The red, white & blue monster song book, ed. by J. Diprose, Volume 3 (Google Books)


H. Sl’DJfKY.

Like most other men wr.o’ve been knocking


Strange places and persons I’ve seen; Sometimes I’ve had plenty sometimes been


And i’ie<iuently havii up I’ve been. But still though Dame Fortune has been a

sad jade,

And baulked me of many a prize, When I nee I remember, and some say I’ve

made A pretty good use of my eyes.

Chorus. Then, hurrah! for the loom and the lathe,

Hurrah for the spade and the plough, The happiest man I have met with is he

Who lives by the sweat of his brow.

The lawyers with eagerness pocket the


But .look at them well, and you’ll find Though they live in great style and appear

at their ease,

They’re frequently troubled in mind. The parsons have duties from morning till


If they do them,—but yet I’m afraid The living is that in which most delight, And make their religion a trade.

The bankers, the’ wealthy, have many a


As to how they will double their cash, But still speculation is often a snare, And frequently ends in a smash. Tho’ members of parliament do all they


To get in the house, ’tis no use,
If they wish to be happy, they’ll alter their

For many get naught but abuse.

Some poets and authors, who live by their


Have seldom a shilling to spare,
Beset through their lives by grim poverty’s

They, frequently die in despair.

They starve in a garret while striving for


Which seldom arrives till they’re dead, Neglected they live, then their works get a


And a monument’s built them instead. The higher our station the more we require,

And the more we’re expected to do, The greater the income, the more anxious

we get,

For fear that our wealth should ba lost, The path of the rich is with troubles beset,

As many have found to their cost. Yes, happy is he on himself who depends,

If he has but contentment and health, For industry more to happiness tands

Than either position or wealth. I envy not those who great riches liava


For wealth is too often a ban, But he has the best and the happiest lot, Who works—acts—and speaks as a man.


Music at fun-lay’s.

Childhood days now pass before me,

Forms and scenes of long ago, Like a dream they hover o’er me,

Calm and bright as evening’s glow. Days that know no shade of sorrow,

When my young heart pure and free, Joyful hail’d each coming morrow,

In the cottage by the sea.

Fancy sees the rose tree twining

Itound the old and rustic door,
And beneath the wild waves shining,

Where I’ve gathered shells of yore;
Here my mother’s gentle warning

As she took me on her knee, And I feel again life’s morning,

In the cottage by the sea. What, though years have passed above me,

Though through fairer scenes I roam. Yet I ne’er shall cease to love thee,

Childhood’s dear and happy home;
And when life’s long day is closing,

Oh, how happy would it be,
On some faithful breast reposing,

In the cottage by the sea,


J. H. Sydney. “Air,—From Burlesque of Siege of Troy.”

Gentleman a word I pray, to you is my

address, Which deeply does concern you, and your

happiness, Bachelors, and married, nothingjdoubting

you Of my lecture, all will say, its very proper


Who’ll a man is married, all his love, of course, sincere,

For better, worse, in sickness, health to love, and cherish swear,

How altcr’d soon the feeling, in a year or two,

For another, leave your wife, is that a proper thing to do.

The wishes of your wives, each husband

should obey, . ….

Contradict them never should, nothing

have to say; Wivei are not exacting, wrong they never

do, Husbands study should their wives to please

and very proper too.

If sickness does befal you, who props your

pillow up, Or if a head-ache who prepares of tea, for

you a cup;

Or business should distress you, what better can you do, But in your loving wife confide, and very

proper too. Where can you find a banker, so honest as

a wife,

In your property she has an interest for life; Of course the purse she should keep, no

woman is a shrew, Your advances she will cheque and very

proper too.

Gentleman a question, candid I would ask,

Without the ladies could you do, perform each household task; • .

Your change of linen, get well aired, sew buttons on for you,

You must answer we cannot, and very proper too.

My lecture now is o’er you may all dismiss, Another word to bachelors, now present

that is this; Pop the question now at once, the best

thing you can do, Ladies am I right (pause) you answer yos,

and very proper too


“Ignotcs. “] [henhi Reoaldi

Music at J .H. JeweWs.

Beside yon stream whose silver light,

Winds gliding through the vale,

Now lost in shade, now glancing bright,

Dwells Lilian of the Dale.

The air that breaths around her cot,

Not purer than her soul could be; >

Contented in her hidden lot,

A bright and peerless gem is she.

But silent streams run very deep,

A living calm they roll;

Yet in that calm those torrents sleep,

Which freed, know no control.

Thus deep and full flow Lilian’s life,

So full of joy, of trouble free,

So deep with love, unchafed by strife,

A pure and priceless pearl to be. ‘• •

Adapted to the ‘Di tanti,’ of Rossini.
Music at Williams’*.

Here we meet too soon to part—
Here to leave will raise a Smait—
Here I’ll press thee to my heart,
Where none have place above thee I
Here I vow to love thee well
Could but words unseal the spell—
Had but language strength to tell—
I’d say bow much I love thee;
Here the rose that decks thy door—
Here the thorn that spreads thy bow’r—
Here the wilbow on the moor—
The birds that rest above thee;
Had they light of life to see—
Sense of soul like thee and me—-
Soon might each a witness be
How dotingly I love thee.


C. Ayi/win Field. Published by J. II. Jewell, 104, Great Rtu

selt Street. Bloomsbury.
Och, Patrick Darling would you leave me,
To sail across the big Salt Sea?
I never thought you’d thus deceive me;
It’s not the truth you’re telling me,
Though Dublin is a mighty city;
It’s there I should be quite forlorn,
For poor and friendless, who would pity
Left lonely there, your Colleen Bawn 1
Left lonely there, your Colleen Bawn!

You tell me that your friends are leaving,
This fair green Isle to cross the main;
But don’t you think they’ll soon be grieving.
For dear old Ireland, once again?
Can they forget each far-fam’d river,
Each hill a thousand songs adorn;
Could they depart from them for ever,
Could you forget your Colleen Bawn.
Could you forget your Colleen Bawn!

Oh Patrick, me you’ve been beguiling,
It’s not my heart you’d wish to break;
Though fortune may not now be smiling.
Your Colleen Bawn you’ll not forsake?
I’ll go with you across the sea dear,
If brighter days for us don’t dawn,
No matter where our home may be dear!
I still will be your Colleen Bawn.
I still will \i2 your Colleen Bawn I


E. James.] [A. J. Hollowai.

Music at Jewell’t.

Miss Dorothy Maiy Ann Twaddle, “tw»s said

Was a spinster both handsome and gay, And many a weary old bacheir- pray’d Tbat Mies Twaddle would marry some

day; And sighing and wishing, they’d call at the

Lodge, ‘With their compliments hopinji to see—

With presents of game (not at all a bad


For men who would husbands lie). Oh, dear, how she’d laugh La her little-back


Till her parrot screamed out with gloe, As she cried, “What, marry indeed, go

soon! Oh, let them wait longer for me.”

Miss Dorothy Mary Ann Twaddle was


To be rich, without kindred or tie; And she lived with her old- f’ashion’d servant


And never for man heaved a sigh.
Three cats and nine lap-dogs of wonderful


And birds too, from many a land, A tortoise besides, and an African ape, . She kept to obey her command.

Oh, dear, how she’d laugh, &e.

Miss Dorothy Mary Ann Twaddle would go

To concerts, to races, and balls, In her carriage and pair; antique was the show, . ,*//

As she nodded and smiled to all. She would dance, she would sing; with grace

and with ease,

Play a rubber of whist with the squire; So preciously smiling and ready to please, Yet neyer to wedlock aspire.

Oh, dear, how she’d laugh, &c.

Mies Dorothy Mary Ann Twaddle lived on,

They say, till sixty and three, And her charms were (of course) all faded and gone,

When she said, I’ll now mairied be. Then she diess’d and she painted, for each to admire,

Gave conceits and balls at the Hall. < Pray listen, old maids,—not a single squire

Would marry Miss Twaddle at all.

Oh, dear, how she wept in her little backroom,

And cried, Oh, why can it be, While her .parrot seream’d out, What,

marry so soon!

You are grown much too old, don’t you eee.


(Original New Version) Air,—” Drop o’good Beer.” [J. A. Habd

‘Wiok. Let “totallers” apout.and rave about,

Good liquor they’ve forsworn; There’s never a fellow gets ripe and mellow

But loves John Barleycorn.

In pewter, glass, or horn.

When our spirits down are borne,
We English boys renew our joys,

In a draught of John Barleycorn.

The brown John Barleycorn—

The stout John Barleycorn,

“Water’s all my eye—give me when dry,

A mug of John Barleycorn,

The labouring man, the artizan,

And Bishop in sleeves of lawn,
All love a pull at flagons full ••’

Of old John Barleycorn.

And the high and noble born,

Even Royalty does’nt scorn
To turn on the tap of that rare old chap,

The jolly John Barleycorn.
We fear no foes, while barley grows;

At sound of the bugle horn,
Each Rifle Corps would defend our shore,

For love of John Barleycorn.

We shall never down be borne,

Nor have freedom from us torn, , i Nor come to grief, while we’ve British beef

And famed John Barleycorn.
Hang ” total” slops, pure malt and hops,

We Britons to drink were born;
To wasli down beef, and give relief, •’ ‘ ‘ i

We quaff John Barleycorn.”

If down by troubles borne,

Like the “man all tattered and torn,” For sorrows quelled, and cares dispelled,

We thank John Barleycorn. They may prose and rhyme, that want and

crime ‘j

Goes on, while liquor’s drawn j The cause of pain, I will maintain,

Is not John Barleycorn,

Sots may send their goods to pawn,

And hungry children mourn;
But cheap ” blue ruin” is their undoing,

Not good John Barleycorn.

)f Victoria Rex, and double X,
The fame and name is borne,

To every land, and Britons stand _
Up for John Barleycorn.
That our glory ne’er has gone,
And such healthy babbies are bora,

And our flag unfurled can lick the world,
Is thro’ John Barleycorn.
Bravo, John Barleycorn—
Long live John Barleycorn ,
Our British Fleet all foes can beat,
While we’ve John Barleycorn^


J. num.] [E. L. lima

Music at Duff $ Hodgson’s.

See yon happy, rosy boy,
Full of life and full of joy,
Smiling now with mirth elate!
Swinging on the rustic gate.
Care with him was never known,
Joyful hours are all his own;
Chief in every rural play,
Laughing mates his voice obey.
Woodland scenes are his delight,
There he rules in sylvan might,
Leading merry games with glee,
Happy as a king is he.

Monarchs of another sphere
IJave their hours of hope and fear,
Troubles come to mar their reign.
Bringing sorrow in their train.
Stately pomp disturbs their ease,
‘Tho they strive they fail to please:
Such is not our hero’s fate
Swinging on the rustic gate;
Form and pride—with him unknown—-
Never cloud his sylvan throne;
Thus the world may truly see-
Happier than a king is he.


How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away;

But while you both teaze me together,
To neither one word can I say.

OVER TOE SEA. 3func at Leader and CocKt.

;r tlie sea, over the sea,

\t what a little bird wisper’d to me—

•r the sea, over the sea,

iomebody’s coming ere long..

r;n march, march, march,

[e lads of the heather,

3ome trooping together,

nc, inarch, march, march,

Gallant hearts valient aud strong.

it’s over the sea, over the sea, ar what a bonnie bird whispev’ii to me. er the sea, over the sea, Somebody’s coming ere long.

•er the sea, over the sea,

io long my laddie has wander d irae me,

‘er the sea. over the sea,

Now he is coming once more.

ion we’ll march, march, march,

To greet him once more,

On his own’native shore,

;t us march, march, march,

And bear him in triumph along.

ti, it’s over the sea, over the sea.

ear what a bonnie bird whisper’d to me

ver the sea, over the sea,

Charlie is coming once more.

Music at Boosey and Son’i,
“When I was in my teens,

I lov’d dear Margaretta.
I know not*what it means^-

1 cannot now forget lier. That vision of the past _

My head, is ever crazing, But when I saw her last,

1 could not speak for gazing. Oh! queen of rural maids,

My dark-eyed Margnrutta, The “heart the mind upbraids

‘That struggles to forget her.


My love, I know, will seem
A wayward, boyish folly;

But ah, it was a dream,

Host sweet, most melancholy.

.Were mine the world’s domain,
To me ’twere fortune better
To be a boy again,

And dream of Margaretta.
Oh, mem’ry of the past, , ._

Why linger to regret her? .,

My first love was my last, ‘,…

And that is Margaretta.

MargaretU 1


Music at Prowse’t

The mountain maid from her bower has


And speeds to the grassy river’s side, • Where the twinkling moon shone clear ana


And the willows waved in the silver light,
On a mossy hank lay a shepherd swam.
He woke his pipe to a tuneful strain—
And so blithe and gay were the notes he

played, .1

That he charmed the heart of the mountain


She stopped with timid lear oppressed,
While a soft sigh swelled her gentle breast,
He caught her glance, and marked her

And triumph beamed in his spaikling eye.
So soft and sweet was histuneful ditty,
He charmed her tender soul to pity—
And so blithe and gay were the notes Ue

plived, , .

