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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 18:39:46 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 18:39:46 -0700 |
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diff --git a/44350-h/44350-h.htm b/44350-h/44350-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..676c111 --- /dev/null +++ b/44350-h/44350-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11204 @@ + +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of My Miscellanies, (Volume 2 of 2), by Wilkie Collins. + </title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/title-page.jpg" /> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1{ + text-align: center; + clear: both; + margin-top: 6em; +} + +h2 {text-align: center; + clear: both; + margin-top: 4em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + line-height: 2em; + font-size: 1.2em; +} + +h3 {text-align: center; + clear: both; + margin-top: 2em; + font-size: 1.0em; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: left; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; +} +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 33%; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + + +hr.l15 { width: 15%; + margin-left: 42%; } + +hr.l30 { width: 30%; + margin-left: 35%; } + +.center { text-align: center; } + +.left65 {margin-left: 65%; } + +.smcap { font-variant: small-caps; } + +.footnote { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 0.9em; +} + +.footnotes { border: dashed 1px; + margin-top: 6em; + margin-bottom: 2em; } +.fntitle { margin-top: 1em;} +.footnote .label { + position: absolute; + right: 84%; + text-align: right; +} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +.poetry-container { text-align: center; } + +.poem { + display: inline-block; + font-size: 95%; + margin-bottom: 1em; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem p { + margin: 0; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; } + +@media handheld { + .poem { + display: block; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; + } +} +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +.b15 {font-size:1.5em;} +.b12 {font-size:1.2em;} +.s08 {font-size:.8em;} +.s05 {font-size:.5em;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + empty-cells: show; +} + +td {padding-left: 1em; + padding-right: 1em; + vertical-align: bottom; +} + +.tdr { text-align: right; + vertical-align: bottom; } +.tdh { text-indent: -1em; + margin-left: 1em;} +.tdm {vertical-align: top;} +.xsp {padding-top: .5em; + vertical-align: bottom;} + +.tnbox { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + margin-bottom: 8em; + margin-top: auto; + text-align: center; + border: 1px solid; + padding: 1em; + color: black; + background-color: #f6f2f2; + width: 25em; +} + + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44350 ***</div> + +<div class="tnbox"> +<p class="center"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></p> +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. +Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original +document have been preserved.</p> +</div> + +<h1>MY MISCELLANIES.</h1> + +<p class="center p4 b12"> +<span class='smcap'>By WILKIE COLLINS</span>,</p> + +<p class="center s08">AUTHOR OF 'THE WOMAN IN WHITE,' 'NO NAME,' 'THE DEAD SECRET,' +&c. &c. &c.</p> + +<p class="center p4">IN TWO VOLUMES.—<span class='smcap'>Vol. II.</span></p> + +<p class="center p4">LONDON:<br /> + +SAMPSON LOW, SON, & CO., LUDGATE HILL.<br /> + +1863.</p> + +<p class="center p2 s08"><i>The Author reserves the right of Translation.</i></p> + +<hr class="l30 p6" /> + +<p class="center s05"> +LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET, +AND CHARING CROSS. +</p> + +<h2>CONTENTS OF VOL. II.</h2> + +<hr class="l15" /> +<table summary="Table of Contents"> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tdr"><span class="s08">PAGE</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Cases Worth Looking At: I.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td> Memoirs of an Adopted Son</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Sketches of Character: IV.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>The Bachelor Bedroom</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Nooks and Corners of History: III.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>A remarkable Revolution</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Douglas Jerrold</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Sketches of Character: V.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Pray employ Major Namby!</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Cases Worth Looking At: II.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>The Poisoned Meal</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Sketches of Character: VI.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>My Spinsters</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Dramatic Grub Street.</span> (Explored in Two Letters)</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>To Think, or Be Thought For?</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Social Grievances: IV.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Save Me from my Friends</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Cases Worth Looking At: III.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>The Cauldron of Oil</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_250">250</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Bold Words by a Bachelor</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_281">281</a></td> + +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="xsp"><span class='smcap'>Social Grievances: V.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td>Mrs. Bullwinkle</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_292">292</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<p> +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_1' name='Page_1'>1</a></span> +</p> + +<p class="center b15 p6"> +MY MISCELLANIES. +</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<h2> +CASES WORTH LOOKING AT.—I.<br /> +<span class="s08">MEMOIRS OF AN ADOPTED SON.<a name='FA_A' id='FA_A' href='#FN_A' class='fnanchor'>[A]</a></span> +</h2> + +<h3> +<span class='smcap'>I.—Circumstances which preceded his Birth.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +Towards the beginning of the eighteenth century +there stood on a rock in the sea, near a fishing village +on the coast of Brittany, a ruined Tower with a very +bad reputation. No mortal was known to have inhabited +it within the memory of living man. The +one tenant whom Tradition associated with the occupation +of the place, at a remote period, had moved +into it from the infernal regions, nobody knew why—had +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_2' name='Page_2'>2</a></span> +lived in it, nobody knew how long—and had +quitted possession, nobody knew when. Under such +circumstances, nothing was more natural than that +this unearthly Individual should give a name to his +residence; for which reason, the building was thereafter +known to all the neighbourhood round as +Satanstower. +</p> + +<p> +Early in the year seventeen hundred, the inhabitants +of the village were startled, one night, by +seeing the red gleam of a fire in the Tower, and by +smelling, in the same direction, a preternaturally +strong odour of fried fish. The next morning, the +fishermen who passed by the building in their boats +were amazed to find that a stranger had taken up +his abode in it. Judging of him at a distance, he +seemed to be a fine tall stout fellow: he was dressed +in fisherman's costume, and he had a new boat of his +own, moored comfortably in a cleft of the rock. If +he had inhabited a place of decent reputation, his +neighbours would have immediately made his acquaintance; +but, as things were, all they could +venture to do was to watch him in silence. +</p> + +<p> +The first day passed, and, though it was fine weather, +he made no use of his boat. The second day followed, +with a continuance of the fine weather, and still he +was as idle as before. On the third day, when a +violent storm kept all the boats of the village on the +beach—on the third day, in the midst of the tempest, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_3' name='Page_3'>3</a></span> +away went the man of the Tower to make his first +fishing experiment in strange waters! He and his +boat came back safe and sound, in a lull of the +storm; and the villagers watching on the cliff above +saw him carrying the fish up, by great basketsful, to +his Tower. No such haul had ever fallen to the lot +of any one of them—and the stranger had taken it in +a whole gale of wind! +</p> + +<p> +Upon this, the inhabitants of the village called a +council. The lead in the debate was assumed by a +smart young fellow, a fisherman named Poulailler, +who stoutly declared that the stranger at the Tower +was of infernal origin. "The rest of you may call +him what you like," said Poulailler; "I call him +The Fiend-Fisherman!" +</p> + +<p> +The opinion thus expressed proved to be the +opinion of the entire audience—with the one exception +of the village priest. The priest said, "Gently, +my sons. Don't make sure about the man of the +Tower, before Sunday. Wait and see if he comes to +church." +</p> + +<p> +"And if he doesn't come to church?" asked all +the fishermen, in a breath. +</p> + +<p> +"In that case," replied the priest, "I will excommunicate +him—and then, my children, you may call +him what you like." +</p> + +<p> +Sunday came; and no sign of the stranger darkened +the church-doors. He was excommunicated, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_4' name='Page_4'>4</a></span> +accordingly. The whole village forthwith adopted +Poulailler's idea; and called the man of the Tower +by the name which Poulailler had given him—"The +Fiend-Fisherman." +</p> + +<p> +These strong proceedings produced not the slightest +apparent effect on the diabolical personage who had +occasioned them. He persisted in remaining idle +when the weather was fine; in going out to fish when +no other boat in the place dare put to sea; and in +coming back again to his solitary dwelling-place, with +his nets full, his boat uninjured, and himself alive +and hearty. He made no attempts to buy and sell +with anybody; he kept steadily away from the +village; he lived on fish of his own preternaturally +strong frying; and he never spoke to a living soul—with +the solitary exception of Poulailler himself. +One fine evening, when the young man was rowing +home past the Tower, the Fiend-Fisherman darted +out on to the rock—said, "Thank you, Poulailler, for +giving me a name"—bowed politely—and darted in +again. The young fisherman felt the words run cold +down the marrow of his back; and whenever he was +at sea again, he gave the Tower a wide berth from +that day forth. +</p> + +<p> +Time went on—and an important event occurred +in Poulailler's life. He was engaged to be married. +On the day when his betrothal was publicly made +known, his friends clustered noisily about him on the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_5' name='Page_5'>5</a></span> +fishing-jetty of the village to offer their congratulations. +While they were all in full cry, a strange +voice suddenly made itself heard through the confusion, +which silenced everybody in an instant. The +crowd fell back, and disclosed the Fiend-Fisherman +sauntering up the jetty. It was the first time he had +ever set foot—cloven foot—within the precincts of +the village. +</p> + +<p> +"Gentlemen," said the Fiend-Fisherman, "where +is my friend, Poulailler?" He put the question with +perfect politeness; he looked remarkably well in his +fisherman's costume; he exhaled a relishing odour +of fried fish; he had a cordial nod for the men, and +a sweet smile for the women—but, with all these +personal advantages, everybody fell back from him, +and nobody answered his question. The coldness of +the popular reception, however, did not in any way +abash him. He looked about for Poulailler with +searching eyes, discovered the place in which he was +standing, and addressed him in the friendliest manner. +</p> + +<p> +"So you are going to be married?" remarked the +Fiend-Fisherman. +</p> + +<p> +"What's that to you?" said Poulailler. He was +inwardly terrified, but outwardly gruff—not an uncommon +combination of circumstances with men of +his class, in his mental situation. +</p> + +<p> +"My friend," pursued the Fiend-Fisherman, "I +have not forgotten your polite attention in giving me +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_6' name='Page_6'>6</a></span> +a name; and I come here to requite it. You will +have a family, Poulailler; and your first child will be +a boy. I propose to make that boy my Adopted Son." +</p> + +<p> +The marrow of Poulailler's back became awfully +cold—but he grew gruffer than ever, in spite of his +back. +</p> + +<p> +"You won't do anything of the sort," he replied. +"If I have the largest family in France, no child of +mine shall ever go near you." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall adopt your first-born for all that," persisted +the Fiend-Fisherman. "Poulailler! I wish +you good morning. Ladies and gentlemen! the same +to all of you." +</p> + +<p> +With those words, he withdrew from the jetty; +and the marrow of Poulailler's back recovered its +temperature. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning was stormy; and all the village +expected to see the boat from the Tower put out, as +usual, to sea. Not a sign of it appeared. Later in +the day, the rock on which the building stood was +examined from a distance. Neither boat nor nets +were in their customary places. At night, the red +gleam of the fire was missed for the first time. The +Fiend-Fisherman had gone! He had announced his +intentions on the jetty, and had disappeared. What +did this mean? Nobody knew. +</p> + +<p> +On Poulailler's wedding-day, a portentous circumstance +recalled the memory of the diabolical stranger, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_7' name='Page_7'>7</a></span> +and, as a matter of course, seriously discomposed the +bridegroom's back. At the moment when the marriage +ceremony was complete, a relishing odour of +fried fish stole into the nostrils of the company, and +a voice from invisible lips said: "Keep up your +spirits, Poulailler; I have not forgotten my promise!" +</p> + +<p> +A year later, Madame Poulailler was in the hands +of the midwife of the district, and a repetition of the +portentous circumstance took place. Poulailler was +waiting in the kitchen to hear how matters ended +up-stairs. The nurse came in with a baby. "Which +is it?" asked the happy father; "girl or boy?" +Before the nurse could answer, an odour of supernaturally +fried fish filled the kitchen; and a voice +from invisible lips replied: "A boy, Poulailler—<i>and +I've got him!</i>" +</p> + +<p> +Such were the circumstances under which the +subject of this Memoir was introduced to the joys and +sorrows of mortal existence. +</p> + +<h3> +II.—<span class='smcap'>His Boyhood and Early Life.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +When a boy is born under auspices which lead his +parents to suppose that, while the bodily part of him +is safe at home, the spiritual part is subjected to a +course of infernal tuition elsewhere—what are his +father and mother to do with him? They must do +the best they can—which was exactly what Poulailler +and his wife did with the hero of these pages. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_8' name='Page_8'>8</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +In the first place, they had him christened instantly. +It was observed with horror that his infant face was +distorted with grimaces, and that his infant voice +roared with a preternatural lustiness of tone the +moment the priest touched him. The first thing he +asked for, when he learnt to speak, was "fried fish;" +and the first place he wanted to go to, when he learnt +to walk, was the diabolical Tower on the rock. "He +won't learn anything," said the master, when he was +old enough to go to school. "Thrash him," said +Poulailler—and the master thrashed him. "He won't +come to his first communion," said the priest. "Thrash +him," said Poulailler—and the priest thrashed him. +The farmers' orchards were robbed; the neighbouring +rabbit-warrens were depopulated; linen was stolen +from the gardens, and nets were torn on the beach. +"The deuce take Poulailler's boy," was the general cry. +"The deuce has got him," was Poulailler's answer. +"And yet he is a nice-looking boy," said Madame +Poulailler. And he was—as tall, as strong, as handsome +a young fellow, as could be seen in all France. +"Let us pray for him," said Madame Poulailler. +"Let us thrash him," said her husband. "Our son +has been thrashed till all the sticks in the neighbourhood +are broken," pleaded his mother. "We will try +him with the rope's-end next," retorted his father; +"he shall go to sea and live in an atmosphere of +thrashing. Our son shall be a cabin-boy." It was +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_9' name='Page_9'>9</a></span> +all one to Poulailler Junior—he knew who had +adopted him, as well as his father—he had been instinctively +conscious from infancy of the Fiend-Fisherman's +interest in his welfare—he cared for no earthly +discipline—and a cabin-boy he became at ten years +old. +</p> + +<p> +After two years of the rope's-end (applied quite +ineffectually), the subject of this Memoir robbed his +captain, and ran away in an English port. London +became the next scene of his adventures. At twelve +years old, he persuaded society in the Metropolis that +he was the forsaken natural son of a French duke. +British benevolence, after blindly providing for him +for four years, opened its eyes and found him out at +the age of sixteen; upon which he returned to France, +and entered the army in the capacity of drummer. +At eighteen, he deserted, and had a turn with the +gipsies. He told fortunes, he conjured, he danced on +the tight-rope, he acted, he sold quack medicines, he +altered his mind again, and returned to the army. +Here he fell in love with the <span lang="fr_FR">vivandière</span> of his +new regiment. The sergeant-major of the company, +touched by the same amiable weakness, naturally +resented his attentions to the lady. Poulailler (perhaps +unjustifiably) asserted himself by boxing his +officer's ears. Out flashed the swords on both sides, +and in went Poulailler's blade through and through +the tender heart of the sergeant-major. The frontier +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_10' name='Page_10'>10</a></span> +was close at hand. Poulailler wiped his sword, and +crossed it. +</p> + +<p> +Sentence of death was recorded against him in his +absence. When society has condemned us to die, +if we are men of any spirit how are we to return the +compliment? By condemning society to keep us +alive—or, in other words, by robbing right and left +for a living. Poulailler's destiny was now accomplished. +He was picked out to be the Greatest Thief +of his age; and when Fate summoned him to his +place in the world, he stepped forward and took it. +His life hitherto had been merely the life of a young +scamp—he was now to do justice to the diabolical +father who had adopted him, and to expand to the +proportions of a full-grown Robber. +</p> + +<p> +His first exploits were performed in Germany. +They showed such novelty of combination, such daring, +such dexterity, and, even in his most homicidal moments, +such irresistible gaiety and good humour, +that a band of congenial spirits gathered about him +in no time. As commander-in-chief of the Thieves' +army, his popularity never wavered. His weaknesses—and +what illustrious man is without them?—were +three in number. First weakness—he was extravagantly +susceptible to the charms of the fair sex. +Second weakness—he was perilously fond of practical +jokes. Third weakness (inherited from his adopted +parent)—his appetite was insatiable in the matter of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_11' name='Page_11'>11</a></span> +fried fish. As for the merits to set against these +defects, some have been noticed already, and others +will appear immediately. Let it merely be premised, +in this place, that he was one of the handsomest men +of his time, that he dressed superbly, and that he was +capable of the most exalted acts of generosity wherever +a handsome woman was concerned—let this be understood, +to begin with; and let us now enter on the +narrative of his last exploit in Germany before he +returned to France. This adventure is something +more than a mere specimen of his method of workmanship—it +proved, in the future, to be the fatal +event of his life. +</p> + +<p> +On a Monday in the week, he had stopped on the +highway, and robbed of all his valuables and all his +papers, an Italian nobleman—the Marquis Petrucci +of Sienna. On Tuesday, he was ready for another +stroke of business. Posted on the top of a steep hill, +he watched the road which wound up to the summit +on one side, while his followers were ensconced on the +road which led down from it on the other. The +prize expected, in this case, was the travelling carriage +(with a large sum of money inside) of the Baron +de Kirbergen. +</p> + +<p> +Before long, Poulailler discerned the carriage afar +off, at the bottom of the hill, and in advance of it, +ascending the eminence, two ladies on foot. They +were the Baron's daughters—Wilhelmina, a fair +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_12' name='Page_12'>12</a></span> +beauty; Frederica, a brunette—both lovely, both +accomplished, both susceptible, both young. Poulailler +sauntered down the hill to meet the fascinating +travellers. He looked—bowed—introduced himself—and +fell in love with Wilhelmina on the spot. +Both the charming girls acknowledged in the most +artless manner that confinement to the carriage had +given them the fidgets, and that they were walking +up the hill to try the remedy of gentle exercise. +Poulailler's heart was touched, and Poulailler's generosity +to the sex was roused in the nick of time. +With a polite apology to the young ladies, he ran +back, by a short cut, to the ambush on the other +side of the hill in which his men were posted. +</p> + +<p> +"Gentlemen!" cried the generous Thief, "in the +charming name of Wilhelmina de Kirbergen, I charge +you all, let the Baron's carriage pass free." The +band was not susceptible—the band demurred. Poulailler +knew them. He had appealed to their hearts +in vain—he now appealed to their pockets. "Gentlemen!" +he resumed, "excuse my momentary misconception +of your sentiments. Here is my one half +share of the Marquis Petrucci's property. If I divide +it among you, will you let the carriage pass free?" +The band knew the value of money—and accepted +the terms. Poulailler rushed back up the hill, and +arrived at the top just in time to hand the young +ladies into the carriage. "Charming man!" said +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_13' name='Page_13'>13</a></span> +the white Wilhelmina to the brown Frederica, as +they drove off. Innocent soul! what would she have +said if she had known that her personal attractions +had saved her father's property? Was she ever to +see the charming man again? Yes: she was to see +him the next day—and, more than that, Fate was +hereafter to link her fast to the robber's life and the +robbers doom. +</p> + +<p> +Confiding the direction of the band to his first lieutenant, +Poulailler followed the carriage on horseback, +and ascertained the place of the Baron's residence +that night. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning a superbly-dressed stranger +knocked at the door. "What name, sir?" said the +servant. "The Marquis Petrucci of Sienna," replied +Poulailler. "How are the young ladies after their +journey?" The Marquis was shown in, and introduced +to the Baron. The Baron was naturally delighted +to receive a brother nobleman—Miss Wilhelmina +was modestly happy to see the charming man +again—Miss Frederica was affectionately pleased on +her sister's account. Not being of a disposition to +lose time where his affections were concerned, Poulailler +expressed his sentiments to the beloved object +that evening. The next morning he had an interview +with the Baron, at which he produced the papers +which proved him to be the Marquis. Nothing could +be more satisfactory to the mind of the most anxious +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_14' name='Page_14'>14</a></span> +parent—the two noblemen embraced. They were +still in each other's arms, when a second stranger +knocked at the door. "What name, sir?" said the +servant. "The Marquis Petrucci of Sienna," replied +the stranger. "Impossible!" said the servant; "his +lordship is now in the house." "Show me in, scoundrel," +cried the visitor. The servant submitted, and +the two Marquises stood face to face. Poulailler's +composure was not shaken in the least; he had come +first to the house, and he had got the papers. "You are +the villain who robbed me!" cried the true Petrucci. +"You are drunk, mad, or an impostor," retorted the +false Petrucci. "Send to Florence, where I am +known," exclaimed one of the Marquises, apostrophising +the Baron. "Send to Florence by all means," +echoed the other, addressing himself to the Baron +also. "Gentlemen," replied the noble Kirbergen, "I +will do myself the honour of taking your advice"—and +he sent to Florence accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +Before the messenger had advanced ten miles on +his journey, Poulailler had said two words in private +to the susceptible Wilhelmina—and the pair eloped +from the baronial residence that night. Once more +the subject of this Memoir crossed the frontier, and +re-entered France. Indifferent to the attractions of +rural life, he forthwith established himself with the +beloved object in Paris. In that superb city he met +with his strangest adventures, performed his boldest +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_15' name='Page_15'>15</a></span> +achievements, committed his most prodigious robberies, +and, in a word, did himself and his infernal +patron the fullest justice, in the character of the +Fiend-Fisherman's Adopted Son. +</p> + +<h3> +III.—<span class='smcap'>His Career in Paris.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +Once established in the French metropolis, Poulailler +planned and executed that vast system of perpetual +robbery and occasional homicide which made him the +terror and astonishment of all Paris. In-doors, as +well as out, his good fortune befriended him. No +domestic anxieties harassed his mind, and diverted +him from the pursuit of his distinguished public +career. The attachment of the charming creature +with whom he had eloped from Germany, survived +the discovery that the Marquis Petrucci was Poulailler +the robber. True to the man of her choice, the devoted +Wilhelmina shared his fortunes, and kept his +house. And why not, if she loved him?—in the all-conquering +name of Cupid, why not? +</p> + +<p> +Joined by picked men from his German followers, +and by new recruits gathered together in Paris, Poulailler +now set society and its safeguards at flat defiance. +Cartouche himself was his inferior in audacity +and cunning. In course of time, the whole city was +panic-stricken by the new robber and his band—the +very Boulevards were deserted after nightfall. Monsieur +Hérault, lieutenant of police of the period, in +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_16' name='Page_16'>16</a></span> +despair of laying hands on Poulailler by any other +means, at last offered a reward of a hundred pistoles +and a place in his office worth two thousand livres a-year +to any one who would apprehend the robber +alive. The bills were posted all over Paris—and, the +next morning, they produced the very last result in +the world which the lieutenant of police could possibly +have anticipated. +</p> + +<p> +Whilst Monsieur Hérault was at breakfast in his +study, the Count de Villeneuve was announced as +wishing to speak to him. Knowing the Count by +name only, as belonging to an ancient family in Provence, +or in Languedoc, Monsieur Hérault ordered +him to be shown in. A perfect gentleman appeared, +dressed with an admirable mixture of magnificence +and good taste. "I have something for your private +ear, sir," said the Count. "Will you give orders that +no one must be allowed to disturb us?" +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Hérault gave the orders. +</p> + +<p> +"May I enquire, Count, what your business is?" +he asked, when the door was closed. +</p> + +<p> +"To earn the reward you offer for taking Poulailler," +answered the Count. "I am Poulailler." +</p> + +<p> +Before Monsieur Hérault could open his lips, the +robber produced a pretty little dagger and some rose-coloured +silk cord. "The point of this dagger is +poisoned," he observed; "and one scratch of it, my +dear sir, would be the death of you." With these +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_17' name='Page_17'>17</a></span> +words Poulailler gagged the lieutenant of police, +bound him to his chair with the rose-coloured cord, +and lightened his writing-desk of one thousand pistoles. +"I'll take money, instead of taking the place +in the office which you kindly offer," said Poulailler. +"Don't trouble yourself to see me to the door. Good +morning." +</p> + +<p> +A few weeks later, while Monsieur Hérault was +still the popular subject of ridicule throughout Paris, +business took Poulailler on the road to Lille and +Cambrai. The only inside passenger in the coach +besides himself, was the venerable Dean Potter of +Brussels. They fell into talk on the one interesting +subject of the time—not the weather, but Poulailler. +</p> + +<p> +"It's a disgrace, sir, to the police," said the Dean, +"that such a miscreant is still at large. I shall be +returning to Paris, by this road, in ten days' time, and +I shall call on Monsieur Hérault, to suggest a plan of +my own for catching the scoundrel." +</p> + +<p> +"May I ask what it is?" said Poulailler. +</p> + +<p> +"Excuse me," replied the Dean; "you are a +stranger, sir,—and, moreover, I wish to keep the +merit of suggesting the plan to myself." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think the lieutenant of police will see +you?" asked Poulailler; "he is not accessible to +strangers, since the miscreant you speak of played +him that trick at his own breakfast-table." +</p> + +<p> +"He will see Dean Potter of Brussels," was the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_18' name='Page_18'>18</a></span> +reply, delivered with the slightest possible tinge of +offended dignity. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, unquestionably!" said Poulailler,—"pray +pardon me." +</p> + +<p> +"Willingly, sir," said the Dean—and the conversation +flowed into other channels. +</p> + +<p> +Nine days later the wounded pride of Monsieur +Hérault was soothed by a very remarkable letter. It +was signed by one of Poulailler's band, who offered +himself as King's evidence, in the hope of obtaining +a pardon. The letter stated that the venerable Dean +Potter had been waylaid and murdered by Poulailler, +and that the robber, with his customary audacity, was +about to re-enter Paris by the Lisle coach, the next +day, disguised in the Dean's own clothes, and furnished +with the Dean's own papers. Monsieur +Hérault took his precautions without losing a moment. +Picked men were stationed, with their orders, +at the barrier through which the coach must pass to +enter Paris; while the lieutenant of police waited at +his office, in the company of two French gentlemen +who could speak to the Dean's identity, in the event +of Poulailler's impudently persisting in the assumption +of his victim's name. +</p> + +<p> +At the appointed hour the coach appeared, and +out of it got a man in the Dean's costume. He was +arrested in spite of his protestations; the papers of +the murdered Potter were found on him, and he was +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_19' name='Page_19'>19</a></span> +dragged off to the police office in triumph. The door +opened, and the posse comitatus entered with the +prisoner. Instantly the two witnesses burst out with +a cry of recognition, and turned indignantly on the +lieutenant of police. "Gracious Heaven, sir, what +have you done!" they exclaimed in horror; "this +is not Poulailler—here is our venerable friend; here +is the Dean himself!" At the same moment, a servant +entered with a letter. "Dean Potter. To the +care of Monsieur Hérault, Lieutenant of Police." The +letter was expressed in these words: "Venerable sir,—Profit +by the lesson I have given you. Be a Christian +for the future, and never again try to injure a +man unless he tries to injure you. Entirely yours, +Poulailler." +</p> + +<p> +These feats of cool audacity were matched by +others, in which his generosity to the sex asserted +itself as magnanimously as ever. +</p> + +<p> +Hearing, one day, that large sums of money were +kept in the house of a great lady, one Madame de +Brienne, whose door was guarded, in anticipation of a +visit from the famous thief, by a porter of approved +trustworthiness and courage, Poulailler undertook to +rob her in spite of her precautions, and succeeded. +With a stout pair of leather straps and buckles in his +pocket, and with two of his band, disguised as a +coachman and footman, he followed Madame de +Brienne one night to the theatre. Just before the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_20' name='Page_20'>20</a></span> +close of the performance, the lady's coachman and +footman were tempted away for five minutes by Poulailler's +disguised subordinates to have a glass of +wine. No attempt was made to detain them, or to +drug their liquor. But, in their absence, Poulailler +had slipped under the carriage, had hung his leather +straps round the pole—one to hold by, and one to +support his feet—and, with these simple preparations, +was now ready to wait for events. Madame de +Brienne entered the carriage—the footman got up +behind—Poulailler hung himself horizontally under +the pole, and was driven home with them, under +those singular circumstances. He was strong enough +to keep his position after the carriage had been taken +into the coach-house; and he only left it when the +doors were locked for the night. Provided with food +beforehand, he waited patiently, hidden in the coach-house, +for two days and nights, watching his opportunity +of getting into Madame de Brienne's boudoir. +</p> + +<p> +On the third night the lady went to a grand ball—the +servants relaxed in their vigilance while her +back was turned—and Poulailler slipped into the +room. He found two thousand louis d'ors, which was +nothing like the sum he expected, and a pocket-book, +which he took away with him to open at home. It +contained some stock-warrants for a comparatively +trifling amount. Poulailler was far too well off to +care about taking them, and far too polite, where a +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_21' name='Page_21'>21</a></span> +lady was concerned, not to send them back again, +under those circumstances. Accordingly, Madame de +Brienne received her warrants, with a note of apology +from the polite thief. +</p> + +<p> +"Pray excuse my visit to your charming boudoir," +wrote Poulailler, "in consideration of the false reports +of your wealth, which alone induced me to +enter it. If I had known what your pecuniary circumstances +really were, on the honour of a gentleman, +Madam, I should have been incapable of robbing +you. I cannot return your two thousand louis d'ors +by post, as I return your warrants. But if you +are at all pressed for money in future, I shall be +proud to assist so distinguished a lady by lending +her, from my own ample resources, double the sum +of which I regret to have deprived her on the present +occasion." This letter was shown to royalty at +Versailles. It excited the highest admiration of the +Court—especially of the ladies. Whenever the +robber's name was mentioned, they indulgently referred +to him as the Chevalier de Poulailler. Ah! +that was the age of politeness, when good-breeding +was recognised, even in a thief. Under similar circumstances, +who would recognise it now? O tempora! +O mores! +</p> + +<p> +On another occasion, Poulailler was out, one night, +taking the air and watching his opportunities on the +roofs of the houses; a member of the band being +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_22' name='Page_22'>22</a></span> +posted in the street below to assist him in case of +necessity. While in this position, sobs and groans +proceeding from an open back-garret window caught +his ear. A parapet rose before the window, which +enabled him to climb down and look in. Starving +children surrounding a helpless mother, and clamouring +for food, was the picture that met his eye. The +mother was young and beautiful; and Poulailler's +hand impulsively clutched his purse, as a necessary +consequence. Before the charitable thief could enter +by the window, a man rushed in by the door, with a +face of horror; and cast a handful of gold into the +lovely mother's lap. "My honour is gone," he cried; +"but our children are saved! Listen to the circumstances. +I met a man in the street below; he was +tall and thin; he had a green patch over one eye; +he was looking up suspiciously at this house, apparently +waiting for somebody. I thought of you—I +thought of the children—I seized the suspicious +stranger by the collar. Terror overwhelmed him +on the spot. 'Take my watch, my money, and +my two valuable gold snuff-boxes,' he said—'but +spare my life.' I took them." "Noble-hearted +man!" cried Poulailler, appearing at the window. +The husband started; the wife screamed; the children +hid themselves. "Let me entreat you to be +composed," continued Poulailler. "Sir! I enter on +the scene for the purpose of soothing your uneasy +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_23' name='Page_23'>23</a></span> +conscience. From your vivid description, I recognise +the man whose property is now in your wife's +lap. Resume your mental tranquillity. You have +robbed a robber—in other words, you have vindicated +society. Accept my congratulations on your +restored innocence. The miserable coward whose +collar you seized, is one of Poulailler's band. He has +lost his stolen property, as the fit punishment for his +disgraceful want of spirit." +</p> + +<p> +"Who are you?" exclaimed the husband. +</p> + +<p> +"I am Poulailler," replied the illustrious man, +with the simplicity of an ancient hero. "Take this +purse; and set up in business with the contents. +There is a prejudice, Sir, in favour of honesty. Give +that prejudice a chance. There was a time when I +felt it myself; I regret to feel it no longer. Under +all varieties of misfortune, an honest man has his +consolation still left. Where is it left? Here!" +He struck his heart—and the family fell on their +knees before him. +</p> + +<p> +"Benefactor of your species!" cried the husband—"how +can I show my gratitude?" +</p> + +<p> +"You can permit me to kiss the hand of madame," +answered Poulailler. +</p> + +<p> +Madame started to her feet, and embraced the +generous stranger. "What more can I do?" exclaimed +this lovely woman eagerly—"Oh, Heavens! +what more?" +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_24' name='Page_24'>24</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"You can beg your husband to light me down +stairs," replied Poulailler. He spoke, pressed their +hands, dropped a generous tear, and departed. At +that touching moment, his own adopted father would +not have known him. +</p> + +<p> +This last anecdote closes the record of Poulailler's +career in Paris. The lighter and more agreeable +aspects of that career have hitherto been designedly +presented, in discreet remembrance of the contrast +which the tragic side of the picture must now present. +Comedy and Sentiment, twin sisters of French +extraction, farewell! Horror enters next on the +stage—and enters welcome, in the name of the Fiend-Fisherman's +Adopted Son. +</p> + +<h3> +IV.—<span class='smcap'>His Exit from the Scene</span>. +</h3> + +<p> +The nature of Poulailler's more serious achievements +in the art of robbery may be realised by reference +to one terrible fact. In the police records of +the period, more than one hundred and fifty men and +women are reckoned up as having met their deaths +at the hands of Poulailler and his band. It was not +the practice of this formidable robber to take life as +well as property, unless life happened to stand directly +in his way—in which case he immediately +swept off the obstacle without hesitation and without +remorse. His deadly determination to rob, which was +thus felt by the population in general, was matched +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_25' name='Page_25'>25</a></span> +by his deadly determination to be obeyed, which was +felt by his followers in particular. One of their +number, for example, having withdrawn from his +allegiance, and having afterwards attempted to betray +his leader, was tracked to his hiding-place in a +cellar, and was there walled up alive in Poulailler's +presence; the robber composing the unfortunate +wretch's epitaph, and scratching it on the wet plaster +with his own hand. Years afterwards, the inscription +was noticed, when the house fell into the possession +of a new tenant, and was supposed to be +nothing more than one of the many jests which the +famous robber had practised in his time. When the +plaster was removed, the skeleton fell out, and testified +that Poulailler was in earnest. +</p> + +<p> +To attempt the arrest of such a man as this by +tampering with his followers, was practically impossible. +No sum of money that could be offered +would induce any one of the members of his band +to risk the fatal chance of his vengeance. Other +means of getting possession of him had been tried, +and tried in vain. Five times over, the police had +succeeded in tracking him to different hiding-places; +and on all five occasions, the women—who adored +him for his gallantry, his generosity, and his good +looks—had helped him to escape. If he had not +unconsciously paved the way to his own capture, first +by eloping with Mademoiselle Wilhelmina de Kirbergen, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_26' name='Page_26'>26</a></span> +and secondly by maltreating her, it is more +than doubtful whether the long arm of the law would +ever have reached far enough to fasten its grasp on +him. As it was, the extremes of love and hatred +met at last in the bosom of the devoted Wilhelmina; +and the vengeance of a neglected woman accomplished +what the whole police force of Paris had +been powerless to achieve. +</p> + +<p> +Poulailler, never famous for the constancy of his +attachments, had wearied, at an early period, of the +companion of his flight from Germany—but Wilhelmina +was one of those women whose affections, once +aroused, will not take No for an answer. She persisted +in attaching herself to a man who had ceased +to love her. Poulailler's patience became exhausted; +he tried twice to rid himself of his unhappy mistress—once +by the knife and once by poison—and failed +on both occasions. For the third and last time, by +way of attempting an experiment of another kind, +he established a rival to drive the German woman out +of the house. From that moment his fate was +sealed. Maddened by jealous rage, Wilhelmina cast +the last fragments of her fondness to the winds. She +secretly communicated with the police—and Poulailler +met his doom. +</p> + +<p> +A night was appointed with the authorities; and +the robber was invited by his discarded mistress to a +farewell interview. His contemptuous confidence in +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_27' name='Page_27'>27</a></span> +her fidelity rendered him careless of his customary +precautions. He accepted the appointment; and +the two supped together, on the understanding that +they were henceforth to be friends, and nothing +more. Towards the close of the meal, Poulailler +was startled by a ghastly change in the face of his +companion. +</p> + +<p> +"What is wrong with you?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"A mere trifle," she answered, looking at her +glass of wine. "I can't help loving you still, badly +as you have treated me. You are a dead man, Poulailler—and +I shall not survive you." +</p> + +<p> +The robber started to his feet, and seized a knife +on the table. +</p> + +<p> +"You have poisoned me?" he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +"No," she replied. "Poison is my vengeance on +myself; not my vengeance on <i>you</i>. You will rise +from this table as you sat down to it. But your +evening will be finished in prison; and your life will +be ended on the Wheel." +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke the words, the door was burst open +by the police, and Poulailler was secured. The same +night the poison did its fatal work; and his mistress +made atonement with her life for the first, last, act +of treachery which had revenged her on the man she +loved. +</p> + +<p> +Once safely lodged in the hands of justice, the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_28' name='Page_28'>28</a></span> +robber tried to gain time to escape in, by promising +to make important disclosures. The manœuvre +availed him nothing. In those days, the Laws of the +Land had not yet made acquaintance with the Laws +of Humanity. Poulailler was put to the torture—was +suffered to recover—was publicly broken on the +Wheel—and was taken off it alive, to be cast into a +blazing fire. By those murderous means, Society +rid itself of a murderous man—and the idlers on the +Boulevards took their evening stroll again in recovered +security. +</p> + +<hr class="l30" /> + +<p> +Paris had seen the execution of Poulailler—but, +if legends are to be trusted, our old friends, the +people of the fishing village in Brittany saw the end +of him afterwards. On the day and hour when he +perished, the heavens darkened, and a terrible storm +arose. Once more, and for a moment only, the +gleam of the unearthly fire reddened the windows of +the old Tower. Thunder pealed and struck the +building into fragments. Lightning flashed incessantly +over the ruins; and, in the scorching glare of +it, the boat which, in former years, had put off to +sea whenever the storm rose highest, was seen to +shoot out into the raging ocean from the cleft in the +rock—and was discovered, on this final occasion, to +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_29' name='Page_29'>29</a></span> +be doubly manned. The Fiend-Fisherman sat at +the helm; his Adopted Son tugged at the oars; and +a clamour of diabolical voices, roaring awfully through +the roaring storm, wished the pair of them a prosperous +voyage. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_30' name='Page_30'>30</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.—IV.<br /> +<span class="s08">THE BACHELOR BEDROOM.</span> +</h2> + +<p> +The great merit of this subject is that it starts +itself. +</p> + +<p> +The Bachelor Bedroom is familiar to everybody +who owns a country house, and to everybody who +has stayed in a country house. It is the one especial +sleeping apartment, in all civilised residences used +for the reception of company, which preserves a character +of its own. Married people and young ladies +may be shifted about from bedroom to bedroom as +their own caprice or the domestic convenience of the +host may suggest. But the bachelor guest, when he +has once had his room set apart for him, contrives +to dedicate it to the perpetual occupation of single +men from that moment. Who else is to have the +room afterwards, when the very atmosphere of it is +altered by tobacco-smoke? Who can venture to +throw it open to nervous spinsters, or respectable +married couples, when the footman is certain, from +mere force of habit, to make his appearance at the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_31' name='Page_31'>31</a></span> +door, with contraband bottles and glasses, after the +rest of the family have retired for the night? Where, +even if these difficulties could be got over, is any +second sleeping apartment to be found, in any house +of ordinary construction, isolated enough to secure +the soberly reposing portion of the guests from being +disturbed by the regular midnight party which the +bachelor persists in giving in his bedroom? Dining-rooms +and breakfast-rooms may change places; +double-bedded rooms and single-bedded rooms may +shift their respective characters backwards and forwards +amicably among each other—but the Bachelor +Bedroom remains immovably in its own place; sticks +immutably to its own bad character; stands out +victoriously whether the house is full, or whether +the house is empty, the one hospitable institution +that no repentant after-thoughts of host or hostess +can ever hope to suppress. +</p> + +<p> +Such a social phenomenon as this, taken with its +surrounding circumstances, deserves more notice than +it has yet obtained. The bachelor has been profusely +served up on all sorts of literary tables; but, +the presentation of him has been hitherto remarkable +for a singularly monotonous flavour of matrimonial +sauce. We have heard of his loneliness, and +its remedy; of his solitary position in illness, and +its remedy; of the miserable neglect of his linen, +and its remedy. But what have we heard of him in +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_32' name='Page_32'>32</a></span> +connexion with his remarkable bedroom, at those +periods of his existence when he, like the rest of +the world, is a visitor at his friend's country house? +Who has presented him, in his relation to married +society, under those peculiar circumstances of his +life, when he is away from his solitary chambers, and +is thrown straight into the sacred centre of that +home circle from which his ordinary habits are so +universally supposed to exclude him? Here, surely, +is a new aspect of the bachelor still left to be presented; +and here is a new subject for worn-out +readers of the nineteenth century, whose fountain of +literary novelty has become exhausted at the source. +</p> + +<p> +Let me sketch the history—in anticipation of a +large and serious work which I intend to produce, +one of these days, on the same subject—of the +Bachelor Bedroom, in a certain comfortable country +house, whose hospitable doors fly open to me with +the beginning of summer, and close no more until +the autumn is ended. I must beg permission to treat +this interesting topic from the purely human point +of view. In other words, I propose describing, not +the Bedroom itself, but the succession of remarkable +bachelors who have passed through it in my time. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The hospitable country-seat to which I refer is +Coolcup House, the residence of that enterprising +gentleman-farmer and respected chairman of Quarter +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_33' name='Page_33'>33</a></span> +Sessions, Sir John Giles. Sir John's Bachelor Bedroom +has been wisely fitted up on the ground-floor. +It is the one solitary sleeping apartment in that part +of the house. Fidgety bachelors can jump out on +to the lawn, at night, through the bow-window, without +troubling anybody to unlock the front door; and +can communicate with the presiding genius of the +cellar by merely crossing the hall. For the rest, +the room is delightfully airy and spacious, and fitted +up with all possible luxury. It started in life, under +Sir John's careful auspices, the perfection of neatness +and tidiness. But the bachelors have corrupted it +long since. However carefully the servants may +clean, and alter, and arrange it, the room loses its +respectability again, and gets slovenly and unpresentable +the moment their backs are turned. Sir +John himself, the tidiest man in existence, has given +up all hope of reforming it. He peeps in occasionally, +and sighs and shakes his head, and puts a chair +in its place, and straightens a print on the wall, and +looks about him at the general litter and confusion, +and gives it up and goes out again. He is a rigid +man and a resolute in the matter of order, and has +his way all over the rest of the house—but the +Bachelor Bedroom is too much for him. +</p> + +<p> +The first bachelor who inhabited the room when I +began to be a guest at Coolcup House, was Mr. Bigg. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bigg is, in the strictest sense of the word, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_34' name='Page_34'>34</a></span> +what you call a fine man. He stands over six feet, +is rather more than stout enough for his height, holds +his head up nobly, and dresses in a style of mingled +gaiety and grandeur which impresses everybody. The +morning shirts of Mr. Bigg are of so large a pattern +that nobody but his haberdasher knows what that +pattern really is. You see a bit of it on one side +of his collar which looks square, and a bit of it on +the other side which looks round. It goes up his +arm on one of his wristbands, and down his arm on +the other. Men who have seen his shirts off (if such +a statement may be permitted), and scattered loosely, +to Sir John's horror, over all the chairs in the Bedroom, +have been questioned, and have not been found +able to state that their eyes ever followed out the +patterns of any one of them fairly to the end. In +the matter of beautiful and expensive clothing for +the neck, Mr. Bigg is simply inexhaustible. Every +morning he appears at breakfast in a fresh scarf, and +taps his egg magnificently with a daily blaze of +new colour glowing on his capacious chest, to charm +the eyes of the young ladies who sit opposite to him. +All the other component parts of Mr. Bigg's costume +are of an equally grand and attractive kind, and are +set off by Mr. Bigg's enviable figure to equal advantage. +Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, he is altogether +an irreproachable character in the article of +dress. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, he is essentially +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_35' name='Page_35'>35</a></span> +a man of the world, who can be depended on +to perform any part allotted to him in any society +assembled at Coolcup House; who has lived among +all ranks and sorts of people; who has filled a public +situation with great breadth and dignity, and has +sat at table with crowned heads, and played his part +there with distinction; who can talk of these experiences, +and of others akin to them, with curious +fluency and ease, and can shift about to other subjects, +and pass the bottle, and carve, and draw out +modest people, and take all other social responsibilities +on his own shoulders complacently, at the +largest and dreariest county dinner party that Sir +John, to his own great discomfiture, can be obliged +to give. Such is Mr. Bigg in the society of the +house, when the door of the Bachelor Bedroom has +closed behind him. +</p> + +<p> +But what is Mr. Bigg, when he has courteously +wished the ladies good night, when he has secretly +summoned the footman with the surreptitious tray, +and when he has deluded the unprincipled married +men of the party into having half an hour's cozy +chat with him before they go up-stairs? Another +being—a being unknown to the ladies, and unsuspected +by the respectable guests. Inside the Bedroom, +the outward aspect of Mr. Bigg changes as if +by magic; and a kind of gorgeous slovenliness pervades +him from top to toe. Buttons which have +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_36' name='Page_36'>36</a></span> +rigidly restrained him within distinct physical boundaries, +slip exhausted out of their buttonholes; and +the figure of Mr. Bigg suddenly expands and asserts +itself for the first time as a protuberant fact. His +neckcloth flies on to the nearest chair, his rigid +shirt-collar yawns open, his wiry under-whiskers ooze +multitudinously into view, his coat, waistcoat, and +braces drop off his shoulders. If the two young +ladies who sleep in the room above, and who most +unreasonably complain of the ceaseless nocturnal +croaking and growling of voices in the Bachelor Bedroom, +could look down through the ceiling now, they +would not know Mr. Bigg again, and would suspect +that a dissipated artisan had intruded himself into +Sir John's house. +</p> + +<p> +In the same way, the company who have sat in +Mr. Bigg's neighbourhood at the dinner-table at seven +o'clock, would find it impossible to recognise his conversation +at midnight. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, +if his talk has shown him to be anything at +all, it has shown him to be the exact reverse of an +enthusiast. Inside the Bachelor Bedroom, after all +due attention has been paid to the cigar-box and +the footman's tray, it becomes unaccountably manifest +to everybody that Mr. Bigg is, after all, a fanatical +character, a man possessed of one fixed idea. Then, +and then only, does he mysteriously confide to his +fellow revellers that he is the one remarkable man +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_37' name='Page_37'>37</a></span> +in Great Britain who has discovered the real authorship +of Junius's Letters. In the general society of +the house, nobody ever hears him refer to the subject; +nobody ever suspects that he takes more than +the most ordinary interest in literary matters. In +the select society of the Bedroom, inspired by the +surreptitious tray and the midnight secrecy, wrapped +in clouds of tobacco smoke, and freed from the +restraint of his own magnificent garments, the truth +flies out of Mr. Bigg, and the authorship of Junius's +Letters becomes the one dreary subject which this +otherwise variously gifted man persists in dilating +on for hours together. But for the Bachelor Bedroom, +nobody alive would ever have discovered that +the true key to unlock Mr. Bigg's character is Junius. +If the subject is referred to the next day by his +companions of the night, he declines to notice it; +but, once in the Bedroom again, he takes it up +briskly, as if the attempted reference to it had been +made but the moment before. The last time I saw +him was in the Bachelor Bedroom. It was three +o'clock in the morning; two tumblers were broken; +half a lemon was in the soap-dish, and the soap itself +was on the chimney-piece; restless married rakes, +who were desperately afraid of waking up their wives +when they left us, were walking to and fro absently, +and crunching knobs of loaf-sugar under foot at every +step; Mr. Bigg was standing, with his fourth cigar +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_38' name='Page_38'>38</a></span> +in his mouth, before the fire; one of his hands was +in the tumbled bosom of his shirt, the other was +grasping mine, while he pathetically appointed me +his literary executor, and generously bequeathed to +me his great discovery of the authorship of Junius's +Letters. Upon the whole, Mr. Bigg is the most incorrigible +bachelor on record in the annals of the +Bedroom; he has consumed more candles, ordered +more footmen's trays, seen more early daylight, and +produced more pale faces among the gentlemen at +breakfast time, than any other single visitor at Coolcup +House. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The next bachelor in the order of succession, and +the completest contrast conceivable to Mr. Bigg, is +Mr. Jeremy. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jeremy is, perhaps, the most miserable-looking +little man that ever tottered under the form of +humanity. Wear what clothes he may, he invariably +looks shabby in them. He is the victim of +perpetual accidents and perpetual ill-health; and the +Bachelor Bedroom, when he inhabits it, is turned +into a doctor's shop, and bristles all over with bottles +and pills. Mr. Jeremy's personal tribute to the hospitalities +of Coolcup House is always paid in the +same singularly unsatisfactory manner to his host. +On one day in the week, he gorges himself gaily with +food and drink, and soars into the seventh heaven of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_39' name='Page_39'>39</a></span> +convivial beatitude. On the other six, he is invariably +ill in consequence, is reduced to the utmost +rigours of starvation and physic, sinks into the lowest +depths of depression, and takes the bitterest imaginable +views of human life. Hardly a single accident +has happened at Coolcup House in which he +has not been personally and chiefly concerned; +hardly a single malady can occur to the human +frame the ravages of which he has not practically +exemplified in his own person under Sir John's roof. +If any one guest, in the fruit season, terrifies the rest +by writhing under the internal penalties in such +cases made and provided by the laws of nature, it is +Mr. Jeremy. If any one tumbles up-stairs, or down-stairs, +or off a horse, or out of a dog-cart, it is Mr. +Jeremy. If you want a case of sprained ankle, a +case of suppressed gout, a case of complicated earache, +toothache, headache, and sore-throat, all in +one, a case of liver, a case of chest, a case of nerves, +or a case of low fever, go to Coolcup House while +Mr. Jeremy is staying there, and he will supply you, +on demand, at the shortest notice and to any extent. +It is conjectured by the intimate friends of this +extremely wretched bachelor, that he has but two +sources of consolation to draw on, as a set-off against +his innumerable troubles. The first is the luxury of +twisting his nose on one side, and stopping up his +air-passages and Eustachian tubes with inconceivably +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_40' name='Page_40'>40</a></span> +large quantities of strong snuff. The second is the +oleaginous gratification of incessantly anointing his +miserable little beard and mustachios with cheap +bear's-grease, which always turns rancid on the premises +before he has half done with it. When Mr. +Jeremy gives a party in the Bachelor Bedroom, his +guests have the unexpected pleasure of seeing him +take his physic, and hearing him describe his maladies +and recount his accidents. In other respects, the +moral influence of the Bedroom over the characters +of those who occupy it, which exhibits Mr. Bigg in +the unexpected literary aspect of a commentator on +Junius, is found to tempt Mr. Jeremy into betraying +a horrible triumph and interest in the maladies of +others, of which nobody would suspect him in the +general society of the house. +</p> + +<p> +"I noticed you, after dinner to-day," says this invalid +bachelor, on such occasions, to any one of the +Bedroom guests who may be rash enough to complain +of the slightest uneasiness in his presence; "I +saw the corners of your mouth get green, and the +whites of your eyes look yellow. You have got a +pain here," says Mr. Jeremy, gaily indicating the +place to which he refers on his own shattered +frame, with an appearance of extreme relish—"a +pain <i>here</i>, and a sensation like having a cannon-ball +inside you, <i>there</i>. You will be parched with thirst +and racked with fidgets all to-night; and to-morrow +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_41' name='Page_41'>41</a></span> +morning you will get up with a splitting headache, +and a dark-brown tongue, and another cannon-ball in +your inside. My dear fellow, I'm a veteran at this +sort of thing; and I know exactly the state you will +be in next week, and the week after, and when you +will have to try the sea-side, and how many pounds' +weight you will lose to a dead certainty, before you +can expect to get over this attack. Suppose we +look under his ribs, on the right side of him?" continues +Mr. Jeremy, addressing himself confidentially +to the company in general. "I'll lay anybody five +to one we find an alarming lump under the skin. +And that lump will be his liver!" +</p> + +<p> +Thus, while Mr. Bigg always astonishes the Bedroom +guests on the subject of Junius, Mr. Jeremy +always alarms them on the subject of themselves. +Mr. Smart, the next, and third bachelor, placed +in a similar situation, displays himself under a +more agreeable aspect, and makes the society that +surrounds him, for the night at least, supremely +happy. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +On the first day of his arrival at Coolcup House, +Mr. Smart deceived us all. When he was first presented +to us, we were deeply impressed by the +serene solemnity of this gentleman's voice, look, +manner, and costume. He was as carefully dressed +as Mr. Bigg himself, but on totally different principles. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_42' name='Page_42'>42</a></span> +Mr. Smart was fearfully and wonderfully +gentlemanly in his avoidance of anything approaching +to bright colour on any part of his body. +Quakerish drabs and greys clothed him in the morning. +Dismal black, unrelieved by an atom of jewellery, +undisturbed even by so much as a flower in his +button-hole, encased him grimly in the evening. He +moved about the room and the garden with a ghostly +and solemn stalk. When the ladies got brilliant in +their conversation, he smiled upon them with a deferential +modesty and polite Grandisonian admiration +that froze the blood of "us youth" in our veins. +When he spoke, it was like reading a passage from +an elegant moral writer—the words were so beautifully +arranged, the sentences were turned so +musically, the sentiment conveyed was so delightfully +well regulated, so virtuously appropriate to +nothing in particular. At such times he always +spoke in a slow, deep, and gentle drawl, with a thrillingly +clear emphasis on every individual syllable. +His speech sounded occasionally like a kind of highly-bred +foreign English, spoken by a distinguished +stranger who had mastered the language to such an +extent that he had got beyond the natives altogether. +We watched enviously all day for any signs of human +infirmity in this surprising individual. The men detected +him in nothing. Even the sharper eyes of +the women only discovered that he was addicted to +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_43' name='Page_43'>43</a></span> +looking at himself affectionately in every glass in +the house, when he thought that nobody was noticing +him. At dinner-time we all pinned our faith on Sir +John's excellent wine, and waited anxiously for its +legitimate effect on the superb and icy stranger. +Nothing came of it; Mr. Smart was as carefully +guarded with the bottle as he was with the English +language. All through the evening he behaved himself +so dreadfully well that we quite began to hate +him. When the company parted for the night, and +when Mr. Smart (who was just mortal enough to be a +bachelor) invited us to a cigar in the Bedroom, his +highly-bred foreign English was still in full perfection; +his drawl had reached its elocutionary climax +of rich and gentle slowness; and his Grandisonian +smile was more exasperatingly settled and composed +than ever. +</p> + +<p> +The Bedroom door closed on us. We took off our +coats, tore open our waistcoats, rushed in a body on +the new bachelor's cigar-box, and summoned the +evil genius of the footman's tray. +</p> + +<p> +At the first round of the tumblers, the false Mr. +Smart began to disappear, and the true Mr. Smart +approached, as it were, from a visionary distance, +and took his place among us. He chuckled—Grandison +chuckled—within the hearing of every man in +the room! We were surprised at that; but what +were our sensations when, in less than ten minutes +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_44' name='Page_44'>44</a></span> +afterwards, the highly-bred English and the gentle +drawl mysteriously disappeared, and there came +bursting out upon us, from the ambush of Mr. +Smart's previous elocution, the jolliest, broadest, and +richest Irish brogue we had ever heard in our lives! +The mystery was explained now. Mr. Smart had a +coat of the smoothest English varnish laid over him, +for highly-bred county society, which nothing mortal +could peel off but bachelor company and whiskey-and-water. +He slipped out of his close-fitting English +envelope, in the loose atmosphere of the Bachelor +Bedroom, as glibly as a tightly-laced young lady +slips out of her stays when the admiring eyes of the +world are off her waist for the night. Never was +man so changed as Mr. Smart was now. His moral +sentiments melted like the sugar in his grog; his +grammar disappeared with his white cravat. Wild +and lavish generosity suddenly became the leading +characteristic of this once reticent man. We tried +all sorts of subjects, and were obliged to drop every +one of them, because Mr. Smart would promise to +make us a present of whatever we talked about. +The family mansion in Ireland contained everything +that this world can supply; and Mr. Smart was resolved +to dissipate that priceless store in gifts distributed +to the much-esteemed company. He promised +me a schooner yacht, and made a memorandum +of the exact tonnage in his pocket-book. He promised +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_45' name='Page_45'>45</a></span> +my neighbour, on one side, a horse, and, on +the other, a unique autograph letter of Shakespeare's. +We had all three been talking respectively of sailing, +hunting, and the British Drama; and we now held +our tongues for fear of getting new presents if we +tried new subjects. Other members of the festive +assembly took up the ball of conversation, and were +prostrated forthwith by showers of presents for their +pains. When we all parted in the dewy morning, +we left Mr. Smart with dishevelled hair, checking off +his voluminous memoranda of gifts with an unsteady +pencil, and piteously entreating us, in the richest +Irish-English, to correct him instantly if we detected +the slightest omission anywhere. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, at breakfast, we rather wondered +which nation our friend would turn out to +belong to. He set all doubts at rest the moment he +opened the door, by entering the room with the old +majestic stalk; saluting the ladies with the serene +Grandison smile; trusting we had all rested well +during the night, in a succession of elegantly-turned +sentences; and enunciating the highly-bred English +with the imperturbably-gentle drawl which we all +imagined, the night before, that we had lost for ever. +He stayed more than a fortnight at Coolcup House; +and, in all that time, nobody ever knew the true +Mr. Smart except the guests in the Bachelor Bedroom. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_46' name='Page_46'>46</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +The fourth Bachelor on the list deserves especial +consideration and attention. In the first place, because +he presents himself to the reader, in the character +of a distinguished foreigner. In the second +place, because he contrived, in the most amiable +manner imaginable, to upset all the established arrangements +of Coolcup House—inside the Bachelor +Bedroom, as well as outside it—from the moment +when he entered its doors, to the moment when he +left them behind him on his auspicious return to his +native country. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a +rare, probably a unique, species of bachelor; and +Mr. Bigg, Mr. Jeremy, and Mr. Smart have no claim +whatever to stand in the faintest light of comparison +with him. +</p> + +<p> +When I mention that the distinguished guest now +introduced to notice is Herr von Müffe, it will be +unnecessary for me to add that I refer to the distinguished +German poet, whose far-famed Songs +Without Sense have aided so immeasurably in thickening +the lyric obscurities of his country's Harp. +On his arrival in London, Herr von Müffe forwarded +his letter of introduction to Sir John by post, and +immediately received, in return, the usual hospitable +invitation to Coolcup House. +</p> + +<p> +The eminent poet arrived barely in time to dress +for dinner; and made his first appearance in our +circle while we were waiting in the drawing-room for +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_47' name='Page_47'>47</a></span> +the welcome signal of the bell. He waddled in among +us softly and suddenly, in the form of a very short, +puffy, florid, roundabout old gentleman, with flowing +grey hair and a pair of huge circular spectacles. +The extreme shabbiness and dinginess of his costume +was so singularly set off by the quantity of foreign +orders of merit which he wore all over the upper +part of it, that a sarcastic literary gentleman among +the guests defined him to me, in a whisper, as a +compound of "decorations and dirt." Sir John advanced +to greet his distinguished guest, with friendly +right hand extended as usual. Herr von Müffe, without +saying a word, took the hand carefully in both +his own, and expressed affectionate recognition of +English hospitality, by transferring it forthwith to +that vacant space between his shirt and his waistcoat +which extended over the region of the heart. Sir +John turned scarlet, and tried vainly to extricate his +hand from the poet's too affectionate bosom. The +dinner-bell rang, but Herr von Müffe still held fast. +The principal lady in the company half rose, and +looked perplexedly at her host—Sir John made +another and a desperate effort to escape—failed +again—and was marched into the dining-room, in +full view of his servants and his guests, with his +hand sentimentally imprisoned in his foreign visitor's +waistcoat. +</p> + +<p> +After this romantic beginning, Herr von Müffe +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_48' name='Page_48'>48</a></span> +rather surprised us by showing that he was decidedly +the reverse of a sentimentalist in the matter of eating +and drinking. +</p> + +<p> +Neither dish nor bottle passed the poet, without +paying heavy tribute, all through the repast. He +mixed his liquors, especially, with the most sovereign +contempt for all sanitary considerations; drinking +champagne and beer, the sweetest Constantia and +the tawniest port, all together, with every appearance +of the extremest relish. Conversation with +Herr von Müffe, both at dinner, and all through the +evening, was found to be next to impossible, in consequence +of his knowing all languages (his own +included) equally incorrectly. His German was +pronounced to be a dialect never heard before; his +French was inscrutable; his English was a philological +riddle which all of us guessed at and none of +us found out. He talked, in spite of these difficulties, +incessantly; and, seeing that he shed tears +several times in the course of the evening, the ladies +assumed that his topics were mostly of a pathetic +nature, while the coarser men compared notes with +each other, and all agreed that the distinguished +guest was drunk. When the time came for retiring, +we had to invite ourselves into the Bachelor Bedroom; +Herr von Müffe having no suspicion of our +customary midnight orgies, and apparently feeling +no desire to entertain us, until we informed him of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_49' name='Page_49'>49</a></span> +the institution of the footman's tray—when he became +hospitable on a sudden, and unreasonably fond +of his gay young English friends. +</p> + +<p> +While we were settling ourselves in our places +round the bed, a member of the company kicked +over one of the poet's capacious Wellington boots. +To the astonishment of every one, there instantly +ensued a tinkling of coin, and some sovereigns and +shillings rolled surprisingly out on the floor from +the innermost recesses of the boot. On receiving +his money back, Herr von Müffe informed us, without +the slightest appearance of embarrassment, that he +had not had time, before dinner, to take more than +his watch, rings, and decorations, out of his boots. +Seeing us all stare at this incomprehensible explanation, +our distinguished friend kindly endeavoured to +enlighten us further by a long personal statement +in his own polyglot language. From what we could +understand of this narrative (which was not much), +we gathered that Herr von Müffe had started at +noon, that day, as a total stranger in our metropolis, +to reach the London-bridge station in a cab; and +that the driver had taken him, as usual, across +Waterloo-bridge. On going through the Borough, +the narrow streets, miserable houses, and squalid +population, had struck the lively imagination of Herr +von Müffe, and had started in his mind a horrible +suspicion that the cabman was driving him into a +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_50' name='Page_50'>50</a></span> +low neighbourhood, with the object of murdering a +helpless foreign fare, in perfect security, for the sake +of the valuables he carried on his person. Chilled +to the very marrow of his bones by this idea, the +poet raised the ends of his trousers stealthily in the +cab, slipped his watch, rings, orders, and money into +the legs of his Wellington boots, arrived at the +station quaking with mortal terror, and screamed +"Help!" at the top of his voice, when the railway +policeman opened the cab door. The immediate +starting of the train had left him no time to alter +the singular travelling arrangements he had made +in the Borough; and he arrived at Coolcup House, +the only individual who had ever yet entered that +mansion with his property in his boots. +</p> + +<p> +Amusing as it was in itself, this anecdote failed +a little in its effect on us at the time, in consequence +of the stifling atmosphere in which we were condemned +to hear it. +</p> + +<p> +Although it was then the sultry middle of summer, +and we were all smoking, Herr von Müffe insisted +on keeping the windows of the Bachelor Bedroom +fast closed, because it was one of his peculiarities +to distrust the cooling effect of the night air. We +were more than half inclined to go, under these +circumstances; and we were altogether determined +to remove, when the tray came in, and when we +found our German friend madly mixing his liquors +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_51' name='Page_51'>51</a></span> +again by pouring gin and sherry together into the +same tumbler. We warned him, with a shuddering +prevision of consequences, that he was mistaking gin +for water; and he blandly assured us in return that +he was doing nothing of the kind. "It is good for +My ——" said Herr von Müffe, supplying his ignorance +of the word stomach by laying his chubby +forefinger on the organ in question, with a sentimental +smile. "It is bad for Our ——" retorted the +wag of the party, imitating the poet's action, and +turning quickly to the door. We all followed him—and, +for the first time in the annals of Coolcup House, +the Bachelor Bedroom was emptied of company before +midnight. +</p> + +<p> +Early the next morning, one of Sir John's younger +sons burst into my room in a state of violent excitement. +</p> + +<p> +"I say, what's to be done with Müffe?" inquired +the young gentleman, with wildly staring eyes. +</p> + +<p> + "Open his windows, and fetch the doctor," I +answered, inspired by the recollections of the past +night. +</p> + +<p> +"Doctor!" cried the boy; "the doctor won't do—it's +the barber." +</p> + +<p> +"Barber?" I repeated. +</p> + +<p> +"He's been asking me <i>to shave him</i>!" roared my +young friend, with vehement comic indignation. +"He rang his bell, and asked for 'the Son of the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_52' name='Page_52'>52</a></span> +House'—and they made me go; and there he was, +grinning in the big arm-chair, with his mangy little +shaving-brush in his hand, and a towel over his +shoulder. 'Good morning, my dear. Can you shave +My ——' says he, and taps his quivering old double +chin with his infernal shaving-brush. Curse his impudence! +What's to be done with him?" +</p> + +<p> +I arranged to explain to Herr von Müffe, at +the first convenient opportunity, that it was not the +custom in England, whatever it might be in Germany, +for "the Son of the House" to shave his +father's guests; and undertook, at the same time, to +direct the poet to the residence of the village barber. +When the German guest joined us at breakfast, his +unshaven chin, and the external results of his mixed +potations and his seclusion from fresh air, by no +means tended to improve his personal appearance. +In plain words, he looked the picture of dyspeptic +wretchedness. +</p> + +<p> +"I am afraid, sir, you are hardly so well this +morning as we could all wish?" said Sir John, +kindly. +</p> + +<p> +Herr von Müffe looked at his host affectionately, +surveyed the company all round the table, smiled +faintly, laid the chubby forefinger once more on the +organ whose name he did not know, and answered +with the most enchanting innocence and simplicity: +</p> + +<p> +"I am <i>so</i> sick!" +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_53' name='Page_53'>53</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +There was no harm—upon my word, there was +no harm in Herr Von Müffe. On the contrary, there +was a great deal of good-nature and genuine simplicity +in his composition. But he was a man naturally +destitute of all power of adapting himself to new persons +and new circumstances; and he became amiably +insupportable, in consequence, to everybody in the +house, throughout the whole term of his visit. He +could not join one of us in any country diversions. +He hung about the house and garden in a weak, +pottering, aimless manner, always turning up at the +wrong moment, and always attaching himself to the +wrong person. He was dexterous in a perfectly +childish way at cutting out little figures of shepherds +and shepherdesses in paper; and he was perpetually +presenting these frail tributes of admiration to the +ladies, who always tore them up and threw them +away in secret the moment his back was turned. +When he was not occupied with his paper figures, +he was out in the garden, gathering countless little +nosegays, and sentimentally presenting them to everybody; +not to the ladies only, but to lusty agricultural +gentlemen as well, who accepted them with blank +amazement; and to schoolboys, home for the holidays, +who took them, bursting with internal laughter +at the "molly-coddle" gentleman from foreign parts. +As for poor Sir John, he suffered more than any of +us; for Herr von Müffe was always trying to kiss +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_54' name='Page_54'>54</a></span> +him. In short, with the best intentions in the world, +this unhappy foreign bachelor wearied out the patience +of everybody in the house; and, to our shame be it +said, we celebrated his departure, when he left us +at last, by a festival-meeting in the Bachelor Bedroom, +in honour of the welcome absence of Herr von +Müffe. +</p> + +<p> +I cannot say in what spirit my fellow-revellers +have reflected on our behaviour since that time; but +I know, for my own part, that I now look back at +my personal share in our proceedings with rather an +uneasy conscience. I am afraid we were all of us a +little hard on Herr von Müffe; and I hereby desire +to offer him my own individual tribute of tardy +atonement, by leaving him to figure as the last and +crowning type of the Bachelor species presented in +these pages. If he has produced anything approaching +to a pleasing effect on the reader's mind, that +effect shall not be weakened by the appearance of +any more single men, native or foreign. Let the +door of the Bachelor Bedroom close with our final +glimpse of the German guest; and permit the present +chronicler to lay down the pen when it has +traced penitently, for the last time, the name of Herr +von Müffe. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_55' name='Page_55'>55</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY.<br /> +III. +<br /> +<span class="s08">A REMARKABLE REVOLUTION.</span> +</h2> + +<p> +A revolution which is serious enough to overthrow +a reigning sovereign—which is short enough to last +only nine hours—and which is peaceable enough to +begin and end without the taking of a single life or +the shedding of a drop of blood, is certainly a phenomenon +in the history of human affairs which is worth +being carefully investigated. Such a revolution +actually happened, in the empire of Russia, little +more than a century and a quarter ago. The narrative +here attempted of its rise, its progress, and its +end, may be trusted throughout as faithful to the +truth. Extraordinary as they may appear, the +events described in this fragment of history are matters +of fact from first to last. +</p> + +<p> +We start with a famous Russian character—Peter +the Great. His son, who may be not unfairly distinguished +as Peter the Small, died in the year seventeen +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_56' name='Page_56'>56</a></span> +hundred and thirty. With the death of this +last personage the political difficulties arose, which +ended in the easy pulling down of one sovereign +ruler at midnight, and the easy setting up of another +by nine o'clock the next morning. +</p> + +<p> +Besides the son whom he left to succeed him, Peter +the Great had a daughter, whose title was princess, +and whose name was Elizabeth. Peter's widow, the +famous Empress Catherine, being a far-seeing woman, +made a will which contained the expression of +her wishes in regard to the succession to the throne, +and which plainly and properly designated the Princess +Elizabeth (there being no Salic law in Russia) +as the reigning sovereign to be chosen after the +death of her brother, Peter the Small. Nothing, +apparently, could be more straightforward than the +course to be followed, at that time, in appointing a +new ruler over the Russian people. +</p> + +<p> +But there happened to be living at Court two +noblemen—Prince d'Olgorowki and Count Osterman—who +had an interest of their own in complicating +the affairs connected with the succession. +</p> + +<p> +These two distinguished personages had possessed +considerable power and authority, under the feeble +reign of Peter the Small, and they knew enough of +his sister's resolute and self-reliant character to doubt +what might become of their court position and their +political privileges after the Princess Elizabeth was +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_57' name='Page_57'>57</a></span> +seated on the throne. Accordingly they lost no time +in nominating a rival candidate of their own choosing, +whom they dexterously raised to the Imperial +dignity, before there was time for the partisans of +the Princess Elizabeth to dispute the authority +under which they acted. The new sovereign, thus +unjustly invested with power, was a woman—Anne, +Dowager Duchess of Courland—and the pretence +under which Prince d'Olgorowki and Count Osterman +proclaimed her Empress of Russia, was that Peter +the Small had confidentially communicated to them, +on his death-bed, a desire that the Dowager Duchess +should be chosen as the sovereign to succeed him. +</p> + +<p> +The main result of the Dowager Duchess's occupation +of the throne was the additional complication +of the confused political affairs of Russia. The new +empress had an eye to the advancement of her +family; and, among the other relatives for whom +she provided, was a niece, named Catherine, whom +she married to the Prince of Brunswick, brother-in-law +of the King of Prussia. The first child born of +the marriage was a boy named Ivan. Before he had +reached the age of two years, the new Empress died; +and, when her will was opened, it was discovered, to +the amazement of every one, that she had appointed +this child to succeed her on the throne of Russia. +</p> + +<p> +The private motive which led the Empress to take +this extraordinary course, was her desire to place the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_58' name='Page_58'>58</a></span> +sovereign power in the hands of one of her favourites, +the Duke de Biren, by nominating that nobleman as +the guardian of the infant Ivan. To accomplish this +purpose, she had not only slighted the legitimate claims +of Peter the Great's daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, +but had also entirely overlooked the interests of Ivan's +mother, who naturally felt that she had a right to +ascend the throne, as the nearest relation of the deceased +empress, and the mother of the child who +was designated to be the future emperor. To the +bewilderment and dissatisfaction thus produced, a +further element of confusion was added by the total +incapacity of the Duke de Biren to occupy creditably +the post of authority which had been assigned to +him. Before he had been long in office, he gave +way altogether under the double responsibility of +guiding the affairs of Russia and directing the education +of the future emperor. Ivan's mother saw +the chance of asserting her rights which the weakness +of the duke afforded to her. She was a resolute +woman; and she seized her opportunity by banishing +Biren to Siberia, and taking his place as Regent +of the Empire and guardian of her infant son. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the result, thus far, of the great scramble +for the crown which began with the death of the +son of Peter the Great. Such was the position of +affairs in Russia at the time when the revolution +broke out. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_59' name='Page_59'>59</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +Through all the contentions which distracted the +country, the Princess Elizabeth lived in the retirement +of her own palace, waiting secretly, patiently, +and vigilantly for the fit opportunity of asserting her +rights. She was, in every sense of the word, a remarkable +woman, and she numbered two remarkable +men among the adherents of her cause. One was +the French ambassador at the court of Russia, the +Marquis de la Chétardie. The other was the surgeon +of Elizabeth's household, a German, named Lestoc. +The Frenchman had money to spend; the German +had brains to plot. Both were men of tried courage +and resolute will; and both were destined to take +the foremost places in the coming struggle. It is +certainly not the least curious circumstance in the +extraordinary revolution which we are now about to +describe, that it was planned and carried out by two +foreigners. In the struggle for the Russian throne, +the natives of the Russian soil were used only as +instruments to be handled and directed at the pleasure +of the French ambassador and the German surgeon. +</p> + +<p> +The Marquis and Lestoc, watching the signs of +the times, arrived at the conclusion that the period +of the banishment of the Duke de Biren and of the +assumption of the supreme power by the mother of +Ivan, was also the period for effecting the revolution +which was to place the Princess Elizabeth on the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_60' name='Page_60'>60</a></span> +throne of her ancestors. The dissatisfaction in +Russia had, by this time, spread widely among all +classes. The people chafed under a despotism inflicted +on them by foreigners. The native nobility +felt outraged by their exclusion from privileges which +had been conceded to their order under former reigns, +before the aliens from Courland had seized on power. +The army was for the most part to be depended on +to answer any bold appeal that might be made to it, +in favour of the daughter of Peter the Great. With +these chances in their favour, the Frenchman and +the German set themselves to the work of organising +the scattered elements of discontent. The Marquis +opened his well-filled purse; and Surgeon Lestoc +prowled about the city and the palace with watchful +eyes, with persuasive tongue, with delicately-bribing +hands. The great point to be achieved was to +tamper successfully with the regiment on duty at the +palace; and this was skilfully and quickly accomplished +by Lestoc. In the course of a few days only, +he contrived to make sure of all the considerable +officers of the regiment, and of certain picked men +from the ranks besides. On counting heads, the +members of the military conspiracy thus organised +came to thirty-three. Exactly the same number of +men had once plotted the overthrow of Julius Cæsar, +and had succeeded in the attempt. +</p> + +<p> +Matters had proceeded thus far when the suspicions +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_61' name='Page_61'>61</a></span> +of the Duchess Regent (that being the title which +Ivan's mother had now assumed) were suddenly +excited, without the slightest apparent cause to +arouse them. Nothing dangerous had been openly +attempted as yet, and not one of the conspirators had +betrayed the secret. Nevertheless the Duchess Regent +began to doubt; and, one morning, she astonished +and alarmed the Marquis and Lestoc by +sending, without any previous warning, for the Princess +Elizabeth, and by addressing a series of searching +questions to her at a private interview. Fortunately +for the success of the plot, the daughter of +Peter the Great was more than a match for the +Duchess Regent. From first to last Elizabeth proved +herself equal to the dangerous situation in which she +was placed. The Duchess discovered nothing; and +the heads of the thirty-three conspirators remained +safe on their shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +This piece of good fortune operated on the cunning +and resolute Lestoc as a warning to make haste. +Between the danger of waiting to mature the conspiracy, +and the risk of letting it break out abruptly +before the organisation of it was complete, he chose +the latter alternative. The Marquis agreed with +him that it was best to venture everything, before +there was time for the suspicions of the Duchess to +be renewed; and the Princess Elizabeth, on her part, +was perfectly ready to be guided by the advice of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_62' name='Page_62'>62</a></span> +her two trusty adherents. The fifteenth of January, +seventeen hundred and forty-one, had been the day +originally fixed for the breaking out of the revolution. +Lestoc now advanced the period for making +the great attempt by nine days. On the night of +the sixth of January the Duchess Regent and the +Princess Elizabeth were to change places, and the +throne of Russia was to become once more the inheritance +of the family of Peter the Great. +</p> + +<p> +Between nine and ten o'clock, on the night of the +sixth, Surgeon Lestoc strolled out, with careless +serenity on his face, and devouring anxiety at his +heart, to play his accustomed game of billiards at a +French coffee-house. The stakes were ten ducats, +and Lestoc did not play quite so well as usual that +evening. When the clock of the coffee-house struck +ten, he stopped in the middle of the game, and +drew out his watch. +</p> + +<p> +"I beg ten thousand pardons," he said to the gentleman +with whom he was playing; "but I am afraid +I must ask you to let me go before the game is done. +I have a patient to see at ten o'clock, and the hour +has just struck. Here is a friend of mine," he continued, +bringing forward one of the bystanders by the +arm, "who will, with your permission, play in my +place. It is quite immaterial to me whether he loses +or whether he wins: I am merely anxious that your +game should not be interrupted. Ten thousand pardons +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_63' name='Page_63'>63</a></span> +again. Nothing but the necessity of seeing a +patient could have induced me to be guilty of this +apparent rudeness. I wish you much pleasure, gentlemen, +and I most unwillingly bid you good night." +</p> + +<p> +With that polite farewell, he departed. The +patient whom he was going to cure was the sick +Russian Empire. +</p> + +<p> +He got into his sledge, and drove off to the palace +of the Princess Elizabeth. She trembled a little +when he told her quietly that the hour had come for +possessing herself of the throne; but, soon recovering +her spirits, dressed to go out, concealed a knife about +her in case of emergency, and took her place by the +side of Lestoc in the sledge. The two then set forth +together for the French embassy to pick up the +second leader of the conspiracy. +</p> + +<p> +They found the Marquis alone, cool, smiling, humming +a gay French tune, and quietly amusing himself +by making a drawing. Elizabeth and Lestoc looked +over his shoulder, and the former started a little when +she saw what the subject of the drawing was. In the +background appeared a large monastery, a grim +prison-like building, with barred windows and jealously-closed +gates; in the foreground were two high +gibbets and two wheels of the sort used to break +criminals on. The drawing was touched in with +extraordinary neatness and steadiness of hand; and +the Marquis laughed gaily when he saw how seriously +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_64' name='Page_64'>64</a></span> +the subject represented had startled and amazed the +Princess Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +"Courage, madam!" he said. "I was only amusing +myself by making a sketch illustrative of the future +which we may all three expect if we fail in our enterprise. +In an hour from this time, you will be on the +throne, or on your way to this ugly building." (He +touched the monastery in the background of the +drawing lightly with the point of his pencil.) "In +an hour from this time, also, our worthy Lestoc and +myself will either be the two luckiest men in Russia, +or the two miserable criminals who are bound on +these" (he touched the wheels) "and hung up afterwards +on those" (he touched the gibbets). "You +will pardon me, madam, for indulging in this ghastly +fancy? I was always eccentric from childhood. My +good Lestoc, as we seem to be quite ready, perhaps +you will kindly precede us to the door, and allow +me the honour of handing the Princess to the +sledge?" +</p> + +<p> +They left the house, laughing and chatting as carelessly +as if they were a party going to the theatre. +Lestoc took the reins. "To the palace of the Duchess +Regent, coachman!" said the Marquis, pleasantly. +And to the palace they went. +</p> + +<p> +They made no attempt to slip in by backdoors, +but boldly drove up to the grand entrance, inside of +which the guard-house was situated. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_65' name='Page_65'>65</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"Who goes there?" cried the sentinel as they left +the sledge and passed in. +</p> + +<p> +The Marquis took a pinch of snuff. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you see, my good fellow?" he said. "A +lady and two gentlemen." +</p> + +<p> +The slightest irregularity was serious enough to +alarm the guard at the Imperial palace in those +critical times. The sentinel presented his musket at +the Marquis, and a drummer-boy who was standing +near, ran to his instrument and caught up his drum-sticks +to beat the alarm. +</p> + +<p> +Before the sentinel could fire, he was surrounded +by the thirty-three conspirators, and was disarmed +in an instant. Before the drummer-boy could beat +the alarm, the Princess Elizabeth had drawn out her +knife and had stabbed—not the boy, but—the drum! +These slight preliminary obstacles being thus disposed +of, Lestoc and the Marquis, having the Princess +between them, and being followed by their thirty-three +adherents, marched resolutely into the great +hall of the palace, and there confronted the entire +guard. +</p> + +<p> +"Gentlemen," said the Marquis, "I have the +honour of presenting you to your future empress, the +daughter of Peter the Great." +</p> + +<p> +Half the guard had been bribed by the cunning +Lestoc. The other half, seeing their comrades advance +and pay homage to the Princess, followed the example +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_66' name='Page_66'>66</a></span> +of loyalty. Elizabeth was escorted into a room on +the ground-floor by a military court formed in the +course of five minutes. The Marquis and the faithful +thirty-three went up-stairs to the sleeping apartments +of the palace. Lestoc ran out, and ordered a carriage +to be got ready—then joined the Marquis and the +conspirators. The Duchess Regent and her child +were just retiring for the night, when the German +surgeon and the French ambassador politely informed +them that they were prisoners. Entreaties were of +no avail; resistance was out of the question. Both +mother and son were led down to the carriage that +Lestoc had ordered, and were driven off, under a +strong guard, to the fortress of Riga. +</p> + +<p> +The palace was secured, and the Duchess was imprisoned, +but Lestoc and the Marquis had not done +their night's work yet. It was necessary to make +sure of three powerful personages connected with the +government. Three more carriages were ordered out +when the Duchess's carriage had been driven off; and +three noblemen—among them Count Osterman, the +original cause of the troubles in Russia—were woke +out of their first sleep with the information that they +were state prisoners, and were started before daylight +on their way to Siberia. At the same time, the +thirty-three conspirators were scattered about in every +barrack-room in St. Petersburg, proclaiming Elizabeth +Empress, in right of her illustrious parentage, and in +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_67' name='Page_67'>67</a></span> +the name of the Russian people. Soon after daylight, +the moment the working population was beginning +to be astir, the churches were occupied by trusty men +under Lestoc's orders, and the oaths of fidelity to +Elizabeth were administered to the willing populace +as fast as they came in to morning prayers. By nine +o'clock the work was done; the people were satisfied; +the army was gained over; Elizabeth sat on her +father's throne, unopposed, unquestioned, unstained +by the shedding of a drop of blood; and Lestoc and +the Marquis could rest from their labours at last, and +could say to each other with literal truth, "The government +of Russia has been changed in nine hours, +and we two foreigners are the men who have worked +the miracle!" +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +This was the Russian revolution of seventeen hundred +and forty-one. It was not the less effectual +because it had lasted but a few hours, and had been +accomplished without the sacrifice of a single life. +The Imperial inheritance which it had placed in the +hands of Elizabeth was not snatched from them again. +The daughter of the great Czar lived and died Empress +of Russia. +</p> + +<p> +And what became of the two men who had won +the throne for her? The story of the after-conduct +of the Marquis and Lestoc must answer that question. +The events of the revolution itself are hardly +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_68' name='Page_68'>68</a></span> +more strange than the events in the lives of the +French Ambassador and the German surgeon, when +the brief struggle was over, and the change in the +dynasty was accomplished. +</p> + +<p> +To begin with the Marquis. He had laid the +Princess Elizabeth under serious obligations to his +courage and fidelity; and his services were repaid +by such a reward as, in his vainest moments, he +could never have dared to hope for. His fidelity +had excited Elizabeth's gratitude, but his personal +qualities had done more—they had touched her heart. +As soon as she was settled quietly on the throne, she +proved her admiration of his merits, his services, and +himself by offering to marry him. +</p> + +<p> +This proposal, which conferred on the Marquis the +highest distinction in Russia, fairly turned his brain. +The imperturbable man who had preserved his coolness +in a situation of the deadliest danger, lost all +control over himself the moment he rose to the +climax of prosperity. Having obtained leave of absence +from his Imperial mistress, he returned to +France to ask leave from his own sovereign to marry +the Empress. This permission was readily granted. +After receiving it, any man of ordinary discretion +would have kept the fact of the Empress's partiality +for him as strictly secret as possible, until it could be +openly avowed on the marriage-day. Far from this, +the Marquis's vanity led him to proclaim the brilliant +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_69' name='Page_69'>69</a></span> +destiny in store for him all over Paris. He commissioned +the King's genealogist to construct a pedigree +which should be made to show that he was not unworthy +to contract a royal alliance. When the pedigree +was completed he had the incredible folly to +exhibit it publicly, along with the keepsakes which +the Empress had given to him, and the rich presents +which he intended to bestow as marks of his favour +on the lords and ladies of the Russian court. Nor +did his imprudence end even here. When he returned +to St. Petersburg, he took back with him, +among the other persons comprising his train, a +woman of loose character, dressed in the disguise of +a page. The persons about the Russian court, whose +prejudices he had never attempted to conciliate—whose +envy at his success waited only for the +slightest opportunity to effect his ruin—suspected +the sex of the pretended page, and took good care +that the report of their suspicions should penetrate +gradually to the foot of the throne. It seems barely +credible, but it is, nevertheless, unquestionably the +fact, that the infatuated Marquis absolutely allowed +the Empress an opportunity of seeing his page. +Elizabeth's eye, sharpened by jealousy, penetrated +instantly to the truth. Any less disgraceful insult +she would probably have forgiven, but such an outrage +as this, no woman—especially no woman in her +position—could pardon. With one momentary glance +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_70' name='Page_70'>70</a></span> +of anger and disdain, she dismissed the Marquis from +her presence, and never, from that moment, saw him +again. +</p> + +<p> +The same evening his papers were seized, all the +presents that he had received from the Empress were +taken from him, and he was ordered to leave the +Russian dominions for ever, within eight days' time. +He was not allowed to write, or take any other means +of attempting to justify himself; and, on his way +back to his native country, he was followed to the +frontier by certain officers of the Russian army, and +there stripped, with every mark of ignominy, of +all the orders of nobility which he had received from +the Imperial court. He returned to Paris a disgraced +man, lived there in solitude, obscurity, and neglect +for some years, and died in a state of positive want—the +unknown inhabitant of one of the meanest dwellings +in the whole city. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The end of Lestoc is hardly less remarkable than +the end of the Marquis. +</p> + +<p> +In their weak points, as in their strong, the characters +of these two men seem to have been singularly +alike. Making due allowance for the difference in +station between the German surgeon and the French +ambassador, it is undeniable that Elizabeth showed +her sense of the services of Lestoc as gratefully and +generously as she had shown her sense of the services +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_71' name='Page_71'>71</a></span> +of the Marquis. The ex-surgeon was raised at +once to the position of the chief favourite and the +most powerful man about the Court. Besides the +privileges which he shared equally with the highest +nobles of the period, he was allowed access to the +Empress on all private as well as on all public occasions. +He had a perpetual right of entry into her +domestic circle, which was conceded to no one else; +and he held a place, on days of public reception, +that placed him on an eminence to which no other +man in Russia could hope to attain. Such was his +position; and, strange to say, it had precisely the +same maddening effect on his vanity which the prospect +of an imperial alliance had exercised over the +vanity of the Marquis. Lestoc's audacity became +ungovernable; his insolence knew no bounds. He +abused the privileges conferred upon him by Elizabeth's +grateful regard, with such baseness and such +indelicacy, that the Empress, after repeatedly cautioning +him in the friendliest possible terms, found +herself obliged, out of regard to her own reputation +and to the remonstrances which assailed her from all +the persons of her Court, to deprive him of the privilege +of entry into her private apartments. +</p> + +<p> +This check, instead of operating as a timely warning +to Lestoc, irritated him into the commission of +fresh acts of insolence, so wanton in their nature that +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_72' name='Page_72'>72</a></span> +Elizabeth at last lost all patience, and angrily reproached +him with the audacious ingratitude of his +behaviour. The reproach was retorted by Lestoc, +who fiercely accused the Empress of forgetting the +great services that he had rendered her, and declared +that he would turn his back on her and her dominions, +after first resenting the contumely with +which he had been treated by an act of revenge +that she would remember to the day of her +death. +</p> + +<p> +The vengeance which he had threatened proved to +be the vengeance of a forger and a cheat. The +banker in St. Petersburg who was charged with the +duty of disbursing the sums of state money which +were set apart for the Empress's use, received an +order, one day, to pay four hundred thousand ducats +to a certain person who was not mentioned by name, +but who, it was stated, would call, with the proper +credentials, to receive the money. The banker was +struck by this irregular method of performing the +preliminaries of an important matter of business, and +he considered it to be his duty to show the document +which he had received to one of the Ministers. +Secret inquiries were immediately set on foot, and +they ended in the discovery that the order was a +false one, and that the man who had forged it was +no other than Lestoc. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_73' name='Page_73'>73</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +For a crime of this kind the punishment was +death. But the Empress had declared, on her accession, +that she would sign no warrant for the taking +away of life during her reign, and, moreover, she still +generously remembered what she had owed in former +times to Lestoc. Accordingly, she changed his punishment +to a sentence of exile to Siberia, with special +orders that the life of the banished man should +be made as easy to him as possible. He had not +passed many years in the wildernesses of Siberia, +before Elizabeth's strong sense of past obligation to +him, induced her still further to lighten his punishment +by ordering that he should be brought back to +St. Petersburg, and confined in the fortress there, +where her own eyes might assure her that he was +treated with mercy and consideration. It is probable +that she only intended this change as a prelude to +the restoration of his liberty; but the future occasion +for pardoning him never came. Shortly after his +return to St. Petersburg, Lestoc ended his days in the +prison of the fortress. +</p> + +<p> +So the two leaders of the Russian revolution lived, +and so they died. It has been said, and said well, +that the only sure proof of a man's strength of mind +is to be discovered by observing the manner in which +he bears success. History shows few such remarkable +examples of the truth of this axiom as are afforded +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_74' name='Page_74'>74</a></span> +by the lives of the Marquis de la Chétardie and the +German surgeon Lestoc. Two stronger men in the +hour of peril and two weaker men in the hour of +security, have not often appeared in this world to +vanquish adverse circumstances like heroes, and to +be conquered like cowards afterwards by nothing +but success. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_75' name='Page_75'>75</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +DOUGLAS JERROLD.<a name='FA_B' id='FA_B' href='#FN_B' class='fnanchor'>[B]</a> +</h2> + +<p> +Some seventy years ago, there lived a poor country +player, named Samuel Jerrold. His principal claim +to a prominent position among the strolling company +to which he was attached, consisted in the possession +of a pair of shoes once belonging to the great Garrick +himself. Samuel Jerrold always appeared on the +stage in these invaluable "properties"—a man, +surely, who deserves the regard of posterity, as the +only actor of modern times who has shown himself +capable of standing in Garrick's shoes. +</p> + +<p> +Samuel Jerrold was twice married—the second +time to a wife so much his junior that he was older +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_76' name='Page_76'>76</a></span> +than his own mother-in-law. Partly, perhaps, in +virtue of this last great advantage on the part of the +husband, the marriage was a very happy one. The +second Mrs. Samuel was a clever, good-tempered, +notable woman; and helped her husband materially +in his theatrical affairs, when he rose in time (and in +Garrick's shoes) to be a manager of country theatres. +Young Mrs. Samuel brought her husband a family—two +girls to begin with; and, on the third of January, +eighteen hundred and three, while she was staying in +London, a boy, who was christened Douglas William, +and who was destined, in after life, to make the name +of the obscure country manager a household word +on the lips of English readers. +</p> + +<p> +In the year eighteen hundred and seven, Samuel +Jerrold became the lessee of the Sheerness Theatre; +and little Douglas was there turned to professional +account, as a stage-child. He appeared in <i>The +Stranger</i> as one of the little cherubs of the frail and +interesting Mrs. Haller; and he was "carried on" +by Edmund Kean, as the child in <i>Rolla</i>. These early +theatrical experiences (whatever influence they might +have had, at a later time, in forming his instincts as +a dramatist) do not appear to have at all inclined +him towards his father's profession when he grew +older. The world of ships and sailors amid which he +lived at Sheerness, seems to have formed his first +tastes and influenced his first longings. As soon as +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_77' name='Page_77'>77</a></span> +he could speak for himself on the matter of his future +prospects, he chose the life of a sailor; and, at ten +years old, he entered on board the guardship, Namur, +as a first-class volunteer. +</p> + +<p> +Up to this time the father had given the son as +good an education as it lay within his means to command. +Douglas had been noted as a studious boy at +school; and he brought with him a taste for reading +and for quiet pursuits when he entered on board the +Namur. Beginning his apprenticeship to the sea as +a Midshipman, in December, eighteen hundred and +thirteen, he was not transferred from the guardship +to active service until April, eighteen hundred and +fifteen, when he was drafted off, with forty-six men, +to his Majesty's gun-brig, Ernest. +</p> + +<p> +Those were stirring times. The fierce struggle of +Waterloo was at hand; and Douglas's first cruise +was across the Channel to Ostend, at the head of a +fleet of transports carrying troops and stores to the +battle-field. Singularly enough, his last cruise connected +him with the results of the great fight, as his +first had connected him with the preparations for it. +In the July of the Waterloo year, the Ernest brought +her share of the wounded back to Sheerness. On +the deck of that brig, Jerrold first stood face to face +with the horror of war. In after life, when other +pens were writing glibly enough of the glory of war, +his pen traced the dark reverse of the picture, and +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_78' name='Page_78'>78</a></span> +set the terrible consequences of all victories, righteous +as well as wicked, in their true light. +</p> + +<p> +The great peace was proclaimed, and the nations +rested at last. In October, eighteen hundred and +fifteen, the Ernest was "paid off." Jerrold stepped +on shore, and never returned to the service. He was +without interest; and the peace virtually closed his +professional prospects. To the last day of his life he +had a genuinely English love for the sea and sailors; +and, short as his naval experience had been, neither +he nor his countrymen were altogether losers by it. +If the Midshipman of the Ernest had risen to be an +Admiral, what would have become then of the author +of Black-Eyed Susan? +</p> + +<p> +Douglas's prospects were far from cheering when +he returned to his home on shore. The affairs of +Samuel Jerrold (through no fault of his own) had +fallen into sad confusion. In his old age his vocation +of manager sank from under him; his theatre was +sold; and, at the end of the Waterloo year, he and +his family found themselves compelled to leave Sheerness. +On the first day of eighteen hundred and +sixteen they sailed away in the Chatham boat, to try +their fortune in London. +</p> + +<p> +The first refuge of the Jerrolds was at Broad +Court, Bow Street. Poor old Samuel was now past +his work; and the chief dependence of the ruined +family rested on Douglas and his mother. Mrs. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_79' name='Page_79'>79</a></span> +Samuel contrived to get some theatrical employment +in London; and Douglas, after beginning life as an +officer in the navy, was apprenticed to a printer, in +Northumberland Street, Strand. +</p> + +<p> +He accepted his new position with admirable +cheerfulness and resolution; honestly earning his +money, and affectionately devoting it to the necessities +of his parents. A delightful anecdote of him, +at this time of his life, is told by his son. On one +of the occasions when his mother and sister were +absent in the country, the little domestic responsibility +of comforting the poor worn-out old father with +a good dinner, rested on Douglas's shoulders. With +the small proceeds of his work, he bought all the +necessary materials for a good beef-steak pie—made +the pie himself, succeeding brilliantly with the crust—himself +took it to the bake-house—and himself +brought it back, with one of Sir Walter Scott's novels, +which the dinner left him just money enough to hire +from a library, for the purpose of reading a story to his +father in the evening, by way of dessert. For our own +parts, we shall henceforth always rank that beef-steak pie +as one among the many other works of Douglas +Jerrold which have established his claim to remembrance +and to regard. The clue to the bright affectionate +nature of the man—sometimes lost by those +who knew him imperfectly, in after life—could +hardly be found in any pleasanter or better place, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_80' name='Page_80'>80</a></span> +now that he is gone from among us, than on the +poor dinner-table in Broad Court. +</p> + +<p> +Although he was occupied for twelve hours out of +the twenty-four at the printing-office, he contrived +to steal time enough from the few idle intervals +allowed for rest and meals, to store his mind with all +the reading that lay within his reach. As early as +at the age of fourteen, the literary faculty that was +in him seems to have struggled to develop itself in +short papers and scraps of verse. Only a year later, +he made his first effort at dramatic composition, producing +a little farce, with a part in it for an old +friend of the family, the late Mr. Wilkinson, the +comedian. Although Samuel Jerrold was well remembered +among many London actors as an honest +country manager; and although Douglas could easily +secure, from his father's friends, his admission to the +theatre whenever he was able to go to it, he does not +appear to have possessed interest enough to gain a +reading for his piece when it was first sent in to the +English Opera House. After three years had elapsed, +however, Mr. Wilkinson contrived to get the lad's +farce produced at Sadler's Wells, under the title of +More Frightened than Hurt. It was not only successful +on its first representation, but it also won the +rare honour of being translated for the French stage. +More than this, it was afterwards translated back +again, by a dramatist who was ignorant of its original +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_81' name='Page_81'>81</a></span> +history, for the stage of the Olympic Theatre; where +it figured in the bills under the new title of Fighting +by Proxy, with Liston in the part of the hero. Such +is the history of Douglas Jerrold's first contribution +to the English drama. When it was produced on +the boards of Sadler's Wells, its author's age was +eighteen years. +</p> + +<p> +He had appeared in public, however, as an author, +before this time; having composed some verses which +were printed in a forgotten periodical called Arliss's +Magazine. The loss of his first situation, through +the bankruptcy of his master, obliged him to seek +employment anew in the printing-office of one Mr. +Bigg, who was also the editor of a newspaper called +the <i>Sunday Monitor</i>. In this journal appeared his +first article—a critical paper on <i>Der Freischütz</i>. He +had gone to the theatre with an order to see the +opera; and had been so struck by the supernatural +drama and the wonderful music to which it was set, +that he noted down his impressions of the performance, +and afterwards dropped what he had +written, anonymously, into the editor's box. The +next morning, his own article was handed to him to +set up in type for the forthcoming number of the +Sunday Monitor. +</p> + +<p> +After this first encouragement, he began to use his +pen frequently in the minor periodicals of the time; +still sticking to the printer's work, however, and still +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_82' name='Page_82'>82</a></span> +living at home with his family. The success of his +little farce at Sadler's Wells led to his writing three +more pieces for that theatre. They all succeeded; +and the managers of some of the other minor theatres +began to look after the new man. Just at this time, +when his career as dramatist and journalist was beginning +to open before him, his father died. After +that loss, the next important event in his life was his +marriage. In the year eighteen hundred and twenty-four, +when he was twenty-one years of age, he married +his "first love," Miss Mary Swann, the daughter of a +gentleman who held an appointment in the Post +Office. He and his bride settled, with his mother +and sister and a kind old friend of his boyish days, in +Holborn; and here—devoting his days to the newspapers, +and his evenings to the drama—the newly-married +man started as author by profession, and +met the world and its cares bravely at the point of +the pen. +</p> + +<p> +The struggle at starting was a hard one. His +principal permanent source of income was a small +weekly salary paid to him as dramatist to the establishment, +by one Davidge, manager of the Coburg +(now the Victoria) Theatre. This man appears to +have treated Jerrold, whose dramas brought both +money and reputation to his theatre, with an utter +want of common consideration and common gratitude. +He worked his poor author pitilessly; and it +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_83' name='Page_83'>83</a></span> +is, on that account, highly satisfactory to know that +he overreached himself in the end, by quarrelling +with his dramatist, at the very time when Jerrold +had a theatrical fortune (so far as managers' interests +were concerned) lying in his desk, in the shape of +Black-Eyed Susan. With that renowned play (the +most popular of all nautical dramas) in his hand, +Douglas left the Coburg to seek employment at the +Surrey Theatre—then under the management of Mr. +Elliston. This last tradesman in plays—who subsequently +showed himself to be a worthy contemporary +of the other tradesman at the Coburg—bid rather +higher for Jerrold's services, and estimated the sole +monopoly of the fancy, invention, and humour of a +man who had already proved himself to be a popular, +money-bringing dramatist, at the magnificent rate of +five pounds a week. The bargain was struck; and +Jerrold's first play produced at the Surrey Theatre +was Black-Eyed Susan. +</p> + +<p> +He had achieved many enviable dramatic successes +before this time. He had written domestic dramas—such +as Fifteen Years of a Drunkard's Life, and +Ambrose Gwinett—the popularity of which is still +well remembered by play-goers of the old generation. +But the reception of Black-Eyed Susan eclipsed all +previous successes of his or of any other dramatist's +in that line. Mr. T. P. Cooke, who, as the French +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_84' name='Page_84'>84</a></span> +say, "created" the part of William, not only found +half London flocking into the Borough to see him; +but was actually called upon, after acting in the play, +as a first piece, at the Surrey Theatre, to drive off +in his sailor's dress, and act in it again on the same +night, as the last piece, at Covent Garden Theatre. +Its first "run" mounted to three hundred nights: it +afterwards drew money into the empty treasury of +Drury Lane: it remains, to this day, a "stock-piece" +on which managers and actors know that they can +depend; and, strangest phenomenon of all, it is +impossible to see the play now, without feeling that +its great and well-deserved dramatic success has been +obtained with the least possible amount of assistance +from the subtleties and refinements of dramatic art. +The piece is indebted for its hold on the public +sympathy solely to the simple force, the irresistible +directness, of its appeal to some of the strongest affections +in our nature. It has succeeded, and it will +succeed, not because the dialogue is well, or, as to +some passages of it, even naturally written; not +because the story is neatly told, for it is (especially +in the first act) full of faults in construction; but +solely because the situations in which the characters +are placed appeal to the hearts of every husband and +every wife in the theatre. In this aspect of it, and +in this only, the play is a study to any young writer; +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_85' name='Page_85'>85</a></span> +for it shows on what amazingly simple foundations +rest the main conditions of the longest, the surest, +and the widest dramatic success. +</p> + +<p> +It is sad, it is almost humiliating, to be obliged to +add, in reference to the early history of Jerrold's first +dramatic triumph, that his share of the gains which +Black-Eyed Susan poured into the pockets of +managers on both sides of the water was just seventy +pounds. Mr. Elliston, whose theatre the play had +raised from a state of something like bankruptcy to +a condition of prosperity which, in the Surrey annals, +has not since been paralleled, not only abstained from +presenting Jerrold with the smallest fragment of anything +in the shape of a token of gratitude, but +actually had the pitiless insolence to say to him, +after Black-Eyed Susan had run its three hundred +nights, "My dear boy, why don't you get your friends +to present you with a bit of plate?"<a name='FA_C' id='FA_C' href='#FN_C' class='fnanchor'>[C]</a> +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_86' name='Page_86'>86</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +The extraordinary success of Black-Eyed Susan +opened the doors of the great theatres to Jerrold, as +a matter of course. He made admirable use of the +chances in his favour which he had so well deserved, +and for which he had waited so long. At the +Adelphi, at Drury Lane, and at the Haymarket, +drama after drama flowed in quick succession from +his pen. The Devil's Ducat, the Bride of Ludgate, +the Rent Day, Nell Gwynne, the Housekeeper—this +last, the best of his plays in point of construction—date, +with many other dramatic works, from the +period of his life now under review. The one slight +check to his career of prosperity occurred in eighteen +hundred and thirty-six, when he and his brother-in-law +took the Strand Theatre, and when Jerrold acted +a character in one of his own plays. Neither the +theatrical speculation nor the theatrical appearance +proved to be successful; and he wisely abandoned, +from that time, all professional connection with the +stage, except in his old and ever-welcome character +of dramatist. In the other branches of his art—to +which he devoted himself, at this turning-point of his +career, as faithfully as he devoted himself to the +theatrical branch—his progress was not less remarkable. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_87' name='Page_87'>87</a></span> +As journalist and essayist, he rose steadily +towards the distinguished place which was his due +among the writers of his time. This middle term of +his literary exertions produced, among other noticeable +results, the series of social studies called Men of +Character, originally begun in Blackwood's Magazine, +and since republished among his collected works. +</p> + +<p> +He had now advanced, in a social as well as in a literary +point of view, beyond that period in the lives of +self-made men which may be termed the adventurous +period. Whatever difficulties and anxieties henceforth +oppressed him were caused by the trials and +troubles which, more or less, beset the exceptional +lives of all men of letters. The struggle for a hearing, +the fight for a fair field in which to show himself, +had now been bravely and creditably accomplished; +and all that remains to be related of the life of +Douglas Jerrold is best told in the history of his +works. +</p> + +<p> +Taking his peculiar literary gifts into consideration, +the first great opportunity of his life, as a periodical +writer, was offered to him, unquestionably, by the +starting of <i>Punch</i>. The brilliant impromptu faculty +which gave him a place apart, as thinker, writer, and +talker, among the remarkable men of his time, was +exactly the faculty which such a journal as Punch +was calculated to develop to the utmost. The day on +which Jerrold was secured as a contributor would +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_88' name='Page_88'>88</a></span> +have been a fortunate day for that periodical, if he +had written nothing in it but the far-famed Caudle +Lectures, and the delightful Story of a Feather. +But the service that he rendered to Punch must by +no means be associated only with the more elaborate +contributions to its pages which are publicly connected +with his name. His wit often flashed out at +its brightest, his sarcasm often cut with its keenest +edge, in those well-timed paragraphs and short +articles which hit the passing event of the day, and +which, so far as their temporary purpose with the +public is concerned, are all-important ingredients in +the success of such a periodical as Punch. A contributor +who can strike out new ideas from the original +resources of his own mind, is one man, and a +contributor who can be depended on for the small +work-a-day emergencies which are felt one week and +forgotten the next, is generally another. Jerrold +united these two characters in himself; and the value +of him to Punch, on that account only, can never be +too highly estimated. +</p> + +<p> +At this period of his life, the fertility of his mental +resources showed itself most conspicuously. While +he was working for Punch, he was also editing and +largely contributing to the Illuminated Magazine. +In this publication appeared, among a host of shorter +papers, the series called The Chronicles of Clovernook, +which he himself always considered to be one +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_89' name='Page_89'>89</a></span> +of his happiest efforts, and which does indeed contain, +in detached passages, some of the best things that +ever fell from his pen. On the cessation of The +Illuminated Magazine, he started The Shilling Magazine, +and contributed to it his well-known novel, +Saint Giles and Saint James. These accumulated +literary occupations and responsibilities would have +been enough for most men; but Jerrold's inexhaustible +energy and variety carried him on through +more work still. Theatrical audiences now found +their old favourite addressing them again, and occupying +new ground as a writer of five act and three +act comedies. Bubbles of the Day, Time Works +Wonders, The Catspaw, Retired from Business, Saint +Cupid, were all produced, with other plays, after the +period when he became a regular writer in Punch. +</p> + +<p> +Judged from the literary point of view these +comedies were all original and striking contributions +to the library of the stage. From the dramatic point +of view, however, it must not be concealed that they +were less satisfactory; and that some of them were +scarcely so successful with audiences as their author's +earlier and humbler efforts. The one solid critical +reason which it is possible to assign for this, implies +in itself a compliment which could be paid to no +other dramatist of modern times. The perpetual +glitter of Jerrold's wit seems to have blinded him to +some of the more sober requirements of the Dramatic +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_90' name='Page_90'>90</a></span> +art. When Charles Kemble said, and said truly, +that there was wit enough for three comedies in +Bubbles of the Day, he implied that this brilliant +overflow left little or no room for the indispensable +resources of story and situation to display themselves +fairly on the stage. The comedies themselves, examined +with reference to their success in representation, +as well as to their intrinsic merits, help to +support this view. Time Works Wonders was the +most prosperous of all, and it is that comedy precisely +which has the most story and the most situation +in it. The idea and the management of the charming +love-tale out of which the events of this play +spring, show what Jerrold might have achieved in +the construction of other plots, if his own superabundant +wit had not dazzled him and led him astray. +As it is, the readers of these comedies, who can +appreciate the rich fancy, the delicate subtleties of +thought, the masterly terseness of expression, and the +exquisite play and sparkle of wit scattered over every +page, may rest assured that they rather gain than +lose—especially in the present condition of theatrical +companies—by not seeing the last dramatic works of +Douglas Jerrold represented on the stage. +</p> + +<p> +The next, and, sad to say, the final achievement of +his life, connected him most honourably and profitably +with the newspaper press. Many readers will remember +the starting of Douglas Jerrold's Weekly +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_91' name='Page_91'>91</a></span> +Newspaper—its great temporary success—and then +its sudden decline, through defects in management, +to which it is not now necessary to refer at length. +The signal ability with which the editorial articles in +the paper were written, the remarkable aptitude +which they displayed in striking straight at the sympathies +of large masses of readers, did not escape the +notice of men who were well fitted to judge of the +more solid qualifications which go to the production +of a popular journalist. In the spring of the year +eighteen hundred and fifty-two, the proprietor of +Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper proposed the editorship +to Jerrold, on terms of such wise liberality as to +ensure the ready acceptance of his offer. From the +spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-two, to the +spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-seven—the last +he was ever to see—Jerrold conducted the paper, +with such extraordinary success as is rare in the +history of journalism. Under his supervision, and +with the regular assistance of his pen, Lloyd's Newspaper +rose, by thousands and thousands a week, to +the great circulation which it now enjoys. Of the +many successful labours of Jerrold's life, none had +been so substantially prosperous as the labour that +was destined to close it. +</p> + +<p> +His health had shown signs of breaking, and his +heart was known to be affected, for some little time +before his last brief illness; but the unconquerable +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_92' name='Page_92'>92</a></span> +energy and spirit of the man upheld him through all +bodily trials, until the first day of June, eighteen +hundred and fifty-seven. Even his medical attendant +did not abandon all hope when his strength first gave +way. But he sank rapidly—so rapidly, that in one +short week the struggle was over. On the eighth +day of June, surrounded by his family and his friends, +preserving all his faculties to the last, passing away +calmly, resignedly, affectionately, Douglas Jerrold +closed his eyes on the world which it had been the +long and noble purpose of his life to inform and to +improve. +</p> + +<p> +It is too early yet to attempt any estimate of the +place which his writings will ultimately occupy in +English literature. So long as honesty, energy, and +variety are held to be the prominent qualities which +should distinguish a genuine writer, there can be no +doubt of the vitality of Douglas Jerrold's reputation. +The one objection urged against the works, which, +feeble and ignorant though it was, often went to the +heart of the writer, was the objection of bitterness. +Calling to mind many of the passages in his books +in which this bitterness most sharply appears, and +seeing plainly in those passages what the cause was +that provoked it, we venture to speak out our own +opinion boldly, and to acknowledge at once, that we +admire this so-called bitterness as one of the great +and valuable qualities of Douglas Jerrold's writings; +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_93' name='Page_93'>93</a></span> +because we can see for ourselves that it springs from +the uncompromising earnestness and honesty of the +author. In an age when it is becoming unfashionable +to have a positive opinion about anything; when the +detestable burlesque element scatters its profanation +with impunity on all beautiful and all serious things; +when much, far too much, of the current literature of +the day vibrates contemptibly between unbelieving +banter and unblushing clap-trap, that element of +bitterness in Jerrold's writings—which never stands +alone in them; which is never disassociated from +the kind word that goes before, or the generous +thought that comes after—is in our opinion an essentially +wholesome element, breathing that admiration +of truth, and that hatred of falsehood, which is the +chiefest and brightest jewel in the crown of any +writer, living or dead. +</p> + +<p> +This same cry of bitterness, which assailed him in +his literary character, assailed him in his social character +also. Absurd as the bare idea of bitterness +must appear in connection with such a nature as his, +to those who really knew him, the reason why +strangers so often and so ridiculously misunderstood +him, is not difficult to discover. That marvellous +brightness and quickness of perception which has +distinguished him far and wide as the sayer of some +of the wittiest, and often some of the wisest things +also, in the English language, expressed itself almost +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_94' name='Page_94'>94</a></span> +with the suddenness of lightning. This absence of +all appearance of artifice or preparation, this flash +and readiness which made the great charm of his +wit, rendered him, at the same time, quite incapable +of suppressing a good thing from prudential considerations. +It sparkled off his tongue before he was aware +of it. It was always a bright surprise to himself; +and it never occurred to him that it could be anything +but a bright surprise to others. All his so-called +bitter things, were said with a burst of hearty schoolboy +laughter, which showed how far he was himself +from attaching a serious importance to them. +Strangers apparently failed to draw this inference, +plain as it was; and often mistook him accordingly. +If they had seen him in the society of children; if +they had surprised him in the house of any one of +his literary brethren who was in difficulty and distress; +if they had met him by the bedside of a sick friend, +how simply and how irresistibly the gentle, generous, +affectionate nature of the man would then have disclosed +itself to the most careless chance acquaintance +who ever misunderstood him! Very few men have +won the loving regard of so many friends so rapidly, +and have kept that regard so enduringly to the last +day of their lives, as Douglas Jerrold. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_95' name='Page_95'>95</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.—V. +<br /> + +<span class="s08">PRAY EMPLOY MAJOR NAMBY!</span> +<br /> + +<span class="s08">[A Privileged Communication From A Lady in Distress.]</span> +</h2> + +<p> +I have such an extremely difficult subject to write +about, that I really don't know how to begin. The +fact is, I am a single lady—single, you will please to +understand, entirely because I have refused many +excellent offers. Pray don't imagine from this that +I am old. Some women's offers come at long intervals, +and other women's offers come close together. +Mine came remarkably close together—so, of course, +I cannot possibly be old. Not that I presume to +describe myself as absolutely young, either; so much +depends on people's points of view. I have heard +female children of the ages of eighteen or nineteen +called young ladies. This seems to me to be ridiculous—and +I have held that opinion, without once +wavering from it, for more than ten years past. It +is, after all, a question of feeling; and, shall I confess +it? I feel so young! +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_96' name='Page_96'>96</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +Dear, dear me! this is dreadfully egotistical; and, +besides, it is not in the least what I want. May I be +kindly permitted to begin again? +</p> + +<p> +Is there any chance of our going to war with somebody, +before long? This is such a dreadful question +for a lady to put, that I feel called upon to apologise +and explain myself. I don't rejoice in bloodshed—I +don't, indeed. The smell of gunpowder is horrible +to me; and the going off of the smallest imaginable +gun invariably makes me scream. But if on some +future occasion we—of course, I mean the government—find +it quite impossible to avoid plunging into +the horrors of war—then, what I want to know is, +whether my next door neighbour, Major Namby, will +be taken from his home by the Horse Guards, and +presented with his fit post of command in the English +army? It will come out sooner or later; so there +is no harm in my acknowledging at once, that it +would add immeasurably to my comfort and happiness +if the major were ordered off on any service +which would take him away from his own house. +</p> + +<p> +I am really very sorry, but I must leave off beginning +already, and go back again to the part before +the beginning (if there is such a thing) in order to +explain the nature of my objection to Major Namby, +and why it would be such a great relief to me (supposing +we are unfortunate enough to plunge into the +horrors of war), if he happened to be one of the first +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_97' name='Page_97'>97</a></span> +officers called out for the service of his Queen and +country. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +I live in the suburbs, and I have bought my house. +The major lives in the suburbs, next door to me, and +<i>he</i> has bought his house. I don't object to this, of +course. I merely mention it to make things straight. +</p> + +<p> +Major Namby has been twice married. His first +wife—dear, dear! how can I express it? Shall I +say, with vulgar abruptness, that his first wife had a +family? And must I descend into particulars, and +add that they are four in number, and that two of +them are twins? Well, the words are written; and +if they will do over again for the same purpose, I +beg to repeat them in reference to the second Mrs. +Namby (still alive), who has also had a family, and +is——no, I really cannot say, is likely to go on +having one. There are certain limits, in a case of +this kind, and I think I have reached them. Permit +me simply to state that the second Mrs. Namby has +three children, at present. These, with the first Mrs. +Namby's four, make a total of seven. The seven are +composed of five girls and two boys. And the first +Mrs. Namby's family all have one particular kind of +constitution, and the second Mrs. Namby's family all +have another particular kind of constitution. Let +me explain once more that I merely mention these +little matters, and that I don't object to them. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_98' name='Page_98'>98</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +Now pray be patient: I am coming fast to the +point—I am indeed. But please let me say a little +word or two about Major Namby himself. +</p> + +<p> +In the first place, I have looked out his name in +the Army List, and I cannot find that he was ever +engaged in battle anywhere. He appears to have +entered the army, most unfortunately for his own +renown, just after, instead of just before, the battle of +Waterloo. He has been at all sorts of foreign stations, +at the very time, in each case, when there was no +military work to do—except once at some West Indian +Island, where he seems to have assisted in putting +down a few poor unfortunate negroes who tried to +get up a riot. This is the only active service that +he has ever performed: so I suppose it is all owing +to his being well off and to those dreadful abuses of +ours that he has been made a major for not having +done a major's work. So far as looks go, however, +he is military enough in appearance to take the command +of the British army at five minutes' notice. +He is very tall and upright, and carries a martial +cane, and wears short martial whiskers, and has an +awfully loud martial voice. His face is very pink, +and his eyes are extremely round and staring, and +he has that singularly disagreeable-looking roll of +fat red flesh at the back of his neck, between the +bottom of his short grey hair and the top of his stiff +black stock, which seems to be peculiar to all hearty +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_99' name='Page_99'>99</a></span> +old officers who are remarkably well to do in the +world. He is certainly not more than sixty years of +age; and, if a lady may presume to judge of such a +thing, I should say decidedly that he had an immense +amount of undeveloped energy still left in him, at +the service of the Horse Guards. +</p> + +<p> +This undeveloped energy—and here, at length, I +come to the point—not having any employment in +the right direction, has run wild in the wrong direction, +and has driven the major to devote the whole +of his otherwise idle time to his domestic affairs. +He manages his children instead of his regiment, +and establishes discipline in the servants'-hall instead +of in the barrack-yard. Have I any right to object +to this? None whatever, I readily admit. I may +hear (most unwillingly) that Major Namby has upset +the house by going into the kitchen and objecting to +the smartness of the servants' caps; but as I am not, +thank Heaven, one of those unfortunate servants, I +am not called on to express my opinion of such unmanly +meddling, much as I scorn it. I may be informed +(entirely against my own will) that Mrs. +Namby's husband has dared to regulate, not only the +size and substance, but even the number, of certain +lower and inner articles of Mrs. Namby's dress, which +no earthly consideration will induce me particularly +to describe; but as I do not (I thank Heaven again) +occupy the degraded position of the major's wife, I +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_100' name='Page_100'>100</a></span> +am not justified in expressing my indignation at +domestic prying and pettifogging, though I feel it all +over me, at this very moment, from head to foot. +What Major Namby does and says, inside his own +house, is his business and not mine. But what he +does and says, outside his own house, on the gravel +walk of his front garden—under my own eyes and +close to my own ears, as I sit at work at the window—is +as much my affair as the major's, and more, for +it is I who suffer by it. +</p> + +<p> +Pardon me a momentary pause for relief, a momentary +thrill of self-congratulation. I have got to +my destination at last—I have taken the right literary +turning at the end of the preceding paragraph; +and the fair high-road of plain narrative now spreads +engagingly before me. +</p> + +<p> +My complaint against Major Namby is, in plain +terms, that he transacts the whole of his domestic +business in his front garden. Whether it arises from +natural weakness of memory, from total want of a +sense of propriety, or from a condition of mind which +is closely allied to madness of the eccentric sort, I +cannot say—but the major certainly does sometimes +partially, and sometimes entirely, forget his private +family matters, and the necessary directions connected +with them, while he is inside the house; and +does habitually remember them, and repair all omissions, +by bawling through his windows, at the top of his +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_101' name='Page_101'>101</a></span> +voice, as soon as he gets outside the house. It never +seems to occur to him that he might advantageously +return in-doors, and there mention what he has forgotten +in a private and proper way. The instant the +lost idea strikes him—which it invariably does, either +in his front garden, or in the roadway outside his +house—he roars for his wife, either from the gravel +walk, or over the low wall; and (if I may use so +strong an expression) empties his mind to her in +public, without appearing to care whose ears he +wearies, whose delicacy he shocks, or whose ridicule +he invites. If the man is not mad, his own small +family fusses have taken such complete possession +of all his senses, that he is quite incapable of noticing +anything else, and perfectly impenetrable to the +opinions of his neighbours. Let me show that the +grievance of which I complain is no slight one, by +giving a few examples of the general persecution +that I suffer, and the occasional shocks that are +administered to my delicacy, at the coarse hands of +Major Namby. +</p> + +<p> +We will say it is a fine warm morning. I am +sitting in my front room, with the window open, absorbed +over a deeply interesting book. I hear the +door of the next house bang; I look up, and see +the major descending the steps into his front garden. +</p> + +<p> +He walks—no, he marches—half way down the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_102' name='Page_102'>102</a></span> +front garden path, with his head high in the air, and +his chest stuck out, and his military cane fiercely +flourished in his right hand. Suddenly, he stops, +stamps with one foot, knocks up the hinder part of +the brim of his extremely curly hat with his left +hand, and begins to scratch at that singularly disagreeable-looking +roll of fat red flesh in the back of +his neck (which scratching, I may observe, in parenthesis, +is always a sure sign, in the case of this horrid +man, that a lost domestic idea has suddenly come +back to him). He waits a moment in the ridiculous +position just described, then wheels round on his heel, +looks up at the first-floor window, and instead of going +back into the house to mention what he has forgotten, +bawls out fiercely from the middle of the walk: +</p> + +<p> +"Matilda!" +</p> + +<p> +I hear his wife's voice—a shockingly shrill one; +but what can you expect of a woman who has been +seen over and over again, in a slatternly striped +wrapper, as late as two o'clock in the afternoon—I +hear his wife's voice answer from inside the house: +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, dear." +</p> + +<p> +"I said it was a south wind." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, dear." +</p> + +<p> +"It isn't a south wind." +</p> + +<p> +"Lor', dear!" +</p> + +<p> +"It's south-east. I won't have Georgina taken +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_103' name='Page_103'>103</a></span> +out to-day." (Georgina is one of the first Mrs. +Namby's family, and they are all weak in the chest.) +"Where's nurse?" +</p> + +<p> +"Here, sir!" +</p> + +<p> +"Nurse, I won't have Jack allowed to run. Whenever +that boy perspires, he catches cold. Hang up +his hoop. If he cries, take him into my dressing-room, +and show him the birch rod. Matilda!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, dear." +</p> + +<p> +"What the devil do they mean by daubing all +that grease over Mary's hair? It's beastly to see it—do +you hear?—beastly! Where's Pamby?" +(Pamby is the unfortunate work-woman who makes +and mends the family linen.) +</p> + +<p> +"Here, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Pamby, what are you about now?" +</p> + +<p> +No answer. Pamby, or somebody else, giggles +faintly. The major flourishes his cane in a fury. +</p> + +<p> +"Why the devil don't you answer me? I give +you three seconds to answer me, or leave the house. +One—two—three. Pamby! what are you about +now?" +</p> + +<p> +"If you please, sir, I'm doing something——" +</p> + +<p> +"What?" +</p> + +<p> +"Something particular for baby, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Drop it directly, whatever it is. Matilda! how +many pair of trousers has Katie got?" +</p> + +<p> +"Only three, dear." +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_104' name='Page_104'>104</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"Pamby!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Shorten all Miss Katie's trousers directly, including +the pair she's got on. I've said, over and +over again, that I won't have those frills of hers any +lower down than her knees. Don't let me see them +at the middle of her shins again. Nurse!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Mind the crossings. Don't let the children sit +down if they're hot. Don't let them speak to other +children. Don't let them get playing with strange +dogs. Don't let them mess their things. And, above +all, don't bring Master Jack back in a perspiration. +Is there anything more, before I go out?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Matilda! Is there anything more?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, dear." +</p> + +<p> +"Pamby! Is there anything more?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir." +</p> + +<p> +Here the domestic colloquy ends, for the time +being. Will any sensitive person—especially a +person of my own sex—please to imagine what I +must suffer, as a delicate single lady, at having all +these family details obtruded on my attention, +whether I like it or not, in the major's rasping +martial voice, and in the shrill answering screams of +the women inside? It is bad enough to be submitted +to this sort of persecution when one is alone; but it +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_105' name='Page_105'>105</a></span> +is far worse to be also exposed to it—as I am constantly—in +the presence of visitors, whose conversation +is necessarily interrupted, whose ears are necessarily +shocked, whose very stay in my house is +necessarily shortened, by Major Namby's unendurably +public way of managing his private concerns. +</p> + +<p> +Only the other day, my old, dear, and most valued +friend Lady Malkinshaw was sitting with me, and +was entering at great length into the interesting story +of her second daughter's unhappy marriage engagement, +and of the dignified manner in which the +family ultimately broke it off. For a quarter of an +hour or so our interview continued to be delightfully +uninterrupted. At the end of that time, however, +just as Lady Malkinshaw, with the tears in her eyes, +was beginning to describe the effect of her daughter's +dreadful disappointment on the poor dear girl's mind +and looks, I heard the door of the major's house bang +as usual; and, looking out of the window in despair, +saw the major himself strut half way down the walk, +stop, scratch violently at his roll of red flesh, wheel +round so as to face the house, consider a little, pull +his tablets out of his waistcoat-pocket, shake his head +over them, and then look up at the front windows, +preparatory to bawling as usual at the degraded female +members of his household. Lady Malkinshaw, +quite ignorant of what was coming, happened at the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_106' name='Page_106'>106</a></span> +same moment, to be proceeding with her pathetic +story in these terms: +</p> + +<p> +"I do assure you, my poor dear girl behaved +throughout with the heroism of a martyr. When I +had told her of the vile wretch's behaviour, breaking +it to her as gently as I possibly could; and when she +had a little recovered, I said to her——" +</p> + +<p> +("Matilda!") +</p> + +<p> +The major's rasping voice sounded louder than +ever as he bawled out that dreadful name, just at the +wrong moment. Lady Malkinshaw started as if she +had been shot. I put down the window in despair; +but the glass was no protection to our ears—Major +Namby can roar through a brick wall. I apologised—I +declared solemnly that my next-door neighbour +was mad—I entreated Lady Malkinshaw to take no +notice, and to go on. That sweet woman immediately +complied. I burn with indignation when I +think of what followed. Every word from the +Namby's garden (which I distinguish below by parentheses) +came, very slightly muffled by the window, +straight into my room, and mixed itself up with her +ladyship's story in this inexpressibly ridiculous and +impertinent manner: +</p> + +<p> +"Well," my kind and valued friend proceeded, +"as I was telling you, when the first natural burst of +sorrow was over, I said to her——" +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_107' name='Page_107'>107</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, dear Lady Malkinshaw?" I murmured, encouragingly. +</p> + +<p> +"I said to her——" +</p> + +<p> +("By jingo, I've forgotten something! Matilda! +when I made my memorandum of errands, how many +had I to do?") +</p> + +<p> +"'My dearest, darling child,' I said——" +</p> + +<p> +("Pamby! how many errands did your mistress +give me to do?") +</p> + +<p> +"I said, 'my dearest, darling child——'" +</p> + +<p> +("Nurse! how many errands did your mistress +give me to do?") +</p> + +<p> +"'My own love,' I said——" +</p> + +<p> +("Pooh! pooh! I tell you, I had four errands to do, +and I've only got three of 'em written down. Check +me off, all of you—I'm going to read my errands.") +</p> + +<p> +"'Your own proper pride, love,' I said, 'will suggest +to you——'" +</p> + +<p> +("Grey powder for baby.") +</p> + +<p> +—"'the necessity of making up your mind, my +angel, to——'" +</p> + +<p> +("Row the plumber for infamous condition of back +kitchen sink.") +</p> + +<p> +—"'to return all the wretch's letters, and——'" +</p> + +<p> +("Speak to the haberdasher about patching Jack's +shirts.") +</p> + +<p> +—"'all his letters and presents, darling. You +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_108' name='Page_108'>108</a></span> +need only make them up into a parcel, and write +inside——'" +</p> + +<p> +("Matilda! is that all?") +</p> + +<p> +—"'and write inside——'" +</p> + +<p> +("Pamby! is that all?") +</p> + +<p> +—"'and write inside——'" +</p> + +<p> +("Nurse! is that all?") +</p> + +<p> +"'I have my mother's sanction for making one last +request to you. It is this——'" +</p> + +<p> +("What have the children got for dinner to-day?") +</p> + +<p> +—"'it is this: Return me my letters, as I have +returned yours. You will find inside——'" +</p> + +<p> +("A shoulder of mutton and onion sauce? And a +devilish good dinner, too.") +</p> + +<p> +The coarse wretch roared out those last shocking +words cheerfully, at the top of his voice. Hitherto, +Lady Malkinshaw had preserved her temper with the +patience of an angel; but she began—and who can +wonder?—to lose it, at last. +</p> + +<p> +"It is really impossible, my dear," she said, rising +from her chair, "to continue any conversation while +that very intolerable person persists in talking to his +family from his front garden. No! I really cannot +go on—I cannot, indeed." +</p> + +<p> +Just as I was apologising to my sweet friend for +the second time, I observed, to my great relief +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_109' name='Page_109'>109</a></span> +(having my eye still on the window) that the odious +major had apparently come to the end of his domestic +business for that morning, and had made up his mind +at last to relieve us of his presence. I distinctly saw +him put his tablets back in his pocket, wheel round +again on his heel, and march straight to the garden +gate. I waited until he had his hand on the lock to +open it, and then, when I felt that we were quite safe, +I informed dear Lady Malkinshaw that my detestable +neighbour had at last taken himself off, and, throwing +open the window again to get a little air, begged and +entreated her to oblige me by resuming her charming +narrative. +</p> + +<p> +"Where was I?" inquired my distinguished +friend. +</p> + +<p> +"You were telling me what you recommended +your poor darling to write inside her enclosure," I +answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, yes—so I was. Well, my dear, she controlled +herself by an admirable effort, and wrote +exactly what I told her. You will excuse a mother's +partiality, I am sure—but I think I never saw her +look so lovely—so mournfully lovely, I should say—as +when she was writing those last lines to the man +who had so basely trifled with her. The tears came +into my eyes as I looked at her sweet pale cheeks; +and I thought to myself——" +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_110' name='Page_110'>110</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +("Nurse! which of the children was sick, last +time, after eating onion sauce?") +</p> + +<p> +He had come back again!—the monster had come +back again, from the very threshold of the garden +gate, to shout that unwarrantably atrocious question +in at his nursery window! +</p> + +<p> +Lady Malkinshaw bounced off her chair at the first +note of his horrible voice, and changed towards me +instantly—as if it had been <i>my</i> fault!—in the most +alarming and unexpected manner. Her ladyship's +face became awfully red; her ladyship's head trembled +excessively; her ladyship's eyes looked straight +into mine with an indescribable fierceness. +</p> + +<p> +"Why am I thus insulted?" inquired Lady Malkinshaw, +with a slow and dignified sternness which +froze the blood in my veins. "What do you mean +by it?" continued her ladyship, with a sudden rapidity +of utterance that quite took my breath away. +</p> + +<p> +Before I could remonstrate with my friend for +visiting her natural irritation on poor innocent me: +before I could declare that I had seen the major +actually open his garden gate to go away, the provoking +brute's voice burst in on us again. +</p> + +<p> +"Ha! yes!" we heard him growl to himself, in a +kind of shameless domestic soliloquy. "Yes, yes, +yes—Sophy was sick, to be sure. Curious. All +Mrs. Namby's step-children have weak chests and +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_111' name='Page_111'>111</a></span> +strong stomachs. All Mrs. Namby's own children +have weak stomachs and strong chests. <i>I</i> have a +strong stomach <i>and</i> a strong chest.—Pamby!" +</p> + +<p> +"I consider this," continued Lady Malkinshaw, +literally glaring at me, in the fulness of her indiscriminate +exasperation—"I consider this to be unwarrantable +and unladylike. I beg to know——" +</p> + +<p> +"Where's Bill?" burst in the major, from below, +before her ladyship could add another word. "Matilda! +Nurse! Pamby! where's Bill? I didn't bid +Bill good-bye—hold him up at the window, one of +you!" +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Lady Malkinshaw," I remonstrated, +"why blame <i>me</i>? What have I done?" +</p> + +<p> +"Done!" repeated her ladyship. "Done!!!—all +that is most unfriendly, most unwarrantable, most +unladylike——" +</p> + +<p> +"Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a!" roared the major, shouting +her ladyship down, and stamping about the garden +in fits of fond paternal laughter. "Bill, my boy, +how are you? There's a young Turk for you! Pull +up his frock—I want to see his jolly legs——" +</p> + +<p> +Lady Malkinshaw screamed, and rushed to the +door. I sank into a chair, and clasped my hands in +despair. +</p> + +<p> +"Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! What calves the dog's got! +Pamby! look at his calves. Aha! bless his heart, +his legs are the model of his father's! The Namby +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_112' name='Page_112'>112</a></span> +build, Matilda: the Namby build, every inch of him. +Kick again, Bill—kick out, like mad. I say, ma'am! +I beg your pardon, ma'am——" +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ma'am?</i> I ran to the window. Was the major +actually daring to address Lady Malkinshaw, as she +passed, indignantly, on her way out, down my front +garden? He was! The odious monster was pointing +out his—his, what shall I say?