diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/65191-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/65191-0.txt | 8584 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 8584 deletions
diff --git a/old/65191-0.txt b/old/65191-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ec80ab3..0000000 --- a/old/65191-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8584 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Essays of Douglas Jerrold, by Douglas -Jerrold - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Essays of Douglas Jerrold - -Author: Douglas Jerrold - -Editor: Walter Jerrold - -Illustrator: H. M. Brock - -Release Date: April 29, 2021 [eBook #65191] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ESSAYS OF DOUGLAS JERROLD *** - - - - - THE ESSAYS AND SKETCHES - BY DOUGLAS JERROLD - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - All rights reserved - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration: - - “The two flasks were in brief time emptied.” -] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - The Essays of - DOUGLAS JERROLD - - ❧ - - - - - Edited - by his Grandson - WALTER JERROLD - with Illustrations by - H·M·BROCK - 1903 - - - - NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON - AND COMPANY - - West Twenty-Third Street - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - SHAKESPEARE AT CHARLECOTE PARK 1 - - SHAKESPEARE AT “BANK-SIDE” 7 - - THE EPITAPH OF SIR HUGH EVANS 13 - - BULLY BOTTOM’S BABES 22 - - SHAKESPEARE IN CHINA 28 - - SOLOMON’S APE 39 - - THE CASTLE BUILDERS OF PADUA 46 - - THE TAPESTRY WEAVER OF 50 - BEAUVAIS - - THE WINE CELLAR: A “MORALITY” 58 - - RECOLLECTIONS OF GUY FAWKES 67 - - ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA 75 - - THE LITTLE GREAT AND THE GREAT 90 - LITTLE - - THE MANAGER’S PIG 95 - - SOME ACCOUNT OF A STAGE DEVIL 103 - - FIRESIDE SAINTS 121 - - CAT-AND-FIDDLE MORALITIES: THE 127 - TALE OF A TIGER - - A GOSSIP AT RECULVERS 140 - - THE TWO WINDOWS 150 - - THE ORDER OF POVERTY 154 - - THE OLD MAN AT THE GATE 166 - - THE FOLLY OF THE SWORD 171 - - THE GREENWICH PENSIONER 181 - - THE DRILL SERGEANT 189 - - THE HANDBOOK OF SWINDLING 199 - - - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - - “The two flasks were in brief time _Photogravure - emptied” (The Wine Cellar) Frontispiece_ - - PAGE - - _Headpiece to_ Contents v - - _Tailpiece to_ Contents vi - - _Headpiece to_ List of Illustrations vii - - _Headpiece to_ Shakespeare at Charlecote 1 - Park - - _Tailpiece to_ Shakespeare at Charlecote 6 - Park - - _Headpiece to_ Shakespeare at 7 - “Bank-Side” - - _Tailpiece to_ Shakespeare at 12 - “Bank-Side” - - _Headpiece to_ The Epitaph of Sir Hugh 13 - Evans - - “One who would have added weight and 17 - dignity to the ceremony” - - _Headpiece to_ Bully Bottom’s Babes 22 - - _Tailpiece to_ Bully Bottom’s Babes 27 - - _Headpiece to_ Shakespeare in China 28 - - “Became wise by poring on his book” 34 - - _Tailpiece to_ Shakespeare in China 38 - - _Headpiece to_ Solomon’s Ape 39 - - “Cast him down a ripe pomegranate” 43 - - _Tailpiece to_ Solomon’s Ape 45 - - _Headpiece to_ The Castle Builders of 46 - Padua - - _Headpiece to_ The Tapestry Weaver of 50 - Beauvais - - _Tailpiece to_ The Tapestry Weaver of 57 - Beauvais - - _Headpiece to_ The Wine Cellar: A 58 - “Morality” - - _Tailpiece to_ The Wine Cellar: A 66 - “Morality” - - _Headpiece to_ Recollections of Guy 67 - Fawkes - - “Rejoicing in the captivity of a suit of 70 - clothes stuffed with hay” - - _Tailpiece to_ Recollections of Guy 74 - Fawkes - - _Headpiece to_ Elizabeth and Victoria 75 - - “Rank ... preached its high prerogative 80 - from externals” - - “Hangman’s surgery” 83 - - _Headpiece to_ The Little Great and the 90 - Great Little - - _Tailpiece to_ The Little Great and the 94 - Great Little - - _Headpiece to_ The Manager’s Pig 95 - - _Tailpiece to_ The Manager’s Pig 102 - - _Headpiece to_ Some Account of a Stage 103 - Devil - - “Would solace the child by playing upon 113 - a diabolic fiddle” - - _Tailpiece to_ Some Account of a Stage 120 - Devil - - _Headpiece to_ Fireside Saints 121 - - _Tailpiece to_ Fireside Saints 126 - - _Headpiece to_ Cat-and-Fiddle 127 - Moralities: The Tale of a Tiger - - “Almost for two whole days did the tiger 135 - sleep” - - _Tailpiece to_ Cat-and-Fiddle 139 - Moralities: The Tale of a Tiger - - _Headpiece to_ A Gossip at Reculvers 140 - - “Sugar from even the sweeter lips of 143 - lady mistress” - - _Tailpiece to_ A Gossip at Reculvers 149 - - _Headpiece to_ The Two Windows 150 - - _Headpiece to_ The Order of Poverty 154 - - “He has dreamed away his life upon a 164 - hillside” - - _Tailpiece to_ The Order of Poverty 165 - - _Headpiece to_ The Old Man at the Gate 166 - - _Headpiece to_ The Folly of the Sword 171 - - “Hodge, poor fellow, enlists” 175 - - _Tailpiece to_ The Folly of the Sword 180 - - _Headpiece to_ The Greenwich Pensioner 181 - - _Tailpiece to_ The Greenwich Pensioner 188 - - _Headpiece to_ The Drill Sergeant 189 - - “He is, indeed, unbent” 195 - - _Headpiece to_ The Handbook of Swindling 199 - - “Politely receives his destroyer” 233 - - “Any one of these names may be ... 246 - confidently given in to the night - constable” - - “Other worthies laboured on horseback” 256 - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - INTRODUCTION - - -MUCH of Douglas Jerrold’s writing took essay form although he only -applied the title to five short pieces which were added as _Essays_ to -_The Chronicles of Clovernook_ in 1846. Those five pieces are included -in this volume along with others from his collected works, and from -among those scattered contributions to periodicals which have been -brought together at various times since his death. - -Born in London on January 3rd, 1803, Douglas William Jerrold was the -youngest son of a theatrical manager then of the Kent circuit. His baby -years were passed at Cranbrook, his childhood at Sheerness, and then, -not having quite attained the mature age of eleven, he was entered as a -first-class volunteer on board the _Namur_, guardship at the Nore, on -December 22, 1813. Here in the ship’s school his education was -continued, and here the midshipman was allowed privileges dear to the -boyish heart; he was permitted to keep pigeons, and not the least of his -privileges was the being permitted the use of the captain’s collection -of books—that captain, it is pleasant to recall, being a brother of Jane -Austen. About fifteen months after joining the _Namur_ he was -transferred to the brig _Ernest_, engaged in convoying transports and in -bringing home wounded soldiers from the Continent. Then came Waterloo -and Peace. In October 1815 the _Ernest_ was paid off and the boy-officer -returned to civil life. At the end of the year the Jerrold family left -Sheerness for London, and Douglas made a new start as printer’s -apprentice, and perseveringly pursued a rigorous plan of self-education. -Then he began writing verses and plays, and when he was eighteen his -first piece was represented on the stage. Play-writing and slight -journalism were combined with the compositor’s work for a few years -before, throwing aside the composing stick, he relied entirely on the -pen. Numerous plays—of many of which nothing beyond the names is now -recoverable—were written before Douglas Jerrold made his “hit” with -_Black-eyed Susan_ in 1829. Thenceforward he was a busy playwright and a -constant contributor to the magazines, annuals and newspapers. In 1841 -the advent of _Punch_ introduced him to a medium peculiarly suited to -his genius, and to that periodical he contributed his most popular work, -_Mrs Caudle’s Curtain Lectures_, and one of his best novels, _The Story -of a Feather_. To the _Illuminated Magazine_ (1843-4) and _Douglas -Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine_ (1845-8), both of which he edited, he -contributed many characteristic essays and stories, but later he devoted -himself more particularly to political writing as editor of _Douglas -Jerrold’s Weekly Newspaper_ (1846-8), and of _Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper_ -(1852-7). He died on June 8th, 1857. - -We have heard much within recent years for and against fiction “with a -purpose,” as though this was some new literary manifestation. Among the -best remembered writers of the early Victorian era are just those who -had a purpose other than that of merely amusing their readers—Thackeray -and Dickens are of course the two most striking examples. The author’s -purpose is often the salt not only flavouring his work for immediate -contemporaries, but also preserving it for future readers. That with -Douglas Jerrold this purpose counted for much we have his own words to -show. Prefacing one of his serial ventures he said: “It will be our -chief object to make every essay—however brief, and however light and -familiar in its treatment—breathe _with a purpose_. Experience assures -us that, especially at the present day, it is _by a defined purpose -alone_, whether significant in twenty pages or in twenty lines, that the -sympathies of the world are to be engaged, and its support insured.” -That this conviction was at the back of the greater part of Douglas -Jerrold’s writings no student of his work can fail to recognise. The -fact is perhaps answerable for much of his work having enjoyed but a -temporary popularity, for there are two ways of writing “with a -purpose”—the first the topical or journalistic way, and the second the -general or more philosophical. Yet if Douglas Jerrold expended himself -to a considerable extent over the particular, he by no means neglected -the general, of which there is abundant testimony in this volume, as -well as in _St Giles and St James_, _The Story of a Feather_, _Punch’s -Letters_, and that little book of golden philosophy, _The Chronicles of -Clovernook_. - -The essays collected into this volume are, as has been hinted, from -various sources; the earliest dates from the late ’twenties, the latest -from the last year of the author’s life. No attempt has been made to -place them chronologically. It has seemed well to keep the five -Shakespearean essays together, representing as they do a life-long -interest of their author’s. In the early ’thirties Douglas Jerrold and a -number of other young Shakespeare enthusiasts—William Godwin the -Younger, Laman Blanchard, Kenny Meadows, etc.—formed the Mulberry Club, -at the gatherings of which essays and verses were read by the members; -some certainly of the following papers formed part of the club’s -“Mulberry Leaves,” as also did the same writer’s song on _Shakespeare’s -Crab Tree_, a song which may be quoted here, as it is not widely known, -to complete Jerrold’s “leaves.” - - To Shakespeare’s mighty line - Let’s drink with heart and soul; - ’Twill give a zest divine, - Though humble be the bowl. - Then drink while I essay, - In slipshod, careless rhyme, - A legendary lay - Of Willy’s golden time. - - One balmy summer’s night, - As Stratford yeomen tell, - One Will, the royst’ring wight, - Beneath a crab tree fell; - And, sunk in deep repose, - The tipsy time beguiled, - Till Dan Apollo rose - Upon his greatest child. - - Since then all people vowed - The tree had wondrous power: - With sense, with speech endowed, - ’Twould prattle by the hour; - Though scattered far about, - Its remnants still would blab: - Mind, ere this fact you doubt,— - It was a female crab. - - “I felt,” thus spoke the tree, - “As down the poet lay, - A touch, a thrill, a glee, - Ne’er felt before that day. - Along my verdant blood - A quick’ning sense did shoot, - Expanding every bud, - And rip’ning all my fruit. - - “What sounds did move the air, - Around me and above! - The yell of mad despair, - The burning sigh of love! - Ambition, guilt-possessed, - Suspicion on the rack, - The ringing laugh and jest, - Begot by sherris-sack! - - “Since then, my branches full - Of Shakespeare’s vital heat, - My fruit, once crude and dull - Became as honey sweet; - And when, o’er plain and hill, - Each tree was leafless seen, - My boughs did flourish still - In everlasting green.” - - And thus our moral food - Doth Shakespeare leaven still, - Enriching all the good - And less’ning all the ill;— - Thus, by his bounty shed - Like balm from angel’s wing, - Though winter scathe our head, - Our spirits dance with spring. - -With reference to the first of the following essays there recently came -into my hands an interesting letter from the author, which may well be -quoted here. Walter Savage Landor’s _Citation and Examination of William -Shakespeare_ had been published in 1834, and apparently Jerrold’s -correspondent had pointed out the similarity of theme:— - - “11 THISTLE GROVE, LITTLE CHELSEA, - “_August 6th (1835)_. - - “MY DEAR SIR,—_The Trial of Shakespeare_ was, I think, published - by Bentley. I have only read extracts from it in reviews; and - though therein I recognised _nothing similar to my little - sketch_, nevertheless the publication of the book does, on - consideration, seem to preoccupy the subject. I concluded that - you had seen something of the volume, or should before have - pointed it out to you. If you please—for I confess myself - somewhat thin-skinned under any charge of plagiary, the more - especially when unmerited—you may omit the first legend. - - “For the second, it has never yet seen the light; nor am I aware - of the existence of any essay to which even the uncharitableness - of criticism might imagine a resemblance. - - “It struck me, on reading it, that were it broken up more into - paragraphs—as new objects are introduced—it would be more - effective. As it is the images crowding so closely upon each - other—(whilst the spirit of the essay depends upon the - distinctness with which they represent the several plays)—may - confuse, and thus fail to satisfy the reader. If you think with - me, and will again favour me with the proof, I will make the - alterations with as little trouble as possible to the printer. - There being now only one legend, I should call the paper - _Shakespeare at Bank-side_.—I am, my dear Sir, yours truly, - - “DOUGLAS JERROLD.” - - “W. H. HARRISON, Esq.” - -Beyond the fact that they both deal with the tradition of Shakespeare’s -deer-stealing escapade and departure from Stratford-on-Avon, there is -but little similarity between Douglas Jerrold’s brief essay and Landor’s -much longer work. With reference to _Shakespeare in China_ it may be of -interest to point out—the author in satirising his fellow countryman -later used the fiction of describing English characters from the Chinese -point of view in _Punch_ of May 25th, 1844. - -If the first few essays testify to the author’s loving homage to -Shakespeare, others in no uncertain voice proclaim his political -radicalism, his detestation of war, and his sense of the truth that -man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn. In -_Recollections of Guy Fawkes_ the references to the Isle of Sheppy “some -five and twenty years ago” are reminiscences of Jerrold’s boyhood at -Sheerness. The pleasant little homily on human consistency, _The -Manager’s Pig_, is said to have been founded in fact; the manager in -question being Davidge of the Coburg Theatre, to whom Jerrold was for a -time “household author” at a weekly salary. The series of -_Cat-and-Fiddle Moralities_ so auspiciously begun with _The Tale of a -Tiger_ was not pursued any further. _The Drill Sergeant_ and _The -Greenwich Pensioner_ formed part of a series of _Full Lengths_, -contributed to the _Monthly Magazine_ in 1826-7; there were at least six -of them, but as I have not been able to consult a complete set of the -magazine, I have only been able to trace three—the two given and one on -_The Ship Clergyman_. - -In the closing item of this collection we have a satiric essay of a -sort, which seems to have been in the air at the time; it was published -originally in 1839 with illustrations by Phiz, at the same time that -Thackeray by contributing his _Catherine_ to _Fraser’s_ was also seeking -to discredit “the Newgate school” of fiction. Later, in _Punch_, Douglas -Jerrold reverted to the “Newgate novel-mongers,” mentioning them as -still a power, and showing that satire had not stopped the demand for -their productions; and in one of the most popular of his comedies a -character is made to say, “When I was young, girls used to read -_Pilgrim’s Progress_, _Jeremy Taylor_, and such books of innocence; now, -young ladies know the ways of Newgate as well as the turnkeys. Then, -books gave girls hearty, healthy food; now, silly things, like larks in -cages, they live upon hemp-seed.” - - W. J. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - SHAKESPEARE AT CHARLECOTE PARK - - -IT was a fine May morning when the bailiff of Sir Thomas Lucy, of -Charlecote, attended by some half-dozen serving men, rode quickly -through the streets of Stratford, and halted at the abode of his worship -the Mayor. The children in the street stood mute, and stared; gossips -ran to door and casement; Thrums, the tailor, mechanically twitched off -his cap, and for a moment forgot the new bridal jerkin of Martin -Lapworth, the turner, of Henley Street; John-a-Combe, the thrifty -money-scrivener, startled from a sum of arithmetic, watched the horsemen -with peering eyes and open mouth; and every face expressed astonishment -and surmise as the horses’ hoofs tore up the road, and the arms of the -riders rang and clattered; and their visages, burly and glowing, showed -as of men bearing mighty tidings. Had a thunderbolt fallen in the -market-place, it could not more suddenly have broken the tranquillity of -Stratford than had the sudden visit of Sir Thomas Lucy’s retainers. -Every one pressed to the Mayor’s house to learn the tidings, and in a -brief time one, taking up the fears of his neighbour for the truth, told -an inquiring third that the swarthy Spaniard, with a thousand ships, had -entered the Thames; that her gracious highness the Queen was a close -prisoner in the Tower, and that the damnable papists had carried the -host through the city, and had performed High Mass in the Abbey of -Westminster. This rumour was opposed by another, averring that the Queen -had drunk poison in a quart of sherris (a beverage much loved by her -highness)—whilst a fourth story told of her private marriage with the -Master of the Horse. Great wonderment followed on each tale. Some vowed -they would never be brought to speak Spanish, others religiously called -for fire upon all Catholics—whilst more than one good housewife hoped -that in all reasonable time her Majesty would bring forth a prince. -Stratford was the very court-place for rumour; old, yellow Avon paused -in his course, astonished at the hum and buzz that came with every wind. - -At length the truth became manifest. No Spanish bottom poisoned the -Thames; no Spanish flag blasted the air of England. Elizabeth yet -gripped her sceptre—yet indulged in undrugged sack and cold virginity. -Still it was no mean event that could thrust seven of Sir Thomas Lucy’s -men into their saddles, and send them galloping, like so many St -Georges, to the Mayor of Stratford. Thus it was then; the park of Sir -Thomas had been entered on the over-night, and one fine head of fallow -deer stolen from the pasturage, whilst another was found sorely maimed, -sobbing out its life among the underwood. The marauders were known, and -Sir Thomas had sent to his worship to apprehend the evil-doers, and -despatch them under a safe guard to the hall of Charlecote. This simple -story mightily disappointed the worthy denizens of Stratford, and, for -the most part, sent them back to their various business. Many, however, -lingered about his worship’s dwelling to catch a view of the -culprits—for they were soon in custody—and many a head was thrust from -the windows to look at the offenders, as, mounted on horseback, and well -guarded on all sides by Sir Thomas Lucy’s servants and the constables of -Stratford, they took their way through the town, and, crossing the Avon, -turned on the left to Charlecote. - -There were four criminals, and all in the first flush of manhood; they -rode as gaily among their guards as though each carried a hawk upon his -fist and were ambling to the sound of Milan bells. One of the culprits -was specially distinguished from his companions, more by the perfect -beauty of his face than by the laughing unconcern that shone in it. He -seemed about twenty-two years of age, of somewhat more than ordinary -stature, his limbs combining gracefulness of form with manly strength. -He sat upon his saddle as though he grew there. His countenance was of -extraordinary sweetness. He had an eye, at once so brilliant and so -deep, so various in its expression, so keenly piercing, yet so meltingly -soft—an eye so wonderful and instant in its power as though it could -read the whole world at a glance—such an eye as hardly ever shone within -the face of man; it was not an eye of flesh—it was a living soul. His -nose and chin were shaped as with a chisel from the fairest marble; his -mouth looked instinct with thought, yet as sweet and gentle in its -expression as is an infant’s when it dreams and smiles. And as he doffed -his hat to a fair head that looked mournfully at him from an upper -casement, his broad forehead bared out from his dark curls in surpassing -power and amplitude. It seemed a tablet writ with a new world. - -The townspeople gazed at the young man, and some of them said, “Poor -Will Shakespeare!” Others said, “’Twas a sore thing to get a child for -the gallows!” and one old crone lifted up her lean hands and cried, “God -help poor Anne Hathaway, she had better married the tailor!” Some -prophesied a world of trouble for the young man’s parents; many railed -him as a scapegrace given to loose companions, a mischievous varlet, a -midnight roysterer; but the greater number only cried, “Poor Will -Shakespeare!” It was but a short ride to the hall, yet ere the escort -had arrived there Sir Thomas Lucy with some choice guests were seated at -dinner. - -Hereupon the constables were ordered to take especial care of the -culprits, who were forthwith consigned to the darkest and strongest -cellar at Charlecote. Here, at least, it was thought that Will -Shakespeare would abate somewhat of his unseemly hardihood, for all the -way to the mansion he had laughed and jested and made riddles on the -constables’ beards, and sang snatches of profane songs, and kissed his -fingers to the damsels on the road, and, indeed, “showed himself,” as a -discreet, observing nun declared, “little better than a child of Satan.” -In the cellar he and his co-mates, it was thought, would mend their -manners. “As they do not learn to respect God, and worship Sir Thomas, -and honour deer’s flesh, as good Christians ought—and they learn not -these things in the dark—’tis to waste God’s gifts upon ’em to let ’em -see the light of day.” Thus spoke Ralph Elder, constable of Stratford, -to one of the grooms of Charlecote. “I tell you, John,” continued the -functionary, “Will Shakespeare’s horse didn’t stumble for nothing at the -field of hemp. God saves poor babes born to be hanged, for ’tis no -constable’s affair——Hush! mercy on us, they laugh—laugh like lords!” - -To the shame of the prisoners be it spoken, the discourse of Ralph was -broken by a loud shout from the cellar. To add to the abomination, the -captives trolled forth in full concert a song—“a scornful thing,” as -Ralph afterwards declared it, “against the might and authority of Sir -Thomas Lucy.” The men, the maids—all flocked to the cellar door, while -the dungeon of the prisoners rang with their shouting voices. “It was -thus they glorified,” as Ralph avowed, “in their past iniquities”:— - - “’Twas yester morning, as I walked adown by Charlecote Meads, - And counting o’er my wicked sins, as friars count their beads; - I halted just beside a deer—a deer with speaking face, - That seem’d to say, ‘In God’s name come and take me from this place!’ - - “And then it ’gan to tell its tale—and said its babe forlorn - Had butcher’d been for Lucy’s dish soon after it was born; - ‘I know ’tis right!’ exclaimed the dam, ‘my child should form a feast, - But what I most complain of is, that beast should dine off beast!’ - - “And still the creature mourn’d its fate, and how it came to pass - That Lucy here a scarecrow is, in London town an ass![1] - And ended still its sad complaints with offers of its life, - twenty hundred times exclaimed, ‘Oh! haven’t you a knife?’ - - “There’s brawny limbs in Stratford town, there’s hearts without a fear, - There’s tender souls who really have compassion on a deer; - And last night was without a moon, a night of nights to give - Fit dying consolation to a deer that may not live. - - “The dappled brute lay on the grass, a knife was in its side; - Another from its yearning throat let forth its vital tide. - It said, as tho’ escaping from the worst that could befall, - ‘Now, thank my stars, I shall not smoke on board at Charlecote Hall!’ - - “Oh, happy deer! Above your friends exalted high by fate, - You’re not condemned like all the herds to Lucy’s glutton plate; - But every morsel of your flesh, from shoulder to the haunch, - Tho’ bred and killed in Charlecote Park, hath lined an honest paunch.” - -Footnote 1: - - “In the country a scarecrow, in London an ass!”—_Shakespeare’s Satire - on Sir Thomas Lucy._ - -The household were truly scandalised at this bravado. The night came on, -and still the prisoners sang and laughed. In the morning Sir Thomas took -his chair of state, and ordered the culprits to his presence. The -servants hurried to the cellar—but the birds were flown. How they -effected their escape remaineth to this day a mystery, though it cannot -be disguised that heavy suspicion fell upon four of the maids. The story -went that Shakespeare was a day or two afterwards passed on the London -road. - -This tale was corroborated by John-a-Combes. For, many years afterwards, -a townsman of Stratford, who had quitted his native place for the Indies -just at the time that Warwickshire rang with the deeds of the -deer-stealers, returned home, and amongst other gossip was heard to ask -the thrifty money-getter what became of that rare spark, Will -Shakespeare, him who entered Sir Thomas’s park at Charlecote. “Marry, -sir,” replied John; “the worst has become of him, for after that robbery -he went to London, where he turned stage actor, and writ plays, _King -Lear_, _Hamlet_, _Macbeth_, _Othello_, and such things.” - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - SHAKESPEARE AT “BANK-SIDE”[2] - - -THE bell of St Mary Overy had struck three; the flag was just displayed -from the Rose play-house; and, rustling in the wind, was like, in the -words of the pious Philip Stubbes, “unto a false harlot, flaunting the -unwary onward to destruction and to death.” Barges and boats, filled -with the flower of the court-end and the city, crowded to the bridge. -Gallants, in the pride of new cloak and doublet, leaped to the shore, -making rich the strand with many a fair gentlewoman lifted all tenderly -from the craft; horses pranced along Bank-side, spurred by their riders -to the door of the tiring-room; nay, there was no man, woman, or child -who did not seem beckoned by the Rose flag to the play,—whose ears did -not drink in the music of the trumpets, as though it was the most -ravishing sound of the earth. At length the trumpets ceased, and the -play began. - -Footnote 2: - - According to Rowe’s story, related to Pope, Shakespeare’s first - employment in London was to wait at the door of the play-house and - hold the horses of those that had no servants, that they might be - ready after the performance. “But I cannot,” says Mr Steevens, - “dismiss this anecdote without observing, that it seems to want every - mark of probability.” - -The Rose was crammed. In the penny gallery was many an apprentice -unlawfully dispensing his master’s time—it might be, his master’s penny -too. Many a husband, slunk from a shrew’s pipe and hands, was there, to -list and shake the head at the player’s tale of wedded love. Nor here -and there was wanting, peeping from a nook, with cap pulled over the -brow, and ruff huddled about the neck, the sly, happy face of one, who -yesterday gave an assenting groan to the charitable wonder of a godly -neighbour—of one who marvelled that the Rose flag should flout the -heavens, yet call not down the penal fire. The yard was thronged; and on -the stage was many a bird of courtly feather, perched on his sixpenny -stool; whilst the late comer lay at length upon the rushes, his thoughts -wrested from his hose and points by the mystery of the play. - -Happy, thrice happy wights, thus fenced and rounded in from the leprous, -eating cares of life! Happy ye, who, even with a penny piece, can -transport yourselves into a land of fairy—can lull the pains of flesh -with the music of high thoughts! The play goes on, with all its -influences. Where is the courtier? Ten thousand miles from the glassy -floor of a palace, lying on a bank, listening to a reed piping in -Arcady. Where the man of thrift? He hath shuffled off his trading suit, -and dreams himself a shepherd of the golden time. Where the wife-ridden -husband, doubtful of a natural right to his own soul? He is an Indian -emperor, flushed with the mastery of ten thousand slaves! Where is the -poor apprentice—he who hath weals upon his back for twopence lost on -Wednesday? He is in El Dorado, strutting upon gold. Thus works the -play—let it go on. Our business calls us to the outside. - -There is scarcely a passenger to be seen on Bank-side. Three or four -boys loiter about the theatre, some trying, through a deceitful crevice, -to catch a glimpse of the play—some tending horses, until the show be -done. Apart from these, his arms crossed, leaning against a post, his -eyes fixed on the Rose flag,—stands a youth, whose face, though perfect -in its beauty, has yet a troubled air. As he stands, watching the -rustling beacon, it almost seems—so fixed is his look—as though he held -some converse with it; as though the fortunes of his future life were -woven in its web in mystic characters, and he, with his spirit straining -from his eyes, were seeking to decipher them. Now—so would imagination -work—there seemed voluble speech in its flapping folds, and now a -visible face. The youth turned from gazing on the flag to the open -river. Some spirit was upon him; and, through his eyes, gave to vulgar -objects a new and startling form. He was in a day-dream of wonder and -beauty; and as it is told that those doomed to the ocean with hearts -yearning for the land see fields and pleasant gardens in the heaving -wave,—so our hero, tricked by his errant fancy, gazed breathless at new -wonders sweeping before him. A golden mist shrouded the mansions and -warehouses on the strand. Each common thing of earth glowed and dilated -under the creative spirit of the dreamer. The Thames seemed fixed—whilst -a thousand forms moved along the silver pavement. The sky shone -brighter—harmony was in the air! The shades move on. - -First passes one bearing in his hand a skull: wisdom is in his eyes, -music on his tongue—the soul of contemplation in the flesh of an Apollo: -the greatest wonder and the deepest truth—the type of great thought and -sickly fancies—the arm of clay, wrestling with and holding down the -angel. He looks at the skull, as though death had written on it the -history of man. In the distance one white arm is seen above the tide, -clutching at the branches of a willow “growing askant a brook.” - -Now there are sweet, fitful noises in the air: a shaggy monster, his -lips glued to a bottle—his eyes scarlet with wine—wine throbbing in the -very soles of his feet—heaves and rolls along, mocked at by a sparkling -creature couched in a cowslip’s bell. - -And now a maiden and a youth, an eternity of love in their passionate -looks, with death as a hooded priest joining their hands: a gay gallant -follows them, led on by Queen Mab, twisting and sporting as a porker’s -tail. - -The horns sound—all, all is sylvan! Philosophy in hunter’s suit, -stretched beneath an oak, moralises on a wounded deer, festering, -neglected, and alone: and now the bells of folly jingle in the breeze, -and the suit of motley glances among the greenwood. - -The earth is blasted—the air seems full of spells: the shadows of the -Fates darken the march of the conqueror: the hero is stabbed with -air-drawn steel. - -The waves roar like lions round the cliff: the winds are up, and -howling; yet there is a voice, louder than theirs—a voice made high and -piercing by intensest agony! The singer comes, his white head “crowned -with rank fumitor”—madness, tended by truth, speaking through folly! - -The Adriatic basks in the sun: there is a street in Venice; “a merry -bargain” is struck—the Jew slinks like a balked tiger from the court. - -Enter a pair of legs, marvellously cross-gartered. - -And hark! to a sound of piping, comes one with an ass’s head wreathed -with musk roses and a spirit playing around it like a wildfire. - -A handkerchief, with “magic in the web,” comes like a trail of light, -and disappears. - -A leek—a leek of immortal green shoots up! - -Behold! like to the _San Trinidad_, swims in a buck-basket labelled “to -Datchet Meads.” - -There gleam two roses, red and white—a Roman cloak stabbed through and -through—a lantern of the watch of Messina! - -A thousand images of power and beauty pass along. - -The glorious pageant is over—no! fancy is yet at work.— - -Yonder ship, laden with sherris, canary, and spice—see how her masts and -rigging fall and melt, like metal in a furnace! Her huge hold, stowed to -the deck with wine, swells and distends, and takes another form. We see -no ship, but a man mountain, with a belly that “would sink a navy.” One -butt of red wine is sinking in the Thames: no; it moves and shapes -itself into something like a nose, which, rising like a comet, fiery -red, before him of the abdomen, seems as ’twere purposed for a torch to -light him “’twixt tavern and tavern.” And see—— - -But the day-dream of the youth is broken. A visitor, mounted, has just -arrived, and would fain enter the play-house; but there is none bold or -strong enough to hold his steed. At least a dozen men—it was remarkable -that each had in his bosom a roll of paper, it might be the draft of a -play—rushing from the Rose, strove to hold the bridle: but some the -horse trod down—some he struck paralytic with his flashing eye—some ran -away, half distraught at his terrible neighing. At length our dreamer -approached the steed, which, as it had been suddenly turned to stone, -stood still. The rider dismounted and entered the play-house, leaving -his horse tended by our hero. The animal ate from out his hand—answered -with its proud head the caresses of its feeder—and, as it pranced and -curveted, a sound of music, as from the horny hoofs of dancing satyrs, -rose from the earth. All stood amazed at the sudden taming of the horse. - -The play ended—the audience issued from the doors. The story had run -from mouth to mouth, touching the new-comer and his horse. All hurried -about the stranger, to see him mount. He, with some difficulty, such was -the crowd, leaped on his steed, when, inclining his face, radiant with -smiles, towards the youth who had performed the office of his groom, he -flashed like a sunbeam out of sight. All stood marble with astonishment. -At length the immortal quality of the visitor was made manifest, for, in -the press and hurry, a feather had fallen from one of his wings—albeit, -concealed and guarded by a long cloak. - -The youth who had taken charge of the horse seized, as his rightful -wages, on this relic of Phœbus, and, taking his way, he fashioned it -into a pen, and with it from time to time gave to the “airy nothings” of -his day-dream “a local habitation and a name.” - - * * * * * - -It is modestly hoped that this well-authenticated story will wholly -silence the sceptical objections of Mr Steevens. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration: - - “Hearing little John Fenton lisp his Berkshire Latin” -] - - - - - THE EPITAPH OF SIR HUGH EVANS - - -“THERE’S pippins and cheese to come!” - -Such are the hopeful words of an old divine—of one Sir Hugh Evans—a -preacher distinguished in the latter part of the reign of Henry the -Fourth, not so much for the ascetic asperity of his speech and bearing -as for a certain household wisdom that ran like threads of gold through -his most familiar sentences, enhanced and recommended by a blithe look -and a chirping voice; all of which excellent gifts made him the oracle -and friend of the yeomen and goodwives of Windsor. These inestimable -qualities—to say nothing of his miraculous hand at bowls, and his -marvellous sagacity as a brewer of sack—had, as we have already -inferred, endeared him to his flock: and, living, and preaching, and -gossiping in a neighbourhood of love and good fellowship, the parson -grew old, his cheek mellowing to the last; when, in the year——, he fell, -like an over-ripe plum from the tree, into his grave—all the singing men -and maids and little children of mournful Windsor following their -teacher to his couch of earth, and chanting around it the hymn best -loved by him when living. - -In sooth, the funeral of the poor knight was most bravely attended. Six -stout morrice-men carried the corpse from a cottage, the property of the -burly, roystering Host of the “Garter”—a pretty rustic nook, near -Datchet Meads, whither the worn-out parson had, for six months before -his death, retired from the stir and bustle of Windsor—and where, on a -summer evening, he might be seen seated in the porch, patiently hearing -little John Fenton lisp his Berkshire Latin,—the said John being the -youngest grandson of old Master Page, and godchild of the grey-headed, -big-bellied landlord of the “Garter.” Poor Sir Hugh had long been -afflicted with a vexing asthma; and, though in his gayer times he would -still brew sack for younger revellers, telling them rare tales of “poor -dear Sir John and the Prince,” he had, for seven years before his death, -eschewed his former sports, and was never known to hear of a match of -bowls that he did not shake his head and sigh,—and then, like a -stout-hearted Christian as he was, soothe his discomfited spirit with -the snatch of an old song. Doctor Caius had, on his death-bed, -bequeathed to Sir Hugh an inestimable treasure; nothing less than a -prescription—a very charm—to take away a winter cough: for three years -had it been to Sir Hugh as the best gift of King Oberon; but the fourth -winter the amulet cast its virtue, and from year to year the parson grew -worse and worse,—when, in the sixty-eighth year of his age, on a bright -May morning, in the arms of his gossip and friend, staid, sober Master -Slender, with the Host of the “Garter” seated (for he was too fat to -stand) in an arm-chair at the bedside, and Master Page and Master Ford -at the foot, Sir Hugh Evans, knight and priest, passed into death, as -into a sweet, sound sleep. His wits had wandered somewhat during the -night,—for he talked of “Herne the hunter” and “a boy in white”; and -then he tried to chirrup a song,—and Masters Page and Ford smiled sadly -in each other’s face as the dying man, chuckling as he carolled, trolled -forth— - - “Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about, - Till candles, and starlight, and moonshine be out.” - -As the day advanced, the dying man became more calm; and at length, -conscious of his state, he passed away at half-past nine in the morning, -with a look of serenest happiness—and “God be with you!” were the last -words that fluttered from his lips. - -The personal property of the dead parson was shared among his friends -and servants. Master Slender inherited his “Book of Songs and Posies”; -the Host of the “Garter” the sword with which Sir Hugh had dared Doctor -Caius to mortal combat; and all his wardrobe, consisting of two entire -suits and four shirts, somewhat softened the grief of Francis Simple—son -of Simple, former retainer of Master Slender, and for three years -body-servant of dead Sir Hugh. A sum of two shillings and fourpence, -discovered among the effects of the deceased, was faithfully distributed -to the parish poor. - - -[Illustration: - - “One ... who would have added weight and dignity to the ceremony” -] - - -There was sadness in Windsor streets as the funeral procession moved -slowly towards the church. Old men and women talked of the frolics of -Sir Hugh; and though they said he had been in his day something of the -merriest for a parson, yet more than one gossip declared it to be her -belief that “worse men had been made bishops.” A long train of friends -and old acquaintance followed the body. First, came worthy Master -Slender—chief mourner. He was a bachelor, a little past his prime of -life, with a sad and sober brow, and a belly inclining to portliness. -The severe censors of Windsor had called him woman-hater, for that in -his songs and in his speech he would bear too hardly on the frailties -and fickleness of the delicate sex; for which unjust severity older -people might perchance, and they would, have found some small apology. -For, in truth, Master Slender was a man of softest heart; and though he -studiously avoided the company of women, he was the friend of all the -children of Datchet and Windsor. He always carried apples in his pocket -for little John Fenton, youngest child of Anne Fenton, formerly Anne -Page; and was once found sitting in Windsor Park, with little John upon -his knees,—Master Slender crying like a chidden maid. Of this enough. -Let it now suffice to say that Master Slender—for the Host was too heavy -to walk—was chief mourner. Then followed Ford and his wife; next, Mr -Page and his son William,—poor Mrs Page being dead two years at -Christmas, from a cold caught with over dancing, and then obstinately -walking through the snow from her old gossip Ford’s. Next in the -procession were Master Fenton and his wife, and then followed their -eight children in couples; then Robin—now a prosperous vintner, once -page to Sir John,—with Francis Simple; and then a score of little ones, -to whom the poor dead parson would give teaching in reading and -writing,—and, where he marked an apter wit among his free disciples, -something of the Latin accidence. These were all that followed Sir Hugh -Evans to his rest—for death had thinned the thick file of his old -acquaintance. One was wanting, who would have added weight and dignity -to the ceremony—who, had he not some few years before been called to -fill the widest grave that was ever dug for flesh, would have cast from -his broad and valiant face a lustrous sorrow on the manes of the dead -churchman,—who would have wept tears, rich as wine, upon the coffin of -his old friend; for to him, in the convenient greatness of his heart, -all men, from the prince of the blood to the nimming knave who stole the -“handle of Mrs Bridget’s fan,” were, by turns, friends and good fellows; -who, at the supper at the “Garter” (for the Host gave a solemn feast in -celebration of the mournful event), would have moralised on death and -mortal accidents, and, between his tankards, talked fine philosophy—true -divinity; would have caroused to the memory of the dead in the most -religious spirit of sack, and have sent round whole flagons of surest -consolation. Alas! this great, this seeming invincible spirit, this -mighty wit, with jests all but rich enough to laugh Death from his -purpose—to put him civilly aside with a quip, bidding him to pass on and -strike at leaner bosoms,—he himself, though with “three fingers on the -ribs,” had been hit; and he, who seemed made to live for ever, an -embodied principle of fleshly enjoyment,—he, the great Sir John— - - “He was dead and nailèd in his chest.” - -Others, too, passed away with their great dominator, were wanting at the -ceremonial. Where was he, with nose enshrining jests richer to us than -rubies? Truly liberal, yet most unfortunate spirit, hapless Bardolph; -where, when Sir Hugh was laid upon the lap of his mother earth, oh! -where wert thou? Where was that glorious feature that, had the burying -been at the dead time of night, would have outshone the torches? Where -was that all-rich—all-lovely nose? Alack! it may be in the maws of -French falcons; its luckless owner throttled on the plains of Agincourt -for almost the smallest theft; hung up by fellest order of the Fifth -Henry—of his old boon companion, his brother robber on the field of -Gadshill. And could Harry march from the plain with laurel on his brow -and leave the comrade of his youth—his fellow-footpad—with neck mortally -cut “with edge of penny cord”? Should such a chaplet have been -intertwined with such hemp? The death of Bardolph is a blot—a foul, foul -blot on the ’scutcheon of Agincourt. But let us pass the ingratitude and -tyranny of kings, to dwell wholly upon the burial of Sir Hugh. - -Who shall say that all the spirits with whom the parson was wont to -recreate himself,—to counsel, to quarrel,—who shall say that they did -not all mingle in the procession, all once again pass through the -streets of ancient Windsor? The broad shadow of Sir John, arm-in-arm -with the spirit of Mrs Page,—Bardolph and Nym, descended from their -gibbets, new from the plains of France, to make melancholy holiday in -Berkshire,—learned Dr Caius, babbling Quickly, and Pistol, her broken, -war-worn husband, kicked down the tavern stairs, where in his old days -he served as drawer, and was killed,—and Shallow, immortal Shallow, his -lean ghost fluttering with a sense of office,—who shall say that all -these did not crowd about the coffin of good Sir Hugh, and, as he was -laid in the grave, give him a smiling welcome to his everlasting -habitation? Let us not, in this day of light, be charged with -superstition, if in these pages—perpetual as adamant—we register our -belief, a belief mingling in our very blood, that all these illustrious -ghosts followed, and, with their dim majesty, ennobled the -procession,—albeit, to the eyes of the uninitiate, none but the living -did service to the dead. - -Sir Hugh Evans was laid by the side of his old friend and old -antagonist, Doctor Caius; and, for many years, there was a story among -the good wives of Windsor, that the fairies, once a year, danced round -the grave of Sir Hugh, the turf upon it growing as bright as emeralds; -and, in a hawthorn bush, but a few paces from the spot, “melodious -birds” did, at certain seasons, “sing madrigals.” - -We have now to speak of the epitaph of the good Sir Hugh. More than four -hundred years have passed away since the mortal part of that most worthy -piece of Welsh divinity was consigned to dust. It may be a lesson to -ambition to learn that the exact spot where he was buried cannot, at the -present time, be verified: the ablest antiquarians are at odds about it. -Proud, however,—and, we trust, not unbecomingly so,—are we to be the -means of publishing to the world the epitaph of Sir Hugh, copied from -his tombstone, in the possession of a gentleman in Berkshire, who has -resisted our most earnest supplications that he would suffer us to make -known his name. This favour he has resolutely refused; but has, in the -most handsome manner, presented us with the use of the tombstone, -together with a most voluminous, and no less satisfactory, account of -its genuineness. Happy should we have been could we have found room for -the history of the relic at full. Leaving it, however, for the archives -of the Antiquarian Society, we must content ourselves with stating that -the document fully proves that the tombstone was erected from the -private munificence of Master Slender, and that the pithy and most -touching epitaph inscribed upon it was selected by his happy taste, as -combining all the excellences of an epitaph in the fewest words—these -words having the further recommendation of being uttered, on a memorable -occasion, by the deceased himself. The words were repeated to Master -Slender by his servant Simple, despatched, on a certain day, by Sir Hugh -with a letter touching the wooing of Anne Page. After long pondering, -reviewing every circumstance of his ancient friendship with the dead Sir -Hugh,—seated, one sunny afternoon, on the bench outside the “Garter,” -the words came jump again into the mind of Slender; and quickly raising -and emptying his tankard, he marched, like a man resolved, to the -stone-cutter, and—for he cared not for Latin—bade the workman cut on the -stone—(the inscription, considering its age, is in a wonderful state of -preservation)—the words that follow:— - - - HUGH EVANS - PRIESTE - Dyed atte Datchette - MAY—ANNO DOMI 14— - AGED— - “THERE’S PIPPINS AND CHEESE—TO COME.” - - -How simply, yet how beautifully, does this epitaph shadow forth the -fruitfulness of the future! How delicate, and yet how sufficing, its -note of promise!— - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - “THERE’S PIPPINS AND CHEESE—TO COME.” - -Pippins! Does not the word, upon a tombstone, conjure up thoughts of -Hesperian gardens—of immortal trees, laden with golden fruit; with -delicious produce, the growth of a soil where not one useless weed takes -root, where no baneful snake rustles among the grass, where no blight -descends, no canker withers? Where we may pluck from the consenting -boughs, and eat, and eat—and never, as in earthly things, find a worm at -the core, a rottenness at the heart, where outside beauty tempted us to -taste? “There’s pippins _to come_!” The evil and misery gathered with -the apple of death will be destroyed—forgotten—by the ambrosial fruit to -be plucked for ever in immortal orchards!— - - - “THERE’S PIPPINS AND CHEESE—TO COME!” - -What a picture of plenty in its most beneficent aspect—what a prospect -of pastoral abundance! - -Think of it, ye oppressed of the earth! Ye, who are bowed and pinched by -want—ye, who are scourged by the hands of persecution—ye, crushed with -misery—ye, doomed to the bitterness of broken faith; take this -consolation to your wearied souls—apply this balsam to your bruised -hearts.—Though all earth be to you as barren as the sands— - - - “THERE’S PIPPINS AND CHEESE—TO COME!” - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - BULLY BOTTOM’S BABES - - -THE immortal weaver of Athens hath a host of descendants. They are -scattered throughout every country of the world, their moral likeness to -their sage ancestor becoming stronger in the land of wealth and luxury. -They are a race marked and distinguished by the characteristics of their -first parent—omnivorous selfishness and invulnerable self-complacency. -They wear the ass’s head, yet know it not; and heedless of the devotion, -have the Titania fortune still to round their temples “with coronets of -fresh and fragrant flowers.” They sleep to the watching of an enamoured -fairy, and wake only to new experiences of her tenderness and beauty. - - “Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; - Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes; - Feed him with apricocks and dewberries; - With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries - The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, - And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, - And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes, - To have my love to bed and to arise: - And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, - To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes: - Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.” - -Have we not here the adjuration of the fairy fortune to all her -ministering delights and pleasures of the world, to render service and -to do homage to the dull-brained creature of her passion? Extract the -poetry, the delicious fancy, from the injunction of the Queen of -Fairies, and what is it but the command of worldly luck to her many -servitors, to seek all imaginable delights for the sordid lump of earth, -the mere animal with an “ass’s head” her diseased and wayward affections -have made an idol of? Is not the world thronged with these Bottoms? In -shape, in lineament, in every moral feature, are they not the veritable -descendants of the swaggering homespun Athenian? They are the very -nurslings of fortune, the monstrous and uncouth objects of her blind and -fickle passion; yet do they submit to her endearments with no distrust, -no passing suspicion of their own worthiness. They receive her -blandishments as nothing more than a just and rightful reward for -excellence. They cannot conceive how it could have been otherwise. Their -imagination, vassal to their self-complacency, will not allow them to -change places for an instant with their less prosperous fellow. No; -Fortune dotes upon them, and how can she help it? Her extravagant -fondness is not excused, but justified, made inevitable by the excelling -worthiness of their parts. Hence, with what serenity they issue mandates -to the retainers of their fond mistress—with what lordly self-conviction -of their own merits they accept their service! How they order Cobweb, -Peaseblossom, and Mustardseed to do their fantastic bidding, as though -their bondmaster, created with natural and inalienable right to their -feudality. Nothing in the way of greatness surprises them—no flattery -startles them. - -“Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful!” cries Titania to her -ass-headed lover, and he by no syllable disclaims the truth, the justice -of the eulogy. He swallows the praise as his natural food, takes the -sweet sound of his doting goddess as rightful, every-day applause. He is -loved by a goddess, for the goddess—we have said it—cannot help it. - -The insensibility of the sons of Bottom is one of their grand, their -unerring characteristics. It is this profitable faculty that would make -them task the daintiest spirits for their own poorest, vilest wants, and -dream of nothing monstrous or extravagant in such application. - -“I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb: if I cut -my finger, I shall make bold with you.” - -“Scratch my head, Peaseblossom.” - -“Monsieur Cobweb; good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand, and -kill me a red-hipped bumble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good -mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag.” - -Thus spoke the great progenitor, Bottom; and of a verity his children -are not more shame-faced task-masters. - -Next, let us contrast the power and beauty of delights placed by Queen -Titania at his will, with the mean, the sordid wretchedness of Bottom’s -appetite and tastes. - -“_Tit._ What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love? - -“_Bot._ I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let’s have the tongs and -bones. - -“_Tit._ Or say, sweet love, what thou desir’st to eat. - -“_Bot._ Truly a peck of provender: I could munch your good dry oats. -Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, -hath no fellow. - -“_Tit._ I have a venturous fairy that shall seek - The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. - -“_Bot._ I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray -you, let none of your people stir me: I have an exposition of sleep come -upon me. - -“_Tit._ Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. - Fairies, be gone, and be always away. - So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle - Gently entwist; the female ivy so - Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. - _Oh, how I love thee! how I dote on thee!