That hi won the heart of the mountain



Kest. Spirit, rest,
In Heaven ble^t:
Rest, Spirit, icst.
Rest blessed spirit, thou art fled

To realms of endless day;
By warbling choirs of seraphs led,
‘j’, Spirit, soar away,
Rest, Spirit rert.
In Heaveu bleat.

Chambers’s Journal, Volume 59, Issue 1 (Google Books)

The Fortnightly Review – Volume 86 – Page 558

1906 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
… Tom shall not keep me—and be an old maid companion who loves lap-dogs and strong tea, and detests children. … Have you, a woman, never guessed what you have been to a lonely man without a friend, eating his heart out for the tender …

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‘My dear,’ returned Mr Jolly, ‘I only profess to read symptoms. I do not profess to be a rophet. Sir Fawdry and young Solitair were oth deeply smitten—but’— ‘Nonsense !” said Constance ungraciously. “But,’ pursued her father, disregarding this interjection, “people marry nowadays for money. Your face is your fortune, Constance. At least it is the better part of it, and men know it. Your brother Reginald must be provided for. By all law and justice, I am bound to deal well by Reginald. And you, my dear, must do as well as you can. Meantime, I am very favourably impressed with young Lumby—very favourably impressed indeed.’ *Very well, papa, returned Constance; “we shall know in time. I am not skilled in the reading of symptoms; but this affair will probably end like the rest.’ ‘My dear, cried her father, ‘you are ridiculous —positively ridiculous. One would think, to hear you talk, that instead of being in the very freshness of your youth, you were an old woman, and had had a life of disappointments.’ “Papa,” said Constance severely, as one whose mind was made up past altering, ‘the days of romance are gone and over. Sir Croesus Croesus marries Lady Midas, a fat widow with a lapdog, and admires the poor pretty Phyllis from a safe distance.” “And what becomes, asked Mr Jolly, ‘of poor pretty Phyllis’ ‘That depends,’ said Constance. … ‘Perhaps a Gnome from Staffordshire, or a Cyclops from Wales, runs away with her—that is, # she is lucky; perhaps, if she is silly enough, she marries Corydon, and lives in a cottage, and cultivates the virtues of cottage-life—envy and ill-temper and vicious-headache. Perhaps Corydon jilts her —being wise in time—and marries Lady Croesus, a second time widowed.’ “And so, Romance is born again,’ said Mr Jolly with his wrinkled smile. ‘For Lady Croesus,’ said Constance. there is the moral of my song, papa.” *Which is ‘ ‘ ‘That when you have married twice for money, you may, if you have survived that jo ordeal, marry once for liking.’ “And so, Romance is born again,” said her father a second time. “It is impossible,” he quoted, with a dim remembrance of his classic days, “to expel Nature, even with a pitchfork.’—Constance laughed, and they rode on a little while in silence.—“You don’t dislike young Lumby, do you?” he asked at the close of this pause, turning a somewhat anxious face upon her. ‘No,’ she answered carelessly. ‘He is well enough.” Then there was another pause. ‘My dear,’ said Mr Jolly in a confidential tone, pressing his horse so near to hers, that his knee touched the offside flap of her saddle, ‘young

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Lumby cannot have less finally coming to him than half a million. … Even in these days of huge fortunes, half a million of money is somethin considerable.” Mr. Jolly, like many men o limited income, had permitted himself to think of colossal fortunes , ore than was altogether wholesome for him, and his tone in speaking of money was always large and unconcerned. He thought of “a few odd millions’ like a Chancellor of the Exchequer, and would speak of them in the same vein. ‘Considerable indeed, returned Constance, who in monetary matters was severely practical. ‘He is richer than Sir Fawdry,” said her father, ‘and probably as well to do as young Solitair.’ Mr Jolly’s veneration for the aristocracy naturally displayed itself in familiarity. I have no desire to be obscure. Let me explain. Mr Jolly in a lord’s presence fawned upon the lord ; but in the lord’s absence, he used his name in an everyday fashion, to feed his own sense of his own importance. And a lesser reverence than his own for lordship could not have made the title seem important enough to do that. Therefore—so complicated a thing is snobbery—a most genuine reverence and worship bred a sometime seeming irreverence of speech. I am sometimes almost persuaded that if our House of Peers could guess the sum of snobbery which their presence creates among us, they would of their own free act abolish themselves, and spare the country much republican oratory. “Papa,” said Constance, “there is a vulgar fable about an old woman who counted her chickens before they were hatched. But, she added, smiling again, “the wisdom of our ancestors is wasted upon you—altogether wasted. You were counting already, you stupid dear, what could be done with is: a million. I know you were.” Mr Jolly absolutely blushed. That had been indeed the mental effort of the moment, and he had seen his daughter enthroned in Lumby Hall, and himself freed of all anxieties. “One counts many unhatched chickens,’ said he, recovering himself. “It is the privilege of mankind to hope. When I see you settled, my dear,’ he added almost with pathos, “I can die in peace.’ ‘Pray,’ said Constance, “make the settlement less remote.’ The satire of this feminine thrust was too subtle for Mr Jolly; but in the fullness of hope he took a more cheerful tone. “Croesus is coming along, my dear—plain Mister Croesus; but not muc the worse for that, after all.’ ‘Croesus,’ said Constance, “will marry Lady Midas, as already arranged.’ ‘And Phyllis to said her sire, reverting to the former parable. “And Phyllis will die an old maid.’ There was not a creature in sight in all the widespread fields. A hundred yards away, the lane in which they rode dipped suddenly with a curve, and the hedge rose high, thick with prickly holly leaves and red berries. The air was as blithe and soft as that of a spring day. “A southerly wind and a cloudy sky, with rifts of soft blue in it, and the fresh gentle breath of the soil, and once or twice across the fields the tongue of the distant pack, proclaimed it a hunting morning. ‘Phyllis, said Constance roguishly, “will die an

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Her voice was just as perfect as her face—a very rich and mellow mezzo-soprano, not of so rare a §. as her beauty, but as perfect of its kind. ow, it o as if set there as a warning to all young ladies against the practice of singing in the open air, which, though natural to youth and good spirits, is opposed to the dictates of fashionable reserve—it happened that a young man stood at that moment in the hollow beyond the high hedge of holly. He had alighted from his horse, and was anxiously inspecting a hoof, and making himself a little muddy in the process, when the first notes of the sweet voice struck upon his ear. He raised himself, let go the horse’s foot, and listened. The little carol was sung with exquisite grace and archness, and the young man smiled. “If your face matches your voice, he said to himself, ‘you won’t have to mourn long, youn lady.’ When the voice ceased, the sound of hoofbeats on the soft road became audible ; and down the slope and round the bend in the lane came Mr Jolly and his daughter. Now, no man can #. in words a pretty woman; and even Leigh unt’s charming apology for failure will not greatly help him : Let each man fancy, looking down, the brow He loves the best, and think he sees it now.

For some of us have loved homely women in our time—what a provision of Nature that is to be thankful for 1–and have found a beauty beyond beauty, in plain faces. But if no word-painter can show you a reliable, recognisable portrait of a pretty girl, what is to be done when he comes to actual loveliness? What can he do beyond i. the inutility of his art—its utter helpessness? Yet, I would fain give you some semblance to the picture to carry in your mind. Fancy, then, a form—not too Juno-like, but ri

and round—clad in a habit of black broadcloth, with scarcely a single crease or wrinkle from the waist upwards; a form which swayed with the horse’s motion, and yet preserved a sense of firmness—the little gloved hands low down with a look of mastery at rest; the little hat raking forward slightly, with an air not altogether coquettish, on a head altogether stately, with one superb knot of living gold behind ; a face charming in all its lines, and fresh with hues of health and airs of heaven, and on the face a little touch of fun, of pride, of wonder—a startled look, with hauteur and humour in it, at remembrance of the song and the sudden encountering of this unexpected stranger. And beneath this vision,

a steed of price, who bore the lady as though he loved her and were proud of her, with high stately step, free yet mincing, like a cavalier in a minuet. This was the sight which broke on the eyes of Valentine Strange, when Constance and her father—whom, by the way, you may, if you choose, leave out of the picture—came dancing round the holly hedge at the bend of the lane. Val raised his hat. “I beg your pardon,’ he

said, addressing Mr Jolly, “but my horse has caught a stone, and gone dead-lame. I see that you have a hoof-picker on your saddle ; and I should be awfully obliged if you would lend it to me for a moment.—I’m sure I’m very sorry to detain you.’ “Not at all, said Mr Jolly, fumbling at the strap which held the hook, with his gloved fingers. “Allow me,’ said Wal; and possessing himself of the hoof-picker, deftly whipped out the stone from his horse’s hoof, and restored the little implement to its place with a cordial ‘Thank ou.’ “Not at all,’ said Mr Jolly once more with great majesty. Constance had ridden on during this pause, and was perhaps two hundred yards ahead, when Mr Jolly, returning Val’s salute, rode on again, and in little space overtook her. Mr Strange meantime having inspected all his gearing, remounted, and went rocketing up the lane in pursuit. “What a beauty 1″ said Wal to himself. “I must have another look at her.” Reaching the lady and her father, he flourished off his hat once more, and drew in his horse to a walk. Want of self-possession had never been amo Val’s failings. “Immensely obliged to you, sir, he said. “It was a most fortunate thing for me that you came by just then.’ Mr Jolly bowed, and branched off at a lane which bore to the left. ‘Good-morning,’ from Mr Jolly. “Good-morning.—And again, thanks,’ from Wal. (To be continued.)


THE shocking state of the prison, and the consequent frequent outbreaks of the malignant form of typhus known as “jail-fever,’ which in 1750 of to the Old Bailey Courthouse, and caused the deaths of Baron Clark, Sir Thomas Abney, the Lord Mayor, some of the jury, several barristers, and a number of the spectators, led to an examination of the building in 1770; the result being that it was pronounced ‘so old and ruinous that it was neither capable of improvement nor tolerable repair.’ A government vote of fifty thousand pounds, coupled with the gift by the City of additional ground for the enlargement of the jail, hastened the execution of the sentence of demolition upon Old Newgate. The task of rebuilding the jail was intrusted to Dance, the architect of the Mansion House ; and the first stone of the new erection was laid by Alderman Beckford in 1770. The work proceeded slowly; and the new prison was not yet completed, nor ‘Old Newgate’ entirely removed, when the outbreak of the Gordon Riots in 1780 added a new chapter to its history. The so-called Protestant Association having presented their absurd, “No Popery’ petition to the Commons, and having failed to secure more than six votes in its favour, an unruly mob took possession of the streets, and for five days carried on a work of wholesale plunder and destruction. On the 6th of