—his <i>undraped</i> offspring +to the notice of my outraged visitor. +</p> + +<p> +"Look at him, ma'am. If you're a judge of children, +look at him. There's a two-year-older for you! +Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! Show the lady your legs, Bill—kick +out for the lady, you dog, kick out!" +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +I can write no more: I have done great violence +to myself in writing so much. Further specimens of +the daily outrages inflicted on me by my next-door +neighbour (though I could add them by dozens) could +do but little more to illustrate the intolerable nature +of the grievance of which I complain. Although +Lady Malkinshaw's naturally fine sense of justice +suffered me to call and remonstrate the day after she +left my house; although we are now faster friends +than ever, how can I expect her ladyship to visit me +again, after the reiterated insults to which she was +exposed on the last occasion of her esteemed presence +under my roof? How can I ask my niece—a +young person who has been most carefully brought +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_113' name='Page_113'>113</a></span> +up—to come and stay with me, when I know that +she will be taken into the major's closest domestic +confidence on the first morning of her arrival, whether +she likes it or not? Of all the dreary prospects, +stretching before all the single ladies in the world, +mine seems the most hopeless. My neighbours can't +help me, and I can't help myself. The law of the land +contains no provision against the habitual management +of a wife and family in a front garden. Private +remonstrance addressed to a man so densely impenetrable +to a sense of propriety as the major, would +only expose me to ridicule, and perhaps to insult. I +can't leave my house, for it exactly suits me, and I +have bought it. The major can't leave his house, for +it exactly suits him, and he has bought it. There is +actually no remedy possible but the forcible removal +of my military neighbour from his home; and there +is but one power in the country which is strong +enough to accomplish that removal—the Horse +Guards, infuriated by the horrors of war. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_114' name='Page_114'>114</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +CASES WORTH LOOKING AT.—II. +<br /> +<span class="s08">THE POISONED MEAL.</span><br /> + +<span class="s08">[From The Records of the French Courts.]</span> +</h2> + +<h3> +<span class='smcap'>Chapter I. The Pockets.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +This case takes us across the Channel to Normandy; +and introduces us to a young French girl, named +Marie-Françoise-Victoire Salmon. +</p> + +<p> +Her father was a poor Norman labourer. Her +mother died while she was a child. From an early +age Marie had learnt to get her own living by going +out to service. Three different mistresses tried her +while she was a very young girl, and found every +reason to be satisfied with her conduct. She entered +her fourth place, in the family of one Monsieur +Dumesnil, when she was twenty years of age. This +was the turning-point in her career; and here the +strange story of her life properly begins. +</p> + +<p> +Among the persons who often visited Monsieur +Dumesnil and his wife, was a certain Monsieur Revel, +a relation of Madame Dumesnil's. He was a man of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_115' name='Page_115'>115</a></span> +some note in his part of the country, holding a +responsible legal appointment at the town of Caen +in Normandy; and he honoured Marie, when he first +saw her at her master's house, with his special attention +and approval. She had an innocent face, and +a winning manner; and Monsieur Revel became +almost oppressively anxious, in a strictly paternal +way, that she should better her condition, by seeking +service at Caen, where places were plentiful and +wages higher than in the country; and where, it is +also necessary to remember, Monsieur Revel himself +happened to live. +</p> + +<p> +Marie's own idea, however, of the best means of +improving her condition was a little at variance with +the idea of her disinterested adviser. Her ambition +was to gain her living independently, if she could, +by being a sempstress. She left the service of Monsieur +Dumesnil of her own accord, without so much +as the shadow of a stain on her character, and went +to the old town of Bayeux to try what she could do +by taking in needlework. As a means of subsistence, +needlework soon proved itself to be insufficient; and +she found herself thrown back again on the old resource +of going out to service. Most unfortunately, +as events afterwards turned out, she now called to +mind Monsieur Revel's paternal advice, and resolved +to seek employment as a maid-of-all-work at Caen. +</p> + +<p> +She left Bayeux with the little bundle of clothes +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_116' name='Page_116'>116</a></span> +which represented all the property she had in the +world, on the first of August, seventeen hundred and +eighty-one. It will be well to notice this date particularly, +and to remember—in case some of the +events of Marie's story should seem almost incredible—that +it marks the period which immediately preceded +the first outbreak of the French Revolution. +</p> + +<p> +Among the few articles of the maid's apparel +which the bundle contained, and to which it is necessary +to direct attention at the outset, were <i>two +pairs of pockets</i>, one of them being still in an unfinished +condition. She had a third pair which she +wore on her journey. In the last century, a country +girl's pockets were an important and prominent part +of her costume. They hung on each side of her, +ready to her hand. They were sometimes very +prettily embroidered, and they were almost always +large and of a bright colour. +</p> + +<p> +On the first of August, seventeen hundred and +eighty-one, Marie left Bayeux, and early on the same +day she reached Caen. Her good manners, her excellent +character, and the modesty of her demands +in the matter of wages, rendered it easy for her to +find a situation. On the very evening of her arrival +she was suited with a place; and her first night at +Caen was passed under the roof of her new employers. +</p> + +<p> +The family consisted of Marie's master and mistress, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_117' name='Page_117'>117</a></span> +Monsieur and Madame Huet Duparc (both +highly respectable people); of two sons, aged respectively +twenty-one and eleven years; of their sister, +aged seventeen years; and of Monsieur and Madame +de Beaulieu, the father and mother of Madame +Duparc, one eighty-eight years old, the other eighty-six. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Duparc explained to Marie the various +duties which she was expected to perform, on the +evening when she entered the house. She was to +begin the day by fetching some milk—that being +one of the ingredients used in preparing the hasty-pudding +which formed the favourite morning meal of +the old gentleman, Monsieur de Beaulieu. The +hasty-pudding was always to be got ready by seven +o'clock exactly. When this had been done, Marie +was next required to take the infirm old lady, Madame +de Beaulieu, every morning to mass. She +was then to go to market, and get all the provisions +that were wanted for the daily use of the family; and +she was, finally, to look to the cooking of the food, +and to make herself additionally useful (with some +occasional assistance from Madame Duparc and her +daughter) in every remaining branch of household +work. The yearly wages she was to receive for performing +all these conflicting duties, amounted to +precisely two pounds sterling of English money. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_118' name='Page_118'>118</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +She had entered her new place on a Wednesday. +On Thursday she took her first lesson in preparing +the old gentleman's morning meal. One point which +her mistress then particularly impressed on her was, +that she was <i>not</i> to put any salt in the hasty-pudding. +</p> + +<p> +On the Saturday following, when she went out to +buy milk, she made a little purchase on her own +account. Of course the purchase was an article of +dress—a piece of fine bright orange-coloured stuff, +for which she paid nearly the whole price on the spot, +out of her small savings. The sum of two sous six +deniers (about a penny English) was all that Marie +took credit for. On her return to the house she +showed the piece of stuff to Madame Duparc, and +asked to be advised whether she should make an +apron or a jacket of it. +</p> + +<p> +The next day being Sunday, Marie marked the +occasion by putting on all the little finery she had. +Her pair of festive pockets, striped with blue and +white, came out of her bundle along with other things. +When she had put them on, she hung the old work-a-day +pockets which she had worn on leaving Bayeux, +to the back of a chair in her bed-chamber. This +was a little room on the ground-floor, situated close +to the dining-room, and perfectly easy of access to +every one in the house. Long afterwards, Marie +remembered how pleasantly and quietly that Sunday +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_119' name='Page_119'>119</a></span> +passed. It was the last day of happiness the poor +creature was to enjoy in the house of Madame +Duparc. +</p> + +<p> +On the Monday morning, she went to fetch the +milk as usual. But the milkwoman was not in the +shop to serve her. After returning to the house, she +proposed making a second attempt; but her mistress +stopped her, saying that the milk would doubtless +be sent before long. This turned out to be the case, +and Marie, having cleaned the saucepan for Monsieur +de Beaulieu's hasty-pudding, received from the hands +of Madame Duparc, the earthen vessel containing +the meal used in the house. She mixed this flour +and put it into the saucepan in the presence of +Madame Duparc and her daughter. She had just +set the saucepan on the fire, when her mistress said, +with a very remarkable abruptness: +</p> + +<p> +"Have you put any salt in it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly not, ma'am," answered Marie, amazed +by the question. "You told me yourself that I was +never to put salt in it." +</p> + +<p> +Upon this, Madame Duparc snatched up the saucepan +without saying another word, turned to the +dresser, stretched out her hand towards one of four +salt-cellars which always stood there, and sprinkled +salt into the saucepan—or (to speak with extreme +correctness, the matter being important), if not salt +something which she took for salt. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_120' name='Page_120'>120</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +The hasty-pudding made, Marie poured it from +the saucepan into a soup-plate which her mistress +held. Madame Duparc herself then took it to +Monsieur de Beaulieu. She and her daughter, and +one of her sons remained with the old man, while he +was eating his breakfast. Marie, left in the kitchen, +prepared to clean the saucepan; but, before she +could do so, she was suddenly called in two different +directions, by Madame de Beaulieu, and Madame +Duparc. The old lady wished to be taken to mass; +and her mistress wanted to send her on a number of +errands. Marie did not stop even to pour some clean +water, as usual, into the saucepan. She went at once +to get her instructions from Madame Duparc, and to +attend on Madame de Beaulieu. Taking the old +lady to church, and then running on her mistress's +errands, kept her so long away from the house, that +it was half-past eleven in the forenoon, before she got +back to the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +The first news that met her on her return was that +Monsieur de Beaulieu had been suffering, ever since +nine o'clock, from a violent attack of vomiting and +colic. Madame Duparc ordered her to help the old +man to bed immediately; and inquired, when these +directions had been followed, whether Marie felt +capable of looking after him herself, or whether she +would prefer that a nurse should be sent for. Being +a kind-hearted, willing girl, always anxious to make +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_121' name='Page_121'>121</a></span> +herself useful, Marie replied that she would gladly +undertake the nursing of the old man; and, thereupon, +her bed was moved at once into Monsieur de +Beaulieu's room. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Madame Duparc fetched from a neighbouring +apothecary's, one of the apprentices of the +shop, to see her father. The lad was quite unfit to +meet the emergency of the case, which was certainly +serious enough to require the attention of his master, +if not of a regularly qualified physician. Instead of +applying any internal remedies, the apprentice +stupidly tried blistering. This course of treatment +proved utterly useless; but no better advice was +called in. After he had suffered for hours without +relief, Monsieur de Beaulieu began to sink rapidly +towards the afternoon. At half-past five o'clock he +had ceased to exist. +</p> + +<p> +This shocking catastrophe, startling and suspicious +as it was, did not appear to discompose the nerves of +Madame Duparc. While her eldest son immediately +left the house to inform his father (who had been +absent in the country all day) of what had happened, +she lost no time in sending for the nearest nurse to +lay out the corpse of Monsieur de Beaulieu. On +entering the chamber of death, the nurse found Marie +there alone, praying by the old man's bedside. +</p> + +<p> +"He died suddenly, did he not?" said the nurse. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_122' name='Page_122'>122</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"Very suddenly," answered Marie. "He was +walking about only yesterday, in perfect health." +</p> + +<p> +Soon afterwards the time came when it was customary +to prepare supper. Marie went into the +kitchen, mechanically, to get the meal ready. Madame +Duparc, her daughter, and her youngest son, sat down +to it as usual. Madame de Beaulieu, overwhelmed +by the dreadful death of her husband, was incapable +of joining them. +</p> + +<p> +When supper was over, Marie assisted the old lady +to bed. Then, worn out though she was with fatigue, +she went back to the nurse to keep her company in +watching by the dead body. Monsieur de Beaulieu +had been kind to Marie, and had spoken gratefully +of the little attentions she had shown him. She +remembered this tenderly now that he was no more; +and she could not find it in her heart to leave a hired +mourner to be the only watcher by his death-bed. +All that night she remained in the room, entirely +ignorant of what was passing the while in every other +part of the house—her own little bed-room included, +as a matter of course. +</p> + +<p> +About seven o'clock the next morning, after sitting +up all night, she went back again wearily to the +kitchen to begin her day's work. Her mistress joined +her there, and saluted her instantly with a scolding. +</p> + +<p> +"You are the most careless, slovenly girl I ever +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_123' name='Page_123'>123</a></span> +met with," said Madame Duparc. "Look at your +dress; How can you expect to be decent on a +Sunday, if you wear your best pair of pockets on +week-days?" +</p> + +<p> +Surely Madame Duparc's grief for the loss of her +father must have been slight enough, if it did not +prevent her from paying the strictest attention to her +servant's pockets! Although Marie had only known +the old man for a few days, she had been too deeply +impressed by his illness and its fatal end, to be able +to think of such a trifle as the condition of her dress. +And now, of all the people in the world, it was Monsieur +de Beaulieu's daughter who reminded her that +she had never thought of changing her pockets, only +the day after the old man's dreadful death. +</p> + +<p> +"Put on your old pockets, directly, you untidy +girl!" said Madame Duparc. +</p> + +<p> +The old pockets were of course hanging where +Marie had left them, at the back of the chair in her +own room—the room which was open to any one who +chose to go into it—the room which she herself had +not entered during the past night. She left the +kitchen to obey her mistress; and taking the old pair +of pockets off the chair, tied them on as quickly as +possible. From that fatal moment the friendless +maid-of-all-work was a ruined girl. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_124' name='Page_124'>124</a></span> +</p> + +<h3> +<span class='smcap'>Chapter II. The Arsenic.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +On returning to the kitchen to go on with her work, +the exhaustion against which Marie had hitherto +fought successfully, overpowered her the moment she +sat down; her heavy head drooped, her eyes closed +in spite of her, and she fell into a broken, uneasy +slumber. Madame Duparc and her daughter, seeing +the condition she was in, undertook the preparation +of the day's dinner themselves. Among the dishes +which they got ready, and which they salted from +the cellars on the dresser, were two different kinds of +soup—one kind for themselves, made from fresh +"stock"—the other, for Marie and the nurse, made +from old "stock." They were engaged over their +cookery, when Monsieur Duparc arrived from the +country; and Marie was awakened to take the horse +he had ridden to the stables, to unsaddle the animal, +and to give him his feed of corn. +</p> + +<p> +While she was thus engaged, Madame Duparc and +her daughter remained alone in the kitchen. When +she left the stable it was time for her to lay the cloth. +She was told to put plates for seven persons. Only +six, however, sat down to dinner. Those six were, +Madame de Beaulieu, Monsieur and Madame Duparc, +the youngest of their two sons, Madame Beauguillot +(sister of Madame Duparc), and Monsieur Beauguillot +(her son). Mademoiselle Duparc remained in the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_125' name='Page_125'>125</a></span> +kitchen to help Marie in serving up the dinner, and +only took her place at table after the soup had been +put on. Her elder brother, after summoning his +father home, had not returned to the house. +</p> + +<p> +After the soup had been taken away, and while +Marie was waiting at table during the eating of the +second course, young Duparc complained that he felt +something gritty between his teeth. His mother +made precisely the same remark. Nobody else, however, +agreed with them, and the subject was allowed +to drop. When the second course was done with, the +dessert followed, consisting of a plate of cherries. +With the dessert there arrived a visitor, Monsieur +Fergant, a relation of Madame Duparc's. This gentleman +placed himself at table with the rest of the +company. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the nurse and Marie were making their +dinner in the kitchen off the soup which had been +specially provided for them—Marie having previously +placed the dirty plates and the empty soup-tureen +from the dining-room, in the scullery, as usual, to be +washed at the proper time. While she and her companion +were still engaged over their soup, young +Duparc and his mother suddenly burst into the kitchen, +followed by the other persons who had partaken of +dinner. +</p> + +<p> +"We are all poisoned!" cried Madame Duparc, in +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_126' name='Page_126'>126</a></span> +the greatest terror. "Good heavens! I smell burnt +arsenic in the kitchen!" +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Fergant, the visitor, hearing these last +words, politely stepped forward to echo them. +</p> + +<p> +"Burnt arsenic, beyond a doubt," said Monsieur +Fergant. When this gentleman was subsequently +questioned on the subject, it may not be amiss to +mention, that he was quite unable to say what burnt +arsenic smelt like. Neither is it altogether out of +place to inquire how Madame Duparc happened to +be so amazingly apt at discovering the smell of burnt +arsenic? The answer to the question does not seem +easy to discover. +</p> + +<p> +Having settled that they were all poisoned, and +having even found out (thanks to those two intelligent +amateur chemists, Madame Duparc and Monsieur +Fergant) the very nature of the deadly drug that had +been used to destroy them, the next thing the company +naturally thought of was the necessity of summoning +medical help. Young Monsieur Beauguillot +obligingly ran off (it was apparently a very mild case +of poisoning, so far as he was concerned) to the +apothecary's shop, and fetched, not the apprentice +this time, but the master. The master, Monsieur +Thierry, arrived in great haste, and found the dinner-eaters +all complaining of nausea and pains in the +stomach. He naturally asked what they had eaten. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_127' name='Page_127'>127</a></span> +The reply was, that they had eaten nothing but +soup. +</p> + +<p> +This was, to say the least of it, rather an unaccountable +answer. The company had had for dinner, +besides soup, a second course of boiled meat and +ragout of beef, and a dessert of cherries. Why was +this plain fact concealed? Why was the apothecary's +attention to be fixed exclusively on the soup? Was +it because the tureen was empty, and because the +alleged smell of burnt arsenic might be accounted for +on the theory that the remains of the soup brought +from the dining-room had been thrown on the kitchen +fire? But no remains of soup came down—it had +been all consumed by the guests. And what is still +more remarkable, the only person in the kitchen +(excepting Marie and the nurse) who could not discover +the smell of burnt arsenic, was the person of all +others who was professionally qualified to find it out +first—the apothecary himself. +</p> + +<p> +After examining the tureen and the plates, and +stirring up the wood ashes on the fire, and making +no sort of discovery, Monsieur Thierry turned to +Marie, and asked if she could account for what had +happened. She simply replied, that she knew nothing +at all about it; and, thereupon, her mistress and the +rest of the persons present all overwhelmed her together +with a perfect torrent of questions. The poor +girl, terrified by the hubbub, worn out by a sleepless +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_128' name='Page_128'>128</a></span> +night and by the hard work and agitation of the day +preceding it, burst into an hysterical fit of tears, and +was ordered out of the kitchen to lie down and recover +herself. The only person who showed her the least +pity and offered her the slightest attention, was a +servant-girl like herself, who lived next door, and who +stole up to the room in which she was weeping alone, +with a cup of warm milk and water to comfort her. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the report had spread in the town that +the old man, Monsieur de Beaulieu, and the whole +Duparc family, had been poisoned by their servant. +Madame Duparc did her best to give the rumour the +widest possible circulation. Entirely forgetting, as it +would seem, that she was on her own showing a +poisoned woman, she roamed excitably all over the +house with an audience of agitated female friends at +her heels; telling the burnt-arsenic story over and +over again to every fresh detachment of visitors that +arrived to hear it; and finally leading the whole troop +of women into the room where Marie was trying to +recover herself. The poor girl was surrounded in a +moment; angry faces and shrill voices met her on +every side; the most insolent questions, the most extravagant +accusations, assailed her; and not one word +that she could say in her own defence was listened to +for an instant. She had sprung up in the bed, on her +knees, and was frantically entreating for permission +to speak in her own defence, when a new personage +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_129' name='Page_129'>129</a></span> +appeared on the scene, and stilled the clamour by his +presence. This individual was a surgeon named +Hébert, a friend of Madame Duparc's, who announced +that he had arrived to give the family the benefit of +his assistance, and who proposed to commence operations, +by searching the servant's pockets without +farther delay. +</p> + +<p> +The instant Marie heard him make this proposal, +she untied her pockets, and gave them to Surgeon +Hébert with her own hands. He examined them on +the spot. In one, he found some copper money and +a thimble. In the other (to use his own words, given +in evidence) he discovered "various fragments of +bread, sprinkled over with some minute substance +which was white and shining. He kept the fragments +of bread, and left the room immediately without saying +a word." By this course of proceeding, he gave Marie +no chance of stating at the outset whether she knew +of the fragments of bread being in her pocket, or +whether she was totally ignorant how they came +there. Setting aside, for the present, the question, +whether there was really any arsenic on the crumbs +at all, it would clearly have been showing the unfortunate +maid-of-all-work no more than common +justice to have allowed her the opportunity of speaking +before the bread was carried away. +</p> + +<p> +It was now seven o'clock in the evening. The +next event was the arrival of another officious visitor. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_130' name='Page_130'>130</a></span> +The new friend in need belonged to the legal profession—he +was an advocate named Friley. Monsieur +Friley's legal instincts led him straightway to a conclusion +which seriously advanced the progress of +events. Having heard the statement of Madame +Duparc and her daughter, he decided that it was his +duty to lodge an information against Marie before +the Procurator of the King, at Caen. +</p> + +<p> +The Procurator of the King is, by this time, no +stranger to the reader. He was the same Monsieur +Revel who had taken such an amazingly strong +interest in Marie's fortunes, and who had strongly +advised her to try her luck at Caen. Here then, +surely, was a friend found at last for the forlorn +maid-of-all-work. We shall see how Monsieur Revel +acted, after Friley's information had been duly +lodged. +</p> + +<p> +The French law of the period, and, it may be +added, the commonest principles of justice also, required +the Procurator to perform certain plain duties +as soon as the accusation against Marie had reached +his ears. +</p> + +<p> +He was, in the first place, bound to proceed immediately, +accompanied by his official colleague, to +the spot where the alleged crime of poisoning was +supposed to have taken place. Arrived there, it was +his business to ascertain for himself the condition +of the persons attacked with illness; to hear their +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_131' name='Page_131'>131</a></span> +statements; to examine the rooms, the kitchen utensils, +and the family medicine-chest, if there happened +to be one in the house; to receive any statement +the accused person might wish to make; to take +down her answers to his questions; and, lastly, to +keep anything found on the servant (the breadcrumbs, +for instance, of which Surgeon Hébert had +coolly taken possession), or anything found about the +house which it might be necessary to produce in +evidence, in a position of absolute security, under +the hand and seal of justice. +</p> + +<p> +These were the plain duties which Monsieur Revel, +the Procurator, was officially bound to fulfil. In the +case of Marie, he not only neglected to perform any +one of them, but actually sanctioned a scheme for +entrapping her into prison, by sending a commissary +of police to the house, in plain clothes, with an order +to place her in solitary confinement. To what +motive could this scandalous violation of his duties +and of justice be attributed? The last we saw of +Monsieur Revel, he was so benevolently disposed +towards Marie that he condescended to advise her +about her prospects in life, and even went the length +of recommending her to seek for a situation in the +very town in which he lived himself. And now, we +find him so suddenly and bitterly hostile towards the +former object of his patronage, that he actually lends +the assistance of his high official position to sanction +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_132' name='Page_132'>132</a></span> +an accusation against her, into the truth or falsehood +of which he had not made a single inquiry! Can it +be that Monsieur Revel's interest in Marie was, after +all, not of the purest possible kind, and that the +unfortunate girl proved too stubbornly virtuous to be +taught what the real end was towards which the +attentions of her over-benevolent adviser privately +pointed? There is no evidence attaching to the +case (as how should there be?) to prove this. But +is there any other explanation of Monsieur Revel's +conduct, which at all tends to account for the extraordinary +inconsistency of it? +</p> + +<p> +Having received his secret instructions, the commissary +of police—a man named Bertot—proceeded +to the house of Monsieur and Madame Duparc, disguised +in plain clothes. His first proceeding was to +order Marie to produce the various plates, dishes, +and kitchen utensils which had been used at the +dinner of Tuesday, the seventh of August (that being +the day on which the poisoning of the company was +alleged to have taken place). Marie produced a +saucepan, an earthen vessel, a stewpan, and several +plates piled on each other, in one of which there +were the remains of some soup. These articles Bertot +locked up in the kitchen cupboard, and took away +the key with him. He ought to have taken the +additional precaution of placing a seal on the cupboard, +so as to prevent any tampering with the lock, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_133' name='Page_133'>133</a></span> +or any treachery with a duplicate key. But this he +neglected to do. +</p> + +<p> +His next proceeding was to tell Marie that the +Procurator Revel wished to speak to her, and to propose +that she should accompany him to the presence +of that gentleman forthwith. Not having the slightest +suspicion of any treachery, she willingly consented, +and left the house with the commissary. A friend +of the Duparcs, named Vassol, accompanied them. +</p> + +<p> +Once out of the house, Bertot led his unsuspecting +prisoner straight to the gaol. As soon as she was +inside the gates, he informed her that she was arrested, +and proceeded to search her person in the presence +of Vassol, of the gaoler of the prison, and of a woman +named Dujardin. The first thing found on her was +a little linen bag, sewn to her petticoat, and containing +a species of religious charm, in the shape of +a morsel of the sacramental wafer. Her pockets +came next under review (the pockets which Surgeon +Hébert had previously searched). A little dust was +discovered at the bottom of them, which was shaken +out on paper, wrapped up along with the linen bag, +sealed in one packet, and taken to the Procurator's +office. Finally, the woman Dujardin found in Marie's +bosom a little key, which she readily admitted to be +the key of her own cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +The search over, one last act of cruelty and injustice +was all that remained to be committed for +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_134' name='Page_134'>134</a></span> +that day. The unfortunate girl was placed at once +in solitary confinement. +</p> + +<h3> +<span class='smcap'>Chapter III. The Evidence.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +Thus far, the case is one of suspicion only. Waiting +until the end of the trial before we decide on whom +that suspicion ought to rest, let us now hear the +evidence by which the Duparcs and their adherents +proceeded to justify their conspiracy against the +liberty and the life of a friendless girl. +</p> + +<p> +Having secured Marie in solitary confinement, and +having thus left the house and all that it contained +for a whole night at the free disposal of the Duparcs, +the Procurator Revel bethought himself, the morning +after the arrest of his prisoner, of the necessity of +proceeding with something like official regularity. +He accordingly issued his requisition to the Lieutenant-Criminel +to accompany him to the house of +Monsieur Duparc, attended by the medical officers +and the clerk, to inquire into the circumstances +under which the suspected death by poisoning of +Monsieur de Beaulieu had taken place. Marie had +been imprisoned on the evening of the seventh of +August, and this requisition is dated on the morning +of the eighth. The document betrays one remarkable +informality. It mentions the death of Monsieur +de Beaulieu; but is absolutely silent on the subject +of the alleged poisoning of seven persons at dinner +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_135' name='Page_135'>135</a></span> +the next day. And yet, it was this latter circumstance +only which first directed suspicion against +Marie, and which induced Friley to lodge the information +against her on which the Procurator was now +acting. Probably Monsieur Revel's legal acumen +convinced him, at the outset, that the story of the +poisoned dinner was too weak to be relied on. +</p> + +<p> +The officers of the law, accompanied by the doctors, +proceeded to the house of the Duparcs on the eighth +of August. After viewing the body of Monsieur de +Beaulieu, the medical men were directed to open and +examine it. They reported the discovery in the +stomach of a reddish, brick-coloured liquid, somewhat +resembling the lees of wine. The mucous membrane +was detached in some places, and its internal surface +was corroded. On examining the reddish liquid, +they found it to contain a crystallised sediment, +which, on analysation, proved to be arsenic. Upon +this, the doctors delivered it as their opinion that +Monsieur de Beaulieu had been poisoned, and that +poison had been the cause of his death. +</p> + +<p> +The event having taken this serious turn, the first +duty of the Lieutenant-Criminel (according to the +French law) was to send for the servant on whom +suspicion rested, to question her, and to confront her +with the Duparcs. He did nothing of the kind; he +made no inquiry after the servant (being probably +unwilling to expose his colleague, the Procurator, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_136' name='Page_136'>136</a></span> +who had illegally arrested and illegally imprisoned +her); he never examined the kitchen utensils which +the Commissary had locked up; he never opened the +servant's cupboard with the key that had been taken +from her when she was searched in prison. All he +did was to reduce the report of the doctors to +writing, and to return to his office with his posse-comitatus +at his heels. +</p> + +<p> +It was necessary to summon the witnesses and +examine them. But the Procurator Revel now conveniently +remembered the story of the poisoned +dinner, and he sent the Lieutenant-Criminel to examine +the Duparcs and their friends at the private +residence of the family, in consideration of the sickly +condition of the eaters of the adulterated meal. It +may be as well to observe, here as elsewhere, that +these highly-indulged personages had none of them +been sufficiently inconvenienced even to go to bed, +or in any way to alter their ordinary habits. +</p> + +<p> +On the afternoon of the eighth, the Lieutenant-Criminel +betook himself to the house of Monsieur +Duparc, to collect evidence touching the death by +poison of Monsieur de Beaulieu. The first witness +called was Monsieur Duparc. +</p> + +<p> +This gentleman, it will be remembered, was away +from home, on Monday, the sixth, when Monsieur de +Beaulieu died, and only returned, at the summons of +his eldest son, at half-past eleven on the forenoon of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_137' name='Page_137'>137</a></span> +the seventh. He had nothing to depose connected +with the death of his father-in-law, or with the events +which might have taken place in the house on the +night of the sixth and the morning of the seventh. +On the other hand, he had a great deal to say about +the state of his own stomach after the dinner of the +seventh—a species of information not calculated to +throw much light on the subject of inquiry, which +was the poisoning of Monsieur de Beaulieu. +</p> + +<p> +The old lady, Madame de Beaulieu, was next +examined. She could give no evidence of the +slightest importance touching the matter in hand; +but, like Monsieur Duparc, she had something to say +on the topic of the poisoned dinner. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Duparc followed on the list of witnesses. +The report of her examination—so thoroughly had +she recovered from the effects of the dinner of the +seventh—ran to a prodigious length. Five-sixths of +it related entirely to her own sensations and suspicions, +and the sensations and suspicions of her +relatives and friends, after they had risen from table. +As to the point at issue, the point which affected the +liberty, and perhaps the life, of her unfortunate servant, +she had so little to say that her testimony may +be repeated here in her own words: +</p> + +<p> +"The witness (Madame Duparc) deposed, that +after Marie had helped Monsieur de Beaulieu to get +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_138' name='Page_138'>138</a></span> +up, she (Marie) hastened out for the milk, and, on +her return with it, prepared the hasty-pudding, took +it herself off the fire, and herself poured it out into +the plate—then left the kitchen to accompany Madame +de Beaulieu to mass. Four or five minutes +after Monsieur de Beaulieu had eaten the hasty-pudding, +he was seized with violent illness." +</p> + +<p> +Short as it is, this statement contains several distinct +suppressions of the truth. +</p> + +<p> +First, Madame Duparc is wrong in stating that +Marie fetched the milk, for it was the milkwoman +who brought it to the house. Secondly, Madame +Duparc conceals the fact that she handed the flour to +the servant to make the hasty-pudding. Thirdly, +Madame Duparc does not mention that she held the +plate for the pudding to be poured into, and took it +to her father. Fourthly, and most important of all, +Madame Duparc altogether omits to state, that she +sprinkled salt, with her own hands, over the hasty-pudding—although +she had expressly informed her +servant, a day or two before, that salt was never to +be mixed with it. At a subsequent stage of the proceedings, +she was charged with having salted the +hasty-pudding herself, and she could not, and did +not, deny it. +</p> + +<p> +The examination of Madame Duparc ended the +business on the day of the eighth. The next morning, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_139' name='Page_139'>139</a></span> +the Lieutenant-Criminel, as politely attentive as +before, returned to resume his inquiry at the private +residence of Monsieur Duparc. +</p> + +<p> +The first witness examined on the second day was +Mademoiselle Duparc. She carefully followed her +mother's lead—saying as little as possible about the +preparation of the hasty-pudding on the morning of +Monday, and as much as possible about the pain +suffered by everybody after the dinner of Tuesday. +Madame Beauguillot, the next witness, added her +testimony, as to the state of her own digestive organs, +after partaking of the same meal—speaking at such +prodigious length that the poison would appear, in +her case, to have produced its principal effect (and +that of a stimulating kind) on her tongue. Her +son, Monsieur de Beauguillot, was next examined, +quite uselessly in relation to the death by poison +which was the object of inquiry. The last witness +was Madame Duparc's younger son—the same who +had complained of feeling a gritty substance between +his teeth at dinner. In one important respect, his +evidence flatly contradicted his mother's. Madame +Duparc had adroitly connected Monsieur de Beaulieu's +illness with the hasty-pudding, by describing +the old man as having been taken ill four or five +minutes after eating it. Young Duparc, on the contrary, +declared that his grandfather first felt ill at +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_140' name='Page_140'>140</a></span> +nine o'clock—exactly two hours after he had partaken +of his morning meal. +</p> + +<p> +With the evidence of this last witness, the examinations +at the private residence of Monsieur +Duparc ended. Thus far, out of the seven persons, +all related to each other, who had been called as +witnesses, three (Monsieur Duparc himself, Madame +Beauguillot, and her son) had not been in the house +on the day when Monsieur de Beaulieu died. Of +the other four, who had been present (Madame de +Beaulieu, Madame Duparc, her son and her daughter), +not one deposed to a single fact tending to fix on +Marie any reasonable suspicion of having administered +poison to Monsieur de Beaulieu. +</p> + +<p> +The remaining witnesses, called before the Lieutenant-Criminel, +were twenty-nine in number. Not +one of them had been in the house on the Monday +which was the day of the old man's death. Twenty-six +of them had nothing to offer but hearsay evidence +on the subject of the events which had taken place +at, and after, the dinner of Tuesday. The testimony +of the remaining three, namely, of Friley, who had +lodged the information against Marie; of Surgeon +Hébert, who had searched her pockets in the house; +and of Commissary Bertot, who had searched her for +the second time, after taking her to prison,—was the +testimony on which the girl's enemies mainly relied +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_141' name='Page_141'>141</a></span> +for substantiating their charges by positively associating +her with the possession of arsenic. +</p> + +<p> +Let us see what amount of credit can be attached +to the evidence of these three witnesses. +</p> + +<p> +Friley was the first to be examined. After stating +what share he had taken in bringing Marie to justice +(it will be remembered that he lodged his information +against her at the instance of Madame Duparc, +without allowing her to say a word in her own defence), +he proceeded to depose that he hunted about +the bed on which the girl had lain down to recover +herself, and that he discovered on the mattress seven +or eight scattered grains of some substance, which +resembled the powder reported to have been found +on the crumbs in her pockets. He added further, +that on the next day, about two hours before the +body of Monsieur de Beaulieu was examined, he returned +to the house; searched under the bed, with +Monsieur Duparc and a soldier named Cauvin; and +found there four or five grains more of the same substance +which he had discovered on the mattress. +</p> + +<p> +Here were two separate portions of poison found, +then. What did Friley do with them? Did he +seal them up immediately in the presence of witnesses, +and take them to the legal authorities? Nothing +of the sort. On being asked what he did with +the first portion, he replied that he gave it to young +Monsieur Beauguillot. Beauguillot's evidence was +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_142' name='Page_142'>142</a></span> +thereupon referred to; and it was found that he had +never mentioned receiving the packet of powder from +Friley. He had made himself extremely officious in +examining the kitchen utensils; he had been as +anxious as any one to promote the discovery of +arsenic; and when he had the opportunity of producing +it, if Friley were to be believed, he held it +back, and said not one word about the matter. So +much for the first portion of the mysterious powder, +and for the credibility of Friley's evidence thus far! +</p> + +<p> +On being questioned as to what he had done with +the second portion, alleged to have been found under +the bed, Friley replied that he had handed it to the +doctors who opened the body, and that they had +tried to discover what it was, by burning it between +two copper pieces. A witness who had been present +at this proceeding declared, on being questioned, that +the experiment had been made with some remains +of hasty-pudding scraped out of the saucepan. Here +again was a contradiction, and here, once more, +Friley's evidence was, to say the least of it, not to be +depended on. +</p> + +<p> +Surgeon Hébert followed. What had he done with +the crumbs of bread scattered over with white powder, +which he had found in Marie's pocket? He had, +after showing them to the company in the drawing-room, +exhibited them next to the apothecary, and +handed them afterwards to another medical man. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_143' name='Page_143'>143</a></span> +Being finally assured that there was arsenic on the +bread, he had sealed up the crumbs, and given the +packet to the legal authorities. When had he done +that? On the day of his examination as a witness—the +fourteenth of August. When did he find the +crumbs? On the seventh. Here was the arsenic, +in this case, then, passing about from hand to hand, +and not sealed up, for seven days. Had Surgeon +Hébert anything more to say? Yes, he had another +little lot of arsenic to hand in, which a lady-friend +of his had told him she had found on Marie's bed, +and which, like the first lot, had been passed about +privately for seven days, from hand to hand, before +it was sealed up. To us, in these later and better +days, it seems hardly credible that the judge should +have admitted these two packets in evidence. It is, +nevertheless, the disgraceful fact that he did so +receive them. +</p> + +<p> +Commissary Bertot came next. He and the man +named Vassol, who had helped him to entrap Marie +into prison, and to search her before she was placed +in solitary confinement, were examined in succession, +and contradicted each other on oath, in the flattest +manner. +</p> + +<p> +Bertot stated that he had discovered the dust at +the bottom of her pockets; had shaken it out on +paper; had placed with it the little linen bag, containing +a morsel of the sacramental wafer, which had +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_144' name='Page_144'>144</a></span> +been sewn to her petticoat; had sealed the two up +in one packet; and had taken the packet to the +proper office. Vassol, on the other hand, swore that +<i>he</i> had shaken out the pockets, and had made up +the packet; and that Bertot had done nothing in +the matter but lend his seal. Contradicting each +other in these details, both agreed that what they +had found on the girl was inclosed and sealed up in +<i>one</i> packet, which they had left at the office, neglecting +to take such a receipt for it as might have established +its identity in writing. At this stage of the +proceedings the packet was sent for. Three packets +appeared instead of one! Two were composed of +paper, and contained dust and a little white powder. +The third was the linen bag, presented without any +covering at all. Vassol, bewildered by the change, +declared that of these three separate objects, he could +only identify one—the linen bag. In this case, it +was as clear as daylight that somebody must have +tampered with the single sealed packet which Bertot +and Vassol swore to having left at the office. No +attempt, however, was made to investigate this circumstance; +and the case for the prosecution—so far +as the accusation of poisoning was concerned—closed +with the examination of Bertot and Vassol. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the evidence produced in support of a +charge which involved nothing less than the life or +death of a human being. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_145' name='Page_145'>145</a></span> +</p> + +<h3> +<span class='smcap'>Chapter IV. The Sentence.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +While the inquiry was in course of progress, various +details connected with it found their way out of +doors. The natural sense of justice among the people +which had survived the corruptions of the time, was +aroused to assert itself on behalf of the maid-of-all-work. +The public voice spoke as loudly as it dared, +in those days, in Marie's favour, and in condemnation +of the conspiracy against her. +</p> + +<p> +People persisted, from the first, in inquiring how +it was that arsenic had got into the house of Monsieur +Duparc; and rumour answered, in more than one +direction, that a member of the family had purchased +the poison a short time since, and that there +were persons in the town who could prove it. To +the astonishment of every one, no steps were taken +by the legal authorities to clear up this report, and +to establish the truth or the falsehood of it, before +the trial. Another circumstance, of which also no +explanation was attempted, filled the public mind +with natural suspicion. This was the disappearance +of the eldest son of Monsieur and Madame Duparc. +On the day of his grandfather's sudden death, he +had been sent, as may be remembered, to bring his +father back from the country; and, from that time +forth, he had never reappeared at the house, and +nobody could say what had become of him. Was it +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_146' name='Page_146'>146</a></span> +not natural to connect together the rumours of purchased +poison and the mysterious disappearance of +this young man? Was it not utterly inconsistent +with any proceedings conducted in the name of justice +to let these suspicious circumstances exist, without +making the slightest attempt to investigate and +to explain them? +</p> + +<p> +But, apart from all other considerations, the charge +against Marie, was on the face of it preposterously +incredible. A friendless young girl arrives at a +strange town, possessing excellent testimonials to her +character, and gets a situation in a family every +member of which is utterly unknown to her until +she enters the house. Established in her new place, +she instantly conceives the project of poisoning the +whole family, and carries it out in five days from +the time when she first took her situation, by killing +one member of the household, and producing suspicious +symptoms of illness in the cases of all the +rest. She commits this crime having nothing to gain +by it; and she is so inconceivably reckless of detection +that she scatters poison about the bed on which +she lies down, leaves poison sticking to crumbs in +her pockets, puts those pockets on when her mistress +tells her to do so, and hands them over without a +moment's hesitation to the first person who asks +permission to search them. What mortal evidence +could substantiate such a wild charge as this? How +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_147' name='Page_147'>147</a></span> +does the evidence actually presented substantiate it? +No shadow of proof that she had purchased arsenic +is offered, to begin with. The evidence against +her is evidence which attempts to associate her with +the actual possession of poison. What is it worth? +In the first place, the witnesses contradict each other. +In the second place, in no one case in which powdered +substances were produced in evidence against her, +had those powdered substances been so preserved as +to prevent their being tampered with. Two packets +of the powder pass about from hand to hand for +seven days; two have been given to witnesses who +can't produce them, or account for what has become +of them; and one, which the witnesses who made it +up swear to as a single packet, suddenly expands +into three when it is called for in evidence! +</p> + +<p> +Careless as they were of assuming even the external +decencies of justice, the legal authorities, and +their friends the Duparcs, felt that there would be +some risk in trying their victim for her life on such +evidence as this, in a large town like Caen. It was +impossible to shift their ground and charge her with +poisoning accidentally; for they either could not, or +would not, account on ordinary grounds for the presence +of arsenic in the house. And, even if this +difficulty were overcome, and if it were alleged that +arsenic purchased for killing vermin, had been carelessly +placed in one of the saltcellars on the dresser, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_148' name='Page_148'>148</a></span> +Madame Duparc could not deny that her own hands +had salted the hasty-pudding on the Monday, and +that her servant had been too ill through exhaustion +to cook the dinner on the Tuesday. Even supposing +there were no serious interests of the vilest kind at +stake, which made the girl's destruction a matter of +necessity, it was clearly impossible to modify the +charge against her. One other alternative remained—the +alternative of adding a second accusation which +might help to strengthen the first, and to degrade +Marie in the estimation of those inhabitants of the +town who were now disposed to sympathise with her. +</p> + +<p> +The poor girl's character was so good, her previous +country life had been so harmless, that no hint or +suggestion for a second charge against her could be +found in her past history. If her enemies were to +succeed, it was necessary to rely on pure invention. +Having hesitated before no extremes of baseness and +falsehood, thus far, they were true to themselves in +regard to any vile venture which remained to be +tried. +</p> + +<p> +A day or two after the examination of the witnesses +called to prove the poisoning had been considered +complete, the public of Caen were amazed to +hear that certain disclosures had taken place which +would render it necessary to try Marie, on a charge +of theft as well as of poisoning. She was now not +only accused of the murder of Monsieur de Beaulieu, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_149' name='Page_149'>149</a></span> +but of robbing her former mistress, Madame Dumesnil +(a relation, be it remembered, of Monsieur +Revel's), in the situation she occupied before she +came to Caen; of robbing Madame Duparc; and of +robbing the shopwoman from whom she had bought +the piece of orange-coloured stuff, the purchase of +which is mentioned in an early part of this narrative. +</p> + +<p> +There is no need to hinder the progress of the +story by entering into details in relation to this +second atrocious charge. When the reader is informed +that the so-called evidence in support of the +accusation of theft was got up by Procurator Revel, +by Commissary Bertot, and by Madame Duparc, he +will know beforehand what importance to attach to +it, and what opinion to entertain on the question of +the prisoner's innocence or guilt. +</p> + +<p> +The preliminary proceedings were now considered +to be complete. During their progress, Marie had +been formally interrogated, in her prison, by the +legal authorities. Fearful as her situation was, the +poor girl seems to have maintained self-possession +enough to declare her innocence of poisoning, and +her innocence of theft, firmly. Her answers, it is +needless to say, availed her nothing. No legal help +was assigned to her; no such institution as a jury +was in existence in France. Procurator Revel collected +the evidence, Procurator Revel tried the case, +Procurator Revel delivered the sentence. Need the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_150' name='Page_150'>150</a></span> +reader be told that Marie's irresponsible judge and +unscrupulous enemy had no difficulty whatever in +finding her guilty? She had been arrested on the +seventh of August, seventeen hundred and eighty-one. +Her doom was pronounced on the seventeenth +of April, seventeen hundred and eighty-two. Throughout +the whole of that interval she remained in +prison. +</p> + +<p> +The sentence was delivered in the following terms. +It was written, printed, and placarded in Caen; and +it is here translated from the original French: +</p> + +<p> +"The Procurator Royal of the Bailiwick and civil +and criminal Bench and Presidency of Caen, having +taken cognizance of the documents concerning the +trial specially instituted against Marie-Françoise-Victoire-Salmon, +accused of poisoning; the said +documents consisting of an official report of the capture +of the said Marie-Françoise-Victoire-Salmon on +the seventh of August last, together with other official +reports, &c., +</p> + +<p> +"Requires that the prisoner shall be declared duly +convicted, +</p> + +<p> +"I. Of having, on the Monday morning of the +sixth of August last, cooked some hasty-pudding for +Monsieur Paisant de Beaulieu, father-in-law of Monsieur +Huet-Duparc, in whose house the prisoner had +lived in the capacity of servant from the first day of +the said month of August; and of having put arsenic +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_151' name='Page_151'>151</a></span> +in the said hasty-pudding while cooking it, by which +arsenic the said Monsieur de Beaulieu died poisoned, +about six o'clock on the same evening. +</p> + +<p> +"II. Of having on the next day, Tuesday, the +seventh of August last, put arsenic into the soup +which was served, at noon, at the table of Monsieur +and Madame Duparc, her employers, in consequence +of which all those persons who sat at table and eat +of the said soup were poisoned and made dangerously +ill, to the number of seven. +</p> + +<p> +"III. Of having been discovered with arsenic in her +possession, which arsenic was found on the said Tuesday, +in the afternoon, not only in the pockets of the +prisoner, but upon the mattress of the bed on which +she was resting; the said arsenic having been recognised +as being of the same nature and precisely +similar to that which the guests discovered to have +been put into their soup, as also to that which was +found the next day, in the body of the aforesaid +Monsieur de Beaulieu, and in the saucepan in which +the hasty-pudding had been cooked, of which the +aforesaid Monsieur de Beaulieu had eaten. +</p> + +<p> +"IV. Of being <i>strongly suspected</i> of having put +some of the same arsenic into a plate of cherries which +she served to Madame de Beaulieu, on the same Tuesday +morning, and again on the afternoon of the same +day at the table of Monsieur and Madame Duparc. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_152' name='Page_152'>152</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"V. Of having, at the period of Michaelmas, seventeen +hundred and eighty, committed different robberies +at the house of Monsieur Dumesnil, where she +lived in the capacity of servant, and notably of stealing +a sheet, of which she made herself a petticoat +and an apron. +</p> + +<p> +"VI. Of having, at the beginning of the month of +August last, stolen, in the house of Monsieur Huet-Duparc, +the different articles enumerated at the trial, +and which were found locked up in her cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +"VII. Of being <i>strongly suspected</i> of stealing, at +the beginning of the said month of August, from the +woman Lefévre, a piece of orange-coloured stuff. +</p> + +<p> +"For punishment and reparation of which offences, +she, the said Marie-Françoise-Victoire-Salmon, shall +be condemned to make atonement, in her shift, with +a halter round her neck, holding in her hands a +burning wax candle of the weight of two pounds, +before the principal gate and entrance of the church +of St. Peter, to which she shall be taken and led by +the executioner of criminal sentences, who will tie in +front of her and behind her back, a placard, on which +shall be written in large characters, these words:—<i>Poisoner +and Domestic Thief</i>. And there, being on +her knees, she shall declare that she has wickedly +committed the said robberies and poisonings, for +which she repents and asks pardon of God and +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_153' name='Page_153'>153</a></span> +Justice. This done, she shall be led by the said +executioner to the square of the market of Saint +Saviour's, to be there fastened to a stake with a chain +of iron, and to be burnt alive; her body to be reduced +to ashes, and the ashes to be cast to the winds; +her goods to be acquired and confiscated to the king, +or to whomsoever else they may belong. Said goods +to be charged with a fine of ten livres to the king, in +the event of the confiscation not turning to the profit +of his Majesty. +</p> + +<p> +"Required, additionally, that the said prisoner +shall be previously submitted to the Ordinary and +Extraordinary Torture, to obtain information of her +accomplices, and notably of those who either sold to +her or gave to her the arsenic found in her possession. +Order hereby given for the printing and placarding +of this sentence, in such places as shall be +judged fit. Deliberated at the bar, this seventeenth +April, seventeen hundred and eighty-two. +</p> + +<p class="left65"> +"(Signed) <span class='smcap'>Revel.</span>" +</p> + +<p> +On the next day, the eighteenth, this frightful +sentence was formally confirmed. +</p> + +<p> +The matter had now become public, and no one +could prevent the unfortunate prisoner from claiming +whatever rights the law still allowed her. She had +the privilege of appealing against her sentence before +the parliament of Rouen. And she appealed accordingly; +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_154' name='Page_154'>154</a></span> +being transferred, as directed by the law in +such cases, from the prison at Caen to the prison at +Rouen, to await the decision of the higher tribunal. +</p> + +<p> +On the seventeenth of May the Rouen parliament +delivered its judgment, and confirmed the original +sentence. +</p> + +<p> +There was some difficulty, at first, in making the +unhappy girl understand that her last chance for life +had failed her. When the fact that her sentence +was ordered to be carried out was at length impressed +on her mind, she sank down with her face on the +prison floor—then started up on her knees, passionately +shrieking to Heaven to have pity on her, and +to grant her the justice and the protection which +men denied. Her agitation at the frightful prospect +before her was so violent, her screams of terror were +so shrill and piercing, that all the persons connected +with the management of the prison hurried together +to her cell. Among the number were three priests, +who were accustomed to visit the prisoners and to +administer spiritual consolation to them. These +three men mercifully set themselves to soothe the +mental agony from which the poor creature was suffering. +When they had partially quieted her, they +soon found her willing and anxious to answer their +questions. They inquired carefully into the main +particulars of her sad story; and all three came to +the same conclusion, that she was innocent. Seeing +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_155' name='Page_155'>155</a></span> +the impression she had produced on them, she +caught, in her despair, at the idea that they might +be able to preserve her life; and the dreadful duty +devolved on them of depriving her of this last hope. +After the confirmation of the sentence, all that they +could do was to prove their compassion by preparing +her for eternity. +</p> + +<p> +On the 26th of May, the priests spoke their last +words of comfort to her soul. She was taken back +again, to await the execution of her sentence in the +prison of Caen. The day was at last fixed for her +death by burning, and the morning came when the +Torture-Chamber was opened to receive her. +</p> + +<h3> +<span class='smcap'>Chapter V. Hushed-up.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +The saddest part of Marie's sad story now remains +to be told. +</p> + +<p> +One resource was left her, by employing which it +was possible, at the last moment, to avert for a few +months the frightful prospect of the torture and the +stake. The unfortunate girl might stoop, on her +side, to use the weapons of deception against her +enemies, and might defame her own character by +pleading pregnancy. That one miserable alternative +was all that now remained; and, in the extremity +of mortal terror, with the shadow of the executioner +on her prison, and with the agony of approaching +torment and death at her heart, the forlorn creature +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_156' name='Page_156'>156</a></span> +accepted it. If the law of strict morality must judge +her in this matter without consideration, and condemn +her without appeal, the spirit of Christian +mercy—remembering how sorely she was tried, remembering +the frailty of our common humanity, +remembering the warning word which forbade us to +judge one another—may open its sanctuary of tenderness +to a sister in affliction, and may offer her the +tribute of its pity, without limit and without blame. +</p> + +<p> +The plea of pregnancy was admitted, and, at the +eleventh hour, the period of the execution was deferred. +On the day when her ashes were to have +been cast to the winds, she was still in her prison, a +living, breathing woman. Her limbs were spared +from the torture, her body was released from the +stake, until the twenty-ninth of July, seventeen hundred +and eighty-two. On that day her reprieve was +to end, and the execution of her sentence was absolutely +to take place. +</p> + +<p> +During the short period of grace which was now to +elapse, the situation of the friendless girl, accused of +such incredible crimes and condemned to so awful a +doom, was discussed far and wide in French society. +The case became notorious beyond the limits of Caen. +The report of it spread by way of Rouen, from mouth +to mouth, till it reached Paris; and from Paris it +penetrated into the palace of the King at Versailles. +That unhappy man, whose dreadful destiny it was to +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_157' name='Page_157'>157</a></span> +pay the penalty which the long and noble endurance +of the French people had too mercifully abstained +from inflicting on his guilty predecessors, had then +lately mounted the fatal steps of the throne. Louis +the Sixteenth was sovereign of France when the story +of the poor servant-girl obtained its first court-circulation +at Versailles. +</p> + +<p> +The conduct of the King, when the main facts of +Marie's case came to his ears, did all honour to his +sense of duty and his sense of justice. He instantly +despatched his Royal order to suspend the execution +of the sentence. The report of Marie's fearful situation +had reached him so short a time before the period +appointed for her death, that the Royal mandate was +only delivered to the parliament of Rouen on the +twenty-sixth of July. +</p> + +<p> +The girl's life now hung literally on a thread. An +accident happening to the courier, any delay in fulfilling +the wearisome official formalities proper to the +occasion—and the execution might have taken its +course. The authorities at Rouen, feeling that the +King's interference implied a rebuke of their inconsiderate +confirmation of the Caen sentence, did their +best to set themselves right for the future by registering +the Royal order on the day when they received +it. The next morning, the twenty-seventh, it was +sent to Caen; and it reached the authorities there on +the twenty-eighth. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_158' name='Page_158'>158</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +That twenty-eighth of July, seventeen hundred and +eighty-two, fell on a Sunday. Throughout the day +and night the order lay in the office unopened. +Sunday was a holiday, and Procurator Revel was not +disposed to occupy it by so much as five minutes, +performance of week-day work. +</p> + +<p> +On Monday, the twenty-ninth, the crowd assembled +to see the execution. The stake was set up, the +soldiers were called out, the executioner was ready. +All the preliminary horror of the torturing and +burning was suffered to darken round the miserable +prisoner, before the wretches in authority saw fit to +open the message of mercy and to deliver it at the +prison-gate. +</p> + +<p> +She was now saved, as if by a miracle, for the second +time! But the cell-door was still closed on her. The +only chance of ever opening it—the only hope of +publicly asserting her innocence, lay in appealing to +the King's justice by means of a written statement of +her case, presenting it exactly as it stood in all its +details, from the beginning at Madame Duparc's to +the end in the prison of Caen. The production of +such a document as this was beset with obstacles; +the chief of them being the difficulty of gaining access +to the voluminous reports of the evidence given at the +trial, which were only accessible in those days to +persons professionally connected with the courts of +law. If Marie's case was to be placed before the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_159' name='Page_159'>159</a></span> +King, no man in France but a lawyer could undertake +the duty with the slightest chance of serving the +interests of the prisoner and the interests of truth. +</p> + +<p> +In this disgraceful emergency a man was found to +plead the girl's cause, whose profession secured to +him the privilege of examining the evidence against +her. This man—a barrister, named Lecauchois—not +only undertook to prepare a statement of the case +from the records of the court—but further devoted +himself to collecting money for Marie, from all the +charitably-disposed inhabitants of the town. It is to +be said to his credit that he honestly faced the difficulties +of his task, and industriously completed the +document which he had engaged to furnish. On the +other hand, it must be recorded to his shame, that +his motives were interested throughout, and that with +almost incredible meanness he paid himself for the +employment of his time by putting the greater part +of the sum which he had collected for his client in his +own pocket. With her one friend, no less than with +all her enemies, it seems to have been Marie's hard +fate to see the worst side of human nature, on every +occasion when she was brought into contact with her +fellow-creatures. +</p> + +<p> +The statement pleading for the revision of Marie's +trial was sent to Paris. An eminent barrister at the +Court of Requests framed a petition from it, the prayer +of which was granted by the King. Acting under +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_160' name='Page_160'>160</a></span> +the Royal order, the judges of the Court of Requests +furnished themselves with the reports of the evidence +as drawn up at Caen; and after examining the whole +case, unanimously decided that there was good and +sufficient reason for the revision of the trial. The +order to that effect was not issued to the parliament +of Rouen before the twenty-fourth of May, seventeen +hundred and eighty-four—nearly two years after the +King's mercy had saved Marie from the executioner. +Who can say how slowly that long, long time must +have passed to the poor girl who was still languishing +in her prison? +</p> + +<p> +The Rouen parliament, feeling that it was held +accountable for its proceedings to a high court of +judicature, acting under the direct authority of the +King himself, recognised at last, readily enough, that +the interests of its own reputation and the interests +of rigid justice were now intimately bound up together; +and applied itself impartially, on this occasion +at least, to the consideration of Marie's case. +</p> + +<p> +As a necessary consequence of this change of course, +the authorities of Caen began, for the first time, to +feel seriously alarmed for themselves. If the parliament +of Rouen dealt fairly by the prisoner, a fatal +exposure of the whole party would be the certain +result. Under these circumstances, Procurator Revel +and his friends sent a private requisition to the authorities +at Rouen, conjuring them to remember that the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_161' name='Page_161'>161</a></span> +respectability of their professional brethren was at +stake, and suggesting that the legal establishment of +Marie's innocence was the error of all others which +it was now most urgently necessary to avoid. The +parliament of Rouen was, however, far too cautious, +if not too honest, to commit itself to such an atrocious +proceeding as was here plainly indicated. After +gaining as much time as possible by prolonging their +deliberations to the utmost, the authorities resolved +on adopting a middle course, which on the one hand +should not actually establish the prisoner's innocence, +and, on the other, should not publicly expose the disgraceful +conduct of the prosecution at Caen. Their +decree, not issued until the twelfth of March, seventeen +hundred and eighty-five, annulled the sentence of +Procurator Revel on technical grounds; suppressed +the further publication of the statement of Marie's +case, which had been drawn out by the advocate +Lecauchois, as libellous towards Monsieur Revel and +Madame Duparc; and announced that the prisoner +was ordered to remain in confinement until more +ample information could be collected relating to the +doubtful question of her innocence or her guilt. No +such information was at all likely to present itself +(more especially after the only existing narrative of +the case had been suppressed); and the practical +effect of the decree, therefore, was to keep Marie in +prison for an indefinite period, after she had been +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_162' name='Page_162'>162</a></span> +illegally deprived of her liberty already from August, +seventeen hundred and eighty-one, to March, seventeen +hundred and eighty-five. Who shall say that +the respectable classes did not take good care of +their respectability on the eve of the French Revolution! +</p> + +<p> +Marie's only hope of recovering her freedom, and +exposing her unscrupulous enemies to the obloquy +and the punishment which they richly deserved, lay +in calling the attention of the higher tribunals of the +capital to the cruelly cunning decree of the parliament +of Rouen. Accordingly, she once more petitioned +the throne. The King referred the document to his +council; and the council issued an order submitting +the Rouen decree to the final investigation of the +parliament of Paris. +</p> + +<p> +At last, then, after more than three miserable years +of imprisonment, the victim of Madame Duparc and +Procurator Revel had burst her way through all intervening +obstacles of law and intricacies of office, to the +judgment-seat of that highest law-court in the country, +which had the final power of ending her long sufferings +and of doing her signal justice on her adversaries of +all degrees. The parliament of Paris was now to +estimate the unutterable wrong that had been inflicted +on her; and the eloquent tongue of one of the first +advocates of that famous bar was to plead her cause +openly before God, the king, and the country. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_163' name='Page_163'>163</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +The pleading of Monsieur Fournel (Marie's counsel) +before the parliament of Paris, remains on record. +At the outset, he assumes the highest ground for the +prisoner. He disclaims all intention of gaining her +liberty by taking the obvious technical objections +to the illegal and irregular sentences of Caen and +Rouen. He insists on the necessity of vindicating +her innocence legally and morally before the world, +and of obtaining the fullest compensation that the law +allows for the merciless injuries which the original +prosecution had inflicted on his client. In pursuance +of this design, he then proceeds to examine the evidence +of the alleged poisoning and the alleged robbery, +step by step, pointing out in the fullest detail the +monstrous contradictions and improbabilities which +have been already briefly indicated in this narrative. +The course thus pursued, with signal clearness and +ability, leads, as every one who has followed the particulars +of the case from the beginning will readily +understand, to a very serious result. The arguments +for the defence cannot assert Marie's innocence without +shifting the whole weight of suspicion, in the matter +of Monsieur de Beaulieu's death by poisoning, on to +the shoulders of her mistress, Madame Duparc. +</p> + +<p> +It is necessary, in order to prepare the reader for +the extraordinary termination of the proceedings, to +examine this question of suspicion in some of its most +striking details. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_164' name='Page_164'>164</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +The poisoning of Monsieur de Beaulieu may be +accepted, in consideration of the medical evidence, as +a proved fact, to begin with. The question that +remains is, whether that poisoning was accidental or +premeditated. In either case, the evidence points +directly at Madame Duparc, and leads to the conclusion +that she tried to shift the blame of the poisoning +(if accidental) and the guilt of it (if premeditated) +from herself to her servant. +</p> + +<p> +Suppose the poisoning to have been accidental. +Suppose arsenic to have been purchased for some +legitimate domestic purpose, and to have been carelessly +left in one of the salt-cellars, on the dresser—who +salts the hasty-pudding? Madame Duparc. +Who—assuming that the dinner next day really contained +some small portion of poison, just enough to +swear by—prepared that dinner? Madame Duparc +and her daughter, while the servant was asleep. +Having caused the death of her father, and having +produced symptoms of illness in herself and her +guests, by a dreadful accident, how does the circumstantial +evidence further show that Madame Duparc +tried to fix the responsibility of that accident on her +servant, before she openly charged the girl with +poisoning? +</p> + +<p> +In the first place, Madame Duparc is the only one +of the dinner-party who attributes the general uneasiness +to poison. She not only does this, but she indicates +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_165' name='Page_165'>165</a></span> +the kind of poison used, and declares in the +kitchen that it is burnt,—so as to lead to the inference +that the servant, who has removed the dishes, +has thrown some of the poisoned food on the fire. +Here is a foregone conclusion on the subject of arsenic +in Madame Duparc's mind, and an inference in +connection with it, directed at the servant by Madame +Duparc's lips. In the second place, if any trust at +all is to be put in the evidence touching the finding +of arsenic on or about Marie's person, that trust must +be reposed in the testimony of Surgeon Hébert, who +first searched the girl. Where does he find the +arsenic and the bread crumbs? In Marie's pockets. +Who takes the most inexplicably officious notice of +such a trifle as Marie's dress, at the most shockingly +inappropriate time, when the father of Madame Duparc +lies dead in the house? Madame Duparc herself. +Who tells Marie to take off her Sunday pockets, +and sends her into her own room (which she herself +has not entered during the night, and which has been +open to the intrusion of any one else in the house) to +tie on the very pockets in which the arsenic is found? +Madame Duparc. Who put the arsenic into the +pockets? Is it jumping to a conclusion to answer +once more—Madame Duparc? +</p> + +<p> +Thus far we have assumed that the mistress attempted +to shift the blame of a fatal accident on to +the shoulders of the servant. Do the facts bear out +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_166' name='Page_166'>166</a></span> +that theory, or do they lead to the suspicion that the +woman was a parricide, and that she tried to fix on +the friendless country girl the guilt of her dreadful +crime? +</p> + +<p> +If the poisoning of the hasty-pudding (to begin +with) was accidental, the salting of it, through which +the poisoning was, to all appearance, effected, must +have been a part of the habitual cookery of the dish. +So far, however, from this being the case, Madame +Duparc had expressly warned her servant not to use +salt; and only used the salt (or the arsenic) herself, +after asking a question which implied a direct contradiction +of her own directions, and the inconsistency +of which she made no attempt whatever to explain. +Again, when her father was taken ill, if Madame +Duparc had been only the victim of an accident, +would she have remained content with no better help +than that of an apothecary's boy? would she not +have sent, as her father grew worse, for the best medical +assistance which the town afforded? The facts +show that she summoned just help enough, barely to +save appearances, and no more. The facts show that +she betrayed a singular anxiety to have the body +laid out as soon as possible after life was extinct. +The facts show that she maintained an unnatural +composure on the day of the death. These are significant +circumstances. They speak for themselves +independently of the evidence given afterwards, in +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_167' name='Page_167'>167</a></span> +which she and her child contradicted each other as +to the time that elapsed when the old man had eaten +his fatal meal, before he was taken ill. Add to these +serious facts the mysterious disappearance from the +house of the eldest son, which was never accounted +for; and the rumour of purchased poison, which was +never investigated. Consider, besides, whether the +attempt to sacrifice the servant's life be not more +consistent with the ruthless determination of a criminal, +than with the terror of an innocent woman +who shrinks from accepting the responsibility of a +frightful accident—and determine, at the same time, +whether the infinitesimal amount of injury done by +the poisoned dinner can be most probably attributed +to lucky accident, or to premeditated doctoring of the +dishes with just arsenic enough to preserve appearances, +and to implicate the servant without too +seriously injuring the company on whom she waited. +Give all these serious considerations their due weight; +then look back to the day of Monsieur de Beaulieu's +death: and say if Madame Duparc was the victim of +a dreadful accident, or the perpetrator of an atrocious +crime! +</p> + +<p> +That she was one or the other, and that, in either +case, she was the originator of the vile conspiracy +against her servant which these pages disclose, was +the conclusion to which Monsieur Fournel's pleading +on his client's behalf inevitably led. That pleading +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_168' name='Page_168'>168</a></span> +satisfactorily demonstrated Marie's innocence of poisoning +and theft, and her fair claim to the fullest +legal compensation for the wrong inflicted on her. +On the twenty-third of May, seventeen hundred and +eighty-six, the parliament of Paris issued its decree, +discharging her from the remotest suspicion of guilt, +releasing her from her long imprisonment, and authorizing +her to bring an action for damages against +the person or persons who had falsely accused her of +murder and theft. The truth had triumphed, and +the poor servant-girl had found laws to protect her at +last. +</p> + +<p> +Under these altered circumstances, what happened +to Madame Duparc? What happened to Procurator +Revel and his fellow-conspirators? What happened +to the authorities of the parliament of Rouen? +</p> + +<p> +Nothing. +</p> + +<p> +The premonitory rumblings of that great earthquake +of nations which History calls the French +Revolution, were, at this time, already beginning to +make themselves heard; and any public scandal +which affected the wealthier and higher classes involved +a serious social risk, the importance of which +no man in France could then venture to estimate. If +Marie claimed the privilege which a sense of justice, +or rather a sense of decency, had forced the parliament +of Paris to concede to her,—and, through her +counsel, she did claim it,—the consequences of the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_169' name='Page_169'>169</a></span> +legal inquiry into her case which her demand for +damages necessarily involved, would probably be the +trying of Madame Duparc, either for parricide, or for +homicide by misadventure; the dismissal of Procurator +Revel from the functions which he had disgracefully +abused; and the suspension from office of +the authorities at Caen and Rouen, who had in +various ways forfeited public confidence by aiding +and abetting him. +</p> + +<p> +Here, then, was no less a prospect in view than the +disgrace of a respectable family, and the dishonouring +of the highest legal functionaries of two important +provincial towns! And for what end was the dangerous +exposure to be made? Merely to do justice +to the daughter of a common day-labourer, who had +been illegally sentenced to torture and burning, and +illegally confined in prison for nearly five years. To +make a wholesale sacrifice of her superiors, no matter +how wicked they might be, for the sake of giving a +mere servant-girl compensation for the undeserved +obloquy and misery of many years, was too preposterous +and too suicidal an act of justice to be thought +of for a moment. Accordingly, when Marie was prepared +to bring her action for damages, the lawyers +laid their heads together, in the interests of society. +It was found possible to put her out of court at once +and for ever, by taking a technical objection to the +proceedings in which she was plaintiff, at the very +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_170' name='Page_170'>170</a></span> +outset. This disgraceful means of escape once discovered, +the girl's guilty persecutors instantly took +advantage of it. She was formally put out of court, +without the possibility of any further appeal. Procurator +Revel and the other authorities retained +their distinguished legal positions; and the question +of the guilt or innocence of Madame Duparc, in the +matter of her father's death, remains a mystery which +no man can solve to this day. +</p> + +<p> +After recording this scandalous termination of the +legal proceedings, it is gratifying to be able to conclude +the story of Marie's unmerited sufferings with +a picture of her after-life which leaves an agreeable +impression on the mind. +</p> + +<p> +If popular sympathy, after the servant-girl's release +from prison, could console her for the hard measure +of injustice under which she had suffered so long and +so unavailingly, that sympathy was now offered to +her heartily and without limit. She became quite a +public character in Paris. The people followed her +in crowds wherever she went. A subscription was +set on foot, which, for the time at least, secured her +a comfortable independence. Friends rose up in all +directions to show her such attention as might be in +their power; and the simple country girl, when she +was taken to see the sights of Paris, actually beheld +her own name placarded in the showmen's bills, and +her presence advertised as the greatest attraction +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_171' name='Page_171'>171</a></span> +that could be offered to the public. When, in due +course of time, all this excitement had evaporated, +Marie married prosperously, and the government +granted her its licence to open a shop for the sale of +stamped papers. The last we hear of her is, that she +was a happy wife and mother, and that she performed +every duty of life in such a manner as to justify the +deep interest which had been universally felt for her +by the people of France. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Her story is related here, not only because it +seemed to contain some elements of interest in itself, +but also because the facts of which it is composed +may claim to be of some little historical importance, +as helping to expose the unendurable corruptions of +society in France before the Revolution. It may not +be amiss for those persons whose historical point of +view obstinately contracts its range to the Reign of +Terror, to look a little farther back—to remember +that the hard case of oppression here related had +been, for something like one hundred years, the case +(with minor changes of circumstance) of the forlorn +many against the powerful few, all over France—and +then to consider whether there was not a reason and a +necessity, a dreadful last necessity, for the French +Revolution. That Revolution has expiated, and is +still expiating, its excesses, by political failures, which +all the world can see. But the social good which it +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_172' name='Page_172'>172</a></span> +indisputably effected remains to this day. Take, as +an example, the administration of justice in France +at the present time. Whatever its shortcomings +may still be, no innocent French woman could be +treated, now, as an innocent French woman was once +treated at a period so little remote from our own +time as the end of the last century. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_173' name='Page_173'>173</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.-VI. +<br /> +<span class="s08">MY SPINSTERS.</span><br /> +<span class="s08">[Introduced by an Innocent Old Man.]</span> +</h2> + +<p> +My young bachelor friends, suspend your ordinary +avocations for a few minutes and listen to me. I am +a benevolent old gentleman, residing in a small +country town, possessing a comfortable property, a +devoted housekeeper, and some charming domestic +animals. I have no wife, no children, no poor relations, +no cares, and nothing to do. I am a nice, +harmless, idle old man; and I want to have a word +with you in confidence, my worthy young bachelor +friends. +</p> + +<p> +I have a mania. Is it saving money? No. Good +living? No. Music? Smoking? Angling? Pottery? +Pictures? No, no, no,—nothing of the selfish sort. +My mania is as amiable as myself: it contemplates +nothing less than the future happiness of all the +single ladies of my acquaintance. I call them My +Spinsters; and the one industrious object of my idle +existence is to help them to a matrimonial settlement +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_174' name='Page_174'>174</a></span> +in life. In my own youth I missed the chance of +getting a wife, as I have always firmly believed, for +want of meeting with a tender-hearted old gentleman +like myself to help me to the necessary spinster. +It is possibly this reflection which originally led to +the formation of the benevolent mania that now possesses +me. Perhaps sheer idleness, a gallant turn of +mind, and living in a small country town, have had +something to do with it also. You see I shirk nothing. +I do not attempt any deception as to the motive +which induces me to call you together. I appear +before you in the character of an amateur matrimonial +agent having a few choice spinsters to dispose +of; and I can wait patiently, my brisk young bachelor +friends, until I find that you are ready to make me +a bid. +</p> + +<p> +Shall we proceed at once to business? Shall we +try some soft and sentimental Spinsters to begin +with? I am anxious to avoid mistakes at the outset, +and I think softness and sentiment are perhaps the +safest attractions to start upon. Let us begin with +the six unmarried sisters of my friend Mr. Bettifer. +</p> + +<p> +I became acquainted, gentlemen, with Mr. Bettifer +in our local reading-rooms, immediately after he +came to settle in my neighbourhood. He was then a +very young man, in delicate health, with a tendency +to melancholy and a turn for metaphysics. I profited +by his invitation as soon as he was kind enough to +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_175' name='Page_175'>175</a></span> +ask me to call on him; and I found that he lived +with his six sisters, under the following agreeable +circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +On the morning of my visit, I was shown into a +very long room, with a piano at one end of it and an +easel at another. Mr. Bettifer was alone at his +writing-desk when I came in. I apologised for +interrupting him, but he very politely assured me +that my presence acted as an inestimable relief to +his mind, which had been stretched—to use his own +strong language—on the metaphysical rack all the +morning. He gave his forehead a violent rub as he +mentioned this circumstance, and we sat down and +looked seriously at one another, in silence. Though +not at all a bashful old man, I began nevertheless to +feel a little confused at this period of the interview. +</p> + +<p> +"I know no question so embarrassing," began Mr. +Bettifer, by way of starting the talk pleasantly, "as +the question on which I have been engaged this +morning—I refer to the subject of our own Personality. +Here am I, and there are you—let us say +two Personalities. Are we a permanent, or are we a +transient thing? There is the problem, my dear sir, +which I have been vainly trying to solve since breakfast-time. +Can you (metaphysically speaking) be one +and the same person, for example, for two moments +together, any more than two successive moments can +be one and the same moment?—My sister Kitty." +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_176' name='Page_176'>176</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +The door opened as my host propounded this +alarming dilemma, and a tall young lady glided +serenely into the room. I rose and bowed. The tall +young lady sank softly into a chair opposite me. +Mr. Bettifer went on: +</p> + +<p> +"You may tell me that our substance is constantly +changing. I grant you that; but do you get me out +of the difficulty? Not the least in the world. For +it is not substance, but——My sister Maria." +</p> + +<p> +The door opened again. A second tall young lady +glided in, and sank into a chair by her sister's side. +Mr. Bettifer went on: +</p> + +<p> +"As I was about to remark, it is not substance, +but consciousness, which constitutes Personality. Now +what is the nature of consciousness?—My sisters +Emily and Jane." +</p> + +<p> +The door opened for the third time, and two tall +young ladies glided in, and sank into two chairs by +the sides of their two sisters. Mr. Bettifer went on: +</p> + +<p> +"The nature of consciousness I take to be that it +cannot be the same in any two moments, nor consequently +the personality constituted by it. Do you +grant me that?" +</p> + +<p> +Lost in metaphysical bewilderment, I granted it +directly. Just as I said yes, the door opened again, +a fifth tall young lady glided in, and assisted in +lengthening the charming row formed by her sisters. +Mr. Bettifer murmured indicatively, "My sister +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_177' name='Page_177'>177</a></span> +Elizabeth," and made a note of what I had granted +him, on the manuscript by his side. +</p> + +<p> +"What lovely weather," I remarked, to change +the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +"Beautiful!" answered five melodious voices. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened again. +</p> + +<p> +"Beautiful, indeed!" said a sixth melodious +voice. +</p> + +<p> +"My sister Harriet," said Mr. Bettifer, finishing +his note of my metaphysical admission. +</p> + +<p> +They all sat in one fascinating row. It was like +being at a party. I felt uncomfortable in my coloured +trowsers—more uncomfortable still, when Mr. Bettifer's +sixth sister begged that she might not interrupt +our previous conversation. +</p> + +<p> +"We are so fond of metaphysical subjects," said +Miss Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +"Except that we think them rather exhausting +for dear Alfred," said Miss Jane. +</p> + +<p> +"Dear Alfred!" repeated the Misses Emily, Maria, +and Kitty, in mellifluous chorus. +</p> + +<p> +Not having a heart of stone, I was so profoundly +touched, that I would have tried to resume the subject. +But, Mr. Bettifer waved his hand impatiently, +and declared that my admission had increased the +difficulties of the original question until they had +become quite insuperable. I had, it appeared, innocently +driven him to the conclusion, that our +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_178' name='Page_178'>178</a></span> +present self was not our yesterday's self, but another +self mistaken for it, which, in its turn, had no connection +with the self of to-morrow. As this certainly +sounded rather unsatisfactory, I agreed with Mr. +Bettifer that we had exhausted that particular view +of the subject, and that we had better defer starting +another until a future opportunity. An embarrassing +pause followed our renunciation of metaphysics for +the day. Miss Elizabeth broke the silence by asking +me if I was fond of pictures; and before I could say +Yes, Miss Harriet followed her by asking me if I was +fond of music. +</p> + +<p> +"Will you show your picture, dear?" said Miss +Elizabeth to Miss Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +"Will you sing, dear?" said Miss Harriet to Miss +Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +"Do, dear!" said the Misses Jane and Emily to +Miss Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +"Do, dear!" said the Misses Maria and Kitty to +Miss Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +There was an artless symmetry and balance of +affection in all that these six sensitive creatures said +and did. The fair Elizabeth was followed to the end +of the room where the piano was, by Jane and Emily. +The lovely Harriet was attended in the direction of +the easel by Maria and Kitty. I went to see the +picture first. +</p> + +<p> +The scene was the bottom of the sea; and the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_179' name='Page_179'>179</a></span> +subject, A Forsaken Mermaid. The unsentimental, +or fishy lower half of the sea nymph was dexterously +hidden in a coral grove before which she was sitting, +in an atmosphere of limpid blue water. She had +beautiful long green hair, and was shedding those +solid tears which we always see in pictures and never +in real life. Groups of pet fishes circled around her +with their eyes fixed mournfully on their forlorn +mistress. A line at the top of the picture, and a +strip of blue above it, represented the surface of the +ocean, and the sky; the monotony of this part of the +composition being artfully broken by a receding +golden galley with a purple sail, containing the fickle +fisher youth who had forsaken the mermaid. I had +hardly had time to say what a beautiful picture it +was, before Miss Maria put her handkerchief to her +eyes, and, overcome by the pathetic nature of the +scene portrayed, hurriedly left the room. Miss +Kitty followed, to attend on and console her; and +Miss Harriet, after covering up her picture with a +sigh, followed to assist Miss Kitty. I began to doubt +whether I ought not to have gone out next, to support +all three; but Mr. Bettifer, who had hitherto +remained in the background, lost in metaphysical +speculation, came forward to remind me that the +music was waiting to claim my admiration next. +</p> + +<p> +"Excuse their excessive sensibility," he said. "I +have done my best to harden them and make them +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_180' name='Page_180'>180</a></span> +worldly; but it is not of the slightest use. Will you +come to the piano?" +</p> + +<p> +Miss Elizabeth began to sing immediately, with +the attendant sylphs, Jane and Emily, on either side +of her, to turn over the music. +</p> + +<p> +The song was a ballad composition—music and +words by the lovely singer herself. A lady was +dreaming in an ancient castle; a dog was howling +in a ruined courtyard; an owl was hooting in a +neighbouring forest; a tyrant was striding in an +echoing hall; and a page was singing among moonlit +flowers. First five verses. Pause—and mournful +symphony on the piano, in the minor key. Ballad +resumed:—The lady wakes with a scream. The +tyrant loads his arquebus. The faithful page, hearing +the scream among the moonlit flowers, advances to +the castle. The dog gives a warning bark. The +tyrant fires a chance shot in the darkness. The page +welters in his blood. The lady dies of a broken +heart. Miss Jane is so affected by the catastrophe +that Miss Emily is obliged to lead her from the +room; and Miss Elizabeth is so anxious about them +both as to be forced to shut up the piano, and hasten +after them with a smelling-bottle in her hand. Conclusion +of the performance; and final exit of the six +Miss Bettifers. +</p> + +<p> +Tell yourselves off, my fortunate young bachelor +friends, to the corresponding number of half-a-dozen, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_181' name='Page_181'>181</a></span> +with your offers ready on your tongues, and your +hearts thrown open to tender investigation, while +favourable circumstances yet give you a chance. My +boys, my eager boys, do you want pale cheeks, limpid +eyes, swan-like necks, low waists, tall forms, and no +money? You do—I know you do. Go then, enviable +youths!—go tenderly—go immediately—go by +sixes at a time, and try your luck with the Miss +Bettifers! +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Let me now appeal to other, and possibly to fewer +tastes, by trying a sample of a new kind. It shall be +something neither soft, yielding, nor hysterical this +time. You who agree with the poet that +</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poem"> +<p>Discourse may want an animated No,</p> +<p>To brush the surface and to make it flow—</p> +</div></div> + +<p> +you who like girls to have opinions of their own, and +to play their parts spiritedly in the give and take of +conversation, do me the favour to approach, and permit +me to introduce you to the three Miss Cruttwells. +At the same time, gentlemen, I must inform you, +with my usual candour, that these Spinsters are short, +sharp, and, on occasion, shrill. You must have a +talent for arguing, and a knack at instantaneous definition, +or you will find the Miss Cruttwells too much +for you, and had better wait for my next sample. +And yet for a certain peculiar class of customer, +these are really very choice spinsters. For instance, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_182' name='Page_182'>182</a></span> +any unmarried legal gentleman, who would like to +have his wits kept sharp for his profession, by constant +disputation, could not do better than address +himself (as logically as possible) to one of the Miss +Cruttwells. Perhaps my legal bachelor will be so +obliging as to accompany me on a morning call? +</p> + +<p> +It is a fine spring day, with a light air and plenty +of round white clouds flying over the blue sky, when +we pay our visit. We find the three young ladies in +the morning room. Miss Martha Cruttwell is fond of +statistical subjects, and is annotating a pamphlet. +Miss Barbara Cruttwell likes geology, and is filling a +cabinet with ticketed bits of stone. Miss Charlotte +Cruttwell has a manly taste for dogs, and is nursing +two fat puppies on her lap. All three have florid +complexions; all three have a habit of winking both +eyes incessantly, and a way of wearing their hair +very tight, and very far off their faces. All three +acknowledge my young legal friend's bow in—what +may seem to him—a very short, sharp manner; and +modestly refrain from helping him by saying a word +to begin the conversation. He is, perhaps, unreasonably +disconcerted by this, and therefore starts the +talk weakly by saying that it is a fine day. +</p> + +<p> +"Fine!" exclaims Miss Martha, with a look of +amazement at her sister. "Fine!" with a stare of +perplexity at my young legal friend. "Dear me! +what do you mean, now, by a fine day?" +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_183' name='Page_183'>183</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"We were just saying how cold it was," says Miss +Barbara. +</p> + +<p> +"And how very like rain," says Miss Charlotte, +with a look at the white clouds outside, which happen +to be obscuring the sun for a few minutes. +</p> + +<p> +"But what do you mean, now, by a fine day?" +persists Miss Martha. +</p> + +<p> +My young legal friend is put on his mettle by this +time, and answers with professional readiness: +</p> + +<p> +"At this uncertain spring season, my definition +of a fine day, is a day on which you do not feel +the want of your great-coat, your goloshes, or your +umbrella." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, no," says Miss Martha, "surely not! At +least, that does not appear to me to be at all a definition +of a fine day. Barbara? Charlotte?" +</p> + +<p> +"We think it quite impossible to call a day—when +the sun is not shining—a fine day," says Miss +Barbara. +</p> + +<p> +"We think that when clouds are in the sky there +is always a chance of rain; and, when there is a +chance of rain, we think it is very extraordinary to +say that it is a fine day," adds Miss Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +My legal bachelor starts another topic, and finds +his faculty for impromptu definition exercised by the +three Miss Cruttwells, always in the same briskly-disputatious +manner. He goes away—as I hope and +trust—thinking what an excellent lawyer's wife any +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_184' name='Page_184'>184</a></span> +one of the three young ladies would make. If he +could only be present in the spirit, after leaving the +abode of the Miss Cruttwells in the body, his admiration +of my three disputatious spinsters would, I think, +be greatly increased. He would find that, though +they could all agree to a miracle in differing with +him while he was present, they would begin to vary +in opinion, the moment their visitor's subjects of +conversation were referred to in his absence. He +would, probably, for example, hear them take up the +topic of the weather again, the instant the house-door +had closed after him, in these terms: +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know," he might hear Miss Martha say, +"I am not so sure after all, Charlotte, that you were +right in saying that it could not be a fine day, because +there were clouds in the sky?" +</p> + +<p> +"You only say that," Miss Charlotte would be +sure to reply, "because the sun happens to be peeping +out, just now, for a minute or two. If it rains in +half-an-hour, which is more than likely, who would +be right then?" +</p> + +<p> +"On reflection," Miss Barbara might remark next, +"I don't agree with either of you, and I also dispute +the opinion of the gentleman who has just left us. +It is neither a fine day, nor a bad day." +</p> + +<p> +"But it must be one or the other." +</p> + +<p> +"No, it needn't. It may be an indifferent day." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean by an indifferent day?" +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_185' name='Page_185'>185</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +So they go on, these clever girls of mine, these +mistresses in the art of fencing applied to the tongue. +I have not presented this sample from my collection, +as one which is likely to suit any great number. +But, there are peculiarly constituted bachelors in +this world; and I like to be able to show that my +assortment of spinsters is various enough to warrant +me in addressing even the most alarming eccentricities +of taste. Will nobody offer for this disputatious +sample—not even for the dog-fancying Miss +Charlotte, with the two fat puppies thrown in? No? +Take away the Miss Cruttwells, and let us try what +we can do, thirdly and lastly, with the Miss Duckseys +produced in their place. +</p> + +<p> +I confidently anticipate a brisk competition and a +ready market for the spinsters now about to be submitted +to inspection. You have already had a sentimental +sample, gentlemen, and a disputatious sample. +In now offering a domestic sample, I have but one +regret, which is, that my spinsters on the present +occasion are unhappily limited to two in number. I +wish I had a dozen to produce of the same interesting +texture and the same unimpeachable quality. +</p> + +<p> +The whole world, gentlemen, at the present +writing, means, in the estimation of the two Miss +Duckseys, papa, mamma, and brother George. This +loving sample can be warranted never yet to have +looked beyond the sacred precincts of the family +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_186' name='Page_186'>186</a></span> +circle. All their innocent powers of admiration and +appreciation have been hitherto limited within the +boundaries of home. If Miss Violet Ducksey wants +to see a lovely girl, she looks at Miss Rose Ducksey, +and vice versâ; if both want to behold manly dignity, +matronly sweetness, and youthful beauty, both look +immediately at papa, mamma, and brother George. +I have been admitted into the unparalleled family +circle, of which I now speak. I have seen—to say +nothing, for the present, of papa and mamma—I have +seen brother George come in from business, and sit +down by the fireside, and be welcomed by Miss +Violet and Miss Rose, as if he had just returned, after +having been reported dead, from the other end of the +world. I have seen those two devoted sisters race +across the room, in fond contention which should sit +first on brother George's knee. I have even seen both +sit upon him together, each taking a knee, when he +has been half-an-hour later than usual at the office. +I have never beheld their lovely arms tired of +clasping brother George's neck, never heard their +rosy lips cease kissing brother George's cheeks, +except when they were otherwise occupied for the +moment in calling him "Dear!" On the word of +honour of a harmless spinster-fancying old man, I +declare that I have seen brother George fondled to +such an extent by his sisters that, although a lusty +and long-suffering youth, he has fallen asleep under +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_187' name='Page_187'>187</a></span> +it from sheer exhaustion. Even then, I have observed +Miss Rose and Miss Violet contending (in +each other's arms) which should have the privilege +of casting her handkerchief over his face. And that +touching contest concluded, I have quitted the house +at a late hour, leaving Violet on papa's bosom, and +Rose entwined round mamma's waist. Beautiful! +beautiful! +</p> + +<p> +Am I exaggerating? Go, and judge for yourselves, +my bachelor friends. Go, if you like, and +meet my domestic sample at a ball. +</p> + +<p> +My bachelor is introduced to Miss Violet, and +takes his place with her in a quadrille. He begins +a lively conversation, and finds her attention wandering. +She has not heard a word that he has been +saying, and she interrupts him in the middle of a +sentence with a question which has not the slightest +relation to anything that he has hitherto offered by +way of a remark. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you ever met my sister Rose before?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I have not had the honour—" +</p> + +<p> +"She is standing there, at the other end, in a blue +dress. Now, do tell me, does she not look charming?" +</p> + +<p> +My bachelor makes the necessary answer, and +goes on to another subject. Miss Violet's attention +wanders again, and she asks another abrupt question. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_188' name='Page_188'>188</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"What did you think of mamma, when you were +introduced to her?" +</p> + +<p> +My bachelor friend makes another necessary answer. +Miss Violet, without appearing to be at all +impressed by it, looks into the distance in search of +her maternal parent, and then addresses her partner +again: +</p> + +<p> +"It is not a pleasant thing for young people to +confess," she says, with the most artless candour, +"but I really do think that mamma is the handsomest +woman in the room. There she is, taking an +ice, next to the old lady with the diamonds. Is she +not beautiful? Do you know, when we were dressing +to-night, Rose and I begged and prayed her not to +wear a cap. We said, 'Don't, mamma; please +don't. Put it off for another year.' And mamma +said, in her sweet way, 'Nonsense, my loves! I am +an old woman. You must accustom yourselves to +that idea, and you must let me wear a cap; you +must, darlings, indeed.' And we said—what do +you think we said?" +</p> + +<p> +(Another necessary answer.) +</p> + +<p> +"We said, 'You are studying papa's feelings, dear—you +are afraid of being taken for our youngest +sister if you go in your hair,—and it is on papa's +account that you wear a cap. Sly mamma!'—Have +you been introduced to papa?" +</p> + +<p> +Later in the evening my bachelor friend is presented +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_189' name='Page_189'>189</a></span> +to Miss Rose. He asks for the honour of +dancing with her. She inquires if it is for the waltz, +and hearing that it is, draws back and curtsies +apologetically. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, I must keep the waltz for my +brother George. My sister and I always keep +waltzes for our brother George." +</p> + +<p> +My bachelor draws back. The dance proceeds. +He hears a soft voice behind him. It is Miss Violet +who is speaking. +</p> + +<p> +"You are a judge of waltzing?" she says, in tones +of the gentlest insinuation. "Do pray look at +George and Rose. No, thank you: I never dance +when George and Rose are waltzing. It is a much +greater treat to me to look on. I always look on. +I do, indeed." +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps my bachelor does not frequent balls. It +is of no consequence. Let him be a diner-out; let +him meet my domestic sample at the social board; +and he will only witness fresh instances of that +all-absorbing interest in each other, which is the +remarkable peculiarity of the whole Ducksey family, +and of the young ladies in particular. He will find +them admiring one another with the same touching +and demonstrative affection over the dishes on the +dinner-table, as amid the mazes of the dance. He +will hear from the venerable Mr. Ducksey that +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_190' name='Page_190'>190</a></span> +George never gave him a moment's uneasiness from +the hour of his birth. He will hear from Mrs. +Ducksey that her one regret in this life is, that she +can never be thankful enough for her daughters. +And (to return to the young ladies, who are the +main objects of these remarks), he will find, by some +such fragments of dialogue as the following, that no +general subjects of conversation whatever have the +power of alluring the minds of the two Miss Duckseys +from the contemplation of their own domestic +interests, and the faithful remembrance of their own +particular friends. +</p> + +<p> +It is the interval, let us say, between the removal +of the fish and the appearance of the meat. The +most brilliant man in the company has been talking +with great sprightliness and effect; has paused for a +moment to collect his ideas before telling one of the +good stories for which he is famous; and is just +ready to begin—when Miss Rose stops him and +silences all her neighbours by anxiously addressing +her sister, who sits opposite to her at the table. +</p> + +<p> +"Violet, dear." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, dear." +</p> + +<p> +(Profound silence follows. The next course fails +to make its appearance. Nobody wanting to take +any wine. The brilliant guest sits back in his chair, +dogged and speechless. The host and hostess look +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_191' name='Page_191'>191</a></span> +at each other nervously. Miss Rose goes on with +the happy artlessness of a child, as if nobody but +her sister was present.) +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know I have made up my mind what I +shall give mamma's Susan when she is married?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not a silk dress? That's my present." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you think, dear, of a locket with our +hair in it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Sweet." +</p> + +<p> +(The silence of the tomb falls on the dinner-table. +The host and hostess begin to get angry. The guests +look at each other. The second course persists in +not coming in. The brilliant guest suffers from a +dry cough. Miss Violet, in her turn, addresses Miss +Rose across the table.) +</p> + +<p> +"Rose, I met Ellen Davis to-day." +</p> + +<p> +"Has she heard from Clara?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; Clara's uncle and aunt won't let her come." +</p> + +<p> +"Tiresome people! Did you go on to Brompton? +Did you see Jane? Is Jane to be depended on?" +</p> + +<p> +"If Jane's cold gets better, she and that odious +cousin of hers are sure to come. Uncle Frank, of +course, makes his usual excuse." +</p> + +<p> +So the simple-hearted sisters prattle on in public; +so do they carry their own innocent affections and +interests about with them into the society they adorn; +so do they cast the extinguishing sunshine of their +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_192' name='Page_192'>192</a></span> +young hearts over the temporary flashes of worldly +merriment, and the short-lived blaze of dinner eloquence. +Without another word of preliminary recommendation, +I confidently submit the Miss Duckseys +to brisk public competition. I can promise the two +fortunate youths who may woo and win them, plenty +of difficulties in weaning their affections from the +family hearth, with showers of tears and poignant +bursts of anguish on the wedding day. All properly-constituted +bridegrooms feel, as I have been given to +understand, inexpressibly comforted and encouraged +by a display of violent grief on the part of the bride +when she is starting on her wedding tour. And, +besides, in the particular case of the Miss Duckseys, +there would always be the special resource of taking +brother George into the carriage, as a sure palliative, +during the first few stages of the honeymoon trip. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_193' name='Page_193'>193</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +DRAMATIC GRUB STREET.<a name='FA_D' id='FA_D' href='#FN_D' class='fnanchor'>[D]</a> +<br /> +<span class="s08">EXPLORED IN TWO LETTERS.</span> +</h2> + +<h3> +<span class='smcap'>Letter the First. From Mr. Reader to Mr. Author.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +<span class='smcap'>My dear Sir</span>,—I am sufficiently well-educated, and +sufficiently refined in my tastes and habits, to be a +member of the large class of persons usually honoured +by literary courtesy with the title of the Intelligent +Public. In the interests of the order to which I belong, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_194' name='Page_194'>194</a></span> +I have a little complaint to make against the +managers of our theatres, and a question to put afterwards, +which you, as a literary man, will, I have no +doubt, be both able and willing to answer. +</p> + +<p> +Like many thousands of other people, I am fond of +reading and fond of going to the theatre. In regard +to my reading, I have no complaint to make—for +the press supplies me abundantly with English poems, +histories, biographies, novels, essays, travels, criticisms, +all of modern production. But, in regard to +going to the theatre, I write with something like a +sense of injury—for nobody supplies me with a good +play. There is living literature of a genuine sort in +the English libraries of the present time. Why (I +beg to inquire) is there no living literature of a +genuine sort in the English theatre of the present +time, also? +</p> + +<p> +Say, I am a Frenchman, fond of the imaginative +literature of my country, well-read in all the best +specimens of it,—I mean, best in a literary point of +view, for I am not touching moral questions now. +When I shut up Balzac, Victor Hugo, Dumas, and +Soulié, and go to the theatre—what do I find? Balzac, +Victor Hugo, Dumas, and Soulié again. The +men who have been interesting me in my arm-chair, +interesting me once more in my stall. The men who +can really invent and observe for the reader, inventing +and observing for the spectator also. What is +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_195' name='Page_195'>195</a></span> +the necessary consequence? The literary standard +of the stage is raised; and the dramatist by profession +must be as clever a man, in his way, as good an +inventor, as correct a writer, as the novelist. And +what, in my case, follows that consequence? Clearly +this: the managers of theatres get my money at +night, as the publishers of books get it in the day. +</p> + +<p> +Do the managers get my money from me in England? +By no manner of means. For they hardly +ever condescend to address me. +</p> + +<p> +I get up from reading the best works of our best +living writers, and go to the theatre, here. What +do I see? The play that I have seen before in Paris. +This may do very well for my servant, who does not +understand French, or for my tradesman, who has +never had time to go to Paris,—but it is only showing +<i>me</i> an old figure in a foreign dress, which does +not become it like its native costume. But, perhaps, +our dramatic entertainment is not a play adapted +from the French Drama. Perhaps, it is something +English—a Burlesque. Delightful, I have no doubt, +to a fast young farmer from the country, or to a convivial +lawyer's clerk, who has never read anything but +a newspaper in his life. But is it satisfactory to <i>me</i>? +It is, if I want to go and see the Drama satirised. +But I go to enjoy a new play—and I am rewarded +by seeing all my favourite ideas and characters in +some old play, ridiculed. This, like the adapted +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_196' name='Page_196'>196</a></span> +drama, is the sort of entertainment I do <i>not</i> +want. +</p> + +<p> +I read at home many original stories, by many +original authors, that delight me. I go to the theatre, +and naturally want original stories by original +authors, which will also delight me there. Do I get +what I ask for? Yes, if I want to see an old play +over again. But, if I want a new play? Why, <i>then</i> +I must have the French adaptation, or the Burlesque. +The publisher can understand that there are people +among his customers who possess cultivated tastes, +and can cater for them accordingly, when they ask +for something new. The manager, in the same case, +recognises no difference between me and my servant. +My footman goes to see the play-actors, and cares +very little what they perform in. If my taste is not +his taste, we may part at the theatre door,—he goes +in, and I go home. It may be said, Why is my footman's +taste not to be provided for? By way of +answering that question, I will ask another:—Why +is my footman not to have the chance of improving +his taste, and making it as good as mine? +</p> + +<p> +The case between the two countries seems to stand +thus, then:—In France, the most eminent imaginative +writers work, as a matter of course, for the +stage, as well as for the library table. In England, +the most eminent imaginative writers work for the +library table alone. What is the reason of this? To +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_197' name='Page_197'>197</a></span> +what do you attribute the present shameful dearth of +stage literature? To the dearth of good actors?—or, +if not to that, to what other cause? +</p> + +<p> +Of one thing I am certain, that there is no want of a +large and a ready audience for original English plays, +possessing genuine dramatic merit, and appealing, as +forcibly as our best novels do, to the tastes, the interests, +and the sympathies of our own time. You, who +have had some experience of society, know as well as +I do, that there is in this country a very large class +of persons whose minds are stiffened by no Puritanical +scruples, whose circumstances in the world are +easy, whose time is at their own disposal, who are the +very people to make a good audience and a paying +audience at a theatre, and who yet, hardly ever darken +theatrical doors more than two or three times in a +year. You know this; and you know also that the +systematic neglect of the theatre in these people, has +been forced on them, in the first instance, by the +shock inflicted on their good sense by nine-tenths of +the so-called new entertainments which are offered +to them. I am not speaking now of gorgeous scenic +revivals of old plays—for which I have a great respect, +because they offer to sensible people the only +decent substitute for genuine dramatic novelty to be +met with at the present time. I am referring to the +"new entertainments" which are, in the vast majority +of cases, second-hand entertainments to every +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_198' name='Page_198'>198</a></span> +man in the theatre who is familiar with the French +writers—or insufferably coarse entertainments to +every man who has elevated his taste by making +himself acquainted with the best modern literature +of his own land. Let my servant, let my small +tradesman, let the fast young farmers and lawyers' +clerks, be all catered for! But surely, if they have +their theatre, I, and my large class, ought to have +our theatre too? The fast young farmer has his +dramatists, just as he has his novelists in the penny +journals. We, on our side, have got our great novelists +(whose works the fast young farmer does not +read)—why, I ask again, are we not to have our +great dramatists as well? +</p> + +<p> +With high esteem, yours, my dear Sir, +</p> + +<p class="left65"> +<span class='smcap'>A. Reader</span>. +</p> + +<h3> +<span class='smcap'>Letter the Second. From Mr. Author to Mr. Reader.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +<span class='smcap'>My dear Sir</span>,—I thoroughly understand your complaint, +and I think I can answer your question. My +reply will probably a little astonish you—for I mean +to speak the plain truth boldly. The public ought +to know the real state of the case, as regards the +present position of the English stage towards English +Literature, for the public alone can work the needful +reform. +</p> + +<p> +You ask, if I attribute the present dearth of stage +literature to the dearth of good actors? I reply to +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_199' name='Page_199'>199</a></span> +that in the negative. When the good literature +comes, the good actors will come also, where they +are wanted. In many branches of the theatrical art +they are not wanted. We have as good living actors +among us now as ever trod the stage. And we +should have more if dramatic literature called for +more. It is literature that makes the actor—not +the actor who makes literature. I could name men +to you, now on the stage, whose advance in their +profession they owe entirely to the rare opportunities, +which the occasional appearance of a genuinely +good play has afforded to them, of stepping out—men +whose sense of the picturesque and the natural +in their art, lay dormant, until the pen of the writer +woke it into action. Show me a school of dramatists, +and I will show you a school of actors soon afterwards—as +surely as the effect follows the cause. +</p> + +<p> +You have spoken of France. I will now speak of +France also; for the literary comparison with our +neighbours is as applicable to the main point of +my letter as it was to the main point of yours. +</p> + +<p> +Suppose me to be a French novelist. If I am a +successful man, my work has a certain market value +at the publisher's. So far my case is the same if I +am an English novelist—but there the analogy stops. +In France, the manager of the theatre can compete +with the publisher for the purchase of any new idea +that I have to sell. In France, the market value of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_200' name='Page_200'>200</a></span> +my new play is as high, or higher, than the market +value of my new novel. Remember, I am not now +writing of French theatres which have assistance from +the Government, but of French theatres which depend, +as our theatres do, entirely on the public. Any one +of those theatres will give me as much, I repeat, for +the toil of my brains, on their behalf, as the publisher +will give for the toil of my brains on his. Now, so +far is this from being the case in England, that it is +a fact perfectly well known to every literary man in +the country, that, while the remuneration for every +other species of literature has enormously increased +in the last hundred years, the remuneration for +dramatic writing has steadily decreased, to such a +minimum of pecuniary recognition as to make it +impossible for a man who lives by the successful use +of his pen, as a writer of books, to alter the nature of +his literary practice, and live, or nearly live, in comfortable +circumstances, by the use of his pen, as a +writer of plays. It is time that this fact was +generally known, to justify successful living authors +for their apparent neglect of one of the highest +branches of their Art. I tell you, in plain terms, +that I could only write a play for the English stage—a +successful play, mind—by consenting to what +would be, in my case, and in the cases of all my +successful brethren, a serious pecuniary sacrifice. +</p> + +<p> +Let me make the meanness of the remuneration +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_201' name='Page_201'>201</a></span> +for stage-writing in our day, as compared with what +that remuneration was in past times, clear to your +mind by one or two examples. Rather more than a +hundred years ago, Doctor Johnson wrote a very bad +play called Irene, which proved a total failure on +representation, and which tottered, rather than "ran," +for just nine nights, to wretched houses. Excluding +his literary copyright of a hundred pounds, the Doctor's +dramatic profit on a play that was a failure—remember +that!—amounted to one hundred and +ninety-five pounds, being just forty-five pounds <i>more</i> +than the remuneration now paid, to my certain knowledge, +for many a play within the last five years, +which has had a successful run of sixty, and, in some +cases, even of a hundred nights! +</p> + +<p> +I can imagine your amazement at reading this—but +I can also assure you that any higher rate of +remuneration is exceptional. Let me, however, give +the managers the benefit of the exception. Sometimes +two hundred pounds have been paid, within +the last five years, for a play; and, on one or two +rare occasions, three hundred. If Shakspere came +to life again, and took Macbeth to an English theatre, +in this year, eighteen hundred and sixty-three, +that is the highest market remuneration he could get +for it. You are to understand that this miserable +decline in the money-reward held out to dramatic +literature is peculiar to our own day. Without +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_202' name='Page_202'>202</a></span> +going back again so long as a century—without going +back farther than the time of George Colman, the +younger—I may remind you that the Comedy of +John Bull brought the author twelve hundred pounds. +Since then, six or seven hundred pounds have +been paid for a new play; and, later yet, five hundred +pounds. We have now dropped to three hundred +pounds, as the exception, and to one hundred and +fifty, as the rule. I am speaking, remember, of +plays in not less than three acts, which are, or +are supposed to be, original—of plays which run +from sixty to a hundred nights, and which put +their bread (buttered thickly on both sides) into the +mouths of actors and managers. As to the remuneration +for ordinary translations from the French, +I would rather not mention what that is. And, +indeed, there is no need I should do so. We are +talking of the stage in its present relation to English +literature. Suppose I wrote for it, as some of my +friends suggest I should; and suppose I could produce +one thoroughly original play, with a story of +my own sole invention, with characters of my own +sole creation, every year. The utmost annual income +the English stage would, at present prices, pay me, +after exhausting my brains in its service, would be +three hundred pounds! +</p> + +<p> +I use the expression "exhausting my brains," +advisedly. For a man who produces a new work, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_203' name='Page_203'>203</a></span> +every year, which has any real value and completeness +as a work of literary art, does, let him +be who he may, for a time, exhaust his brain by +the process, and leave it sorely in need of an after-period +of absolute repose. Three hundred a-year, +therefore, is the utmost that a fertile original author +can expect to get by the English stage, at present +market-rates of remuneration. +</p> + +<p> +Such is now the position of the dramatic writer—a +special man, with a special faculty. What is now +the position of the dramatic performer, when he +happens to be a special man, with a special faculty +also? Is his income three hundred a-year? Is +his manager's income three hundred a-year? The +popular actors of the time when Colman got his twelve +hundred pounds would be struck dumb with amazement, +if they saw what salaries their successors are +getting now. If stage remuneration has decreased +sordidly in our time for authorship, it has increased +splendidly for actorship. When a manager +tells me now that his theatre cannot afford to pay +me as much for my idea in the form of a play, as the +publisher can afford to pay me for it in the form of a +novel—he really means that he and his actors take +a great deal more now from the nightly receipts of +the theatres than they ever thought of taking in the +time of John Bull. When the actors' profits from +the theatre are largely increased, somebody else's +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_204' name='Page_204'>204</a></span> +profits from the same theatre must be decreased. +That somebody else is the dramatic author. There +you have the real secret of the mean rate at which +the English stage now estimates the assistance of +English Literature. +</p> + +<p> +There are persons whose interest it may be to +deny this; and who will deny it. It is not a question +of assertion or denial, but a question of figures. +How much per week did a popular actor get in +Colman's time? How much per week does a popular +actor get now? The biographies of dead players will +answer the first question. And the managers' books, +for the past ten or fifteen years, will answer the +second. I must not give offence by comparisons +between living and dead men—I must not enter into +details, because they would lead me too near to the +private affairs of other people. But I tell you again, +that the remuneration for acting has immensely +increased, and the remuneration for dramatic writing +has immensely decreased, in our time; and I am +not afraid of having that assertion contradicted by +proofs. +</p> + +<p> +It is useless to attempt a defence of the present +system by telling me that a different plan of remunerating +the dramatic author was adopted in former +times, and that a different plan is also practised on +the French stage. I am not discussing which plan +is best, or which plan is worst. I am only dealing +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_205' name='Page_205'>205</a></span> +with the plain fact, that the present stage-estimate of +the author is barbarously low—an estimate which +men who had any value for literature, any idea of its +importance, any artist-like sympathy with its great +difficulties, and its great achievements, would be +ashamed to make. I prove that fact by reference +to the proceedings of a better past time, and by a +plain appeal to the market-value of all kinds of literature, +off the stage, at the present time; and I +leave the means of effecting a reform to those who +are bound in common honour and common justice to +make the reform. It is not my business to re-adjust +the commercial machinery of theatres; I don't sit in +the treasury, and handle the strings of the moneybags. +I say that the present system is a base one +towards literature, and that the history of the past, +and the experience of the present, prove it to be so. +All the reasoning in the world which tries to convince +us that a wrong is necessary, will not succeed +in proving that wrong to be right. +</p> + +<p> +Having now established the existence of the abuse, +it is easy enough to get on to the consequences that +have arisen from it. At the present low rate of +remuneration, a man of ability wastes his powers if +he writes for the stage—unless he is prepared to put +himself out of the category of authors, by turning +manager and actor, and taking a theatre for himself. +There are men still in existence, who occasionally write +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_206' name='Page_206'>206</a></span> +for the stage, for the love and honour of their Art. +Once, perhaps, in two or three years, one of these +devoted men will try single-handed to dissipate the +dense dramatic fog that hangs over the theatre and +the audience. For the brief allotted space of time, +the one toiling hand lets in a little light, unthanked +by the actors, unaided by the critics, unnoticed by +the audience. The time expires—the fog gathers +back—the toiling hand disappears. Sometimes it +returns once more bravely to the hard, hopeless +work: and out of all the hundreds whom it has +tried to enlighten, there shall not be one who is +grateful enough to know it again. +</p> + +<p> +These exceptional men—too few, too scattered, +too personally unimportant in the republic of letters, +to have any strong or lasting influence—are not the +professed dramatists of our times. These are not +the writers who make so much as a clerk's income +out of the stage. The few men of practical ability +who now write for the English Theatre, are men of +the world, who know that they are throwing away +their talents if they take the trouble to invent, for +an average remuneration of one hundred and fifty +pounds. The well-paid Frenchman supplies them +with a story and characters ready made. The Original +Adaptation is rattled off in a week: and the +dramatic author beats the clerk after all, by getting +so much more money for so much less manual exercise +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_207' name='Page_207'>207</a></span> +in the shape of writing. Below this clever tactician, +who foils the theatre with its own weapons, +come the rank-and-file of hack-writers, who work still +more cheaply, and give still less (I am rejoiced to +say) for the money. The stage results of this sort of +authorship, as you have already implied, virtually +drive the intelligent classes out of the theatre. Half +a century since, the prosperity of the manager's treasury +would have suffered in consequence. But the +increase of wealth and population, and the railway +connection between London and the country, more +than supply in quantity what audiences have lost in +quality. Not only does the manager lose nothing in +the way of profit—he absolutely gains by getting a +vast nightly majority into his theatre, whose ignorant +insensibility nothing can shock. Let him cast what +garbage he pleases before them, the unquestioning +mouths of his audience open, and snap at it. I am +sorry and ashamed to write in this way of any assemblage +of my own countrymen; but a large experience +of theatres forces me to confess that I am writing +the truth. If you want to find out who the people +are who know nothing whatever, even by hearsay, +of the progress of the literature of their own time—who +have caught no chance vestige of any one of the +ideas which are floating about before their very eyes—who +are, to all social intents and purposes, as far +behind the age they live in, as any people out of a +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_208' name='Page_208'>208</a></span> +lunatic asylum can be—go to a theatre, and be very +careful, in doing so, to pick out the most popular +performance of the day. The actors themselves, +when they are men of any intelligence, are thoroughly +aware of the utter incapacity of the tribunal +which is supposed to judge them. Not very +long ago, an actor, standing deservedly in the front +rank of his profession, happened to play even more +admirably than usual in a certain new part. Meeting +him soon afterwards, I offered him my mite of +praise in all sincerity. "Yes," was his reply. "I +know that I act my very best in that part, for I +hardly get a hand of applause in it through the +whole evening." Such is the condition to which +the dearth of good literature has now reduced the +audiences of English theatres—even in the estimation +of the men who act before them. +</p> + +<p> +And what is to remedy this? Nothing can remedy +it but a change for the better in the audiences. +</p> + +<p> +I have good hope that this change is slowly, very +slowly, beginning. "When things are at the worst +they are sure to mend." I really think that, in +dramatic matters, they have been at the worst; and +I have therefore some belief that the next turn of +Fortune's wheel may be in our favour. In certain +theatres, I fancy I notice already symptoms of a +slight additional sprinkling of intelligence among +the audiences. If I am right; if this sprinkling +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_209' name='Page_209'>209</a></span> +increases; if the few people who have brains in their +heads will express themselves boldly; if those who +are fit to lead the opinion of their neighbours will +resolutely make the attempt to lead it, instead of +indolently wrapping themselves up in their own +contempt—then there may be a creditable dramatic +future yet in store for the countrymen of Shakspere. +Perhaps we may yet live to see the day when managers +will be forced to seek out the writers who are +really setting their mark on the literature of the age—when +"starvation prices" shall have given place +to a fair remuneration—and when the prompter shall +have his share with the publisher in the best work +that can be done for him by the best writers of the +time. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, there is a large audience of intelligent +people, with plenty of money in their pockets, waiting +for a theatre to go to. Supposing that such an +amazing moral portent should ever appear in the +English firmament, as a theatrical speculator who can +actually claim some slight acquaintance with contemporary +literature; and supposing that unparalleled +man to be smitten with a sudden desire to +ascertain what the circulation actually is of serial +publications and successful novels which address the +educated classes; I think I may safely predict +the consequences that would follow, as soon as +our ideal manager had received his information +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_210' name='Page_210'>210</a></span> +and recovered from his astonishment. London +would be startled, one fine morning, by finding a +new theatre opened. Names that are now well +known on title-pages only, would then appear on +play-bills also; and tens of thousands of readers, +who now pass the theatre-door with indifference, +would be turned into tens of thousands of play-goers +also. What a cry of astonishment would be heard +thereupon in the remotest fastnesses of old theatrical +London! "Merciful Heaven! There is a large +public, after all, for well-paid original plays, as +well as for well-paid original books. And a man +has turned up, at last, of our own managerial order, +who has absolutely found it out!" +</p> + +<p> +With true regard, yours, my dear Sir, +</p> + +<p><span class='smcap left65'>A. N. Author</span>. +</p> + +<p> +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_211' name='Page_211'>211</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +TO THINK, OR BE THOUGHT FOR? +</h2> + +<p> +If anything I can say here, on the subject of the +painter's Art, will encourage intelligent people of +any rank to turn a deaf ear to all that critics, connoisseurs, +lecturers, and compilers of guide-books can +tell them; to trust entirely to their own common +sense when they are looking at pictures; and to +express their opinions boldly, without the slightest +reference to any precedents whatever—I shall have +exactly achieved the object with which I now apply +myself to the writing of this paper. +</p> + +<p> +Let me first ask, in regard to pictures in general, +what it is that prevents the public from judging for +themselves, and why the influence of Art in England +is still limited to select circles,—still unfelt, as the +phrase is, by all but the cultivated classes? Why +do people want to look at their guide-books, before +they can make up their minds about an old picture? +Why do they ask connoisseurs and professional +friends for a marked catalogue, before they +venture inside the walls of the exhibition-rooms +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_212' name='Page_212'>212</a></span> +in Trafalgar Square? Why, when they are, for +the most part, always ready to tell each other unreservedly +what books they like, or what musical compositions +are favourites with them, do they hesitate +the moment pictures turn up as a topic of conversation, +and intrench themselves doubtfully behind such +cautious phrases, as, "I don't pretend to understand +the subject,"—"I believe such and such a picture is +much admired,"—"I am no judge," and so on? +</p> + +<p> +No judge! Does a really good picture want you to +be a judge? Does it want you to have anything but +eyes in your head, and the undisturbed possession of +your senses? Is there any other branch of intellectual +art which has such a direct appeal, by the very +nature of it, to every sane human being as the art of +painting? There it is, able to represent through a +medium which offers itself to you palpably, in the +shape of so many visible feet of canvass, actual +human facts, and distinct aspects of Nature, which +poetry can only describe, and which music can but +obscurely hint at. The Art which can do this—and +which has done it over and over again both in past +and present times—is surely of all arts that one +which least requires a course of critical training, +before it can be approached on familiar terms. +Whenever I see an intelligent man, which I often +do, standing before a really eloquent and true picture, +and asking his marked catalogue, or his newspaper, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_213' name='Page_213'>213</a></span> +or his guide-book, whether he may safely +admire it or not—I think of a man standing winking +both eyes in the full glare of a cloudless August +noon, and inquiring deferentially of an astronomical +friend whether he is really justified in saying that +the sun shines! +</p> + +<p> +But, we have not yet fairly got at the main +obstacle which hinders the public from judging of +pictures for themselves, and which, by a natural +consequence, limits the influence of Art on the +nation generally. For my own part, I have long +thought, and shall always continue to believe, that +this same obstacle is nothing more or less than the +Conceit of Criticism, which has got obstructively +between Art and the people,—which has kept them +asunder, and will keep them asunder, until it is fairly +pulled out of the way, and set aside at once and for +ever in its proper background place. +</p> + +<p> +This is a bold thing to say; but I think I can +advance some proofs that my assertion is not +altogether so wild as it may appear at first sight. +By the Conceit of Criticism, I desire to express, in +one word, the conventional laws and formulas, the +authoritative rules and regulations which individual +men set up to guide the tastes and influence the +opinions of their fellow-creatures. When Criticism +does not speak in too arbitrary a language, and when +the laws it makes are ratified by the consent and +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_214' name='Page_214'>214</a></span> +approbation of intelligent people in general, I have +as much respect for it as any one. But, when +Criticism sits altogether apart, speaks opinions that +find no answering echo in the general heart, and +measures the greatness of intellectual work by anything +rather than by its power of appealing to all +capacities for admiration and enjoyment, from the +very highest to the very humblest,—then, as it +seems to me, Criticism becomes the expression of +individual conceit, and forfeits all claim to consideration +and respect. From that moment, it is Obstructive—for +it has set itself up fatally between the Art +of Painting and the honest and general appreciation +of that Art by the People. +</p> + +<p> +Let me try to make this still clearer by an +example. A great deal of obstructive criticism +undoubtedly continues to hang as closely as it can +about Poetry and Music. But there are, nevertheless, +stateable instances, in relation to these two Arts, +of the voice of the critic and the voice of the people +being on the same side. The tragedy of Hamlet, +for example, is critically considered to be the masterpiece +of dramatic poetry; and the tragedy of Hamlet +is also, according to the testimony of every sort of +manager, the play, of all others, which can be invariably +depended on to fill a theatre with the +greatest certainty, act it when and how you will. +Again, in music, the Don Giovanni of Mozart, which +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_215' name='Page_215'>215</a></span> +is the admiration even of the direst pedant producible +from the ranks of musical connoisseurs, is also the +irresistible popular attraction which is always sure to +fill the pit and gallery at the opera. Here, at any +rate, are two instances in which two great achievements +of the past in poetry and music are alike +viewed with admiration by the man who appreciates +by instinct, and the man who appreciates by rule. +</p> + +<p> +If we apply the same test to the achievements of +the past in Painting, where shall we find a similar +instance of genuine concurrence between the few +who are appointed to teach, and the many who are +expected to learn? +</p> + +<p> +I put myself in the position of a man of fair +capacity and average education, who labours under +the fatal delusion that he will be helped to a sincere +appreciation of the works of the Old Masters by asking +critics and connoisseurs to form his opinions for him. +I am sent to Italy as a matter of course. A general +chorus of learned authorities tells me that Michael +Angelo and Raphael are the two greatest painters that +ever lived; and that the two recognised masterpieces +of the highest High Art are the Last Judgment, in +the Sistine Chapel, and the Transfiguration, in the +Vatican picture gallery. It is not only Lanzi and +Vasari, and hosts of later sages running smoothly along +the same critical grooves, who give me this information. +Even the greatest of English portrait-painters, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_216' name='Page_216'>216</a></span> +Sir Joshua Reynolds, sings steadily with the critical +chorus, note for note. When experience has made +me wiser, I am able to detect clearly enough in the +main principles which Reynolds has adopted in his +Lectures on Art, the reason of his notorious want of +success whenever he tried to rise above portraits to +the regions of historical painting. But at the period +of my innocence, I am simply puzzled and amazed, +when I come to such a passage as the following in +Sir Joshua's famous Fifth Lecture, where he sums +up the comparative merits of Michael Angelo and +Raphael:— +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p> +"If we put these great artists in a line of comparison +with each other (lectures Sir Joshua), +Raphael had more taste and fancy, Michael Angelo +more genius and imagination. The one excelled in +beauty, the other in energy. Michael Angelo had +more of the poetical inspiration; his ideas are vast +and sublime; his people are a superior order of +beings; there is nothing about them, nothing in the +air of their actions or their attitudes, or the style and +cast of their limbs or features, that reminds us of +their belonging to our own species." +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Here I get plainly enough at what Sir Joshua +considers to be the crowning excellence of high art. +It is one great proof of the poetry and sublimity of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_217' name='Page_217'>217</a></span> +Michael Angelo's pictures that the people represented +in them never remind us of our own species: +which seems equivalent to saying that the representation +of a man made in the image of Michael +Angelo is a grander sight than the representation +of a man made in the image of God. I am a little +staggered by these principles of criticism; but as all +the learned authorities that I can get at seem to +have adopted them, I do my best to follow the +example of my teachers, and set off reverently for +Rome to see the two works of art which my critical +masters tell me are the sublimest pictures that the +world has yet beheld. +</p> + +<p> +I go first to the Sistine Chapel; and, on a great +blue-coloured wall at one end of it, I see painted a +confusion of naked, knotty-bodied figures, sprawling +up or tumbling down below a single figure, posted +aloft in the middle, and apparently threatening the +rest with his hand. If I ask Lanzi, or Vasari, or +Sir Joshua Reynolds, or the gentleman who has +compiled Murray's Handbook for Central Italy, or +any other competent authorities, what this grotesquely +startling piece of painter's work can possibly +be, I am answered that it is actually intended to +represent the unimaginably awful spectacle of the +Last Judgment! And I am further informed that, +estimated by the critical tests applied to it by these +competent authorities, the picture is pronounced to +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_218' name='Page_218'>218</a></span> +be a masterpiece of grandeur and sublimity. I +resolve to look a little closer at this celebrated work, +and to try if I can get at any fair estimate of it by +employing such plain, uncritical tests, as will do for +me and for everybody. +</p> + +<p> +Here is a fresco, which aspires to represent the +most impressive of all Christian subjects; it is +painted on the wall of a Christian church, by a man +belonging to a Christian community—what evidences +of religious feeling has it to show me? I look at the +lower part of the composition first, and see—a combination +of the orthodox nursery notion of the devil, +with the Heathen idea of the conveyance to the +infernal regions, in the shape of a horned and tailed +ferryman giving condemned souls a cast across a +river! Pretty well, I think, to begin with. +</p> + +<p> +Let me try and discover next what evidences of +extraordinary intellectual ability the picture presents. +I look up towards the top now, by way of a change, +and I find Michael Angelo's conception of the entrance +of a martyr into the kingdom of Heaven, displayed +before me in the shape of a flayed man, +presenting his own skin, as a sort of credential, to +the hideous figure with the threatening hand—which +I will not, even in writing, identify with the +name of Our Saviour. Elsewhere, I see nothing but +unnatural distortion and hopeless confusion; fighting +figures, tearing figures, tumbling figures, kicking +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_219' name='Page_219'>219</a></span> +figures; and, to crown all, a caricatured portrait, +with a pair of ass's ears, of a certain Messer Biagio +of Sienna, who had the sense and courage, when the +Last Judgment was first shown on completion, to +protest against every figure in it being painted stark-naked! +</p> + +<p> +I see such things as these, and many more equally +preposterous, which it is not worth while to mention. +All other people with eyes in their heads +see them, too. They are actual matters of fact, not +debateable matters of taste. But I am not—on that +account—justified, nor is any other uncritical person +justified, in saying a word against the picture. It +may palpably outrage all the religious proprieties of +the subject; but, then, it is full of "fine foreshortening," +and therefore we uncritical people must hold +our tongues. It may violate just as plainly all the +intellectual proprieties, counting from the flayed +man with his skin in his hand, at the top, to Messer +Biagio of Sienna with his ass's ears, at the bottom; +but, then, it exhibits "masterly anatomical detail," +and therefore we uncritical spectators must hold our +tongues. It may strike us forcibly that, if people +are to be painted at all, as in this picture, rising out +of their graves in their own bodies as they lived, it is +surely important (to say nothing of giving them the +benefit of the shrouds in which they were buried) to +represent them as having the usual general proportions +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_220' name='Page_220'>220</a></span> +of human beings. But Sir Joshua Reynolds +interposes critically, and tells us the figures on the +wall and ceiling of the Sistine Chapel are sublime, +because they don't remind us of our own species. +Why should they not remind us of our own species? +Because they are prophets, sibyls, and such like, +cries the chorus of critics indignantly. And what +then? If I had been on intimate terms with Jeremiah, +or if I had been the ancient king to whom the +sibyl brought the mysterious books, would not my +friend in the one case, and the messenger in the +other, have appeared before me bearing the ordinary +proportions and exhibiting the usual appearance of +my own species? Does not Sacred History inform +me that the prophet was a Man, and does not Profane +History describe the sibyl as an Old Woman? Is +old age never venerable and striking in real life?—But +I am uttering heresies. I am mutinously summoning +reason and common sense to help me in +estimating an Old Master. This will never do: I +had better follow the example of all the travellers +I see about me, by turning away in despair, and +leaving the Last Judgment to the critics and connoisseurs. +</p> + +<p> +Having thus discovered that one masterpiece of +High Art does not address itself to me, and to the +large majority whom I represent, let me go next to +the picture gallery, and see how the second masterpiece +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_221' name='Page_221'>221</a></span> +(the Transfiguration, by Raphael) can vindicate +its magnificent reputation among critics and connoisseurs. +This picture I approach under the advantage +of knowing, beforehand, that I must make allowances +for minor defects in it, which are recognised +by the learned authorities themselves. I am indeed +prepared to be disappointed, at the outset, because I +have been prepared to make allowances: +</p> + +<p> +First, for defects of colour, which spoil the general +effect of the picture on the spectator; all the lights +being lividly tinged with green, and all the shadows +being grimly hardened with black. This mischief +is said to have been worked by the tricks of French +cleaners and restorers, who have so fatally tampered +with the whole surface, that Raphael's original +colouring must be given up as lost. Rather a considerable +loss, this, to begin with; but not Raphael's +fault. Therefore, let it by no means depreciate the +picture in my estimation. +</p> + +<p> +Secondly, I have to make allowances for the introduction +of two Roman Catholic Saints (St. Julian +and St. Lawrence), represented by the painter as +being actually present at the Transfiguration, in +order to please Cardinal de' Medici, for whom the +picture was painted. This <i>is</i> Raphael's fault. This +sets him forth in the rather anomalous character +of a great painter with no respect for his art. I +have some doubts about him, after that,—doubts +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_222' name='Page_222'>222</a></span> +which my critical friends might possibly share if +Raphael were only a modern painter. +</p> + +<p> +Thirdly, I have to make allowances for the scene +of the Transfiguration on the high mountain, and the +scene of the inability of the disciples to cure the boy +possessed with a devil, being represented, without +the slightest division, one at the top and the other +at the bottom of the same canvass,—both events +thus appearing to be connected by happening in the +same place, within view of each other, when we know +very well that they were only connected by happening +at the same time. Also, when I see some of +the disciples painted in the act of pointing up to the +Transfiguration, the mountain itself being the background +against which they stand, I am to remember +(though the whole of the rest of the picture is most +absolutely and unflinchingly literal in treatment) +that here Raphael has suddenly broken out into +allegory, and desires to indicate by the pointing +hands of the disciples that it is the duty of the +afflicted to look to Heaven for relief in their calamities. +Having made all these rather important allowances, +I may now look impartially at the upper half +of this famous composition. +</p> + +<p> +I find myself soon looking away again. It may +be that three figures clothed in gracefully fluttering +drapery, and dancing at symmetrically exact distances +from each other in the air, represent such an unearthly +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_223' name='Page_223'>223</a></span> +spectacle as the Transfiguration to the satisfaction +of great judges of art. I can also imagine +that some few select persons may be able to look +at the top of the high mountain, as represented in +the picture, without feeling their gravity in the +smallest degree endangered by seeing that the ugly +knob of ground on which the disciples are lying +prostrate, is barely big enough to hold them, and +most certainly would not hold them if they all moved +briskly on it together. These things are matters +of taste, on which I have the misfortune to differ +with the connoisseurs. Not feeling bold enough to +venture on defending myself against the masters +who are teaching me to appreciate High Art, I can +only look away from the upper part of the picture, +and try if I can derive any useful or pleasant impressions +from the lower half of the composition, in +which no supernatural event is depicted, and which +it is therefore perfectly justifiable to judge by referring +it to the standard of dramatic truth, or, in +one word, of Nature. +</p> + +<p> +As for this portion of the picture, I can hardly +believe my eyes when I first look at it. Excepting +the convulsed face of the boy, and a certain hard +eagerness in the look of the man who is holding him, +all the other faces display a stony inexpressiveness, +which, when I think of the great name of Raphael +in connection with what I see, fairly amazes me. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_224' name='Page_224'>224</a></span> +I look down incredulously at my guide-book. Yes! +there is indeed the critical authority of Lanzi quoted +for my benefit. Lanzi tells me in plain terms that +I behold represented in the picture before me "the +most pathetic story Raphael ever conceived," and +refers, in proof of it, to the "compassion evinced by +the apostles." I look attentively at them all, and +behold an assembly of hard-featured, bearded men, +standing, sitting, and gesticulating, in conventional +academic attitudes; their faces not expressing naturally, +not even affecting to express artificially, compassion +for the suffering boy, humility at their own +incapability to relieve him, or any other human +emotion likely to be suggested by the situation in +which they are placed. I find it still more dismaying +to look next at the figure of a brawny woman, with +her back to the spectator, entreating the help of the +apostles theatrically on one knee, with her insensible +classical profile turned in one direction, and both +her muscular arms stretched out in the other; it is +still more dismaying to look at such a figure as this, +and then to be gravely told by Lanzi that I am contemplating +"the affliction of a beautiful and interesting +female." I observe, on entering the room in +which the Transfiguration is placed, as I have previously +observed on entering the Sistine Chapel, +groups of spectators before the picture consulting +their guide-books—looking attentively at the work +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_225' name='Page_225'>225</a></span> +of High Art which they are ordered to admire—trying +hard to admire it—then, with dismay in their +faces, looking round at each other, shutting up their +books, and retreating from High Art in despair. I +observe these groups for a little while, and I end +in following their example. We members of the +general public may admire Hamlet and Don Giovanni, +honestly, along with the critics, but the two +sublimest pictures (according to the learned authorities) +which the world has yet beheld, appeal to none +of us; and we leave them, altogether discouraged on +the subject of Art for the future. From that time +forth we look at pictures with a fatal self-distrust. +Some of us recklessly take our opinions from others; +some of us cautiously keep our opinions to ourselves; +and some of us indolently abstain from +having anything to do with an opinion at all. +</p> + +<p> +Is this exaggerated? Have I misrepresented facts +in the example I have quoted of obstructive criticism +on Art, and of its discouraging effects on the public +mind? Let the doubting reader, by all means, judge +for himself. Let him refer to any recognised authority +he pleases, and he will find that the two pictures +of which I have been writing are critically and officially +considered, to this day, as the two masterworks +of the highest school of painting. Having ascertained +that, let him next, if possible, procure a sight of some +print or small copy from any part of either picture +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_226' name='Page_226'>226</a></span> +(there is a copy of the whole of the Transfiguration +in the Gallery at the Crystal Palace), and practically +test the truth of what I have said. Or, in the event +of his not choosing to take that trouble, let him ask +any unprofessional and uncritical friend who has seen +the pictures themselves—and the more intelligent +and unprejudiced that friend, the better for my purpose—what +the effect on him was of The Last Judgment, +or The Transfiguration. If I can only be +assured of the sincerity of the witness, I shall not be +afraid of the result of the examination. +</p> + +<p> +Other readers who have visited the Sistine Chapel +and the Vatican Gallery can testify for themselves +(but, few of them will—I know them!) whether I +have misrepresented their impressions or not. To that +part of my audience I have nothing to say, except that +I beg them not to believe that I am a heretic in relation +to all works by all old masters, because I have +spoken out about the Last Judgment and the Transfiguration. +I am not blind, I hope, to the merits of any +picture, provided it will bear honest investigation on +uncritical principles. I have seen such exceptional +works by ones and twos, amid many hundreds of +utterly worthless canvasses with undeservedly famous +names attached to them, in Italy and elsewhere. My +valet-de-place has not pointed them out to me; my +guide-book, which criticises according to authority, +has not recommended me to look at them, except in +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_227' name='Page_227'>227</a></span> +very rare cases indeed. I discovered them for myself, +and others may discover them as readily as I did, +if they will only take their minds out of leading-strings +when they enter a gallery, and challenge a +picture boldly to do its duty by explaining its own +merits to them without the assistance of an interpreter. +Having given that simple receipt for the +finding out and enjoying of good pictures, I need +give no more. It is no part of my object to attempt +to impose my own tastes and preferences on others. +I want—if I may be allowed to repeat my motives +once more in the plainest terms—to do all I can to +shake the influence of authority in matters of Art, +because I see that authority standing drearily and +persistently aloof from all popular sympathy; because +I see it keeping pictures and the people apart; +because I find it setting up as masterpieces, two of +the worst of many palpably bad and barbarous works +of past times; and lastly, because I find it purchasing +pictures for the National Gallery of England, for +which, in nine cases out of ten, the nation has no +concern or care, which have no merits but technical +merits, and which have not the last and lowest recommendation +of winning general approval even +among the critics and connoisseurs themselves. +</p> + +<p> +And what remedy against this? I say at the end, +as I said at the beginning, the remedy is to judge for +ourselves, and to express our opinions, privately and +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_228' name='Page_228'>228</a></span> +publicly, on every possible occasion, without hesitation, +without compromise, without reference to any +precedents whatever. Public opinion has had its +victories in other matters, and may yet have its victory +in matters of Art. We, the people, have a +gallery that is called ours; let us do our best to have +it filled for the future with pictures (no matter when +or by whom painted), that we can get some honest +enjoyment and benefit from. Let us, in Parliament +and out of it, before dinner and after dinner, in the +presence of authorities just as coolly as out of the +presence of authorities, say plainly once for all, that +the sort of High Art which is professedly bought <i>for +us</i>, and which does actually address itself to nobody +but painters, critics, and connoisseurs, is not High +Art at all, but the lowest of the Low: because it is +the narrowest as to its sphere of action, and the most +scantily furnished as to its means of doing good. We +shall shock the connoisseurs (especially the elderly +ones) by taking this course; we shall get indignantly +reprimanded by the critics, and flatly contradicted by +the lecturers; but we shall also, sooner or later, get +a collection of pictures bought for us that we, mere +mankind, can appreciate and understand. It may be +a revolutionary sentiment, but I think that the carrying +out of this reform (as well as of a few others) is a +part of the national business which the people of +England have got to do for themselves, and in which +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_229' name='Page_229'>229</a></span> +no existing authorities will assist them. There is a +great deal of social litter accumulating about us. +Suppose, when we start the business of setting things +to rights, that we try the new broom gently at first, +by sweeping away a little High Art, and having the +temerity to form our own opinions? +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_230' name='Page_230'>230</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +SOCIAL GRIEVANCES.—IV. +<br /> +<span class="s08">SAVE ME FROM MY FRIENDS.</span> +</h2> + +<p> +A few days ago, I was walking in a street at the +western part of London, and I encountered a mendicant +individual of an almost extinct species. Some +years since, the oratorical beggar, who addressed +himself to the public on each side of the way, in a +neat speech spoken from the middle of the road, +was almost as constant and regular in his appearances +as the postman himself. Of late, however, +this well-known figure—this cadger Cicero of modern +days—has all but disappeared; the easy public ear +having probably grown rather deaf, in course of time, +to the persuasive power of orators with only two +subjects to illustrate—their moral virtues and their +physical destitution. +</p> + +<p> +With these thoughts in my mind, I stopped to look +at the rare and wretched object for charity whom I +had met by chance, and to listen to the address +which he was delivering for the benefit of the street +population and the street passengers on both sides of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_231' name='Page_231'>231</a></span> +the pavement. He was a tall, sturdy, self-satisfied, +healthy-looking vagabond, with a face which would +have been almost handsome if it had not been disfigured +by the expression which Nature sets, like a +brand, on the countenance of a common impostor. +As for his style of oratory, I will not do him the +injustice of merely describing it. Here is a specimen, +faithfully reported for the public, from the +original speech:— +</p> + +<p> +"Good Christian people, will you be so obliging +as to leave off your various occupations for a few +minutes only, and listen to the harrowing statement +of a father of a family, who is reduced to acknowledge +his misfortunes in the public streets? Work, +honest work, is all I ask for; and I cannot get it. +Why?—I ask, most respectfully, why? Good Christian +people, I think it is because I have no friends. +Alas! indeed I have no friends. My wife and seven +babes are, I am shocked to tell you, without food. +Yes, without food. Oh, yes, without food. Because +we have no friends: I assure you I am right in saying +because we have no friends. Why am I and my wife +and my seven babes starving in a land of plenty? Why +have I no share in the wholesome necessaries of life, +which I see, with my hungry eyes, in butchers' and +bakers' shops on each side of me? Can anybody +give me a reason for this? I think, good Christian +people, nobody can. Must I perish in a land of plenty +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_232' name='Page_232'>232</a></span> +because I have no work and because I have no +friends? I cannot perish in a land of plenty. No, +I cannot perish in a land of plenty. Oh, no, I cannot +perish in a land of plenty. Bear with my importunity, +if you please, and listen to my harrowing +statement. I am the father of a starving family, and +I have got no friends." +</p> + +<p> +With this neat return to the introductory passage +of his speech, the mendicant individual paused; collected +the pecuniary tokens of public approval; and +walked forward, with a funereal slowness of step, +to deliver a second edition of his address in another +part of the street. +</p> + +<p> +While I had been looking at this man, I had also +been insensibly led to compare myself, as I stood on +the pavement, with my oratorical vagrant, as he +stood in the roadway. In some important respects, +I found, to my own astonishment, that the result of the +comparison was not by any means flattering on my +side. I might certainly assume, without paying myself +any extraordinary compliment, that I was the honester +man of the two; also that I was better educated and +a little better clad. But here my superiority ceased. +The beggar was far in advance of me in all the outward +and visible signs of inward mental comfort +which combine to form the appearance of a healthily-constituted +man. After perplexing myself, for some +time, in the attempt to discover the reason for the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_233' name='Page_233'>233</a></span> +enviably prosperous and contented aspect of this +vagabond—which appeared palpably to any sharp +observer, through his assumed expression of suffering +and despair—I came to the singular conclusion that +the secret of his personal advantages over me, lay +in the very circumstance on which he chiefly relied +for awakening the sympathies of the charitable public—the +circumstance of his having no friends. +</p> + +<p> +"No friends!" I repeated to myself, as I walked +away. "Happily-situated vagrant! there is the +true cause of your superiority over me—you have +no friends! But can the marvellous assertion be +true? Can this enviable man really go home and +touch up his speech for to-morrow, with the certainty +of not being interrupted? I am going home to finish +an article, without knowing whether I shall have a +clear five minutes to myself, all the time I am at +work. Can he take his money back to his drawer, +in broad daylight, and meet nobody by the way who +will say to him, 'Remember our old friendship, and +lend me a trifle'? I have money waiting for me at +my publisher's, and I dare not go and fetch it, except +under cover of the night. Is that spoilt child of +fortune, from whom I have just separated myself, +really and truly never asked to parties and obliged +to go to them? He has a button on his coat—I am +positively certain I saw it—and is there no human +finger and thumb to lay hold of it, and no human +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_234' name='Page_234'>234</a></span> +tongue to worry him, the while? He does not live +in the times of the pillory, and he has his ears—the +lucky wretch. Have those organs actually enjoyed +the indescribable blessedness of freedom from the +intrusion of 'well-meant advice'? Can he write—and +has he got no letters to answer? Can he read—and +has he no dear friend's book to get through, +whether he likes it or not? No wonder that he +looks prosperous and healthy, though he lives in a +dingy slum, and that I look peevish and pale, though +I reside on gravel, in an airy neighbourhood. Good +Heavens! does he dare to speak of his misfortunes, +when he has no calls to make? Irrational Sybarite! +what does he want next, I wonder?" +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +These are crabbed sentiments. But, perhaps, as +it is the fashion, now-a-days, to take an inveterately +genial view of society in general, my present outbreak +of misanthropy may be pardoned, in consideration +of its involving a certain accidental originality +of expression in relation to social subjects. It is a +dreadful thing to say; but it is the sad truth that I +have never yet been able to appreciate the advantage +of having a large circle of acquaintances, and +that I could positively dispense with a great many +of my dearest friends. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +There is my Boisterous Friend, for instance—an +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_235' name='Page_235'>235</a></span> +excellent creature, who has been intimate with me +from childhood, and who loves me as his brother. +I always know when he calls, though my study is at +the top of the house. I hear him in the passage, the +moment the door is opened—he is so hearty; and, +like other hearty people, he has such a loud voice. +I have told my servant to say that I am engaged, +which means simply, that I am hard at work. "Dear +old boy!" I hear my Boisterous Friend exclaim, +with a genial roar, "writing away, just as usual—eh, +Susan? Lord bless you! he knows me—he +knows I don't want to interrupt him. Up-stairs, +of course? I know my way. Just for a minute, +Susan—just for a minute." The voice stops, and +heavily-shod feet (all boisterous men wear thick +boots) ascend the stairs, two at a time. My door is +burst open, as if with a battering-ram (no boisterous +man ever knocks), and my friend rushes in like a +mad bull. "Ha, ha, ha! I've caught you," says the +associate of my childhood. "Don't stop for me, +dear old boy; I'm not going to interrupt you (bless +my soul, what a lot of writing!)—and you're all +right, eh? That's all I wanted to know. By +George, it's quite refreshing to see you here forming +the public mind! No! I won't sit down; I won't +stop another instant. So glad to have seen you, +dear fellow—good-bye." By this time, his affectionate +voice has made the room ring again; he has +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_236' name='Page_236'>236</a></span> +squeezed my hand, in his brotherly way, till my +fingers are too sore to hold the pen; and he has +put to flight, for the rest of the day, every idea +that I had when I sat down to work. And yet (as +he would tell me himself) he has not been in the +room more than a minute—though he might well +have stopped for hours, without doing any additional +harm. Could I really dispense with him? I don't +deny that he has known me from the time when I +was in short frocks, and that he loves me like a +brother. Nevertheless, I could dispense—yes, I +could dispense—oh, yes, I could dispense—with my +Boisterous Friend. +</p> + +<p> +Again, there is my Domestic Friend, whose time +for calling on me is late in the afternoon, when I +have wrought through my day's task; and when a +quiet restorative half-hour by myself, over the fire, +is precious to me beyond all power of expression. +There is my Domestic Friend, who comes to me at +such times, and who has no subject of conversation +but the maladies of his wife and children. No efforts +that I can make to change the subject, can get me +out of the range of the family sick-room. If I start +the weather, I lead to a harrowing narrative of its +effect on Mrs. Ricketts, or the Master and Miss +Rickettses. If I try politics or literature, my friend +apologises for knowing nothing about any recent +events in which ministers or writers are concerned, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_237' name='Page_237'>237</a></span> +by telling me how his time has been taken up by +illness at home. If I attempt to protect myself by +asking him to meet a large party, where the conversation +must surely be on general topics, he brings his +wife with him (though he told me, when I invited +her, that she was unable to stir from her bed), and +publicly asks her how she feels, at certain intervals; +wafting that affectionate question across the table, as +easily as if he was handing the salt-cellar, or passing +the bottle. I have given up defending myself against +him of late, in sheer despair. I am resigned to my +fate. Though not a family man, I know (through +the vast array of facts in connection with the subject, +with which my friend has favoured me) as much +about the maladies of young mothers and their +children, as the doctor himself. Does any other +unmedical man know when half a pint of raw +brandy may be poured down the throat of a delicate +and sensitive woman, without producing the +slightest effect on her, except of the restorative +kind? I know when it may be done—when it must +be done—when, I give you my sacred word of +honour, the exhibition of alcohol in large quantities, +may be the saving of one precious life—ay, sir, and +perhaps of two! Possibly it may yet prove a useful +addition to my stores of information, to know what I +know now on such interesting subjects as these. It +may be so—but, good Christian people, it is not the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_238' name='Page_238'>238</a></span> +less true, that I could also dispense with my Domestic +Friend. +</p> + +<p> +My Country Friends—I must not forget them—and +least of all, my hospitable hostess, Lady Jinkinson, +who is in certain respects the type and symbol of +my whole circle of rural acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Jinkinson is the widow of a gallant general +officer. She has a charming place in the country. +She has also sons who are splendid fellows, and +daughters who are charming girls. She has a cultivated +taste for literature—so have the charming girls—so +have not the splendid fellows. She thinks a +little attention to literary men is very becoming in +persons of distinction; and she is good enough to +ask me to come and stay at her country-house, where +a room shall be specially reserved for me, and where +I can write my "fine things" in perfect quiet, away +from London noises and London interruptions. I go +to the country-house with my work in my portmanteau—work +which must be done by a certain time. +I find a charming little room made ready for me, +opening into my bed-room, and looking out on the +lovely garden-terrace, and the noble trees in the park +beyond. I come down to breakfast in the morning; +and after the second cup of tea. I get up to return to +my writing-room. A chorus of family remonstrances +rises instantly. Oh, surely I am not going to begin +writing on the very first day. Look at the sun, listen +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_239' name='Page_239'>239</a></span> +to the birds, feel the sweet air. A drive in the +country, after the London smoke, is absolutely necessary—a +drive to Shockley Bottom, and a picnic +luncheon (so nice!), and back by Grimshawe's Folly +(such a view from the top!), and a call, on the way +home, at the Abbey, that lovely old house, where the +dear Squire has had my last book read aloud to him +(only think of that! the very last thing in the world +that I could possibly have expected!) by darling +Emily and Matilda, who are both dying to know me. +Possessed by a (printer's) devil, I gruffly break +through this string of temptations to be idle, and +resolutely make my escape. +</p> + +<p> +"Lunch at half-past one," says Lady Jinkinson, as +I retire. +</p> + +<p> +"Pray, don't wait for me," I answer. +</p> + +<p> +"Lunch at half-past one," persists Lady Jinkinson, +as if she thought I had not heard her. +</p> + +<p> +"And cigars in the billiard-room," adds one of the +splendid fellows. +</p> + +<p> +"And in the green-house, too," continues one of +the charming girls, "where your horrid smoking is +really of some use." +</p> + +<p> +I shut the door desperately. The last words I +hear are from Lady Jinkinson. "Lunch at half-past +one." +</p> + +<p> +I get into my writing-room, and take the following +inventory of the contents:— +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_240' name='Page_240'>240</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +Table of rare inlaid woods, on which a drop of ink +would be downright ruin. Silver inkstand of enormous +size, holding about a thimbleful of ink. Clarified +pens in scented papier-mâché box. Blotting-book +lined with crimson watered silk, full of violet and +rose-coloured note-paper with the Jinkinson crest +stamped in silver at the top of each leaf. Pen-wiper, +of glossy new cloth, all ablaze with beads; tortoise-shell +paper-knife; also paper-weight, exhibiting a +view of the Colosseum in rare Mosaic; also, light +green taper, in ebony candlestick; wax in scented +box; matches in scented box; pencil-tray made of +fine gold, with a turquoise eruption breaking out all +over it. Upon the whole, about two hundred pounds' +worth of valuable property, as working materials for +me to write with. +</p> + +<p> +I remove every portable article carefully from the +inlaid table—look about me for the most worthless +thing I can discover to throw over it, in case of ink-splashes,—find +nothing worthless in the room, except +my own summer paletôt,—take that, accordingly, and +make a cloth of it,—pull out my battered old writing-case, +with my provision of cheap paper, and my inky +steel pen in my two-penny holder. With these materials +before me on my paletôt (price one guinea), I +endeavour to persuade myself, by carefully abstaining +from looking about the room, that I am immersed in +my customary squalor, and upheld by my natural +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_241' name='Page_241'>241</a></span> +untidiness. After a little while, I succeed in the +effort, and begin to work. +</p> + +<p> +Birds. The poets are all fond of birds. Can they +write, I wonder, when their favourites are singing in +chorus close outside their window? I, who only +produce prose, find birds a nuisance. Cows also. +Has that one particular cow who bellows so very +regularly, a bereavement to mourn? I think we +shall have veal for dinner to-day; I do think we shall +have nice veal and stuffing. But this is not the train +of thought I ought to be engaged in. Let me be +deaf to these pastoral noises (including the sharpening +of the gardener's scythe on the lawn), and get on +with my work. +</p> + +<p> +Tum-dum-tiddy-hidy-dum—tom-tom-tiddy-hiddy-tom—ti-too-tidy-hidy-ti—ti-ti-ti-tum. +Yes, yes, that +famous tenor bit in the Trovatore, played with prodigious +fire on the piano in the room below, by one of +the charming girls. I like the Trovatore (not being, +fortunately for myself, a musical critic). Let me lean +back in my chair on this balmy morning—writing +being now clearly out of the question—and float +away placidly on the stream of melody. Brava! +Brava! Bravissima! She is going through the +whole opera, now in one part of it, and now in +another. No, she stops, after only an hour's practice. +A voice calls to her; I hear her ringing laugh, in +answer: no more piano—silence. Work, work, you +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_242' name='Page_242'>242</a></span> +must be done! Oh, my ideas, my only stock in trade, +mercifully come back to me—or, like the famous +Roman, I have lost a day. +</p> + +<p> +Let me see; where was I when the Trovatore began? +At the following passage apparently, for the +sentence is left unfinished. +</p> + +<p> +"<i>The farther we enter into this interesting subject, +the more light</i>"—— What had I got to say about +light, when the Trovatore began? Was it, "flows in +upon us"? No; nothing so commonplace as that. +I had surely a good long metaphor, and a fine round +close to the sentence. "The more light"——shines? +beams? bursts? dawns? floods? bathes? quivers? +Oh, me! what was the precious next word I had in +my head, when the Trovatore took possession of my +poor crazy brains? It is useless to search for it. +Strike out "the more light," and try something +else. +</p> + +<p> +"<i>The farther we enter into this interesting subject, +the more prodigally we find scattered before us the gems +of truth which—so seldom ride over to see us now.</i>" +</p> + +<p> +"So seldom ride over to see us now?" Mercy on +me, what am I about? Ending my unfortunate +sentence by mechanically taking down a few polite +words, spoken by the melodious voice of one of the +charming girls on the garden-terrace under my window. +What do I hear, in a man's voice? "Regret +being so long an absentee, but my schools and my +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_243' name='Page_243'>243</a></span> +poor"—Oh, a young clerical visitor; I know him +by his way of talking. All young clergymen speak +alike—who teaches them, I wonder? Let me peep +out of window. +</p> + +<p> +I am right. It is a young clergyman—no whiskers, +apostolic hair, sickly smile, long frock coat, a wisp of +muslin round his neck, and a canonical black waistcoat +with no gap in it for the display of profane +linen. The charming girl is respectfully devouring +him with her eyes. Are they going to have their +morning chat under my window? Evidently they +are. This is pleasant. Every word of their small, +fluent, ceaseless, sentimental gabble comes into my +room. If I ask them to get out of hearing I am rude. +If I go to the window, and announce my presence +by a cough, I confuse the charming girl. No help +for it, but to lay the pen down again, and wait. This +is a change for the worse, with a vengeance. The +Trovatore was something pleasant to listen to; but +the reverend gentleman's opinions on the terrace +flowers which he has come to admire; on the last +volume of modern poetry which he has borrowed +from the charming girl; on the merits of the church +system in the Ages of Faith, and on the difficulties +he has had to contend with in his Infant School, are, +upon the whole, rather wearisome to listen to. And +this is the house that I entered in the full belief that +it would offer me the luxury of perfect quiet to work +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_244' name='Page_244'>244</a></span> +in! And down stairs sits Lady Jinkinson, firmly believing +that she has given me such an opportunity of +distinguishing myself with my pen, as I have never +before enjoyed in all my life! Patience, patience. +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour; three quarters of an hour. Do I +hear him taking his leave? Yes, at last. Pen again; +paper again. Where was I? +</p> + +<p> +"<i>The farther we enter into this interesting subject, +the more prodigally do we find scattered before us the +gems of truth, which</i>"—— +</p> + +<p> +What was I going to say the gems of truth did, +when the young clergyman and the charming girl +began their sentimental interview on the terrace? +Gone—utterly gone. Strike out the gems of truth, +and try another way. +</p> + +<p> +"<i>The farther we enter into this interesting subject, +the more its vast capabilities</i>"—— +</p> + +<p> +A knock at the door. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +"Her Ladyship wishes me to say, sir, that luncheon +is ready." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well." +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +"<i>The farther we enter into this interesting subject, +the more clearly its vast capabilities display themselves +to our view. The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced +competent</i>"—— +</p> + +<p> +A knock at the door. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_245' name='Page_245'>245</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +"Her Ladyship wishes me to remind you, sir, that +luncheon is ready." +</p> + +<p> +"Pray beg Lady Jinkinson not to wait for me." +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +"<i>The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent +to survey the extended field of observation</i>"—— +</p> + +<p> +A knock at the door. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon, sir, but her Ladyship desires +me to say that a friar's omelette has just come up, +which she very much wishes you to taste. And she +is afraid it will get cold, unless you will be so good +as to come down-stairs at once." +</p> + +<p> +"Say, I will come directly." +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +"<i>The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent +to survey the extended field of observation, which</i>"—which?—which?—Gone +again! What else could +I expect? A nice chance literature has in this house +against luncheon. +</p> + +<p> +I descend to the dining-room, and am politely told +that I look as if I had just achieved a wonderful +morning's work. "I dare say you have not written +in such perfect quiet as this for months past?" says +Lady Jinkinson, helping me to the friar's omelette. +I begin with that dainty: where I end is more than +my recollection enables me to say. Everybody feeds +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_246' name='Page_246'>246</a></span> +me, under the impression that I am exhausted with +writing. All the splendid fellows will drink wine +with me, "to set me going again." Nobody believes +my rueful assertion that I have done nothing, +which they ascribe to excessive modesty. When we +rise from table (a process which is performed with +extreme difficulty, speaking for myself), I am told +that the carriage will be ready in an hour. Lady +Jinkinson will not hear of any objections. "No! +no!" she says. "I have not asked you here to +overwork yourself. I really can't allow that." +</p> + +<p> +I get back to my room, with an extraordinary +tightness in my waistcoat, and with slight symptoms +of a determination of Sherry to the head. Under +these circumstances, returning to work immediately +is not to be thought of. Returning to bed is by far +the wiser proceeding. I lie down to arrange my +ideas. Having none to arrange, I yield to Nature, +and go to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +When I wake, my head is clear again. I see my +way now to the end of that bit about "the extended +field of observation;" and make for my table in +high spirits. Just as I sit down, comes another +knock at the door. The carriage is ready. The +carriage! I had forgotten all about it. There is +no way of escape, however. Hours must give way +to me, when I am at home; I must give way to +hours, when I am at Lady Jinkinson's. My papers +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_247' name='Page_247'>247</a></span> +are soon shuffled together in my case; and I am +once more united with the hospitable party down-stairs. +"More bright ideas?" cry the ladies interrogatively, +as I take my place in the carriage. "Not +the dimmest vestige of one," I answer. Lady Jinkinson +shakes her parasol reproachfully at me. "My +dear friend, you were always absurdly modest when +speaking of yourself; and, do you know, I think it +grows on you." +</p> + +<p> +We get back in time to dress for dinner. After +dinner, there is the social evening, and more Trovatore. +After that, cigars with the splendid fellows in +the billiard-room. I look over my day's work, with +the calmness of despair, when I get to bed at last. +It amounts to four sentences and a half; every line +of which is perfectly worthless as a literary composition. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, I rise before the rest of the +family are up, leave a note of apology on my table, +and take the early train for London. This is very +ungrateful behaviour to people who have treated me +with extreme kindness. But here, again, I must +confess the hard truth. The demands of my business +in life are imperative; and, sad to say, they absolutely +oblige me to dispense with Lady Jinkinson. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +I have now been confessing my misanthropical +sentiments at some length; but I have not by any +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_248' name='Page_248'>248</a></span> +means done yet with the number of my dear friends +whom I could dispense with. To say nothing of my +friend who borrows money of me (an obvious nuisance), +there is my self-satisfied friend, who can talk +of nothing but himself, and his successes in life; +there is my inattentive friend, who is perpetually +asking me irrelevant questions, and who has no +power of listening to my answers; there is my accidental +friend, whom I always meet when I go out; +there is my hospitable friend, who is continually telling +me that he wants so much to ask me to dinner, +and who never does really ask me by any chance. +All these intimate associates of mine are persons +of fundamentally irreproachable characters, and of +well-defined positions in the world; and yet so +unhappily is my nature constituted, that I am not +exaggerating when I acknowledge that I could positively +dispense with every one of them. +</p> + +<p> +To proceed a little farther, now that I have begun +to unburden my mind— +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +A double knock at the street door stops my pen +suddenly. I make no complaint, for I have been, +to my own amazement, filling these pages for the +last three hours, in my parlour after dinner, without +interruption. A well-known voice in the passage +smites my ear, inquiring for me, on very particular +business, and asking the servant to take in the name. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_249' name='Page_249'>249</a></span> +The servant appears at my door, and I make up my +mind to send these leaves to the printer, unfinished +as they are. No necessity, Susan, to mention the +name; I have recognised the voice. This is my +friend who does not at all like the state of my health. +He comes, I know beforehand, with the address of a +new doctor, or the recipe of a new remedy; and he +will stay for hours, persuading me that I am in a +bad way. No escaping from him, as I know by experience. +Well, well, I have made my confession, +and eased my mind. Let my friend who doesn't like +the state of my health, end the list, for the present, +of the dear friends whom I could dispense with. Show +him in, Susan—show him in. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_250' name='Page_250'>250</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +CASES WORTH LOOKING AT.—III.<br /> +<span class="s08">THE CAULDRON OF OIL.</span> +</h2> + +<p> +About one French league distant from the city of +Toulouse, there is a village called Croix-Daurade. +In the military history of England, this place is +associated with a famous charge of the eighteenth +hussars, which united two separated columns of the +British army, on the day before the Duke of Wellington +fought the battle of Toulouse. In the +criminal history of France, the village is memorable +as the scene of a daring crime, which was discovered +and punished under circumstances sufficiently +remarkable to merit preservation in the form +of a plain narrative. +</p> + +<h3> +I. <span class='smcap'>The Persons of the Drama.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +In the year seventeen hundred, the resident priest +of the village of Croix-Daurade was Monsieur Pierre-Célestin +Chaubard. He was a man of no extraordinary +energy or capacity, simple in his habits, +and sociable in his disposition. His character was +irreproachable; he was strictly conscientious in the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_251' name='Page_251'>251</a></span> +performance of his duties; and he was universally +respected and beloved by all his parishioners. +</p> + +<p> +Among the members of his flock, there was a +family named Siadoux. The head of the household, +Saturnin Siadoux, had been long established in business +at Croix-Daurade as an oil-manufacturer. At +the period of the events now to be narrated, he had +attained the age of sixty, and was a widower. His +family consisted of five children—three young men, +who helped him in the business, and two daughters. +His nearest living relative was his sister, the widow +Mirailhe. +</p> + +<p> +The widow resided principally at Toulouse. Her +time in that city was mainly occupied in winding up +the business affairs of her deceased husband, which +had remained unsettled for a considerable period +after his death, through delays in realising certain +sums of money owing to his representative. The +widow had been left very well provided for—she was +still a comely attractive woman—and more than one +substantial citizen of Toulouse had shown himself +anxious to persuade her into marrying for the second +time. But the widow Mirailhe lived on terms of +great intimacy and affection with her brother Siadoux +and his family; she was sincerely attached to them, +and sincerely unwilling, at her age, to deprive her +nephews and nieces, by a second marriage, of the +inheritance, or even of a portion of the inheritance, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_252' name='Page_252'>252</a></span> +which would otherwise fall to them on her death. +Animated by these motives, she closed her doors +resolutely on all suitors who attempted to pay their +court to her, with the one exception of a master-butcher +of Toulouse, whose name was Cantegrel. +</p> + +<p> +This man was a neighbour of the widow's, and had +made himself useful by assisting her in the business +complications which still hung about the realisation +of her late husband's estate. The preference which +she showed for the master-butcher was, thus far, of +the purely negative kind. She gave him no absolute +encouragement; she would not for a moment admit +that there was the slightest prospect of her ever +marrying him—but, at the same time, she continued +to receive his visits, and she showed no disposition to +restrict the neighbourly intercourse between them, +for the future, within purely formal bounds. Under +these circumstances, Saturnin Siadoux began to be +alarmed, and to think it time to bestir himself. He had +no personal acquaintance with Cantegrel, who never +visited the village; and Monsieur Chaubard (to whom +he might otherwise have applied for advice) was not +in a position to give an opinion: the priest and the +master-butcher did not even know each other by +sight. In this difficulty, Siadoux bethought himself +of inquiring privately at Toulouse, in the hope of +discovering some scandalous passages in Cantegrel's +early life, which might fatally degrade him in the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_253' name='Page_253'>253</a></span> +estimation of the widow Mirailhe. The investigation, +as usual in such cases, produced rumours and +reports in plenty, the greater part of which dated +back to a period of the butcher's life when he had +resided in the ancient town of Narbonne. One of +these rumours, especially, was of so serious a nature, +that Siadoux determined to test the truth or falsehood +of it, personally, by travelling to Narbonne. He kept +his intention a secret not only from his sister and his +daughters, but also from his sons; they were young +men, not over-patient in their tempers—and he +doubted their discretion. Thus, nobody knew his +real purpose but himself, when he left home. +</p> + +<p> +His safe arrival at Narbonne was notified in a +letter to his family. The letter entered into no +particulars relating to his secret errand: it merely +informed his children of the day when they might +expect him back, and of certain social arrangements +which he wished to be made to welcome him on his +return. He proposed, on his way home, to stay two +days at Castelnaudry, for the purpose of paying a +visit to an old friend who was settled there. According +to this plan, his return to Croix-Daurade would +be deferred until Tuesday, the twenty-sixth of April, +when his family might expect to see him about +sunset, in good time for supper. He further desired +that a little party of friends might be invited to the +meal, to celebrate the twenty-sixth of April (which +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_254' name='Page_254'>254</a></span> +was a feast-day in the village), as well as to celebrate +his return. The guests whom he wished to be invited +were, first, his sister; secondly, Monsieur Chaubard, +whose pleasant disposition made him a welcome guest +at all the village festivals; thirdly and fourthly, two +neighbours, business-men like himself, with whom he +lived on terms of the friendliest intimacy. That was +the party; and the family of Siadoux took especial +pains, as the time approached, to provide a supper +worthy of the guests, who had all shown the heartiest +readiness in accepting their invitations. +</p> + +<p> +This was the domestic position, these were the +family prospects, on the morning of the twenty-sixth +of April—a memorable day, for years afterwards, in +the village of Croix-Daurade. +</p> + +<h3> +II. <span class='smcap'>The Events of the Day.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +Besides the curacy of the village church, good +Monsieur Chaubard held some small ecclesiastical +preferment in the cathedral church of St. Stephen at +Toulouse. Early in the forenoon of the twenty-sixth, +certain matters connected with this preferment took +him from his village curacy to the city—a distance +which has been already described as not greater than +one French league, or between two and three English +miles. +</p> + +<p> +After transacting his business, Monsieur Chaubard +parted with his clerical brethren, who left him by +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_255' name='Page_255'>255</a></span> +himself in the sacristy (or vestry) of the church. +Before he had quitted the room, in his turn, the +beadle entered it, and inquired for the Abbé de +Mariotte, one of the officiating priests attached to +the cathedral. +</p> + +<p> +"The Abbé has just gone out," replied Monsieur +Chaubard. "Who wants him?" +</p> + +<p> +"A respectable-looking man," said the beadle. "I +thought he seemed to be in some distress of mind, +when he spoke to me." +</p> + +<p> +"Did he mention his business with the Abbé?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir; he expressed himself as anxious to +make his confession immediately." +</p> + +<p> +"In that case," said Monsieur Chaubard, "I may +be of use to him in the Abbé's absence—for I have +authority to act here as confessor. Let us go +into the church, and see if this person feels disposed +to accept my services." +</p> + +<p> +When they went into the church, they found the +man walking backwards and forwards in a restless, +disordered manner. His looks were so strikingly +suggestive of some serious mental perturbation, that +Monsieur Chaubard found it no easy matter to preserve +his composure, when he first addressed himself +to the stranger. +</p> + +<p> +"I am sorry," he began, "that the Abbé de Mariotte +is not here to offer you his services——" +</p> + +<p> +"I want to make my confession," said the man, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_256' name='Page_256'>256</a></span> +looking about him vacantly, as if the priest's words +had not attracted his attention. +</p> + +<p> +"You can do so at once, if you please," said Monsieur +Chaubard. "I am attached to this church, and +I possess the necessary authority to receive confessions +in it. Perhaps, however, you are personally +acquainted with the Abbé de Mariotte? Perhaps +you would prefer waiting——" +</p> + +<p> +"No!" said the man, roughly. "I would as soon, +or sooner, confess to a stranger." +</p> + +<p> +"In that case," replied Monsieur Chaubard, "be +so good as to follow me." +</p> + +<p> +He led the way to the confessional. The beadle, +whose curiosity was excited, waited a little, and +looked after them. In a few minutes, he saw the +curtains, which were sometimes used to conceal +the face of the officiating priest, suddenly drawn. +The penitent knelt with his back turned to the +church. There was literally nothing to see—but +the beadle waited nevertheless, in expectation of the +end. +</p> + +<p> +After a long lapse of time, the curtain was withdrawn, +and priest and penitent left the confessional. +</p> + +<p> +The change which the interval had worked in +Monsieur Chaubard was so extraordinary, that the +beadle's attention was altogether withdrawn, in +the interest of observing it, from the man who had +made the confession. He did not remark by which +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_257' name='Page_257'>257</a></span> +door the stranger left the church—his eyes were fixed +on Monsieur Chaubard. The priest's naturally ruddy +face was as white as if he had just risen from a long +sickness—he looked straight before him, with a stare +of terror—and he left the church as hurriedly as if he +had been a man escaping from prison; left it without +a parting word, or a farewell look, although he was +noted for his courtesy to his inferiors on all ordinary +occasions. +</p> + +<p> +"Good Monsieur Chaubard has heard more than +he bargained for," said the beadle, wandering back +to the empty confessional, with an interest which he +had never felt in it till that moment. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The day wore on as quietly as usual in the village +of Croix-Daurade. At the appointed time, the supper-table +was laid for the guests in the house of Saturnin +Siadoux. The widow Mirailhe, and the two neighbours, +arrived a little before sunset. Monsieur Chaubard, +who was usually punctual, did not make his +appearance with them; and when the daughters of +Saturnin Siadoux looked out from the upper windows, +they saw no signs on the high road of their father's +return. +</p> + +<p> +Sunset came—and still neither Siadoux nor the +priest appeared. The little party sat waiting round +the table, and waited in vain. Before long, a message +was sent up from the kitchen, representing that +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_258' name='Page_258'>258</a></span> +the supper must be eaten forthwith, or be spoilt; +and the company began to debate the two alternatives, +of waiting, or not waiting, any longer. +</p> + +<p> +"It is my belief," said the widow Mirailhe, "that +my brother is not coming home to-night. When +Monsieur Chaubard joins us, we had better sit down +to supper." +</p> + +<p> +"Can any accident have happened to my father?" +asked one of the two daughters, anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +"God forbid!" said the widow. +</p> + +<p> +"God forbid!" repeated the two neighbours, looking +expectantly at the empty supper-table. +</p> + +<p> +"It has been a wretched day for travelling," said +Louis, the eldest son. +</p> + +<p> +"It rained in torrents, all yesterday," added Thomas, +the second son. +</p> + +<p> +"And your father's rheumatism makes him averse +to travelling in wet weather," suggested the widow, +thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +"Very true!" said the first of the two neighbours, +shaking his head piteously at his passive knife and +fork. +</p> + +<p> +Another message came up from the kitchen, and +peremptorily forbade the company to wait any +longer. +</p> + +<p> +"But where is Monsieur Chaubard?" said the +widow. "Has he been taking a journey too? Why +is <i>he</i> absent? Has anybody seen him to-day?" +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_259' name='Page_259'>259</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"I have seen him to-day," said the youngest son, +who had not spoken yet. This young man's name +was Jean; he was little given to talking, but he +had proved himself, on various domestic occasions, to +be the quickest and most observant member of the +family. +</p> + +<p> +"Where did you see him?" asked the widow. +</p> + +<p> +"I met him, this morning, on his way into +Toulouse." +</p> + +<p> +"He has not fallen ill, I hope? Did he look out +of sorts when you met him?" +</p> + +<p> +"He was in excellent health and spirits," said +Jean. "I never saw him look better——" +</p> + +<p> +"And <i>I</i> never saw him look worse," said the +second of the neighbours, striking into the conversation +with the aggressive fretfulness of a hungry +man. +</p> + +<p> +"What! this morning?" cried Jean, in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +"No; this afternoon," said the neighbour. "I saw +him going into our church here. He was as white +as our plates will be—when they come up. And +what is almost as extraordinary, he passed without +taking the slightest notice of me." +</p> + +<p> +Jean relapsed into his customary silence. It was +getting dark; the clouds had gathered while the +company had been talking; and, at the first pause +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_260' name='Page_260'>260</a></span> +in the conversation, the rain, falling again in torrents, +made itself drearily audible. +</p> + +<p> +"Dear, dear me!" said the widow. "If it was not +raining so hard, we might send somebody to inquire +after good Monsieur Chaubard." +</p> + +<p> +"I'll go and inquire," said Thomas Siadoux. "It's +not five minutes' walk. Have up the supper; I'll +take a cloak with me; and if our excellent Monsieur +Chaubard is out of his bed, I'll bring him back, to +answer for himself." +</p> + +<p> +With those words he left the room. The supper +was put on the table forthwith. The hungry neighbour +disputed with nobody from that moment, and +the melancholy neighbour recovered his spirits. +</p> + +<p> +On reaching the priest's house, Thomas Siadoux +found him sitting alone in his study. He started to +his feet, with every appearance of the most violent +alarm, when the young man entered the room. +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon, sir," said Thomas; "I am +afraid I have startled you." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you want?" asked Monsieur Chaubard, +in a singularly abrupt, bewildered manner. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you forgotten, sir, that this is the night of +our supper?" remonstrated Thomas. "My father +has not come back; and we can only suppose——" +</p> + +<p> +At those words the priest dropped into his chair +again, and trembled from head to foot. Amazed to +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_261' name='Page_261'>261</a></span> +the last degree by this extraordinary reception of his +remonstrance, Thomas Siadoux remembered, at the +same time, that he had engaged to bring Monsieur +Chaubard back with him; and, he determined to +finish his civil speech, as if nothing had happened. +</p> + +<p> +"We are all of opinion," he resumed, "that the +weather has kept my father on the road. But that is +no reason, sir, why the supper should be wasted, or +why you should not make one of us, as you promised. +Here is a good warm cloak——" +</p> + +<p> +"I can't come," said the priest. "I'm ill; I'm in +bad spirits; I'm not fit to go out." He sighed bitterly, +and hid his face in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't say that, sir," persisted Thomas. "If you +are out of spirits, let us try to cheer you. And you, +in your turn, will enliven us. They are all waiting +for you at home. Don't refuse, sir," pleaded the +young man, "or we shall think we have offended you, +in some way. You have always been a good friend +to our family——" +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Chaubard again rose from his chair, with +a second change of manner, as extraordinary and as +perplexing as the first. His eyes moistened as if the +tears were rising in them; he took the hand of +Thomas Siadoux, and pressed it long and warmly in +his own. There was a curious mixed expression of +pity and fear in the look which he now fixed on the +young man. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_262' name='Page_262'>262</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"Of all the days in the year," he said, very +earnestly, "don't doubt my friendship to-day. Ill +as I am, I will make one of the supper-party, for +your sake——" +</p> + +<p> +"And for my father's sake?" added Thomas, persuasively. +</p> + +<p> +"Let us go to the supper," said the priest. +</p> + +<p> +Thomas Siadoux wrapped the cloak round him, +and they left the house. +</p> + +<p> +Every one at the table noticed the change in +Monsieur Chaubard. He accounted for it by declaring, +confusedly, that he was suffering from nervous +illness; and then added that he would do his best, +notwithstanding, to promote the social enjoyment of +the evening. His talk was fragmentary, and his +cheerfulness was sadly forced; but he contrived, with +these drawbacks, to take his part in the conversation—except +in the case when it happened to turn on the +absent master of the house. Whenever the name +of Saturnin Siadoux was mentioned—either by the +neighbours, who politely regretted that he was not +present; or by the family, who naturally talked about +the resting-place which he might have chosen for the +night—Monsieur Chaubard either relapsed into blank +silence, or abruptly changed the topic. Under these +circumstances, the company, by whom he was respected +and beloved, made the necessary allowances +for his state of health; the only person among them, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_263' name='Page_263'>263</a></span> +who showed no desire to cheer the priest's spirits, +and to humour him in his temporary fretfulness, +being the silent younger son of Saturnin Siadoux. +</p> + +<p> +Both Louis and Thomas noticed that, from the +moment when Monsieur Chaubard's manner first betrayed +his singular unwillingness to touch on the +subject of their father's absence, Jean fixed his eyes +on the priest, with an expression of suspicious attention; +and never looked away from him for the rest +of the evening. The young man's absolute silence +at table did not surprise his brothers, for they were +accustomed to his taciturn habits. But the sullen +distrust betrayed in his close observation of the +honoured guest and friend of the family, surprised +and angered them. The priest himself seemed once +or twice to be aware of the scrutiny to which he was +subjected, and to feel uneasy and offended, as he +naturally might. He abstained, however, from +openly noticing Jean's strange behaviour; and Louis +and Thomas were bound, therefore, in common +politeness, to abstain from noticing it also. +</p> + +<p> +The inhabitants of Croix-Daurade kept early hours. +Towards eleven o'clock, the company rose and separated +for the night. Except the two neighbours, +nobody had enjoyed the supper, and even the two +neighbours, having eaten their fill, were as glad to +get home as the rest. In the little confusion of +parting, Monsieur Chaubard completed the astonishment +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_264' name='Page_264'>264</a></span> +of the guests at the extraordinary change in +him, by slipping away alone, without waiting to bid +anybody good night. +</p> + +<p> +The widow Mirailhe and her nieces withdrew to +their bed-rooms, and left the three brothers by themselves +in the parlour. +</p> + +<p> +"Jean," said Thomas Siadoux, "I have a word to +say to you. You stared at our good Monsieur Chaubard +in a very offensive manner all through the +evening. What did you mean by it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Wait till to-morrow," said Jean; "and perhaps +I may tell you." +</p> + +<p> +He lit his candle, and left them. Both the brothers +observed that his hand trembled, and that his +manner—never very winning—was, on that night, +more serious and more unsociable than usual. +</p> + +<h3> +III. <span class='smcap'>The Younger Brother.