_” - -Is this a scene of mere fairy-land? No; but a thing of hard, every-day -prosaic life. Have we not about us the children, the thick-headed -descendants of Bottom, with the Titania fortune tempting them to the -enjoyments of the rarest and sweetest delights? and yet the coarse -animal craving of - - “The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,” - -make answer to her dainty invitations with the poorest, coarsest -desires! A goddess bids them choose music, and they are for nothing but -“tongs and bones.” Fortune prays them to the banquet on immortal food, -and, with asinine stubbornness, they bray for “a handful or two of dried -peas.” They are warbled to by a goddess, and, unconscious of the homage, -they make answer with the sense of an ass. We ask it, did Bottom die -childless? - -Bottom’s babes flourish in twenty paths of life. We meet his children in -the stock-market; we see them sleek and smug behind the counter; we -catch their faces through carriage windows; we hear their tuneful voices -from the county-bench, the city-court, yea, in nobler convocations -still. Sometimes, too, like their Athenian father, they are -“translated.” No matter for the difference of calling, the influence of -education, there is the family face—the family voice; the expression of -self-blessed insensibility, the note of self-complacent gratulation. -Throughout the life-teeming page of Shakespeare there is not a finer -poetic rendering of a commonplace, vulgar class than Bottom. - -The very heart of their mystery beats in the bosom of the weaver. His -eagerness to be all things, from an assured conviction of his fitness -for everything, is only their daily conceit dramatically developed. In -that brief scene, what a picture have we, what a history of the ten -thousand incidents of prose life! What an exhibition of the profound -busy-bodies who clamorously desire to be Wall, Lion, Moonshine, and -Pyramus too, not from an acquired belief, but as it would seem from a -natural instinct of their own fitness for the combined charges! How -triumphantly does Bottom swagger down his fellows! How small, mean, -degenerate—what nobodies are they, before that giant conceit, the -thick-skulled weaver![3] And in all this there is nothing that is not -the severest transcript of human life. We laugh at it; and the next -moment we are touched into gravity by a reflection of its serious -meaning—its philosophic comments on the vulgar pretence of the every-day -world. - -Footnote 3: - - It is impossible, we think, for the reader, if he witnessed _A - Midsummer Night’s Dream_ at Covent Garden last season (1840) to banish - from his memory the _Flute_ of Keeley in this scene. How meekly, how - resignedly he gave place to the burly consequence of _Bottom_. It was - not imbecility, but a mute absorbing sense of homage to the greatness - of the weaver, one of those subtle touches that show the sympathy of - the actor with the profoundest meanings of the poet. - -The finer part of the picture, in which as we receive it, Shakespeare, -with immortal tints, has shadowed forth the souls of a herd of men, is -Bottom doted upon by the Queen of Fairies. It is here we have the true -lineaments of a vulgar nature emblazoned by luck. It is here we -recognise the self-sufficient creature of worldly success—the ignorant -bashaw of life wearing his bravery as an ordained and necessary part of -himself. He has the riches, the sweets of the earth, at his command, and -he pauses not in passing wonder at his prosperity. To him there is no -such power as a Providence. It is a part of the world’s destiny that he -should be precisely what he is; he is the begotten of fate, and owes no -obligation to vulgar fortune. - -Nor are Bottom’s Babes less like their putative sire, if they have -suffered no transformation. There are those who come into the world with -the ass’s head, and live and die wound in the arms of doting wealth. The -hard task-masters of life are often of these. The foolish, arrogant -censors of the faults and backslippings of penury are to be found among -them—the full fleshed moralists who shake their shaggy ears at the small -delinquencies of struggling men. They eat, drink, sport, and sleep in -fairyland; their lightest wish evokes a minister to do their bidding; -and in their most fantastic, foolish moods, still Fortune—weak, besotted -quean!—cries, with silverest voice:— - -“Oh, how I love ye! How I dote on ye!” - -Bottom as we opine, considered in his truthfulness, in his reflective -powers of worldly semblance, awakens our pensiveness, not our mirth. We -think of the thousands of his children, and the smile that would break -at the mere words of the weaver, is chequered by the thought of his -prosaic offspring. Yes; his offspring. It matters not that you point -to—in his carriage, that you run through his accredited genealogy, that -you show his armorial bearings. We answer—if he receive the goods of -fortune as his _right_, with no thankfulness for the gifts, no gratitude -displayed by constant sympathy with the wants and weaknesses of -suffering man, though you call him marquis, we say he is the Babe of -Bottom; and for his quarterings, though they date from the Conquest, the -eye of our philosophy sees nought on his carriage panels but an ass’s -head in a field, proper; and in the motto reads—“A bottle of hay!” - - -[Illustration: - - A bottle of hay. -] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - SHAKESPEARE IN CHINA - -“I cannot tell that the wisest Mandarin now living in China is not - indebted for part of his energy and sagacity to Shakespeare and - Milton, even though it should happen that he never heard of their - names.” - - —Godwin’s _Essay on Sepulchres_. - - -WE do great injustice to the College of Mandarins, if we think that body -at the present time ignorant of the marvels of Shakespeare. No: Canton -has produced its commentator, and, by means of his explanatory genius, -it is hoped that in a few years the whole Celestial Empire will, in the -fulness of its knowledge, bow to the majesty of the poet. At this moment -we have before us a radiant evidence of the admission of the great -teacher into the Sacred City: believe it, astounded reader, Shakespeare -has gone farther than Nieuhoff. England, however—that England who has -shown herself such an idolatress of her darling son—who has encircled -the house in which he first drew breath with a golden rail—who has -secured it from possible destruction at the hands of the bigot, by -making it the property of the State—that England who, when the tree -planted by the bard was felled by the axe, wept as she turned the timber -into ’bacco-stoppers[4]—that England who, even at the present time, only -a little more than two centuries after his death, has already begun to -think of the propriety of erecting, at some future day, a national -monument to her poet—that England cannot, after the many and affecting -instances of her deep and maternal love towards her most illustrious -child, refuse to aid in the dissemination of Shakespearanity in any -corner of the world, but at the present interesting crisis, more -particularly in the empire of China. - -Footnote 4: - - The Mulberry-tree was cut down; and the race of Gastrels is not - extinct. - -The cry that the Chinese are not yet fit for Shakespeare—a cry raised in -the same acute spirit in which people in chains have been said not to be -fit for freedom—can, we think, have no bad effect on even moderately -liberal men, after the production of papers now beneath our hands. All -we ask of the Foreign Minister is a company, to act either on board -Chinese junks or on shore, as the intellectual wants of his Majesty may -require; nay, if under the direction of their own stage-manager, to -exhibit themselves at any distance in the interior. The company to be -paid and clothed by the government for whose benefit they act, with this -condition, that they be subject to the laws and customs of the Chinese, -obediently shaving their eyebrows and letting their tails grow. For the -passing difficulty of the language, that, we have no doubt, will soon be -overcome; many of the actors, we religiously believe it, speaking and -playing equally well in English or in Chinese. We now come to the proofs -of the fit condition of the people for Shakespeare—for that which they -will “hail as a boon,” and which we shall part with as a drug. - -Some months since, it was our fortune to be present at an auction of -curiosities from the East—shells, parrots, rice-paper, chop-sticks, -japanned cabinets, and cut-throat sparrows. Our friend Peregrine—he had -just arrived from the Great Pyramid, from the top of which, and by means -of a most excellent glass, he had discovered, and afterwards made -captive, three giraffes—bade money for a picture. As it was a scene from -Shakespeare, there were of course no opposing bidders, and he became the -owner of what proved to be an exquisite evidence of Chinese art and -imitation; in brief, no other than a copy faithfully drawn, and most -brilliantly coloured by an artist at Canton of the Boydell picture of -Falstaff in the Buck-basket, and the Merry Wives. The picture, however, -proved in itself to be of little value compared to the essay found to be -inserted at the back between the picture and the frame; being written on -paper, half a quire of which would not exceed the thickness of a -butterfly’s wing, it is no wonder that the treasure escaped even the -meritorious vigilance of an auctioneer. It is this essay that we now -propose to submit to the reader, in evidence of the condition of China -for an instant export of a company of fine Shakespearian actors. When we -state that the essay has been printed by its author in at least one of -the Canton journals, the dissemination and adoption of the principles -comprised in it, over the whole of China, cannot for half a moment be a -matter of doubt. - -We regret that we cannot wholly acquit our intelligent Mandarin of the -taint of ingratitude. It is evident that his views of English history—at -least of that portion in which Falstaff conspicuously appears, for the -writer suffers no subject to escape in any way involved in the character -of the immortal knight—have been gathered from one of our fellow -countrymen; he has, if we may be allowed to say it, sucked the brain, as -a “weasel sucks eggs,” of some enlightened but obscure supercargo whom -he has left unhonoured and unthanked. How different, in a similar case, -was the conduct of an Englishman: our deep veneration of the national -character will not, at this happy moment, suffer us to be silent on the -grateful magnanimity of Mr Nahum Tate, who, in his preface to his -improved version of _King Lear_, returns his “thanks to an _ingenious -friend_ who first pointed out the tragedy” to his condescending notice! -The silence of the Mandarin towards his instructor is the more strange, -as ingratitude is not the vice of the barbarian. An ingenious friend -points out a skulking, unarmed straggler to a Cossack; the soldier makes -him prisoner, cuts off his ears, slits his nose, bores his tongue, and -having mounted the captive behind him, in the cordial spirit of Nahum -Tate, “thanks his ingenious friend” for his information! But it is so; -in this particular our mandarin fails in comparison with the Cossack and -with Nahum Tate. - -We now lay before the reader the Essay of Ching the Mandarin, who, it -will be seen, in his orders to the painter employed to copy the original -picture—by whom taken to China remains unknown—has, with national -exactness, given the birth and education not only of the author of -Falstaff, but of Falstaff himself, together with glancing notices -of—Windsor wives and Windsor soap. - -It is, perhaps, only due to the translator, to state that by our express -solicitation he has a little lowered the orientalism of the original, -whilst he has at the same time endeavoured to preserve the easy, -conversational tone of the educated Chinese. - - - “CHING TO TING. - - -“I send, O Ting, from the barbarian ship, a picture of barbarians. Make -one for your friend, like unto it; in size, in shape, and colour, even -the same. But why should I waste words with Ting, whose pencil is true -as the tongue of Confutzee? No; I will straightway deliver to him all my -studies have made known to me of the barbarians written on the canvas -before him: for how can even Ting paint the faces of barbarians in their -very truth, if he knows not the history not only of themselves but of -their fathers? - -“The he barbarian with the big belly was called Forlstoff, and in time -was known as Surgeon Forlstoff: from which, there is no doubt, he was a -skilful leech in the army of the barbarian king, more of whom in good -season. Forlstoff’s father was one Shak or Shake, Speare or Spear; for -there have been great tumults among the barbarians about the e. In -nothing does the ignorance of the English barbarians more lamentably -discover itself than in the origin they obstinately give to their -Shakespeare; who, according to them, was, like the great Brahme, hatched -in an egg on the bank of a river, as may be seen in a thousand idle -books in which he is called the ‘Swan of Haveone.’ And this conceit was -further manifested in the building of a place called ‘the Swan Theatre,’ -where the barbarians were wont to worship. There is little known of -Shakespeare’s wife, Forlstoff’s mother, and that little proves her to -have been an idle person, given to great sleep and sloth, as is shown by -her getting nothing at the death of her husband but his ‘second-best -bed!’ - -“If Forlstoff would not, at a later time of life, leave off stealing, -there is little doubt that he owed the fault to his father, Shakespeare, -who was forced to fly to London, which is a sacred city for all thieves, -for having stolen an antelope, an animal consecrated to the higher kinds -of barbarians, and which it is death for the poor to touch. Indeed, the -flesh of the antelope is to be eaten with safety by very few of the -barbarians, it having killed even many of the Eldermen immediately after -dinner. - -“When Shakespeare came to London he was poor and without friends, and he -held the horses of the rich barbarians who came to worship at a temple -on the banks of the river. In time he learned to make shoes for the -horses; and in such esteem are the shoes still held by the barbarians, -that they are bought at any price, and nailed at the threshold of their -houses and barns; for where they are nailed, the foolish natives think -no fire, no pestilence will come, and no evil thing have any strength. -Such is the silly idolatry of the barbarians. - -“At length Shakespeare got admitted into the temple; and there he showed -himself master of the greatest arts; and he wrote charms upon paper -which, it is said, will make a man weep or laugh with very -happiness,—will bring spirits from the sky and devils from the -water,—will open the heart of a man and show what creeps within it,—will -now snatch a crown from a king, and now put wings to the back of a -beggar. And all this they say Shakespeare did, and studied not. No, -beloved Ting, he was not like Sing, who, though but a poor cowherd, -became wise by poring on his book spread between the horns of his cow, -he travelling on her back. - -“And Shakespeare proceeded in his marvels, and he became rich; and even -the queen of the barbarians was seen to smile at him, and once, with a -burning look, to throw her glove at him; but Shakespeare, it is said, to -the discomfiture of the queen, returned the glove, taking no further -notice of the amatory invitation. - -“In a ripe season of his life Shakespeare gave up conjuring, and -returned to the village on the banks of the river Haveone, where, as it -is ignorantly believed, he was hatched, and where he lived in the -fulness of fortune. He had laid down his conjuring-rod and taken off his -gown, and passed for nothing more than a man, and, it is said—though -you, beloved Ting, who see the haughty eyes and curling noses of the -lesser man mandarins, can, after what I have writ of Shakespeare, hardly -believe it—thought himself nothing more. - - -[Illustration: - - “Became wise by poring on his book” -] - - -“Shakespeare built himself a house and planted a tree. The house is -gone, but the barbarians preserve bricks of it in their inner chambers, -even—I tremble as I pen it—as we preserve the altars of our gods. - -“The tree was cut down by a fakir in a brain fever, but the wood is -still worshipped. And this, O Ting! I would not ask you to believe had -not your own eyes witnessed that wonderful tree,[5] the leaves whereof, -falling to the ground, become mice! Hence learn that the leaves of -Shakespeare’s mulberry have become men, and on a certain day every year, -with mulberry boughs about their heads, their bodies clothed in their -richest garments, they chant praises to the memory of Shakespeare, and -drink wine to his name. - -Footnote 5: - - See Navarrete’s _China_ for the account of this tree; underneath - which, we humbly suggest, it would be as well to keep a cat. - -“Shakespeare—Forlstoff’s father, and the father of a hundred lusty sons -and daughters, such as until that time had never been born, -Shakespeare—died! He was buried in a chest of cedar, set about with -plates of gold. On one of these plates was writ some magic words; for -thieves, breaking into the grave, were fixed and changed to stone; and -are now to be seen even as they were first struck by the charm of the -magician. And so much, beloved Ting, of Shakespeare, Forlstoff’s -father.” - -That our Mandarin has herein displayed very popular abilities for the -difficult task of a commentator, no one who has read many volumes of -Shakespearian commentaries will, we believe, deny. It is observable that -in many instances he makes his facts; a custom of particular advantage -to the indulgence of the most peculiar opinions and conclusions. We have -read some writers who, deprived of this privilege, would really have -nothing to work upon. The pleasure of making a giant, great as it -possibly may be, cannot be comparable to the delight of killing him, our -own handiwork. If, however, our reader will bear with us, we will -proceed with the labours of Ching on the character of Falstaff, and on -those personages and events, directly and indirectly, associated with -his glorious name. Falstaff in China! Jack Falstaff on a regimen of -rice! - -“Forlstoff was born in the third hour of the morning; and at his birth -the roundness of his belly and the whiteness of his head betokened his -future greatness. But little is known of his early life; save that he -assisted in the temples of the barbarians, where his voice, once -remarkable for its sweetness, became broken with the zeal of the singer. -He then travelled with a juggler, and—if lying were not the especial -vice of the barbarians—did greater wonders than even our own Yiyi. The -Eldermen of London—so named because chosen from the oldest -inhabitants—are known by a ring upon the thumb; this ring Forlstoff, to -the admiration of the barbarian court, crept through and through like -any worm, and was promoted by the king therefore. I should, however, do -evil unto truth did I not advise you, O Ting, that this feat of -Forlstoff seems greater than it really is: for a tame eagle being kept -at the court of the king, it was afterwards discovered that a talon of -the bird was something thicker than the waist of the said Forlstoff. - -“It is certain that Forlstoff, a short time after his feat with the -ring, became a student in a place called Clemency Inn; which, as its -name implies, is a temple wherein youths study to become meek and -merciful, to love all men as brothers of their own flesh, and to despise -the allurements of wealth. There was with him another student, called -Robert Shaller, who afterwards became a mandarin, or, in the barbarian -tongue, a justice of the peace, being promoted to that office because he -was like a double radish, and had his head carved with a knife. He was, -when at Clemency Inn, dressed in an eel-skin, and used to sleep in a -lute-case. He lent Forlstoff what the barbarians call a thousand pounds, -which Forlstoff was honest enough to—acknowledge. - -“I next find Forlstoff in company with one Princeal, the son of the -barbarian king, and several thieves. Forlstoff—and here the vice of his -father, Shakespeare, breaks out in the child—tempts the king’s son to -turn robber. He is, however, so ashamed of the wickedness, that he goes -about it with a mask on his face, as a king’s son ought. - -“Forlstoff falls into disgrace with Princeal, and is sent by him with -soldiers to Coventry; that being a place in the barbarian country where -no man speaks to his neighbour. After some delay Forlstoff marches -through Coventry to fight one Pursy, who can ride up a straight hill, -and is therefore called Hotspur. Forlstoff fights with him by—that is, -near a clock, and kills him, Princeal, the king’s son, meanly -endeavouring to deprive Forlstoff of the honour. - -“After the battle Forlstoff goes to dine with the king at Wincer, which -is the royal manufactory for soap. Forlstoff pretends to love two wives -at the same time, and is put by them in what is called by the barbarians -a _buck_-basket—that is a basket for the finer sort of barbarians, their -word _buck_ answering to our _push_, and meaning high, handsome, grand. -He is flung into the river, and saves himself by swimming to a garter. -He is afterwards punished by being turned into the royal forest, with -horns upon his head and chains upon his hands. Princeal, in time, -becomes king, and discards Forlstoff, who goes home—goes to bed—does -nothing but look at the ends of his fingers, talks of the green fields -about Wincer, and dies. - -“For the habits of Forlstoff, if they were not quite as virtuous as -those of Fo, it was perhaps the fault of his times; for we have his own -words to prove that they were once those of the best barbarians. He -swore but few oaths—gambled but once a day—paid his debts four times—and -took recreation only when he cared for it. He loved sack—a liquor that -has puzzled the heads of the learned—without eggs, and was -extraordinarily temperate in bread. - -“His companions were thieves of the highest repute—but all, unhappily, -died and left no sons! - -“You will now, oh wise and virtuous Ting, directed by these few and -feeble words, paint me the picture of Forlstoff and his two wives.” - -We put it to the impartial reader whether Ching, in the above estimate -of the character of Falstaff, has not entitled himself to take rank with -many Shakespearian commentators; and whether, if the Foreign Minister -will not consent to ship a company of English actors to Canton, Ching -should not be invited by the patrons of the British drama to preside in -a London theatre. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - SOLOMON’S APE - -“For the king had at sea a navy of Tharshish with the navy of Hiram: - once in three years came the navy of Tharshish, bringing gold, and - silver, ivory, and apes, and peacocks.”—_Kings._ - - -A LEARNED rabbi, Ben Eli, had filled three thick MS. folios with the -adventures of a certain ape, a sojourner at the court of the wisest of -kings. Though the work has hitherto been withheld from the world, it -seems not unlikely that it has long been the acknowledged model of many -biographies. We conceive there is internal evidence in the history of -thousands of courtiers, that the writers were aware how much the erudite -Ben Eli could make of an ape. They who have gravely registered the -slightest formality, the most evanescent word or gesture of certain -heroes, must have had in their memory the first chronicler of monkey -tricks. There was a time when it would have been the simplest and safest -course to publish the entire folio: in former days, readers were like -hogs, whose master had the right of pannage: they were turned into the -literary forest to root, and grub up, and become as fat as they might. -Now, it is not enough to show them the tree of knowledge; but it is -compulsory on those who drive the “dreadful trade,” to clamber the -branches, and gather the fruit. Nay, and when gathered, the apple serves -not the epicure of our day, if it be not carefully pared and sliced; -and, in some instances, presented on a fork of standard gold or silver. -Moreover, cases have happened wherein the quality of the fork hath been -cavilled for, more than that of the apple: thus, an embossed implement -hath at times passed off a sorry crab. Once it was enough for wisdom to -point out the wood where grew the nuts: now must she gather and crack -them. - -Thus much by way of feeble apology for the licence we have taken with -the folios of the venerable Ben Eli. We have wandered through their -forest of leaves; we have picked all we could lay our hands upon; we -have torn away the husk—have broken the shell—and for the few -kernels—gentle feeder, some of them are before you. - -“And the ape became a favourite with the servants of Solomon. And the -women smiled upon him, and the men laughed at his grimace; and the ape -was puffed with pride, and became a proverb to the wise. And the ape -forgot the mother that bore him, and the father that begat him, and the -wood which, in the days of his youth, did give him shadow. And—brief be -the words—the ape forgot he was an ape. - -“There was a strange woman in the court of King Solomon. She was -beautiful as light; and many men did try for the love of the strange -woman; for she was a princess in her own country. - -“And it fell, that the woman looked from her window, and beheld in the -court below the ape stretched, sleeping in the sun: for it was high -noon, and there was silence on all things. But in the heart of the -strange woman there was no peace, for she thought of her father’s tents. - -“And the ape awoke, and, looking upward, beheld the strange woman. And -there was vanity in his heart, and he still looked upward. And the -captive woman had compassion on the creature, and, believing that he -hungered, cast him down a ripe pomegranate. And the ape did eat the -pomegranate, and did lick his lips, and did say in his heart, ‘Of a -truth, the strange woman doth love me.’ - -“And the next day, at the same hour, the ape watched under the window of -the strange woman, and again she did throw him fruit, which he did eat, -and again did cry, ‘Nay, it is certain she doth love me.’ - -“And the same thing came to pass on the third and fourth day. - -“And in the stillness of the fifth day, when sleep lay upon the lids of -the household, the ape did clamber the wall which did shut in the -strange woman. And as he clomb, a voice still cried in his heart, ‘She -doth love me.’ - -“And the ape clambered up to the window of the strange woman; and when -she saw the monster, she filled the chamber with her screams, and -shrieked for help. And the servants of the chamber came to her aid; and -the court was filled with a multitude. - -“And the woman entreated to be saved from the ape; but the ape -understood not her words, for still he said to himself, ‘She doth love -me.’ - -“And the men took staves, and did beat and bruise the ape, but the ape -was not convinced; for yet he said, ‘It is plain she doth love me.’ And -the ape fell wounded into the court beneath. - -“And when they inquired of the matter, the woman said, ‘I thought the -ape did hunger, and I took compassion on his misery, and threw to him a -pomegranate.’ - -“Then a wise man said to the woman—‘Daughter, let not beauty give gifts -unto fools; for out of the kindness of her heart do they misinterpret; -and in the very offerings of her compassion do they breed an ill -report.’ - -“And even as the wise man said these things, the ape lay in the court -beneath, and did lick his sore, and did blow the pouches of his cheeks, -and cried, ‘It is manifest, the strange woman doth love me.’ - -“There were two jugglers in the train of the Queen of Sheba. And they -played, each with a serpent, before King Solomon. - -“Now the queen sought to prove the knowledge of the king, and said,—‘Oh, -Solomon, thou who hast spoken of trees, from the cedar to the -hyssop—also of beasts, and of fowls, and of creeping things, and of -fishes; - -“‘Declare unto thy servant, which of the two is the true serpent (for -one was cunningly fashioned like unto a living snake, and did move and -writhe in the hands of the juggler); for, of a truth, there is but one -of the two that hath life.’ - -“And the jugglers played with the snakes before the seat of King -Solomon. - -“Then the king did privily send for the ape; and when he was brought in, -the king caused him to be led near unto the jugglers. - -“And the ape passed one of the men who played with a snake, and took no -note thereof; but as he approached the fellow who held the second snake, -the ape did shake, and his hair did rise upon his skin, and he trembled -exceedingly; wherefore King Solomon discovered the true snake, and all -men praised the wisdom of the king.[6] - -Footnote 6: - - See Rabbinical stories for a parallel case. - -“Now the ape discovered that he had been made the judge between the true -and the false snake, and his head did swell with the shouting, and he -was puffed up with vain glory. - -“And after some days a multitude stood before the judgment porch. And a -strife had arisen between two carvers—skilful workmen were they both. - -“Palm-trees, and open flowers, and every manner of curious carving had -they carved. - -“And they both claimed certain carvings of cherubim. And when they had -spoken and called their witnesses, King Solomon paused to consider -before he delivered judgment. - - -[Illustration: - - “Cast him down a ripe pomegranate” -] - - -“It so chanced that the ape had crept among the multitude, and had -listened to the story of the carvers; and when he saw the king pause, he -said to himself, ‘Solomon is perplexed.’ - -“And the ape brake through the multitude, and ran to the porch, and did -motion that he would judge between the carvers. - -“And the ape did leap upon the shoulders of the one, and did caress him; -but at the other he did scream, and grind his teeth. And Solomon -understood the folly of the ape, and cried:— - -“‘It is ever so with the fool. Allow him the wisdom that perceiveth and -shunneth a serpent, and straightway he will believe he hath -understanding to judge even between the cherubim.’” - -At present we must end our extracts from the pages of Ben Eli; though we -cannot close without appending the final reflection of the learned -rabbi, who, having narrated a thousand other instances of the folly of -the ape—how he pilfered from the treasury, how he stole jewels to hang -about him, and how he plucked bare divers peacocks to make himself a -glory from their plumes, observes:— - -“_An ape will ever be an ape, though compassed with gold, and silver, -and ivory, and though his dwelling-place be even the court of King -Solomon._” - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE CASTLE BUILDERS OF PADUA - - -GIULIO and Ippolito were sons of a farmer living near Padua. The old man -was of a quiet and placable temper, rarely suffering any mischance to -ruffle him, but, in the firm and placid hope of the future, -tranquillising himself under the evil of the present. If blight came -upon his corn one year, he would say ’twere a rare thing to have blights -in two successive seasons; and so he would hope that the next harvest, -in its abundance, might more than compensate for the scarcity of the -last. Thus he lived from boyhood to age, and retained in the features of -the old man a something of the lightness and vivacity of youth. His -sons, however, bore no resemblance to their father. Instead of labouring -on the farm they wasted their time in idly wishing that fortune had made -them, in lieu of healthy, honest sons of a farmer, the children of some -rich magnifico, that so they might have passed their days in all the -sports of the times, in jousting, hunting, and in studying the fashions -of brave apparel. They were of a humour at once impetuous and sulky, and -would either idly mope about the farm, or violently abuse and ill-treat -whomsoever accident might throw in their way. The old man was inly -grieved at the wilfulness and disobedience of his sons, but, with his -usual disposition, hoped that time might remedy the evil; and so, but -rarely reproving them, they were left sole masters of their hours and -actions. - -One night, after supper, the brothers walked into the garden to give -loose to their idle fancies, always yearning after matters visionary and -improbable. It was a glorious night, the moon was at the full, and -myriads of stars glowed in the deep blue firmament. The air stirred -among the trees and flowers, wafting abroad their sweetness; the dew -glittered on the leaves, and a deep-voiced nightingale, perched in a -citron tree, poured forth a torrent of song upon the air. It was an hour -for good thoughts and holy aspirations. Giulio threw himself upon a -bank, and, after gazing with intentness at the sky, exclaimed:— - -“Would that I had fields ample as the heavens above us!” - -“I would,” rejoined Ippolito, “I had as many sheep as there are stars.” - -“And what,” asked Giulio, with a sarcastic smile, “would your wisdom do -with them?” - -“Marry,” replied Ippolito, “I would pasture them in your sageship’s -fields.” - -“What!” exclaimed Giulio, suddenly raising himself upon his elbow, and -looking with an eye of fire upon his brother; “whether I would or not?” - -“Truly, ay,” said Ippolito, with a stubborn significance of manner. - -“Have a care,” cried Giulio, “have a care, Ippolito; do not thwart me. -Am I not your elder brother?” - -“Yes; and marry, what of that? Though you came first into the world, I -trow you left some manhood for him who followed after.” - -“You do not mean to insist that, despite my will, despite the -determination of your elder brother, you will pasture your sheep in my -grounds?” - -“In truth but I do.” - -“And that,” rejoined Giulio, his cheek flushing, and his lip tremulous, -“and that without fee or recompense?” - -“Assuredly.” - -Giulio leaped to his feet, and, dashing his clenched hand against a -tree, with a face full of passion, and in a voice made terrible by rage, -he screamed, rather than said, “By the Blessed Virgin but you do not!” - -“And by St Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins I protest I will.” -This was uttered by Ippolito in a tone of banter and bravado that for a -moment made the excited frame of Giulio quiver from head to foot. He -gazed at the features of Ippolito, all drawn into a sneer, and for a -moment gnashed his teeth. He was hastily approaching the scoffer, when, -by an apparently strong effort, he arrested himself, and, turning upon -his heel, struck hastily down another path, where he might be seen -pacing with short, quick steps, whilst Ippolito, leaning against a tree, -carelessly sang a few lines of a serenata. This indifference was too -much for Giulio; he stopped short, turned, and then rapidly came up to -Ippolito, and with a manner of attempted tranquillity, said, “Ippolito, -I do not wish to quarrel with you; I am your elder brother; then give up -the point.” - -“Not I,” replied Ippolito, with the same immovable smile. - -“What, then, you are determined that your sheep shall, in very despite -of me, pasture in my fields?” - -“They shall.” - -“Villain!” raved Giulio; and ere the word was well uttered he had dashed -his clenched hand in his brother’s face. Ippolito sprang like a wild -beast at Giulio, and for a moment they stood with a hand at each other’s -throat, and their eyes, in the words of the Psalmist, were “whetted” on -one another. They stood but to gain breath, then grappled closer. -Ippolito threw his brother to the earth, huddling his knees upon him, -furious blows were exchanged, but scarce a sound was uttered, save at -intervals a blasphemous oath or a half-strangled groan. Giulio was -completely overpowered by the superior strength and cooler temper of his -brother; but, lying prostrate and conquered, his hands pinioned to his -breast, and Ippolito glaring at him with malicious triumph, he cursed -and spat at him. Ippolito removed his hand from his brother’s throat, -and ere his pulse could beat, Giulio’s poniard was in his brother’s -heart. He gave a loud shriek, and fell a streaming corpse upon his -murderer. The father, roused by the sound, came hurrying to the garden; -Giulio, leaping from under the dead body, rushed by the old man, who was -all too speedily bending over his murdered child. From that hour hope -and tranquillity forsook the father; he became a brain-sick, querulous -creature, and in a few months died almost an idiot. Giulio joined a -party of robbers, and, after a brief but dark career of crime, was shot -by the sbirri. - -Ye who would build castles in the air—who would slay your hours with -foolish and unprofitable longings—ponder on the visionary fields, the -ideal sheep of Giulio and Ippolito. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE TAPESTRY WEAVER OF BEAUVAIS - - -THE oldest people of Beauvais remembered Schatten the tapestry weaver. -Some vowed he was threescore, some a hundred years old; and ever as the -subject was touched upon, Schatten would widen his huge mouth, and cry -with a low chuckle, “Ay, ay, a thousand—more or less. I shall live to -see wrinkles in the sun.” None knew from what stock he sprang—from what -land he came. Such questions he would ever parry with some extravagance. -“I was born of felspar and quartz, and my home was the Hartz Mountains -when they were no bigger than mole-hills.” And thus Schatten lived on. -He saw the child rise into manhood—wed—become a parent—a grey-headed -man—a corpse; and so with the child’s child, and yet no change came upon -Schatten. He stood, a flinty image gazing on dying generations. - -A hovel in an obscure part of Beauvais was the dwelling of the weaver. -There was his tapestry loom; and there, day after day, and night after -night, would he work, at times droning a song to cheer what seemed the -monotony of an eternal employment. Notwithstanding the inexplicable -mystery about the man, he was, on the whole, a favourite with his -fellow-townsmen. There was something so meek in his demeanour, so -placid, so unassuming, and his speech was so soft and gentle, that -although his name had been mingled in strange recitals, he had never -been molested, but, on the contrary, was generally considered a -harmless, well-meaning creature; one who, far from sneering at the -pleasures of youth, looked upon them with seeming satisfaction. No one -more frequently witnessed the bacchanal revelries of the topers of -Beauvais; for, though Schatten was no drinker himself, he beheld with -unaffected pleasure the loose jollity of others. The like at feasts: -although he was temperate as a chameleon, he would most readily carve -huge collops for others. He seemed to hold in peculiar admiration a -purple, bloated face and swagging paunch, though his own sharp visage -was as yellow as saffron, and his figure lank as a thread-paper. This -urbanity towards the failings of others was, it will be conceded, the -secret of his popularity. Though he himself abstained from all animal -indulgence, he not only did not gloomily lecture on the lawlessness of -appetite, but, on the contrary, smiled on its achievements. This charity -hath served many besides old Schatten. - -But there was another circumstance that greatly assisted the goodly -reputation of the weaver: it was the character of his many visitors and -pupils. His hovel was the resort of the loveliest girls—the most -beautiful youths, not only of the town of Beauvais, but from the great -city itself—from elegant, voluptuous Paris; for even at the period of -which we write it was distinguished for the refinement and luxuries of -life. - -Schatten, in his capacity of tapestry weaver, had pictures of every -variety of subject; and it was his good fortune that those professors -who excelled in the beautiful art seemed by common consent to seek old -Schatten, that he might immortalise their radiant sketches in his still -more exquisite tapestry. There was no subject which painting could -portray, no imagination which it could robe in life and colour, that was -not ready for the loom of Schatten. If a battle were the theme, there -might be seen contending heroes, with stern rapture in their faces, -glory about their heads—their every limb glowing as with Mars’ own -fire—their swords like sunbeams, and the smoking blood more like -libations to purple Liber, than torrents in which the human life gushed -forth. Thus a battle woven by old Schatten was a grand and glorious -thing—each combatant was an excited god; whilst the drained and pallid -carcass—the dreadful wounds, with jagged and gaping mouths—the rigid -muscle straining against death—the fixed and stone-like eye, and clotted -hair—all the gross, substantial horrors of systematic slaughter, were -thrown into the shade: they were not to expose that common liar—Glory. -If the subject were beauty, there might be seen—as erst was chosen by -the antique master—one charm from twenty different faces, making a -miracle of perfection. All that was voluptuous and entrancing shone in -the dewy light of woman’s eye; there was an eternal youth in her red -lip, a tenderness in her warm cheek: too pure for the earth, too -exquisitely fragile, she seemed of a sisterhood ’twixt humanity and -angels. The same masterly hand was displayed though the subject was the -banquet of the glutton—the supper was still spread “in the Apollo.” The -same power shown in the golden heaps of the miser: the food, the wine, -seemed ambrosia and nectar, bestowing immortality on the lip that -tasted: the gold glittered like something dropped from the skies, to be -worn as amulets against calamity. - -A man so potent in his handicraft as Schatten might have surrounded -himself with all the symbols of wealth; and, had he been ambitious, have -successfully contended for the highest honours of citizenship. But, it -was plain, he valued gold as ashes; and for the trappings of state and -place, the most regal shows, the pomp and blazonry of kings, were with -him matter for a jest. - -“Alack!” cried Michel Sous, a withered money-scrivener of Beauvais—“I -hear ’twas a brave sight; and plague on my shanks! I have missed it. -Which way went the procession?” The man of bonds and pieces remained -gaping for the answer of the tapestry weaver, who stood, cross-legged, -leaning on his staff, with a face immovable as granite. It was a day of -triumph, a time of holiday, and Michel had for once quitted his bags and -desk to sun himself in the glory of his fellow-townsmen. “Weaver, I say, -which way went the procession, and where shall I find it?” - -“It went, after some turnings, into the churchyard. Take up a handful of -mould, and, in truth, you clutch a part of what you seek.” - -“Why, thou art drunk, merry, or mad! The churchyard and mould! I ask you -where went, where _is_, the procession?” - -“Where I tell you. I saw it pass by me, and after some windings and -shiftings, I saw each brave puppet—that strutted as though the angels -were looking at it—I saw it shrink, and bend, and totter, and the -yellowness of age crept over it, and its eye faded, and its hair -whitened, and it crawled into the earth as the fox slinks beneath his -cover. The trumpets lay dumb and cankering in the soil—the rustling -flags dropped tinder at the breeze—the rust-eaten sword crumbled beneath -the mattock of the digger, and rank grass grows above the pomp of the -last hour.” - -“Why, Schatten, thou art dreaming. Blessed St Mary! thou surely didst -not see the sight, else thou hadst told me a truer story of its -progress.” - -“Not so: trust me, I saw the revel—but I beheld it from the pinnacle of -time; and I tell you again, all the men who passed me I watched into the -churchyard. Their haughty eyes—their trophies, flags, and clamorous -pipes—I say to you, they are dust! The shout of triumph hath died in the -distance, and _hic jacet_ is now the only tongue.” - -“So, so—a riddle,” crowed the scrivener; and he hobbled on to seek a -less perplexing respondent. - -Such were, at times, the answers of old Schatten, who, when he pleased, -could be as grave and oracular as a father confessor. Such were his -reflections on pageants which, to many thoughtless and happy minds, were -the symbols of all earthly greatness. It was his pastime to analyse -appearance—to unravel the glossy web of policy—to unfold the swathings -of vain pomp and ceremony, and point to the foul mummy they encased. Yet -would he vary this custom with smiles and laughter, and witty sayings, -which gave a savour to the wine they honoured. He would, with his thin -voice troll a song in praise of beauty, and, with quick conceits, prick -on lusty youth to deeds of jollity and wild adventure; nay, he would -often mingle in the revelry. Many a time have the townsfolk of Beauvais -laughed at the gambols of old Schatten, who, pranked in his best, would -trip it with some blue-eyed fair one, who, seemingly unconscious of the -deformity of her partner, would glide through the dance all smiles and -sweetness, as though mortal youth were wedded to immortality, and -wrinkles and grey hairs were not the inheritance of the children of -earth. Alas! but a few months, or weeks, and the poor maiden—she who -seemed the embodied principle of beauty and motion—was as the “clods of -the valley,” a mass of blank insensibility. - -Various were the ways by which old Schatten had insinuated himself into -the good graces of the people of Beauvais. To please them he would, when -in the humour, act twenty different parts—now he would be a learned -doctor, and now a mountebank; at times he would utter the wisdom of -sages—at times play a hundred antic tricks, making his audience shout -with merriment. For one long winter did Schatten profoundly lecture upon -laurels, crowns, swords, and money-bags; and, like a skilful chemist, -would he analyse their component parts. - -“This,” cried Schatten, producing a semblance of the wreath, “this is -the laurel crown of one of the Cæsars. How fresh and green the leaves -remain! Ha! there is no such preservative as innocent blood—it embalms -the names of mighty potentates, who else had never been heard of: -steeped in it, deformity becomes loveliness—fame colours her most -lasting pictures with its paint! The fields that grew this branch were -richly manured: tens of thousands of hearts lay rotting there; the light -of thousands of eyes was quenched; palaces and hovels, in -undistinguished heaps, were strewn about the soil; there lay the hoary -and the unborn; the murdered wife and the outraged virgin—and showers of -tears falling on this garden of agony and horror, it was miraculously -fertile—for lo! it gave forth this one branch, to deck the forehead of -one man! In the veins that seam its leaves are the heart strings of -murdered nations; it is the plant of fire and blood, reaped by the -sword!—Such is the conqueror’s laurel. - -“And here is the despot’s diadem!—Many a time, like glowing iron, hath -it seared the brows it circled. Of what is it composed? What wonderful -ingredients meet in this quintessence of worldly wealth? See, the -passions and the feelings that helped to make it still haunt their -handiwork. Their shadows live in its glittering metal and its flashing -gems. Full-blooded power, with a demon’s eye, glares from this -ruby—leprous fear trembles in these pearls—in every diamond, care or -compunction weeps a tear! Throughout the gold I see a thousand forms, -dawning and fading like hues in heated steel:—there, fancy detects the -assassin with his knife;—there, the bondsman snaps his chain;—there, is -the headsman;—there, the civil war! These are the shades that haunt the -despot’s crown; that wear him waking, and screech to him in his sleep. A -nation’s groan is pent up in its round. It is a living thing that eats -into the brain of the possessor, making him mad and drunk for blood and -power! - -“The miser’s money-bag!—Another monster—all throat. Could its owner have -put the sun itself within this bag, the world for him had been in -darkness—perpetual night had cast a pall upon creation—the fruits of -earth had withered in the bud, and want and misery been universal; -whilst he, the thrifty villain! smugly lived in bloom, and in his very -baseness found felicity! And yet, what was the worth of all this bag -contained? Though it was stuffed with wealth, it was hung about with -fears. As its owner slid his palm into the heap, he would start as -though he felt the hand of death were hidden there to grasp him. He was -almost blind within a world of beauty. His eye saw no images save those -painted by gold; his ears heard not, save when the metal tinkled; his -tongue was dumb, if it spoke not of wealth; the glittering pieces were -to him the children of his heart and soul—dull offspring of the foulest -appetites; yet he hugged them to his bosom—he hugged them, and in his -dying hour they turned to snakes, and stung him in the embrace! This is -the miser’s money-bag—the abode of reptiles, the sepulchre of the soul! - -“The sword!—Ceremony sanctifies it. Some kingly words are spoken—a -trumpet is blown; straightway the sword is _ennobled_! - -“The lawyer’s gown!—the masquerading dress of common-sense. There is a -living instinct in its web: let golden villainy come under it, and with -a thought it flows and spreads, and gives an ample shelter to the thing -it covers; let poor knavery seek it, and it shrinks and curtains up, and -leaves the trembling victim naked to the court!” - -Thus, in his graver moments, would old Schatten preach to his hearers; -then, with a thought, he would break from the solemn discourse, and make -merriment with the self-same objects. Thus, like a skilful juggler, he -would hold the conqueror’s laurel, that hardy plant, to his lips, and -with a puff blow it into dust; he would change the tiara into a huge -snake, monstrous and ugly, and make the beholders start at its -contortions. The long purse he would ravel into a shroud; he would melt -the sword into drops of blood, and turn the lawyer’s gown into a net of -steel. Whilst these tricks made him a favourite with the young and gay, -his learning, and the thousand stories he had of men of all ages and of -all ranks, rendered him an oracle of wisdom to the studious. It was -observed that Schatten, whilst narrating any history, always spoke as -though he had been an eye-witness of the circumstance he detailed; nay, -as though he had known their most secret thoughts. - - * * * * * - -And who is Schatten, whose history is yet unfinished? Who is this -mysterious Weaver, whose deeds, if chronicled, would fill thousands of -folios? He is everywhere about us: in the solitude of our chamber, in -the press and throng of the street, in the wilderness and in the city. - - —“MY DAYS ARE SWIFTER THAN A WEAVER’S SHUTTLE.” - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE WINE CELLAR - _A “MORALITY”_ - - -STEPHEN CURLEW was a thrifty goldsmith in the reign of the Second -Charles. His shop was a mine of metal: he worked for the Court, -although, we fear, his name is not to be found in any record in the -State-Paper Office. Stephen was a bachelor, and, what is strange, he -never felt—that is, he never complained of—his loneliness. His chased -ewers, his embossed goblets, his gold in bars, were to him wife and -children. Midas was his only kinsman. He would creep among his -treasures, like an old grey rat, and rub his hands, and smile, as if -communing with the wealth about him. He had so long hugged gold to his -heart that it beat for nothing else. Stephen was a practical -philosopher; for he would meekly take the order—nay, consult the -caprice—of the veriest popinjay with the humility of a pauper, when, at -a word, he might have out-blazoned lords and earls. If this be not real -philosophy, thought Stephen, as he walked slipshod at the heels of his -customers, what is? - -Stephen was a man of temperance; he was content to see venison carved on -his hunting-cups; he cared not to have it in his larder. His eyes would -melt at clustering grapes chased on banquet goblets, but no drop of the -living juice passed the goldsmith’s lips. Stephen only gave audience to -Bacchus when introduced by Plutus. Such was the frugality of Stephen to -his sixty-fifth year; and then, or his name had not been eternised in -this our page, temptation fell upon him. - -It was eight o’clock on a raw spring evening, and Stephen sat alone in -his back-room. There was no more fire upon the hearth than might have -lain in a tinder-box, but Stephen held his parchment hands above it, and -would not be cold. A small silver lamp, with a short wick—for the keen -observation of Stephen had taught him the scientific truth, that the -less the wick, the less the waste of oil—glowed, a yellow speck in the -darkness. On the table lay a book, a treatise on precious stones; and on -Stephen’s knee, _Hermes, the True Philosopher_. Stephen was startled -from a waking dream by a loud and hasty knocking at the door. Mike, the -boy, was out; but it could not be he. Stephen took up the lamp, and was -creeping to the door, when his eye caught the silver, and he again -placed it upon the table, and felt his way through the shop. Unbolting -the five bolts of the door, but keeping fast the chain, Stephen demanded -“who was there?” - -“I bear a commission from Sir William Brouncker, and I’m in haste.” - -“Stay you a minute—but a minute,” and Stephen hurried back for the lamp, -then hastily returned, opened the door, and the visitor passed the -threshold. - -“Tis not Charles!” cried Stephen, alarmed at his mistake, for he -believed he had heard the voice of Sir William’s man. - -“No matter for that, Stephen; you work for men, and not for Christian -names. Come, I have a job for you”; and the visitor, with the easy, -assured air of a gallant, lounged into the back-parlour, followed by the -tremulous Stephen. - -“Sir William——” began the goldsmith. - -“He bade me use his name; the work I’d have you do is for myself. Fear -not: here’s money in advance,” and the stranger plucked from his pocket -a purse, which in its ample length lay like a bloated snake upon the -table. - -Stephen smiled, and said, “Your business, sir?” - -“See here,” and the stranger moved the lamp immediately between them, -when, for the first time, Stephen clearly saw the countenance of his -customer. His face was red as brick, and his eyes looked deep as the -sea, and glowed with good humour. His mouth was large and frank, and his -voice came as from the well of truth. His hair fell in curls behind his -ears, and his moustache, black as coal, made a perfect crescent on his -lip, the points upwards. Other men may be merely good fellows, the -stranger seemed the best. “See here,” he repeated, and produced a -drawing on a small piece of paper, “can you cut me this in a seal ring?” - -“Humph!” and Stephen put on his spectacles; “the subject is——” - -“Bacchus squeezing grape-juice into the cup of Death,” said the -stranger. - -“An odd conceit,” cried the goldsmith. - -“We all have our whims, or woe to the sellers,” said the customer. -“Well, can it be done?” - -“Surely, sir, surely. On what shall it be cut?” - -“An emerald, nothing less. It is the drinker’s stone. In a week, Master -Curlew?” - -“This day week, sir, if I live in health.” - -The day came. Stephen was a tradesman of his word, and the stranger sat -in the back-parlour, looking curiously into the ring. - -“_Per Bacco!