsame remark. Nobody else, however, agreed with them, and the subject\nwas allowed to drop. When the second course was done with, the dessert\nfollowed, consisting of a plate of cherries. With the dessert there\narrived a visitor, Monsieur Fergant, a relation of Madame Duparc's. This\ngentleman placed himself at table with the rest of the company.\n\nMeanwhile, the nurse and Marie were making their dinner in the kitchen\noff the soup which had been specially provided for them--Marie having\npreviously placed the dirty plates and the empty soup-tureen from the\ndining-room, in the scullery, as usual, to be washed at the proper time.\nWhile she and her companion were still engaged over their soup, young\nDuparc and his mother suddenly burst into the kitchen, followed by the\nother persons who had partaken of dinner.\n\n\"We are all poisoned!\" cried Madame Duparc, in the greatest terror. \"Good\nheavens! I smell burnt arsenic in the kitchen!\"\n\nMonsieur Fergant, the visitor, hearing these last words, politely stepped\nforward to echo them.\n\n\"Burnt arsenic, beyond a doubt,\" said Monsieur Fergant. When this\ngentleman was subsequently questioned on the subject, it may not be amiss\nto mention, that he was quite unable to say what burnt arsenic smelt\nlike. Neither is it altogether out of place to inquire how Madame Duparc\nhappened to be so amazingly apt at discovering the smell of burnt arsenic?\nThe answer to the question does not seem easy to discover.\n\nHaving settled that they were all poisoned, and having even found out\n(thanks to those two intelligent amateur chemists, Madame Duparc and\nMonsieur Fergant) the very nature of the deadly drug that had been used\nto destroy them, the next thing the company naturally thought of was the\nnecessity of summoning medical help. Young Monsieur Beauguillot obligingly\nran off (it was apparently a very mild case of poisoning, so far as he\nwas concerned) to the apothecary's shop, and fetched, not the apprentice\nthis time, but the master. The master, Monsieur Thierry, arrived in great\nhaste, and found the dinner-eaters all complaining of nausea and pains in\nthe stomach. He naturally asked what they had eaten. The reply was, that\nthey had eaten nothing but soup.\n\nThis was, to say the least of it, rather an unaccountable answer. The\ncompany had had for dinner, besides soup, a second course of boiled meat\nand ragout of beef, and a dessert of cherries. Why was this plain fact\nconcealed? Why was the apothecary's attention to be fixed exclusively on\nthe soup? Was it because the tureen was empty, and because the alleged\nsmell of burnt arsenic might be accounted for on the theory that the\nremains of the soup brought from the dining-room had been thrown on the\nkitchen fire? But no remains of soup came down--it had been all consumed\nby the guests. And what is still more remarkable, the only person in the\nkitchen (excepting Marie and the nurse) who could not discover the smell\nof burnt arsenic, was the person of all others who was professionally\nqualified to find it out first--the apothecary himself.\n\nAfter examining the tureen and the plates, and stirring up the wood ashes\non the fire, and making no sort of discovery, Monsieur Thierry turned\nto Marie, and asked if she could account for what had happened. She\nsimply replied, that she knew nothing at all about it; and, thereupon,\nher mistress and the rest of the persons present all overwhelmed her\ntogether with a perfect torrent of questions. The poor girl, terrified\nby the hubbub, worn out by a sleepless night and by the hard work and\nagitation of the day preceding it, burst into an hysterical fit of tears,\nand was ordered out of the kitchen to lie down and recover herself. The\nonly person who showed her the least pity and offered her the slightest\nattention, was a servant-girl like herself, who lived next door, and who\nstole up to the room in which she was weeping alone, with a cup of warm\nmilk and water to comfort her.\n\nMeanwhile, the report had spread in the town that the old man, Monsieur\nde Beaulieu, and the whole Duparc family, had been poisoned by their\nservant. Madame Duparc did her best to give the rumour the widest possible\ncirculation. Entirely forgetting, as it would seem, that she was on her\nown showing a poisoned woman, she roamed excitably all over the house\nwith an audience of agitated female friends at her heels; telling the\nburnt-arsenic story over and over again to every fresh detachment of\nvisitors that arrived to hear it; and finally leading the whole troop of\nwomen into the room where Marie was trying to recover herself. The poor\ngirl was surrounded in a moment; angry faces and shrill voices met her on\nevery side; the most insolent questions, the most extravagant accusations,\nassailed her; and not one word that she could say in her own defence was\nlistened to for an instant. She had sprung up in the bed, on her knees,\nand was frantically entreating for permission to speak in her own defence,\nwhen a new personage appeared on the scene, and stilled the clamour by his\npresence. This individual was a surgeon named H\u00e9bert, a friend of Madame\nDuparc's, who announced that he had arrived to give the family the benefit\nof his assistance, and who proposed to commence operations, by searching\nthe servant's pockets without farther delay.\n\nThe instant Marie heard him make this proposal, she untied her pockets,\nand gave them to Surgeon H\u00e9bert with her own hands. He examined them on\nthe spot. In one, he found some copper money and a thimble. In the other\n(to use his own words, given in evidence) he discovered \"various fragments\nof bread, sprinkled over with some minute substance which was white and\nshining. He kept the fragments of bread, and left the room immediately\nwithout saying a word.\" By this course of proceeding, he gave Marie no\nchance of stating at the outset whether she knew of the fragments of\nbread being in her pocket, or whether she was totally ignorant how they\ncame there. Setting aside, for the present, the question, whether there\nwas really any arsenic on the crumbs at all, it would clearly have been\nshowing the unfortunate maid-of-all-work no more than common justice to\nhave allowed her the opportunity of speaking before the bread was carried\naway.\n\nIt was now seven o'clock in the evening. The next event was the arrival\nof another officious visitor. The new friend in need belonged to the\nlegal profession--he was an advocate named Friley. Monsieur Friley's legal\ninstincts led him straightway to a conclusion which seriously advanced the\nprogress of events. Having heard the statement of Madame Duparc and her\ndaughter, he decided that it was his duty to lodge an information against\nMarie before the Procurator of the King, at Caen.\n\nThe Procurator of the King is, by this time, no stranger to the reader.\nHe was the same Monsieur Revel who had taken such an amazingly strong\ninterest in Marie's fortunes, and who had strongly advised her to try\nher luck at Caen. Here then, surely, was a friend found at last for the\nforlorn maid-of-all-work. We shall see how Monsieur Revel acted, after\nFriley's information had been duly lodged.\n\nThe French law of the period, and, it may be added, the commonest\nprinciples of justice also, required the Procurator to perform certain\nplain duties as soon as the accusation against Marie had reached his ears.\n\nHe was, in the first place, bound to proceed immediately, accompanied by\nhis official colleague, to the spot where the alleged crime of poisoning\nwas supposed to have taken place. Arrived there, it was his business to\nascertain for himself the condition of the persons attacked with illness;\nto hear their statements; to examine the rooms, the kitchen utensils,\nand the family medicine-chest, if there happened to be one in the house;\nto receive any statement the accused person might wish to make; to take\ndown her answers to his questions; and, lastly, to keep anything found on\nthe servant (the breadcrumbs, for instance, of which Surgeon H\u00e9bert had\ncoolly taken possession), or anything found about the house which it might\nbe necessary to produce in evidence, in a position of absolute security,\nunder the hand and seal of justice.\n\nThese were the plain duties which Monsieur Revel, the Procurator, was\nofficially bound to fulfil. In the case of Marie, he not only neglected to\nperform any one of them, but actually sanctioned a scheme for entrapping\nher into prison, by sending a commissary of police to the house, in plain\nclothes, with an order to place her in solitary confinement. To what\nmotive could this scandalous violation of his duties and of justice be\nattributed? The last we saw of Monsieur Revel, he was so benevolently\ndisposed towards Marie that he condescended to advise her about her\nprospects in life, and even went the length of recommending her to seek\nfor a situation in the very town in which he lived himself. And now,\nwe find him so suddenly and bitterly hostile towards the former object\nof his patronage, that he actually lends the assistance of his high\nofficial position to sanction an accusation against her, into the truth\nor falsehood of which he had not made a single inquiry! Can it be that\nMonsieur Revel's interest in Marie was, after all, not of the purest\npossible kind, and that the unfortunate girl proved too stubbornly\nvirtuous to be taught what the real end was towards which the attentions\nof her over-benevolent adviser privately pointed? There is no evidence\nattaching to the case (as how should there be?) to prove this. But is\nthere any other explanation of Monsieur Revel's conduct, which at all\ntends to account for the extraordinary inconsistency of it?\n\nHaving received his secret instructions, the commissary of police--a\nman named Bertot--proceeded to the house of Monsieur and Madame Duparc,\ndisguised in plain clothes. His first proceeding was to order Marie to\nproduce the various plates, dishes, and kitchen utensils which had been\nused at the dinner of Tuesday, the seventh of August (that being the day\non which the poisoning of the company was alleged to have taken place).\nMarie produced a saucepan, an earthen vessel, a stewpan, and several\nplates piled on each other, in one of which there were the remains of some\nsoup. These articles Bertot locked up in the kitchen cupboard, and took\naway the key with him. He ought to have taken the additional precaution\nof placing a seal on the cupboard, so as to prevent any tampering with the\nlock, or any treachery with a duplicate key. But this he neglected to do.\n\nHis next proceeding was to tell Marie that the Procurator Revel wished\nto speak to her, and to propose that she should accompany him to the\npresence of that gentleman forthwith. Not having the slightest suspicion\nof any treachery, she willingly consented, and left the house with the\ncommissary. A friend of the Duparcs, named Vassol, accompanied them.\n\nOnce out of the house, Bertot led his unsuspecting prisoner straight\nto the gaol. As soon as she was inside the gates, he informed her that\nshe was arrested, and proceeded to search her person in the presence of\nVassol, of the gaoler of the prison, and of a woman named Dujardin. The\nfirst thing found on her was a little linen bag, sewn to her petticoat,\nand containing a species of religious charm, in the shape of a morsel\nof the sacramental wafer. Her pockets came next under review (the\npockets which Surgeon H\u00e9bert had previously searched). A little dust was\ndiscovered at the bottom of them, which was shaken out on paper, wrapped\nup along with the linen bag, sealed in one packet, and taken to the\nProcurator's office. Finally, the woman Dujardin found in Marie's bosom a\nlittle key, which she readily admitted to be the key of her own cupboard.\n\nThe search over, one last act of cruelty and injustice was all that\nremained to be committed for that day. The unfortunate girl was placed at\nonce in solitary confinement.\n\n\nCHAPTER III. THE EVIDENCE.\n\nThus far, the case is one of suspicion only. Waiting until the end of the\ntrial before we decide on whom that suspicion ought to rest, let us now\nhear the evidence by which the Duparcs and their adherents proceeded to\njustify their conspiracy against the liberty and the life of a friendless\ngirl.\n\nHaving secured Marie in solitary confinement, and having thus left the\nhouse and all that it contained for a whole night at the free disposal\nof the Duparcs, the Procurator Revel bethought himself, the morning after\nthe arrest of his prisoner, of the necessity of proceeding with something\nlike official regularity. He accordingly issued his requisition to the\nLieutenant-Criminel to accompany him to the house of Monsieur Duparc,\nattended by the medical officers and the clerk, to inquire into the\ncircumstances under which the suspected death by poisoning of Monsieur de\nBeaulieu had taken place. Marie had been imprisoned on the evening of the\nseventh of August, and this requisition is dated on the morning of the\neighth. The document betrays one remarkable informality. It mentions the\ndeath of Monsieur de Beaulieu; but is absolutely silent on the subject\nof the alleged poisoning of seven persons at dinner the next day. And\nyet, it was this latter circumstance only which first directed suspicion\nagainst Marie, and which induced Friley to lodge the information against\nher on which the Procurator was now acting. Probably Monsieur Revel's\nlegal acumen convinced him, at the outset, that the story of the poisoned\ndinner was too weak to be relied on.\n\nThe officers of the law, accompanied by the doctors, proceeded to the\nhouse of the Duparcs on the eighth of August. After viewing the body\nof Monsieur de Beaulieu, the medical men were directed to open and\nexamine it. They reported the discovery in the stomach of a reddish,\nbrick-coloured liquid, somewhat resembling the lees of wine. The mucous\nmembrane was detached in some places, and its internal surface was\ncorroded. On examining the reddish liquid, they found it to contain a\ncrystallised sediment, which, on analysation, proved to be arsenic. Upon\nthis, the doctors delivered it as their opinion that Monsieur de Beaulieu\nhad been poisoned, and that poison had been the cause of his death.\n\nThe event having taken this serious turn, the first duty of the\nLieutenant-Criminel (according to the French law) was to send for the\nservant on whom suspicion rested, to question her, and to confront her\nwith the Duparcs. He did nothing of the kind; he made no inquiry after\nthe servant (being probably unwilling to expose his colleague, the\nProcurator, who had illegally arrested and illegally imprisoned her); he\nnever examined the kitchen utensils which the Commissary had locked up;\nhe never opened the servant's cupboard with the key that had been taken\nfrom her when she was searched in prison. All he did was to reduce the\nreport of the doctors to writing, and to return to his office with his\nposse-comitatus at his heels.\n\nIt was necessary to summon the witnesses and examine them. But the\nProcurator Revel now conveniently remembered the story of the poisoned\ndinner, and he sent the Lieutenant-Criminel to examine the Duparcs and\ntheir friends at the private residence of the family, in consideration of\nthe sickly condition of the eaters of the adulterated meal. It may be as\nwell to observe, here as elsewhere, that these highly-indulged personages\nhad none of them been sufficiently inconvenienced even to go to bed, or\nin any way to alter their ordinary habits.\n\nOn the afternoon of the eighth, the Lieutenant-Criminel betook himself\nto the house of Monsieur Duparc, to collect evidence touching the death\nby poison of Monsieur de Beaulieu. The first witness called was Monsieur\nDuparc.\n\nThis gentleman, it will be remembered, was away from home, on Monday, the\nsixth, when Monsieur de Beaulieu died, and only returned, at the summons\nof his eldest son, at half-past eleven on the forenoon of the seventh. He\nhad nothing to depose connected with the death of his father-in-law, or\nwith the events which might have taken place in the house on the night\nof the sixth and the morning of the seventh. On the other hand, he had\na great deal to say about the state of his own stomach after the dinner\nof the seventh--a species of information not calculated to throw much\nlight on the subject of inquiry, which was the poisoning of Monsieur de\nBeaulieu.\n\nThe old lady, Madame de Beaulieu, was next examined. She could give\nno evidence of the slightest importance touching the matter in hand;\nbut, like Monsieur Duparc, she had something to say on the topic of the\npoisoned dinner.\n\nMadame Duparc followed on the list of witnesses. The report of her\nexamination--so thoroughly had she recovered from the effects of the\ndinner of the seventh--ran to a prodigious length. Five-sixths of it\nrelated entirely to her own sensations and suspicions, and the sensations\nand suspicions of her relatives and friends, after they had risen from\ntable. As to the point at issue, the point which affected the liberty,\nand perhaps the life, of her unfortunate servant, she had so little to\nsay that her testimony may be repeated here in her own words:\n\n\"The witness (Madame Duparc) deposed, that after Marie had helped Monsieur\nde Beaulieu to get up, she (Marie) hastened out for the milk, and, on\nher return with it, prepared the hasty-pudding, took it herself off the\nfire, and herself poured it out into the plate--then left the kitchen to\naccompany Madame de Beaulieu to mass. Four or five minutes after Monsieur\nde Beaulieu had eaten the hasty-pudding, he was seized with violent\nillness.\"\n\nShort as it is, this statement contains several distinct suppressions of\nthe truth.\n\nFirst, Madame Duparc is wrong in stating that Marie fetched the milk,\nfor it was the milkwoman who brought it to the house. Secondly, Madame\nDuparc conceals the fact that she handed the flour to the servant to\nmake the hasty-pudding. Thirdly, Madame Duparc does not mention that she\nheld the plate for the pudding to be poured into, and took it to her\nfather. Fourthly, and most important of all, Madame Duparc altogether\nomits to state, that she sprinkled salt, with her own hands, over the\nhasty-pudding--although she had expressly informed her servant, a day or\ntwo before, that salt was never to be mixed with it. At a subsequent stage\nof the proceedings, she was charged with having salted the hasty-pudding\nherself, and she could not, and did not, deny it.\n\nThe examination of Madame Duparc ended the business on the day of the\neighth. The next morning, the Lieutenant-Criminel, as politely attentive\nas before, returned to resume his inquiry at the private residence of\nMonsieur Duparc.\n\nThe first witness examined on the second day was Mademoiselle Duparc. She\ncarefully followed her mother's lead--saying as little as possible about\nthe preparation of the hasty-pudding on the morning of Monday, and as\nmuch as possible about the pain suffered by everybody after the dinner\nof Tuesday. Madame Beauguillot, the next witness, added her testimony,\nas to the state of her own digestive organs, after partaking of the same\nmeal--speaking at such prodigious length that the poison would appear, in\nher case, to have produced its principal effect (and that of a stimulating\nkind) on her tongue. Her son, Monsieur de Beauguillot, was next examined,\nquite uselessly in relation to the death by poison which was the object\nof inquiry. The last witness was Madame Duparc's younger son--the same who\nhad complained of feeling a gritty substance between his teeth at dinner.\nIn one important respect, his evidence flatly contradicted his mother's.\nMadame Duparc had adroitly connected Monsieur de Beaulieu's illness with\nthe hasty-pudding, by describing the old man as having been taken ill four\nor five minutes after eating it. Young Duparc, on the contrary, declared\nthat his grandfather first felt ill at nine o'clock--exactly two hours\nafter he had partaken of his morning meal.\n\nWith the evidence of this last witness, the examinations at the private\nresidence of Monsieur Duparc ended. Thus far, out of the seven persons,\nall related to each other, who had been called as witnesses, three\n(Monsieur Duparc himself, Madame Beauguillot, and her son) had not been\nin the house on the day when Monsieur de Beaulieu died. Of the other\nfour, who had been present (Madame de Beaulieu, Madame Duparc, her son\nand her daughter), not one deposed to a single fact tending to fix on\nMarie any reasonable suspicion of having administered poison to Monsieur\nde Beaulieu.\n\nThe remaining witnesses, called before the Lieutenant-Criminel, were\ntwenty-nine in number. Not one of them had been in the house on the Monday\nwhich was the day of the old man's death. Twenty-six of them had nothing\nto offer but hearsay evidence on the subject of the events which had taken\nplace at, and after, the dinner of Tuesday. The testimony of the remaining\nthree, namely, of Friley, who had lodged the information against Marie;\nof Surgeon H\u00e9bert, who had searched her pockets in the house; and of\nCommissary Bertot, who had searched her for the second time, after taking\nher to prison,--was the testimony on which the girl's enemies mainly\nrelied for substantiating their charges by positively associating her with\nthe possession of arsenic.\n\nLet us see what amount of credit can be attached to the evidence of these\nthree witnesses.\n\nFriley was the first to be examined. After stating what share he had taken\nin bringing Marie to justice (it will be remembered that he lodged his\ninformation against her at the instance of Madame Duparc, without allowing\nher to say a word in her own defence), he proceeded to depose that he\nhunted about the bed on which the girl had lain down to recover herself,\nand that he discovered on the mattress seven or eight scattered grains of\nsome substance, which resembled the powder reported to have been found\non the crumbs in her pockets. He added further, that on the next day,\nabout two hours before the body of Monsieur de Beaulieu was examined, he\nreturned to the house; searched under the bed, with Monsieur Duparc and\na soldier named Cauvin; and found there four or five grains more of the\nsame substance which he had discovered on the mattress.\n\nHere were two separate portions of poison found, then. What did Friley do\nwith them? Did he seal them up immediately in the presence of witnesses,\nand take them to the legal authorities? Nothing of the sort. On being\nasked what he did with the first portion, he replied that he gave it to\nyoung Monsieur Beauguillot. Beauguillot's evidence was thereupon referred\nto; and it was found that he had never mentioned receiving the packet of\npowder from Friley. He had made himself extremely officious in examining\nthe kitchen utensils; he had been as anxious as any one to promote the\ndiscovery of arsenic; and when he had the opportunity of producing it, if\nFriley were to be believed, he held it back, and said not one word about\nthe matter. So much for the first portion of the mysterious powder, and\nfor the credibility of Friley's evidence thus far!\n\nOn being questioned as to what he had done with the second portion,\nalleged to have been found under the bed, Friley replied that he had\nhanded it to the doctors who opened the body, and that they had tried to\ndiscover what it was, by burning it between two copper pieces. A witness\nwho had been present at this proceeding declared, on being questioned,\nthat the experiment had been made with some remains of hasty-pudding\nscraped out of the saucepan. Here again was a contradiction, and here,\nonce more, Friley's evidence was, to say the least of it, not to be\ndepended on.\n\nSurgeon H\u00e9bert followed. What had he done with the crumbs of bread\nscattered over with white powder, which he had found in Marie's pocket? He\nhad, after showing them to the company in the drawing-room, exhibited them\nnext to the apothecary, and handed them afterwards to another medical man.\nBeing finally assured that there was arsenic on the bread, he had sealed\nup the crumbs, and given the packet to the legal authorities. When had\nhe done that? On the day of his examination as a witness--the fourteenth\nof August. When did he find the crumbs? On the seventh. Here was the\narsenic, in this case, then, passing about from hand to hand, and not\nsealed up, for seven days. Had Surgeon H\u00e9bert anything more to say? Yes,\nhe had another little lot of arsenic to hand in, which a lady-friend of\nhis had told him she had found on Marie's bed, and which, like the first\nlot, had been passed about privately for seven days, from hand to hand,\nbefore it was sealed up. To us, in these later and better days, it seems\nhardly credible that the judge should have admitted these two packets in\nevidence. It is, nevertheless, the disgraceful fact that he did so receive\nthem.\n\nCommissary Bertot came next. He and the man named Vassol, who had helped\nhim to entrap Marie into prison, and to search her before she was placed\nin solitary confinement, were examined in succession, and contradicted\neach other on oath, in the flattest manner.\n\nBertot stated that he had discovered the dust at the bottom of her\npockets; had shaken it out on paper; had placed with it the little linen\nbag, containing a morsel of the sacramental wafer, which had been sewn\nto her petticoat; had sealed the two up in one packet; and had taken the\npacket to the proper office. Vassol, on the other hand, swore that _he_\nhad shaken out the pockets, and had made up the packet; and that Bertot\nhad done nothing in the matter but lend his seal. Contradicting each other\nin these details, both agreed that what they had found on the girl was\ninclosed and sealed up in _one_ packet, which they had left at the office,\nneglecting to take such a receipt for it as might have established its\nidentity in writing. At this stage of the proceedings the packet was sent\nfor. Three packets appeared instead of one! Two were composed of paper,\nand contained dust and a little white powder. The third was the linen bag,\npresented without any covering at all. Vassol, bewildered by the change,\ndeclared that of these three separate objects, he could only identify\none--the linen bag. In this case, it was as clear as daylight that\nsomebody must have tampered with the single sealed packet which Bertot and\nVassol swore to having left at the office. No attempt, however, was made\nto investigate this circumstance; and the case for the prosecution--so far\nas the accusation of poisoning was concerned--closed with the examination\nof Bertot and Vassol.\n\nSuch was the evidence produced in support of a charge which involved\nnothing less than the life or death of a human being.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. THE SENTENCE.\n\nWhile the inquiry was in course of progress, various details connected\nwith it found their way out of doors. The natural sense of justice among\nthe people which had survived the corruptions of the time, was aroused to\nassert itself on behalf of the maid-of-all-work. The public voice spoke as\nloudly as it dared, in those days, in Marie's favour, and in condemnation\nof the conspiracy against her.\n\nPeople persisted, from the first, in inquiring how it was that arsenic\nhad got into the house of Monsieur Duparc; and rumour answered, in more\nthan one direction, that a member of the family had purchased the poison\na short time since, and that there were persons in the town who could\nprove it. To the astonishment of every one, no steps were taken by the\nlegal authorities to clear up this report, and to establish the truth or\nthe falsehood of it, before the trial. Another circumstance, of which\nalso no explanation was attempted, filled the public mind with natural\nsuspicion. This was the disappearance of the eldest son of Monsieur and\nMadame Duparc. On the day of his grandfather's sudden death, he had been\nsent, as may be remembered, to bring his father back from the country;\nand, from that time forth, he had never reappeared at the house, and\nnobody could say what had become of him. Was it not natural to connect\ntogether the rumours of purchased poison and the mysterious disappearance\nof this young man? Was it not utterly inconsistent with any proceedings\nconducted in the name of justice to let these suspicious circumstances\nexist, without making the slightest attempt to investigate and to explain\nthem?