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June, having destroyed several Roman Catholic among the buildings of the City. Its princi chapels, and the houses of many of the lead- front is three hundred feet in length, and the ing Romanists, they turned their attention to depth is one hundred and ninety-two feet, a Newgate, whose governor, Mr. Akerman, having portion of the older erection extending a further received warning of the danger, had made * of fifty feet in Newgate Street. Like hasty preparations for their reception. The its predecessor, it consists of three distinct porOld Bailey Sessions Paper graphically describes |tions; the centre, containing the residence of the the scene. The attack commenced on Aker. governor, with the chapel behind it, being flanked man’s house, which was soon broken into and by two wings, consisting of yards, wards, and cells fired, and his furniture dragged into the street, for the confinement of the prisoners. The internal and broken up to supply torches and firewood arrangements have been completely remodelled of for further mischief. organised attack was late years, to provide means for complete separathen made on the various prison gates; but tion of the prisoners. finding them too strong to be forced, the On the opening of the new jail, the scene of rioters piled the debris of Akerman’s furniture execution was transferred from Tyburn to the against them, and fired the pile. The warders exterior of Newgate, the drop being erected outmade heroic efforts to protect the gates, which side, the Debtors’ Door. . This continued to they deluged with water, to prevent the metal- be the customary place of execution until the work from melting; but meanwhile the flames passing of the Act of 1864 abolishing, public from the governor’s house spread to the wards; executions, since which, the sentence of death defence became hopeless; the mob entered the has always been carried out within the walls. burning jail, liberated the prisoners—some of This salutary change must have caused a considerthem “ào, familiar knowledge of the in- able reduction in the incomes of householders tricate interior of the prison—and finally re- whose windows overlooked the fatal Debtors’ duced all that was combustible of the building Door, as the interest shown by the public in to ashes. So perished the last remains of “Old the horrible spectacle of an execution, enabled Newgate.’ occupants of houses in the Old Bailey to reap a The new jail, then in course of erection, golden harvest on those occasions. It is said that having suffered severely in the fire, the repairs no less than twelve pounds was on one occasion were rapidly pushed forward ; but it was not paid for the privilege of witnessing an execution until three years later that the new prison was #. the first-floor windows of one of these houses; ready to receive its inmates, having cost by and even the roofs used to be crowded, for hours that time nearly double the original govern- beforehand, with eager spectators; while the street ment grant of fifty thousand pounds. Prin- itself was blocked with carts and carriages, the cipally owing to the representations of John occupants of which beguiled the time of waiting oward, who, in the course of his term of with cards and refreshment. office as Sheriff, had made it his business to Though the building itself was an improvement inquire fully into the condition and working upon its predecessor, the Reports of the Inspectors of the jail, and had reported the results of his | Prisons, in the early days of the present jail, investigation to Fo the principles upon show that, so far as the management of the inmates which the new building was constructed were was concerned, Howard’s efforts had been of little a great improvement upon those of “Old New- or no avail. As we have mentioned, no classifigate.” But many of the worst evils remained, cation of the prisoners was yet attempted. Robno provision being made for the classification of beries continued to be planned, and the uninitiated the prisoners; while the sanitary arrangements were bullied, as before. The Parliamentary Report were so bad that outbreaks of ‘jail-fever’ were of 1814, speaking of the chaplain, Dr Forde, says: still frequent. ‘He knows nothing of the state of morals in the At the commencement of the present century, prison ; never sees any of the prisoners in private; a more virulent outbreak than usual, at a time never knows that any have been sick till he gets when there were no less than eight hundred warning to attend their funeral; and does not go prisoners within the walls, led to a resolution to the infirmary, for it is not in his instructions.’ of the Council to remove the Debtors’ prison; Attendance at the chapel was entirely voluntary; and this very necessary step was carried out in gambling, drinking, and the like, were the only 1815, prisoners of that class being removed to occupations; and the old prisoners instructed the the adjacent Compter in Giltspur Street. This younger ones in the deftest feats of robbery. building—now no more—had also been erected The cause of the female prisoners was taken up by Dance, to take the place of the old Wood in 1817 by Mrs Fry, “the female Howard, under Street Compter; but, so far as the debtors were whose auspices a Society, known as the Ladies concerned, §. change was hardly for the better, Prison-Visiting Association,’ was formed, the untheir new quarters being described as ‘one of remitting and unselfish efforts of whose members the worst managed and least secure of the met with almost incredible success. Not only metropolitan prisons.’ Newgate was, however, was the moral welfare of the unfortunate women relieved of the evil of over-crowding, which promoted, but they were also encouraged to spend had been an active agent in the spreading of their time in various sorts of useful work, the disease, both physical and mental; and the first proceeds of the sale of which were employed, step was thus taken towards improving the con- partly in bettering their condition while in jail, dition both of the prison and of its inmates. and partly in securing for them honest employThe present jail is a solid, stone-built edifice, ment on the expiration of their terms of imprisondesigned with a view to security rather than ment. beauty; but the massive style of its architecture . On the male side, however, there was no change ** it, externally at least, to a foremost place for the better; and in 1836 the Inspectors of



[Feb. 25, 1882,

Prisons spoke of Newgate as “a fruitful source of demoralisation ;’ but no notice was apparently taken of the Report; for again in 1843, we find them describing the condition of the prison as such that “the prisoners must quit the prison much worse than they entered it.’ This state of affairs was rendered even worse by the fact that no employment of any kind was provided for the prisoners, and that even untried P. innocent and guilty alike, were compelled to herd together with the most hardened of the convicts. It is hardly necessary to remark that a great change has been effected of late years in all these respects. Newgate is no longer a convict establishment, being now devoted only to the detention of prisoners awaiting trial at the Old Bailey, and to those who, after sentence is passed, return thither until arrangements are completed for their removal to a convict prison. A School, to which boy-prisoners up to the age of sixteen were admitted, was started in 1814; but attendance was quite optional, and it is hardly wonderful that the boys preferred the conversation and tales of crime of the elder prisoners, to the instruction of the schoolmaster. But the Report of 1875 speaks encouragingly of the provision for the education both of boys and of their illiterate elders, though the Inspectors remarked that the duties of the schoolmaster were somewhat interfered with o his also holding the post of photographer to the prison. The chaplain’s duties are also performed in a manner strongly contrasting with the laxity of Dr Forde’s rule; while the bodily wants of the inmates are attended to on a scale which, though not precisely luxurious, is doubtless superior to what many of them are accustomed to in private life. For breakfast and supper, each Fo is provided with a pint of oatmeal gruel or ‘skilley, each male receivin eight ounces, and each female six ounces, of brea in addition. Dinner, on four days of the week, consists of three ounces of cooked meat without bone, and half a pound of potatoes, with the same quantity of bread as at breakfast; while on the remaining three days, a pint of soup takes the place of the allowance of meat. Many well-known and well-remembered names appear in the roll of inmates of the present jail. Among those who have suffered the penalty of death outside the Debtors’ Door, erhaps the most notorious were the Cato Street Conspirators, five of whom were executed in 1820 for conspiring to murder the entire Cabinet on the occasion of a dinner-party at Lord Harrowby’s, and for the actual murder of one of the constables employed to effect their arrest. Four years later, the sentence of death for forgery was executed upon the celebrated banker Fauntleroy, who is supposed to have defrauded the Bank of England Tof no less than , four hundred , thousand pounds by means of forged powers of attorney. A curious circumstance connected with his crime was that he had kept an accurate list of those whose names he had forged, with an account of the result of each transaction, and that he had planned the whole as an elaborate scheme of revenge against the Bank, which had caused him heavy business losses by refusing to discount his acceptances. Another remarkable criminal who suffered for his crime at Newgate was Courvoisier a Swiss valet, executed in 1840 for the murder

of his master, Lord William Russell. The crime was committed in the hope of saving its perpetrator from detection for thefts of which he had been guilty while in the service of his em

loyer. Among other inmates of the present jail, occurs the name of Lord George Gordon, whose followers destroyed “Old Newgate.’ Hav

ing been convicted in 1788 of libelling the Queen of France and the French ambassador, he fled to Holland; but was arrested, and consigned to Newgate, where he died of jail-fever five years later. A sketch of the history of Newgate would be imperfect without some mention of the curious literature which owes its existence to the gloomy jail and its surroundings. Some specimens we ave already mentioned; nor need we do more than refer to the numerous published accounts of casual visits to the prison, or to such vivid ictures of life within its walls as that in Barnaby udge; but among the less familiar Newgate literature are such rare works as The Discovery of a London Monster called the ‘Blacke Dogg of Newgate, a quaint tract, published in 1638, purporting to contain a revelation, in the form of a dialogue between the author and a prisoner, of the doings of some of the inmates of the jail. The author tells us that “the Blacke Dogg, is a black Con

science, haunting none but black-conditioned people, such as Newgate may challenge to be guests.’

Next in point of time, we come, in 1677, to “News from No. : or a True Relation of the Manner of taking Seven Persons, very notorious for Highwaymen, in the Strand, upon Monday the 13 of this instant November, 1677; and of another apprehended on Friday the 16th : all now prisoners in Newgate; with an Account of several Grand Robberies committed lately in Divers Places; and particularly, how Fifteen Countrymen returning from a Fair were set upon by Seven Highwaymen, who took from them several Hundreds of Pounds; as likewise the Robbing of a Stage-coach, and strange Discovery of some of the Thieves now in Custody, by means of two of the Passengers supposed to be Confederates with them.’ In 1717, Newgate made two curious contributions to English literature, one bearing the title of “The History of the Press Yard: a brief Account of the Customs and Occurrences that are put in Practice in that ancient Repository of Human Bodies called Newgate;’ from which the curious reader may gain a vivid insight into the horrors of prison-life a century and a half ago. The other is ‘The Secret History of the Rebels in Newgate, giving an Account of their daily Behaviour from their Commitment to their Jail Delivery; taken from a Diary kept by a Gentleman in the same Prison.’ Here we have what professes to be the report of an eye-witness, of the profligacy and license permitted, or at least winked at, by the authorities, with some queer notes respecting the extortions practised by the jailers upon their charges. The É. extends from April 14, 1716, to July 18, 1717, the rebels of whom it, treats being some of the less notable movers in the Jacobite rising of 1715. Passing over the Newgate Calendar and the Annals of Newgate, a series of o hies and details of trials, &c., by the Rev. Mr Vilette, then Ordinary of the jail, we come, a century later, to

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a work by one of the philanthropists who took up the cause of the prisoners in 1817, entitled A Twelvemonth’s Visit to Newgate, said by its author to contain “a faithful account of the character and conduct of twenty-three persons, out of twentyseven, who suffered the awful sentence of the law, in the City of London, during the year 1817.’ Of more recent years, we find an interesting account of life in the City jail and of its internal economy, in “Five Years’ Penal Servitude, by One who has endured it.’ The graphic pictures which this writer has given us are too familiar to our readers to need recapitulation. His narrative of the daily routine of the jail, the strict and careful supervision to which prisoners are subject, and the ingenious mechanical contrivances which enable the warders, themselves unseen and unheard, to keep a watch upon the prisoner’s every movement, presents a sufficiently clear idea of existence within the ‘Stone Jug,’ to satisfy the most curious, without any necessity for personal acquaintance with the interior of the prison. Many of his suggestions for bettering the lot of the criminal classes, and of obviating the risk, not only of further injury to the guilty, but, what is more important still, of irremediable wrong to the innocent, are so excellent, and apparently so feasible, that we shall hope to see them carried into effect in the new City prison, when Newgate itself exists only as a memory of the past.

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THE following incident was narrated to the writer in Lisbon by the victim himself, a celebrated Austrian sleight-of-hand performer. It has long been a stock ‘dodge’ of professional conjurers, and one which must be tolerably familiar to the public by this time, to excite notoriety in some way or other, immediately on their arrival in a provincial town ; and one of those dodges is to hire a cab, drive to the leading hotel, and then refuse to pay the cabman. A violent altercation of course ensues; a policeman is summoned ; the Professor gives his card freely—very freely—but declines to tender more solid satisfaction, on the ground that he has paid already ; but that, in a momentary absence of mind, he has “passed’ the fare into the cabman’s boot, or underneath the lining of his hat. Jehu for a long while indignantly refuses to remove the article of clothing indicated; but at length complies with reluctance. There, sure enough, is the required sum, or perhaps double its equivalent ; and the fame of the conjurer being thus early noised abroad, he gets a good house in the evening. Should he be giving two performances on consecutive evenings in the same place, he may go to the market on the morning which intervenes between them; then, selecting an egg from some old woman’s basket, he breaks it, and finds therein a gold ring, a live canary, or a sovereign. Another, and another, and yet another, are purchased and cracked with a like result; until, the cupidity of the owner being aroused, she hastily announces her determination not to sell any more, and forthwith proceeds to demolish the whole of her stock-intrade on her own account. Naturally, she is rewarded with the discovery of nothing more

than the legitimate yolk and albumen ; and loud will be her lamentations and bitter her invectives against the sorcerer who has thus beguiled her into making herself the laughingstock of the entire market. Her denunciation, however, will rather redound to his credit than otherwise, and manifest itself in overflowing benches at the Town Hall, Assembly Rooms, or Institute, the same night. The true explanation is a very simple one, both being matters of pre-arrangement, for which the confederates, namely the cabman and egg-vendor, are well paid. No doubt, if a conjurer sees an opportunity of improvising a trick, and makin a bond fide impromptu hit, off the stage, he wi not be slow to avail himself of it ; but such chances of creating a public sensation are rare. The same end is far more easily attained through the intermediate agency of a few moments’ private conversation between his servant and the ‘subject’ to be operated upon. No earthly power could insinuate a coin into an ordinary boot without the wearer’s knowledge and consent ; nor would any ordinary woman be such a fool as to go on breaking eggs by the dozen in the hope of realising results which have obviously been effected by a tour de force. . But it is an extraordinary circumstance that the public will never accept a commonplace, common-sense explanation of a conjuring trick. The popular idea runs, on springs and traps and invisible wires; and a simple solution of a mystery is petulantly rejected, as an insult to the understanding. People like to be deceived, but they do not like to be told how easily this may be done; and sleight-of-hand performers take advantage of this human weakness to clothe some of the most ordinary feats of legerdemain with an environment of mysticism, and by so doing, render them more telling than any which are executed by all sorts of mechanical or electric o: “Suppose,’ I once suggested, interrogatively, to Delisle, “the cabman, who might be well known in a quiet country town, should tell ?” *}. will—he does, the first time he gets drunk; but it doesn’t matter. Nobody believes him l’ My Austrian friend was lately making a provincial tour through the south of France, and in the course of it came to a certain town which was of so little geographical or commercial importance that he had hesitated to include it in his “fixtures.’ It formed a convenient restingplace, however, between two larger and more romising places, and he resolved to halt there or a single night. Notification of the comin entertainment had, of course, been duly bille some days in advance. As soon as he had arrived on the scene, the old programme was carried out. The cabman, a iii. stupid-visaged Gascon, having got the scheme with difficulty fixed in his brain, and a five-franc piece with less difficulty fixed in his boot, was instructed to drive the conjurer round the town, and exhibit to him the principal public buildings and objects of interest —in other words, to give his fare an opportunity of exhibiting ñoff as the coming man—who had come ; and constituting in his own person the leading object of interest to the dwellers in that monotonous little French town. Then back to the Railway Hotel, where the regulation

Chamber’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science and Arts (Google Books)


• The new Earl and Countess of Mortlake had four daughters, but only one son, now Lord Hythe, but who had for some years been known in the House of Commons as the Honourable Augustus Clare, M.P. for Starvington, a bleak little Wiltshire borough that had escaped reform. It might have done worse, however, than return Mr Clare, who was a steady working-member, if not a brilliant politician. Lord Hythe was about thirty years old, a comely, manly Englishman, sensible, honest, and earnest, a capital man on committees, a safe vote, not to be lea away by pique or crotchet, and exactly the sort of speaker who is held worth his weight in gold at agricultural meetings and mechanics’ institutes. He had but lately arrived at Harbledown, much to the delight of his mother and sisters, whose idol he was; and indeed, if praise and deference in the family circle could have spoiled Lord Hythe’s nature, spoiled it would have been in no slight degree. But all the flattery in the world could not have made a coxcomb of the member for Starvingtou, and he shot partridges, read bluebooks, and returned the visits of the county magnates with equal calmness. It was not until September that he reached Harbledown.