_ Rarely done. Why, Master Curlew, thou hast caught the very -chops of glorious Liber, his swimming eyes, and blessed mouth. Ha! ha! -thou hast put thy heart into the work, Master Curlew; and how cunningly -hast thou all but hid the dart of death behind the thyrsus of the god! -How his life-giving hand clutches the pulpy cluster, and with what a -gush comes down the purple rain, plashing into rubies in the cup of -Mors!” - -“It was my wish to satisfy, most noble sir,” said Stephen, meekly, -somewhat confounded by the loud praises of the speaker. - -“May you never be choked with a grape-stone, Master Curlew, for this -goodly work. Ha!” and the speaker looked archly at the withered -goldsmith; “it hath cost thee many a headache ere thou couldst do this.” - -“If I may say it, I have laboured hard at the craft—have been a thrifty, -sober man,” said Stephen. - -“Sober! Ha! ha! ha!” shouted the speaker, and his face glowed redder, -and his eyes melted; “sober! why, thou wast begot in a wine cask, and -suckled by a bottle, or thou hadst never done this. By the thigh of -Jupiter! he who touched this,” and the stranger held up the ring to his -eye, and laughed again, “he who touched this hath never known water. -Tut! man, were I to pink thee with a sword thou’dst bleed wine!” - -“I,” cried Stephen, “I bleed,” and he glanced fearfully towards the -door, and then at the stranger, who continued to look at the ring. - -“The skin of the sorriest goat shall sometimes hold the choicest -liquor,” said the stranger, looking into the dry face of the goldsmith. -“Come, confess, art thou not a sly roysterer? Or art thou a hermit over -thy drops, and dost count flasks alone? Ay! ay! well, to thy cellar, -man; and—yes—thine arms are long enough—bring up ten bottles of thy -choicest Malaga.” - -“I!—my cellar!—Malaga!” stammered Stephen. - -“Surely thou hast a cellar?” and the stranger put his hat upon the table -with the air of a man set in for a carouse. - -“For forty years, but it hath never known wine,” cried the goldsmith. -“I—I have never known wine.” The stranger said nothing; but, turning -full upon Stephen, and, placing his hands upon his knees, he blew out -his flushing cheeks like a bagpipe, and sat with his eyes blazing upon -the heretic. “No, never!” gasped Stephen, terrified, for a sense of his -wickedness began to possess him. - -“And thou dost repent?” asked the stranger, with a touch of mercy -towards the sinner. - -“I—humph! I’m a poor man,” cried Curlew; “yes, though I’m a goldsmith, -and seem rich, I—I’m poor! poor!” - -“Well, ’tis lucky I come provided,” and the stranger placed upon the -table a couple of flasks. Whether he took them from under his cloak, or -evoked them through the floor, Stephen knew not; but he started at them -as they stood rebukingly upon his table, as if they had been two sheeted -ghosts. “Come, glasses,” cried the giver of the wine. - -“Glasses!” echoed Stephen, “in my house!” - -“Right, glasses! No—cups, and let them be gold ones!” and the bacchanal, -for it was plain he was such, waved his arm with an authority which -Stephen attempted not to dispute, but rose and hobbled into the shop, -and returned with two cups just as the first cork was drawn. “Come, -there’s sunlight in that, eh?” cried the stranger, as he poured the wine -into the vessels. “So, thou hast never drunk wine? Well, here’s to the -baptism of thy heart!” And the stranger emptied the cup, and his lips -smacked like a whip. - -And Stephen Curlew tasted the wine, and looked around, below, above; and -the oaken wainscot did not split in twain, nor did the floor yawn, nor -the ceiling gape. Stephen tasted a second time; thrice did he drink, and -he licked his mouth as a cat licks the cream from her whiskers, and, -putting his left hand upon his belly, softly sighed. - -“Ha! ha! another cup! I know thou wilt,” and Stephen took another, and -another; and the two flasks were in brief time emptied. They were, -however, speedily followed by two more, placed by the stranger on the -table, Stephen opening his eyes and mouth at their mysterious -appearance. The contents of these were duly swallowed, and lo! another -two stood before the goldsmith, or, as he then thought, four. - -“There never was such a Bacchus!” cried Stephen’s customer, eyeing the -ring. “Why, a man may see his stomach fairly heave, and his cheek ripen -with wine: yet, till this night, thou hadst never tasted the juice! -What—what could have taught thee to carve the god so capitally?” - -“Instinct—instinct,” called out the goldsmith, his lips turned to clay -by too much wine. - -“And yet,” said the stranger, “I care not so much for—— How old art -thou, Stephen?” - -“Sixty-five,” and Stephen hiccupped. - -“I care not so much for thy Death, Stephen; instinct should have made -thee a better hand at Death.” - -“Tis a good Death,” cried the goldsmith, with unusual boldness, “a most -sweet Death.” - -“Tis too broad—the skeleton of an alderman with the flesh dried upon -him. He hath not the true desolation, the ghastly nothingness, of the -big bugbear. No matter; I’m content; but this I’ll say, though thou hast -shown thyself a professor at Bacchus, thou art yet but a poor apprentice -at Death.” - -Stephen Curlew answered not with words, but he snored very audibly. How -long he slept he could not well discover, but when he awoke he found -himself alone; no, not alone, there stood upon the table an unopened -flask of wine. In a moment the mystery broke upon him—and he sprang to -his feet with a shriek, and rushed into the shop. No—he had not been -drugged by thieves—all was as it should be. The stranger, like an honest -and courteous man, had taken but his own; and, without disturbing the -sleeper, had quitted the house. And Stephen Curlew, the wine glowing in -his heart—yea, down to his very nails, stood and smiled at the unopened -flask before him. - -Stephen continued to eye the flask; and though its donor had shared with -him he knew not how many bottles, Stephen was resolved that not one drop -of the luscious juice before him should wet an alien throat. But -how—where to secure it? For, in the new passion which seized upon the -goldsmith, the one flask seemed to him more precious than the costly -treasure in his shop—a thing to be guarded with more scrupulous -affection—more jealous love. In what nook of his house to hide the -glorious wealth—what corner, where it might escape the profane glances -and itching fingers of his workmen? The thought fell in a golden flash -upon him—the cellar—ay, the cellar! Who of his household ever thought of -approaching the cellar? Stephen seized the flask and lamp, and paused. -The cellar had no lock! No matter; he had a bag of three-inch nails and -a stout hammer. - - * * * * * - -The next morning neighbours met at the closed door and windows of the -goldsmith, and knocked and shouted, shouted and knocked. They were, -however, reduced to a crowbar, and, at length, burst into the house. -Every place was searched, but there was nowhere visible old Stephen -Curlew. Days passed on, and strange stories filled the ears of men. One -neighbour vowed that he had had a dream or a vision, he knew not which, -wherein he saw the goldsmith whirled down the Strand in a chariot drawn -by a lion and a tiger, and driven by a half-naked young man, wearing a -panther skin, and on his head vine-leaves and ivy. An old woman swore -that she had seen Stephen carried away by a dozen devils (very much in -liquor), with red faces and goat legs. However, in less than a month, -the goldsmith’s nephew, a scrivener’s clerk, took possession of Curlew’s -wealth, and became a new-made butterfly with golden wings. As for -Stephen, after various speculations, it was concluded, to the -satisfaction of all parties, that he must have been carried away by -Satan himself, and the nephew cared not to combat popular opinions. But -such, in truth, was not the end of the goldsmith. Hear it. - - * * * * * - -Stephen, possessed by the thought of the cellar, with the one flask, a -lamp, nails, and hammer, proceeded to the sacred crypt. He arrived in -the vault, and having kissed the flask, reverently put it down, and -straightway addressed himself to the work. Closing the door, he drove -the first nail, the second, third; and borrowing new strength from the -greatness of his purpose, he struck each nail upon the head with the -force and precision of a Cyclops, burying it deep in the oak. With this -new-found might he drove eleven nails; the twelfth was between his thumb -and finger, when looking round—oh! sad mishap, heavy mischance! awful -error!—he had driven the nails from the wrong side! In a word—and we -tremble while we write it—he had nailed himself in! There he stood, and -there stood the flask. He gasped with horror; his foot stumbled, struck -the lamp, it fell over, and the light went out. - -Shall we write further on the agony of Stephen Curlew? Shall we describe -how he clawed and struck at the door, now in the hope to wrench a nail, -and now to alarm the breathing men above? No; we will not dwell upon the -horror; it is enough that the fate of the goldsmith was dimly shadowed -forth in the following paragraph of last Saturday:— - -“Some labourers, digging a foundation near”—no, we will not name the -place, for the family of the Curlews is not yet extinct, and there may -be descendants in the neighbourhood—“near——, found a skeleton. A hammer -was beside it, with several long nails: a small wine flask was also -found near the remains, which, it is considered, could not have been in -the vault in which they were discovered less than a century and -three-quarters!” - -Oh, ye heads of families! and oh, ye thrifty, middle-aged bachelors, -boarding with families, or growing mouldy by yourselves, never, while ye -live, forget the terrible end of Stephen Curlew. And oh, ye heads of -families—and oh, ye aforesaid bachelors, albeit ye have only one bottle -left, never, NEVER NAIL UP THE WINE CELLAR! - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - RECOLLECTIONS OF GUY FAWKES - -“When a man has once been very famous for jests and merry adventures, he - is made to adopt all the jests that want a father, and many times - such as are unworthy of him.”—Motteux’s _Life of Rabelais_. - - -AT midnight, on the fifth of November, in the year of grace one thousand -six hundred and five, Guido Fawkes, “gentleman,” was discovered, “booted -and spurred,” in the vicinity of St Stephen’s Chapel, having on his -person “three matches, a tinder-box, and a dark lantern”; and purposing -by means of gunpowder to blow up, says King James, “the whole nobility, -the most part of the knights and gentry, besides the whole judges of the -land, with _most of the lawyers_ and the whole clerks!” For the one -indiscretion Guido Fawkes forfeited his gentility, and became a proverb -of wickedness. In boyhood we looked upon Guido Fawkes, gentleman, as one -little lower than the devil; he had four horns, and a dozen tails. -“Years that bring the philosophic mind” have divested him of these -excrescences and appendages, and Guido Fawkes now appears to matured -charities merely a person of a singularly eccentric disposition. - -Some five and twenty years ago it was the patriotic custom of the -authorities of an Isle of Sheppy dockyard to bestow upon their -apprentices a few waggon-loads of resinous timber, that a bonfire worthy -of the cause it celebrated might be kindled from the public purse—that -the effigy of the arch-fiend Guy might be consumed in a fire three times -hotter than the fire of a furnace. Such fierce liberality was not lost -upon the townspeople; their ardour in the burning business smouldered -not; every man subscribed his plank or log; and, from the commissioner -in his uniform, to Bobby in his pinafore, the fifth of November glowed, -in the calendar of their minds, a pillar of fire. For a month before -that day, the coming anniversary busied the thoughts of boyish -executioners, resolved to show their patriotism in the appointments of -the Guy—in the grotesque iniquity of his face—in the cumbrous state of -his huge arm-chair. To beg clothes from door to door was the business of -every lover of Church and State. To ask for a coat—a pair of breeches—a -shirt (the frill could be made of paper)—hose and hat, was not -mendicity, but the fulfilment of a high social duty. - -Guy Fawkes would at length be dressed. A philosopher might have found -good matter in his eleemosynary suit. In the coat of the bloodthirsty -wretch he might have recognised the habit of Scum, the slop-seller, a -quiet trader afloat of twenty thousand pounds—in the vest of the -villainous ruffian the discarded waistcoat of Smallgrog, the honest -landlord of a little house for sailors—in the stockings of the atrocious -miscreant the hose of the equitable Weevil, biscuit-contractor to his -Majesty’s fleet—whilst for the leather of the fiend-like effigy, Guy -Fawkes was to be exhibited, and afterwards burnt in, the broad-toed -shoes of that best of men, Trap, the town attorney. - -The chair, too, in which Guy Fawkes sat, might it not have some day -enshrined a justice of the peace? and the lantern fixed in the hand of -the diabolical, lynx-eyed monster, might it not have been the property -of the most amiable and most somnolent of all the Blue Town watchmen? A -mask was fixed upon the effigy, or the lump of clay kneaded into human -features, and horribly or delicately expressed, according to the -benevolent art of the makers!—might not the same visor have been worn by -a perfect gentleman, with considerable advantage, at a masquerade?—might -not the clay nose and mouth of the loathsome traitor have borne an -accidental likeness to the very pink of patriots? Let philosophy ponder -well on Guy Fawkes. - -We will now attempt our childish recollections of the great Guy. We have -waked at midnight, perhaps dreaming of the bonfire about to blaze, and -thinking we heard the distant chorus sounding to the advent of the -Mighty Terror. No, it was the sea booming across the marsh, the wind -rising or falling. There was nothing for it but to go to sleep and dream -of unextinguishable squibs and crackers. At length four o’clock arrives; -the cocks crow—the boys can’t be long now. There—hark!—how the chant -comes up the street, like one voice—the voice of a solitary droning -witch! We lie breathless, and shape to ourselves Guy Fawkes in the dark! -Our hearts beat quicker and quicker as the chant becomes louder; and we -sit up in bed, as the boys approach the door, and, oh! how we wish to be -with them! There—there they are in full chorus! Hark:— - - “The fifth of November, as I can remember, - Is gunpowder treason and plot, - I know no reason, why gunpowder treason - Should ever be forgot.” - -We feel an unutterable pang, for loudest among the loud, we hear the -shrill voice of Jack Tarleton. “Ha!” we sigh, “_his_ mother lets _him_ -out.” The bitterness passes away with the— - - “Hallo, boys! Hallo, boys! make a round ring, - Hallo, boys! Hallo, boys! God save the king!” - - -[Illustration: - - “Rejoicing in the captivity of a suit of clothes stuffed with hay” -] - - -And now the procession moves on, and the voices die in the distance, -and we feel we are left alone; and, in a few minutes, we hear new -revellers, rejoicing in the captivity of a suit of clothes stuffed -with hay, and called Guy Fawkes. Guy Fawkes! Guy Fawkes! who—what _is_ -Guy Fawkes? We had been told that he had been caught with a lantern, -tinder-box and matches, ready to blow up thousands of barrels of -gunpowder, and so to destroy the king, bishops, and members of -Parliament. It must be shocking—very shocking; still, we could not -perfectly envisage the atrocity—we could not make out the full horror. -We had the undefined sense of the greatness of a king, though we -hardly dared to hope we should ever see one. We had a less remote -notion of the nature of a bishop, having been helped somewhat in our -speculations by the person of the curate at the garrison church. -“Curates may come to be bishops, only bishops are very much greater; -and curates have nothing upon their heads, whereas certain bishops -might wear mitres.” On learning this we thought that bishops were -merely full-grown curates; in the same way that we had seen Poland -hens with their topknots of feathers only the spring before -bare-headed little chicks. It was thus, in the irreverence of -childhood, we disposed of the whole bench of bishops. But now came we -to the difficulty—what, what could be a member of Parliament? Was it a -living thing? If so, had it a voice? Could it speak? Could it sit? -Could it say yes and no? Could it walk? Could it turn? Or was it -merely an image? Was it pulled by wires, like sister Jenny’s doll? We -had been told that members of Parliament made laws. What _were_ laws? -Were they the lions and unicorns on the king’s arms? Were they a -better sort of cake, too dear for everybody to buy? Little boys ate -parliament-cakes—were law-cakes for men? If so, were they gilt or -plain?—with comfits or without? - -It is no matter, we thought, being unable to satisfy ourselves: it is no -matter. Guy Fawkes—that shadowy, terrible mystery—had once lived and -tried to kill the king, the full-grown curates, and those undivined -riddles—members of Parliament. We again went to our first question. Who -_was_ Guy Fawkes? Did he have a father and mother? Was Guy Fawkes ever a -little boy? and did he fly a kite and play at marbles? If so, how could -he have ever thought it worth his while to trouble himself with other -matters? There was something terrifying in the idea of having played -with Guy Fawkes. We fancied him at taw—we saw him _knuckle down_. No—it -could not be; the imagination of the child could not dwell upon such an -impossibility. Guy Fawkes a boy!—a baby! now shaking a rattle—now -murmuring as he fed, his mother smiling down upon him! No, no—it was -impossible; Guy Fawkes was never born—he was from the first a man—he -never could have been a baby. He seemed to us a part of the things that -had always been, and always would be—a piece of grim eternity; a -principle of everlasting wickedness. - -Is it in childhood alone—is it only in the dim imaginings of infancy—in -the wandering guesses of babyhood, that we manifest this ignorance? When -the full-grown thief is hanged, do we not sometimes forget that he was -the child of misery and vice—born for the gallows—nursed for the halter? -Did we legislate a little more for the cradle, might we not be spared -some pains for the hulks? - -And then we had been told that Guy Fawkes came from Spain. Where was -Spain? Was it a million miles away, and what distance was a million -miles? Were there little boys in Spain, or were they all like Guy -Fawkes? How strange, and yet how delightful to us did it seem to feel -that we were a part of the wonderful things about us! To be at all upon -this world—to be one at the great _show_ of men and women—to feel that -when we grew bigger we should know everything of kings, bishops, members -of Parliament, and Guy Fawkes! What a golden glory hung about the -undiscovered! - -And Guy Fawkes, we had heard, had his head cut off, and his body cut -into quarters! Could this be true? Could men do to men what we had seen -Fulk the butcher do to sheep? How much, we thought, had little boys to -grow out of before they could agree to this! And then, when done, what -was the good of it—what _could_ be the good of it? Was Guy Fawkes -eaten—if not, _why_ cut him up? - -Had Guy Fawkes a wife, and little boys and girls? Did he love his -children, and buy them toys and apples—or, like Sawney Bean, did he -devour them? Did Guy Fawkes say his prayers? - -Had Guy Fawkes a friend? Did he ever laugh—did he ever tell a droll -story? Did Guy Fawkes ever sing a song? Like Frampton, the Blue Town -Barber, did Guy Fawkes ever get drunk? At length we put to ourselves the -question of questions:— - -_Was there ever such a man as Guy Fawkes? Did Guy Fawkes ever live?_ - -This query annoyed us with the doubt that we had been tricked into a -hate, a fear, a loathing, a wonder—and a mixture of these passions and -emotions, for a fib. We felt disappointed when we felt the reality of -Guy Fawkes to be doubtful. We had heard of griffins and unicorns, of -dragons that had eaten men like apples, and had then been told that -there never had been any such thing. If we were not to believe in a -dragon, why should we believe in Guy Fawkes? After all, was the whole -story but make-game? - -The child passively accepts a story of the future, he can bring his mind -up to a thing promised, but wants faith in the past. The cause is -obvious; he recollects few things gone, but is full of things to come. -Hence Guy Fawkes was with us the ogre of a nursery; we could have -readily believed, especially after the Story of Beauty and the Beast, -that he married Goody Two Shoes, and was the father of Little Red Riding -Hood. - -But Guy Fawkes grows with us from boyhood to youth. He gets flesh and -blood with every November; he is no longer the stuffed plaything of a -schoolboy or the grotesque excuse for begging vagabonds, but the -veritable Guy Fawkes, “gentleman.” We see him, “Thomas Percy’s alleged -man,” at the door of the vault, “booted and spurred”; we behold that -“very tall and desperate fellow,” lurking in the deep of night, with -looks of deadly resolution, pounced upon by that vigilant gentleman of -the privy-chamber, Sir Thomas Knevit! We go with Guido, “the new Mutius -Scævola, born in England,” before the council, where “he often smiles in -scornful manner, not only avowing the fact, but repenting only, with the -said Scævola, his failing in the execution thereof.” We think of him -“answering quickly to every man’s objection, scoffing at any idle -questions which were propounded to him, and jesting with such as he -thought had no authority to examine him.” And then we think of the -thanksgiving of the great James, who gave praise that, had the intent of -the wicked prevailed, he should not have “died ingloriously in an -ale-house, a stew, or such vile place,” but with “the best and most -honourable company.”[7] - -Footnote 7: - - See “His Majesty’s Speech concerning the Gunpowder Plot,” etc., in the - _Harleian Miscellany_. - -Guy Fawkes is, in our baby thoughts, a mysterious vision, one of the -shadows of evil advancing on the path of childhood. We grow older, and -the substances of evil come close upon us—we see their dark lantern, and -snuff the brimstone. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. - - -EVERY generation compared to the age it immediately succeeds is but a -further lapse from Paradise. Every grandfather is of necessity a wiser, -kinder, nobler being that the grandson doomed to follow him—every -grandmother chaster, gentler, more self-denying, more devoted to the -beauty of goodness, than the giddy, vain, thoughtless creature, who in -her time is sentenced to be grandmother to somebody, whose still -increased defects will only serve to bring out the little lustre of the -gentlewoman who preceded her. Man, undoubtedly, had at the first a fixed -amount of goodness bestowed upon him; but this goodness, by being passed -from generation to generation, has, like a very handsome piece of coin, -with arms and legend in bold relief, become so worn by continual -transit, that it demands the greatest activity of faith to believe that -which is now current in the world, to be any portion of the identical -goodness with which the human race was originally endowed. Hapless -creatures are we! Moral paupers of the nineteenth century, turning a -shining cheek upon one another, and by the potent force of swagger, -passing off our thin, worn, illegible pieces of coin—how often, no -thicker, no weightier than a spangle on a player’s robe!—when our -glorious ancestors, in the grandeur of their goodness, could ring down -musical shekels! Nay, as we go back, we find the coin of excellence so -heavy, so abounding, that how any man—Samson perhaps excepted—had -strength enough to carry his own virtues about him, puzzles the -effeminacy of present thought. Folks then were doubtless made grave, -majestic in their movements by the very weight of their excellence. -Whilst we, poor anatomies—skipjacks of the nineteenth century—we carry -all our ready virtue in either corner of our waistcoat pocket, and from -its very lightness, are unhappily enabled to act all sorts of unhallowed -capers—to forget the true majesty of man in the antics of the -mountebank. Forlorn degradation of the human race! - -But the tears of the reader—for if he have a heart of flesh, it is by -this time melting in his eyes—are not confidently demanded for only the -one generation whereof (seeing he is our reader) he is certainly not the -worst unit: but we here require of him to weep for posterity; yes, to -subscribe a rivulet of tears for the generations to come. The coinage of -the virtues at present in circulation among us is so thin, so defaced, -so battered, so clipt, that it appears to us wholly impossible that any -portion of the currency can descend a couple of generations lower. What, -then, is to become of our grandchildren? Without one particle of golden -truth and goodness left to them, for we cannot take into account the two -or three pieces hoarded—as old ladies have hoarded silver pennies—what -remains, what alternative for our descendants but to become a generation -of coiners? Can any man withstand the terror of this picture, wherein -all the world are shown as so many passers of pocket-pieces, lacquered -over with something that seems like gold and silver, but which, indeed, -is only seeming? A picture wherein he who is the ablest -hypocrite—passing off the greatest amount of false coin upon his -neighbor—shall appear the most virtuous person! Is not this an appalling -scene to contemplate? Yet, if there be any truth in a common theory, if -there be any veracity in the words written in a thousand pages, uttered -at every fireside, dropt in the casual meeting of man and man at -door-steps, in by-lanes, highways, and market-places—the picture we have -shadowed forth must become an iron present. - -“We shall never see such times again!” - -“The world isn’t what it used to be.” - -“When I was a boy, things hadn’t come to this pass.” - -“The world gets wickeder and wickeder.” - -Since the builders of Babel were scattered, these thoughts have been -voiced in every tongue. From the very discontent and fantasticalness of -his nature, man looks backward at the lost Paradise of another age. He -affects to snuff the odour of its fruits and flowers, and with a -melancholy shaking of the head, sees, or thinks he sees, the flashing of -the fiery swords that guard them. And then, in the restlessness of his -heart, in the peevishness and discontent of his soul, he says all sorts -of bitter things of the generations he has fallen among; and, from the -vanished glory of the past, predicts increasing darkness for the future. -Happily, the prophesying cannot be true; and happily, too, for the -condition of the prophet, he knows it will not. But then there is a sort -of comfort in the waywardness of discontent; at times, a soothing music -to the restlessness of the soul in the deep bass of hearty grumbling. - -The ingratitude of the act is entirely forgotten in the pleasure. “Ha! -those were the merry days—the golden times of England they were!” May -not this be heard from the tradesman, the mechanic, as he is borne past -Tilbury Fort, and the thoughts of Queen Elizabeth, of her “golden days,” -ring in his brain; and living only in the nineteenth century, he has -some vague, perplexing notion that he has missed an Eden, only by a -hundred years or two? He thinks not—why should he?—of the luxury he now -purchases for a shilling; a luxury, not compassable in those golden days -by all the power and wealth of all the combining sovereigns of the -earth, for he is a passenger of a Gravesend steamboat, the fare -twelvepence. - -We would not forget that wonder of Elizabeth’s navy, the _Great Harry_. -No; we would especially remember it, to compare the marvel, with all its -terrors, to the agent of our day, which, wrought and directed from a few -gallons of water, makes the winged ship but as a log—a dead leviathan -upon the deep; which, in the certainty and intensity of its power of -destruction must, in the fulness of time, make blood-spilling war -bankrupt, preaching peace with all men, even from “the cannon’s mouth.” - -We are, however, a degenerate race. In our maudlin sensibility, we have -taken under our protection the very brutes of the earth—the fowls of the -air—the fish of the sea. We have cast the majesty of the law around the -asses of the reign of Victoria—have assured to live geese a property in -their own feathers—have, with a touch of tenderness, denounced the -wood-plugged claws of the lobsters of Billingsgate. We have a society, -whose motto, spiritually, is— - - “Never to link our pleasure or our pride - With suffering of the meanest thing that lives.” - -Very different, indeed, was the spirit of the English people, when their -good and gracious Queen Elizabeth smiled sweetly upon bull dogs, and -found national music in the growl, the roar, and the yell of a -bear-garden; whereto, in all the courtesy of a nobler and more virtuous -age, the sovereign led the French ambassador; that, as chroniclers tell -us, Monsieur might arrive at a sort of comparative knowledge of English -bravery, judging the courage of the people by the stubborn daring of -their dogs. - -Then we had no Epsom, with its high moralities—no Ascot, with its -splendour and wealth. Great, indeed, was the distance—deep the -abyss—between the sovereign and the sovereign people. - -And in those merry, golden days of good Queen Bess, rank was something; -it had its brave outside, and preached its high prerogative from -externals. The nobleman declared his nobility by his cloak, doublet and -jerkin; by the plumes in his hat; by the jewels flashing in his shoes. -Society, in all its gradations, was inexorably marked by the tailor and -goldsmith. - -But what is the tailor of the nineteenth century? What doth he for -nobility? Alas! next to nothing. The gentleman is no longer the creature -of the tailor’s hands—the being of his shop-board. The gentleman must -dress himself in ease, in affability, in the gentler and calmer -courtesies of life, to make distinguishable the nobility of his nature -from the homeliness, the vulgarity of the very man who, it may be, finds -nobility in shoe-leather. Thus, gentility of blood, deprived by -innovation of its external livery—denied the outward marks of -supremacy—is thrown upon its bare self to make good its prerogative. -Manner must now do the former duty of fine clothes. - -State, too, was in the blessed times of Elizabeth a most majestic -matter. The queen’s carriage, unlike Victoria’s, was a vehicle wondrous -in the eyes of men as the chariot of King Pharaoh. Now, does every poor -man keep his coach—price sixpence! How does the economy of luxury -vulgarise the indulgence? - - -[Illustration: - - “Rank preached its high prerogative from externals” -] - - -Travelling was then a grave and serious adventure. The horse-litter was -certainly a more dignified means of transit than the fuming, boiling, -roaring steam-engine, that rushes forward with a man as though the human -anatomy was no more than a woolpack. In the good old times of Queen -Bess, a man might take his five long days and more for a hundred miles, -putting up, after a week’s jolting, at his hostelry, the Queen’s Head of -Islington, for one good night’s rest, ere he should gird up his loins to -enter London. Now is man taught to lose all respect for the hoariness of -time by the quickness of motion. Now may he pass over two hundred miles -in some seven or eight hours if he will, taking his first meal in the -heart of Lancashire, and his good-night glass at a Geneva palace in -London. Is it wonderful that our present days should abound more in -sinful levity than the days of the good Queen Elizabeth, seeing that we -may, in the same space of time, crowd so much more iniquity? The truth -is, science has thrown so many hours upon our hands, that we are -compelled to kill them with all sorts of arrows—which, as moralists -declare, have mortal poison at the barb, however gay and brilliant may -be the feathers that carry it home. Dreadful will be the time when that -subtle fiend, science, shall perform nearly all human drudgery; for then -men in their very idleness will have nought else to destroy save their -own souls; and the destruction will, of course, be quicker, and, to the -father of all mischief, much more satisfactory. - -Again, in the good times of Elizabeth, humanity was blessed with a -modesty, a deference—in these days of bronze, to be vainly sought -for—towards the awfulness of power, the grim majesty of authority. And -if, indeed, it happened that some outrageous wretch, forgetful of the -purpose of nature in creating him the Queen’s liegeman, and therefore -her property—if, for a moment, he should cease to remember the fealty -which, by the principle of the divine right of kings, should be vital to -him as the blood in his veins—why, was there not provided for him, by -the benignity of custom and the law, a salutary remedy? If he advanced a -new opinion, had he not ears wherewith, by hangman’s surgery, he might -be cured of such disease? If he took a mistaken view of the rights of -his fellow-subjects, might he not be taught to consider them from a -higher point of elevation, and so be instructed? - -Booksellers, in the merry time of Elizabeth, were enabled to vindicate a -higher claim to moral and physical daring than is permitted to them in -these dull and drivelling days. He who published a book, -questioning—though never so gently—the prerogative of her Majesty to do -just as the spirit should move her, might have his right hand chopped -off, and afterwards—there have been examples of such devotion—wave his -bloody stump, with a loyal shout of “God save the Queen!” But these were -merry days—golden days—in which the royal prerogative was more majestic, -more awful than in the nineteenth century. And wherefore? The reason is -plain as the Queen’s arms. - -The king of beasts lives on flesh. His carnivorousness is one of the -great elements of his Majesty. So was it in the times of Elizabeth, with -the Queen’s prerogative. It was for the most part fed upon flesh. It -would be a curious and instructive calculation could we arrive at the -precise number of noses, and arms, and hands, and human heads, and -quarters of human carcases, which—during the merry, golden reign of -Elizabeth, of those days we shall never see again—were required by law -to keep strong and lusty the prerogative of the Virgin Queen! How, as -the human head festered and rotted above the city gates, was the -prerogative sweetened by the putrefaction! And then the daily lessons -preached by the mute horror of the dead man’s mouth, to the human life -daily passing beneath it! What precepts of love and gentleness towards -all men fell from the shrivelled lips—what Christianity gleamed from the -withered eye-balls! How admirably were the every-day thoughts of men -associated with prerogative, its majesty for ever preached by dead men’s -tongues—its beauty visible in dead men’s flesh. Those were the golden -days—the merry days—we shall never see such times again. Now, a poor and -frivolous race, we pass beneath Temple Bar, untaught by the grim -moralities that from its height were wont to instruct our forefathers. -In the days of Elizabeth we might have lounged at the door of the city -shopkeeper, and whilst chaffering for a commodity of this world, have -had our thoughts elevated by a consideration of the ghastly -skull—grinning a comment upon all earthly vanities—above us. Those days -are gone—passed for ever. We have now plate-glass and dainty painting, -and precious woods, in the shops of our tradesmen, but nought to take us -from the vanity of life—no prerogative of a Virgin Queen, in the useful -semblance of a _memento mori_. - - -[Illustration: - - “Hangman’s surgery” -] - - -It is to the want of such stern yet wholesome monitors we are doubtless -to attribute the decay of the national character. We are sunk in -effeminacy, withered by the fond ministerings of science. The road of -life—which, by its ruggedness, was wont to try the sinews of our -Elizabethan ancestors—we, their degenerate children, have spread as with -a carpet, and hung the walls around us with radiant tapestry. The -veriest household drudge of our time is a Sardanapalus compared to the -lackey of the Virgin Queen. The tatterdemalion, who lives on highway -alms, may look down upon the beggar of Elizabeth; for the mendicant of -Victoria may, with his prayed-for pence, purchase luxuries unknown to -the Dives of former days. - -And what—if we listen to complaining patriotism—what is the evil born of -this? A loss of moral energy; a wasting away of national fibre. Believe -this melancholy philosophy, and national weakness came in (a moral moth -in the commodity) with silk stockings. Ere then was the bearing of man -more majestic in the eyes of angels! For then was the sword the type of -station, a gentleman no more appearing abroad without his rapier than a -wasp without its sting. Human life could not but lose part of its -dignity with its cold steel. What a fine comment on the charity, the -gentleness, the humanity of his fellow-men, did every gentleman wear at -his side! He was, in a manner, his own law-maker, his own executioner. -In the judgment of later philosophy, we are prone to believe that the -said gentlemen may appear, at the best, ferocious simpletons—creatures -swaggering “between heaven and earth,” with their hands upon their -hilts, ready and yearning for a thrust at those who took the wall of -their gentility. Ha! those, indeed, were the good old days! And then -came a whining, curd-complexioned benevolence, and in progress of time, -its thin, white, womanly fingers unbuckled the sword-belt of the bully, -and organised police. Sword-makers were bankrupt, and human nature lost -a grace! - -Thus, it appears, the world has been from age to age declining in -virtue, and can only escape the very profound of iniquity by a speedy -dissolution. Every half dozen years or so, a prophet growls from a -cellar, or cries from the altitude of a garret, the advent of the last -day. An earthquake, or some other convulsion (the particulars of which -are only vouchsafed to the prophet) is to destroy the earth or London at -least; whereupon old gentlemen remove to Gravesend, and careful -housewives take stock of their plate. Now, every such prophecy, instead -of bewildering honest people with all sorts of fears, and all sorts of -anxieties for their personal property, ought to make them sing -thanksgiving songs for the promised blessing. It being the creed of -these people that the world gets worse and worse, they would at least -have the comfort to know that they had seen the last of its wickedness. -For a moment, reader, we will suppose you one of these. Consider, upon -your own faith, what a terrible wretch will necessarily be your -great-great-great-great-great-grandson! Well, would it not be -satisfaction to you that this dragon (we believe dragons are oviparous) -should be crushed in the egg of the future? How would you like your own -flesh and blood inevitably changed by the course of time into the -anatomy of something very like a demon? You are bad enough as you are; -that dismal truth your own humility preaches to you; to say nothing of -the plain speaking of your neighbours. No; out of pure love and pity for -humanity, you ought to wish all the world to stop with your own pulse. -It is hard enough now, even for the best of us, to keep on the -respectable side of the statutes; but, with the growing wickedness of -the world, we should like to know what sort of metal will the laws be -made of. The great social link must inevitably be a fetter. - -How often have we stood, with the unseen tears in our eyes, watching the -nobility of the land, in nobility’s best bib and tucker, winding in -golden line to the drawing-room of Queen Victoria! Alas! degenerate -dukes—faded duchesses. Marquises fallen upon evil times—marchionesses -very dim indeed! What are you to the nobility of Elizabeth? What to the -grandees of those merry days, the golden shadow of which is brightness -itself to the cold, grey glimmering of the present? We have yet one -thought to comfort us; and that is, a half belief that the court of -Elizabeth was held as nothing to all courts preceding; and so back, -until Englishmen mourned over the abomination of cloaks and vests, -sorrowing for those golden days, those good old times of the painted -Britons! Great was the virtue abounding in _woad_; grievous the wilful -iniquity woven in broad-cloth. - -Queen Elizabeth died—fair, regal bud!—in the sweetness of virginity; and -though the sun (by some despairing effort) managed to rise the next -morning, it has never been wholly itself since. She died, and was -brought to Whitehall, to the great calamity of the fish then swimming in -the river; for a poet of the day, quoted by Camden, has eternised the -evil that in the hour fell upon Thames flounders:— - - “The Queene was brought by water to Whitehall; - At every stroke the oares teares let fall; - More clung about the barge; fish under water - _Wept out their eyes of pearle, and swame blinde after_, - I think the bargemen might with easier thighes - Have rowed her thither in her people’s eyes. - Yet, howsoere, thus much my thoughts have scann’d, - She’d come by water, had she come by land.” - -So closed the golden days of Queen Elizabeth; leaving us, in all the -virtues and comforts of the world, the bankrupt children of Queen -Victoria! - -Unworthy is he of the balmy sweetness of this blessed May who can think -so! A churlish, foolish, moody traitor to the spirit of goodness and -beauty that, as with the bounty of the sun and air, calls up forms of -loveliness in his path, and surrounds him with ten thousand household -blessings! With active presences, which the poet of Elizabeth, in even -_his_ large love for man could scarce have dreamed of; or, dreaming, -seen them as a part of fairy fantasy—a cloud-woven pageant! - -Let the man who lives by his daily sweat pause in his toil, and, with -his foot upon his spade, watch the white smoke that floats in the -distance; listen to the lessening thunder of the engine that, instinct -with Vulcanic life, has rushed, devouring space, before it. That little -curl of smoke hangs in the air a thing of blessed promise—that roar of -the engine is the melody of hope to unborn generations. But now, the -digger of the soil looks moodily at that vapour, and his heart is -festering with the curse upon the devil Steam; that fiend that grinds -his bones beneath the wheels of British Juggernaut. Poor creature! The -seeming demon is a beneficent presence that, in the ripeness of time, -will work regeneration of the hopes of men. - -Let the poor man—the mechanic of a town—look around him. Let him in his -own house, humble though it be, acknowledge the presence of a thousand -comforts which, had he lived two centuries ago, he could not with a -baron’s wealth have purchased. Not mere creature enjoyments; but -humanizing, refining pleasures, drawing man nearer to man, expanding the -human heart, and imparting to humanity the truest greatness in the -greatest gentleness. - -“What!” it may be asked, “can you have the hardihood, or the ignorance, -to vaunt these days above the days of Elizabeth? These days with famine -throwing the shuttle—with ignorance, wholly brutish, digging in the -pit—with gold, a monster all brain, and so the very worst of -monsters—dominating throughout the land, and crushing the pulses of -thousands within its hard, relentless grasp? Would you not rather pray -for a return of those merry, merry days, when men were whipped, -imprisoned, branded, burnt, at little more than the mere will of -Majesty, for mere opinion—but who had, nevertheless, bacon and bread and -ale sufficient to the day?” - -No; we would go no step backward, but many in advance; our faith still -increasing in the enlarged sympathies of men; in the reverence which man -has learned and is still learning to pay towards the nature of his -fellow-men; in the deep belief that whatever change may and _must_ take -place in the social fabric—we have that spirit of wisdom and tolerance -(certainly _not_ a social creature of the golden days) waxing strong -among us,—so strong that the fabric will be altered and repaired brick -by brick, and stone by stone. Meanwhile, the scaffolding is fast growing -up about it. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE LITTLE GREAT AND THE GREAT LITTLE - - -EXTRAORDINARY is the mind of man! He sails in mid-air; he compasseth the -globe; he blunts the lightning; he writeth _Hamlet_, _Paradise Lost_, -the _Principia_, and he chaineth a flea by the leg. He maketh the strong -elephant to bend his joints, and he subdueth a flea, if not to “hew -wood,” at least to draw water. These, the later triumphs of the human -essence, are now on exhibition somewhere in that long ark for modern -monsters, Regent Street! Yes, the “Industrious Fleas” at once delight -and shame fashionable idlers, sending them to their beds to ruminate on -the sagacity of the living world about them. - -We love a monster as much as ever did _Trinculo_; hence we have been -bitten; that is, we have made acquaintance with the “Industrious Fleas.” -Let us shortly enumerate their separate capabilities. One flea, a fine -muscular fellow, worthy, did fairies die, to be mourning coach horse at -the funeral of Queen Titania (how long since the fairies had a -coronation!), draws a very splendid carriage, constructed from the pith -of elder. He curvets, and bounds, and shows his blood (he must have been -fed in some royal stable—he has surely fattened on kings) with the -proudest royal coach-horse, on—as they say at public dinners—“the -proudest day of its life.” Having seen its legs, we shall think more -seriously of the kick of a flea ever after. Then, to talk of a “flea -bite,” as a proverb for a wife—a mere nothing; let those who speak thus -vainly contemplate the terrible proboscis of the aforesaid chariot flea, -and then think of the formidable weapon, plunged through one’s tender -skin, and sucking up by quarts (we saw, we looked through a microscope) -our hearts’ best blood! To go to bed appears no wonder, but to be able -to rise again after what we have beheld, seems to us a daily miracle! To -proceed. Another of the “industrious” takes the air with a chain and a -weight to his leg, the wonder consisting in its resignation to its -destiny. A third flea, also manacled, draws water. A fourth flea has a -more awful duty—to bear Napoleon Bonaparte, late of France, but now of -St Helena—there he is, the victor of a hundred fights, majestically -seated on flea back. An enthusiastic Frenchman may, if he have good -eyes, see in the miniature emperor, the sallow, thoughtful face, the -“brassy eye” (_vide_ Haydon’s account) of the original despot—could the -figure take snuff, the illusion would be perfect. Two other fleas, -soldiers, fight a desperate combat, affording in their proper persons a -triumphant refutation to the celebrated dogma of the philosopher, that -“fleas are not lobsters.” We understood from the _Cicerone_ that their -deadly enmity was excited towards each other by a mutual tickling. We -were also informed that one of the fleas (“epicurean animal!”) had the -honour to sup off the hand of the Princess Augusta. This fact was -shamefully hushed up by the magas of the _Court Circular_, else how -would it have astonished the world to have read that “last night Her -Royal Highness the Princess Augusta gave a supper to the fleas!” Certain -it is, the document contains at times news of less interest.[8] This -condescension on the part of her Highness, though it speaks much for her -affability, has been the cause of grievous heartburnings and bickerings -among the society. It is extraordinary the airs that every flea gives -himself about “his blood.” However, it is to be hoped that a herald will -be appointed to settle the claims of each disputant, and to favour the -whole with a genealogical tree. Who knows whether one of these fleas’ -ancestors did not bite Sancho Panza, or the Dulcinea del Toboso, or the -_Carters_, who were “bitten like a tench”? Speaking on our own -responsibility, we are afraid that each of these little creatures, after -all its vanity about pure blood, has been somewhat capricious in its -appetite; a fault, by the by, which often puzzles the heralds in their -labours, for certain other little animals are very angry, when they -speak of blood, too. - -Footnote 8: - - Her Majesty the Queen, and Prince George of Cumberland, stood the - whole of the sermon!!—_Court Circular_, April 8, 1832. - -We quitted the exhibition, and walking at a melancholy pace, with our -long, lean visage bent towards the earth, we were accosted by a man—an -odd-looking person, with a box at his back—who begged we would stop and -see his show. We were in a sight-seeing humour, and at once consented. -The box was placed on a trestle, our eye was at the glass, and our ears -open, when the man commenced his description:— - -“The first view presents you with a grand state coach of the Great -Mogul; it is drawn by a thousand curious animals; they are, as you will -perceive, very finely dressed in rich harness, tall feathers, and flying -ribbons; they come and tie themselves to the coach, and feel it an -honour to be bridled; they snort, and caper, and kick mud into the eyes -of the bystanders. - -“The next view shows you one of these animals with a long chain and a -heavy log. This chain was fixed upon his leg when he was born; and -though he has sometimes tried to file away the links, he has had his -knuckles so smartly rapped, and been called so many names—been so -preached to that the chain and log were for his own good, and that it -would ruin him to take them from him—that ’tis likely he will, for the -public benefit, be made to wear them to the end of his days. - -“The animal in the next view, that is chained and draws water, is one of -the Great Mogul’s million of slaves. Although he draws bucket after -bucketful for the Mogul’s house and his household, for his horses and -his dogs, and his kitchen, and his flower garden, he is often perishing -himself for one half mouthful; his lips are blistered, and his tongue -black, with the water drawn by his own hands, running about him. - -“The fourth animal is mounted on a fiery dragon, that, belching flames, -kindles forests, fires towns, dries rivers, blasts harvests, and -swallows men, women, and sucking babes. Look to the left, and the dragon -is turned to a something no bigger than a mouse, and with its stinted -rations of butter and cheese. - -“In the fifth and last view you see ten thousand of these animals -ferociously killing, biting, tearing another ten thousand, whom they -never saw till a few minutes ago, and with whom they have no quarrel. -But they kill one another because they are tickled to do so. That is, -certain animals go about with tickling wands called ‘glory,’ ‘deathless -renown,’ ‘laurel,’ and other titillating syllables, poking in the ribs -of the poor benighted creatures.” - -I took my eye from the glass: “My good man, what have you shown me?” - -“Fleas, sir.” - -“Fleas!—nonsense; the fleas are shown above.” - -“Yes, sir; but mine are the fleas with two legs; though, _if_ I must be -honest, I can’t say I see any difference between the fleas in my -show-box and the fleas above.” - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE MANAGER’S PIG - -“Some people are not to be persuaded to taste of any creatures they have - daily seen and been acquainted with whilst they were alive.... In - this behaviour, methinks there appears something like a - consciousness of guilt; it looks as if they endeavoured to save - themselves from the imputation of a crime (which they know sticks - somewhere) by removing the cause of it as far as they can from - themselves.”—MANDEVILLE. - - -ARISTIDES TINFOIL, it is our fixed belief, was intended by nature either -for lawn sleeves or ermined robes; he was, we doubt it not, sent into -this world an embryo bishop, or a lord-chief-justice _in posse_. Such, -we are convinced, was the benignant purpose of nature; but the cruel -despotism of worldly circumstance relentlessly crossed the fair design; -and Tinfoil, with a heart of honey and a head of iron, was only a -player—or, we should rather say, a master among players. Tinfoil might -have preached charity-sermons till tears should have overflowed the -pews; no matter, he acted the benevolent old men to the sobs and spasms -of a crowded audience: he might, with singular efficacy, have passed -sentence of death on coiners and sheep-stealers; circumstances, however, -confined his mild reproofs to scene-shifters, bill-stickers, Cupids at -one shilling per night, and white muslin Graces. - -“Where is Mr Moriturus?” asked Tinfoil, chagrined at the untoward -absence of his retainer. “Where is he?” - -“Ill, Sir,” was the melancholy answer, “very ill.” - -“Ill!” exclaimed Tinfoil, in a tone of anger, quickly subsiding into -mild remonstrance. “Ill!