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THE BARON.

A TALE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY—NOT OF FICTION.

BT THE ACTHOBESS OF “TUB BACKWOODS OF CANADA.”

Lore is not love

Which altereth when it alteration flndeth.
Or bends with the remover to remove,
Oh, no! it is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken

Bhuupuh*.

“Axois it possible, my dear Catherine, tbat you have never bad the good fortune to be introduced to my friend, the ‘Baron?’ You must become acquainted. I never saw two people more calculated to be pleased with each other. “It will be a match; yes, I see it all. You and the Baron were meant for each other, and I shall be the Bridesmaid. The Bridesmaid, par excellence, and hold the bouquet and gloves. I am delighted with the very idea of the thing.”

Thus rattled on one of the giddiest girls of my acquaintance, as seated at my feet on an ottoman, she vainly puffed away at an obstinate coal fire, which the housemaid had provokingly left to light itself in my friend Harriette’s dressing-room, a little sanctum which she termed her boudoir. But though she blew away most indefatigably at the dull coals, with one of the most delicate pairs of Chinese bellows that had ever adorned the fire-place of an East India captain’s cabin, not one spark could she elicit.

“And do yon really expect the Baron to visit you?” I asked with some natural degree of cariosity.

“Expect him! my dear child; he is here—in this very house—in the adjoining room, at his toilette.”

“Speak lower then, or he will hear every word we are saying—that is, if he understands English well.”

Harriette laughed in ecstacy.

“Never fear, he will not hear as. You will, however, be astonished at the Baron’s fluency of speech. Do you know, he is all impatience to see you. I am sure he is desperately smitten.”

“Why, he never saw me—nor I him.”

“You are mistaken; he saw you at church both morning and evening, last Sunday. The Baron never misses both services,—ho is a devout man; he has raved about you ever since.”

I laughed outright.

“Well! it’s a fact—and I have actually given him leave to come in and see you here, lest he should astonish mamma, by his rapture before all the big-wigs below.”

“It is a pity you are engaged, Harriette.”

“Me! Yes! Ah! well, it can’t be helped. I might have been Baroness Joliffe. It sounds well. But, after all, Catherine, I am not dignified enough for a title, and then the Baron would not have suited me—he is too refined, too sentimental, too elegant. In short, I shall be only too happy if I see you united to this charming Adonis.”

“And his probable age ?” asked I, beginning, in spite of myself, to take an indescribable interest in the mysterious Baron.

“Something older than yourself, my dear! at least I judge so by the gravity of his demeanor. But really one cannot take such liberties as to ask a Baron his actual age. The thing is impossible,—besides I do not think he would like it. He is very particular.”

“Well, then, describe his appearance. His eyes?”

“Blae eyes, large and languishing.”

“I hate languishing blue eyes in a man.”

“But yon have not seen the Baron’s .eyes. Item. A straight nose, white ivory teeth—and then his hair, hyacinthine locks—a perfect wig of ourls.”

“A wig of curls! What do you mean, Miss Harriette, by making game of my head of hair— a wig of curls, forsooth! Fie, fie, upon you—you ill-mannered little pug.”

The exclamation above was uttered in the open door way, in a half serious, half comic voice.

I raised my head, and the Baron stood before me.

Harriette hid her head in my lap, in convulsions of laughter, and I—for my part, I was dumb from astonishment, and sat gazing on the apparition before me, in speechless confusion, as the Baron advanced, held out his hand and addressed me. But before I repeat one word of what passed, permit me, patient reader, to introduce you to the Baron, as he really was.

Picture to yourself, then, a tall, straight, thin, attenuated figure of an elderly gentleman, whose age might vary from sixty to sixty-five, large, light, faded-looking, benevolent blueeyes, a long, very long bony nose, white teeth, but alas 1 the ivory had evidently not long since been roaming the jungles of Asia or deserts of Africa. The ambrosial curls were indeed, and in fact, a wig of curls. The Baron was clad in a superfine suit of black, cut in the latest fashion of George the Third; silver buckles in his shoes, gold chased ones at his knees, his long neck enveloped in the ample folds of a lawn stock, fastened with a roarcasitc buckle; the bosom of his shirt displayed a fine broach, cambric plaited frill, his thin veiny hands covered with black kid,—such was the Baron. What a contrast to the sentimental, Byronical young gentleman, with whose portrait my mind had been busily occupied, up to the moment of the preceding interview.

The I! mm was the soul of order and etiquette; he was shocked at the informality of our meeting, and succeeded at last in rousing up the mischievous authoress of all this confusion, to some sense of the duties of her situation, and effected a regular introduction at last, though she prefaced it witli a passage from the marriage ceremony, which overset the gravity of the Baron himself, who called her an incorrigible puss, and bade her reduce her ringlets into order, whilst he drew a seat to the now cheerful fire, and proceeded to apologise for the wild kittenish behaviour of Madcap Hal. In half an hour’s time we became excellent friends, and I ventured at length to ask if his title of Baron Joliffe was also imaginary.

“It is part of my name,” lie said, “and and no title ; but it became confirmed through a little circumstance connected with reading the memoirs of Baron Trenck. I was deeply interested in the perusal of that work, and kept the volumes somewhat beyond the time allowed by the librarian of our reading room. I had promised them to a friend who had been appointed to call for them, but being induced to walk out and take the book in my pocket, I wrote on a piece of paper, ‘The Baron will be at home at four.” From this trifling circumstance, I gained the soubriquet of ‘The Baron,’ which has never left me, and even letters from India and the Continent, now reach me so addressed. I am no longer Charles B. Joliffe, Esquire—but The Baron.”

Time wore on ; the longer I became acquainted

with the Baron the more I was interested in the character of the good but eccentric old man ; we became excellent friends; and I used often to be angry with my giddy friend Harriette, for the unfeeling way in which she quizzed the Baron’s peculiarities of dress and manner. To me hi> oddities were sacred.

One day in particular, we set off to visit som» ancient ruins in the neighbourhood. The day was mild and dry, and being tired, we all three sat down on a bank to rest—our subjects of conversation had been full of grave reflections, and at last both the Baron and myself became silent. This was enough tor Miss Harriette, who never could be silent for five minutes. She n«w rallied us on our gravity, and ended with declaring^ that the Baron hod made her his confidante, and: being unable to speak out himself had desired her to break his passion for me. For some time he bore with her nonsence with as much good humour as he could, but at last a chord was touched, which vibrated to agony..

“Young lady,” he said, turning on her a look of touching earnestness; “what is sport to you. is even death to me. Desist from this ill-timed levity.”

The voice of the old man. became agitated ;. even Harriette was moved, ag. he eontinaed in a quieter tone:

“You have teazed me, my dear, about my bochelorhabits and life. I am indeed a dull rusty: old bachelor, and such as I am, such shall I remain, till I lay my head beneath the turf in the village church-yard.

“It is now forty-two years ago- since I became the ardent, devoted lover of a young and beautiful girl. I was then a youth of nineteen,, well to look upon,—not the object of ridicule that I now am to young ladies. Emily Beresfurd was eighteen,—lovely, amiable, accomplished,— but she was an only child, the htiress of great wealth, her father wa> a rich merchant, and I one of thejunior clerks in bis house,—no mate for his peerless daughter. Yet I dared to love, and Emily soon gave me reason to believe that I was not indifferent to her. I will not dwell npon our dream of love. I found my master’s jealous fears were awakened; his eye was ever on us. At last our opportunities of communicating our t hough tsand wishes became more difficult every day, and I gladly, perhaps madly, grasped at an offer made to me by Mr. Beresford, to accept th» situation of confidential clerk in an establishment he had on the coast of Africa. The salary wa& a tempting one, and othur encouragement held out for realizing a fortune. The climate was a deadly one, but I was resolved to make myself a Ctting mate fur Emily Berosford, or perish.

I knew we both guessed the object in view when the offer was made to me. It was David sending Uriah into the heat of the battle—but what will not love hope, what dangers will not love dare? I left Emily, hoping, trusting, confiding in her woman’s love. I could not change; I feared no change in the being I so blindly idolized. Emily vowed no one should supplant me in her affections,—and I believed her!

“Five years were t j be the trial of our constancy ; for the first three, our correspondence, carried on through a faithful friend, was my only consolation ; that friend I lost, and soon my letters remained unanswered. I became dejected, unhappy, ill; the expiration of the five years, impatiently waited for, at length arrived, and I threw myself into the first vessel that left Sierra Leomi for London I had acquired almost riches with great experience, but my health was a wreck, and my spirits worse.

“I hastened to the counting-house in Broadstreet, for I knew I should there see my old master, und hear of his family ; nothing could be more natural than my desire to ask after the health of old friends. I was admitted to the private apartments of Mr. B., who received me not only with courtesy, but kindness; I asked as composedly as I could for his family,—for Miss Beresford, the last.

“My daughter was well when the last packet reached.”

“‘Is she abroad?’ I asked, with tremulous Toice.

«•’ In India—Colonel Harper is with the Regiment in the interior. Of course you heard of Emily’s marriage eighteen months ago—splendid alliance.’

“I heard no more—a death-like paleness overspread my face—a mist swam before my eyes—• my ill-concealed agitation betrayed my state of mind, and the painful interest I took in the communication ; I believe the old man was grieved, but he made no remark to me then—he suw I could not bear it.

“My life was now, for years, a blank—nay, worse. I cherished a fiend in my bosom that threatened to destroy me; I became a* sour, hateful misanthrope. For my false love’s sake I shunned the society of women, but her image I could not chase away from my mind ; she was my thought by day, my dream hy night; sometimes a stern sort of hatred steeled my heart against her; sometimes I wept like a little child when I thought upon her. Years passed away —fifteen years; I was now a rich merchant myself; I could have maintained a wife in splendor, and mothers courted me that hud marriageable daughters, but tho remembrance of the lost

loved one haunted me still; I vowed never to marry ; my habits had become those of a confirmed old bachelor. At the period to which I allude, an early maiden cousin, my only living relative, kept house for me, and we were a pair of quiet hermit-like folks; order, like clock-work, ruled our house, and neither of us liked to b» put out of our way, when an event occurred that caused a complete revolution in our domestic economy and my habits, as you shall hear. Nay, you tormenting little puss, none of your insinuations; the hermit did not fall in love again.

“A letter bearing thelndia post-mark wasplpced on my table among many others. I opened itThere was an enclosure in a handwriting only too well known. I hesitated- Shall I read itr shall I cast it unread into the flame? Curiosity, that affection that had never died in my heart, overcame my feelings. It was the last dying will and testament of the widow of Colonel Harper, addressed to the beloved friend of her youth, leaving to me .”

“All her fortune, as a reparation for the injury she had done you?”

“No, Miss Harriet! Shehnew too well thecharacter of the man, who had loved her so devotedly, to insult him by bequeathing gold as a legacy toheal a broken heart, made desolate by her desertion. She left mo the sole guardianship of four1 orphan children—the eldest a fine lad of fourteen, the youngest a fair, helpless babe of eleven months,—her mother’s living image.

“The letter, penned by her dying, trembling hand, was to this effect :—’ Charles, I am at the point of death. Refuse not the earnest request of a dying woman, who loved you tenderly, but not faithfully. Deeply have I repented the woe I caused, forgive me, and if you loved Emily, as truly, as devotedly, as I now believe you did, refuse not the charge I now entreat you to accept,—th» guardianship of my four children. Be to them a parent,—love,cherish,bear with them, for the love you once bore to their dying mother.

“•E. Harper.'”

“And did you accede to ber request ?” we both asked.

“I did—the struggle was strong, but the fond recollection of early love was stronger. Her fickleness was forgotten, my own years of blighted love were disregarded, and my tears fell fast over the words traced by the expiring hand of the only being I had ever loved. ‘Emily!’ I exclaimed, as I solemnly folded the paper to my heart, ‘if it be allowed thee to know of that which is passing in the world thou. has left, thy spirit shall >•!••! satisfied. To my care you have committed your children. Thuy shall not want for : father or a friend whilst I liv«. Your children

thall be henceforth my children, and my life shall! be devoted to their happiness.”

“So confident hud Mrs. Harper felt of my ac- j ceding to her last wishes, that she had given all; the necessary orders for the embarkation of her . children, as soon as circumstances would permit of’ their leaving Bombay. At the time I received . this letter, my adopted family were on their way to Liverpool. Ample funds had been left for the maintenance of the children, the whole of which had been placed under my entire control, so great had been the confidence reposed in my honor by their poor mother. And I did not abuse my power, or neglect my trust.

“I hurriedly imparted to my cousin Martha my determination of receiving my adopted family under my own roof; and bade her at the same time lose no time in making the necessary preparations for their future comfort.

“I shull never forget the nir of consternation that sat upon the rigid face of my poor old relative. At last she sunk into a chair, and folding her bony fingers together, gasped forth:

“Charles Joliffe! Cousin Charles! are ye mad, doting? Kou fill your quiet house with a pack of noisy, wayward brats! If ye mean what ye say, ye are indeed preparing a bitter rod for your own back. Think what the world will say. Nay! bat it is a scandal, Charles, that such a fool’s scheme should have passed through your head.’

“I bade her be silent, and leave me to commune with my own heart, but I found no change there. | The die was cast, and my selfish regrets were | all to be sacrificed on the holy altar of buried love.”

“It was a noble resolution.and worthy of you,'” I warmly exclaimed; “and I trust you were well rewarded by the grateful affection of the children for whom you sacrificed so much.”

“In the end I was; but, my dear young lady ask yourself how could young children appreciate motives of action they could not have com • prehended, even had I condescended to explain •why I had undertaken the irksome task of guardianship over them. At first every restraint imposed upon them,every task enjoined, was regarded by these high spirited children as an infringement upon the unrestrained liberty they had hitherto enjoyed. For my part, I considered that authority and unlimited obedience were the first objects to be attained. A stranger to the ways of children, I reasoned and argued, and reasoned and argued wrong; perpetual warfare was going on in my formerly peaceful dwelling, and sometimes my courage was well nigh failing me, but for a certain bump of obstinacy which some folks call determinativeness. I should have con

tented myself with sending my troublesome family out to suitable schools, and the baby to nurse, and then have restored quiet and order to my house.”

“And cousin Martha,—how did she bear the noise and worry of the children?”

“Wonderfully well; there is a spirit of patient conformity to circumstances, which belongs peculiarly to females. Cousin Martha grumbled a little at first, and then yielded without further remonstrance to her fate—but more than this, a deep mine of hitherto unawakened tenderness was opened in her woman’s heart.

“Cousin Martha had lived a life of celibacy, not from choice, but from circumstances. Women, naturally seek some object on which to lavish that affection, which, I believe, is born with them—and belongs to their characters as wives and mothers. The female child dotes upon its imaginary baby in the form of a doll,—the old maid lavishes her unappreciated love upon some creature, as lap-dog, cat, parrot, or monkey—it is well if it take the more natural bent of nephews and nieces,—but such my poor relative had not— for, as I said, we two were companionless and alone, saving each other, till the arrival of these children. It was the sight of the delicate, helpless, lovely little Blanche Harper, that was destined to make a revolution in the feelings of cousin Martha. She took the orphan babe to her heart, and shielded her there from every storm that could assail her infant state, with more than even a mother’s love.

“But it was not the addition to my household in the way of ray four wards, that alone perplexed me, I was still more puzzled, what to do with their attendants, which consisted of two Bongalese bovs, of twelve and fifteen, a little Hindoo nurse, a great blue macaw, and a large ape. Now the native servants were perfectly intolerable,—servile and obsequious to a degree, but j cunning and revengeful,—acting upon the passions ! and prejudices of the two younger boys, and in! stigating them to every species of mischief that j could possibly serve to annoy and irritate me. , Nor were the tricks of the ape, or the screams of | the macaw, likely to add to my peace of mind.— j However, these last torments I speedily got rid 1 of, by sending them to a distant relation of the i children’s, and hearing of a gentleman about to i send his sons to India as cadets, I managed to j rid myself of Messrs. Hassan and Padck, at the I trifling cost of paying their passage out; glad indeed to see them depart: but not so, Edward, Charles and Henry, and for some days after the departure of their allies, a sullen silence was observed, interrupted only by some haughty obser

rations, indicative of the indignation excited in the breast of the eldest boys by this last crowning act of tjTanny.

“It was, indeed, a severe trial to me; I had looked for troubles, and the breaking up of my quiet enjoyment of home for a short time, but I had fondly cheated myself into the belief that I should be more than recompensed by the consciousness of having done my duty, and more than my duty. I fancied Emily’s children most love me—I forgot that I was in their eyes only a stranger and a task-master.

“In the proud flashing dark eye of Edward Harper, I read only defiance and dislike. Yet, that eye would melt with tenderness, and fill •with tears, when they rested upon the sweet face of little Blanche, as she lay softly nestled on the breast of my cousin. Strange as it may seem, it is not less strange than true, that while my wards shunned me—and withdrew from every attempt made by me to conciliate their affections, they one and all attached themselves to my cousin, and old Mrs. Spicer, our antiquated housekeeper, to whom they confided alt their sorrows and troubles, real or imaginary.

“‘Three or four months had passed in this manTier, Kttle to my comfort or satisfaction, as you may suppose. I had, after mature deliberation resolved on sending Charles and Henry, as weekly boarders, to my friend the curate of Hadletgh, and after breakfast one day, I made known my intentions. The boys looked at each other, then at Edward, but the latter bit his lip, cast down Ins full dark eyes, and made no remark.

•” * This arrangement, my children,’ I observed, •• will, I trust, bo to your advantage in every way. You win find a kind, clever, judicious master, and if you conduct yourselves well, an affectionate and sincere friend.’

“•And may I ask why I am to be excluded from enjoying the same privilege, and wherefore am I to be parted from my brothers, sir!” asked my eldest ward.

“•Because, Edward, I have other views for j[ou, which I will take an early opportunity of •explaining—”

“‘ You rob me of my servants, and now separate me from my brothers,’ he replied, starting up-, and, easting a glance of passionate rnge upon me, dashed out of the room, through the open •window, and I watched him pacing the lawn, •with rapid and impetuous steps. I was hurt and grieved, and soon retired to my own little study, which opened upon the breakfast room; I will not be ashamed to avow my feelings at that moment were sad and even bitter. What had I not suffered for their mother’s sake, and is il come to

this? ‘Oh, Emily! Emily! is it thus my low to you and yours is to be rewarded?” I saak on my knees—I buried my face between my hands, and wept, and prayed for strength to support me and keep me firm to my vow of being a friend and father to the fatherless. At that moment, my ear caught the passionate tones of Edward’s voice in the breakfast room; he was speaking to some one in the room. I detest the character of a listener, I felt the crisis was approaching. I presented myself in the door-way, as ho exclaimed:

“‘He is a hard-hearted, detestable tyrant, and I hate him.”

“The stream of light from the open door caused the youth to look up ; pale, agitated, almost, I might say, agonized, I stood before him—I could only gasp out;

“‘ Oh, Kdward ! how have I deserved this ?• You have cut me to the very heart.”

“I sobbed like a child, and I sank into a chair; Edward’s heart was touched at my distress—he gazed upon me, with an anxious, troubled eye. I marked the change—but I could not give utterance to a word. I held out my arms to him; the noble boy impulsively rushed forward, and cast himself upon my breast. Years cannot efface the feelings of that moment; we spoke not, but wept upon each other’s necks. ‘The stony rock was smitten, and the waters gushed forth freely.’