Of Lord Mortlake’s four daughters, two were still in the school-room, but two were grown up, and veiy well grown too. They had been left in London, under the care of a cousin, a certain Mrs Archibald Clare, when their parents were somewhat suddenly called down to the west to attend their dying kinsman; and, the season being over, they had gladly come down early in August. Lady Caroline aud Lady Julia, the two eldest, were a brace of large young women, tall, light-haired, and possessed of pink healthy faces and equable tempers. They had been ‘out* for two and three seasons respectively, and were spinsters still; but they felt no bitterness or mortification at seeing so many of their contemporaries married before them. That their turn would come, they never doubted, and they were in no hurry for the orange blooms and the Honiton lace, sure as they were that their aristocratic names would sooner or later be inscribed in the vestry-books of St George’s, Hanover Square. But almost all their sex, from the child, vain of her white sash and well-starched frock, to the grandmother bending in her elbowchair, have a turn for match-making, and so it was in this case.

Lady Caroline and Lady Julia often disputed which was the first to suggest how delightful it would be if darling Flavia and Hythe, as they were beginning to call their brother, could be brought to like each other. But to whichever of the sisters the bright original idea was due, it was hailed with acclamation, and Lady Mortlake smiled upon it with maternal approbation. Why not? It would be an excellent match, looking at it merely from a worldly point of view. Such a marriage would reunite the former possessions of the Clare family; and when Hythe snould succeed as ninth earl to the pearl-pointed coronet, he would be a richer man, and thus more worthy of marquisates, Irish viceroyalty, and •presidencies of the council, than any of his predecessors. ‘Then Hythe was such a dear fellow, so clever, good, wise, prudent, so excellent a pilot and protector for a charming little giddy thing, such as Flavia, in the perilous

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voyage of life; and Flavia was such a sweet creature, that if ever marriages are really made in heaven, surely, so the sisters thought, this would be one of them. It is very probable that had Lady Flavia been less splendidly dowered than she was, Lady Caroline and Lady Julia might have been less eager to hail her as their sister-inlaw. But they were not so much influenced by mercenary motives as might be supposed. They had taken a great fancy to the lovely little orphaned cousin whom they had found, looking so pretty and delicate in her deep mourning, at Harbledown. They knew enough of her story to be prepared from the first to sympathise with, and be kind to, this poor lonely little maid, who had been the innocent scapegoat for the sins of others. But they were surprised at finding how very graceful, how sprightly and spirited, was the young kinswoman •whom they had set down, on first hearing of her, as a raw school-girl fresh from backboards and musiclefsons. But this notion was a thoroughly mistaken one. Lady Flavia, hospitably welcomed and made much of, had been like a flower expanding its delicate petals to the genial generous sunshine. Her early silence and reserve had thawed as thin ice melts at the warm breath of spring. It would not have been natural that she, who had but an indistinct recollection of her father, should have been long overcome by grief at his loss ; and her gentle sorrow, which seemed more like the overflow of a true and tender heart, than the deep-seated regret that in such a case was hardly possible, only served to lend her an additional charm. Gradually the bright smile on her face became more frequent, her youthful spirits rose; and by the first week in October, the convent-bred girl was the pet and spoiled darling of the household.

Lord Hythe smiled incredulously when first, on Ma arrival at Harbledown, his sisters combined to fill his ears with the praises of their new friend. He knew well enough that young-lady friendships are apt to grow like the gourd of the prophet, and to wither, sometimes, as rapidly, and had no very nigh expectations with regard to this new relative. He came down to dinner, anticipating that the family phoenix would prove either a bread-andbutter miss of the awkward red-knuckled British type, or a chattering self-conscious damsel of the French pattern. But the sight of so much loveliness—for Lady Flavia looked far prettier than when we first saw her, pale and weary, on the threshold of her unfamiliar home—surprised him, and the girl’s manner perplexed him excessively. He was not a lady’s-man, was more at home in a committee-room than in an opera-box, but he was no fool, and had some knowledge of women’s ways. That knowledge was at fault now. There was something about Lady Flavia Clare that he could not fathom.

‘I’ve seen every variety of prude, flirt, and coquette, stupid good women, clever good women, and those who were good without being clever or stupid, but never any one in the least like her,’ laid liord Hythe to himself as he strolled beside the trout-stream that came splashing and bubbling down from the high purple moors whose bold chain overhangs Harbledown Park. ‘I can’t make her out She has more sense in her little finger, I’m certain, than Carry and Julia put together, and yet she lets them treat her like a child or a plaything. She has a brilliant fancy, and never

talks platitudes, yet she is not a bit of a blue. I never can tell whether she is serious or joking, with all that playfulness of hers, and that laugh— it’s a very musical laugh—but I think I had rather my wife should be less of an enigma. Eh, Leo, my boy?’ And Lord Hythe stooped and patted the head of his great dog, the usual companion of his walks, A very fine and a very faithful dog was Leo, and his master insisted on briogiug him constantly into the family circle, rather to the distress of the countess, who was constitutionally timid, and never could quite reconcile herself to the animal’s presence. Indeed, none of Lord Hythe’s near relations had ever felt quite comfortable when in company with the big tawny brute, yellow as a lion, and nearly large enough for one, six-and-thirty inches at the shoulder, and possessing the black muzzle, the heavy tail, strong paws, deep chest, and solemn dignity of the pure old Pyrenean breed of wolf-dogs. A patrician of the canine race was Leo, very grave and majestic, never seeking a quarrel with man or beast, and rarely uttering that mighty bark, at the sound of which others of his species slunk off trembling to their kennels. But for all that, and although Leo treated his master’s friends with distinguished politeness, there was something in the expression of the dog’s dark eyes, deep-set, and glowing like carbuncles, that said Noli me tangere as plainly as a human tongue could have done, and no one ever patted the noble brute otherwise than respectfully, and in a half-apologetic manner.

But here, wonder of wonders, came out another trait in Lady Flavia’s apparently incongruous character: she alone of the household refused to be afraid of Leo. In spite of all well-meant warnings, in spite of suppressed feminine screams from the young ladies, she would have her way. When Leo lay stretched on the hearth-rug, lazily blinking at the cold grate, and perhaps dreaming of winter and its bright fires, Lady Flavia would seat herself on a low stool beside the dog, twine her arms round his neck, and caress the huge brute as fearlessly and familiarly as if he had been the meekest of lap-dogs. A pretty sight it was, as Lord Hythe often owned to himself, that of this slight delicate fairy with her slender arms wound round Leo’s brawny neck, and her silken curls falling in ebon masses over the great hound’s shaggy yellow coat. But there was one feature in the case that could not but strike the young man, a keener observer than his mother and sisters. If Lady Flavia were not afraid of Leo, which was obvious, it was almost equally plain that Leo was afraid of Lady Flavia. It seemed absurd, but it was true. To his master’s practised eye, the mighty dog never failed to shew signs of fear, and of a sort of scared subjection, while those white little hands were tenderly stroking his massive head, and those blue girlish eyes were bent on his. Then, as the dog cowered down submissively, the dead earl’s daughter would look up with her bright glance and her ringing elfin laugh.

‘Leo and I are very good friends, and understand each other quite well,’ she would say in that playful tone which always puzzled Lord Hythe as to whether some deeper meaning did not lurk beneath the words than they seemed to convey. ‘You should give him to me, and then we could walk about the moors together, like Una and the Lion, you know. Give a paw, Leo. Good dog!’

Leo never condescended to give hia broad forepaw to any one but his master, Lady Flavia excepted; but there was a spell in her voice and look that the creature obeyed at once.

‘Is she a sorceress, then, and has she bewitched you, old fellow ?’ asked Lord Hythe as he walked along, looking down at his dog as it gravely paced beside him. ‘Or is she really the Fairy Queen she looks? Yes, it would be a very good match, as my mother says; and the girl is sweetly pretty, and she has Cupley Lees and Melshot Friars stitched to her apron; but—but I had rather think twice about it, though I am sure I could give no reason for saying so.’

The Adventures of Captain Blake: My Life (Google Books)

The lady was returning from a Blazer ball ; and though, at first sight, she might have appeared rather corpulent for a “ coryphee,” nevertheless she delighted in countrydancing, and there was not a catch-weight in Galway more enduring, take her either at reel or jig. Imagine then her indignation, when, on the preceding night, she had been permitted to overlook a whist-table! Those on whom she had a legitimate claim were too drunk to stand ; and those who were not, were left to sit unheeded. None claimed “her soft hand; ” and her figured muslin, its first appearance upon any stage, was never allowed to rustle down the middle!

Nor was Jeremiah Casey in happier mood. Every year his customers became more dilarory; and it appeared to him, that in Connaught, by a general consent, payments were to be procrastinaied to the- day of judgment.

Jerry had scoured the country from cockcrow to curfew. Of his numerous correspondents, sundry were sick, an” divers invisible; one man was absent at a fox-hum another had bolted with his neighbour’s wife, and thOSt who favoured him with an interview were not more satisfactory. One, whom he had furnished with a bridal outfit, threatened him with instant death for recalling the event, and thereby wounding his feelings, as his lady had left him in a fortnight. Anotl er generously offered to accept at six months for two hundred, provided Jerry handed over the balance, being eighty-four pounds six shillings and four-pence, upon the spot. Mr. Bodkin had been cleaned out at the Curragh, and Mr. M-Dermott requested he would oblige him by discounting a bill. Mr. Kirwan was anxious to know on what night the Westport

. mail was robbed, as that event must have occurred, and

himself suspected to have been present and particepe crimanis, or he, Jerry, never would have the assurance to demand money from him at that time of the year. Mr. Burke felt offended at the indelicacy of the application, as, but five years before, he had actually paid him, Jerry, fifty pounds: and Mr. Donnelan trusted the tenants would not hear he was a tailor, and from Dublin; he, Donnelan, wished him well, and feared, if discovered, that he could not save his life. In one house, he found the lower windows built up, as the occupant had quarrelled with the coroner. At another, even before he could announce his name, he was covered with a blunderbuss from the attic, and obliged to abscond with as much rapidity as if he had committed a felony. In short, Jeremiah Casey was returning a sadder and not a richer man, than when he crossed the Shannon ; and had half determined, like Mr. Daniel O’Connell, to “ register a vow in heaven,” never during the remainder of his natural life to apply shears to broadcloth, for any customer westward of the bridge of Athlone.

W oman is an uncertain article ; and so says every man who hath passed five-and-twenty. Some of them are won in smiles, and others are best wooed when sulky. I know not what tempted Jerry Casey, when driven desperate by bad debts, to then begin thinking about matrimony ; no:

why Honoria Blake, when at war with all the sex, should ‘

condescend to -vow submission to a fraction of humanity. But Jerry was rich as a Jew ; Honoria living on sufferance with her clan, even unto the third and fourth generation. The result was, that after a courtship “ short, sharp, and decisive,” Honoria Blake was united to Jeremiah Casey;

and so said all the newspapers. There was dire commotion among the tribes, when il

was announced that one of “ the ould stock ” had committed matrimony with a tailor. But this indignation was “ deep, not loud.” In the alphabet of Jerry’s ledger, the names of the complainants were awfully recorded. Though he, good easy man, might be trifled with, his lady, if roused, would probably exhibit different feelings. Quickly

and quietly the indignity was forgotten; one by one, the _

kindred of Mrs. Casey condescended to drop in at dinner time; Usher’s Quay was convenient to the Four Courts; Jerry was “ a dacent poor devil after all ;” his port was sound-—his pot-luck not amiss; and before the honeymoon had waned her horns, Blakes, Burkes, and Bodkins united legs under Mrs. Casey’s mahogany.

S0 matters sped. Five years passed ; and Jerry was called to his account, and slept with his fathers—if he had any such. He surfeited himself, poor man! — for he was a true Catholic — with eggs and bacon, after a black Lent, on an Easter Sunday ; and Mrs. Casey found herself a disconsolate widow, having forty thousand pounds in government stock, divers houses in the city, an annuity of five hundred pounds, and Connaught securities suflicient to fill l travelling trunk.