—why—why doesn’t the good man _die at once_?” - -A pretty budding girl had, unhappily, listened to the silvery tongue of -a rival manager. “Take her from the villain!” exclaimed Tinfoil to the -sorrowing parent; “bring her here, and then—then I’ll tell you what I’ll -do.” - -“Dear, kind Mr Tinfoil, what will you do!” - -“I’ll bring her out, Sir—bring her out in—” and here the manager named a -play in which the horrors of seduction are painted in bold colours for -the indignant virtuous. “I’ll bring her out in that, Sir, as a -particular favour to you, and sympathising as I must with the affliction -you suffer, I—I myself will play the injured father, Sir.” - -These, however, are but faint lines in the strongly-marked character of -Tinfoil, and merely displaying them to awaken the attention of the -reader to what we consider a most triumphant piece of casuistry on the -part of our hero—to an incident which admits of so many hundred worldly -illustrations—we shall proceed to the pig. The subject, we own, may -appear unpromising from its extreme homeliness; yet, as the precious -bezoar is sought for in deer and goats, so may a pearl of price be found -even in a pig. - -It is our fervent wish to be most exact in every point of this little -history; yet cannot we remember the exact year in which Tinfoil, -revolving in his managerial mind the very many experiments made under -his government on the curiosity and sensibilities of the public, -determined in a golden moment, upon the introduction of a pig, in a -drama to be expressly written for the animal’s capacities. In the slang -of the craft, the pig was to be measured for his part. - -We cannot take it upon ourselves to avow, that an accident of late -occurrence to a brother actor, did not, at least remotely, influence the -choice of Tinfoil. The mishap was this. A few miles from London—for the -sake of unborn generations we conceal the name of the town—the dullard -denizens had manifested an extraordinary apathy to the delights of the -drama. In the despairing words of one of the sufferers, “nothing could -move ’em.” However, another of more sanguine temperament resolved to -make a last bold effort on their stubborn souls, and to such high end, -set a pig at them. Mingling the blandishments of the lottery with the -witcheries of the drama, he caused it to be printed in boldest type to -the townspeople of ——, that a shower of little bits of paper would take -place between the play and farce, and amidst this shower a prize would -descend, conveying to the lucky possessor the entire property of a real -China-bred porker! Inconceivable as to us it is the scheme failed—the -pig remained live stock upon the hands of the projector, who, the next -morning, walked to town; and recounting his adverse fortune to the -calculating Tinfoil, supplicated any employment. - -“And you still possess the pig? Humph!” mused Tinfoil; “perhaps we may -come to some arrangement.” - -In few words the applicant was admitted among Tinfoil’s troop; the pig, -at a nominal price, passing into the hands of the manager. - -The pig was no sooner a member of the company than the household author -was summoned by Tinfoil, who, introducing the man of letters to the -porker, shortly intimated that “he must write a part for him.” - -“For a pig, Sir?” exclaimed the author. - -“Measure him,” said Tinfoil, not condescending to notice the -astonishment of the dramatist. - -“But, my dear Sir, it is impossible that——” - -“Sir! impossible is a word which I cannot allow in my establishment. By -this time, Sir, you ought to know that my will, Sir, is sufficient for -all things, Sir—that, in a word, Sir, there is a great deal of Napoleon -about me, Sir.” - -We must admit that the dramatist ought not to have forgotten this last -interesting circumstance, Mr Tinfoil himself very frequently recurring -to it. Indeed, it was only an hour before that he had censured the -charwoman for having squandered a whole sack of sawdust on the hall -floor, when half a sack was the allotted quantity. “He, Mr Tinfoil, had -said half a sack; and the woman knew, or ought to know, there was a good -deal of Napoleon about him!” To return to the pig. - -“Measure him, Sir,” cried Mr Tinfoil, the deepening tones growling -through his teeth, and his finger pointing still more emphatically -downwards to the pig. - -“Why,” observed the author, “if it could be measured, perhaps——” - -“_If_ it could! Sir,” and Mr Tinfoil, when at all excited, trolled the -monosyllable with peculiar energy—“Sir, I wouldn’t give a straw for a -dramatist who couldn’t measure the cholera-morbus.” - -“Much may be done for an actor by measuring,” remarked the dramatist, -gradually falling into the opinion of his employer. - -“Everything, Sir! Good God! what might I not have been had I -condescended to be measured? Human nature, Sir—the divine and glorious -characteristic of our common being, Sir—that is the thing, Sir—by -heavens! Sir, when I think of that great creature, Shakespeare, Sir, and -think that he never measured actors—no, Sir——” - -“No, Sir,” acquiesced the dramatist. - -“Notwithstanding, Sir, we live in other times, Sir, and you must write a -part for the pig, Sir.” - -“Very well, Sir; if he must be measured, Sir, he must,” said the author. - -“It is a melancholy thing to be obliged to succumb to the folly of the -day,” remarked Mr Tinfoil, “and yet, Sir, I could name certain people, -Sir, who, by heavens! Sir, would not have a part to their backs, Sir, if -they had not been measured for it, Sir. Let me see: it is not three -o’clock—well, some time to-night you’ll let me have the piece for the -pig, Sir.” - -Now whether the writer addressed was by his “so potent art” enabled to -measure a pig—to write a perfect swinish drama in a few hours—or -whether, knowing the Buonapartean self-will of the manager, the -dramatist thought it wise to make no remonstrance, we cannot truly -discover: certain it is, with no objection made, he took his leave. - -“An extraordinary young man, Sir—I have brought him out, Sir—a wonderful -young man, Sir,” observed Mr Tinfoil to a friend and neighbour, a dealer -in marine-stores. “Only wants working, Sir—requires nothing but being -kept at it, Sir.” - -“Well, it must be a puzzling trade,” remarked the dealer. - -“Puzzling, Sir! By heavens! Sir, my heart bleeds for men of letters, -Sir—they are great creatures, Sir—wonderful natures, Sir—we cannot think -too highly of them, Sir—cannot sufficiently reward them, Sir! Now, Sir, -it is perfectly unknown my liberality towards that young man! But then, -Sir—it is my delight, Sir, when I find real genius, Sir—when I meet with -a man of original mind, Sir—by heavens! Sir,” again cried Mr Tinfoil, -resorting to the exclamation as an outlet for his overcharged feelings. - -The pig was duly measured—the piece prepared—and, having been produced -at enormous expense, was sealed with the unqualified approbation of a -discerning public. - -The pig-drama had been represented about twenty nights, when the author -of the piece, in friendly converse with his patron manager, remarked -“that the porker had been a most profitable venture.” - -“Why, Sir,” replied Mr Tinfoil, “tolerably well; but the fact is, I am -obliged to bolster him. He has had the advantage of three new -afterpieces, and therefore can’t complain that he has been let down. -Still, the pig has done very well, and perhaps may run a fortnight -more.” Saying this Tinfoil quaffed from a brimming glass of his chosen -fluid. - -“At all events,” remarked the author, “the pig possesses one advantage -not to be found in any other of your actors.” - -“And what, Sir,” asked Mr Tinfoil, “what may that be?” - -“Why, after the pig has done his work, and the piece is put by, you may -eat the pig.” - -The manager started from the inhuman man of letters with a look of -mingled horror, disgust and pity. When he had somewhat recovered from -his amazement he asked with evident loathing, “What did you say, Sir?” - -“I said,” replied the insensible author, “that when the pig had played -out his part you might eat him.” - -Mr Tinfoil, gently stirring his brandy-and-water, fixed an eye, like -that of death-darting cockatrice, upon the author, and after swallowing -the liquor, and thereby somewhat regaining his self-possession, he -addressed the thoughtless dramatist in words and tones that, as he has -since declared, can never cease to vibrate in his memory. - -“Sir!” thus spoke Mr Tinfoil. “I regret—much regret, Sir, that anything -in my conduct could have induced you, Sir, to think so uncharitably of -my disposition, Sir.” - -“I assure you, Sir——” - -“Hear me out, Sir. What, Sir! think me capable of feeding upon an animal -that I have played with—a creature, whose sagacity has almost made it my -humble friend—a pig that has eaten from my hand—that knows my voice—that -I—I eat that pig—good heavens, Sir!” - -“I’m sure I didn’t mean——” - -“No, Sir,” cried Tinfoil, “not were I starving, Sir—not were I -famishing, Sir, could I be brought to taste that pig.” - -Much more did Mr Tinfoil deliver declaratory of his horror at the bare -idea of setting his teeth in the flesh of his quadruped actor, and the -rebuked man of letters quitted the manager with an exalted notion of his -sensibility. - -The pig-drama continued to be played to the increasing satisfaction of -the public; the audience, however, only being admitted to view the -professional abilities of the animal; his suppers—from some -extraordinary omission of Tinfoil—not being eaten before the curtain. -Great, however, as was the success of the pig, at about the fortieth -night his prosperity began to wane—he was withdrawn, and passed into -oblivion. - -A few weeks had elapsed, and the author was summoned to the dwelling of -his manager, to write a play for a stud of horses. Tinfoil was at -dinner, whereto he courteously invited his household scribe. - -“You oughtn’t to refuse,” said one of the diners, “for this,” and the -speaker pointed to some pickled pork in the dish, “this is an old friend -of yours.” - -“Good heavens!” exclaimed the dramatist, looking reproachfully at -Tinfoil. “Why, not the pig?” - -Tinfoil somewhat abashed coughed and nodded. - -“Why, you said that nothing on earth would tempt you to eat that pig.” - -“No more it could, Sir,” cried the assured manager, “no, Sir—no more it -could—_unless salted_!” - -Of how many applications is this casuistry of the manager susceptible? - -“When, Sir,” cried the pensioned patriot, “I swore that no power in the -universal world could make me accept a favour at the hands of such men—I -meant——” - -“_Unless salted!_” - -How often is it with men’s principles, as with the manager’s pig; things -inviolable, immutable—_unless salted_? - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - SOME ACCOUNT OF A STAGE DEVIL - - -THE “principle of evil,” as commonly embodied in the theatre, has been a -sorry affair; the stage devil, in a word, a shabby person. From the time -of the mysteries at Coventry to the melodramas of the phosphoric pen of -the blue-fire dramatists, the father of iniquity has made his appearance -in a manner more provocative of contempt than of peace; a candidate for -our smiles, rather than a thing of terrors; we have chuckled where we -should have shuddered. - -That the stage devil should have been so commonplace an individual, when -there were devils innumerable where-from an admirable selection of -demons might be “constantly on hand,” made it the more inexcusable on -the part of those gentlemen invested with the power of administering to, -and in some measure forming, public taste. What a catalogue of devils -may be found in the Fathers! Let us particularise a few from the -thousand of demons with which the benevolent imaginations of our -ancestors have peopled the air, the earth, and the flood. Poor humanity -stands aghast at the fearful odds of spiritual influences arrayed -against it; for it is the fixed opinion of Paracelsus, that “the air is -not so full of flies in summer as it is at all times of invisible -devils”; whilst another philosopher declares that there is “not so much -as an hairbreadth empty in earth or in water, above or under the earth!” -Cornelius Agrippa has carefully classified devils, making them of nine -orders. The first are the false Gods adored at Delphos and elsewhere in -various idols, having for their captain Beelzebub; the second rank is of -“liars and equivocators,” as Apollo—poor Apollo!—“and the like”; the -third are “vessels of anger, inventors of all mischief,” and their -prince is Belial; the fourth are malicious, revengeful devils, their -chief being Asmodeus; the fifth are cozeners, such as belong to -magicians and witches, their prince is Satan; the sixth are those aerial -devils that corrupt the air, and cause plagues, thunder, fire, and -tempests—Meresin is their prince; the seventh is a destroyer, captain of -the fairies; the eighth is an accusing or calumniating devil; and the -ninth are all these in several kinds, their commander being Mammon. Of -all these infernal creatures Cornelius Agrippa writes, with the -confidence and seeming accuracy of a man favoured with their most -intimate acquaintance. - -In addition to these we have, on the authority of grave philosophers, -legions of household devils, from such as “commonly work by blazing -stars,” fire-drakes, or _ignes fatui_, to those who “counterfeit suns -and moons, and oftentimes sit on ship masts.” Their common place of -rendezvous, when unemployed, is Mount Hecla. Cardon, with an enviable -gravity, declares that “his father had an aerial devil bound to him for -twenty and eight years.” Paracelsus relates many stories, all -authenticated, of she-devils, “that have lived and been married to -mortal men, and so continued for certain years with them, and after for -some dislike have forsaken them.” Olaus Magnus—a most delightful -liar—has a narrative of “one Hotheius, a king of Sweden, that, having -lost his company as he was hunting one day, met with these water-nymphs -and fairies, and was feasted by them”; and Hector Boethius of “Macbeth -and Banquo, two Scottish lords, that, as they were wandering in the -woods, had their fortune told them by three strange women!” For the -“good people,” the wood-nymphs, foliots, fairies, they are, on the best -authority, to be seen in many places in Germany, “where they do usually -walk in little coats some two feet long.” Subterranean devils are -divided by Olaus Magnus into six companies; they commonly haunt mines, -“and the metal-men in many places account it good luck, a sign of -treasure and rich ore, when they see them.” Georgius Agricola (_de -subterraneis animantibus_) reckons two more kinds, “that are clothed -after the manner of metal-men, and will do their work.” Their office, -according to the shrewd guess of certain philosophers, “is to keep -treasure in the earth that it be not all at once revealed.” - -On the 20th of June 1484, it is upon record that the devil appeared “at -Hamond, in Saxony,” in the likeness of a field-piper, and carried away a -hundred and thirty children “that were never after seen!” I might fill -folios with the pranks and malicious mummeries of the evil spirit, all, -too, duly attested by the most respectable witnesses, but shall at once -leave the demons of the philosophers for the spirits of the playmongers, -the devils of the world for the devils of the stage. - -Why is it that, nine times out of ten, your stage devil is a droll -rather than a terrible creature? I suspect this arises from the bravado -of innate wickedness. We endeavour to shirk all thoughts, all -recollections of his horrible attributes, by endowing him with grotesque -propensities. We strive to laugh ourselves out of our fears: we make a -mountebank of what is in truth our terror, and resolutely strive to grin -away our apprehensions. Surely some feeling of this kind must be at the -bottom of all our ten thousand jokes at the devil’s expense—of the glee -and enjoyment with which the devil is received at the theatre; where, -until the appearance of Mr Wieland, he had been but a commonplace -absurdity, a dull repetition of a most dull joke. - -Wieland has evidently studied the attributes of the evil principle; with -true German profundity, he has taken their length, and their depth, and -their breadth, he has all the devil at his very finger ends, and richly -deserves the very splendid silver-gilt horns and tail (manufactured by -Rundell and Bridges) presented to him a few nights since by the company -at the English Opera-house; presented with a speech from the -stage-manager, which, or I have been grossly misinformed, drew tears -from the eyes of the very scene-shifters. - -Can anybody forget Wieland’s devil in the _Daughter of the Danube_? -Never was there a more dainty bit of infernal nature. It lives in my -mind like one of Hoffman’s tales, a realisation of the hero of the -nightmare, a thing in almost horrible affinity with human passions. How -he eyed the Naiades, how he laughed and ogled, and faintingly -approached, then wandered round the object of his demoniacal affections! -And then how he burst into action! How he sprang, and leapt, and -whirled, and, chuckling at his own invincible nature, spun like a -teetotum at the sword of his baffled assailant! And then his yawn and -sneeze! There was absolute poetry in them—the very highest poetry of the -ludicrous: a fine imagination to produce such sounds as part of the -strange, wild, grotesque phantom—to give it a voice that, when we heard -it, we felt to be the only voice such a thing could have. There is fine -truth in the devils of Wieland. We feel that they live and have their -being in the realms of fancy; they are not stereotype commonplaces, but -most rare and delicate monsters, brought from the air, the earth, or the -flood; and wherever they are from, bearing in them the finest -characteristics of their mysterious and fantastic whereabouts. - -Wieland’s last devil, in an opera bearing his fearful name, is not -altogether so dainty a fellow as his elder brother of the Danube, whose -melancholy so endeared him to our sympathies, whose lackadaisical -demeanour so won upon our human weakness. In _The Devil’s Opera_ the -hero is more of the pantomimist than of the thinking creature; he is not -contemplative, but all for action; he does not, like the former fiend, -retire into the fastness of his infernal mind to brood on love and fate, -but is incessantly grinning, leaping, tumbling; hence he is less -interesting to the meditative part of the audience, though, possibly, -more attractive to the majority of playgoers, who seem to take the “evil -principle” under their peculiar patronage, laughing, shouting, and -hurrahing at every scurvy trick played by it on poor, undefended -humanity; though, with a bold aim of genius on the part of the author, -the devil, in the opera, is made the ally of love and virtue against -blind tyranny and silly superstition. The devil is changed, bound, the -bond-slave of the good and respectable part of the _dramatis personae_, -to the confusion of the foolish and the wicked. This is certainly -putting the “evil principle” to the very first advantage. The best -triumph of the highest benevolence is, undoubtedly, to turn the -dominating fiend into the toiling vassal, and in the new opera this -glory is most unequivocally achieved. - -To Wieland we are greatly indebted for having reformed the “infernal -powers” of the theatre; for having rescued the imp of the stage from the -vulgar commonplace character in which he has too long distinguished -himself, or, I ought rather to say, exposed himself; for there was no -mystery whatever in him: he was a sign-post devil, a miserable daub, -with not one of those emanations of profound, unearthly thought—not the -slightest approach to that delicacy of colouring, that softening of -light into shade, and shade into light, that distinguish the devil of -Wieland. No: in him we have the foul fiend divested of all his vulgar, -Bartlemy Fair attributes; his horns, and tail, and saucer-eyes, and -fish-hook nails, are the least part of him; they are the mere accidents -of his nature, not his nature itself; we have the devil in the abstract, -and are compelled to receive with some consideration the popular and -charitable proverb that declares him to be not quite so black as limners -have shadowed him. - -By the rarest accident I have obtained some account of the birth and -childhood of Wieland. It appears that he is a German born, being the -youngest of six sons of Hans Wieland, a poor and most amiable -doll-maker, a citizen of Hildesheim. When only four years old the child -was lost in the Hartz Mountains, whither his father and several -neighbours had resorted to make holiday. The child had from his cradle -manifested the greatest propensities towards the ludicrous; it was his -delight to place his father’s dolls in the most preposterous positions, -doing this with a seriousness, a gravity, in strange contrast with his -employment. It was plain to Professor Teufelskopf, a frequent visitor at -the shop of old Wieland, employed by the professor on toys that are yet -to astound the world—being no other than a man and wife and four -children, made entirely out of pear-tree, and yet so exquisitely -constructed, as to be enabled to eat and drink, cry, and pay taxes, with -a punctuality and propriety not surpassed by many machines of flesh and -blood—I say it was the opinion of Professor Teufelskopf that young -Wieland was destined to play a great part among men, an opinion we are -happy to say nightly illustrated by the interesting subject of this -memoir. We have, however, to speak of his adventures when only four -years old, in the Hartz Mountains. For a whole month was the child -missing, to the agony of its parents, and the deep regret of all the -citizens of Hildesheim, with whom little George was an especial -favourite. The mountains were overrun by various parties in search of -the unfortunate little vagrant, but with no success. It was plain that -the boy had been caught away by some spirit of the mines with which the -marvellous districts abound, or, it might be, carried to the very height -of the Brockenberg, by the king of the mountains, to be his page and -cup-bearer. The gravest folks of the Hildesheim shook their heads, and -more than two declared that they never thought George would grow up to -be a man—he was so odd, so strange, so fantastic, so unlike any other -child. The despair of Hans Wieland was fast settling into deep -melancholy, and he had almost given up all hope, when, as he sat -brooding at his fireside one autumn night, his wife—she had quitted him -not a minute to go upstairs—uttered a piercing shriek. Hans rushed from -the fireside, and in an instant joined his wife, who, speechless with -delight and wonder, pointed to the nook in the chamber where little -George was wont to sleep, and where, at the time, but how brought there -was never, never known, the boy lay in the profoundest slumber; in all -things the same plump, good-looking child, save that his cheek was more -than usually flushed. Hans Wieland and his wife fell upon their knees -and sobbed thanksgivings. - -I cannot dwell upon the effect produced by this mysterious return of the -child upon the people of Hildesheim. The shop of Hans Wieland was -thronged with folks anxious to learn from the child himself a full -account of his wanderings, of how he happened to stray away, of what he -had seen, and by what means he had been brought back. To all these -questions, though on other points a most docile infant, George -maintained the most dogged silence, several of the church authorities, -half a dozen professors, nay, the great Teufelskopf himself, questioned -the child; but all in vain, George was resolutely dumb. It was plain, -however, that he had been the playfellow, the pet of supernatural -beings; and though there can be but little doubt that his friends and -devils as shown upon the stage are no other than faithful copies of the -grotesque originals at this moment sporting in the neighbourhood of the -Brockenberg, Mr Wieland, as I am credibly informed, though a gentle and -amiable person in other respects, is apt to be ruffled, nay, violent, if -impertinently pressed upon the subject of his early wanderings. When, -however, we reflect upon the great advantages obtained by Mr Wieland -from what is now to be considered the most fortunate accident of his -childhood, we must admit that there is somewhat less praise due to him -than if he appeared before us as a great original. Since I have -commenced this paper, I have been informed by Mr Dullandry, of _The Wet -Blanket_, that the goblin in _The Daughter of the Danube_, a touch of -acting in which Mr Wieland gathered a wreath of red-hot laurels, is by -no means what it was taken for, a piece of fine invention on the part of -the actor, but an imitation, a most servile copy of the real spirit that -carried George away from his father and friends, tempting the little -truant with a handful of the most delicious black cherries, and a -draught of kirschen-wasser. That every gesture, every movement, nay, -that the leer of the eye and the “villainous hanging of the nether lip,” -the sneeze, the cough, the sigh, the lightning speed, the - - “_Infernal_ beauty, melancholy grace,” - -all the attributes of mind and body of that most delicate fiend of -the Brockenberg, were given in the hobgoblin of the Danube. Hence, -if Mr Wieland be not, as we thought him, a great original, he is -most assuredly the first of mimics, and has turned a peril of his -childhood to a golden purpose. Dullandry declares upon the best -authority—doubtless his own—that the devil of the Brockenberg, when -little George cried to go home to his father and mother, his brother -and sister, would solace the child by playing upon a diabolic -fiddle, the strings of wolf’s gut and the bow-string from the snowy -hair of the witch of the Alps, dancing the while, and by the -devilish magic of the music bringing from every fissure in the -rocks, every cleft in the earth, and from every stream, their -supernatural intelligences to caper and make holiday, for the -especial delight of the poor, kidnapped son of the doll-maker of -Hildesheim. If this be true, and when Dullandry speaks it is hard to -doubt, his words being pearls without speck or flaw—if this be true, -we here beg leave to inform Mr Wieland that from this minute we -withdraw from him a great part of that admiration with which we have -always remembered the spasmodic twitch of his elbow, the -self-complacency about his eyes and jaws, the lofty look of -conscious power, the stamping of the foot, and the inexhaustible -energy of _bowing_ which marked his _Devil on Two Sticks_, all such -graces and qualifications being, as from Dullandry, it now appears, -the original property of the devil of the Brockenberg. However, to -return to our narrative, which, as I am prepared to show, has in -these days of daring speculation the inestimable charm of truth to -recommend it to the severest attention of my readers. - -Little George remained a marvel to the good citizens of Hildesheim, few -of whom, for certain prudential reasons, would any longer permit their -children to play with him; fearing, and reasonably enough, some evil -from contact with a child who was evidently a favourite with the spirits -of the Hartz Mountains. However, this resolution had no effect on -George, who more than ever indulged in solitary rambles, becoming day by -day more serious and taciturn. His little head—as Professor Teufelskopf -sagaciously observed—was filled with the shapes and shadows haunting the -Brockenberg. Many were the solicitations made by Teufelskopf and rival -professors to Hans Wieland, to be permitted to take little George and -educate him for a philosopher, an alchemist, in fact for anything and -everything, the boy displaying capacities, as all declared, only to be -found in an infant Faust. To all these prayers Hans Wieland was deaf. He -resolved to bring up his son to the honest and useful employment of -doll-making; keeping, if possible, his head from the cobwebs and dust of -the schools, and making him a worthy minister to the simple and innocent -enjoyments of baby girls,[9] rather than consenting to his elevation as -a puzzler and riddler among men. Thus our hero, denied to the scholastic -yearnings of the great Teufelskopf, sat at home, articulating the joints -of dolls, and helping to make their eyes open and shut, when—had his -father the true worthy ambition in him—the boy would have been inducted -into knowledge that might have given him supernatural power over living -flesh and blood, bending and binding it to his own high, philosophic -purposes. Hans Wieland, however, was a simple, honest soul, with a -great, and, therefore, proper sense of the beauties and uses of the art -of doll-making. Glad also am I to state that little George, with all his -dreaminess, remained a most dutiful, sweet-tempered boy; and might be -seen, seven hours at least out of the twenty-four, seated on a -three-legged stool fitting the arms and legs of the ligneous hopes of -the little girls of Hildesheim, his thoughts, it may be, far, far away -with the fiddling goblin of the Brockenberg, making holiday with the -multitude of spirits in the Hartz Mountains. - -Footnote 9: - - One of the most touching instances of the “maternal instinct,” as it - has been called, in children, came under my notice a few months ago. A - wretched woman, with an infant in her arms, mother and child in very - tatters, solicited the alms of a nursery-maid passing with a child, - clothed in the most luxurious manner, hugging a large wax doll. The - mother followed the girl, begging for relief “to get bread for her - child,” whilst the child itself, gazing at the treasure in the arms of - the baby of prosperity, cried, “Mammy, when will you buy me a doll?” I - have met with few things more affecting than the contrast of the - destitute parent begging her bread (the misery seemed real) and the - beggar’s child begging of its mother for a “doll!” - - -[Illustration: - - “Would solace the child by playing upon a diabolic fiddle” -] - - -This mental abstraction on the part of little George was but too often -forced upon the observation of the worthy Hans, the young doll-maker -constantly giving the looks and limbs of hobgoblins to the faces and -bodies of dolls, intended by the father to supply the demand for -household dolls of the same staid and prudish aspect, of the same -proportion of members, as the dolls that had for two hundred years -soothed and delighted the little maidens of Hildesheim. It is a fact -hitherto unknown in England, that in the Museum of Hildesheim—a -beautiful, though somewhat heavy building of the Saxon order—there are -either eleven or twelve (I think twelve) demon dolls made by young -Wieland, and to this day shown to the curious—though the circumstance -has, strangely enough, remained unnoticed by the writers of Guide -Books—as faithful portraits of the supernatural inhabitants of the Hartz -Mountains. I am told, however, that within the last three years, one of -the figures has been removed into a separate chamber, and is only to be -seen by an express order from the town council, in consequence of its -lamentable effects on the nerves of a certain German princess, who was -so overcome by the exhibition, that it was very much feared by the whole -of the principality—extending in territory at least a mile and a -quarter, and containing no less than three hundred and twenty -subjects—the territory would pass to a younger brother, or, what is -worse, be the scene of a frightful revolution, an heir direct being -wanted to consolidate the dynasty. This unfortunate event, though, -possibly, fatal to the future peace of the said principality, is -nevertheless a striking instance of the powerful imagination or rather -of the retentive memory of the young Wieland. The doll, like all the -others, is a true copy from diabolic life. How the painful story -attached to it should have escaped all the foreign correspondents of all -the newspapers is a matter of surpassing astonishment. - -We have now arrived at an important change in the life of our hero. His -father had received a munificent order for three dolls from Prince -Gotheoleog, a great patron of the fine arts in all their many branches. -The dolls were intended by the prince—he was the best and most indulgent -of fathers—as presents for his daughters; and, therefore, no pains, no -cost, were to be spared upon them. After a lapse of three months the -order was completed; and young Wieland, then in his seventh year, was -dressed in his holiday suit, and—the dolls being carried by Peter -Shnicht, an occasional assistant of Hans Wieland—he took his way to the -palace of the prince. It was about half-past twelve when he arrived -there, and the weather being extremely sultry, George sat down upon the -palace steps to rest and compose himself before he ventured to knock at -the gate. He had remained there but a short time, when he was addressed -by a tall, majestic-looking person clothed in a huntsman’s suit, and -carrying a double-barrel gun, a weapon used in the neighbourhood of -Hildesheim in boar-shooting, who, asking our hero his name and business, -was struck with the extraordinary readiness of the boy’s answers, and, -more than all, with a certain look of diabolic reverence peeping from -his eyes, and odd smiles playing about his mouth. The stranger knocked -at the gate, gave his gun to a servant, and bade the little doll-maker -follow the domestic, who showed him into a sumptuous apartment. The -reader is prepared to find in the man with the gun no other person than -Prince Gotheoleog himself, who in a few minutes reappeared to George, -asked him in the most condescending manner various questions respecting -his proficiency in reading and writing, and finally dismissed him with -ten groschen for his extraordinary intelligence. Six months after this -Prince Gotheoleog was appointed ambassador to the court of St James’s, -and young Wieland attended him in the humble, yet most honourable -capacity of page. This appointment Hans Wieland, in his simplicity, -believed would effectually win his romantic son from his errant habits, -would cure him of day-dreaming, by plunging his neck deep into the -affairs of this world. Alas! it had precisely the reverse effect upon -the diplomatic doll-maker. From the moment that he found himself -associated, though in the slightest degree, with politics, the latent -desire to play the devil burst forth with inextinguishable ardour. A -sense of duty—a filial regard for the prejudices of his father—did for a -time restrain him from throwing up his very lucrative and most promising -situation in the household of Prince Gotheoleog, and kept him to the -incessant toil, unmitigated drudgery of diplomatic life; but having one -luckless night gained admission into the gallery of the House of Commons -on the debate of a certain question, to which I shall not more -particularly allude, and there having seen and heard a certain member, -whose name I shall not specify, sway and convulse the senate, George -resolved from that moment to play the devil, and nothing but the devil, -to the end of his days. He immediately retired to Bellamy’s, and penned -his resignation to Prince Gotheoleog, trusting, with the confidence of -true genius, to fortune, to his own force of character, or, what is more -likely, without once thinking of the means or accidents, to obtain the -end of his indomitable aspirations—an appearance as the devil. -Unrivalled as Wieland is as the representative of the fiend in all his -thousand shapes—to be sure the great advantages of our hero’s education -in the Hartz Mountains are not to be forgotten—it is yet to be regretted -that he ever - - “To the playhouse gave up what was meant for mankind.” - -It is, and must ever be, a matter of sorrow not only to his best -wishers, but to the friends of the world at large, that those high -qualifications, those surpassing powers of diabolic phlegm, vivacity and -impudence, which have made Mr Wieland’s devils the _beau idéal_ of the -infernal, had not been suffered to ripen in the genial clime of -diplomacy. In the full glow of my admiration of his diabolic -beauties—that is, since the facts above narrated have been in my -possession—I have often scarcely suppressed a sigh to think how great an -ambassador has been sacrificed in a play-house fiend. Indeed, nothing -can be more truly diplomatic than the supernatural shifts of Wieland. -Had he acted in France, in the days of Napoleon, he had been kidnapped -from the stage, and, _nolens volens_, made a plenipotentiary. - -It is a painful theme to dwell upon the strugglings of modest, and, -consequently, unsupported genius. Therefore I shall, at least for the -present, suppress a very long and minute account of the trials that -beset our hero in his attempts to make known the wonders that were in -him. I shall not relate how he was flouted by one manager, snubbed by -another, derisively smiled upon by a third; how, at length, he obtained -a footing in a theatre, but was condemned to act the minor iniquities, -less gifted men being promoted to play the devil himself. In all these -trials, however, in all these disappointments and occasional -heartburnings, the genius of our hero continued to ripen. His horns -still budded, and his tail gave token of great promise; and, at length, -he burst upon the town, from top to toe, _intus et in cute_, a perfect -and most dainty devil. Great as his success has been, I should not have -thus lengthily dwelt upon it, were I not convinced of its future -increase. There are grand mysteries in Wieland—part of his infant -wanderings in the Hartz—yet to be revealed. I feel certain from the -demoniacal variety of his humour, that there are a legion of spirits, -fantastic and new, yet to be shown to us; all of them the old -acquaintance of our hero’s babyhood, all from the same genuine source of -romance as his _Devil on Two_ _Sticks_, his _Devil of the Danube_, and -his _Devil of the Opera_. - -Having discussed the professional merits of Mr Wieland, the reader may -probably feel curious respecting the private habits of a man so -distinguished by his supernatural emotions. I am enabled, it is with -considerable satisfaction I avow it, to satisfy the laudable anxiety of -the reader, and from the same authentic materials that have supplied the -principal part of this notice. - -Mr Wieland is a gentleman of the most retired and simple manners. After -the severest rehearsals of a new devil he has been known to recreate -himself in the enclosure of St James’s Park; and further, to illustrate -his contemplative and benevolent habits, by flinging to the various -water-fowl in the canal—by-the-way, in imitation of a great regal -authority—fragments of cake and biscuits. His dress is of the plainest -kind, being commonly a snuff-coloured coat buttoned up to the neck; a -white cravat, drab small-clothes, and drab knee-gaiters. A gold-headed -cane, said to have been in the possession of Cornelius Agrippa, is -sometimes in his hand. He is occasionally induced to take a pinch of -snuff, but was never seen to smoke. His face is as well known at the -British Museum as are the Elgin Marbles, Mr Wieland having for some -years been employed on a new edition of the _Talmud_. Although a German -by birth, Mr Wieland speaks English with remarkable purity, having had -the advantage of early instruction in our language from a British -dramatist, who, driven from the stage by the invasion of French pieces, -sought to earn his precarious bread as a journeyman doll-maker with Mr -Wieland, senior. We could enter into further particulars, but shall -commit a violence upon ourselves, and here wind up what we trust will -henceforth prove a model for all stage biographers. - -The inquiring reader may possibly desire to learn how we became -possessed of the valuable documents from which the above narrative is -gathered. To this we boldly make answer; we blush not, while we avow, -that our dear friend Dullandry has a most careless habit of carrying his -most valuable communications for _The Wet Blanket_ in his coat pocket; -and that only on Thursday last we overtook him, with his papers peeping -from their sanctuary, when—when, in a word, the temptation was too much -for us, and the consequence is, that the reader has “some account of a -stage devil.” - -Why should all dramatic truths be confined to the impartial and original -pages of _The Wet Blanket_? - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration: - - Saint Patty -] - - - - - FIRESIDE SAINTS - - - ST DOLLY - -AT an early age St Dolly showed the sweetness of her nature by her -tender love for her widowed father, a baker, dwelling at Pie Corner, -with a large family of little children. It chanced that with bad -harvests bread became so dear that, of course, bakers were ruined by -high prices. The miller fell upon Dolly’s father, and swept the shop -with his golden thumb. Not a bed was left for the baker or his little -ones. St Dolly slept upon a flour sack, having prayed that good angels -would help her to help her father. Now sleeping, she dreamt that the -oven was lighted, and she felt falling in a shower about her raisins, -currants, almonds, lemon peel, flour, with heavy drops of brandy. Then -in her dreams she saw the fairies gather up the things that fell and -knead them into a cake. They put the cake into the oven, and dancing -round and round, the fairies vanished, crying, “_Draw the cake, -Dolly—Dolly, draw the cake!_” And Dolly awoke and drew the cake, and, -behold, it was the first twelfth cake, sugared at the top, and bearing -the images of Faith, Hope, and Charity. Now this cake, shown in the -window, came to the king’s ear; and the king bought the cake, knighted -the baker, and married Dolly to his grand falconer, to whom she proved a -faithful and loving wife, bearing him a baker’s dozen of lovely -children. - - - ST PATTY - -St Patty was an orphan, and dwelt in a cot with a sour old aunt. It -chanced, it being bitter cold, that three hunters came and craved for -meat and drink. “Pack!” said the sour aunt, “neither meat nor drink have -ye here.” “Neither meat nor drink,” said Patty; “but something better.” -And she ran and brought some milk, some eggs, and some flour, and, -beating them up, poured the batter in the pan. Then she took the pan and -tossed the cake over; and then a robin alighted at the window, and kept -singing these words—_One good turn deserves another_. And Patty tossed -and tossed the cakes; and the hunters ate their fill and departed. And -next day the hunter-baron came in state to the cot; and trumpets were -blown, and the heralds cried—_One good turn deserves another_; in token -whereof Patty became the baron’s wife, and pancakes were eaten on Shrove -Tuesday ever after. - - - ST NORAH - -St Norah was a poor girl, and came to England to service. Sweet-tempered -and gentle, she seemed to love everything she spoke to. And she prayed -to St Patrick that he would give her a good gift that would make her not -proud but useful: and St Patrick, out of his own head, taught St Norah -_how to boil a potato_. A sad thing, and to be lamented, that the secret -has come down to so few. - - - ST BETSY - -St Betsy was wedded to a knight who sailed with Raleigh and brought home -tobacco; and the knight smoked. But he thought that St Betsy, like other -fine ladies of the court, would fain that he should smoke out of doors, -nor taint with ’bacco-smoke the tapestry. Whereupon the knight would -seek his garden, his orchard, and in any weather smoke _sub Jove_. Now -it chanced as the knight smoked St Betsy came to him and said, “My lord, -pray ye come into the house.” And the knight went with St Betsy, who -took him into a newly-cedared room, and said, “I pray, my lord, -henceforth smoke here: for is it not a shame that you, who are the -foundation and the prop of your house, should have no place to put your -head into and smoke?” And St Betsy led him to a chair, and with her own -fingers filled him a pipe; and from that time the knight sat in the -cedar chamber and smoked his weed. - - - ST PHILLIS - -St Phillis was a virgin of noble parentage, but withal as simple as any -shepherdess of curds and cream. She married a wealthy lord, and had much -pin-money. But when other ladies wore diamond and pearls, St Phillis -only wore a red and white rose in her hair. Yet her pin-money brought -the best of jewellery in the happy eyes of the poor about her. St -Phillis was rewarded. She lived until fourscore, and still carried the -red and white rose in her face, and left their fragrance in her memory. - - - ST PHŒBE - -St Phœbe was married early to a wilful, but withal a good-hearted -husband. He was a merchant, and would come home sour and sullen from -’change. Whereupon, after much pondering, St Phœbe in her patience set -to work and, praying the while, made of dyed lambswool a door-mat. And -it chanced from that time, that never did the husband touch that mat -that it didn’t clean his temper with his shoes, and he sat down by his -Phœbe as mild as the lamb whose wool he had trod upon. Thus gentleness -may make miraculous door-mats! - - - ST SALLY - -St Sally, from her childhood, was known for her inner-most love of -truth. It was said of her that her heart was in a crystal shrine, and -all the world might see it. Moreover, when other women denied, or strove -to hide their age, St Sally said, “I am five-and-thirty.” Whereupon next -birthday St Sally’s husband, at a feast of all their friends, gave her a -necklace of six-and-thirty opal beads; and on every birthday added a -bead, until the beads mounted to four-score and one. And the beads -seemed to act as a charm; for St Sally, wearing the sum of her age about -her neck, age never appeared in her face. Such, in the olden time, was -the reward of simplicity and truth. - - - ST BECKY - -A very good man was St Becky’s husband, but with his heart a little too -much in his bottle. Port wine—red port wine—was his delight, and his -constant cry was—bee’s-wing. Now as he sat tipsy in his arbour, a wasp -dropped into his glass, and the wasp was swallowed, stinging the man -inwardly. Doctors crowded, and with much ado the man’s life was saved. -Now St Becky nursed her husband tenderly to health, and upbraided him -not; but she said these words, and they reformed him:—“_My dear, take -wine, and bless your heart with it—but wine in moderation: else, never -forget that the bee’s wing of to-day becomes the wasp’s sting of -to-morrow._” - - - ST LILY - -St Lily was the wife of a poor man, who tried to support his family—and -the children were many—by writing books. But in those days it was not as -easy for a man to find a publisher as to say his paternoster. Many were -the books that were written by the husband of St Lily; but to every book -St Lily gave at least two babes. However, blithe as the cricket was the -spirit that ruled about the hearth of St Lily. And how she helped her -helpmate! She smiled sunbeams into his ink bottle, and turned his goose -pen to the quill of a dove! She made the paper he wrote on as white as -her name, and as fragrant as her soul. And when folks wondered how St -Lily managed so lightly with fortune’s troubles, she always answered, -that she never heeded them, for _troubles were like babies, and only -grew the bigger by nursing_. - - - ST FANNY - -St Fanny was a notable housewife. Her house was a temple of neatness. -Kings might have dined upon her staircase! Now her great delight was to -provide all things comfortable for her husband, a hard-working merchant, -much abroad, but loving his home. Now one night he returned tired and -hungry, and, by some mischance, there was nothing for supper. Shops were -shut; and great was the grief of St Fanny. Taking off a bracelet of seed -pearl she said, “_I’d give this ten times over for a supper for my -husband._” And every pearl straightway became an oyster, and St Fanny -opened—the husband ate—and lo! in every oyster was a pearl as big as a -hazel nut; and so was St Fanny made rich for life. - - - ST FLORENCE OR ST NIGHTINGALE - -St Florence, by her works, had her lips blessed with comforting, and her -hands touched with healing; and she crossed the sea, and built -hospitals, and solaced, and restored. And so long as English mistletoe -gathers beneath it truthful hearts, and English holly brightens happy -eyes, so long will Englishmen, at home or abroad, on land or on the -wave—so long, in memory of that Eastern Christmas, will they cry—_God -bless St Florence! Bless St Nightingale!_ - - - ST JENNY - -St Jenny was wedded to a very poor man; they had scarcely bread to keep -them; but Jenny was of so sweet a temper that even want bore a bright -face, and Jenny always smiled. In the worst seasons Jenny would spare -crumbs for the birds, and sugar for the bees. Now it so happened that -one autumn a storm rent their cot in twenty places apart; when, behold, -between the joists, from the basement to the roof, there was nothing but -honeycomb and honey—a little fortune for St Jenny and her husband, in -honey. Now some said it was the bees, but more declared it was the sweet -temper of St Jenny that had filled the poor man’s house with honey. - - -[Illustration: - - Saint Jenny -] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - CAT-AND-FIDDLE MORALITIES - - The Tale of a Tiger - - -FOR fifteen years had the large wooden arm-chair of the Cat-and-Fiddle -been consecrated to the use of Captain Bam. He would sit in it as it -were a throne; and the customary guests of the hostelry paid him -affectionate loyalty. He had won all hearts by his odd, kind ways; he -had become the familiar oracle of all by his strange, yet wise sayings. -He had, too, the rare and happy knack of so mixing his wisdom with his -drollery, that when men laughed and swallowed his jest, they also, like -children cheated with sweetened physic, swallowed something that in -proper season would do them hearty good. And then there was a mystery -about Captain Bam; and, at times, mystery is a sort of sauce to human -character. It will now and then give a strange relish to what without it -would be insipid commonplace. Not that it was so with Captain Bam. -Certainly not; but the mystery was this. Fifteen years before—on a -sharp, wintry afternoon—he crossed the threshold of the Cat-and-Fiddle. -He carried a small leathern pack, and appeared otherwise appointed for a -long pilgrimage. It was, we say, sharp, blighting weather, and Captain -Bam called hastily for a mug of ale. “A mug of ale, and directly,” said -Captain Bam, “for I can’t stop a minute.” The ale was brought, and the -Captain hastily took a long draught thereof. He then drew his breath, -and a smile as from the very roots of his heart broke over his face, and -his eye strangely glimmered and twinkled upon the landlord. “_Eureka!_” -said Captain Bam, and the host looked. “_Eureka!