“I cannot dwell upon what followed jitis enough to say, I now treated Edward as a friend, as a dear son. He became acquainted with the peculiar circumstances which had brought us together— and young as he was, he seemed to understand my motives, to enter at once into my feelings— love, gratitude, esteem, filled his heart. Never was friendship more enthusiastic—love more devoted. That day which had begun so darkly, was in the end, the brightest of my life; every thing was changed within onr dwelling; light hearts, happy faces now beamed about me—I almost regretted the absence of Hassan and Sadek, and the blue macaw, and the ape, that they too might have shared in our household happiness. As it was, we had only the Hindoo girl, Blanche’s nurse; but she was a gentle creature and had shared in the maternal care of cousin Martha, who considered her as her peculiar protege, and had moreover, had her baptized by her own name of Martha—which the little damsel herself called Matta.

“But I see Miss Harriette is beginning to grow weary of my long story.”

Harriette was yawning at the moment, and rubbing her eyes, as if half asleep.

“Indeed, my dear Baron! I have been greatly «dified, I assure you, only I am surprised that you should have parted with that beautiful mncaw, and that darling of an ape. I am resolved that my Captain shall procure me just such sweet pets, when he returns from his next voyage; and those interesting native boys!—Why did not you dress them in white muslin tunics and turbans, and blue silk trowsers, to wait at table?”

This sally made the Baron laugh—and we commenced our walk once more I wished to ask some further questions about the Baron’s family, but the thread of the story was broken, and I only gleaned a few particulars as to their subsequent lots in life. Edward became a clergyman, and at the early age of three and twenty fell a victim to consumption, hurried on by his devotion to his clerical duties; he died in the arms of his adopted father. Charles studied medicine, and Henry entered the East India service as an officer in the Bengal artillery; Blanche—the loved and cherished Blanche—married well and happily, to the infinite satisfaction of cousin Martha and the faithful Hindoo girl.

Such, gentle reader, was the story of faithful love told me by my friend the Baron.

Romantic n this story may appear, It tastricHy true; to the honor of human nature, I can say, the Baron is no •creature of the imagination. This episode in my life . is no fiction.

MR. JEFFERIES OF HYDE HOUSE.

BY MISS PARDOE.

Nor a sonl for twenty miles round our neighbourhood but is acquainted, at least by eight, with Mr. John Jefferies of Hyde House. He is what the members of the ” Select Club,” holden at the flying Horse, call an oddfsh; that is to say, a plain, good-humoured, comfort-loving, easy description of man, who is ever ready to enjoy himself, and willing to promote enjoyment among his friends; who sells his corn, instead of hoarding it in his barns against “better times,” and who goes to the post-town on Saturdays for sis -pence in the baker’s light cart.

The late Sir. Jefferies was a great landholder and a staunch Tory: his son is as noted a squire and as violent a Whig. He purchases all the cheap publications, and reads every Radical journal upon which he can lay his hands; holds forth for an hour together against charity-schools and public hospitals; and concludes by making a larger donation both to the one and the other than any other in the parish, though he declares all the tune that he is acting against his own conviction. He is said to have endeavoured in his youth to tempt one or two of the present

matrons of the village to become the mistresses of Hyde House without success, and he now revenges himself on them by cramming their children with gingerbread, taking the boys out shooting, and buying the girls dolls. He has twice scandalized the congregation by snoring during the sermon on a dark Sunday, and since that time pays the beadle fourpence a week to rouse him as he passes his pew. Our church is indebted to him for its green window-blinds and crimson pulpit cover, which he presented to tho parish, during the time that a third vestry-meeting was holding to decide on the expediency of purchasing them; aud for this reason, his somnolent lapses have been overlooked by the good curate: in truth, he is the most public-spirited man in the neighbourhood.

There is an old maiden lady still resident in the village, to whom he is said to have been more devoted in his youth than to any of her rivals, but who refused him for a more modish lover, and got jilted for her pains. It is worth a year’s purchase to sec them together! The repentant fair one ogles, and sighs, and seenis even now to forget how many years have elapsed since she frowned denial on his suit, and he shook off her chains. She laughs at his jests, espouses his politics, and smiles at his oddities; while he, on his part, attends to every wish which she expresses or implies, surfers her to shir over her rani accounts when she loses, and pays scrupulously when she is a gainer—lets her quietly mark too many holes at cribbage, revoke at whist as often as she pleases, and count honours when she docs not hold them; in short, plays off the lover in everything save coming to the point a second time; and appears perfectly satisfied, when lie escorts her to church under his umbrella on a wet Sunday, and carries her pattens up the aisle, to lead her to her pew instead of the altar.

He has selected the exact spot where he wishes to be interred, and has negotiated with the uudertakcr the expenses of his funeral; nevertheless, he docs not suffer the idea of dying to interfere in the slightest degree with his enjoyment of existence, but smokes his pipe and drinks his punch as merrily in the chimney nook, on a winter’s evening, as though churchyard or gravestone had never entered his head.

His parlour sideboard is on great occasions covered with silver cups and taukurds, obtained for fatted oxen and prize sheep; and his mantelpiece is decorated with a stuft’ed squirrel aud tho brush of a fox. The housekeeper, who is so fat that she can with difficulty preserve her equilibrium on recovering from a courtesy, makes tho best syllabubs and short cakes in the parish, and consequently never lacks guests ; she i& free of every thing in the house, from Mr. Jefferies’ i strong box to his best bin, and she makes a worthy use of his confidence. No beggar is ever turned hungry from his door; no sick labourer ever wants his bowl of soup or his draught of wine, if he applies at Squire Jefferies’; no stray sheep or pig ever gets pounded for intruding on his land ; nor did the rosy lass who carols merrily of a morning as she dusts out the best parlour, ever look for another place after she had offered herself at the Squire’s!

The old house is like the old housekeeper, unwieldy and overgrown in appearance, bearing tokens of having become so gradually, and really J seeming more consequential from its increased ^ size; here a smoking room, and there a summer jKii’li >ur, have been added in the whim of the mo-! ment, until the smooth green before-the house has almost disappeared. In like manner has the gouvernante of Air. Jefferies increased and expanded during her residence under his roof ; and ft is a good-natured boast of the old gentleman’s, that, with half the labour, and half the money expended on some neighbouring farms and families, every thing thrives at Hyde House. Assuredly, in no establishment in the county does the true old English hospitality shine more conspicuously, or is the good old English comfort more apparent; every thing is in its proper place, and put to its proper use; there is a profusion of every necessary of life without a waste of any -, you are not annoyed by a crowd of over-dressed lounging servants, seeming as though they almost held in scorn the master whose livery they wear; but many a hat is withdrawn, and many a smiling bow greets you as you pass among the honest well-fed labourers who throng the servants’ hall, to reach the Squire’s snug back room.

Mr. Jefferies’ greatest, indeed his only anxiety, is about his nephew, the heir apparent to his property: the lad is a fine, high-spirited fellow, but as extravagant as though he had the national purse to fly to for supplies. He comes down every eollege vacation to visit his uncle, who has determined during the previous half year to read him a severe lecture, and to refuse to pay his debts; but anger is forgotten as soon as Harry Somerton springs from the back of Jesse, the black mare, to embrace his uncle; his large blue eyes flashing with affectionate delight, and his fine, manly brow flushed with exercise—and then, so grown, so improved, so spirited a boy! so exactly what Mr. Jeflbries could wish in his successor, that it becomes impossible to lecture him. The old housekeeper love» him as if he were ber own child, though many a chiding does he get for mending fishing nets and cleaning fowling-piecei in the Squire’s sitting room ; but the

mad-cap knows that he is forgiven at the very moment when she leaves the apartment, stroking down her nice white apron, though she strives to frown as she goes out, so that altogether, I fear. Master Harry Somerton stands a very fair chanceof being spoiled at the great house.

Such is our neighbour, Mr. Jefferies, and longmay he continue to live among us! for he is a public benefit to the parish—a sincere and liberal friend—a good landlord and a kind master.

UNIVERSAL ATTEIBUTES OF WOMEN.

I Have observed among all nations that womenornament themselves more than men; that wherever found they are the same kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender beings; that they are ever inclined to be gay and cheerful, timorous and modest; not haughty nor arrogant nor supercilious, but full of courtesy, and fond of society; industrious, economical, ingenuous ; more liable in general to err than man, but in general, also, more virtuous, and performing more good actions than he. I never addressed myself, in the language of decency and friendship, to a woman, whether civilised or savage, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man it has often been otherwise. In wandering oven the barren plainsof inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the wide-spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet, or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so; and to add to this virtue, so worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have been performed in so free and kind a manner, that, if I was dry, I drank the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate the coarse meal, with a double relish.—Ledyarfa Siberian Journal.

VANITY A FOE TO AGREEMENT.

Foe Pope’s exquisite good sense, take the following, which is a master-piece :—” Nothing hinders the constant agreement of people who live together, but mere vanity; a secret insisting upon what they think their dignity or merit, and inward expectation of such an over-measure of deference and regard, as answers to their extravagantly false scale, and which no body can pay, because none but themselves can tell readily what pitch it amounts to.” Thousands of houses would be happy to-morrow, if this passage were written in letters of gold over the mantel-piece, and the offenders could have the courage to apply it to themselves,—Monthly Chronicle.

Waverley Magazine, Volume 12 (Google Books)

“QAY, isn’t it a little dear, Aunt Torrey ! Only see its lovely eyes of heaven’s own blue ; the tiny dimples in its little cheeks; I tell you, Aunt Torrey, that there is nothing, to my mind, so Sweet as this dear child; now I know what it is to love.” “Just the way with all you foolish girls,” said Aunt Torrey, as she gathered the folds of her elegant brocade still closer to herself, as if fearing the little babe might touch it. “Yes, you are all foolish alike. Now what is there about that fussy child to love 7 But I suppose it is natural enough for you to love it a little while.” “For a little while !” exclaimed the young mother in utter astonishment—“Why, I will always love Byron.” “Byron just like all the rest of the foolish, romantic, novel reading, poetry-mad girls! yes, he is named Byron ; why didn’t you name him some. thing sensible—James, or John, or even Bill, rather than Byron ” “Oh, they are entirely too common; I do hate those kind of names.” “Yes, I suppose you do,” said Aunt Torrey, as she gave little Bruno (her lap dog) an affectionate pat upon the head. “Oh! do listen how sweetly little Byron is talking. He is the dearest child in the world,” Said its mother. “So every other young and foolish mother would think; I don’t see anything so wonderful about him; I only hope he will have better sense than his mother has ; but I think it likely he will, for, as a general thing, men have more sense.” “Why, Aunt Torrey, his father makes just as much fuss over him as I do. You ought to see him some times.” “Well, as for my part, I cannot see any beauty in babies; they are so troublesome; all the time squalling and making such a noise. If they take * notion to have the moon, all creation could not persuade them they couldn’t have it. To me children are nothing but nuisances, some people make themselves perfectly ridiculous about them, and cannot pass a baby withuot kissing it.” “Ah! Aunt Torrey, that plainly shows that they are fond of children, and know full well how to apPreciate them. Bless their dear little hearts it. seems to me that the world would be a perfect blank without them.” “A blank indeed. I wish there were no children in the world. Once or twice every week I am persecuted; the children upset my work-box; my knitting needles are taken out of the stockings I am so intent upon knitting. Toys, and the dear

WAVERLEY MAGAZINE, AND LITERARY REPOSITORY,

knows what, all strewn over the floor by those troublesome little vixens, my nieces and nephews. I only wish sister would not bring them when she comes to spend the day; if I was mistress of that establishment she should not. But as I am only a boarder, I must bear it patiently. The nursery is the most proper place for children.” “You have much to learn yet, Aunt Torrey; life can have no charms for you if you do not love children.” “Well, I do not imagine it possible for me ever to love them now, as I never have all this time.” “Aunt Torrey, you remember how much the Savior loved little children. There is something truly interesting and lovely about the little creatures. They are like sweet flowers springing up in our pathway. Only think what the world would be without them ’’ “It would be a great sight better off. I tell you there would be less vexation and trouble. You might talk to me till Dooms-day, and then never get me to think as you do. No, no, I am much older than you, and know too well the folly of such things.” (Clara wonders to herself how Aunt Torrey knows anything about it). “Do look, do look, Aunt Torrey! Byron has fallen asleep; oh, can anything be more lovely 7” Lovely did the cherub-like child look as it lay nestled in its mother’s arms; the very picture of innocency and happiness—a smile lingered ’round its ruby lips, or nestled in the dimples of its rosy cheeks. The bright eyes of blue were gently closen by some unseen hand; oh, what a pride and joy did the young mother feel as she gazed upon a picture drawn by the Creator’s own hand. It held converse with angels during its slumbering hours; for what seraph would not court the smiles of one so lovely and fair 7 Yes, Aunt Torrey, that was a picture upon which you might gaze with admiring eyes, and say, in your heart—earth hath some who are innocent.

“I must go, Clara, for I want to finish that silk bed quilt. It does seem to me it will never be finished. I love to do patch-work; I think, Clara, if you had something like that to employ your time, it would be better for you.” “Little Byron takes up all my time.” “So I suppose. What good is there then of your having a nurse 2 But I quite forgot; it is fashionable, you know, to have a nurse—a piece of ex

“I cannot see how you can lavish so much affection on a lap dog.” “No, I suppose not. But a dog is no trouble; I only have to have his food cut up, water given him, washed once a day in the winter, twice in the snmmer, take him out for a little stroll once or twice a day. That is all, you see. But a child is so much trouble;” (Clara could not help smiling to herself while Aunt Torrey enumerated the owly trouble a pet spoiled lap dog was.) “Well, good-morning, Clara; come and spend the day with me; but dont bring Byron.” “Oh, I could not leave him for the world.” “I suppose not. Good morning.”

Aunt Torrey was one of those persons whom the world calls an old maid, She had her own peculiar notions about everything, and one had as well try to call the wind as to turn her opinion. Children were her abhorence, and she often said she could tolerate anything excepting a child. One great consideration with her was, when they came near her, she thought of some serious detriment they might do her diess, or else get her collar awry, or get one strand of her hair out of the right place, where she had been so careful to put it. Her affections were lavished upon lap dogs! Only think! a lady to prefer something incapable of speech, to that to whom God hath given a soul and breathed in it His own image But Aunt Torrey had her own views about such matters. Ah! “Bruno” knew too well the meaning when she raised one of her managing digits; he knew just how far he could go by a single glance of her catlike eye But children now are not so easily governed, and are apt to do pretty much as they may fancy. Aunt Torrey was sadly deficient in one particular; she was inconsistent, too; for she seemed to think that little children—the very sunbeams of the world—ought never to have anything except what was of the plainest and cheapest kind. She pronounced all mothers foolish if they lavished nothing more than the ordinary caresses upon their little gems. There was indeed a dark film over the eyes of Aunt Torrey, through which she could not see. Her heart had not been educated in the right school, or else she might soon have discovered how and why it was young mothers make so much of

travagance, that is all. If it takes up all your time to tend to him, you had better discharge Bridget.”

lovely mornings?” “Oh, I forgot he had to be taken out for a show, once in a While.” “No, no, Aunt Torrey, not for that. He must have the fresh air. Flowers cannot thrive without it : neither could little Byron.” “Yes, I suppose they would, too.” “Aunt Torrey, the nurse is not the proper instructor for children, either.” “I suppose not. But what can such a child as you teach him It is just like the “blind leading the blind.” “I confess I am not a very good instructor; but still, for all that, I can learn him to talk.” “Can’t Bridget do that?” “Oh, yes, but 72 “But what? just nothing at all; only you want to be dangling him all the time, just as a child does a mere toy; and, after awhile, get tired of it. He will be spoiled child, I tell you” “It is most likely he will, Aunt Torrey.” “You had better try to find something better to occupy your time than nursing children.” “But there are its little clothes to make.” “It is your place to do that: I suppose you do make them. But such a quantity of useless stuff as you do put on them—edgings, and fixings, and the dear knows what.” “That is all right, though. Women need some employment to keep themselves out of mischief. Why, sure as I am alive, he has a gold chain.”

“Well, Aunt Torry, that was a gift from his papa.”

“I suppose it was. I tell you that you are going to bring that child up to be entirely too extravagant.

“Let me ask you some questions, Aunt Torrey; there is Bruno, your pet dog, with a gold collar around his neck; now, do you call that extravagance 7”

“Lor bless you, child, no why, that chain will last him his life-time.”

“But that is the second one he has had since my knowledge.”

“The other was stolen.”

“That stands the same chance. And, Aunt Torrey, just look at the jewelry you purchase; the elegant dresses you wear at your time of life.”

“At my time of life!” exclaimdd Aunt Torrey o “P more erect; “I hope you do not call me OICl.

“Oh, no,” said Clara, perceiving she had touched a weak point. “I only thought you lectured me

“Who could take him out, then, during these

their children She had never loved anything
apart from a lap dog, or she might have looked
with more admiring eyes upon what she so much
disliked. Instead of looking frowningly upon
children, she might have had a smile or a kind
Word.
Depend upon it, Aunt Torrey, all is not right
with you. Perhaps if you had not resigned your-
self to a life of single blessedness, you would love
the little creatures, too, and think with Clara,
that life would be a desert without them. Bless
the sweet little creatures—may you ever find some
one to notice your innocent prattle, and have a
kind word of encouragement to cheer you on.
There are some in the world who do not look upon
yon as a nuisance or trouble; but rather take a
delight in catering to your every wish.

Eissing three Girls.

YOUNG man who boarded at a house in the

country, where were several coy damsels who seemed to imagine that men were terrible crea. tures, whom it was an unpardonable sin to look at, was one forenoon accosted by an acquaintance, and asked what he thought of the young ladies with whom he boarded ? He replied that they were very shy and reserved.

“So they are,” returned the other, “and so much so, that no gentleman could get near enough to tell the color of their eyes” “That may be,” said the boarder quickly, “but I will stake a million that I can kiss them all three, without any trouble;” “That you cannot do—it is an achievement which neither you nor any other man can accomplish.” The other was positive, and invited his friend to the house to witness his triump. They entered the room together, and the three girls were all at home, sitting beside the mother, and they all looked as prim and demure as John Rogers at the stake. Our hero assumed a very grave aspect, even to dejection ; and having look edwistful at the clock, baeathed a sigh as deep as algebra, and as long as a female parting dialogue at the street door. His singular deportment now, of course, attracted the attention of the girls, who cast their slow opening eyes upward to his countenance. Perceiving the impression he had made, he turned to his companion and said in a doleful voice— “It wants three minutes of the time ! “Do you speak of dinner!” said the old lady, laying down her sewing work. “Dinner!” said he, with a bewildered aspect, and pointing, as if unconsciously, with curled fore. finger at the clock.

too severely about Byron.” “Well, that is a different matter altogether; a baby is a baby, no matter what you put on it.”

A silence ensued, during which the female part of the household glared at the young man with ir| repressable curiosity.