Without loss of time, the relict of the departed tailor cut the Quay, engaged a newly-furrnished house, exchanged Jerry’s “ one-horse chay” for a chariot, built to order by Hutton ; and a brass-plate, large enough for a dentist, appeared on the door of No. 21. Merrion Square, bearing the name of Mns. BLAKE Cassy,” and underneath, in smaller letters, “ knock and ring.”

Then it was, that by every post letters of condolence ame pouring in. Natural affection, of course, excited the “Ympathies of Mrs. Casey’s numerous connections ; but it

– was hinted that other causes assisted. Jerry’s books had

oeen handed over to Messrs. Sharp and Sweepall ; and they had circularised Connaught, hoping, with equal politeness and sincerity, that all debts due to the late Jeremiah Casey, Esquire, would be directly discharged ; and they, Sharp and Sweepall, saved the very disagreeable duty of enforcing immediate payment of the same.

My uncle Manns was nearest blood-relation to the afflicted

widow. He had survived all his brothers. The captain was killed at Trafalgar, in command of a Spanish seventyfour; and the brigadier was assassinated in the streets of Dresden, about a love affair which his blundering management had eclated. Consequently Manus was the nearest

-and natural heir to Honor Casey. He and the lady were

therefore, in due time, formally reconciled ; and, in proof of renewed amity, she accepted an invitation to Castle Blake; and set off for said place, in great distress of mind, and a new carriage.

Great were the preparations to give an honourable reception to Mrs. Blake Casey ; and expectation was on tiptoe to see how the wealthy widow bore her good luck. Five o’clock struck, and a yellow chariot with four post-horses rolled under the grand gateway, and Jack and I ensconced ourselves in a convenient window, to command a good view of the important visitor.

On the box, a priggish-looking footman, in deep mourning and worsted epaulettes, sat beside the lady’s-maid. From a hasty inspection of his legs, Jack decided that he had been a favourite disciple of the departed tailor. On his knee he carried a large cage, in which a green parrot was deposited; and a worse disposed bird never crossed the line. Within, the widow sate in state, with an asthmatic poodle her companilm. Trunks, boxes, and imperials were in and about the vehicle in such abundance, that had Jerry not been in purgatory, or heaven* — for, as he levanted at the end of a strict Lent, his probation for short measures and long charges might have been abridged —one might believe, that therein was contained a fresh outfit for every customer in the county.

we described Honoria Blake to be a stout gentlewoman, and I was prepared to see a portly personage debark ; but when she essayed it, a mountain of flesh endeavoured to extricate itself, as by a flank movement, she attempted to clear the carriage-door. Mrs. Casey had indeed become a

‘ In the kingdom of Connaught, it is universally believed that tailors and musicians after death are cantoned in a place called “ Fiddler’s Green.” As it il not marked on any map of Arrowsmith, I cannot describe its precise situltion further, than that report places it unpleasantly contiguous to Pandemomum.


monster; and as she clomb the steps with Manus Blake’s assistance, her figure was so absurd, that my friend Jack sat down upon the carpet, to laugh with more convenience to himself.

It will be hardly necessary to observe that Mrs. Casey and her suits were fully as troublesome as could be expected. Before they had passed a week in Castle Blake, they hated all therein, and received an honest return. Father Roger hoped there was no sin in wishing Mrs. C. safe in heaven ; while the prayers of Denis O’Brien — who since my father’s death had become chief butler to my uncle—would have sent her in an opposite direction. Nor was the lady’s establishment more fortunate in gaining the regard of the household. The maid was a verj uiced spinster, too old to love herself, and too ill-natured to look on. The footman was a regular snip ; and from the configuration of his limbs, had obtained from the servants the surname of Giblets ; the poodle was a nuisance, and the parrot had nearly bitten off my aunt’s finger.

Between Jack and the entire set, a secret but deadly war was raging. He persecuted the spinster; put Giblets on a vicious horse, by which his bones were bruised, and his life endangered; trod, on all safe occasions, upon the poodle’s tail, and kept the parrot in such eternal irritation, that Mother IIasey herself dared not take a liberty with the offended bird. It is not marvellous, all things considered, that the visit should come to an untimely close ; and so it did.

We have already described the great ditliculty that Mrs. Casey experienced in depositing her person in a carriage, and also in extricating it from the same. Now, my aunt had a low four-wheeled chair, in which she occasionally drove over the demesne ; and, as it afforded facilities to Mrs. Casey, which her own vehicle possessed not, she more than once had used it for an airing. One fine morning she determined on a drive, and Jack was despatched to order my aunt’s chair. On his return, he overheard Manus Blake and Mrs. Casey holding a cabinet-council, very imprudently, with open doors. Jack listened; his own name was pronounced, and there was little in the manner which could increase his personal vanity. Mrs. Casey premised “ that

what she said was from family affection, although it dis tressed her-to do so ; but she could not conceal the truth; the boys were on the road to ruin, and nothing could save them but a strict public school ;” and she concluded by earnestly recommending Doctor Bircham’s.

Now, Jack had a horror of schools in general; and Bircham flogged with the left hand, and was reputed the

hardest hitter that ever operated on a delinquent. Indeed,’

his establishment was a sort of purgatory for juvenile offenders; and the name of Bircham carried terror to the most desperate. Judge, then, Jack’s consternation, when his father willingly consented and named an early day for our departure.

Jack, I regret to say, never evinced that meek and christian disposition which delighteth in repaying evil with good. He vowed vengeance against Mother Casey, and all appertaining to her; and to use parliamentary language, he lost no time in redeeming his pledge.

The wheels of my aunt’s chair grated on the gravel, and Mrs. Casey, as the day was fine, notified her intention of taking all her favourites along with her; cloaks, shawls, and umbrellas were put in, and so were the maid, the poodle, and the parrot. The stout gentlewoman ascended next, Manus Blake aiding and assisting; Giblets perched himself on the hind carriage, and off this precious party trundled.

But short was their excursion. Before the vehicle proceeded fifty yards, off came a hind-wheel and out came the company! A desperate outcry apprised Mantis Blake of the accident: he looked, and there saw Giblets over his honoured mistress, and the poodle under her: the parrot had secured the maid’s finger; and cloaks, cushions, and cage formed a general wreck.

Promptly they were succoured: Mother Casey was carried to the house, and brought about by the usual restoratives, brandy and burnt feathers. The favourites had suffered severely; the poodle was lame—the maid’s finger less by the nail— Giblets frightened to death — and the parrot bereaved of tail and topping. Well was it for all tha the fatal cause of this capsize remained unknown: ‘lack had privately purloined the linch-pin, and no wonder that the wheel followed it.

Yet dark suspicions haunted Mrs. Casey. The luckless vehicle belonged to Manus Blake, and Manus Blake was her next heir. The maid whispered doubtingly, and Giblets dropped mysterious hints. Deeper and deeper grew suspicion; and on the third day, and with brief ceremony, Mrs. Blake Casey moved off, “ bag and baggage.”

But, alas! the mischief was done, the decrees had gone forth; and Jack and I were consigned to Dr. Bircham. We departed for Loughrea with heavy hearts – and Heaven knows! we had good reason. Fame had only done the doctor justice; for never since the martyrdom of St. Bartholomew were poor devils flayed as we were.

Three years passed; the breach between Manus and his kiuswoman was widened by the ingenuity of Giblets and the maid, until all communication ceased by mutual consent between the lord of Castle Blake and the relict of J eremiah Casey, Esquire. Jack and I continued under the tutorage of Dr. Bircham; and, indeed, that left-handed professor sustained his well-earned reputation on our proper persons.

At last the joyful hour arrived that emancipated us from his thrall. Jack being destined for the woolsack, was despatched to the Dublin University; and how he got entrance remains a mystery. I, like my poor father, was deemed fit food for gunpowder, and gazetted to an ensigncy; and with a good horse, a gentlemanly kit, fifty guineas in my pocket, and as light a heart as ever bounded at “tuck of drum,” I set out for the good town of Drogheda, to learn the art of war, and carry the regimental colours of the militia.

Forbidden to wed (Google Books)

So much conceded, materials ■were brought forth, and a consultation ensued, in which the lady’s langour almost disappeared. Ignoring her forty-five years, her matronhood, and her constitutional delicacy, the beauty of a bygone day rejected all suggestions of brocade or taffeta as too old and heavy, and would fain have a robe as diaphanous and airy as a Parisian belle. A dress styled “a curricle and petticoat ” was in vogue; for this azure gauze was selected, with satin for the under skirt. The upper skirt, arranged like a sort of classic drapery, crossed on the left side, where it was so disposed as to reveal the under one, and this upper curricle she required bordering with a wreath of satin-stitch embroidery in white silk; a similar wreath to encircle the low edge of the narrow skirt.

It was in vain Mrs. Hopley protested there was not sufficient time for embroidery and making both. She “had so many robes bespoke for the same occasion.” Mrs. Wynne’s diplomacy prevailed, and the embroideress was summoned to take instructions.

As Mrs. Hopley spoke to the show-room assistant, “Bid Miss D’Anyer come hither!” Mrs. Wynne started. Surely her ears had deceived her! She thought her eyes had deceived her also, when, in a few minutes, a tall, fragile girl, in a plain dress of striped grey-and-white gingham, came into the room, who evidently walked in pain, clinging to the doorpost as she entered; then, with a quick smile irradiating her face, advanced with extended hand, apparently misinterpreting her summons into the show-room.

“Oh, Mrs. Wynne, this is kind. I thought you had forgotten me,” she began.

Mrs. Hopley looked bewildered. What previous knowledge had Miss DAnyer of the lady? Mrs. Bancroft’s questioning of Muriel in Eaton Park, years before, had scarcely made on her a momentary impression, and was not remembered now.

Mrs. Wynne was disconcerted; but whilst her own locket hung before her eyes on Muriel’s neck, there was no affecting ignorance, no excuse for refusing the proffered hand, which she took with just sufficient courtesy, only to drop it hastily as Muriel went on to say,—

“I suppose Lieutenant Wynne told you of my accident. I should certainly have been killed but for his bravery.”

Mrs. Wynne froze on the instant. Her fashionable eyeglass was raised to her cold optics; then they travelled down to the limping foot, and upwards to the astonished eyes of the young girl, which they fixed with an icy stare, causing the blood to rush to Muriel’s face with a consciousness of the sudden change, and of some unknown offence.

“I heard that my son was seen with a bedrabbled female he had picked up out of the mud—saved from being run over, or something,” was said, as from a lofty height. “And so you were the person. May I ask if you had an appointment with my son, as he happened to be so conveniently at hand?”

“Mrs. Wynne!” The tone of surprise and pain in which this was ejaculated was in itself a denial. Up to Muriel’s brow surged the crimson tide of injured delicacy. “I was on my way to the Post-Office, madam, when the accident occurred. I did not see my preserver until I came to myself. I believe I fainted.”

“I shall put my own construction on your indirect answer to my question, Miss D’Anyer. My son himself spoke of an appointment he had made. It occurs to me you are presuming on the little service your grandmother rendered to us some few years back, and are throwing yourself in the way of Lieutenant Wynne in a manner that is neither delicate nor seemly—in your position especially. Mrs. Hopley will do well to keep a stricter watch over her assistants in future. It is not to her credit that they should consort with young officers.”

Muriel felt as if she should choke. All this was so utterly unjust.

“You are under a mistake, Mrs. Wynne. I have neither sought your son, nor encouraged him to seek me. I should forfeit my own self-respect were I to do either.” And not another word did she say either in self-defence or justification. Mrs. Wynne stood revealed before her, all that Mr. Holmes and Lncinda had pourtrayed. The locket, so long worn in remembrance, was henceforth seen on Muriel’s neck no more,

Muriel’s quiet disclaimer was lost in that of Mrs. Hopley, who professed to be shocked, at the same time that she sought to uphold the credit of her establishment. In her own mind she was not sorry to see the discomposure of the haughty Mrs. Wynne, though she knew little what it was all about.

With a wave of her hand Mrs. Wynne dismissed the subject, and turned to the discussion of embroidery as coolly as if the young woman standing there—with infinite pain, mental and physical—to take her orders, was simply the mantua-maker’s assistant, and had never held other relation to her.

She rode back to the Plas full of her discovery, thinking to overwhelm her son with it.

Lieutenant Wynne had again gone to Chester, she was told. “Say I desire to see him on his return,” were her orders to Norris, and Arthur found her pacing the raised terrace which ran along one side of the castellated mansion, all eager and impatient to tell him that the Miss D’Anyer, whose relations gave themselves such airs in Delamere, was nothing but a mantua-maker’s apprentice, a common embroideress about to work for her; and, as such, no associate for the son of Major Wynne.

“I am aware of Miss D’Anyer’s position, madam,” said he with respectful calm; “but I consider that she is altogether superior to that position, and has excellences I have looked for in vain amongst my ordinary acquaintance.”

It was a surprise to find her son equally well informed with herself; and more than a surprise to discover that he held Muriel to be “superior to her position;” and that he flamed up with indignation at the bare suggestion that she was “laying a snare to entrap him”—was “luring him from his allegiance to his cousin.”