_” again exclaimed the -Captain. “Take my pack,” he said, in a voice trembling with the fulness -of satisfaction, “take my pack—I will rest here.” - -And Captain Bam—his pack removed—sank in the large arm-chair. It seemed -that his travels were ended; that, in a happy moment, he had -accomplished the purpose of his life; that all his future existence -would be an appointed state of rest. There was a little wooden nook—a -sort of summer-house, at the end of a long garden—which, after few -words, he hired of the host; whence every night he came to bestow his -talk upon the guests of the Cat-and-Fiddle. “And how he would talk! Ha! -better than a printed book.” Such was the oft avowed opinion of his -gladdened hearers. And now the Captain is dead. His body lies in the -churchyard of the market town, but two miles distant from the -Cat-and-Fiddle. He had himself written his epitaph. It is a model of -brief simplicity—enough to bring a blush into the cheek of many a -stone-faced cherub. The epitaph has only one word: it is this: “BAM.” - -The Captain died, but not his stories. No; there sat every night in the -fireside corner of the Cat-and-Fiddle an ardent, passionate lover of the -mind of Bam. He was a silent Pylades—a mute Pythias. He would sit and -store himself with the syllables of Bam; then, like the bee, would he -fly rejoicing home, and ere he slept hive the wisdom in enduring ink. -That wisdom is now before us. The little vellum-bound book, its pages -finely written as with the point of a needle, lies upon our desk. Upon -the forehead of its title-page there are these words, “CAT-AND-FIDDLE -MORALITIES”; touchingly recollectful of the genial haunt where their -fine wisdom was audible. - -There are—no, we will not tell the number of stories enshrined in this -little book. But from time to time we will lay one before the reader, in -what we believe to be the very words of Bam. - -Yes: we will begin with the first. Here it is—the title beautifully -engrossed, from which we guess the legal yearnings of the -chronicler—here it is. - - - THE TALE OF A TIGER - -Perhaps, my friends, you have never heard of a place called Singapore. -Well, it’s no matter if you haven’t. It’s a long, long way east, where -all sorts of shipping trade, and where all sorts of people -live—Chinamen, Malays, Javanese, Bengalees, English, Dutch, and what -not. Well, there was at Singapore a certain Dutch family in the pepper -trade. They were named Vandervermin. They were all rich, cautious, heavy -people; all save Jacob Vandervermin, who when a mere youth was left a -poor orphan; left, as it might have seemed, on purpose to exercise the -loving benevolence of prosperous uncles and aunts, and flourishing -cousins. Alas! the whole body of the Vandervermins considered the -poverty of Jacob as a blight—a family reproach; a nuisance that every -one sought to put off upon the other. Jacob was the little toe of clay -that disgraced the Vandervermin body of brass. And what made him worse, -he was, for one with Dutch blood in his veins, a sprightly, frolicsome -fellow. He was a beggar, and yet, with a stony hardness of heart—as -Peter Vandervermin, the head of the family, declared—he would laugh and -make offensive jokes upon his wretchedness. There are men who cannot -understand a joke, simply because it is a thing that carries no worth -with it in a ledger. Now Peter Vandervermin received a joke—especially -the joke of a poor man—as an offence to his judgment and a sidelong -sneer at his pocket. His wife, Drusilla Vandervermin, was of the same -belief; and in this goodly creed man and wife had reared a numerous -family. Jacob Vandervermin was the only outcast of the name who had ever -disgraced it by a jest. It was plain he would come to no good; plain -that he would die the death of a sinner. When one day his body was found -mortally mangled by a tiger, not one of the Vandervermins was shocked or -surprised. No: they had always said that something dreadful would happen -to him, and it had come about. Jacob was buried—handsomely buried. Not -one of the Vandervermins would have given him when alive the value of a -coffin nail; but, being dead, the case was altered. The pride of the -family was concerned in the funeral; hence, they respected themselves in -their treatment of the deceased. Doubtless the ghost of a despised, -ill-used relation is propitiated by a costly burial; and thus many a -cousin or half-brother who has glided through life in a cobweb coat has -superfine cloth upon his coffin. - -I had this history of Jacob Vandervermin from a Chinaman. He repeated it -to me with the eloquence and fervour of a believer. The Chinamen—at -least the sort that live at Singapore—believe that when the tiger kills -its first man, his ghost becomes its very slave; bound, ordered by fate -to be a sort of jackal to the tiger; compelled by destiny to find the -beast its dinners, even among his kith and kin. Hence, a tiger having -carried off one of a family, not one of the survivors is from that -moment safe. My Chinaman—he passed for a very learned fellow among his -tribe—had the most intimate knowledge of the Vandervermin tragedy, -which, after his own lofty fashion—painting his story as though he was -painting his native porcelain—he related to me. I shall give it you in -plain, cold English; for, my good friends all, be it known to you, I -scorn the flourish of a traveller. - -At the age of eighteen Jacob Vandervermin—having been knocked from uncle -to uncle, the poor, passive family shuttlecock—fell at length into the -counting-house of his richest, and oldest uncle, Peter. For two years -did Jacob eat the bread of dependence; for with that bitter word was his -bread always buttered—when he awakened the inextinguishable ire of his -rich and orderly relative. Jacob had been guilty of a gross wickedness; -in fact, of a crime, in the eyes of Peter Vandervermin, of the deepest -dye. He had, in a moment of culpable neglect, let fall a large, -unsightly blot of ink upon his uncle’s ledger. To the mind of Peter -Vandervermin, his graceless nephew had thrown an indelible stain upon -the white reputation of the family; at least Peter so avenged the fault, -for without a word he seized a ruler that lay upon the desk, and with it -smote the skull of the blotting offender. Jacob uttered no syllable; but -instantly closing the ledger, and raising it with both his hands, he -brought down the book of figures with such precise vehemence upon the -head of his uncle, that the principal of the house of Vandervermin & Co. -lay stunned and prostrate on the floor of his own temple—that is, of his -own counting-house. - -Now Jacob was not a man to give unnecessary trouble. He knew that if he -remained it would only cause his uncle the pain and the perplexity of -thrusting him from the house, and therefore, with scarcely a penny in -his purse, did Jacob don his hat and cross his uncle’s threshold. - -Vain was it for him to beg the aid of any of the name of Vandervermin. -What, he—a poor creature, too, a pauper, a beggar, a—no, there was no -worse word for him—he smite so good, so tender an uncle! No, he might -starve, perish; it would be to share his wickedness to relieve him. It -was a secret comfort to the Vandervermins that Jacob, in a momentary -forgetfulness, had knocked down his uncle. That sacrilegious blow had -for ever and for ever snapped the thousand fine ties that—despite of his -previous errors—still held him to the family heart. Now he might perish; -and the sooner the better. The only hope was that he would be drowned, -or decently starved to death; that, for the sake of the family, he would -not come to be hanged, however richly he deserved it. - -For some weeks Jacob continued to live without money. Nothing, perhaps, -so eminently shows the superiority, the crowning greatness of the human -animal—a fact so well attested in many cases—as the power of man to -subsist for a time without cash. He is a self-wonder while he does it; -nevertheless, the miracle is performed. Tear a plant up by the -roots—fling it aside—and it perishes. Shut a cat up in an empty, -mouseless garret, and one by one her nine lives will go out. But take -money from man—money, which is the root of evil, a root upon which man -best flourishes, thereby proving the wickedness of his nature—and still, -still he lives. Perhaps, somehow, the carnivorous, omnivorous animal -becomes an air-plant, and so feeds upon the atmosphere about him. I have -met with many air-plants of the sort. There is not a city, a town, -without them. Such men get over days, and weeks, and months, and wonder -how they have so successfully travelled thus far to the grave. They must -rub their hands, that they have cheated what seemed to them a vital -principle of nature. - -And in this way Jacob Vandervermin lived. Every day seemed to him a -difficult stepping-stone to get over, and yet the night saw him on the -other side of it. But it is hard, miserable work, this keeping check -against time by meals in the bowels: this incessant looking for butcher -and baker as the allies against death, and wondering and trembling from -day to day, lest they should not come to the rescue. My friends, this is -hard, debasing work—I have known it. - -One day, with thoughts heavy as lead upon his brain, did Jacob -Vandervermin wander forth. He wandered and wandered, until, weary and -spent, he sank upon the stump of a tree in a desolate place. “How—how,” -cried Jacob, “shall I live another day!” - -What a mole-eyed thing is man! How he crucifies himself with vain -thoughts—how he stands upon tiptoe, straining his eyestrings, trying to -look into the future, when at that moment the play is over—the show is -done. - -Jacob had scarcely uttered—“How shall I live another day!” when a tiger, -a royal tiger—wherefore a cruel, treacherous, bloodthirsty beast should -be called royal, I know not—when a royal tiger—fell like a thunderbolt -upon him. - -As a very large tom-cat snaps in its mouth a very small mouse, and -looking statelily around seems to say—the mouse kicking all the -while—“Pooh, pooh; why this is nothing!” so did the royal tiger look and -speak, with Jacob Vandervermin writhing and screaming in its jaw. Well, -tigers make short work of men. Almost as short as man himself sometimes -makes of his fellow biped. Jacob Vandervermin—it was his luck to meet -with a benevolent tiger; he was not played with before he was finally -crunched—Jacob Vandervermin was soon dead. - -And now, my friends, prepare for a wonder! Long before the tiger had -picked the bones of Jacob—Jacob’s ghost stood, like a waiting footman, -meekly behind the dining animal. There was Jacob in his wide, -parasol-like hat of straw—his white jacket and trousers, in all things -the same as when he lived, save that he was so transparent the eye could -see through him: and then his look was so serene and passionless! It was -odd to see how meekly the ghost looked on the while the tiger gnawed and -crunched, and then with its rasping tongue cleaned the bones of the -ghost’s late body. It was plain that the ghost cared no more for what he -once thought the most valuable thing under heaven, than if it were an -old threadbare coat, put aside for a glorious garment. Thus, after a few -minutes, the ghost seated itself upon the stump of the tree—where, a -short time before, it had sat in the flesh—and twiddling its thumbs, -looked composedly about it. And when the tiger had finished Jacob—for -the poor animal had not for a week before tasted so much as a field -mouse—it stalked away to its den, the ghost of Jacob following it. - -Gorged to the whiskers, almost for two whole days did the tiger sleep. -And then rising and stretching itself—like a Mogul after a debauch—the -tiger said, “Jacob!” - -“What wills my lord?” answered Jacob’s ghost. - -“Jacob, I must sup: something nice, now—something delicate. I don’t like -to say it to your face, Jacob, but you haven’t quite agreed with me. I -could fancy something mild and tender to-night.” - -For a moment the ghost was thoughtful; then observed, “What says my lord -to a nice sugar-cane salad?” - -The tiger leered somewhat pityingly at the ghost; then saying “Look -here!” opened its jaws. Even the ghost of Jacob shivered—like moonlight -upon water—at the dreadful array of teeth. “Think you,” said the tiger, -“such teeth were made for salads?” - -“Tigers, I have heard, were not always flesh-eaters,” said the ghost, a -little boldly. - - -[Illustration: - - “Almost for two whole days did the tiger sleep” -] - - -“Why, there is a story among tigers,” answered the ingenuous brute, -“that at one time—but it’s a long time ago—we used to crop clover and -trefoil and wild thyme, for all the world like foolish little lambs. And -then suddenly—but how it came about I never heard—we took to eating the -kids and lambkins that before we played with. How the change began, and -who took to killing first, I know not: I have only heard it wasn’t -tigers; and now, I only know that I must sup: that this very night I -must have another Vandervermin. Have you any babies in the house?” - -“None: I assure you, my lord, not one,” answered the ghost. - -“That’s a pity,” said the tiger, “for I feel it, my stomach needs -something tender and succulent. However, lead on: air and exercise may -tone my vitals a little. Why do you tarry, sirrah?”—and the tiger -growled like a stage tyrant—“you know your destiny; lead on.” - -The ghost seemed to feel the truthful force of the rebuke, and -immediately led the way. As they walked on, the ghost espied a -remarkably fine ox, strayed from a neighbouring farm. “See, my lord, -see!” cried the shadow. - -“No, no,” said the tiger, a little contemptuously. “I can’t do that sort -of thing now: having once tasted the goodness of man, I must go on with -him. No, no; I thank my luck I now know what good living really is.” And -then the tiger paused, and twisting its tail gracefully about its legs, -as sometimes an ingenuous maid will twist about a gown flounce, the -brute observed—“What a lovely night! How the air freshens one’s spirits! -What a beautiful moon—and how the stars shine—and the airs whisper among -the tamarind trees, like unseen fairies making love! You are sure, -Jacob, there is not a baby in the house?” - -“Nothing like it, my lord,” answered Jacob. - -“What is the best you can promise me?” asked the tiger. - -“To-night, I’m afraid nothing better than Drusilla, my aunt,” said the -ghost. The tiger growled dubiously; and then said, “Well, we can but -look at her. You know the safest way—so mind what you’re about.” - -Cautiously, stealthily, goaded by fate, did the ghost of Jacob lead the -tiger to the mansion of Peter Vandervermin. Leaping a low wall, they -gained a garden, and proceeded along a winding walk, until they came to -a pretty little summer pavilion, wherein sat aunt Drusilla, as was her -wont, knitting, with a large Dutch pug at her feet. - -“There’s your supper,” said Jacob, pointing to the withered old -gentlewoman. - -“Humph!” growled the tiger, and angrily twitched its tail—“humph! It’s -against my stomach; I can’t do it.” - -“What think you,” urged the ghost, “of the pug just for a snack?” - -The tiger curled its whiskers with a look of disgust, and growling -“dropsical,” turned supperless away. And all the next night did the -tiger fast. But sweet is the sauce of hunger; for on the third evening -the tiger rose and stretched itself, and its eyes glared with -brightening flame as it said—“Come along, Jacob: I don’t know that the -old woman will eat badly after all.” - -Jacob again conducted the destroyer to the house. Again showed Drusilla, -unconscious of her fate, knitting, knitting. There was a slight growl—a -spring—an old woman’s scream—a yap, yap from the pug—and then the wall -was leapt—and Peter Vandervermin was a widower. - -I will not follow the tiger to its banquet. Suffice it to say, the tiger -ate and slept. However, very ill and feverish did the tiger awake in the -morning. “Jacob,” cried the tiger, “what’s the matter with me? Phew! I -can hardly move.” - -“Perhaps,” said Jacob, “my lord has just a stitch in his side.” - -“No, no,” said the tiger, “I feel ’em now; it’s that abominable old -woman’s knitting needles.” - -“Every rose has its thorn, my lord,” said the ghost, joking as a ghost -may be supposed to joke. “You never find a woman without pins and -needles.” - -“Jacob,” cried the tiger, “either you come of a very bad family, or, -after all, man-eating is by no means so wholesome—however pleasant it -may be—as a hearty, simple meal off a buffalo, a deer, or anything of -that sort.” - -“Then why, my lord,” urged the ghost, “why not return to the humbler -diet?” - -“That’s all very well, Jacob. Why don’t men—with red noses and no -insides—turn from arrack and new rum, and drink only at the diamond -spring? I begin to feel myself no better than a drunkard: yes, I fear -I’m a lost tiger. It’s very nice—very delicious to eat a man at -night—but it’s like what I’ve heard of drink—what a headache it leaves -in the morning! Ha!” cried the beast, “I’m afraid I’m making quite a man -of myself. Look at my tongue, Jacob; it’s as hard and as dry, you might -grind an axe upon it. Oh, that dreadful old woman!”—and the tiger closed -its heavy, bloodshot eyes, and tried to sleep. - -Only three days past, and then the tiger leapt up, and licking itself -all over—as though it was going out to an evening party, and wished to -put the very best gloss upon its coat—the creature cried—“Come away, -Jacob; I must have another Vandervermin.” - -“Oh, my lord,” cried the ghost, “think what you’ll suffer in the -morning.” - -“_That_ for the morning,” cried the tiger, whisking its tail—“I tell -you, Jacob, I intend to make a night of it. Slave, lead on.” - -And thus for three months, conducted by the fate-enforced ghost, did the -tiger continue to sup off Vandervermins. Uncles and aunts, cousins male -and female, in all eight, had the tiger devoured, when one night the -brute carried off the ninth and last victim in the person of Justus -Vandervermin, lawyer and usurer. The tiger—strange to say—devoured every -bit of him; but it was the brute’s last morsel; it never could digest -him. Justus Vandervermin remained, like so much india-rubber, in the -vitals of the tiger. Nothing could stir the lawyer. - -“Jacob,” cried the brute, feeling its last hour approach. “I shall die, -and your ghost will be at rest. I forgive you—but why—why didn’t you -tell me that Justus was a lawyer?” - -And with these words the tiger died, and the ghost of Jacob Vandervermin -was instantly at peace. - - * * * * * - -“And if all this story isn’t true, Captain”—asked one of the -Cat-and-Fiddle company—“what do you get out of it?” - -“Why, true or not, this much,” answered Captain Bam; “never to neglect -and ill-use a poor relation. For however low and helpless he may seem, -the day may come when he shall have about him the strength of a tiger.” - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - A GOSSIP AT RECULVERS - - -THE spirit of the Saxon seems still to linger along the shores of Kent. -There is the air of antiquity about them; a something breathing of the -olden day—an influence, surviving all the changes of time, all the -vicissitudes of politic and social life. The genius of the Heptarchy -comes closer upon us from the realm of shadows; the Wittenagemote is not -a convocation of ghosts—not a venerable House of Mists; but a living, -talking, voting Parliament. We feel a something old, strong, stubborn, -hearty; a something for the intense meaning of which we have no other -word than “English” rising about us from every rood of Kent. And -wherefore this? England was not made piecemeal. Her foundations in the -deep—could a sea of molten gold purchase the worth of her surrounding -ocean?—are of the same age. The same sun has risen and set upon the -whole island. Wherefore, then, is Kent predominant in the mind for -qualities which the mind denies to other counties? Because it is still -invested with the poetry of action. Because we feel that Kent was the -cradle of the marrow and bone of England; because we still see, ay, as -palpably as we behold yonder trail of ebon smoke—the broad black pennant -of that mighty admiral, Steam—the sails of Cæsar threatening Kent, and -Kent barbarians clustering on the shore, defying him. It is thus that -the spirit of past deeds survives immortally, and works upon the future: -it is thus we are indissolubly linked to the memories of the bygone day -by the still active soul that once informed it. - -How rich in thoughts—how fertile in fancies that quicken the brain and -dally with the heart, is every footpace of the soil! Reader, be with us -for a brief time at this beautiful village of Herne. The sky is sullen; -and summer, like a fine yet froward wench, smiles now and then, now -frowns the blacker for the passing brightness: nevertheless, summer in -her worst mood cannot spoil the beautiful features of this demure, this -antique village. It seems a very nest—warm and snug, and green—for human -life; with the twilight haze of time about it, almost consecrating it -from the aching hopes and feverish expectations of the present. Who -would think that the bray and roar of multitudinous London sounded but -some sixty miles away? The church stands peacefully, reverently, like -some old visionary monk, his feet on earth—his thoughts with God. And -the graves are all about; and things of peace and gentleness, like -folded sheep, are gathered round it. - -There is a stile which man might make the throne of solemn thought—his -pregnant matter, the peasant bones that lie beneath. And on the other -side, a park, teeming with beauty; with sward green as emeralds, and -soft as a mole’s back; and trees, with centuries circulating in their -gnarled massiveness. - -But we must quit the churchyard, and turning to the right, we will -stroll towards Reculvers. How rich the swelling meadows! How their green -breasts heave with conceived fertility! And on this side corn-fields; -the grain stalk thick as a reed; the crop level and compact as a green -bank. And here, too, is a field of canary seed: of seed grown for London -birds in London cages. The farmer shoots the sparrow—the little rustic -scoundrel—that with felonious bill would carry away one grain sown for, -made sacred to, Portman Square canary! We might, perhaps, find a higher -parallel to this did we look with curious eyes about us. Nevertheless, -bumpkin sparrow has his world of air to range in; his free loves; and -for his nest his ivied wall or hawthorn bush. These, say the worst, are -a happy set-off even against a gilt-wired cage; sand like diamond dust; -unfailing seed, and sugar from even the sweeter lips of lady mistress. -Powder and small shot may come upon the sparrow like apoplexy upon an -alderman, with the unbolted morsel in its gullet; yet, consider—hath the -canary no danger to encounter? Doth not prosperity keep a cat? - -Well, this idle gossip has brought us within a short distance of -Reculvers. Here—so goes the hoary legend—Augustine impressed the first -Christian foot upon the English shore, sent hither by good Pope Gregory; -no less good that, if the same legend be true, he had a subtle sense of -a joke. Christianity, unless historians say what is not, owes somewhat -of its introduction into heathen England to a pun. The story is so old -that there is not a schoolmaster’s dog throughout merry Britain that -could not bark it. Nevertheless, we will indicate our moral courage by -repeating it. Our ink turns red with blushes at the thought—no -matter—for once we will write in our blushes. - - -[Illustration: - - “Sugar from even the sweeter lips of lady mistress” -] - - -Pope Gregory, seeing some white-haired, pink-cheeked boys for sale in -the Roman slave-market, asked who they were? _Sunt Angli_—they are -English, was the response. _Non sunt Angli_—_sed Angeli_; they are not -English, but angels, was the Papal playfulness. His Holiness then -inquired from what part of England. _Deirii_, they are Deirians, was the -answer. Whereupon the pope, following up his vein of pleasantry, said, -_Non Deirii, sed De ira_—not Deirians, but from the anger of the Lord: -snatched, as his Holiness indicated, from the vengeance that must always -light upon heathenism. - -This grey-haired story, like the grey hairs of Nestor, is pregnant with -practical wisdom. Let us imagine Pope Gregory to have been a dull man; -even for a pope a dull man. Let us allow that his mind had not been -sufficiently comprehensive to take within its circle the scattered -lights of intelligence, which, brought into a focus, make a joke. -Suppose, in a word, that the pope had had no ear for a pun? Saint -Augustine might still have watched the bubbles upon Tiber, and never -have been sea-sick on his English voyage. - -What does this prove? What does this incident preach with a -thunder-tongue? Why, the necessity, the vital necessity, of advancing no -man to any sort of dignity, who is not all alive as an eel to a joke. We -are convinced of it. The world will never be properly ruled, until jests -entirely supersede the authority of Acts of Parliament. As it is, the -Acts are too frequently the jests, without the fun. - -We are now close to Reculvers. There, reader, there—where you see that -wave leaping up to kiss that big white stone—that is the very spot where -Saint Augustine put down the sole of his Catholic foot. If it be not, we -have been misinformed and cheated of our money; we can say no more. - -Never mind the spot. Is there not a glory lighting up the whole beach? -Is not every wave of silver—every little stone, a shining crystal? Doth -not the air vibrate with harmonies, strangely winding into the heart, -and awakening the brain! Are we not under the spell of the imagination -which makes the present vulgarity melt away like morning mists, and -shows to us the full, uplighted glory of the past? - -There was a landing on the Sussex Coast; a landing of a Duke of -Normandy, and a horde of armed cut-throats. Looking at them even through -the distance of some eight hundred years, what are they but as a gang of -burglars? A band of pick-purses—blood-shedders—robbers! - -What was this landing of a host of men, in the full trump and blazonry -of war—what all their ships, their minstrelsey, and armed power—to the -advent of Augustine and his fellow-monks, brought hither by the -forlornness of the soul of man? it is this thought that makes this bit -of pebbled beach a sacred spot; it is this spirit of meditation that -hears in every little wave a sweet and solemn music. - -And there, where the ocean tumbles, was in the olden day a goodly town, -sapped, swallowed by the wearing, the voracious sea. At lowest tides the -people still discover odd, quaint, household relics, which, despite the -homely breeding of the finders, must carry away their thoughts into the -mist of time, and make them feel antiquity. The very children of the -village are hucksters of the spoils of dead centuries. They grow up with -some small trading knowledge of fossils; and are deep, very deep in all -sorts of petrifactions. They must have strange early sympathies towards -that mysterious town with all its tradesfolk and market-folk sunk below -the sea; a place of which they have a constant inkling in the petty -spoils lashed upwards by the tempest. Indeed, it is difficult for the -mind to conceive the annihilation of a whole town, engulfed in the -ocean. The tricksy fancy will assert itself; and looking over the -shining water, with summer basking on it, we are apt to dream that the -said market-town has only suffered a “sea-change”; and that fathoms -deep, the town still stands—that busy life goes on—that people of an -odd, sea-green aspect, it may be, still carry on the work of mortal -breathing; make love, beget little ones, and die. But this, indeed, is -the dream of idleness. Yet, who—if he could change his mind at will, -would make his mind incapable of such poor fantasies? How much of the -coarse web of existence owes its beauty to the idlest dreams with which -we colour it! - -The village of Reculvers is a choice work of antiquity. The spirit of -King Ethelbert tarries there still, and lives enshrined in the sign of a -public-house. It would be well for all kings could their spirits survive -with such genial associations. There are some dead royalties too -profitless even for a public sign. Who, now, with any other choice would -empty a tankard under the auspices of Bloody Mary, as that anointed -“femininitie” is called; or take a chop even at Nero’s Head? No; -inn-keepers know the subtle prejudices of man, nor violate the -sympathies of life with their sign-posts. - -Here, on the sanded floor of King Ethelbert’s hostelry, do village -antiquarians often congregate. Here, at times, are stories told—stories -not all unworthy of the type of Antiquarian _Transactions_—of _fibulæ_, -talked of as buckles, and other tangible bits of Roman history. Here, we -have heard, how a certain woman—living at this blessed hour, and the -mother of a family—went out at very low tide, and found the branch of a -filbert-tree with clustering filberts on it, all stone, at least a -thousand years old—and more. Here, too, have we heard of a wonderful -horse-shoe, picked up by Joe Squellins; a shoe, as the finder averred, -as old as the world. Poor Joe! What was his reward?—it may be, a pint of -ale for that inestimable bit of iron! And yet was he a working -antiquarian. Joe Squellins had within him the unchristened elements of -F.S.A. - -The sea has spared something of the old churchyard; although it has torn -open the sad sanctity of the grave, and reveals to the day, corpse upon -corpse—layers of the dead, thickly, closely packed, body upon body. A -lateral view of rows of skeletons, entombed in Christian earth centuries -since, for a moment staggers the mind, with this inward peep of the -grave. We at once see the close, dark prison of the churchyard, and our -breath comes heavily, and we shudder. It is only for a moment. There is -a lark singing, singing over our head—a mile upwards in the blue -heaven—singing like a freed soul: we look again, and smile serenely at -the bones of what was man. - -Many of our gentle countrymen—fellow-metropolitans—who once a year -wriggle out their souls from the slit of their tills to give the -immortal essence sea air, make a pilgrimage to Reculvers. This Golgotha, -we have noted it, has to them especial attractions. Many are the mortal -relics borne away to decorate a London chimney-piece. Many a skeleton -gives up its rib, its _ulna_, two or three odd _vertebræ_, or some such -gimcrack to the London visitor, for a London ornament. Present the same -man with a bone from a London hospital, and he would hold the act -abominable, irreligiously presumptuous. But time has “silvered o’er” the -bone from Reculvers; has cleansed it from the taint of mortality; has -merged the loathsomeness in the curiosity; for time turns even the worst -of horrors to the broadest of jests. We have now Guy Fawkes about to -blow Lords and Commons into eternity—and now Guy Fawkes masked for a -pantomime. - -One day, wandering near this open graveyard, we met a boy, carrying -away, with exulting looks, a skull in very perfect preservation. He was -a London boy, and looked rich indeed with his treasure. - -“What have you there?” we asked. - -“A man’s head—a skull,” was the answer. - -“And what can you possibly do with a skull?” - -“Take it to London.” - -“And when you have it in London, what then will you do with it?” - -“I know.” - -“No doubt. But what will you do with it?” - -And to this thrice-repeated question the boy three times answered, “I -know.” - -“Come, here’s sixpence. Now, what will you do with it?” - -The boy took the coin—grinned—hugged himself, hugging the skull the -closer, and said very briskly, “Make a money box of it!” - -A strange thought for a child. And yet, mused we as we strolled along, -how many of us, with nature beneficent and smiling on all sides—how many -of us think of nothing so much as hoarding sixpences—yea, hoarding them -even in the very jaws of desolate Death! - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE TWO WINDOWS - - -THE Union Workhouse of the ancient parish of Herne—how calm and pastoral -is that little nook of Kent!—has two outward windows. The fabric, built -by the inspiration of the New Poor-law, was a blind, eyeless piece of -brickwork; a gaol for the iniquity and perseverance of poverty; a -Newgate for the felony of want. The chiefs and elders of Parliament had -said, “Let us make abiding-places for the poor; let us separate them, -lepers as they are, from the clean; let us shut them up from the sight -of the green earth; let them not behold the work of the season in the -budding trees, in their leafy branches, in their red and golden robes of -autumn, in the gaunt bareness of solemn winter. Let the grass spring and -the wild-flower blossom; but let not the poor, the unclean of the land, -look upon the work of God.” After this resolve the Union was built; with -inner windows looking upon walls, and walls turned blank upon the -outward world. No crevice, no loophole permitted captive poverty a look, -a glimpse of the fresh face of nature; his soul, like his body, was -bricked up according to statute; he had by the insolence of destitution -offended the niceness of the world, and he was doomed by his judges to a -divorce from the commonest rights of earth. Hence, the Union Workhouse -turned its sullen, unbroken wall of brick upon the fields and trees, and -the pauper was made to look only upon pauperism. The freshness and -luxuriance of nature—her prodigal loveliness—was not for his eyes; he -was poor, and even to behold the plenteousness of the teeming earth was -an enjoyment beyond his state—a banned delight—a luxury which those who -paid for his food could not properly vouchsafe him! - -At length—when they themselves know it not, men’s hearts will work, a -sense of right will sometimes steal upon their sleep, an instinct of -goodness will, like silver water from the rock, gush forth—at length it -was resolved by the guardians of the poor—guardians of the poor! what a -holiness of purpose should inform those well-worn syllables—that the -dull, blind, squalid workhouse should have light; that its brick walls -should be pierced with two windows; that the fields and trees should -gladden pauper eyes, appealing to old recollections; childhood thoughts; -daily, customary feelings. It was determined that the pauper prisoner -should, through the iron bars of penury, have comforting glimpses of -God’s goodness without; that he should, though all unconsciously, make -offerings upon the green altar of the earth; that his heart should -commune, in its own unknowing way, with those sweet influences, which, -coming from God, discourse in some manner to all men. - -And so it was determined that the Union Workhouse should have two -outward windows. The guardians of the poor appeared with the labourers. -“Here,” said the guardians, “break through the wall; here pierce one -window—here, another.” Then turning to the paupers, some few -age-stricken folks, they said, with smug complacency, “We are going to -give you some light.” And this, reader, is not a goosequill fiction; it -is a thing of truth. - -“We are going to give you some light.” We cannot help it, if this -liberal goodness—this gentle philanthropy—drive back thought to the -first gift of light; if it call up, as with an iron tongue, the memory -of the holy birth of light, word-begotten, of all men. And the nature of -man, solemnised by such memories—kindled and uplifted, skies beyond -expression, by the sublime inheritance—is it not a hard task to consider -with composure even the compunction of a guardian of the poor, who -pierces with two windows the prison-house of the pauper to let God’s -light in? May not the small authority of man be sometimes as a -blaspheming burlesque of Almighty Beneficence? - -Let us, for a time forgetful of state philosophy—forgetful of the -plausibilities of social prosperity that set the poor apart from the -rich and well-to-do, as creatures somewhat different in the real drama -of life, although on certain occasions, as it were for form’s sake, for -Christian ceremony, allowed to be made from the clay of the same Eden as -their masters—let us behold the earth in its freshness, and man, its -owner, in the vigour of his new birth, the heir of an impartial -Providence, and the receiver of its glories; and then consider him as -the task-master of his fellow, as the grudging churl that metes out -light and air to his helpless brother; and for this sole cause—this one -bitter reason—he _is_ helpless. - -A miserable sight—a hideous testimony of the thankfulness of prosperous -man—is the rural union, with its blank dead wall of brick; a cold, blind -thing, the work of human perversity and human selfishness, amidst ten -thousand thousand evidences of Eternal bounty. How beautiful is the -beauty of God around it! There is not a sapling waving its green tresses -of June that does not make the heart yearn with kindliness; not a -field-flower that does not, with its speaking eye, tell of abundant -goodness; the brook is musical with the same sweet truth; all sights and -sounds declare it. The liberal loveliness of nature, turn where we will, -looks upon and whispers to us. We are made the heirs of wealth -inexhaustible, of pleasures deep as the sea and pure as the joys of -Paradise. And our return for this, our offering to the wretchedness of -our fellow-creatures, is yonder prison, with its dead wall turned upon -the pleasant aspects of nature, lest the pauper captives within should -behold what God has done for that world, in which, according to the -world’s justice, they have nothing. Hence is the pauper treated, in his -blind dungeon, as though there was a felonious purpose in his eyesight; -as though, a prisoner in the union, he would commit larceny on the meads -and trees, and all the rural objects that from babyhood have been -familiar to him, to the exceeding injury and loss of the free folks, -who, by the blessing of skill and good luck, have “land and beeves.” - -We know not a more fantastic tyranny, a more wilful assertion of the -arrogance of man, than this needless shutting up of his poorer brother -in a gaol of poverty—barring his eyes of every comforting object, -compelling him to look only upon that which at every look speaks to his -soul of his miserable dependence upon his richer fellow; which denies to -him the innocent, unbought glimpse of out-door nature, as though the -scene was a land of promise from which his beggary had made him alien. -Is human want so wicked that it should be unblessed with even a glance -at the pleasant things of creation? Has the pauper—because pauper—no -further claim upon the earth, save for his final bed—the grave? The -rustic unions, with their forlorn blank walls, cry, yes! - -If God punish man for crime, as man punishes man for poverty, woe to the -sons of Adam! - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE ORDER OF POVERTY - - -WHY should not Lazarus make to himself an order of tatters? Why should -not poverty have its patch of honour? Wherefore should not the undubbed -knights of evil fortune carry about them, with a gracious humility, the -inevitable types of their valorous contest with the Paynim iniquities of -life? Wherefore may not man wear indigence as proudly as nobility -flashes its jewels? Is there not a higher heraldry than that of the -college? - -Not a very long time ago the King of Greece awarded to an Englishman the -Order of the Redeemer. The Englishman did not reject the gift; he did -not stare with wonder, or smile in meek pity at the grave mockery of the -distinction; but winning the consent of our Sovereign Lady Victoria to -sport the jewel, the Knight of Christ—knight by the handiwork of the -King of Greece—hung about him the Order of the Redeemer. - -And what may be the gracious discipline of this Order of Redemption? Has -the new knight sold off all that he had, and given the money to the -poor? We have heard of no such broker’s work; and surely the newspaper -tongue would have given loud utterance to the penitence of Mammon. What -discipline, then, does this Order of Christ compel upon its holy and -immaculate brotherhood? What glorifying services towards the heart and -spirit of man what self-martyrdom does it recompense? Is it the bright -reward of humility—of active loving-kindness towards everything that -breathes? Is it that the knighted, beyond ten thousand men, has proved -the divine temper of the spiritual follower of Jesus, making his hourly -life an active goodness, and with every breath drawn drawing nearer to -rewarding Heaven? Surely the Order of the Redeemer—that awful, solemn -badge, setting apart its wearer from the sordid crowd of earth—could -only be vouchsafed to some hard Christian service—could only reward some -triumphant wrestling of the suffering soul—some wondrous victory in the -forlorn hope of this dark struggling life. These are our thoughts—these -our passionate words; whereupon the herald of the court of Greece—a -grave, fantastic wizard—with mildly-reproving look and most delicate -speech, says: “You are wrong: quite wrong. The Order of the Redeemer, -though by no means the first Order, is a very pretty Order in its way. -Six months since we gave it to Captain Jonquil, from Paris; and truly no -man more deserved the Order of the Redeemer. He taught His Majesty’s -infantry the use of the bayonet: his howitzer practice, too, is a divine -thing. Captain Jonquil is a great soldier. Last week the Order of the -Redeemer was also bestowed upon Andreas, a great favourite at court—but, -if the naughty truth must be told, a pimp.” - -Alas! is heraldry always innocent of blasphemy? - -On the 13th of June 1843, a grave masque—a solemn ceremony—was held at -the court of St James. Heraldry again looked smug and pompous. A knight -was to be made of “the most ancient Order of the Thistle.” Let us make a -clean breast of our ignorance; we assert nothing against the antiquity -of the Thistle; for what we know, it may be as old—ay, as old as asses. -But upon the glad 13th of June a chapter was held, and John, Marquis of -Bute, and the Right Hon. William, Earl of Mansfield, were elected -knights. They of course took the oaths to protect and succour distressed -maidens, orphans and widows; to abstain from every sort of wrong, and to -do every sort of right. - -“The Marquis of Bute then kneeling near the Sovereign, and Mr Woods on -his knee, presenting to the Queen the riband and jewel of the Order, Her -Majesty was graciously pleased to place the same over the noble -Marquis’s left shoulder. His Lordship rising, kissed the Sovereign’s -hand, and having received the congratulations of the knights brethren, -retired.” - -From that moment John, Marquis of Bute, looked and moved with the aspect -and bearing of a man, radiant with new honours. He was a Knight of the -Thistle, and the jewel sparkling at his bosom feebly typified the -bright, admiring looks of the world—the gaze of mingled love and -admiration bent upon him. But on this earth—in this abiding-place of -equity—men do not get even thistles for nothing. It may, indeed, happen -that desert may pant and moan without honour; but in the court of kings, -where justice weighs with nicest balance, honour never with its smiles -mocks imbecility, or gilds with outward lustre a concealed rottenness. -Honour never gives alms, but awards justice. Mendicancy, though with -liveried lackies clustering at its carriage—and there is such -pauperism—may whine and pray its hardest, yet move not the inflexible -herald. He awards those jewels to virtue, which virtue has sweated, bled -for. And it is with this belief, yea, in the very bigotry of the creed, -we ask—what has John, Marquis of Bute, fulfilled to earn his thistle? -What, the Right Hon. William, Earl of Mansfield? What dragon wrong has -either overcome? What giant Untruth stormed in Sophist Castle? What -necromantic wickedness baffled and confounded? Yet, these battles have -been fought—these triumphs won; oh! who shall doubt them? Be sure of it, -ye unbelieving demagogues—scoffing plebians, not for nothing nobility -browses upon thistles. - -We pay all honour to these inventions, these learned devices of the -Herald. They doubtless clothe, comfort, and adorn humanity, which, -without them, would be cold, naked, shrunk, and squalid. They, moreover, -gloriously attest the supremacy of the tame, the civilised man, over the -wild animal. The orders of the Herald are _tattoo_ without the pain of -puncture. The New Zealander carries his knighthood, lined and starred -and flowered, in his visage. The civilised knight hangs it more -conveniently on a riband. - -We are such devout believers in the efficacy of Orders, that we devote -this small essay to an attempt to make them, under some phase or other, -universal. We will not linger in a consideration of the Orders already -dead; lovely was their life, and as fragrant is their memory. There was -one Order—Teutonic, if we mistake not, the Order of Fools. There was a -quaint sincerity in the very title of this brotherhood. Its philosophy -was out-speaking; and more than all, the constitution of such a chapter -admitted knights against whose worthiness, whose peculiar right to wear -the badge, no envious demagogue could say his bitter saying. Surely, in -our reverence for the wisdom of antiquity, this Order might have -resurrection. The Fool might have his bauble newly varnished—his cap -newly hung with tinkling bells. Some of us chirp and cackle of the -wisdom of the bygone day; but that is only wisdom which jumps with our -own cunning; which fortifies us in the warm and quiet nook of some -hallowed prejudice. From the mere abstract love of justice, we should be -right glad to have the Order of Fools revived in the fullest splendour -of Folly. Such an Order would so beneficently provide for many -unrewarded public idlers—ay, and public workers. - -There was a time when the world in its first childhood needed -playthings. Then was the Herald the world’s toy-maker, and made for it -pretty little nick-knacks—golden fleeces—stars, ribands and garters; -tempting the world to follow the kickshaws, as nurse with sugared -bread-and-butter tempts the yeanling to try its tottering feet. The -world has grown old—old and wise: yet is not the Herald bankrupt, but -like a pedlar at a fair, draws the hearts of simple men after the -shining, silken glories in his box. Meanwhile, philosophy in hodden -grey, laughs at the crowd, who bellow back the laugh and sometimes pelt -the reverend fool for his irreligious humour: for he who believes not in -Stars and Garters is unbeliever; to the world’s best and brightest -faith, atheist and scoffer. - -Is it not strange that a man should think the better of himself for a -few stones glittering in his bosom? That a costly band about the leg -should make the blood dance more swiftly through the arteries? That a -man seeing his breast set with jewellers’ stars should think them -glorious as the stars of heaven—himself, little less than an earthly -god, so deified? If these things be really types and emblems of true -greatness, what rascal poverty besets the man without them! How is he -damned in his baseness! What mere offal of humanity, the biped without -an Order! And, therefore, let stars be multiplied; and let nobility—like -bees—suck honey from Thistles! - -We are, however, confirmed in our late failing faith. We are bigoted to -Orders. Men, like watches, must work the better upon jewels. Man is, at -the best, a puppet; and is only put into dignified motion when pulled by -Blue or Red Ribands. Now, as few, indeed, of us can get stars, garters -or ribands, let us have Orders of our own. Let us, with invincible -self-complacency, ennoble ourselves. - -In the hopeless ignorance and vulgarity of our first prejudice, we might -possibly want due veneration for the Golden Fleece; an ancient and most -noble Order, worn by few. Yet with all our worst carelessness towards -the Order, we never felt for it the same pitying contempt we feel -towards an Order worn by many—not at their button-holes, not outside -their breasts, but in the very core of their hearts—the Order of the -Golden Calf. - -Oh! bowelless Plutus, what a host of Knights! What a lean-faced, -low-browed, thick-jowled, swag-bellied brotherhood! Deformity, in all -its fantastic variety, meets in the chapter. They wear no armour of -steel or brass, but are cased in the magic mail of impenetrable -Bank-paper. They have no sword, no spear, no iron mace with spikes; but -they ride merrily into the fight of life, swinging about gold-gutted -purses, and levelling with the dust rebellious poverty. These are the -Knights of the Golden Calf. It is a glorious community. What a look of -easy triumph they have! With what serene self-satisfaction they measure -the wide distance between mere paupers—the Knights of the Order of -Nothing—and themselves! How they walk the earth as if they alone -possessed the patent of walking upright! How they dilate in the light of -their own gold, like adders in the sun! - -A most fatal honour is this Order of the Golden Calf. It is worn unseen, -as we have said, in the hearts of men; but its effects are visible: the -disease speaks out in every atom of flesh—poor human worm’s-meat!—and -throbs in every muscle. It poisons the soul; gives the eye a squint; -takes from the face of fellow-man its God-gifted dignity, and makes him -a thing to prey upon; to work, to use up; to reduce to so much hard -cash; then to be put up, with a wary look of triumph, into the pocket. -This Order damns with a leprosy of soul its worshipper. It blinds and -deafens him to the glories and the harmonies ministrant to poorer men. -His eye is jaundiced, and in the very stars of God he sees nought but -twinkling guineas. - -At this moment great is the Order throughout the land! Tyrannous its -laws, reckless its doings. It is strong, and why should it be just? To -be of this Order is now the one great striving of life. They alone are -men who wear the jewel—wretches they without it. Man was originally made -from the dust of the earth: he is now formed of a richer substance: the -true man is made of gold. Yes, the regenerate Adam is struck only at the -Mint. - -The Knights of the Order of the Golden Calf have no formal ceremony of -election; yet has brother knight almost instinctive knowledge of -brother. In the solitude of his own thoughts is he made one of the -community; in utter privacy he kisses the pulseless hand of Plutus, and -swears to his supremacy. The oath divorces him from pauper-life—from its -cares, its wants, its sympathies. He is privileged from the uneasiness -of thought, the wear and tear of anxiety for fellow-man; he is compact -and self-concentrated in his selfishness. Nought ruffles him that -touches not that inmost jewel of his soul, his knighthood’s Order. - -In the olden day the Knights of the Fleece, the Garter and other -glories, won their rank upon the battlefield—blood and strife being to -them the hand-maids of honour. The chivalry of the Golden Calf is mild -and gentle. It splits no brain-pan, spills no blood; yet is it ever -fighting. We are at the exchange. Look at that easy, peaceful man. What -a serenity is upon his cheek! What a mild lustre in his eye! How plainly -is he habited! He wears the livery of simplicity and the look of peace. -Yet has he in his heart the Order of the Golden Calf. He is one of -Mammon’s boldest heroes. A very soldier of fortune. He is now -fighting—fighting valorously. He has come armed with a bran-new lie—a -falsehood of surpassing temper, which with wondrous quietude he lays -about him, making huge gashes in the money-bags of those he fights with. -A good foreign lie, well finished and well mounted, is to this Knight of -the Golden Calf as the sword of Faery to Orlando. With it he sometimes -cuts down giant fortunes, and after “grinds their bones to make his -bread.” - -And there are small esquires and pages of the Order; men who, with -heart-felt veneration, lick their lips at the Golden Calf, and with more -than bridegroom yearning pant for possession. These small folk swarm -like summer-gnats; and still they drone the praises of the Calf; and -looking at no other thing, have their eyes bleared and dazzled to all -beside. - -The Knights of the Golden Calf shed no blood; that is, the wounds they -deal bleed inwardly and give no evidence of homicide. They are, too, -great consumers of the marrow of men; and yet they break no bones, but -by a trick known to their Order extract without fracture precious -nutriment. They are great alchemists, too; and turn the sweat of -unrequited poverty, aye, the tears of childhood, into drops of gold. - -Much wrong, much violence, much wayward cruelty—if the true history of -knighthood were indicted—lies upon the Fleece, the Garter, yes, upon the -Templar’s Lamb;—yet all is but as May-day pastime to the voracity, the -ignorance, the wilful selfishness, the bestial lowings of the Golden -Calf. And of this Order the oldest of the brotherhood are the most -gluttonous. There is one whose every fibre is blasted with age. To the -imagination his face is as a coffin-plate. Yet is he all belly. As cruel -as a cat though toothless as a bird! - -Oh, ye knights, great and small—whether expanding on the mart, or lying -_perdu_ in back parlours—fling from your hearts the Order there, and -feel for once the warmth of kindly blood! The brotherhood chuckle at the -adjuration. Well, let us fight the Order with an Order. - -The Order of Poverty against the Order of the Golden Calf! - -Will it not be a merry time, when men, with a blithe face and open look, -shall confess that they are poor? When they shall be to the world what -they are to themselves? When the lie, the shuffle, the bland, yet -anxious hypocrisy of seeming, and seeming only, shall be a creed -forsworn? When Poverty asserts itself, and never blushes and stammers at -its true name, the Knights of the Calf must give ground. Much of their -strength, their poor renown, their miserable glory, lies in the -hypocrisy of those who would imitate them. They believe themselves -great, because the poor, in the very ignorance of the dignity of -poverty, would ape their magnificence. - -The Order of Poverty! How many sub-orders might it embrace! As the -spirit of Gothic chivalry has its fraternities, so might the Order of -Poverty have its distinct devices. - -The Order of the Thistle! That is an order for nobility—a glory to -glorify marquisate or earldom. Can we not, under the rule of Poverty, -find as happy a badge? - -Look at this peasant. His face bronzed with midday toil. From sunrise to -sunset, with cheerful looks and uncomplaining words, he turns the primal -curse to dignity, and manfully earns his bread in the sweat of his brow. -Look at the fields around! Golden with blessed corn. Look at this -bloodless soldier of the plough—this hero of the sickle. His triumphs -are there, piled up in bread-bestowing sheaves. Is he not Sir Knight of -the Wheat-Ear? Surely, as truly dubbed in the heraldry of justice, as -any Knight of the Thistle. - -And here is a white-haired shepherd. As a boy, a child, playful as the -lambs he tended, he laboured. He has dreamed away his life upon a -hillside—on downs—on solitary heaths. The humble, simple, patient -watcher for fellow-men. Solitude has been his companion: he has grown -old, wrinkled, bent in the eye of the burning sun. His highest wisdom is -a guess at the coming weather: he may have heard of diamonds, but he -knows the evening star. He has never sat at a congress of kings: he has -never helped to commit a felony upon a whole nation. Yet is he to our -mind a most reverend Knight of the Fleece. If the Herald object to this, -let us call him Knight of the Lamb! In its gentleness and patience, a -fitting type of the poor old shepherd. - -And here is a pauper, missioned from the workhouse to break stones at -the road-side. How he strikes and strikes at that unyielding bit of -flint! Is it not the stony heart of the world’s injustice knocked at by -poverty? What haggardness is in his face! What a blight hangs about him! -There are more years in his looks than in his bones. Time has marked him -with an iron pen. He wailed as a babe for bread his father was not -allowed to earn. He can recollect every dinner—they were so few—of his -childhood. He grew up, and want was with him even as his shadow. He has -shivered with cold—fainted with hunger. His every day of life has been -set about by goading wretchedness. Around him, too, were the stores of -plenty. Food, raiment, and money mocked the man made half mad with -destitution. Yet, with a valorous heart, a proud conquest of the -shuddering spirit, he walked with honesty and starved. His long journey -of life hath been through thorny places, and now he sits upon a pile of -stones on the wayside, breaking them for workhouse bread. Could loftiest -chivalry show greater heroism—nobler self-control, than this old man, -this weary breaker of flints? Shall he not be of the Order of Poverty? -Is not penury to him even as a robe of honour? His grey workhouse coat -braver than purple and miniver? He shall be Knight of the Granite if you -will. A workhouse gem, indeed—a wretched, highway jewel—yet, to the eye -of truth, finer than many a ducal diamond. - - -[Illustration: - - “He has dreamed his life upon a hillside—” -] - - -This man is a weaver; this a potter. Here, too, is a razor-grinder; here -an iron-worker. Labour is their lot; labour they yearn for, though to -some of them labour comes with miserable disease and early death. Have -we not here Knights of the Shuttle, Knights of Clay, and Knights of -Vulcan, who prepare the carcase of the giant engine for its vital flood -of steam? Are not these among the noblest of the sons of Poverty? Shall -they not take high rank in its Order? - -We are at the mouth of a mine. There, many, many fathoms below us, works -the naked, grimed, and sweating wretch, oppressed, brutalised, that he -may dig us coal for our winter’s hearth; where we may gather round, and -with filled bellies, well-clothed backs, and hearts all lapped in -self-complacency, talk of the talked-of evils of the world, as though -they were the fables of ill-natured men, and not the verities of -bleeding life. That these men, doing the foulest offices of the world -should still be of the world’s poorest, gives dignity to want—the glory -of long-suffering to poverty. - -And so, indeed, in the mind of wisdom, is poverty ennobled. And for the -Knights of the Golden Calf, how are they outnumbered! Let us, then, -revive the Order of Poverty. Ponder, reader, on its antiquity. For was -not Christ Himself Chancellor of the Order, and the Apostles Knights -Companions? - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE OLD MAN AT THE GATE - - -IN Surrey, some three miles from Chertsey, is a quiet, dull, sequestered -nook, called Shepperton Green. Whether the new philanthropy of new -pauper laws hath, of late years, sought out the spot I know not. At the -time whereof I write, the olden charity dwelt in an old workhouse—a -primitive abiding-place for the broken ploughman, the palsied shepherd, -the old, old peasant, for whom nothing more remained in this world but -to die. The governor of this abode of benevolence dwelt in the lower -part of the building, and therein, as the village trade might fluctuate, -made or mended shoes. Let the plain truth be said—the governor was a -cobbler. Within a stone’s cast of the workhouse was a little white gate -swung between two hedge-banks in the road to Chertsey. Here, pass when -you would, stood an old man, whose self-imposed office it was to open -the gate; for the which service the passenger would drop some small -benevolence in the withered hand of the aged peasant. This man was a -pauper—one of the almsmen of the village workhouse. - -There was a custom—whether established by the governor aforesaid or by -predecessors of a vanished century, I know not—that made it the -privilege of the oldest pauper to stand the porter at the gate; his -perquisite, by right of years, the halfpence of the rare pedestrian. As -the senior died, the living senior succeeded to the office. Now the -gate—and now the grave. - -And this is all the history? All. The story is told—it will not bear -another syllable. The “Old Man” is at the gate; the custom which places -him there has been made known, and with it ends the narrative. - -How few the incidents of life—how multitudinous its emotions! How flat, -monotonous may be the circumstance of daily existence, and yet how -various the thoughts which spring from it! Look at yonder landscape, -broken into hill and dale, with trees of every hue and form, and water -winding in silver threads through velvet fields. How beautiful—for how -various! Cast your eye over that moor; it is flat and desolate—barren as -barren rock. Not so. Seek the soil, and then, with nearer gaze, -contemplate the wondrous forms and colours of the thousand mosses -growing there; give ear to the hum of busy life sounding at every root -of poorest grass. Listen! Does not the heart of the earth beat audibly -beneath this seeming barrenness—audibly as where the corn grows and the -grape ripens? Is it not so with the veriest rich and the veriest -poor—with the most active and with apparently the most inert? - -That “Old Man at the Gate” has eighty years upon his head—eighty years, -covering it with natural reverence. He was once in London—only once. -This pilgrimage excepted, he has never journeyed twenty miles from the -cottage in which he was born; of which he became the master; whereto he -brought his wife; where his children saw the light, and their children -after; where many of them died; and whence, having with a stout soul, -fought against the strengthening ills of poverty and old age, he was -thrust by want and sickness out, and, with a stung heart, he laid his -bones upon a workhouse bed. - -Life to the “Old Man” has been one long path across a moor—a flat, -unbroken journey; the eye uncheered, the heart unsatisfied. Coldness and -sterility have compassed him round. Yet, has he been subdued to the -blankness of his destiny? Has his mind remained the unwrit page that -schoolmen talk of—has his heart become a clod? Has he been made by -poverty a moving image—a plough-guiding, corn-thrashing instrument? Have -not unutterable thoughts sometimes stirred within his brain—thoughts -that elevated, yet confused him with a sense of eternal beauty—coming -upon him like the spiritual presences to the shepherds? Has he not been -beset by the inward and mysterious yearning of the heart towards the -unknown and the unseen? He has been a ploughman. In the eye of the -well-to-do, dignified with the accomplishments of reading and writing, -is he of little more intelligence than the oxen treading the glebe. Yet, -who shall say that the influence of nature—that the glories of the -rising sun—may not have called forth harmonies of soul from the rustic -drudge, the moving statue of a man! - -That worn-out, threadbare remnant of humanity at the gate; age makes it -reverend, and the inevitable—shall inevitable be said?