“You will see me decently interred,” he said, turning towards his friend. His friend was as much puzzled as anybody present, and his embarrassment added to the intended effect, but the old lady being able no longer to contain herself, cried— “Mr. C–, pray what do you speak of ?” “Nothing,” answered he in a lugubrious tone, “but that last night a spirit appeared to me!” Hero the girls all rose to their feet and drew near. “And the spirits gave me warning that I should die exactly at twelve o’clock to-day; and you see it wants but half a minute of the time !” The girls turned pale, and their hidden sympathies were at once awakened for the doomed and departing one. They stood chained to the spot, looking alternately at the clock and the unfortutunate youth. He then walked up to the oldest of the girls, and taking her by the hand, bade her a solemn farewell. He also imprinted a kiss upon her trembling lips, which she did not attempt to resist. He then bade the second and third farewell in the same tender and aflectionate manner. His object was achieved, and that momnnt the clock 3truck twelve. Hereupon he looked around surprised, and ejaculated— “Who would have believed that an apparition would tell such a lie! It was probably the ghost of Annanias or Sapphira ” It was some time before the sober maidens understood the joke; and when they did, they evinced no resentment. The first kiss broke the ice, and thanks to the “ghost,” they discovered that there was some pleasure in a bearded cheek.

What Appetite Means.

SKING-for,” that is the meaning. Who asks 7 Nature ; in other words, the law of our being, the instinct of self-preservation, wisely and benevolently implanted in every living thing, whether animal, worm or weed. Yielding to this appetite is the preservation of all life and health below man; he alone exceeds it, and in consequence, sickens and dies thereby, long before his prime, in countless instances. The fact is not recognized as generally as it ought to be, that a proper attention to the “askings ’’ of nature not only maintains health, but is one of the safest, surest and most permanent methods of curing disease. It is eating without an appetite which, in many instances, is the last pound which breaks the camel’s back : nature had taken away the appetite, had closed the house for necessary repairs, but, in spite of her, we “forced down soma food,” and days, and weeks, and months of illness followed, if not cholera, cramp, cholic, and sudden death. In disease, there are few who cannot recall instances where a person was supposed to be in a dying condition, and in the delirum of fever, or otherwise, had arisen and gone to the pail or pitcher and drank an enormous quantity of water, or have goue to the pantry and eaten largely of some unusual food,and forth with began to recover. We frequently speak of persons getting well having the strongest kind of appetite, the indulgence of which, reason and science would say, would be fatal. We found out many years ago, when engaged in the general practice of medicine, that when the patient was convalesing the best general rule was, eat not an atom you do not relish; eat anything in moderation which your appetite craves, from a pickle down to shoe leather. Nature is like a perfect housekeeper; she knows better what is wanting in her house than anybody else can tell her. The body in disease craves that kind of food which contains the elements it needs. This is one of the most important facts in human hygiene ; and yet we do not recollect to have ever seen it embodied in so many words. We have done so to make it practical; and to make it remembered we state a fact of recent occurrence: Some three years ago a daughter of James Damon, of Chesterfield, fell down a flight of stairs, bringing on an illness from which it was feared she would not recover. She did, however, recover, except the loss of hearing and sight. Her appetite for some weeks called for nothing but raisins and candy, and since last fall nothing but apples were eaten. A few weeks ago she commenced eating maple buds, since which time she has nearly regained her former health and activity, and her sight and hearing are now restored.

We all, perhaps have observed that cats and other animals, when apparently ill, go and crop a particular grass or weed, In applying these facts, let us remember to indulge this “asking for” of Nature, in sickness especially, in moderation, feeling our way along by gradually increasing amounts, thus keeping on the safe side. We made this one of our earliest and most inflexible rules

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of practice –Journal of Health.

–q-p“Though lost to sight,to memory dear,” as the maiden said to her lover, when his face was buried in beard and whiskers.

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Originai.
I WATCHED FOR THEE.

WATCIIED for thee last night,
When the moon was beaming,
From the dim twilight
At the star’s first gleaming;
Till midnight’s stilly shade,
Till the moon departed,
I watched, I wept, I prayed;
At each footfall started—
Whilst my heartbeat madly,
Thinking still to see thee,
13ut it drooped, how sadly,
When I found it not to be thee—
I watched, I wept, I wondered
At thy long delaying,
And I silent pondered,
Where could thou be straying?

I watched for thee till morn,
Till the stars ceased shining,
When over tree and lawn,
Dewy wreaths were twining—
IIope with sleep was vieing—
Still I watched on longer—
Sleep his utmost trying—
Ah! sweet Hope and stronger—
Sleep said, (wooing weary,)
“Wait until the morrow,”
IIope kept whispering cheery,
“Give away thy sorrow,
He will come, believe me;
Heed, I pray, my warning,
I would not deceive thee “–
Thus I watched till morning.

I watched all yesterday;
I hied me to the shore,
I saw the breaker’s spray,
The sandy beach dashed o’er;
I welcomed every wave,
Each to me was dearer;
They sweet assurance gave
Thou wert coming nearer.
I watched each snowy sail,
Swiftly by me gliding,
I played no treacherous gale
Near thee was abiding;
And thus, I, weary, stayed,
Singing, hopin , y arming,
And watched, and wept, and prayed,
IPrayed for thy returning.
I. F. BRUNE.

FACETIOUS IIDLE-TALK.

. . . . . . . . THE DOCTOR Non PLUSSED —While the
dessert was under consideration, the doctor turned
to Gertrude, who sat nearest him, and, in a hon-
eyed accent, and with a gracious smile, said, “I
hold some opinions which are not at this time in
good odor among certain circles.” Gertrude bow-
ed in token of her attractiveness. “It is general-
ly believed that this world had a beginning,”
glancing his eye upon Annie, who bowed her as-
sent. “That it had a Creator,” looking at Oliver;
“and that,” looking at Frank, “it bears marks of
design.”
Frank bowed: and the old doctor here paused
with an air of self-complacency, and drew up him-
self big with the explosion he was about to make,
“his utterance ’’ (to use the parlance of the Brun-
neus)—and all around were on tip-toe for what
was coming.
“Now, then, I hold, and can demonstrate, that
the world never was made, and never had a be-
ginning !”
* Granted ‘ ‘.’ cried Annie.
Doctor Thornton looked up inquiringly, as if
astonished.
“Granted ‘ ‘ cried Annie, with a lurking smile
upon her beautiful face; “and what then * *
It was a happy hit. The old man flushed in his
face, rose, and left; while the listeners at that end
of the table burst into irrepressible laughter

. . . . . . . . Evasion –Previous to the establish-
ment of steam packets and regular liners, to sail
on stated days “full or not full,” considerable
competition existed between the masters of Sundry
trading sloops between New York and an Eastern
port. A person residing some distance from town,
and wishing a quantity of goods transported by
the first conveyance, called on the master of one
of the above named vessels, and inquired when he
was to sail.
“Sir,” said he, “I shall go to-morrow, if the
wind is ahead ”
His goods were accordingly shipped and he left
town; but, to his surprise, he found, a week after-
wards, that she had not sailed. He called on the
captain, and charged him with deception.
“Indeed, sir,” replied he, “thcre was no decep-
tion in the case; I told you I should go the next
day if the wind was ahead, and so I should have
done; but as it was as fair as could blow, I felt
under no obligation to sail.”

. . . . . . . . MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY —Whether a man leads a sober life or not, depends altogether on the temper of his wife. No man will listen all night to a scold, who knows where “a good warm sling” may be bought for a sixpence. At Cocktail’s the other night, we found no less than thirteen married men, who spend six evenings a week in squirting tobacco juice on a coal stove. We thought we would find out who they were. On inquiring, we learned that eleven of them were

blessed with wives who “jaw” from Monday
morning till Saturday night, while the other two
wedded a couple of she missionaries—ladies so
constantly engaged in the “welfare of Central Af-
rica” that they have no time to keep their hus:
|bands’ shirts whole.

. . . . . . . . FILIAL OBEDIENCE – “How old are you ?” said Major Garver to a dwarfish young Inan.

“Twenty”

“I wonder you ain’t right down ashamed of being no bigger; you look a boy of ten.”

“All comes of being a dutiful child.”

“ HOW S0.”

“When I was ten, father put his hand on my head and said, ‘stop there !” and he then ran away. I’ve never seen him since, and didn’t think it right in me to go on growing without his leave!”

. . . . . . . . A PROTESTANT P1G —An Irish woman
in Bristol, a few days since, missed her pig, and,
after dilligent inquiry, learned that it was in pos-
session of a highly respectable citizen of the town.
She straightway called upon him, when he inform-
ed her that her pig had broken through a window
into the Episcopal church, were his pigship was
found, and if she would pay five dollars damages
she could have the pig. She replied: –

“The pig and the church may go to the devil —
I’ll pay no five dollars for him if he has turned
Protestant.”

THE PROPER USE OF TEIE EYES.

Certain, the eyes are not to see with—
No more than wives were made to be with,
Or milk was sent us to drink tea with ;
Some sages hint they’re formed to weep with,
Others to cast a look like sheep with ;
Its my belief they’re meant—to sleep with.

Harper’s Young People, Volume 12 (Google Books)

The Atlantic Monthly – Volume 108 – Page 451
https://books.google.com.ph › books

1911 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Nobody meant to blame the rich woman for being childless, because it was well known in Polotzk that Hode the Russian, as she … My mother, on her visits, was thrown a great deal into this boy’s society; but she liked him less than the poodle.
The Atlantic – Volume 108 – Page 451
https://books.google.com.ph › books

1911 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Nobody meant to blame the rich woman for being childless, because it was well known in Polotzk that Hode the Russian, as she … My mother, on her visits, was thrown a great deal into this boy’s society; but she liked him less than the poodle.
The New Statesman – Page 366
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1914 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
For a married woman to set limits to her family was felt to be less shameful than for an unmarried woman to acknowledge the slightest desire for a child. … common herd scoffed at it in such perverted forms as the fondling of poodles by old maids ; and the women who could have … The meekness with which they married without conditions, or remained childless because unmarried, is departing from them.

Search Results
The Pacific Reporter – Volume 226 – Page 87
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1924 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
It is common observation that a woman with a small child cannot find many places open to her for “common labor”; she must take … Witness the childless woman who cuddles the poodle dog for Its lick and worship or Maltese cat for its purr and ..

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IV., or Henry of Navārre as he was generally called, was King in his stead. That is, he was nominally King, but in reality he had to win his way to the throne by hard fighting; because, while he was a Huguenot, or Protestant, the majority of the French people, especially those who lived in Paris, were Catholics, and unwilling to acknowledge as King one holding a different religious belief from themselves. To oppose him they formed what they called a Holy League, elected a King of their own in the person of an old Cardinal, to whom was given the title of Charles X., and raised a great army, which they sent out to destroy the Huguenot King and his followers. Now all this did not trouble the gallant Henry of Navarre in the least; for he was at any time as ready for a fight as he was for a dance, a hunt, a frolic, or a dinner; and at all of these he was the bravest, the wittiest, and the gayest of those who took part. It is said that at his birth his other sang a merry song, that her child might thereby be blessed with a cheerful disposition. As soon as he was born, his grandfather brushed his baby lips with a clove of garlic and wet them with rich Gascon wine, so that he should be brave and generous. The boy thus started in life grew up to be all of these things, besides being possessed of a handsome suntanned face from which looked a pair of clear blue eyes, and of a close-knit graceful figure. When this light – hearted Prince finally became the rightful King of France, he found himself at once involved in war, and realized that with but four thousand followers he must meet the thirty thousand troops sent by the League to destroy him. At this he did not hesitate for a moment, but cheerfully led his little army into battle at a place called Arques. Here, with the odds against them of nearly eight to one, they completely routed their enemies, and Henry of Navarre gained his first decisive victory. Again the League sent a great army against him, and again with a much smaller force, on the plains of Ivry, he defeated it. It was here that the King wore a snowwhite plume on his helmet, which he bade his soldiers follow in case their banners should fall, and they could by no other means distinguish their leaders. Of this famous battle a stirring poem has been written, in which occur the lines: “And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine amid the ranks of war, And be your oritlamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.” Having won the battle of Ivry, King Henry marched on to Paris, but with his small force and inadequate supply of artillery he could make no impression upon the massive walls, nor could he force the ponderous city gates that were closed in his face. There was nothing left to do but to encamp about the city, cut off all its supplies, and attempt to starve it into submission. The brave and tender-hearted King hated to resort to such measures, for he loved the people shut up in the city, who, though they were rebels and had sought to kill him, were, after all, his own people, whose loyalty he hoped some time to win. He would rather have fought a dozen battles with them and forgiven them afterwards, than cause them the terrible sufferings they were about to undergo from starvation. At this time the old house standing at the upper end of the Place de M was occupied by a Duchesse who had for many years been a prominent sigure at court. She was a childless woman, and much of her affection was bestowed upon pets, of which she had a number, and of which the chief was a white poodle named Bimbo. He was not a good-tempered dog, and he made himself very disagreeable to almost everybody, except his mistress and a poor little slip of a kitchen-maid about twelve years old, named Ninon.

She was a waif from the streets, who had been picked up by the cook a year or so before the time at which this story opens, and set to turning a spit. Since then, although given enough to eat and a roof to cover her, Ninon had led a cheerless existence, made up of the hardest kind of work from morning to night, mixed in with beatings and scoldings. In all the great house, with its multitude of guests and servants, her only friend was Bimbo, the poodle, who had from the first taken an immense fancy to the unhappy little girl, and would growl and show his teeth whenever he thought anybody was about to abuse her. They were not often thrown together, because the little scullion never dared approach that part of the house in which the Duchesse lived, and Bimbo arely visited the kitchen. Sometimes he would make his way at night up into Ninon’s little attic room. Here, in company with several other kitchen-maids, she slept on a truss of straw, with scanty covering and without a pillow, save upon the rare occasions when her curly head rested on Bimbo’s shaggy side. Ninon generally cried at such times, not because she was sorry to see her little friend, but because he was the only creature in all the world that seemed to care for, or to sympathize with, her, and she felt happier after she had tearfully whispered ali her trials into his ear, and he had comforted her by licking her face.

About now, I suppose, you are asking, “What does all this about a wretched little kitchen-maid and a poodle have to do with the brave King of the first part of the story?”

Why, don’t you see, the King was at this time outside of Paris wishing he could get in, while Ninon and Bimbo were inside the city walls wishing they could get Out.

Why were they wishing to get out? Because they Were very hungry, and they knew—or at least Ninon did —that there was plenty of food outside of the city, and almost none on their side of its gates.

BY, this time the siege, which was begun in March, had lasted nearly all summer, and almost everything edible in Paris had been eaten. Only a few of the very rich people had any store of provisions left. The meat the bread, and the wine were all gone. The horses, the dogs the cats, and even the rats and mice of the city Were be. ing ravenously devoured, and the poor people, who had snatched from the gutters every scrap of anything that could be eaten, were dying by thousands. The susferings in the city were terrible beyond anything we can dream of, and the heart of the brave King outside the gates ached when he heard of them. But still the cit would not surrender. y

With such awful want and starvation throughout Paris, even the inmates of a Duchesse’s house could not escape from their share of it. Here, as well as in poorer places, provisions were becoming Very scarce. Poor Ninon had for several weeks lived upon two very small portions of bean porridge a day, and had become aimo. is fount and fleshless as a little skeleton. Ev., Birnbo had been fed better than she’; but then he was being reserved to be eaten himself. One by one the o”. monkeys and the other pet dogs had been boiled or roasted or fricasseed, and served on the table of the * until they were all gone, and only Bimbo was (*I t.

.” My poor sweet Bimbo,” exclaimed the Duchesse to him. one day, as she tenderly fondled him * thou art *N joy and delight; but even for thee I cannot starve I cannot feed thee longer, and so thou must feed me … –

Then she kissed his little white nose, shed a few tears *d, gave her waiting-maid orders to tal. him to the ‘o. and !”. him served on the table two days in: When some of the lords and ladies — — y ing to dine with her. adies of the court w ere corn

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The maid rejoiced at this, for she hated Bimbo, and in spite of his cries and struggles, she gladly carried him off to the kitchen, where he was shut up in a closet, to be kept until it should be time for him to be killed. This was a sad day for poor Ninon. She could hear the cries of her only friend, and knew of the fate in store for him, but apparently she could do nothing to help him. She went about her work so blinded by tears that she could hardly see what she was doing, and many a blow from the cook’s heavy hand fell to her share that day because of her negligence. That night, as she lay on her truss of straw in the little attic room trying to stifle her sobs, she overheard one of the other scullions say that the beast of a dog was to be killed first thing in the morning, and she, for her part, was glad of it. Then Ninon made up her mind to do a bold thing. She would try to save Bimbo even at the risk of her own life. Waiting patiently until the other occupants of the room were sound asleep, she arose, and wrapping the ragged coverlet of her bed about her, stole softly—oh, so softly —out of the room, and began to grope her way down the black stairways towards the kitchen. She stopped so frequently to listen, and so often lost her way in the darkness, that it took her nearly an hour to reach the closet, to which she was finally guided by a faint moaning from poor Bimbo. Her first movement, after opening the door and finding the dog, was to cover his head with the ragged quilt to prevent him from barking. Then, with him in her arms, she made her way into the dark porte cochère, and at length out from beneath its black arch into the open air of the Place. Now came the most dangerous part of her undertaking: for every night all the streets of the city were closed by heavy chains that were stretched across them, and only guards of soldiers were allowed abroad after dark. The order was given that any other person found in the streets before daylight should be put to death, unless he could give some very good reason for being there. Crouching in the darkest shadows, and stealing softly along, fearing every moment lest she should meet with some of the cruel soldiers, the child at length reached what she considered a safe distance from the Duchesse’s house. Then she crept into an arch way, and, utterly exhausted by her efforts, sank down upon the hard pavement, and, with her arms around Bimbo, fell fast asleep. A few hours later she was awakened by a great noise, and starting up, saw surging past her one of the most remarkable processions that ever occupied the streets of a great city. It was a procession of skeletons-—the ragged, starved, dying people of Paris hastening to accept the generous offer of King Henry, and leave it. His heart had been so moved by the reports of the sufferings of his enemies that he had issued a proclamation to the effect that such of the starving inhabitants as chose to depart peaceably from the city should be allowed to do so, and that he would furnish food for them. Thousands accepted the offer, and staggering with weakness, some carrying others who could not walk, they were now on their way to the gate that was to be opened for them. Ninon would have known nothing of all this but for a woman who, hurrying past with a puny babe in her arms, saw her, and bade her come along. Trembling from weakness and excitement at what the woman told her, the little maid, tightly hugging Bimbo, still wrapped in the old coverlet, joined the sorrowful procession, and with it made her way out of Paris to the open fields beyond its walls, in which the besieging army was encamped. Just outside his camp, King Henry, seated upon a great black charger, and surrounded by a group of knights in

splendid armor, gazed pityingly upon this throng of wretched people as they moved slowly past him. As he gazed, one of them, a child, fell to the ground exhausted. At the same moment a white poodle struggled from her arms and licked her face. He was a tempting morsel for the starving wretches around him, and a dozen of them attempted to seize him, but he escaped from their clutches: and, wild with terror, darted directly towards the group surrounding the King, where he sought refuge among the horses’ feet. A golden collar about his neck attracted the King’s attention, and he commanded a page to capture the animal and bring it to him. This was done, and as Bimbo was held up to him by the page, the King examined curiously a coat of arms engraved on the collar, which he recognized as that borne by the family of the Duchesse de M–, Bimbo’s mistress. At this moment Ninon, given new strength by her loss, reached the spot, and in a bewildered way, not realizing in whose presence she stood, tried to recover the dog from the page who held him.