“You are aspersing the character of a most noble girl,” he cried hastily, “and I should be unworthy to rank with gentlemen if I entered no protest against it.”

He defended, not himself, but Muriel; maintained that their meeting was fortuitous on her part on each occasion, that she had only accepted his arm when unable to walk, had herself informed him of her apprenticeship, and he wound up by saying, “If Pauline had but half Miss D’Anyer’s modest reserve and delicacy, my so-called ‘allegiance to my cousin’ might have been a fact and not a mere fancy of yours.”

“A mere fancy of mine I Compare Pauline Wynne of the Plas with a mere milliner’s apprentice!” and the lady tapped her fan irritably on the stone balustrade of the terrace, which overlooked a picturesque garden scene. “You must have lost your senses over the girl! Surely, Arthur, you have not entangled yourself in any way with such a plebeian?”

For a moment Arthur Wynne pressed his lips tightly together; then he answered with deliberation:—

“I have seen Miss D’Anyer but three times since she was a child—a child, madam, to whom we were greatly indebted. I was providentially at hand to rescue the young lady (he emphasised the word) from great peril. There can be no possibility of ‘ entanglement’ with one so pure and so reserved; and, if I compared her with Miss Wynne, to the disadvantage of the latter—look there!”

He had drawn himself up to his full height as he spoke, in feature, manner, and bearing the reflex of his handsome father; and now he flung his left arm out above the balustrade, as if to point his speech.

The fine afternoon had brought the whole party out of the house; but there, in the distance, sauntering along a shady walk by the border of the lake, might be seen at intervals the fair Pauline, evidently weaving snares for the ” entanglement” of Sir Jenkyn, on whose arm she was leaning, whilst she toyed with her fan and answered his enamoured glances with bewitching smiles, as if no question of a cousin’s attachment had ever risen.

“Pauline has herself dispelled the glamour of her own eyes; so heartless a coquette is not the wife for me,” he went on, “and I must confess I have seen no woman in our circle who reaches the high standard of Miss D’Anyer: until I do I am likely to remain a bachelor.”

Without another word he turned away and joined Sir Madoc, then reading the Times, on a stone bench some paces off, dipping into the old gentleman’s snuffbox as preliminary to a chat, for which the political aspect of affairs and the newspapers Arthur had brought from the post-office on Saturday furnished material.

Mrs. Wynne was aghast; all her schemes were blown over. Sir Madoc was hale and strong; the chance of her husband’s succession to the baronetcy small indeed, to say nothing of the chances of war. As Pauline’s mother-in-law, she had hoped to reign at the Plas, where indeed she did spend more of her time than Major Wynne might be supposed to care for; but “Celia was delicate, and the air among the Welsh mountains so pure, and suited her so well, he could not find in his heart to keep her in garrison with him.” At least that was the reason generally assigned for her long periods of absence; if it was not the whole reason, it concerned no one but himself.

She had herself a belief, and had impressed Sir Madoc that she stayed there in part to watch over Pauline, and bind her to Arthur—and now he repudiated his cousin. And what had he set in her place? A country manufacturer’s daughter, sewing for her living. Oh, it was too horrible! She must write to the Major: Arthur must be recalled. But she must give no inkling who was Pauline’s low-born rival—there was no trusting her husband’s Quixotism. And before another day dawned the letter wag written—and despatched. Ostensibly it contained her congratulation of her husband on his promotion.

Mrs. Hopley had questioned Muriel with some asperity; but the explanation was so clear and simple, the repudiation of Mrs. Wynne’s unfounded suspicions so decisive, that it scarcely needed her own first experience of Mrs. Wynne to convince her of Muriel’s truth. And Mrs. Hopley, hard and strict where her own interest was concerned, did not much trouble herself with matters beyond. She just advised Muriel to keep out of the lieutenant’s way; a superfluous piece of advice, considering her inability to take a step without pain. She, moreover, found a liniment and a bandage for the injured ankle, and said: “You need not come downstairs to meals; I will send them up to you, so that you can rest your foot and get on with the embroidery at the same time, for that will have to be done if you sit up all night over it.”

Muriel placed a footstool beneath her frame as a rest for her foot; but sitting in the one position all that evening, through all the next long day and seemingly longer night, and far into the “Wednesday, with only brief intervals for food, or the shifting of the gauze on the frame, was not such rest as a sprained ankle requires; and when Muriel next went to bed, she was compelled to use the ready arm of Lucinda Holmes as a crutch.

There had been some calculation in Mrs. Hopley’s sudden show of kindness. “It’s best to prevent the girl from being wholly disabled. I could not spare her at this busy season,” she had argued with herself. And her kindliness was but short-lived.

The city of Chester contained an overplus of old maids, poodles and parrots (of the latter many funny anecdotes were told); and it was the custom amongst the ancient spinsters of genteel birth and small independence to give periodical tea parties, where gossip was handed round with the cake and tea.

It so happened that at one of these staid tea parties in Abbey Square, the Misses Briscoe heard a bit of gossip which set their ancient ears a-tingling, and caused them to uplift their skinny hands in horror.

Miss D’Anyer, the pupil they had trained so carefully and so piously, had been seen to leave the Theatre Eoyal, and that too in the company of a military officer; and the same officer had been seen loitering about Watergate-street and the Rows more than once since.

The very next morning—on the Tuesday that is—the two spinsters laboured up Mrs. Hopley’s staircase, bent on “doing their duty to the misguided young woman;” and Miss D’Anyer, still more laboriously descended from the workroom to be confronted with them, and with Mrs. Hopley, who professed like horror of “so sinful a place as a playhouse,” and who saw in the companionship of the officer a confirmation of Mrs. Wynne’s accusation.

Hunt’s Yachting Magazine, Volume 9 (Google Books)




When we had all resigned ourselves to fresh claret and cigars, Dr. Sam Fenton drew a long breath, gave a grunt sonorous enough for a grizzly boar of Deccan, a whistle like the sweep of a Nor-Wester through the rigging of a Berwick smack, shrugged up his shoulder until it touched his ear, made a face that would have thrown a mask maker into convulsions, and having thus as he said prepared himself for sea, he commenced:—

When I was a much younger individual amongst the population of this kingdom, and perhaps a very useless one; I was possessed of many old fashioned Irish ways, one of many of which was an unquenchable thirst for pleasure, novelty, excitement—a characteristic by the way which my fellow countrymen are pretty successful in sustaining to the present day. Between London and Paris, Baden-Baden and Bath, Switzerland and the Highlands of Scotland, with an occasional relapse into Killarney, * Continued from page 68.

Cumberland, the Isle of Man, and the Cumbrae Islands, I managed to keep the craving devil at bay for some time, but at last the evil day I had long foreseen arrived, came upon me like a clap of thunder in a diving bell—’Milia Murther,’ says I to myself, ‘what’s to be done!’ work you divil! whispered conscience.—I did work, I drew teeth from old dowagers gratis for the fun of torturing them because they were rich, and that could not help them: I plagued gouty old gourmands with a diet of bread pills, stained water, and sour crumpets until the thoughts of a good dinner preyed upon them to the verge of insanity. I converted a nabob’s liver into such a neutral condition, that he fled back to India to get a sensation in it; I took a bold step to secure myself the everlasting gratitude of all the old maids in the universe by organizing a scheme for the foundation of the ‘Royal Medical Benevolent Annuity and Advice Association and Asylum for decayed and homeless Parrots, and Superannuated Poodles,’ aud the numerous rebuffs and sneers I met with during my exertions to establish it afforded me capital excitement) and a vast insight into human nature. At first they looked upon my scheme as that of a madman, I headed the list with a good round sum, got a few aristocratic old tabbies to lend their names aud secure their cats a provision, or provisions; the thing was a trinmph, the bait took, they absolutely began to consider me an enlightened man, and the movement threatened to become an epoch; the subscriptions flowed in steadily, but I was not to be baulked of my revenge for the contumely shown to me at the outset; I waited until the accumulation of a considerable sum brought together a crowded assemblage of the benevolent; then in a speech unexampled for clearness, force, and subtlety of reasoning I pointed out the errors of their ways, recommended them to put an existence to the period of the lives of their pets, namely by giving them uncontrolled freedom; exhorted them to remove the thraldom of social reformatories from the feline species, and concluded my erudite peroration by proposing and carrying by acclamation, that the stream of errant benevolence should be diverted into its proper channel, and that the sum intended to provide ginger-bread for asthmatic King Charles’s, plethoric parrots, and mangy cats, should be transferred to the relief of the lame, the blind, the halt, and the maimed, commonly recognised as the most destitute of the human race.

My trinmph proved a grand excitement, but again the demon of lassitude beset me, and I wandered about seeking what novelty I might devour. On one fine May morning I found myself an industrious pedestrian on the promenade ut Cowes; trim yachts lay at their moorings close at hand, smart boats with dashing crews flitted to and fro, important looking personages with gold bound caps and jackets radiant fields of buttercups; huge telescopes slung at their backs, and an air of importance that led me to think that much of England’s maritime welfare was owing to their laborious exertions, marched about in solemn grandeur; I gazed in wonder, admired, and gazed again. Some busy little devil that chanced to be floating by in his zephyr bark muttered it* my ear,—buy a yacht, I jumped at the suggestion, what a goose I had been never to have thought of it before; just the thing, my own hotel— my own household—no espionage—monarch of my quarter deck— the glorious sea—go where I pleased—all the same expense—foreign princess—newly discovered island,—terrestrial paradise—founder of a colony, praiseworthy ambition—dull rogues those that dream away their lives on shore—liberty—good fellowship—honesty—to be found on the sea alone—Hurrah—Eureka!” I exclaimed, dashing my elegant thirty shilling umbrella into the sea; away with such effeminate luxuries, I will bare my brow to the elements; and expose my form to the raging of the tempest, tooth-ache be hanged! rheumatism avaunt! ague to the winds! I will be a man, and to become that respectable individual I resolved to be—a yachtsman.

The ensuing evening saw me attired in the severest simplicity of an amateur sailor; the gold band on my cap was gorgeous but correct; the buttons on my jacket were sufficiently large to be distinctive, if the size of a half-crown could be considered up to the mark, and their number I learned betokened rank more than ostentatious display; my telescope was encased in the yellowest of leather, and slung by a strap compared to which all others dwindled into insignificance, and as I rolled along with the nearest approach I could manage to a true quarter-deck walk, which I had practised on a plank in the garden of my hotel, I felt that admiring eyes were bent upon me, and on more than one occasion my natural acuteness detected the furtive smile which distorts the features of the envious; at the moment I forgave them; just then a dreadful suspicion crossed my mind, I withdrew my forgiveness, what if they had been laughing at me, bosh, in a few days I should be the owner of the finest yacht in Cowes, and then who would have the laugh—1 to be sure, whilst they poor ignorant fools would be none the gainers by their bad manners.

At this tr.oment an officer in full naval costume approached me, with a well bred stare he surveyed me from head to foot, I know not what prompted me to do so, but I wished him a good evening, to which he replied with easy courtesy. We entered into conversation, mine teemed to please him and he listened to me with marked attention;

I felt flattered, and as we walked up and down I saw that I was

creating a prodigious sensation; ‘It is Admiral Sir John B!’

said one ‘That’s the celebrated H R ,’ said another; my

companion appeared to catch up the impression, and shortly afterwards turned the conversation upon matters nautical, he asked me my opinion of the “Jackass Frigate.” Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet I could not have been more astounded, what the plague did I know about “Jackass Frigates” Of the noun adjective I certainly did; could he mean to insult me, I felt I was on tender ground, so shaking my head I determined to object to the adjective in toto, so told him ‘I had always been opposed to them!’ So I had been, I hated donkeys, aud they hated me when I was a boy, and lay down with and rolled over me, much to the detriment of my Sunday jacket; there was no prevarication in that, ‘I had been and always would be opposed to Jackasses 1’ I said, aud I hoped he had nothing to say to the contrary.

“Nothing in the world” he said, “quite the reverse, in fact his experiences of them were painful ones—he had served in one, and some of his severest service afloat had been during that period!”

“Now here was a pretty dilemma—a contretemps like this had never entered my mind—here was a real sailor aud in real uniform, whilst I an imposter, a landsman in a mock uniform, was drifting into a disquisition upon a subject that I knew no more of than making matches. I felt that I was obtaining distinction under false pretences, that I was flying false colours, and that after all there must be something more than mere uniform to entitle a man to call himself a yachtsman, or a sailor: who was the donkey now—I heartily wished that gold band, buttons and telescope were at the bottom of the Solent.

“They can never carry their guns!” exclaimed my companion. \

I mumbled something about not being addicted to field sports.

“Just my argument,” said he, “they should be stationed at the home ports!”

“Not to be compared to Foreign port,” muttered I. “Sirl” said he.

‘” Permit me to offer you my card,” said I—”I shall be happy to cultivate your acquaintance!”

He looked at it; instantly his defferential manner vanished, and an air of the most supercilious insolence succeeded to it—” Ah—a slight mistake on my part, I thought I was conversing with Admiral B , ,” he turned on his heel.