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +When post-time came on the morning of the +twenty-seventh, no letter arrived from Saturnin Siadoux. +On consideration, the family interpreted this +circumstance in a favourable light. If the master +of the house had not written to them, it followed, +surely, that he meant to make writing unnecessary +by returning on that day. +</p> + +<p> +As the hours passed, the widow and her nieces +looked out, from time to time, for the absent man. +Towards noon, they observed a little assembly of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_265' name='Page_265'>265</a></span> +people approaching the village. Ere long, on a +nearer view, they recognised at the head of the assembly, +the chief magistrate of Toulouse, in his +official dress. He was accompanied by his Assessor +(also in official dress), by an escort of archers, and +by certain subordinates attached to the town-hall. +These last appeared to be carrying some burden, +which was hidden from view by the escort of +archers. The procession stopped at the house of +Saturnin Siadoux; and the two daughters, hastening +to the door, to discover what had happened, met +the burden which the men were carrying, and saw, +stretched on a litter, the dead body of their father. +</p> + +<p> +The corpse had been found that morning on the +banks of the river Lers. It was stabbed in eleven +places with knife or dagger wounds. None of the +valuables about the dead man's person had been +touched; his watch and his money were still in his +pockets. Whoever had murdered him, had murdered +him for vengeance, not for gain. +</p> + +<p> +Some time elapsed before even the male members +of the family were sufficiently composed to hear what +the officers of justice had to say to them. When this +result had been at length achieved, and when the +necessary inquiries had been made, no information of +any kind was obtained which pointed to the murderer, +in the eye of the law. After expressing his +sympathy, and promising that every available means +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_266' name='Page_266'>266</a></span> +should be tried to effect the discovery of the criminal, +the chief magistrate gave his orders to his +escort, and withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +When night came, the sister and the daughters of +the murdered man retired to the upper part of the +house, exhausted by the violence of their grief. The +three brothers were left once more alone in the parlour, +to speak together of the awful calamity which +had befallen them. They were of hot Southern blood, +and they looked on one another with a Southern +thirst for vengeance in their tearless eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The silent younger son was now the first to open +his lips. +</p> + +<p> +"You charged me yesterday," he said to his brother +Thomas, "with looking strangely at Monsieur +Chaubard all the evening; and I answered that I +might tell you <i>why</i> I looked at him when to-morrow +came. To-morrow has come, and I am ready to +tell you." +</p> + +<p> +He waited a little, and lowered his voice to a +whisper when he spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +"When Monsieur Chaubard was at our supper-table +last night," he said, "I had it in my mind that +something had happened to our father, and that the +priest knew it." +</p> + +<p> +The two elder brothers looked at him in speechless +astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +"Our father has been brought back to us a murdered +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_267' name='Page_267'>267</a></span> +man!" Jean went on, still in a whisper. "I +tell you, Louis—and you, Thomas—that the priest +knows who murdered him." +</p> + +<p> +Louis and Thomas shrank from their younger brother, +as if he had spoken blasphemy. +</p> + +<p> +"Listen," said Jean. "No clue has been found +to the secret of the murder. The magistrate has +promised us to do his best—but I saw in his face +that he had little hope. We must make the discovery +ourselves—or our father's blood will have +cried to us for vengeance, and cried in vain. Remember +that—and mark my next words. You heard +me say yesterday evening, that I had met Monsieur +Chaubard on his way to Toulouse in excellent health +and spirits. You heard our old friend and neighbour +contradict me at the supper-table, and declare that +he had seen the priest, some hours later, go into our +church here with the face of a panic-stricken man. +You saw, Thomas, how he behaved when you went +to fetch him to our house. You saw, Louis, what +his looks were like when he came in. The change +was noticed by everybody—what was the cause of it? +<i>I</i> saw the cause in the priest's own face, when our +father's name turned up in the talk round the supper-table. +Did Monsieur Chaubard join in that +talk? He was the only person present who never +joined in it once. Did he change it, on a sudden, +whenever it came his way? It came his way four +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_268' name='Page_268'>268</a></span> +times; and four times he changed it—trembling, +stammering, turning whiter and whiter, but still, as +true as the Heaven above us, shifting the talk off +himself, every time! Are you men? Have you +brains in your heads? Don't you see, as I see, +what this leads to? On my salvation I swear it—the +priest knows the hand that killed our +father!" +</p> + +<p> +The faces of the two elder brothers darkened vindictively, +as the conviction of the truth fastened itself +on their minds. +</p> + +<p> +"<i>How</i> could he know it?" they inquired, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +"He must tell us himself," said Jean. +</p> + +<p> +"And if he hesitates—if he refuses to open his +lips?" +</p> + +<p> +"We must open them by main force." +</p> + +<p> +They drew their chairs together after that last +answer, and consulted, for some time, in whispers. +</p> + +<p> +When the consultation was over, the brothers rose +and went into the room where the dead body of their +father was laid out. The three kissed him, in turn, +on the forehead—then took hands together, and +looked, meaningly, in each other's faces—then separated. +Louis and Thomas put on their hats, and +went at once to the priest's residence; while Jean +withdrew by himself to the great room at the back +of the house, which was used for the purposes of the +oil-factory. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_269' name='Page_269'>269</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +Only one of the workmen was left in the place. +He was watching an immense cauldron of boiling +linseed-oil. +</p> + +<p> +"You can go home," said Jean, patting the man +kindly on the shoulder. "There is no hope of a +night's rest for me, after the affliction that has befallen +us—I will take your place at the cauldron. +Go home, my good fellow—go home." +</p> + +<p> +The man thanked him, and withdrew. Jean followed, +and satisfied himself that the workman had +really left the house. He then returned, and sat +down by the boiling cauldron. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Louis and Thomas presented themselves +at the priest's house. He had not yet retired +to bed, and he received them kindly—but with the +same extraordinary agitation in his face and manner +which had surprised all who saw him on the previous +day. The brothers were prepared beforehand with +an answer, when he inquired what they wanted of +him. They replied immediately that the shock +of their father's horrible death had so seriously +affected their aunt and their eldest sister, that it +was feared the minds of both might give way, unless +spiritual consolation and assistance were afforded to +them that night. The unhappy priest—always +faithful and self-sacrificing where the duties of his +ministry were in question—at once rose to accompany +the young men back to the house. He even +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_270' name='Page_270'>270</a></span> +put on his surplice, and took the crucifix with him, +to impress his words of comfort all the more solemnly +on the afflicted women whom he was called on to +succour. +</p> + +<p> +Thus innocent of all suspicion of the conspiracy to +which he had fallen a victim, he was taken into the +room where Jean sat waiting by the cauldron of oil; +and the door was locked behind him. +</p> + +<p> +Before he could speak, Thomas Siadoux openly +avowed the truth. +</p> + +<p> +"It is we three who want you," he said—"not our +aunt, and not our sister. If you answer our questions +truly, you have nothing to fear. If you refuse——" +He stopped, and looked toward Jean and +the boiling cauldron. +</p> + +<p> +Never, at the best of times, a resolute man; deprived, +since the day before, of such resources of +energy as he possessed, by the mental suffering +which he had undergone in secret—the unfortunate +priest trembled from head to foot, as the three brothers +closed round him. Louis took the crucifix from +him, and held it; Thomas forced him to place his +right hand on it; Jean stood in front of him and put +the questions. +</p> + +<p> +"Our father has been brought home a murdered +man," he said. "Do you know who killed him?" +</p> + +<p> +The priest hesitated; and the two elder brothers +moved him nearer to the cauldron. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_271' name='Page_271'>271</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +"Answer us, on peril of your life," said Jean. +"Say, with your hand on the blessed crucifix, do you +know the man who killed our father?" +</p> + +<p> +"I do know him." +</p> + +<p> +"When did you make the discovery?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yesterday." +</p> + +<p> +"Where?" +</p> + +<p> +"At Toulouse." +</p> + +<p> +"Name the murderer." +</p> + +<p> +At those words, the priest closed his hand fast on +the crucifix, and rallied his sinking courage. +</p> + +<p> +"Never!" he said firmly. "The knowledge I +possess was obtained in the confessional. The secrets +of the confessional are sacred. If I betray them, I +commit sacrilege. I will die first!" +</p> + +<p> +"Think!" said Jean. "If you keep silence, you +screen the murderer. If you keep silence, you are +the murderer's accomplice. We have sworn over +our father's dead body to avenge him—if you refuse +to speak, we will avenge him on <i>you</i>. I charge you +again, name the man who killed him." +</p> + +<p> +"I will die first," the priest reiterated, as firmly +as before. +</p> + +<p> +"Die then!" said Jean. "Die in that cauldron +of boiling oil." +</p> + +<p> +"Give him time," cried Louis and Thomas, earnestly +pleading together. +</p> + +<p> +"We will give him time," said the younger +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_272' name='Page_272'>272</a></span> +brother. "There is the clock yonder, against the +wall. We will count five minutes by it. In those +five minutes, let him make his peace with God—or +make up his mind to speak." +</p> + +<p> +They waited, watching the clock. In that dreadful +interval, the priest dropped on his knees and hid +his face. The time passed in dead silence. +</p> + +<p> +"Speak! for your own sake, for our sakes, speak!" +said Thomas Siadoux, as the minute hand reached +the point at which the five minutes expired. +</p> + +<p> +The priest looked up—his voice died away on his +lips—the mortal agony broke out on his face in great +drops of sweat—his head sank forward on his breast. +</p> + +<p> +"Lift him!" cried Jean, seizing the priest on one +side. "Lift him, and throw him in!" +</p> + +<p> +The two elder brothers advanced a step—and +hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +"Lift him, on your oath over our father's body!" +</p> + +<p> +The two brothers seized him on the other side. +As they lifted him to a level with the cauldron, the +horror of the death that threatened him, burst from +the lips of the miserable man in a scream of terror. +The brothers held him firm at the cauldron's edge. +"Name the man!" they said for the last time. +</p> + +<p> +The priest's teeth chattered—he was speechless. +But he made a sign with his head—a sign in the +affirmative. They placed him in a chair, and waited +patiently until he was able to speak. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_273' name='Page_273'>273</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +His first words were words of entreaty. He begged +Thomas Siadoux to give him back the crucifix. +When it was placed in his possession, he kissed it, +and said faintly, "I ask pardon of God for the sin +that I am about to commit." He paused; and then +looked up at the younger brother, who still stood in +front of him. "I am ready," he said. "Question +me, and I will answer." +</p> + +<p> +Jean repeated the questions which he had put, +when the priest was first brought into the room. +</p> + +<p> +"You know the murderer of our father?" +</p> + +<p> +"I know him." +</p> + +<p> +"Since when?" +</p> + +<p> +"Since he made his confession to me yesterday, in +the cathedral of Toulouse." +</p> + +<p> +"Name him." +</p> + +<p> +"His name is Cantegrel." +</p> + +<p> +"The man who wanted to marry our aunt?" +</p> + +<p> +"The same." +</p> + +<p> +"What brought him to the confessional?" +</p> + +<p> +"His own remorse." +</p> + +<p> +"What were the motives for his crime?" +</p> + +<p> +"There were reports against his character; and +he discovered that your father had gone privately to +Narbonne to make sure that they were true." +</p> + +<p> +"Did our father make sure of their truth?" +</p> + +<p> +"He did." +</p> + +<p> +"Would those discoveries have separated our aunt +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_274' name='Page_274'>274</a></span> +from Cantegrel if our father had lived to tell her +of them?" +</p> + +<p> +"They would. If your father had lived, he would +have told your aunt that Cantegrel was married +already; that he had deserted his wife at Narbonne; +that she was living there with another man, under +another name; and that she had herself confessed it +in your father's presence." +</p> + +<p> +"Where was the murder committed?" +</p> + +<p> +"Between Villefranche and this village. Cantegrel +had followed your father to Narbonne; and +had followed him back again to Villefranche. As +far as that place, he travelled in company with others, +both going and returning. Beyond Villefranche, he +was left alone at the ford over the river. There +Cantegrel drew the knife to kill him, before he +reached home and told his news to your aunt." +</p> + +<p> +"How was the murder committed?" +</p> + +<p> +"It was committed while your father was watering +his pony by the bank of the stream. Cantegrel stole +on him from behind, and struck him as he was +stooping over the saddle-bow." +</p> + +<p> +"This is the truth, on your oath?" +</p> + +<p> +"On my oath, it is the truth." +</p> + +<p> +"You may leave us." +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The priest rose from his chair without assistance. +From the time when the terror of death had forced +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_275' name='Page_275'>275</a></span> +him to reveal the murderer's name, a great change +had passed over him. He had given his answers +with the immoveable calmness of a man on whose +mind all human interests had lost their hold. He +now left the room, strangely absorbed in himself; +moving with the mechanical regularity of a sleep-walker; +lost to all perception of things and persons +about him. At the door he stopped—woke, as it +seemed, from the trance that possessed him—and +looked at the three brothers with a steady changeless +sorrow, which they had never seen in him before, +which they never afterwards forgot. +</p> + +<p> +"I forgive you," he said, quietly and solemnly. +"Pray for me, when my time comes." +</p> + +<p> +With those last words, he left them. +</p> + +<h3> +IV. <span class='smcap'>The End.</span> +</h3> + +<p> +The night was far advanced; but the three +brothers determined to set forth instantly for Toulouse, +and to place their information in the magistrate's +hands, before the morning dawned. +</p> + +<p> +Thus far, no suspicion had occurred to them of the +terrible consequences which were to follow their +night-interview with the priest. They were absolutely +ignorant of the punishment to which a man +in holy orders exposed himself, if he revealed the +secrets of the confessional. No infliction of that +punishment had been known in their neighbourhood—for, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_276' name='Page_276'>276</a></span> +at that time, as at this, the rarest of all priestly +offences was a violation of the sacred trust confided +to the confessor by the Roman Church. Conscious +that they had forced the priest into the commission +of a clerical offence, the brothers sincerely believed +that the loss of his curacy would be the heaviest +penalty which the law could exact from him. They +entered Toulouse that night, discussing the atonement +which they might offer to Monsieur Chaubard, +and the means which they might best employ to +make his future life easy to him. +</p> + +<p> +The first disclosure of the consequences which +would certainly follow the outrage they had committed, +was revealed to them when they made their +deposition before the officer of justice. The magistrate +listened to their narrative with horror vividly +expressed in his face and manner. +</p> + +<p> +"Better you had never been born," he said, "than +have avenged your father's death, as you three have +avenged it. Your own act has doomed the guilty +and the innocent to suffer alike." +</p> + +<p> +Those words proved prophetic of the truth. The +end came quickly, as the priest had foreseen it, when +he spoke his parting words. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The arrest of Cantegrel was accomplished without +difficulty, the next morning. In the absence of any +other evidence on which to justify this proceeding, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_277' name='Page_277'>277</a></span> +the private disclosure to the authorities of the secret +which the priest had violated, became inevitable. +The Parliament of Languedoc was, under these circumstances, +the tribunal appealed to; and the decision +of that assembly immediately ordered the priest +and the three brothers to be placed in confinement, +as well as the murderer Cantegrel. Evidence was +then immediately sought for, which might convict +this last criminal, without any reference to the revelation +that had been forced from the priest—and +evidence enough was found to satisfy judges whose +minds already possessed the foregone certainty of +the prisoner's guilt. He was put on his trial, was +convicted of the murder, and was condemned to be +broken on the wheel. The sentence was rigidly +executed, with as little delay as the law would +permit. +</p> + +<p> +The cases of Monsieur Chaubard, and of the three +sons of Siadoux, next occupied the judges. The +three brothers were found guilty of having forced the +secret of a confession from a man in holy orders, and +were sentenced to death by hanging. A far more +terrible expiation of his offence awaited the unfortunate +priest. He was condemned to have his +limbs broken on the wheel, and to be afterwards, +while still living, bound to the stake, and destroyed +by fire. +</p> + +<p> +Barbarous as the punishments of that period were, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_278' name='Page_278'>278</a></span> +accustomed as the population was to hear of their +infliction, and even to witness it, the sentences pronounced +in these two cases dismayed the public mind; +and the authorities were surprised by receiving petitions +for mercy from Toulouse, and from all the +surrounding neighbourhood. But the priest's doom +had been sealed. All that could be obtained, by the +intercession of persons of the highest distinction, was, +that the executioner should grant him the mercy of +death, before his body was committed to the flames. +With this one modification, the sentence was executed, +as the sentence had been pronounced, on the +curate of Croix-Daurade. +</p> + +<p> +The punishment of the three sons of Siadoux +remained to be inflicted. But the people, roused by +the death of the ill-fated priest, rose against this +third execution, with a resolution before which the +local government gave way. The cause of the young +men was taken up by the hot-blooded populace, as +the cause of all fathers and all sons; their filial piety +was exalted to the skies; their youth was pleaded +in their behalf; their ignorance of the terrible +responsibility which they had confronted in forcing +the secret from the priest, was loudly alleged +in their favour. More than this, the authorities +were actually warned that the appearance of the +prisoners on the scaffold would be the signal for an +organised revolt and rescue. Under this serious pressure, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_279' name='Page_279'>279</a></span> +the execution was deferred, and the prisoners +were kept in confinement until the popular ferment +had subsided. +</p> + +<p> +The delay not only saved their lives, it gave them +back their liberty as well. The infection of the +popular sympathy had penetrated through the prison +doors. All three brothers were handsome, well-grown +young men. The gentlest of the three in +disposition—Thomas Siadoux—aroused the interest +and won the affection of the head-gaoler's daughter. +Her father was prevailed on at her intercession to +relax a little in his customary vigilance; and the +rest was accomplished by the girl herself. One +morning, the population of Toulouse heard, with +every testimony of the most extravagant rejoicing, +that the three brothers had escaped, accompanied by +the gaoler's daughter. As a necessary legal formality, +they were pursued, but no extraordinary +efforts were used to overtake them: and they +succeeded, accordingly, in crossing the nearest +frontier. +</p> + +<p> +Twenty days later, orders were received from the +capital, to execute their sentence in effigy. They +were then permitted to return to France, on condition +that they never again appeared in their native place, +or in any other part of the province of Languedoc. +With this reservation they were left free to live +where they pleased, and to repent the fatal act which +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_280' name='Page_280'>280</a></span> +had avenged them on the murderer of their father +at the cost of the priest's life. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond this point the official documents do not +enable us to follow their career. All that is now +known has been now told of the village-tragedy at +Croix-Daurade. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_281' name='Page_281'>281</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +BOLD WORDS BY A BACHELOR. +</h2> + +<p> +The postman's knocks at my door have been latterly +more frequent than usual; and out of the increased +number of letters left for me, it has happened +that an unusually large proportion have contained +wedding cards. Just as there seem to be certain +days when all the beautiful women in London take +to going out together, certain days when all the +people we know appear to be conspiring to meet us +at every turn in one afternoon's walk—so there seem +to be times and seasons when all our friends are +inexplicably bent on getting married together. +Capricious in everything, the law of chances is especially +whimsical, according to my experience, in its +influence over the solemnisation of matrimony. Six +months ago, there was no need for me to leave a +single complimentary card anywhere, for weeks and +weeks together. Just at the present time, I find +myself in danger of wearing out my card-case by +incessant use. My friends are marrying recklessly +in all sorts of opposite directions, and are making +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_282' name='Page_282'>282</a></span> +the bells a greater nuisance than usual in every +parish of London. +</p> + +<p> +These curious circumstances have set me thinking +on the subject of marriage, and have recalled to my +mind certain reflections in connection with that important +change in life, which I first made when I +was not quite such an incurably-settled old bachelor +as I am at the present moment. +</p> + +<p> +It occurred to me, at that past time, and it occurs +to me still, that while great stress is laid in ordinary +books and ordinary talk on the personal interest +which a man has himself, and on the family interest +which his near relations have also, in his +marrying an affectionate and sensible woman, sufficient +importance has not been attached to the +interest of another sort, which the tried and worthy +friends of his bachelor days ought to feel, and, +for the most part, do feel, in his getting a good wife. +It really and truly depends upon her, in more cases +than I should like to enumerate, whether her husband's +friendships are to be continued, after his +marriage, in all their integrity, or are only to be +maintained as a mere social form. It is hardly +necessary for me to repeat—but I will do so, in +order to avoid the slightest chance of misconstruction—that +I am here speaking only of the worthiest, the +truest, the longest-tried friends of a man's bachelor +days. Towards these every sensible married woman +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_283' name='Page_283'>283</a></span> +feels, as I believe, that she owes a duty for her husband's +sake. But, unfortunately, there are such +female phenomena in the world as fond wives and +devoted mothers, who are anything rather than sensible +women the moment they are required to step +out of the sphere of their conjugal and maternal +instincts. Women of this sort have an unreasonable +jealousy of their husbands in small things; and on +the misuse of their influence to serve the interests +of that jealousy, lies but too often the responsibility +of severing such friendships as no man can hope +to form for the second time in the course of his life. +By the severing of friendships, I do not mean the +breaking off of all intercourse, but the fatal changing +of the terms on which a man lives with his friend—the +casting of the first slight shadow which alters +the look of the whole prospect. It is astonishing +by what a multitude of slight threads the firm continuity +of brotherly regard is maintained. Many a +woman has snapped asunder all the finer ligaments +which once connected her husband and his friend; +and has thought it enough if she left the two still +attached by the coarser ties which are at the common +disposal of all the world. Many a woman—delicate, +affectionate, and kind within her own narrow limits—has +committed that heavy social offence, and has +never felt afterwards a single pang of pity or +remorse. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_284' name='Page_284'>284</a></span> +</p> + +<p> +These bold words will be unpopular enough, I am +afraid, with certain readers; but I am an old +bachelor, and I must have licence to speak the +unwelcome truth. I respect and admire a good +husband and father, but I cannot shake off the +equally sincere reverence that I feel for a good +friend; and I must be allowed to tell some married +ladies—what Society ought to tell them a little +oftener—that there are other affections, in this +world, which are noble and honourable, besides +those of conjugal and parental origin. It may be +an assertion of a very shocking and unexpected +kind, but I must nevertheless be excused for saying, +that some of the best wives and mothers in the land +have given the heart-ache to some of the best friends. +While they have been behaving like patterns of +conjugal propriety, they have been estranging men +who would once have gone to the world's end to serve +each other. I, as a single man, can say nothing of +the dreadful wrench—not the less dreadful because +it is inevitable—when a father and mother lose a +daughter, in order that a lover may gain a wife. +But I can speak feelingly of the shock of losing a +dear friend, in order that a bride may gain a devoted +husband. Nothing shall ever persuade me (possibly +because I am not married) that there is not a flaw of +some sort in the love for a wife which is made complete, +in some people's eyes, by forced contributions +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_285' name='Page_285'>285</a></span> +from the love which belongs to a friend. I know +that a man and woman who make a happy marriage +have gained the summit of earthly felicity; but do +they never reach that enviable eminence without +having trampled underfoot something venerable, or +something tender, by the way? +</p> + +<p> +Bear with me, indignant wives, if I recall the long-past +time when one of the handsomest women I ever +saw, took my dearest friend away from me, and +destroyed, in one short day, the whole pleasant +edifice that we two had been building up together +since we were boys at school. +</p> + +<p> +I shall never be as fond of any human being again, +as I was of that one friend, and, until the beautiful +woman came between us, I believe there was nothing +in this world that he would not have sacrificed and +have done for me. Even while he was courting, +I kept my hold on him. Against opposition on the +part of his bride and her family, he stipulated that +I should be his best man on the wedding-day. The +beautiful woman grudged me my one small corner +in his heart, even at that time; but he was true +to me—he persisted—and I was the first to shake +hands with him when he was a married man. I had +no suspicion then that I was to lose him from that +moment. I only discovered the truth when I went +to pay my first visit to the bride and bridegroom at +their abode in the country. I found a beautiful +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_286' name='Page_286'>286</a></span> +house, exquisitely kept from top to bottom; I found +a hearty welcome; I found a good dinner and an +airy bed-room; I found a pattern husband and a +pattern wife: the one thing I did not find was my +old friend. Something stood up in his clothes, +shook hands with me, pressed wine on me, called me +by my Christian name, and inquired what I was doing +in my profession. It was certainly something that +had a trick of looking like my former comrade and +brother; something that nobody in my situation +could have complained of with the smallest reason; +something with all the brightness of the old metal +about it, but without the sterling old ring; something, +in short, which made me instinctively take +my chamber-candlestick early on the first night of +my arrival, and say good night while the beautiful +woman and pattern wife was present to keep her +eye on me. +</p> + +<p> +Can I ever forget the language of that eye on that +occasion!—the volumes it spoke in one glance of +cruel triumph! "No more sacred secrets between +you two," it said, brightly. "When you trust him +now, you must trust me. You may sacrifice yourself +for your love of him over and over again still, but he +shall make no sacrifices now for you, until he has +first found out how they affect my convenience and +my pleasure. Your place in his heart now, is where +I choose it to be. I have stormed the citadel, and I +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_287' name='Page_287'>287</a></span> +will bring children by-and-by to keep the ramparts; +and you, the faithful old soldier of former years—you +have got your discharge, and may sit and sun yourself +as well as you can at the outer gates. You have +been his truest friend, but he has another now, and +need trouble you no longer, except in the capacity +of witness of his happiness. This, you will observe, +is in the order of nature, and in the recognised +fitness of things; and he hopes you will see it—and +so do I. And he trusts you will sleep well under his +(and my) new roof—and so do I. And he wishes +you good night—and so do I!" +</p> + +<p> +Many, many years have passed since I first learned +these hard truths; but I can never forget the pang +that it cost me to get them by heart at a moment's +notice. My old friend lives still—that is to say, I +have an intimate acquaintance, who asks me to all +his dinners, and who made me godfather to one of +his children; but the brother of my love, who died +to me on the day when I paid him the marriage +visit, has never come back to life since that time. +On the altar at which we two once sacrificed, the +ashes lie cold. A model husband and father has +risen from them, and that result is, I suppose, the +only one that any third person has a right to expect. +It may be so; but, to this day, I cannot help +thinking that the beautiful woman would have done +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_288' name='Page_288'>288</a></span> +better if she could have made a fond husband, without +at the same time marring a good friend. +</p> + +<p> +Readers will, I am afraid, not be wanting, who +will be inclined to tell me that the lady to whom I +have been referring, only asserted the fair privilege +that was hers by right of marriage; and that my +sense of injury springs from the touchy selfishness +of an old bachelor. Without attempting to defend +myself, I may at least be allowed to inquire into the +lady's motive for using her privilege—or, in plainer +terms, for altering the relations in which my friend +and I had stood towards one another since boyhood. +</p> + +<p> +Her idea, I presume to have been, that, if I preserved +my old footing with her husband, I should be +taking away some part of his affection that belonged +to her. According to my idea of it, she was taking +away something which had belonged to me, and +which no effort on her part could afterwards convert +to her own use. It is hard to make some women +understand that a husband's heart—let him be ever +so devoted and affectionate—has vacant places in it +which they can never hope to fill. It is a house in +which they and their children, naturally and properly, +occupy all the largest apartments and supply +all the prettiest furniture; but there are spare rooms +which they cannot enter, which are reserved all +through the lease of life for inevitable guests of some +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_289' name='Page_289'>289</a></span> +sort from the world outside. It is better to let in +the old friend than some of the substituted visitors, +who are sure, sooner or later, to enter where there +are rooms ready for them, by means of pass-keys +obtained without the permission of the permanent +tenants. Am I wrong in making such assertions as +these? I should be willing enough to think it probable—being +only a bachelor—if my views were +based on mere theory. But my opinions, such +as they are, have been formed with the help of +proofs and facts. I have met with bright examples +of wives who have strengthened their husbands' friendships +as they never could have been strengthened +except under the influence of a woman's care, employed +in the truest, the tenderest, the most delicate +way. I have seen men rescued from the bad habits of +half a lifetime by the luck of keeping faithful friends +who were the husbands of sensible wives. It is a very +trite and true remark that the deadliest enmities between +men have been occasioned by women. It is not +less certain—though it is a far less widely-accepted +truth—that some (I wish I could say many) of the +strongest friendships have been knit most closely by +women's helping hands. +</p> + +<p> +The real fact seems to be, that the general idea of +the scope and purpose of the Institution of Marriage +is a miserably narrow one. The same senseless +prejudice which leads some people, when driven to +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_290' name='Page_290'>290</a></span> +extremes, to the practical confession (though it may +not be made in plain words) that they would rather +see murder committed under their own eyes, than +approve of any project for obtaining a law of divorce +which shall be equal in its operation on husbands and +wives of all ranks who cannot live together, is answerable +also for the mischievous error in principle +of narrowing the practice of the social virtues, in +married people, to themselves and their children. A +man loves his wife—which is, in other words, loving +himself—and loves his offspring, which is equivalent +to saying that he has the natural instincts of +humanity; and, when he has gone thus far, he has +asserted himself as a model of all the virtues of life, +in the estimation of some people. In my estimation, +he has only begun with the best virtues, and has +others yet to practise before he can approach to the +standard of a socially complete man. Can there be +a lower idea of Marriage than the idea which makes +it, in fact, an institution for the development of selfishness +on a large and respectable scale? If I am +not justified in using the word selfishness, tell me +what character a good husband presents (viewed +plainly as a man) when he goes out into the world, +leaving all his sympathies in his wife's boudoir, and +all his affections up-stairs in the nursery, and giving +to his friends such shreds and patches of formal +recognition, in place of true love and regard, as consist +in asking them to an occasional dinner-party, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_291' name='Page_291'>291</a></span> +and granting them the privilege of presenting his +children with silver mugs? He is a model of a husband, +the ladies will say. I dare not contradict +them; but I should like to know whether he is also a +model of a friend? +</p> + +<p> +No. Bachelor as I am, I have a higher idea of +Marriage than this. The social advantages which it +is fitted to produce ought to extend beyond one man +and one woman, to the circle of society amid which +they move. The light of its beauty must not be shut +up within the four walls which enclose the parents +and the family, but must flow out into the world, +and shine upon the childless and the solitary, because +it has warmth enough and to spare, and because it +may make them, even in their way, happy too. I +began these few lines by asking sympathy and attention +for the interest which a man's true friends have, +when he marries, in his choosing a wife who will let +them be friends still, who will even help them to +mingling in closer brotherhood, if help they need. +I lay down the pen, suggesting to some ladies—affectionately +suggesting, if they will let me use the +word, after some of the bold things I have said—that +it is in their power to deprive the bachelor of the +sole claim he has left to social recognition and preeminence, +by making married men what many of +them are, and what more might be—the best and +truest friends that are to be found in the world. +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_292' name='Page_292'>292</a></span> +</p> + +<h2> +SOCIAL GRIEVANCES.—V. +<br /> +<span class="s08">MRS. BULLWINKLE.</span> +</h2> + +<p> +Ladies and gentlemen. Give me five minutes' sympathy +and attention. I have something serious to +say to you. +</p> + +<p> +I am a married man, with an income which is too +miserably limited to be worth mentioning. About a +month since, my wife advanced me one step nearer +to the Court for the Relief of Insolvent Debtors, by +presenting me with another child. On five previous +occasions, her name had appeared in the List of +British Mothers which adorns the daily Supplement +of the Times newspaper. At each of these trying +periods (I speak entirely of myself when I use the +word "trying") she was attended by the same +Monthly Nurse. On this last, and sixth, occasion, we +were not so fortunate as to secure the services of our +regular functionary. She was already engaged; and +a new Nurse, with excellent recommendations, was, +therefore, employed in her stead. When I first +heard of her, and was told that her name was Mrs. +Bullwinkle, I laughed. It was then the beginning of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_293' name='Page_293'>293</a></span> +the month. It is now the end of it, and I write +down that once comical name with a settled gravity +which nothing can disturb. +</p> + +<p> +We all know Mrs. Gamp. My late Monthly Nurse +is the exact antipodes of her. Mrs. Bullwinkle is +tall and dignified; her complexion is fair; her +Grecian nose is innocent of all convivial colouring; +her figure is not more than agreeably plump; her +manners are icily composed; her dress is quiet and +neat; her age cannot be more than five-and-thirty; +her style of conversation, when she talks, is flowing +and grammatical—upon the whole, she appears to be +a woman who is much too ladylike for her station in +life. When I first met Mrs. Bullwinkle on the stairs, +I felt inclined to apologise for my wife's presumption +in engaging her services. Though I checked this +absurd impulse, I could not resist answering the new +nurse's magnificent curtsy by expressing a polite +hope that she would find her situation everything +that she could wish, under my roof. +</p> + +<p> +"I am not accustomed to exact much, sir," said +Mrs. Bullwinkle. "The cook seems, I am rejoiced +to say, to be an intelligent and attentive person. I +have been giving her some little hints on the subject +of my meals. I have ventured to tell her, that I eat +little and often; and I think she thoroughly understands +me." +</p> + +<p> +I am ashamed to say I was not so sharp as the +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_294' name='Page_294'>294</a></span> +cook. I did not thoroughly understand Mrs. Bullwinkle, +until it became my duty, through my wife's +inability to manage our domestic business, to settle +the weekly bills. I then became sensible of an +alarming increase in our household expenditure. If +I had given two dinner-parties in the course of the +week, the bills could not have been more exorbitant: +the butcher, the baker, and the grocer could not have +taken me at a heavier pecuniary disadvantage. My +heart sank as I thought of my miserable income. I +looked up piteously from the bills to the cook for an +explanation. +</p> + +<p> +The cook looked back at me compassionately, +shook her head, and said: +</p> + +<p> +"Mrs. Bullwinkle." +</p> + +<p> +I reckoned up additional joints, additional chops, +additional steaks, fillets, kidneys, gravy beef. I told +off a terrible supplement to the usual family consumption +of bread, flour, tea, sugar, and alcoholic +liquids. I appealed to the cook again; and again the +cook shook her head, and said, "Mrs. Bullwinkle." +</p> + +<p> +My miserable income obliges me to look after sixpences, +as other men look after five-pound notes. +Ruin sat immovable on the pile of weekly bills, and +stared me sternly in the face. I went up into my +wife's room. The new nurse was not there. The +unhappy partner of my pecuniary embarrassments +was reading a novel. My innocent infant was +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_295' name='Page_295'>295</a></span> +smiling in his sleep. I had taken the bills with +me. Ruin followed them up-stairs, and sat spectral +on one side of the bed, while I sat on the other. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't be alarmed, love," I said, "if you hear the +police in the house. Mrs. Bullwinkle has a large +family, and feeds them all out of our provisions. A +search shall be instituted, and slumbering Justice shall +be aroused. Look at these joints, these chops, these +steaks, these fillets, these kidneys, these gravy beefs!" +</p> + +<p> +My wife shook her head, exactly as the cook had +shaken hers; and answered, precisely as the cook +had answered, "Mrs. Bullwinkle." +</p> + +<p> +"But where does she hide it all?" I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +My wife shut her eyes, and shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +"John!" she said, "I have privately consulted +the doctor; and the doctor says Mrs. Bullwinkle is a +Cow." +</p> + +<p> +"If the doctor had to pay these bills," I retorted +savagely, "he would not be quite so free with his +jokes." +</p> + +<p> +"He is in earnest, dear. He explained to me, +what I never knew before, that a Cow is an animal +with many stomachs——" +</p> + +<p> +"What!" I cried out, in amazement; "do you +mean to tell me that all these joints, these chops, +these steaks, these fillets, these kidneys, these gravy +beefs—these loaves, these muffins, these mixed biscuits—these +teas, these sugars, these brandies, gins, +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_296' name='Page_296'>296</a></span> +sherries, and beers, have disappeared in one week, +down Mrs. Bullwinkle's throat?" +</p> + +<p> +"All, John," said my wife, sinking back on the +pillow with a groan. +</p> + +<p> +It was impossible to look at the bills and believe +it. I questioned and cross-questioned my wife, and +still elicited nothing but the one bewildering answer, +"All, John." Determined—for I am a man of a +logical and judicial mind—to have this extraordinary +and alarming case properly investigated, I took out +my pocket-book and pencil, and asked my wife if she +felt strong enough to make a few private entries for +my satisfaction. Finding that she willingly accepted +the responsibility, I directed her to take down, from +her own personal investigation, a statement of Mrs. +Bullwinkle's meals, and of the time at which she +partook of each of them, for twenty-four hours, beginning +with one morning and ending with another. +After making this arrangement, I descended to the +parlour, and took the necessary business measures +for using the cook as a check upon her mistress. +Having carefully instructed her to enter, on the +kitchen slate, everything that was sent up to Mrs. +Bullwinkle, for twenty-four hours, I felt that my machinery +for investigating the truth was now complete. +If the statement of the mistress, in bed on the second +floor, agreed with the statement of the cook, in the +distant sphere of the kitchen, there could be no +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_297' name='Page_297'>297</a></span> +doubt that I had obtained reliable information on the +mysterious subject of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals. +</p> + +<p> +In due time, the two reports were sent in, and I +had an opportunity of understanding at last, what +"eating little and often" really meant, in the case +of my wife's monthly nurse. Except in one particular, +to be hereafter adverted to, both statements +agreed exactly. Here is the List, accompanied by a +correct time-table, of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals, beginning +with the morning of Monday and ending with +the morning of Tuesday. I certify, on my honour as +a British husband and housekeeper, that the copy is +correctly taken from my wife's entries in my pocket-book, +checked impartially by the cook's slate:<a name='FA_E' id='FA_E' href='#FN_E' class='fnanchor'>[E]</a> +</p> + +<table summary="Cooks Slate"> +<tr> + +<td class="tdr">A.M.</td> +<td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr tdm">7.</td> +<td class="tdh">Breakfast.—Tea, Toast, Half-quartern Loaf, +Butter, Eggs, Bacon.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr tdm">9.30.</td> +<td class="tdh">First Morning Snack.—A glass of pale Sherry, +and a plate of Mixed Biscuits.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr tdm">11.</td> +<td class="tdh">Second Morning Snack.—A Basin of Beef +Tea, and a tumbler of Brandy and Water.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">P.M.</td> +<td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr tdm">12.45.</td> +<td class="tdh">Dinner.—A Roast Loin of Mutton and Mashed +Potatoes. With Dinner, Ale, spiced and +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_298' name='Page_298'>298</a></span> +warmed. After Dinner, a tumbler of Hot +Gin and Water.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr">P.M.</td> +<td class="tdh"> </td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr tdm">3.</td> +<td class="tdh">Afternoon Snack.—A glass of pale Sherry, +and a plate of Mixed Biscuits.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr tdm">4.30.</td> +<td class="tdh">Tea and Muffins.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr tdm">7.</td> +<td class="tdh">Evening Snack.—Stewed Cheese, Toast, and +a tumbler of Brandy and Water.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr tdm">9.</td> +<td class="tdh">Supper.—Nice juicy Steak, and two glasses of +Beer. Second Course.—Stewed Cheese, +and a tumbler of Gin and Water.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"> </td> +<td class="tdh"><span class='smcap'>Additional Particulars.</span> (Not vouched for +by the cook's slate.)—During the night of +Monday Mrs. Bullwinkle partook, at intervals, +of Caudle. At 4.30 <span class="s08">A.M.</span>, on the +morning of Tuesday, my wife was awakened +by hearing the nurse walking up and down +the room, and sighing bitterly. The following +conversation then took place between +them:</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td class="tdh"><i>My Wife.</i>—Are you ill?</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td class="tdh"><i>Mrs. Bullwinkle.</i>—No. Hungry.</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<p> +I can certify that the above List correctly, and +even moderately, represents Mrs. Bullwinkle's daily +bill of fare, for one month. I can assert, from my +own observation, that every dish, at every hour of +the day, which went up to her full, invariably came +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_299' name='Page_299'>299</a></span> +down from her empty. Mrs. Bullwinkle was not a +wasteful eater. She could fully appreciate, in roast +meat, for example, the great value of "lean;" but +she was not, on that account, insensible to the humbler +merits of fat, skin, and "outside." All—emphatically, +all—was fish that came to her net; and the +net itself, as I can personally testify, was never once +over-weighted and never out of order. I have +watched, in the case of this perfectly unparalleled +human cormorant, for symptoms of apoplexy, or at +least of visible repletion, with a dreadful and absorbing +interest; and have, on no occasion, been rewarded +by making the smallest discovery. Mrs. Bullwinkle +was never, while in my service, even so much as partially +intoxicated. Her face was never flushed; her +articulation was never thickened; her brain was +never confused; her movements were never uncertain. +After the breakfast, the two morning snacks, +and the dinner,—all occurring within the space +of six hours,—she could move about the room +with unimpeded freedom of action; could keep my +wife and the baby in a state of the strictest discipline; +could curtsy magnificently, when the unoffending +master, whom she was eating out of house +and home, entered the room, preserving her colour, +her equilibrium, and her staylaces, when she sank +down and when she swelled up again, without the +vestige of an apparent effort. During the month of +<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_300' name='Page_300'>300</a></span> +her devastating residence under my roof, she had two +hundred and forty-eight meals, including the snacks; +and she went out of the house no larger and no +redder than she came in. After the statement of +one such fact as that, further comment is superfluous. +</p> + +<p> +I leave this case in the hands of the medical and +the married public. I present it, as a problem, to +physiological science. I offer it, as a warning, to +British husbands with limited incomes. While I +write these lines, while I give my married countrymen +this friendly caution, my wife is weeping over +the tradesmen's bills; my children are on half-allowance +of food; my cook is worked off her legs; my +purse is empty. Young husbands, and persons about +to marry, commit to memory the description here +given of my late monthly nurse! Avoid a tall and +dignified woman, with a flowing style of conversation +and impressively ladylike manners! Beware, my +struggling friends, my fellow-toilers along the heavily-taxed +highways of domestic happiness—beware of +Mrs. Bullwinkle! +</p> + +<p class="center p4">THE END.</p> + +<hr class="l30" /> +<p class="center p4 s08"> +LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET, +AND CHARING CROSS. +</p> + +<div class='footnotes'> +<h2 class="fntitle">FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p class='footnote' id='FN_A'> +<span class='label'><a href='#FA_A'>[A]</a></span> The curious legend connected with the birth of this "Adopted +Son," and the facts relating to his extraordinary career in after life, +are derived from the "Records" of the French Police of the period. +In this instance, and in the instances of those other papers in the +present collection which deal with foreign incidents and characters, +while the facts of each narrative exist in print, the form in which the +narrative is cast is of my own devising. If these facts had been +readily accessible to readers in general, the papers in question would +not have been reprinted. But the scarce and curious books from +which my materials are derived, have been long since out of print, +and are, in all human probability, never likely to be published again. +</p> + +<p class='footnote' id='FN_B'> +<span class='label'><a href='#FA_B'>[B]</a></span> The biographical facts mentioned in this little sketch, are derived +from Mr. Blanchard Jerrold's interesting narrative of his father's Life +and Labours. For the rest—that is to say, for the opinions here expressed +on Jerrold's works, and for the estimate attempted of his personal +character—I am responsible. This is the only instance of a +reprinted article in the present collection, any part of which is founded +on a modern and an accessible book. The reader will perhaps excuse +and understand my making an exception here to my own rules, when +I add that Douglas Jerrold was one of the first and the dearest friends +of my literary life. +</p> + +<p class='footnote' id='FN_C'> +<span class='label'><a href='#FA_C'>[C]</a></span> When this article was first published in Household Words, a son +of Mr. Elliston wrote to the conductor to protest against the epithets +which I had attached to his father's name. In the present reprint I +have removed the epithets; not because I think them undeserved, but +because they merely represented my own angry sense of Mr. Elliston's +treatment of Jerrold—a sense which I have no wish needlessly to gratify +at the expense of a son's regard for his father's memory. But the facts +of the case as they were originally related, and as I heard them from +Jerrold himself, remain untouched—exactly as my own opinion of +Mr. Elliston's conduct remains to this day unaltered. If the "impartial" +reader wishes to have more facts to decide on than those +given in the text, he is referred to Raymond's Life of Elliston—in +which work he will find the clear profits put into the manager's +pocket by Black-Eyed Susan, estimated at one hundred and fifty +pounds a week. +</p> + +<p class='footnote' id='FN_D'> +<span class='label'><a href='#FA_D'>[D]</a></span> This paper, and the paper on Art entitled 'To Think, or Be +Thought For,' which immediately follows it, provoked, at the time of +their first appearance, some remonstrance both of the public and the +private sort. I was blamed—so far as I could understand the objections—for +letting out the truth about the Drama, and for speaking +my mind (instead of keeping it to myself, as other people did) on the +subject of the Old Masters. Finding, however, that my positions +remained practically unrefuted, and that my views were largely +shared by readers with no professional interest in theatres, and no +vested critical rights in old pictures—and knowing, besides, that I +had not written without some previous inquiry and consideration—I +held steadily to my own convictions; and I hold to them still. These +articles are now reprinted (as they were originally produced) to serve +two objects which I persist in thinking of some importance:—Freedom +of inquiry into the debased condition of the English Theatre; +and freedom of thought on the subject of the Fine Arts. +</p> + +<p class='footnote' id='FN_E'> +<span class='label'><a href='#FA_E'>[E]</a></span> This time-table is no invention of mine. It is accurately copied +from an "original document" sent to me by the victim of a monthly +nurse. +</p> +</div> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44350 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/44350-h/images/title-page.jpg b/44350-h/images/title-page.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd05275 --- /dev/null +++ b/44350-h/images/title-page.jpg |