It hardly seems possible that an incident of this kind should affect the fate of a nation, but it did. The King’s interest was so aroused by it that he ordered Ninon to be ared for and her story learned. When this had been done, and it was reported to him that the distress in the city was so great that even the noble Duchesse de M– was driven to the sacrifice of her pet dog in order to furnish her table with food, he was greatly moved. As a result, he permitted a great store of provisions to be smuggled in over the walls, and upon these the garrison subsisted until such strong re-enforcements came to their relief that King Henry was obliged to abandon the siege, and retire from before the city without having conquered it.

 

The Bankers’ Magazine, Volume 30 (Google Books)

Mas. Bsssm FLOCKTON mm mm Baornas. Cnaaus.

“O! bido ye, yet, 0! bide ye, yet;

Ye little know what may bctidc ye, yet.”-—Scotch Ballad, WHEN the establishment in the Isle of \Vight was broken up it was necessary, of course, to discharge the several servants, all of whom, with the exception of two or three of the younger ones, had been in the family for many years. All were sorry to leave, and there was more than one among them desirous to remain, and to follow their old master and youthful mistress to London. Among these latter the most pertinacious was Mrs. Flockton, or Mrs. Bessie as she was usually styled—although she had no legal claim to the title of “ Mistress ”—who for many years had

‘occupied the position of housekeeper at the Hall, and had, at

the same time, enacted the joint parts of lady’s maid and humble companion to its young mistress. On the decease of Mrs. Harlingford, at a period when her daughter was too young fully to realise the irreparable loss she had sustained, Mrs. Bessie had taken the sole charge of the little motherless child, for whom she had conceived almost a parent’s love. She had taught the little girl her letters, and had been her earliest instructress in the rudiments, until—Mrs. Bessie having imparted to her little pupil all she was capable of teach

ing—Miss Caroline was sent to a. boarding-school on the island, not many miles distant from the Hall. When the young lady returned home to spend the vacations, and frequently for a day or two at other times, it was to Mrs. Bessie that she looked for all the trifling pleasures and indulgences that her mother, had she been living, would have been eager to bestow upon her, and thus, as we have intimated, the old housekeeper came to be regarded by her young mistress rather in the light of a humble companion than a servant, while the afl’ection that the child had naturally conceived for the being who had been as a second mother to her in her tender years continued to exist as she grew towards womanhood.

Yet Mrs. Bessie Flockton was not calculated, by her appearance, to attract the love of a child. At the date at which this story opens she had already passed her fiftieth year, although she was still as hale and active as she had been twenty years before. She was tall, thin and angular in frame, with sharp, regular features, keen grey eyes, and thin, tightly-compressed lips, which imparted an expression of rigid firmness to a countenance which might have been preposessing in her youth; and which, even now, was not ill-favoured. She was accustomed to wear a false front of flaxen hair, with rows of small, tight curls, which still further increased the rigidity of her aspect, and was usually attired in a black bombazine gown, with a white or yellow shawl folded with methodical precision across her bosom. Stern and imperative in disposition she was the dread of any unlucky individuals among the inferior domestics who were guilty of carelessness, or who neglected their duties, although she was prompt to encourage the orderly and industrious.

Stern and harsh, however, as she sometimes was to others, she had always been gentle and loving, and even submissive, in her deportment towards her young mistress, and the idea that she must now part from her whose infancy she had watched over, and whom she had seen grow up from a pretty, engaging child to a beautiful and gentle woman, was tenible to her.

The idea of separation was almost equally painful to Miss Harlingford. Still, she felt that it was necessary that she and her old and faithful friend and attendant should part, at least for a time, for she knew not what would be the arrangements her father might make for the future; and although one servant, at least, would be necessary to them, she was well aware that however well-meaning were Mrs. Bessie’s intentions, and however willing she might be to perform the menial service she offered to perform, if only she was permitted to remain, she was quite unfitted, alike by her antecedents, her disposition, and her advanced years, to fill the place of a maid-of-all-work ; neither could she (Miss Harlingford) have been content to have seen her reduced to so lowly a condition.

From long association with her young mistress, and also from natural inclination, Mrs. Bessie Flockton had acquired habits, manners and tastes above those of an ordinary servant, even of the upper class. Had she been really well educated, she would, in all probability, have enrolled herself a member of that worthy sisterhood vulgarly yclep’d “ blue-stockings,” for which position she was adapted by nature and disposition. As it was, she had read a great deal, and was partial to making a display of her erudition by means of quotations, or, more frequently, mis-quotations from her favourite authors ——especially from Shakespeare—not always aptly chosen, although at times (unwittingly to herself) they came forth so pat to the purpose that a stranger might have regarded her as one of those most disagreeable of all created beings—a female wit. Moreover, she kept a voluminous diary, wherein, notwithstanding the severity of her aspect, and the brusquerie of her manner, the records were sentimental in the extreme.

Such a person was, Miss Harlingford very justly thought, hardly adapted to clean a doorstep, brush boots and shoes, or peel potatoes for dinner; so, sorely against the inclination both of herself and her young mistress, poor Mrs. Bessie was discharged with the other servants of the household.

By Mrs. Bessie Flockton the parting was, of course, most severely felt. Possessed of very many good qualities, she had not always been the harsh, unyielding creature she now appeared to most of her fellow creatures with whom she came in contact. Had she married in early life, she would have been a true and faithful wife and a gentle and loving mother. – When about thirty years of age, she was betrothed to a young man whom she loved with all the passionate devotion natural to a woman of strong feelings. By this young man she had been cruelly and most basely deserted, only a. few days before the time appointed for her marriage, and after every preparation had been made, on her’ part, and on the part of her friends, for the ceremony.

This cowardly desertion had almost proved fatal to her. She sank beneath it, and fell ill, and lay for some time almost at the point of

death, and when at length she recovered her health and strength, she was a changed woman. Her disposition had become soured; she inveighed against the baseness and ingratitude of mankind, and took upon herself a vow of celibacy. Still, a_ woman must have something upon which to lavish her affections. It is impossible to the sex to exist without loving, and happily for Mrs. Bessie Flockton (it was at this period that she assumed tl1e title of Mrs.), she found in the motherless infant daughter of Mr. Harlingford that something to love and cherish that her heart craved for.

Miss Harlingford, however, did not possess Mrs. Bessie’s undivided affection. Her father, after he had grown into years and long after the death of her mother, had married a woman much younger than himself, who died shortly after she had given birth to a male child. She filled the place of a mother to this young brother-—nearly twenty years younger than herself—during his infancy, and her brother Charlie shared with her young mistress, all the affection she had to bestow upon her fellow creatures. Charles Flockton was unworthy of his sister’s love. He was wild, dissipated and ungrateful; and still, in Mrs. Bessie’s partial eyes, he was endowed with every manly talent and virtue. While a mere youth he was inveigled into making an imhappy marriage, and his fond and admiring sister, who found excuses for all his evil doings, charged most of them to this cause. It served a double purpose. It enabled her to inveigh against the folly and evil of matrimony, and to find constant excuses for her brother’s failings. Poor Mrs. Bessie ! She had been wiser, had this portion of her affections been more worthily bestowed; still, it were better that she gave a share of her love even to a. worthless and unthankful brother, than had she followed the example of certain of the maiden sisterhood and lavished all the a.fi’ections of her woman’s heart upon a tortoiseshell cat or an ugly and vicious poodle.

It was to her brother’s house that Mrs. Bessie Flockton went when she quitted Harlingford Hall.

She was welcome, for she had saved money during her long years of faithful service ; and Charles Flockton knew full well that, so long as he had his sister near him to call upon, his own pockets need never be empty.

Charles Flockton resided in the vicinity of Bowbridge, in the county of Essex, in the same house with his ‘intimate friend, Reginald Baflin, a marine-store keeper in a somewhat extensive way of business. At this present time Charles Flockton was out of regular em

ployment, although he occasionally assisted his friend Reginald, when both were sometimes absent from home for days together. He looked upon himself as an ill-used, unfortunate man. He had been a clerk in a. bank, and in an insurance office ; had been dismissed from both these situations for no fault (according to his own assertions) ; had then obtained a place as a. messenger in a public ofiice, from which he had likewise been discharged ; and had finally obtained the situation of town traveller for a mercantile house in the City, from which, as he stated, he had discharged himself, as he found himself unsuited for the duties he had to perform. It was, however, whispered that he had been obliged to quit this service, and to borrow money at the same time from his sister, to make good certain deficits, and save himself from an investigation that might have led to unpleasant results. This, however, might have been a mere piece of scandal. At all events he had latterly grown very low-spirited, and he consequently received his sister’s visit with unusual satisfaction, inasmuch as it promised to afford some change from the weary monotony of his present mode of life.

It was the end of the first week after Mrs. Bessie’s arrival at Bow. Her brother, who had been absent from home two days and nights on some mysterious business with his friend Reginald Bafiin, was seated opposite to her in the parlour, his elbows resting on the table, his head resting in his hands. He had been home but a few hours, and had not been to bed. His clothes were dusty, his boots covered with dry mud, his eyes were heavy, and his face pale, dirty, and unshaven. He looked as though he had not undressed himself nor sought a bed since he had quitted home two days before, and he occasionally yawned fearfully. Mrs. Flockton, Charles’s wife, was upstairs lying on the bed reading a cheap periodical. It was almost the first time since her arrival that Mrs. Bessie had found herself alone with her brother. She sat watching him, with a compassionate look, for some minutes ,’ at length she said,

“ My dear Charlie, you look thoroughly worn out ; why don’t you go and lie down awhile, or shall I make you a cup of tea ‘2 and then, perhaps, if you have a. good wash, you’ll feel somewhat refreshed.”

“ I’d rather have a drop of brandy than your slip-slop tea,” replied Charlie, looking up and gaping widely. “ As to going to lie down, how can I, when that woman ‘s in the bed reading some confounded novelette. That’s the way she spends her time from morn till night. No comfort in the house, and no enjoyment out of it. Could you get me a drop of brandy, Bessie l”

“ Is there any in the house, dear l”

“ Any in the house ‘I If there’d been a gallon when I went away, there’d be none left. That woman upstairs would have made away with it—she and her friends together. No ; there’s none inthe house, and I haven’t a penny to buy any.”

“Wouldn’t a cup of hot tea do you more good, Charlie, dear 1″

replied Mrs. Bessie.

“ No ; I tell you, Bessie. I need something to cheer me up a. bit. You know I never care for tea at any time. However, I suppose I must go without.”

“ N 0, Charlie, I’ll get it for .you if you really need it, my dear. Where’s the bottle 2’’

Charlie pointed towards the cupboard, and Mrs. Bessie took the bottle from the shelf and went to a neighbouring public-house for the spirits.

When she returned she had the change of a sovereign in her hand, which she began to recount before she put it in her purse.

“ Bessie,” said her brother, casting a covetous glance at the silver, “if you have no especial need for that change to-day, you might lend it to me. Not a rap have I got in my pocket”

“I lent you a sovereign the morning you went away, Charlie,” replied his sister.

“ Oh, keep the money if you fear to trust me,” said Charlie.

“Charlie, dear, you know that I do not ,- you know that you’re welcome to anything I have to give or lend you; but I thought — that is, do not you get paid for your labour, whatever it is, when you go away from home as you did on Thursday ‘1’’

“Of course : but not immediately. Women don’t know anything of men’s work.”

Mrs. Bessie handed the silver to her brother, who put it carelessly into his pocket, saying,

“ Thank you, Bessie. I’ll return you the whole amount together, when I get paid for my last job.”

Mrs. Bessie now placed the bottle, a tumbler, and some water, on the table. Her brother mixed himself a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, and then, observing that he was somewhat better, arose as if about to go abroad.

“ Dear Charlie,” said Mrs. Bessie, “ if you don’t mind, I wish

you’d sit and talk to me a bit. I’ve hardly been able to speak with you alone since I came.”

Charlie hesitated, and then reseating himself, said,

“ Well; if you have anything to say, say it ; only make haste. I want to see Reggie Bafiin on business.”

“ I only wanted to say, dear Charlie,” said Mrs. Bessie, timidly, as if she were afraid bf hurting her brother’s feelings, “ that it pains me to the heart to see you in your present condition; you, that with your talents, and appearance—when you choose to make yourself look like a gentleman—ougbt to command almost any situation. ])on’t be angry, Charlie. I know all that you have to contend against, and I feel for you as a sister ought to feel. But don’t you think, if you had a little help, just to set you up again, that you might do better than you are doing now 2″

“Where’s the help to come from I” her brother surlily rcplied. “ And if I got it, what could I do with that wife of mine upstairs tied to me, and weighing me down like a stone 7″

“ As to the help, my dear brother,” Mrs. Bessie went on, “ I might find that, and perhaps, if we talk matters over, we might decide upon some plan that would, at least temporarily, free you from the trouble of which you complain. The other day I heard you talking about emigrating. Now, Charlie dear, though I should be sorry to see you go far away from me, still it might be for your own good to emigrate for a few years. I’ve heard say that fortunes are soon made abroad. Others have made fortunes in a short time, and surely you can do what others without half your abilities have done. Then you might return a rich man, and get a comfortable home of your own, and I might come and live with you Charlie. How happy we might be, especially if I lived anywhere near my darling Miss Carrie.”

“ But the wife—-the wife, sister Bessie !” said Charles. “ You seem to have forgotten her T’

“ No, dear, I haven’t. I’d thought about her. If you were away —I don’t mean to advise you to leave her altogether, Charlie ; since you have made such a mistake as to marry her, why you’re in duty bound to support her. But, as 1 was saying, if you were away —say in America-—she’d have to do something to help to support herself, till you rcturned—and why shouldn’t she 1 She was but a lady’s maid when you married her, and if she were compelled to work she might come round and learn to conduct herself better in the future. Think over what I’ve said, Charlie, and if you think Well of it, why, I’ll go and ask old Mr. Hm-lingford’s advice.”

Charles Flockton was about to reply, when the room-door was opened suddenly, and Reginald Bafiin, the marine-store keeper, made his appearance, evidently much agitated or annoyed about something that had occurred.

He was a short, thick-set man, with a. face deeply pitted with pockmarks, and with but one eye,—the other being covered with a black patch. His features were coarse, and his bushy grey whiskers met under his chin. He was dressed in adirty fustian jacket and corduroy trousers, and his head was covered with a ragged sealskin cap. Altogether he presented a most repulsive appearance, and well might Mrs. Bessie wonder, as she had done, how her brother, who, when he chose, really did look like a gentleman, could select such a man for his friend and companion.

Reginald Bafiin, however, was reputed to be it man of considerable wealth. He had large warehouses filled with all sorts of apparently valueless, though really valuable, goods ; and, though many people wondered how hehad made his money, they tolerated him and even respected him for his wealth.

“ Here boy—come in——you,” he said, with an oath ; and a boy of small stature, but who might have been anyiage between ten and fifteen, so far as one could judge from his features (which, though they were those of a. mere child, wore an expression of precoeity that stamped them with a look of age), entered with a bag upon his shoulders so weighty that he bent beneath it.

“There, toss it down!” cried his master, and the lad threw the bag on the floor.

The marine-store keeper then addressed Charles Flocktcn.

“ Here’s been a pretty go,” he cried. “ Somebody’s been and split, that’s sartin, and if I on’y know’d who it was, cuss ’em, they wouldn’t do it a second time. Howsomever, it’s no use talkin’. I’ve got part of the things in my rooms upstairs, and here’s t’other part. You must stow that sornewheres out 0’ sight. Tho’ they won’t be coming here to sarch, I reckon ; and they may sareh the shop and ware’us as long as they please. Bless me ! ’t’ud be a. hundred pound fine if it were found out.”

Charles Flockton turned paler than he had been before. He, however, rose from his seat, and concealed the bag in the cupboard.

“ How did you make the discovery, Reggie T’ he inquired.

“ I see the boat it comin’ up the river,” answered the lad ; “ and I see the hoflicers landin’, and I went up to the wharf to meet ’em.”

“ ‘ Hey, boy !’ says one on ’em, as was the chief, ‘ whereabouts is Baffin’s war-e’us’s ‘4’ says he.

“I guessed somat was up, and I sent up to the creek, and as soon as I seen ‘em fair started, I cuts home and tells the guv’ner. My eye! won’t they swear when they gets there and finds as they’ve been gammon’d.”

“ Well, I must go back to the ware’us, Charlie,” said Bafiin. “ I must go and play the hinnercent. ‘Look round, genelmen. Lots 0’ cooriosities from furren parts and the rest 0’ the world besides. Choose what yer likes so long as yer pays for it,’ ” and he ended by bursting into a hearty laugh.

“ I reckon it’s all right this time,” he presently went on ; “ but it was a narrow touch, and we must be awake for the futur, Charlie boy.”

With this, Reginald and the lad returned to the store, the former nodding with a knowing look to Charles Flockton as he quitted the room.

Mrs. Bessie had looked on and heard all that passed, at first with astonishment, then with horror. It appeared bad enough to her to find her brother Charlie on terms of friendship with such a man as Baflin; but to make the discovery that both were united in some unlawful business, that had brought down upon them the ofiicers of the law, was terrible to tl1ink of; and all the more terrible to her, in consequence of the mystery in which the matter appeared to be involved.

“ O ! Charlie, Charlie, my dear brother Charlie, what is this ‘1″ she cried, appealing to her brother with clasped hands and tearful eyes, as soon as his repulsive-looking visitors had taken their departure. “Tell me, for pity’s sake, dear Charlie, is there any danger to you ‘l Hide nothing from me, whatever guilt you may have been led into by that wicked man. Remember that I am your sister!”

“ \Vhat ails you, Bessie ‘I What are you afraid of T’ replied Charles. “ There is nothing the matter. It’s a mere trifle at least, that’s all. I’ll explain it allto you by-and-by. There’s no harm done to anybody, and nothing to fear, though perhaps I may as well be out of the way in case of a call. If any one asks for me, say that I’ve gone up to town ;” and, locking the cupboard in which he had placed the bag, he put the key in his pocket, and quitted the house, leaving his sister –in spite of his endeavours to pass matters off lightly—in a condition of mind bordering upon distraction.

Cleopatra, by Henry Gréville (Google Books)

She went to church with the Sisters and one or two old ladies who had dwelt there for some time. They treated her politely, without extending to her much sympathy. A divorced woman, or one upon the point of being, was almost an object of scandal among the pious girls who had retired from the world for the very purpose of knowing and censuring all that was going on there.

She would have liked to see a dog, for the sake of looking in its eyes and saying, “Do you love me?”

But dogs don’t enter the convents. Cats are tolerated there under the pretence that they chase away the mice. Cleopatra felt herself incapable of soliciting any tenderness from a cat. She passed her hand over their backs when they came and rubbed against her, and that was all.

About the middle of August—near the time of her marriage—a pompous funeral was celebrated at Dievitchi, for a young man belonging to a high family. Hidden beneath a black veil, Cleopatra was in the chapel during the funeral ceremonies, for everything furnished distraction for her in the monotony of these days, that resembled each other so closely. No one present had observed her, for every one was ignorant of her presence. Alone, the Grand Duke Boris, who had been godfather to the young deceased, searched beneath the gauze veils, and recognised her that had been the fair Cleopatra.

Was it she? He suddenly saw her in his mind as he had met her near the old tower in the park. The apparition of this triumphant beauty, flushed with emotion, rose up before him with extraordinary intensity. He forgot the funeral choirs, the mourning family, the catafalque loaded with silver embroideries; he saw nothing but Cleopatra, dressed in a light summer toilet, shaded beneath a rose-lined parasol, the reflection from which lent greater brilliancy to her pearly complexion ; he saw the greyhound that passed

s

its head beneath the beautiful hand; he saw the smile and the blush and the paleness that followed. He had really loved her, it was true—a single moment perhaps; but he had loved her, for he was not able now to restrain himself from tears at seeing her thus veiled in black, drooping against a pillar. And the family, attentive to the slightest movement of the Grand Duke, said to themselves, on seeing him wipe away a tear with the extremity of his white glove:

“How he loved his godson!”