—injustice of the -world invests it with majesty, the majesty of suffering meekly borne and -meekly decaying. “The poor shall never cease out of the land.” This text -the self-complacency of competence loveth to quote: it hath a melody in -it, a lulling sweetness to the selfishness of our nature. Hunger, and -cold, and nakedness, are the hard portion of man; there is no help for -it; rags must flutter about us; man, yes, even the strong man, his only -wealth (the wealth of Adam) wasting in his bones, must hold his pauper -hand to his brother of four meals _per diem_; it is a necessity of -nature, and there is no help for it. And thus some men send their -consciences to sleep by the chinking of their own purses. Necessity of -evil is an excellent philosophy applied to everybody but—ourselves. - -These easy souls will see nothing in our “Old Man at the Gate” but a -pauper, let out of the workhouse for the chance of a few halfpence. -Surely, he is something more? He is old; very old. Every day, every -hour, earth has less claim in him. He is so old, so feeble, that even as -you look he seems sinking. At sunset he is scarcely the man who opened -the gate to you in the morning. Yet there is no disease in him—none. He -is dying of old age. He is working out that most awful problem of -life—slowly, solemnly. He is now the badged pauper—and now in the -unknown country with Solomon! - -Can man look upon a more touching solemnity? There stands the old man, -passive as a stone, nearer every moment to churchyard clay! It was only -yesterday that he took his station at the gate. His predecessor held the -post for two years; he too daily, daily dying:— - - “Till like a clock, worn out with eating time, - The weary wheels of life at length stood still.” - -How long will the present watcher survive? In that very uncertainty—in -the very hoariness of age which brings home to us that uncertainty—there -is something that makes the old man sacred; for, in the course of -nature, is not the oldest man the nearest to the angels? - -Yet, away from these thoughts, there is reverence due to that old man. -What has been his life? A war with suffering. What a beautiful world is -this! How rich and glorious! How abundant in blessings—great and -little—to thousands! What a lovely place hath God made it; and how have -God’s creatures darkened and outraged it to the wrong of one another! -Well, what had this man of the world? What stake, as the effrontery of -selfishness has it? The wild fox was better cared for. Though preserved -some day to be killed, it _was_ preserved until then. What did this old -man inherit? Toil, incessant toil, with no holiday of the heart: he came -into the world a badged animal of labour; the property of animals. What -was the earth to him?—a place to die in. - -“The poor shall never cease out of the land.” Shall we then, -accommodating our sympathies to this hard necessity, look serenely down -upon the wretched? Shall we preach only comfort to ourselves from the -doomed condition of others? It is an easy philosophy; so easy there is -but little wonder it is so well exercised. - -But “The Old Man at the Gate” has, for seventy years, worked and worked; -and what his closing reward? The workhouse. Shall we not, some of us, -blush crimson at our own world-successes, considering the destitution of -our worthy, single-hearted fellows? Should not affluence touch its hat -to “The Old Man at the Gate” with a reverence for the years upon him; -he—the born soldier of poverty, doomed for life to lead life’s forlorn -hope? Thus considered, surely Dives may unbonnet to Lazarus. - -To our mind the venerableness of age made “The Old Man at the Gate” -something like a spiritual presence. He was so old, who could say how -few the pulsations of his heart between him and the grave! But there he -was with a meek happiness upon him; gentle, cheerful. He was not built -up in bricks and mortar; but was still in the open air, with the -sweetest influences about him; the sky—the trees—the green sward—and -flowers with the breath of God in them! - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration: - - The fifes and drums of her Majesty’s Grenadiers -] - - - - - THE FOLLY OF THE SWORD - - -MAY we ask the reader to behold with us a melancholy show—a saddening, -miserable spectacle? We will not take him to a prison, a workhouse, a -Bedlam, where human nature expiates its guiltiness, its lack of worldly -goods, its most desolate perplexity; but we will take him to a -wretchedness, first contrived by wrong and perpetrated by folly. We will -show him the embryo mischief that in due season shall be born in the -completion of its terror, and shall be christened with a sounding -name,—Folly and wickedness standing its sponsors. - -We are in St James’s Park. The royal standard of England burns in the -summer air—the Queen is in London. We pass the Palace, and in a few -paces are in Birdcage Walk. There, reader, is the miserable show we -promised you. There are some fifty recruits, drilled by a sergeant to do -homicide, killingly, handsomely. In Birdcage Walk Glory sits upon her -eggs, and hatches eagles! - -How very beautiful is the sky above us! What a blessing comes with the -fresh, quick air! The trees, drawing their green beauty from the earth, -quicken our thoughts of the bounteousness of this teeming world. Here in -this nook, this patch, where we yet feel the vibrations of surrounding -London—even here Nature, constant in her beauty, blooms and smiles, -uplifting the heart of man—if the heart be his to own her. - -Now, look aside and contemplate God’s image with a musket. Your bosom -duly expanding with gratitude to nature for the blessings she has heaped -about you, behold the crowning glory of God’s work managed, like a -machine, to slay the image of God—to stain the teeming earth with -homicidal blood—to fill the air with howling anguish! Is not yonder row -of clowns a melancholy sight? Yet are they the sucklings of Glory—the -baby mighty ones of a future _Gazette_. Reason beholds them with a deep -pity. Imagination magnifies them into fiends of wickedness. There is -carnage about them—carnage, and the pestilential vapour of the -slaughtered. What a fine-looking thing is war! Yet dress it as we may, -dress and feather it, daub it with gold, huzza it and sing swaggering -songs about it—what is it, nine times out of ten—but murder in uniform? -Cain, taken the sergeant’s shilling? - -And now we hear the fifes and drums of her Majesty’s Grenadiers. They -pass on the other side; and a crowd of idlers, their hearts jumping to -the music, their eyes dazzled, and their feelings perverted, hang about -the march and catch the infection—the love of glory! And true wisdom -thinks of the world’s age, and sighs at its slow advance in all that -really dignifies man—the truest dignity being the truest love for his -fellow. And then hope, and faith in human progress, contemplate the -pageant, its real ghastliness disguised by outward glare and frippery, -and know the day will come when the symbols of war will be as the sacred -beasts of old Egypt—things to mark the barbarism of bygone war; -melancholy records of the past perversity of human nature. - -We can imagine the deep-chested laughter—the look of scorn which would -annihilate, and then the smile of compassion—of the man of war at this, -the dream of folly and the wanderings of an inflamed brain. Yet, oh, man -of war! at this very moment are you shrinking, withering like an aged -giant. The fingers of Opinion have been busy at your plume—you are not -the feathered thing you were; and then that little tube, the goose -quill, has sent its silent shot into your huge anatomy; and the -corroding INK, even whilst you look at it, and think it shines so -brightly, is eating with a tooth of rust into your sword. - -That a man should kill a man and rejoice in the deed—nay, gather glory -from it—is the act of a wild animal. The force of muscle and the -dexterity of limb which make the wild man a conqueror are deemed, in -savage life, man’s highest attributes. The creature whom, in the pride -of our Christianity, we call heathen and spiritually desolate, has some -personal feeling in the strife—he kills his enemy, and then, making an -oven of hot stones, bakes his dead body, and, for crowning satisfaction, -eats it. His enemy becomes a part of him; his glory is turned to -nutriment; and he is content. What barbarism! Field-marshals sicken at -the horror; nay, troopers shudder at the tale, like a fine lady at a -toad. - -In what, then, consists the prime evil? In the murder, or in the meal? -Which is the most hideous deed—to kill a man, or to cook and eat the man -when killed? - -But, softly, there is no murder in the case. The craft of man has made a -splendid ceremony of homicide—has invested it with dignity. He -slaughters with flags flying, drums beating, trumpets braying. He kills -according to method, and has worldly honours for his grim handiwork. He -does not, like the unchristian savage, carry away with him mortal -trophies from the skulls of his enemies. No, the alchemy and magic of -authority turns his well-won scalps into epaulets, or hangs them in -stars and crosses at his button-hole; and then, the battle over, the -dead not eaten, but carefully buried—and the maimed and mangled howling -and blaspheming in hospitals—the meek Christian warrior marches to -church, and reverently folding his sweet and spotless hands, sings _Te -Deum_. Angels wave his fervent thanks to God, to whose footstool—in his -own faith—he has so lately sent his shuddering thousands. And this -spirit of destruction working within him is canonised by the craft and -ignorance of man and worshipped as glory! - -And this religion of the sword—this dazzling heathenism, that makes a -pomp of wickedness—seizes and distracts us even on the threshold of -life. Swords and drums are our baby playthings; the types of violence -and destruction are made the pretty pastimes of our childhood; and as we -grow older, the outward magnificence of the ogre Glory—his trappings and -his trumpets, his privileges, and the songs that are shouted in his -praise—ensnare the bigger baby to his sacrifice. Hence slaughter becomes -an exalted profession; the marked, distinguished employment of what in -the jargon of the world is called a gentleman. - - -[Illustration: - - “Hodge, poor fellow, enlists” -] - - -But for this craft operating upon this ignorance, who—in the name of -outraged God—would become the hireling of the Sword? Hodge, poor fellow, -enlists. He wants work; or he is idle, dissolute. Kept, by the injustice -of the world, as ignorant as the farmyard swine, he is the better -instrument for the world’s craft. His ear is tickled with the fife and -drum; or he is drunk; or the sergeant—the lying valet of glory—tells a -good tale, and already Hodge is a warrior in the rough. In a fornight’s -time you may see him at Chatham; or indeed he was one of those we marked -in Birdcage Walk. Day by day the sergeant works at the block ploughman, -and, chipping and chipping, at length carves out a true, handsome -soldier of the line. What knew Hodge of the responsibility of man? What -dreams had he of the self-accountability of the human spirit? He is -become the lackey of carnage, the liveried footman, at a few pence per -day, of fire and blood. The musket stock, which for many an hour he -hugs—hugs in sulks and weariness—was no more a party to its present use -than was Hodge. That piece of walnut is the fragment of a tree that -might have given shade and fruit for another century; homely, rustic -people gathering under it. Now it is the instrument of wrong and -violence; the working tool of slaughter. Tree and man, are not their -destinies as one? - -And is Hodge alone of benighted mind? Is he alone deficient of that -knowledge of moral right and wrong, which really and truly crowns the -man king of himself? When he surrenders up his nature, a mere machine -with human pulses to do the bidding of war, has he taken counsel with -his own reflection—does he know the limit of the sacrifice? He has taken -his shilling, and knows the facings of his uniform! - -When the born and bred gentleman, to keep to coined and current terms, -pays down his thousand pounds or so for his commission, what incites to -the purchase? It may be the elegant idleness of the calling: it may be -the bullion and glitter of the regimentals; or, devout worshipper, it -may be an unquenchable thirst for glory. From the moment when his name -stars the _Gazette_, what does he become? The bond-servant of war! -Instantly he ceases to be a judge between moral right and moral injury. -It is his duty not to think, but to obey. He has given up, surrendered -to another the freedom of his soul: he has dethroned the majesty of his -own will. He must be active in wrong, and see not the injustice: shed -blood for craft and usurpation, calling bloodshed valour. He may be -made, by the iniquity of those who use him, a burglar and a brigand; but -glory calls him pretty names for his prowess, and the wicked weakness of -the world shouts and acknowledges him. And is this the true condition of -reasonable man? Is it by such means that he best vindicates the -greatness of his mission here? Is he when he most gives up the free -motions of his own soul—is he then most glorious? - -A few months ago chance showed us a band of ruffians who, as it -afterwards appeared, were intent upon most desperate mischief. They -spread themselves over the country, attacking, robbing, and murdering -all who fell into their hands. Men, women, and children all suffered -alike. Nor were the villains satisfied with this. In their wanton -ruthlessness they set fire to cottages, and tore up and destroyed -plantations. Every footpace of their march was marked with blood and -desolation. - -Who were these wretches? you ask. What place did they ravage? Were they -not caught and punished? - -They were a part of the army of Africa; valorous Frenchmen, bound for -Algiers to cut Arab throats; and, in the name of glory, and for the -everlasting glory of France, to burn, pillage, and despoil; and all for -national honour—all for glory! - -But Glory cannot dazzle Truth. Does it not at times appear no otherwise -than a highwayman with a pistol at a nation’s breast? a burglar with a -crowbar entering a kingdom? Alas! in this world there is no Old Bailey -for nations, otherwise where would have been the crowned heads that -divided Poland? Those felon monarchs anointed to—steal? It is true the -historian claps the cutpurse conqueror in the dock, and he is tried by -the jury of posterity. _He_ is past the verdict, yet is not its -damnatory voice lost upon generations? For thus is the world -taught—albeit slowly taught—true glory; when that which passed for -virtue is truly tested to be vile; when the hero is hauled from the car -and fixed for ever in the pillory. - -But war brings forth the heroism of the soul: war tests the magnanimity -of man. Sweet is the humanity that spares a fallen foe; gracious the -compassion that tends his wounds, that brings even a cup of water to his -burning lips. Granted. But is there not a heroism of a grander mould—the -heroism of forbearance? Is not the humanity that refuses to strike a -nobler virtue than the late pity born of violence? Pretty is it to see -the victor with salve and lint kneeling at his bloody trophy—a maimed -and agonised fellow-man; but surely it had been better to withhold the -blow than to have been first mischievous, to be afterwards humane. - -That nations professing a belief in Christ should couple glory with war -is monstrous blasphemy. Their faith, their professing faith, is—“Love -one another”; their practice is to—cut throats; and more, to bribe and -hoodwink men to the wickedness, the trade of blood is magnified into a -virtue. We pray against battle, and glorify the deeds of death. We say -beautiful are the ways of peace, and then cocker ourselves upon our -perfect doings in the art of man-slaying. Let us then cease to pay the -sacrifice of admiration to the demon—War; let us not acknowledge him as -a mighty and majestic principle, but, at the very best, a grim and -melancholy necessity. - -But there always has been—there always will be—war. It is inevitable; it -is a part of the condition of human society. Man has always made glory -to himself from the destruction of his fellow; so it will continue. It -may be very pitiable; would it were otherwise! But so it is, and there -is no helping it. - -Happily we are slowly killing this destructive fallacy. A long breathing -time of peace has been fatal to the dread magnificence of glory. Science -and philosophy—_povera e nuda filosofia!_—have made good their claims, -inducing man to believe that he may vindicate the divinity of his nature -otherwise than by perpetrating destruction. He begins to think there is -a better glory in the communication of triumphs of the mind, than in the -clash of steel and the roar of artillery. At the present moment a -society, embracing men of distant nations—“natural enemies,” as the old -wicked cant of the old patriotism had it—is at work plucking the plumes -from Glory, unbracing his armour, and divesting the ogre of all that -dazzled foolish and unthinking men, showing the rascal in his natural -hideousness, in all his base deformity. Some, too, are calculating the -cost of Glory’s table: some showing what an appetite the demon has, -devouring at a meal the substance of these thousand sons of -industry—yea, eating up the wealth of kingdoms. And thus by degrees are -men beginning to look upon this god Glory as no more than a -finely-trapped Sawney Bean—a monster and a destroyer—a nuisance—a noisy -lie. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE GREENWICH PENSIONER - - -A GREENWICH pensioner! Did any of my readers ever ponder on that strange -composition of battered humanity and blue serge? Did they never feel a -something approaching very near gratitude on passing, in the metropolis, -a Greenwich pensioner, who, with his honest, carved out, unabashed -front, looks as bluntly and as wonderingly at the bustle and splendour -around him as does an unsophisticated wether suddenly removed from South -Downs to Cheapside, whilst shaking his woollen coat beneath the whip of -the coachman to the Lord Mayor. What a mixture of gravity and wonderment -is in the poor brute’s countenance! how with its meek, uplifted head it -stares at the effulgent vehicle,—runs leaping at the coach-wheels, -mistaking them for hurdles,—falls, awe-struck, back, at the gilt and -beavered greatness of the footman’s cocked hat,—then, suddenly awakened -from its amazement by the lurcher’s teeth, or the driver’s stick, makes -an unlucky spring of some three feet into the air, catches a glance of -its figure in the mirrored walls of a silk mercer, and, startled at the -sight, dashes through the first court,—carrying perhaps a few yards upon -its back some red-faced, nankeen-gaitered little stockbroker, whose -spattered small clothes are for a time unregarded in the mighty rush of -drovers, butchers, dogs, and idlers. - -Now such is the real Greenwich pensioner. When I say _real_, I mean one -who abhors London worse than he does a Frenchman; who thinks there is -nothing to be seen in it, unless, indeed, it be Nelson’s tomb, in St -Paul’s, or the “Ship” public-house, in Tooley Street. London is to him a -never-failing source of merriment; that is, whilst he is out of it. He -sits at Greenwich, and looking as sagely as a starling ere he snaps at a -fly, at the piled-up clouds of smoke hanging over the metropolis, or, -indeed, almost propped upon its chimney-pots, and, stretching forth his -stick, significantly points them out to his former shipmates, asking -them if they do not think “there is something dark over there—something -of an ‘ox-eye’ to the west?” He, indeed, never ventures to London, -unless it be for a fresh supply of tobacco, or to pay a quarterly visit -to his grand-daughter, the upper housemaid in a gentleman’s family,—and -who, indeed, thinks with horror upon his call, because the neighbours -laugh at the cocked hat and the shoe-buckles of her relative; but -principally because Richard, the baker’s young man, declares he hates -all sailors. The visit is never a very lengthened one, especially if the -girl lives far to the west; for her grandfather has to call upon Will -Somebody, who set up, with his prize-money, a public-house in Wapping. -So off he starts, hurries up the Strand, touches his hat from a point of -principle as he nears Somerset House; puts out more canvas, and away for -Temple Bar. The pensioner has not yet, however, sat for his picture. - -We have all read of crabs being despoiled of their claws, locusts of -their entrails, and turtles of their brains, receiving in lieu thereof a -pellet of cotton, and yet retaining life, and appearing, in the words of -the experimentalising and soft-hearted naturalist, “very lively and -comfortable.”[10] Now, the real Greenwich pensioner distances all these; -he is, indeed, an enigma: nature knows not what to make of him. He hath -been suspended, like a school-boy’s bob-cherry, a hundred times over the -chaps of death, and yet still been snatched away by the hand of -Providence—to whom, indeed, his many hurts and dangers have especially -endeared him. Ye of the “_land_ interest,” ye soft-faced young sparks, -who think with terror upon a razor on a frosty morning,—ye suffering old -gentlemen, who pause at a linen-draper’s, and pass the flannel between -your fingers, as time verges towards October—ye martyrs to a winter -cough, ye racked with a quarterly toothache—all ye of household ailings, -look upon this hacked, shivered piece of clay, this Greenwich -pensioner:—consider of how many of his powers he is despoiled—see where -the cutlass and the boarding-spike have ploughed up and pierced his -flesh; see where the bullet has glanced, singeing by; and when you have -reckoned up—if they are to be reckoned—his many scars, above all, look -at his hard, contented, weather-barnacled face, and then, gentle -spectators, complain of your rheums, your joint-twitchings, and your -corns! - -Footnote 10: - - See _Vaillant_ and _Redi_. - -Why, this Greenwich pensioner is in himself a record of the last forty -years’ war. He is a breathing volume of naval history: not an event but -is somewhere indented in him with steel or lead: he has been the stick -in which the English Mars has notched his cricket matches, when -twenty-four pounders were balls, and mainmasts wickets. See, in his -blinded eye is Howe’s victory on the glorious First of June; that stump -of what was once an arm is Nile; and in his wooden leg read Trafalgar. -As to his scars, a gallant action, or a desperate cutting out is noted -in every one of them. And what was the old fellow’s only wish, as with a -shattered knee he lay in the cock-pit under the surgeon’s hand—what was -his earnest supplication to the wet-eyed messmate who bore him down the -hatchway? Simply that he would save him one of the splinters of the -mainmast of the _Victory_, to make of it a leg for Sundays! His wish was -granted; and at Greenwich, always on the seventh day, and also on the -21st of October, is he to be seen, propped upon the inestimable -splinter, which from labour, time, and beeswax, has taken the dark -glossiness of mahogany. What a face he has! What a certain consciousness -of his superiority on his own element at times puffs out his lip, and -gives a sudden twitch to his head! But ask him in what quarter sets the -wind—and note, how with his one eye he will glance at you from top to -toe; and, without ever raising his head or hand to make a self-inquiry, -answers you at once, as though it was a question he was already prepared -for! And so, indeed, he is; it being his first business, on rising, to -consult the weather. The only way to gain his entire confidence, is at -once frankly to avow your utter ignorance, and his superiority; and -then, after he has leered at you with an eye in which there is a meeting -of contempt, good-humour, and self-importance, he is wholly your own; -and will straightway launch into the South Seas, coast along the shores -of Guinea,—where, by-the-bye, he will tell you he once fell in love with -a negress, who, however, jilted him for the cook—and then he will launch -out about Admiral Duncan—take you a voyage with him round Cape Horn, -where a mermaid appeared, and sang a song to the ship’s crew; and who, -indeed, blew aside all the musket shots that were ungallantly fired at -her in requital of her melody. But our pensioner has one particular -story; hear him through that, suffer yourself to be wholly astounded at -its recital, and, if you were not a landsman, he would instantly greet -you as his dearest friend. The heroes of this same story are, our -pensioner and a shark: a tremendous shark that used to be the terror of -the harbour of St Thomas’s. Upon this shark, and the piece of the -mainmast of the _Victory_, is our pensioner content to rest all his -importance during his life, and his fame with posterity. He will tell -you that he, being caterer of the mess, let fall a piece of beef out at -the port-hole, which this terrible shark received into its jaws, and -twisted its body most provokingly at the delicious mouthful. Hereupon -our pensioner—it was before, he reminds you, he had lost a limb—asks -leave of the first lieutenant (for the captain was ashore) to have a -bout with the shark: leave being granted, all the crew are quickly in -the shrouds, and upon the hammock netting, to see Tom “tackle the -shark.” Our pensioner now enters into a minute detail of how, having -armed himself with a long knife, he jumped overboard, dived under the -shark, whom he saw approaching with distended jaws, and inflicted a -tremendous wound with the knife in the belly of the fish; this is -repeated thrice, when the shark turns itself upon its back—a boat is let -down, and both the conqueror and the conquered are quickly received upon -deck. You are doubtless astonished at this; he, however, adds to your -surprise by telling you that the mess regaled off the piece of beef -recovered from the fish; be more astounded at this, although mingle no -doubt in your astonishment, and he will straightway promise some day to -treat your eyes with a sight of a set of chequer men, cut from the very -dorsal bone of the immolated shark! To be the hearer of a sailor’s tale -is something like undergoing the ancient ordeal of red-hot ploughshares; -be innocent of unbelief, and you may, as was held, journey in safety; -doubt the smallest point, and you are quickly withered into nought. - -What an odd contrast to his early life is the state of a Greenwich -pensioner! It is as though a part of the angry and foaming sea should -lie stagnant in a bathing tub. All his business is to recount his former -adventures—to plod about, and look with a disdainful eye at trees and -bricks and mortar; or, when he would indulge in a serious fit of spleen, -to walk down to the river’s side, and let his gall feed upon the mishaps -of London apprentices, who, fearless of consequences, may have ventured -some five miles from home in _not_ a “trim-built wherry.” A Greenwich -pensioner fresh from sea is a most preposterous creature; he gets up -every morning for a week, a month, and still finds himself in the same -place; he knows not what to make of it—he feels the strangeness of his -situation, and would, had he the patience and the wit, liken himself to -a hundred unsettled things. Compare him to a hippopotamus in a -gentleman’s park, and he would tell you he had in his day seen a -hippopotamus, and then, with a good-natured grunt, acquiesce in the -resemblance; or to a jolly-boat in a flower garden; or to a sea-gull in -the cage of a canary; or to a porpoise upon a hearthrug; or to a -boatswain’s whistle in a nursery; or to a marling-spike in a milliner’s -workroom; or a tar-barrel in a confectioner’s; with any one or all of -these misplaced articles would our unsettled pensioner sympathise, until -time shall have reconciled him to his asylum; and even then his fancy, -like the shells upon our mantelpiece, will sound of the distant and the -dangerous ocean. At Greenwich, however, the mutilated old sailor has -time enough to indulge in the recollection of his early days, and, with -what wisdom he may, to make up his mind to meet in another world those -whom his arm may have sent thither long before. Death, at length, gently -lays the veteran upon his back—his last words, as the sailor puts his -withered hand upon his heart, are “All’s well,” and sea and earth have -passed away. His body, which had been for forty years a bulwark to the -land, now demands of it but “two paces of the vilest earth”; and if -aught could spring from the tomb characteristic of its inmate, from the -grave of the pensioner would arise the stout, unbending oak—it would be -his fitting monument; and the carolling of the birds in its branches -would be his loud, his artless epitaph. - -The Greenwich pensioner, wherever we meet with him, is a fine, quaint -memento of our national greatness, and our fortunate locality. We should -look upon him as the representative of Neptune, and bend our spirit -towards him accordingly. But that is not sufficient; we have individual -acknowledgments to make to him for the comforts of a long safety. Let us -but consider, as we look at his wooden supporter, that if it had not -been for his leg the cannon-ball might have scattered us in our tea -parlour—the bullet which deprived him of his orb of vision might have -stricken _Our Village_ from our hand whilst ensconced in our study; the -cutlass which cleaved his shoulder might have demolished our china vase, -or our globe of golden fish:—instead of which, hemmed round by such -walls of stout and honest flesh, we have lived securely, participating -in every peaceful and domestic comfort, and neither heard the roar of -the cannon nor seen its smoke. Shakespeare has compared England to “a -swan’s nest” in the “world’s pool”: let us be nautical in our similes, -and liken her to a single lemon kernel in a huge bowl of punch: who is -it that has prevented the kernel from being ladled down the throat of -despotism, from becoming but an atom of the great, loathsome mass?—our -Greenwich pensioner. Who has kept our houses from being transformed into -barracks and our cabbage markets into parades?—again, and again, let it -be answered, the Greenwich pensioner. Reader, if the next time you see -the tar, you should perchance have with you your wife and smiling -family, think that if their tenderness has never been shocked by scenes -of blood and terror, you owe such quietude to a Greenwich pensioner. -Indeed, I know not if a triennial progress of the Greenwich -establishment through the whole kingdom would not be attended with the -most beneficial effects—fathers would teach their little ones to lisp -thanksgivings unto God that they were born in England, as reminded of -their happy superiority by the withered form of every Greenwich -pensioner. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE DRILL SERGEANT - - -SHALL we view our subject through the glasses of philosophy? Precious -microscopic glasses, by which we look into the exquisite order of a -bee’s weapon, which shames the ruggedness of that vaunted wonder of -man’s hands—a Whitechapel needle. By which the superfine coat of the -unworthy appears but as a vile complication of coarse hemp-strings; by -which we look into the heart that to the naked eye displays a tenanted -cherub, with voice of music and wings of light, but find a weak-eyed -little monster, with squeak of mouse and pinions of leather. O, glorious -spectacles! which show palaces not entirely as resting-places for -divinities—many laurels as nettles, stinging what they are fancied to -adorn—Fame’s trumpet, a penny whistle blown by Asthma—the awful person -of Ceremony, a Merry-Andrew stricken grave—a grand review-day, a game at -ninepins on an extensive scale—a levee, a triumph of the laceman and -jeweller—a court ode, a verbose receipt for wages—“honourable -gentleman,” convicted scoundrel—“learned friend,” stupid opponent—a -prison, a temporary retirement from noise—a glass of spring water, a -“cup of sack”—an ugly face, God’s own handiwork—a handsome one, nothing -more—noble blood, of the same hue as a carter’s—a black parish coffin, a -couch of crystal—a grave, a place of rest—consecrated earth, the whole -globe—a tombstone, work for the mason—a pompous epitaph, the toil of a -liar! This transformation—or rather, this showing of reality—is the -result of using the glasses of philosophy. Without the common microscope -we could not know how certain insects respired, whether at the mouth or -shoulders; wanting philosophy’s optic, we should be in like ignorance of -the source of being in some men—for all exist not by the same laws. To -the naked eye, indeed, there appears no difference; but to the -spectacled orb of philosophy it is shown that many men respire, not by -inward organisation, but by external and adventitious instruments. Let -those who are sceptical on this position consider for a moment the -bearing of a thorough-paced coxcomb: does he breathe from his lungs? No; -but from his habiliments. His coat, cravat, boots—yea, his spurs, are -the sources of his being, his dignity, his action. Nay, some men take -all their life from a riband at their button-hole, or a garter at their -leg.—Our Drill Sergeant takes it from his rattan. - -I know that much of this may be deemed foreign to the purpose. To those -who so conclude, I say—A common wire-dancer gives not his grand feat -without many little nick-nack preparations. When we visit the Egyptian -Hall, that grand emporium of monsters, we do not step from the pavement -into the show-room, but are wisely made to thread two or three passages -for the better excitation of our feelings. And shall my Drill Sergeant -have not the common observance paid to a mermaid? I trust I have more -respect for my subject, and the army in general. If any one of my -readers, when he glanced at the title, thought to meet with the Sergeant -standing bolt upright at the beginning of the line, like the sentinel at -Buckingham Gate, I luxuriate in his disappointment. - -To be candid: I had laid down no form for my beginning; so I thought a -caper or two upon philosophy would not be amiss, trusting eventually to -drop upon my subject. This is a trick frequently played by ——. However, -to business. - -We must contemplate the Drill Sergeant at a distance: there is no -closing with him. A painter would decline a chair in the tiger’s den, -asserting that he could take the animal’s stripes equally well through -the bars. Even so will I take the stripes of our Sergeant. First, to -consider his appearance, or rather the discipline by which his “thews -and muscles” deport themselves. He has a vile, cat-like leer of the eye, -that makes us retreat back a few paces, and rub our palms, to be assured -the knave has not secretly placed in one of them a shilling. We tremble, -and for once are afraid to meet the king’s countenance—(I am adding to -the awful attributes of the Drill Sergeant the fearful privilege of -recruiting). We shrink, lest he has mentally approved of us as being -worthy of ball cartridge. He glances towards our leg, and we cannot but -feel that he is thinking how it would look in a black gaiter. At this -moment we take courage, and, valiantly lifting off our hat, pass our -luxuriant curls through our four fingers—we are petrified; for we see by -his chuckle that he has already doomed our tresses to the scissors of -the barrack-barber. We are at once about to take to our legs, when, -turning round, we see something under a middle-sized man, looking over -our head. On this we feel our safety, and triumph in the glory of five -feet one. Something must always be allowed for weakness—something for -vanity; which, indeed, philosophers denominate the greatest weakness. -Hence all these cogitations, foolishly attributed by the little -individual to the Sergeant, arise from the civil man’s self-conceit; the -Sergeant always treating with ineffable contempt persons of a certain -size. And here may be remarked the astonishing capacity of our Sergeant -in judging of human altitude. Ere George Bidder can enumerate the -virtues of King Ferdinand, our Sergeant will sum up the exact height of -a man, duly allowing for his pumps and silk stockings. Strive to mystify -the question, and the ability of the Sergeant mocks the endeavour; for, -he will, on a minute’s notice, resolve how many feet of martial flesh -are in a complete square, after including the triangle, fife, and -drummer lads, and deducting some of the boy officers. Thus, -five-feet-eight reader, if thou wouldst enjoy the pranks of the -Sergeant, unmolested by his eye, teach thy leg to mimic lameness: or, if -easier, cough consumptively. - -I would wish to convey a striking resemblance of our Drill Sergeant on -duty, when you would swear by his gait that this glorious earth was -wholly composed of spring wires, so elastic are his soles. It is a -motion unparalleled either in the natural or artificial world; it is a -movement by itself—like the swoop of the eagle, the waddle of the duck, -the fleetness of the greyhound, or the hop of the frog. And yet, on -intense consideration, I think I have seen something approximating to -the bearing of our Drill Sergeant. What think you of the manner of a pug -dog in a dropsy, exposed for air on a nipping December morning, his -black nose turning almost white with indignation at the coldness of the -flags?—There certainly is a resemblance; there is dignity in both -animals, albeit to the daring eye of a grotesque character. It must, -however, be owned, that on great occasions our Sergeant can alter his -deportment. It is not in the nature of things to be always strained to -the highest: the distended skin of the serpent at times falls into -amiable and social wrinkles; an arrant shrew may sometimes be caught -singing “_Sweet Home!_” the bow-string of a William Tell may be -doubtless as relaxed and tuneless as the instrument of a Haymarket -fiddler;—and shall not our Sergeant unbend? He does break himself up -from the stiffness of parade; for see him when the draughts of mine -hostess hath diluted some portion of military starch, and he no longer -holds his head like a game-cock, taking his morning’s potation; see him -then, and own that even a Sergeant may be amiable. Is he not the very -model of elegant ease? He is, indeed, unbent; for his limbs swing -loosely as hung ramrods. Our Sergeant can now talk; his tongue hath -overleapt the two barriers, “Attention!” and “Stand at ease!” and -rambles wildly from Egypt to Waterloo. And if it should happen that the -pretty barmaid be niece to the landlady, mark how the Sergeant probes -for her feelings with charged bayonets—how he will try to smite her -gentle ear with a discharge of artillery—swear that he hath had twenty -wounds under his coat, although very politically adding that they have -left him not a bit the worse man. Then, if the damsel still continue -untouched, taking orders with a calm air, our Sergeant hints in a -whisper, audible to the dozing watchman at the door, something about a -Spanish widow at Saragossa; adding very loudly, “But no—I was always for -true love!” adorning the beautiful edifice of principle with a flowery -oath. He then begins a sentiment, and, at a loss, dives for the -conclusion to it in a pot of ale. If there happen to be four or five -privates in the room, our Sergeant increases in importance from the -circumstance—just as a cat becomes great from the introduction of a -litter of puppies. Our Sergeant is more than ever the leading gander of -the flock—the king-herring of the shoal—the blue-bottle of the swarm—the -pebble of the sand—the G of the gamut. He has now additional hearers of -the tales of his prowess, and, if he but give the wink, companions who -saw him face the breach and spike the cannon. His rank next becomes the -subject of discussion; and looking very complacently at his arm, he -tells of some dreadful exploit in which he earned his stripes. “And -doubtless, Sergeant, not before you deserved them,” ventures a small, -quiet wight in the corner, who will have his fling, though at the -expense of his liquor; for ere he concludes his remark he gives the -Sergeant his glass—just as a schoolboy, who twitches the trunk of an -elephant, throws to the animal a peace-offering of apples—whilst the -privates inwardly laugh at the joke, and get rebuked for again enjoying -it on parade to-morrow morning. Just as the Sergeant’s opponents are -nearly all slaughtered, a little Italian boy, bearing a tortoise, -adroitly glides into the room to display the testaceous wonder; or he -has with him a bust of Napoleon, at which our Sergeant bristles up, -looking, indeed, seriously fierce at plaster of Paris. Here he utters -some half-audible wish that he had not received a bullet in the last -charge, and then——Now, however, our Sergeant takes an opportunity to -pour forth his learning—he mangles five words of French; the Italian -shakes his head, and holds forth his hand; the Sergeant swears at him -for an impostor, ignorant of his own language. It drawing late, our -Sergeant calls for his reckoning, and, learning the amount, with an -affected air of destitution avows he has no money; he has not a piece of -silver about him, unless it be that at his breast—and here he carelessly -lifts up with one finger a Waterloo medal;—then he draws out a watch, -once the property of a French general slain by our Sergeant, and asks if -that will serve for the amount? At length, however, the money being -shaken from a yellow silk purse, our Sergeant, after a salutary -admonition to the privates, goes off, as he says, to visit a friend in -the Ordnance. - - -[Illustration: - - He is, indeed, unbent. -] - - -Now this is the utmost stretch of our Sergeant’s amiability; and he -departs with a consciousness of having made himself remarkably -agreeable, at the same time that he has maintained the proper dignity of -the army. To-morrow he is stiff and stately again, performing his old -duty of setting up in due order men for the sport of War, that fearful -skittle-player. And, indeed, how great must be the satisfaction of the -Drill Sergeant when he thinks that, by his kindly solicitude, his -Majesty’s subjects will “die with decency” and “in close order.” -Soothing reflection! - -We may liken a Recruiting Sergeant to a sturdy woodman—a Drill Sergeant -to a carpenter. Let us take a dozen vigorous young elms, with the same -number of bluff-cheeked, straddling rustics. How picturesque and -inviting do the green waving elms appear! Whilst we look at them our -love and admiration of the natural so wholly possess us that we cannot -for a moment bring ourselves to imagine the most beautiful offspring of -teeming earth cut up into boot-jacks or broom-handles: in the very idea -there is sacrilege to the sylvan deities. The woodman, however, lays the -axe to the elms (the forest groans at the slaughter); the carpenter -comes up with his basket of tools across his shoulder; and at a -Christmas dinner we may by chance admire the extraordinary polish of our -eating knife, little thinking it owes its lustre to the elm which -shadowed us at midsummer. Now for our rustics. We meet them in green -lanes, striding like young ogres—carelessness in their very -hat-buckles—a scorn of ceremony in the significant tuck-up of their -smock-frock. The Recruiting Sergeant spirits them away from fields to -which they were the chief adornment, and the Drill Sergeant begins his -labour. - -And now, reader, behold some martial carpentry and joinery. Our Drill -Sergeant hath but few implements: as eye, voice, hand, leg, rattan. -These few tools serve him for every purpose, and with them he brings -down a human carcass, though at first as unwieldy as a bull, to the -slimness and elegance of the roe. There are the dozen misshapen logs -before him; the foliage of their heads gone with the elm leaves, as also -their bark—their “rough pash,”—the frocks and wide breeches. - -Mercy on us! there was a stroke of handiwork! the Sergeant with but one -word has driven a wedge into the very breast of that pale-looking -youngster, whose eyelid shakes as though it would dam up a tear! Perhaps -the poor wretch is now thinking of yellow corn and harvest home. Another -skilful touch, and the Sergeant hath fairly chiselled away some inches -off the shoulder of that flaxen-headed tyro: and see how he is rounding -off that mottled set of knuckles, whilst the owner redly, but dumbly, -sympathises with their sufferings. There is no part left untouched by -our Sergeant; he by turns, saws, planes, pierces, and thumps every limb -and every joint; applies scouring paper to any little knot or -ruggedness, until man, glorious man, the “paragon of animals,” fears no -competition in stateliness of march, or glibness of movement, from -either peacock or Punch. - -The Drill Sergeant hath but little complacency in him; he is a thing to -be reverenced, not doted upon; we fear him and his mysteries; even his -good humour startles, for it is at once as blustering and as -insignificant as a report of a blank cartridge. Again, I say, the Drill -Sergeant is to be approached with awe; smirking flies the majesty of his -rattan. He is the despot of joints; and we rub our hands with glee, and -our very toes glow again, when we reflect they are not of his dominions. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration: - - The HANDBOOK of SWINDLING -] - - - - - CHAPTER I - -By the late Captain Barabbas Whitefeather. Late of the body-guard of his - Majesty, King Carlos; Treasurer of the British Wine and Vinegar - Company; Trustee for the protection of the River Thames from - incendiaries; principal inventor of Poyais stock; Ranger of St - George’s Fields; original Patentee of the Parachute Conveyance - Association; Knight of every order of the fleece; Scamp and Cur. - -“A man he was to all the country _dear_.”—GOLDSMITH. - - Edited by John Jackdaw. - - -THE editor has disciplined himself to receive with becoming moderation -the tremendous expression of national gratitude consequent on the -publication of this valuable work—the production of the late estimable -Captain Barabbas Whitefeather. It was discovered among many other papers -accidentally left at the lodgings of the deceased, and placed in the -hands of the editor by the executors of the lamented and—if a novel -epithet may be applied to him—talented author. - -When “handbooks” devoted to the lighter elegancies, nay, to the -frivolities, of life are every day poured down upon a thankful -generation, it would indeed be to incur the charge of poltroonery to -doubt the brilliant success of the present essay. - -The philosophical observer who has witnessed the fervent welcome -accorded by a British public to “The Handbook of Skittles,” “The -Handbook of Cheese-Toasting,” “The Handbook of Eel-Skinning,” “The -Handbook of Nutmeg-Grating,” “The Handbook of Corn-Cutting,” “The -Handbook of Kitten-Drowning,” and other productions of lesser pith and -purpose,—the philosophic observer cannot but glow with the sweetest and -liveliest feelings of anticipated pleasure at the outburst of national -gratitude acknowledging and rejoicing in the publication of - - - “THE HANDBOOK OF SWINDLING.” - -Let us for a moment consider the comprehensiveness of the subject. Other -handbooks have their merits and their uses: far be it from the editor to -detract one iota from their claims upon a thoughtful people; yet it must -be conceded that their different subjects apply rather to the wants of -sections of the public than to the public in its integrity. For -instance, how few rejoice in the masculine exercise of skittles! Toasted -cheese, albeit the favourite diet of many of Cyclopean digestion, is -sedulously shunned by dyspeptic hundreds of thousands. The class of the -eel-skinning public is indeed most limited; nutmeg is never dreamt of by -at least a million of our fellow-subjects; a million more, it is our -cheerful hope, know not the visitation of corns; whilst, could a census -be taken of the number of kittens annually sacrificed by drowning, it -would possibly be discovered that not one British subject out of five -hundred is ever called upon to perform that painful, yet necessary and -most domestic operation. It must then be acknowledged that all handbooks -hitherto published are more or less limited in their application; but -for “The Handbook of Swindling,”—why, it is a national work; a _vade -mecum_ for a whole people! - -It was the intention of the editor to dedicate this work to some -illustrious individual worthy of the distinction. But so many -candidates—all equally deserving of the honour—with claims so nicely -balanced, rose before him, that the editor, considering it would be -invidious to many to select one alone, dedicates the book to the nation -at large. Yes, he gives it to his country; but too well repaid if he -shall be the means of calling from the working day road of life one -simple traveller to the pleasant “primrose path” made easier and laid -more open to him by this golden volume. - - BREAKNECK STEPS, - - OLD BAILEY. - - - - - CHAPTER I - - THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO CAPTAIN WHITEFEATHER’S RELATIONS - - -IT was a favourite conviction of my late respected uncle and godfather, -Barabbas Whitefeather—he fell in the very flower of his age, at only -forty-five, a premature victim to the insalubrity of Bermuda, where he -was stationed in a very public capacity by the British Government—it -was, I say, a pet belief of the sagacious Barabbas that every man had -within him what I think heathen philosophers have called a particle of -divine gold; but which my uncle, in the fine simplicity of his nature, -and at the same time humanely accommodating his language to the lowest -understanding of his species, denominated “a bit of the swindler.” - -Discriminating reader, Barabbas Whitefeather was a man of homespun wit, -who chewed not his words until they had lost all their original form and -vigour; no, he flung them from him with the air of a man who knows he is -laying down a guinea of the best mint gold, and not timidly and -sneakingly, like a passer of gilt copper. - -“Every man has within him a bit of the swindler!” - -The sentence fell upon me in the days of my earliest childhood; yes, it -was in that ductile, happy, and susceptible season of life that the -words of my uncle Barabbas—precious seed!