My blood was up—’ A word with you! I exclaimed: ‘your uniform is a real one, and you are paid for wearing it; mine is a mock one, but not the less entitled to respect, for I wear it at my own expense; I aspire to be a yachtsman, and although not an Admiral I can walk the deck of as fine a vessel as ever an Admiral in Her Majesty’s service could call his own private properly!

“My dear Sir—my most excellent friend—pray do not for a moment think—I—I—really—well now that you should imagine—and which is jour yacht pray!”

My anger was assuaged—a weak moment supervened. “I expect her every day!”

“My dear fellow—allow me—my card—I shall only be too delighted to respond to your wish—we shall cultivate an acquaintance.”

I read the card—the address was ” Mr. Horatio Flowerdew, H.E.I.C”

“Two men sold!” I exclaimed, “he’s not in the ‘ Royals’ no more than I am in the ‘Regulars.'”

Before I had risen the next morning Mr. Flowerdew was announced; I received him—I bought the yacht—he cultivated my acquaintance—of that more anon.

(To be continued.)

The Young Husband (Google Books)

CHAPTER XLIX, ‘Tis not the least disparagement To be defeated by th’ event. HUDIERs. NoTHING ever equaled the astonishment of

Lady Graham on receiving the announcement that Admiral and Mrs. Grey and suite had arrived in Connaught-place; and as she had intended that London should be a little preserve of her own, in which to hunt for great acquaint. ances and to pursue a career of amusement.* well as of triumph in the most fashionable circles it may be doubted whether all the pleasures” expressed on this occasion were perfectly genu. ine. It was rather an awkward prospect also” meet with Lord Edenthorpe, after havingsg” a certificate that she considered him derangel,

but Lady Graham had audacity equal to any

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of higher enjoyment such as mine. My ambition in society shall always be, to illuminate my mind by the light of others, and to gather around me, if it be possible, all those who dignify human nature by their genius, their taste, their talents, and their principles. To assist me in such an object, and, I trust, to witness my success, you will not regret leaving for a time your rural happiness at Rockingham, forgetting your love of nature, your habits of retirement, your objects of benevolence, and your love of useful activity, for the sake of one already so much indebted to your friendship.” When the nature of Lord Edenthorpe’s request was fully explained to Admiral Grey, he unhesitatingly acceded to the unexpected proposal that he should spend some weeks in London immediately. Admiral Grey then expressed to the young peer, in a few short but warm-hearted words of kindness and sincerity, how gladly he coincided in any proposition which continued their intercourse, especially in one that promised so much pleasure to his family, and that did him so much honor. The worthy admiral at this moment saw a vision before his mind’s eye, which was by no means disagreeable to him, of the very arm-chair near the window of the Senior United Service Club, in which he had formerly spent some not very unhappy hours in grumbling over the state of the nation; and he rapidly called over a muster-roll of what friends he had still surviving there, with whom to discuss the Navigation Laws and the introduction of steam in the royal navy, which he persisted in considering an odious innovation, not to be tolerated or countenanced. Lord Edenthorpe took an early opportunity of explaining, in a very few words, to Charlotte, and with a look of diffittent pleasure, the plan to which he had got Mrs. Grey’s consent—that the present party should be immediately transferred to London; and ended by saying, “May I hope, then, Miss Grey, that what promises so much happiness to me will give you some pleasure ?” “The very greatest” replied Charlotte, frankly, and then added, fearing she had expressed herself too warmly, while she vailed with her eyelids the happy light in her eyes—“We shall see my brother again there before he sails; and I have always wished, like Hannah More, that I could visit London to see the bishops and booksellers. Never having yet been in the great metropolis, you may imagine, Lord Edenthorpe, how very glad I shall be to go there, and under such very great advantages.” “Then I am fortunate indeed,” observed Lord Edenthorpe, his handsome young countenance breaking suddenly into a smile of anticipated happiness. “I feel within me now a promise of success in life. In your family, Mrs. Grey, there is a sufficient motive to exertion, and a more than sufficient reward, should all my future wishes be as favorably granted. From this hour let me date the beginning of my actual existence; for now I shall run the race of life with others, and endeavor to win myself a place in their esteem.” “The greatest felicity of life is to pursue some great an good object, therefore ‘ is well chosen,” observed the admiral, looking over the edge of his newspaper. “Of all the wretched beings I know, the most so are those lying on a of roses, who have nothing for which to



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emergency. She soon ascertained that for Anna
“erceval’s sake the story was all to be hushed
up, therefore she could keep it from Sir Edward;
and having written to Mrs. Grey what she called
a thorough explanation of the whole affair, lay-
ing immeasurable blame on Sir Fitzroy, who
had tricked her into unconsciously countenancing
flis schemes, Lady Graham summoned up cour-
age to call at Connaught-place as soon as she
ascertained that her uncle’s family were domes-
ticated there, and to give them all, including
Lord Edenthorpe, a rapturous reception. This
visit she ingeniously timed so as to arrive in the
midst of a grand review in Hyde Park, which
the party were all occupied in witnessing from
he window; so that in five minutes she con-
trived to conceal her confusion by uttering a
whirlwind of charming exclamations about the
firing and the maneuvers, the splendid uniforms,
the long lines of cavalry, the military bands, and
the loud roar of the artillery guns. The admiral
had too great a contempt for Lady Graham to
imagine her capable of any deep-laid plot; there-
fore, though his manner in £ her was
unusually dry, and he gave a growl of disappro-
bation to almost everything she said during this
her first visit, yet his anger was very apt to burn
itself out, and the whole of his ire became finally
concentrated on Sir Fitzroy, on whose account
he evidently thought that capital punishments
thould not yet be abolished. He several times
declared that hanging was only too good for Sir
Fitzroy, after planning so vile a conspiracy
against the liberty and reputation of his noble
young relative, who became every day and hour
more endeared to the friends of his adoption by
the candid, frank, and confiding disposition he
displayed, as well as by the yet brighter qualities
which gradually he exhibited, dawning like sun-
shine, brightly and warmly, through the mist in
which hitherto they had been shrouded.
If Charlotte, a “child of the heather,” such as
Ossian describes, and “a daughter of the mount-
ains,” had felt a momentary regret at bidding
adieu to all the tranquil pleasures of a country
life-the village school, the gay little garden,
crowded with birds and flowers, the hay fields,
and the very sunsets, which seemed brighter at
Rockingham than elsewhere—she, nevertheless,
gladly acknowledged that the untried resources
of the metropolis were a most ample recompense,
in the mean while, for all she had left. In the
very, spirit of merriment, almost resembling
her brother, Charlotte’s animated countenance
looked, when Lady Graham entered, like morn-
ing sunshine, as she stood under a tent, in a
large balcony, which very much resembled, as
the admiral observed, in external appearance a
four-post bed. While Charlotte remained there,
drinking in, for the first time, a real London fog,
admiring as much of the view as she could see,
and wondering at the endless stream of carriages
which, from day to day and year to year, wheels
slowly round the Park, she felt all the excitement
and surprise natural to a young mind, in behold-
ing, for the first time, the splendor of London,

on the great wilderness of bricks before her to flow out at random, for the amusement of those around, each of whom sympathized in her juvenile animation, except Lady Graham, who gazed superciliously round, as if she had been all her life accustomed to something much better, and as if the world in general were not certainly good enough for her. Before Charlotte had expressed half her interest or half her emotions on first beholding such a scene of strange confusion and multitudinous excitement, Lady Graham, whose own sensations were all that she thought worthy of any one’s attention, was giving her usual affected little shiver, and exclaiming, in her empty tone of childish annoyance—“It is cold! It is very cold! Charlotte, do you not find it cold?” “I have no time to be either cold or hot,” replied Charlotte, leaning forward to escape interruption, while her mind became crowded with thoughts and feelings too numerous almost to analyze—too rapid even to be expressed. “Lon don, you know, is as new to me as Rome, or Florence, or Hong Kong itself; and to-day I really feel as happy as if this were to be the only happy day of my life.” “Do you pretend to find it cold to-day, Lady Graham, when the glare on these windows this morning made every pane like a burning-glass? The trees are all fainting away with heat!” said Peter, fanning himself with the “Morning Post.” “You know what the poet says of such weather as this— ‘The sun, no trees the eye to shade, Glares full into the windows, And scorches you, I am afraid, Just as it does the Hindoos.” At this moment Sir Fitzroy, splendidly “got up,” and mounted on a prancing steed that looked as if it were borrowed from Astley’s, came past, followed by a very smart groom; and Lady Graham, turning pale, shrunk out of sight, with a glance of astonished consternation at this unwelcome apparition; but not before the baronet had time to kiss his hand toward the window, with a look of the most intimate cordiality, and then to take off his hat, with an air of burlesque respect, as if that were much too ceremonious a greeting to exchange between friends so very familiar. It was long before Lady Graham recovered the shock of so unexpected a recognition, and, during the rest of her visit, she continued absent, nervous, and irritable. While Charlotte frankly expressed, as well as words could do, all the curiosity, surprise, admiration, approbation, and disapprobation, which filled her mind to overflowing, she became gradually impressed with the feeling—so common on such occasions-a sense of her own utter insignificance in the center of such a multitude, to whose interests and affections she was unknown and to whose very names she was a stranger. Accustomed, as Charlotte had always been to live where every face among her humble neigh. bors became lighted up as soon as she appeared

—where the birds, the flowers, and the animals

its wealth, and its gayety.

were her companions, and where she could trace

Charlotte did not partake in the nature of those the visible hand of God in all the glorious scenes country-bred girls, not very uncommon, who are of nature—this Was to her a new and strange above being astonished by the novelty and grand-species of solitude. Brought up with scarcely

£ur of a great metropolis on first beholding it, any associates but her own family,

to whose

but she allowed all her exclamations and remarks happiness her presence had always been essen” N

and having only mingled for a brief season in the limited circle of Edinburgh, it was new and depressing now to be in so wide a world, and yet not of it—to have neither sympathy nor association with one among the thousands in sight —to feel conscious that, amid all this novelty and these wonders, an impassable barrier stood between herself and every animated countenance she saw. All around were unconscious of her presence, and indifferent to it; the busy scenes of life had been carried on from century to century on that wide field without her, and would continue for centuries, perhaps, hereafter, as busy, as gay, and as animated as now, when her brief span of life was over. Nothing that could ever occur to herself would make one atom of difference to any individual among the crowds she saw; and all were alike independent of her sympathy, her good opinion, or her good offices. “How different from dear old Rockingham!” thought Charlotte, as she listened to the busy hum of countless swarms, hurrying past to their innumerable avocations, and thought of her own pleasant home. “‘Tis a note of enchantment—what ails her? she sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.” When Charlotte, after a few days, had become accustomed to the gay, moving pageant—a perfect rout in the open air—continually in progress under the windows at Connaught-place, she began to consider the ring in Hyde Park, splen# as it was, a scene of exceedingly monotonous amusement, if it could be called amusement at all. The wealth and magnificence of England amazed her beyond conception, as she watched the perpetual stream, like a river, several miles long, of brilliant carriages, stately horses, showy hammer-cloths, and party-colored footmen, while the numerous gayly-dressed pedestrians looked, in the distance, like a field of anemones in a gale of wind, and reminded Charlotte of some pictures she had copied, by Watteau. Nothing surprised Charlotte, however, in this grand coup d’ail of fashion, half so much as to see the multitudes of well-mounted equestrian ladies, careering about like a seattered army of Amazons, with habits long as the dresses worn by the ladies of Troy, whose garments swept the ground, and who sat their horses with such inimitable grace. It seemed to Charlotte as if, in every family, there were three daughters, at least, all well mounted, and attended by a groom quite “regardless of expense;” and nothing impressed more upon her mind the great wealth of London; while Peter suggested that they should be drilled into a regiment of light cavalry, though he feared it would be a very difficult corps to command. • . Admiral Greymourned over a great decay of grandeur in the procession round Hyde Park since the times of Brummel and George the Fourth, when the state carriages really were a sight to behold; but now he complained that it was a mere string of incognito one-horse Broughams. To make up for that, however, one great improvement he could not but remark, of which her majesty was the first to set an ex3. that there is, on Sundays, literally “No is now actually a breach in the law the law of religion, for any car.

riage to be seen in the ring; and, except a few hired equipages, engaged for the day by persons whose only holiday is on a Sunday, few now frequent Hyde Park on what was once its most crowded day. Every body walks there, but nobody drives on Sunday; therefore Lady Gra. ham, having performed one round after church, hurried home, quite shocked at herself for such a breach, not of religion, but of fashionable decorum. She always afterward got up a tableau of domestic felicity for Sundays, by spending the time in Kensington Gardens, walking with Sir Edward, and followed by Harry and Laura, as well as, much to her own dissatisfaction, sometimes by Captain Grey, when he could es: cape for a day from Portsmouth. Mrs. Grey thought that most of those ladies in the gorgeous equipages, daily parading round the ring, wore on their countenances an expres. sion of weariness and discontent, satiated, prol. ably, to absolute disgust, with mere amusement, and with searching in vain for that happiness which can only be found in active exertion and useful duties, “How many schemes of ambi. tion, hopes of happiness, and fevered dreams of aggrandizement, are all fermenting and boiling amid that mass of brilliant-looking individuals now in sight!” thought Mrs. Grey, one mom. ing. “Each dissatisfied, probably, with his own lot, and envying that of others.” “What a scene of happiness and prosperity.” exclaimed Lady Graham, with very opps# feelings. “One would fancy that every indi. vidual there had doubled his income, at least, by railway successes; and, indeed, scripisatagreat premium now in many lines, especially the Isled Man preference shares. Every mortal seems to me more than mortal on a fine day in the Park. with all their cares and vexations left behind.” “On the contrary,” said Mrs. Grey; “every individual, you may depend upon it is planning and feverishly desiring, some complete change in his situation or circumstances. In that rain. bow of carriages, circling round at a hearse-like pace, and among all those gorgeously-dress’ people, there is not, probably, one in ten tr’ happy. Those even who seem the most splendid and who are surrounded by a cluster of serva’s in gaudy liveries, are, I have no doubt, com’: ing of poverty, and grumbling about the times, “Then if they would only take sharesinthels’ of Mam Atmospheric—” Lady Graham stop’ for she saw an explosion gathering in Sir E ward’s eye; and merely added, “But p’ take a pride now in complaining of poverty. “Especially when asked for any chari’ donation,” added Admiral Grey, slyly. “It” wonderful how poor we all become on these” casions. Look at old Lord Didcot, whose “. certs, the only expense he does not grudge,” to cost more than 200l. a night, given o’ singers; but when he, once every year, bes’ iói in blankets and flannels for the poor £ own extensive estates, I become weat: ” reading in every newspaper what Lord Didcot, “with his usual liberality,” has done—or rather, with his usual illiberality, has not done. It would be quite as much in proportion from ” with my atom of an income, to give the “‘ shillings! How would it read thus:-‘Admi: Grey, with his usual liberality, has forwar.'”

yard of flannel and a cart of coals, to be distri.

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uted, during this inclement season, among the poor on his extensive estates at Rockingham.’” “But,” observed Peter, “Lord Didcot’s soul is now so devoted to saving candle-ends and cheese-parings, that it is fit only for a mouse in a cupboard. He talks ostentatiously of giving ‘his mile; but as the widow’s mite was all that she possessed, his, in the same proportion, would amount to half a million at least.’ *… ” “Life is certainly difficult to comprehend,” whispered Charlotte, aside. “Why has not Lord Didcot my father’s large heart, or else his small means? What a cross-grained world this often seems; but we shall one day understand the why and the wherefore of all that appears now so perplexing.” “Nothing is more remarkable than the growing love of money in such men as Lord Didcot. It has increased since he lost his ouly son; and no one now remains to whom he can care for bequeathing his enormous accumulations. Bad health prevents his enjoying anything now, and

old age prevents the possibility of his enjoying”

any thing long. The whole goes, at his death, to Lord Leamington, a distant cousin, already only too rich, whom he actually detests, and yet he hoards with the most ferocious keenness, never relaxing his heart to do a generous action, or to bask in the sunshine of happy faces, caused by his own liberality,” observed the admiral. “I have seen a penurious housekeeper (not meaning you, Mrs. Grey) heard a box of apples till it became fit only to be thrown on a dunghill, or a box of game till it had to be buried; but these were not more useless to their owners than money hoarded until the avaricious possessor be himself cast into the grave. Certainl wealth is not his who merely holds it, but his who wisely enjoys it.” “Yes,” added” Peter; “the hoarded money never to be used contributes no more to real happiness than the contents of a gravel-pit; therefore, of all the lunacies in nature, Lord Didcot’s appears to me one of the greatest, for his very selfishness makes him the most selfdenying of mortals. He is like the ass that carried gold on his back, but fed on thistles. I feel myself often a perfect Cruesus beside him, throwing away half-a-crown with a sort of gentlemanlike indifference and chivalrous generosity that he never can know, and being actually extravagant in post-office stamps, while Lord Didcot, old as he is, would walk a mile to save one. It is amazing the shabby things rich people will do, by the way, to save a single stamp.” “A post-office stamp makes excellent paper currency for copper, and is quite the recognized coin of the realm now,” observed Harry. “Lord Leamington paid three at the Kensington turnpike yesterday, and the man scarcely looked surprised. I squander these little penny bank notes with the most extravagant liberality.” “Well, Harry, you and I are young and fool. ish now, with little to spend, and therefore spend it heartily,” said Peter, “but wait till we are nearly done with life, old and solitary, without heirs, relations, or friends, like Lord Didcot, and See how tenaciously we shall grasp the uttermost farthing, and watch that no one gains any pleasure or advantage by us.” “Not even by borrowing a book,” said Laura, laughing “During the few di’s we visited

lately at Lord Didcot’s, I took down a few old numbers of Blackwood’s Magazine from his immense library to beguile the time, and he said that it gave him a headache to see the gap, which looked to his eye like the loss of a front tooth; so I was actually obliged to replace the volume.” “There is nothing so foolish that a wise man has not said it or done it,” observed Sir Edward; “and we all lead a life of wondering at each other’s faults and follies; but my friend Didcot certainly is an eminent example that the less apparent motive people have for saving, the greater interest they seem to have in accumulation.” “But,” interrupted Lady Graham, eagerly, : forget that in the present day small sums which people used to squander without a grudge are now become doubly valuable. No one thought long ago of deliberately investing 20l., but now you may have a share in the Isle of Man Atmospheric Railway for it, which is, in fact, worth 50l., and will probably rise soon to 100l. It becomes a continual daily amusement, moreover, to watch in every newspaper the state of the share-market, which is like the rise and fall of the barometer, but much more interesting.” “To all whom it concerns!” interposed Sir Edward; “but if my lost arm could be restored to me, on condition of my taking a half-quarter share in one of these speculating concerns, I would rather cut off the other.” Lady Graham gave rather a frightened glance at Sir Edward, who spoke in a tone of more than . ordinary excitement; and she had, as usual, recourse, in her confusion, to Ditto, saying, “Well, my fat friend, what does Ditto say to that? Those who would catch fish must not mind the danger of getting, wet. You really are losing your looks, Ditto, darling-growing quite corpu. lent and unwieldy. I am ashamed of you. How I should like if I could bring my dear old horse into the drawing-room too! Nice old Ditto 1 Was it hungry? I wish you had seen Ditto when I gave him an ice at Gunter’s yesterday— he did so enjoy it.” “You asked him, I suppose, whether he preferred it cream or water?” “Now, darling Ditto! you have barked enough at those filthy beggars. You need not tear them in pieces. Poor wretches !—has any body got some copper? Those ragged children are too horrid. But look at this enchanting Italian boy —he is positively like Murillo’s picture that we saw yesterday in the National Gallery. Ah! but look what a smile he gives me for a shilling. It is worth double the money. He is too perfecti It is really quite a treat in this dull hum-drum world to see such a merry creature. English poverty only shocks one; but there is a grace and fun in the way that an Italian or an Irish beggar carries off his penury which makes it really a pleasure to relieve him.” “Just the remark I should have expected without meaning to be complimentary, from you, Emily,” growled the admiral. “You are exactly one of those ladies to encourage in yourself a capricious fancy for these wretched foreign boys-all entrapped here by designing men, to be enslaved, ill-used, and ruined in body and soul. You waste a great deal of time and money by talking bad Italian, to display your fluency their language, and throw away on the

sympathy and aid due to the distresses of our own suffering countrymen. People never encourage rats to overrun their dwelling-houses; but how much greater is the evil, and actual danger, of encouraging idle, vicious, and dissolute foreigners to overrun our country!” ; “I am sure!” exclaimed Lady Graham, affectedly, “beggars of any kind are an intolerable bore, and receive very scanty encouragement from me! No sooner does my carriage stop in any sti’eet than I am instantly surrounded by a sort of impromptu bazar of miserable wretches, thrusting in at my windows and doors for sale, roses, pin-cushions, scissors, prints, oranges, and night-caps. I saw a sickly-looking woman, evidently just out of a typhus fever, blowing and breathing into a moss-rose, but yesterday, that she might pass it off upon me for a full-blown rose, and I had just time to pull up the glass, or she would have actually thrust it in at the very window! As my system is any thing for a quiet life, I have the pocket of my carriage filled with half-pence, and desire my servants, m general, to buy them all off at the cheapest rate ho can, but cn any terms, to send them away, because I live in constant terror that they might steal Ditto!”

“And you flatter yourself, Emily, that, by the selfish distribution in that way of a few coppers, you do a very praiseworthy act of benevolence.” interrupted Admiral Grey, with the slightest possible smile. “It would be much too great an effort of thought and of self-denial for you to

, sit down some day and consider, during ten minutes, whether the money so wasted could not do some possible good to somebody. As it is, what

. 5’ou g’ve’s of no more real use than a side-pocket to a dog.”

“By sending any trifle to the Mendicity Society, it would escape the clutches of those ablebodied persons who, being out of doors, are probably lit for work,” said Peter. “And your fund, however small, would then reach those deserving objects too ill and wretched to help themselves.

“I mean,” continued Admiral Grey, “to establish, immediately, a society for the suppression of selfishness—vice-president, Lady Graham! The fundamental principle shall be that human beings take the precedence of dogs in our good offices, and our own countrymen to come before foreigners, while each member shall ask himself every morning, ‘what can I do for the,cood of others ?’ and again ask himself every nigfif,’what have I done?’ Certainly the most beautiful ornament of any woman is what, in general, naturally belongs to them—a principle of unselfishness; and, as far as my observation has yet extended, there really are, to do every body justice, very few women who live for themselves.”

“And, least of all, single ladies of limited income,” added Peter, good-humoredly. “Such persons are constantly putting promising prodigies of nephews to Oxford, or fitting out superfluous nieces for India. Who does not remember all his life, as I remember, aunt Susan, some dear old lady, the benefactress of his childhood, whose tca-drinkings during the holidays, and presents when he returned to school, were among the earliest and most delightful pleasures of his infancy, and whose image, probably odd and fantastic enough, is yet indelibly engraved on his memory, and perhaps cherished in his heart forever?”

“Yes, Peter,” replied Mrs. Grey, warmly; “you arc right not to forget my good old aunt, whose purse was like the widow:s cruise, equal to every demand.

‘Site still wns the kindest
When Fortune wns blindest,
And brightest in love mid the darkness of fate.’

There are more generously disinterested actions done by the little estimated class of old maids in moderate circumstances, unloved and unknown as they often are, than by any race of people you could name. Their generous plans and kind affections must, of course, however, be tamed down within their very narrow means; and one can scarcely wonder that, sometimes, when their kind schemes of usefulness are frustrated, as a last resource of desponding solitude they take to any solitary refuge from the thoughtless ridicule and satirical observation of those they would have most desired to serve. The young should never make a jest at the growing infirmities of a respectable and undisguised old .age, or even laugh at those who beguile their lonely hours in the only companionship which they can sometimes find—with their cats, poodles, parrots, or canary-birds. We are all the creatures of circumstance; and when wondering, sometimes, at the strange eccentric resources of many well-meaning, solitary persons, I have , reminded myself of what was said by a captive, when liberated from prison, to the friend who expressed astonishment at his having occupied much time and attention in taming a spider, ‘Only wait till you are the inmate of a dungeon !'”

“Well! we need not fear solitude here, as I could slate my house with the visiting cards left for me this morning,” said Lady Graham pompously. “The Duchess of Ascot, Lady Balmoral, Lady Newmarket, and a perfect load of old friends.” •

“People fit to fill your house, but not your heart,” said the admiral. “You know, Lady Graham, a pound of feathers is as heavy as a pound of lead; but as it takes a great many to make up the same amount, so a very few real friends would outweigh a million with such trumpery minds as these you speak of. To be deserving of the name, friendship should be built on a rock of adamant, but the mere cobweb ties of fashion are broken at every breeze. It is the utmost exertion of my fortitude to sit in the room with soi-disant friends, who measure every body’s merits as if they were before a jury at Almack’s. and have not an atom of nature left in their feelings and opinions. Positively the whole conversation of ladies in London seems to me made up of boasting what leaders in fashion have called upon them or invited them—how not merely exclusive, but inaccessible, they are themselves— and how very sorry they were not to be able for attending above three parties on the previous night, so that they were obliged to disappoint a foreign embassador and two or three duchesses of their presence, at different parties where they were probably never missed!”

“Well, admiral! we are not all like you. charged to the muzzle with wit I” replied Lady Graham, rising to take leave. “Why do you not go to sleep till we grow more entertaining? But somebody, in his turn, seems very tired of your society now, for look how impatient dear Ditto is to escape!”

“Poor dog!” exclaimed Peter. “He never committed a fault in his life, but when he does, how piteously he looks in your face, as much as to say, ‘Lady Graham! I’m afraid you’re ashamed of me!’ ‘Dear Ditto !’ he is like bad luck—every where at once; but do not leave him behind here, poor fellow, or he might say, like the poet—

‘All that hate me only left,
And all thai loved me gone!'”