After the ceremony, which had seemed very long to Boris, when the last chorus and the last prayer had scattered the audience, he paid a visit to the prioress, whom he had formerly known as maid-ofhonour when he was a small boy. She had entered the cloister for some secret love affair, and when he learned her history he respected her for having had the courage and the dignity to keep silent.

“It is not only on your account that I came to-day, mother,” he said, entering the parlour, which in reality was a salon. “I would like to see Countess Neoutof; she appears to me very much changed.”

The prioress was hard towards others who suffered, maintaining that every one was able to rise above trouble by the help of prayer, since that means had succeeded with her.

“She feels lonely here, I think,” replied the Sister. “Your Imperial Highness can judge for yourself; I will have her summoned.”

Soon after, Cleopatra entered. The prioress understood that she ought to retire, and they remained alone, standing before each other.

“Madame,” said Boris, ” I wished to see you.”

She smiled. Her smile had the same heavenly grace as of old.

“I come to ask if I can serve you in any way.”

“I have not thanked your Imperial Highness,” said Cleopatra, with an exquisite voice, velvety and deep; “it is to you that I owe my liberty. I have not thanked you, because words fail to express my thoughts. My heart does not know how to express what it feels.”

He made a negative gesture, as if to refuse any mention of her gratitude.

“And now, what can I do more?”

The countenance of the Countess wore an anxious expression.

“The proceedings are very slow, my lord,” said she; “it appears that they are going to last a year.”

“A year!” cried the Grand Duke, involuntarily.

“Yes; I don’t know what is the matter with me; perhaps it is the want of air and exercise, or else it is the discipline—I don’t know. They are very good to me, but I can’t accustom myself; and yet I can’t go out until—until the divorce is pronounced. If it was possible to hurry a little”

“A year!” said Boris to himself, looking at her. “If she stays here a month, she will die.”

Instantly the anxious, deferential expression painted upon Cleopatra’s face disappeared; her eyes grew deep, and she placed her burning fingers upon the hand of the Grand Duke.

“If you have ever had any affection for me, my lord,” she said in a low voice, with a look that caused Boris to start, “tell them to hasten—for I am dying.”

“Happiness “he began, to calm her.

She stopped him with a resolute gesture.

“I told you this six weeks ago ; I repeat it to-day— I am dying. Let them hasten, if they wish me to leave here alive.”

She withdrew a few steps.

“You will live long,” said Boris, with that affectionate kindness that made him so irresistible when he wished to please. “You will live many years; but it is no reason why you should lose one year at present. I shall go and exert myself in your behalf.”

“May God return you this goodness, my lord’ The General and you—you have been my true friends.”

She did not speak of Ulric. Boris was struck with that, but it was not for him to allude to it.

“Au revoir !” he said, with a hopeful tone.

“Adieu, my lord,” responded she. “We shall not see each other again in this world; for I shall only leave here to be married, and shall leave St. Petersburg the same day.”

“Adieu, then,” said he, regarding her deeply. “I shall never forget your eyes nor your smile. You

are not of those that one forgets,’ madame. Be happy.”

He withdrew.

Eight days later the divorce was pronounced. All the formalities had vanished like a dream. Cleopatra was free to marry Ulric the following day.

Monasticon Anglicanum…a History of the Abbies and Other Monasteries…and … (Google Books)

HORNINGSEY.

Here, says Tanner, was a Monastery of some note, in the early Saxon times,* but ruined in the devastation made hereabout by the Danes, A. D. 870.

SOHAM.

Here St. Felix, first bishop of the East Angles, is said to have founded a Monastery about the year 630, in which he placed the Episcopal See, which was afterwards removed to Dunwich.b

THIRLING.
Bishop Tanner calls this ” A small Priory near Up-

well.” In a note, he says, ” I cannot give any account either of the foundation or valuation of this Priory; and yet it was in being 20 Hen.1,VIII., for I find it mentioned that year in the following manner: ‘There is a drayne from Upwell to Welney, and beginneth at Thirlingegate, which the prior of Mermaud and the chanon of Thirlinge must dense. The river from Erith to Benwick, from Kirkwere to Dodney Cote, Mr. Croft shall dense; and from thence to the willow in Fages-fenne, the prior of Thirling shall dense j from Mermaud to Thirling lake, the prior of Thirling, the cellerer of Bury, and the prior of Mermaud shall dense.’ A manor in Thirling and Upwell, Tanner adds, was granted, 30 Hen. VIII., to Thomas Meggs, as part of the possessions of the Priory of Ixworth in Suffolk; unless it be a mistake in the Abstracts I have procured.”

BRUNNESBURGH.

Brunnesburo, or Brimesburgh,0 says Tanner. Here was a Monastery (dedicated to St. Barnabas, as Mr. Mores) founded by the famous Elfleda, countess of Mercia, about the year of Christ 912.

“Anno Edwardi Regis xvj.” Elfleda, uxor Ethelredi ducis, ” soror dicti Regis Edwardi, regnum Merciorum, exceptis London, et Oxonia quas rex sibi retinuit longo tempore strenue rexit, et anno eodem Monasterium et Burgum de Brimesburgh construxit.”

Chron. Jo. Bromt. abb. Jorn. Script, x. Twysd. col. 834. So Leland, Collcctan. torn. i. pp. 215,219.

Whatever this was, says Tanner, it probably soon decayed. The Church of Bromburgh or Bronborrow in Wyrehall was impropriated to the Abbey of Chester, and since made part of the endowment of the Dean and Chapter.

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Corntoall

ST. BENET’S.

Tanner speaks of a Nunnery at St. Benet’s in the parish of Lanivet, the tower whereof, he says, is yet standing. In a Note, he says, Tonkin, Qucere.

CONSTANTYN, in the Deanry of KERRYER.

Tanner says, This seems to have been a Church of more than ordinary note, by what is said in Domesday Book, under the title ” Ecclesise aliquorum Sanctorum;” sc.

“Sanctus Constantinus habet dimidiam hidam terrse quae fuit quieta ab omni servitio tempore Regis Edwardi; sed postquam comes terram accepit, reddidit gelduminjuste sicut terra villanorum. Terra est nil. car. Val. x. solid. Quando comes terram accep. valeb. Xl. solid.” d

LAUNCESTON.

Carew, in his Survey, foil. 81 b, 116 b, mentions a Friary here of which no other notice has been discovered.

* “Apud Horningsey monasterium regiac dignitatis extitit, eratque ibidem non parva congregatio clericorum.” MS. Lib. Eliensis, lib. ii. cap. 32. et exinde doctiss. Caius in Antiq. Cantab, acad. Lond. 1568. 12°. p. 218.

° Lib. Elien. Hist. Ramesb. edit Gale, cap. lxxxii.

• Vide Nominum locorum explicationem per cl. Gibsonum ad finem Chron. Saxon, in voce Brunanburgh. It is much more reasonable that this town should be placed in this part of the kingdom, where this lady

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Cumberland.

DACOR presided; and Camden in Cumberland, and Leland, Collect.

li. p. 152, speak of it from him: but it does not appear from Bede in bis Ecclesiastical History, b. iv. ch. 32, men- any records to have been standing since the Conquest, as is tions a Monastery, which being built near the river Dacore, noted at the bottom of Gibson’s Camden, col. 831, edit, took its name from it, over which the religious man Suidbert 1695.

CHURCHILL.

Tanner says,” Churchill, in the parish of East Downe, in the deanry of Shirwell. Here was some time a Priory.” He refers to Eisdon, vol. i. p. 121.

DARTMOUTH.

Leland, in his Itinerary, vol. iii. p. 70, says, “There was and is a Chapelle of S. Patrike, as I remember, yn the Castele of Dartemouth: and it hath been yn tymes paste, as it apperith, sum litle Cell annexid to sum great Abbay.”

In vol. viii. of the same work, p. 107, he says, ” Ther

is a Chapell of Seint Patrike in the Castle of Dartemouthe, and by some old writynges it aperithe that it was a Cell of Monks.”

INDIO,

In the parish of South Bovey: once, according to Bisdon, a Priory, afterwards the seat of the Southcots :a but Lysons observes he can find no Becord to confirm the tradition of its having been a priory.

YODBY.

A Monastery in the diocese of Exeter. Begistr. Episc. Exon. MS.

BRIDPORT.

The Priory of St John Baptist stood at the east end of the Town, and was valued, 26 Hen. VIII., at 6/. per annum. Tanner says, it is not known to what Order it belonged. It is now a dwelling-house, and is called St. Jones. See Hutchins’s Hist Dorset, vol. i. p. 241.

CAMESTRUM, or CAMESTERNE.

Leland, Itin. vol. viii. p. 65, says,” Camestern. Moniales nigra.”

Tanner calls it a Monastery of White Nuns, mentioned in Gervase of Canterbury’s Manuscript Catalogue: so must be as ancient as the time of K. Richard 1st. It was dedicated to St Mary Magdalen.

Hutchins, in his History of Dorsetshire, says,

“Our accounts of this House are very imperfect and obscure: I am inclined to fix it at Cripton (anciently a manor and vill belonging to Winterborn Came), as Winterborn Came entirely belonged to the Abbey of Caen, and Priory of Frampton: Cripton might be called anciently Winterburn Hundingdon, and this might be a Cell to Tarent, and Camestrum a corruption for Kaineston, near which it stood. Or the difference of the dates of these two foundations may be reconciled by supposing the nunnery of TarentKaineston to have been founded first at Camestrum, and removed to Tarent in the next century. But if you suppose them to have been of the Benedictine Order (Leland calls them Moniales nigrae, which was the habitof the Benedictines; that of the Cistercians was black in publick, but white at home), it might stand in Came, and be under the patronage of the Abbey of Caen.”

This, it must be owned, leaves the matter in the same obscurity in which the author found it

POOLE.

Dr. Rawlinson had in his possession a Seal with this Inscription:

“S. Conv. de Poole.” See the English Topographer, 8vo. Lond. 1720, p. 43.

SHAPWICK.

Hutchins, in his History of Dorsetshire, first edition, vol. ii. p. 71, says, “Here was a small Priory or Cell belonging to the Priory of Shene in Surrey, and perhaps long before a Cell to some foreign monastery.”

WAREHAM.”

Here is said to have been a Nunnery0 in the Saxon times, before the year 876,d when this town was assaulted and taken by the Danes.

WILCHESWOOD, in the Parish of LANGTON MATRAVERS.

Here, says Tanner, was anciently a small Priory, of what order cannot be discovered. It was dedicated to St Leonard, and was in the patronage of the lords of the manor of Langton Wallis. Its principal is, in the records, sometimes styled chaplain, sometimes warden or prior, and the House itself, sometimes a Priory, sometimes a Chantry or Free Chapel. It was endowed with lands in Mappouder and Knolton, valued temp. Hen. VIII. at 12/. 16s. 4td., and was suppressed in that reign with other lesser houses.

See Hutchins’s Dorsetshire, vol. i. p. 214, 1st edit.

Burljam.

BACTANESFORD. Here, says Tanner, was a Monastery of black canons

* See Risdon. i. 51, and Lysons’s Mas;. Brit Devon, p. 57. k Not in Wiltshire, as the old edit, of Mon. Angl. torn. i. p. 1036.

from Gisburn, begun to be built by Henry Pusar or Pudsey, son to the Bishop; but the monks of Durham opposed it so much, that, after his father’s decease, he desisted, and gave

« LeL Collect torn. ii. p. 388.

d Cressy’s Church Hist lib. xxviii. ch. 9. ex …

■what he designed for this House to the establishing a Cell at Finchale, A. D. 1196.

Geoffrey de Coldingham, in his History of Durham, in the chapter “De electione Philippi Pictaviensis,” says, “Constructionis interea Monasterii apud Bacstaneford impatientes monachi canonicos in causam vocaverant; et usque ad ejectionem eorum tam literis apostolicis quam juri suo et prudential innitentes, nec expensis nec labori parcentes institerant. Henricus de Puteaco, pccnitentia. ductus, veniam a. priore et fratribus sua; praesumptionis expetiit, et in concordiam sub hac forma pacis rediit: Concesserunt praedicti prior et monachi eidem Henrico locum suum de Finckale cum pertinentiis suis; quem idem Henricus super altare B. Cuthberti in eleemosynam obtulit, et ecclesiae in perpetuum libere possidendam, cum omnibus rebus et possessionibus, quas in usus prius contulerat canonicorum, concessit et confirmavit; sc. ut illic ecclesiam construeret et conventum monachorum institueret.” Anglia Sacra, torn, i pp. 726, 727.

EBBCHESTER.
St. Ebba, daughter of Ethelfrid King of Northumber-

land, afterwards abbess of Coldingham, built here, upon the banks of the Darwent, a Monastery, before the year of Christ 660, which was afterwards destroyed by the Danes.*

GATESHEAD.

Tanner writes Gateshead, Gateshide, Goatshead, olim Ad Caprese caput: and says, Here was a Monastery, whereof Uttan was abbat, before A.D. 653.b

Bourn, in his History of Newcastle, p. 166, says, The Monastery of Uttanus was where Mr. Riddle’s or Gateshead House now is: but the tradition in Leland’s time placed this Monastery where afterwards was the site of St. Edmund’s Hospital.0

HARTLEPOOLE.

At or near this place was the ancient Monastery called Heorthu, founded upon the first conversion of the Northumbrians to Christianity, about A. D. 640, by a religious woman named Hieu, or, as some copies have it, St. Bega,d whereof St. Hilda was some time Abbess.*

TILLABURGH, or WEST TILBURY and ITHANCESTER.

Bede, in his Ecclesiastical History, book iii. cap. 22, tells us, that Cedda bishop of the East Saxons, about A.D. 630/ converted the Inhabitants of this County to the faith of Christ, built Churches in several places, and ordained priests and deacons to assist him in that great work; but especially ” in the city, which in the language of the Saxons is called Ythancestir: and also in that which is named Tillaburgh (the first of which places is on the bank of the river Pante, the other on the bank of the Thames); where

gathering a flock of servants of Christ, he taught them to observe the discipline of a regular life, as far as those rude people were then capable.” From hence, Cressy saith, he built Monasteries here; and Camdem, Norden, and Newcourt say, he had his episcopal see at “West Tilbury. Wharton, in his account of Cedda, amongst the Bishops of London, takes no notice of this, and as to Ythancestir, it hath been so long swallowed up in the river Pante, or (as it is now called) Frodsham, that there have not been any remains of it for many years; but it is supposed8′ to have been where St Peter’s on the Wall now is, or near it.h

BERKLEY.

Here, says Tanner, was an old religious House long before the Conquest, which might be the Family set Bepclea mentioned in the Acts of another synod at Clovesho, A. D. 824.1 But it is more doubtful whether it consisted of Monks, as Mr. Collier,k or Nuns ;x who were suppressed by the villany of Earl Godwin, temp. Edw. Con/., as related by Camden and others out of Walter Mapes.

BOXWELL.

Leland in his Itinerary, vol. vi. p. 74, says, “Here were Nunnes destroyed, as sum say, by the Danes; it longith now to the Abbey of Glocester.”

CHELTENHAM.

From Spelman’s Concilia, vol. i. p. 326, from Wilkins’s Concilia, vol. i. p. 168, and from Heming’s Chartulary ” de Redditu Ecclesiae Wigorn.,” p. 50, here appears to have been a Monastery, A. D. 803.

CIRENCESTER.

Leland says that “there was afore the Conquest a fair and rich College of Prebendaries in this Toune, but of what Saxon’s foundation no man can tell.” m Remedius, chancellor to S. Edward the King, is said to have been founder.11 King Henry the First on making his new foundation,0 took away all their old charters.”

* Cress/s Church History, lib. xviii. c. 14.

b Vide Bedae Hist. Eccl. lib. iii. c 21. Leland, Collect, torn. ii. p. 140.

e Lei. Itin. vol. vii. p. 64. See Tann. Notit. Monast Durh. ix. d Lei. Coll. torn. ii. p. 150. iii. p. 39.

• Beds Hist Eccl. L iii. c. 24. L iv. c. 23. Capgr. Vita S. Hilda:.
‘So Camden and Newcourt: but Wharton and Fuller place

Cedda’s being made bishop here as low as the years 653 and 656.
» See Lei. Collect torn. i. p. 367. ii. p. 140.
h Tann. Notit Monast. Essex, xli.

1 Spelm. Concil. torn. i. p. 335. Compare the present Work, vol. i. p. 590. App. Num. XX.

k Eccl. Hist vol. i. p. 152 j and this may be confirmed from Tilhere’s (who was made bishop of Worcester A. D. 744, as Dugdale, or A. D. 778, as Angl. Sacr. torn. i. p. 470.) being said, in the passages here referred to, to have been before abbat of Beorclea. And so likewise Etheldune, who was made bishop of Worcester A.D. 915, is said to

have been first abbat of Beorclea, Angl. Sacr. torn. i. p. 472; and there is farther mention of the abbat of Beorclea in the present work, vol. i. 609. The charter of Ethelred also expressly calls them monks, eming, p. 103. Tann.

1 Some memory of Nuns seems to have been preserved after the Conquest in this Charter of Adeleid or Adelicia, relict of King Henry L “Adelicia Dei gratia Symoni eadem gratia Wigorn. episc. &c. Sciatis me concessisse et dedisse Ecclesia? de Kadyng, &c. ecclesias de Berkelei hern. soil, ecclesiam de Berkelei cum pnebendis eidem ecclesia? pertinentibus et prsebendis duarum moniahum, et ecclesiam de Chamma,” &c. Cartular. MS. Worslean. fol. 6 a. And Leland says, the tradition in his time was that it had been a Nunnery, Itin. vol. vi. p. 72. But this church afterwards belonged to St Austin’s in Bristol. Tann. m Lei. Itin. vol. ii. 49. Itin. vol. v. p. 65. “Reyner, tract i. 159. 0 Lei. Collect torn. i. p. 185. » Tann. Notit. Monast. Glocest. vi.

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CLIVE, or WENDESCLIVE.

Here was a Monastery dedicated to St. Michael the Archangel in the time of King Offa, about A. D. 790. See the charter of that King granting Timbingeton to it, in the account of the Church of Worcester,” to which Clive appears to have become annexed before the year 888.b

MAGNUSFELDE, or MANGERSFELD.

Leland, in his Itinerary, vol. vi. p. 72, says, ” Here was once without fayle a Nunnery; part of the cloyster standith yet.” Tanner informs us that the Patent 35 Edw. III. p. 1, m. 7. mentions a Chapel here belonging to the Church of St. Peter near Bristol, but takes no notice of any religious belonging to it.c

MARSHFIELD.

Leland, Itin. vol. vi. p. 92, mentions the tradition of a Nunnery having once existed there.

TETTAN, TETTEBURI, or TETBURY.

A Monastery appears to have existed here. Amongst the donations to the Abbey at Malmesbury, A. D. 680, there is a gift of fifteen cassates of land “juxta Tettan Monasterium” or as it is in the confirmation both of the deed and gift, “juxta Tettebury.”d

WOODCHESTER.

Gueta, wife to Earl Godwin, is said to have built a Religious House here, to make amends for her husband’s fraud at Berkley.e

REDBRIDGE.

Here, says Tanner, as Mr. Camden thinks, was that ancient Monastery under the Abbat Cimberth, about the year 680, called by Bede Reodford, i. e. Arundinis Vadum.’

SAP ALAND A.

The Monachi de Sapalanda occur in several entries of the Liber Wintonia3, or Winton Domesday, printed by the Commissioners upon the Public Records in their Volume supplementary to the Great Domesday, p. 538, apparently with reference to the time of King Edward the Confessor.

FEVERLEGE HEREFORD. Leland, in his Itinerary, vol. v. p. 11, speaks ot

“Feverlege, sumtyme a Religious Howse of Freres, sup- The Domesday Survey, torn. i. fol. 181 b, mentions

pressed olim, and the lands given to Wygmore and Lyne- Moniales de Hereford. Neither Dugdale nor Tanner ap

broke. Mortimers earls of the Marches,” he adds, “were pears to have met with any thing relating to them, founders of Wygmore, Lynebrook, and Feverlege.”

CATHALE. CHILLE and CHILTRE.

Cathale has been already mentioned in a Note to the These Destroyed Monasteries are noticed by Bishop Account of Cheshunt Nunnery, vol. iv. p. 829, and seems Tanner. He mentions them as “Two Houses of Black to have been founded by the Mandevilles. Cattehale Nuns mentioned to have been in this county in the old Gate, probably the site of this Monastery, where are the Catalogue of Religious Houses ascribed to Gervase of Canremains of a Chapel, still exists as the boundary fence which terbury, MS. Corp. Christ. Coll. Cant, and also in Speed.” divides the parish of Enfield in Middlesex from that of “But,” he adds, ” I have yet found nothing further of them Northan, exactly answering to the terms of the deed in any other authors, printed or manuscript. Sir Henry Num. II. from Humphry de Bohun, printed in theAp- Chauncy, p. 371, mentions a manor called Cheles, belonging pendix to Cheshunt Nunnery. to the Hospitalers.” *

Unit.

CANTERBURY.

From a passage already given in the Appendix to the Account of St. Augustine’s Abbey at Canterbury, it appears

* See the present Work, vol. i. p. 589.

b Vide in Hemin^i libro de terr. et reddit Monasterii Wigor. p. 118. Cartam Werfnthi episc. Wigorn. de Almundington quondam ad Monast de Cliva pertinente, dat A. D. 888, p. 245, limites sive terminos terne de Clive, Saxonice. See Tann.

c Tann. Notit. Oloucesterth. xxiv.

d Compare Tanner, Qloucestersh. xxx. and the Appendix to the Account of Malmesbury in the present Work, vol. i. p. 258.

• Tann. from the Additions to Camden, col. 247. edit. 1695.

that in the early Saxon times, there was within the walls upon the south part of this City a Monastery built in honour of St. Mildred, whose last abbat’s name was Alfwic.h Both Somner and Battely are silent upon this Monastery.

‘Notit. Monast. Hampsh. xxvi. Bede’s words, li. iv. c 16, are, “Quod cum audisset abbas quidam et presbyter vocabulo Cyniberct, habens non longe ab inde Monasterium in loco qui vocatur Hreutford, id est Vadum harundinis,” &c. edit. Smith, p. 159. Leland, Collect torn. L p. 76, says, “Monasterium de Redbrige enascente Saxonica ecclesia fundatum, cujus abbas Cymberth baptizavit duos fratres puerulos Arvandi regis Vectis carnificis manum jamjam subituros.”

» Tann. Notit Monast Hertf. vii.

h See the present Work, vol. i. p. 128, Append. S. Aug. Num. IV.

EASTRY.

Cressy, out of Harpsfield, makes K. Egbert, who died A. D. 673, to have built here, for his sister Ermenburga, a Monastery dedicated to St. Ethelbert and St. Ethelbright, which seems to have been a mistake of the story of St. Ethelbert and St. Ethelred, brothers of Domneva here murdered, and for the expiation of which crime the Abbey of Minstre was founded.”

ELFLEET, or ELSLIT.

Speed, says Tanner, places here a Nunnery of Domneva’s foundation; which, if at all, seems rather to have been at Ebbsfleet, in the Isle of Thanet.b

HITHE.

Leland, speaking of this place in his Itinerary, says, “It evidently apereth that where the Paroch Chirch is now was sumtyme a fair Abbay. Yn the Quire be fayre and many Pylers of marble, and under the Quier a very fair Vaute, also a faire olde Dore of stone, by the which the Religius Folkes cam yn at mydnight. In the top of the Chirch Yard is a fayr Spring, and thereby Ruines of Howses of Office of the Abbey; and not far of was an Hospital of a Gentilman infected with Lepre.”c

NEWINGTON.

Stevens, in his Continuation of Dugdale, vol. i. p. 530, gives the following Account of this Monastery, from W. Thorn’s Chronicle, col. 1931.

“There was formerly a Monastery of Nuns at Newynton, who were possessed of all that manor; but by whom founded does not appear. It happened afterwards, that the prioress thereof was strangled by her cook at night, |in her bed, and afterwards dragged to the well, which is called Nunnepet; whereupon the king seized that manor into his own hands, and kept it in his own custody, removing the rest of the nuns to Shepey. Afterwards Henry, father to King John, before the martyrdom of St. Thomas the Martyr, by advice, placed there seven priests, in the nature of secular canons, and gave them the said manor entire, and 28 weight of cheese from the manor of Middleton. Afterwards one of them was killed among them, of which murder four were found guilty; and the other two, not guilty, with the king’s licence, gave their portion to the abbey of St. Augustin, and the other five parts remained in the king’s hands, till he gave the same to the Lord Richard de Lucy, his justice, whereupon the abbat of St. Augustin’s held the said two parts. Another manuscript says, that those seven prebendaries committed that crime in the reign of King William the Conqueror, by which means all that they possessed was forfeited into the king’s hands; the which King William gave the two so often mentioned parts to the abbat of St. Augustin’s. Which of these two Accounts is the truest, is left to the reader to judge; but we will here add a third, from Mr. Hearne’s Fragmenta Sprottiana/ as follows:

“A short History of Nevn/nton.

“Memorandum, That there were once nuns at the manor of Newynton, who held that whole manoi, viz. that which the abbat of St. Augustin’s at Canterbury now holds, and that which the heirs of W. de Ripariis hold, besides what Richard Lucy purchased, Brunell Middleton, and then that manor was maintained for one swyllyngate of land to

the king at Middleton. A certain king that then was gave to the same nuns 10 pounds of his revenue at West-Newynton, in alms, at two terms, viz. at the feast of St Michael, and at the feast of St. Martin. And he assigned to the same nuns on the same 10 pounds his revenue, as far as they were to pay at the aforesaid two terms out of the said manor. And they paid at the term of St. Thomas the Apostle five shillings, and at the term of Palm-Sunday five shillings, like other swylling lands in the country. And afterwards it happened that the prioress of the same monastery was strangled by her cat in her bed at night, and afterwards dragged to a well, which is called Nunnepette. And afterwards the king took that manor into his hands, and held it in his custody. And he removed those nuns as far as Shepey. And King Henry the father of King John, before the martyrdom of St Thomas the Martyr, by the advice of the same, placed there seven priests in the nature of secular canons, and gave them the said whole manor, and besides he gave them for to mend their diet 28 weight of cheese of his manor of Middleton. And soon after one of their number was killed among them, and four were found guilty of the death of the fifth their brother. And two of the seven, who were not found guilty, with the king’s licence, gave their portion to the abbat of St. Augustin’s at Canterbury, and the other five parts remained in the king’s hands, until he gave those parts to Richard Lucy, at that time his justice. Afterwards it happened that the same Richard Lucy had a son called Godfrey Lucy bishop of Winchester, his heir, and after the death of that bishop, Godfrey Lucy, that manor devolved to Roysia Dovore, sister to that Godfrey, Anne sister of the aforesaid Roisia, and Maud Lucy the daughter of the said Roisia; and so that manor is divided. Thence the abbat of St. Augustin’s holds as well in lands as in revenues of the aforesaid seven parts two parts in all particulars, and the other five parts are divided into two parts. Whereof GefFry Lucy held one part, viz. that which belonged to Roisia, and Henry de Ripariis held the, other part of the gift of Maud Lucy his mother, and according to the aforesaid manor they pay their revenue to the court of Middleton at the feast of St. Thomas the Apostle, that is, Geflxy Lucy 22^d., and Henry de Ripariis 22£d., and the abbat oi St Augustin 15d., and the like at Easter.

“This monastery is not taken notice of in the Monasticon, or by Willis in his History of Abbies, as having ceased to be so long before the general suppression; notwithstanding the which, it deserves to be mentioned, as well as cities which are entirely lost, and their very situation not known. This must suffice concerning it, having no where met with any more concerning the same. Only I must here observe, that the two accounts from Thorn and Sprot exactly agree, excepting only in one point, about the strangling of the prioress, of which the former says it was done by her cook, and the latter by her cat, which we must leave as we find it.”

Tanner says, some writings assign the misfortune above mentioned among the Prebendaries to have happened temp. Will. Conq. And in Thorn’s Chronicle, col. 1788, it is positively asserted that the Conqueror gave the abbey of St. Augustine’s eight prebends in Newington. Compare also Hasted’s History of Kent, vol. ii. p. 550.

Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Volume 2 (Google Books)

THE LAST OF THE GERALDINES.

In the early part of my life the system of domestic government and family organisation was totally different from that at present in vogue. The patriarchal authority was then frequently exercised with a rigour which, in days of degenerate relaxation, has been converted into a fruitful subject for even dramatic ridicule. In Ireland the “rule of the patriarchs” has become nearly extinguished. New lights have shone Upon the rising generation; the “rights of women” have become a statute law of society; and the old wholesome Word obedience, by which all wives and children were formerly influenced, has been reversed, by prefacing it with the monosyllable dis.

“Everybody is acquainted,” said an intimate friend of mine to his wife in my presence, “with the ruinous state of obstinacy and contradiction raging in modern times among the subordinate members of families throughout the United Kingdom; as if the word united were applied to the empire only to satirise the disunited habits, manners, politics, religion, and morality of its population. There are,” continued he, “certain functions that must be exercised every day (two or three times a-day if possible) by persons of all descriptions, who do not wish to leave this world within a week at the very latest; but, unless on the absolute necessity of mastication for purposes of self-support, I am not aware of any other subject respecting which unanimity of opinion is even affected among the individuals of any family throughout the country.”

The wife nodded assent, but spake not; first, because she hated all controversy; and second, because though, on the subject of domestic supremacy, she was always sure of getting the worst of the argument, she contented herself with having, beyond doubt, the best of the practice.*

My friend’s observations were, I think, just. In my time the change has been excessive; and to enable my readers to form a better judgment of the matter, I will lay before them a few authentic anecdotes of rather antique dates.

In voL L I mentioned the illustrious exploits of my greataunt, Elizabeth Fitzgerald, of Moret Castle, and the heroic firmness wherewith she bore the afflicting view of my great-uncle Stephen, her husband, “dancing upon nothing” (as the Irish phrase it) at the castle-gate, immediately under the battlements; and though it is possible there may exist some modern ladies who might have sufficient self-possession to look on a similar object without evincing those signs of inconsolability natural to be expected on such an occasion, yet I will venture to say few are to be found who, like my aunt Elizabeth, would risk their lives and property rather than accept of a second husband. Nor do I believe that, since the patriarchal government has been revolutionised by the unnatural rebellion of wives and children, there has existed one lady—young, old, or middle-aged—in the three kingdoms, who could be persuaded to imitate the virtuous Gentoos, and voluntarily undergo conflagration with her departed lord and master.

My great-uncle had a son borne unto him by his magnanimous spouse, who was very young and in the castle at the time his father was corded {Hibemice). Elizabeth led him to the castletop, and showing him his dangling parent, cried, “See there!

* Mrs. Mary Morton of Ballyroan, a Very worthy domestic woman, told me many years since that she had but one way of ruling her husband, which, as it is rather a novel way, and may be of some use to my fair readers, I will mention in her own words.

“You know,” said Mrs. Morton, “that Tom is most horribly nice in his eating, and fancies that both abundant and good food is essential to his health. Now, when he has been out of temper with me, he is sure of having a very bad dinner; if he grumbles, 1 tell him that whenever he puts me into a twitter by his tantrums, I always forget to give the cook proper directions. This is sure,” added she, “of keeping him in good humour for a week at least!”

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you were born a Geraldine; the blood of that noble race is in you, my boy! See—see the sufferings of your own father! Never did a true Geraldine forgive an enemy! I perceive your little face gets flushed; you tremble; ay, ay, ’tis for revenge! Shall a Cahill live?”

“No, mother, no! when I’m able, I’ll kill them all! I’ll kill all the Cahills myself!” cried the lad, worked on by the fury of his respectable mother.

“That’s my dear boy!” said Elizabeth, kissing him fervently. “Shall one live?”

“No, mother, not one,” replied the youngster.

“Man, woman, or child?” pursued the heroine.

“Neither man, woman, nor child,” echoed her precocious son.

“You are a Geraldine,” repeated Elizabeth. “Call the priest,” added she, turning to a warder.

“He made a little too free, my lady mistress,” said the warder, “and is not very fitting for duty, saving your presence; but he’ll soon sleep it off.”

“Bring him up, nevertheless,” cried Elizabeth; “I command you to bring up his reverence.”

The priest was accordingly produced by Keeran Karry. “Father,” said the lady, “where’s your manual?”

“Where should it be,” answered the priest (rather sobered), “but where it always is, lady?” pulling, as he spake, a book out of a pocket in the waistband of his breeches, where (diminished and under the name of a. fob) more modern clergymen carry their watches.

“Now, your reverence,” said Elizabeth, “we’ll swear the young squire to revenge my poor Stephen, his father, on the Cahills, root and branch, as soon as he comes to manhood. Swear him!—swear him thrice!” exclaimed she.

The boy was duly sworn, and the manual reposited in the priest’s smallclothes.

“Now, take the boy down and duck him, head over heels, in the horse-pond!” cried his mother.

Young Fitzgerald roared lustily, but was nevertheless well soused, to make him remember his oath the better. This oath he repeated upon the same spot, while his mother lived, on every anniversary of his father’s murder; and it was said by the old tenants that “young Stephen,” though flourishing in more civilised times, religiously kept the vow as far as he could; and that, so soon as he came into possession of Moret, four of the ablest of the Cahills (by way of a beginning) were missed from the neighbourhood of Timahoe in one night, nobody ever discovering what had become of them,—indeed, the fewest words were considered far the safest.

The skeletons of four lusty fellows, however, were afterwards found in clearing out a pit in the Donane Colliery, and many persons said they had belonged to the four Cahills from Timahoe; but, as the colliers very sapiently observed, there being no particular marks whereby to distinguish the bones of a Cahill from those of any other “boy,” no one could properly identify them.

A bystander, who had been inspecting the relics, protested, on hearing this remark made, that he could swear to one of the skulls at least (which appeared to have been fractured and trepanned); and he gave a very good reason for this assertion— namely, that it was himself who had “cracked the skull of Ned Cahill at the fair of Dysart, with a walloper, and he knew the said skull ever after. It was between jest and earnest,” continued Jemmy Corcoran, “that I broke his head—all about a game-cock, and be d—d to it! and by the same token, I stood by in great grief at Maryborough, while Doctor Stapleton was twisting a round piece out of Ned Cahill’s skull, and laying a two-and-eight-penny-halfpenny* (beaten quite thin on the smith’s forge) over the hole, to cover his brains anyway. The devil a brain in his sconce but I could see plainly; and the said twoand-eight-penny-halfpenny stayed fast under his wig for many a year, till Ned pulled it off (bad luck to it!) to pay for drink

* An Irish silver half-crown piece, the difference of English and Irish currency.

VOL. n. 2 E

with myself at Timahoe. They said he was ever after a little cracked when in his liquor; and I’m right sorry for having art or part in that same fracture, for Ned was a good hoy, so he was, and nobody would strike him a stroke on the head at any rate after the two-and-cight-penny-halj”penny was pledged off his skull.”

Though Mr. Jemmy Corcoran was so confident as to the skull he had fractured, his testimony was not sufficient legally to identify a Cahill, and the four sets of bones heing quietly buried at Clapook, plenty of masses, etc., were said for an entire year by Father Cahill of Stradbally to get their souls clean out of purgatory; that is, if they were in it, which there was not a clergy in the place would lake on to say he was “sartain

en *

sure ot.

This Stephen Fitzgerald—who had killed the Cahills, sure enough, as became the time son and heir of the aforesaid Stephen, who was hanged—lived, as report went, plentifully and regularly at Moret. No better geutleman existed, the old people said, in the quiet way, after once he had put the four CahilLs into the coal-pit, as he promised his worthy mother Elizabeth, “the likes of whom Moret never saw before nor since, nor ever will while time is time, and longer too!”

Stephen had one son only, who is the principal subject of my present observations; and as he and his family (two lovely boys and two splendid girls) were not exactly the same sort of people commonly seen now-a-days, it may not be uninteresting to give my readers a picture of them.

* I recollect (at an interval of more than fifty years) Father Doran of Culrnaghbog, an excellent man, full of humour ami well informed, putting the tovl in the most comprehensible state of personification possible. He said the icvMi could not understand what the soul was by the old explanations.

“I tell you all, my flock,” said Father Doran, “there’s not a man, woman, or child among you that has not his soul this present minute shut up in lii^ body, waiting for the last judgment, according to his faith and actions. 1 tell you fairly, that if flesh could be seen through, like a glass window, you might see every one’s soul at the inside of his body peeping out through the rihs liki,’ the prisoners at the jail of Maryborough through their iron bars; anJ the moment the breath is out of a man or woman, the soul escapes and makes of I” be dealt with as it deserves, and that’s the truth: so say your beads and renumber your clergy ! “—(Aulltor’s note.)

Stephen, the son of Elizabeth, had been persuaded by Mr. John Lodge, an attorney of Bull Alley, in the city of Dublin (who married a maid-servant of my grandfather’s at Cullenagh), that the two-mile race-course of the Great Heath in Queen’s County, which King George pretended was ids property because it had been formerly taken from a papist Geraldine, now reverted to my great-uncle’s family, in consequence of their being Protestants; and Mr. Lodge added, that if Squire Stephen would make his son a counsellor, no doubt he would more aptly trace pedigrees, rights, titles, and attainders, and, in fine, get possession of several miles of the Great Heath, or of the race-course at any rate.

The advice was adopted, and Stephen the son was sent to the Temple in London to study law; and while there, was poisoned at a cook’s shop by the cook’s daughter because he would not marry her. This poisoning (though it was not fatal), he always said, stopped his growth like witchcraft.

The father died in his bed; and my uncle, Stephen the counsellor, became a double relative from marrying Catherine Byrne, daughter of Sir John Byrne, Bart., of Timahoe Castle, and sister to my grandmother, heretofore mentioned. After he had studied Bracton, Fleta, Littleton, the Year Books, the three Cokes, and in short the marrow of the English law, he used to say that he got on very well with the first book, not so well with the second, worse with the third; and at length found that the more he read, the more he was puzzled, knowing less when he left off than when he began—as all the law-books contradicted each other like the lawyers themselves: thus, after two years’ hard work, he gave up all further attempts to expound what he swore ‘fore God was utterly inexplicable. He also relinquished his father’s squabble with King George as to the race-course on the Great Heath; and, concentrating his search after knowledge upon one learned book, the Justice of Quorum’s PocIect Companion, commenced magistrate. He was likewise a horse-racer, country gourmand, tippler, and farmer. His wife, my aunt, was as .ordinary a gentlewoman “as may be seen of a summer’s day;” but then, she was worthy in proportion.

As to my uncle’s figure, nothing resembling it having ever been seen, at least by me, I cannot pretend to give any idea of it, save by an especial description. He was short (which he said was the effect of the poison), and as broad as long—appearing to grow the wrong way. He observed, touching this subject, that where there are materials for growth, if anything does not advance in height, it spreads out like a fir-tree* when the top shoot is broken off and it fills wide at the bottom. He was not actually fat, nor particularly bony: I think his bulk consisted of solid, substantial flesh. His face was neither extravagantly ugly, nor disproportioned to his body; but a double, or rather treble chin descended in layers very nearly to the pit of his stomach, whence his paunch abruptly stretched out, as if placed by Nature as a shelf for the chin to rest upon. His limbs each gained jn thickness what it wanted in length; so that it would seem impossible for him to be thrown down, or if he were, he would roll about like a ball His hands (as if Nature exhibited the contrast for amusement’s sake) were thin, white, and ladylike—so much so, indeed, that did he fall, they could not help him up again. “Each particular hair” was almost of the thickness of a goose-quill; his locks were queued behind, and combed about once or twice a-month. His nostrils were always crammed with snuff (now and then discharged, as from a mortar, by sneezing), and his chins were so well dusted and caked with that material, that the whole visage at times appeared as if it were a magazine thereof.

My uncle’s dress exactly matched his style of person: he

always wore a s/iw^coloured coat and breeches, with a scarlet waistcoat that had been once bound with lace (the strings whereof remained, like ruins in a landscape); blue worsted stockings, and immense silver shoe and knee buckles. His hat was very large, with a blunt cock in front. It had also once been fully laced; but no button had been seen on it since the year succeeding his nuptials.

* This idea was a standing joke with him for some time, till old Kit Julian, the retired exciseman (heretofore mentioned), made a hit at my uncle, which put his comparison to an end. “By my troth, then, Counsellor,” said Kit, “if you arc like a fir, it is not a ‘spruce fir’ anyhow.” This sarcasm cut my uncle in the raw; and it was said that he had an additional shaving-day and clean crmt every week afterward.— (Author’s note.)

The fruits of my uncle’s marriage were, as I have said, two boys and two girls. The eldest of these Geraldines, Tom, took to what ignorant doctors call poison—but country gentlemen, potation. My uncle declared he knew from his own experience that a “little learning was a dangerous thing;” and therefore thought it better that Tom should have none at all! Tom therefore studied nothing but “Cardan’s receipt for drinking!” The art of writing his own name came pretty readily; but his penmanship went no further. At twenty-six he quarrelled with a vicious horse, which was easily offended. The animal, on his master’s striking him with a whip, returned the blow with his hoof; and on Tom being taken to his chamber and examined, it was found that he had left the greater part of his brains in the stable.

Jack, his brother, was now heir-apparent. His figure was nearly as grotesque, but only half the size of his father’s; his eyes were of the most cautious description, one closely watching his nose, the other glancing quite outward, to see that no enemy approached. He loved liquor as well as Tom, but could not get down so much of it. Nevertheless, after a pretty long life, he was concluded by rather extravagant and too frequent doses of port and potteen.

I have already given some account of the castle of Moret as it formerly appeared. When I last saw it, some dozen of years back, it presented nothing remarkable save its ivy covering. The dwelling-house, which, as it stood in my uncle’s time, would have been worth detailing (had not every country gentleman’s mansion been of a similar genus), had declined into an ordinary residence. In Squire Stephen’s day it was low, long, dilapidated, dirty, old, and ugly—and had defied paint, plaster, and whitewash, for at least the better half of a century. The ham, court, dunghill, pigeon-house, horse-pond, piggery, and slaughter-house, formed, as usual, the chief prospects from the parlour-windows; and on hot days the effluvia were so exquisite, that one might clearly distinguish each several perfume.

My uncle never could contrive to stick on horseback, and therefore considered riding as a dangerous exercise for any gentleman. He used to say it was indeed one of his standing jokes, that jockeys and vulgar persons, being themselves leasts, might stick by virtue of mutual attraction upon their own species; but that ladies and gentlemen were, as a matter of course, always subject to tumble off. He bred and kept, notwithstanding, four or five race-horses, which he got regularly trained; and at every running upon the heath or curragh he entered such of them as were qualified by weight, etc.; yet, singularly enough, though the animals were well bred and well trained, not one, during the whole of the five-and-twenty years that he kept them, ever won a plate, prize, or race of any description; for .ill that he would never sell either for any price; and when they got too old to run any more, they were turned out to end their days unmolested in a marsh and the straw-yard. It was said by those competent to judge that some of these animals were excellent, but that Squire Fitzgerald’s old groom used to give trials, and to physic the horses, and that (through his people) they were bought off when there was a probability of their winning. However, my uncle, so that none of them were distanced, was just as well pleased, exhibiting not the least uneasiness at their failure. Indeed, he never attended any of the races personally, or betted a shilling upon the event of one—circumstances which remind me of a certain judge, who was always sufficiently gratified by a simple conviction and by passing sentence on a culprit, eventually saving more lives by pardon than any two of his colleagues.

I was very young when taken to my uncle’s for a stay of some months by my grandmother, but at an age when strong impressions are sometimes made upon the memory. I was a gTe.it

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Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Volume 2
By Sir Jonah Barrington

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favourite, and indulged in everything, even by my uncle; and very frequently afterward, while my aunt lived at Moret in her widowhood, I visited there, every visit reminding me of former times, and recalling persons and things that might otherwise have been lost to my juvenile recollection. This hitter was the period when, having nobody of my own age in the house to chatter to, I took delight in hearing the old people about Moret tell their long traditionary stories, which, as I observed in my first sketch (voL i.) descended from generation to generation with hereditary exactness; and, to the present day, I retain a fondness for hearing old occurrences detailed.

My eldest female cousin, Miss Dolly Fitzgerald, was at least twelve years older than I when I was first taken to Moret by my grandmother; the second, Miss Fanny, ten. Never, sure, did two sisters present such a contrast. Dolly was as like her father as rather more height and an uncommonly fair skin would permit; her tongue was too large for the mouth, and consequently thickened her pronunciation; her hair was yellow; her feet were like brackets, and her hands resembled milkwhite shoulders of mutton. Her features were good, but her nostrils and upper lip displayed considerable love of the favourite comforter of her father. She was very good natured, but ignorance personified.

Her sister was as thin as the handle of a sweeping-brash, and had dark eyes twinkling like stars on a vapoury evening, with yellow skin, black hair, a mouth literally stretching across the face (like a foss to protect her chin), very red lips, and much more vivacity than comprehension. There were few sound teeth in the whole family, and none that a dentist would think worth the expense of dressing.

For these two amiable young ladies it was the principal object of my aunt to procure husbands, if possible, in the neighbourhood . But the squires were shy of matching into the family of so great an oddity as my uncle. They preferred getting wives among people who went on the jog-trot of the world like themselves.

On this point my uncle and aunt entirely differed; and during the discussions as to their differences, time ran on, nothing was done for the ladies, and Miss Dolly was in her sixand-twentieth year before she was fully emancipated from the discipline of the nursery and suffered to dine at papa’s table. When that important period arrived, it was considered as a great epoch at Moret Castle; all the neighbours were invited, and Dolly’s majority was formally announced. She was then given to understand she might thereafter dine at the great table, speak to any gentleman she pleased, and, in short, have full liberty to act entirely as she thought proper, provided she always previously consulted her father’s will, and obeyed it without “questions asked.” She was likewise enjoined to take especial care not to forget her pastry*

On these free and happy terms, Dolly was to have the chariot for a day, and to set the world on fire. The old carriage was accordingly cleared for action from the dust accumulated upon it, the horses’ tails were trimmed, and the young lady was to go to the church of Portarlington the ensuing Sunday— “where,” said my uncle to his spouse, “‘fore Gad, Kate, our Dolly will catch some young fellow after the service is over, either in the aisle or the churchyard. She’ll have some proposals; but, ‘fore Gad, it’s not everybody I’d give her to.”

“Don’t be too sure, Stephen,” rejoined my aunt. “You keep your daughters as if they were haunches of vension. It’s not everybody who has a taste for meat that has been hung a fortnight in the larder to give it a flavour. The men, I tell you, like fresh and fresh, Stephen; and be assured you have kept Dolly too long to suit every man’s palate. I have always been telling you so, but you are perpetually saying you’ll be the head of your own family; so now you’ll see the end of it1”

* The Irish Indies in the country at that period were always taught the art of pie and dumpling making, as a necessary accomplishment; and a husband who bleed a good table always preferred a housekeeper to a gadder. Tanpom mulantur !—(Author’s note.)

The ladies seem to have vexed our author. There are no gadders now; the work of life keeps their noses to the grinding-stone.

“Why, Kate, you were a good while in the larder yourself at Timahoe before you got a husband,” replied my uncle.

“I may thank the smallpox for that, Stephen,” retorted my aunt: “only for that enemy I should never have been mistress of Moret Castle, Counsellor Stephen being governor of it!”

“Well, you’ll see that I am right,” said my uncle. “I tell you, men who look out for wives like a seasoned, obedient woman at the head of their families, and not your tittering, giddy young creatures that have not had time to settle their brains or mature their understandings. No girl should be away from the eye of her natural guardian till she arrives at the full extent of her twenty-sixth year, like Dolly. “You’ll see now she’ll do some mischief at the church or churchyard of Portarlington!”

“Stephen,” said my aunt (who, by-the-by, had her nose nearly stopped by the smallpox, which made her somewhat snuffle, and gave a peculiar emphasis to her vowels) ’tis too late! Dolly knows nothing of the world. It would take a full year at the church and balls at Portarlington, the races of the Great Heath and green of Maryborough, the hurlings at the fort of Dunnally, and a month or two on a visit to our nephew, Jack Barrington, at Blandsfort, before she would learn enough to be able to converse with mankind on any subject—except darning your stockings, or turning off a kitchen-maid.”

My uncle started as much as his form would admit; cocked his eyebrows, and stared with all his might. “Tore Gad, Kate, I believe you are out of your wits! Did you say Jack Barrington’s of Blandsfort? Jack Barrington’s! Why, you know very well, Kate, as everybody knows, that there’s nothing going on at that house but hunting and feasting; dancing all night, and rattling about all day like mad people; and coshering with raking pots of tea, hot cakes, syllabubs, pipers, and the devil knows what! No, no. If Dolly were to get one month among her cousins at Blandsfort, I should never see a day’s comfort after; topsy-turvy would go Moret! I’d never be master of my own house half-an-hour after Dolly had received a course of instruction at Jack Barrington’s. I don’t wish her to know too much of the world. No, no. Tore Gad, Kate, Dolly never puts her foot, while she is a spinster, into Jack Barrington’s house at Blandsfort.”

Folks generally become mulish as their years advance, and my uncle enjoyed that quality in its greatest perfection. The Misses Dolly and Fanny Fitzgerald were commanded, under the pain of displeasure, by their patriarchal father, Stephen, to abjure and give up all thoughts of the festivities of Blandsfort.

“‘Fore Gad, Kate!” said my uncle to their more conceding mother—” ‘Fore Gad, Kate, you had better send the girls a visiting to the antipodes than be turning them upside down at Blandsfort. No rational man would have anything to do with them afterwards. There it is only pull-haul and tear, and the devil take the hindmost!—eh?”

“And for Heaven’s sake, Stephen,” replied my aunt (who was no cosmographer), “what family are these antipodes whom you would send our daughters to visit in preference to their nearest relations ?—I never heard of them: they must be upstarts, Stephen. I thought I knew every family in the county.”

“‘Fore Gad, Kate!” rejoined my uncle, laughing heartily, “your father, old Sir John, ought to be tied to the cart’s tail for so neglecting your education. Why, Kate, the antipodes are at this moment standing on their heads immediately under you— upside down, just as you see a fly on the ceiling, without the danger of falling down from it.”

“And for Heaven’s sake, Stephen,” said my puzzled aunt, “how do the ladies keep down their petticoats in that position?”

“Ask Sir Isaac Newton that,” said my uncle, who was not prepared for that interrogation. “But let me hear no more of the topsy-turvy of their cousins at Blandsfort. I’ll send my daughters to church at Portarlington, Kate, where they cannot fail of being seen and much noticed.”

“And that may not be much in their favour at present, Stephen,” replied my aunt, who was not blind to her progeny— “at least until they are a little better rigged out than in their present nursery dresses, Stephen.”

“Rig away, rig away, Kate!” said my uncle, “rig away; you may make them as tawdry as jackdaws, so as you don’t turn their heads at Jack Barrington’s.”

In fine, they were made sufficiently glaring, and, accompanied by aunt in the resuscitated postchaise, made their first debut at the church of Portarlington. Of course they attracted universal notice. The ladies congratulated my aunt on her showy girls; the parson on their coming of age; and the innkeeper declared they were the most genteelest of all the new subscribers to his ball and supper at the market-house.

The ladies returned to Moret highly delighted with their cordial reception in the churchyard, and Mrs. Gregory, the head mantua-maker of the county, was immediately set to work to fit out the ladies in the newest taste of Dublin fashions, preparatory to the next ball.

Now, Portarlington had been a very small village in the Queen’s County until the French Protestant emigrants, on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, made a settlement there (it was said from the enormous quantity of fine frogs generated in that neighbourhood), and there they commenced schoolmasters and mistresses, with a good reputation, which they ceased not to keep up, until in time it became an established seminary. Here the numerous schools and academies were always ready to pour out their hobbledehoys and misses in their teens to the dances and assemblies; but very few mature gentlemen assisted at these coteries, and it was the customary prayer of all the young ladies going to those balls—” If I cannot get a man for a partner, 0 Heaven, in thy mercy, send me a big boy!”

Suffice it to say that my cousins, at the first ball, outglared all the females in the room put together; my aunt’s old rings and hereditary paraphernalia had been brought fully into requisition. But, unfortunately, Providence sent them that night neither a grown man-partner nor a big boy in the shape of a man-partner, and, after having sat as full-blown wall-flowers

the whole night, they returned to Moret highly discouraged that their rose-colour satin and family Dresdens, which cut all the other girls out of feather, had no better result than the going home again—my philosophical aunt telling them all the way home, “that balls were no places to catch husbands at, there was so much variety; and I assure you, Dolly,” said my aunt, “men, now-a-days, look more at a girl’s purse than her flounces, and you’ll have nothing very showy in that way whilst your father and mother are alive, Dolly.”

My poor cousin Dolly’s feet also, after three balls more (dead failures), got so crimped and cramped by tight shoes, to restrain her fat brackets within reasonable boundaries, that corns, bunions, callosities, etc., showed a plentiful harvest the ensuing summer, and, conspiring with her winter chilblains, and tortures to match, put my poor cousin’s jigging out of the question for the remainder of her existence.

My cousin Fanny, whose feet were only bone and gristle, made numerous exhibitions both in the minuet and rigadoon, and for the same purpose. But no wooers for the Miss Fitzgeralds of Moret Castle made their advances; not a sigh was exploded for either of the demoiselles, though the church, the balls, the races at the Great Heath, and hurlings at the fort of Dunnally, were all assiduously attended for the laudable purpose aforesaid. All in vain. And after a two years’ vigorous chase the game was entirely given over, and my cousins slunk back into cover, where, in all human probability, they would have remained during their hives, had not heaven sent down a putrid fever to bring my uncle Stephen up to it, as all the old ladies asserted, to please the widow, although old Julian, the exciseman, ungratefully remarked, that “there must have been a great number of vacancies in Heaven when they called up the counsellor there.” However, before her weeds got rusty, my aunt, shaking a loose leg, after having been forty years handcuffed and linked to Counsellor Stephen, set out with the entire family for the great city of Dublin, where, no doubt, the merits if not the beauty of my cousins, with a more proximate reversion, would be duly appreciated.

However, neither their merit nor beauty, nor the reversion, could exorcise the spirit of celibacy, which still pursued them from Moret. Jack, their brother, married a mantua-maker; and my poor uncle, not being a Mahomedan, and, of course, not having any houri in the clouds to solace his leisure hours, and finding himself lonesome without his old Kate, Providence again showed its kindness towards him, and sent down a pulmonary consumption to Dublin to carry my aunt up to her well-beloved Stephen. My unfortunate cousins were now left orphans, of only forty and forty-one years of age, to buffet with the cares of the world, and accept the brevet-rank of old maidens, which they certainly did with as much good-humour and as little chagrin as are generally exhibited on those occasions. Their incomes were ample for all their purposes, and they got on to the end of their career very comfortably. Dolly chose three lap-dogs and a parrot for her favourites, and Fanny adopted a squirrel and four tom-cats to chase away her ennui But those animals having a natural antipathy to each other, got into an eternal state of altercation and hostility, the parrot eternally screeching to make peace between them. So a maidservant, who understood the humour of poodles, cats, etc. etc., was hired to superintend and keep them in peace and proper order.

This maid of natural history got great ascendency; and, as she was what is termed in Ireland a swaddler, in England a canter or psalm-singer, she soon convinced my cousins that there was no certain road to salvation, save through the preachers and love-feasts of those societies. Of course a plate was laid ready for some lank pulpiteer at dinner, every day, and my cousins became thorough-paced swaddlers (singing excepted). But, as years would still roll on, and they could not be always swaddling, and saving their souls, some extra comfort was, as customary, found necessary for their languid hours. The maid of natural history therefore suggested that, as solid food and weak Bordeaux were not of the best efficacy for feeble appetites, which her mistresses were beginning to show symptoms of, a glass of cordial, now and then, in the morning, might restore the tone of their stomachs. Of consequence, a couple of liqueurbottles were prepared, and always properly replenished; the ladies found their liquid appetites daily increase: the preacher got the whole bottle of wine to himself; Lundyfoot’s most pungent was well crammed into my cousin’s nostrils, as an interlude, till snuffling was effected; and the matter went on as cheerily as possible between the dogs and cats, the preacher, snuff, and the cordial comforts, till an ill-natured dropsy, with tappings to match, sent my cousin Dolly to my uncle Stephen; and some other disorder having transmitted cousin Fanny the same journey to her mother, I anticipated very great satisfaction in opening the last will and testament of the survivor; whereupon, all things being regularly prepared, with an audible voice I read the first legacy, bequeathing ” her body to the dust, and her soul to God,” in most pious and pathetic expressions, and of considerable longitude. The second legacy ran: “Item—to my dear cousin, Jonah Barrington, I bequeath my mother’s wedding-ring and my father’s gold sleeve-buttons, as family keepsakes; also all my father’s books and papers of every description, except bonds, or any securities for money, or contracts ;” and so far looked favourable, till, casting my eye over the third legacy, to the wonder of the company I stopped short, and handing it cautiously to the swaddling preacher (who was present), begged he would be so kind as to read it himself. This office he coyly accepted, and performed it in a drawling whine, and with heavy sighs, that made everybody laugh, except myself. In fine, cousin Fanny, after her ” soul to God, and her body to the dust” (the latter of which legacies she could not possibly avoid), as to all her worldly substance, etc., bequeathed it ” to such charitaUc purposes as her maid Mary might think proper, by and with the spiritual advice and assistance of that holy man, Mr. Clarke. This pious philosopher never changed a muscle at his good fortune. The will, indeed, could be no surprise either to him or Mrs. Mary. With the aid of the orator’s brother, who was an attorney (and got snacks), they had prepared it according to their

own satisfaction; and cousin Fanny executed it one evening, after her cordial and prayers had their full operation ; and, in a few days more, her disorder put a conclusive termination to any possibility of revoking it.