—dropped into my infant heart, -where—but let me not boast, let me rather indulge in the luxury of -memory—yes, suffer me, complying reader, to carry you into the presence -of my sainted uncle: bear with me whilst with affectionate reverence I -call up from the abyss of time the interesting shadow of Barabbas -Whitefeather. - -It was my birthday—I was six years old. I had been promised that that -day should be distinguished by a circumstance which, as we advance in -life and become involved in the meshes of the world, is apt to be -forgotten, albeit of the first importance at the time—I was to be -breeched. _I was not._ I can only remember that a cloud seemed suddenly -to have fallen upon our house—that my father would come home long after -the lamb had lain down to rest, and would still leave the domestic roof -before the rising of the lark, that his temper, generally rough, became -much rougher; and that, only a few days before my birthday, on -expressing my infantine delights at the trumpets blown before the -newly-arrived judges, he rebuked me with unwonted emphasis, at the same -time wishing the trumpets and the judges, as I then conceived, very -oddly incorporated with one another. I was then within a few days of six -years old—I was a fine, tall, plump child, and on my birthday was to -have been breeched. The neighbourhood called for it. I repeat it, my -birthday came and passed, and found and left me still in coats. - -That day, however, was ordained to be the most eventful of my life. It -is that day which, if the world shall continue to remember the deeds of -Captain Barabbas Whitefeather, must be held by posterity in especial -respect. It is to that day that I owe everything; and what I owe, it -would be the worst of affectation in the world to deny or to forget. To -proceed with my history. - -“Brab,”—it was thus my father was wont to tamper with the euphony of -Barabbas,—“Brab, nunkey wants to see you; so you must toddle with me.” - -Some weeks had elapsed since I had seen uncle Barabbas; and at his name -visions of cakes and apples, peg-tops and whipping-tops, rose before me. -Like Agesilaus, Socrates, Yorick, and other men whom I do not hesitate -to call of his kidney, my uncle would chequer and ameliorate the labour -of public life by sporting with little children. “He hath borne me on -his back a thousand times.” I was of course delighted at the prospect of -visiting my uncle; but was at the same time made to wonder at the -preparation of my father, who carefully bound up one of his eyes, glued -large whiskers on his cheeks, and otherwise so disguised himself that, -although I saw him do it, I could scarcely believe it was he. However, I -thought it was all to have some game with Uncle Barabbas—and in my -childishness crowed with laughter at anticipation of the sport. - -I walked with my father, and in about half-an-hour came to a very large -house, a place I had never seen before: for my dear mother, always -fuming about fevers and measles, kept me close at home. My father, -suddenly walking very lame, knocked at the door, and through a cold that -had come on him all in a minute, asked hoarsely enough for my uncle. The -man let us in, and then another man went before us; and then I knew I -was in a place where there were heaps of gold and diamonds, for the man -unlocked and locked again at least a dozen doors. I give my childish -impressions, which I entreat the reader not to smile at, but to remember -the simplicity and ingenuousness of my age. Well, after a time, we were -led into an open court, where some gentlemen were throwing up halfpence, -and two on a bench were pushing straws; and there was one dancing, and -one or two singing, and all as happy as birds. - -I looked round the place and saw uncle Barabbas smoking in a corner. I -was about to call him when my father gave my arm such a pull I thought -it was broken; and so I resolved to say nothing, but to wait and see the -fun that father would play off upon uncle. Sure enough Barabbas never -knew him; and though my uncle patted me upon the head, he had, I -thought, forgotten me, for he gave me nothing. My father and my uncle -talked together for a long time; when—I see my uncle now—Barabbas -suddenly brought himself up, and raising his head, and extending his -right arm, the palm open, he said in a solemn voice:— - -“Depend upon it, every man has within him a bit of the swindler.” - -My father shook his head; whereupon my uncle, for he was very scholarly, -and could talk for an hour without stopping, proceeded as follows:—I am -perfectly certain as to the words, having subsequently found the whole -written speech among other of my uncle’s papers; Barabbas, like some -other wits and orators, carefully putting in pen and ink any brilliant -thought that struck him—any argument that was a hobby with him, that he -might at proper season extemporaneously bring it forth to the delight -and astonishment of his hearers. My father shook his head at the dogma -of my uncle, who, without stop, continued:— - -“Are you so ignorant as to believe in the deficiency of mankind in -general—to imagine that nature is so partial a mother as to dower -with her best gifts only a few of her children, leaving the -multitude defenceless, unarmed? My dear sir,”—here my uncle lowered -his voice,—“amend your ignorance—be just to nature. Do you see -tigers whelped without claws—elephants calved that never have -tusks—rattlesnakes hatched with no stings? Is nature so niggard—so -partial—so unjust? No—philosophers and conquerors have made their -marks, and signed their names to the fact—to swindle is to exhibit -the peculiar attribute of the human animal; it is at once the -triumph and distinguishing faculty of the race. But you will say, do -all men swindle? and I ask, do all snakes sting—all elephants gore? -There is, however, an unanswerable argument which proves that men, -when gregarious, are inevitably swindlers; at least, if they are -not, let not the failing be placed to their account; they would be, -if they might. Let me put a case. You recollect Gloss, the retired -merchant? What an excellent man was Gloss! A pattern man to make a -whole generation by! Nobody could surpass him in what is called -honesty, rectitude, moral propriety, and other gibberish. Well, -Gloss joins a ‘Board’; he becomes one of a community; and, -immediately, the latent feeling asserts itself: he is a backbone man -with the rest of his brotherhood; and though as simple Gloss, and -not a member of the ‘board,’ he is the same as ever, yet when acting -with his fellows, when one of the body corporate, when he merges the -man Gloss in the board member, the inherent faculty becomes active, -and he gratifies the instinct, or the refined reason, or whatever -men agree to call it—and complacently swindles with the rest. He -cannot do otherwise: human nature is tested by the occasion; and if, -under the circumstances, he refuse to swindle, he ceases to be a -man. Swindling, my dear sir”—and here my uncle spoke in a tremulous -voice, and my father seemed touched by the emotion—“Swindling, my -dear sir, has indeed a far more comprehensive meaning than that -superficially awarded to it by, possibly, very respectable people. -Good soldiers may fight, pillage, and violate under a banner, and -yet, in truth, shall not be able to read and interpret the legend -emblazoned on it.” - -I could perceive that my father did not perfectly understand this. He, -therefore, nodded assentingly, and my uncle, with new animation, -proceeded:— - -“When I reflect on the extensive and subtle operation of the -faculty—when I perceive that, in this our best possible social state, it -is, so to speak, the cement that keeps society together; the bond of -union; the very salt of human government—it does, I confess it, irk me -to find men ungraciously deny its existence, putting off its triumphs -upon other motives, and depriving swindling of the glory of its deeds. -Strange perversion of human intellect—laughable contradiction of moral -purposes! Thus, the politician flutters at the very breath of swindler; -thus, the stockbroker struts and swells, and lays his hand upon his -waistcoat with a blank look of wondering innocence at the slightest -allusion to the faculty that makes a man of him—to which he owes his -carriage and country house, his conservatories and his pineries; and -above all, the flattering hope of calling Lord Giggleton son-in-law; his -lordship being over head, and, what is more, over ears in love with -Arabella’s guineas. And yet, such is the base, the black ingratitude of -human nature, that this man, this most adroit and lucky stockbroker, -starts even at the name of swindler! He indignantly denies the slightest -obligation to the higher faculty—the _mens divinior_ of the cabinet, the -mart, and the counting-house. Look at Sir Godfrey Measles, the -illustrious pork contractor, in whom our brave and magnanimous sailors -confide for dinners. Did he not in the most handsome way forfeit a fine -to his king and country for having failed to supply swine’s flesh at so -much per stone? And then, having paid his fine like a patriot and a -man,—did he not, having before bought up all the pork to be had—did he -not, with the gushing feelings of a philanthropist, offer it at three -times the contract price? Now what was this? Men who veil their meaning -in allegory may say that Sir Godfrey Measles ‘drove his pigs to a fine -market.’ For myself, I elevate the homely phrase of pig-driver into the -more ennobling name of swindler. Others may say that Sir Godfrey only -traded—I stick to my belief; I say he swindled. More: I reverence him -for the act; my only deep regret is, that he should have failed in an -ingenuous gratitude, and denied the action of the higher principle. I -have long looked upon the world, and, with sorrow, I say it, in nothing -do the generations of successful men show so much cold and callous -ingratitude as in their treatment of their guardian genius, that -prettiest of Pucks, that best of Robin Goodfellows, that deftest of -household fairies, hight Swindling!” - -My father cast his one eye towards his eloquent brother with a look of -speaking admiration; and, although there was a pause, did not presume to -make any rejoinder. My uncle proceeded:— - -“But why number examples? Why attempt to prove that which every man, if -he would but consult the recesses of his own bosom, must truly know? Ask -all the professions; demand of the lawyer, with yellow, studious cheek, -wherefore he should coin gold out of little strips of paper, written -over by youthful scribes at two or three shillings per diem. Request him -to give you the philosophy of costs—the exquisite meaning of appearance -and declaration, and reply and rejoinder, and all the thousand terms -invented by the most cunning class of labourers, the overlookers at the -building of Babel. Ask the sleek practitioner to what he owes his -fortune. To common-sense—to justice—to the fair and rational barter of -labour for shillings? If he be a hypocrite—if he be resolved to clap in -with the world, and carry on a profitable duplicity, he will swell like -a bull-frog at the query, and, forgetful of his knuckles, will strike -his heart, answering with the big-mouthed ‘Yes!’ But if at the end of a -long practice there should by miracle remain in that attorney’s bosom a -throb of truth, he will blandly, yet significantly smile at the -words—the counters men play with—common-sense and justice, and -magnanimously and unblushingly declare his debt to—swindling! - -“Is it otherwise with the physician, who sells his guesses for truth, -and doubts and doubts a patient into the grave, whilst his medicinal -palm is open for the guinea? When the apothecary vends cinnamon and -peppermint water for _elixir vitæ_, doth he practise a noble art? Yea; -for, safely and successfully, he—swindles. - -“When the tradesman—his housemaid at the time perhaps in Bridewell for -petty larceny committed on the greasepot—when he, smiling across the -counter at his victim, puts off knowingly the poorest commodity at the -highest price, how stands he in relation to his captive handmaid? Why, -Rebecca has robbed, but the tradesman has only driven his trade: the -slut has for ever and for ever lost her character, with it seven pounds -_per annum_, and, it may be, tea and sugar included—but for Mr Jackson, -her master, he has turned the profit penny; he has—but all in the way of -business—swindled.” - -“It is very true,” exclaimed my father with an oath, “it is very true. -When what is swindling isn’t swindling according to law, it’s a fortune -to a man; but when it’s agin law, and found out——” - -“The result I know,” cried my uncle, a slight tint of red suffusing his -manly cheek. “All mankind may be divided into two classes: the swindlers -according to custom and to law, and the swindlers according to the bent -of their natural genius.” - -“True agin,” cried my father, slapping his thigh. - -“Still, the propensity,” said my uncle, “is universal: men only want -temptation. It is extraordinary how, like a chain, the feeling runs from -breast to breast. Jack Smasher was one of the prettiest hands at -coining; and more, he was blessed with a wife born, I should say, with a -genius for passing bad money. She took a crown—one of her husband’s -base-begotten offspring—purchased with it three pennyworth of rhubarb -from a Quaker chemist, who—undone man!—handed over four-and-ninepence -change. Aminadab Straightback was, even among his brethren, the -brightest child of truth. In due season Aminadab detected the guileful -crown, and in his own clear breast resolved to destroy it. However, it -remained by the strangest accident in his till, and by an accident still -more extraordinary, was given in part of change for a guinea to a -gentleman a little the worse for liquor, who on his way home to bed took -the precaution of dropping into Straightback’s for a box of—his own -patent—anti-bacchic pills. In the morning the vinous gentleman -discovered the pocket-piece, but as he had changed more than one guinea, -could not with certainty detect the giver of the counterfeit. No matter. -It remained loose with other money in his pocket, and one day, to his -own surprise, he found he had passed it. He had taken a journey, and it -was very dark when, in the handsomest manner, he fee’d the coachman. The -poor man who drove the Tally-ho did not realise more than £400 per -annum, and could not afford to lose five shillings; hence Smasher’s -crown became at a fitting opportunity the property of a sand-blind old -gentlewoman, who, her loss discovered, lifted up her hands at the -iniquity of the world, and put aside the brassy wickedness. The good old -soul never missed a charity sermon. The Reverend Mr Sulphurtongue made a -sweet discourse in favour of the conversion of the Jews, and the -churchwardens condescended to hold each a plate. To the great disgust of -the discoverers, a bad crown was detected amongst the subscribed -half-crowns and shillings. The beadle was directed to destroy it. He -intended to do so, but, in pure forgetfulness, passed it one day for -purl; the landlady of the ‘George’ having, as she said ‘taken it, was -resolved not to lose it,’ and by some accident it was given to a pedlar, -who, after a walk of twenty miles, entered an ale-house, took his supper -of bread and cheese, went to bed, rose, and proffered for his account -Jack Smasher’s pocket-piece. The pedlar was immediately given into the -hands of a constable, taken before a magistrate, and ordered to be -imprisoned and whipped as a passer of counterfeit coin.” - -“See what luck is!” cried my father; “it’s the Quaker _what_ should have -lost the dollar.” - -“He couldn’t do it; for though he was a most respectable person, and -lived and died with that character, he was but a man. He had been -swindled—the link of the chain was touched, and it vibrated—you -perceive, it vibrated?” - -Again my father nodded. - -“Yes,” exclaimed Barabbas Whitefeather, “I repeat it—the sympathy is -universal. All men can, do, or might, swindle. Though with many the -propensity be latent, it surely exists, and needs but the happy moment -to be awakened into life. The proof is easy: take ten, twenty, thirty -men—creatures of light; admirable, estimable, conscientious persons; -by-words of excellence, proverbs of truth in their individual dealings; -and yet, make of them a ‘board’—a ‘committee’—a ‘council’—a ‘company’—no -matter what may be the collective name by which they may be known—and -immediately every member will acknowledge the quickening of a feeling—a -sudden growth of an indomitable lust to—swindle. What is this but a -proof of the faculty—as I have said—dormant, but requiring only the -necessary agent to awaken it? Oh! let no man perk himself up in the -pride of his innocence—strut and pout, big with the prejudice of -respectability! He knows not the mystery of his own nature; for though -to his own eyes he shall be a saint, he will, when time and purpose -shall see fit to call his better feelings into life, he will, he must, -he cannot do otherwise than—swindle.” - -My father, though a strong man, was much affected. - -“As for you, my dear child,” said my uncle, taking me by the hand, -kissing me, and looking benevolently upon me, “as for you, remember the -words of Barabbas Whitefeather. At present you know not their worth, but -a time will come when better than pearls or gold will be this my parting -council to you. Throughout your life do nought but swindle. If you can, -swindle on the right side of the statute, but at all events, my dear -child,”—even now I feel the pressure of that wise man’s lip, the warm -tear trickling down my cheeks,—“at all events, Barabbas, swindle!” - -I am now in my nine-and-thirtieth year; and from my first day of -discretion until this, the season of ripest manhood, I can, laying my -hand upon my heart, most conscientiously declare that never for a moment -have I forgotten the last injunction of the best of uncles. But why -should I speak on this head? The world will do me justice. - -My uncle shook my parent by the hand. “Good-bye,” he said; “we may never -meet again, for I am now two-and-forty, and you know”—this I could _not_ -understand—“you know _it’s fourteen penn’orth_.” - -My father, choking with emotion, cried, “D—n ’em!” We quitted my uncle; -and I trust I shall not be accused of adopting the language of -hyperbole, when I state that we quitted him with feelings far more easy -of conception than description. - -Only a twelvemonth after this, I lost my excellent father. It may prove -to the giddy and the vain the uncertainty of life, when I state that my -worthy parent was in robust health one minute and dead the next. It may -also prove that he had held some place in the world, when I assure the -reader that crowds of people flocked to our house to pay honour to his -cold remains; which, for the benefit of his widow and son, were -exhibited at sixpence a head to grown persons, and half-price for -children. I should be unjust to my parent’s memory were I to withhold -another circumstance illustrative of the consequence of my father to the -world at large: the night-cap in which he died was purchased by a -gentleman, a lover of the fine arts, after a severe contest with other -bidders, for two guineas. - -And so much for my uncle and my father, both worthy of the name of -Whitefeather. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - CAPTAIN WHITEFEATHER TAKES AN ENLARGED VIEW OF SWINDLING. SOCIAL EVILS - AND THEIR REMEDY - - -NO—the theme is too pregnant with circumstance; too vast—too voluminous. -Let me then subdue the vain, though laudable, ambition—let me repress -the fond, the wild desire of such distinction. Is it for a single pen to -write the History of Swindling? Is it for one man to chronicle, with -scrupulous fidelity, the rise and progress of the exquisite art (for I -must call it so)? Is it for one curious pair of eyes—one toilsome -hand—to pore over and put down the many million facts to be registered -in a complete body of the Science? Could the life of a patriarch, even -though he worked the hours of a cotton-spinner, suffice for the labour? -Consider, Barabbas, what running to and fro—what fetching and carrying -of truths—what sifting and winnowing of chaff and husk—what -gold-washing—what pearl-diving! Now picking up stray matter for your -work in Egypt—now, with a thought, among the sages in India—now off, it -may be, upon a wild-goose chase to Arabia Petræa—now among the -Scandinavians—and now, cold as a snowball, to be called away to the -opium-sellers at the walls of the Tartars! Is it possible for one man, -though with ribs of brass and soles of adamant, to go through the toil -and travel? And this, be it remarked, will only take in the first -thousand years or so of the age of our dear, ill-used mother earth. How -much remains to be done—what crooked ways to thread—what dirt and rust -to scratch away—what inscriptions to guess at—what monuments to -measure—even before you come to Semiramis! And when, reeling like a -porter under a thousand-weight of facts—for a very few facts make a -pound—you arrive at Semiramis, have you disciplined yourself to bear the -indifference of a superficial generation—to be asked by listless -ignorance, “Who the devil is Semiramis?” Dear Barabbas, your yearnings -are indeed most noble; but there is a limit to human action—there is a -point where man must stop. The task is not earthly; or, if indeed it be -a mortal labour, it is only to be achieved by the united heads and hands -of many. A band of hard-working encyclopædists—temperate labourers -living upon bread and water and figs—might possibly, in the course of a -few lustres, produce some hundred volumes of the work; but a complete -body of swindling from the birth of time to its present lustihood, it is -a thing only to be dreamed of—a glorious phantasm—a magnificent but most -deceitful vision! - -But grant it done. Say that the last proof—the ten millionth sheet—lies -before you, the smooth-faced devil waiting at your garret door to carry -off the corrected matter for the press. Say that it is printed, -published, and the whole five hundred volumes folio scrupulously conned, -as they doubtless would be, by the critics—alack! alack!—what a -melancholy book hath the press groaned with—what a ghastly chronicle, -what a blood-dyed, tear-stained record! - -“A complete body of swindling!” Let us turn a few of the leaves. They -creak like dungeon hinges! Are not the pictures terrible? Whole -generations of men, thin-chapped, hollow-eyed, scourged and in bonds; -fainting in midday; stark with the dews of night. Tens of thousands, -living carcasses, in mines—thousands and thousands writhing in blood and -agony upon the field—with the vassals of glory, a cloud of vultures, -hovering to pick their bones. Next let us peep through prison bars, -and—no; close the book—it is too shocking—one’s marrow freezes, and the -brain reels at it. - -“Methinks,” says the reader, “the Captain takes a too comprehensive view -of his subject.” - -Right, sagacious reader; and yet, were the history of swindling in all -its ramifications to be duly chronicled, the work would be no less -voluminous, no jot less tragical. The present is, after all, not an -auspicious age for folios; neither is it the best of all possible eras -for the publication of disagreeable truths. Lazarus himself, to touch -worldly sympathy, should in these days be a Lazarus in superfine -cloth—the best cambric and the glossiest beaver; nay, he would be -something the gainer by a waistcoat of gold-smeared velvet, and, at -least, a chain of silver. To make iniquity or sorrow bearable, it is -highly necessary that it should be properly dressed. Hence, reader, I, -Barabbas Whitefeather, instructed by the better spirit of the age, -forego my first Utopian purpose, and leaving the full history of -swindling to be written by a future college of sages, shall confine -myself more immediately to the existing wants of the world—shall attend -to the crying necessities of the present generation. Controlled by my -better genius, I renounce folios. - -After all, the world has not, as I at first superficially believed, so -keen a want of a complete history of swindling: for how many books have -been written which, although not professedly treating of the theme, are, -by their very subject, works of reference and authority in the matter! -What, for instance, is much of _Ancient History_? What _The Lives of the -Roman Emperors_? What _The History of Conquests_? What _The History of -Discovery_—from the first finding of Mesopotamia to the last -providential flight upon New Zealand? If men will read not with their -eyes alone, but with understanding hearts, how much is there in all -these works, in all these narratives, that is indeed no other than -materials for a complete body of swindling? Loose pearls that need -stringing—scattered lights to be brought to one point? Indeed, to a -contemplative mind, to a reader properly prepared for the perusal of -history and biography, it is almost impossible for him to open a volume -from which he should not gather knowledge of a swindling kind. It is -often the very staple of a book, though to the shame of many writers, I -grieve to say it, the subject is most ungenerously disguised under -foreign trappings—passed off under a false name. Hence, reflecting that -if men will look round them, they are not wholly destitute of works -containing the philosophy of swindling on a grand historical scale—on an -enlarged and transcendental plan—I shall endeavour to prevail upon -myself to become merely useful, leaving it to the poorly ambitious to -glitter and to soar. Let other men make pedestals to themselves of -unopened folios; they have their veneration—they are talked of, never -read. I—I will descend among the crowd—will mix with my -fellow-creatures—will right and left scatter among the children of -innocence a “Handbook”—a veritable tome to be carried between the thumbs -and fingers of men in their paths by day, and like a guardian and -protecting genius to nestle in their bosoms at night. Yes, it shall be -no large carcass of a book; no literary mammoth of a bygone time; a load -for a shelf; but a light and dainty fairy for the palm. A -“Handbook!”—Yes, there is a freshness, a beauty, a truthfulness in the -name; it shall be “THE HANDBOOK OF SWINDLING!” Uncut folios, avaunt! -and, thick as humming-birds in tropic groves, “Handbooks,” in green and -gold, trim your glowing winglets and flutter among men.[11] - -Footnote 11: - - The reader will perceive from the self-complacency with which the - author talks of “Handbook,” that he would pass the compound as purely - one of his own invention. The editor, however, conceives it to be a - part of his stern duty to state that a book printed at Baden-Baden, - where the Captain was wont to retire in autumn for the benefit of the - waters and other benefits—a book entitled (we give the English) “The - Handbook of Cogging,” was found among the Captain’s other literary - effects. He had, doubtless, forgotten that Handbook was from - _Handbuch_.—[JOHN JACKDAW, Ed.] - -Having resolved upon the mode in which I shall benefit humanity, having -come to the determination to contract myself into the smallest possible -size, that I may the more deftly make my way among the crowd, it is but -due to myself—it is but just to my readers—to make known in a few words -the extent and range of my purpose. That purpose is, I am proud to feel -it, of the best wisdom, of the noblest benevolence; it is to make every -man—at least every thinking, reasonable man, for I write not to -blockheads—a SWINDLER. Yes; it is my aim to render him, at all points, -armed for the contest of life—to prepare him for the cutting and -thrusting and picking and stealing of this eventful passage. It is my -purpose to make known a few golden rules—the result of a long and -various experience—by which the attentive and quick-witted student may -learn to play with men as he would play with pieces of chess, by which -every move on the board of life may be his own, to the utter -discomfiture of a plodding and merely painstaking opponent. And in all -this there shall be nothing legally forbidden; nothing that shall -suddenly shock your delicate nostrils, reader, with the smell of hemp: -no, no; though turnkeys and the hangman walk about you, if you are an -apt scholar, you shall snap your fingers at them, and swindle securely. - -“And now,” thinks the reader,—for I know his thoughts as well as I know -my own whiskers,—“now the book begins to open; now the work warms up.” -Be not impatient. - -Impressed as I am with the purpose of this inestimable little work, it -befits the dignity of that purpose that there should be no unseemly -haste, no helter-skelter in the communication of ideas. Were I writing -the “HANDBOOK OF EGG-SUCKING,” or any such domestic treatise, I might -jump into my subject; but “SWINDLING” is not to be approached -irreverently. - -Its influence on the happiness of society is to be duly considered, that -the maxims by which it is the hope of the author to recommend it may -have their due weight upon the disciple; who, when he shall learn that -swindling is, indeed, synonymous with self-preservation, will brush up -his hair, take breath, and then, unless he have no more sensibility than -a stock or stone, lapse into a state of the profoundest and most -admiring attention. Yes; I was right—the pupil is now all ears. - -Philanthropists and philosophers have come to the comfortable conclusion -that there are in England too many Englishmen. John Bull has played the -Sultan, and has an alarmingly numerous family. Unhappily, however, he -has not the Sultan’s wealth—neither has he the Sultan’s prerogative: he -cannot feed all his sons and daughters; he must not choke or drown them. -The bow-string and the Bosphorus are not for John. What then is to -become of the family of Bull? Shall they tear each other piecemeal? -Forgetful of their origin, shall they destroy one another in civil -fight? _Amor patriæ_—humanity—all the finer and nobler feelings of the -human heart revolt at the very thought. “What,” the philanthropist will -inquire with tears in his eyes—“what, then, is to be done with a -superabundant population?” My reply is as brief as, I flatter myself, it -is conclusive—they must swindle. We have been gradually adopting what I -believe to be the only remedy for the national disease; we have for some -years in many instances applied what I conceive to be the only cure for -the social malady; but it is only when it shall be applied upon a grand -scale, when, in fact, a curative science shall be professed and -practised by men cognisant of all its subtle and most bountiful -capabilities—for it is yet in its infancy—that the greatness of its -social value will be thoroughly manifested and acknowledged. - -It is allowed that all the professions are full to running over. The -Church is crammed to suffocation with applicants for deaneries, -prebends, vicarages; to say nothing of the thousands with their hearts -fixed upon mitres. There is hardly standing room among the candidates -for lawn and silk aprons. - -In the Courts of Law there are wigs as thick as cauliflowers in -Battersea Gardens. Besides, the sneaking spirit of the times has so -enervated the British character, that Englishmen lack somewhat of that -generous pugnacity which, in the days of our fathers, would precipitate -them into the arena of the law to feed with their own flesh the lions -therein prowling. And when it happens that a gentleman with the true -English blood in him shall resolve upon such noble sacrifice, why, so -numerous are the animals awaiting him, that many a term shall pass, and -not one of the _carnivora_ shall have so much as a mouthful of the -honest gentleman’s flesh—shall not even make their mark in him. Consider -it well, reader; count, if you can, the hundreds of excellent, watchful, -well-disposed persons who, every morning during term, come down to the -Courts to prey; and who, nevertheless, return to their homes all -innocent of strife. Is not this a discouraging prospect for thousands of -young men, most of them very willing to become Chancellor? But so it is; -the profession has a greater supply than demand. In fifty years it will -be thought great luck in a man to die Lord Chief Justice or -Attorney-General. - -In the Army, a profession that I have followed with an ardour peculiarly -my own, can anything be more barren? Here am I, at the age of -nine-and-thirty—I, who have—but no, the dignity of my subject, the -national importance of this treatise, shall not be lessened or neglected -by aught personal. Hence, I disdain to speak of a deep bayonet wound -inflicted in the most dastardly manner in the small of my back, during -my first campaign in Biscay—of a gash across my nose, from an enemy’s -sickle, when bivouacking in a hen-roost—of an imaginary fracture of the -_os_—but no; I have said it, I will not mingle my private griefs, were I -chicken-hearted enough to think them so, with matters of national -interest. Besides, every man’s country is proverbially ungrateful to -him. Hence, I should despise myself did I more than allude, in the most -evanescent way, to my heavy pecuniary losses in the service of Mexico, -Chili, Peru, and other places too numerous to mention. But so it is; and -what, I ask—what cares the commander-in-chief, sitting in his pride of -place at the Horse Guards—what cares he for my superb plum-pudding -spotted charger, shot whilst grazing—it was only the day before I had -been on him—by an enemy’s vidette? What cares he for the loss of my -three saddles, generously given up to be converted into highlows for my -barefooted comrades? Yes, what—I must, I will ask it—cares the said -commander-in-chief for the subsequent ignominy endured in consequence of -that gallant steed—that by me devoted leather? Would it affect him, even -for half-an-hour, to know that on my return to England—my beloved -land!—after three years’ absence, I was, at half-past six on a December -morning, summoned by my landlady to see a Mr Jones, the said Mr Jones -and a friend at the same time entering my apartment to remind me of my -lost barb, my long-forgotten saddles? On that morning the -commander-in-chief was, I doubt it not, snoring ingloriously in bed; -little dreaming—it may be, little caring—that at that hour a brother -soldier, placed between two big men in a small gig, was being conveyed -at the rate of three miles an hour through fog and frost to Chancery -Lane. I remember the Tyburn-like pace; for, let me do his benevolence -justice, Mr Levi in the handsomest way apologised for not having had the -horse _roughed_; adding that, as he had no other call to make that -morning, “he was not in no ’urry.” - -Friendly reader, as an officer and a gentleman, I protest to you that I -would not have even thus casually alluded to personal adventures did -they not in the most striking, and I may add in the most pathetic manner -illustrate the condition of a man who, with a military flame burning in -his breast, generously offers his fire in the cause of nations. I might -proceed; but the same modesty that has hitherto confined me to the rank -of captain—and I may here allude to an infamous conspiracy on the part -of the publisher and printers of the _Army List_, my name, as I have -been informed, having been maliciously omitted from that miscellany—the -same modesty ties up my tongue on my own sufferings, my own deserts; or -at most but lets it move in fitful murmurings. I have done! To proceed. - -In the Army what are the hopes for superabundant young gentlemen, too -spirited to starve, and too nice to dig? What, I ask, can be their hopes -when a hypocritic sentimentality is gaining ground amongst those who are -pleased to call themselves thinking men—a whining, sneaking abuse of -glory and all its mighty purposes? There is a whimpering, white-faced -cowardice that would extract all the stern immortal beauty from the -battlefield, showing it to be no other than a place of butchery; that -would display the valiant soldier with his throat cut, his bowels -gloriously protruding, as a horrible sight—a piece of sacrilege done by -man upon his fellow. And more than this, the same cant lifts up its face -of turnip pallor, and pointing to where ten or twelve thousand stalwart -fellows lie magnificently dead in blood and mire, has the effrontery to -ask _cui bono_, as my old schoolmaster used to say—to put the impudent -“_What’s the good of it?_” I should abuse the ingenuousness of the young -martial spirit were I to be silent on the innovation of this wicked -principle; a principle which, with the infamous invention of the steam -gun and the unhallowed introduction of the rocket brigade, will go far, -or Captain Whitefeather is no prophet, to utterly destroy what I was -once proud to think the instinct for war in the “paragon of animals.” -There is something inconceivably cowardly in the steam gun. Possessed of -such engines, neither party will fight; and thus, nations always -prepared for war, will hold continual peace. They will, so to speak, -treat and deliberate at “full cock”; and being always ready, will never -fire. Is not this, I ask, a lamentable state of the world for a man to -be born in? Let us, however, unflinchingly look truth in the face; by so -doing we shall be the better prepared for the evil days at hand, which -to enable men to meet with some serenity of mind is the high purpose of -this essay. Such days are nearer, much nearer, than those who have -capital in powder mills like to dream of. We shall, of course, continue -to keep a small standing army; but blank cartridges for birthdays will -be the only order from the Horse Guards: bullets will become as rare as -brilliants; whole tons of the death-dealing lead being sold to the -type-founders. Laurel, “the meed of mighty conquerors”—why a whole grove -of it will in the coming time be held of no more account, nay, of not so -much, as a handful of dried marjoram. Have I dreamt it, or did I at a -late philosophical meeting see a grave, pragmatic man rise from his -seat, and when up, did I or did I not hear him seriously put it as a -motion—that the planet Mars should be no longer called Mars, but be -known to all future generations as JAMES WATT? - -The Army, then, affords no refuge for the tens of thousands up to within -these few years begotten, christened, suckled, nursed, fondled, -schooled, petted, sported with, wept over by fathers and mothers, uncles -and aunts, grandfathers and grandmothers, for the glorious purposes of -war. In such case is it not, I ask, the highest purpose of the -philanthropist to find employment for men, who in happier times might -have been usefully employed in burning the cottages of our enemies, -lessening the numbers of our enemies’ children (thus nipping a foe in -the bud) on lances and bayonets, tearing up olive groves, carrying away -the vanity of plate and pictures from enemies’ churches, and in fire, -and blood, and terror, planting the immortal bay? Since the British Lion -is no longer to be fed upon Frenchmen’s flesh, since he is henceforth to -have a regimen of bread and milk and dates, it behoves us to see that he -be gradually and duly prepared for the change in his diet, lest -consumption fall upon him; or, a still greater point, lest he break all -bonds and spread dismay around. - -I have now, I trust, convincingly proved that the many asylums hitherto -open to the pious, the wise, and the brave, are most inconveniently -crammed; and that with less room for an increasing generation, the -crowds will consequently become more dense, more clamorous, and in a -word, more revolutionary. What is the remedy in this great natural -crisis? - -In one word make I answer—“Swindling!” - -The philosophy of the present time is remarkable for its contempt—nay, -for its wholesome abhorrence of poverty. A want of the luxuries of life -is not merely inconvenient, it is positively ignominious. Hence what -wrigglings, and smugglings, and heartburnings are every day acted and -endured, to stand well with the world; that is, to stand without a hole -in our hat or a damning rent in our small clothes! The modern man is -wonderfully spiritualised by this philosophy; so much so that if he can -secure to himself a display of the collar he is almost wholly -unconscious of the absence of the shirt. Indeed so deep and so widely -spread is this sentiment that the present time might be denominated the -Age of Collars. - -This spirit is on the advance; and it is the consciousness of this truth -that impresses upon me the necessity of publishing a system by the -adoption of which the country may be saved from a desolating revolution, -and tens of thousands of future generations be secured those benefits -and enjoyments which, as the sons of Adam, they are justified in -expecting from the fulness of time. - -I have proved, at least to my own satisfaction—a great sustaining point -with an author—proved that by the natural course of things multitudes of -generous spirits, before devoted to the professions, will be thrown upon -their own resources—a dreadful condition for most men. What is to become -of them? They cannot sink down into petty hucksters; railroads have -destroyed the race of pedlars; they must not, even if they had -sufficient moral courage, hold forth their white hands as medicants; and -if, stung by the injustice of society, they should in a moment of -exasperation take to the road, why, highwaymen, save and except the -highwaymen of fifty years ago, cease to be picturesque; and there is -another heavy discouragement—the barbarous institution of a rural -police. These fiery souls—the unemployed, superabundant young -gentlemen—must, then, become knight-errants; that is, they must -institute an order of chivalry peculiar to the age, and the best -calculated to meet the wants of the sufferers. Let us take a single -knight. - -Here is Peter Muddleton, son of Jonah Muddleton, greengrocer, -Houndsditch. Jonah Muddleton dies, leaving Peter heir to the goodwill of -his shop, with seven hundred pounds in the three per cents. Well, had -Peter fallen upon a less ambitious age, he would have tied his apron -around him, walked behind the counter, and, saving a new coat of red and -yellow paint bestowed upon the outside of the shop, and the substitution -of “Peter” for “Jonah,” things would have gone on even as when Muddleton -senior was in the flesh. Peter, however, has a spirit above ha’porths of -starch and pen’orths of pepper; and having, as he most potently -believes, a gentlemanly taste, resolves to do anything that may become a -gentleman, but certainly not keep to a shop. The seven hundred pounds, -to Peter’s real astonishment, become in a brief time about eight hundred -shillings. A little month and Peter is penniless. What is to be done? Is -Peter to be blamed for the spirit of the age? Could he, the hapless son -of a vulgar sire, stultify himself to the fascinating and exalting -appeals of an advancing era? No; he is, in the first instance, the -victim of over refinement, and his moral perceptions having been -rendered painfully acute to the degradation of a shop, and his physical -man far too thin-skinned for the labour of Adam—and, moreover, having -not a sixpence, and seeing no gentlemanly mode of obtaining that -much-abused yet most necessary little coin—he magnanimously resolves to -eat and drink the best, and to wear the costliest, and all—without it. -This is the determination of a genius: but even the most consummate wit -may be assisted by the experience of others, and it would be a sorry -affectation in me—it would be worse, it would be a gross injustice to my -fellow-creatures—to deny that from my own observation of life I am -incapable of the dearest services to young gentlemen so curiously placed -as Peter Muddleton. - -I have taken a single case; I have adduced one of the humblest examples; -I already see a hundred thousand, many varying in their original rank in -life; but all, at length, compelled by the spirit of the age to take -their stand upon the broad ground of—SWINDLING. - -All commercial operations of the present, and certainly of the future -age, do and will tend to place the whole wealth of the country in a few -hands. I am not vain enough to suppose that this book will enjoy a large -daily sale for more than a hundred years; with all the partiality of an -author, I cannot bring myself to expect that the state of society—whose -wants the work is to meet—will endure above another century. However, I -shall have done my duty, and I may safely leave the year 2000 to the -active philanthropy of other WHITEFEATHERS. For more than the next -hundred years there must, if my previous hypotheses are allowed, be an -enormous amount of intelligence unemployed by the professions; the -tangible fat of the land becoming every year engrossed by a smaller -number. Now, to prevent any violent partition of property, it is—I can -lay my hand on my heart and vow it—it is my purpose to make the few -contribute in the easiest and pleasantest way to the wants of the many. -Briefly, it is my object to show to the elegant unemployed how they may -successfully and safely swindle the shopkeeping minority. The whole -system is reduced into a trial of wit; and if the swindler be a man of -real genius, and the man swindled have a touch of generous feeling in -him, he will forget what might be vulgarly called a loss in admiration -of his conqueror. I have seen much of shopkeeping nature; and I am -convinced that a man properly, wholly, and withal delicately -swindled—where there have been no rubs or hitches in the work—that a man -who, with all his eyes and ears about him, has nevertheless, without his -knowing it, been turned, “like a cheveril glove,” inside out by the -professor—that such a man, after the first burst of disappointment, -feels but little of the bitterness of resentment; the small drop of gall -in his heart is speedily taken up, and by a process delightful for the -benevolent mind to consider, is assimilated to the milk of human -kindness still running in the ventricles of the swindled; who—I have -known such an instance—after a moody, savage look, will burst into a -laugh, slap his leg, and with a confident, yea, with an exulting voice, -declare that “no less a swindler could ever have swindled _him_.” Here -is a homage—an irresistible token of admiration—paid to one man; and if -we consider, in proportion to the possessions of the others, how small, -how trivial has been the tribute levied upon him, a positive enjoyment -afforded to another! Believe it, reader, the swindled, if well swindled, -is not without his joy. - -This maxim is never to be lost sight of by the pupil. If he would disarm -a man of the natural ferocity of the animal when fobbed, he must fob him -blandly, graciously, completely. Humanity—a consideration of the -feelings of others—demands this. How often have we seen a worthy man in -a very tempest of passion—his face like copper—his eyes starting—his -tongue stammering his wrongs:—“The—the—the—infamous scoundrel!—the -barefaced villain! Did he think I was to be done in that way? Did he -think me a fool?” - -There it is, take the good man’s goods; but, in the taking, see you -never wound his self-love. - - - - - CHAPTER III - -OF THE FACE NECESSARY TO A SWINDLER—(AN INCIDENTAL SPECULATION ON THE - “DIVISION OF PROPERTY”)—AND OF THE USE AND ABUSE OF MUSTACHIOS - - -IT is a homely expression, often used in reply to a sarcasm on a -personal deformity, “that we did not make ourselves.” Not even a -Professor of Political Economy can argue away this conviction, rooted -as it is in the depths of the human heart. Much, however, can be done -with the rude lump—if indeed it be rude—whereof man finds himself the -ill-starred possessor. Hence, let no one moderately deformed despair -of his fitness to join our brotherhood Hump backs, club feet, and bow -shins have, it must be owned, their disadvantages for the -service—notwithstanding, the genius of their owners may triumph over -such outward obstacles. A fine face tastefully set in hair may be -considered a blessing for the profession; yet it would be to inflict a -great injustice on the higher uses of the science to suppose a mere -face so framed all-sufficient. No; “we work by wit and not by -whiskers.” The outward man goes far, but he must depend upon the -ethereal spark—upon the inward intelligence—for self-distinction. - -And first for the FACE OF A SWINDLER. Men who set themselves up as -judges of character—I have heard the sciolists—sometimes marvel that the -sons of commerce should so frequently fall victims to some individual -swindler; when he, the party swindling, is one of the most ingenuous -creatures breathing; looking, in fact, the swindler that he is,—when -from his eyebrows to the corners of his lips there is painted in the -largest human capitals the calling of the professor. The truth is, the -unsuspecting men accustomed to pore over day-books and ledgers have not -had sufficient time to learn to read human faces. They can on the -instant, if put to the test, tell a good guinea from a bad one; but -though they shall stare in the features of a human counterfeit for an -hour or more, they cannot, one in a hundred, discover the washed brass -from the true gold. More; though they shall hear the counterfeit—though -the ring of its voice shall be the truest Brummagem—the trading man -shall complacently rub his hands, satisfied that he is hearing the -sweetest sound of the mint. - -I confess it, to the honour of the trading community of this commercial -country, I confess it; the success of some faces of my brotherhood upon -men behind counters has been to me startling evidence of the -unsophisticated character of the tradesman. For instance; there is -Nobrowns, Scarceamag, Fleeceington, and others I could name—shall I own -it?—I have sometimes felt myself humiliated by their prosperity. I have -felt the science lowered by the facility with which they have -ingratiated themselves into the favour of the jeweller, the coachmaker, -the tailor. Had _I_ kept shop, I have thought I should have shown -Nobrowns to the door at the first glance of his eye; and without looking -at Scarceamag, but simply hearing his base-metal voice, I should have -told him I had nothing in his way, and straightway ordered him across -the threshold. And yet these men have flourished for a score of years; -and, at this moment, are prosperous swindlers. How is the enigma to be -explained—how the more than Arcadian innocency of the dwellers in Bond -Street and Regent Street to be philosophically accounted for? Is it, -that men immersed in the profound abstraction of £ s. d. lose somewhat -of the sagacity inherited and often improved by poorer souls; that, too -much rapt by the splendid visions of the future profits, they are less -vigilant as to the danger of present credit? Providence, however, hath -wisely partitioned its benefits. If it be given to Scarceamag, with -_his_ face, to swindle and be poor—it is also allotted to Puddingtête, -the tradesman, to be swindled and grow rich. Take this, then, my dear -pupil, for an axiom: you may—since you cannot help it—look the greatest -swindler in life; but if you shall hold your own counsel, your face -shall, at least to the acute men behind counters, never reveal it. -Tradesmen can read anything but customers’ faces.[12] This truth is -every day borne out by the success of fellows whose features have gone -far to vulgarise the science. Ragamuffins who ought never to have -aspired beyond the pea-and-thimble board at a country fair—knaves marked -and impressed by the truthful hand of nature for the lowest offices of -legerdemain have, trusting to the simplicity, the unsuspecting -ingenuousness of a money-getting generation, to the marvellous innocency -of the commercial body, made for themselves a reputation of the first -class, or of very nearly the first class of the highest profession. -Ultimately, in the advancement of society, these vulgar upstarts will be -met by a greater number of competitors, elevated and accomplished with -the graces of life, and the term swindler will be, as it ought to be, -synonymous with gentleman. The commercial faculty will, on the other -hand, be rendered more acute in its observation of human character; -hence it will require a greater delicacy of style—more imposing and a -more winning manner to arrive at any distinction—indeed, even to make a -clear paltry five hundred a year as a swindler, than in these times will -suffice to ensure to a tolerably industrious man an income of a -thousand. This is inevitable. When the tens of thousands of noble -spirits, heretofore absorbed by the professions, are left to trade upon -their wits—when all society is more strongly marked, more arbitrarily -divided into two classes, the swindlers and the swindled—when, instead -of a violent and ruthless division of property, as infamously as -ignorantly insisted upon by certain firebrands—there is a graceful -exchange of elegant patronage on the one side, and a profound expression -of thanksgiving respect on the other, the character of the successful -swindler will rise to its ordained and natural elevation, and a -Whitefeather (pardon the honest vanity) take his place with many -illustrious names sufficiently obvious to the philosophical reader. The -time is happily passing away when brute violence is to achieve national -good—when the price of bread is to be beaten down by a bludgeon, or -wages raised upon a pike. It is therefore a matter of deep regret to the -contemplative man, and such I am not ashamed to confess myself, to -perceive how many gifted persons are, by a premature nativity, -ill-placed. How many men at the present day breathing national arson and -patriotic pillage—men who have so profoundly studied the _meum_, that -they are entirely ignorant of that of _tuum_—would, born a few years -hence, have shed a lustre, have conferred a dignity upon even an -illustrious and dignified profession. Let me not be asked to enumerate -examples—I eschew the personal for the general. It is enough that the -eye of the philosopher can perceive in many a sulphureous patriot the -indefatigable swindler; that the sage, pondering on the inevitable -changes of society, can detect in a present Bull-ring Brutus all the -misapplied qualities of a future Isaac Solomons! - -Footnote 12: - - I can scarcely believe that Captain Whitefeather was a reader of the - Essays of David Hume; and yet a similar opinion—a friend of mine, a - poor curate to whom I showed the Captain’s MS., pointed it out to - me—is expressed by the sceptic philosopher, who, in his Essay on - “Delicacy of Taste,” says:—“You will seldom find that mere men of the - world, whatever strong sense they may be endowed with, are very nice - in distinguishing characters, or in marking those insensible - differences and gradations which make one man preferable to - another.”—[JOHN JACKDAW, Ed.] - -Blissful time—glorious return of the golden age—when rapine and fire, -and cutting and maiming shall no longer be the evils adopted by -comprehensive minds to work out, as they conceive, a great good; but -when one half of the people shall live peaceably upon the other; when -the whole aim and end of every two men out of four shall be to possess -themselves of their daily bread—(philosophers will receive the phrase in -its more enlarged meaning)—by an art demanding in its exercise the -highest and most chastened faculties of the moral creature. The two -halves of society will then be fairly arrayed against each other; and -for ruthless weapons—for sword, dagger, and pistol on one side, and -bayonet, sabre, and carbine on the other—we shall have the more peaceful -and courteous instruments, silvery words, blandest smiles, and the -happiest self-possession, opposed by cautious interrogation, wary looks -and silent heavy doubtings. Here then is a contest worthy of -intellectual beings! This is indeed a duello of the immortal principle! -How poor, how savage, how unworthy of a rational creature to break into -the peaceful dwelling of an honest silversmith—to fire his -bed-curtains—to bruise and batter his ornate cream-jugs, his chased -candlesticks, and embossed tankards,—or, the spoil carried off amidst -the exulting howl of barbarians, to fling it into the hospitable -melting-pot—how loathsome, how degrading this brutal mode of a division -of property, to that refined and gracious system, the cunning birth of -better times—the fruit of a loftier and truer consideration of man’s -dignity towards his fellow! - -Let us consider the two pictures; let us contemplate the working of the -different principles. How revolting the scene of violence! How debasing -to our common nature to witness a mob of denaturalised creatures -bursting in the good man’s door! How they scamper upstairs! Like festal -savages they wave firebrands and torches about their heads as they rush -into the sacred bedroom. The worthy man says a short prayer, and thinks -of his stock—his wife and daughters, trembling for their lives, are -horrified at being seen in nightcaps with their hair in paper! All the -house is in consternation; and, a touch of humanity softening the mob, -they benevolently suffer the silversmith and his family to escape, in -their night-clothes, over the roof, and descend, like cats, into the -gutter of their neighbour. The shop is ransacked of everything; and now -a sanguinary fight is going on behind the counter between two of the -ruffians for the plated top of a pepper-castor. This—this is one -principle of a division of property; as if property was only to be -divided by the blaze of torches and the crackling of rafters! Turn we to -the ennobling contrast. - - -[Illustration: - - “Politely receives his destroyer” -] - - -Mark the swindler! How graciously he descends from his chariot—for the -swindler of first-rate genius rarely marauds on foot—and with what a -composed elegance, with what a perfect self-possession he enters the -shop! There is something inexpressibly taking in his manner. Surveying -him from head to foot, we cannot repress the opinion that the “age of -chivalry” is _not_ past. He is the knight of later times—the Chevalier -Bayard in a round hat. _Sans peur_ glows in his eyeball, and the -whiteness of his kid gloves is _sans reproche_! Two or three centuries -ago he had, with mailed hand, “shaken the bags of hoarding abbots,” and -now comes he, with a condescending smile at his mouth, to deal with a -silversmith. See! he crosses the threshold—treads the shop. It is -impossible to resist the fascination of his lofty courtesy. The -tradesman, wary as he is—suspicious as loss after loss has made -him—despite of himself, confesses the supremacy of the stranger, and, -with a smiling lip, a twinkling eye, folded palms, and inclined back, -politely receives his destroyer. A conversation ensues; and the -swindler—I am of course putting the case of a man of genius—fastens upon -the tradesman, who every moment becomes more deeply impressed with the -consequence of his patron; and therefore, having flung to the winds all -low suspicion, is the most obsequious, the most humble servant of the -swindler. There is nothing too costly for him—nothing too curious; no -order too difficult to be met—no time too short for the accomplishment -of his wishes. The swindler is evidently a man of the very highest -consequence; and the silversmith, if I may adopt a homely expression, is -inevitably _done_, ay, done— - - “—as brown as a berry.”