\n\nBut, apart from all other considerations, the charge against Marie, was on\nthe face of it preposterously incredible. A friendless young girl arrives\nat a strange town, possessing excellent testimonials to her character,\nand gets a situation in a family every member of which is utterly unknown\nto her until she enters the house. Established in her new place, she\ninstantly conceives the project of poisoning the whole family, and carries\nit out in five days from the time when she first took her situation, by\nkilling one member of the household, and producing suspicious symptoms\nof illness in the cases of all the rest. She commits this crime having\nnothing to gain by it; and she is so inconceivably reckless of detection\nthat she scatters poison about the bed on which she lies down, leaves\npoison sticking to crumbs in her pockets, puts those pockets on when\nher mistress tells her to do so, and hands them over without a moment's\nhesitation to the first person who asks permission to search them. What\nmortal evidence could substantiate such a wild charge as this? How does\nthe evidence actually presented substantiate it? No shadow of proof that\nshe had purchased arsenic is offered, to begin with. The evidence against\nher is evidence which attempts to associate her with the actual possession\nof poison. What is it worth? In the first place, the witnesses contradict\neach other. In the second place, in no one case in which powdered\nsubstances were produced in evidence against her, had those powdered\nsubstances been so preserved as to prevent their being tampered with. Two\npackets of the powder pass about from hand to hand for seven days; two\nhave been given to witnesses who can't produce them, or account for what\nhas become of them; and one, which the witnesses who made it up swear to\nas a single packet, suddenly expands into three when it is called for in\nevidence!\n\nCareless as they were of assuming even the external decencies of justice,\nthe legal authorities, and their friends the Duparcs, felt that there\nwould be some risk in trying their victim for her life on such evidence as\nthis, in a large town like Caen. It was impossible to shift their ground\nand charge her with poisoning accidentally; for they either could not, or\nwould not, account on ordinary grounds for the presence of arsenic in the\nhouse. And, even if this difficulty were overcome, and if it were alleged\nthat arsenic purchased for killing vermin, had been carelessly placed in\none of the saltcellars on the dresser, Madame Duparc could not deny that\nher own hands had salted the hasty-pudding on the Monday, and that her\nservant had been too ill through exhaustion to cook the dinner on the\nTuesday. Even supposing there were no serious interests of the vilest kind\nat stake, which made the girl's destruction a matter of necessity, it was\nclearly impossible to modify the charge against her. One other alternative\nremained--the alternative of adding a second accusation which might help\nto strengthen the first, and to degrade Marie in the estimation of those\ninhabitants of the town who were now disposed to sympathise with her.\n\nThe poor girl's character was so good, her previous country life had been\nso harmless, that no hint or suggestion for a second charge against her\ncould be found in her past history. If her enemies were to succeed, it was\nnecessary to rely on pure invention. Having hesitated before no extremes\nof baseness and falsehood, thus far, they were true to themselves in\nregard to any vile venture which remained to be tried.\n\nA day or two after the examination of the witnesses called to prove the\npoisoning had been considered complete, the public of Caen were amazed\nto hear that certain disclosures had taken place which would render it\nnecessary to try Marie, on a charge of theft as well as of poisoning.\nShe was now not only accused of the murder of Monsieur de Beaulieu,\nbut of robbing her former mistress, Madame Dumesnil (a relation, be it\nremembered, of Monsieur Revel's), in the situation she occupied before\nshe came to Caen; of robbing Madame Duparc; and of robbing the shopwoman\nfrom whom she had bought the piece of orange-coloured stuff, the purchase\nof which is mentioned in an early part of this narrative.\n\nThere is no need to hinder the progress of the story by entering into\ndetails in relation to this second atrocious charge. When the reader\nis informed that the so-called evidence in support of the accusation of\ntheft was got up by Procurator Revel, by Commissary Bertot, and by Madame\nDuparc, he will know beforehand what importance to attach to it, and what\nopinion to entertain on the question of the prisoner's innocence or guilt.\n\nThe preliminary proceedings were now considered to be complete. During\ntheir progress, Marie had been formally interrogated, in her prison,\nby the legal authorities. Fearful as her situation was, the poor girl\nseems to have maintained self-possession enough to declare her innocence\nof poisoning, and her innocence of theft, firmly. Her answers, it is\nneedless to say, availed her nothing. No legal help was assigned to her;\nno such institution as a jury was in existence in France. Procurator Revel\ncollected the evidence, Procurator Revel tried the case, Procurator Revel\ndelivered the sentence. Need the reader be told that Marie's irresponsible\njudge and unscrupulous enemy had no difficulty whatever in finding her\nguilty? She had been arrested on the seventh of August, seventeen hundred\nand eighty-one. Her doom was pronounced on the seventeenth of April,\nseventeen hundred and eighty-two. Throughout the whole of that interval\nshe remained in prison.\n\nThe sentence was delivered in the following terms. It was written,\nprinted, and placarded in Caen; and it is here translated from the\noriginal French:\n\n\"The Procurator Royal of the Bailiwick and civil and criminal Bench and\nPresidency of Caen, having taken cognizance of the documents concerning\nthe trial specially instituted against Marie-Fran\u00e7oise-Victoire-Salmon,\naccused of poisoning; the said documents consisting of an official report\nof the capture of the said Marie-Fran\u00e7oise-Victoire-Salmon on the seventh\nof August last, together with other official reports, &c.,\n\n\"Requires that the prisoner shall be declared duly convicted,\n\n\"I. Of having, on the Monday morning of the sixth of August last, cooked\nsome hasty-pudding for Monsieur Paisant de Beaulieu, father-in-law\nof Monsieur Huet-Duparc, in whose house the prisoner had lived in the\ncapacity of servant from the first day of the said month of August; and\nof having put arsenic in the said hasty-pudding while cooking it, by which\narsenic the said Monsieur de Beaulieu died poisoned, about six o'clock on\nthe same evening.\n\n\"II. Of having on the next day, Tuesday, the seventh of August last, put\narsenic into the soup which was served, at noon, at the table of Monsieur\nand Madame Duparc, her employers, in consequence of which all those\npersons who sat at table and eat of the said soup were poisoned and made\ndangerously ill, to the number of seven.\n\n\"III. Of having been discovered with arsenic in her possession, which\narsenic was found on the said Tuesday, in the afternoon, not only in the\npockets of the prisoner, but upon the mattress of the bed on which she\nwas resting; the said arsenic having been recognised as being of the same\nnature and precisely similar to that which the guests discovered to have\nbeen put into their soup, as also to that which was found the next day,\nin the body of the aforesaid Monsieur de Beaulieu, and in the saucepan in\nwhich the hasty-pudding had been cooked, of which the aforesaid Monsieur\nde Beaulieu had eaten.\n\n\"IV. Of being _strongly suspected_ of having put some of the same arsenic\ninto a plate of cherries which she served to Madame de Beaulieu, on the\nsame Tuesday morning, and again on the afternoon of the same day at the\ntable of Monsieur and Madame Duparc.\n\n\"V. Of having, at the period of Michaelmas, seventeen hundred and eighty,\ncommitted different robberies at the house of Monsieur Dumesnil, where\nshe lived in the capacity of servant, and notably of stealing a sheet, of\nwhich she made herself a petticoat and an apron.\n\n\"VI. Of having, at the beginning of the month of August last, stolen, in\nthe house of Monsieur Huet-Duparc, the different articles enumerated at\nthe trial, and which were found locked up in her cupboard.\n\n\"VII. Of being _strongly suspected_ of stealing, at the beginning of the\nsaid month of August, from the woman Lef\u00e9vre, a piece of orange-coloured\nstuff.\n\n\"For punishment and reparation of which offences, she, the said\nMarie-Fran\u00e7oise-Victoire-Salmon, shall be condemned to make atonement, in\nher shift, with a halter round her neck, holding in her hands a burning\nwax candle of the weight of two pounds, before the principal gate and\nentrance of the church of St. Peter, to which she shall be taken and\nled by the executioner of criminal sentences, who will tie in front of\nher and behind her back, a placard, on which shall be written in large\ncharacters, these words:--_Poisoner and Domestic Thief_. And there, being\non her knees, she shall declare that she has wickedly committed the said\nrobberies and poisonings, for which she repents and asks pardon of God\nand Justice. This done, she shall be led by the said executioner to the\nsquare of the market of Saint Saviour's, to be there fastened to a stake\nwith a chain of iron, and to be burnt alive; her body to be reduced to\nashes, and the ashes to be cast to the winds; her goods to be acquired\nand confiscated to the king, or to whomsoever else they may belong. Said\ngoods to be charged with a fine of ten livres to the king, in the event\nof the confiscation not turning to the profit of his Majesty.\n\n\"Required, additionally, that the said prisoner shall be previously\nsubmitted to the Ordinary and Extraordinary Torture, to obtain information\nof her accomplices, and notably of those who either sold to her or gave\nto her the arsenic found in her possession. Order hereby given for the\nprinting and placarding of this sentence, in such places as shall be\njudged fit. Deliberated at the bar, this seventeenth April, seventeen\nhundred and eighty-two.\n\n               \"(Signed) REVEL.\"\n\nOn the next day, the eighteenth, this frightful sentence was formally\nconfirmed.\n\nThe matter had now become public, and no one could prevent the unfortunate\nprisoner from claiming whatever rights the law still allowed her. She had\nthe privilege of appealing against her sentence before the parliament of\nRouen. And she appealed accordingly; being transferred, as directed by\nthe law in such cases, from the prison at Caen to the prison at Rouen, to\nawait the decision of the higher tribunal.\n\nOn the seventeenth of May the Rouen parliament delivered its judgment,\nand confirmed the original sentence.\n\nThere was some difficulty, at first, in making the unhappy girl understand\nthat her last chance for life had failed her. When the fact that her\nsentence was ordered to be carried out was at length impressed on her\nmind, she sank down with her face on the prison floor--then started up on\nher knees, passionately shrieking to Heaven to have pity on her, and to\ngrant her the justice and the protection which men denied. Her agitation\nat the frightful prospect before her was so violent, her screams of\nterror were so shrill and piercing, that all the persons connected with\nthe management of the prison hurried together to her cell. Among the\nnumber were three priests, who were accustomed to visit the prisoners and\nto administer spiritual consolation to them. These three men mercifully\nset themselves to soothe the mental agony from which the poor creature\nwas suffering. When they had partially quieted her, they soon found her\nwilling and anxious to answer their questions. They inquired carefully\ninto the main particulars of her sad story; and all three came to the same\nconclusion, that she was innocent. Seeing the impression she had produced\non them, she caught, in her despair, at the idea that they might be able\nto preserve her life; and the dreadful duty devolved on them of depriving\nher of this last hope. After the confirmation of the sentence, all that\nthey could do was to prove their compassion by preparing her for eternity.\n\nOn the 26th of May, the priests spoke their last words of comfort to her\nsoul. She was taken back again, to await the execution of her sentence in\nthe prison of Caen. The day was at last fixed for her death by burning,\nand the morning came when the Torture-Chamber was opened to receive her.\n\n\nCHAPTER V. HUSHED-UP.\n\nThe saddest part of Marie's sad story now remains to be told.\n\nOne resource was left her, by employing which it was possible, at the\nlast moment, to avert for a few months the frightful prospect of the\ntorture and the stake. The unfortunate girl might stoop, on her side,\nto use the weapons of deception against her enemies, and might defame\nher own character by pleading pregnancy. That one miserable alternative\nwas all that now remained; and, in the extremity of mortal terror,\nwith the shadow of the executioner on her prison, and with the agony of\napproaching torment and death at her heart, the forlorn creature accepted\nit. If the law of strict morality must judge her in this matter without\nconsideration, and condemn her without appeal, the spirit of Christian\nmercy--remembering how sorely she was tried, remembering the frailty of\nour common humanity, remembering the warning word which forbade us to\njudge one another--may open its sanctuary of tenderness to a sister in\naffliction, and may offer her the tribute of its pity, without limit and\nwithout blame.\n\nThe plea of pregnancy was admitted, and, at the eleventh hour, the period\nof the execution was deferred. On the day when her ashes were to have been\ncast to the winds, she was still in her prison, a living, breathing woman.\nHer limbs were spared from the torture, her body was released from the\nstake, until the twenty-ninth of July, seventeen hundred and eighty-two.\nOn that day her reprieve was to end, and the execution of her sentence\nwas absolutely to take place.\n\nDuring the short period of grace which was now to elapse, the situation of\nthe friendless girl, accused of such incredible crimes and condemned to\nso awful a doom, was discussed far and wide in French society. The case\nbecame notorious beyond the limits of Caen. The report of it spread by\nway of Rouen, from mouth to mouth, till it reached Paris; and from Paris\nit penetrated into the palace of the King at Versailles. That unhappy\nman, whose dreadful destiny it was to pay the penalty which the long and\nnoble endurance of the French people had too mercifully abstained from\ninflicting on his guilty predecessors, had then lately mounted the fatal\nsteps of the throne. Louis the Sixteenth was sovereign of France when the\nstory of the poor servant-girl obtained its first court-circulation at\nVersailles.\n\nThe conduct of the King, when the main facts of Marie's case came to\nhis ears, did all honour to his sense of duty and his sense of justice.\nHe instantly despatched his Royal order to suspend the execution of the\nsentence. The report of Marie's fearful situation had reached him so short\na time before the period appointed for her death, that the Royal mandate\nwas only delivered to the parliament of Rouen on the twenty-sixth of July.\n\nThe girl's life now hung literally on a thread. An accident happening to\nthe courier, any delay in fulfilling the wearisome official formalities\nproper to the occasion--and the execution might have taken its course.\nThe authorities at Rouen, feeling that the King's interference implied\na rebuke of their inconsiderate confirmation of the Caen sentence, did\ntheir best to set themselves right for the future by registering the\nRoyal order on the day when they received it. The next morning, the\ntwenty-seventh, it was sent to Caen; and it reached the authorities there\non the twenty-eighth.\n\nThat twenty-eighth of July, seventeen hundred and eighty-two, fell on a\nSunday. Throughout the day and night the order lay in the office unopened.\nSunday was a holiday, and Procurator Revel was not disposed to occupy it\nby so much as five minutes, performance of week-day work.\n\nOn Monday, the twenty-ninth, the crowd assembled to see the execution. The\nstake was set up, the soldiers were called out, the executioner was ready.\nAll the preliminary horror of the torturing and burning was suffered to\ndarken round the miserable prisoner, before the wretches in authority saw\nfit to open the message of mercy and to deliver it at the prison-gate.\n\nShe was now saved, as if by a miracle, for the second time! But the\ncell-door was still closed on her. The only chance of ever opening it--the\nonly hope of publicly asserting her innocence, lay in appealing to the\nKing's justice by means of a written statement of her case, presenting\nit exactly as it stood in all its details, from the beginning at Madame\nDuparc's to the end in the prison of Caen. The production of such a\ndocument as this was beset with obstacles; the chief of them being the\ndifficulty of gaining access to the voluminous reports of the evidence\ngiven at the trial, which were only accessible in those days to persons\nprofessionally connected with the courts of law. If Marie's case was to be\nplaced before the King, no man in France but a lawyer could undertake the\nduty with the slightest chance of serving the interests of the prisoner\nand the interests of truth.\n\nIn this disgraceful emergency a man was found to plead the girl's\ncause, whose profession secured to him the privilege of examining the\nevidence against her. This man--a barrister, named Lecauchois--not only\nundertook to prepare a statement of the case from the records of the\ncourt--but further devoted himself to collecting money for Marie, from\nall the charitably-disposed inhabitants of the town. It is to be said\nto his credit that he honestly faced the difficulties of his task, and\nindustriously completed the document which he had engaged to furnish. On\nthe other hand, it must be recorded to his shame, that his motives were\ninterested throughout, and that with almost incredible meanness he paid\nhimself for the employment of his time by putting the greater part of the\nsum which he had collected for his client in his own pocket. With her one\nfriend, no less than with all her enemies, it seems to have been Marie's\nhard fate to see the worst side of human nature, on every occasion when\nshe was brought into contact with her fellow-creatures.\n\nThe statement pleading for the revision of Marie's trial was sent to\nParis. An eminent barrister at the Court of Requests framed a petition\nfrom it, the prayer of which was granted by the King. Acting under the\nRoyal order, the judges of the Court of Requests furnished themselves with\nthe reports of the evidence as drawn up at Caen; and after examining the\nwhole case, unanimously decided that there was good and sufficient reason\nfor the revision of the trial. The order to that effect was not issued to\nthe parliament of Rouen before the twenty-fourth of May, seventeen hundred\nand eighty-four--nearly two years after the King's mercy had saved Marie\nfrom the executioner. Who can say how slowly that long, long time must\nhave passed to the poor girl who was still languishing in her prison?\n\nThe Rouen parliament, feeling that it was held accountable for its\nproceedings to a high court of judicature, acting under the direct\nauthority of the King himself, recognised at last, readily enough, that\nthe interests of its own reputation and the interests of rigid justice\nwere now intimately bound up together; and applied itself impartially, on\nthis occasion at least, to the consideration of Marie's case.\n\nAs a necessary consequence of this change of course, the authorities of\nCaen began, for the first time, to feel seriously alarmed for themselves.\nIf the parliament of Rouen dealt fairly by the prisoner, a fatal exposure\nof the whole party would be the certain result. Under these circumstances,\nProcurator Revel and his friends sent a private requisition to the\nauthorities at Rouen, conjuring them to remember that the respectability\nof their professional brethren was at stake, and suggesting that the legal\nestablishment of Marie's innocence was the error of all others which it\nwas now most urgently necessary to avoid. The parliament of Rouen was,\nhowever, far too cautious, if not too honest, to commit itself to such\nan atrocious proceeding as was here plainly indicated. After gaining as\nmuch time as possible by prolonging their deliberations to the utmost, the\nauthorities resolved on adopting a middle course, which on the one hand\nshould not actually establish the prisoner's innocence, and, on the other,\nshould not publicly expose the disgraceful conduct of the prosecution\nat Caen. Their decree, not issued until the twelfth of March, seventeen\nhundred and eighty-five, annulled the sentence of Procurator Revel on\ntechnical grounds; suppressed the further publication of the statement\nof Marie's case, which had been drawn out by the advocate Lecauchois,\nas libellous towards Monsieur Revel and Madame Duparc; and announced\nthat the prisoner was ordered to remain in confinement until more ample\ninformation could be collected relating to the doubtful question of her\ninnocence or her guilt. No such information was at all likely to present\nitself (more especially after the only existing narrative of the case\nhad been suppressed); and the practical effect of the decree, therefore,\nwas to keep Marie in prison for an indefinite period, after she had\nbeen illegally deprived of her liberty already from August, seventeen\nhundred and eighty-one, to March, seventeen hundred and eighty-five. Who\nshall say that the respectable classes did not take good care of their\nrespectability on the eve of the French Revolution!\n\nMarie's only hope of recovering her freedom, and exposing her unscrupulous\nenemies to the obloquy and the punishment which they richly deserved, lay\nin calling the attention of the higher tribunals of the capital to the\ncruelly cunning decree of the parliament of Rouen. Accordingly, she once\nmore petitioned the throne. The King referred the document to his council;\nand the council issued an order submitting the Rouen decree to the final\ninvestigation of the parliament of Paris.\n\nAt last, then, after more than three miserable years of imprisonment,\nthe victim of Madame Duparc and Procurator Revel had burst her way\nthrough all intervening obstacles of law and intricacies of office, to\nthe judgment-seat of that highest law-court in the country, which had the\nfinal power of ending her long sufferings and of doing her signal justice\non her adversaries of all degrees. The parliament of Paris was now to\nestimate the unutterable wrong that had been inflicted on her; and the\neloquent tongue of one of the first advocates of that famous bar was to\nplead her cause openly before God, the king, and the country.\n\nThe pleading of Monsieur Fournel (Marie's counsel) before the parliament\nof Paris, remains on record. At the outset, he assumes the highest ground\nfor the prisoner. He disclaims all intention of gaining her liberty by\ntaking the obvious technical objections to the illegal and irregular\nsentences of Caen and Rouen. He insists on the necessity of vindicating\nher innocence legally and morally before the world, and of obtaining the\nfullest compensation that the law allows for the merciless injuries which\nthe original prosecution had inflicted on his client. In pursuance of this\ndesign, he then proceeds to examine the evidence of the alleged poisoning\nand the alleged robbery, step by step, pointing out in the fullest detail\nthe monstrous contradictions and improbabilities which have been already\nbriefly indicated in this narrative. The course thus pursued, with\nsignal clearness and ability, leads, as every one who has followed the\nparticulars of the case from the beginning will readily understand, to a\nvery serious result. The arguments for the defence cannot assert Marie's\ninnocence without shifting the whole weight of suspicion, in the matter\nof Monsieur de Beaulieu's death by poisoning, on to the shoulders of her\nmistress, Madame Duparc.\n\nIt is necessary, in order to prepare the reader for the extraordinary\ntermination of the proceedings, to examine this question of suspicion in\nsome of its most striking details.\n\nThe poisoning of Monsieur de Beaulieu may be accepted, in consideration\nof the medical evidence, as a proved fact, to begin with. The question\nthat remains is, whether that poisoning was accidental or premeditated.\nIn either case, the evidence points directly at Madame Duparc, and leads\nto the conclusion that she tried to shift the blame of the poisoning (if\naccidental) and the guilt of it (if premeditated) from herself to her\nservant.\n\nSuppose the poisoning to have been accidental. Suppose arsenic to have\nbeen purchased for some legitimate domestic purpose, and to have been\ncarelessly left in one of the salt-cellars, on the dresser--who salts\nthe hasty-pudding? Madame Duparc. Who--assuming that the dinner next\nday really contained some small portion of poison, just enough to swear\nby--prepared that dinner? Madame Duparc and her daughter, while the\nservant was asleep. Having caused the death of her father, and having\nproduced symptoms of illness in herself and her guests, by a dreadful\naccident, how does the circumstantial evidence further show that Madame\nDuparc tried to fix the responsibility of that accident on her servant,\nbefore she openly charged the girl with poisoning?\n\nIn the first place, Madame Duparc is the only one of the dinner-party\nwho attributes the general uneasiness to poison. She not only does this,\nbut she indicates the kind of poison used, and declares in the kitchen\nthat it is burnt,--so as to lead to the inference that the servant,\nwho has removed the dishes, has thrown some of the poisoned food on the\nfire. Here is a foregone conclusion on the subject of arsenic in Madame\nDuparc's mind, and an inference in connection with it, directed at the\nservant by Madame Duparc's lips. In the second place, if any trust at all\nis to be put in the evidence touching the finding of arsenic on or about\nMarie's person, that trust must be reposed in the testimony of Surgeon\nH\u00e9bert, who first searched the girl. Where does he find the arsenic and\nthe bread crumbs? In Marie's pockets. Who takes the most inexplicably\nofficious notice of such a trifle as Marie's dress, at the most shockingly\ninappropriate time, when the father of Madame Duparc lies dead in the\nhouse? Madame Duparc herself. Who tells Marie to take off her Sunday\npockets, and sends her into her own room (which she herself has not\nentered during the night, and which has been open to the intrusion of any\none else in the house) to tie on the very pockets in which the arsenic is\nfound? Madame Duparc. Who put the arsenic into the pockets? Is it jumping\nto a conclusion to answer once more--Madame Duparc?\n\nThus far we have assumed that the mistress attempted to shift the blame\nof a fatal accident on to the shoulders of the servant. Do the facts bear\nout that theory, or do they lead to the suspicion that the woman was a\nparricide, and that she tried to fix on the friendless country girl the\nguilt of her dreadful crime?\n\nIf the poisoning of the hasty-pudding (to begin with) was accidental,\nthe salting of it, through which the poisoning was, to all appearance,\neffected, must have been a part of the habitual cookery of the dish. So\nfar, however, from this being the case, Madame Duparc had expressly warned\nher servant not to use salt; and only used the salt (or the arsenic)\nherself, after asking a question which implied a direct contradiction of\nher own directions, and the inconsistency of which she made no attempt\nwhatever to explain. Again, when her father was taken ill, if Madame\nDuparc had been only the victim of an accident, would she have remained\ncontent with no better help than that of an apothecary's boy? would she\nnot have sent, as her father grew worse, for the best medical assistance\nwhich the town afforded? The facts show that she summoned just help\nenough, barely to save appearances, and no more. The facts show that\nshe betrayed a singular anxiety to have the body laid out as soon as\npossible after life was extinct. The facts show that she maintained\nan unnatural composure on the day of the death. These are significant\ncircumstances. They speak for themselves independently of the evidence\ngiven afterwards, in which she and her child contradicted each other as\nto the time that elapsed when the old man had eaten his fatal meal, before\nhe was taken ill. Add to these serious facts the mysterious disappearance\nfrom the house of the eldest son, which was never accounted for; and\nthe rumour of purchased poison, which was never investigated. Consider,\nbesides, whether the attempt to sacrifice the servant's life be not more\nconsistent with the ruthless determination of a criminal, than with the\nterror of an innocent woman who shrinks from accepting the responsibility\nof a frightful accident--and determine, at the same time, whether the\ninfinitesimal amount of injury done by the poisoned dinner can be most\nprobably attributed to lucky accident, or to premeditated doctoring of the\ndishes with just arsenic enough to preserve appearances, and to implicate\nthe servant without too seriously injuring the company on whom she waited.\nGive all these serious considerations their due weight; then look back to\nthe day of Monsieur de Beaulieu's death: and say if Madame Duparc was the\nvictim of a dreadful accident, or the perpetrator of an atrocious crime!\n\nThat she was one or the other, and that, in either case, she was the\noriginator of the vile conspiracy against her servant which these pages\ndisclose, was the conclusion to which Monsieur Fournel's pleading\non his client's behalf inevitably led. That pleading satisfactorily\ndemonstrated Marie's innocence of poisoning and theft, and her fair claim\nto the fullest legal compensation for the wrong inflicted on her. On the\ntwenty-third of May, seventeen hundred and eighty-six, the parliament of\nParis issued its decree, discharging her from the remotest suspicion of\nguilt, releasing her from her long imprisonment, and authorizing her to\nbring an action for damages against the person or persons who had falsely\naccused her of murder and theft. The truth had triumphed, and the poor\nservant-girl had found laws to protect her at last.\n\nUnder these altered circumstances, what happened to Madame Duparc? What\nhappened to Procurator Revel and his fellow-conspirators? What happened\nto the authorities of the parliament of Rouen?\n\nNothing.\n\nThe premonitory rumblings of that great earthquake of nations which\nHistory calls the French Revolution, were, at this time, already\nbeginning to make themselves heard; and any public scandal which affected\nthe wealthier and higher classes involved a serious social risk, the\nimportance of which no man in France could then venture to estimate. If\nMarie claimed the privilege which a sense of justice, or rather a sense\nof decency, had forced the parliament of Paris to concede to her,--and,\nthrough her counsel, she did claim it,--the consequences of the legal\ninquiry into her case which her demand for damages necessarily involved,\nwould probably be the trying of Madame Duparc, either for parricide, or\nfor homicide by misadventure; the dismissal of Procurator Revel from the\nfunctions which he had disgracefully abused; and the suspension from\noffice of the authorities at Caen and Rouen, who had in various ways\nforfeited public confidence by aiding and abetting him.\n\nHere, then, was no less a prospect in view than the disgrace of\na respectable family, and the dishonouring of the highest legal\nfunctionaries of two important provincial towns! And for what end was the\ndangerous exposure to be made? Merely to do justice to the daughter of\na common day-labourer, who had been illegally sentenced to torture and\nburning, and illegally confined in prison for nearly five years. To make a\nwholesale sacrifice of her superiors, no matter how wicked they might be,\nfor the sake of giving a mere servant-girl compensation for the undeserved\nobloquy and misery of many years, was too preposterous and too suicidal\nan act of justice to be thought of for a moment. Accordingly, when Marie\nwas prepared to bring her action for damages, the lawyers laid their\nheads together, in the interests of society. It was found possible to put\nher out of court at once and for ever, by taking a technical objection\nto the proceedings in which she was plaintiff, at the very outset. This\ndisgraceful means of escape once discovered, the girl's guilty persecutors\ninstantly took advantage of it. She was formally put out of court, without\nthe possibility of any further appeal. Procurator Revel and the other\nauthorities retained their distinguished legal positions; and the question\nof the guilt or innocence of Madame Duparc, in the matter of her father's\ndeath, remains a mystery which no man can solve to this day.\n\nAfter recording this scandalous termination of the legal proceedings,\nit is gratifying to be able to conclude the story of Marie's unmerited\nsufferings with a picture of her after-life which leaves an agreeable\nimpression on the mind.\n\nIf popular sympathy, after the servant-girl's release from prison,\ncould console her for the hard measure of injustice under which she had\nsuffered so long and so unavailingly, that sympathy was now offered to\nher heartily and without limit. She became quite a public character in\nParis. The people followed her in crowds wherever she went. A subscription\nwas set on foot, which, for the time at least, secured her a comfortable\nindependence. Friends rose up in all directions to show her such attention\nas might be in their power; and the simple country girl, when she was\ntaken to see the sights of Paris, actually beheld her own name placarded\nin the showmen's bills, and her presence advertised as the greatest\nattraction that could be offered to the public. When, in due course of\ntime, all this excitement had evaporated, Marie married prosperously,\nand the government granted her its licence to open a shop for the sale of\nstamped papers. The last we hear of her is, that she was a happy wife and\nmother, and that she performed every duty of life in such a manner as to\njustify the deep interest which had been universally felt for her by the\npeople of France.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHer story is related here, not only because it seemed to contain some\nelements of interest in itself, but also because the facts of which it is\ncomposed may claim to be of some little historical importance, as helping\nto expose the unendurable corruptions of society in France before the\nRevolution. It may not be amiss for those persons whose historical point\nof view obstinately contracts its range to the Reign of Terror, to look\na little farther back--to remember that the hard case of oppression here\nrelated had been, for something like one hundred years, the case (with\nminor changes of circumstance) of the forlorn many against the powerful\nfew, all over France--and then to consider whether there was not a reason\nand a necessity, a dreadful last necessity, for the French Revolution.\nThat Revolution has expiated, and is still expiating, its excesses, by\npolitical failures, which all the world can see. But the social good\nwhich it indisputably effected remains to this day. Take, as an example,\nthe administration of justice in France at the present time. Whatever its\nshortcomings may still be, no innocent French woman could be treated, now,\nas an innocent French woman was once treated at a period so little remote\nfrom our own time as the end of the last century.\n\n\n\n\nSKETCHES OF CHARACTER.-VI.\n\nMY SPINSTERS.\n\n[Introduced by an Innocent Old Man.]\n\n\nMy young bachelor friends, suspend your ordinary avocations for a few\nminutes and listen to me. I am a benevolent old gentleman, residing\nin a small country town, possessing a comfortable property, a devoted\nhousekeeper, and some charming domestic animals. I have no wife, no\nchildren, no poor relations, no cares, and nothing to do. I am a nice,\nharmless, idle old man; and I want to have a word with you in confidence,\nmy worthy young bachelor friends.\n\nI have a mania. Is it saving money? No. Good living? No. Music? Smoking?\nAngling? Pottery? Pictures? No, no, no,--nothing of the selfish sort.\nMy mania is as amiable as myself: it contemplates nothing less than the\nfuture happiness of all the single ladies of my acquaintance. I call them\nMy Spinsters; and the one industrious object of my idle existence is to\nhelp them to a matrimonial settlement in life. In my own youth I missed\nthe chance of getting a wife, as I have always firmly believed, for want\nof meeting with a tender-hearted old gentleman like myself to help me to\nthe necessary spinster. It is possibly this reflection which originally\nled to the formation of the benevolent mania that now possesses me.\nPerhaps sheer idleness, a gallant turn of mind, and living in a small\ncountry town, have had something to do with it also. You see I shirk\nnothing. I do not attempt any deception as to the motive which induces me\nto call you together. I appear before you in the character of an amateur\nmatrimonial agent having a few choice spinsters to dispose of; and I can\nwait patiently, my brisk young bachelor friends, until I find that you\nare ready to make me a bid.\n\nShall we proceed at once to business? Shall we try some soft and\nsentimental Spinsters to begin with? I am anxious to avoid mistakes at\nthe outset, and I think softness and sentiment are perhaps the safest\nattractions to start upon. Let us begin with the six unmarried sisters of\nmy friend Mr. Bettifer.\n\nI became acquainted, gentlemen, with Mr. Bettifer in our local\nreading-rooms, immediately after he came to settle in my neighbourhood.\nHe was then a very young man, in delicate health, with a tendency to\nmelancholy and a turn for metaphysics. I profited by his invitation as\nsoon as he was kind enough to ask me to call on him; and I found that he\nlived with his six sisters, under the following agreeable circumstances.\n\nOn the morning of my visit, I was shown into a very long room, with a\npiano at one end of it and an easel at another. Mr. Bettifer was alone at\nhis writing-desk when I came in. I apologised for interrupting him, but he\nvery politely assured me that my presence acted as an inestimable relief\nto his mind, which had been stretched--to use his own strong language--on\nthe metaphysical rack all the morning. He gave his forehead a violent rub\nas he mentioned this circumstance, and we sat down and looked seriously\nat one another, in silence. Though not at all a bashful old man, I began\nnevertheless to feel a little confused at this period of the interview.\n\n\"I know no question so embarrassing,\" began Mr. Bettifer, by way of\nstarting the talk pleasantly, \"as the question on which I have been\nengaged this morning--I refer to the subject of our own Personality.\nHere am I, and there are you--let us say two Personalities. Are we a\npermanent, or are we a transient thing? There is the problem, my dear sir,\nwhich I have been vainly trying to solve since breakfast-time. Can you\n(metaphysically speaking) be one and the same person, for example, for two\nmoments together, any more than two successive moments can be one and the\nsame moment?--My sister Kitty.\"\n\nThe door opened as my host propounded this alarming dilemma, and a tall\nyoung lady glided serenely into the room. I rose and bowed. The tall young\nlady sank softly into a chair opposite me. Mr. Bettifer went on:\n\n\"You may tell me that our substance is constantly changing. I grant you\nthat; but do you get me out of the difficulty? Not the least in the world.\nFor it is not substance, but----My sister Maria.\"\n\nThe door opened again. A second tall young lady glided in, and sank into\na chair by her sister's side. Mr. Bettifer went on:\n\n\"As I was about to remark, it is not substance, but consciousness, which\nconstitutes Personality. Now what is the nature of consciousness?--My\nsisters Emily and Jane.\"\n\nThe door opened for the third time, and two tall young ladies glided in,\nand sank into two chairs by the sides of their two sisters. Mr. Bettifer\nwent on:\n\n\"The nature of consciousness I take to be that it cannot be the same in\nany two moments, nor consequently the personality constituted by it. Do\nyou grant me that?\"\n\nLost in metaphysical bewilderment, I granted it directly. Just as I\nsaid yes, the door opened again, a fifth tall young lady glided in,\nand assisted in lengthening the charming row formed by her sisters. Mr.\nBettifer murmured indicatively, \"My sister Elizabeth,\" and made a note of\nwhat I had granted him, on the manuscript by his side.\n\n\"What lovely weather,\" I remarked, to change the conversation.\n\n\"Beautiful!\" answered five melodious voices.\n\nThe door opened again.\n\n\"Beautiful, indeed!\" said a sixth melodious voice.\n\n\"My sister Harriet,\" said Mr. Bettifer, finishing his note of my\nmetaphysical admission.\n\nThey all sat in one fascinating row. It was like being at a party. I felt\nuncomfortable in my coloured trowsers--more uncomfortable still, when Mr.\nBettifer's sixth sister begged that she might not interrupt our previous\nconversation.\n\n\"We are so fond of metaphysical subjects,\" said Miss Elizabeth.\n\n\"Except that we think them rather exhausting for dear Alfred,\" said Miss\nJane.\n\n\"Dear Alfred!\" repeated the Misses Emily, Maria, and Kitty, in mellifluous\nchorus.\n\nNot having a heart of stone, I was so profoundly touched, that I would\nhave tried to resume the subject. But, Mr. Bettifer waved his hand\nimpatiently, and declared that my admission had increased the difficulties\nof the original question until they had become quite insuperable. I had,\nit appeared, innocently driven him to the conclusion, that our present\nself was not our yesterday's self, but another self mistaken for it,\nwhich, in its turn, had no connection with the self of to-morrow. As this\ncertainly sounded rather unsatisfactory, I agreed with Mr. Bettifer that\nwe had exhausted that particular view of the subject, and that we had\nbetter defer starting another until a future opportunity. An embarrassing\npause followed our renunciation of metaphysics for the day. Miss Elizabeth\nbroke the silence by asking me if I was fond of pictures; and before I\ncould say Yes, Miss Harriet followed her by asking me if I was fond of\nmusic.\n\n\"Will you show your picture, dear?\" said Miss Elizabeth to Miss Harriet.\n\n\"Will you sing, dear?\" said Miss Harriet to Miss Elizabeth.\n\n\"Do, dear!\" said the Misses Jane and Emily to Miss Elizabeth.\n\n\"Do, dear!\" said the Misses Maria and Kitty to Miss Harriet.\n\nThere was an artless symmetry and balance of affection in all that these\nsix sensitive creatures said and did. The fair Elizabeth was followed to\nthe end of the room where the piano was, by Jane and Emily. The lovely\nHarriet was attended in the direction of the easel by Maria and Kitty. I\nwent to see the picture first.\n\nThe scene was the bottom of the sea; and the subject, A Forsaken Mermaid.\nThe unsentimental, or fishy lower half of the sea nymph was dexterously\nhidden in a coral grove before which she was sitting, in an atmosphere\nof limpid blue water. She had beautiful long green hair, and was shedding\nthose solid tears which we always see in pictures and never in real life.\nGroups of pet fishes circled around her with their eyes fixed mournfully\non their forlorn mistress. A line at the top of the picture, and a strip\nof blue above it, represented the surface of the ocean, and the sky;\nthe monotony of this part of the composition being artfully broken by a\nreceding golden galley with a purple sail, containing the fickle fisher\nyouth who had forsaken the mermaid. I had hardly had time to say what\na beautiful picture it was, before Miss Maria put her handkerchief to\nher eyes, and, overcome by the pathetic nature of the scene portrayed,\nhurriedly left the room. Miss Kitty followed, to attend on and console\nher; and Miss Harriet, after covering up her picture with a sigh, followed\nto assist Miss Kitty. I began to doubt whether I ought not to have\ngone out next, to support all three; but Mr. Bettifer, who had hitherto\nremained in the background, lost in metaphysical speculation, came forward\nto remind me that the music was waiting to claim my admiration next.\n\n\"Excuse their excessive sensibility,\" he said. \"I have done my best to\nharden them and make them worldly; but it is not of the slightest use.\nWill you come to the piano?\"\n\nMiss Elizabeth began to sing immediately, with the attendant sylphs, Jane\nand Emily, on either side of her, to turn over the music.\n\nThe song was a ballad composition--music and words by the lovely singer\nherself. A lady was dreaming in an ancient castle; a dog was howling in a\nruined courtyard; an owl was hooting in a neighbouring forest; a tyrant\nwas striding in an echoing hall; and a page was singing among moonlit\nflowers. First five verses. Pause--and mournful symphony on the piano,\nin the minor key. Ballad resumed:--The lady wakes with a scream. The\ntyrant loads his arquebus. The faithful page, hearing the scream among\nthe moonlit flowers, advances to the castle. The dog gives a warning\nbark. The tyrant fires a chance shot in the darkness. The page welters\nin his blood. The lady dies of a broken heart. Miss Jane is so affected\nby the catastrophe that Miss Emily is obliged to lead her from the room;\nand Miss Elizabeth is so anxious about them both as to be forced to shut\nup the piano, and hasten after them with a smelling-bottle in her hand.\nConclusion of the performance; and final exit of the six Miss Bettifers.\n\nTell yourselves off, my fortunate young bachelor friends, to the\ncorresponding number of half-a-dozen, with your offers ready on your\ntongues, and your hearts thrown open to tender investigation, while\nfavourable circumstances yet give you a chance. My boys, my eager boys,\ndo you want pale cheeks, limpid eyes, swan-like necks, low waists, tall\nforms, and no money? You do--I know you do. Go then, enviable youths!--go\ntenderly--go immediately--go by sixes at a time, and try your luck with\nthe Miss Bettifers!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLet me now appeal to other, and possibly to fewer tastes, by trying a\nsample of a new kind. It shall be something neither soft, yielding, nor\nhysterical this time. You who agree with the poet that\n\n     Discourse may want an animated No,\n     To brush the surface and to make it flow--\n\nyou who like girls to have opinions of their own, and to play their parts\nspiritedly in the give and take of conversation, do me the favour to\napproach, and permit me to introduce you to the three Miss Cruttwells. At\nthe same time, gentlemen, I must inform you, with my usual candour, that\nthese Spinsters are short, sharp, and, on occasion, shrill. You must have\na talent for arguing, and a knack at instantaneous definition, or you will\nfind the Miss Cruttwells too much for you, and had better wait for my next\nsample. And yet for a certain peculiar class of customer, these are really\nvery choice spinsters. For instance, any unmarried legal gentleman, who\nwould like to have his wits kept sharp for his profession, by constant\ndisputation, could not do better than address himself (as logically as\npossible) to one of the Miss Cruttwells. Perhaps my legal bachelor will\nbe so obliging as to accompany me on a morning call?\n\nIt is a fine spring day, with a light air and plenty of round white clouds\nflying over the blue sky, when we pay our visit. We find the three young\nladies in the morning room. Miss Martha Cruttwell is fond of statistical\nsubjects, and is annotating a pamphlet. Miss Barbara Cruttwell likes\ngeology, and is filling a cabinet with ticketed bits of stone. Miss\nCharlotte Cruttwell has a manly taste for dogs, and is nursing two fat\npuppies on her lap. All three have florid complexions; all three have\na habit of winking both eyes incessantly, and a way of wearing their\nhair very tight, and very far off their faces. All three acknowledge my\nyoung legal friend's bow in--what may seem to him--a very short, sharp\nmanner; and modestly refrain from helping him by saying a word to begin\nthe conversation. He is, perhaps, unreasonably disconcerted by this, and\ntherefore starts the talk weakly by saying that it is a fine day.\n\n\"Fine!\" exclaims Miss Martha, with a look of amazement at her sister.\n\"Fine!\" with a stare of perplexity at my young legal friend. \"Dear me!\nwhat do you mean, now, by a fine day?\"\n\n\"We were just saying how cold it was,\" says Miss Barbara.\n\n\"And how very like rain,\" says Miss Charlotte, with a look at the white\nclouds outside, which happen to be obscuring the sun for a few minutes.\n\n\"But what do you mean, now, by a fine day?\" persists Miss Martha.\n\nMy young legal friend is put on his mettle by this time, and answers with\nprofessional readiness:\n\n\"At this uncertain spring season, my definition of a fine day, is a day\non which you do not feel the want of your great-coat, your goloshes, or\nyour umbrella.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" says Miss Martha, \"surely not! At least, that does not appear\nto me to be at all a definition of a fine day. Barbara? Charlotte?\"\n\n\"We think it quite impossible to call a day--when the sun is not\nshining--a fine day,\" says Miss Barbara.\n\n\"We think that when clouds are in the sky there is always a chance\nof rain; and, when there is a chance of rain, we think it is very\nextraordinary to say that it is a fine day,\" adds Miss Charlotte.\n\nMy legal bachelor starts another topic, and finds his faculty for\nimpromptu definition exercised by the three Miss Cruttwells, always\nin the same briskly-disputatious manner. He goes away--as I hope and\ntrust--thinking what an excellent lawyer's wife any one of the three\nyoung ladies would make. If he could only be present in the spirit, after\nleaving the abode of the Miss Cruttwells in the body, his admiration of\nmy three disputatious spinsters would, I think, be greatly increased. He\nwould find that, though they could all agree to a miracle in differing\nwith him while he was present, they would begin to vary in opinion, the\nmoment their visitor's subjects of conversation were referred to in his\nabsence. He would, probably, for example, hear them take up the topic of\nthe weather again, the instant the house-door had closed after him, in\nthese terms:\n\n\"Do you know,\" he might hear Miss Martha say, \"I am not so sure after all,\nCharlotte, that you were right in saying that it could not be a fine day,\nbecause there were clouds in the sky?\"\n\n\"You only say that,\" Miss Charlotte would be sure to reply, \"because the\nsun happens to be peeping out, just now, for a minute or two. If it rains\nin half-an-hour, which is more than likely, who would be right then?\"\n\n\"On reflection,\" Miss Barbara might remark next, \"I don't agree with\neither of you, and I also dispute the opinion of the gentleman who has\njust left us. It is neither a fine day, nor a bad day.\"\n\n\"But it must be one or the other.\"\n\n\"No, it needn't. It may be an indifferent day.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by an indifferent day?\"\n\nSo they go on, these clever girls of mine, these mistresses in the art of\nfencing applied to the tongue. I have not presented this sample from my\ncollection, as one which is likely to suit any great number. But, there\nare peculiarly constituted bachelors in this world; and I like to be able\nto show that my assortment of spinsters is various enough to warrant me\nin addressing even the most alarming eccentricities of taste. Will nobody\noffer for this disputatious sample--not even for the dog-fancying Miss\nCharlotte, with the two fat puppies thrown in? No? Take away the Miss\nCruttwells, and let us try what we can do, thirdly and lastly, with the\nMiss Duckseys produced in their place.\n\nI confidently anticipate a brisk competition and a ready market for the\nspinsters now about to be submitted to inspection. You have already had a\nsentimental sample, gentlemen, and a disputatious sample. In now offering\na domestic sample, I have but one regret, which is, that my spinsters\non the present occasion are unhappily limited to two in number. I wish\nI had a dozen to produce of the same interesting texture and the same\nunimpeachable quality.\n\nThe whole world, gentlemen, at the present writing, means, in the\nestimation of the two Miss Duckseys, papa, mamma, and brother George. This\nloving sample can be warranted never yet to have looked beyond the sacred\nprecincts of the family circle. All their innocent powers of admiration\nand appreciation have been hitherto limited within the boundaries of home.\nIf Miss Violet Ducksey wants to see a lovely girl, she looks at Miss Rose\nDucksey, and vice vers\u00e2; if both want to behold manly dignity, matronly\nsweetness, and youthful beauty, both look immediately at papa, mamma, and\nbrother George. I have been admitted into the unparalleled family circle,\nof which I now speak. I have seen--to say nothing, for the present, of\npapa and mamma--I have seen brother George come in from business, and sit\ndown by the fireside, and be welcomed by Miss Violet and Miss Rose, as\nif he had just returned, after having been reported dead, from the other\nend of the world. I have seen those two devoted sisters race across the\nroom, in fond contention which should sit first on brother George's knee.\nI have even seen both sit upon him together, each taking a knee, when\nhe has been half-an-hour later than usual at the office. I have never\nbeheld their lovely arms tired of clasping brother George's neck, never\nheard their rosy lips cease kissing brother George's cheeks, except when\nthey were otherwise occupied for the moment in calling him \"Dear!\" On the\nword of honour of a harmless spinster-fancying old man, I declare that I\nhave seen brother George fondled to such an extent by his sisters that,\nalthough a lusty and long-suffering youth, he has fallen asleep under\nit from sheer exhaustion. Even then, I have observed Miss Rose and Miss\nViolet contending (in each other's arms) which should have the privilege\nof casting her handkerchief over his face. And that touching contest\nconcluded, I have quitted the house at a late hour, leaving Violet on\npapa's bosom, and Rose entwined round mamma's waist. Beautiful! beautiful!\n\nAm I exaggerating? Go, and judge for yourselves, my bachelor friends. Go,\nif you like, and meet my domestic sample at a ball.\n\nMy bachelor is introduced to Miss Violet, and takes his place with her\nin a quadrille. He begins a lively conversation, and finds her attention\nwandering. She has not heard a word that he has been saying, and she\ninterrupts him in the middle of a sentence with a question which has not\nthe slightest relation to anything that he has hitherto offered by way of\na remark.\n\n\"Have you ever met my sister Rose before?\"\n\n\"No, I have not had the honour--\"\n\n\"She is standing there, at the other end, in a blue dress. Now, do tell\nme, does she not look charming?\"\n\nMy bachelor makes the necessary answer, and goes on to another subject.\nMiss Violet's attention wanders again, and she asks another abrupt\nquestion.\n\n\"What did you think of mamma, when you were introduced to her?\"\n\nMy bachelor friend makes another necessary answer. Miss Violet, without\nappearing to be at all impressed by it, looks into the distance in search\nof her maternal parent, and then addresses her partner again:\n\n\"It is not a pleasant thing for young people to confess,\" she says,\nwith the most artless candour, \"but I really do think that mamma is the\nhandsomest woman in the room. There she is, taking an ice, next to the old\nlady with the diamonds. Is she not beautiful? Do you know, when we were\ndressing to-night, Rose and I begged and prayed her not to wear a cap.\nWe said, 'Don't, mamma; please don't. Put it off for another year.' And\nmamma said, in her sweet way, 'Nonsense, my loves! I am an old woman. You\nmust accustom yourselves to that idea, and you must let me wear a cap;\nyou must, darlings, indeed.' And we said--what do you think we said?\"\n\n(Another necessary answer.)\n\n\"We said, 'You are studying papa's feelings, dear--you are afraid of being\ntaken for our youngest sister if you go in your hair,--and it is on papa's\naccount that you wear a cap. Sly mamma!'--Have you been introduced to\npapa?\"\n\nLater in the evening my bachelor friend is presented to Miss Rose. He asks\nfor the honour of dancing with her. She inquires if it is for the waltz,\nand hearing that it is, draws back and curtsies apologetically.\n\n\"Thank you, I must keep the waltz for my brother George. My sister and I\nalways keep waltzes for our brother George.\"\n\nMy bachelor draws back. The dance proceeds. He hears a soft voice behind\nhim. It is Miss Violet who is speaking.\n\n\"You are a judge of waltzing?\" she says, in tones of the gentlest\ninsinuation. \"Do pray look at George and Rose. No, thank you: I never\ndance when George and Rose are waltzing. It is a much greater treat to me\nto look on. I always look on. I do, indeed.\"\n\nPerhaps my bachelor does not frequent balls. It is of no consequence. Let\nhim be a diner-out; let him meet my domestic sample at the social board;\nand he will only witness fresh instances of that all-absorbing interest\nin each other, which is the remarkable peculiarity of the whole Ducksey\nfamily, and of the young ladies in particular. He will find them admiring\none another with the same touching and demonstrative affection over the\ndishes on the dinner-table, as amid the mazes of the dance. He will hear\nfrom the venerable Mr. Ducksey that George never gave him a moment's\nuneasiness from the hour of his birth. He will hear from Mrs. Ducksey\nthat her one regret in this life is, that she can never be thankful\nenough for her daughters. And (to return to the young ladies, who are\nthe main objects of these remarks), he will find, by some such fragments\nof dialogue as the following, that no general subjects of conversation\nwhatever have the power of alluring the minds of the two Miss Duckseys\nfrom the contemplation of their own domestic interests, and the faithful\nremembrance of their own particular friends.\n\nIt is the interval, let us say, between the removal of the fish and the\nappearance of the meat. The most brilliant man in the company has been\ntalking with great sprightliness and effect; has paused for a moment to\ncollect his ideas before telling one of the good stories for which he is\nfamous; and is just ready to begin--when Miss Rose stops him and silences\nall her neighbours by anxiously addressing her sister, who sits opposite\nto her at the table.\n\n\"Violet, dear.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear.\"\n\n(Profound silence follows. The next course fails to make its appearance.\nNobody wanting to take any wine. The brilliant guest sits back in his\nchair, dogged and speechless. The host and hostess look at each other\nnervously. Miss Rose goes on with the happy artlessness of a child, as if\nnobody but her sister was present.)\n\n\"Do you know I have made up my mind what I shall give mamma's Susan when\nshe is married?\"\n\n\"Not a silk dress? That's my present.\"\n\n\"What do you think, dear, of a locket with our hair in it?\"\n\n\"Sweet.\"\n\n(The silence of the tomb falls on the dinner-table. The host and hostess\nbegin to get angry. The guests look at each other. The second course\npersists in not coming in. The brilliant guest suffers from a dry cough.\nMiss Violet, in her turn, addresses Miss Rose across the table.)\n\n\"Rose, I met Ellen Davis to-day.\"\n\n\"Has she heard from Clara?\"\n\n\"Yes; Clara's uncle and aunt won't let her come.\"\n\n\"Tiresome people! Did you go on to Brompton? Did you see Jane? Is Jane to\nbe depended on?\"\n\n\"If Jane's cold gets better, she and that odious cousin of hers are sure\nto come. Uncle Frank, of course, makes his usual excuse.\"\n\nSo the simple-hearted sisters prattle on in public; so do they carry\ntheir own innocent affections and interests about with them into the\nsociety they adorn; so do they cast the extinguishing sunshine of their\nyoung hearts over the temporary flashes of worldly merriment, and the\nshort-lived blaze of dinner eloquence. Without another word of preliminary\nrecommendation, I confidently submit the Miss Duckseys to brisk public\ncompetition. I can promise the two fortunate youths who may woo and win\nthem, plenty of difficulties in weaning their affections from the family\nhearth, with showers of tears and poignant bursts of anguish on the\nwedding day. All properly-constituted bridegrooms feel, as I have been\ngiven to understand, inexpressibly comforted and encouraged by a display\nof violent grief on the part of the bride when she is starting on her\nwedding tour. And, besides, in the particular case of the Miss Duckseys,\nthere would always be the special resource of taking brother George into\nthe carriage, as a sure palliative, during the first few stages of the\nhoneymoon trip.\n\n\n\n\nDRAMATIC GRUB STREET.[D]\n\nEXPLORED IN TWO LETTERS.\n\n\nLETTER THE FIRST. FROM MR. READER TO MR. AUTHOR.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--I am sufficiently well-educated, and sufficiently refined\nin my tastes and habits, to be a member of the large class of persons\nusually honoured by literary courtesy with the title of the Intelligent\nPublic. In the interests of the order to which I belong, I have a little\ncomplaint to make against the managers of our theatres, and a question to\nput afterwards, which you, as a literary man, will, I have no doubt, be\nboth able and willing to answer.\n\nLike many thousands of other people, I am fond of reading and fond of\ngoing to the theatre. In regard to my reading, I have no complaint\nto make--for the press supplies me abundantly with English poems,\nhistories, biographies, novels, essays, travels, criticisms, all of modern\nproduction. But, in regard to going to the theatre, I write with something\nlike a sense of injury--for nobody supplies me with a good play. There\nis living literature of a genuine sort in the English libraries of the\npresent time. Why (I beg to inquire) is there no living literature of a\ngenuine sort in the English theatre of the present time, also?\n\nSay, I am a Frenchman, fond of the imaginative literature of my country,\nwell-read in all the best specimens of it,--I mean, best in a literary\npoint of view, for I am not touching moral questions now. When I shut up\nBalzac, Victor Hugo, Dumas, and Souli\u00e9, and go to the theatre--what do I\nfind? Balzac, Victor Hugo, Dumas, and Souli\u00e9 again. The men who have been\ninteresting me in my arm-chair, interesting me once more in my stall.\nThe men who can really invent and observe for the reader, inventing and\nobserving for the spectator also. What is the necessary consequence? The\nliterary standard of the stage is raised; and the dramatist by profession\nmust be as clever a man, in his way, as good an inventor, as correct a\nwriter, as the novelist. And what, in my case, follows that consequence?\nClearly this: the managers of theatres get my money at night, as the\npublishers of books get it in the day.\n\nDo the managers get my money from me in England? By no manner of means.\nFor they hardly ever condescend to address me.\n\nI get up from reading the best works of our best living writers, and go\nto the theatre, here. What do I see? The play that I have seen before\nin Paris. This may do very well for my servant, who does not understand\nFrench, or for my tradesman, who has never had time to go to Paris,--but\nit is only showing _me_ an old figure in a foreign dress, which does\nnot become it like its native costume. But, perhaps, our dramatic\nentertainment is not a play adapted from the French Drama. Perhaps, it\nis something English--a Burlesque. Delightful, I have no doubt, to a fast\nyoung farmer from the country, or to a convivial lawyer's clerk, who has\nnever read anything but a newspaper in his life. But is it satisfactory\nto _me_? It is, if I want to go and see the Drama satirised. But I go to\nenjoy a new play--and I am rewarded by seeing all my favourite ideas and\ncharacters in some old play, ridiculed. This, like the adapted drama, is\nthe sort of entertainment I do _not_ want.\n\nI read at home many original stories, by many original authors, that\ndelight me. I go to the theatre, and naturally want original stories by\noriginal authors, which will also delight me there. Do I get what I ask\nfor? Yes, if I want to see an old play over again. But, if I want a new\nplay? Why, _then_ I must have the French adaptation, or the Burlesque.\nThe publisher can understand that there are people among his customers\nwho possess cultivated tastes, and can cater for them accordingly, when\nthey ask for something new. The manager, in the same case, recognises\nno difference between me and my servant. My footman goes to see the\nplay-actors, and cares very little what they perform in. If my taste is\nnot his taste, we may part at the theatre door,--he goes in, and I go\nhome. It may be said, Why is my footman's taste not to be provided for?\nBy way of answering that question, I will ask another:--Why is my footman\nnot to have the chance of improving his taste, and making it as good as\nmine?\n\nThe case between the two countries seems to stand thus, then:--In France,\nthe most eminent imaginative writers work, as a matter of course, for\nthe stage, as well as for the library table. In England, the most eminent\nimaginative writers work for the library table alone. What is the reason\nof this? To what do you attribute the present shameful dearth of stage\nliterature? To the dearth of good actors?--or, if not to that, to what\nother cause?\n\nOf one thing I am certain, that there is no want of a large and a ready\naudience for original English plays, possessing genuine dramatic merit,\nand appealing, as forcibly as our best novels do, to the tastes, the\ninterests, and the sympathies of our own time. You, who have had some\nexperience of society, know as well as I do, that there is in this country\na very large class of persons whose minds are stiffened by no Puritanical\nscruples, whose circumstances in the world are easy, whose time is at\ntheir own disposal, who are the very people to make a good audience and a\npaying audience at a theatre, and who yet, hardly ever darken theatrical\ndoors more than two or three times in a year. You know this; and you know\nalso that the systematic neglect of the theatre in these people, has been\nforced on them, in the first instance, by the shock inflicted on their\ngood sense by nine-tenths of the so-called new entertainments which are\noffered to them. I am not speaking now of gorgeous scenic revivals of old\nplays--for which I have a great respect, because they offer to sensible\npeople the only decent substitute for genuine dramatic novelty to be met\nwith at the present time. I am referring to the \"new entertainments\"\nwhich are, in the vast majority of cases, second-hand entertainments\nto every man in the theatre who is familiar with the French writers--or\ninsufferably coarse entertainments to every man who has elevated his taste\nby making himself acquainted with the best modern literature of his own\nland. Let my servant, let my small tradesman, let the fast young farmers\nand lawyers' clerks, be all catered for! But surely, if they have their\ntheatre, I, and my large class, ought to have our theatre too? The fast\nyoung farmer has his dramatists, just as he has his novelists in the penny\njournals. We, on our side, have got our great novelists (whose works the\nfast young farmer does not read)--why, I ask again, are we not to have\nour great dramatists as well?\n\nWith high esteem, yours, my dear Sir,\n\n               A. READER.\n\n\nLETTER THE SECOND. FROM MR. AUTHOR TO MR. READER.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--I thoroughly understand your complaint, and I think I can\nanswer your question. My reply will probably a little astonish you--for I\nmean to speak the plain truth boldly. The public ought to know the real\nstate of the case, as regards the present position of the English stage\ntowards English Literature, for the public alone can work the needful\nreform.\n\nYou ask, if I attribute the present dearth of stage literature to the\ndearth of good actors? I reply to that in the negative. When the good\nliterature comes, the good actors will come also, where they are wanted.\nIn many branches of the theatrical art they are not wanted. We have as\ngood living actors among us now as ever trod the stage. And we should have\nmore if dramatic literature called for more. It is literature that makes\nthe actor--not the actor who makes literature. I could name men to you,\nnow on the stage, whose advance in their profession they owe entirely to\nthe rare opportunities, which the occasional appearance of a genuinely\ngood play has afforded to them, of stepping out--men whose sense of the\npicturesque and the natural in their art, lay dormant, until the pen of\nthe writer woke it into action. Show me a school of dramatists, and I\nwill show you a school of actors soon afterwards--as surely as the effect\nfollows the cause.\n\nYou have spoken of France. I will now speak of France also; for the\nliterary comparison with our neighbours is as applicable to the main point\nof my letter as it was to the main point of yours.\n\nSuppose me to be a French novelist. If I am a successful man, my work has\na certain market value at the publisher's. So far my case is the same if\nI am an English novelist--but there the analogy stops. In France, the\nmanager of the theatre can compete with the publisher for the purchase\nof any new idea that I have to sell. In France, the market value of my\nnew play is as high, or higher, than the market value of my new novel.\nRemember, I am not now writing of French theatres which have assistance\nfrom the Government, but of French theatres which depend, as our theatres\ndo, entirely on the public. Any one of those theatres will give me\nas much, I repeat, for the toil of my brains, on their behalf, as the\npublisher will give for the toil of my brains on his. Now, so far is this\nfrom being the case in England, that it is a fact perfectly well known to\nevery literary man in the country, that, while the remuneration for every\nother species of literature has enormously increased in the last hundred\nyears, the remuneration for dramatic writing has steadily decreased, to\nsuch a minimum of pecuniary recognition as to make it impossible for a\nman who lives by the successful use of his pen, as a writer of books, to\nalter the nature of his literary practice, and live, or nearly live, in\ncomfortable circumstances, by the use of his pen, as a writer of plays. It\nis time that this fact was generally known, to justify successful living\nauthors for their apparent neglect of one of the highest branches of their\nArt. I tell you, in plain terms, that I could only write a play for the\nEnglish stage--a successful play, mind--by consenting to what would be,\nin my case, and in the cases of all my successful brethren, a serious\npecuniary sacrifice.\n\nLet me make the meanness of the remuneration for stage-writing in our\nday, as compared with what that remuneration was in past times, clear to\nyour mind by one or two examples. Rather more than a hundred years ago,\nDoctor Johnson wrote a very bad play called Irene, which proved a total\nfailure on representation, and which tottered, rather than \"ran,\" for\njust nine nights, to wretched houses. Excluding his literary copyright\nof a hundred pounds, the Doctor's dramatic profit on a play that was a\nfailure--remember that!--amounted to one hundred and ninety-five pounds,\nbeing just forty-five pounds _more_ than the remuneration now paid, to\nmy certain knowledge, for many a play within the last five years, which\nhas had a successful run of sixty, and, in some cases, even of a hundred\nnights!\n\nI can imagine your amazement at reading this--but I can also assure you\nthat any higher rate of remuneration is exceptional. Let me, however, give\nthe managers the benefit of the exception. Sometimes two hundred pounds\nhave been paid, within the last five years, for a play; and, on one or\ntwo rare occasions, three hundred. If Shakspere came to life again, and\ntook Macbeth to an English theatre, in this year, eighteen hundred and\nsixty-three, that is the highest market remuneration he could get for it.\nYou are to understand that this miserable decline in the money-reward held\nout to dramatic literature is peculiar to our own day. Without going back\nagain so long as a century--without going back farther than the time of\nGeorge Colman, the younger--I may remind you that the Comedy of John Bull\nbrought the author twelve hundred pounds. Since then, six or seven hundred\npounds have been paid for a new play; and, later yet, five hundred pounds.\nWe have now dropped to three hundred pounds, as the exception, and to\none hundred and fifty, as the rule. I am speaking, remember, of plays in\nnot less than three acts, which are, or are supposed to be, original--of\nplays which run from sixty to a hundred nights, and which put their bread\n(buttered thickly on both sides) into the mouths of actors and managers.\nAs to the remuneration for ordinary translations from the French, I would\nrather not mention what that is. And, indeed, there is no need I should\ndo so. We are talking of the stage in its present relation to English\nliterature. Suppose I wrote for it, as some of my friends suggest I\nshould; and suppose I could produce one thoroughly original play, with a\nstory of my own sole invention, with characters of my own sole creation,\nevery year. The utmost annual income the English stage would, at present\nprices, pay me, after exhausting my brains in its service, would be three\nhundred pounds!\n\nI use the expression \"exhausting my brains,\" advisedly. For a man who\nproduces a new work, every year, which has any real value and completeness\nas a work of literary art, does, let him be who he may, for a time,\nexhaust his brain by the process, and leave it sorely in need of an\nafter-period of absolute repose. Three hundred a-year, therefore, is the\nutmost that a fertile original author can expect to get by the English\nstage, at present market-rates of remuneration.\n\nSuch is now the position of the dramatic writer--a special man, with a\nspecial faculty. What is now the position of the dramatic performer, when\nhe happens to be a special man, with a special faculty also? Is his income\nthree hundred a-year? Is his manager's income three hundred a-year? The\npopular actors of the time when Colman got his twelve hundred pounds would\nbe struck dumb with amazement, if they saw what salaries their successors\nare getting now. If stage remuneration has decreased sordidly in our time\nfor authorship, it has increased splendidly for actorship. When a manager\ntells me now that his theatre cannot afford to pay me as much for my idea\nin the form of a play, as the publisher can afford to pay me for it in\nthe form of a novel--he really means that he and his actors take a great\ndeal more now from the nightly receipts of the theatres than they ever\nthought of taking in the time of John Bull. When the actors' profits from\nthe theatre are largely increased, somebody else's profits from the same\ntheatre must be decreased. That somebody else is the dramatic author.\nThere you have the real secret of the mean rate at which the English stage\nnow estimates the assistance of English Literature.\n\nThere are persons whose interest it may be to deny this; and who will\ndeny it. It is not a question of assertion or denial, but a question\nof figures. How much per week did a popular actor get in Colman's time?\nHow much per week does a popular actor get now? The biographies of dead\nplayers will answer the first question. And the managers' books, for\nthe past ten or fifteen years, will answer the second. I must not give\noffence by comparisons between living and dead men--I must not enter\ninto details, because they would lead me too near to the private affairs\nof other people. But I tell you again, that the remuneration for acting\nhas immensely increased, and the remuneration for dramatic writing has\nimmensely decreased, in our time; and I am not afraid of having that\nassertion contradicted by proofs.\n\nIt is useless to attempt a defence of the present system by telling me\nthat a different plan of remunerating the dramatic author was adopted in\nformer times, and that a different plan is also practised on the French\nstage. I am not discussing which plan is best, or which plan is worst. I\nam only dealing with the plain fact, that the present stage-estimate of\nthe author is barbarously low--an estimate which men who had any value for\nliterature, any idea of its importance, any artist-like sympathy with its\ngreat difficulties, and its great achievements, would be ashamed to make.\nI prove that fact by reference to the proceedings of a better past time,\nand by a plain appeal to the market-value of all kinds of literature,\noff the stage, at the present time; and I leave the means of effecting a\nreform to those who are bound in common honour and common justice to make\nthe reform. It is not my business to re-adjust the commercial machinery\nof theatres; I don't sit in the treasury, and handle the strings of the\nmoneybags. I say that the present system is a base one towards literature,\nand that the history of the past, and the experience of the present, prove\nit to be so. All the reasoning in the world which tries to convince us\nthat a wrong is necessary, will not succeed in proving that wrong to be\nright.\n\nHaving now established the existence of the abuse, it is easy enough to\nget on to the consequences that have arisen from it. At the present low\nrate of remuneration, a man of ability wastes his powers if he writes for\nthe stage--unless he is prepared to put himself out of the category of\nauthors, by turning manager and actor, and taking a theatre for himself.\nThere are men still in existence, who occasionally write for the stage,\nfor the love and honour of their Art. Once, perhaps, in two or three\nyears, one of these devoted men will try single-handed to dissipate the\ndense dramatic fog that hangs over the theatre and the audience. For\nthe brief allotted space of time, the one toiling hand lets in a little\nlight, unthanked by the actors, unaided by the critics, unnoticed by\nthe audience. The time expires--the fog gathers back--the toiling hand\ndisappears. Sometimes it returns once more bravely to the hard, hopeless\nwork: and out of all the hundreds whom it has tried to enlighten, there\nshall not be one who is grateful enough to know it again.\n\nThese exceptional men--too few, too scattered, too personally unimportant\nin the republic of letters, to have any strong or lasting influence--are\nnot the professed dramatists of our times. These are not the writers\nwho make so much as a clerk's income out of the stage. The few men of\npractical ability who now write for the English Theatre, are men of the\nworld, who know that they are throwing away their talents if they take\nthe trouble to invent, for an average remuneration of one hundred and\nfifty pounds. The well-paid Frenchman supplies them with a story and\ncharacters ready made. The Original Adaptation is rattled off in a week:\nand the dramatic author beats the clerk after all, by getting so much\nmore money for so much less manual exercise in the shape of writing.\nBelow this clever tactician, who foils the theatre with its own weapons,\ncome the rank-and-file of hack-writers, who work still more cheaply, and\ngive still less (I am rejoiced to say) for the money. The stage results\nof this sort of authorship, as you have already implied, virtually drive\nthe intelligent classes out of the theatre. Half a century since, the\nprosperity of the manager's treasury would have suffered in consequence.\nBut the increase of wealth and population, and the railway connection\nbetween London and the country, more than supply in quantity what\naudiences have lost in quality. Not only does the manager lose nothing in\nthe way of profit--he absolutely gains by getting a vast nightly majority\ninto his theatre, whose ignorant insensibility nothing can shock. Let him\ncast what garbage he pleases before them, the unquestioning mouths of his\naudience open, and snap at it. I am sorry and ashamed to write in this way\nof any assemblage of my own countrymen; but a large experience of theatres\nforces me to confess that I am writing the truth. If you want to find\nout who the people are who know nothing whatever, even by hearsay, of the\nprogress of the literature of their own time--who have caught no chance\nvestige of any one of the ideas which are floating about before their\nvery eyes--who are, to all social intents and purposes, as far behind the\nage they live in, as any people out of a lunatic asylum can be--go to a\ntheatre, and be very careful, in doing so, to pick out the most popular\nperformance of the day. The actors themselves, when they are men of any\nintelligence, are thoroughly aware of the utter incapacity of the tribunal\nwhich is supposed to judge them. Not very long ago, an actor, standing\ndeservedly in the front rank of his profession, happened to play even more\nadmirably than usual in a certain new part. Meeting him soon afterwards,\nI offered him my mite of praise in all sincerity. \"Yes,\" was his reply.\n\"I know that I act my very best in that part, for I hardly get a hand of\napplause in it through the whole evening.\" Such is the condition to which\nthe dearth of good literature has now reduced the audiences of English\ntheatres--even in the estimation of the men who act before them.\n\nAnd what is to remedy this? Nothing can remedy it but a change for the\nbetter in the audiences.\n\nI have good hope that this change is slowly, very slowly, beginning. \"When\nthings are at the worst they are sure to mend.\" I really think that, in\ndramatic matters, they have been at the worst; and I have therefore some\nbelief that the next turn of Fortune's wheel may be in our favour. In\ncertain theatres, I fancy I notice already symptoms of a slight additional\nsprinkling of intelligence among the audiences. If I am right; if this\nsprinkling increases; if the few people who have brains in their heads\nwill express themselves boldly; if those who are fit to lead the opinion\nof their neighbours will resolutely make the attempt to lead it, instead\nof indolently wrapping themselves up in their own contempt--then there\nmay be a creditable dramatic future yet in store for the countrymen of\nShakspere. Perhaps we may yet live to see the day when managers will be\nforced to seek out the writers who are really setting their mark on the\nliterature of the age--when \"starvation prices\" shall have given place to\na fair remuneration--and when the prompter shall have his share with the\npublisher in the best work that can be done for him by the best writers\nof the time.\n\nMeanwhile, there is a large audience of intelligent people, with plenty\nof money in their pockets, waiting for a theatre to go to. Supposing\nthat such an amazing moral portent should ever appear in the English\nfirmament, as a theatrical speculator who can actually claim some slight\nacquaintance with contemporary literature; and supposing that unparalleled\nman to be smitten with a sudden desire to ascertain what the circulation\nactually is of serial publications and successful novels which address\nthe educated classes; I think I may safely predict the consequences that\nwould follow, as soon as our ideal manager had received his information\nand recovered from his astonishment. London would be startled, one fine\nmorning, by finding a new theatre opened. Names that are now well known\non title-pages only, would then appear on play-bills also; and tens of\nthousands of readers, who now pass the theatre-door with indifference,\nwould be turned into tens of thousands of play-goers also. What a cry of\nastonishment would be heard thereupon in the remotest fastnesses of old\ntheatrical London! \"Merciful Heaven! There is a large public, after all,\nfor well-paid original plays, as well as for well-paid original books.\nAnd a man has turned up, at last, of our own managerial order, who has\nabsolutely found it out!\"\n\nWith true regard, yours, my dear Sir,\n\n               A. N. AUTHOR.\n\n\n\n\nTO THINK, OR BE THOUGHT FOR?\n\n\nIf anything I can say here, on the subject of the painter's Art, will\nencourage intelligent people of any rank to turn a deaf ear to all that\ncritics, connoisseurs, lecturers, and compilers of guide-books can tell\nthem; to trust entirely to their own common sense when they are looking\nat pictures; and to express their opinions boldly, without the slightest\nreference to any precedents whatever--I shall have exactly achieved the\nobject with which I now apply myself to the writing of this paper.\n\nLet me first ask, in regard to pictures in general, what it is that\nprevents the public from judging for themselves, and why the influence\nof Art in England is still limited to select circles,--still unfelt, as\nthe phrase is, by all but the cultivated classes? Why do people want to\nlook at their guide-books, before they can make up their minds about\nan old picture? Why do they ask connoisseurs and professional friends\nfor a marked catalogue, before they venture inside the walls of the\nexhibition-rooms in Trafalgar Square? Why, when they are, for the most\npart, always ready to tell each other unreservedly what books they like,\nor what musical compositions are favourites with them, do they hesitate\nthe moment pictures turn up as a topic of conversation, and intrench\nthemselves doubtfully behind such cautious phrases, as, \"I don't pretend\nto understand the subject,\"--\"I believe such and such a picture is much\nadmired,\"--\"I am no judge,\" and so on?\n\nNo judge! Does a really good picture want you to be a judge? Does it want\nyou to have anything but eyes in your head, and the undisturbed possession\nof your senses? Is there any other branch of intellectual art which has\nsuch a direct appeal, by the very nature of it, to every sane human being\nas the art of painting? There it is, able to represent through a medium\nwhich offers itself to you palpably, in the shape of so many visible feet\nof canvass, actual human facts, and distinct aspects of Nature, which\npoetry can only describe, and which music can but obscurely hint at. The\nArt which can do this--and which has done it over and over again both\nin past and present times--is surely of all arts that one which least\nrequires a course of critical training, before it can be approached on\nfamiliar terms. Whenever I see an intelligent man, which I often do,\nstanding before a really eloquent and true picture, and asking his marked\ncatalogue, or his newspaper, or his guide-book, whether he may safely\nadmire it or not--I think of a man standing winking both eyes in the\nfull glare of a cloudless August noon, and inquiring deferentially of an\nastronomical friend whether he is really justified in saying that the sun\nshines!\n\nBut, we have not yet fairly got at the main obstacle which hinders the\npublic from judging of pictures for themselves, and which, by a natural\nconsequence, limits the influence of Art on the nation generally. For my\nown part, I have long thought, and shall always continue to believe, that\nthis same obstacle is nothing more or less than the Conceit of Criticism,\nwhich has got obstructively between Art and the people,--which has kept\nthem asunder, and will keep them asunder, until it is fairly pulled out\nof the way, and set aside at once and for ever in its proper background\nplace.\n\nThis is a bold thing to say; but I think I can advance some proofs that\nmy assertion is not altogether so wild as it may appear at first sight.\nBy the Conceit of Criticism, I desire to express, in one word, the\nconventional laws and formulas, the authoritative rules and regulations\nwhich individual men set up to guide the tastes and influence the opinions\nof their fellow-creatures. When Criticism does not speak in too arbitrary\na language, and when the laws it makes are ratified by the consent and\napprobation of intelligent people in general, I have as much respect\nfor it as any one. But, when Criticism sits altogether apart, speaks\nopinions that find no answering echo in the general heart, and measures\nthe greatness of intellectual work by anything rather than by its power\nof appealing to all capacities for admiration and enjoyment, from the\nvery highest to the very humblest,--then, as it seems to me, Criticism\nbecomes the expression of individual conceit, and forfeits all claim to\nconsideration and respect. From that moment, it is Obstructive--for it\nhas set itself up fatally between the Art of Painting and the honest and\ngeneral appreciation of that Art by the People.\n\nLet me try to make this still clearer by an example. A great deal of\nobstructive criticism undoubtedly continues to hang as closely as it can\nabout Poetry and Music. But there are, nevertheless, stateable instances,\nin relation to these two Arts, of the voice of the critic and the voice of\nthe people being on the same side. The tragedy of Hamlet, for example, is\ncritically considered to be the masterpiece of dramatic poetry; and the\ntragedy of Hamlet is also, according to the testimony of every sort of\nmanager, the play, of all others, which can be invariably depended on to\nfill a theatre with the greatest certainty, act it when and how you will.\nAgain, in music, the Don Giovanni of Mozart, which is the admiration even\nof the direst pedant producible from the ranks of musical connoisseurs,\nis also the irresistible popular attraction which is always sure to fill\nthe pit and gallery at the opera. Here, at any rate, are two instances in\nwhich two great achievements of the past in poetry and music are alike\nviewed with admiration by the man who appreciates by instinct, and the\nman who appreciates by rule.\n\nIf we apply the same test to the achievements of the past in Painting,\nwhere shall we find a similar instance of genuine concurrence between the\nfew who are appointed to teach, and the many who are expected to learn?\n\nI put myself in the position of a man of fair capacity and average\neducation, who labours under the fatal delusion that he will be helped to\na sincere appreciation of the works of the Old Masters by asking critics\nand connoisseurs to form his opinions for him. I am sent to Italy as a\nmatter of course. A general chorus of learned authorities tells me that\nMichael Angelo and Raphael are the two greatest painters that ever lived;\nand that the two recognised masterpieces of the highest High Art are the\nLast Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel, and the Transfiguration, in the\nVatican picture gallery. It is not only Lanzi and Vasari, and hosts of\nlater sages running smoothly along the same critical grooves, who give\nme this information. Even the greatest of English portrait-painters, Sir\nJoshua Reynolds, sings steadily with the critical chorus, note for note.\nWhen experience has made me wiser, I am able to detect clearly enough in\nthe main principles which Reynolds has adopted in his Lectures on Art, the\nreason of his notorious want of success whenever he tried to rise above\nportraits to the regions of historical painting. But at the period of my\ninnocence, I am simply puzzled and amazed, when I come to such a passage\nas the following in Sir Joshua's famous Fifth Lecture, where he sums up\nthe comparative merits of Michael Angelo and Raphael:--\n\n    \"If we put these great artists in a line of comparison with each\n    other (lectures Sir Joshua), Raphael had more taste and fancy,\n    Michael Angelo more genius and imagination. The one excelled\n    in beauty, the other in energy. Michael Angelo had more of the\n    poetical inspiration; his ideas are vast and sublime; his people\n    are a superior order of beings; there is nothing about them,\n    nothing in the air of their actions or their attitudes, or the\n    style and cast of their limbs or features, that reminds us of\n    their belonging to our own species.\"\n\nHere I get plainly enough at what Sir Joshua considers to be the crowning\nexcellence of high art. It is one great proof of the poetry and sublimity\nof Michael Angelo's pictures that the people represented in them never\nremind us of our own species: which seems equivalent to saying that the\nrepresentation of a man made in the image of Michael Angelo is a grander\nsight than the representation of a man made in the image of God. I am a\nlittle staggered by these principles of criticism; but as all the learned\nauthorities that I can get at seem to have adopted them, I do my best to\nfollow the example of my teachers, and set off reverently for Rome to see\nthe two works of art which my critical masters tell me are the sublimest\npictures that the world has yet beheld.\n\nI go first to the Sistine Chapel; and, on a great blue-coloured wall at\none end of it, I see painted a confusion of naked, knotty-bodied figures,\nsprawling up or tumbling down below a single figure, posted aloft in the\nmiddle, and apparently threatening the rest with his hand. If I ask Lanzi,\nor Vasari, or Sir Joshua Reynolds, or the gentleman who has compiled\nMurray's Handbook for Central Italy, or any other competent authorities,\nwhat this grotesquely startling piece of painter's work can possibly be,\nI am answered that it is actually intended to represent the unimaginably\nawful spectacle of the Last Judgment! And I am further informed that,\nestimated by the critical tests applied to it by these competent\nauthorities, the picture is pronounced to be a masterpiece of grandeur and\nsublimity. I resolve to look a little closer at this celebrated work, and\nto try if I can get at any fair estimate of it by employing such plain,\nuncritical tests, as will do for me and for everybody.\n\nHere is a fresco, which aspires to represent the most impressive of all\nChristian subjects; it is painted on the wall of a Christian church, by\na man belonging to a Christian community--what evidences of religious\nfeeling has it to show me? I look at the lower part of the composition\nfirst, and see--a combination of the orthodox nursery notion of the devil,\nwith the Heathen idea of the conveyance to the infernal regions, in the\nshape of a horned and tailed ferryman giving condemned souls a cast across\na river! Pretty well, I think, to begin with.\n\nLet me try and discover next what evidences of extraordinary intellectual\nability the picture presents. I look up towards the top now, by way of\na change, and I find Michael Angelo's conception of the entrance of a\nmartyr into the kingdom of Heaven, displayed before me in the shape of\na flayed man, presenting his own skin, as a sort of credential, to the\nhideous figure with the threatening hand--which I will not, even in\nwriting, identify with the name of Our Saviour. Elsewhere, I see nothing\nbut unnatural distortion and hopeless confusion; fighting figures,\ntearing figures, tumbling figures, kicking figures; and, to crown all,\na caricatured portrait, with a pair of ass's ears, of a certain Messer\nBiagio of Sienna, who had the sense and courage, when the Last Judgment\nwas first shown on completion, to protest against every figure in it being\npainted stark-naked!\n\nI see such things as these, and many more equally preposterous, which it\nis not worth while to mention. All other people with eyes in their heads\nsee them, too. They are actual matters of fact, not debateable matters\nof taste. But I am not--on that account--justified, nor is any other\nuncritical person justified, in saying a word against the picture. It may\npalpably outrage all the religious proprieties of the subject; but, then,\nit is full of \"fine foreshortening,\" and therefore we uncritical people\nmust hold our tongues. It may violate just as plainly all the intellectual\nproprieties, counting from the flayed man with his skin in his hand, at\nthe top, to Messer Biagio of Sienna with his ass's ears, at the bottom;\nbut, then, it exhibits \"masterly anatomical detail,\" and therefore we\nuncritical spectators must hold our tongues. It may strike us forcibly\nthat, if people are to be painted at all, as in this picture, rising out\nof their graves in their own bodies as they lived, it is surely important\n(to say nothing of giving them the benefit of the shrouds in which they\nwere buried) to represent them as having the usual general proportions of\nhuman beings. But Sir Joshua Reynolds interposes critically, and tells us\nthe figures on the wall and ceiling of the Sistine Chapel are sublime,\nbecause they don't remind us of our own species. Why should they not\nremind us of our own species? Because they are prophets, sibyls, and such\nlike, cries the chorus of critics indignantly. And what then? If I had\nbeen on intimate terms with Jeremiah, or if I had been the ancient king\nto whom the sibyl brought the mysterious books, would not my friend in the\none case, and the messenger in the other, have appeared before me bearing\nthe ordinary proportions and exhibiting the usual appearance of my own\nspecies? Does not Sacred History inform me that the prophet was a Man, and\ndoes not Profane History describe the sibyl as an Old Woman? Is old age\nnever venerable and striking in real life?--But I am uttering heresies. I\nam mutinously summoning reason and common sense to help me in estimating\nan Old Master. This will never do: I had better follow the example of all\nthe travellers I see about me, by turning away in despair, and leaving\nthe Last Judgment to the critics and connoisseurs.\n\nHaving thus discovered that one masterpiece of High Art does not address\nitself to me, and to the large majority whom I represent, let me go\nnext to the picture gallery, and see how the second masterpiece (the\nTransfiguration, by Raphael) can vindicate its magnificent reputation\namong critics and connoisseurs. This picture I approach under the\nadvantage of knowing, beforehand, that I must make allowances for minor\ndefects in it, which are recognised by the learned authorities themselves.\nI am indeed prepared to be disappointed, at the outset, because I have\nbeen prepared to make allowances:\n\nFirst, for defects of colour, which spoil the general effect of the\npicture on the spectator; all the lights being lividly tinged with green,\nand all the shadows being grimly hardened with black. This mischief is\nsaid to have been worked by the tricks of French cleaners and restorers,\nwho have so fatally tampered with the whole surface, that Raphael's\noriginal colouring must be given up as lost. Rather a considerable loss,\nthis, to begin with; but not Raphael's fault. Therefore, let it by no\nmeans depreciate the picture in my estimation.\n\nSecondly, I have to make allowances for the introduction of two Roman\nCatholic Saints (St. Julian and St. Lawrence), represented by the painter\nas being actually present at the Transfiguration, in order to please\nCardinal de' Medici, for whom the picture was painted. This _is_ Raphael's\nfault. This sets him forth in the rather anomalous character of a great\npainter with no respect for his art. I have some doubts about him, after\nthat,--doubts which my critical friends might possibly share if Raphael\nwere only a modern painter.\n\nThirdly, I have to make allowances for the scene of the Transfiguration\non the high mountain, and the scene of the inability of the disciples\nto cure the boy possessed with a devil, being represented, without the\nslightest division, one at the top and the other at the bottom of the same\ncanvass,--both events thus appearing to be connected by happening in the\nsame place, within view of each other, when we know very well that they\nwere only connected by happening at the same time. Also, when I see some\nof the disciples painted in the act of pointing up to the Transfiguration,\nthe mountain itself being the background against which they stand, I am to\nremember (though the whole of the rest of the picture is most absolutely\nand unflinchingly literal in treatment) that here Raphael has suddenly\nbroken out into allegory, and desires to indicate by the pointing hands\nof the disciples that it is the duty of the afflicted to look to Heaven\nfor relief in their calamities. Having made all these rather important\nallowances, I may now look impartially at the upper half of this famous\ncomposition.\n\nI find myself soon looking away again. It may be that three figures\nclothed in gracefully fluttering drapery, and dancing at symmetrically\nexact distances from each other in the air, represent such an unearthly\nspectacle as the Transfiguration to the satisfaction of great judges of\nart. I can also imagine that some few select persons may be able to look\nat the top of the high mountain, as represented in the picture, without\nfeeling their gravity in the smallest degree endangered by seeing that\nthe ugly knob of ground on which the disciples are lying prostrate, is\nbarely big enough to hold them, and most certainly would not hold them\nif they all moved briskly on it together. These things are matters of\ntaste, on which I have the misfortune to differ with the connoisseurs. Not\nfeeling bold enough to venture on defending myself against the masters\nwho are teaching me to appreciate High Art, I can only look away from\nthe upper part of the picture, and try if I can derive any useful or\npleasant impressions from the lower half of the composition, in which\nno supernatural event is depicted, and which it is therefore perfectly\njustifiable to judge by referring it to the standard of dramatic truth,\nor, in one word, of Nature.\n\nAs for this portion of the picture, I can hardly believe my eyes when\nI first look at it. Excepting the convulsed face of the boy, and a\ncertain hard eagerness in the look of the man who is holding him, all\nthe other faces display a stony inexpressiveness, which, when I think of\nthe great name of Raphael in connection with what I see, fairly amazes\nme. I look down incredulously at my guide-book. Yes! there is indeed\nthe critical authority of Lanzi quoted for my benefit. Lanzi tells me\nin plain terms that I behold represented in the picture before me \"the\nmost pathetic story Raphael ever conceived,\" and refers, in proof of\nit, to the \"compassion evinced by the apostles.\" I look attentively\nat them all, and behold an assembly of hard-featured, bearded men,\nstanding, sitting, and gesticulating, in conventional academic attitudes;\ntheir faces not expressing naturally, not even affecting to express\nartificially, compassion for the suffering boy, humility at their own\nincapability to relieve him, or any other human emotion likely to be\nsuggested by the situation in which they are placed. I find it still more\ndismaying to look next at the figure of a brawny woman, with her back\nto the spectator, entreating the help of the apostles theatrically on\none knee, with her insensible classical profile turned in one direction,\nand both her muscular arms stretched out in the other; it is still more\ndismaying to look at such a figure as this, and then to be gravely\ntold by Lanzi that I am contemplating \"the affliction of a beautiful\nand interesting female.\" I observe, on entering the room in which the\nTransfiguration is placed, as I have previously observed on entering\nthe Sistine Chapel, groups of spectators before the picture consulting\ntheir guide-books--looking attentively at the work of High Art which\nthey are ordered to admire--trying hard to admire it--then, with dismay\nin their faces, looking round at each other, shutting up their books,\nand retreating from High Art in despair. I observe these groups for a\nlittle while, and I end in following their example. We members of the\ngeneral public may admire Hamlet and Don Giovanni, honestly, along with\nthe critics, but the two sublimest pictures (according to the learned\nauthorities) which the world has yet beheld, appeal to none of us; and we\nleave them, altogether discouraged on the subject of Art for the future.\nFrom that time forth we look at pictures with a fatal self-distrust. Some\nof us recklessly take our opinions from others; some of us cautiously keep\nour opinions to ourselves; and some of us indolently abstain from having\nanything to do with an opinion at all.\n\nIs this exaggerated? Have I misrepresented facts in the example I have\nquoted of obstructive criticism on Art, and of its discouraging effects\non the public mind? Let the doubting reader, by all means, judge for\nhimself. Let him refer to any recognised authority he pleases, and he will\nfind that the two pictures of which I have been writing are critically\nand officially considered, to this day, as the two masterworks of the\nhighest school of painting. Having ascertained that, let him next, if\npossible, procure a sight of some print or small copy from any part of\neither picture (there is a copy of the whole of the Transfiguration in the\nGallery at the Crystal Palace), and practically test the truth of what I\nhave said. Or, in the event of his not choosing to take that trouble, let\nhim ask any unprofessional and uncritical friend who has seen the pictures\nthemselves--and the more intelligent and unprejudiced that friend, the\nbetter for my purpose--what the effect on him was of The Last Judgment,\nor The Transfiguration. If I can only be assured of the sincerity of the\nwitness, I shall not be afraid of the result of the examination.\n\nOther readers who have visited the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican Gallery\ncan testify for themselves (but, few of them will--I know them!) whether I\nhave misrepresented their impressions or not. To that part of my audience\nI have nothing to say, except that I beg them not to believe that I am\na heretic in relation to all works by all old masters, because I have\nspoken out about the Last Judgment and the Transfiguration. I am not\nblind, I hope, to the merits of any picture, provided it will bear honest\ninvestigation on uncritical principles. I have seen such exceptional\nworks by ones and twos, amid many hundreds of utterly worthless canvasses\nwith undeservedly famous names attached to them, in Italy and elsewhere.\nMy valet-de-place has not pointed them out to me; my guide-book, which\ncriticises according to authority, has not recommended me to look at\nthem, except in very rare cases indeed. I discovered them for myself,\nand others may discover them as readily as I did, if they will only\ntake their minds out of leading-strings when they enter a gallery, and\nchallenge a picture boldly to do its duty by explaining its own merits to\nthem without the assistance of an interpreter. Having given that simple\nreceipt for the finding out and enjoying of good pictures, I need give no\nmore. It is no part of my object to attempt to impose my own tastes and\npreferences on others. I want--if I may be allowed to repeat my motives\nonce more in the plainest terms--to do all I can to shake the influence\nof authority in matters of Art, because I see that authority standing\ndrearily and persistently aloof from all popular sympathy; because I see\nit keeping pictures and the people apart; because I find it setting up as\nmasterpieces, two of the worst of many palpably bad and barbarous works\nof past times; and lastly, because I find it purchasing pictures for the\nNational Gallery of England, for which, in nine cases out of ten, the\nnation has no concern or care, which have no merits but technical merits,\nand which have not the last and lowest recommendation of winning general\napproval even among the critics and connoisseurs themselves.\n\nAnd what remedy against this? I say at the end, as I said at the\nbeginning, the remedy is to judge for ourselves, and to express our\nopinions, privately and publicly, on every possible occasion, without\nhesitation, without compromise, without reference to any precedents\nwhatever. Public opinion has had its victories in other matters, and may\nyet have its victory in matters of Art. We, the people, have a gallery\nthat is called ours; let us do our best to have it filled for the future\nwith pictures (no matter when or by whom painted), that we can get some\nhonest enjoyment and benefit from. Let us, in Parliament and out of\nit, before dinner and after dinner, in the presence of authorities just\nas coolly as out of the presence of authorities, say plainly once for\nall, that the sort of High Art which is professedly bought _for us_,\nand which does actually address itself to nobody but painters, critics,\nand connoisseurs, is not High Art at all, but the lowest of the Low:\nbecause it is the narrowest as to its sphere of action, and the most\nscantily furnished as to its means of doing good. We shall shock the\nconnoisseurs (especially the elderly ones) by taking this course; we\nshall get indignantly reprimanded by the critics, and flatly contradicted\nby the lecturers; but we shall also, sooner or later, get a collection\nof pictures bought for us that we, mere mankind, can appreciate and\nunderstand. It may be a revolutionary sentiment, but I think that the\ncarrying out of this reform (as well as of a few others) is a part of\nthe national business which the people of England have got to do for\nthemselves, and in which no existing authorities will assist them. There\nis a great deal of social litter accumulating about us. Suppose, when\nwe start the business of setting things to rights, that we try the new\nbroom gently at first, by sweeping away a little High Art, and having the\ntemerity to form our own opinions?\n\n\n\n\nSOCIAL GRIEVANCES.--IV.\n\nSAVE ME FROM MY FRIENDS.\n\n\nA few days ago, I was walking in a street at the western part of London,\nand I encountered a mendicant individual of an almost extinct species.\nSome years since, the oratorical beggar, who addressed himself to the\npublic on each side of the way, in a neat speech spoken from the middle\nof the road, was almost as constant and regular in his appearances as the\npostman himself. Of late, however, this well-known figure--this cadger\nCicero of modern days--has all but disappeared; the easy public ear having\nprobably grown rather deaf, in course of time, to the persuasive power\nof orators with only two subjects to illustrate--their moral virtues and\ntheir physical destitution.\n\nWith these thoughts in my mind, I stopped to look at the rare and wretched\nobject for charity whom I had met by chance, and to listen to the address\nwhich he was delivering for the benefit of the street population and the\nstreet passengers on both sides of the pavement. He was a tall, sturdy,\nself-satisfied, healthy-looking vagabond, with a face which would have\nbeen almost handsome if it had not been disfigured by the expression\nwhich Nature sets, like a brand, on the countenance of a common impostor.\nAs for his style of oratory, I will not do him the injustice of merely\ndescribing it. Here is a specimen, faithfully reported for the public,\nfrom the original speech:--\n\n\"Good Christian people, will you be so obliging as to leave off your\nvarious occupations for a few minutes only, and listen to the harrowing\nstatement of a father of a family, who is reduced to acknowledge his\nmisfortunes in the public streets? Work, honest work, is all I ask for;\nand I cannot get it. Why?--I ask, most respectfully, why? Good Christian\npeople, I think it is because I have no friends. Alas! indeed I have no\nfriends. My wife and seven babes are, I am shocked to tell you, without\nfood. Yes, without food. Oh, yes, without food. Because we have no\nfriends: I assure you I am right in saying because we have no friends.\nWhy am I and my wife and my seven babes starving in a land of plenty?\nWhy have I no share in the wholesome necessaries of life, which I see,\nwith my hungry eyes, in butchers' and bakers' shops on each side of me?\nCan anybody give me a reason for this? I think, good Christian people,\nnobody can. Must I perish in a land of plenty because I have no work\nand because I have no friends? I cannot perish in a land of plenty. No,\nI cannot perish in a land of plenty. Oh, no, I cannot perish in a land\nof plenty. Bear with my importunity, if you please, and listen to my\nharrowing statement. I am the father of a starving family, and I have got\nno friends.\"\n\nWith this neat return to the introductory passage of his speech, the\nmendicant individual paused; collected the pecuniary tokens of public\napproval; and walked forward, with a funereal slowness of step, to deliver\na second edition of his address in another part of the street.\n\nWhile I had been looking at this man, I had also been insensibly led to\ncompare myself, as I stood on the pavement, with my oratorical vagrant,\nas he stood in the roadway. In some important respects, I found, to\nmy own astonishment, that the result of the comparison was not by any\nmeans flattering on my side. I might certainly assume, without paying\nmyself any extraordinary compliment, that I was the honester man of the\ntwo; also that I was better educated and a little better clad. But here\nmy superiority ceased. The beggar was far in advance of me in all the\noutward and visible signs of inward mental comfort which combine to form\nthe appearance of a healthily-constituted man. After perplexing myself,\nfor some time, in the attempt to discover the reason for the enviably\nprosperous and contented aspect of this vagabond--which appeared palpably\nto any sharp observer, through his assumed expression of suffering\nand despair--I came to the singular conclusion that the secret of his\npersonal advantages over me, lay in the very circumstance on which he\nchiefly relied for awakening the sympathies of the charitable public--the\ncircumstance of his having no friends.\n\n\"No friends!\" I repeated to myself, as I walked away. \"Happily-situated\nvagrant! there is the true cause of your superiority over me--you have no\nfriends! But can the marvellous assertion be true? Can this enviable man\nreally go home and touch up his speech for to-morrow, with the certainty\nof not being interrupted? I am going home to finish an article, without\nknowing whether I shall have a clear five minutes to myself, all the\ntime I am at work. Can he take his money back to his drawer, in broad\ndaylight, and meet nobody by the way who will say to him, 'Remember our\nold friendship, and lend me a trifle'? I have money waiting for me at my\npublisher's, and I dare not go and fetch it, except under cover of the\nnight. Is that spoilt child of fortune, from whom I have just separated\nmyself, really and truly never asked to parties and obliged to go to them?\nHe has a button on his coat--I am positively certain I saw it--and is\nthere no human finger and thumb to lay hold of it, and no human tongue to\nworry him, the while? He does not live in the times of the pillory, and\nhe has his ears--the lucky wretch. Have those organs actually enjoyed the\nindescribable blessedness of freedom from the intrusion of 'well-meant\nadvice'? Can he write--and has he got no letters to answer? Can he\nread--and has he no dear friend's book to get through, whether he likes it\nor not? No wonder that he looks prosperous and healthy, though he lives\nin a dingy slum, and that I look peevish and pale, though I reside on\ngravel, in an airy neighbourhood. Good Heavens! does he dare to speak of\nhis misfortunes, when he has no calls to make? Irrational Sybarite! what\ndoes he want next, I wonder?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThese are crabbed sentiments. But, perhaps, as it is the fashion,\nnow-a-days, to take an inveterately genial view of society in general, my\npresent outbreak of misanthropy may be pardoned, in consideration of its\ninvolving a certain accidental originality of expression in relation to\nsocial subjects. It is a dreadful thing to say; but it is the sad truth\nthat I have never yet been able to appreciate the advantage of having a\nlarge circle of acquaintances, and that I could positively dispense with\na great many of my dearest friends.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is my Boisterous Friend, for instance--an excellent creature, who\nhas been intimate with me from childhood, and who loves me as his brother.\nI always know when he calls, though my study is at the top of the house. I\nhear him in the passage, the moment the door is opened--he is so hearty;\nand, like other hearty people, he has such a loud voice. I have told my\nservant to say that I am engaged, which means simply, that I am hard at\nwork. \"Dear old boy!\" I hear my Boisterous Friend exclaim, with a genial\nroar, \"writing away, just as usual--eh, Susan? Lord bless you! he knows\nme--he knows I don't want to interrupt him. Up-stairs, of course? I know\nmy way. Just for a minute, Susan--just for a minute.\" The voice stops,\nand heavily-shod feet (all boisterous men wear thick boots) ascend the\nstairs, two at a time. My door is burst open, as if with a battering-ram\n(no boisterous man ever knocks), and my friend rushes in like a mad bull.\n\"Ha, ha, ha! I've caught you,\" says the associate of my childhood. \"Don't\nstop for me, dear old boy; I'm not going to interrupt you (bless my soul,\nwhat a lot of writing!)--and you're all right, eh? That's all I wanted to\nknow. By George, it's quite refreshing to see you here forming the public\nmind! No! I won't sit down; I won't stop another instant. So glad to have\nseen you, dear fellow--good-bye.\" By this time, his affectionate voice\nhas made the room ring again; he has squeezed my hand, in his brotherly\nway, till my fingers are too sore to hold the pen; and he has put to\nflight, for the rest of the day, every idea that I had when I sat down to\nwork. And yet (as he would tell me himself) he has not been in the room\nmore than a minute--though he might well have stopped for hours, without\ndoing any additional harm. Could I really dispense with him? I don't deny\nthat he has known me from the time when I was in short frocks, and that\nhe loves me like a brother. Nevertheless, I could dispense--yes, I could\ndispense--oh, yes, I could dispense--with my Boisterous Friend.\n\nAgain, there is my Domestic Friend, whose time for calling on me is late\nin the afternoon, when I have wrought through my day's task; and when a\nquiet restorative half-hour by myself, over the fire, is precious to me\nbeyond all power of expression. There is my Domestic Friend, who comes\nto me at such times, and who has no subject of conversation but the\nmaladies of his wife and children. No efforts that I can make to change\nthe subject, can get me out of the range of the family sick-room. If\nI start the weather, I lead to a harrowing narrative of its effect on\nMrs. Ricketts, or the Master and Miss Rickettses. If I try politics or\nliterature, my friend apologises for knowing nothing about any recent\nevents in which ministers or writers are concerned, by telling me how\nhis time has been taken up by illness at home. If I attempt to protect\nmyself by asking him to meet a large party, where the conversation must\nsurely be on general topics, he brings his wife with him (though he\ntold me, when I invited her, that she was unable to stir from her bed),\nand publicly asks her how she feels, at certain intervals; wafting that\naffectionate question across the table, as easily as if he was handing\nthe salt-cellar, or passing the bottle. I have given up defending myself\nagainst him of late, in sheer despair. I am resigned to my fate. Though\nnot a family man, I know (through the vast array of facts in connection\nwith the subject, with which my friend has favoured me) as much about the\nmaladies of young mothers and their children, as the doctor himself. Does\nany other unmedical man know when half a pint of raw brandy may be poured\ndown the throat of a delicate and sensitive woman, without producing the\nslightest effect on her, except of the restorative kind? I know when it\nmay be done--when it must be done--when, I give you my sacred word of\nhonour, the exhibition of alcohol in large quantities, may be the saving\nof one precious life--ay, sir, and perhaps of two! Possibly it may yet\nprove a useful addition to my stores of information, to know what I\nknow now on such interesting subjects as these. It may be so--but, good\nChristian people, it is not the less true, that I could also dispense with\nmy Domestic Friend.\n\nMy Country Friends--I must not forget them--and least of all, my\nhospitable hostess, Lady Jinkinson, who is in certain respects the type\nand symbol of my whole circle of rural acquaintance.\n\nLady Jinkinson is the widow of a gallant general officer. She has a\ncharming place in the country. She has also sons who are splendid fellows,\nand daughters who are charming girls. She has a cultivated taste for\nliterature--so have the charming girls--so have not the splendid fellows.\nShe thinks a little attention to literary men is very becoming in persons\nof distinction; and she is good enough to ask me to come and stay at her\ncountry-house, where a room shall be specially reserved for me, and where\nI can write my \"fine things\" in perfect quiet, away from London noises\nand London interruptions. I go to the country-house with my work in my\nportmanteau--work which must be done by a certain time. I find a charming\nlittle room made ready for me, opening into my bed-room, and looking out\non the lovely garden-terrace, and the noble trees in the park beyond. I\ncome down to breakfast in the morning; and after the second cup of tea.\nI get up to return to my writing-room. A chorus of family remonstrances\nrises instantly. Oh, surely I am not going to begin writing on the very\nfirst day. Look at the sun, listen to the birds, feel the sweet air. A\ndrive in the country, after the London smoke, is absolutely necessary--a\ndrive to Shockley Bottom, and a picnic luncheon (so nice!), and back by\nGrimshawe's Folly (such a view from the top!), and a call, on the way\nhome, at the Abbey, that lovely old house, where the dear Squire has\nhad my last book read aloud to him (only think of that! the very last\nthing in the world that I could possibly have expected!) by darling Emily\nand Matilda, who are both dying to know me. Possessed by a (printer's)\ndevil, I gruffly break through this string of temptations to be idle, and\nresolutely make my escape.\n\n\"Lunch at half-past one,\" says Lady Jinkinson, as I retire.\n\n\"Pray, don't wait for me,\" I answer.\n\n\"Lunch at half-past one,\" persists Lady Jinkinson, as if she thought I\nhad not heard her.\n\n\"And cigars in the billiard-room,\" adds one of the splendid fellows.\n\n\"And in the green-house, too,\" continues one of the charming girls, \"where\nyour horrid smoking is really of some use.\"\n\nI shut the door desperately. The last words I hear are from Lady\nJinkinson. \"Lunch at half-past one.\"\n\nI get into my writing-room, and take the following inventory of the\ncontents:--\n\nTable of rare inlaid woods, on which a drop of ink would be downright\nruin. Silver inkstand of enormous size, holding about a thimbleful of\nink. Clarified pens in scented papier-m\u00e2ch\u00e9 box. Blotting-book lined with\ncrimson watered silk, full of violet and rose-coloured note-paper with the\nJinkinson crest stamped in silver at the top of each leaf. Pen-wiper, of\nglossy new cloth, all ablaze with beads; tortoise-shell paper-knife; also\npaper-weight, exhibiting a view of the Colosseum in rare Mosaic; also,\nlight green taper, in ebony candlestick; wax in scented box; matches in\nscented box; pencil-tray made of fine gold, with a turquoise eruption\nbreaking out all over it. Upon the whole, about two hundred pounds' worth\nof valuable property, as working materials for me to write with.\n\nI remove every portable article carefully from the inlaid table--look\nabout me for the most worthless thing I can discover to throw over it, in\ncase of ink-splashes,--find nothing worthless in the room, except my own\nsummer palet\u00f4t,--take that, accordingly, and make a cloth of it,--pull\nout my battered old writing-case, with my provision of cheap paper, and\nmy inky steel pen in my two-penny holder. With these materials before\nme on my palet\u00f4t (price one guinea), I endeavour to persuade myself, by\ncarefully abstaining from looking about the room, that I am immersed in\nmy customary squalor, and upheld by my natural untidiness. After a little\nwhile, I succeed in the effort, and begin to work.\n\nBirds. The poets are all fond of birds. Can they write, I wonder, when\ntheir favourites are singing in chorus close outside their window? I,\nwho only produce prose, find birds a nuisance. Cows also. Has that one\nparticular cow who bellows so very regularly, a bereavement to mourn?\nI think we shall have veal for dinner to-day; I do think we shall have\nnice veal and stuffing. But this is not the train of thought I ought to\nbe engaged in. Let me be deaf to these pastoral noises (including the\nsharpening of the gardener's scythe on the lawn), and get on with my work.\n\nTum-dum-tiddy-hidy-dum--tom-tom-tiddy-hiddy-tom--ti-too-tidy-hidy-ti--\nti-ti-ti-tum. Yes, yes, that famous tenor bit in the Trovatore, played\nwith prodigious fire on the piano in the room below, by one of the\ncharming girls. I like the Trovatore (not being, fortunately for\nmyself, a musical critic). Let me lean back in my chair on this balmy\nmorning--writing being now clearly out of the question--and float away\nplacidly on the stream of melody. Brava! Brava! Bravissima! She is\ngoing through the whole opera, now in one part of it, and now in\nanother. No, she stops, after only an hour's practice. A voice calls\nto her; I hear her ringing laugh, in answer: no more piano--silence.\nWork, work, you must be done! Oh, my ideas, my only stock in trade,\nmercifully come back to me--or, like the famous Roman, I have lost a\nday.\n\nLet me see; where was I when the Trovatore began? At the following passage\napparently, for the sentence is left unfinished.\n\n\"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more light_\"----\nWhat had I got to say about light, when the Trovatore began? Was it,\n\"flows in upon us\"? No; nothing so commonplace as that. I had surely a\ngood long metaphor, and a fine round close to the sentence. \"The more\nlight\"----shines? beams? bursts? dawns? floods? bathes? quivers? Oh, me!\nwhat was the precious next word I had in my head, when the Trovatore took\npossession of my poor crazy brains? It is useless to search for it. Strike\nout \"the more light,\" and try something else.\n\n\"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more prodigally\nwe find scattered before us the gems of truth which--so seldom ride over\nto see us now._\"\n\n\"So seldom ride over to see us now?\" Mercy on me, what am I about?\nEnding my unfortunate sentence by mechanically taking down a few polite\nwords, spoken by the melodious voice of one of the charming girls on the\ngarden-terrace under my window. What do I hear, in a man's voice? \"Regret\nbeing so long an absentee, but my schools and my poor\"--Oh, a young\nclerical visitor; I know him by his way of talking. All young clergymen\nspeak alike--who teaches them, I wonder? Let me peep out of window.\n\nI am right. It is a young clergyman--no whiskers, apostolic hair, sickly\nsmile, long frock coat, a wisp of muslin round his neck, and a canonical\nblack waistcoat with no gap in it for the display of profane linen. The\ncharming girl is respectfully devouring him with her eyes. Are they going\nto have their morning chat under my window? Evidently they are. This\nis pleasant. Every word of their small, fluent, ceaseless, sentimental\ngabble comes into my room. If I ask them to get out of hearing I am rude.\nIf I go to the window, and announce my presence by a cough, I confuse\nthe charming girl. No help for it, but to lay the pen down again, and\nwait. This is a change for the worse, with a vengeance. The Trovatore was\nsomething pleasant to listen to; but the reverend gentleman's opinions\non the terrace flowers which he has come to admire; on the last volume of\nmodern poetry which he has borrowed from the charming girl; on the merits\nof the church system in the Ages of Faith, and on the difficulties he\nhas had to contend with in his Infant School, are, upon the whole, rather\nwearisome to listen to. And this is the house that I entered in the full\nbelief that it would offer me the luxury of perfect quiet to work in! And\ndown stairs sits Lady Jinkinson, firmly believing that she has given me\nsuch an opportunity of distinguishing myself with my pen, as I have never\nbefore enjoyed in all my life! Patience, patience.\n\nHalf an hour; three quarters of an hour. Do I hear him taking his leave?\nYes, at last. Pen again; paper again. Where was I?\n\n\"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more prodigally\ndo we find scattered before us the gems of truth, which_\"----\n\nWhat was I going to say the gems of truth did, when the young clergyman\nand the charming girl began their sentimental interview on the terrace?\nGone--utterly gone. Strike out the gems of truth, and try another way.\n\n\"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more its vast\ncapabilities_\"----\n\nA knock at the door.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Her Ladyship wishes me to say, sir, that luncheon is ready.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more clearly\nits vast capabilities display themselves to our view. The mind, indeed,\ncan hardly be pronounced competent_\"----\n\nA knock at the door.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Her Ladyship wishes me to remind you, sir, that luncheon is ready.\"\n\n\"Pray beg Lady Jinkinson not to wait for me.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"_The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent to survey the\nextended field of observation_\"----\n\nA knock at the door.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir, but her Ladyship desires me to say that a friar's\nomelette has just come up, which she very much wishes you to taste. And\nshe is afraid it will get cold, unless you will be so good as to come\ndown-stairs at once.\"\n\n\"Say, I will come directly.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"_The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent to survey the\nextended field of observation, which_\"--which?--which?--Gone again! What\nelse could I expect? A nice chance literature has in this house against\nluncheon.\n\nI descend to the dining-room, and am politely told that I look as if I had\njust achieved a wonderful morning's work. \"I dare say you have not written\nin such perfect quiet as this for months past?\" says Lady Jinkinson,\nhelping me to the friar's omelette. I begin with that dainty: where I\nend is more than my recollection enables me to say. Everybody feeds me,\nunder the impression that I am exhausted with writing. All the splendid\nfellows will drink wine with me, \"to set me going again.\" Nobody believes\nmy rueful assertion that I have done nothing, which they ascribe to\nexcessive modesty. When we rise from table (a process which is performed\nwith extreme difficulty, speaking for myself), I am told that the carriage\nwill be ready in an hour. Lady Jinkinson will not hear of any objections.\n\"No! no!\" she says. \"I have not asked you here to overwork yourself. I\nreally can't allow that.\"\n\nI get back to my room, with an extraordinary tightness in my waistcoat,\nand with slight symptoms of a determination of Sherry to the head. Under\nthese circumstances, returning to work immediately is not to be thought\nof. Returning to bed is by far the wiser proceeding. I lie down to arrange\nmy ideas. Having none to arrange, I yield to Nature, and go to sleep.\n\nWhen I wake, my head is clear again. I see my way now to the end of that\nbit about \"the extended field of observation;\" and make for my table in\nhigh spirits. Just as I sit down, comes another knock at the door. The\ncarriage is ready. The carriage! I had forgotten all about it. There\nis no way of escape, however. Hours must give way to me, when I am at\nhome; I must give way to hours, when I am at Lady Jinkinson's. My papers\nare soon shuffled together in my case; and I am once more united with\nthe hospitable party down-stairs. \"More bright ideas?\" cry the ladies\ninterrogatively, as I take my place in the carriage. \"Not the dimmest\nvestige of one,\" I answer. Lady Jinkinson shakes her parasol reproachfully\nat me. \"My dear friend, you were always absurdly modest when speaking of\nyourself; and, do you know, I think it grows on you.\"\n\nWe get back in time to dress for dinner. After dinner, there is the\nsocial evening, and more Trovatore. After that, cigars with the splendid\nfellows in the billiard-room. I look over my day's work, with the calmness\nof despair, when I get to bed at last. It amounts to four sentences\nand a half; every line of which is perfectly worthless as a literary\ncomposition.\n\nThe next morning, I rise before the rest of the family are up, leave a\nnote of apology on my table, and take the early train for London. This\nis very ungrateful behaviour to people who have treated me with extreme\nkindness. But here, again, I must confess the hard truth. The demands\nof my business in life are imperative; and, sad to say, they absolutely\noblige me to dispense with Lady Jinkinson.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI have now been confessing my misanthropical sentiments at some length;\nbut I have not by any means done yet with the number of my dear friends\nwhom I could dispense with. To say nothing of my friend who borrows\nmoney of me (an obvious nuisance), there is my self-satisfied friend, who\ncan talk of nothing but himself, and his successes in life; there is my\ninattentive friend, who is perpetually asking me irrelevant questions,\nand who has no power of listening to my answers; there is my accidental\nfriend, whom I always meet when I go out; there is my hospitable friend,\nwho is continually telling me that he wants so much to ask me to dinner,\nand who never does really ask me by any chance. All these intimate\nassociates of mine are persons of fundamentally irreproachable characters,\nand of well-defined positions in the world; and yet so unhappily is my\nnature constituted, that I am not exaggerating when I acknowledge that I\ncould positively dispense with every one of them.\n\nTo proceed a little farther, now that I have begun to unburden my mind--\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA double knock at the street door stops my pen suddenly. I make no\ncomplaint, for I have been, to my own amazement, filling these pages for\nthe last three hours, in my parlour after dinner, without interruption.\nA well-known voice in the passage smites my ear, inquiring for me, on\nvery particular business, and asking the servant to take in the name. The\nservant appears at my door, and I make up my mind to send these leaves\nto the printer, unfinished as they are. No necessity, Susan, to mention\nthe name; I have recognised the voice. This is my friend who does not at\nall like the state of my health. He comes, I know beforehand, with the\naddress of a new doctor, or the recipe of a new remedy; and he will stay\nfor hours, persuading me that I am in a bad way. No escaping from him, as\nI know by experience. Well, well, I have made my confession, and eased my\nmind. Let my friend who doesn't like the state of my health, end the list,\nfor the present, of the dear friends whom I could dispense with. Show him\nin, Susan--show him in.\n\n\n\n\nCASES WORTH LOOKING AT.--III.\n\nTHE CAULDRON OF OIL.\n\n\nAbout one French league distant from the city of Toulouse, there is a\nvillage called Croix-Daurade. In the military history of England, this\nplace is associated with a famous charge of the eighteenth hussars, which\nunited two separated columns of the British army, on the day before the\nDuke of Wellington fought the battle of Toulouse. In the criminal history\nof France, the village is memorable as the scene of a daring crime, which\nwas discovered and punished under circumstances sufficiently remarkable\nto merit preservation in the form of a plain narrative.\n\n\nI. THE PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.\n\nIn the year seventeen hundred, the resident priest of the village of\nCroix-Daurade was Monsieur Pierre-C\u00e9lestin Chaubard. He was a man of no\nextraordinary energy or capacity, simple in his habits, and sociable\nin his disposition. His character was irreproachable; he was strictly\nconscientious in the performance of his duties; and he was universally\nrespected and beloved by all his parishioners.\n\nAmong the members of his flock, there was a family named Siadoux. The head\nof the household, Saturnin Siadoux, had been long established in business\nat Croix-Daurade as an oil-manufacturer. At the period of the events now\nto be narrated, he had attained the age of sixty, and was a widower. His\nfamily consisted of five children--three young men, who helped him in the\nbusiness, and two daughters. His nearest living relative was his sister,\nthe widow Mirailhe.\n\nThe widow resided principally at Toulouse. Her time in that city was\nmainly occupied in winding up the business affairs of her deceased\nhusband, which had remained unsettled for a considerable period after\nhis death, through delays in realising certain sums of money owing to his\nrepresentative. The widow had been left very well provided for--she was\nstill a comely attractive woman--and more than one substantial citizen\nof Toulouse had shown himself anxious to persuade her into marrying for\nthe second time. But the widow Mirailhe lived on terms of great intimacy\nand affection with her brother Siadoux and his family; she was sincerely\nattached to them, and sincerely unwilling, at her age, to deprive her\nnephews and nieces, by a second marriage, of the inheritance, or even of\na portion of the inheritance, which would otherwise fall to them on her\ndeath. Animated by these motives, she closed her doors resolutely on all\nsuitors who attempted to pay their court to her, with the one exception\nof a master-butcher of Toulouse, whose name was Cantegrel.\n\nThis man was a neighbour of the widow's, and had made himself useful by\nassisting her in the business complications which still hung about the\nrealisation of her late husband's estate. The preference which she showed\nfor the master-butcher was, thus far, of the purely negative kind. She\ngave him no absolute encouragement; she would not for a moment admit\nthat there was the slightest prospect of her ever marrying him--but, at\nthe same time, she continued to receive his visits, and she showed no\ndisposition to restrict the neighbourly intercourse between them, for the\nfuture, within purely formal bounds. Under these circumstances, Saturnin\nSiadoux began to be alarmed, and to think it time to bestir himself.\nHe had no personal acquaintance with Cantegrel, who never visited the\nvillage; and Monsieur Chaubard (to whom he might otherwise have applied\nfor advice) was not in a position to give an opinion: the priest and the\nmaster-butcher did not even know each other by sight. In this difficulty,\nSiadoux bethought himself of inquiring privately at Toulouse, in the hope\nof discovering some scandalous passages in Cantegrel's early life, which\nmight fatally degrade him in the estimation of the widow Mirailhe. The\ninvestigation, as usual in such cases, produced rumours and reports in\nplenty, the greater part of which dated back to a period of the butcher's\nlife when he had resided in the ancient town of Narbonne. One of these\nrumours, especially, was of so serious a nature, that Siadoux determined\nto test the truth or falsehood of it, personally, by travelling to\nNarbonne. He kept his intention a secret not only from his sister and his\ndaughters, but also from his sons; they were young men, not over-patient\nin their tempers--and he doubted their discretion. Thus, nobody knew his\nreal purpose but himself, when he left home.\n\nHis safe arrival at Narbonne was notified in a letter to his family.\nThe letter entered into no particulars relating to his secret errand:\nit merely informed his children of the day when they might expect him\nback, and of certain social arrangements which he wished to be made to\nwelcome him on his return. He proposed, on his way home, to stay two days\nat Castelnaudry, for the purpose of paying a visit to an old friend who\nwas settled there. According to this plan, his return to Croix-Daurade\nwould be deferred until Tuesday, the twenty-sixth of April, when his\nfamily might expect to see him about sunset, in good time for supper.\nHe further desired that a little party of friends might be invited to\nthe meal, to celebrate the twenty-sixth of April (which was a feast-day\nin the village), as well as to celebrate his return. The guests whom\nhe wished to be invited were, first, his sister; secondly, Monsieur\nChaubard, whose pleasant disposition made him a welcome guest at all the\nvillage festivals; thirdly and fourthly, two neighbours, business-men like\nhimself, with whom he lived on terms of the friendliest intimacy. That\nwas the party; and the family of Siadoux took especial pains, as the time\napproached, to provide a supper worthy of the guests, who had all shown\nthe heartiest readiness in accepting their invitations.\n\nThis was the domestic position, these were the family prospects, on\nthe morning of the twenty-sixth of April--a memorable day, for years\nafterwards, in the village of Croix-Daurade.\n\n\nII. THE EVENTS OF THE DAY.\n\nBesides the curacy of the village church, good Monsieur Chaubard held some\nsmall ecclesiastical preferment in the cathedral church of St. Stephen\nat Toulouse. Early in the forenoon of the twenty-sixth, certain matters\nconnected with this preferment took him from his village curacy to the\ncity--a distance which has been already described as not greater than one\nFrench league, or between two and three English miles.\n\nAfter transacting his business, Monsieur Chaubard parted with his clerical\nbrethren, who left him by himself in the sacristy (or vestry) of the\nchurch. Before he had quitted the room, in his turn, the beadle entered\nit, and inquired for the Abb\u00e9 de Mariotte, one of the officiating priests\nattached to the cathedral.\n\n\"The Abb\u00e9 has just gone out,\" replied Monsieur Chaubard. \"Who wants him?\"\n\n\"A respectable-looking man,\" said the beadle. \"I thought he seemed to be\nin some distress of mind, when he spoke to me.\"\n\n\"Did he mention his business with the Abb\u00e9?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; he expressed himself as anxious to make his confession\nimmediately.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said Monsieur Chaubard, \"I may be of use to him in the\nAbb\u00e9's absence--for I have authority to act here as confessor. Let us\ngo into the church, and see if this person feels disposed to accept my\nservices.\"\n\nWhen they went into the church, they found the man walking backwards and\nforwards in a restless, disordered manner. His looks were so strikingly\nsuggestive of some serious mental perturbation, that Monsieur Chaubard\nfound it no easy matter to preserve his composure, when he first addressed\nhimself to the stranger.\n\n\"I am sorry,\" he began, \"that the Abb\u00e9 de Mariotte is not here to offer\nyou his services----\"\n\n\"I want to make my confession,\" said the man, looking about him vacantly,\nas if the priest's words had not attracted his attention.\n\n\"You can do so at once, if you please,\" said Monsieur Chaubard. \"I am\nattached to this church, and I possess the necessary authority to receive\nconfessions in it. Perhaps, however, you are personally acquainted with\nthe Abb\u00e9 de Mariotte? Perhaps you would prefer waiting----\"\n\n\"No!\" said the man, roughly. \"I would as soon, or sooner, confess to a\nstranger.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" replied Monsieur Chaubard, \"be so good as to follow me.\"\n\nHe led the way to the confessional. The beadle, whose curiosity was\nexcited, waited a little, and looked after them. In a few minutes, he\nsaw the curtains, which were sometimes used to conceal the face of the\nofficiating priest, suddenly drawn. The penitent knelt with his back\nturned to the church. There was literally nothing to see--but the beadle\nwaited nevertheless, in expectation of the end.\n\nAfter a long lapse of time, the curtain was withdrawn, and priest and\npenitent left the confessional.\n\nThe change which the interval had worked in Monsieur Chaubard was so\nextraordinary, that the beadle's attention was altogether withdrawn, in\nthe interest of observing it, from the man who had made the confession. He\ndid not remark by which door the stranger left the church--his eyes were\nfixed on Monsieur Chaubard. The priest's naturally ruddy face was as white\nas if he had just risen from a long sickness--he looked straight before\nhim, with a stare of terror--and he left the church as hurriedly as if he\nhad been a man escaping from prison; left it without a parting word, or\na farewell look, although he was noted for his courtesy to his inferiors\non all ordinary occasions.\n\n\"Good Monsieur Chaubard has heard more than he bargained for,\" said the\nbeadle, wandering back to the empty confessional, with an interest which\nhe had never felt in it till that moment.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe day wore on as quietly as usual in the village of Croix-Daurade. At\nthe appointed time, the supper-table was laid for the guests in the house\nof Saturnin Siadoux. The widow Mirailhe, and the two neighbours, arrived a\nlittle before sunset. Monsieur Chaubard, who was usually punctual, did not\nmake his appearance with them; and when the daughters of Saturnin Siadoux\nlooked out from the upper windows, they saw no signs on the high road of\ntheir father's return.\n\nSunset came--and still neither Siadoux nor the priest appeared. The little\nparty sat waiting round the table, and waited in vain. Before long, a\nmessage was sent up from the kitchen, representing that the supper must\nbe eaten forthwith, or be spoilt; and the company began to debate the two\nalternatives, of waiting, or not waiting, any longer.\n\n\"It is my belief,\" said the widow Mirailhe, \"that my brother is not coming\nhome to-night. When Monsieur Chaubard joins us, we had better sit down to\nsupper.\"\n\n\"Can any accident have happened to my father?\" asked one of the two\ndaughters, anxiously.\n\n\"God forbid!\" said the widow.\n\n\"God forbid!\" repeated the two neighbours, looking expectantly at the\nempty supper-table.\n\n\"It has been a wretched day for travelling,\" said Louis, the eldest son.\n\n\"It rained in torrents, all yesterday,\" added Thomas, the second son.\n\n\"And your father's rheumatism makes him averse to travelling in wet\nweather,\" suggested the widow, thoughtfully.\n\n\"Very true!\" said the first of the two neighbours, shaking his head\npiteously at his passive knife and fork.\n\nAnother message came up from the kitchen, and peremptorily forbade the\ncompany to wait any longer.\n\n\"But where is Monsieur Chaubard?\" said the widow. \"Has he been taking a\njourney too? Why is _he_ absent? Has anybody seen him to-day?\"\n\n\"I have seen him to-day,\" said the youngest son, who had not spoken yet.\nThis young man's name was Jean; he was little given to talking, but he\nhad proved himself, on various domestic occasions, to be the quickest and\nmost observant member of the family.\n\n\"Where did you see him?\" asked the widow.\n\n\"I met him, this morning, on his way into Toulouse.\"\n\n\"He has not fallen ill, I hope? Did he look out of sorts when you met him?\"\n\n\"He was in excellent health and spirits,\" said Jean. \"I never saw him look\nbetter----\"\n\n\"And _I_ never saw him look worse,\" said the second of the neighbours,\nstriking into the conversation with the aggressive fretfulness of a hungry\nman.\n\n\"What! this morning?\" cried Jean, in astonishment.\n\n\"No; this afternoon,\" said the neighbour. \"I saw him going into our church\nhere. He was as white as our plates will be--when they come up. And what\nis almost as extraordinary, he passed without taking the slightest notice\nof me.\"\n\nJean relapsed into his customary silence. It was getting dark; the clouds\nhad gathered while the company had been talking; and, at the first pause\nin the conversation, the rain, falling again in torrents, made itself\ndrearily audible.\n\n\"Dear, dear me!\" said the widow. \"If it was not raining so hard, we might\nsend somebody to inquire after good Monsieur Chaubard.\"\n\n\"I'll go and inquire,\" said Thomas Siadoux. \"It's not five minutes'\nwalk. Have up the supper; I'll take a cloak with me; and if our excellent\nMonsieur Chaubard is out of his bed, I'll bring him back, to answer for\nhimself.\"\n\nWith those words he left the room. The supper was put on the table\nforthwith. The hungry neighbour disputed with nobody from that moment,\nand the melancholy neighbour recovered his spirits.\n\nOn reaching the priest's house, Thomas Siadoux found him sitting alone\nin his study. He started to his feet, with every appearance of the most\nviolent alarm, when the young man entered the room.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir,\" said Thomas; \"I am afraid I have startled you.\"\n\n\"What do you want?\" asked Monsieur Chaubard, in a singularly abrupt,\nbewildered manner.\n\n\"Have you forgotten, sir, that this is the night of our supper?\"\nremonstrated Thomas. \"My father has not come back; and we can only\nsuppose----\"\n\nAt those words the priest dropped into his chair again, and trembled from\nhead to foot. Amazed to the last degree by this extraordinary reception\nof his remonstrance, Thomas Siadoux remembered, at the same time, that he\nhad engaged to bring Monsieur Chaubard back with him; and, he determined\nto finish his civil speech, as if nothing had happened.\n\n\"We are all of opinion,\" he resumed, \"that the weather has kept my father\non the road. But that is no reason, sir, why the supper should be wasted,\nor why you should not make one of us, as you promised. Here is a good warm\ncloak----\"\n\n\"I can't come,\" said the priest. \"I'm ill; I'm in bad spirits; I'm not\nfit to go out.\" He sighed bitterly, and hid his face in his hands.\n\n\"Don't say that, sir,\" persisted Thomas. \"If you are out of spirits, let\nus try to cheer you. And you, in your turn, will enliven us. They are all\nwaiting for you at home. Don't refuse, sir,\" pleaded the young man, \"or\nwe shall think we have offended you, in some way. You have always been a\ngood friend to our family----\"\n\nMonsieur Chaubard again rose from his chair, with a second change\nof manner, as extraordinary and as perplexing as the first. His eyes\nmoistened as if the tears were rising in them; he took the hand of Thomas\nSiadoux, and pressed it long and warmly in his own. There was a curious\nmixed expression of pity and fear in the look which he now fixed on the\nyoung man.\n\n\"Of all the days in the year,\" he said, very earnestly, \"don't doubt my\nfriendship to-day. Ill as I am, I will make one of the supper-party, for\nyour sake----\"\n\n\"And for my father's sake?\" added Thomas, persuasively.\n\n\"Let us go to the supper,\" said the priest.\n\nThomas Siadoux wrapped the cloak round him, and they left the house.\n\nEvery one at the table noticed the change in Monsieur Chaubard. He\naccounted for it by declaring, confusedly, that he was suffering\nfrom nervous illness; and then added that he would do his best,\nnotwithstanding, to promote the social enjoyment of the evening. His talk\nwas fragmentary, and his cheerfulness was sadly forced; but he contrived,\nwith these drawbacks, to take his part in the conversation--except in the\ncase when it happened to turn on the absent master of the house. Whenever\nthe name of Saturnin Siadoux was mentioned--either by the neighbours,\nwho politely regretted that he was not present; or by the family, who\nnaturally talked about the resting-place which he might have chosen\nfor the night--Monsieur Chaubard either relapsed into blank silence, or\nabruptly changed the topic. Under these circumstances, the company, by\nwhom he was respected and beloved, made the necessary allowances for his\nstate of health; the only person among them, who showed no desire to cheer\nthe priest's spirits, and to humour him in his temporary fretfulness,\nbeing the silent younger son of Saturnin Siadoux.\n\nBoth Louis and Thomas noticed that, from the moment when Monsieur\nChaubard's manner first betrayed his singular unwillingness to touch on\nthe subject of their father's absence, Jean fixed his eyes on the priest,\nwith an expression of suspicious attention; and never looked away from him\nfor the rest of the evening. The young man's absolute silence at table\ndid not surprise his brothers, for they were accustomed to his taciturn\nhabits. But the sullen distrust betrayed in his close observation of the\nhonoured guest and friend of the family, surprised and angered them. The\npriest himself seemed once or twice to be aware of the scrutiny to which\nhe was subjected, and to feel uneasy and offended, as he naturally might.\nHe abstained, however, from openly noticing Jean's strange behaviour; and\nLouis and Thomas were bound, therefore, in common politeness, to abstain\nfrom noticing it also.\n\nThe inhabitants of Croix-Daurade kept early hours. Towards eleven o'clock,\nthe company rose and separated for the night. Except the two neighbours,\nnobody had enjoyed the supper, and even the two neighbours, having eaten\ntheir fill, were as glad to get home as the rest. In the little confusion\nof parting, Monsieur Chaubard completed the astonishment of the guests at\nthe extraordinary change in him, by slipping away alone, without waiting\nto bid anybody good night.\n\nThe widow Mirailhe and her nieces withdrew to their bed-rooms, and left\nthe three brothers by themselves in the parlour.\n\n\"Jean,\" said Thomas Siadoux, \"I have a word to say to you. You stared\nat our good Monsieur Chaubard in a very offensive manner all through the\nevening. What did you mean by it?\"\n\n\"Wait till to-morrow,\" said Jean; \"and perhaps I may tell you.\"\n\nHe lit his candle, and left them. Both the brothers observed that his hand\ntrembled, and that his manner--never very winning--was, on that night,\nmore serious and more unsociable than usual.\n\n\nIII. THE YOUNGER BROTHER.\n\nWhen post-time came on the morning of the twenty-seventh, no letter\narrived from Saturnin Siadoux. On consideration, the family interpreted\nthis circumstance in a favourable light. If the master of the house had\nnot written to them, it followed, surely, that he meant to make writing\nunnecessary by returning on that day.\n\nAs the hours passed, the widow and her nieces looked out, from time to\ntime, for the absent man. Towards noon, they observed a little assembly\nof people approaching the village. Ere long, on a nearer view, they\nrecognised at the head of the assembly, the chief magistrate of Toulouse,\nin his official dress. He was accompanied by his Assessor (also in\nofficial dress), by an escort of archers, and by certain subordinates\nattached to the town-hall. These last appeared to be carrying some burden,\nwhich was hidden from view by the escort of archers. The procession\nstopped at the house of Saturnin Siadoux; and the two daughters, hastening\nto the door, to discover what had happened, met the burden which the men\nwere carrying, and saw, stretched on a litter, the dead body of their\nfather.\n\nThe corpse had been found that morning on the banks of the river Lers.\nIt was stabbed in eleven places with knife or dagger wounds. None of the\nvaluables about the dead man's person had been touched; his watch and his\nmoney were still in his pockets. Whoever had murdered him, had murdered\nhim for vengeance, not for gain.\n\nSome time elapsed before even the male members of the family were\nsufficiently composed to hear what the officers of justice had to say to\nthem. When this result had been at length achieved, and when the necessary\ninquiries had been made, no information of any kind was obtained which\npointed to the murderer, in the eye of the law. After expressing his\nsympathy, and promising that every available means should be tried to\neffect the discovery of the criminal, the chief magistrate gave his orders\nto his escort, and withdrew.\n\nWhen night came, the sister and the daughters of the murdered man retired\nto the upper part of the house, exhausted by the violence of their grief.\nThe three brothers were left once more alone in the parlour, to speak\ntogether of the awful calamity which had befallen them. They were of hot\nSouthern blood, and they looked on one another with a Southern thirst for\nvengeance in their tearless eyes.\n\nThe silent younger son was now the first to open his lips.\n\n\"You charged me yesterday,\" he said to his brother Thomas, \"with looking\nstrangely at Monsieur Chaubard all the evening; and I answered that I\nmight tell you _why_ I looked at him when to-morrow came. To-morrow has\ncome, and I am ready to tell you.\"\n\nHe waited a little, and lowered his voice to a whisper when he spoke again.\n\n\"When Monsieur Chaubard was at our supper-table last night,\" he said, \"I\nhad it in my mind that something had happened to our father, and that the\npriest knew it.\"\n\nThe two elder brothers looked at him in speechless astonishment.\n\n\"Our father has been brought back to us a murdered man!\" Jean went on,\nstill in a whisper. \"I tell you, Louis--and you, Thomas--that the priest\nknows who murdered him.\"\n\nLouis and Thomas shrank from their younger brother, as if he had spoken\nblasphemy.\n\n\"Listen,\" said Jean. \"No clue has been found to the secret of the murder.\nThe magistrate has promised us to do his best--but I saw in his face that\nhe had little hope. We must make the discovery ourselves--or our father's\nblood will have cried to us for vengeance, and cried in vain. Remember\nthat--and mark my next words. You heard me say yesterday evening, that\nI had met Monsieur Chaubard on his way to Toulouse in excellent health\nand spirits. You heard our old friend and neighbour contradict me at the\nsupper-table, and declare that he had seen the priest, some hours later,\ngo into our church here with the face of a panic-stricken man. You saw,\nThomas, how he behaved when you went to fetch him to our house. You saw,\nLouis, what his looks were like when he came in. The change was noticed by\neverybody--what was the cause of it? _I_ saw the cause in the priest's own\nface, when our father's name turned up in the talk round the supper-table.\nDid Monsieur Chaubard join in that talk? He was the only person present\nwho never joined in it once. Did he change it, on a sudden, whenever\nit came his way? It came his way four times; and four times he changed\nit--trembling, stammering, turning whiter and whiter, but still, as true\nas the Heaven above us, shifting the talk off himself, every time! Are\nyou men? Have you brains in your heads? Don't you see, as I see, what\nthis leads to? On my salvation I swear it--the priest knows the hand that\nkilled our father!\"\n\nThe faces of the two elder brothers darkened vindictively, as the\nconviction of the truth fastened itself on their minds.\n\n\"_How_ could he know it?\" they inquired, eagerly.\n\n\"He must tell us himself,\" said Jean.\n\n\"And if he hesitates--if he refuses to open his lips?\"\n\n\"We must open them by main force.\"\n\nThey drew their chairs together after that last answer, and consulted,\nfor some time, in whispers.\n\nWhen the consultation was over, the brothers rose and went into the room\nwhere the dead body of their father was laid out. The three kissed him, in\nturn, on the forehead--then took hands together, and looked, meaningly,\nin each other's faces--then separated. Louis and Thomas put on their\nhats, and went at once to the priest's residence; while Jean withdrew by\nhimself to the great room at the back of the house, which was used for\nthe purposes of the oil-factory.\n\nOnly one of the workmen was left in the place. He was watching an immense\ncauldron of boiling linseed-oil.\n\n\"You can go home,\" said Jean, patting the man kindly on the shoulder.\n\"There is no hope of a night's rest for me, after the affliction that\nhas befallen us--I will take your place at the cauldron. Go home, my good\nfellow--go home.\"\n\nThe man thanked him, and withdrew. Jean followed, and satisfied himself\nthat the workman had really left the house. He then returned, and sat down\nby the boiling cauldron.\n\nMeanwhile, Louis and Thomas presented themselves at the priest's house.\nHe had not yet retired to bed, and he received them kindly--but with\nthe same extraordinary agitation in his face and manner which had\nsurprised all who saw him on the previous day. The brothers were prepared\nbeforehand with an answer, when he inquired what they wanted of him. They\nreplied immediately that the shock of their father's horrible death had\nso seriously affected their aunt and their eldest sister, that it was\nfeared the minds of both might give way, unless spiritual consolation and\nassistance were afforded to them that night. The unhappy priest--always\nfaithful and self-sacrificing where the duties of his ministry were in\nquestion--at once rose to accompany the young men back to the house. He\neven put on his surplice, and took the crucifix with him, to impress his\nwords of comfort all the more solemnly on the afflicted women whom he was\ncalled on to succour.\n\nThus innocent of all suspicion of the conspiracy to which he had fallen a\nvictim, he was taken into the room where Jean sat waiting by the cauldron\nof oil; and the door was locked behind him.\n\nBefore he could speak, Thomas Siadoux openly avowed the truth.\n\n\"It is we three who want you,\" he said--\"not our aunt, and not our sister.\nIf you answer our questions truly, you have nothing to fear. If you\nrefuse----\" He stopped, and looked toward Jean and the boiling cauldron.\n\nNever, at the best of times, a resolute man; deprived, since the day\nbefore, of such resources of energy as he possessed, by the mental\nsuffering which he had undergone in secret--the unfortunate priest\ntrembled from head to foot, as the three brothers closed round him. Louis\ntook the crucifix from him, and held it; Thomas forced him to place his\nright hand on it; Jean stood in front of him and put the questions.\n\n\"Our father has been brought home a murdered man,\" he said. \"Do you know\nwho killed him?\"\n\nThe priest hesitated; and the two elder brothers moved him nearer to the\ncauldron.\n\n\"Answer us, on peril of your life,\" said Jean. \"Say, with your hand on\nthe blessed crucifix, do you know the man who killed our father?\"\n\n\"I do know him.\"\n\n\"When did you make the discovery?\"\n\n\"Yesterday.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"At Toulouse.\"\n\n\"Name the murderer.\"\n\nAt those words, the priest closed his hand fast on the crucifix, and\nrallied his sinking courage.\n\n\"Never!\" he said firmly. \"The knowledge I possess was obtained in the\nconfessional. The secrets of the confessional are sacred. If I betray\nthem, I commit sacrilege. I will die first!\"\n\n\"Think!\" said Jean. \"If you keep silence, you screen the murderer. If you\nkeep silence, you are the murderer's accomplice. We have sworn over our\nfather's dead body to avenge him--if you refuse to speak, we will avenge\nhim on _you_. I charge you again, name the man who killed him.\"\n\n\"I will die first,\" the priest reiterated, as firmly as before.\n\n\"Die then!\" said Jean. \"Die in that cauldron of boiling oil.\"\n\n\"Give him time,\" cried Louis and Thomas, earnestly pleading together.\n\n\"We will give him time,\" said the younger brother. \"There is the clock\nyonder, against the wall. We will count five minutes by it. In those five\nminutes, let him make his peace with God--or make up his mind to speak.\"\n\nThey waited, watching the clock. In that dreadful interval, the priest\ndropped on his knees and hid his face. The time passed in dead silence.\n\n\"Speak! for your own sake, for our sakes, speak!\" said Thomas Siadoux, as\nthe minute hand reached the point at which the five minutes expired.\n\nThe priest looked up--his voice died away on his lips--the mortal agony\nbroke out on his face in great drops of sweat--his head sank forward on\nhis breast.\n\n\"Lift him!\" cried Jean, seizing the priest on one side. \"Lift him, and\nthrow him in!\"\n\nThe two elder brothers advanced a step--and hesitated.\n\n\"Lift him, on your oath over our father's body!\"\n\nThe two brothers seized him on the other side. As they lifted him to a\nlevel with the cauldron, the horror of the death that threatened him,\nburst from the lips of the miserable man in a scream of terror. The\nbrothers held him firm at the cauldron's edge. \"Name the man!\" they said\nfor the last time.\n\nThe priest's teeth chattered--he was speechless. But he made a sign with\nhis head--a sign in the affirmative. They placed him in a chair, and\nwaited patiently until he was able to speak.\n\nHis first words were words of entreaty. He begged Thomas Siadoux to give\nhim back the crucifix. When it was placed in his possession, he kissed\nit, and said faintly, \"I ask pardon of God for the sin that I am about to\ncommit.\" He paused; and then looked up at the younger brother, who still\nstood in front of him. \"I am ready,\" he said. \"Question me, and I will\nanswer.\"\n\nJean repeated the questions which he had put, when the priest was first\nbrought into the room.\n\n\"You know the murderer of our father?\"\n\n\"I know him.\"\n\n\"Since when?\"\n\n\"Since he made his confession to me yesterday, in the cathedral of\nToulouse.\"\n\n\"Name him.\"\n\n\"His name is Cantegrel.\"\n\n\"The man who wanted to marry our aunt?\"\n\n\"The same.\"\n\n\"What brought him to the confessional?\"\n\n\"His own remorse.\"\n\n\"What were the motives for his crime?\"\n\n\"There were reports against his character; and he discovered that your\nfather had gone privately to Narbonne to make sure that they were true.\"\n\n\"Did our father make sure of their truth?\"\n\n\"He did.\"\n\n\"Would those discoveries have separated our aunt from Cantegrel if our\nfather had lived to tell her of them?\"\n\n\"They would. If your father had lived, he would have told your aunt that\nCantegrel was married already; that he had deserted his wife at Narbonne;\nthat she was living there with another man, under another name; and that\nshe had herself confessed it in your father's presence.\"\n\n\"Where was the murder committed?\"\n\n\"Between Villefranche and this village. Cantegrel had followed your father\nto Narbonne; and had followed him back again to Villefranche. As far as\nthat place, he travelled in company with others, both going and returning.\nBeyond Villefranche, he was left alone at the ford over the river. There\nCantegrel drew the knife to kill him, before he reached home and told his\nnews to your aunt.\"\n\n\"How was the murder committed?\"\n\n\"It was committed while your father was watering his pony by the bank of\nthe stream. Cantegrel stole on him from behind, and struck him as he was\nstooping over the saddle-bow.\"\n\n\"This is the truth, on your oath?\"\n\n\"On my oath, it is the truth.\"\n\n\"You may leave us.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe priest rose from his chair without assistance. From the time when\nthe terror of death had forced him to reveal the murderer's name, a great\nchange had passed over him. He had given his answers with the immoveable\ncalmness of a man on whose mind all human interests had lost their hold.\nHe now left the room, strangely absorbed in himself; moving with the\nmechanical regularity of a sleep-walker; lost to all perception of things\nand persons about him. At the door he stopped--woke, as it seemed, from\nthe trance that possessed him--and looked at the three brothers with a\nsteady changeless sorrow, which they had never seen in him before, which\nthey never afterwards forgot.\n\n\"I forgive you,\" he said, quietly and solemnly. \"Pray for me, when my time\ncomes.\"\n\nWith those last words, he left them.\n\n\nIV. THE END.\n\nThe night was far advanced; but the three brothers determined to set forth\ninstantly for Toulouse, and to place their information in the magistrate's\nhands, before the morning dawned.\n\nThus far, no suspicion had occurred to them of the terrible consequences\nwhich were to follow their night-interview with the priest. They were\nabsolutely ignorant of the punishment to which a man in holy orders\nexposed himself, if he revealed the secrets of the confessional. No\ninfliction of that punishment had been known in their neighbourhood--for,\nat that time, as at this, the rarest of all priestly offences was a\nviolation of the sacred trust confided to the confessor by the Roman\nChurch. Conscious that they had forced the priest into the commission of\na clerical offence, the brothers sincerely believed that the loss of his\ncuracy would be the heaviest penalty which the law could exact from him.\nThey entered Toulouse that night, discussing the atonement which they\nmight offer to Monsieur Chaubard, and the means which they might best\nemploy to make his future life easy to him.\n\nThe first disclosure of the consequences which would certainly follow\nthe outrage they had committed, was revealed to them when they made their\ndeposition before the officer of justice. The magistrate listened to their\nnarrative with horror vividly expressed in his face and manner.\n\n\"Better you had never been born,\" he said, \"than have avenged your\nfather's death, as you three have avenged it. Your own act has doomed the\nguilty and the innocent to suffer alike.\"\n\nThose words proved prophetic of the truth. The end came quickly, as the\npriest had foreseen it, when he spoke his parting words.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe arrest of Cantegrel was accomplished without difficulty, the next\nmorning. In the absence of any other evidence on which to justify this\nproceeding, the private disclosure to the authorities of the secret which\nthe priest had violated, became inevitable. The Parliament of Languedoc\nwas, under these circumstances, the tribunal appealed to; and the decision\nof that assembly immediately ordered the priest and the three brothers\nto be placed in confinement, as well as the murderer Cantegrel. Evidence\nwas then immediately sought for, which might convict this last criminal,\nwithout any reference to the revelation that had been forced from the\npriest--and evidence enough was found to satisfy judges whose minds\nalready possessed the foregone certainty of the prisoner's guilt. He was\nput on his trial, was convicted of the murder, and was condemned to be\nbroken on the wheel. The sentence was rigidly executed, with as little\ndelay as the law would permit.\n\nThe cases of Monsieur Chaubard, and of the three sons of Siadoux, next\noccupied the judges. The three brothers were found guilty of having forced\nthe secret of a confession from a man in holy orders, and were sentenced\nto death by hanging. A far more terrible expiation of his offence awaited\nthe unfortunate priest. He was condemned to have his limbs broken on the\nwheel, and to be afterwards, while still living, bound to the stake, and\ndestroyed by fire.\n\nBarbarous as the punishments of that period were, accustomed as the\npopulation was to hear of their infliction, and even to witness it, the\nsentences pronounced in these two cases dismayed the public mind; and the\nauthorities were surprised by receiving petitions for mercy from Toulouse,\nand from all the surrounding neighbourhood. But the priest's doom had been\nsealed. All that could be obtained, by the intercession of persons of\nthe highest distinction, was, that the executioner should grant him the\nmercy of death, before his body was committed to the flames. With this\none modification, the sentence was executed, as the sentence had been\npronounced, on the curate of Croix-Daurade.\n\nThe punishment of the three sons of Siadoux remained to be inflicted. But\nthe people, roused by the death of the ill-fated priest, rose against this\nthird execution, with a resolution before which the local government gave\nway. The cause of the young men was taken up by the hot-blooded populace,\nas the cause of all fathers and all sons; their filial piety was exalted\nto the skies; their youth was pleaded in their behalf; their ignorance\nof the terrible responsibility which they had confronted in forcing the\nsecret from the priest, was loudly alleged in their favour. More than\nthis, the authorities were actually warned that the appearance of the\nprisoners on the scaffold would be the signal for an organised revolt and\nrescue. Under this serious pressure, the execution was deferred, and the\nprisoners were kept in confinement until the popular ferment had subsided.\n\nThe delay not only saved their lives, it gave them back their liberty\nas well. The infection of the popular sympathy had penetrated through\nthe prison doors. All three brothers were handsome, well-grown young\nmen. The gentlest of the three in disposition--Thomas Siadoux--aroused\nthe interest and won the affection of the head-gaoler's daughter. Her\nfather was prevailed on at her intercession to relax a little in his\ncustomary vigilance; and the rest was accomplished by the girl herself.\nOne morning, the population of Toulouse heard, with every testimony of\nthe most extravagant rejoicing, that the three brothers had escaped,\naccompanied by the gaoler's daughter. As a necessary legal formality, they\nwere pursued, but no extraordinary efforts were used to overtake them:\nand they succeeded, accordingly, in crossing the nearest frontier.\n\nTwenty days later, orders were received from the capital, to execute\ntheir sentence in effigy. They were then permitted to return to France,\non condition that they never again appeared in their native place, or in\nany other part of the province of Languedoc. With this reservation they\nwere left free to live where they pleased, and to repent the fatal act\nwhich had avenged them on the murderer of their father at the cost of the\npriest's life.\n\nBeyond this point the official documents do not enable us to follow their\ncareer. All that is now known has been now told of the village-tragedy at\nCroix-Daurade.\n\n\n\n\nBOLD WORDS BY A BACHELOR.\n\n\nThe postman's knocks at my door have been latterly more frequent than\nusual; and out of the increased number of letters left for me, it has\nhappened that an unusually large proportion have contained wedding cards.\nJust as there seem to be certain days when all the beautiful women in\nLondon take to going out together, certain days when all the people we\nknow appear to be conspiring to meet us at every turn in one afternoon's\nwalk--so there seem to be times and seasons when all our friends are\ninexplicably bent on getting married together. Capricious in everything,\nthe law of chances is especially whimsical, according to my experience,\nin its influence over the solemnisation of matrimony. Six months ago,\nthere was no need for me to leave a single complimentary card anywhere,\nfor weeks and weeks together. Just at the present time, I find myself\nin danger of wearing out my card-case by incessant use. My friends are\nmarrying recklessly in all sorts of opposite directions, and are making\nthe bells a greater nuisance than usual in every parish of London.\n\nThese curious circumstances have set me thinking on the subject of\nmarriage, and have recalled to my mind certain reflections in connection\nwith that important change in life, which I first made when I was not\nquite such an incurably-settled old bachelor as I am at the present\nmoment.\n\nIt occurred to me, at that past time, and it occurs to me still, that\nwhile great stress is laid in ordinary books and ordinary talk on the\npersonal interest which a man has himself, and on the family interest\nwhich his near relations have also, in his marrying an affectionate\nand sensible woman, sufficient importance has not been attached to the\ninterest of another sort, which the tried and worthy friends of his\nbachelor days ought to feel, and, for the most part, do feel, in his\ngetting a good wife. It really and truly depends upon her, in more cases\nthan I should like to enumerate, whether her husband's friendships are\nto be continued, after his marriage, in all their integrity, or are\nonly to be maintained as a mere social form. It is hardly necessary for\nme to repeat--but I will do so, in order to avoid the slightest chance\nof misconstruction--that I am here speaking only of the worthiest, the\ntruest, the longest-tried friends of a man's bachelor days. Towards these\nevery sensible married woman feels, as I believe, that she owes a duty for\nher husband's sake. But, unfortunately, there are such female phenomena\nin the world as fond wives and devoted mothers, who are anything rather\nthan sensible women the moment they are required to step out of the sphere\nof their conjugal and maternal instincts. Women of this sort have an\nunreasonable jealousy of their husbands in small things; and on the misuse\nof their influence to serve the interests of that jealousy, lies but too\noften the responsibility of severing such friendships as no man can hope\nto form for the second time in the course of his life. By the severing\nof friendships, I do not mean the breaking off of all intercourse, but\nthe fatal changing of the terms on which a man lives with his friend--the\ncasting of the first slight shadow which alters the look of the whole\nprospect. It is astonishing by what a multitude of slight threads the firm\ncontinuity of brotherly regard is maintained. Many a woman has snapped\nasunder all the finer ligaments which once connected her husband and his\nfriend; and has thought it enough if she left the two still attached by\nthe coarser ties which are at the common disposal of all the world. Many a\nwoman--delicate, affectionate, and kind within her own narrow limits--has\ncommitted that heavy social offence, and has never felt afterwards a\nsingle pang of pity or remorse.\n\nThese bold words will be unpopular enough, I am afraid, with certain\nreaders; but I am an old bachelor, and I must have licence to speak the\nunwelcome truth. I respect and admire a good husband and father, but I\ncannot shake off the equally sincere reverence that I feel for a good\nfriend; and I must be allowed to tell some married ladies--what Society\nought to tell them a little oftener--that there are other affections, in\nthis world, which are noble and honourable, besides those of conjugal and\nparental origin. It may be an assertion of a very shocking and unexpected\nkind, but I must nevertheless be excused for saying, that some of the\nbest wives and mothers in the land have given the heart-ache to some of\nthe best friends. While they have been behaving like patterns of conjugal\npropriety, they have been estranging men who would once have gone to the\nworld's end to serve each other. I, as a single man, can say nothing of\nthe dreadful wrench--not the less dreadful because it is inevitable--when\na father and mother lose a daughter, in order that a lover may gain a\nwife. But I can speak feelingly of the shock of losing a dear friend, in\norder that a bride may gain a devoted husband. Nothing shall ever persuade\nme (possibly because I am not married) that there is not a flaw of some\nsort in the love for a wife which is made complete, in some people's eyes,\nby forced contributions from the love which belongs to a friend. I know\nthat a man and woman who make a happy marriage have gained the summit of\nearthly felicity; but do they never reach that enviable eminence without\nhaving trampled underfoot something venerable, or something tender, by\nthe way?\n\nBear with me, indignant wives, if I recall the long-past time when one of\nthe handsomest women I ever saw, took my dearest friend away from me, and\ndestroyed, in one short day, the whole pleasant edifice that we two had\nbeen building up together since we were boys at school.\n\nI shall never be as fond of any human being again, as I was of that one\nfriend, and, until the beautiful woman came between us, I believe there\nwas nothing in this world that he would not have sacrificed and have\ndone for me. Even while he was courting, I kept my hold on him. Against\nopposition on the part of his bride and her family, he stipulated that\nI should be his best man on the wedding-day. The beautiful woman grudged\nme my one small corner in his heart, even at that time; but he was true\nto me--he persisted--and I was the first to shake hands with him when\nhe was a married man. I had no suspicion then that I was to lose him\nfrom that moment. I only discovered the truth when I went to pay my\nfirst visit to the bride and bridegroom at their abode in the country.\nI found a beautiful house, exquisitely kept from top to bottom; I found\na hearty welcome; I found a good dinner and an airy bed-room; I found\na pattern husband and a pattern wife: the one thing I did not find was\nmy old friend. Something stood up in his clothes, shook hands with me,\npressed wine on me, called me by my Christian name, and inquired what I\nwas doing in my profession. It was certainly something that had a trick\nof looking like my former comrade and brother; something that nobody in\nmy situation could have complained of with the smallest reason; something\nwith all the brightness of the old metal about it, but without the\nsterling old ring; something, in short, which made me instinctively take\nmy chamber-candlestick early on the first night of my arrival, and say\ngood night while the beautiful woman and pattern wife was present to keep\nher eye on me.\n\nCan I ever forget the language of that eye on that occasion!--the volumes\nit spoke in one glance of cruel triumph! \"No more sacred secrets between\nyou two,\" it said, brightly. \"When you trust him now, you must trust me.\nYou may sacrifice yourself for your love of him over and over again still,\nbut he shall make no sacrifices now for you, until he has first found out\nhow they affect my convenience and my pleasure. Your place in his heart\nnow, is where I choose it to be. I have stormed the citadel, and I will\nbring children by-and-by to keep the ramparts; and you, the faithful old\nsoldier of former years--you have got your discharge, and may sit and sun\nyourself as well as you can at the outer gates. You have been his truest\nfriend, but he has another now, and need trouble you no longer, except in\nthe capacity of witness of his happiness. This, you will observe, is in\nthe order of nature, and in the recognised fitness of things; and he hopes\nyou will see it--and so do I. And he trusts you will sleep well under his\n(and my) new roof--and so do I. And he wishes you good night--and so do\nI!\"\n\nMany, many years have passed since I first learned these hard truths;\nbut I can never forget the pang that it cost me to get them by heart at\na moment's notice. My old friend lives still--that is to say, I have an\nintimate acquaintance, who asks me to all his dinners, and who made me\ngodfather to one of his children; but the brother of my love, who died\nto me on the day when I paid him the marriage visit, has never come back\nto life since that time. On the altar at which we two once sacrificed,\nthe ashes lie cold. A model husband and father has risen from them, and\nthat result is, I suppose, the only one that any third person has a right\nto expect. It may be so; but, to this day, I cannot help thinking that\nthe beautiful woman would have done better if she could have made a fond\nhusband, without at the same time marring a good friend.\n\nReaders will, I am afraid, not be wanting, who will be inclined to tell\nme that the lady to whom I have been referring, only asserted the fair\nprivilege that was hers by right of marriage; and that my sense of injury\nsprings from the touchy selfishness of an old bachelor. Without attempting\nto defend myself, I may at least be allowed to inquire into the lady's\nmotive for using her privilege--or, in plainer terms, for altering the\nrelations in which my friend and I had stood towards one another since\nboyhood.\n\nHer idea, I presume to have been, that, if I preserved my old footing\nwith her husband, I should be taking away some part of his affection that\nbelonged to her. According to my idea of it, she was taking away something\nwhich had belonged to me, and which no effort on her part could afterwards\nconvert to her own use. It is hard to make some women understand that a\nhusband's heart--let him be ever so devoted and affectionate--has vacant\nplaces in it which they can never hope to fill. It is a house in which\nthey and their children, naturally and properly, occupy all the largest\napartments and supply all the prettiest furniture; but there are spare\nrooms which they cannot enter, which are reserved all through the lease\nof life for inevitable guests of some sort from the world outside. It is\nbetter to let in the old friend than some of the substituted visitors, who\nare sure, sooner or later, to enter where there are rooms ready for them,\nby means of pass-keys obtained without the permission of the permanent\ntenants. Am I wrong in making such assertions as these? I should be\nwilling enough to think it probable--being only a bachelor--if my views\nwere based on mere theory. But my opinions, such as they are, have been\nformed with the help of proofs and facts. I have met with bright examples\nof wives who have strengthened their husbands' friendships as they never\ncould have been strengthened except under the influence of a woman's\ncare, employed in the truest, the tenderest, the most delicate way. I\nhave seen men rescued from the bad habits of half a lifetime by the luck\nof keeping faithful friends who were the husbands of sensible wives. It\nis a very trite and true remark that the deadliest enmities between men\nhave been occasioned by women. It is not less certain--though it is a\nfar less widely-accepted truth--that some (I wish I could say many) of\nthe strongest friendships have been knit most closely by women's helping\nhands.\n\nThe real fact seems to be, that the general idea of the scope and purpose\nof the Institution of Marriage is a miserably narrow one. The same\nsenseless prejudice which leads some people, when driven to extremes, to\nthe practical confession (though it may not be made in plain words) that\nthey would rather see murder committed under their own eyes, than approve\nof any project for obtaining a law of divorce which shall be equal in its\noperation on husbands and wives of all ranks who cannot live together,\nis answerable also for the mischievous error in principle of narrowing\nthe practice of the social virtues, in married people, to themselves and\ntheir children. A man loves his wife--which is, in other words, loving\nhimself--and loves his offspring, which is equivalent to saying that he\nhas the natural instincts of humanity; and, when he has gone thus far,\nhe has asserted himself as a model of all the virtues of life, in the\nestimation of some people. In my estimation, he has only begun with the\nbest virtues, and has others yet to practise before he can approach to the\nstandard of a socially complete man. Can there be a lower idea of Marriage\nthan the idea which makes it, in fact, an institution for the development\nof selfishness on a large and respectable scale? If I am not justified in\nusing the word selfishness, tell me what character a good husband presents\n(viewed plainly as a man) when he goes out into the world, leaving all\nhis sympathies in his wife's boudoir, and all his affections up-stairs\nin the nursery, and giving to his friends such shreds and patches of\nformal recognition, in place of true love and regard, as consist in asking\nthem to an occasional dinner-party, and granting them the privilege of\npresenting his children with silver mugs? He is a model of a husband, the\nladies will say. I dare not contradict them; but I should like to know\nwhether he is also a model of a friend?\n\nNo. Bachelor as I am, I have a higher idea of Marriage than this. The\nsocial advantages which it is fitted to produce ought to extend beyond\none man and one woman, to the circle of society amid which they move.\nThe light of its beauty must not be shut up within the four walls which\nenclose the parents and the family, but must flow out into the world, and\nshine upon the childless and the solitary, because it has warmth enough\nand to spare, and because it may make them, even in their way, happy too.\nI began these few lines by asking sympathy and attention for the interest\nwhich a man's true friends have, when he marries, in his choosing a wife\nwho will let them be friends still, who will even help them to mingling in\ncloser brotherhood, if help they need. I lay down the pen, suggesting to\nsome ladies--affectionately suggesting, if they will let me use the word,\nafter some of the bold things I have said--that it is in their power to\ndeprive the bachelor of the sole claim he has left to social recognition\nand preeminence, by making married men what many of them are, and what\nmore might be--the best and truest friends that are to be found in the\nworld.\n\n\n\n\nSOCIAL GRIEVANCES.--V.\n\nMRS. BULLWINKLE.\n\n\nLadies and gentlemen. Give me five minutes' sympathy and attention. I have\nsomething serious to say to you.\n\nI am a married man, with an income which is too miserably limited to be\nworth mentioning. About a month since, my wife advanced me one step nearer\nto the Court for the Relief of Insolvent Debtors, by presenting me with\nanother child. On five previous occasions, her name had appeared in the\nList of British Mothers which adorns the daily Supplement of the Times\nnewspaper. At each of these trying periods (I speak entirely of myself\nwhen I use the word \"trying\") she was attended by the same Monthly Nurse.\nOn this last, and sixth, occasion, we were not so fortunate as to secure\nthe services of our regular functionary. She was already engaged; and a\nnew Nurse, with excellent recommendations, was, therefore, employed in\nher stead. When I first heard of her, and was told that her name was Mrs.\nBullwinkle, I laughed. It was then the beginning of the month. It is now\nthe end of it, and I write down that once comical name with a settled\ngravity which nothing can disturb.\n\nWe all know Mrs. Gamp. My late Monthly Nurse is the exact antipodes of\nher. Mrs. Bullwinkle is tall and dignified; her complexion is fair; her\nGrecian nose is innocent of all convivial colouring; her figure is not\nmore than agreeably plump; her manners are icily composed; her dress is\nquiet and neat; her age cannot be more than five-and-thirty; her style\nof conversation, when she talks, is flowing and grammatical--upon the\nwhole, she appears to be a woman who is much too ladylike for her station\nin life. When I first met Mrs. Bullwinkle on the stairs, I felt inclined\nto apologise for my wife's presumption in engaging her services. Though I\nchecked this absurd impulse, I could not resist answering the new nurse's\nmagnificent curtsy by expressing a polite hope that she would find her\nsituation everything that she could wish, under my roof.\n\n\"I am not accustomed to exact much, sir,\" said Mrs. Bullwinkle. \"The cook\nseems, I am rejoiced to say, to be an intelligent and attentive person.\nI have been giving her some little hints on the subject of my meals. I\nhave ventured to tell her, that I eat little and often; and I think she\nthoroughly understands me.\"\n\nI am ashamed to say I was not so sharp as the cook. I did not thoroughly\nunderstand Mrs. Bullwinkle, until it became my duty, through my wife's\ninability to manage our domestic business, to settle the weekly bills. I\nthen became sensible of an alarming increase in our household expenditure.\nIf I had given two dinner-parties in the course of the week, the bills\ncould not have been more exorbitant: the butcher, the baker, and the\ngrocer could not have taken me at a heavier pecuniary disadvantage. My\nheart sank as I thought of my miserable income. I looked up piteously from\nthe bills to the cook for an explanation.\n\nThe cook looked back at me compassionately, shook her head, and said:\n\n\"Mrs. Bullwinkle.\"\n\nI reckoned up additional joints, additional chops, additional steaks,\nfillets, kidneys, gravy beef. I told off a terrible supplement to the\nusual family consumption of bread, flour, tea, sugar, and alcoholic\nliquids. I appealed to the cook again; and again the cook shook her head,\nand said, \"Mrs. Bullwinkle.\"\n\nMy miserable income obliges me to look after sixpences, as other men look\nafter five-pound notes. Ruin sat immovable on the pile of weekly bills,\nand stared me sternly in the face. I went up into my wife's room. The new\nnurse was not there. The unhappy partner of my pecuniary embarrassments\nwas reading a novel. My innocent infant was smiling in his sleep. I had\ntaken the bills with me. Ruin followed them up-stairs, and sat spectral\non one side of the bed, while I sat on the other.\n\n\"Don't be alarmed, love,\" I said, \"if you hear the police in the house.\nMrs. Bullwinkle has a large family, and feeds them all out of our\nprovisions. A search shall be instituted, and slumbering Justice shall be\naroused. Look at these joints, these chops, these steaks, these fillets,\nthese kidneys, these gravy beefs!\"\n\nMy wife shook her head, exactly as the cook had shaken hers; and answered,\nprecisely as the cook had answered, \"Mrs. Bullwinkle.\"\n\n\"But where does she hide it all?\" I exclaimed.\n\nMy wife shut her eyes, and shuddered.\n\n\"John!\" she said, \"I have privately consulted the doctor; and the doctor\nsays Mrs. Bullwinkle is a Cow.\"\n\n\"If the doctor had to pay these bills,\" I retorted savagely, \"he would\nnot be quite so free with his jokes.\"\n\n\"He is in earnest, dear. He explained to me, what I never knew before,\nthat a Cow is an animal with many stomachs----\"\n\n\"What!\" I cried out, in amazement; \"do you mean to tell me that all these\njoints, these chops, these steaks, these fillets, these kidneys, these\ngravy beefs--these loaves, these muffins, these mixed biscuits--these\nteas, these sugars, these brandies, gins, sherries, and beers, have\ndisappeared in one week, down Mrs. Bullwinkle's throat?\"\n\n\"All, John,\" said my wife, sinking back on the pillow with a groan.\n\nIt was impossible to look at the bills and believe it. I questioned\nand cross-questioned my wife, and still elicited nothing but the one\nbewildering answer, \"All, John.\" Determined--for I am a man of a logical\nand judicial mind--to have this extraordinary and alarming case properly\ninvestigated, I took out my pocket-book and pencil, and asked my wife if\nshe felt strong enough to make a few private entries for my satisfaction.\nFinding that she willingly accepted the responsibility, I directed her\nto take down, from her own personal investigation, a statement of Mrs.\nBullwinkle's meals, and of the time at which she partook of each of them,\nfor twenty-four hours, beginning with one morning and ending with another.\nAfter making this arrangement, I descended to the parlour, and took\nthe necessary business measures for using the cook as a check upon her\nmistress. Having carefully instructed her to enter, on the kitchen slate,\neverything that was sent up to Mrs. Bullwinkle, for twenty-four hours, I\nfelt that my machinery for investigating the truth was now complete. If\nthe statement of the mistress, in bed on the second floor, agreed with the\nstatement of the cook, in the distant sphere of the kitchen, there could\nbe no doubt that I had obtained reliable information on the mysterious\nsubject of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals.\n\nIn due time, the two reports were sent in, and I had an opportunity of\nunderstanding at last, what \"eating little and often\" really meant, in the\ncase of my wife's monthly nurse. Except in one particular, to be hereafter\nadverted to, both statements agreed exactly. Here is the List, accompanied\nby a correct time-table, of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals, beginning with the\nmorning of Monday and ending with the morning of Tuesday. I certify, on my\nhonour as a British husband and housekeeper, that the copy is correctly\ntaken from my wife's entries in my pocket-book, checked impartially by\nthe cook's slate:[E]\n\nA.M.\n\n7. Breakfast.--Tea, Toast, Half-quartern Loaf, Butter, Eggs, Bacon.\n\n9.30. First Morning Snack.--A glass of pale Sherry, and a plate of\nMixed Biscuits.\n\n11. Second Morning Snack.--A Basin of Beef Tea, and a tumbler of\nBrandy and Water.\n\nP.M.\n\n12.45. Dinner.--A Roast Loin of Mutton and Mashed Potatoes. With\nDinner, Ale, spiced and warmed. After Dinner, a tumbler of Hot Gin and\nWater.\n\nP.M.\n\n3. Afternoon Snack.--A glass of pale Sherry, and a plate of Mixed\nBiscuits.\n\n4.30. Tea and Muffins.\n\n7. Evening Snack.--Stewed Cheese, Toast, and a tumbler of Brandy and\nWater.\n\n9. Supper.--Nice juicy Steak, and two glasses of Beer. Second\nCourse.--Stewed Cheese, and a tumbler of Gin and Water.\n\nADDITIONAL PARTICULARS. (Not vouched for by the cook's slate.)--During\nthe night of Monday Mrs. Bullwinkle partook, at intervals, of Caudle.\nAt 4.30 A.M., on the morning of Tuesday, my wife was awakened by\nhearing the nurse walking up and down the room, and sighing bitterly.\nThe following conversation then took place between them:\n\n_My Wife._--Are you ill?\n\n_Mrs. Bullwinkle._--No. Hungry.\n\nI can certify that the above List correctly, and even moderately,\nrepresents Mrs. Bullwinkle's daily bill of fare, for one month. I can\nassert, from my own observation, that every dish, at every hour of the\nday, which went up to her full, invariably came down from her empty. Mrs.\nBullwinkle was not a wasteful eater. She could fully appreciate, in roast\nmeat, for example, the great value of \"lean;\" but she was not, on that\naccount, insensible to the humbler merits of fat, skin, and \"outside.\"\nAll--emphatically, all--was fish that came to her net; and the net itself,\nas I can personally testify, was never once over-weighted and never out of\norder. I have watched, in the case of this perfectly unparalleled human\ncormorant, for symptoms of apoplexy, or at least of visible repletion,\nwith a dreadful and absorbing interest; and have, on no occasion, been\nrewarded by making the smallest discovery. Mrs. Bullwinkle was never,\nwhile in my service, even so much as partially intoxicated. Her face was\nnever flushed; her articulation was never thickened; her brain was never\nconfused; her movements were never uncertain. After the breakfast, the two\nmorning snacks, and the dinner,--all occurring within the space of six\nhours,--she could move about the room with unimpeded freedom of action;\ncould keep my wife and the baby in a state of the strictest discipline;\ncould curtsy magnificently, when the unoffending master, whom she was\neating out of house and home, entered the room, preserving her colour, her\nequilibrium, and her staylaces, when she sank down and when she swelled up\nagain, without the vestige of an apparent effort. During the month of her\ndevastating residence under my roof, she had two hundred and forty-eight\nmeals, including the snacks; and she went out of the house no larger and\nno redder than she came in. After the statement of one such fact as that,\nfurther comment is superfluous.\n\nI leave this case in the hands of the medical and the married public.\nI present it, as a problem, to physiological science. I offer it, as a\nwarning, to British husbands with limited incomes. While I write these\nlines, while I give my married countrymen this friendly caution, my wife\nis weeping over the tradesmen's bills; my children are on half-allowance\nof food; my cook is worked off her legs; my purse is empty. Young\nhusbands, and persons about to marry, commit to memory the description\nhere given of my late monthly nurse! Avoid a tall and dignified woman,\nwith a flowing style of conversation and impressively ladylike manners!\nBeware, my struggling friends, my fellow-toilers along the heavily-taxed\nhighways of domestic happiness--beware of Mrs. Bullwinkle!\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n\n    [A] The curious legend connected with the birth of this \"Adopted\n    Son,\" and the facts relating to his extraordinary career in after\n    life, are derived from the \"Records\" of the French Police of the\n    period. In this instance, and in the instances of those other\n    papers in the present collection which deal with foreign incidents\n    and characters, while the facts of each narrative exist in print,\n    the form in which the narrative is cast is of my own devising. If\n    these facts had been readily accessible to readers in general, the\n    papers in question would not have been reprinted. But the scarce\n    and curious books from which my materials are derived, have been\n    long since out of print, and are, in all human probability, never\n    likely to be published again.\n\n    [B] The biographical facts mentioned in this little sketch, are\n    derived from Mr. Blanchard Jerrold's interesting narrative of his\n    father's Life and Labours. For the rest--that is to say, for the\n    opinions here expressed on Jerrold's works, and for the estimate\n    attempted of his personal character--I am responsible. This is the\n    only instance of a reprinted article in the present collection,\n    any part of which is founded on a modern and an accessible\n    book. The reader will perhaps excuse and understand my making an\n    exception here to my own rules, when I add that Douglas Jerrold\n    was one of the first and the dearest friends of my literary life.\n\n    [C] When this article was first published in Household Words,\n    a son of Mr. Elliston wrote to the conductor to protest against\n    the epithets which I had attached to his father's name. In the\n    present reprint I have removed the epithets; not because I think\n    them undeserved, but because they merely represented my own angry\n    sense of Mr. Elliston's treatment of Jerrold--a sense which I have\n    no wish needlessly to gratify at the expense of a son's regard\n    for his father's memory. But the facts of the case as they were\n    originally related, and as I heard them from Jerrold himself,\n    remain untouched--exactly as my own opinion of Mr. Elliston's\n    conduct remains to this day unaltered. If the \"impartial\" reader\n    wishes to have more facts to decide on than those given in the\n    text, he is referred to Raymond's Life of Elliston--in which work\n    he will find the clear profits put into the manager's pocket by\n    Black-Eyed Susan, estimated at one hundred and fifty pounds a\n    week.\n\n    [D] This paper, and the paper on Art entitled 'To Think, or Be\n    Thought For,' which immediately follows it, provoked, at the time\n    of their first appearance, some remonstrance both of the public\n    and the private sort. I was blamed--so far as I could understand\n    the objections--for letting out the truth about the Drama, and\n    for speaking my mind (instead of keeping it to myself, as other\n    people did) on the subject of the Old Masters. Finding, however,\n    that my positions remained practically unrefuted, and that my\n    views were largely shared by readers with no professional interest\n    in theatres, and no vested critical rights in old pictures--and\n    knowing, besides, that I had not written without some previous\n    inquiry and consideration--I held steadily to my own convictions;\n    and I hold to them still. These articles are now reprinted (as\n    they were originally produced) to serve two objects which I\n    persist in thinking of some importance:--Freedom of inquiry into\n    the debased condition of the English Theatre; and freedom of\n    thought on the subject of the Fine Arts.\n\n    [E] This time-table is no invention of mine. It is accurately\n    copied from an \"original document\" sent to me by the victim of a\n    monthly nurse.\n\n\n\n\n                                 THE END.\n\n\n\n\n          LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,\n                            AND CHARING CROSS.","title":"My Miscellanies, Vol. 2 (of 2)","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":67892}