This affair had its sequel exactly as any rational person might have anticipated. The preacher and Mrs. Mary, after a decent mourning, united their spiritual and temporal concerns, and became flesh of the flesh and bone of the bone; in which happy state of husband and wife (which happy state they had been in many months before the ceremony was thought necessary) they remained nearly two years, when his reverence, happening to light on a younger and handsomer swaddler and legatee, after beating Mrs. Mary almost to a jelly, embarked with his new proselyte for America, where, changing his name, curling his hair, colouring his eyebrows, etc. etc., he turned Quaker, and is at this moment, I have learned, in good repute at meeting, and solvency as a trader, in the city of Philadelphia.

The entire of my uncle Stephen’s library and manuscripts, with the exception of the year-books, Newcastle on the Manege, seven farriery and several cookery books, I gave to my friend, old Lundyfoot, to envelop his powder in; and most of my books being well impregnated, or rather populously inhabited, by divers minute and nearly impalpable maggots, probably added some poignancy to the sneezing qualities of his celebrated preparation.

I recollect a whimsical expression used by Davy Lander, an Irish counsellor, whom I brought with me to hear the will read. “By my soul, Barrington,” said Lander, “she was right enough in bequeathing her soul to God, out of hand, or the devil would certainly have taken it as heir-at-law! But I hope he has the reversion.”

That branch of the Geraldines is now entirely extinct, having ended with my cousin Fanny, the swaddler; and nothing now remains but the old castle, its celebrated ivy tree, St. Bridget’s stone, and my legends, to preserve even the recollection of Morct.

HANGING AN ATTORNEY BY ACCIDENT.

A Hanging-match of a very curious nature occurred a few days after the breaking out of the same rebellion in Dublin, and its relation will form an excellent companion to that of Lieutenant H ‘s mode of execution.

The attorney’s corps of yeomanry, horse and foot, were at that period little less than 800 or 900 strong; and I really believe it might, in an enemy’s country (or even in a remote district of its own), have passed for as fine a “pulk of Cossacks” as ever came from the banks of the Don or the Danube.

In Ireland, everything has its alias denomination; in the regular army, certain regiments are honoured by the titles of the “King’s own,” the “Queen’s own,” or the “Prince’s own,” etc. Many of the Irish yeomanry corps, in 1798, were indulged with similar distinctions; not indeed by the King himself, but by his majesty’s sovereign mob of Dublin. For example, the attorney’s regiment was christened, collectively, the “Devil’s own;” the infantry part of it, the Rifle Brigade; and the cavalry, the Chargers; the custom-house corps, Ccesar’s {scizer’s) army, etc etc. etc. The pre-eminent titles thus given to the attorneys, who are gentlemen by act of parliament, were devised by one Mr. Murry, a cheese and oilman in Great George Street, whose premises (as he deponed) were stormed one night by a patrol of that legal corps, and divers articles of the first quality—food and luxury, cheeses, hams, tongues, anchovies, Burton ale, and bottled porter, etc., were abstracted against his will therefrom, and feloniously conveyed into, and concealed in, the bodies, bowels, and intestines, of divers ravenous and thirsty attorneys, solicitors, and scriveners; and thereby conveyed beyond the reach or jurisdiction of any search-warrants, replevins, or other

favourite, and indulged in everything, even by my uncle; and very frequently afterward, while my aunt lived at Moret in her widowhood, I visited there, every visit reminding me of former times, and recalling persons and things that might otherwise have been lost to my juvenile recollection. This hitter was the period when, having nobody of my own age in the house to chatter to, I took delight in hearing the old people about Moret tell their long traditionary stories, which, as I observed in my first sketch (voL i.) descended from generation to generation with hereditary exactness; and, to the present day, I retain a fondness for hearing old occurrences detailed.

My eldest female cousin, Miss Dolly Fitzgerald, was at least twelve years older than I when I was first taken to Moret by my grandmother; the second, Miss Fanny, ten. Never, sure, did two sisters present such a contrast. Dolly was as like her father as rather more height and an uncommonly fair skin would permit; her tongue was too large for the mouth, and consequently thickened her pronunciation; her hair was yellow; her feet were like brackets, and her hands resembled milkwhite shoulders of mutton. Her features were good, but her nostrils and upper lip displayed considerable love of the favourite comforter of her father. She was very good natured, but ignorance personified.

Her sister was as thin as the handle of a sweeping-brash, and had dark eyes twinkling like stars on a vapoury evening, with yellow skin, black hair, a mouth literally stretching across the face (like a foss to protect her chin), very red lips, and much more vivacity than comprehension. There were few sound teeth in the whole family, and none that a dentist would think worth the expense of dressing.

For these two amiable young ladies it was the principal object of my aunt to procure husbands, if possible, in the neighbourhood . But the squires were shy of matching into the family of so great an oddity as my uncle. They preferred getting wives among people who went on the jog-trot of the world like themselves.

On this point my uncle and aunt entirely differed; and during the discussions as to their differences, time ran on, nothing was done for the ladies, and Miss Dolly was in her sixand-twentieth year before she was fully emancipated from the discipline of the nursery and suffered to dine at papa’s table. When that important period arrived, it was considered as a great epoch at Moret Castle; all the neighbours were invited, and Dolly’s majority was formally announced. She was then given to understand she might thereafter dine at the great table, speak to any gentleman she pleased, and, in short, have full liberty to act entirely as she thought proper, provided she always previously consulted her father’s will, and obeyed it without “questions asked.” She was likewise enjoined to take especial care not to forget her pastry*

On these free and happy terms, Dolly was to have the chariot for a day, and to set the world on fire. The old carriage was accordingly cleared for action from the dust accumulated upon it, the horses’ tails were trimmed, and the young lady was to go to the church of Portarlington the ensuing Sunday— “where,” said my uncle to his spouse, “‘fore Gad, Kate, our Dolly will catch some young fellow after the service is over, either in the aisle or the churchyard. She’ll have some proposals; but, ‘fore Gad, it’s not everybody I’d give her to.”

“Don’t be too sure, Stephen,” rejoined my aunt. “You keep your daughters as if they were haunches of vension. It’s not everybody who has a taste for meat that has been hung a fortnight in the larder to give it a flavour. The men, I tell you, like fresh and fresh, Stephen; and be assured you have kept Dolly too long to suit every man’s palate. I have always been telling you so, but you are perpetually saying you’ll be the head of your own family; so now you’ll see the end of it1”

* The Irish Indies in the country at that period were always taught the art of pie and dumpling making, as a necessary accomplishment; and a husband who bleed a good table always preferred a housekeeper to a gadder. Tanpom mulantur !—(Author’s note.)

The ladies seem to have vexed our author. There are no gadders now; the work of life keeps their noses to the grinding-stone.

“Why, Kate, you were a good while in the larder yourself at Timahoe before you got a husband,” replied my uncle.

“I may thank the smallpox for that, Stephen,” retorted my aunt: “only for that enemy I should never have been mistress of Moret Castle, Counsellor Stephen being governor of it!”

“Well, you’ll see that I am right,” said my uncle. “I tell you, men who look out for wives like a seasoned, obedient woman at the head of their families, and not your tittering, giddy young creatures that have not had time to settle their brains or mature their understandings. No girl should be away from the eye of her natural guardian till she arrives at the full extent of her twenty-sixth year, like Dolly. “You’ll see now she’ll do some mischief at the church or churchyard of Portarlington!”

“Stephen,” said my aunt (who, by-the-by, had her nose nearly stopped by the smallpox, which made her somewhat snuffle, and gave a peculiar emphasis to her vowels) ’tis too late! Dolly knows nothing of the world. It would take a full year at the church and balls at Portarlington, the races of the Great Heath and green of Maryborough, the hurlings at the fort of Dunnally, and a month or two on a visit to our nephew, Jack Barrington, at Blandsfort, before she would learn enough to be able to converse with mankind on any subject—except darning your stockings, or turning off a kitchen-maid.”

My uncle started as much as his form would admit; cocked his eyebrows, and stared with all his might. “Tore Gad, Kate, I believe you are out of your wits! Did you say Jack Barrington’s of Blandsfort? Jack Barrington’s! Why, you know very well, Kate, as everybody knows, that there’s nothing going on at that house but hunting and feasting; dancing all night, and rattling about all day like mad people; and coshering with raking pots of tea, hot cakes, syllabubs, pipers, and the devil knows what! No, no. If Dolly were to get one month among her cousins at Blandsfort, I should never see a day’s comfort after; topsy-turvy would go Moret! I’d never be master of my own house half-an-hour after Dolly had received a course of instruction at Jack Barrington’s. I don’t wish her to know too much of the world. No, no. Tore Gad, Kate, Dolly never puts her foot, while she is a spinster, into Jack Barrington’s house at Blandsfort.”

Folks generally become mulish as their years advance, and my uncle enjoyed that quality in its greatest perfection. The Misses Dolly and Fanny Fitzgerald were commanded, under the pain of displeasure, by their patriarchal father, Stephen, to abjure and give up all thoughts of the festivities of Blandsfort.

“‘Fore Gad, Kate!” said my uncle to their more conceding mother—” ‘Fore Gad, Kate, you had better send the girls a visiting to the antipodes than be turning them upside down at Blandsfort. No rational man would have anything to do with them afterwards. There it is only pull-haul and tear, and the devil take the hindmost!—eh?”

“And for Heaven’s sake, Stephen,” replied my aunt (who was no cosmographer), “what family are these antipodes whom you would send our daughters to visit in preference to their nearest relations ?—I never heard of them: they must be upstarts, Stephen. I thought I knew every family in the county.”

“‘Fore Gad, Kate!” rejoined my uncle, laughing heartily, “your father, old Sir John, ought to be tied to the cart’s tail for so neglecting your education. Why, Kate, the antipodes are at this moment standing on their heads immediately under you— upside down, just as you see a fly on the ceiling, without the danger of falling down from it.”

“And for Heaven’s sake, Stephen,” said my puzzled aunt, “how do the ladies keep down their petticoats in that position?”

“Ask Sir Isaac Newton that,” said my uncle, who was not prepared for that interrogation. “But let me hear no more of the topsy-turvy of their cousins at Blandsfort. I’ll send my daughters to church at Portarlington, Kate, where they cannot fail of being seen and much noticed.”

“And that may not be much in their favour at present, Stephen,” replied my aunt, who was not blind to her progeny— “at least until they are a little better rigged out than in their present nursery dresses, Stephen.”

“Rig away, rig away, Kate!” said my uncle, “rig away; you may make them as tawdry as jackdaws, so as you don’t turn their heads at Jack Barrington’s.”

In fine, they were made sufficiently glaring, and, accompanied by aunt in the resuscitated postchaise, made their first debut at the church of Portarlington. Of course they attracted universal notice. The ladies congratulated my aunt on her showy girls; the parson on their coming of age; and the innkeeper declared they were the most genteelest of all the new subscribers to his ball and supper at the market-house.

The ladies returned to Moret highly delighted with their cordial reception in the churchyard, and Mrs. Gregory, the head mantua-maker of the county, was immediately set to work to fit out the ladies in the newest taste of Dublin fashions, preparatory to the next ball.

Now, Portarlington had been a very small village in the Queen’s County until the French Protestant emigrants, on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, made a settlement there (it was said from the enormous quantity of fine frogs generated in that neighbourhood), and there they commenced schoolmasters and mistresses, with a good reputation, which they ceased not to keep up, until in time it became an established seminary. Here the numerous schools and academies were always ready to pour out their hobbledehoys and misses in their teens to the dances and assemblies; but very few mature gentlemen assisted at these coteries, and it was the customary prayer of all the young ladies going to those balls—” If I cannot get a man for a partner, 0 Heaven, in thy mercy, send me a big boy!”

Suffice it to say that my cousins, at the first ball, outglared all the females in the room put together; my aunt’s old rings and hereditary paraphernalia had been brought fully into requisition. But, unfortunately, Providence sent them that night neither a grown man-partner nor a big boy in the shape of a man-partner, and, after having sat as full-blown wall-flowers

the whole night, they returned to Moret highly discouraged that their rose-colour satin and family Dresdens, which cut all the other girls out of feather, had no better result than the going home again—my philosophical aunt telling them all the way home, “that balls were no places to catch husbands at, there was so much variety; and I assure you, Dolly,” said my aunt, “men, now-a-days, look more at a girl’s purse than her flounces, and you’ll have nothing very showy in that way whilst your father and mother are alive, Dolly.”

My poor cousin Dolly’s feet also, after three balls more (dead failures), got so crimped and cramped by tight shoes, to restrain her fat brackets within reasonable boundaries, that corns, bunions, callosities, etc., showed a plentiful harvest the ensuing summer, and, conspiring with her winter chilblains, and tortures to match, put my poor cousin’s jigging out of the question for the remainder of her existence.

My cousin Fanny, whose feet were only bone and gristle, made numerous exhibitions both in the minuet and rigadoon, and for the same purpose. But no wooers for the Miss Fitzgeralds of Moret Castle made their advances; not a sigh was exploded for either of the demoiselles, though the church, the balls, the races at the Great Heath, and hurlings at the fort of Dunnally, were all assiduously attended for the laudable purpose aforesaid. All in vain. And after a two years’ vigorous chase the game was entirely given over, and my cousins slunk back into cover, where, in all human probability, they would have remained during their hives, had not heaven sent down a putrid fever to bring my uncle Stephen up to it, as all the old ladies asserted, to please the widow, although old Julian, the exciseman, ungratefully remarked, that “there must have been a great number of vacancies in Heaven when they called up the counsellor there.” However, before her weeds got rusty, my aunt, shaking a loose leg, after having been forty years handcuffed and linked to Counsellor Stephen, set out with the entire family for the great city of Dublin, where, no doubt, the merits if not the beauty of my cousins, with a more proximate reversion, would be duly appreciated.

However, neither their merit nor beauty, nor the reversion, could exorcise the spirit of celibacy, which still pursued them from Moret. Jack, their brother, married a mantua-maker; and my poor uncle, not being a Mahomedan, and, of course, not having any houri in the clouds to solace his leisure hours, and finding himself lonesome without his old Kate, Providence again showed its kindness towards him, and sent down a pulmonary consumption to Dublin to carry my aunt up to her well-beloved Stephen. My unfortunate cousins were now left orphans, of only forty and forty-one years of age, to buffet with the cares of the world, and accept the brevet-rank of old maidens, which they certainly did with as much good-humour and as little chagrin as are generally exhibited on those occasions. Their incomes were ample for all their purposes, and they got on to the end of their career very comfortably. Dolly chose three lap-dogs and a parrot for her favourites, and Fanny adopted a squirrel and four tom-cats to chase away her ennui But those animals having a natural antipathy to each other, got into an eternal state of altercation and hostility, the parrot eternally screeching to make peace between them. So a maidservant, who understood the humour of poodles, cats, etc. etc., was hired to superintend and keep them in peace and proper order.

This maid of natural history got great ascendency; and, as she was what is termed in Ireland a swaddler, in England a canter or psalm-singer, she soon convinced my cousins that there was no certain road to salvation, save through the preachers and love-feasts of those societies. Of course a plate was laid ready for some lank pulpiteer at dinner, every day, and my cousins became thorough-paced swaddlers (singing excepted). But, as years would still roll on, and they could not be always swaddling, and saving their souls, some extra comfort was, as customary, found necessary for their languid hours. The maid of natural history therefore suggested that, as solid food and weak Bordeaux were not of the best efficacy for feeble appetites, which her mistresses were beginning to show symptoms of, a glass of cordial, now and then, in the morning, might restore the tone of their stomachs. Of consequence, a couple of liqueurbottles were prepared, and always properly replenished; the ladies found their liquid appetites daily increase: the preacher got the whole bottle of wine to himself; Lundyfoot’s most pungent was well crammed into my cousin’s nostrils, as an interlude, till snuffling was effected; and the matter went on as cheerily as possible between the dogs and cats, the preacher, snuff, and the cordial comforts, till an ill-natured dropsy, with tappings to match, sent my cousin Dolly to my uncle Stephen; and some other disorder having transmitted cousin Fanny the same journey to her mother, I anticipated very great satisfaction in opening the last will and testament of the survivor; whereupon, all things being regularly prepared, with an audible voice I read the first legacy, bequeathing ” her body to the dust, and her soul to God,” in most pious and pathetic expressions, and of considerable longitude. The second legacy ran: “Item—to my dear cousin, Jonah Barrington, I bequeath my mother’s wedding-ring and my father’s gold sleeve-buttons, as family keepsakes; also all my father’s books and papers of every description, except bonds, or any securities for money, or contracts ;” and so far looked favourable, till, casting my eye over the third legacy, to the wonder of the company I stopped short, and handing it cautiously to the swaddling preacher (who was present), begged he would be so kind as to read it himself. This office he coyly accepted, and performed it in a drawling whine, and with heavy sighs, that made everybody laugh, except myself. In fine, cousin Fanny, after her ” soul to God, and her body to the dust” (the latter of which legacies she could not possibly avoid), as to all her worldly substance, etc., bequeathed it ” to such charitaUc purposes as her maid Mary might think proper, by and with the spiritual advice and assistance of that holy man, Mr. Clarke. This pious philosopher never changed a muscle at his good fortune. The will, indeed, could be no surprise either to him or Mrs. Mary. With the aid of the orator’s brother, who was an attorney (and got snacks), they had prepared it according to their

own satisfaction; and cousin Fanny executed it one evening, after her cordial and prayers had their full operation ; and, in a few days more, her disorder put a conclusive termination to any possibility of revoking it.

This affair had its sequel exactly as any rational person might have anticipated. The preacher and Mrs. Mary, after a decent mourning, united their spiritual and temporal concerns, and became flesh of the flesh and bone of the bone; in which happy state of husband and wife (which happy state they had been in many months before the ceremony was thought necessary) they remained nearly two years, when his reverence, happening to light on a younger and handsomer swaddler and legatee, after beating Mrs. Mary almost to a jelly, embarked with his new proselyte for America, where, changing his name, curling his hair, colouring his eyebrows, etc. etc., he turned Quaker, and is at this moment, I have learned, in good repute at meeting, and solvency as a trader, in the city of Philadelphia.

The entire of my uncle Stephen’s library and manuscripts, with the exception of the year-books, Newcastle on the Manege, seven farriery and several cookery books, I gave to my friend, old Lundyfoot, to envelop his powder in; and most of my books being well impregnated, or rather populously inhabited, by divers minute and nearly impalpable maggots, probably added some poignancy to the sneezing qualities of his celebrated preparation.

I recollect a whimsical expression used by Davy Lander, an Irish counsellor, whom I brought with me to hear the will read. “By my soul, Barrington,” said Lander, “she was right enough in bequeathing her soul to God, out of hand, or the devil would certainly have taken it as heir-at-law! But I hope he has the reversion.”

That branch of the Geraldines is now entirely extinct, having ended with my cousin Fanny, the swaddler; and nothing now remains but the old castle, its celebrated ivy tree, St. Bridget’s stone, and my legends, to preserve even the recollection of Morct.