[13] - -Footnote 13: - - It will be seen that the Captain had some knowledge of Chaucer.—[JOHN - JACKDAW, Ed.] - -The swindler whirls away from the tradesman, who has attended him, -bareheaded, to the kerbstone, and then the man of precious metals -returns to his shop in that delightful serenity of mind, apt, I am told, -to possess people with profits ranging from fifty to seventy-five in the -hundred. - -What—it will be asked—what, does Mr Giltspur, the silversmith, without -further questions put, trust his service of plate, besides a magnificent -suite of amethysts (for which the honourable Mr Thug expressed a sudden -liking), to the honour of his customer? To be sure he does; and his -blood simmering with a sense of profit, he orders them to be delivered -at “——— Hotel,” where Mr Thug is staying; but which delightful and -convenient hostelry he, shortly afterwards, suddenly leaves on the most -imperative business. A thousand instances bear out the probability of -Thug’s success and Giltspur’s discomfiture. People may talk about the -innocence of a pastoral age: I am, from long experience, convinced of -it, that the most innocent, the most unsuspecting, the most easily-taken -biped on the face of the earth is—your London shopkeeper. Armed with -proper weapons, it is almost impossible that he can escape you. The poor -creature is weakness, imbecility itself; “Wear your eye thus,” and as -surely as the fluttering bird drops into the mouth of the snake, as -surely fall the tribe of Giltspurs into the folds of the Thugs. - -Well, and is it not delightful that it should be so? Here is Giltspur, -for a certain number of days at least, made very happy; he has delivered -his goods, and has already calculated to the odd sevenpence-halfpenny -the amount of profit. Thug has conferred upon him a great -pleasure—passing, it must be owned—but sweet, very sweet, whilst it -endures. - -Does the reader still remember the picture of violence drawn in a former -page? Does he still behold the pallid silversmith—his fainting wife—and -blushing daughters? Does he yet hear the roar of the flames, as they -come up the staircase—the fury of pillage in the shop below? - -The same effect is produced by the swindler, but how different the -cause! The “division of property” is just as complete—the fine, deep -philosophy that preaches it equally well honoured; and yet, what grace -on one side—what civility on the other; and, to one party at least, what -tangible, enduring satisfaction! Who, then, with the smallest spark of -human dignity within him would stoop to violence when he may “divide” -with ease? The “multiplication” of the human animal is, indeed, -according to the modern school-men, “vexation”; but the “division” of -property—unless divided on the bland principles of swindling—would be -infinitely worse. In the progress of society, then, it is by swindling, -and by swindling only, that we shall escape the most grievous -revolution. - -To proceed with the personal qualifications necessary to a Swindler. He -must have a face of purest brass. If handsome, all the better; yet, -perhaps, expression is of greater importance than the mere proportion of -feature. If, however, he _look_ a Swindler—if to the contemplative men -who peruse human lines, printed in the blackest ink on some human faces, -he look his profession—his success with the sages of trade is certain. -It is, however, of the first importance that there should be no alloy in -the face. It should, for instance, be as incapable of emotion as the -bull hide on the shield of Ajax.[14] This, youthful Swindler, is the -besetting danger; hence, bend all your energies to obtain a stony look -of self-possession. Though a constable should put his “dead hand” upon -your shoulder, and your very marrow should thrill at the touch—your face -must remain motionless as the face of the Apollo Belvidere—your eye -unquenched—your voice with not a crack in it. I will not disguise the -difficulties of arriving at this super-human placidity. Talk of the -self-possession of a Cæsar—the coolness of a Napoleon—quackery all! What -is there in the composure of a man who takes snuff whilst hundreds of -other men’s limbs are being blown into the air (to be wept over by the -spirits of glory), with at the most a _sauve qui peut_ for it; whilst, -in the scale of advantage, there is a laurel wreath and a triumphant -entry and civic addresses,—what is all this to the quiet dignity -demanded of a swindler in a perilous situation—his splendid cabriolet, -perhaps, waiting at the shop—whilst, sneaked out at the back door, Bob -the apprentice has run for Police Officer Snatchem, F. No. 20, to attend -immediately to our hero, who at his approach beholds a no dim vision of -the very handsome police omnibus—the prison barber with his ignominious -shears—and hears, or thinks he hears, the pathetic, admonitory address -of Common Sergeant or Recorder? It may, according to a worn metaphor, -take nerves of iron to direct an army; but they must be brass, and of -the finest brass too, to swindle. Fighting is, indeed, a mechanic trade; -millions can fight,—but how few can gracefully swindle! We know that the -result of both operations is often the same, but how inferior one to the -other! Bonaparte brought a _few_ pictures from Italy, which the -world—Heaven knows!—made noise enough about. In warlike phrase he “took -them” from a vanquished people: a poor, shabby act to brag of; but had -he, unassisted by squadrons and battalions, and parks of artillery—had -he, by the unassisted efforts of his own mind, with no other masked -battery, no other weapon than his own hand and his own tongue,—had he -robbed one dealer of a Correggio—another of a Raphael—a third of a -Titian—a fourth of a Murillo—and so on,—it had indeed been an -achievement to boast of; but to crack of the incident as one of the -trophies of the army of Italy was the sublime of gasconading! My late -friend Featherfinger—he died, poor fellow, having burst a blood-vessel -from intense study at Macquarrie Harbour—had a magnificent bronze clock; -a superb thing! a thing to make a man value time. Had I not pledged my -honour to secrecy, I could write a history touching his possession of -that clock, which, of itself, is enough to immortalise any one man. My -honour, however, is sacred; and my lips are hushed. This much, probably, -I may be permitted to observe: The industry—nay, that is a poor, -unworthy term—the genius manifested by the indefatigable Featherfinger -to possess that clock—methinks I see him now; poor fellow! seated with -his Greek cap, his black satin morning gown figured with pink poppies—an -Indian shawl (the _gage d’amour_ of an Italian countess) about his -waist—his feet in bead-embroidered slippers, the work, as he protested, -of some heart-devoted heiress—his meerschaum in his mouth—in his hand a -book, _Satan_ or the _Lives of Highwaymen_ (for he was passionately fond -of light literature)—his tiger page, only three feet high, and warranted -to grow no taller, in green and gold, with a breast-plate of best double -gilt buttons, standing at a reverential distance—whilst the bronze clock -on the mantelpiece vibrated with its monitory, moralising—yes, -moralising—_tick, tick!_ Methinks I see him as I enter raise one eye -from the page, nod, smile—and such a smile!—there was only one -shopkeeper, and he was a philosophical member of the Society of Friends -and dealer in _virtu_, that ever stood against it—smile, and then cast -the other eye towards the clock itself with a look of touching reproach -at my delay, or with a glance of approving pleasure at my punctuality. -Methinks I see him—Gracious powers! That such a man should die at -Macquarrie Harbour, taxed beyond his strength of study, a victim to—but -no; loyalty to the Ministry was ever a virtue of the Whitefeathers, and -I breathe no word against the Whigs! To hurry from the theme. Much has -been said about the boldness, the fine contempt of public opinion shown -by Napoleon when he took the horses of St Mark from Venice to place them -on his own palace gate in Paris. Well, the act was not without its -merit, but did I dare to write the story of Featherfinger’s clock, the -theft of Napoleon would, in comparison to the genius manifested by my -friend, sink to the petty larceny committed by schoolboys upon apple -stalls. But so it is; the finest history remains, and ever will remain, -unwritten. The Venice horses have been celebrated by poets and -historians, but posterity is left to bewilder itself with guesses on -Featherfinger’s clock. Yet—and I am prepared to meet the consequences of -such an assertion—I am convinced that great as the conqueror was in all -the varieties of the science, Buonaparte’s horses must pass from the -recollection of the earth; whereas Featherfinger’s clock, duly -chronicled, was a thing for time! It may be cited as an illustration of -the injustice of Fortune—of the tricks she plays with the noble and the -man—when the reader is informed that the tiger page of my dear friend—of -him whose bones are mouldering (for he _was_ buried) in a foreign -earth—of him born, as the poet says— - - “To steal a grace beyond the reach of art”— - -that that little cab-page—that tiger-moth fluttering as I have seen him -with _billet-doux_ about the carriage-lamps and round the torches of an -opera night,—that he has at this moment a country-seat and grounds at -Hackney, purchased and supported by the precarious profits of a -night-house—that is, of a mansion hospitably open in the vicinity of -Drury Lane, for the refreshment of travellers with beer, beef and -oysters, from eleven at night until six in the morning. But so it is; a -genius, like my departed friend, dies beggared at the last; whilst mere -industry at forty-five grows his own pine apples! - -Footnote 14: - - I may, by the way, observe that the Captain, whose education was not - equal to his parts, is indebted for a few of his classical allusions - to another pen.—[JOHN JACKDAW, Ed.] - -I have, I trust, been sufficiently minute in my description of the face -requisite to be put upon Swindling. In conclusion, I have only to -enforce the necessity of the most rigid self-discipline to prevent even -the most evanescent exhibition of what is conveniently called modesty; -for the swindler who can blush is lost. His must be a brow whereon - - “Shame is ashamed to sit.” - -A money-lender, a courtier, steeped to the lips in broken promises—a -pick-pocket caught in the act, all of these may, if they can, blush and -not be ruined; but woe to the swindler whose cheek admits the -self-accusing tint! His face, like the face of the man in the moon, must -look down upon all sorts of acted abominations, yet blench not. - -MUSTACHIOS.—These _were_ pretty things for the profession; but I grieve -to say it, lawyers’ clerks, linen-drapers’ apprentices, players out of -place, and even pedestrian vendors of lucifer matches, have detracted -from their exclusive importance; hence, I would counsel the youthful, -sanguine swindler to eschew what indeed vulgar usage has rendered a very -questionable advantage, and to swindle with clean lips. It is enough to -break the heart of a rabbi to see how one of “Heaven’s best gifts,” the -human beard, is in these hirsute days cut and notched according to the -impudence or ignorance of the wearer. It is said of the French that they -have a thousand ways of cooking an egg: let it be our boast that we have -as many modes of dressing the chin. I have, I hope, a love of the -picturesque, as the world will one day know from a work of mine still, -unhappily, in manuscript.[15] I, therefore, am a passionate admirer of -the beard of patriarchal growth; but for your nasty, stunted, straggly, -ragged, edgy things—now like the skin of a dog with the mange, now like -the end of a skein of whitey-brown thread, now as if culled from chopped -hay, and now as if cut from a singed blanket—pah!—were I caliph for a -day—but no matter, let me not wander to legislation, but stick to my -higher subject—Swindling. I say, then, to my disciple, eschew -mustachios. At best they are a doubtful good. If, however, you are -determined to wear them, let me hope that their hue is black as death. -If, on the contrary, Heaven has awarded you a pair of pale gold or deep -carrot colour, tamper not with them, but shave. Never, like Richard, -think to stand “the hazard of the _die_”; if so, your case is desperate. -I knew three promising young fellows, all of whom laid their ruin at the -door of Mr Rowland. But—for I like to anticipate—it may be asked, Do you -always, Captain Whitefeather, walk abroad with unrazored lips? To this I -boldly answer that—for I was justified in the vanity—I did wear an -adorned mouth; more, that a lady, who shall be nameless, was in -hysterics (of course at intervals) for three days, when my mustachios -fell; but no, I could not condescend to wear them when I saw—yes, I -confess it—even a better pair than my own upon the face of a fellow in -the Surrey gallery, selling play-bills, Spanish nuts, and ginger beer. -What the revolution of society may in time produce it would of course be -impudence in me, who am not a Paternoster Row astrologer, to declare; -but, for the next five-and-twenty years, mustachios will, I think, be a -dangerous decoration for the swindler. So much business has been done -with them that suspicion will have scarcely subsided under at least -another quarter of a century. The horse-tails of Ibrahim Pacha have not -been more triumphant; but victory will not always perch upon the same -banner. - -Footnote 15: - - _The Handbook of Ratcliffe Highway_, an inestimable work (when - printed) for the stranger in London.—[JOHN JACKDAW, Ed.] - -The swindler should not at the present day hope to take the Philistines -by the strength of his hair. No; let him shave, and put the barest face -upon the dignity of his profession—it cannot be _too_ bare. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - OF THE PARENTAGE AND NAME OF A SWINDLER—OF HIS EQUIPAGE—OF HIS MORAL - PHILOSOPHY - - -THE professor of our distinguished art has, it must be conceded, this -peculiar and most grateful advantage—he may choose his ancestors. With -the _Peerage_ or the _Red Book_ open before him, it lies within his own -breast to decide whether he shall have come from the loins of a Norman -baron—of one of the boldest of that invincible band of marauders and -thieves who jumped on Hastings beach—or whether he shall be the last of -a collateral branch of the Strozzi, or Frangepani, or of any other -Italian house whose beginning, in the opinion of divers heralds, dates -from beyond Numa. Here is a glorious prerogative! The swindler may make -his own coat-of-arms, although his immediate father walked the earth -without a shirt. Show me any other man possessing so delicious a -privilege. With long rolls of knights and barons, and earls and princes -before him, how the swindler may play the epicure with the mighty dead! -How loftily, yet how serenely, may he contemplate the titled dust of -bygone generations! Even as your dainty snuff-taker coquets with a dozen -samples of the odoriferous tobacco, so may the swindler, pondering on a -choice of father and mother, taste with his moral sense the various -claims of buried greatness. Now, he likes this Prince’s mixture—and now -this. He is puzzled, perplexed by the hundred appeals to his filial -affection. He is one minute determined to have come from the -Montmorencys—the next, he feels a yearning towards the Talbots—and in a -few seconds, lo! he will make a kindred to himself from the golden line -of D’Este. If the reader possess imagination—and if he do not I tremble -for my book—he must sympathise with the delightful tumult in the -swindler’s brain and breast, or rather brain alone—(for with your true -swindler the brain must have played the Aaron’s rod with the heart, -swallowing it whole; a miracle very often performed in the anatomy of -great public men)—he must feel more than commonly interested in the -contest which is to decide the parentage of our hero. With this allusion -to the delicacy of the juncture, we leave the swindler at his books, -merely impressing upon him the necessity of choosing a long way back—of -electing an ancestor from some by-way catacomb—some seldom visited -cemetery—some “untrod on corner i’ the earth.” Nor let him despair; -there are at least a round thousand or two of dukes and princes -sufficiently obscure in their winding-sheets, albeit possibly brave and -blatant enough when in the flesh, from whom the swindler may scratch out -a great progenitor. All that is necessary is that the beginner of the -family shall have lived in the dim twilight of civilisation—that he -shall be so far away that all the Herald’s Colleges, with all their -spectacles upon their collective noses, shall not be able to perceive -whether the disentombed thing be flesh or phantom. Very satisfactory -progenitors have been found, with arms to match, of thew and sinew just -as questionable. If, however, the swindler _will_ have a mighty -ancestor, let him, I repeat, go far enough for him: when a man wants a -marquis, or an earl, or a count, for his great-grandfather, he should -not grudge a long walk—even though he walk blindfold and backwards—for -the commodity. So much for the ambitious swindler. - -The swindler, however, who trusts to his unassisted genius, and disdains -the lustre of any specious trophies from the churchyard, may with a very -laudable pride refuse to make to himself a grandfather, being possibly -contented with the grandsire selected by his grandmother for him. Some -men—and let me do all homage to their simplicity—turn up their noses at -the genealogical tree, even though its roots were struck at Tyburn: the -swindler of sanguine spirit may be of this proud kidney; and all the -better: I augur more of his ultimate triumph. However, though he shall -refuse a herald-begotten progenitor, it may be highly necessary for him -that he shall choose a name. His own may have become celebrated for -family achievements wide away of his purpose; and therefore, whilst with -filial affection he sticks to his own father and mother, disdaining the -blood of Norman, Guelph, or Ghibelline—it may be imperative upon him to -assume a nominal device not hitherto borne by any of his kin. The -swindler wants a name. Here, then, we approach a delicate, yes, a -difficult point. Let me, however, set out with a solemn injunction to -the swindler, that in the choice of a name “he throw away ambition.” -Considerable nicety is required in the selection of a good title for -swindling; a number of fine young fellows having—if I may lighten the -solemnity of this essay with a familiar phrase—“let the cat out of the -bag” by the incautious assumption of a high-sounding, flowery, -no-meaning patronymic. The truth is, the detestable rage for novels has -so familiarised the world with a set of sugar-and-water heroes—of -exquisite gentlemen, all of them worthy of a glass case lest the flies -should soil them—that their very excess of virtue has put them on the -hue and cry of suspicion. Hence “_Delacour_,” “_Erpingham_,” -“_Rosenthorp_,” “_Millefleur_,” and a thousand others of the courtly and -sweet-smelling class, all in their time excellent names for swindling -(that is, for swindling in the higher sense of the term, for in “fine -wire wove” they swindle still), are now no other than brands, -_stigmata_, by which the calling of the professor is instantly -suspected. Hence, my dear pupil, take no sweet, pastry-cook name from a -novel; cull no flower from a play-bill; but look, as either a poet or a -member of Parliament says, I forget which, “look abroad into -universality” for the thing desired. As you walk the street cast your -eyes above the door of the worthy shopkeeper. A thousand to one that in -a day’s saunter you will possess yourself, and from such a source, of a -name in every respect unexceptionable. Yes, from the board of the -thriving, honest, painstaking, till-respecting tradesman. And if so, how -ingenious, how pleasant withal, to obtain one of your best weapons from, -so to speak, the armoury of the enemy, to be fleshed immediately upon -him! It is perhaps unnecessary to warn the young swindler that he must -not be too homely in his choice. There is a class of names which, from -their very abundance, makes it a matter of constructive ignominy to -swindle under them. And some of these are Jones, Walsh, Welsh, Thomson, -Johnson, Dobson, White, Brown, Williams, Simpson, Smithson, and that -multitudinous monosyllable, Smith! If, in a moment of hilarity you break -a lamp, wrench off a knocker, or snap a bell wire, why any one of these -names may be, as of course every gentleman well knows, confidently given -in to the night constable; but to attempt to swindle under them betrays -a petty larceny spirit in the professor, from which my experience looks -for little present gain or future reputation. No; the name of a swindler -should be like the wardrobe of the true gentleman—a thing not -challenging vulgar attention; but, if examined, found to be of the very -best material and of the choicest workmanship. Hence let the swindler -choose between a _clinquant_ (I do believe this is almost the first bit -of French appearing in the essay, for the which I confess myself -deficient in the graces of modern literature[16]), between the -_clinquant_ of novel heroes and the homeliness of “base mechanics”—let -his name be a solid, substantial, downright English name. - -Footnote 16: - - The Captain is in error. Though his essay is, assuredly, barren of - “the tongues,” the author knows more of bookmaking than he apparently - chooses to confess.—[JOHN JACKDAW, Ed.] - - -[Illustration: - - “Any one of these names maybe confidently given to the night - constable” -] - - -I say English, for I think we have had too long a peace to render the -assumption of a foreign title and a foreign accent worth the trouble, -the incessant watchfulness, the continual stretch of a man’s intellects: -the call upon his faculties to keep up the character should be well -rewarded, for the hazard of self-discovery is very great. I know a -remarkable instance of the danger. There was Thaddeus Ballynamuck—he -once, with merely a backward touch of his hand, broke the jaw of the -manager of a minor theatre who dared to offer him terms to bring him out -as a Patagonian giant—there was Thaddeus, who had made a splendid six -weeks’ campaign at the West-end as an Italian count; how admirably did -he with the _lingua Toscana_ flavour his native Connaught! The Duke of -Tuscany was his dear friend; and not without reason; for Thaddeus at a -boar hunt had stood between the boar and the duke, receiving the tusks -of the beast in his hunting jacket, for the which he had obtained a -great many Italian orders, and on the strength of which he gave a great -many English ones. Well, Thaddeus, though considered as true an Italian -as the poet Asso,[17] was one morning driven to the necessity of shaving -himself, changing his southern name, and retiring for a few weeks to the -privacy of Southend. He was betrayed into self-discovery by an excess of -benevolence—the more was the pity. Thus it was. He always carried in his -cab a beautiful dove-coloured Italian greyhound, its legs not much -thicker than goose quills, and its tail like bent wire—the gift of the -Marchesa di Lungabarba. The dog had leaped from the cab and followed its -master into the office of Finings, the wine merchant. Thaddeus had -before very considerably patronised Finings, and was about to give him a -splendid order for some choice port to be shipped to his friend the -duke—and how the eyes of Finings twinkled at the title of his -highness!—when the cellarman, a brawny, heavy fellow from Somerset, -shambled into the office and trod, with all his fourteen stone, upon the -delicate toes of Angelo the greyhound: the dog howled with agony -piercing enough to crack the parchment heart of an old maid, when the -Captain—he was, at the moment, with the greatest difficulty endeavouring -to make himself understood to the wine merchant—turned round, and, to -the astonishment of Finings, fulminating a string of oaths in the very -purest Connaught, dealt a blow on the breast of the cellarman that sent -him prostrate on three dozen of choice brandy—picked samples for the -dowager Lady Drinkwater—to their utter destruction, and to the exceeding -surprise of the wine merchant, who had never in all his life heard an -Italian count vituperate such beautiful, such unadulterate Irish. I will -not continue the story: Thaddeus Ballynamuck, though an admirable -artist, fell a victim to the exuberance of his feelings; as a swindler -he was professionally killed by Angelo, the late Marchesa di -Lungabarba’s greyhound. - -Footnote 17: - - The Captain doubtless means Tasso—[JOHN JACKDAW, Ed.]. - -I have narrated this little history that it may serve as an illustration -of the perils besetting an honest, simple, guileless Englishman who -might wish to swindle as an exotic. There is, it must be allowed, -unnecessary peril in the experiment; besides I question if it be not -unpatriotic. Why defraud our mother country of the advantage of our -reputation? Why, with ungrateful, with unfilial hand add a leaf to the -laurel of Germany—of France—of Italy—of Russia? No; for a true born -Briton to swindle as a noble from the Hartz mountains—as a count from -Paris—a Roman count—or a prince from St Petersburg—is poor, shuffling, -shabby, or, if I may use a term which I am proud to find of late very -current among politicians and political writers (for the classes are -more distinct than people are prone to imagine)—it is _Un-English_. - -America, however, has her claims upon us. The swindler may, and with -profit, prove his recollection of the ties that once bound Columbia to -Britain—may gratefully acknowledge a sense of the relationship between -the mother and the daughter country, by swindling as a gentleman with -enormous possessions in New York, or, what is still better, in Virginia. -Here the many-sided philosopher cannot fail to recognise a new advantage -in a community of language. The _soi-disant_ (hem! French again!), the -_soi-disant_ American swindler may avenge the injuries of a greyhound on -the person of a cellarman, yet run no risk of discovery. He may still -run up and down the gamut of execration and not betray himself. Think of -this, youthful swindler. Besides, there is another great temptation to -offer this passing honour to America. Her unsettled currency affords the -swindler a hundred plausible excuses if—for such improprieties do occur -at the London Hotel, Grillon’s, the Clarendon, all the very best of -houses—if rudely pressed to show those credentials of gentility which -even the rudest and the most illiterate never fail to acknowledge. Thus -the swindler may for a time throw himself upon the banks: and this the -more safely if he have displayed a handful of letters of introduction (a -few to the royal household), all easily manufactured, and all, for the -time, as good as letters of credit. There is another very practicable -deceit. He may, on the night of his arrival in London, have his pocket -picked of certain Government securities, and, having made the keeper of -the hotel the depository of his secret, straightway advertise the loss -in all the papers. This, I confess, is a ticklish experiment, demanding -the finest self-possession, the greatest delicacy to carry it into -successful operation; and if the youthful swindler have any doubts of -himself, I charge him by his hopes of future profit and reputation not -to think of hazarding it. Should he, however, succeed, and the landlord -advance liberally, he may condescend to express his best wishes for the -prosperity of his host, and more, may invite himself to dine with him. -Great caution, however, is to be used before there be any advance to -such familiarity; and yet I once knew a gentleman from Natchez who -obtained unlimited credit from his host—the pot-house keeper was -musical—by insisting upon it that he made Dibdin’s “Lovely Nan” by the -very force of expression remarkably like Rossini. So far, all was well; -but, forgetful of what was due to himself as a swindler,—in the genial -atmosphere of a domestic hearth letting himself down to the level of his -host—the foolish fellow suffered himself to play at cribbage with his -landlord; a man who had spent at least half of his long and useful life, -pegging. Game after game the landlord’s doubts increased: and at length -he rose from the table with a blank in his face, and all the swindler’s -bill in his heart. “I’m done—I know I’m done!” cried the host with a -groan. “I must be done, for no true gentleman could ever beat me at -cribbage.” At least one month’s board and lodging, besides the greatest -of all advantages, the first-rate reference to shopkeepers, did my -friend from Natchez lose by his skill at cribbage. It is true when hard -pressed he talked a great deal about the last failure of the cotton -crop—an excellent theme, by the way—but in this case he talked to the -winds, or, what was much worse, to a man obstinate upon his bill. My -friend had to make an ignominious retreat, leaving behind him all his -goods generously subscribed for him by the ingenuous West-end -shopkeepers. - -Notwithstanding this, the swindler may for a time take America for his -country. The trick is by no means over-done. If, however, the swindler -make the election—if he resolve upon becoming a gentleman of enormous -fortune from the United States—he had better choose the South, and, -above all things, he must not forget the cotton crop. As it once -happened at New Orleans, much execution may, even in London, be done -upon the enemy from behind cotton bags. As for his rank, the swindler -should not venture beyond that of colonel—yes, a colonel and a great -grower of cotton. - -We next come to a most important subject—the dress of the swindler. The -present age judges of the condition of men as we judge of the condition -of cats—by the sleekness, the gloss of their coats. Hence, in even what -is called a respectable walk of life, with men of shallow pockets and -deep principles, it is of the first importance to their success that, if -they would obtain three hundred per annum, they must at least look as if -they were in receipt of seven. Very many stoical privations are endured -for this great purpose. How many a fine hungry fellow carries his dinner -upon his back—his breakfast in his beaver—his supper in his boots! The -Hottentot is not the only human animal that clothes itself with the cost -of bowels. The swindler, however, is not—fate forbid that it should be -so!—called upon to make the same sacrifice required every day in London -of the poor, friendless student—of the miserable, unknown artist—the -juvenile surgeon, panting for a practice—the barrister, without a -fee—the curate, with lips hungering for even locusts and wild honey—the -thousands of God’s most helpless creatures, gentlemen, born with a -silver spoon, but left by fortune at their maturity without any -employment for knife and fork—no, no, it is the purpose, the triumph of -swindling to put its professors in purple and fine linen, and to make -“their eyes red with wine and their teeth white with milk.” They have to -dress well, not to keep up the barren name of gentleman, but to flourish -as swindlers. Poor Dactyl, the poet—astonishing truth!—is too proud to -take credit for a hat—too poor to buy one—and too high-spirited to nod -to his old college friends in a rusty beaver. Will the reader listen to -a fact? What does Dactyl? Why, he makes a compromise with his -magnanimity—he over-persuades himself that his beaver is as yet -tolerably jetty, since all the summer he has once a day sponged it with -a damp sponge, and kept religiously upon the shady side of the pavement. -I mention this wretched shift of a pusillanimous spirit to show to the -young swindler what might be his fate if, with a pertinacity only found -in simpletons of the very first class, he would resolve to live the -gentleman upon the revenue of the chameleon; and, with not a sixpence in -his pocket, would be sufficiently mad to rave about honour in his bosom. -What is the reward of such obstinacy—what the goal of men so honourably -idle—so perversely pure? What the end? Go,—ask it of the Thames! Put the -question to the Serpentine—the New River—the canals! Mutter the query as -you pause at the gunsmith’s—as you linger at the chemist’s! Ask, as you -see whisk by you the chariot of the coroner! - -I had not touched upon this mean-spirited class of bipeds—of the -species, many of whom die off in honourable poverty, and many in a -dishonourable horse-pond—did not swindling save a third portion of the -body from a life of starvation and an end of vulgar misery. The good, -indulgent parents who, in submission, as they conceive, to the high -civilisation of the day, will rather let their sons be nothing if they -cannot put them in a fair way to become archbishops, chancellors, and -commanders-in-chief, owe much to swindling, for—urbane goddess!—how -often does she take the pet of the fireside—the darling of the chimney -corner—the pretty prodigal, when plucked of every feather by the -jackdaws[18] of the town, and make of him again a bird of finest -plumage. Yes, thousands and thousands of young gentlemen, shamefully -deserted by their parents when they had not a farthing more to leave -them, and—wanting a calling—with nothing to do, have been received with -open arms by the tenderest of foster-mothers; and not only once more set -upon their legs, but, perhaps, for the first time in their lives, put -into their own cabriolets! Little thinks the plodding tradesman, -determined upon making Tom a gentleman, that his dear boy may owe all -the external appearances of that character to nought but swindling. But -I have wandered. - -Footnote 18: - - I persuade myself that Captain Whitefeather here meant nothing - personal.—[JOHN JACKDAW, Ed.] - -The swindler must dress well—very well; nay, he must be rather -over-dressed than under-dressed. If his means be scanty, he must on the -outset, if I may use the phrase of a celebrated bill discounter, late of -the New Cut—he must “spend his money superficially”; that is, as the -before-named fiscal authority condescended to explain, he must expend a -little in such a way that the outlay may appear very considerable. He -must, however, continually bear this in mind, that in this our beloved -country—in England—the empress of nations—the queen of reason—the genius -of toleration—and the benefactress of the oppressed—nearly everything -depends upon a man’s coat. Great and rich is he indeed who can afford to -confront the midday sun in threadbare cloth. It matters not what may be -your genius—what your worth; you must make the success of that genius -apparent—you must publish the reward of that worth; you must assure -men’s eyes that you are a fine gentleman, or you will, with all your -glorious aspiration, be passed, confounded with the mob. The triumphs of -mind are to the trading million too subtle, too abstract, to be easily -grasped; but the quality of a man’s coat—the gorgeousness of his -vest—the chain of finest carat—the ring of brightest sparkle—all of -these are so many indisputable evidences of worldly success, and are, -therefore, to be continually carried about by a man as universal -vouchers for his character. John Bull has certainly the largest eyes of -any of the nations. Hence, if it be imperative upon men with even a -known calling to exhibit an outward sign of the prosperity of that -craft, how much more is it incumbent on us—the minions of Mercury, with -nothing but the vivacity of our wits “to feed and clothe” us—to put a -splendid outside upon swindling, and since the world ducks to -appearance, to assure ourselves of its very, very lowest stooping! I -have never yet known an instance of a successful swindler in a shabby -coat. Who, indeed, would trust a man with a hole in his hat? Read the -Police Reports—those “short and simple annals”—how, nineteen times out -of twenty, do they commence? Why, thus—“Algernon Mountedgecomb, a young -man dressed in the highest style of fashion,” etc., etc. Such is always -the strain; for can the reader point out any case with any verbal -similarity to the following:—“Yesterday, John Snooks, a wretchedly -attired fellow, was brought up charged with obtaining under false -pretences a diamond ring, a gold repeater, and a suit of pearls from the -house of——?” Has ever such a case been chronicled? Certainly not: hence, -the tailor is indispensable to the swindler, who is on no account to -spare him. The swindler may, in the weakness of his nature, have some -qualms towards any one except a tailor; but the swindler who deals -mercifully with a tailor had better seek another profession—such -chicken-heartedness is not for our art. The benevolence is so much -goodness lost—wasted—flung to the winds; for you are to bear with you -this recollection: it is an axiom in his trade, that the tailor never -loses. “Them as does pay”—such was the confession of an eminent -coatmaker after his second bottle of Burgundy drank at Button Park, his -country seat—“them as does pay,” said the good man, “pays for them as -doesn’t.” Can there be a finer provision for the protection of trade, -and the satisfaction of the non-paying? Hence, if possible, flay your -tailor. Should he discount—for there are such philanthropists—let him -have a few bills by all means. In his vast profits what are two or three -thousands more or less in a twelvemonth’s balance? _If_, however, he -will not discount the paper of your friends—“accommodate” is a good -word—he cannot refuse your own bill. Great is the satisfaction of a -bill! What serenity comes upon a man’s soul when he hath writ -“accepted”! What a load he feels lifted from his lightened heart! How -airily, how joyously he looks around him, elevated with a sense of duty -done to his neighbour and to himself! Sweet, most sweet, the -satisfaction! Such I am sure was the feeling of my late lamented friend, -Captain Judas Gammon; for that excellent fellow never accepted a bill -that he did not clasp his hands and, raising his eyes with a devout look -of thanksgiving, exclaim, “There now—thank heaven—! that’s paid!” - -There is, however, one objection to a bill—it puts another pair of wings -to the back of Time. Hence, get a long day. He was a philosopher and -knew human nature, and more than all, those profound workings of the -human heart set going by the machinery of bills,—he _was_ a sage who, at -the Old Bailey bar,—what men of wit and genius have made that nook all -classic ground!—having received sentence of seven years’ retirement from -the bustling world, thus, with smiling face, addressed the judge:—“I beg -your pardon, my lord, but have you a stamp about you? if so, permit me -to accept a bill at seven years, for then they’ll pass like one.” - -Next for equipage. A swindler, like a physician, can scarcely hope to -prosper on foot. He must _ride_ to fame and fortune: hence a cab is of -the first consequence to him. This, however, is too obvious to call for -further disquisition. The effect of a magnificent cab—a grey blood—and a -diminutive fancy tiger—upon the sensibilities of the shopkeeping world -are every day made manifest by the Police Reports. Jonathan Wild, -Richard Turpin, and other worthies laboured on horseback—civilisation -adds to their less bloodthirsty descendants the comforts and the graces -of a cab. - - -[Illustration: - - Other worthies laboured on horseback -] - - -And now, come we to the moral bearing of the swindler. Destiny has -marked him to play a very various character. He is, I will not attempt -to disguise it, beset by difficulties. There are men, assuredly, born -with a genius for the profession; who, as it would seem, instinctively -adapt themselves to all its peculiarities; men who would have been lost, -sacrificed, utterly unknown in any other calling. I do not address -myself to them—this luminous work is not written for their instruction; -but to the thousands of the rising generation, induced, tempted, by the -spirit of the times—a spirit of the most tyrannic gentility—to live -without means; to eat the fat of the land without once greasing their -delicate fingers in search of it. Let these, however, not conclude that -our path lies over flowers: by no means; there are very many rubs to be -endured on the way—rubs calling for at once the greatest self-possession -and the most admired meekness. Indeed, I should not discharge a great -public duty did I not state it as my conviction that very far less -powers of mind, and ingenuity of a much lower scale, are found -sufficient to make a fortune in any of the low mechanic arts of life -than are required by even the humblest swindler. However, the ardour of -youth is not to be withstood; hence our best choice is to instruct and -fortify it. - -And now, neophyte swindler, let me put a few questions to you. And ere -you answer, submit to a most rigorous self-examination—search every hole -and corner of your heart; and then hold up your head and reply -unblushingly. - -Can you bear what is called public contempt? Are you clothed with a -moral armour, more impenetrable than the scales of the dragon—from which -the glances of reproach, the scoffs, the sneers, the hard abuse of -vulgar minds—the mere pity of those prigs who call themselves -philanthropists—shall fall aside unfelt and unremembered? - -Can you school yourself to look in all human faces—for this trial _will_ -come—and find them blank? - -Have you sufficient fortitude to witness unrepiningly the good fortune -of some early companion—a dullard, yet plodding, and what the world -calls honest—surrounded with all the luxuries of life, the fruits of -lowly huckstering, when, possibly, you yourself are yearning for a -tester? - -Can you bear with the nerves of a martyr the visitation of a -horse-whip—for I will not shirk any of the probabilities that wait upon -the profession—or the vindictive and un-Christianlike application of a -pointed boot to the _os sacrum_?[19] - -Footnote 19: - - “It is very strange,” remarks Captain Whitefeather in one of his - unpublished essays, “On Personal Satisfaction,” “how very few men know - what is due to themselves and to the second party, in inflicting what - they call personal chastisement. I have,” continues the Captain, with - that delightful ingenuousness which made him the soul of his circle, - “I have been kicked, horsewhipped, cudgelled, tossed in a blanket, - pumped upon and flung into a horse-pond, yet I never, but in one - instance, met with a man who thrashed me _like a gentleman_?”—[JOHN - JACKDAW, Ed.] - -Can you, at proper time and season, bear your nose pulled? I am aware -that this is perhaps the most difficult, the most trying ordeal for the -weakness of human nature to withstand; and therefore, I repeat the -question—Can you bear your nose pulled? - -Can you, with no qualms at your throat, behold in rags or in a gaol the -simple gull who has trusted you, or who—more exquisitely simple -still—has become your surety? - -Can you, when old age approaches, and your place in the world is filled -up by more active, more youthful professors—can you, with your hand upon -your heart, retire like a philosopher to a corner, and with not an eye -to look comfort to you, not a lip to breathe hope to you, not a hand to -grasp your hand—can you breathe your last breath with the conviction -that you have done no injury to the dead, will leave no wounds in the -living—and that having passed a life in heroic defiance of human -prejudices, you meet death with the magnanimous indifference of a -roasted Indian? - -Consider, my dear pupil, whether you are so happily organised that you -can support these trials—too often attendant on our chivalrous -profession—and answer. - -The pupil laughs at the impossibility of such evils, and, chuckling at -the fun, says—I can. - -And Swindling takes him to her arms and makes him all her own! - - - - - CHAPTER V. - - A BRIEF SUMMARY OF THE ADVANTAGES OF SWINDLING - - -I HAVE, I hope, made it sufficiently plain to the plainest understanding -that the faculty, the desire to swindle, is born with us, and that it is -entirely owing to the force of circumstance whether we swindle or not; -and that, however nice, and moral, and exemplary, we may be in our -individual capacity, swindle we must and do, when we congregate -together, even with what are termed and considered the very best -intentions. This being granted, let every man with all possible speed -enroll himself as one of a body corporate. He may be a most rigid member -of a Temperance Society, considering the parish pump the only source of -all human enjoyment; and yet, as one of a body, he may drive a very -pretty trade in opium. He may, to his great self-exaltation, hold a -plate in aid of the funds for the dissemination of the true faith; and -yet the diamond on his finger may have been purchased with an odd -balance of the profits which, as one of a company, he receives from a -Hindoo idol. What the superficial world denominates and brands as -swindling in the individual it applauds as spirited speculation, wisdom, -foresight, a fine knowledge of business in a number. Hence, if a man -would swindle safely, steadily, and above all, respectably, let him -become one of a public company, and his dearest wish is straight -fulfilled. What a profound liar he may be on the Stock Exchange, and yet -what an oracle of truth at his own fireside! How he is permitted to rob -his neighbour by means of false intelligence, and what a roaring he is -justified in setting up should some famishing, unprincipled scoundrel -lessen by one the numerous tenants of the good man’s hen-roost! Reader, -if you are not already enrolled, become one of a body. Though you may be -only able to edge yourself into a vestry, it shall be something. And -what a relief it is for the individual man, compelled to walk half his -time through the world in tight moral lacing, to be allowed to sit at -his ease at the Board! If morality sigh for leisure, where can it be -enjoyed if not in a company! Once in a company, how many Catos become -Antonys! - -To the rising generation the advantages of swindling are incalculable. -The term swindling is, at present, an ugly one; but with the advancement -of the world it will be considered as another and a better system of -ethics. To obtain all things needful for the refined man, by the -exercise of the moral faculties, is, doubtless, the greatest triumph of -human intellect, and this is inevitably achieved by the successful -practice of swindling. - -There is another advantage—another consolation—that I have purposely -left for consideration in this place. - -When the plodding, sober, thrifty man quits this noisy world—made noisy -by the incessant rattling of pounds, shillings, and pence—it is ten to -one that he makes what is generally called an irreparable gap in a large -circle of the most affectionate of friends. He leaves a widow -broken-hearted—daughters inconsolable—sons in the deepest -affliction—nieces and nephews very much concerned—and innumerable -acquaintances all ready, with very little further excitement, to burst -into tears. Now here is a woe inflicted upon fifty people by the decease -of one man—yes, here are fifty people made more or less miserable by a -very natural event, the decease of a worthy soul, who would not -willingly inflict a moment’s pain upon any living thing. - -How different the death of the swindler! He makes no irreparable gap in -society—not he! he agonises neither man, nor woman, nor child; not a -tear is dropped at his grave—not a sigh rises at the earth rattling on -his coffin! Must not the conviction of this be the sweetest consolation -to the dying swindler? Think of his end, and—— - - * * * * * - -[It may be thought that the work ends abruptly. It does so: the author -had not leisure to finish it. The following letter will, perhaps, throw -some light upon the matter. It was addressed by the Captain to an -intimate friend:— - - “H.M. Transport, _Barrington_. - - “DEAR TOM,—We are off for blue water. Some papers of mine are in - a deal box in the two-pair back of the Bag-o-Nails. If you love - me, see I’m in print. I learn from a fellow-shipmate—whose only - misfortune is that his handwriting was very similar to another - gentleman’s—that the papers will make a very pretty book, there - being a great call nowadays for the greatest information in the - smallest compass. You can pay in for me what you get through the - Home Office. Be wide awake, and believe me, under all - convictions, - - “Yours truly, - - “BARABBAS WHITEFEATHER. - - “P.S.—You know I never liked shaving; the chin’s bad enough—but - when it comes to the head, it’s ‘regular cruelty to animals.’” - -The above is (“errors excepted”) a true copy of the Captain’s letter. He -died in—I regret to say I cannot give the exact latitude: suffice it to -say he died; but left behind him what, I trust, will prove an -imperishable monument of his social worth and his exalted genius.—JOHN -JACKDAW, Ed.] - - - - - THE EDITOR’S CHAPTER TO THE READER - - -THE reader has, probably, marked a variety of style in the foregoing -pages. The Editor feels it to be due as much to the lamented Captain -Whitefeather as to himself to state that he, John Jackdaw, is solely -responsible for the manner in which this work is presented to all the -eyes of the British public. - -Nature had been very prodigal to the Captain; but whether from the -extreme vivacity of his genius, or whether from a more hidden cause, it -is vain to search, the Captain, with all his debts, owed nothing to art. -Even his orthography was of the happiest originality. - -The Editor, therefore, felt the peculiar delicacy of his task. Had he -printed the MS. as it came, with the bloom upon it, from the Captain’s -hand, it was to be feared that in this age of light reading—which -reading, like pills, is made to be bolted, not, like bread, to be -carefully chewed—not one out of a hundred would have had the necessary -patience to go through with it. To suppress the work for any defect of -style would have been to sacrifice, as the Editor considered, a great -national good. After much deliberation there appeared to him a golden -mean. It struck the Editor that he might, in very many instances, give -the style of Whitefeather, whilst in very many more he might heighten, -and adorn, and vary it from his own poor resources. Still, be it -understood, all the _facts_ are Whitefeather’s; the Editor only lays -claim to certain tropes, and metaphors, and inimitable felicities of -expression, to which, probably, it might be considered indelicate were -he more emphatically to allude. Indeed, he has only touched upon the -theme in the way of business; as there may be, even at this moment, many -noble and distinguished authors who, “wanting the accomplishment” of -grammar, are yet desirous of appearing in print. (To these, in -parenthesis, the author addresses himself; assuring the tadpole -_literati_ that he finishes tales, histories, biographies, poems, etc., -with all despatch, and with the most inviolable secrecy. His address is -in a former page, and Breakneck Steps is too well known to all who would -mount Parnassus.) - -To the publishers of the remains of Captain Whitefeather the Editor has -to express his warmest gratitude. The Editor blushes for the -intelligence of the trade, when he states that this national work, like -the hitherto inimitable _Robinson Crusoe_, was offered in the humblest -manner to twenty houses, and, sometimes coldly, sometimes sulkily, -sometimes indignantly refused. - -One was tickled by the title, but looked blank when he understood that -there was no murderer—no highwayman in it. He declared that the only way -to keep a reader awake was to commit at least one murder in every page; -that the gallows was now the only bay tree, and that even the youthful -generation sucked intelligence and morals from tales of the gibbet, with -the same eagerness and the same advantage that they sucked liquorice -root! “Season it, sir—season it,” said one bland gentleman, “with a -handful of murders—a terrific storm on the New River—and a miraculous -escape from Marylebone watchhouse, and there may be some hopes of it.” A -second asked me to change the title into “The Handbook of the Money -Markets,” adding, to my astonishment, that he had no doubt the staple of -the matter would serve equally well. A third—but why should I enumerate -the rebuffs endured? No; let me rather, in the name of an obliged -generation, register a gratitude to the enlightened spirit under whose -auspices the book appears—a work destined, as the Editor with all -diffidence declares, to work a good as incalculable as, perhaps, -unknown! - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - PRINTED BY - TURNBULL AND SPEARS - EDINBURGH - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - ● Transcriber’s Notes: - ○ After the chapter “THE DRILL SERGEANT,” there is a second book - included in this text entitled “The HANDBOOK of SWINDLING”, which - begins on page 199. There is no explanation of this. It is - formatted a bit differently from “The Essays,” with no page breaks - between chapters and two chapters are numbered “I”—one on page 199 - and the other on page 201. - ○ There is a final chapter on page 261 that does not appear in the - Table of contents. - ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. - ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. - ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only - when a predominant form was found in this book. - ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ESSAYS OF DOUGLAS JERROLD *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |