University of Virginia Library

TALES OF A TRAVELLER.

TO THE READER.

Hast thou ever been waylaid in the
midst of a pleasant tour by some treacherous
malady; thy heels tripped up, and
thou left to count the tedious minutes as
they passed, in the solitude of an inn-chamber?
If thou hast, thou wilt be
able to pity me. Behold me, interrupted
in the course of my journeying up the
fair banks of the Rhine, and laid up by
indisposition in this old frontier town of
Mentz. I have worn out every source of
amusement. I know the sound of every
clock that strikes, and bell that rings, in
the place. I know to a second when to
listen for the first tap of the Prussian
drum, as it summons the garrison to
parade; or at what hour to expect the
distant sound of the Austrian military
band. All these have grown wearisome
to me; and even the well-known step of
my doctor, as he slowly paces the corridor,
with healing in the creak of his
shoes, no longer affords an agreeable
interruption to the monotony of my
apartment.

For a time I attempted to beguile the
weary hours by studying German under
the tuition of my host's pretty little
daughter, Katrine; but I soon found even
German had not power to charm a languid
ear, and that the conjugating of ich
liebe might be powerless, however rosy
the lips which uttered it.

I tried to read, but my mind would
not fix itself; I turned over volume after
volume, but threw them by with distaste:
"Well, then," said I at length, in despair,
"if I cannot read a book, I will write
one." Never was there a more lucky
idea; it at once gave me occupation and
amusement.

The writing of a book was considered,
in old times, as an enterprise of toil and
difficulty, insomuch that the most trifling
lucubration was denominated a "work,"
and the world talked with awe and reverence
of "the labours of the learned."
These matters are better understood now-a-days.
Thanks to the improvements in
all kind of manufactures, the art of bookmaking
has been made familiar to the
meanest capacity. Every body is an
author. The scribbling of a quarto is
the mere pastime of the idle; the young
gentleman throws off his brace of duodecimos
in the intervals of the sporting
season, and the young lady produces her
set of volumes with the same facility
that her great-grandmother worked a set
of chair-bottoms.

The idea having struck me, therefore,
to write a book, the reader will easily
perceive that the execution of it was no
difficult matter. I rummaged my portfolio,
and cast about, in my recollection,
for those floating materials which a man
naturally collects in travelling; and
here I have arranged them in this little
work.

As I know this to be a story-telling
and a story-reading age, and that the
world is fond of being taught by apologue,
I have digested the instruction I would
convey into a number of tales. They
may not possess the power of amusement

which the tales told by many of my contemporaries
possess; but then I value
myself on the sound moral which each
of them contains. This may not be apparent
at first, but the reader will be sure
to find it out in the end. I am for curing
the world by gentle alteratives, not by
violent doses; indeed the patient should
never be conscious that he is taking a
dose. I have learnt this much from my
experience under the hands of the worthy
Hippocrates of Mentz.

I am not, therefore, for those barefaced
tales which carry their moral on
the surface, staring one in the face; they
are enough to deter the squeamish reader.
On the contrary, I have often hid my
moral from sight, and disguised it as
much as possible by sweets and spices;
so that while the simple reader is listening
with open mouth to a ghost or a love
story, he may have a bolus of sound
morality popped down his throat, and be
never the wiser for the fraud.

As the public is apt to be curious about
the sources from whence an author draws
his stories, doubtless that it may know
how far to put faith in them, I would
observe, that the Adventure of the German
Student, or rather the latter part of
it, is founded on an anecdote related to
me as existing somewhere in French;
and, indeed, I have been told, since
writing it, that an ingenious tale has been
founded on it by an English writer; but
I have never met with either the former
or the latter in print. Some of the circumstances
in the Adventure of the Mysterious
Picture, and in the Story of the
Young Italian, are vague recollections of
anecdotes related to me some years since,
but from what source derived I do not
know. The Adventure of the Young
Painter among the banditti is taken almost
entirely from an authentic narrative
in manuscript.

As to the other tales contained in this
work, and, indeed, to my tales generally,
I can make but one observation. I am
an old traveller. I have read somewhat,
heard and seen more, and dreamt more
than all. My brain is filled, therefore,
with all kinds of odds and ends. In
travelling, these heterogeneous matters
have become shaken up in my mind, as
the articles are apt to be in an ill-packed
travelling-trunk; so that when I attempt
to draw forth a fact, I cannot determine
whether I have read, heard, or dreamt it;
and I am always at a loss to know how
much to believe of my own stories.

These matters being premised, fall to,
worthy reader, with good appetite, and
above all, with good humour, to what is
here set before thee. If the tales I have
furnished should prove to be bad, they
will at least be found short; so that no
one will be wearied long on the same
theme. "Variety is charming," as some
poet observes. There is a certain relief
in change, even though it be from bad
to worse; as I have found in travelling
in a stage-coach, that it is often a comfort
to shift one's position and be bruised in a
new place.

I. PART I.

STRANGE STORIES.

THE GREAT UNKNOWN.

The following adventures were related
to me by the same nervous gentleman
who told me the romantic tale of the
Stout Gentleman, published in Bracebridge
Hall. It is very singular, that
although I expressly stated that story to
have been told to me, and described the
very person who told it, still it has been
received as an adventure that happened
to myself. Now I protest I never met

with any adventure of the kind. I should
not have grieved at this had it not been
intimated by the author of Waverley, in
an introduction to his novel of Peveril of
the Peak, that he was himself the stout
gentleman alluded to. I have ever since
been importuned by questions and letters
from gentlemen, and particularly from
ladies without number, touching what I
had seen of the Great Unknown.

Now all this is extremely tantalizing.
It is like being congratulated on the high
prize when one has drawn a blank; for
I have just as great a desire as any one
of the public to penetrate the mystery of
that very singular personage, whose voice
fills every corner of the world, without
any one being able to tell from whence it
comes.

My friend, the nervous gentleman,
also, who is a man of very shy retired
habits, complains that he has been excessively
annoyed in consequence of its
getting about in his neighbourhood that
he is the unfortunate personage. Insomuch,
that he has become a character of
considerable notoriety in two or three
country-towns, and has been repeatedly
teased to exhibit himself at blue-stocking
parties, for no other reason than that of
being "the gentleman who has had a
glimpse of the author of Waverley."

Indeed the poor man has grown ten
times as nervous as ever, since he has
discovered, on such good authority, who
the stout gentleman was; and will never
forgive himself for not having made a
more resolute effort to get a full sight of
him. He has anxiously endeavoured to
call up a recollection of what he saw of
that portly personage; and has ever
since kept a curious eye on all gentlemen
of more than ordinary dimensions, whom
he has seen getting into stage-coaches.
All in vain! The features he had caught
a glimpse of seem common to the whole
race of stout gentlemen, and the Great
Unknown remains as great an unknown
as ever.

Having premised these circumstances,
I will now let the nervous gentleman
proceed with his stories.

THE HUNTING DINNER.

I was once at a hunting dinner, given
by a worthy fox-hunting old baronet,
who kept bachelor's hall in jovial style,
in an ancient rook-haunted family mansion,
in one of the middle counties. He
had been a devoted admirer of the fair
sex in his young days; but, having
travelled much, studied the sex in various
countries with distinguished success, and
returned home profoundly instructed, as
he supposed, in the ways of woman, and
a perfect master of the art of pleasing,
he had the mortification of being jilted
by a little boarding-school girl, who was
scarcely versed in the accidence of love.

The baronet was completely overcome
by such an incredible defeat; retired
from the world in disgust; put himself
under the government of his housekeeper;
and took to fox-hunting like a perfect
Nimrod. Whatever poets may say to
the contrary, a man will grow out of
love as he grows old; and a pack of
fox-hounds may chase out of his heart
even the memory of a boarding-school
goddess. The baronet was, when I saw
him, as merry and mellow an old bachelor
as ever followed a hound; and the
love he had once felt for one woman had
spread itself over the whole sex; so that
there was not a pretty face in the whole
country round but came in for a share.

The dinner was prolonged till a late
hour; for our host having no ladies in
his household to summon us to the drawing-room,
the bottle maintained its true
bachelor sway, unrivalled by its potent
enemy the tea-kettle. The old hall in
which we dined echoed to bursts of robustious
fox-hunting merriment, that
made the ancient antlers shake on the
walls. By degrees, however, the wine
and the wassail of mine host began to
operate upon bodies already a little jaded
by the chase. The choice spirits which
flashed up at the beginning of the dinner,
sparkled for a time, then gradually went
out one after another, or only emitted
now and then a faint gleam from the
socket. Some of the briskest talkers,
who had given tongue so bravely at the
first burst, fell fast asleep; and none
kept on their way but certain of those
long-winded prosers, who, like short-legged

hounds, worry on unnoticed at
the bottom of conversation, but are sure
to be in at the death. Even these at
length subsided into silence; and scarcely
any thing was heard but the nasal communications
of two or three veteran masticators,
who having been silent while
awake, were indemnifying the company
in their sleep.

At length the announcement of tea
and coffee in the cedar-parlour roused
all hands from this temporary torpor.
Every one awoke marvellously renovated,
and while sipping the refreshing
beverage out of the baronet's old-fashioned
hereditary china, began to
think of departing for their several
homes. But here a sudden difficulty
arose. While we had been prolonging
our repast, a heavy winter storm had set
in, with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by
such bitter blasts of wind, that they
threatened to penetrate to the very bone.

"It's all in vain," said our hospitable
host, "to think of putting one's head out
of doors in such weather. So, gentlemen,
I hold you my guests for this night
at least, and will have your quarters prepared
accordingly."

The unruly weather, which became
more and more tempestuous, rendered
the hospitable suggestion unanswerable.
The only question was, whether such an
unexpected accession of company to an
already crowded house would not put
the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate
them.

"Pshaw," cried mine host, "did you
ever know of a bachelor's hall that was
not elastic, and able to accommodate
twice as many as it could hold?" So,
out of a good-humoured pique, the house-keeper
was summoned to a consultation
before us all. The old lady appeared in
her gala suit of faded brocade, which
rustled with flurry and agitation; for, in
spite of our host's bravado, she was a
little perplexed. But in a bachelor's
house, and with bachelor guests, these
matters are readily managed. There is
no lady of the house to stand upon
squeamish points about lodging gentlemen
in odd holes and corners, and exposing
the shabby parts of the establishment.
A bachelor's housekeeper is used
to shifts and emergencies; so, after
much worrying to and fro, and divers
consultations about the red-room, and
the blue-room, and the chintz-room, and
the damask-room, and the little room
with the bow-window, the matter was
finally arranged.

When all this was done, we were
once more summoned to the standing
rural amusement of eating. The time
that had been consumed in dozing after
dinner, and in the refreshment and consultation
of the cedar-parlour, was sufficient,
in the opinion of the rosy-faced
butler, to engender a reasonable appetie
for supper. A slight repast had, therefore,
been tricked up from the residue of
dinner, consisting of a cold sirloin of
beef, hashed venison, a devilled leg of a
turkey or so, and a few other of those
light articles taken by country gentlemen
to insure sound sleep and heavy
snoring.

The nap after dinner had brightened
up every one's wit; and a great deal of
excellent humour was expended upon
the perplexities of mine host and his
housekeeper, by certain married gentlemen
of the company, who considered
themselves privileged in joking with a
bachelor's establishment. From this
the banter turned as to what quarters
each would find, on being thus suddenly
billeted in so antiquated a mansion.

"By my soul," said an Irish captain
of dragoons, one of the most merry and
boisterous of the party, "by my soul, but
I should not be surprised if some of
those good-looking gentlefolks that hang
along the walls should walk about the
rooms of this stormy night; or if I
should find the ghost of one of those
long-waisted ladies turning into my bed
in mistake for her grave in the churchyard."

"Do you believe in ghosts, then?"
said a thin hatchet-faced gentleman, with
projecting eyes like a lobster.

I had remarked this last personage
during dinner-time for one of those incessant
questioners, who have a craving,
unhealthy appetite in conversation. He
never seemed satisfied with the whole of
a story; never laughed when others
laughed; but always put the joke to the
question. He never could enjoy the
kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to

get more out of the shell.—"Do you
believe in ghosts, then?" said the inquisitive
gentleman.

"Faith but I do," replied the jovial
Irishman. "I was brought up in the
fear and belief of them. We had a
Benshee in our own family, honey."

"A Benshee! and what's that?" cried
the questioner.

"Why, an old lady ghost that tends
upon your real Milesian families, and
waits at their window to let them know
when some of them are to die."

"A mighty pleasant piece of information!"
cried an elderly gentleman with a
knowing look, and with a flexible nose,
to which he could give a whimsical twist
when he wished to be waggish.

"By my soul, but I'd have you to
know it's a piece of distinction to be
waited on by a Benshee. It's a proof
that one has pure blood in one's veins.
But i'faith, now we are talking of ghosts,
there never was a house or a night better
fitted than the present for a ghost adventure.
Pray, Sir John, haven't you such
a thing as a haunted chamber to put a
guest in?"

"Perhaps," said the baronet, smiling,
"I might accommodate you even on that
point."

"Oh, I should like it of all things, my
jewel. Some dark oaken room, with
ugly, wo-begone portraits, that stare dismally
at one; and about which the
housekeeper has a power of delightful
stories of love and murder. And then a
dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword
across it, and a spectre all in white, to
draw aside one's curtains at midnight—"

"In truth," said an old gentleman at
one end of the table, "you put me in
mind of an anecdote—"

"Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!"
was vociferated round the board, every
one edging his chair a little nearer.

The attention of the whole company
was now turned upon the speaker. He
was an old gentleman, one side of whose
face was no match for the other. The
eyelid drooped and hung down like an
unhinged window-shutter. Indeed the
whole side of his head was dilapidated,
and seemed like the wing of a house shut
up and haunted. I'll warrant that side
was well stuffed with ghost stories.

There was a universal demand for the
tale.

"Nay," said the old gentleman, "it's
a mere anecdote, and a very common-place
one; but such as it is you shall
have it. It is a story that I once heard
my uncle tell as having happened to
himself. He was a man very apt to
meet with strange adventures. I have
heard him tell of others much more singular."

"What kind of a man was your
uncle?" said the questioning gentleman.

"Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd
kind of body; a great traveller, and fond
of telling his adventures."

"Pray, how old might he have been
when that happened?"

"When what happened?" cried the
gentleman with the flexible nose, impatiently.
"Egad, you have not given
any thing a chance to happen. Come,
never mind your uncle's age; let us have
his adventures."

The inquisitive gentleman being for
the moment silenced, the old gentleman
with the haunted head proceeded.

THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE.

Many years since, some time before
the French revolution, my uncle had
passed several months at Paris. The
English and French were on better
terms in those days than at present, and
mingled cordially together in society.
The English went abroad to spend money
then, and the French were always
ready to help them: they go abroad to
save money at present, and that they
can do without French assistance. Perhaps
the travelling English were fewer
and choicer then than at present, when
the whole nation has broke loose and
inundated the continent. At any rate,
they circulated more readily and currently
in foreign society, and my uncle,
during his residence in Paris, made many
very intimate acquaintances among the
French noblesse.

Some time afterwards, he was making
a journey in the winter time in that part
of Normandy called the Pays de Caux,
when, as evening was closing in, he perceived

the turrets of an ancient chateau
rising out of the trees of its walled park;
each turret, with its high conical roof of
gray slate, like a candle with an extinguisher
on it.

"To whom does that chateau belong,
friend?" cried my uncle to a meagre but
fiery postilion, who, with tremendous
jack-boots and cocked hat, was floundering
on before him.

"To Monseigneur the Marquis de
—," said the postilion, touching his
hat, partly out of respect to my uncle,
and partly out of reverence to the noble
name pronounced.

My uncle recollected the marquis for
a particular friend in Paris, who had
often expressed a wish to see him at his
paternal chateau. My uncle was an old
traveller, one who knew well how to
turn things to account. He revolved for
a few moments in his mind how agreeable
it would be to his friend the marquis
to be surprised in this sociable way by a
pop visit; and how much more agreeable
to himself to get into snug quarters in a
chateau, and have a relish of the marquis's
well-known kitchen, and a smack
of his superior Champagne and Burgundy,
rather than put up with the miserable
lodgment and miserable fare of a
provincial inn. In a few minutes, therefore,
the meagre postilion was cracking
his whip like a very devil, or like a true
Frenchman, up the long straight avenue
that led to the chateau.

You have no doubt all seen French
chateaus, as every body travels in France
now-a-days. This was one of the oldest;
standing naked and alone in the midst of
a desert of gravel walks and cold stone
terraces; with a cold-looking formal
garden, cut into angles and rhomboids;
and a cold leafless park, divided geometrically
by straight alleys; and two or
three cold-looking noseless statues; and
fountains spouting cold water enough to
make one's teeth chatter. At least such
was the feeling they imparted on the
wintry day of my uncle's visit; though,
in hot summer weather, I'll warrant
there was glare enough to scorch one's
eyes out.

The smacking of the postilion's whip,
which grew more and more intense the
nearer they approached, frightened a
flight of pigeons out of the dove-cot, and
rooks out of the roofs, and finally a
crew of servants out of the chateau, with
the marquis at their head. He was enchanted
to see my uncle, for his chateau,
like the house of our worthy host, had
not many more guests at the time than
it could accommodate. So he kissed my
uncle on each cheek, after the French
fashion, and ushered him into the castle.

The marquis did the honours of his
house with the urbanity of his country.
In fact, he was proud of his old family
chateau, for part of it was extremely old.
There was a tower and chapel which
had been built almost before the memory
of man; but the rest was more modern,
the castle having been nearly demolished
during the wars of the League. The
marquis dwelt upon this event with great
satisfaction, and seemed really to entertain
a grateful feeling towards Henry the
Fourth, for having thought his paternal
mansion worth battering down. He had
many stories to tell of the prowess of his
ancestors; and several scull-caps, helmets,
and cross-bows, and divers huge
boots, and buff jerkins, to show, which
had been worn by the Leaguers. Above
all, there was a two-handed sword, which
he could hardly wield, but which he displayed,
as a proof that there had been
giants in his family.

In truth, he was but a small descendant
from such great warriors. When
you looked at their bluff visages and
brawny limbs, as depicted in their portraits,
and then at the little marquis,
with his spindle shanks, and his sallow
lantern visage, flanked with a pair of
powdered ear-locks, or ailes de pigeon,
that seemed ready to fly away with it,
you could hardly believe him to be of
the same race. But when you looked at
the eyes that sparkled out like a beetle's
from each side of his hooked nose, you
saw at once that he inherited all the fiery
spirit of his forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman's
spirit never exhales, however his
body may dwindle. It rather rarifies,
and grows more inflammable, as the
earthy particles diminish; and I have
seen valour enough in a little fiery-hearted
French dwarf to have furnished
out a tolerable giant.

When once the marquis, as he was

wont, put on one of the old helmets that
were stuck up in his hall, though his
head no more filled it than a dry pea its
peascod, yet his eyes flashed from the
bottom of the iron cavern with the brilliancy
of carbuncles; and when he poised
the ponderous two-handed sword of his
ancestors, you would have thought you
saw the doughty little David wielding
the sword of Goliath, which was unto
him like a weaver's beam.

However, gentlemen, I am dwelling
too long on this description of the marquis
and his chateau, but you must excuse
me; he was an old friend of my
uncle; and whenever my uncle told the
story, he was always fond of talking a
great deal about his host. Poor little
marquis! He was one of that handful
of gallant courtiers who made such a
devoted but hopeless stand in the cause
of their sovereign, in the chateau of the
Tuileries, against the irruption of the
mob on the sad tenth of August. He
displayed the valour of a preux French
chevalier to the last; flourished feebly
his little court-sword with a ça-ça! in
face of a whole legion of sans-culottes:
but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly,
by the pike of a poissarde, and his
heroie soul was borne up to Heaven on
his ailes de pigeon.

But all this has nothing to do with my
story. To the point then—When the
hour arrived for retiring for the night,
my uncle was shown to his room in a
venerable old tower. It was the oldest
part of the chateau, and had in ancient
times been the donjon or stronghold; of
course the chamber was none of the best.
The marquis had put him there, however,
because he knew him to be a traveller
of taste, and fond of antiquities;
and also because the better apartments
were already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly
reconciled my uncle to his quarters
by mentioning the great personages
who had once inhabited them, all of
whom were, in some way or other, connected
with the family. If you would
take his word for it, John Baliol, or as
he called him, Jean de Bailleul, had died
of chagrin in this very chamber, on
hearing of the success of his rival, Robert
the Bruce, at the battle of Bannockburn.
And when he added that the
Duke de Guise had slept in it, my uncle
was fain to felicitate himself on being
honoured with such distinguished quarters.

The night was shrewd and windy, and
the chamber none of the warmest. An
old long-faced, long-bodied servant, in
quaint livery, who attended upon my
uncle, threw down an armful of wood
beside the fireplace, gave a queer look
about the room, and then wished him
bon repos with a grimace and a shrug
that would have been suspicious from
any other than an old French servant.

The chamber had indeed a wild crazy
look, enough to strike any one who had
read romances with apprehension and
foreboding. The windows were high and
narrow, and had once been loopholes,
but had been rudely enlarged, as well as
the extreme thickness of the walls would
permit; and the ill-fitted casements rattled
to every breeze. You would have
thought, on a windy night, some of the
old leaguers were tramping and clanking
about the apartment in their huge boots
and rattling spurs. A door which stood
ajar, and, like a true French door, would
stand ajar in spite of every reason and
effort to the contrary, opened upon a
long dark corridor, that led the Lord
knows whither, and seemed just made
for ghosts to air themselves in, when
they turned out of their graves at midnight.
The wind would spring up into
a hoarse murmur through this passage,
and creak the door to and fro, as if some
dubious ghost were balancing in its mind
whether to come in or not. In a word,
it was precisely the kind of comfortless
apartment that a ghost, if ghost there
were in the chateau, would single out
for its favourite lounge.

My uncle, however, though a man
accustomed to meet with strange adventures,
apprehended none at the time. He
made several attempts to shut the door,
but in vain. Not that he apprehended
any thing, for he was too old a traveller
to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment;
but the night, as I have said, was
cold and gusty, and the wind howled
about the old turret pretty much as it
does round this old mansion at this moment;
and the breeze from the long dark
corridor came in as damp and chilly as

if from a dungeon. My uncle, therefore,
since he could not close the door, threw
a quantity of wood on the fire, which
soon sent up a flame in the great widemouthed
chimney that illumined the
whole chamber, and made the shadow
of the tongs on the opposite wall look
like a long-legged giant. My uncle now
clambered on the top of the half-score
of mattresses which form a French bed,
and which stood in a deep recess; then
tucking himself snugly in, and burying
himself up to the chin in the bed-clothes,
he lay looking at the fire, and listening
to the wind, and thinking how knowingly
he had come over his friend the marquis
for a night's lodging—and so he fell
asleep.

He had not taken above half of his
first nap when he was awakened by the
clock of the chateau, in the turret over
his chamber, which struck midnight. It
was just such an old clock as ghosts are
fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and
struck so slowly and tediously that my
uncle thought it would never have done.
He counted and counted till he was confident
he counted thirteen, and then it
stopped.

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze
of the last fagot was almost expiring,
burning in small blue flames, which now
and then lengthened up into little white
gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half
closed, and his nightcap drawn almost
down to his nose. His fancy was already
wandering, and began to mingle up the
present scene with the crater of Vesuvius,
the French Opera, the Coliseum at
Rome, Dolly's chop-house in London,
and all the farrago of noted places with
which the brain of a traveller is crammed:
in a word, he was just falling asleep.

Suddenly he was aroused by the sound
of footsteps, that appeared to be slowly
pacing along the corridor. My uncle,
as I have often heard him say himself,
was a man not easily frightened. So he
lay quiet, supposing that this might be
some other guest, or some servant on
his way to bed. The footsteps, however,
approached the door; the door gently
opened; whether of its own accord, or
whether pushed open, my uncle could
not distinguish: a figure all in white
glided in. It was a female, tall and
stately in person, and of a most commanding
air. Her dress was of an
ancient fashion, ample in volume, and
sweeping the floor. She walked up to the
fireplace, without regarding my uncle,
who raised his nighteap with one hand,
and stared earnestly at her. She remained
for some time standing by the
fire, which, flashing up at intervals, cast
blue and white gleams of light, that enabled
my uncle to remark her appearance
minutely.

Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps
rendered still more so by the bluish
light of the fire. It possessed beauty,
but its beauty was saddened by care and
anxiety. There was the look of one
accustomed to trouble, but of one whom
trouble could not cast down or subdue;
for there was still the predominating air
of proud unconquerable resolution. Such
at least was the opinion formed by my
uncle, and he considered himself a great
physiognomist.

The figure remained, as I said, for
some time by the fire, putting out first
one hand, then the other; then each
foot alternately, as if warming itself;
for your ghosts, if ghost it really was,
are apt to be cold. My uncle, furthermore,
remarked that it wore high-heeled
shoes, after an ancient fashion, with
paste or diamond buckles, that sparkled
as though they were alive. At length
the figure turned gently round, casting a
glassy look about the apartment, which,
as it passed over my uncle, made his
blood run cold, and chilled the very
marrow in his bones. It then stretched
its arms towards heaven, clasped its
hands, and wringing them in a supplicating
manner, glided slowly out of the
room.

My uncle lay for some time meditating
on this visitation, for (as he remarked
when he told me the story) though a
man of firmness, he was also a man of
reflection, and did not reject a thing because
it was out of the regular course of
events. However, being, as I have before
said, a great traveller, and accustomed
to strange adventures, he drew
his nightcap resolutely over his eyes,
turned his back to the door, hoisted the
bed-clothes high over his shoulders, and
gradually fell asleep.

How long he slept he could not say,
when he was awakened by the voice of
some one at his bedside. He turned
round, and beheld the old French servant,
with his earlocks in tight buckles
on each side of a long lantern-face, on
which habit had deeply wrinkled an
everlasting smile. He made a thousand
grimaces, and asked a thousand pardons
for disturbing Monsieur, but the morning
was considerably advanced. While my
uncle was dressing, he called vaguely to
mind the visiter of the preceding night.
He asked the ancient domestic what lady
was in the habit of rambling about this
part of the chateau at night. The old
valet shrugged his shoulders as high as
his head, laid one hand on his bosom,
threw open the other with every finger
extended, made a most whimsical grimace,
which he meant to be complimentary:

"It was not for him to know any thing
of les bonnes fortunes of Monsieur."

My uncle saw there was nothing
satisfactory to be learnt in this quarter.
After breakfast, he was walking with the
Marquis through the modern apartments
of the chateau, sliding over the well-waxed
floors of silken saloons, amidst
furniture rich in gilding and brocade,
until they came to a long picture-gallery,
containing many portraits, some in oil
and some in chalks.

Here was an ample field for the eloquence
of his host, who had all the pride
of a nobleman of the ancien régime.
There was not a grand name in Normandy,
and hardly one in France, which
was not, in some way or other, connected
with his house. My uncle stood
listening with inward impatience, resting
sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the
other, as the little marquis descanted,
with his usual fire and vivacity, on the
achievements of his ancestors, whose
portraits hung along the wall; from the
martial deeds of the stern warriors in
steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of
the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling
faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles,
and pink and blue silk coats and breeches;
—not forgetting the conquests of the lovely
shepherdesses with hooped petticoats
and waists no thicker than an hour-glass,
who appeared ruling over their sheep and
their swains, with dainty crooks decorated
with fluttering ribands.

In the midst of his friend's discourse,
my uncle was startled on beholding a
full-length portrait, which seemed to him
the very counterpart of his visiter of the
preceding night.

"Methinks," said he, pointing to it,
"I have seen the original of this portrait."

"Pardonnez-moi," replied the marquis
politely, "that can hardly be, as the lady
has been dead more than a hundred
years. That was the beautiful Duchess
de Longueville, who figured during the
minority of Louis the Fourteenth."

"And was there any thing remarkable
in her history?"

Never was question more unlucky.
The little marquis immediately threw
himself into the attitude of a man about
to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle
had pulled upon himself the whole history
of the civil war of the Fronde, in
which the beautiful duchess had played
so distinguished a part. Turenne, Coligny,
Mazarine, were called up from
their graves to grace his narration; nor
were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor
the chivalry of the Port Cocheres forgotten.
My uncle began to wish himself a
thousand leagues off from the marquis
and his merciless memory, when suddenly
the little man's recollections took
a more interesting turn. He was relating
the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville
with the Princes Condé and
Conti in the chateau of Vincennes, and
the ineffectual efforts of the duchess to
rouse the sturdy Normans to their rescue.
He had come to that part where she was
invested by the royal forces in the Castle
of Dieppe.

"The spirit of the duchess," proceeded
the marquis, "rose with her trials.
It was astonishing to see so delicate
and beautiful a being buffet so resolutely
with hardships. She determined on a
desperate means of escape. You may
have seen the chateau in which she was
mewed up; an old ragged wart of an
edifice standing on the knuckle of a hill,
just above the rusty little town of Dieppe.
One dark unruly night she issued secretly
out of a small postern-gate of the
castle, which the enemy had neglected

to guard. The postern-gate is there to
this very day; opening upon a narrow
bridge over a deep fosse between the
castle and the brow of the hill. She was
followed by her female attendants, a few
domestics, and some gallant cavaliers,
who still remained faithful to her fortunes.
Her object was to gain a small
port about two leagues distant, where
she had privately provided a vessel for
her escape in case of emergency.

"The little band of fugitives were
obliged to perform the distance on foot.
When they arrived at the port the wind
was high and stormy, the tide contrary,
the vessel anchored far off in the road;
and no means of getting on board but by
a fishing shallop that lay tossing like a
cockle-shell on the edge of the surf. The
duchess determined to risk the attempt.
The seamen endeavoured to dissuade her,
but the imminence of her danger on
shore, and the magnanimity of her spirit,
urged her on. She had to be borne to the
shallop in the arms of a mariner. Such
was the violence of the winds and waves
that he faltered, lost his foothold, and
let his precious burthen fall into the sea.

"The duchess was nearly drowned,
but partly through her own struggles,
partly by the exertions of the seamen,
she got to land. As soon as she had a
little recovered strength, she insisted on
renewing the attempt. The storm, however,
had by this time become so violent
as to set all efforts at defiance. To
delay, was to be discovered and taken
prisoner. As the only resource left, she
procured horses, mounted, with her female
attendants, en croupe behind the
gallant gentlemen who accompanied her,
and scoured the country to seek some
temporary asylum.

"While the duchess," continued the
marquis, laying his forefinger on my
uncle's breast to arouse his flagging attention,
"while the duchess, poor lady,
was wandering amid the tempest in this
disconsolate manner, she arrived at this
chateau. Her approach caused some
uneasiness; for the clattering of a troop
of horse at dead of night up the avenue
of a lonely chateau, in those unsettled
times, and in a troubled part of the country,
was enough to occasion alarm.

"A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur,
armed to the teeth, galloped ahead, and
announced the name of the visiter. All
uneasiness was dispelled. The household
turned out with flambeaux to receive
her; and never did torches gleam
on a more weatherbeaten, travel-stained
band than came tramping into the court.
Such pale, care-worn faces, such bedraggled
dresses, as the poor duchess
and her females presented, each seated
behind her cavalier: while the half-drenched,
half-drowsy pages and attendants
seemed ready to fall from their
horses with sleep and fatigue.

"The duchess was received with a
hearty welcome by my ancestor. She
was ushered into the hall of the chateau,
and the fires soon crackled and blazed,
to cheer her and her train; and every
spit and stewpan was put in requisition
to prepare ample refreshments for the
wayfarers.

"She had a right to our hospitalities,"
continued the marquis, drawing himself
up with a slight degree of stateliness,
"for she was related to our family. I'll
tell you how it was. Her father, Henry
de Bourbon, Prince of Condé—"

"But, did the Duchess pass the night
in the chateau?" said my uncle rather
abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting
involved in one of the marquis's genealogical
discussions.

"Oh, as to the duchess, she was put
into the very apartment you occupied
last night, which at that time was a kind
of state-apartment. Her followers were
quartered in the chambers opening upon
the neighbouring corridor, and her favourite
page slept in an adjoining closet.
Up and down the corridor walked the
great chasseur who had announced her
arrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel
or guard. He was a dark, stern,
powerful-looking fellow; and as the light
of a lamp in the corridor fell upon his
deeply-marked face and sinewy form, he
seemed capable of defending the castle
with his single arm.

"It was a rough, rude night; about
this time of year—apropos!—now I
think of it, last night was the anniversary
of her visit. I may well remember the
precise date, for it was a night not to be
forgotten by our house. There is a singular
tradition concerning it in our family."

Here the marquis hesitated, and a
cloud seemed to gather about his bushy
eyebrows. "There is a tradition—that a
strange occurrence took place that night
—a strange, mysterious, inexplicable occurrence—"
Here he checked himself,
and paused.

"Did it relate to that lady?" inquired
my uncle eagerly.

"It was past the hour of midnight,"
resumed the marquis,—"when the whole
chateau—" Here he paused again.
My uncle made a movement of anxious
curiosity.

"Excuse me," said the marquis, a
slight blush streaking his sallow visage.
"There are some circumstances connected
with our family history which I
do not like to relate. That was a rude
period. A time of great crimes among
great men: for you know high blood,
when it runs wrong, will not run tamely
like blood of the canaille—poor lady!—
But I have a little family pride—that—
excuse me—we will change the subject,
if you please—"

My uncle's curiosity was piqued. The
pompous and magnificent introduction
had led him to expect something wonderful
in the story to which it served as
a kind of avenue. He had no idea of
being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of
unreasonable squeamishness. Besides,
being a traveller in quest of information,
he considered it his duty to inquire into
every thing.

The marquis, however, evaded every
question. "Well," said my uncle, a
little petulantly, "whatever you may
think of it, I saw that lady last night."

The marquis stepped back and gazed
at him with surprise.

"She paid me a visit in my chamber."

The marquis pulled out his snuff-box
with a shrug and a smile; taking this
no doubt for an awkward piece of English
pleasantry, which politeness required him
to be charmed with.

My uncle went on gravely, however,
and related the whole circumstance. The
marquis heard him through with profound
attention, holding his snuff-box
unopened in his hand. When the story
was finished, he tapped on the lid of his
box deliberately, took a long, sonorous
pinch of snuff—

"Bah!" said the Marquis, and walked
towards the other end of the gallery.

Here the narrator paused. The company
waited for some time for him to
resume his narration; but he continued
silent.

"Well," said the inquisitive gentleman—"and
what did your uncle say
then?"

"Nothing," replied the other.

"And what did the marquis say further?"

"Nothing."

"And is that all?"

"That is all," said the narrator, filling
a glass of wine.

"I surmise," said the shrewd old gentleman
with the waggish nose, "I surmise
the ghost must have been the old
housekeeper walking her rounds to see
that all was right."

"Bah!" said the narrator. "My uncle
was too much accustomed to strange
sights not to know a ghost from a house-keeper!"

There was a murmur round the table
half of merriment, half of disappointment.
I was inclined to think the old gentleman
had really an after-part of his story
in reserve; but he sipped his wine and
said nothing more; and there was an
odd expression about his dilapidated
countenance that left me in doubt whether
he were in drollery or earnest.

"Egad," said the knowing gentleman,
with the flexible nose, "the story of your
uncle puts me in mind of one that used
to be told of an aunt of mine, by the
mother's side; though I don't know that
it will bear a comparison, as the good
lady was not so prone to meet with
strange adventures. But at any rate you
shall have it."

THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT.

My aunt was a lady of large frame,
strong mind, and great resolution: she
was what might be termed a very manly
woman. My uncle was a thin, puny,
little man, very meek and acquiescent,
and no match for my aunt. It was observed
that he dwindled and dwindled
gradually away, from the day of his

marriage. His wife's powerful mind was
too much for him; it wore him out. My
aunt, however, took all possible care of
him; had half the doctors in town to
prescribe for him; made him take all
their prescriptions, and dosed him with
physic enough to cure a whole hospital.
All was in vain. My uncle grew worse
and worse the more dosing and nursing
he underwent, until in the end he added
another to the long list of matrimonial
victims who have been killed with kindness.

"And was it his ghost that appeared
to her?" asked the inquisitive gentleman,
who had questioned the former storyteller.

"You shall hear," replied the narrator.
My aunt took on mightily for
the death of her poor dear husband.
Perhaps she felt some compunction at
having given him so much physic, and
nursed him into his grave. At any rate,
she did all that a widow could do to honour
his memory. She spared no expense
in either the quantity or quality of
her mourning weeds; she wore a miniature
of him about her neck as large as a
little sun-dial; and she had a full-length
portrait of him always hanging in her
bedchamber. All the world extolled her
conduct to the skies; and it was determined
that a woman who behaved so
well to the memory of one husband deserved
soon to get another.

It was not long after this that she
went to take up her residence in an old
country-seat in Derbyshire, which had
long been in the care of merely a steward
and housekeeper. She took most of her
servants with her, intending to make it
her principal abode. The house stood
in a lonely, wild part of the country,
among the gray Derbyshire hills, with a
murderer hanging in chains on a bleak
height in full view.

The servants from town were half
frightened out of their wits at the idea of
living in such a dismal, pagan-looking
place; especially when they got together
in the servants' hall in the evening, and
compared notes on all the hobgoblin
stories they had picked up in the course
of the day. They were afraid to venture
alone about the gloomy, black-look-ing
chambers. My lady's maid, who
was troubled with nerves, declared she
could never sleep alone in such a "gashly
rummaging old building;" and the footman,
who was a kind-hearted young
fellow, did all in his power to cheer her
up.

My aunt herself seemed to be struck
with the lonely appearance of the house.
Before she went to bed, therefore, she
examined well the fastenings of the doors
and windows; locked up the plate with
her own hands, and carried the keys,
together with a little box of money and
jewels, to her own room; for she was a
notable woman, and always saw to all
things herself. Having put the keys
under her pillow, and dismissed her
maid, she sat by her toilet arranging her
hair; for being, in spite of her grief for
my uncle, rather a buxom widow, she
was somewhat particular about her person.
She sat for a little while looking
at her face in the glass, first on one side,
then on the other, as ladies are apt to do
when they would ascertain whether they
have been in good looks; for a roistering
country squire of the neighbourhood,
with whom she had flirted when a girl,
had called that day to welcome her to
the country.

All of a sudden she thought she heard
something move behind her. She looked
hastily round, but there was nothing to
be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted
portrait of her poor dear man, which had
been hung against the wall.

She gave a heavy sigh to his memory,
as she was accustomed to do whenever
she spoke of him in company, and then
went on adjusting her night-dress, and
thinking of the squire. Her sigh was reechoed,
or answered by a long-drawn
breath. She looked round again, but no
one was to be seen. She ascribed these
sounds to the wind oozing through the
rat-holes of the old mansion, and proceeded
leisurely to put her hair in papers,
when all at once, she thought she perceived
one of the eyes of the portrait
move.

"The back of her head being toward
it!" said the story-teller with the ruined
head, "good!"

"Yes, sir!" replied drily the narrator;
"her back being toward the portrait,
but her eyes fixed on its reflection in the

glass." Well, as I was saying, she
perceived one of the eyes of the portrait
move. So strange a circumstance, as
you may well suppose, gave her a sudden
shock. To assure herself of the fact,
she put one hand to her forehead as if
rubbing it, peeped through her fingers,
and moved the candle with the other
hand. The light of the taper gleamed
on the eye, and was reflected from it.
She was sure it moved. Nay more, it
seemed to give her a wink, as she had
sometimes known her husband to do
when living! It struck a momentary
chill to her heart; for she was a lone
woman, and felt herself fearfully situated.
The chill was but transient. My aunt,
who was almost as resolute a personage
as your uncle, sir [turning to the old
story-teller], became instantly calm and
collected. She went on adjusting her
dress. She even hummed an air, and
did not make a single false note. She
casually overturned a dressing-box; took
a candle and picked up the articles one
by one from the floor; pursued a rolling
pincushion that was making the best of
its way under the bed; then opened the
door; looked for an instant into the corridor,
as if in doubt whether to go; and
then walked quietly out.

She hastened down stairs, ordered the
servants to arm themselves with the
weapons that first came to hand, placed
herself at their head, and returned almost
immediately.

Her hastily-levied army presented a
formidable force. The steward had a
rusty blunderbuss, the coachman a loaded
whip, the footman a pair of horse-pistols,
the cook a huge chopping-knife,
and the butler a bottle in each hand.
My aunt led the van with a red-hot
poker, and in my opinion, she was the
most formidable of the party. The waiting-maid,
who dreaded to stay alone in
the servants' hall, brought up the rear,
smelling to a broken bottle of volatile
salts, and expressing her terror of the
ghosteses.

"Ghosts!" said my aunt resolutely.
"I'll singe their whiskers for them!"

They entered the chamber. All was
still and undisturbed as when she had
left it. They approached the portrait of
my uncle.

"Pull me down that picture!" cried
my aunt. A heavy groan, and a sound
like the chattering of teeth, issued from
the portrait. The servants shrunk back;
the maid uttered a faint shriek, and clung
to the footman for support.

"Instantly!" added my aunt, with a
stamp of the foot.

The picture was pulled down, and from
a recess behind it, in which had formerly
stood a clock, they hauled forth a round-shouldered,
black-bearded varlet, with a
knife as long as my arm, but trembling
all over like an aspen leaf.

"Well, and who was he? No ghost,
I suppose," said the inquisitive gentleman.

"A Knight of the Post," replied the
narrator, "who had been smitten with
the worth of the wealthy widow; or
rather a marauding Tarquin, who had
stolen into her chamber to violate her
purse, and rifle her strong-box, when all
the house should be asleep. In plain
terms," continued he, "the vagabond
was a loose idle fellow of the neighbourhood,
who had once been a servant in
the house, and had been employed to
assist in arranging it for the reception of
its mistress. He confessed that he had
contrived this hiding-place for his nefarious
purposes, and had borrowed an eye
from the portrait by way of a reconnoitring-hole."

"And what did they do with him?—
did they hang him?" resumed the questioner.

"Hang him!—how could they?" exclaimed
a beetle-browed barrister, with
a hawk's nose. "The offence was not
capital. No robbery, no assault had been
committed. No forcible entry or breaking
into the premises."

"My aunt," said the narrator, "was
a woman of spirit, and apt to take the
law in her own hands. She had her
own notions of cleanliness also. She
ordered the fellow to be drawn through
the horse-pond, to cleanse away all
offences, and then to be well rubbed
down with an oaken towel."

"And what became of him afterwards?"
said the inquisitive gentleman.

"I do not exactly know. I believe he
was sent on a voyage of improvement to
Botany Bay."

"And your aunt," said the inquisitive
gentleman; "I'll warrant she took care
to make her maid sleep in the room with
her after that."

"No, sir, she did better; she gave her
hand shortly after to the roistering squire;
for she used to observe, that it was a
dismal thing for a woman to sleep alone
in the country."

"She was right," observed the inquisitive
gentleman, nodding sagaciously;
"but I am sorry they did not hang that
fellow."

It was agreed on all hands that the
last narrator had brought his tale to the
most satisfactory conclusion, though a
country clergyman present regretted that
the uncle and aunt, who figured in the
different stories, had not been married
together: they certainly would have been
well matched.

"But I don't see, after all," said the
inquisitive gentleman, "that there was
any ghost in this last story."

"Oh! if it's ghosts you want, honey,"
cried the Irish Captain of Dragoons, "if
it's ghosts you want, you shall have a
whole regiment of them. And since
these gentlemen have given the adventures
of their uncles and aunts, faith and
I'll even give you a chapter out of my
own family history."

THE BOLD DRACOON;
OR, THE
ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER.

My grandfather was a bold dragoon,
for it's a profession, d'ye see, that has
run in the family. All my forefathers
have been dragoons, and died on the
field of honour, except myself, and I
hope my posterity may be able to say
the same; however, I don't mean to be
vainglorious. Well, my grandfather,
as I said, was a bold dragoon, and had
served in the Low Countries. In fact,
he was one of that very army, which,
according to my uncle Toby, swore so
terribly in Flanders. He could swear a
good stick himself; and moreover was
the very man that introduced the doctrine
Corporal Trim mentions of radical
heat and radical moisture; or, in other
words, the mode of keeping out the
damps of ditch-water by burnt brandy.
Be that as it may, it's nothing to the
purport of my story. I only tell it to
show you that my grandfather was a
man not easily to be humbugged. He
had seen service, or, according to his
own phrase, he had seen the devil—and
that's saying every thing.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was
on his way to England, for which he
intended to embark from Ostend—had
luck to the place! for one where I was
kept by storms and head-winds for three
long days, and the devil of a jolly companion
or pretty face to comfort me.
Well, as I was saying, my grandfather
was on his way to England, or rather to
Ostend—no matter which, it's all the
same. So one evening, towards nightfall,
he rode jollity into Bruges—very
like you all know Bruges, gentlemen; a
queer old-fashioned Flemish town, once,
they say, a great place for trade and
money-making in old times, when the
Mynheers were in their glory; but almost
as large and as empty as an Irishman's
pocket at the present day. Well,
gentlemen, it was at the time of the annual
fair. All Bruges was crowded;
and the canals swarmed with Dutch
boats, and the streets swarmed with
Dutch merchants; and there was hardly
any getting along for goods, wares,
and merchandises, and peasants in big
breeches, and women in half a score of
petticoats.

My grandfather rode jollily along, in
his easy slashing way, for he was a
saucy sunshiny fellow,—staring about
him at the motley crowd, and the old
houses with gable-ends to the street, and
storks' nests on the chimneys; winking
at the yafrows who showed their faces
at the windows, and joking the women
right and left in the street; all of whom
laughed, and took it in amazing good
part; for though he did not know a
word of the language, yet he had always
a knack of making himself understood
among the women.

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of
the annual fair, all the town was crowded,
every inn and tavern full, and my grandfather
applied in vain from one to the

other for admittance. At length he rode
up to an old rackety inn that looked ready
to fall to pieces, and which all the rats
would have run away from if they could
have found room in any other house to
put their heads. It was just such a queer
building as you see in Dutch pictures,
with a tall roof that reached up into the
clouds, and as many garrets, one over the
other, as the seven heavens of Mahomet.
Nothing had saved it from tumbling down
but a stork's nest on the chimney, which
always brings good luck to a house in
the Low Countries; and at the very time
of my grandfather's arrival there were
two of these long-legged birds of grace
standing like ghosts on the chimney-top.
Faith, but they've kept the house on its
legs to this very day, for you may see it
any time you pass through Bruges, as it
stands there yet; only it is turned into a
brewery of strong Flemish beer,—at least
it was so when I came that way after the
battle of Waterloo.

My grandfather eyed the house curiously
as he approached. It might not
have altogether struck his fancy, had he
not seen in large letters over the door,

My grandfather had learned enough of
the language to know that the sign promised
good liquor. "This is the house
for me," said he, stopping short before
the door.

The sudden appearance of a dashing
dragoon was an event in an old inn,
frequented only by the peaceful sons of
traffic. A rich burgher of Antwerp, a
stately ample man in a broad Flemish
hat, and who was the great man, and
great patron of the establishment, sat
smoking a clean long pipe on one side of
the doors a fat little distiller of Geneva,
from Schiedam, sat smoking on the other;
and the bottle-nosed host stood in the
door; and the comely hostess, in crimped
cap, beside him: and the hostess's daughter,
a plump Flanders lass, with long
gold pendants in her ears, was at a side
window.

"Humph!" said the rich burgher of
Antwerp, with a sulky glance at the
stranger.

"Die duyvel!" said the fat little distiller
of Schiedam.

The landlord saw, with the quick
glance of a publican, that the new guest
was not at all at all to the taste of the
old ones; and, to tell the truth, he did
not himself like my grandfather's saucy
eye. He shook his head. "Not a garret
in the house but was full."

"Not a garret!" echoed the landlady.

"Not a garret!" echoed the daughter.

The burgher of Antwerp, and the little
distiller of Schiedam, continued to smoke
their pipes sullenly, eyeing the enemy
askance from under their broad hats, but
said nothing.

My grandfather was not a man to be
brow-beaten. He threw the reins on his
horse's neck, cocked his head on one side,
stuck one arm a-kimbo, "Faith and
troth!" said he, "but I'll sleep in this
house this very night." As he said this
he gave a slap on his thigh, by way of
emphasis—the slap went to the landlady's
heart.

He followed up the vow by jumping off
his horse, and making his way past the
staring Mynheers into the public room.
Maybe you've been in the bar-room of an
old Flemish inn—faith, but a handsome
chamber it was as you'd wish to see;
with a brick floor, and a great fireplace,
with the whole Bible history in glazed
tiles; and then the mantel-piece, pitching
itself head foremost out of the wall, with
a whole regiment of cracked teapots
and earthen jugs paraded on it; not to
mention half a dozen great Delft platters,
hung about the room by way of pictures;
and the little bar in one corner, and the
bouncing bar-maid inside of it, with a
red calico cap and yellow ear-droops.

My grandfather snapped his fingers
over his head, as he cast an eye round
the room—"Faith this is the very house
I've been looking after," said he.

There was some further show of resistance
on the part of the garrison; but
my grandfather was an old soldier, and
an Irishman to boot, and not easily repulsed,
especially after he had got into
the fortress. So he blarneyed the landlord,
kissed the landlord's wife, tickled
the landlord's daughter, chucked the barmaid
under the chin; and it was agreed
on all hands that it would be a thousand
pities, and a burning shame into the
bargain, to turn such a bold dragoon into

the streets. So they laid their heads
together, that is to say, my grandfather
and the landlady, and it was at length
agreed to accommodate him with an old
chamber that had been for some time
shut up.

"Some say it's haunted," whispered
the landlord's daughter; "but you are a
bold dragoon, and I dare say don't fear
ghosts."

"The divil a bit!" said my grandfather,
pinching her plump cheek. "But
if I should be troubled by ghosts, I've
been to the Red Sea in my time, and
have a pleasant way of laying them, my
darling."

And then he whispered something to
the girl which made her laugh, and give
him a good-humoured box on the ear.
In short, there was nobody knew better
how to make his way among the petticoats
than my grandfather.

In a little while, as was his usual way,
he took complete possession of the house,
swaggering all over it; into the stable to
look after his horse, into the kitchen to
look after his supper. He had something
to say or do with every one; smoked with
the Dutchmen, drank with the Germans,
slapped the landlord on the shoulder,
romped with his daughter and the barmaid:—never,
since the days of Alley
Croaker, had such a rattling blade been
seen. The landlord stared at him with
astonishment; the landlord's daughter
hung her head and giggled whenever he
came near; and as he swaggered along
the corridor, with his sword trailing by
his side, the maids looked after him, and
whispered to one another, "What a
proper man!"

At supper, my grandfather took command
of the table-d'hôte as though he
had been at home; helped every body,
not forgetting himself; talked with every
one, whether he understood their language
or not; and made his way into
the intimacy of the rich burgher of
Antwerp, who had never been known to
be sociable with any one during his life.
In fact, he revolutionized the whole establishment,
and gave it such a rouse
that the very house reeled with it. He
outsat every one at table excepting the
little fat distiller of Schiedam, who sat
soaking a long time before he broke forth;
but when he did, he was a very devil
incarnate. He took a violent affection
for my grandfather; so they sat drinking
and smoking, and telling stories, and
singing Dutch and Irish songs, without
understanding a word each other said,
until the little Hollander was fairly
swamped with his own gin and water,
and carried off to bed, whooping and
hiccuping, and trolling the burthen of a
Low Dutch love-song.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was
shown to his quarters up a large staircase,
composed of loads of hewn timber;
and through long rigmarole passages,
hung with blackened paintings of fish,
and fruit, and game, and country frolics,
and huge kitchens, and portly burgomasters,
such as you see about old-fashioned
Flemish inns, till at length he
arrived at his room.

An old-times chamber it was, sure
enough, and crowded with all kinds of
trumpery. It looked like an infirmary
for decayed and superannuated furniture,
where every thing diseased or disabled
was sent to nurse or to be forgotten. Or
rather it might be taken for a general
congress of old legitimate movables,
where every kind and country had a representative.
No two chairs were alike.
Such high backs and low backs, and
leather bottoms, and worsted bottoms,
and straw bottoms, and no bottoms; and
cracked marble tables with curiously-carved
legs, holding balls in their claws,
as though they were going to play at
nine-pins.

My grandfather made a bow to the
motley assemblage as he entered, and,
having undressed himself, placed his light
in the fireplace, asking pardon of the
tongs, which seemed to be making love
to the shovel in the chimney-corner, and
whispering soft nonsense in its ear.

The rest of the guests were by this
time sound asleep, for your Mynheers
are huge sleepers. The housemaids,
one by one, crept up yawning to their
attics, and not a female head in the inn
was laid on a pillow that night without
dreaming of the bold dragoon.

My grandfather, for his part, got into
bed, and drew over him one of those
great bags of down, under which they
smother a man in the Low Countries;

and there he lay, melting between two
feather-beds, like an anchovy sandwich
between two slices of toast and butter.
He was a warm-complexioned man, and
this smothering played the very deuce
with him. So, sure enough, in a little
time it seemed as if a legion of imps were
twitching at him, and all the blood in his
veins was in a fever heat.

He lay still, however, until all the
house was quiet, excepting the snoring of
the Mynheers from the different chambers;
who answered one another in all
kinds of tones and cadences, like so many
bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter the
house became, the more unquiet became
my grandfather. He waxed warmer and
warmer, until at length the bed became
too hot to hold him.

"Maybe the maid had warmed it too
much?" said the curious gentleman, inquiringly.

"I rather think the contrary," replied
the Irishman—"But, be that as it may,
it grew too hot for my grandfather."

"Faith, there's no standing this any
longer," says he. So he jumped out of
bed, and went strolling about the house.

"What for?" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"Why to cool himself, to be sure—or
perhaps to find a more comfortable bed—
or perhaps—But no matter what he went
for—he never mentioned—and there's
no use in taking up our time in conjecturing."

Well, my grandfather had been for
some time absent from his room, and was
returning, perfectly cool, when just as he
reached the door he heard a strange
noise within. He paused and listened.
It seemed as if some one were trying to
hum a tune in defiance of the asthma.
He recollected the report of the room
being haunted; but he was no believer in
ghosts, so he pushed the door gently
open and peeped in.

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol
carrying on within enough to have astonished
St. Anthony himself. By the
light of the fire he saw a pale weazenfaced
fellow in a long flannel gown and
a tall white nightcap with a tassel to it,
who sat by the fire with a bellows under
his arm by way of bagpipe, from which
he forced the asthmatical music that had
bothered my grandfather. As he played,
too, he kept twitching about with a
thousand queer contortions, nodding his
head, and bobbing about his tassetled
nightcap.

My grandfather thought this very odd
and mighty presumptuous, and was about
to demand what business he had to play
his wind-instrument in another gentleman's
quarters, when a new cause of
astonishment met his eye. From the
opposite side of the room a long-backed,
bandy-legged chair covered with leather,
and studded all over in a coxcombical
fashion with little brass nails, got suddenly
into motion, thrust out first a claw
foot, when a crooked arm, and at length,
making a leg, slided gracefully up to an
easy chair of tarnished brocade, with a
hole in its bottom, and led it gallantly
out in a ghostly minuet about the floor.

The musician now played fiercer and
fiercer, and bobbed his head and his
nightcap about like mad. By degrees
the dancing mania seemed to seize upon
all the other pieces of furniture. The
antique, long-bodied chairs paired off in
couples and led down a country dance;
a three-legged stool danced a hornpipe,
though horribly puzzled by its supernumerary
limbs; while the amorous
tongs seized the shovel round the waist,
and whirled it about the room in a German
waltz. In short, all the movables
got in motion: pirouetting, hands across,
right and left, like so many devils; all
except a great clothes-press, which kept
courtseying and courtseying, in a corner,
like a dowager, in exquisite time to the
music; being rather too corpulent to
dance, or, perhaps, at a loss for a partner.

My grandfather concluded the latter to
be the reason; so being, like a true
Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all
times ready for a frolic, he bounced into
the room, called to the musician to strike
up Paddy O'Rafferty, capered up to the
clothes-press, and seized upon two handles
to lead her out:—when—whirr!
the whole revel was at an end. The
chairs, tables, tongs, and shovel, slunk
in an instant as quictly into their places
as if nothing had happened, and the
musician vanished up the chimney, leaving
the bellows behind him in his hurry.

My grandfather found himself seated in
the middle of the floor with the clothespress
sprawling before him, and the two
handles jerked off, and in his hands.

"Then, after all, this was a mere
dream!" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"The divil a bit of a dream!" replied
the Irishman. "There never was a
truer fact in this world. Faith, I should
have liked to see any man tell my grandfather
it was a dream."

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press
was a mighty heavy body, and my
grandfather likewise, particularly in rear,
you may easily suppose that two such
heavy bodies coming to the ground would
make a bit of a noise. Faith, the old
mansion shook as though it had mistaken
it for an earthquake. The whole garrison
was alarmed. The landlord, who
slept below, hurried up with a candle to
inquire the cause, but with his haste his
daughter had arrived at the scene of
uproar before him. The landlord was
followed by the landlady, who was followed
by the bouncing bar-maid, who
was followed by the simpering chambermaids,
all holding together, as well as
they could, such garments as they had
first laid hands on; but all in a terrible
hurry to see what the deuce was to pay
in the chamber of the bold dragoon.

My grandfather related the marvellous
scene he had witnessed, and the broken
handles of the prostrate clothes-press
bore testimony to the fact. There was
no contesting such evidence; particularly
with a lad of my grandfather's complexion,
who seemed able to make good
every word either with sword or shillelah.
So the landlord scratched his
head and looked silly, as he was apt to
do when puzzled. The landlady scratched
—no, she did not scratch her head, but
she knit her brow, and did not seem half
pleased with the explanation. But the
landlady's daughter corroborated it by
recollecting that the last person who had
dwelt in that chamber was a famous
juggler who had died of St. Vitus's dance,
and had no doubt infected all the furniture.

This set all things to rights, particularly
when the chambermaids declared
that they had all witnessed strange carryings
on in that room; and as they
declared this "upon their honours," there
could not remain a doubt upon the subject.

"And did your grandfather go to bed
again in that room?" said the inquisitive
gentleman.

"That's more than I can tell. Where
he passed the rest of the night was a
secret he never disclosed. In fact, though
he had seen much service, he was but
indifferently acquainted with geography,
and apt to make blunders in his travels
about inns at night which it would have
puzzled him sadly to account for in the
morning."

"Was he ever apt to walk in his
sleep?" said the knowing old gentleman.

"Never that I heard of."

There was a little pause after this
rigmarole Irish romance, when the old
gentleman with the haunted head observed,
that the stories hitherto related
had rather a burlesque tendency. "I
recollect an adventure, however," added
he, "which I heard of during a residence
at Paris, for the truth of which I can
undertake to vouch, and which is of a
very grave and singular nature."

THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE GERMAN STUDENT.

On a stormy night, in the tempestuous
times of the French revolution, a young
German was returning to his lodgings,
at a late hour, across the old part of
Paris. The lightning gleamed, and the
loud claps of thunder rattled through
the lofty narrow streets—but I should
first tell you something about this young
German.

Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man
of good family. He had studied for
some time at Gottingen, but being of a
visionary and enthusiastic character, he
had wandered into those wild and speculative
doctrines which have so often bewildered
German students. His secluded
life, his intense application, and the singular
nature of his studies, had an effect
on both mind and body. His health was
impaired; his imagination discased. He

had been indulging in fanciful speculations
on spiritual essences, until, like
Swedenborg, he had an ideal world of
his own around him. He took up a notion,
I do not know from what cause,
that there was an evil influence hanging
over him; an evil genius or spirit seeking
to ensnare him and ensure his perdition.
Such an idea working on his
melancholy temperament, produced the
most gloomy effects. He became haggard
and desponding. His friends discovered
the mental malady that was
preying upon him, and determined that
the best cure was a change of scene; he
was sent, therefore, to finish his studies
amidst the splendours and gayeties of
Paris.

Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the
breaking out of the revolution. The
popular delirium at first caught his enthusiastic
mind, and he was captivated
by the political and philosophical theories
of the day: but the scenes of blood
which followed shocked his sensitive
nature, disgusted him with society and
the world, and made him more than ever
a recluse. He shut himself up in a
solitary apartment in the Pays Latin,
the quarter of students. There, in a
gloomy street not far from the monastic
walls of the Sorbonne, he pursued his
favourite speculations. Sometimes he
spent hours together in the great libraries
of Paris, those catacombs of departed
authors, rummaging among their hoards
of dusty and obsolete works in quest of
food for his unhealthy appetite. He
was, in a manner, a literary goul, feeding
in the charnel-house of decayed literature.

Wolfgang, though solitary and recluse,
was of an ardent temperament, but for a
time it operated merely upon his imagination.
He was too shy and ignorant of
the world to make any advances to the
fair, but he was a passionate admirer of
female beauty, and in his lonely chamber
would often lose himself in reveries on
forms and faces which he had seen, and
his fancy would deck out images of loveliness
far surpassing the reality.

While his mind was in this excited and
sublimated state, he had a dream which
produced an extraordinary effect upon
him. It was of a female face of transcendent
beauty. So strong was the
impression it made, that he dreamt of it
again and again. It haunted his thoughts
by day, his slumbers by night; in fine,
he became passionately enamoured of
this shadow of a dream. This lasted so
long that it became one of those fixed
ideas which haunt the minds of melancholy
men, and are at times mistaken for
madness.

Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and
such his situation at the time I mentioned.
He was returning home late one stormy
night, through some of the old and
gloomy streets of the Marais, the ancient
part of Paris. The loud claps of thunder
rattled among the high houses of the
narrow streets. He came to the Place
de Grève, the square where public executions
are performed. The lightning
quivered about the pinnacles of the ancient
Hôtel de Ville, and shed flickering gleams
over the open space in front. As Wolfgang
was crossing the square, he shrunk
back with horror at finding himself close
by the guillotine. It was the height of
the reign of terror, when this dreadful
instrument of death stood ever ready,
and its scaffold was continually running
with the blood of the virtuous and the
brave. It had that very day been actively
employed in the work of carnage,
and there it stood in grim array amidst a
silent and sleeping city, waiting for fresh
victims.

Wolfgang's heart sickened within him,
and he was turning shuddering from the
horrible engine, when he beheld a shadowy
form, cowering as it were at the
foot of the steps which led up to the
scaffold. A succession of vivid flashes
of lightning revealed it more distinctly.
It was a female figure, dressed in black.
She was seated on one of the lower steps
of the scaffold, leaning forward, her face
hid in her lap, and her long dishevelled
tresses hanging to the ground, streaming
with the rain which fell in torrents.
Wolfgang paused. There was something
awful in this solitary monument of wo.
The female had the appearance of being
above the common order. He knew the
times to be full of vicissitude, and that
many a fair head, which had once been
pillowed on down, now wandered houseless.
Perhaps this was some poor mourner

whom the dreadful axe had rendered
desolate, and who sat here heart-broken
on the strand of existence, from which
all that was dear to her had been launched
into eternity.

He approached, and addressed her in
the accents of sympathy. She raised
her head and gazed wildly at him. What
was his astonishment at beholding, by
the bright glare of the lightning, the
very face which had haunted him in his
dreams! It was pale and disconsolate,
but ravishingly beautiful.

Trembling with violent and conflicting
emotions, Wolfgang again accosted her.
He spoke something of her being exposed
at such an hour of the night, and to the
fury of such a storm, and offered to conduct
her to her friends. She pointed to
the guillotine with a gesture of dreadful
signification.

"I have no friend on earth!" said
she.

"But you have a home," said Wolfgang.

"Yes—in the grave!"

The heart of the student melted at the
words.

"If a stranger dare make an offer,"
said he, "without danger of being misunderstood,
I would offer my humble
dwelling as a shelter; myself as a devoted
friend. I am friendless myself in
Paris, and a stranger in the land; but if
my life could be of service, it is at your
disposal, and should be sacrificed before
harm or indignity should come to you."

There was an honest earnestness in
the young man's manner that had its
effect. His foreign accent, too, was in
his favour; it showed him not to be a
hackneyed inhabitant of Paris. Indeed
there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm
that is not to be doubted. The homeless
stranger confided herself implicitly to the
protection of the student.

He supported her faltering steps across
the Pont Neuf, and by the place where
the statne of Henry the Fourth had been
overthrown by the populace. The storm
had abated, and the thunder rumbled at
a distance. All Paris was quiet; that
great volcano of human passion slumbered
for a while, to gather fresh strength
for the next day's eruption. The student
conducted his charge though the
ancient streets of the Pays Latin, and
by the dusky walls of the Sorbonne, to
the great dingy hotel which he inhabited.
The old portress who admitted them
stared with surprise at the unusual sight
of the melancholy Wolfgang with a
female companion.

On entering his apartment, the student,
for the first time, blushed at the scantiness
and indifference of his dwelling.
He had but one chamber—an old-fashioned
saloon—heavily carved, and fantastically
furnished with the remains of
former magnificence, for it was one of
those hotels in the quarter of the Luxembourg
Palace which had once belonged
to nobility. It was lumbered with books
and papers, and all the usual apparatus
of a student, and his bed stood in a recess
at one end.

When lights were brought, and Wolfgang
had a better opportunity of contemplating
the stranger, he was more
than ever intoxicated by her beauty.
Her face was pale, but of a dazzling
fairness, set off by a profusion of raven
hair that hung clustering about it. Her
eyes were large and brilliant, with a singular
expression that approached almost
to wildness. As far as her black dress
permitted her shape to be seen, it was a
perfect symmetry. Her whole appearance
was highly striking, though she
was dressed in the simplest style. The
only thing approaching to an ornament
which she wore, was a broad black band
round her neck, clasped by diamonds.

The perplexity now commenced with
the student how to dispose of the helpless
being thus thrown upon his protection.
He thought of abandoning his chamber
to her, and seeking shelter for himself
elsewhere. Still he was so fascinated by
her charms, there seemed to be such a
spell upon his thoughts and senses, that
he could not tear himself from her presence.
Her manner, too, was singular
and unaccountable. She spoke no more
of the guillotine. Her grief had abated.
The attentions of the student had first
won her confidence, and then, apparently,
her heart. She was evidently an enthusinst
like himself, and enthusiasts soon
understand each other.

In the infatuation of the moment,
Wolfgang avowed his passion for her.

He told her the story of his mysterious
dream, and how she had possessed his
heart before he had even seen her. She
was strangely affected by his recital, and
acknowledged to have felt an impulse
toward him equally unaccountable. It
was the time for wild theory and wild
actions. Old prejudices and superstitions
were done away; every thing was under
the sway of the "Goddess of Reason."
Among other rubbish of the old times, the
forms and ceremonies of marriage began
to be considered superfluous bonds for
honourable minds. Social compacts were
the vogue. Wolfgang was too much of
a theorist not to be tainted by the liberal
doctrines of the day.

"Why should we separate?" said he:
"our hearts are united; in the eye of
reason and honour we are as one. What
need is there is sordid forms to bind high
souls together?"

The stranger listened with emotion:
she had evidently received illumination
at the same school.

"You have no home nor family," continued
he; "let me be every thing to
you, or rather let us be every thing to
one another. If form is necessary, form
shall be observed—there is my hand. I
pledge myself to you for ever."

"For ever?" said the stranger, solemnly.

"For ever!" repeated Wolfgang.

The stranger clasped the hand extended
to her: "Then I am yours,"
murmured she, and sunk upon his
bosom.

The next morning the student left his
bride sleeping, and sallied forth at an
early hour to seek more spacious apartments,
suitable to the change in his
situation. When he returned, he found
the stranger lying with her head hanging
over the bed, and one arm thrown over
it. He spoke to her, but received no
reply. He advanced to awaken her from
her uneasy posture. On taking her hand,
it was cold—there was no pulsation—her
face was pallid and ghastly. In a word
—she was a corpse.

Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the
house. A scene of confusion ensued.
The police was summoned. As the
officer of police entered the room, he
started back on beholding the corpse.

"Great heaven!" cried he, "how did
this woman come here?"

"Do you know any thing about her?"
said Wolfgang, eagerly.

"Do I?" exclaimed the police officer:
"she was guillotined yesterday!"

He stepped forward; undid the black
collar round the neck of the corpse, and
the head rolled on the floor!

The student burst into a frenzy. "The
fiend! the fiend has gained possession of
me!" shrieked he: "I am lost for ever."

They tried to soothe him, but in vain.
He was possessed with the frightful belief
that an evil spirit had reanimated the
dead body to ensnare him. He went
distracted, and died in a mad-house.

Here the old gentleman with the
haunted head finished his narrative.

"And is this really a fact?" said the
inquisitive gentleman.

"A fact not to be doubted," replied
the other. "I had it from the best
authority. The student told it me himself.
I saw him in a mad-house at
Paris."

THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE.

As one story of the kind produces
another, and as all the company seemed
fully engrossed by the subject, and disposed
to bring their relatives and ancestors
upon the scene, there is no knowing
how many more strange adventures we
might have heard, had not a corpulent
old fox-hunter, who had slept soundly
through the whole, now suddenly awakened,
with a loud and long-drawn yawn.
The sound broke the charm: the ghosts
took to flight, as though it had been
cock-crowing, and there was a universal
move for bed.

"And now for the haunted chamber,"
said the Irish captain, taking his candle.

"Ay, who's to be the hero of the
night?" said the gentleman with the
ruined head.

"That we shall see in the morning,"
said the old gentleman with the nose:
"whoever looks pale and grizzly will
have seen the ghost."

"Well, gentlemen," said the baronet,
"there's many a true thing said in jest—
In fact one of you will sleep in the room
to-night—"

"What—a haunted room?—a haunted
room?—I claim the adventure—and I—
and I—and I," said a dozen guests talking
and laughing at the same time.

"No, no," said mine host, "there is a
secret about one of my rooms on which
I feel disposed to try an experiment: so,
gentlemen, none of you shall know who
has the haunted chamber until circumstances
reveal it. I will not even know
it myself, but will leave it to chance and
the allotment of the housekeeper. At
the same time, if it will be any satisfaction
to you, I will observe, for the honour
of my paternal mansion, that there's
scarcely a chamber in it but is well
worthy of being haunted."

We now separated for the night, and
each went to his allotted room. Mine
was in one wing of the building, and I
could not but smile at the resemblance in
style to those eventful apartments described
in the tales of the supper-table.
It was spacious and gloomy, decorated
with lamp-black portraits; a bed of
ancient damask, with a tester sufficiently
lofty to grace a couch of state, and a
number of massive pieces of old-fashioned
furniture. I drew a great claw-footed
arm-chair before the wide fireplace;
stirred up the fire; sat looking into it,
and musing upon the odd stories I had
heard, until, partly overcome by the
fatigue of the day's hunting, and partly
by the wine and wassail of mine host,
I fell asleep in my chair.

The uneasiness of my position made
my slumber troubled, and laid me at the
mercy of all kinds of wild and fearful
dreams. Now it was that my perfidious
dinner and supper rose in rebellion
against my peace. I was hag-ridden by
a fat saddle of mutton; a plum-pudding
weighed like lead upon my conscience;
the merrythought of a capon filled me
with horrible suggestions; and a devilled
leg of turkey stalked in all kinds of diabolical
shapes through my imagination.
In short, I had a violent fit of the
nightmare. Some strange indefinite evil
seemed hanging over me that I could not
avert; something terrible and loathsome
oppressed me that I could not shake off.
I was conscious of being asleep, and
strove to rouse myself, but every effort
redoubled the evil; until gasping, struggling,
almost strangling, I suddenly
sprang bolt upright in my chair, and
awoke.

The light on the mantel-piece had
burnt low, and the wick was divided;
there was a great winding-sheet made by
the dripping wax on the side towards me.
The disordered taper emitted a broad
flaring flame, and threw a strong light
on a painting over the fireplace which I
had not hitherto observed. It consisted
merely of a head, or rather a face, that
appeared to be staring full upon me, and
with an expression that was startling.
It was without a frame, and at the first
glance I could hardly persuade myself
that it was not a real face thrusting itself
out of the dark oaken panel. I sat in
my chair gazing at it, and the more I
gazed, the more it disquieted me. I had
never before been affected in the same
way by any painting. The emotions it
caused were strange and indefinite. They
were something like what I have heard
ascribed to the eyes of the basilisk, or
like that mysterious influence in reptiles
termed fascination. I passed my hand
over my eyes several times, as if seeking
instinctively to brush away the illusion—
in vain. They instantly reverted to the
picture, and its chilling, creeping influence
over my flesh and blood was redoubled.
I looked round the room on
other pictures, either to divert my attention
or to see whether the same effect
would be produced by them. Some of
them were grim enough to produce the
effect, if the mere grimness of the painting
produced it. No such thing—my
eye passed over them all with perfect
indifference, but the moment it reverted
to this visage over the fireplace, it was
as if an electric shock darted through
me. The other pictures were dim and
faded, but this one protruded from a plain
back-ground in the strongest relief, and
with wonderful truth of colouring. The
expression was that of agony—the agony
of intense bodily pain; but a menace
scowled upon the brow, and a few
sprinklings of blood added to its ghastliness.
Yet it was not all these characteristics;

it was some horror of the mind,
some inscrutable antipathy awakened by
this picture, which harrowed up my
feelings.

I tried to persuade myself that this
was chimerical; that my brain was confused
by the fumes of mine host's good
cheer, and in some measure by the odd
stories about paintings which had been
told at supper. I determined to shake
off these vapours of the mind; rose from
my chair; walked about the room;
snapped my fingers; rallied myself;
laughed aloud. It was a forced laugh,
and the echo of it in the old chamber
jarred upon my ear. I walked to the
window, and tried to discern the landscape
through the glass. It was pitch
darkness, and howling storm without;
and as I heard the wind moan among
the trees, I caught a reflection of this
accursed visage in the pane of glass, as
though it were staring through the window
at me. Even the reflection of it
was thrilling.

How was this vile nervous fit, for such
I now persuaded myself it was, to be
conquered? I determined to force myself
not to look at the painting, but to
undress quickly and get into bed. I
began to undress, but in spite of every
effort I could not keep myself from stealing
a glance every now and then at the
picture; and a glance was now sufficient
to distress me. Even when my back
was turned to it, the idea of this strange
face behind me, peeping over my shoulder,
was insupportable. I threw off my clothes
and hurried into bed, but still this visage
gazed upon me. I had a full view of it
from my bed, and for some time could
not take my eyes from it. I had grown
nervous to a dismal degree. I put out
the light, and tried to force myself to
sleep—all in vain. The fire gleaming
up a little threw an uncertain light about
the room, leaving however the region of
the picture in deep shadow. What,
thought I, if this he the chamber about
which mine host spoke as having a mystery
reigning over it? I had taken his
words merely as spoken in jest; might
they have a real import? I looked around.
—The faintly-lighted apartment had all
the qualifications requisite for a haunted
chamber. It began in my infected imagination
to assume strange appearances
—the old portraits turned paler and paler,
and blacker and blacker; the streaks of
light and shadow thrown among the
quaint articles of furniture gave them
more singular shapes and characters.
There was a huge dark clothes-press of
antique form, gorgeous in brass and
lustrous with wax, that began to grow
oppressive to me.

"Am I, then," thought I, "indeed the
hero of the haunted room? Is there
really a spell laid upon me, or is this all
some contrivance of mine host to raise
a laugh at my expense?" The idea of
being hag-ridden by my own fancy all
night, and then hantered on my haggard
looks the next day, was intolerable; but
the very idea was sufficient to produce
the effect, and to render me still more
nervous. "Pish!" said I, "it can be
no such thing. How could my worthy
host imagine that I, or any man, would
be so worried by a mere picture? It is
my own diseased imagination that torments
me."

I turned in bed, and shifted from side
to side to try to fall asleep; but all in
vain; when one cannot get asleep by
lying quiet, it is seldom that tossing about
will effect the purpose. The fire gradually
went out, and left the room in
darkness. Still I had the idea of that
inexplicable countenance gazing and
keeping watch upon me through the
gloom—nay, what was worse, the very
darkness seemed to magnify its terrors.
It was like having an unseen enemy
hanging about one in the night. Instead
of having one picture now to worry me,
I had a hundred. I fancied it in every
direction—"And there it is," thought I,
"and there! and there! with its horrible
and mysterious expression still gazing
and gazing on me! No—if I must suffer
the strange and dismal influence, it were
better face a single foe than thus be
haunted by a thousand images of it."

Whoever has been in a state of nervous
agitation, must know that the longer it
continues the more uncontrollable it
grows. The very air of the chamber
seemed at length infected by the baleful
presence of this picture. I fancied it
hovering over me. I almost felt the
fearful visage from the wall approaching

my face—it seemed breathing upon me.
"This is not to be borne," said I at
length, springing out of bed. "I can
stand this no longer—I shall only tumble
and toss about here all night; make a
very spectre of myself, and become the
hero of the haunted chamber in good
earnest. Whatever be the ill consequence,
I'll quit this cursed room and
seek a night's rest elsewhere—they can
but laugh at me, at all events, and they'll
be sure to have the laugh upon me if I
pass a sleepless night, and show them
a haggard and wo-begone visage in the
morning."

All this was half muttered to myself
as I hastily slipped on my clothes, which
having done, I groped my way out of
the room, and down the stairs to the
drawing-room. Here, after tumbling
over two or three pieces of furniture, I
made out to reach a sofa, and stretching
myself upon it, determined to bivouac
there for the night. The moment I found
myself out of the neighbourhood of that
strange picture, it seemed as if the charm
were broken. All its influence was at
an end. I felt assured that it was confined
to its own dreary chamber, for I
had, with a sort of instinctive caution,
turned the key when I closed the door.
I soon calmed down, therefore, into a
state of tranquility; from that into
a drowsiness, and, finally, into a deep
sleep; out of which I did not awake until
the housemaid, with her besom and her
matin song, came to put the room in
order. She stared at finding me stretched
upon the sofa, but I presume circumstances
of the kind were not uncommon
after hunting-dinuers in her master's
bachelor establishment, for she went on
with her song and her work, and took
no further heed of me.

I had an unconquerable repugnance to
return to my chamber; so I found my
way to the butler's quarters, made my
toilet in the best way circumstances
would permit, and was among the first
to appear at the breakfast-table. Our
breakfast was a substantial fox-hunter's
repast, and the company generally assembled
at it. When ample justice had
been done to the ten, coffee, cold meats,
and humming ale, for all these were furnished
in abundance, according to the
tastes of the different guests, the conversation
began to break out with all the liveliness
and freshness of morning mirth.

"But who is the hero of the haunted
chamber, who has seen the ghost last
night?" said the inquisitive gentleman,
rolling his lobster eyes about the table.

The question set every tongue in motion;
a vast deal of bantering, criticising
of countenances, of mutual accusation
and retort, took place. Some had drunk
deep, and some were unshaven; so that
there were suspicious faces enough in
the assembly. I alone could not enter
with ease and vivacity into the joke—I
felt tongue-tied, embarrassed. A recollection
of what I had seen and felt the
preceding night still haunted my mind.
It seemed as if the mysterious picture
still held a thrall upon me. I thought
also that our host's eye was turned on
me with an air of curiosity. In short, I
was conscious that I was the hero of the
night, and felt as if every one might read
it in my looks. The joke, however,
passed over, and no suspicion seemed to
attach to me. I was just congratulating
myself on my escape, when a servant
came in saying, that the gentleman who
had slept on the sofa in the drawing-room
had left his watch under one of the
pillows. My repeater was in his hand.

"What!" said the inquisitive gentleman,
"did any gentleman sleep on the
sofa?"

"Soho! soho! a hare—a hare!" cried
the old gentleman with the flexible nose.

I could not avoid acknowledging the
watch, and was rising in great confusion,
when a hoisterous old squire who
sat beside me exclaimed, slapping me on
the shoulder, "'Sblood, lad, thou art the
man as has seen the ghost!"

The attention of the company was immediately
turned to me: if my face had
been pale the moment before, it now
glowed almost to burning. I tried to
laugh, but could only make a grimace,
and found the muscles of my face twitching
at sixes and sevens, and totally out
of all control.

It takes but little to raise a laugh
among a set of fox-hunters: there was a
world of merriment and joking on the
subject, and as I never relished a joke
overmuch when it was at my own expense,

I began to feel a little nettled. I
tried to look cool and calm, and to restrain
my pique; but the coolness and
calmness of a man in a passion are confounded
treacherous.

"Gentlemen," said I, with a slight
cocking of the chin, and a bad attempt
at a smile, "this is all very pleasant—
ha! ha!—very pleasant—but I'd have
you know, I am as little superstitious as
any of you—ha! ha!—and as to any
thing like timidity—you may smile,
gentlemen, but I trust there's no one
here means to insinuate, that—as to a
room's being haunted—I repeat, gentlemen
(growing a little warm at seeing a
cursed grin breaking out round me), as
to a room's being haunted, I have as
little faith in such silly stories as any
one. But, since you have put the matter
home to me, I will say that I have met
with something in my room strange and
inexplicable to me. (A shout of laughter).
Gentlemen, I am serious; I know
well what I am saying; I am calm,
gentlemen (striking my fist upon the
table); by Heaven, I am calm. I am
neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled
with. (The laughter of the company
suppressed, and with ludicrous attempts
at gravity). There is a picture in the
room in which I was put last night, that
has had an effect upon me the most singular
and incomprehensible."

"A picture?" said the old gentleman
with the haunted head. "A picture!" cried
the narrator with the nose. "A picture!
a picture!" echoed several voices. Here
there was an ungovernable peal of
laughter. I could not contain myself. I
started up from my seat; looked round
on the company with fiery indignation;
thrust both my hands into my pockets,
and strode up to one of the windows as
though I would have walked through it.
I stopped short, looked out upon the
landscape without distinguishing a feature
of it, and felt my gorge rising almost
to suffocation.

Mine host saw it was time to interfere.
He had maintained an air of gravity
through the whole of the scene; and now
stepped forth, as if to shelter me from the
overwhelming merriment of my companions.

"Gentlemen," said he, "I dislike to
spoil sport, but you have had your laugh,
and the joke of the haunted chamber has
been enjoyed. I must now take the part
of my guest. I must not only vindicate
him from your pleasantries, but I must
reconcile him to himself, for I suspect
he is a little out of humour with his own
feelings; and, above all, I must crave
his pardon for having made him the subject
of a kind of experiment. Yes, gentlemen,
there is something strange and
peculiar in the chamber to which our
friend was shown last night; there is a
picture in my house, which possesses a
singular and mysterious influence, and
with which there is connected a very
curious story. It is a picture to which
I attach a value from a variety of circumstances;
and though I have often
been tempted to destroy it, from the odd
and uncomfortable sensations which it
produces in every one that beholds it,
yet I have never been able to prevail
upon myself to make the sacrifice. It is
a picture I never like to look upon myself,
and which is held in awe by all my
servants. I have therefore banished it
to a room but rarely used, and should
have had it covered last night, had not
the nature of our conversation, and the
whimsical talk about a haunted chamber,
tempted me to let it remain, by way of
experiment, to see whether a stranger,
totally unacquainted with its story, would
be affected by it."

The words of the baronet had turned
every thought into a different channel.
All were anxious to hear the story of the
mysterious picture; and, for myself, so
strangely were my feelings interested,
that I forgot to feel piqued at the experiment
which my host had made upon my
nerves, and joined eagerly in the general
entreaty. As the morning was stormy,
and denied all egress, my host was glad
of any means of entertaining his company;
so, drawing his arm-chair towards
the fire, he began:

THE ADVENTURE
OF THE
MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

Many years since, when I was a
young man, and had just left Oxford, I

was sent on the grand tour to finish my
education. I believe my parents had
tried in vain to inoculate me with wisdom;
so they sent me to mingle with
society, in hopes that I might take it the
natural way. Such, at least, appears the
reason for which nine-tenths of our
youngsters are sent abroad. In the
course of my tour I remained some time
at Venice. The romantic character of
that place delighted me; I was very
much amused by the air of adventure
and intrigue that prevailed in this region
of masks and gondolas; and I was exceedingly
smitten by a pair of languishing
black eyes, that played upon my
heart from under an Italian mantle; so
I persuaded myself that I was lingering
at Venice to study men and manners; at
least I persuaded my friends so, and that
answered all my purposes.

I was a little prone to be struck by
peculiarities in character and conduct,
and my imagination was so full of romantic
associations with Italy, that I
was always on the look-out for adventure.
Every thing chimed in with such
a humour in this old mermaid of a city.
My suite of apartments was in a proud,
melancholy palace on the grand canal,
formerly the residence of a magnifico,
and sumptuous with the traces of decayed
grandeur. My gondolier was one
of the shrewdest of his class, active,
merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren,
secret as the grave; that is to say, secret
to all the world except his master. I had
not had him a week before he put me
behind all the curtains in Venice. I
liked the silence and mystery of the
place, and when I sometimes saw from
my window a black gondola gliding
mysteriously along in the dusk of the
evening, with nothing visible but its little
glimmering lantern, I would jump into
my own zendeletta, and give a signal for
pursuit—"But I am running away from
my subject with the recollection of youthful
follies," said the baronet, cheeking
himself. "Let us come to the point."

Among my familiar resorts was a
cassino under the arcades on one side of
the grand square of St. Mark. Here I
used frequently to lounge and take my
ice, on those warm summer nights, when
in Italy every body lives abroad until
morning. I was seated here one evening,
when a group of Italians took their
seat at a table on the opposite side of the
saloon. Their conversation was gay
and animated, and carried on with
Italian vivacity and gesticulation. I
remarked among them one young man,
however, who appeared to take no share,
and find no enjoyment in the conversation,
though he seemed to force himself
to attend to it. He was tall and slender,
and of extremely prepossessing appearance.
His features were fine, though
emuciated. He had a profusion of black
glossy hair, that curled lightly about his
head, and contrasted with the extreme
paleness of his countenance. His brow
was haggard; deep furrows seemed to
have been ploughed into his visage by
care, not by age, for he was evidently in
the prime of youth. His eye was full of
expression and fire, but wild and unsteady.
He seemed to be tormented by
some strange fancy or apprehension. In
spite of every effort to fix his attention
on the conversation of his companions, I
noticed that every now and then he
would turn his head slowly round, give
a glance over his shoulder, and then
withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if
something painful had met his eye.
This was repeated at intervals of about
a minute, and he appeared hardly to
have recovered from one shock, before I
saw him slowly preparing to encounter
another.

After sitting some time in the cassino,
the party paid for the refreshment they
had taken, and departed. The young
man was the last to leave the saloon,
and I remarked him glancing behind
him in the same way, just as he passed
out of the door. I could not resist the
impulse to rise and follow him; for I
was at an age when a romantic feeling
of curiosity is easily awakened. The
party walked slowly down the arcades,
talking and laughing as they went.
They crossed the Piazzetta, but paused
in the middle of it to enjoy the scene.
It was one of those moonlight nights, so
brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere
of Italy. The moonbeams streamed on
the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted
up the magnificent front and swelling
domes of the cathedral. The party expressed

their delight in animated terms.
I kept my eye upon the young man.
He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied.
I noticed the same singular,
and, as it were, furtive glance over the
shoulder, which had attracted my attention
in the cassino. The party moved
on, and I followed; they passed along
the walk called the Broglio, turned the
corner of the Ducal Palace, and getting
into a gondola, glided swiftly away.

The countenance and conduct of this
young man dwelt upon my mind.
There was something in his appearance
that interested me exceedingly. I met
him a day or two after in a gallery of
paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur,
for he always singled out the most
masterly productions, and the few remarks
drawn from him by his companions
showed an intimate acquaintance
with the art. His own taste, however,
ran on singular extremes. On Salvator
Rosa, in his most savage and solitary
scenes: on Raphael, Titian, and Correggio,
in their softest delineations of female
beauty: on these he would occasionally
gaze with transient enthusiasm. But
this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness.
Still would recur that cautious
glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn,
as though something terrible had
met his view.

I encountered him frequently afterwards
at the theatre, at balls, at concerts;
at the promenades in the gardens
of San Georgio; at the grotesque exhibitions
in the square of St. Mark; among
the throng of merchants on the exchange
by the Rialto. He seemed, in fact, to
seek crowds; to hunt after bustle and
amusement: yet never to take any interest
in either the business or the gayety
of the scene. Ever an air of painful
thought, of wretched abstraction; and
ever that strange and recurring movement
of glancing fearfully over the
shoulder. I did not know at first but
this might be caused by apprehension of
arrest; or, perhaps, from dread of assassination.
But if so, why should he go
thus continually abroad; why expose
himself at all times and in all places?

I became anxious to know this stranger.
I was drawn to him by that romantic
sympathy which sometimes draws
young men towards each other. His
melancholy threw a charm about him in
my eyes, which was no doubt heightened
by the touching expression of his countenance,
and the manly graces of his person;
for manly beauty has its effect
even upon men. I had an Englishman's
habitual diffidence and awkwardness of
address to contend with; but I subdued
it, and from frequently meeting him in
the cassino, gradually edged myself into
his acquaintance. I had no reserve on
his part to contend with. He seemed,
on the contrary, to court society; and,
in fact, to seek any thing rather than be
alone.

When he found that I really took an
interest in him, he threw himself entirely
on my friendship. He clung to me like
a drowning man. He would walk with
me for hours up and down the Place of
St. Mark—or he would sit, until night
was far advanced, in my apartments.
He took rooms under the same roof with
me; and his constant request was that I
would permit him, when it did not incommode
me, to sit by me in my saloon.
It was not that he seemed to take a particular
delight in my conversation, but
rather that he craved the vicinity of a
human being; and, above all, of a being
that sympathized with him. "I have
often heard," said he, "of the sincerity
of Englishmen—thank God I have one
at length for a friend!"

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail
himself of my sympathy other than by
mere companionship. He never sought
to unbosom himself to me: there appeared
to be a settled corroding anguish
in his bosom that neither could be
soothed "by silence nor by speaking."

A devouring melancholy preyed upon
his heart, and seemed to be drying up
the very blood in his veins. It was not
a soft melancholy, the disease of the
affections, but a parching, withering
agony. I could see at times that his
mouth was dry and feverish; he panted
rather than breathed; his eyes were
bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid;
with now and then faint streaks of red
athwart them, baleful gleams of the fire
that was consuming his heart. As my
arm was within his, I felt him press it
at times with a convulsive motion to his

side; his hands would clench themselves
involuntarily, and a kind of shudder
would run through his frame.

I reasoned with him about his melancholy,
and sought to draw from him the
cause; he shrunk from all confiding:
"Do not seek to know it," said he, "you
could not relieve it if you knew it; you
would not even seek to relieve it. On
the contrary, I should lose your sympathy,
and that," said he, pressing my
hand convulsively, "that I feel has become
too dear to me to risk."

I endeavoured to awaken hope within
him. He was young; life had a thousand
pleasures in store for him; there is
a healthy reaction in the youthful heart;
it medicines all its own wounds—"Come,
come," said I, "there is no grief so great
that youth cannot outgrow it."—"No!
no!" said he, clenching his teeth, and
striking repeatedly, with the energy of
despair, on his bosom—"it is here!
here! deep-rooted; draining my heart's
blood. It grows and grows, while my
heart withers and withers. I have a
dreadful monitor that gives me no repose
—that follows me step by step—and will
follow me step by step, until it pushes
me into my grave!"

As he said this, he involuntarily gave
one of those fearful glances over his
shoulder, and shrunk back with more
than usual horror. I could not resist
the temptation to allude to this movement,
which I supposed to be some mere
malady of the nerves. The moment I
mentioned it, his face became crimsoned
and convulsed; he grasped me by both
hands—

"For God's sake," exclaimed he, with
a piercing voice, "never allude to that
again. Let us avoid this subject, my
friend; you cannot relieve me, indeed
you cannot relieve me, but you may add
to the torments I suffer. At some future
day you shall know all."

I never resumed the subject; for however
much my curiosity might be roused,
I felt too true a compassion for his sufferings
to increase them by my intrusion.
I sought various ways to divert
his mind, and to arouse him from the
constant meditations in which he was
plunged. He saw my efforts, and seconded
them as far as in his power, for
there was nothing moody nor wayward
in his nature. On the contrary, there
was something frank, generous, unassuming
in his whole deportment. All
the sentiments that he uttered were noble
and lofty. He claimed no indulgence,
he asked no toleration. He seemed content
to carry his load of misery in silence,
and only sought to carry it by my side.
There was a mute beseeching manner
about him, as if he craved companionship
as a charitable boon; and a tacit
thankfulness in his looks, as if he felt
grateful to me for not repulsing him.

I felt this melancholy to be infectious.
It stole over my spirits; interfered with
all my gay pursuits, and gradually saddened
my life; yet I could not prevail
upon myself to shake off a being who
seemed to hang upon me for support. In
truth, the generous traits of character
that beamed through all this gloom had
penetrated to my heart. His bounty
was lavish and open-handed: his charity
melting and spontaneous; not confined
to mere donations, which humiliate as
much as they relieve. The tone of his
voice, the beam of his eye, enhanced
every gift, and surprised the poor suppliant
with that rarest and sweetest of
charities, the charity not merely of the
hand but of the heart. Indeed his liberality
seemed to have something in it of
self-abasement and expiation. He, in a
manner, humbled himself before the
mendicant. "What right have I to ease
and affluence"—would he murmur to
himself—"when innocence wanders in
misery and rags?"

The carnival time arrived. I hoped
that the gay scenes which then presented
themselves might have some cheering
effect. I mingled with him in the motley
throng that crowded the Place of
St. Mark. We frequented operas, masquerades,
balls—all in vain. The evil
kept growing on him. He became more
and more haggard and agitated. Often,
after we had returned from one of these
scenes of revelry, I have entered his
room and found him lying on his face
on the sofa; his hands clenched in his
fine hair, and his whole countenance
bearing traces of the convulsions of his
mind.

The carnival passed away; the time

of Lent succeeded; passion-week arrived;
we attended one evening a solemn service
in one of the churches, in the course of
which a grand piece of vocal and instrumental
music was performed, relating to
the death of our Saviour.

I had remarked that he was always
powerfully affected by music; on this
occasion he was so in an extraordinary
degree. As the pealing notes swelled
through the lofty aisles, he seemed to
kindle with fervour; his eyes rolled upwards,
until nothing but the whites were
visible; his hands were clasped together,
until the fingers were deeply imprinted
in the flesh. When the music expressed
the dying agony, his face gradually
sunk upon his knees; and at the touching
words resounding through the church,
"Jesu mori," sobs burst from him uncontrolled—I
had never seen him weep
before. His had always been agony
rather than sorrow. I augured well from
the circumstance, and let him weep on
uninterrupted. When the service was
ended, we left the church. He hung on
my arm as we walked homewards with
something of a softer and more subdued
manner, instead of that nervous agitation
I had been accustomed to witness.
He alluded to the service we had heard.
"Music," said he, "is indeed the voice
of Heaven; never before have I felt more
impressed by the story of the atonement
of our Saviour—Yes, my friend," said
he, clasping his hands with a kind of
transport, "I know that my Redeemer
liveth!"

We parted for the night. His room
was not far from mine, and I heard him
for some time busied in it. I fell asleep,
but was awakened before daylight. The
young man stood by my bedside, dressed
for travelling. He held a sealed packet
and a large parcel in his hand, which he
laid on the table.

"Farewell, my friend," said he, "I
am about to set forth on a long journey;
but, before I go, I leave with you these
remembrances. In this packet you will
find the particulars of my story. When
you read them I shall be far away; do
not remember me with aversion—You
have been indeed a friend to me. You
have poured oil into a broken heart, but
you could not heal it. Farewell! let me
kiss your hand—I am unworthy to embrace
you." He sunk on his knees—
seized my hand in despite of my efforts
to the contrary, and covered it with
kisses. I was so surprised by all the
scene, that I had not been able to say a
word. "But we shall meet again," said
I hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards
the door. "Never, never in this world!"
said he solemnly. He sprang once more
to my bedside—seized my hand, pressed
it to his heart and to his lips, and rushed
out of the room.

Here the baronet paused. He seemed
lost in thought, and sat looking upon the
floor, and drumming with his fingers on
the arm of his chair.

"And did this mysterious personage
return?" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"Never!" replied the baronet, with
a pensive shake of the head—"I never
saw him again."

"And pray what has all this to do
with the picture?" inquired the old gentleman
with the nose.

"True," said the questioner—"Is it the
portrait of that crack-brained Italian?"

"No," said the baronet drily, not half
liking the appellation given to his hero—
"but this picture was enclosed in the parcel
he left with me. The sealed packet
contained its explanation. There was a
request on the outside that I would not
open it until six months had elapsed.
I kept my promise, in spite of my curiosity.
I have a translation of it by me,
and had meant to read it, by way of
accounting for the mystery of the chamber;
but I fear I have already detained
the company too long."

Here there was a general wish expressed
to have the manuscript read,
particularly on the part of the inquisitive
gentleman; so the worthy baronet
drew out a fairly-written manuscript,
and, wiping his spectacles, read aloud
the following story:

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG
ITALIAN.

I was born at Naples. My parents,
though of noble rank, were limited in
fortune, or rather, my father was ostentatious
beyond his means, and expended

so much on his palace, his equipage,
and his retinue, that he was continually
straitened in his pecuniary circumstances.
I was a younger son, and looked upon
with indifference by my father, who,
from a principle of family pride, wished
to leave all his property to my elder
brother. I showed, when quite a child,
an extreme sensibility. Every thing
affected me violently. While yet an
infant in my mother's arms, and before
I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought
upon to a wonderful degree of anguish
or delight by the power of music. As I
grew older, my feelings remained equally
acute, and I was easily transported into
paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was
the amusement of my relations and of
the domestics to play upon this irritable
temperament. I was moved to tears,
tickled to laughter, provoked to fury, for
the entertainment of company, who were
amused by such a tempest of mighty
passion in a pigmy frame—they little
thought, or perhaps little heeded, the
dangerous sensibilities they were fostering.
I thus became a little creature of
passion before reason was developed.
In a short time I grew too old to be a
plaything, and then I became a torment.
The tricks and passions I had been teased
into became irksome, and I was disliked
by my teachers for the very lessons they
had taught me. My mother died; and
my power as a spoiled child was at an
end. There was no longer any necessity
to humour or tolerate me, for there
was nothing to be gained by it, as I was
no favourite of my father. I therefore
experienced the fate of a spoiled child in
such a situation, and was neglected, or
noticed only to be crossed and contradicted.
Such was the early treatment
of a heart, which, if I can judge of it at
all, was naturally disposed to the extremes
of tenderness and affection.

My father, as I have already said,
never liked me—in fact, he never understood
me; he looked upon me as wilful
and wayward, as deficient in natural
affection. It was the stateliness of his
own manner, the loftiness and grandeur
of his own look, that had repelled me
from his arms. I had always pictured
him to myself as I had seen him, clad in
his senatorial robes, rustling with pomp
and pride. The magnificence of his person
had daunted my young imagination.
I could never approach him with the
confiding affection of a child.

My father's feelings were wrapt up in
my elder brother. He was to be the inheritor
of the family title and the family
dignity, and every thing was sacrificed to
him—I, as well as every thing else.
It was determined to devote me to the
church, that so my humours and myself
might be removed out of the way, either
of tasking my father's time and trouble,
or interfering with the interests of my
brother. At an early age, therefore,
before my mind had dawned upon the
world and its delights, or known any
thing of it beyond the precincts of my
father's palace, I was sent to a convent,
the superior of which was my uncle, and
was confided entirely to his care.

My uncle was a man totally estranged
from the world: he had never relished,
for he had never tasted, its pleasures;
and he regarded rigid self-denial as the
great basis of Christian virtue. He considered
every one's temperament like his
own; or at least he made them conform
to it. His character and habits had an
influence over the fraternity of which he
was superior—a more gloomy, saturnine
set of beings were never assembled together.
The convent, too, was calculated
to awaken sad and solitary thoughts.
It was situated in a gloomy gorge of
those mountains away south of Vesuvius.
All distant views were shut out
by sterile volcanic heights. A mountainstream
raved beneath its walls, and eagles
screamed about its turrets.

I had been sent to this place at so tender
an age as soon to lose all distinct
recollection of the scenes I had left behind.
As my mind expanded, therefore,
it formed its idea of the world from the
convent and its vicinity, and a dreary
world it appeared to me. An early tinge
of melancholy was thus infused into my
character; and the dismal stories of the
monks, about devils and evil spirits, with
which they affrighted my young imagination,
gave me a tendency to superstition
which I could never effectually shake
off. They took the same delight to work
upon my ardent feelings, that had been
so mischievously executed by my father's

household. I can recollect the horrors
with which they fed my heated fancy
during an eruption of Vesuvius. We
were distant from that volcano, with
mountains between us; but its convulsive
throes shook the solid foundations of nature.
Earthquakes threatened to topple
down our convent towers. A lurid, baleful
light hung in the heavens at night,
and showers of ashes, borne by the wind,
fell in our narrow valley. The monks
talked of the earth being honeycombed
beneath us; of streams of molten lava
raging through its veins; of caverns of
sulphurous flames roaring in the centre,
the abodes of demons and the damned;
of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath our
feet. All these tales were told to the
doleful accompaniment of the mountain's
thunders, whose low bellowing made the
walls of our convent vibrate.

One of the monks had been a painter,
but had retired from the world, and embraced
this dismal life in expiation of
some crime. He was a melancholy man,
who pursued his art in the solitude of his
cell, but made it a source of penance to
him. His employment was to portray,
either on canvass or in waxen models,
the human face and human form, in the
agonies of death, and in all the stages of
dissolution and decay. The fearful mysteries
of the charnel-house were unfolded
in his labours. The loathsome banquet
of the beetle and the worm. I turn with
shuddering even from the recollection of
his works: yet, at the time, my strong
but ill-directed imagination seized with
ardour upon his instructions in his art.
Any thing was a variety from the dry
studies and monotonous duties of the
cloister. In a little while I became expert
with my pencil, and my gloomy
productions were thought worthy of decorating
some of the altars of the chapel.

In this dismal way was a creature of
feeling and fancy brought up. Every
thing genial and amiable in my nature
was repressed, and nothing brought out
but what was unprofitable and ungracious.
I was ardent in my temperament;
quick, mercurial, impetuous: formed to
be a creature all love and adoration; but
a leaden hand was laid on all my finer
qualities. I was taught nothing but fear
and hatred. I hated my uncle. I hated
the monks. I hated the convent in
which I was immured. I hated the
world; and I almost hated myself for
being, as I supposed, so hating and hateful
an animal.

When I had nearly attained the age of
sixteen, I was suffered, on one occasion,
to accompany one of the brethren on a
mission to a distant part of the country.
We soon left behind us the gloomy valley
in which I had been pent up for so many
years, and after a short journey among
the mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous
landscape that spreads itself about
the Bay of Naples. Heavens! how
transported was I, when I stretched my
gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny
country, gay with groves and vineyards:
with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit
to my right; the blue Mediterranean to
my left, with its enchanting coast, studded
with shining towns and sumptuous
villas; and Naples, my native Naples,
gleaming far, far in the distance.

Good God! was this the lovely world
from which I had been excluded? I had
reached that age when the sensibilities
are in all their bloom and freshness.
Mine had been checked and chilled.
They now burst forth with the suddenness
of a retarded spring. My heart,
hitherto unnaturally shrunk up, expanded
into a riot of vague but delicious emotions.
The beauty of nature intoxicated—bewildered
me. The song of the peasants;
their cheerful looks; their happy avocations;
the picturesque gayety of their
dresses; their rustic music; their dances;
all broke upon me like witchcraft. My
soul responded to the music, my heart
danced in my bosom. All the men appeared
amiable, all the women lovely.

I returned to the convent, that is to
say, my body returned, but my heart
and soul never entered there again. I
could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful
and a happy world—a world so suited
to my natural character. I had felt so
happy while in it; so different a being
from what I felt myself when in the convent—that
tomb of the living. I contrasted
the countenances of the beings I
had seen, full of fire and freshness, and
enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lacklustre
visages of the monks; the music
of the dance with the droning chaunt of

the chapel. I had before found the exercises
of the cloister wearisome, they now
became intolerable. The dull round of
duties wore away my spirit; my nerves
became irritated by the fretful tinkling of
the convent-bell, evermore dinging among
the mountain echoes, evermore calling
me from my repose at night, my pencil
by day, to attend to some tedious and
mechanical ceremony of devotion.

I was not of a nature to meditate long
without putting my thoughts into action.
My spirit had been suddenly aroused,
and was now all awake within me. I
watched an opportunity, fled from the
convent, and made my way on foot to
Naples. As I entered its gay and
crowded streets, and beheld the variety
and stir of life around me, the luxury of
palaces, the splendour of equipages, and
the pantomimic animation of the motley
populace, I seemed as if awakened to a
world of enchantment, and solemnly
vowed that nothing should force me back
to the monotony of the cloister.

I had to inquire my way to my father's
palace, for I had been so young on leaving
it that I knew not its situation. I
found some difficulty in getting admitted
to my father's presence; for the domestics
scarcely knew that there was such a
being as myself in existence, and my
monastic dress did not operate in my
favour. Even my father entertained no
recollection of my person. I told him
my name, threw myself at his feet, implored
his forgiveness, and entreated that
I might not be sent back to the convent.

He received me with the condescension
of a patron, rather than the fondness of
a parent; listened patiently, but coldly,
to my tale of monastic grievances and
disgusts, and promised to think what else
could be done for me. This coldness
blighted and drove back all the frank
affection of my nature, that was ready
to spring forth at the least warmth of
parental kindness. All my early feelings
towards my father revived. I again
looked up to him as the stately magnificent
being that had daunted my childish
imagination, and felt as if I had no pretensions
to his sympathies. My brother
engrossed all his care and love; he inherited
his nature, and carried himself
towards me with a protecting rather than
a fraternal air. It wounded my pride,
which was great. I could brook condescension
from my father, for I looked up
to him with awe, as a superior being;
but I could not brook patronage from a
brother, who I felt was intellectually my
inferior. The servants perceived that I
was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal
mansion, and, menial-like, they
treated me with neglect. Thus baffled
at every point, my affections outraged
wherever they would attach themselves,
I became sullen, silent, and desponding.
My feelings, driven back upon myself,
entered and preyed upon my own heart.
I remained for some days an unwelcome
guest rather than a restored son in my
father's house. I was doomed never to
be properly known there. I was made,
by wrong treatment, strange even to
myself, and they judged of me from my
strangeness.

I was startled one day at the sight of
one of the monks of my convent gliding
out of my father's room. He saw me,
but pretended not to notice me, and this
very hypocrisy made me suspect something.
I had become sore and susceptible
in my feelings; every thing inflicted
a wound on them. In this state of mind
I was treated with marked disrespect by
a pampered minion, the favourite servant
of my father. All the pride and passion
of my nature rose in an instant, and I
struck him to the earth. My father was
passing by; he stopped not to inquire
the reason, nor indeed could he read the
long course of mental sufferings which
were the real cause. He rebuked me
with anger and scorn; he summoned all
the haughtiness of his nature and grandeur
of his look to give weight to the
contumely with which he treated me. I
felt that I had not deserved it. I felt
that I was not appreciated. I felt that I
had that within me which merited better
treatment. My heart swelled against a
father's injustice. I broke through my
habitual awe of him—I replied to him
with impatience. My hot spirit flushed
in my cheek and kindled in my eye; but
my sensitive heart swelled as quickly,
and before I had half vented my passion,
I felt it suffocated and quenched in my
tears. My father was astonished and
incensed at this turning of the worm, and

ordered me to my chamber. I retired
in silence, choking with contending emotions.

I had not been long there when I
overheard voices in an adjoining apartment.
It was a consultation between my
father and the monk, about the means of
getting me back quietly to the convent.
My resolution was taken. I had no
longer a home nor a father. That very
night I left the paternal roof. I got on
board a vessel about making sail from the
harbour, and abandoned myself to the
wide world. No matter to what port she
steered; any part of so beautiful a world
was better than my convent. No matter
where I was cast by fortune; any place
would be more a home to me than the
home I had left behind. The vessel was
bound to Genoa. We arrived there after
a voyage of a few days.

As I entered the harbour between the
moles which embrace it, and beheld the
amphitheatre of palaces, and churches,
and splendid gardens, rising one above
another, I felt at once its title to the appellation
of Genoa the Superb. I landed
on the mole an utter stranger, without
knowing what to do, or whither to direct
my steps. No matter: I was released
from the thraldom of the convent and
the humiliations of home. When I traversed
the Strada Balbi and the Strada
Nuova, those streets of palaces, and
gazed at the wonders of architecture
around me; when I wandered at close of
day amid a gay throng of the brilliant
and the beautiful, through the green
alleys of the Acqua Verde, or among
the colonnades and terraces of the magnificent
Doria gardens; I thought it impossible
to be ever otherwise than happy
in Genoa.

A few days sufficed to show me my
mistake. My scanty purse was exhausted,
and for the first time in my life I
experienced the sordid distresses of
penury. I had never known the want
of money, and had never adverted to the
possibility of such an evil. I was ignorant
of the world and all its ways; and
when first the idea of destitution came
over my mind, its effect was withering.
I was wandering penniless through the
streets which no longer delighted my
eyes, when chance led my steps into
the magnificent church of the Annunciata.

A celebrated painter of the day was
at that moment superintending the placing
of one of his pictures over an altar.
The proficiency which I had acquired in
his art during my residence in the convent
had made me an enthusiastic amateur.
I was struck, at the first glance,
with the painting. It was the face of a
Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such
a divine expression of maternal tenderness!
I lost, for the moment, all recollection
of myself in the enthusiasm of
my art. I clasped my hands together,
and uttered an ejaculation of delight.
The painter perceived my emotion. He
was flattered and gratified by it. My air
and manner pleased him, and he accosted
me. I felt too much the want of friendship
to repel the advances of a stranger;
and there was something in this one so
benevolent and winning, that in a moment
he gained my confidence.

I told him my story and my situation,
concealing only my name and rank. He
appeared strongly interested by my recital,
invited me to his house, and from
that time I became his favourite pupil.
He thought he perceived in me extraordinary
talents for the art, and his encomiums
awakened all my ardour. What
a blissful period of my existence was it
that I passed beneath his roof! Another
being seemed created within me; or
rather, all that was amiable and excellent
was drawn out. I was as recluse as
ever I had been at the convent, but how
different was my seclusion! My time
was spent in storing my mind with lofty
and poetical ideas; in meditating on all
that was striking and noble in history
and fiction; in studying and tracing all
that was sublime and beautiful in nature.
I was always a visionary, imaginative
being, but now my reveries and imaginings
all elevated me to rapture. I looked
up to my master as to a benevolent genius
that had opened to me a region of enchantment.
He was not a native of
Genoa, but had been drawn thither by
the solicitations of several of the nobility,
and had resided there but a few years,
for the completion of certain works he
had undertaken. His health was delicate,
and he had to confide much of the filling

up of his designs to the pencils of his
scholars. He considered me as particularly
happy in delineating the human
countenance, in seizing upon characteristic,
though fleeting expressions, and fixing
them powerfully upon my canvass. I
was employed continually, therefore, in
sketching faces, and often, when some
particular grace or beauty of expression
was wanted in a countenance, it was intrusted
to my pencil. My benefactor
was fond of bringing me forward; and
partly, perhaps, through my actual skill,
and partly through his partial praises, I
began to be noted for the expressions of
my countenances.

Among the various works which he
had undertaken, was an historical piece
for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which
were to be introduced the likenesses of
several of the family. Among these was
one intrusted to my pencil. It was that
of a young girl, who as yet was in a
convent for her education. She came
out for the purpose of sitting for the
picture. I first saw her in an apartment
of one of the sumptuous palaces of
Genoa. She stood before a casement
that looked out upon the bay; a stream
of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and
shed a kind of glory round her, as it lit
up the rich crimson chamber. She was
but sixteen years of age—and oh, how
lovely! The scene broke upon me like
a mere vision of spring and youth and
beauty. I could have fallen down and
worshipped her. She was like one of
those fictions of poets and painters, when
they would express the beau ideal that
haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable
perfection. I was permitted to
sketch her countenance in various positions,
and I fondly protracted the study
that was undoing me. The more I gazed
on her, the more I became enamoured;
there was something almost painful in my
intense admiration. I was but nineteen
years of age, shy, diffident, and inexperienced.
I was treated with attention by
her mother; for my youth and my enthusiasm
in my art won favour for me;
and I am inclined to think that there was
something in my air and manner that
inspired interest and respect. Still the
kindness with which I was treated could
not dispel the embarrassment into which
my own imagination threw me when in
presence of this lovely being. It elevated
her into something almost more than
mortal. She seemed too exquisite for
earthly use; too delicate and exalted for
human attainment. As I sat tracing her
charms on my canvass, with my eyes
occasionally riveted on her features, I
drank in delicious poison that made me
giddy. My heart alternately gushed
with tenderness, and ached with despair.
Now I became more than ever sensible
of the violent fires that had lain dormant
at the bottom of my soul. You, who are
born in a more temperate climate, and
under a cooler sky, have little idea of
the violence of passion in our southern
bosoms.

A few days finished my task. Bianca,
returned to her convent, but her image
remained indelibly impressed upon my
heart. It dwelt in my imagination; it
became my pervading idea of beauty.
It had an effect even upon my pencil. I
became noted for my felicity in depicting
female loveliness: it was but because I
multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed
and yet fed my fancy by introducing her
in all the productions of my master. I
have stood, with delight, in one of the
chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the
crowd extol the seraphic beauty of a saint
which I had painted. I have seen them
bow down in adoration before the painting;
they were bowing before the loveliness
of Bianca.

I existed in this kind of dream, I might
almost say delirium, for upwards of a
year. Such is the tenacity of my imagination,
that the image which was formed
in it continued in all its power and freshness.
Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative
being, much given to revery, and apt to
foster ideas which had once taken strong
possession of me. I was roused from this
fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the
death of my worthy benefactor. I cannot
describe the pangs his death occasioned
me. It left me alone, and almost broken-hearted.
He bequeathed to me his little
property, which, from the liberality of
his disposition, and his expensive style of
living, was indeed but small: and he
most particularly recommended me, in
dying, to the protection of a nobleman
who had been his patron.

The latter was a man who passed for
munificent. He was a lover and an
encourager of the arts, and evidently
wished to be thought so. He fancied he
saw in me indications of future excellence;
my pencil had already attracted attention;
he took me at once under his protection.
Seeing that I was overwhelmed with
grief, and incapable of exerting myself
in the mansion of my late benefactor, he
invited me to sojourn for a time at a villa
which he possessed on the border of the
sea, in the picturesque neighbourhood of
Sestri di Ponente.

I found at the villa the count's only
son, Filippo. He was nearly of my age;
prepossessing in his appearance, and
fascinating in his manners; he attached
himself to me, and seemed to court my
good opinion. I thought there was something
of profession in his kindness, and
of caprice in his disposition; but I had
nothing else near me to attach myself to,
and my heart felt the need of something
to repose upon. His education had been
neglected; he looked upon me as his
superior in mental powers and acquirements,
and tacitly acknowledged my
superiority. I felt that I was his equal
in birth, and that gave independence to
my manners, which had its effect. The
caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes
exercised on others, over whom he had
power, were never manifested towards
me. We became intimate friends and
frequent companions. Still I loved to
be alone, and to indulge in the reveries of
my own imagination among the scenery
by which I was surrounded.

The villa commanded a wide view of
the Mediterranean, and of the picturesque
Ligurian coast. It stood alone in the
midst of ornamented grounds, finely decorated
with statues and fountains, and
laid out into groves and alleys, and shady
lawns. Every thing was assembled here
that could gratify the taste, or agreeably
occupy the mind. Soothed by the tranquillity
of this elegant retreat, the turbulence
of my feelings gradually subsided,
and blending with the romantic spell
which still reigned over my imagination,
produced a soft, voluptuous melancholy.

I had not been long under the roof of
the count, when our solitude was enlivened
by another inhabitant. It was
the daughter of a relative of the count,
who had lately died in reduced circumstances,
bequeathing this only child to his
protection. I had heard much of her
beauty from Filippo, but my fancy had
become so engrossed by one idea of
beauty, as not to admit of any other.
We were in the central saloon of the
villa when she arrived. She was still in
mourning, and approached, leaning on
the count's arm. As they ascended the
marble portico, I was struck by the elegance
of her figure and movement, by
the grace with which the mezzaro, the
bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded
about her slender form. They entered.
Heavens! what was my surprise when I
beheld Bianca before me! It was herself;
pale with grief, but still more matured in
loveliness than when I had last beheld
her. The time that had elapsed had developed
the graces of her person, and the
sorrow she had undergone had diffused
over her countenance an irresistible tenderness.

She blushed and trembled at seeing me,
and tears rushed into her eyes, for she
remembered in whose company she had
been accustomed to behold me. For my
part, I cannot express what were my
emotions. By degrees I overcame the
extreme shyness that had formerly paralysed
me in her presence. We were
drawn together by sympathy of situation.
We had each lost our best friend in the
world; we were each, in some measure,
thrown upon the kindness of others.
When I came to know her intellectually,
all my ideal picturings of her were confirmed.
Her newness to the world, her
delightful susceptibility to every thing
beautiful and agreeable in nature, reminded
me of my own emotions when
first I escaped from the convent. Her
rectitude of thinking delighted my judgment;
the sweetness of her nature wrapped
itself round my heart; and then her
young, and tender, and budding loveliness,
sent a delicious madness to my brain.

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry,
as something more than mortal;
and I felt humiliated at the idea of my
comparative unworthiness. Yet she was
mortal; and one of mortality's most
susceptible and loving compounds;—for
she loved me!

How first I discovered the transporting
truth I cannot recollect. I believe it stole
upon me by degrees as a wonder past
hope or belief. We were both at such
a tender and loving age; in constant intercourse
with each other; mingling in
the same elegant pursuits;—for music,
poetry, and painting, were our mutual
delights; and we were almost separated
from society among lovely and romantic
scenery. Is it strange that two young
hearts, thus brought together, should
readily twine round each other?

Oh, gods! what a dream, a transient
dream of unalloyed delight, then passed
over my soul! Then it was that the
world around me was indeed a paradise;
for I had woman—lovely, delicious woman,
to share it with me! How often
have I rambled along the picturesque
shores of Sestri, or climbed its wild
mountains, with the coast gemmed with
villas, and the blue sea far below me,
and the slender Faro of Genoa on its
romantic promontory in the distance;
and as I sustained the faltering steps of
Bianca, have thought there could no
unhappiness enter into so beautiful a
world! How often have we listened
together to the nightingale, as it poured
forth its rich notes among the moonlight
bowers of the garden, and have wondered
that poets could ever have fancied any
thing melancholy in its song! Why, oh
why is this budding season of life and
tenderness so transient! why is this rosy
cloud of love, that sheds such a glow
over the morning of our days, so prone
to brew up into the whirlwind and the
storm!

I was the first to awaken from this
blissful delirium of the affections. I had
gained Bianca's heart, what was I to do
with it? I had no wealth nor prospect
to entitle me to her hand; was I to take
advantage of her ignorance of the world,
of her confiding affection, and draw her
down to my own poverty? Was this
requiting the hospitality of the count?
was this requiting the love of Bianca?

Now first I began to feel that even successful
love may have its bitterness. A
corroding care gathered about my heart.
I moved about the palace like a guilty
being. I felt as if I had abused its hospitality,
as if I were a thief within its
walls. I could no longer look with unembarrassed
mien in the countenance of
the count. I accused myself of perfidy
to him, and I thought he read it in my
looks, and began to distrust and despise
me. His manner had always been ostentatious
and condescending; it now
appeared cold and haughty. Filippo, too,
became reserved and distant; or at least
I suspected him to be so. Heavens!
was this the mere coinage of my brain?
Was I to become suspicious of all the
world? A poor, surmising wretch, watching
looks and gestures; and torturing
myself with misconstructions? Or, if
true, was I to remain beneath a roof
where I was merely tolerated, and linger
there on sufferance? "This is not to be
endured!" exclaimed I: "I will tear
myself from this state of self-abasement
—I will break through this fascination
and fly—Fly!—Whither?—from the
world? for where is the world when I
leave Bianca behind me?"

My spirit was naturally proud, and
swelled within me at the idea of being
looked upon with contumely. Many
times I was on the point of declaring my
family and rank, and asserting my
equality in the presence of Bianca, when
I thought her relations assumed an air of
superiority. But the feeling was transient.
I considered myself discarded and contemned
by my family; and had solemnly
vowed never to own relationship to them
until they themselves should claim it.

The struggle of my mind preyed upon
my happiness and my health. It seemed
as if the uncertainty of being loved would
be less intolerable than thus to be assured
of it, and yet not dare to enjoy the conviction.
I was no longer the enraptured
admirer of Bianca; I no longer hung in
ecstasy on the tones of her voice, nor
drank in with insatiate gaze the beauty of
her countenance. Her very smiles ceased
to delight me, for I felt culpable in
having won them.

She could not but be sensible of the
change in me, and inquired the cause
with her usual frankness and simplicity.
I could not evade the inquiry, for my
heart was full to aching. I told her all
the conflict of my soul; my devouring
passion, my bitter self-upbraiding. "Yes,"
said I, "I am unworthy of you. I am

an offcast from my family—a wanderer—
a nameless, homeless wanderer—with
nothing but poverty for my portion; and
yet I have dared to love you—have dared
to aspire to your love!"

My agitation moved her tears, but she
saw nothing in my situation so hopeless
as I had depicted it. Brought up in a
convent, she knew nothing of the world—
its wants—its cares: and indeed what
woman is a worldly casuist in matters of
the heart? Nay more—she kindled into
a sweet enthusiasm when she spoke of
my fortunes and myself. We had dwelt
together on the works of the famous
masters. I had related to her their histories;
the high reputation, the influence,
the magnificence, to which they had attained.
The companions of princes, the
favourites of kings, the pride and boast
of nations. All this she applied to me.
Her love saw nothing in all their great
productions that I was not able to achieve!
and when I beheld the lovely creature
glow with fervour, and her whole countenance
radiant with visions of my
glory, I was snatched up for the moment
into the heaven of her own imagination.

I am dwelling too long upon this part
of my story; yet I cannot help lingering
over a period of my life, on which, with
all its cares and conflicts, I look back
with fondness, for as yet my soul was
unstained by a crime. I do not know
what might have been the result of this
struggle between pride, delicacy, and
passion, had I not read in a Neapolitan
gazette an account of the sudden death
of my brother. It was accompanied by
an earnest inquiry for intelligence concerning
me, and a prayer, should this
meet my eye, that I would hasten to
Naples to comfort an infirm and afflicted
father.

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition,
but my brother had never been
as a brother to me. I had long considered
myself as disconnected from him,
and his death caused me but little emotion.
The thoughts of my father, infirm
and suffering, touched me however to the
quick; and when I thought of him, that
lofty magnificent being, now bowed down
and desolate, and suing to me for comfort,
all my resentment for past neglect
was subdued, and a glow of fitial affection
was awakened within me.

The predominant feeling, however, that
overpowered all others, was transport at
the sudden change in my whole fortunes.
A home, a name, rank, wealth, awaited
me; and love painted a still more rapturous
prospect in the distance. I hastened
to Bianca, and threw myself at her
feet. "Oh, Bianca!" exclaimed I, "at
length I can claim you for my own. I
am no longer a nameless adventurer, a
neglected, rejected outcast. Look—read
—behold the tidings that restore me to
my name and to myself!"

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued.
Bianca rejoiced in the reverse of
my situation, because she saw it lightened
my heart of a load of care; for her own
part, she had loved me for myself, and
had never doubted that my own merits
would command both fame and fortune.

I now felt all my native pride buoyant
within me. I no longer walked with my
eyes bent to the dust; hope elevated them
to the skies—my soul was lit up with
fresh fires and beamed from my countenance.

I wished to impart the change in my
circumstances to the count; to let him
know who and what I was—and to make
formal proposals for the hand of Bianca;
but he was absent on a distant estate. I
opened my whole soul to Filippo. Now
first I told him of my passion, of the
doubts and fears that had distracted me,
and of the tidings that had suddenly dispelled
them. He overwhelmed me with
congratulations, and with the warmest
expressions of sympathy; I embraced
him in the fulness of my heart;—I felt
compunction for having suspected him of
coldness, and asked him forgiveness for
having ever doubted his friendship.

Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic
as a sudden expansion of the heart between
young men. Filippo entered into
our concerns with the most eager interest.
He was our confidant and counsellor.
It was determined that I should
hasten at once to Naples, to re-establish
myself in my father's affections, and my
paternal home; and the moment the reconciliation
was effected, and my father's
consent insured, I should return and
demand Bianca of the count. Filippo

engaged to secure his father's acquiescence;
indeed, he undertook to watch
over our interests, and to be the channel
through which we might correspond.

My parting with Bianca was tender—
delicious—agonizing. It was in a little
pavilion of the garden which had been
one of our favourite resorts. How often
and often did I return to have one more
adieu; to have her look once more
on me in speechless emotion; to enjoy
once more the rapturous sight of those
tears streaming down her lovely cheeks;
to seize once more on that delicate hand,
the frankly accorded pledge of love, and
cover it with tears and kisses! Heavens!
there is a delight even in the parting
agony of two lovers, worth a thousand
tame pleasures of the world. I have her
at this moment before my eyes, at the
window of the pavilion, putting aside the
vines that clustered about the casement,
her light form beaming forth in virgin
light, her countenance all tears and
smiles, sending a thousand and a thousand
adieus after me, as, hesitating, in
a delirium of fondness and agitation, I
faltered my way down the avenue.

As the hark bore me out of the harbour
of Genoa, how eagerly my eye
stretched along the coast of Sestri till it
discovered the villa gleaming from among
trees at the foot of the mountain! As
long as day lasted, I gazed and gazed
upon it till it lessened and lessened to a
mere white speck in the distance; and
still my intense and fixed gaze discerned
it, when all other objects of the coast
had blended into indistinct confusion, or
were lost in the evening gloom.

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to
my paternal home. My heart yearned
for the long-withheld blessing of a father's
love. As I entered the proud
portal of the ancestral palace, my emotions
were so great, that I could not
speak. No one knew me; the servants
gazed at me with curiosity and surprise.
A few years of intellectual elevation and
developement had made a prodigious
change in the poor fugitive stripling
from the convent. Still that no one
should know me in my rightful home
was overpowering. I felt like the prodigal
son returned. I was a stranger in
the house of my father. I burst into
tears and wept aloud. When I made
myself known, however, all was changed.
I, who had once been almost repulsed
from its walls, and forced to fly as an
exile, was welcomed back with acclamation,
with servility. One of the servants
hastened to prepare my father for my
reception; my eagerness to receive the
paternal embrace was so great, that I
could not await his return, but hurried
after him. What a spectacle met my
eyes as I entered the chamber! My
father, whom I had left in the pride of
vigorous age, whose noble and majestic
bearing had so awed my young imagination,
was bowed down and withered into
decrepitude. A paralysis had ravaged
his stately form, and left it a shaking
ruin. He sat propped up in his chair,
with pale relaxed visage, and glassy
wandering eye. His intellect had evidently
shared in the ravage of his frame.
The servant was endeavouring to make
him comprehend that a visiter was at
hand. I tottered up to him and sunk at
his feet. All his past coldness and neglect
were forgotten in his present sufferings.
I remembered only that he was
my parent, and that I had deserted him.
I clasped his knees; my voice was almost
stifled with convulsive sobs. "Pardon—pardon,
oh! my father!" was all
that I could utter. His apprehension
seemed slowly to return to him. He
gazed at me for some moments with a
vague, inquiring look; a convulsive tremor
quivered about his lips; he feebly
extended a shaking hand, laid it upon
my head, and burst into an infantine
flow of tears.

From that moment he would scarcely
spare me from his sight. I appeared the
only object that his heart responded to in
the world; all else was a blank to him.
He had almost lost the powers of speech,
and the reasoning faculty seemed at an
end. He was mute and passive, excepting
that fits of child-like weeping would
sometimes come over him without any
immediate cause. If I left the room at
any time, his eye was incessantly fixed
on the door till my return, and on my
entrance there was another gush of tears.

To talk with him of my concerns, in
this ruined state of mind, would have
been worse than useless; to have left

him for ever so short a time, would have
been cruel, unnatural. Here then was a
new trial for my affections. I wrote to
Bianca an account of my return, and of
my actual situation, painting, in colours
vivid, for they were true, the torments I
suffered at our being thus separated; for
to the youthful lover every day of absence
is an age of love lost. I enclosed
the letter in one to Filippo, who was the
channel of our correspondence. I received
a reply from him full of friendship
and sympathy; from Bianca, full of assurances
of affection and constancy.
Week after week, month after month
elapsed, without making any change in
my circumstances. The vital flame
which had seemed nearly extinct when
first I met my father, kept fluttering on
without any apparent diminution. I
watched him constantly, faithfully, I had
almost said patiently. I knew that his
death alone would set me free—yet I
never at any moment wished it. I felt
too glad to be able to make any atonement
for past disobedience; and, denied
as I had been all endearments of relationship
in my early days, my heart
yearned towards a father, who in his age
and helplessness had thrown himself entirely
on me for comfort.

My passion for Bianca gained daily
more force from absence: by constant
meditation it wore itself a deeper and
deeper channel. I made no new friends
nor acquaintances; sought none of the
pleasures of Naples, which my rank and
fortune threw open to me. Mine was a
heart that confined itself to few objects,
but dwelt upon them with the intenser
passion. To sit by my father, administer
to his wants, and to meditate on
Bianca in the silence of his chamber,
was my constant habit. Sometimes I
amused myself with my pencil, in portraying
the image that was ever present
to my imagination. I transferred to canvass
every look and smile of hers that
dwelt in my heart. I showed them to
my father, in hopes of awakening an
interest in his bosom for the mere shadow
of my love; but he was too far sunk in
intellect to take any more than a childlike
notice of them. When I received a
letter from Bianca, it was a new source
of solitary luxury. Her letters, it is true,
were less and less frequent, but they were
always full of assurances of unabated
affection. They breathed not the frank
and innocent warmth with which she
expressed herself in conversation, but I
accounted for it from the embarrassment
which inexperienced minds have often to
express themselves upon paper. Filippo
assured me of her unaltered constancy.
They both lamented, in the strongest
terms, our continued separation, though
they did justice to the filial piety that
kept me by my father.

Nearly two years elapsed in this protracted
exile. To me they were so many
ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature,
I scarcely know how I should have supported
so long an absence, had I not felt
assured that the faith of Bianca was
equal to my own. At length my father
died. Life went from him almost imperceptibly.
I hung over him in mute affliction,
and watched the expiring spasms
of nature. His last faltering accents
whispered repeatedly a blessing on me.
Alas! how has it been fulfilled!

When I had paid due honours to his
remains, and laid them in the tomb of
our ancestors, I arranged briefly my
affairs, put them in a posture to be easily
at my command from a distance, and
embarked once more with a bounding
heart to Genoa.

Our voyage was propitious, and oh!
what was my rapture, when first, in the
dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy
summits of the Apennines rising almost
like clouds above the horizon! The
sweet breath of summer just moved us
over the long wavering billows that were
rolling us on towards Genoa. By degrees
the coast of Sestri rose like a
creation of enchantment from the silver
bosom of the deep. I beheld the line of
villages and palaces studding its borders.
My eye reverted to a well-known point,
and at length, from the confusion of distant
objects, it singled out the villa which
contained Bianca. It was a mere speck
in the landscape, but glimmering from
afar, the polar star of my heart.

Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer's
day, but oh! how different the
emotions between departure and return!
It now kept growing and growing, instead
of lessening and lessening on my

sight. My heart seemed to dilate with it.
I looked at it through a telescope. I
gradually defined one feature after another.
The balconies of the central
saloon where first I met Bianca beneath
its roof; the terrace where we so often
had passed the delightful summer evenings;
the awning that shaded her chamber
window; I almost fancied I saw her
form beneath it. Could she but know
her lover was in the bark whose white
sail now gleamed on the sunny bosom of
the sea! My fond impatience increased
as we neared the coast; the ship seemed
to lag lazily over the billows: I could
almost have sprung into the sea, and
swam to the desired shore.

The shadows of evening gradually
shrouded the scene; but the moon arose
in all her fulness and beauty, and shed
the tender light, so dear to lovers, over
the romantic coast of Sestri. My soul
was bathed in unutterable tenderness.
I anticipated the heavenly evenings I
should pass in once more wandering
with Bianca by the light of that blessed
moon.

It was late at night before we entered
the harbour. As early next morning as
I could get released from the formalities
of landing, I threw myself on horseback,
and hastened to the villa. As I galloped
round the rocky promontory on which
stands the Faro, and saw the coast of
Sestri opening upon me, a thousand
anxieties and doubts suddenly sprang up
in my bosom. There is something fearful
in returning to those we love, while
yet uncertain what ills or changes absence
may have effected. The turbulence
of my agitation shook my very frame.
I spurred my horse to redoubled speed;
he was covered with foam when we both
arrived panting at the gateway that opened
to the grounds around the villa. I
left my horse at a cottage, and walked
through the grounds, that I might regain
tranquillity for the approaching interview.
I chid myself for having suffered
mere doubts and surmises thus suddenly
to overcome me; but I was always prone
to be carried away by gusts of the
feelings.

On entering the garden, every thing
bore the same look as when I had left it;
and this unchanged aspect of things reassured
me. There were the alleys in
which I had so often walked with Bianca,
as we listened to the song of the nightingale;
the same shades under which we
had so often sat during the noontide heat.
There were the same flowers of which
she was fond, and which appeared still
to be under the ministry of her hand.
Every thing looked and breathed of
Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my
bosom at every step. I passed a little
arbour, in which we had often sat and
read together—a book and a glove lay
on the bench—it was Bianca's glove; it
was a volume of the Metastasio I had
given her. The glove lay in my favourite
passage. I clasped them to my heart
with rapture. "All is safe!" exclaimed
I; "she loves me, she is still my own!"

I bounded lightly along the avenue,
down which I had faltered so slowly at
my departure. I beheld her favourite
pavilion, which had witnessed our parting
scene. The window was open, with
the same vine clambering about it, precisely
as when she waved and wept me
an adieu. O how transporting was the
contrast in my situation! As I passed
near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a
female voice: they thrilled through me
with an appeal to my heart not to be
mistaken. Before I could think, I felt
they were Bianca's. For an instant I
paused, overpowered with agitation. I
feared to break so suddenly upon her.
I softly ascended the steps of the pavilion.
The door was open. I saw Bianca seated
at a table; her back was towards me;
she was warbling a soft melancholy air,
and was occupied in drawing. A glance
sufficed to show me that she was copying
one of my own paintings. I gazed on
her for a moment in a delicious tumult of
emotions. She paused in her singing:
a heavy sigh, almost a sob followed. I
could no longer contain myself. "Bianca!"
exclaimed I, in a half-smothered
voice. She started at the sound, brushed
back the ringlets that hung clustering
about her face, darted a glance at me,
uttered a piercing shriek, and would have
fallen to the earth, had I not caught her
in my arms.

"Bianca! my own Bianca!" exclaimed
I, folding her to my bosom; my voice
stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She

lay in my arms without sense or motion.
Alarmed at the effects of my precipitation,
I scarce knew what to do. I
tried by a thousand endearing words to
call her back to consciousness. She
slowly recovered, and half-opening her
eyes, "Where am I?" murmured she,
faintly. "Here!" exclaimed I, pressing
her to my bosom, "Here—close to the
heart that adores you—in the arms of
your faithful Ottavio!" "Oh no! no!
no!" shrieked she, starting into sudden
life and terror—"away! away! leave
me! leave me!"

She tore herself from my arms; rushed
to a corner of the saloon, and covered
her face with her hands, as if the very
sight of me were baleful. I was thunderstruck.
I could not believe my senses.
I followed her, trembling, confounded.
I endeavoured to take her hand; but she
shrunk from my very touch with horror.

"Good heavens, Bianca!" exclaimed
I, "what is the meaning of this? Is
this my reception after so long an
absence? Is this the love you professed
for me?"

At the mention of love, a shuddering
ran through her. She turned to me a
face wild with anguish: "No more of
that—no more of that!" gasped she:
"talk not to me of love—I—I—am
married!"

I reeled as if I had received a mortal
blow—a sickness struck to my very
heart. I caught at a window-frame for
support. For a moment or two every
thing was chaos around me. When I
recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a
sofa, her face buried in the pillow, and
sobbing convulsively. Indignation for
her fickleness for a moment overpowered
every other feeling.

"Faithless—perjured!" cried I, striding
across the room. But another glance
at that beautiful being in distress checked
all my wrath. Anger could not dwell
together with her idea in my soul.

"Oh! Bianca," exclaimed I, in anguish,
"could I have dreamt of this?
Could I have suspected you would have
been false to me?"

She raised her face all streaming with
tears, all disordered with emotion, and
gave me one appealing look. "False to
you!—They told me you were dead!"

"What," said I, "in spite of our constant
correspondence?"

She gazed wildly at me: "Correspondence!
what correspondence?"

"Have you not repeatedly received
and replied to my letters?"

She clasped her hands with solemnity
and fervour. "As I hope for mercy—
never!"

A horrible surmise shot through my
brain. "Who told you I was dead?"

"It was reported that the ship in
which you embarked for Naples perished
at sea."

"But who told you the report?"

She paused for an instant, and trembled:—"Filippo."

"May the God of heaven curse him!"
cried I, extending my clenched fists aloft.

"O do not curse him, do not curse
him!" exclaimed she; "he is—he is—
my husband!"

This was all that was wanting to
unfold the perfidy that had been practised
upon me. My blood boiled like
liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with
rage too great for utterance—I remained
for a time bewildered by the whirl of
horrible thoughts that rushed through my
mind. The poor victim of deception
before me thought it was with her I was
incensed. She faintly murmured forth
her exculpation. I will not dwell upon
it. I saw in it more than she meant to
reveal. I saw with a glance how both
of us had been betrayed.

"'Tis well," muttered I to myself in
smothered accents of concentrated fury.
"He shall render an account of all this."

Bianca overheard me. New terror
flashed in her countenance. "For mercy's
sake, do not meet him!—Say nothing
of what has passed—for my sake
say nothing to him—I only shall be the
sufferer!"

A new suspicion darted across my
mind—"What!" exclaimed I, "do you
then fear him? is he unkind to you?
Tell me," reiterated I, grasping her hand,
and looking her eagerly in the face,
"tell me—dares he to use you harshly?"

"No! no! no!" cried she, faltering
and embarrassed—but the glance at her
face had told me volumes. I saw in her
pallid and wasted features, in the prompt
terror and subdued agony of her eye, a

whole history of a mind broken down
by tyranny. Great God! and was this
beauteous flower snatched from me to
be thus trampled upon? The idea roused
me to madness. I clenched my teeth
and my hands; I foamed at the mouth;
every passion seemed to have resolved
itself into the fury that like a lava boiled
within my heart. Bianca shrunk from
me in speechless affright. As I strode
by the window, my eye darted down the
alley. Fatal moment! I beheld Filippo
at a distance! my brain was in delirium
—I sprang from the pavilion, and was
before him with the quickness of lightning.
He saw me as I came rushing
upon him—he turned pale, looked wildly
to right and left, as if he would have fled,
and trembling drew his sword.

"Wretch!" cried I, "well may you
draw your weapon!"

I spake not another word—I snatched
forth a stiletto, put by the sword which
trembled in his hand, and buried my
poniard in his bosom. He fell with the
blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprung
upon him with the bloodthirsty feeling of
a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled
him in my frenzy, grasped him by the
throat, until, with reiterated wounds and
strangling convulsions, he expired in my
grasp. I remained glaring on the countenance,
horrible in death, that seemed
to stare back with its protruded eyes
upon me. Piercing shrieks roused me
from my delirium. I looked round, and
beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards
us. My brain whirled—I waited not to
meet her; but fled from the scene of
horror. I fled forth from the garden
like another Cain,—a hell within my
bosom, and a curse upon my head. I
fled without knowing whither, almost
without knowing why. My only idea
was to get farther and farther from the
horrors I had left behind; as if I could
throw space between myself and my conscience.
I fled to the Apennines, and
wandered for days and days among their
savage heights. How I existed, I cannot
tell—what rocks and precipices I braved,
and how I braved them, I know not. I
kept on and on, trying to out-travel the
curse that clung to me. Alas! the shrieks
of Bianca rung for ever in my ears.
The horrible countenance of my victim
was for ever before my eyes. The blood
of Filippo cried to me from the ground.
Rocks, trees, and torrents, all resounded
with my crime. Then it was I felt how
much more insupportable is the anguish
of remorse than every other mental pang.
Oh! could I but have cast off this crime
that festered in my heart—could I but
have regained the innocence that reigned
in my breast as I entered the garden at
Sestri—could I but have restored my
victim to life, I felt as if I could look on
with transport, even though Bianca were
in his arms.

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse
settled into a permanent malady
of the mind—into one of the most horrible
that ever poor wretch was cursed
with. Wherever I went, the countenance
of him I had slain appeared to follow me.
Whenever I turned my head, I beheld it
behind me, hideous with the contortions
of the dying moment. I have tried in
every way to escape from this horrible
phantom, but in vain. I know not
whether it be an illusion of the mind,
the consequence of my dismal education
at the convent, or whether a phantom
really sent by Heaven to punish me, but
there it ever is—at all times—in all
places. Nor has time nor habit had
any effect in familiarizing me with its
terrors. I have travelled from place to
place—plunged into amusements—tried
dissipation and distraction of every kind
—all—all in vain. I once had recourse to
my pencil, as a desperate experiment. I
painted an exact resemblance of this
phantom face. I placed it before me, in
hopes that by constantly contemplating
the copy, I might diminish the effect of
the original. But I only doubled instead
of diminishing the misery. Such is the
curse that has clung to my footsteps—
that has made my life a burthen, but the
thought of death terrible. God knows
what I have suffered—what days and
days, and nights and nights of sleepless
torment—what a never-dying worm has
preyed upon my heart—what an unquenchable
fire has burned within my
brain! He knows the wrongs that
wrought upon my poor weak nature;
that converted the tenderest of affections
into the deadliest of fury. He knows
best whether a frail erring creature has

expiated by long-enduring torture and
measureless remorse the crime of a moment
of madness. Often, often have I
prostrated myself in the dust, and implored
that he would give me a sign of
his forgiveness, and let me die——

Thus far had I written some time since.
I had meant to leave this record of
misery and crime with you, to be read
when I should be no more.

My prayer to Heaven has at length
been heard. You were witness to my
emotions last evening at the church,
when the vaulted temple resounded with
the words of atonement and redemption.
I heard a voice speaking to me from the
midst of the music; I heard it rising
above the pealing of the organ and the
voices of the choir—it spoke to me in
tones of celestial melody—it promised
mercy and forgiveness, but demanded
from me full expiation. I go to make it.
To-morrow I shall be on my way to
Genoa, to surrender myself to justice.
You who have pitied my sufferings, who
have poured the balm of sympathy into
my wounds, do not shrink from my
memory with abhorrence now that you
know my story. Recollect, that when
you read of my crime I shall have atoned
for it with my blood!

When the baronet had finished, there
was a universal desire expressed to see
the painting of this frightful visage. After
much entreaty the baronet consented, on
condition that they should only visit it
one by one. He called his housekeeper,
and gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen,
singly, to the chamber. They
all returned varying in their stories.
Some affected in one way, some in another;
some more, some less; but all
agreeing that there was a certain something
about the painting that had a very
odd effect upon the feelings.

I stood in a deep bow-window with the
baronet, and could not help expressing
my wonder. "After all," said I, "there
are certain mysteries in our nature, certain
inscrutable impulses and influences,
which warrant one in being superstitious.
Who can account for so many
persons of different characters being thus
strangely affected by a mere painting?"

"And especially when not one of them
has seen it!" said the baronet, with a
smile.

"How!" exclaimed I, "not seen it?"

"Not one of them!" replied he, laying
his finger on his lips, in sign of
secrecy. "I saw that some of them
were in a bantering vein, and I did not
choose that the memento of the poor Italian
should be made a jest of. So I gave
the housekeeper a hint to show them all
to a different chamber!"

Thus end the stories of the Nervous
Gentleman.

II. PART II.

BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS.

LITERARY LIFE.

Among other subjects of a traveller's
curiosity, I had at one time a great craving
after anecdotes of literary life; and
being at London, one of the most noted
places for the production of books, I was
excessively anxious to know something
of the animals which produced them.
Chance fortunately threw me in the way
of a literary man by the name of Buckthorne,
an eccentric personage, who had
lived much in the metropolis, and could
give me the natural history of every odd
animal to be met with in that wilderness
of men. He readily imparted to me
some useful hints upon the subject of my
inquiry.

"The literary world," said he, "is
made up of little confederacies, each
looking upon its own members as the
lights of the universe; and considering
all others as mere transient meteors,
doomed soon to fall and be forgotten,
while its own luminaries are to shine
steadily on to immortality."

"And pray," said I, "how is a man
to get a peep into those confederacies

you speak of? I presume an intercourse
with authors is a kind of intellectual exchange,
where one must bring his commodities
to barter, and always give a
quid pro quo."

"Pooh, pooh! how you mistake," said
Buckthorne, smiling; "you must never
think to become popular among wits by
shining. They go into society to shine
themselves, not to admire the brilliancy
of others. I once thought as you do,
and never went into literary society
without studying my part beforehand;
the consequence was, that I soon got the
name of an intolerable proser, and should,
in a little while, have been completely
excommunicated, had I not changed my
plan of operations. No, sir, there is no
character that succeeds so well among
wits as that of a good listener; or if ever
you are eloquent, let it be when tête-àtête
with an author, and then in praise
of his own works, or, what is nearly as
acceptable, in disparagement of the works
of his contemporaries. If ever he speaks
favourably of the productions of a particular
friend, dissent boldly from him;
pronounce his friend to be a blockhead;
never fear his being vexed; much as
people speak of the irritability of authors,
I never found one to take offence at such
contradictions. No, no, sir, authors are
particularly candid in admitting the faults
of their friends.

"Indeed, I would advise you to be
extremely sparing of remarks on all modern
works, except to make sarcastic
observations on the most distinguished
writers of the day."

"Faith," said I, "I'll praise none that
have not been dead for at least half a
century."

"Even then," observed Mr. Buckthorne,
"I would advise you to be rather
cautious; for you must know that many
old writers have been enlisted under the
banners of different seets, and their
merits have become as completely topics
of party discussion as the merits of living
statesmen and politicians. Nay, there
have been whole periods of literature
absolutely taboo'd, to use a South Sea
phrase. It is, for example, as much as
a man's critical reputation is worth in
some circles, to say a word in praise of
any of the writers of the reign of Charles
the Second, or even of Queen Anne, they
being all declared Frenchmen in disguise."

"And pray," said I, "when am I then
to know that I am on safe grounds, being
totally unacquainted with the literary
landmarks, and the boundary-line of fashionable
taste?"

"Oh!" replied he, "there is fortunately
one tract of literature which forms
a kind of neutral ground, on which all
the literati meet amicably, and run riot
in the excess of their good humour; and
this is in the reigns of Elizabeth and
James. Here you may praise away at
random. Here it is `cut and come again;'
and the more obscure the author, and the
more quaint and crabbed his style, the
more your admiration will smack of the
real relish of the connoisseur; whose
taste, like that of an epicure, is always
for game that has an antiquated flavour.

"But," continued he, "as you seem
anxious to know something of literary
society, I will take an opportunity to introduce
you to some coterie, where the
talents of the day are assembled. I cannot
promise you, however, that they will
all be of the first order. Somehow or
other, our great geniuses are not gregarious;
they do not go in flocks, but fly
singly in general society. They prefer
mingling, like common men, with the
multitude, and are apt to carry nothing
of the author about them but the reputation.
It is only the inferior orders that
herd together, acquire strength and importance
by their confederacies, and bear
all the distinctive characteristics of their
species."

A LITERARY DINNER.

A few days after this conversation
with Mr. Buckthorne, he called upon me,
and took me with him to a regular literary
dinner. It was given by a great
bookseller, or rather a company of booksellers,
whose firm surpassed in length
that of Shadrach, Meshech and Abednego.

I was surprised to find between twenty
and thirty guests assembled, most of
whom I had never seen before. Mr.

Buckthorne explained this to me, by
informing me that this was a business
dinner, or kind of field-day, which the
house gave about twice a year to its authors.
It is true they did occasionally
give snug dinners to three or four literary
men at a time; but then these were generally
select authors, favourites of the
public, such as had arrived at their sixth
or seventh editions. "There are," said
he, "certain geographical boundaries in
the land of literature, and you may judge
tolerably well of an author's popularity
by the wine his bookseller gives him.
An author crosses the port line about
the third edition, and gets into clarets;
and when he has reached the sixth or
seventh, he may revel in champagne and
burgundy."

"And pray," said I, "how far may
these gentlemen have reached that I see
around me; are any of these claret
drinkers?"

"Not exactly, not exactly. You find
at these great dinners the common steady
run of authors, one or two edition men;
or if any others are invited, they are
aware that it is a kind of republican
meeting. You understand me—a meeting
of the republic of letters; and that
they must expect nothing but plain substantial
fare."

These hints enabled me to comprehend
more fully the arrangement of the
table. The two ends were occupied by
two partners of the house; and the host
seemed to have adopted Addison's idea
as to the literary precedence of his
guests. A popular poet had the post of
honour; opposite to whom was a hot-pressed
traveller in quarto with plates.
A grave-looking antiquarian, who had
produced several solid works, that were
much quoted and little read, was treated
with great respect, and seated next to a
neat dressy gentleman in black, who had
written a thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo
on political economy, that was getting
into fashion. Several three volume
duodecimo men, of fair currency, were
placed about the centre of the table;
while the lower end was taken up with
small poets, translators, and authors
who had not as yet risen into much
notoriety.

The conversation during dinner was
by fits and starts; breaking out here and
there in various parts of the table in
small flashes, and ending in smoke. The
poet, who had the confidence of a man
on good terms with the world, and independent
of his bookseller, was very gay
and brilliant, and said many clever things
which set the partner next him in a roar,
and delighted all the company. The
other partner, however, maintained his
sedateness, and kept carving on, with the
air of a thorough man of business, intent
upon the occupation of the moment. His
gravity was explained to me by my friend
Buckthorne. He informed me that the
concerns of the house were admirably
distributed among the partners. "Thus,
for instance," said he, "the grave gentleman
is the carving partner, who attends
to the joints; and the other is the laughing
partner, who attends to the jokes."

The general conversation was chiefly
carried on at the upper end of the table,
as the authors there seemed to possess
the greatest courage of the tongue. As
to the crew at the lower end, if they did
not make much figure in talking, they
did in eating. Never was there a more
determined, inveterate, thoroughly-sustained
attack on the trencher than by
this phalanx of masticators. When the
cloth was removed, and the wine began
to circulate, they grew very merry and
jocose among themselves. Their jokes,
however, if by chance any of them reached
the upper end of the table, seldom
produced much effect. Even the laughing
partner did not seem to think it
necessary to honour them with a smile;
which my neighbour Buckthorne accounted
for, by informing me that there
was a certain degree of popularity to be
obtained before a bookseller could afford
to laugh at an author's jokes.

Among this crew of questionable gentlemen
thus seated below the salt, my
eye singled out one in particular. He
was rather shabbily dressed; though he
had evidently made the most of a rusty
black coat, and wore his shirt-frill plaited
and puffed out voluminously at the bosom.
His face was dusky, but florid, perhaps a
little too florid, particularly about the
nose; though the rosy hue gave the
greater lustre to a twinkling black eye.
He had a little the look of a boon companion,

with that dash of the poor devil
in it which gives an inexpressibly mellow
tone to a man's humour. I had seldom
seen a face of richer promise; but never
was promise so ill kept. He said nothing,
ate and drank with the keen appetite
of a garreteer, and scarcely stopped
to laugh, even at the good jokes from the
upper end of the table. I inquired who
he was. Buckthorne looked at him attentively;
"Gad," said he, "I have seen
that face before, but where I cannot
recollect. He cannot be an author of
any note. I suppose some writer of sermons,
or grinder of foreign travels."

After dinner we retired to another
room to take tea and coffee, where we
were reinforced by a cloud of inferior
guests,—authors of small volumes in
boards, and pamphlets stitched in blue
paper. These had not as yet arrived to
the importance of a dinner invitation, but
were invited occasionally to pass the
evening "in a friendly way." They
were very respectful to the partners, and,
indeed, seemed to stand a little in awe of
them; but they paid devoted court to the
lady of the house, and were extravagantly
fond of the children. Some few, who
did not feel confidence enough to make
such advances, stood shyly off in corners,
talking to one another; or turned
over the portfolios of prints which they
had not seen above five thousand times,
or moused over the music on the forte-piano.

The poet and the thin octavo gentleman
were the persons most current and
at their ease in the drawing-room; being
men evidently of circulation in the west
end. They got on each side of the lady
of the house, and paid her a thousand
compliments and civilities, at some of
which I thought she would have expired
with delight. Every thing they said and
did had the odour of fashionable life. I
looked round in vain for the poor-devil
author in the rusty black coat; he had
disappeared immediately after leaving the
table, having a dread, no doubt, of the
glaring light of a drawing-room. Finding
nothing further to interest my attention,
I took my departure soon after coffee
had been served, leaving the poet, and
the thin, genteel, hot-pressed, octavo gentleman,
masters of the field.

THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS.

I think it was the very next evening
that, in coming out of Covent Garden
Theatre with my eccentric friend Buckthorne,
he proposed to give me another
peep at life and character. Finding me
willing for any research of the kind, he
took me through a variety of the narrow
courts and lanes about Covent Garden,
until we stopped before a tavern from
which we heard the bursts of merriment
of a jovial party. There would be a
loud peal of laughter, then an interval,
then another peal, as if a prime wag
were telling a story. After a little while
there was a song, and at the close of
each stanza a hearty roar, and a vehement
thumping on the table.

"This is the place," whispered Buckthorne;
"it is the club of queer fellows,
a great resort of the small wits, third-rate
actors, and newspaper critics of the
theatres. Any one can go in on paying
a sixpence at the bar for the use of the
club."

We entered, therefore, without ceremony,
and took our seats at a lone table
in a dusky corner of the room. The
club was assembled round a table, on
which stood beverages of various kinds,
according to the tastes of the individuals.
The members were a set of queer fellows
indeed; but what was my surprise
on recognising in the prime wit of the
meeting the poor-devil author whom I
had remarked at the booksellers' dinner
for his promising face and his complete
taciturnity! Matters, however, were entirely
changed with him. There he was
a mere cypher; here he was lord of the
ascendant, the choice spirit, the dominant
genius. He sat at the head of the table
with his hat on, and an eye beaming
even more luminously than his nose.
He had a quip and a fillip for every one,
and a good thing on every occasion.
Nothing could be said or done without
eliciting a spark from him; and I solemnly
declare I have heard much worse wit
even from noblemen. His jokes, it must
be confessed, were rather wet, but they
suited the circle over which he presided.
The company were in that maudlin
mood, when a little wit goes a great
way. Every time he opened his lips

there was sure to be a roar; and even
sometimes before he had time to speak.

We were fortunate enough to enter in
time for a glee composed by him expressly
for the club, and which he sang
with two boon companions, who would
have been worthy subjects for Hogarth's
pencil. As they were each provided
with a written copy, I was enabled to
procure the reading of it:

We waited until the party broke up,
and no one but the wit remained. He
sat at the table with his legs stretched
under it, and wide apart; his hands in
his breeches pockets; his head drooped
upon his breast; and gazing with lacklustre
countenance on an empty tankard.
His gayety was gone, his fire completely
quenched.

My companion approached, and startled
him from his fit of brown study,
introducing himself on the strength of
their having dined together at the booksellers'.

"By the way," said he, "it seems to
me I have seen you before; your face is
surely that of an old acquaintance, though
for the life of me, I cannot tell where I
have known you."

"Very likely," replied he with a
smile: "many of my old friends have
forgotten me. Though, to tell the truth,
my memory in this instance is as bad as
your own. If, however, it will assist
your recollection in any way, my name
is Thomas Dribble, at your service."

"What! Tom Dribble, who was at
old Birchell's school in Warwickshire?"

"The same," said the other coolly.

"Why, then, we are old schoolmates,
though it's no wonder that you don't
recollect me. I was your junior by
several years; don't you recollect little
Jack Buckthorne?"

Here there ensued a scene of schoolfellow
recognition, and a world of talk
about old school times and school pranks.
Mr. Dribble ended by observing with a
heavy sigh, "that times were sadly
changed since those days."

"Faith, Mr. Dribble," said I, "you
seem quite a different man here from
what you were at dinner. I had no idea
that you had so much stuff in you. There
you were all silence, but here you absolutely
keep the table in a roar."

"Ah! my dear sir," replied he, with
a shake of the head, and a shrug of the
shoulder, "I'm a mere glow-worm. I
never shine by daylight. Besides, it's a
hard thing for a poor devil of an author
to shine at the table of a rich bookseller.
Who do you think would laugh at any
thing I could say, when I had some of
the current wits of the day about me?
But here, though a poor devil, I am
among still poorer devils than myself;
men who look up to me as a man of
letters, and a bel-esprit, and all my jokes
pass as sterling gold from the mint."

"You surely do yourself injustice, sir,"
said I; "I have certainly heard more
good things from you this evening, than
from any of those beau-esprits by whom
you appear to have been so daunted."

"Ah, sir! but they have luck on their
side: they are in the fashion—there's
nothing like being in fashion. A man
that has once got his character up for a
wit is always sure of a laugh, say what
he may. He may utter as much nonsense
as he pleases, and all will pass current.
No one stops to question the coin
of a rich man; but a poor devil cannot
pass off either a joke or a guinea, without
its being examined on both sides.
Wit and coin are always doubted with a
threadbare coat."

"For my part," continued he, giving
his hat a twitch a little more on one side,
"for my part, I hate your fine dinners;
there's nothing, sir, like the freedom of a
chop-house. I'd rather, any time, have
my steak and tankard among my own
set, than drink claret and eat venison
with your cursed civil, elegant company,
who never laugh at a good joke from a
poor devil for fear of its being vulgar.
A good joke grows in a wet soil; it flourishes
in low places, but withers on your
d—d high, dry grounds. I once kept
high company, sir, until I nearly ruined
myself; I grew so dull, and vapid, and
genteel. Nothing saved me but being

arrested by my landlady, and thrown
into prison; where a course of catch
clubs, eight-penny ale, and poor-devil
company, manured my mind, and brought
it back to itself again."

As it was growing late, we parted for
the evening, though I felt anxious to
know more of this practical philosopher.
I was glad, therefore, when Buckthorne
proposed to have another meeting, to talk
over old school-times, and inquired his
schoolmate's address. The latter seemed
at first a little shy of naming his lodgings;
but suddenly, assuming an air of hardihood—"Green-arbour
Court, sir," exclaimed
he—"Number —, in Greenarbour
Court. You must know the place.
Classic ground, sir, classic ground! It
was there Goldsmith wrote his Vicar of
Wakefield—I always like to live in literary
haunts."

I was amused with this whimsical
apology for shabby quarters. On our
way homeward, Buckthorne assured me
that this Dribble had been the prime wit
and great wag of the school in their
boyish days, and one of those unlucky
urchins denominated bright geniuses. As
he perceived me curious respecting his
old schoolmate, he promised to take me
with him in his proposed visit to Greenarbour
Court.

A few mornings afterward he called
upon me, and we set forth on our expedition.
He led me through a variety of
singular alleys, and courts, and blind
passages; for he appeared to be perfectly
versed in all the intricate geography of
the metropolis. At length we came out
upon Fleet-market, and traversing it,
turned up a narrow street to the bottom
of a long steep flight of stone steps, called
Breakneck Stairs. These, he told me,
led up to Green-arbour Court, and that
down them poor Goldsmith might many
a time have risked his neck. When we
entered the court, I could not but smile
to think in what out-of-the-way corners
genius produces her bantlings! And the
Muses, those capricious dames, who,
forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces,
and deny a single smile to votaries in
splendid studies, and gilded drawingrooms,—what
holes and burrows will
they frequent, to lavish their favours on
some ragged disciple!

This Green-arbour Court I found to be
a small square, of tall and miserable
houses, the very intestines of which
seemed turned inside out, to judge from
the old garments and frippery that fluttered
from every window. It appeared
to be a region of washerwomen, and
lines were stretched about the little
square, on which clothes were dangling
to dry.

Just as we entered the square, a
scuffle took place between two viragos
about a disputed right to a wash-tub,
and immediately the whole community
was in a hubbub. Heads in mob-caps
popped out of every window, and such a
clamour of tongues ensued, that I was
fain to stop my ears. Every amazon
took part with one or other of the disputants,
and brandished her arms, dripping
with soapsuds, and fired away from
her window as from the embrazure of a
fortress, while the swarms of children
nestled and cradled in every procreant
chamber of this hive, waking with the
noise, set up their shrill pipes to swell the
general concert.

Poor Goldsmith! what a time must he
have had of it, with his quiet disposition
and nervous habits, penned up in this
den of noise and vulgarity! How strange,
that while every sight and sound was
sufficient to embitter the heart, and fill
it with misanthropy, his pen should be
dropping the honey of Hybla! Yet it is
more than probable that he drew many
of his inimitable pictures of low life from
the scenes which surrounded him in this
abode. The circumstance of Mrs. Tibbs
being obliged to wash her husband's two
shirts in a neighbour's house, who refused
to lend her wash-tub, may have
been no sport of fancy, but a fact passing
under his own eye. His landlady may
have sat for the picture, and Beau Tibbs's
scanty wardrobe have been a fac simile
of his own.

It was with some difficulty that we
found our way to Dribble's lodgings.
They were up two pair of stairs, in a
room that looked upon the court, and
when we entered, he was seated on the
edge of his bed, writing at a broken
table. He received us, however, with a
free, open, poor-devil air, that was irresistible.
It is true he did at first appear

slightly confused; buttoned up his waistcoat
a little higher, and tucked in a stray
frill of linen. But he recollected himself
in an instant; gave a half swagger, half
leer, as he stepped forth to receive us;
drew a three-legged stool for Mr. Buckthorne;
pointed me to a lumbering old
damask chair, that looked like a dethroned
monarch in exile; and bade us
welcome to his garret.

We soon got engaged in conversation.
Buckthorne and he had much to say
about early school scenes; and as nothing
opens a man's heart more than recollections
of the kind, we soon drew from
him a brief outline of his literary career.

THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR.

I began life unluckily by being the
wag and bright fellow at school; and I
had the further misfortune of becoming
the great genius of my native village.
My father was a country attorney, and
intended that I should succeed him in
business; but I had too much genius to
study, and he was too fond of my genius
to force it into the traces: so I fell into
bad company, and took to bad habits.
Do not mistake me. I mean that I fell
into the company of village literati, and
village blues, and took to writing village
poetry.

It was quite the fashion in the village
to be literary. There was a little knot
of choice spirits of us, who assembled
frequently together, formed ourselves
into a Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical
Society, and fancied ourselves
the most learned Philos in existence.
Every one had a great character assigned
him, suggested by some casual habit or
affectation. One heavy fellow drank an
enormous quantity of tea, rolled in his
arm-chair, talked sententiously, pronounced
dogmatically, and was considered
a second Dr. Johnson; another,
who happened to be a curate, uttered
coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and
was the Swift of our association. Thus
we had also our Popes, and Goldsmiths,
and Addisons; and a blue-stocking lady,
whose drawing-room we frequented, who
corresponded about nothing with all the
world, and wrote letters with the stiffness
and formality of a printed book, was
cried up as another Mrs. Montagu. I
was, by common consent, the juvenile
prodigy, the poetical youth, the great
genius, the pride and hope of the village,
through whom it was to become one day
as celebrated as Stratford-on-Avon.

My father died, and left me his blessing
and his business. His blessing brought
no money into my pocket; and as to his
business, it soon deserted me; for I was
busy writing poetry, and could not attend
to law; and my clients, though they had
great respect for my talents, had no
faith in a poetical attorney.

I lost my business, therefore, spent my
money, and finished my poem. It was
the Pleasures of Melancholy, and was
cried up to the skies by the whole circle.
The Pleasures of Imagination, the Pleasures
of Hope, and the Pleasures of
Memory, though each had placed its
author in the first rank of poets, were
blank prose in comparison. Our Mrs.
Montagu would cry over it from beginning
to end. It was pronounced by all
the members of the Literary, Scientific,
and Philosophical Society, the greatest
poem of the age, and all anticipated the
noise it would make in the great world.
There was not a doubt but the London
booksellers would be mad after it, and
the only fear of my friends was, that I
would make a sacrifice by selling it too
cheap. Every time they talked the matter
over, they increased the price. They
reckoned up the great sums given for the
poems of certain popular writers, and
determined that mine was worth more
than all put together, and ought to be
paid for accordingly. For my part, I
was modest in my expectations, and determined
that I would be satisfied with a
thousand guineas. So I put my poem in
my pocket, and set off for London.

My journey was joyous. My heart
was light as my purse, and my head full
of anticipations of fame and fortune.
With what swelling pride did I cast my
eyes upon old London from the heights
of Highgate! I was like a general,
looking down upon a place he expects
to conquer. The great metropolis lay
stretched before me, buried under a homemade

cloud of murky smoke, that wraped
it from the brightness of a sunny day,
and formed for it a kind of artificial bad
weather. At the outskirts of the city,
away to the west, the smoke gradually
decreased until all was clear and sunny,
and the view stretched uninterrupted to
the blue line of the Kentish hills.

My eye turned fondly to where the
mighty cupola of St. Paul swelled dimly
through this misty chaos, and I pictured
to myself the solemn realm of learning
that lies about its base. How soon
should the Pleasures of Melancholy
throw this world of booksellers and
printers into a bustle of business and
delight! How soon should I hear my
name repeated by printers' devils throughout
Paternoster Row, and Angel Court,
and Ave-Maria Lane, until Amen Corner
should echo back the sound!

Arrived in town, I repaired at once to
the most fashionable publisher. Every
new author patronises him of course. In
fact, it had been determined in the village
circle that he should be the fortunate
man. I cannot tell you how vaingloriously
I walked the streets. My head
was in the clouds. I felt the airs of
heaven playing about it, and fancied it
already encircled by a halo of literary
glory. As I passed by the windows of
bookshops, I anticipated the time when
my work would be shining among the
hot-pressed wonders of the day; and my
face, scratched on copper, or cut on
wood, figuring in fellowship with those
of Scott, and Byron, and Moore.

When I applied at the publisher's
house, there was something of the loftiness
of my air, and the dinginess of my
dress, that struck the clerks with reverence.
They doubtless took me for some
person of consequence: probably a digger
of Greek roots, or a penetrator of
pyramids. A proud man in a dirty shirt
is always an imposing character in the
world of letters: one must feel intellectually
secure before he can venture to
dress shabbily; none but a great genius,
or a great scholar, dares to be dirty: so
I was ushered at once to the sanctum
sanctorum of this high priest of Minerva.

The publishing of books is a very different
affair now-a-days from what it
was in the time of Bernard Lintot. I
found the publisher a fashionably dressed
man, in an elegant drawing-room,
furnished with sofas and portraits of
celebrated authors, and cases of splendidly
bound books. He was writing
letters at an elegant table. This was
transacting business in style. The place
seemed suited to the magnificent publications
that issued from it. I rejoiced at
the choice I had made of a publisher, for
I always liked to encourage men of taste
and spirit.

I stepped up to the table with the lofty
poetical part that I had been accustomed
to maintain in our village circle; though
I threw in it something of a patronising
air, such as one feels when about to make
a man's fortune. The publisher paused
with his pen in his hand, and seemed
waiting in mute suspense to know what
was to be announced by so singular an
apparition.

I put him at his ease in a moment, for I
felt that I had but to come, see, and conquer.
I made known my name, and the
name of my poem; produced my precious
roll of blotted manuscript; laid it
on the table with an emphasis; and told
him at once, to save time, and come
directly to the point, the price was one
thousand guineas.

I had given him no time to speak, nor
did he seem so inclined. He continued
looking at me for a moment with an air
of whimsical perplexity; scanned me
from head to foot; looked down at the
manuscript, then up again at me, then
pointed to a chair; and whistling softly
to himself, went on writing his letter.

I sat for some time waiting his reply,
supposing he was making up his mind;
but he only paused occasionally to take
a fresh dip of ink, to stroke his chin, or
the tip of his nose, and then resumed his
writing. It was evident his mind was
intently occupied upon some other subject;
but I had no idea that any other
subject should be attended to, and my
poem lie unnoticed on the table. I had
supposed that every thing would make
way for the Pleasures of Melancholy.

My gorge at length rose within me.
I took up my manuscript, thrust it into
my pocket, and walked out of the room:
making some noise as I went out, to let

my departure be heard. The publisher,
however, was too much buried in minor
concerns to notice it. I was suffered to
walk down stairs without being called
back. I sallied forth into the street, but
no clerk was sent after me; nor did the
publisher call after me from the drawing-room
window. I have been told since,
that he considered me either a madman
or a fool. I leave you to judge how
much he was in the wrong in his opinion.

When I turned the corner, my crest
fell. I cooled down in my pride and
my expectations, and reduced my terms
with the next bookseller to whom I applied.
I had no better success; nor with
a third, nor with a fourth. I then desired
the booksellers to make an offer
themselves; but the deuce an offer would
they make. They told me poetry was a
mere drug; every body wrote poetry;
the market was overstocked with it.
And then they said, the title of my poem
was not taking; that pleasures of all
kinds were worn threadhare, nothing
but horrors did now-a-days, and even
those were almost worn out. Tales of
Pirates, Robbers, and Bloody Turks,
might answer tolerably well; but then
they must come from some established
well-known name, or the public would
not look at them.

At last I offered to leave my poem
with a bookseller, to read it, and judge
for himself. "Why, really, my dear
Mr. ——a—a—I forget your name,"
said he, casting an eye at my rusty coat
and shabby gaiters, "really, sir, we are
so pressed with business just now, and
have so many manuscripts on hand to
read, that we have not time to look at
any new productions; but if you can call
again in a week or two, or say the middle
of next month, we may be able to
look over your writings, and give you an
answer. Don't forget, the month after
next; good morning, sir; happy to see
you at any time you are passing this
way." So saying, he bowed me out in
the civilest way imaginable. In short,
sir, instead of an eager competition to
secure my poem, I could not even get it
read! In the mean time I was harassed
by letters from my friends, wanting to
know when the work was to appear;
who was to be my publisher; but, above
all things, warning me not to let it go
too cheap.

There was but one alternative left. I
determined to publish the poem myself;
and to have my triumph over the booksellers,
when it should become the fashion
of the day. I accordingly published the
Pleasures of Melancholy, and ruined myself.
Excepting the copies sent to the
reviews, and to my friends in the country,
not one, I believe, ever left the
bookseller's warehouse. The printer's
bill drained my purse, and the only
notice that was taken of my work, was
contained in the advertisements paid for
by myself.

I could have borne all this, and have
attributed it, as usual, to the mismanagement
of the publisher, or the want of
taste in the public, and could have made
the usual appeal to posterity; but my
village friends would not let me rest in
quiet. They were picturing me to themselves
feasting with the great, communing
with the literary, and in the high
career of fortune and renown. Every
little while, some one would call on me
with a letter of introduction from the
village circle, recommending him to my
attentions, and requesting that I would
make him known in society; with a
hint, that an introduction to a celebrated
literary nobleman would be extremely
agreeable. I determined, therefore, to
change my lodgings, drop my correspondence,
and disappear altogether from
the view of my village admirers. Besides,
I was anxious to make one more
poetic attempt. I was by no means disheartened
by the failure of my first.
My poem was evidently too didactic.
The public was wise enough. It no
longer read for instruction. "They
want horrors, do they?" said I: "I'
faith! then they shall have enough of
them." So I looked out for some quiet,
retired place, where I might be out of
reach of my friends, and have leisure to
cook up some delectable dish of poetical
"hell-broth."

I had some difficulty in finding a place
to my mind, when chance threw me in
the way of Canonbury Castle. It is an
ancient brick tower, hard by "merry
Islington;" the remains of a hunting-seat

of Queen Elizabeth, where she took
the pleasure of the country when the
neighbourhood was all woodland. What
gave it particular interest in my eyes
was the circumstance that it had been
the residence of a poet. It was here
Goldsmith resided when he wrote his
Deserted Village. I was shown the
very apartment. It was a relic of the
original style of the castle, with paneled
wainscots and Gothic windows. I was
pleased with its air of antiquity, and with
its having been the residence of poor
Goldy.

"Goldsmith was a pretty poet," said
I to myself, "a very pretty poet, though
rather of the old school. He did not
think and feel so strongly as is the
fashion now-a-days; but had he lived in
these times of hot hearts and hot heads,
he would no doubt have written quite
differently."

In a few days I was quietly established
in my new quarters; my books all arranged;
my writing-desk placed by a
window looking out into the fields; and
I felt as snug as Robinson Crusoe, when
he had finished his bower. For several
days I enjoyed all the novelty of change
and the charms which grace new lodgings,
before one has found out their defects.
I rambled about the fields where
I fancied Goldsmith had rambled. I explored
merry Islington; ate my solitary
dinner at the Black Bull, which, according
to tradition, was a country-seat of
Sir Walter Raleigh; and would sit and
sip my wine, and muse on old times, in
a quaint old room, where many a council
had been held.

All this did very well for a few days.
I was stimulated by novelty; inspired
by the associations awakened in my
mind by these curious haunts; and
began to think I felt the spirit of composition
stirring within me. But Sunday
came, and with it the whole city world,
swarming about Canonbury Castle. I
could not open my window but I was
stunned with shouts and noises from the
cricket ground; the late quiet road beneath
my window was alive with the
tread of feet and clack of tongues; and,
to complete my misery, I found that my
quiet retreat was absolutely a "show
house," the tower and its contents
being shown to strangers at sixpence a
head.

There was a perpetual tramping up
stairs of citizens and their families, to
look about the country from the top of
the tower, and to take a peep at the city
through the telescope, to try if they could
discern their own chimneys. And then,
in the midst of a vein of thought, or a
moment of inspiration, I was interrupted,
and all my ideas put to flight, by my
intolerable landlady's tapping at the
door, and asking me if I would "just
please to let a lady and gentleman come
in, to take a look at Mr. Goldsmith's
room." If you know any thing of what
an author's study is, and what an author
is himself, you must know that there
was no standing this. I put a positive
interdict on my room's being exhibited;
but then it was shown when I was absent,
and my papers put in confusion;
and, on returning home one day, I absolutely
found a cursed tradesman and
his daughters gaping over my manuscripts,
and my landlady in a panic at
my appearance. I tried to make out a
little longer, by taking the key in my
pocket; but it would not do. I overheard
mine hostess one day telling some
of her customers on the stairs, that the
room was occupied by an author, who
was always in a tantrum if interrupted;
and I immediately perceived, by a slight
noise at the door, that they were peeping
at me through the key-hole. By the
head of Apollo, but this was quite too
much! With all my eagerness for fame,
and my ambition of the stare of the million,
I had no idea of being exhibited by
retail, at sixpence a head, and that
through a key-hole. So I bade adieu to
Canonbury Castle, merry Islington, and
the haunts of poor Goldsmith, without
having advanced a single line in my
labours.

My next quarters were at a small,
white-washed cottage, which stands not
far from Hampstead, just on the brow of
a hill; looking over Chalk Farm and
Camden Town, remarkable for the rival
houses of Mother Red Cap and Mother
Black Cap; and so across Crackscull
Common to the distant city.

The cottage was in no wise remarkable
in itself; but I regarded it with reverence,

for it had been the asylum of a
persecuted author. Hither poor Steele
had retreated, and lain perdu, when persecuted
by creditors and bailiffs—those
immemorial plagues of authors and free-spirited
gentlemen; and here he had
written many numbers of the Spectator.
It was from hence, too, that he had despatched
those little notes to his lady, so
full of affection and whimsicality, in
which the fond husband, the careless
gentleman, and the shifting spendthrift,
were so oddly blended. I thought, as I
first eyed the window of his apartment,
that I could sit within it and write volumes.

No such thing! It was hay-making
season, and, as ill-luck would have it,
immediately opposite the cottage was a
little alehouse, with the sign of the Load
of Hay. Whether it was there in Steele's
time, I cannot say; but it set all attempts
at conception or inspiration at defiance.
It was the resort of all the Irish haymakers
who mow the broad fields in the
neighbourhood; and of drovers and
teamsters who travel that road. Here
they would gather in the endless summer
twilight, or by the light of the harvest
moon, and sit round a table at the door;
and tipple, and laugh, and quarrel, and
fight, and sing drowsy songs, and dawdle
away the hours, until the deep solemn
notes of St. Paul's clock would warn the
varlets home.

In the daytime I was still less able to
write. It was broad summer. The
haymakers were at work in the fields,
and the perfume of the new-mown hay
brought with it the recollection of my
native fields. So, instead of remaining
in my room to write, I went wandering
about Primrose Hill, and Hampstead
Heights, and Shepherd's Fields, and all
those Arcadian scenes so celebrated by
London bards. I cannot tell you how
many delicious hours I have passed,
lying on the cocks of new-mown hay,
on the pleasant slopes of some of those
hills, inhaling the fragrance of the fields,
while the summer-fly buzzed about me,
or the grasshopper leaped into my bosom;
and how I have gazed with half-shut
eye upon the smoky mass of London,
and listened to the distant sound of
its population, and pitied the poor sons
of earth, toiling in its bowels, like
Gnomes in the "dark gold mine."

People may say what they please
about cockney pastorals, but, after all,
there is a vast deal of rural beauty about
the western vicinity of London; and any
one that has looked down upon the valley
of West End, with its soft bosom of
green pasturage lying open to the south,
and dotted with cattle; the steeple of
Hampstead rising among rich groves on
the brow of the hill; and the learned
height of Harrow in the distance; will
confess that never has he seen a more
absolutely rural landscape in the vicinity
of a great metropolis.

Still, however, I found myself not a
whit the better off for my frequent
change of lodgings; and I began to discover,
that in literature, as in trade, the
old proverb holds good, "a rolling stone
gathers no moss."

The tranquil beauty of the country
played the very vengeance with me. I
could not mount my fancy into the termagant
vein. I could not conceive,
amidst the smiling landscape, a scene of
blood and murder; and the smug citizens
in breeches and gaiters put all ideas of
heroes and bandits out of my brain. I
could think of nothing but dulcet subjects,
"the Pleasures of Spring"—"the
Pleasures of Solitude"—"the Pleasures
of Tranquillity"—"the Pleasures of Sentiment"—nothing
but pleasures; and I
had the painful experience of "the Pleasures
of Melancholy" too strongly in my
recollection to be beguiled by them.

Chance at length befriended me. I
had frequently, in my ramblings, loitered
about Hampstead Hill, which is a kind
of Parnassus of the metropolis. At such
times I occasionally took my dinner at
Jack Straw's Castle. It is a country inn
so named: the very spot where that
notorious rebel and his followers held
their council of war. It is a favourite
resort of citizens when rurally inclined,
as it commands fine fresh air, and a good
view of the city. I sat one day in the
public room of this inn, ruminating over
a beefsteak and a pint of port, when my
imagination kindled up with ancient and
heroic images. I had long wanted a
theme and a hero; both suddenly broke
upon my mind: I determined to write

a poem on the history of Jack Straw.
I was so full of my subject, that I was
fearful of being anticipated. I wondered
that none of the poets of the day, in
their researches after ruffian heroes, had
ever thought of Jack Straw. I went to
work pell-mell, blotted several sheets of
paper with choice floating thoughts, and
battles, and descriptions, to be ready at
a moment's warning. In a few days'
time I sketched out the skeleton of my
poem, and nothing was wanting but to
give it flesh and blood. I used to take
my manuscript, and stroll about Caen-Wood,
and read aloud; and would dine
at the Castle, by way of keeping up the
vein of thought.

I was there one day, at rather a late
hour, in the public room. There was
no other company but one man, who sat
enjoying his pint of port at a window,
and noticing the passers-by. He was
dressed in a green shooting-coat. His
countenance was strongly marked: he
had a hooked nose; a romantic eye,
excepting that it had something of a
squint; and altogether, as I thought, a
poetical style of head. I was quite taken
with the man, for you must know I am
a little of a physiognomist; I set him
down for either a poet or a philosopher.

As I like to make new acquaintances,
considering every man a volume of human
nature, I soon fell into conversation
with the stranger, who, I was pleased to
find, was by no means difficult of access.
After I had dined, I rejoined him at the
window, and we became so sociable that
I proposed a bottle of wine together, to
which he most cheerfully assented.

I was too full of my poem to keep
long quiet on the subject, and began to
talk about the origin of the tavern, and
the history of Jack Straw. I found my
new acquaintance to be perfectly at home
on the topic, and to jump exactly with
my humour in every respect. I became
elevated by the wine and the conversation.
In the fulness of an author's feelings,
I told him of my projected poem,
and repeated some passages, and he
was in raptures. He was evidently of a
strong poetical turn.

"Sir," said he, filling my glass at the
same time, "our poets don't look at
home. I don't see why we need go out
of old England for robbers and rebels to
write about. I like your Jack Straw,
sir,—he's a home-made hero. I like
him, sir—I like him exceedingly. He's
English to the back-bone—damme—
Give me honest old England after all!
Them's my sentiments, sir."

"I honour your sentiment," cried I,
zealously; "it is exactly my own. An
English ruffian is as good a ruffian for
poetry as any in Italy, or Germany, or
the Archipelago; but it is hard to make
our poets think so."

"More shame for them!" replied the
man in green. "What a plague would
they have? What have we to do with
their Archipelagos of Italy and Germany?
Haven't we heaths and commons
and highways on our own little
island—ay, and stout fellows to pad the
hoof over them too? Stick to home, I
say—them's my sentiments. Come, sir,
my service to you—I agree with you
perfectly."

"Poets, in old times, had right notions
on this subject," continued I; "witness
the fine old ballads about Robin Hood,
Allan a'Dale, and other staunch blades of
yore."

"Right, sir, right," interrupted he;
"Robin Hood! he was the lad to cry
Stand! to a man, and never to flinch."

"Ah, sir," said I, "they had famous
bands of robbers in the good old times;
those were glorious poetical days. The
merry crew of Sherwood Forest, who
led such a roving picturesque life `under
the greenwood tree.' I have often wished
to visit their haunts, and tread the
scenes of the exploits of Friar Tuck, and
Clymn of the Clough, and Sir William
of Cloudeslie."

"Nay, sir," said the gentleman in
green, "we have had several very pretty
gangs since their day. Those gallant
dogs that kept about the great heaths
in the neighbourhood of London, about
Bagshot, and Hounslow and Blackheath,
for instance. Come, sir, my service to
you. You don't drink."

"I suppose," said I, emptying my
glass, "I suppose you have heard of the
famous Turpin, who was born in this
very village of Hampstead, and who used
to lurk with his gang in Epping Forest,
about a hundred years since?"

"Have I?" cried he, "to be sure I
have! A hearty old blade that. Sound
as pitch. Old Turpentine! as we used to
call him. A famous fine fellow, sir."

"Well, sir," continued I, "I have
visited Waltham Abbey and Chingford
Church merely from the stories I heard
when a boy of his exploits there, and
I have searched Epping Forest for the
cavern where he used to conceal himself.
You must know," added I, "that I am a
sort of amateur of highwaymen. They
were dashing, daring fellows: the best
apologies that we had for the knights-errant
of yore. Ah, sir! the country
has been sinking gradually into tameness
and commonplace. We are losing
the old English spirit. The bold knights
of the post have all dwindled down into
lurking footpads and sneaking pickpockets;
there's no such thing as a dashing,
gentleman-like robbery committed now-a-days
on the King's highway: a man
may roll from one end of England to the
other in a drowsy coach, or jingling
post-chaise, without any other adventure
than that of being occasionally overturned,
sleeping in damp sheets, or having
an ill-cooked dinner. We hear no more
of public coaches being stopped and robbed
by a well-mounted gang of resolute
fellows, with pistols in their hands, and
crapes over their faces. What a pretty
poetical incident was it, for example, in
domestic life, for a family carriage, on
its way to a country-seat, to be attacked
about dark; the old gentleman eased of
his purse and watch, the ladies of their
necklaces and ear-rings, by a politely-spoken
highwayman on a blood mare,
who afterwards leaped the hedge and
galloped across the country; to the admiration
of Miss Caroline, the daughter,
who would write a long and romantic
account of the adventure to her friend,
Miss Juliana, in town. Ah, sir! we meet
with nothing of such incidents now-a-days."

"That, sir," said my companion,
taking advantage of a pause, when I
stopped to recover breath, and to take a
glass of wine which he had just poured
out, "that, sir, craving your pardon, is
not owing to any want of old English
pluck. It is the effect of this cursed
system of banking. People do not travel
with bags of gold as they did formerly.
They have post-notes, and drafts on
bankers. To rob a coach is like catching
a crow, where you have nothing but
carrion flesh and feathers for your pains.
But a coach in old times, sir, was as
rich as a Spanish galloon. It turned
out the yellow boys bravely. And a
private carriage was a cool hundred or
two at least."

I cannot express how much I was
delighted with the sallies of my new
acquaintance. He told me that he often
frequented the Castle, and would be glad
to know more of me; and I promised
myself many a pleasant afternoon with
him, when I should read him my poem
as it proceeded, and benefit by his remarks;
for it was evident that he had
the true poetical feeling.

"Come, sir," said he, pushing the
bottle, "damme, I like you! you're a
man after my own heart. I'm cursed
slow in making new acquaintances. One
must be on the reserve, you know. But
when I meet with a man of your kidney,
damme, my heart jumps at once to him.
Them's my sentiments, sir. Come, sir,
here's Jack Straw's health! I presume
one can drink it now-a-days without treason!"

"With all my heart," said I, gaily,
"and Dick Turpin's into the bargain!"

"Ah, sir," said the man in green,
"those are the kind of men for poetry.
The Newgate Calendar, sir! the Newgate
Calendar is your only reading!
There's the place to look for bold deeds
and dashing fellows."

We were so much pleased with each
other that we sat until a late hour.
I insisted on paying the bill, for both my
purse and my heart were full, and I
agreed that he should pay the score at
our next meeting. As the coaches had
all gone that run between Hampstead
and London, we had to return on foot.
He was so delighted with the idea of my
poem, that he could talk of nothing else.
He made me repeat such passages as I
could remember; and though I did it
in a very mangled manner, having a
wretched memory, yet he was in raptures.

Every now and then he would break
out with some scrap, which he would

misquote most terribly, would rub his
hands and exclaim, "By Jupiter, that's
fine, that's noble! Damme, sir, if I
can conceive how you hit upon such
ideas!"

I must confess I did not always relish
his misquotations, which sometimes made
absolute nonsense of the passages; but
what author stands upon trifles when he
is praised?"

Never had I spent a more delightful
evening. I did not perceive how the
time flew. I could not bear to separate,
but continued walking on, arm in arm,
with him, past my lodgings, through
Camden Town, and across Crackscull
Common, talking the whole way about
my poem.

When we were half way across the
common, he interrupted me in the midst
of a quotation, by telling me that this
had been a famous place for footpads,
and was still occasionally infested by
them; and that a man had recently been
shot there in attempting to defend himself.
"The more fool he!" cried I;
"a man is an idiot to risk life, or even
limb, to save a paltry purse of money.
It's quite a different case from that of a
duel, where one's honour is concerned.
For my part," added I, "I should never
think of making resistance against one
of those desperadoes."

"Say you so?" cried my friend in
green, turning suddenly upon me, and
putting a pistol to my breast; "why,
then, have at you, my lad!—come—
disburse! empty! unsack!"

In a word, I found that the Muse had
played me another of her tricks, and
had betrayed me into the hands of a
footpad. There was no time to parley;
he made me turn my pockets inside out;
and, hearing the sound of distant footsteps,
he made one fell swoop upon
purse, watch, and all; gave me a
thwack over my unlucky pate that laid
me sprawling on the ground, and scampered
away with his booty.

I saw no more of my friend in green
until a year or two afterwards; when
I caught a sight of his poetical countenance
among a crew of scapegraces
heavily ironed, who were on the way
for transportation. He recognised me
at once, tipped me an impudent wink,
and asked me how I came on with the
history of Jack Straw's Castle.

The catastrophe at Crackscull Common
put an end to my summer's campaign.
I was cured of my poetical enthusiasm
for rebels, robbers, and highwaymen.
I was put out of conceit of
my subject, and, what was worse, I was
lightened of my purse, in which was
almost every farthing I had in the world.
So I abandoned Sir Richard Steele's cottage
in despair, and crept into less celebrated,
though no less poetical and airy
lodgings, in a garret in town.

I now determined to cultivate the society
of the literary, and to enrol myself
in the fraternity of authorship. It is by
the constant collision of mind, thought I,
that authors strike out the sparks of
genius, and kindle up with glorious conceptions.
Poetry is evidently a contagious
complaint. I will keep company with
poets; who knows but I may catch it as
others have done?

I found no difficulty of making a circle
of literary acquaintances, not having
the sin of success lying at my door: indeed
the failure of my poem was a kind
of recommendation to their favour. It is
true my new friends were not of the
most brilliant names in literature; but
then if you would take their words for it,
they were like the prophets of old, men
of whom the world was not worthy; and
who were to live in future ages, when the
ephemeral favourites of the day should
be forgotten.

I soon discovered, however, that the
more I mingled in literary society, the less
I felt capable of writing; that poetry was
not so catching as I imagined; and that
in familiar life there was often nothing
less poetical than a poet. Besides, I
wanted esprit de corps to turn these literary
fellowships to any account. I could
not bring myself to enlist in any particular
seet. I saw something to like in
them all, but found that would never do,
for that the tacit condition on which a
man enters into one of these sects is, that
he abuses all the rest.

I perceived that there were little knots
of authors who lived with, and for, and
by one another. They considered themselves
the salt of the earth. They fostered
and kept up a conventional vein of

thinking and talking, and joking on all
subjects; and they cried each other up to
the skies. Each sect had its particular
creed; and set up certain authors as
divinities, and fell down and worshipped
them; and considered every one who did
not worship them, or who worshipped
any other, as a heretic and an infidel.

In quoting the writers of the day, I
generally found them extolling names of
which I had scarcely heard, and talking
slightly of others who were the favourites
of the public. If I mentioned any recent
work from the pen of a first-rate author,
they had not read it; they had not time
to read all that was spawned from the
press; he wrote too much to write well;—
and then they would break out into
raptures about some Mr. Timson, or
Tomson, or Jackson, whose works were
neglected at the present day, but who
was to be the wonder and delight of
posterity. Alas! what heavy debts is
this neglectful world daily accumulating
on the shoulders of poor posterity!

But, above all, it was edifying to hear
with what contempt they would talk of the
great. Ye gods! how immeasurably the
great are despised by the small fry of literature!
It is true, an exception was now
and then made of some nobleman, with
whom, perhaps, they had casually shaken
hands at an election, or hobbed or nobbed
at a public dinner, and who was pronounced
a "devilish good fellow," and
"no humbug;" but, in general, it was
enough for a man to have a title, to be
the object of their sovereign disdain:
you have no idea how poetically and philosophically
they would talk of nobility.

For my part this affected me but little;
for though I had no bitterness against the
great, and did not think the worse of a
man for having innocently been born to a
title, yet I did not feel myself at present
called upon to resent the indignities
poured upon them by the little. But the
hostility to the great writers of the day
went sore against the grain with me. I
could not enter into such feuds, nor participate
in such animosities. I had not
become author sufficiently to hate other
authors. I could still find pleasure in the
novelties of the press, and could find it
in my heart to praise a contemporary,
even though he were successful. Indeed
I was miscellaneous in my taste, and
could not confine it to any age or growth
of writers. I could turn with delight from
the glowing pages of Byron to the cool
and polished raillery of Pope; and, after
wandering among the sacred groves of
Paradise Lost, I could give myself up to
voluptuous abandonment in the enchanted
bowers of Lalla Rookh.

"I would have my authors," said I,
as various as my wines, and, in relishing
the strong and the racy, would never
decry the sparkling and exhilarating.
Port and sherry are excellent stand-by's,
and so is madeira; but claret and burgundy
may be drunk now and then
without disparagement to one's palate;
and champagne is a beverage by no
means to be despised."

Such was the tirade I uttered one day,
when a little flushed with ale, at a literary
club. I uttered it, too, with something
of a flourish, for I thought my simile a
clever one. Unluckily, my auditors were
men who drank beer and hated Pope; so
my figure about wines went for nothing,
and my critical toleration was looked
upon as downright heterodoxy. In a
word, I soon became like a freethinker
in religion, an outlaw from every seet,
and fair game for all. Such are the
melancholy consequences of not hating
in literature.

I see you are growing weary, so I will
be brief with the residue of my literary
career. I will not detain you with a
detail of my various attempts to get
astride of Pegasus; of the poems I have
written which were never printed, the
plays I have presented which were never
performed, and the tracts I have published
which were never purchased. It seemed
as if booksellers, managers, and the very
public, had entered into a conspiracy to
starve me. Still I could not prevail upon
myself to give up the trial, nor abandon
those dreams of renown in which I had
indulged. How should I be able to look
the literary circle of my native village in
the face, if I were so completely to falsify
their predictions? For some time longer,
therefore, I continued to write for fame,
and was, of course, the most miserable dog
in existence, besides being in continual
risk of starvation. I accumulated loads of
literary treasure on my shelves—loads

which were to be treasures to posterity;
but, alas! they put not a penny into my
purse. What was all this wealth to my
present necessities? I could not patch
my elbows with an ode; nor satisfy my
hunger with blank verse. "Shall a man
fill his belly with the east wind?" says
the proverb. He may as well do so as
with poetry.

I have many a time strolled sorrowfully
along with a sad heart and an empty
stomach, about five o'clock, and looked
wistfully down the areas in the west end
of the town, and seen through the kitchen
windows the fires gleaming, and the joints
of meat turning on the spits and dripping
with gravy, and the cook-maids beating
up puddings, or trussing turkeys, and felt
for the moment that if I could but have
the run of one of those kitchens, Apollo
and the Muses might have the hungry
heights of Parnassus for me. Oh, sir!
talk of meditations among the tombs—
they are nothing so melancholy as the
meditations of a poor devil without penny
in pouch, along a line of kitchen-windows
towards dinner-time.

At length, when almost reduced to
famine and despair, the idea all at once
entered my head, that perhaps I was not
so clever a fellow as the village and
myself had supposed. It was the salvation
of me. The moment the idea
popped into my brain it brought conviction
and comfort with it. I awoke as from a
dream—I gave up immortal fame to those
who could live on air; took to writing
for mere bread; and have ever since had
a very tolerable life of it. There is no
man of letters so much at his ease, sir,
as he who has no character to gain or
lose. I had to train myself to it a little,
and to clip my wings short at first, or
they would have carried me up into poetry
in spite of myself. So I determined to
begin by the opposite extreme, and abandoning
the higher regions of the craft,
I came plump down to the lowest, and
turned creeper.

"Creeper! and pray what is that?"
said I.

"Oh, sir, I see you are ignorant of the
language of the craft: a creeper is one
who furnishes the newspapers with paragraphs
at so much a line; one who
goes about in quest of misfortunes; attends
the Bow Street Office, the Courts of
Justice, and every other den of mischief
and iniquity. We are paid at the rate of
a penny a line, and as we can sell the
same paragraph to almost every paper,
we sometimes pick up a very decent day's
work. Now and then the Muse is unkind,
or the day uncommonly quiet, and then
we rather starve; and sometimes the
unconscionable editors will clip our paragraphs
when they are a little too
rhetorical, and snip off two-pence or
three-pence at a go. I have many a
time had my pot of porter nipped off of
my dinner in this way, and have had to
dine with dry lips. However, I cannot
complain. I rose gradually in the lower
ranks of the craft, and am now, I think,
in the most comfortable region of literature."

"And pray," said I, "what may you
be at present?"

"At present," said he, "I am a regular
job-writer, and turn my hand to
any thing. I work up the writings of
others at so much a sheet; turn off
translations; write second-rate articles to
fill up reviews and magazines; compile
travels and voyages, and furnish theatrical
criticisms for the newspapers. All this
authorship, you perceive, is anonymous;
it gives me no reputation except among
the trade; where I am considered an
author of all work, and am always sure
of employ. That's the only reputation I
want. I sleep soundly, without dread of
duns or critics, and leave immortal fame
to those that choose to fret and fight about
it. Take my word for it, the only happy
author in this world is he who is below
the care of reputation."

NOTORIETY.

When we had emerged from the literary
nest of honest Dribble, and had
passed safely through the dangers of
Break neck Stairs, and the labyrinths of
Fleet-market, Buckthorne indulged in
many comments upon the peep into literary
life which he had furnished me.

I expressed my surprise at finding it so
different a world from what I had imagined.

"It is always so," said he, "with
strangers. The land of literature is a
fairy land to those who view it from a
distance, but, like all other landscapes,
the charm fades on a nearer approach,
and the thorns and briars become visible.
The republic of letters is the most factious
and discordant of all republics, ancient
or modern."

"Yet," said I, smiling, "you would
not have me take honest Dribble's experience
as a view of the land. He is
but a mousing owl; a mere groundling.
We should have quite a different strain
from one of those fortunate authors whom
we see sporting about the empyreal heights
of fashion, like swallows in the blue sky
of a summer's day."

"Perhaps we might," replied he, "but
I doubt it. I doubt whether, if any one,
even of the most successful, were to tell
his actual feelings, you would not find
the truth of friend Dribble's philosophy
with respect to reputation. One you
would find carrying a gay face to the
world, while some vulture critic was
preying upon his very liver. Another, who
was simple enough to mistake fashion for
fame, you would find watching countenances,
and cultivating invitations, more
ambitious to figure in the beau monde
than the world of letters, and apt to be
rendered wretched by the neglect of an
illiterate peer, or a dissipated duchess.
Those who were rising to fame, you
would find tormented with anxiety to get
higher; and those who had gained the
summit, in constant apprehension of a
decline.

"Even those who are indifferent to
the buzz of notoriety, and the farce of
fashion, are not much better off, being
incessantly harassed by intrusions on
their leisure, and interruptions of their
pursuits; for, whatever may be his feelings,
when once an author is launched
into notoriety, he must go the rounds
until the idle curiosity of the day is satisfied,
and he is thrown aside to make way
for some new caprice. Upon the whole,
I do not know but he is most fortunate
who engages in the whirl through ambition,
however tormenting; as it is doubly
irksome to be obliged to join in the game
without being interested in the stake.

"There is a constant demand in the
fashionable world for novelty; every
nine days must have its wonder, no
matter of what kind. At one time it is
an author: at another a fire-eater; at
another a composer, an Indian juggler,
or an Indian chief; a man from the
North Pole or the Pyramids: each figures
through his brief term of notoriety, and
then makes way for the succeeding
wonder. You must know that we have
oddity-fanciers among our ladies of rank,
who collect about them all kinds of
remarkable beings; fiddlers, statesmen,
singers, warriors, artists, philosophers,
actors, and poets; every kind of personage,
in short, who is noted for something
peculiar: so that their routs are like
fancy balls, where every one comes `in
character.'

"I have had infinite amusement at
these parties in noticing how industriously
every one was playing a part, and
acting out of his natural line. There is
not a more complete game at cross-purposes
than the intercourse of the literary
and the great. The fine gentleman is
always anxious to be thought a wit, and
the wit a fine gentleman.

"I have noticed a lord endeavouring
to look wise and to talk learnedly with
a man of letters, who was aiming at a
fashionable air, and the tone of a man
who had lived about town. The peer
quoted a score or two of learned authors,
with whom he would fain be thought intimate,
while the author talked of Sir
John this, and Sir Harry that, and extolled
the burgundy he had drunk at Lord
Such-a-one's. Each seemed to forget
that he could only be interesting to the
other in his proper character. Had the
peer been merely a man of erudition,
the author would never have listened to
his prosing; and had the author known
all the nobility in the Court Calendar, it
would have given him no interest in the
eyes of the peer.

"In the same way I have seen a fine
lady, remarkable for beauty, weary a
philosopher with flimsy metaphysics,
while the philosopher put on an awkward
air of gallantry, played with her
fan, and prattled about the opera. I have
heard a sentimental poet talk very stupidly
with a statesman about the national
debt; and on joining a knot of scientific

old gentlemen conversing in a corner,
expecting to hear the discussion of some
valuable discovery, I found they were
only amusing themselves with a fat
story."

A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER.

The anecdotes I had heard of Buckthorne's
early schoolmate, together with
a variety of peculiarities which I had
remarked in himself, gave me a strong
curiosity to know something of his own
history. I am a traveller of the good
old school, and am fond of the custom
laid down in books, according to which,
whenever travellers met, they sat down
forthwith and gave a history of themselves
and their adventures. This Buckthorne,
too, was a man much to my
taste; he had seen the world, and mingled
with society, yet retained the strong
eccentricities of a man who had lived
much alone. There was a careless dash
of good-humour about him which pleased
me exceedingly; and at times an odd
tinge of melancholy mingled with his
humour, and gave it an additional zest.
He was apt to run into long speculations
upon society and manners, and to indulge
in whimsical views of human nature, yet
there was nothing ill-tempered in his
satire. It ran more upon the follies than
the vices of mankind; and even the
follies of his fellow-man were treated
with the leniency of one who felt himself
to be but frail. He had evidently been
a little chilled and buffeted by fortune,
without being soured thereby: as some
fruits become mellower and more generous
in their flavour from having been
bruised and frostbitten.

I have always had a great relish for
the conversation of practical philosophers
of this stamp, who have profited by the
"sweet uses" of adversity without imbibing
its bitterness; who have learnt to
estimate the world rightly, yet good-humouredly;
and who, while they perceive
the truth of the saying, that "all
is vanity," are yet able to do so without
vexation of spirit.

Such a man was Buckthorne. In general
a laughing philosopher; and if at
any time a shade of sadness stole across
his brow, it was but transient; like a
summer cloud, which soon goes by, and
freshens and revives the fields over which
it passes.

I was walking with him one day in
Kensington Gardens—for he was a knowing
epicure in all the cheap pleasures
and rural haunts within reach of the
metropolis. It was a delightful warm
morning in spring; and he was in the
happy mood of a pastoral citizen, when
just turned loose into grass and sunshine.
He had been watching a lark which,
rising from a bed of daisies and yellowcups,
had sung his way up to a bright
snowy cloud floating in the deep blue sky.

"Of all birds," said he, "I should like
to be a lark. He revels in the brightest
time of the day, in the happiest season
of the year, among fresh meadows and
opening flowers; and when he has sated
himself with the sweetness of earth, he
wings his flight up to heaven as if he
would drink in the melody of the morning
stars. Hark to that note! How it
comes thrilling down upon the ear!
What a stream of music, note falling
over note in delicious cadence! Who
would trouble his head about operas and
concerts when he could walk in the fields
and hear such music for nothing? These
are the enjoyments which set riches at
scorn, and make even a poor man independent:

"Sir, there are homilies in nature's
works worth all the wisdom of the
schools, if we could but read them
rightly, and one of the pleasantest lessons
I ever received in a time of trouble,
was from hearing the notes of a lark."

I profited by this communicative vein
to intimate to Buckthorne a wish to know
something of the events of his life, which
I fancied must have been an eventful one.

He smiled when I expressed my desire.
"I have no great story," said he,
"to relate. A mere tissue of errors and
follies. But, such as it is, you shall

have one epoch of it, by which you may
judge of the rest." And so, without any
further prelude, he gave me the following
anecdotes of his early adventures.

BUCKTHORNE;
OR THE
YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

I was born to very little property, but
to great expectations—which is, perhaps,
one of the most unlucky fortunes that a
man can be born to. My father was
a country gentleman, the last of a very
ancient and honourable but decayed
family, and resided in an old hunting-lodge
in Warwickshire. He was a keen
sportsman, and lived to the extent of his
moderate income, so that I had little to
expect from that quarter; but then I had
a rich uncle by the mother's side, a
penurious, accumulating curmudgeon,
who it was confidently expected would
make me his heir, because he was an
old bachelor, because I was named after
him, and because he hated all the world
except myself.

He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a
miser even in misanthropy, and hoarded
up a grudge as he did a guinea. Thus,
though my mother was an only sister,
he had never forgiven her marriage with
my father, against whom he had a cold,
still, immovable pique, which had lain
at the bottom of his heart, like a stone
in a well, ever since they had been
schoolboys together. My mother, however,
considered me as the intermediate
being that was to bring every thing again
into harmony, for she looked on me as
a prodigy—God bless her! my heart
overflows whenever I recall her tenderness.
She was the most excellent,
the most indulgent of mothers. I was
her only child: it was a pity she had no
more, for she had fondness of heart
enough to have spoiled a dozen!

I was sent at an early age to a public
school, sorely against my mother's
wishes; but my father insisted that it
was the only way to make boys hardy.
The school was kept by a conscientious
prig of the ancient system, who did his
duty by the boys intrusted to his care:
that is to say, we were flogged soundly
when we did not get our lessons. We
were put into classes, and thus flogged
on in droves along the highways of
knowledge, in much the same manner as
cattle are driven to market; where those
that are heavy in gait, or short in leg,
have to suffer for the superior alertness
or longer limbs of their companions.

For my part, I confess it with shame,
I was an incorrigible laggard. I have
always had the poetical feeling, that is
to say, I have always been an idle fellow,
and prone to play the vagabond. I
used to get away from my books and
school whenever I could, and ramble
about the fields. I was surrounded by
seductions for such a temperament. The
schoolhouse was an old-fashioned whitewashed
mansion, of wood and plaster,
standing on the skirts of a beautiful
village: close by it was the venerable
church, with a tall Gothic spire; before
it spread a lovely green valley, with a
little stream glistening along through
willow groves; while a line of blue hills
that bounded the landscape gave rise to
many a summer-day dream as to the
fairy land that lay beyond.

In spite of all the scourgings I suffered
at that school to make me love my book,
I cannot but look back on the place with
fondness. Indeed, I considered this frequent
flagellation as the common lot of
humanity, and the regular mode in which
scholars were made.

My kind mother used to lament over
my details of the sore trials I underwent
in the cause of learning; but my father
turned a deaf ear to her expostulations.
He had been flogged through school himself,
and swore there was no other way
of making a man of parts; though, let
me speak it with all due reverence, my
father was but an indifferent illustration
of his theory, for he was considered a
grievous blockhead.

My poetical temperament evinced itself
at a very early period. The village
church was attended every Sunday by
a neighbouring squire, the lord of the
manor, whose park stretched quite to
the village, and whose spacious country-seat
seemed to take the church under its
protection. Indeed, you would have

thought the church had been consecrated
to him instead of to the Deity. The
parish-clerk bowed low before him, and
the vergers humbled themselves unto the
dust in his presence. He always entered
a little late, and with some stir; striking
his cane emphatically on the ground,
swaying his hat in his hand, and looking
loftily to the right and left as he walked
slowly up the aisle; and the parson, who
always ate his Sunday dinner with him,
never commenced service until he appeared.
He sat with his family in a
large pew, gorgeously lined, humbling
himself devoutly on velvet cushions, and
reading lessons of meekness and lowliness
of spirit out of splendid gold and
morocco prayer-books. Whenever the
parson spoke of the difficulty of a rich
man's entering the kingdom of Heaven,
the eyes of the congregation would turn
towards the "grand pew," and I thought
the squire seemed pleased with the application.

The pomp of this pew, and the aristocratical
air of the family, struck my
imagination wonderfully; and I fell desperately
in love with a little daughter of
the squire's, about twelve years of age.
This freak of fancy made me more
truant from my studies than ever. I
used to stroll about the squire's park,
and would lurk near the house, to catch
glimpses of this little damsel at the windows,
or playing about the lawn, or
walking out with her governess.

I had not enterprise nor impudence
enough to venture from my concealment.
Indeed I felt like an arrant poacher,
until I read one or two of Ovid's Metamorphoses,
when I pictured myself as
some sylvan deity, and she a coy wood-nymph
of whom I was in pursuit. There
is something extremely delicious in these
early awakenings of the tender passion.
I can feel even at this moment the throbbing
of my boyish bosom, whenever by
chance I caught a glimpse of her white
frock fluttering among the shrubbery. I
carried about in my bosom a volume of
Waller, which I had purloined from my
mother's library; and I applied to my
little fair one all the compliments lavished
upon Sacharissa.

At length I danced with her at a
school-ball. I was so awkward a booby,
that I dared scarcely speak to her; I
was filled with awe and embarrassment
in her presence; but I was so inspired,
that my poetical temperament for the
first time broke out in verse, and I fabricated
some glowing lines, in which I
be-rhymed the little lady under the
favourite name of Sacharissa. I slipped
the verses, trembling and blushing, into
her hand the next Sunday as she came
out of church. The little prude handed
them to her mamma; the mamma handed
them to the squire; the squire, who
had no soul for poetry, sent them in
dudgeon to the schoolmaster; and the
schoolmaster, with a barbarity worthy
of the dark ages, gave me a sound and
peculiarly humiliating flogging for thus
trespassing upon Parnassus. This was
a sad outset for a votary of the muse; it
ought to have cured me of my passion
for poetry; but it only confirmed it, for
I felt the spirit of a martyr rising within
me. What was as well, perhaps, it
cured me of my passion for the young
lady; for I felt so indignant at the ignominious
horsing I had incurred in celebrating
her charms, that I could not hold
up my head in church. Fortunately for
my wounded sensibility, the Midsummer
holidays came on, and I returned home.
My mother, as usual, inquired into all
my school concerns, my little pleasures,
and cares, and sorrows; for boyhood
has its share of the one as well as of the
other. I told her all, and she was indignant
at the treatment I had experienced.
She fired up at the arrogance of the
squire, and the prudery of the daughter;
and as to the schoolmaster, she wondered
where was the use of having schoolmasters,
and why boys could not remain at
home, and be educated by tutors, under
the eye of their mothers. She asked to
see the verses I had written, and she
was delighted with them; for, to confess
the truth, she had a pretty taste in
poetry. She even showed them to the
parson's wife, who protested they were
charming; and the parson's three daughters
insisted on each having a copy of
them.

All this was exceedingly balsamic, and
I was still more consoled and encouraged,
when the young ladies, who were the
blue-stockings of the neighbourhood, and

had read Dr. Johnson's Lives quite
through, assured my mother that great
geniuses never studied, but were always
idle; upon which I began to surmise
that I was myself something out of the
common run. My father, however, was
of a very different opinion; for when my
mother, in the pride of her heart, showed
him my copy of verses, he threw them
out of the window, asking her "if she
meant to make a ballad-monger of the
boy?" But he was a careless, common-thinking
man, and I cannot say that I
ever loved him much; my mother absorbed
all my filial affection.

I used occasionally, during holidays,
to be sent on short visits to the uncle,
who was to make me his heir; they
thought it would keep me in his mind,
and render him fond of me. He was a
withered, anxious-looking old fellow, and
lived in a desolate old country-seat, which
he suffered to go to ruin from absolute
niggardliness. He kept but one manservant,
who had lived, or rather starved,
with him for years. No woman was
allowed to sleep in the house. A daughter
of the old servant lived by the gate,
in what had been a porter's lodge, and
was permitted to come into the house
about an hour each day, to make the
beds, and cook a morsel of provisions.
The park that surrounded the house was
all run wild: the trees were grown out
of shape; the fish-ponds stagnant; the
urns and statues fallen from their pedestals,
and buried among the rank grass.
The hares and pheasants were so little
molested, except by poachers, that they
bred in great abundance, and sported
about the rough lawns and weedy
avenues. To guard the premises and
frighten off robbers, of whom he was
somewhat apprehensive, and visiters, of
whom he was in almost equal awe, my
uncle kept two or three bloodhounds,
who were always prowling round the
house, and were the dread of the neighbouring
peasantry. They were gaunt
and half starved, seemed ready to devour
one from mere hunger, and were
an effectual check on any stranger's
approach to this wizard castle.

Such was my uncle's house, which I
used to visit now and then during the
holidays. I was, as I before said, the
old man's favourite; that is to say, he
did not hate me so much as he did the
rest of the world. I had been apprised
of his character, and cautioned to cultivate
his good-will; but I was too young
and careless to be a courtier, and, indeed,
have never been sufficiently studious of
my interests to let them govern my feelings.
However, we jogged on very well
together, and as my visits cost him almost
nothing, they did not seem to be
very unwelcome. I brought with me
my fishing-rod, and half supplied the
table from the fish-ponds.

Our meals were solitary and unsocial.
My uncle rarely spoke; he pointed to
whatever he wanted, and the servant
perfectly understood him. Indeed, his
man John, or Iron John, as he was called
in the neighbourhood, was a counterpart
of his master. He was a tall, bony old
fellow, with a dry wig, that seemed made
of cow's tail, and a face as tough as
though it had been made of cow's hide.
He was generally clad in a long, patched
livery coat, taken out of the wardrobe of
the house, and which bagged loosely
about him, having evidently belonged to
some corpulent predecessor, in the more
plenteous days of the mansion. From
long habits of taciturnity the hinges of
his jaws seemed to have grown absolutely
rusty, and it cost him as much
effort to set them ajar, and to let out
a tolerable sentence, as it would have
done to set open the iron gates of the
park, and let out the old family carriage,
that was dropping to pieces in the coach-house.

I cannot say, however, but that I was
for some time amused with my uncle's
peculiarities. Even the very desolateness
of the establishment had something
in it that hit my fancy. When the
weather was fine, I used to amuse myself
in a solitary way, by rambling about the
park, and coursing like a colt across its
lawns. The hares and pheasants seemed
to stare with surprise to see a human
being walking these forbidden grounds
by daylight. Sometimes I amused myself
by jerking stones, or shooting at
birds with a bow and arrows, for to have
used a gun would have been treason.
Now and then my path was crossed by a
little red-headed, ragged-tailed urchin,

the son of the woman at the lodge, who
ran wild about the premises. I tried to
draw him into familiarity, and to make a
companion of him; but he seemed to
have imbibed the strange unsocial character
of every thing around him, and
always kept aloof; so I considered him
as another Orson, and amused myself
with shooting at him with my bow
and arrows, and he would hold up his
breeches with one hand, and scamper
away like a deer.

There was something in all this loneliness
and wildness strangely pleasing
to me. The great stables, empty and
weather-broken, with the names of favourite
horses over the vacant stalls;
the windows bricked and boarded up;
the broken roofs, garrisoned by rooks
and jackdaws, all had a singularly forlorn
appearance. One would have concluded
the house to be totally uninhabited, were
it not for a little thread of blue smoke,
which now and then curled up like a
corkscrew, from the centre of one of the
wide chimneys, where my uncle's starveling
meal was cooking.

My uncle's room was in a remote
corner of the building, strongly secured,
and generally locked. I was never admitted
into this stronghold, where the
old man would remain for the greater
part of the time, drawn up, like a veteran
spider, in the citadel of his web. The
rest of the mansion, however, was open
to me, and I wandered about it unconstrained.
The damp and rain which
beat in through the broken windows,
crumbled the paper from the walls,
mouldered the pictures, and gradually
destroyed the furniture. I loved to roam
about the wide waste chambers in bad
weather, and listen to the howling of the
wind, and the banging about of the doors
and window-shutters. I pleased myself
with the idea how completely, when I
came to the estate, I would renovate all
things, and make the old building ring
with merriment, till it was astonished at
its own joeundity.

The chamber which I occupied on
these visits, was the same that had been
my mother's when a girl. There was
still the toilet-table of her own adorning,
the landscapes of her own drawing. She
had never seen it since her marriage, but
would often ask me, if every thing was
still the same. All was just the same,
for I loved that chamber on her account,
and had taken pains to put every thing
in order, and to mend all the flaws in the
windows with my own hands. I anticipated
the time when I should once more
welcome her to the house of her fathers,
and restore her to this little nestling-place
of her childhood.

At length my evil genius, or what,
perhaps, is the same thing, the Muse,
inspired me with the notion of rhyming
again. My uncle, who never went to
church, used on Sundays to read chapters
out of the Bible; and Iron John, the
woman from the lodge, and myself, were
his congregation. It seemed to be all
one to him what he read, so long as it
was something from the Bible. Sometimes,
therefore, it would be the Song of
Solomon; and this withered anatomy
would read about being "stayed with
flagons, and comforted with apples, for
he was sick of love." Sometimes he
would hobble, with spectacles on nose,
through whole chapters of hard Hebrew
names in Deuteronomy, at which the
poor woman would sigh and groan, as if
wonderfully moved. His favourite book,
however, was "The Pilgrim's Progress;"
and when he came to that part which
treats of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair,
I thought invariably of him and
his desolate old country-seat. So much
did the idea amuse me, that I took to
scribbling about it under the trees in the
park; and in a few days had made some
progress in a poem, in which I had given
a description of the place, under the name
of Doubting Castle, and personified my
uncle as Giant Despair.

I lost my poem somewhere about the
house, and I soon suspected that my
uncle had found it, as he harshly intimated
to me that I could return home,
and that I need not come and see him
again till he should send for me.

Just about this time my mother died.
I cannot dwell upon the circumstance.
My heart, careless and wayward as it is,
gushes with the recollection. Her death
was an event that perhaps gave a turn
to all my after fortunes. With her died
all that made home attractive. I had no
longer any body whom I was ambitious

to please, or fearful to offend. My father
was a good kind of a man in his way,
but he had bad maxims in education,
and we differed in material points. It
makes a vast difference in opinion about
the utility of the rod, which end happens
to fall to one's share. I never could be
brought into my father's way of thinking
on the subject.

I now, therefore, began to grow very
impatient of remaining at school, to be
flogged for things that I did not like. I
longed for variety, especially now that I
had not my uncle's house to resort to,
by way of diversifying the dulness of
school, with the dreariness of his coun-try-seat.

I was now almost seventeen, tall for
my age, and full of idle fancies. I had
a roving, inextinguishable desire to see
different kinds of life, and different orders
of society; and this vagrant humour
had been fostered in me by Tom Dribble,
the prime wag and great genius of the
school, who had all the rambling propensities
of a poet.

I used to sit at my desk in the school,
on a fine summer's day, and instead of
studying the book which lay open before
me, my eye was gazing through the
window on the green fields and blue
hills. How I envied the happy groups
seated on the tops of stage-coaches, chatting,
and joking, and laughing, as they
were whirled by the schoolhouse on their
way to the metropolis! Even the wagoners,
trudging along beside their ponderous
teams, and traversing the kingdom
from one end to the other, were
objects of envy to me: I fancied to myself
what adventures they must experience,
and what odd scenes of life they
must witness. All this was, doubtless,
the poetical temperament working within
me, and tempting me forth into a world
of its own creation, which I mistook for
the world of real life.

While my mother lived, this strong
propensity to rove was counteracted by
the stronger attractions of home, and by
the powerful ties of affection which drew
me near to her side; but now that she
was gone, the attractions had ceased;
the ties were severed. I had no longer
an anchorage-ground for my heart, but
was at the mercy of every vagrant impulse.
Nothing but the narrow allowance
on which my father kept me, and
the consequent penury of my purse, prevented
me from mounting the top of a
stage-coach, and launching myself adrift
on the great ocean of life.

Just about this time the village was
agitated for a day or two, by the passing
through of several caravans, containing
wild beasts, and other spectacles, for a
great fair annually held at a neighbouring
town.

I had never seen a fair of any consequence,
and my curiosity was powerfully
awakened by this bustle of preparation.
I gazed with respect and wonder at the
vagrant personages who accompanied
these caravans. I loitered about the
village inn, listening with curiosity and
delight to the slang talk and cant jokes
of the showmen and their followers; and
I felt an eager desire to witness this fair,
which my fancy decked out as something
wonderfully fine.

A holiday afternoon presented, when
I could be absent from noon until evening.
A wagon was going from the village
to the fair: I could not resist the
temptation, nor the eloquence of Tom
Dribble, who was a truant to the very
heart's core. We hired seats, and set
off full of boyish expectation. I promised
myself that I would but take a
peep at the land of promise, and hasten
back again before my absence should be
noticed.

Heavens! how happy I was on arriving
at the fair! How I was enchanted
with the world of fun and pageantry
around me! The humours of Punch,
the feats of the equestrians, the magical
tricks of the conjurors! But what principally
caught my attention was an itinerant
theatre, where a tragedy, pantomime,
and farce, were all acted in the course
of half an hour; and more of the dramatis
personæ murdered, than at either
Drury Lane or Covent Garden in the
course of a whole evening. I have since
seen many a play performed by the best
actors in the world, but never have I
derived half the delight from any that I
did from this first representation.

There was a ferocious tyrant in a
scullcap like an inverted porringer, and
a dress of red baize, magnificently embroidered

with gilt leather; with his face
so bewhiskered, and his eyebrows so
knit and expanded with burnt cork, that
he made my heart quake within me, as
he stamped about the little stage. I was
enraptured too with the surpassing beauty
of a distressed damsel in faded pink silk,
and dirty white muslin, whom he held in
cruel captivity by way of gaining her
affections, and who wept, and wrung her
hands, and flourished a ragged white
handkerchief, from the top of an impregnable
tower of the size of a bandbox.

Even after I had come out from the
play, I could not tear myself from the
vicinity of the theatre, but lingered,
gazing and wondering, and laughing at
the dramatis personæ as they performed
their antics, or danced upon a stage in
front of the booth, to decoy a new set of
spectators.

I was so bewildered by the scene, and
so lost in the crowd of sensations that
kept swarming upon me, that I was like
one entranced. I lost my companion,
Tom Dribble, in a tumult and scuffle
that took place near one of the shows;
but I was too much occupied in mind to
think long about him. I strolled about
until dark, when the fair was lighted up,
and a new scene of magic opened upon
me. The illumination of the tents and
booths, the brilliant effect of the stages
decorated with lamps, with dramatic
groups flaunting about them in gaudy
dresses, contrasted splendidly with the
surrounding darkness; while the uproar
of drums, trumpets, fiddles, hautboys,
and cymbals, mingled with the harangues
of the showmen, the squeaking of Punch,
and the shouts and laughter of the crowd,
all united to complete my giddy distraction.

Time flew without my perceiving it.
When I came to myself and thought of
the school, I hastened to return. I inquired
for the wagon in which I had
come: it had been gone for hours! I
asked the time: it was almost midnight!
A sudden quaking seized me. How was
I to get back to school? I was too
weary to make the journey on foot, and
I knew not where to apply for a conveyance.
Even if I should find one, could
I venture to disturb the schoolhouse long
after midnight—to arouse that sleeping
lion the usher in the very midst of his
night's rest?—the idea was too dreadful
for a delinquent schoolboy. All the
horrors of return rushed upon me. My
absence must long before this have been
remarked;—and absent for a whole
night!—a deed of darkness not easily to
be expiated. The rod of the pedagogue
budded forth into tenfold terrors before
my affrighted fancy. I pictured to myself
punishment and humiliation in every
variety of form, and my heart sickened
at the picture. Alas! how often are the
petty ills of boyhood as painful to our
tender natures, as are the sterner evils
of manhood to our robuster minds!

I wandered about among the booths,
and I might have derived a lesson from
my actual feelings, how much the charms
of this world depend upon ourselves; for
I no longer saw any thing gay or delightful
in the revelry around me. At length
I lay down, wearied and perplexed, behind
one of the large tents, and, covering
myself with the margin of the tent cloth
to keep off the night chill, I soon fell
asleep.

I had not slept long, when I was
awakened by the noise of merriment
within an adjoining booth. It was the
itinerant theatre, rudely constructed of
boards and canvass. I peeped through
an aperture, and saw the whole dramatis
personæ, tragedy, comedy, and pantomime,
all refreshing themselves after the
final dismissal of their auditors. They
were merry and gamesome, and made
the flimsy theatre ring with their laughter.
I was astonished to see the tragedy
tyrant in red baize and fierce whiskers,
who had made my heart quake as he
strutted about the boards, now transformed
into a fat, good-humoured fellow;
the beaming porringer laid aside from
his brow, and his jolly face washed from
all the terrors of burnt cork. I was delighted,
too, to see the distressed damsel,
in faded silk and dirty muslin, who had
trembled under his tyranny, and afflicted
me so much by her sorrows, now seated
familiarly on his knee, and quaffing from
the same tankard. Harlequin lay asleep
on one of the benches; and monks,
satyrs, and vestal virgins, were grouped
together, laughing outrageously at a
broad story, told by an unhappy count,

who had been barbarously murdered in
the tragedy.

This was, indeed, novelty to me. It
was a peep into another planet. I gazed
and listened with intense curiosity and
enjoyment. They had a thousand odd
stories and jokes about the events of the
day, and burlesque descriptions and mimickings
of the spectators who had been
admiring them. Their conversation was
full of allusions to their adventures at
different places where they had exhibited;
the characters they had met with
in different villages; and the ludicrous
difficulties in which they had occasionally
been involved. All past cares and troubles
were now turned, by these thoughtless
beings, into matter of merriment,
and made to contribute to the gayety of
the moment. They had been moving
from fair to fair about the kingdom, and
were the next morning to set out on their
way to London. My resolution was
taken. I stole from my nest; and crept
through a hedge into a neighbouring field,
where I went to work to make a tatterdemalion
of myself. I tore my clothes;
soiled them with dirt; begrimed my face
and hands, and crawling near one of the
booths, purloined an old hat, and left my
new one in its place. It was an honest
theft, and I hope may not hereafter rise
up in judgment against me.

I now ventured to the scene of merrymaking,
and presenting myself before the
dramatic corps, offered myself as a volunteer.
I felt terribly agitated and abashed,
for never before "stood I in such a
presence." I had addressed myself to
the manager of the company. He was
a fat man, dressed in dirty white, with
a red sash fringed with tinsel swathed
round his body; his face was smeared
with paint, and a majestic plume towered
from an old spangled black bonnet. He
was the Jupiter Tonans of this Olympus,
and was surrounded by the inferior gods
and goddesses of his court. He sat on
the end of a bench, by a table, with one
arm a-kimbo, and the other extended to
the handle of a tankard, which he had
slowly set down from his lips, as he surveyed
me from head to foot. It was a
moment of awful scrutiny; and I fancied
the groups around all watching as in silent
suspense, and waiting for the imperial nod.

He questioned me as to who I was;
what were my qualifications; and what
terms I expected. I passed myself off
for a discharged servant from a gentleman's
family; and as, happily, one does
not require a special recommendation to
get admitted into bad company, the questions
on that head were easily satisfied.
As to my accomplishments I could spout
a little poetry, and knew several scenes
of plays, which I had learnt at school
exhibitions. I could dance— That
was enough. No further questions were
asked me as to accomplishments; it was
the very thing they wanted; and as I
asked no wages but merely meat and
drink, and safe conduct about the world,
a bargain was struck in a moment.

Behold me, therefore, transformed on
a sudden from a gentleman student to a
dancing buffoon: for such, in fact, was
the character in which I made my debut.
I was one of those who formed the
groups in the dramas, and was principally
employed on the stage in front of
the booth to attract company. I was
equipped as a satyr, in a dress of drab
frieze that fitted to my shape, with a
great laughing mask, ornamented with
huge ears and short horns. I was pleased
with the disguise, because it kept me
from the danger of being discovered,
whilst we were in that part of the country;
and as I had merely to dance and
make antics, the character was favourable
to a debutant—being almost on a par
with Simon Snug's part of the lion,
which required nothing but roaring.

I cannot tell you how happy I was at
this sudden change in my situation. I
felt no degradation, for I had seen too
little of society to be thoughtful about
the difference of rank; and a boy of
sixteen is seldom aristocratical. I had
given up no friend, for there seemed to
be no one in the world that cared for me
now that my poor mother was dead; I
had given up no pleasure, for my pleasure
was to ramble about and indulge
the flow of a poetical imagination, and I
now enjoyed it in perfection. There is
no life so truly poetical as that of a
dancing buffoon.

It may be said that all this argued
grovelling inclinations. I do not think
so. Not that I mean to vindicate myself

in any great degree: I know too well
what a whimsical compound I am. But
in this instance I was seduced by no love
of low company, nor disposition to indulge
in low vices. I have always
despised the brutally vulgar, and I have
always had a disgust at vice, whether in
high or low life. I was governed merely
by a sudden and thoughtless impulse. I
had no idea of resorting to this profession
as a mode of life, or of attaching myself
to these people, as my future class of
society. I thought merely of a temporary
gratification to my curiosity, and
an indulgence of my humours. I had
already a strong relish for the peculiarities
of character and the varieties of
situation, and I have always been fond of
the comedy of life, and desirous of seeing
it through all its shifting scenes.

In mingling, therefore, among mountebanks
and buffoons, I was protected by
the very vivacity of imagination which
had led me among them; I moved about,
enveloped, as it were, in a protecting
delusion, which my fancy spread around
me. I assimilated to these people only
as they struck me poetically; their
whimsical ways and a certain picturesqueness
in their mode of life entertained
me; but I was neither amused nor
corrupted by their vices. In short, I
mingled among them, as Prince Hal did
among his graceless associates, merely
to gratify my humour.

I did not investigate my motives in this
manner at the time, for I was too careless
and thoughtless to reason about the
matter; but I do so now, when I look
back with trembling to think of the ordeal
to which I unthinkingly exposed myself,
and the manner in which I passed
through it. Nothing, I am convinced,
but the poetical temperament, that hurried
me into the scrape, brought me out
of it without my becoming an arrant
vagabond.

Full of the enjoyment of the moment,
giddy with the wildness of animal spirits,
so rapturous in a boy, I capered, I danced,
I played a thousand fantastic tricks about
the stage, in the villages in which we
exhibited; and I was universally pronounced
the most agreeable monster that
had ever been seen in those parts. My
disappearance from school had awakened
my father's anxiety; for I one day heard
a description of myself cried before the
very booth in which I was exhibiting,
with the offer of a reward for any intelligence
of me. I had no great scruple
about letting my father suffer a little uneasiness
on my account; it would punish
him for past indifference, and would
make him value me the more when he
found me again.

I have wondered that some of my
comrades did not recognise me in the
stray sheep that was cried; but they
were all, no doubt, occupied by their
own concerns. They were all labouring
seriously in their antic vocation; for
folly was a mere trade with most of them,
and they often grinned and capered with
heavy hearts. With me, on the contrary,
it was all real. I acted con amore, and
rattled and laughed from the irrepressible
gayety of my spirits. It is true that,
now and then, I started and looked grave
on receiving a sudden thwack from the
wooden sword of Harlequin in the course
of my gambols, as it brought to mind
the birch of my schoolmaster. But I
soon got accustomed to it, and bore all
the cuffing, and kicking, and tumbling
about, which form the practical wit of
your itinerant pantomime, with a good-humour
that made me a prodigious favourite.

The country campaign of the troop
was soon at an end, and we set off for
the metropolis, to perform at the fairs
which are held in its vicinity. The
greater part of our theatrical property
was sent on direct, to be in a state of
preparation for the opening of the fairs;
while a detachment of the company
travelled slowly on, foraging among the
villages. I was amused with the desultory,
hap-hazard kind of life we led;
here to-day, and gone to-morrow. Sometimes
revelling in ale-houses, sometimes
feasting under hedges in the green fields.
When audiences were crowded, and business
profitable, we fared well; and
when otherwise, we fared scantily, consoled
ourselves, and made up with anticipations
of the next day's success.

At length the increasing frequency of
coaches hurrying past us, covered with
passengers; the increasing number of
carriages, carts, wagons, gigs, droves

of cattle and flocks of sheep, all thronging
the road; the snug country boxes
with trim flower-gardens twelve feet
square, and their trees twelve feet high,
all powdered with dust; and the innumerable
seminaries for young ladies and
gentlemen situated along the road for the
benefit of country air and rural retirement;
all these insignia announced that
the mighty London was at hand. The
hurry, and the crowd, and the bustle,
and the noise, and the dust, increased as
we proceeded, until I saw the great cloud
of smoke hanging in the air, like a canopy
of state, over this queen of cities.

In this way then, did I enter the metropolis,
a strolling vagabond, on the top
of a caravan, with a crew of vagabonds
about me; but I was as happy as a
prince; for, like Prince Hal, I felt myself
superior to my situation, and knew that
I could at any time cast it off, and emerge
into my proper sphere.

How my eyes sparkled as we passed
Hyde Park Corner, and I saw splendid
equipages rolling by; with powdered
footmen behind, in rich liveries, with fine
nosegays, and gold-headed canes; and
with lovely women within, so sumptuously
dressed, and so surpassingly fair! I was
always extremely sensible to female
beauty, and here I saw it in all its power
of fascination; for whatever may be said
of "beauty unadorned," there is something
almost awful in female loveliness
decked out in jewelled state. The swanlike
neck encircled with diamonds; the
raven locks clustered with pearls; the
ruby glowing on the snowy bosom, are
objects which I could never contemplate
without emotion; and a dazzling white
arm clasped with bracelets, and taper
transparent fingers, laden with sparkling
rings, are to me irresistible.

My very eyes ached as I gazed at the
high and courtly beauty that passed before
me. It surpassed all that my imagination
had conceived of the sex. I
shrunk, for a moment, into shame at the
company in which I was placed, and
repined at the vast distance that seemed
to intervene between me and these magnificent
beings.

I forbear to give a detail of the happy
life I led about the skirts of the metropolis,
playing at the various fairs held there
during the latter part of spring, and the
beginning of summer. This continued
change from place to place, and scene to
scene, fed my imagination with novelties,
and kept my spirits in a perpetual state
of excitement. As I was tall of my
age, I aspired, at one time, to play heroes
in tragedy; but, after two or three trials,
I was pronounced by the manager totally
unfit for the line; and our first tragic
actress, who was a large woman, and
held a small hero in abhorrence, confirmed
his decision.

The fact is, I had attempted to give
point to language which had no point,
and nature to scenes which had no nature.
They said I did not fill out my characters;
and they were right. The characters
had all been prepared for a different
sort of a man. Our tragedy hero was
a round, robustious fellow, with an
amazing voice; who stamped and slapped
his breast until his wig shook again; and
who roared and bellowed out his bombast
until every phrase swelled upon the ear
like the sound of a kettledrum. I might
as well have attempted to fill out his
clothes as his characters. When we had
a dialogue together, I was nothing before
him, with my slender voice and discriminating
manner. I might as well have
attempted to parry a cudgel with a small-sword.
If he found me in any way
gaining ground upon him, he would take
refuge in his mighty voice, and throw his
tones like peals of thunder at me, until
they were drowned in the still louder
thunders of applause from the audience.

To tell the truth, I suspect that I was
not shown fair play, and that there was
management at the bottom; for, without
vanity, I think I was a better actor than
he. As I had not embarked in the vagabond
line through ambition, I did not
repine at lack of preferment; but I was
grieved to find that a vagrant life was
not without its cares and anxieties; and
that jealousies, intrigues, and mad ambition,
were to be found even among vagabonds.

Indeed, as I became more familiar
with my situation, and the delusions of
fancy gradually faded away, I began to
find that my associates were not the
happy careless creatures I had at first
imagined them. They were jealous of

each other's talents; they quarrelled
about parts, the same as the actors on
the grand theatres; they quarrelled about
dresses; and there was one robe of yellow
silk, trimmed with red, and a head-dress
of three rumpled ostrich feathers, which
were continually setting the ladies of the
company by the ears. Even those who
had attained the highest honours were
not more happy than the rest; for Mr.
Flimsey himself, our first tragedian, and
apparently a jovial, good-humoured fellow,
confessed to me one day, in the
fulness of his heart, that he was a miserable
man. He had a brother-in-law, a
relative by marriage, though not by
blood, who was manager of a theatre in
a small country town. And this same
brother ("a little more than kin, but less
than kind") looked down upon him, and
treated him with contumely, because,
forsooth, he was but a strolling player.
I tried to console him with the thoughts
of the vast applause he daily received,
but it was all in vain. He declared that
it gave him no delight, and that he should
never be a happy man, until the name of
Flimsey rivalled the name of Crimp.

How little do those before the scenes
know of what passes behind! how little
can they judge, from the countenances of
actors, of what is passing in their hearts!
I have known two lovers quarrel like cats
behind the scenes, who were, the moment
after, to fly into each other's embraces.
And I have dreaded, when our Belvidera
was to take her farewell kiss of her
Jaffier, lest she should bite a piece out of
his cheek. Our tragedian was a rough
joker off the stage; our prime clown the
most peevish mortal living. The latter
used to go about snapping and snarling,
with a broad laugh painted on his countenance;
and I can assure you that
whatever may be said of the gravity of
a monkey, or the melancholy of a gibed
cat, there is not a more melancholy creature
in existence than a mountebank off
duty.

The only thing in which all parties
agreed, was to backbite the manager,
and cabal against his regulations. This,
however, I have since discovered to be
a common trait of human nature, and to
take place in all communities. It would
seem to be the main business of man to
repine at government. In all situations
of life into which I have looked, I have
found mankind divided into two grand
parties: those who ride, and those who
are ridden. The great struggle of life
seems to be which shall keep in the saddle.
This, it appears to me, is the fundamental
principle of politics, whether in
great or little life. However, I do not
mean to moralize—but one cannot always
sink the philosopher.

Well then, to return to myself, it was
determined, as I said, that I was not fit
for tragedy, and, unluckily, as my study
was bad, having a very poor memory, I
was pronounced unfit for comedy also;
besides, the line of young gentlemen was
already engrossed by an actor with
whom I could not pretend to enter into
competition, he having filled it for almost
half a century. I came down again,
therefore, to pantomime. In consequence,
however, of the good offices of the manager's
lady, who had taken a liking to
me, I was promoted from the part of the
satyr to that of the lover; and with my
face patched and painted, a huge cravat
of paper, a steeple-crowned hat, and
dangling long-skirted sky-blue coat, was
metamorphosed into the lover of Columbine.
My part did not call for much of
the tender and sentimental. I had merely
to pursue the fugitive fair one; to have
a door now and then slammed in my
face; to run my head occasionally
against a post; to tumble and roll about
with Pantaloon and the clown; and to
endure the hearty thwacks of Harlequin's
wooden sword.

As ill luck would have it, my poetical
temperament began to ferment within
me, and to work out new troubles. The
inflammatory air of a great metropolis,
added to the rural scenes in which the
fairs were held, such as Greenwich Park,
Epping Forest, and the lovely valley of
West End, had a powerful effect upon
me. While in Greenwich Park I was
witness to the old holiday games of running
down hill, and kissing in the ring;
and then the firmament of blooming faces
and blue eyes that would be turned towards
me, as I was playing antics on
the stage; all these set my young blood
and my poetical vein in full flow. In
short, I played the character to the life,

and became desperately enamoured of
Columbine. She was a trim, well-made,
tempting girl, with a roguish dimpling
face, and fine chestnut hair clustering all
about it. The moment I got fairly smitten
there was an end to all playing. I
was such a creature of fancy and feeling,
that I could not put on a pretended,
when I was powerfully affected by a real
emotion. I could not sport with a fiction
that came so near to the fact. I became
too natural in my acting to succeed.
And then, what a situation for a lover!
I was a mere stripling, and she played
with my passion; for girls soon grow
more adroit and knowing in these matters
than your awkward youngsters.
What agonies had I to suffer! Every
time that she danced in front of the
booth, and made such liberal displays of
her charms, I was in torment. To complete
my misery, I had a real rival in
Harlequin, an active, vigorous, knowing
varlet, of six-and-twenty. What had a
raw, inexperienced youngster like me to
hope from such a competition?

I had still, however, some advantages
in my favour. In spite of my change of
life, I retained that indescribable something
which always distinguishes the
gentleman; that something which dwells
in a man's air and deportment, and not
in his clothes; and which it is as difficult
for a gentleman to put off, as for a
vulgar fellow to put on. The company
generally felt it, and used to call me
Little Gentleman Jack. The girl felt it
too, and, in spite of her predilection for
my powerful rival, she liked to flirt with
me. This only aggravated my troubles,
by increasing my passion, and awakening
the jealousy of her party-coloured
lover.

Alas! think what I suffered at being
obliged to keep up an ineffectual chase
after my Columbine through whole pantomimes;
to see her carried off in the
vigorous arms of the happy Harlequin;
and to be obliged, instead of snatching
her from him, to tumble sprawling with
Pantaloon and the clown, and bear the
infernal and degrading thwacks of my
rival's weapon of lath, which, may
Heaven confound him! (excuse my passion)
the villain laid on with a malicious
good-will: nay, I could absolutely hear
him chuckle and laugh beneath his accursed
mask—I beg pardon for growing
a little warm in my narrative—I wish to
be cool, but these recollections will sometimes
agitate me. I have heard and
read of many desperate and deplorable
situations of lovers, but none, I think, in
which true love was ever exposed to so
severe and peculiar a trial.

This could not last long; flesh and
blood, at least such flesh and blood as
mine, could not bear it. I had repeated
heart-burnings and quarrels with my
rival, in which he treated me with the
mortifying forbearance of a man towards
a child. Had he quarrelled outright with
me, I could have stomached it, at least I
should have known what part to take;
but to be humoured and treated as a
child in the presence of my mistress,
when I felt all the bantam spirit of a
little man swelling within me—Gods! it
was insufferable!

At length, we were exhibiting one day
at West End fair, which was at that time
a very fashionable resort, and often beleaguered
with gay equipages from town.
Among the spectators that filled the front
row of our little canvass theatre one afternoon,
when I had to figure in a pantomime,
were a number of young ladies
from a boarding-school, with their governess.
Guess my confusion, when, in
the midst of my antics, I beheld among
the number my quondam flame; her
whom I had be-rhymed at school, her for
whose charms I had smarted so severely,
the cruel Sacharissa! What was worse,
I fancied she recollected me, and was repeating
the story of my humiliating flagellation,
for I saw her whispering to
her companions and her governess. I
lost all consciousness of the part I was
acting, and of the place where I was. I
felt shrunk to nothing, and could have
crept into a rat-hole—unluckily, none
was open to receive me. Before I could
recover from my confusion, I was
tumbled over by Pantaloon and the
clown, and I felt the sword of Harlequin
making vigorous assaults in a manner
most degrading to my dignity.

Heaven and earth! was I again to
suffer martyrdom in this ignominious
manner, in the knowledge and even before
the very eyes of this most beautiful,

but most disdainful of fair ones? All my
long-smothered wrath broke out at
once; the dormant feelings of the gentleman
arose within me. Stung to the
quick by intolerable mortification, I
sprang on my feet in an instant; leaped
upon Harlequin like a young tiger; tore
off his mask; buffeted him in the face;
and soon shed more blood on the stage,
than had been spilt upon it during a
whole tragic campaign of battles and
murders.

As soon as Harlequin recovered from
his surprise, he returned my assault with
interest. I was nothing in his hands.
I was game, to be sure, for I was a gentleman;
but he had the clownish advantage
of bone and muscle. I felt as if I
could have fought even unto the death;
and I was likely to do so, for he was,
according to the boxing phrase, "putting
my head into chancery," when the gentle
Columbine fiew to my assistance. God
bless the women! they are always on
the side of the weak and the oppressed!

The battle now became general; the
dramatis personæ ranged on either side.
The manager interposed in vain; in vain
were his spangled black bonnet and towering
white feathers seen whisking about,
and nodding, and bobbing in the thickest
of the fight. Warriors, ladies, priests,
satyrs, kings, queens, gods, and goddesses,
all joined pell-mell in the fray:
never, since the conflict under the walls
of Troy, had there been such a chance-medley
warfare of combatants, human
and divine. The audience applauded,
the ladies shricked, and fled from the
theatre; and a scene of discord ensued
that baffles all description.

Nothing but the interference of the
peace-officers restored some degree of
order. The havoc, however, that had
been made among dresses and decorations,
put an end to all further acting for
that day. The battle over, the next
thing was to inquire why it was begun;
a common question among politicians
after a bloody and unprofitable war, and
one not always easy to be answered. It
was soon traced to me, and my unaccountable
transport of passion, which
they could only attribute to my having
run a muck. The manager was judge
and jury, and plaintiff into the bargain;
and in such cases justice is always
speedily administered. He came out of
the fight as sublime a wreck as the Santissima
Trinidada. His gallant plumes,
which once towered aloft, were drooping
about his ears; his robe of state hung in
ribands from his back, and but ill concealed
the ravages he had suffered in the
rear. He had received kicks and cuffs
from all sides during the tumult; for
every one took the opportunity of slily
gratifying some lurking grudge on his
fat carcass. He was a discreet man,
and did not choose to declare war with
all his company; so he swore all those
kicks and cuffs had been given by me,
and I let him enjoy the opinion. Some
wounds he bore, however, which were
the incontestable traces of a woman's
warfare: his sleek rosy cheek was
scored by trickling furrows, which were
ascribed to the nails of my intrepid and
devoted Columbine. The ire of the monarch
was not to be appeased; he had
suffered in his person, and he had suffered
in his purse; his dignity, too, had
been insulted, and that went for something;
for dignity is always more irascible
the more petty the potentate. He
wreaked his wrath upon the beginners of
the affray, and Columbine and myself
were discharged, at once, from the company.

Figure me, then, to yourself, a stripling
of little more than sixteen, a gentleman
by birth, a vagabond by trade,
turned adrift upon the world, making the
best of my way through the crowd of
West End fair; my mountebank dress
fluttering in rags about me; the weeping
Columbine hanging upon my arm, in
splendid but tattered finery; the tears
coursing one by one down her face,
carrying off the red paint in torrents,
and literally "preying upon her damask
cheek."

The crowd made way for us as we
passed, and hooted in our rear. I felt
the ridicule of my situation, but had too
much gallantry to desert this fair one,
who had sacrificed every thing for me.
Having wandered through the fair, we
emerged, like another Adam and Eve,
into unknown regions, and "had the
world before us, where to choose."
Never was a more disconsolate pair

seen in the soft valley of West End.
The luckless Columbine cast back many
a lingering look at the fair, which
seemed to put on a more than usual
splendour: its tents, and booths, and
party-coloured groups, all brightening in
the sunshine, and gleaming among the
trees; and its gay flags and streamers
fluttering in the light summer airs.
With a heavy sigh she would lean on
my arm and proceed. I had no hope
nor consolation to give her; but she had
linked herself to my fortunes, and she
was too much of a woman to desert me.

Pensive and silent, then, we traversed
the beautiful fields which lie behind
Hampstead, and wandered on, until the
fiddle, and the hautboy, and the shout,
and the laugh, were swallowed up in the
deep sound of the big bass drum, and
even that died away into a distant rumble.
We passed along the pleasant, sequestered
walk of Nightingale Lane. For
a pair of lovers, what scene could be
more propitious?—But such a pair of
lovers! Not a nightingale sang to soothe
us: the very gypsies, who were encamped
there during the fair, made no offer to
tell the fortunes of such an ill-omened
couple, whose fortunes, I suppose, they
thought too legibly written to need an
interpreter; and the gipsy children
crawled into their cabins, and peeped
out fearfully at us as we went by. For
a moment I paused, and was almost
tempted to turn gipsy; but the poetical
feeling, for the present, was fully satisfied,
and I passed on. Thus we travelled
and travelled, like a prince and
princess in a Nursery Tale, until we had
traversed a part of Hampstead Heath,
and arrived in the vicinity of Jack
Straw's Castle. Here, wearied and
dispirited, we seated ourselves on the
margin of the hill, hard by the very
mile-stone where Whittington of yore
heard the Bow-bells ring out the presage
of his future greatness. Alas! no bell
rung an invitation to us, as we looked
disconsolately upon the distant city. Old
London seemed to wrap itself unsociably
in its mantle of brown smoke, and to
offer no encouragement to such a couple
of tatterdemalions.

For once, at least, the usual course of
the pantomime was reversed, Harlequin
was jilted, and the lover had carried off
Columbine in good earnest. But what
was I to do with her? I could not take her
in my hand, return to my father, throw
myself on my knees, and crave his
forgiveness and his blessing, according
to dramatic usage. The very dogs
would have chased such a draggled-tailed
beauty from the grounds.

In the midst of my doleful dumps,
some one tapped me on the shoulder,
and, looking up, I saw a couple of rough
sturdy fellows standing behind me. Not
knowing what to expect, I jumped on my
legs, and was preparing again to make
battle; but I was tripped up and secured
in a twinkling.

"Come, come, young master," said
one of the fellows, in a gruff but good-humoured
tone, "don't let's have any of
your tantrums; one would have thought
you had had swing enough for this bout.
Come; it's high time to leave off harlequinading,
and go home to your father."

In fact, I had fallen into the hands of
remorseless men. The cruel Sacharissa
had proclaimed who I was, and that a
reward had been offered throughout the
country for any tidings of me; and they
had seen a description of me which had
been inserted in the public papers. Those
harpies, therefore, for the mere sake of
filthy lucre, were resolved to deliver me
over into the hands of my father, and
the clutches of my pedagogue.

It was in vain that I swore I would
not leave my faithful and afflicted Columbine.
It was in vain that I tore myself
from their grasp, and flew to her; and
vowed to protect her; and wiped the
tears from her cheek, and with them a
whole blush that might have vied with
the carnation for brilliancy. My persecutors
were inflexible: they even seemed
to exult in our distress; and to enjoy
this theatrical display of dirt, and finery,
and tribulation. I was carried off in
despair, leaving my Columbine destitute
in the wide world; but many a look of
agony did I cast back at her as she stood
gazing piteously after me from the brink
of Hampstead Hill; so forlorn, so fine,
so ragged, so bedraggled, yet so beautiful.

Thus ended my first peep into the
world. I returned home, rich in good-for-nothing

experience, and dreading the
reward I was to receive for my improvement.
My reception, however, was quite
different from what I had expected. My
father had a spice of the devil in him,
and did not seem to like me the worse
for my freak, which he termed "sowing
my wild oats." He happened to have
some of his sporting friends to dine the
very day of my return; they made me
tell some of my adventures, and laughed
heartily at them.

One old fellow, with an outrageously
red nose, took to me hugely. I heard
him whisper to my father that I was a
lad of mettle, and might make something
clever; to which my father replied, that
I had good points, but was an ill-broken
whelp, and required a great deal of the
whip. Perhaps this very conversation
raised me a little in his esteem, for I
found the red-nosed old gentleman was a
veteran fox-hunter of the neighbourhood,
for whose opinion my father had vast
deference. Indeed, I believe he would
have pardoned any thing in me more
readily than poetry, which he called a
cursed, sneaking, puling, housekeeping
employment, the bane of all fine manhood.
He swore it was unworthy of a
youngster of my expectations, who was
one day to have so great an estate, and
would be able to keep horses and hounds,
and hire poets to write songs for him
into the bargain.

I had now satisfied, for a time, my
roving propensity. I had exhausted the
poetical feeling. I had been heartily
buffeted out of my love for theatrical
display. I felt humiliated by my exposure,
and was willing to hide my head
any where for a season, so that I might
be out of the way of the ridicule of the
world; for I found folks not altogether
so indulgent abroad as they were at my
father's table. I could not stay at home;
the house was intolerably doleful, now
that my mother was no longer there to
cherish me. Every thing around spoke
mournfully of her. The little flower-garden
in which she delighted was all in
disorder and overrun with weeds. I
attempted for a day or two to arrange it,
but my heart grew heavier and heavier
as I laboured. Every little broken-down
flower, that I had seen her rear so tenderly,
seemed to plead in mute eloquence
to my feelings. There was a favourite
honeysuckle which I had seen her often
training with assiduity, and had heard
her say it would be the pride of her
garden. I found it grovelling along the
ground, tangled and wild, and twining
round every worthless weed; and it
struck me as an emblem of myself, a
mere scatterling, running to waste and
uselessness. I could work no longer in
the garden.

My father sent me to pay a visit to
my uncle, by way of keeping the old
gentleman in mind of me. I was received,
as usual, without any expression
of discontent, which we always considered
equivalent to a hearty welcome.
Whether he had ever heard of my strolling
freak or not I could not discover, he
and his man were both so taciturn. I
spent a day or two roaming about the
dreary mansion and neglected park, and
felt at one time, I believe, a touch of
poetry, for I was tempted to drown myself
in a fish-pond; I rebuked the evil
spirit, however, and it left me. I found
the same red-headed boy running wild
about the park, but I felt in no humour
to hunt him at present. On the contrary,
I tried to coax him to me, and to
make friends with him; but the young
savage was untameable.

When I returned from my uncle's, I
remained at home for some time, for my
father was disposed, he said, to make a
man of me. He took me out hunting
with him, and I became a great favourite
of the red-nosed squire, because I rode
at every thing, never refused the boldest
leap, and was always sure to be in at
the death. I used often, however, to
offend my father at hunting dinners, by
taking the wrong side in politics. My
father was amazingly ignorant, so ignorant,
in fact, as not to know that he
knew nothing. He was staunch, however,
to church and king, and full of old-fashioned
prejudices. Now I had picked
up a little knowledge in politics and
religion, during my rambles with the
strollers, and found myself capable of
setting him right as to many of his antiquated
notions. I felt it my duty to do
so; we were apt, therefore, to differ occasionally
in the political discussions

which sometimes arose at those hunting
dinners.

I was at that age when a man knows
least, and is most vain of his knowledge,
and when he is extremely tenacious in
defending his opinion upon subjects about
which he knows nothing. My father
was a hard man for any one to argue
with, for he never knew when he was
refuted. I sometimes posed him a little,
but then he had one argument that
always settled the question; he would
threaten to knock me down. I believe
he at last grew tired of me, because I
both outtalked and outrode him. The
red-nosed squire, too, got out of conceit
of me, because, in the heat of the chase,
I rode over him one day as he and his
horse lay sprawling in the dirt: so I
found myself getting into disgrace with
all the world, and would have got heartily
out of humour with myself, had I not
been kept in tolerable self-conceit by the
parson's three daughters.

They were the same who had admired
my poetry on a former occasion, when
it had brought me into disgrace at school;
and I had ever since retained an exalted
idea of their judgment. Indeed, they
were young ladies not merely of taste,
but science. Their education had been
superintended by their mother, who was
a blue-stocking. They knew enough of
botany to tell the technical names of all
the flowers in the garden, and all their
secret concerns into the bargain. They
knew music too, not mere commonplace
music, but Rossini and Mozart, and they
sang Moore's Irish Melodies to perfection.
They had pretty little work-tables,
covered with all kind of objects of taste;
specimens of lava, and painted eggs, and
work-boxes, painted and varnished by
themselves. They excelled in knotting
and netting, and painted in water-colours;
and made feather fans, and fire-screens,
and worked in silks and worsteds; and
talked French and Italian, and knew
Shakspeare by heart. They even knew
something of geology and mineralogy;
and went about the neighbourhood knocking
stones to pieces, to the great admiration
and perplexity of the country folk.

I am a little too minute, perhaps, in
detailing their accomplishments, but I
wish to let you see that these were not
commonplace young ladies, but had pretensions
quite above the ordinary run.
It was some consolation to me, therefore,
to find favour in such eyes. Indeed, they
had always marked me out for a genius,
and considered my late vagrant freak as
fresh proof of the fact. They observed
that Shakspeare himself had been a mere
Pickle in his youth; that he had stolen
deer, as every one knew, and kept loose
company, and consorted with actors: so
I comforted myself marvellously with the
idea of having so decided a Shakspearean
trait in my character.

The youngest of the three, however,
was my grand consolation. She was a
pale, sentimental girl, with long "hyacinthine"
ringlets hanging about her face.
She wrote poetry herself, and we kept
up a poetical correspondence. She had
a taste for the drama too, and I taught
her how to act several of the scenes in
Romeo and Juliet. I used to rehearse
the garden scene under her lattice, which
looked out from among woodbine and
honeysuckles into the churchyard. I
began to think her amazingly pretty as
well as clever, and I believe I should
have finished by falling in love with her,
had not her father discovered our theatrical
studies. He was a studious, abstracted
man, generally too much absorbed in his
learned and religious labours to notice
the little foibles of his daughters, and,
perhaps, blinded by a father's fondness;
but he unexpectedly put his head out of
his study-window one day in the midst
of a scene, and put a stop to our rehearsals.
He had a vast deal of that
prosaic good sense which I for ever
found a stumbling-block in my poetical
path. My rambling freak had not struck
the good man as poetically as it had his
daughters. He drew his comparison from
a different manual. He looked upon me
as a prodigal son, and doubted whether
I should ever arrive at the happy catastrophe
of the fatted calf.

I fancy some intimation was given to
my father of this new breaking-out of
my poetical temperament, for he suddenly
intimated that it was high time I
should prepare for the University. I
dreaded a return to the school from
whence I had eloped: the ridicule of my
fellow-scholars, and the glances from the

squire's pew, would have been worse
than death to me. I was fortunately
spared the humiliation. My father sent
me to board with a country clergyman,
who had three or four other boys under
his care. I went to him joyfully, for I
had often heard my mother mention him
with esteem. In fact, he had been an
admirer of hers in his younger days,
though too humble in his fortune and
modest in pretensions to aspire to her
hand; but he had ever retained a tender
regard for her. He was a good man; a
worthy specimen of that valuable body
of our country clergy who silently and
unostentatiously do a vast deal of good;
who are, as it were, woven into the whole
system of rural life, and operate upon it
with the steady yet unobtrusive influence
of temperate piety and learned good
sense. He lived in a small village not
far from Warwick, one of those little
communities where the scanty flock is,
in a manner, folded into the bosom of the
pastor. The venerable church, in its
grass-grown cemetery, was one of those
rural temples which are scattered about
our country as if to sanctify the land.

I have the worthy pastor before my
mind's eye at this moment, with his mild
benevolent countenance, rendered still
more venerable by his silver hairs. I
have him before me as I saw him on my
arrival, seated in the embowered porch
of his small parsonage, with a flower-garden
before it, and his pupils gathered
round him like his children. I shall
never forget his reception of me, for I
believe he thought of my poor mother at
the time, and his heart yearned towards
her child. His eye glistened when he
received me at the door, and he took me
into his arms as the adopted child of his
affections. Never had I been so fortunately
placed. He was one of those
excellent members of our church, who
help out their narrow salaries by instructing
a few gentlemen's sons. I am convinced
those little seminaries are among
the best nurseries of talent and virtue in
the land. Both heart and mind are cultivated
and improved. The preceptor is
the companion and the friend of his
pupils. His sacred character gives him
dignity in their eyes, and his solemn
functions produce that elevation of mind
and sobriety of conduct necessary to
those who are to teach youth to think
and act worthily.

I speak from my own random observation
and experience, but I think I speak
correctly. At any rate, I can trace
much of what is good in my own heterogeneous
compound to the short time I
was under the instruction of that good
man. He entered into the cares and
occupations and amusements of his pupils;
and won his way into our confidence,
and studied our hearts and minds
more intently than we did our books.

He soon sounded the depth of my
character. I had become, as I have
already hinted, a little liberal in my
notions, and apt to philosophize on both
politics and religion; having seen something
of men and things, and learnt,
from my fellow-philosophers, the strollers,
to despise all vulgar prejudices. He
did not attempt to cast down my vainglory,
nor to question my right view
of things; he merely instilled into my
mind a little information on these topics;
though in a quiet, unobtrusive way, that
never ruffled a feather of my self-conceit.
I was astonished to find what a change
a little knowledge makes in one's mode
of viewing matters; and how very different
a subject is when one thinks, or when
one only talks about it. I conceived a
vast deference for my teacher, and was
ambitious of his good opinion. In my
zeal to make a favourable impression, I
presented him with a whole ream of my
poetry. He read it attentively, smiled,
and pressed my hand when he returned
it to me, but said nothing. The next
day he set me at mathematics.

Somehow or other the process of
teaching seemed robbed by him of all
its austerity. I was not conscious that
he thwarted an inclination or opposed a
wish; but I felt that, for the time, my inclinations
were entirely changed. I became
fond of study, and zealous to improve
myself. I made tolerable advances
in studies, which I had before considered
as unattainable, and I wondered at my
own proficiency. I thought, too, I astonished
my preceptor; for I often caught
his eyes fixed upon me with a peculiar
expression. I suspect, since, that he
was pensively tracing in my countenance

the early lineaments of my
mother.

Education was not apportioned by him
into tasks, and enjoined as a labour, to
be abandoned with joy the moment the
hour of study was expired. We had, it
is true, our allotted hours of occupation,
to give us habits of method, and of the
distribution of time; but they were made
pleasant to us, and our feelings were
enlisted in the cause. When they were
over, education still went on. It pervaded
all our relaxations and amusements.
There was a steady march of
improvement. Much of his instruction
was given during pleasant rambles, or
when seated on the margin of the Avon;
and information received in that way,
often makes a deeper impression than
when acquired by poring over books.
I have many of the pure and eloquent
precepts that flowed from his lips associated
in my mind with lovely scenes in
nature, which make the recollection of
them indescribably delightful.

I do not pretend to say that any miracle
was effected with me. After all said
and done, I was but a weak disciple.
My poetical temperament still wrought
within me and wrestled hard with wisdom,
and, I fear, maintained the mastery.
I found mathematics an intolerable
task in fine weather. I would be
prone to forget my problems, to watch
the birds hopping about the windows,
or the bees humming about the honeysuckles;
and whenever I could steal
away, I would wander about the grassy
borders of the Avon, and excuse this
truant propensity to myself with the idea
that I was treading classic ground, over
which Shakspeare had wandered. What
luxurious idleness have I indulged, as I
lay under the trees and watched the
silver waves rippling through the arches
of the broken bridge, and laving the
rocky bases of old Warwick Castle; and
how often have I thought of sweet Shakspeare,
and in my boyish enthusiasm
have kissed the waves which had washed
his native village!

My good preceptor would often accompany
me in these desultory rambles.
He sought to get hold of this vagrant
mood of mind and turn it to some account.
He endeavoured to teach me to
mingle thought with mere sensation; to
moralize on the scenes around; and to
make the beauties of nature administer
to the understanding and the heart. He
endeavoured to direct my imagination to
high and noble objects, and to fill it with
lofty images. In a word, he did all he
could to make the best of a poetical temperament,
and to counteract the mischief
which had been done to me by great
expectations.

Had I been earlier put under the care
of the good pastor, or remained with him
a longer time, I really believe he would
have made something of me. He had
already brought a great deal of what
had been flogged into me into tolerable
order, and had weeded out much of the
unprofitable wisdom which had sprung
up in my vagabondizing. I already began
to find that with all my genius a
little study would be no disadvantage to
me; and, in spite of my vagrant freaks,
I began to doubt of my being a second
Shakspeare.

Just as I was making these precious
discoveries, the good parson died. It
was a melancholy day throughout the
neighbourhood. He had his little flock
of scholars, his children, as he used to
call us, gathered around him in his dying
moments; and he gave us the parting
advice of a father, now that he had to
leave us, and we were to be separated
from each other, and scattered about the
world. He took me by the hand, and
talked with me earnestly and affectionately,
and called to mind my mother,
and used her name to enforce his dying
exhortations, for I rather think he considered
me the most erring and heedless
of his flock. He held my hand in his,
long after he had done speaking, and
kept his eye fixed on me tenderly and
almost piteously: his lips moved as if he
were silently praying for me; and he
died away, still holding me by the hand.

There was not a dry eye in the church
when the funeral service was read from
the pulpit from which he had so often
preached. When the body was committed
to the earth, our little band gathered
round it, and watched the coffin
as it was lowered into the grave. The
parishioners looked at us with sympathy;
for we were mourners not merely

in dress but in heart. We lingered about
the grave, and clung to one another for
a time weeping and speechless, and then
parted, like a band of brothers parting
from the paternal hearth, never to assemble
there again.

How had the gentle spirit of that good
man sweetened our natures, and linked
our young hearts together by the kindest
ties! I have always had a throb of pleasure
at meeting with an old schoolmate,
even though one of my truant associates;
but whenever, in the course of my life,
I have encountered one of that little flock
with which I was folded on the banks of
the Avon, it has been with a gush of
affection, and a glow of virtue, that for
the moment have made me a better
man.

I was now sent to Oxford, and was
wonderfully impressed on first entering
it as a student. Learning here puts on
all its majesty. It is lodged in palaces;
it is sanctified by the sacred ceremonies
of religion; it has a pomp and circumstance
which powerfully affect the imagination.
Such, at least, it had in my
eyes, thoughtless as I was. My previous
studies with the worthy pastor, had prepared
me to regard it with deference and
awe. He had been educated here, and
always spoke of the University with filial
fondness and classic veneration. When
I beheld the clustering spires and pinnacles
of this most august of cities rising
from the plain, I hailed them in my
enthusiasm as the points of a diadem,
which the nation had placed upon the
brows of science.

For a time old Oxford was full of
enjoyment for me. There was a charm
about its monastic buildings; its great
Gothic quadrangles; its solemn halls,
and shadowy cloisters. I delighted, in
the evenings, to get in places surrounded
by the colleges, where all modern buildings
were screened from the sight; and
to see the professors and the students
sweeping along in the dusk in their antiquated
caps and gowns. I seemed for a
time to be transported among the people
and edifices of the old times. I was a
frequent attendant, also, of the evening
service in the New College Hall; to hear
the fine organ, and the choir swelling an
anthem in that solemn building, where
painting, music, and architecture, are in
such admirable unison.

A favourite haunt, too, was the beautiful
walk bordered by lofty elms along
the river, behind the gray walls of Magdalen
College, which goes by the name of
Addison's Walk, from being his favourite
walk, when an Oxford student. I became
also a lounger in the Bodleian
Library, and a great dipper into books,
though I cannot say that I studied them;
in fact, being no longer under direction
or control, I was gradually relapsing into
mere indulgence of the fancy. Still this
would have been pleasant and harmless
enough, and I might have awakened from
mere literary dreaming to something better.
The chances were in my favour,
for the riotous times of the University
were past. The days of hard drinking
were at an end. The old feuds of
"Town and Gown," like the civil wars
of the White and Red Rose, had died
away; and student and citizen slept in
whole skins, without risk of being summoned
in the night to bloody brawl. It
had become the fashion to study at the
University, and the odds were always
in favour of my following the fashion.
Unluckily, however, I fell in company
with a special knot of young fellows, of
lively parts and ready wit, who had
lived occasionally upon town, and become
initiated into the Fancy. They
voted study to be the toil of dull minds,
by which they slowly crept up the hill,
while genius arrived at it at a bound.
I felt ashamed to play the owl among
such gay birds; so I threw by my books,
and became a man of spirit.

As my father made me a tolerable
allowance, notwithstanding the narrowness
of his income, having an eye always
to my great expectations, I was enabled
to appear to advantage among my companions.
I cultivated all kinds of sports
and exercises. I was one of the most
expert oarsmen that rowed on the Isis.
I boxed, fenced, angled, shot, and hunted;
and my rooms in college were always
decorated with whips of all kinds, spurs,
fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, foils, and
boxing-gloves. A pair of leather breeches
would seem to be throwing one leg out
of the half-open drawers, and empty bottles
lumbered the bottom of every closet.

My father came to see me at college
when I was in the height of my career.
He asked me how I came on with my
studies, and what kind of hunting there
was in the neighbourhood. He examined
my various sporting apparatus with a
curious eye; wanted to know if any of
the professors were fox-hunters, and
whether they were generally good shots,
for he suspected their studying so much
must be hurtful to the sight. We had a
day's shooting together. I delighted him
with my skill, and astonished him by my
learned disquisitions on horseflesh, and
on Manton's guns; so, upon the whole,
he departed highly satisfied with my improvement
at college.

I do not know how it is, but I cannot
be idle long without getting in love. I
had not been a very long time a man of
spirit, therefore, before I became deeply
enamoured of a shopkeeper's daughter in
the High Street, who, in fact, was the
admiration of many of the students. I
wrote several sonnets in praise of her,
and spent half of my pocket-money at
the shop, in buying articles which I did
not want, that I might have an opportunity
of speaking to her. Her father, a
severe-looking old gentleman, with bright
silver buckles, and a crisp-curled wig,
kept a strict guard on her, as the fathers
generally do upon their daughters in Oxford,
and well they may. I tried to get
into his good graces, and to be social
with him, but all in vain. I said several
good things in his shop, but he never
laughed: he had no relish for wit and
humour. He was one of those dry old
gentlemen who keep youngsters at bay.
He had already brought up two or three
daughters, and was experienced in the
ways of students. He was as knowing
and wary as a gray old badger that has
often been hunted. To see him on
Sunday, so stiff and starched in his demeanour,
so precise in his dress, with his
daughter under his arm, was enough to
deter all graceless youngsters from approaching.

I managed, however, in spite of his
vigilance, to have several conversations
with the daughter, as I cheapened articles
in the shop. I made terrible long bargains,
and examined the articles over and
over before I purchased. In the mean
time, I would convey a sonnet or an
acrostic under cover of a piece of cambric,
or slipped into a pair of stockings; I
would whisper soft nonsense into her ear
as I haggled about the price; and would
squeeze her hand tenderly as I received
my half-pence of change in a bit of
whity-brown paper. Let this serve as a
hint to all haberdashers who have pretty
daughters for shop-girls, and young students
for customers. I do not know
whether my words and looks were very
eloquent, but my poetry was irresistible;
for, to tell the truth, the girl had some
literary taste, and was seldom without a
book from the circulating library.

By the divine power of poetry, therefore,
which is so potent with the lovely
sex, did I subdue the heart of this fair
little haberdasher. We carried on a
sentimental correspondence for a time
across the counter, and I supplied her
with rhyme by the stocking-full. At
length I prevailed on her to grant an
assignation. But how was this to be
effected? Her father kept her always
under his eye; she never walked out
alone; and the house was locked up the
moment that the shop was shut. All
these difficulties served but to give zest
to the adventure. I proposed that the assignation
should be in her own chamber,
into which I would climb at night. The
plan was irresistible—A cruel father, a
secret lover, and a clandestine meeting!
All the little girl's studies from the
circulating library seemed about to be
realized.

But what had I in view in making this
assignation? Indeed, I know not. I had
no evil intentions, nor can I say that I
had any good ones. I liked the girl, and
wanted to have an opportunity of seeing
more of her; and the assignation was
made, as I have done many things else,
heedlessly and without forethought. I
asked myself a few questions of the kind,
after all my arrangements were made,
but the answers were very unsatisfactory.
"Am I to ruin this poor thoughtless girl?"
said I to myself. "No!" was the prompt
and indignant answer. "Am I to run
away with her?"—"Whither, and to
what purpose?"—"Well, then, am I to
marry her?"—"Poh! a man of my expectations
marry a shopkeeper's daughter!"

"What then am I to do with her?"
"Hum—why—let me get into the chamber
first, and then consider—" and so the
self-examination ended.

Well, sir, "come what come might,"
I stole under cover of the darkness to the
dwelling of my dulcinea. All was quiet.
At the concerted signal her window was
gently opened. It was just above the
projecting bow-window of her father's
shop, which assisted me in mounting.
The house was low, and I was enabled
to scale the fortress with tolerable case.
I clambered with a beating heart; I
reached the casement; I hoisted my body
half into the chamber; and was welcomed,
not by the embraces of my expecting fair
one, but by the grasp of the crabbed-looking
old father in the crisp-curled wig.

I extricated myself from his clutches,
and endeavoured to make my retreat;
but I was confounded by his cries of
thieves! and robbers! I was bothered
too by his Sunday cane, which was
amazingly busy about my head as I descended,
and against which my hat was
but a poor protection. Never before had
I an idea of the activity of an old man's
arm, and the hardness of the knob of an
ivory-headed cane. In my hurry and
confusion I missed my footing, and fell
sprawling on the pavement. I was immediately
surrounded by myrmidons,
who, I doubt not, were on the watch for
me. Indeed, I was in no situation to
escape, for I had sprained my ancle in
the fall, and could not stand. I was
seized as a housebreaker; and to exonerate
myself of a greater crime, I had
to accuse myself of a less. I made
known who I was, and why I came there.
Alas! the varlets knew it already, and
were only amusing themselves at my
expense. My perfidious muse had been
playing me one of her slippery tricks.
The old curmudgeon of a father had
found my sonnets and acrostics hid away
in holes and corners of his shop: he had
no taste for poetry like his daughter, and
had instituted a rigorous though silent
observation. He had moused upon our
letters, detected our plans, and prepared
every thing for my reception. Thus was
I ever doomed to be led into scrapes by
the muse. Let no man henceforth carry
on a secret amour in poetry!

The old man's ire was in some measure
appeased by the pummeling of my head
and the anguish of my sprain; so he did
not put me to death on the spot. He was
even humane enough to furnish a shutter,
on which I was carried back to college
like a wounded warrior. The porter was
roused to admit me. The college gate
was thrown open for my entry. The
affair was blazed about the next morning,
and became the joke of the college from
the buttery to the hall.

I had leisure to repent during several
weeks' confinement by my sprain, which
I passed in translating Boethius' Consolations
of Philosophy. I received a most
tender and ill-spelled letter from my
mistress, who had been sent to a relation
in Coventry. She protested her innocence
of my misfortunes, and vowed to be true
to me "till deth." I took no notice of
the letter, for I was cured, for the present,
both of love and poetry. Women, however,
are more constant in their attachments
than men, whatever philosophers
may say to the contrary. I am assured
that she actually remained faithful to her
vow for several months; but she had to
deal with a cruel father, whose heart was
as hard as the knob of his cane. He was
not to be touched by tears or poetry, but
absolutely compelled her to marry a reputable
young tradesman, who made her
a happy woman in spite of herself, and
of all the rules of romance: and, what
is more, the mother of several children.
They are at this very day a thriving couple,
and keep a snug corner shop, just
opposite the figure of Peeping Tom, at
Conventry.

I will not fatigue you by any more
details of my studies at Oxford; though
they were not always as severe as these,
nor did I always pay as dear for my
lessons. To be brief, then, I lived on in
my usual miscellaneous manner, gradually
getting knowledge of good and
evil, until I had attained my twenty-first
year. I had scarcely come of age when
I heard of the sudden death of my father.
The shock was severe, for though he had
never treated me with much kindness,
still he was my father, and at his death I
felt alone in the world.

I returned home, and found myself the
solitary master of the paternal mansion.

A crowd of gloomy feelings came thronging
upon me. It was a place that always
sobered me, and brought me to reflection;
now especially, it looked so deserted and
melancholy. I entered the little breakfasting-room.
There were my father's
whip and spurs hanging by the fireplace;
the Stud-Book, Sporting Magazine, and
Racing Calendar, his only reading. His
favourite spaniel lay on the hearth-rug.
The poor animal, who had never before
noticed me, now came fondling about me,
licked my hand, then looked round the
room, whined, wagged his tail slightly,
and gazed wistfully in my face. I felt
the full force of the appeal. "Poor
Dash," said I, "we are both alone in the
world, with nobody to care for us, and
will take care of one another." The
dog never quitted me afterwards.

I could not go into my mother's room
—my heart swelled when I passed within
sight of the door. Her portrait hung in
the parlour, just over the place she used
to sit. As I cast my eyes on it, I thought
it looked at me with tenderness, and I
burst into tears. I was a careless dog, it
is true, hardened a little, perhaps, by
living in public schools, and buffeting
about among strangers, who cared nothing
for me; but the recollection of a mother's
tenderness was overcoming.

I was not of an age or a temperament
to be long depressed. There was a reaction
in my system that always brought
me up again after every pressure; and,
indeed, my spirits were most buoyant
after a temporary prostration. I settled
the concerns of the estate as soon as
possible; realized my property, which
was not very considerable, but which
appeared a vast deal to me, having a
poetical eye, that magnified every thing;
and finding myself at the end of a few
months, free of all further business or
restraint, I determined to go to London
and enjoy myself. Why should not I?—
I was young, animated, joyous; had
plenty of funds for present pleasures, and
my uncle's estate in the perspective. Let
those mope at college, and pore over
books, thought I, who have their way to
make in the world; it would be ridiculous
drudgery in a youth of my expectations!

Away to London, therefore, I rattled
in a tandem, determined to take the town
gaily. I passed through several of the
villages where I had played the Jack
Pudding a few years before; and I visited
the scenes of many of my adventures
and follies, merely from that feeling of
melancholy pleasure which we have in
stepping again the footprints of foregone
existence, even when they have passed
among weeds and briars. I made a
circuit in the latter part of my journey,
so as to take in West End and Hampstead,
the scenes of my last dramatic exploit,
and of the battle royal of the booth. As
I drove along the ridge of Hampstead
Hill, by Jack Straw's Castle, I paused at
the spot where Columbine and I had sat
down so disconsolately in our ragged
finery, and had looked dubiously on
London. I almost expected to see her
again, standing on the hill's brink, "like
Niobe, all tears;"—mournful as Babylon
in ruins!

"Poor Columbine!" said I, with a
heavy sigh, "thou wert a gallant, generous
girl—a true woman; faithful to the
distressed, and ready to sacrifice thyself
in the cause of worthless man!"

I tried to whistle off the recollection of
her, for there was always something of
self-reproach with it. I drove gaily along
the road, enjoying the stare of hostlers
and stable-boys, as I managed my horses
knowingly down the steep street of Hampstead;
when, just at the skirts of the village,
one of the traces of my leader came
loose. I pulled up, and as the animal
was restive, and my servant a bungler, I
called for assistance to the robustious
master of a snug alehouse, who stood at
his door with a tankard in his hand. He
came readily to assist me, followed by
his wife, with her bosom half open, a
child in her arms, and two more at her
heels. I stared for a moment, as if
doubting my eyes. I could not be mistaken;
in the fat, beer-blown landlord of
the alehouse, I recognised my old rival
Harlequin, and in his slattern spouse, the
once trim and dimpling Columbine.

The change of my looks from youth
to manhood, and the change in my circumstances,
prevented them from recognising
me. They could not suspect in
the dashing young buck, fashionably
dressed and driving his own equipage,
the painted beau, with old peaked hat,

and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. My
heart yearned with kindness towards
Columbine, and I was glad to see her
establishment a thriving one. As soon
as the harness was adjusted, I tossed
a small purse of gold into her ample
bosom; and then, pretending to give my
horses a hearty cut of the whip, I made
the lash curl with a whistling about the
sleek sides of ancient Harlequin. The
horses dashed off like lightning, and I
was whirled out of sight before either of
the parties could get over their surprise
at my liberal donations. I have always
considered this as one of the greatest
proofs of my poetical genius; it was
distributing poetical justice in perfection.

I now entered London en cavalier, and
became a blood upon town. I took
fashionable lodgings in the West End;
employed the first tailor; frequented the
regular lounges; gambled a little; lost
my money good-humouredly, and gained
a number of fashionable, good-for-nothing
acquaintances. I gained some reputation
also for a man of science, having
become an expert boxer in the course of
my studies at Oxford. I was distinguished,
therefore, among the gentlemen
of the Fancy; became hand and glove
with certain boxing noblemen, and was
the admiration of the Fives Court. A
gentleman's science, however, is apt to
get him into sad scrapes; he is too prone
to play the knight-errant, and to pick up
quarrels which less scientific gentlemen
would quietly avoid. I undertook one
day to punish the insolence of a porter.
He was a Hercules of a fellow, but then
I was so secure in my science! I gained
the victory of course. The porter pocketed
his humiliation, bound up his broken
head, and went about his business as
unconcernedly as though nothing had
happened; while I went to bed with my
victory, and did not dare to show my
battered face for a fortnight: by which I
discovered that a gentleman may have
the worst of the battle even when victorious.

I am naturally a philosopher, and no
one can moralize better after a misfortune
has taken place: so I lay on my
bed and moralized on this sorry ambition,
which levels the gentleman with the
clown. I know it is the opinion of many
sages, who have thought deeply on these
matters, that the noble science of boxing
keeps up the bull-dog courage of the
nation; and far be it from me to decry
the advantage of becoming a nation of
bull-dogs; but I now saw clearly that it
was calculated to keep up the breed of
English ruffians. "What is the Fives
Court," said I to myself, as I turned uncomfortably
in bed, "but a college of
scoundrelism, where every bully ruffian
in the land may gain a fellowship? What
is the slang language of `The Fancy'
but a jargon by which fools and knaves
commune and understand each other, and
enjoy a kind of superiority over the uninitiated?
What is a boxing-match but
an arena, where the noble and the illustrious
are jostled into familiarity with
the infamous and the vulgar? What, in
fact, is the Fancy itself, but a chain of
easy communication, extending from the
peer down to the pickpocket, through the
medium of which a man of rank may
find he has shaken hands, at three removes,
with the murderer on the gibbet?

"Enough!" ejaculated I, thoroughly
convinced through the force of my philosophy,
and the pain of my bruises—
"I'll have nothing more to do with The
Fancy." So when I had recovered from
my victory, I turned my attention to
softer themes, and became a devoted
admirer of the ladies. Had I had more
industry and ambition in my nature, I
might have worked my way to the very
height of fashion, as I saw many laborious
gentlemen doing around me. But
it is a toilsome, an anxious, and an unhappy
life: there are few beings so
sleepless and miserable as your cultivators
of fashionable smiles. I was quite
content with that kind of society which
forms the frontiers of fashion, and may
be easily taken possession of. I found it
a light, easy, productive soil. I had but
to go about and sow visiting-cards, and I
reaped a whole harvest of invitations.
Indeed, my figure and address were by
no means against me. It was whispered,
too, among the young ladies, that I was
prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry;
and the old ladies had ascertained that I
was a young gentleman of good family,
handsome fortune, and "great expectations."

I now was carried away by the hurry
of gay life, so intoxicating to a young
man, and which a man of poetical temperament
enjoys so highly on his first
tasting of it: that rapid variety of sensations;
that whirl of brilliant objects; that
succession of pungent pleasures! I had
no time for thought. I only felt. I
never attempted to write poetry; my
poetry seemed all to go off by transpiration.
I lived poetry; it was all a poetical
dream to me. A mere sensualist
knows nothing of the delights of a splendid
metropolis. He lives in a round of
animal gratifications and heartless habits.
But to a young man of poetical feelings,
it is an ideal world, a scene of enchantment
and delusion; his imagination is in
perpetual excitement, and gives a spiritual
zest to every pleasure.

A season of town-life, however, somewhat
sobered me of my intoxication; or,
rather, I was rendered more serious by
one of my old complaints—I fell in love.
It was with a very pretty, though a very
haughty fair one, who had come to London
under the care of an old maiden
aunt to enjoy the pleasures of a winter in
town, and to get married. There was
not a doubt of her commanding a choice
of lovers; for she had long been the
belle of a little cathedral city, and one of
the poets of the place had absolutely
celebrated her beauty in a copy of Latin
verses. The most extravagant anticipations
were formed by her friends of the
sensation she would produce. It was
feared by some that she might be precipitate
in her choice, and take up with
some inferior title. The aunt was determined
nothing should gain her under a
lord.

Alas! with all her charms, the young
lady lacked the one thing needful—she
had no money. So she waited in vain
for duke, marquis, or earl, to throw himself
at her feet. As the season waned,
so did the lady's expectations; when,
just towards the close, I made my advances.

I was most favourably received by both
the young lady and her aunt. It is true,
I had no title; but then such great expectations!
A marked preference was
immediately shown me over two rivals,
the younger son of a needy baronet, and
a captain of dragoons on half-pay. I did
not absolutely take the field in form, for
I was determined not to be precipitate;
but I drove my equipage frequently
through the street in which she lived,
and was always sure to see her at the
window, generally with a book in her
hand. I resumed my knack at rhyming,
and sent her a long copy of verses;
anonymously, to be sure, but she knew
my handwriting. Both aunt and niece,
however, displayed the most delightful
ignorance on the subject. The young
lady showed them to me; wondered
whom they could be written by; and
declared there was nothing in this world
she loved so much as poetry; while the
maiden aunt would put her pinching
spectacles on her nose, and read them,
with blunders in sense and sound, that
were excruciating to an author's ears;
protesting there was nothing equal to
them in the whole Elegant Extracts.

The fashionable season closed without
my adventuring to make a declaration,
though I certainly had encouragement.
I was not perfectly sure that I had
effected a lodgment in the young lady's
heart, and, to tell the truth, the aunt
overdid her part, and was a little too
extravagant in her liking of me. I knew
that maiden aunts were not apt to be
captivated by the mere personal merits
of their nieces' admirers; and I wanted
to ascertain how much of all this favour
I owed to driving an equipage, and having
great expectations.

I had received many hints how charming
their native place was during the
summer months; what pleasant society
they had; and what beautiful drives
about the neighbourhood. They had
not, therefore, returned home long, before
I made my appearance in dashing
style, driving down the principal street.
The very next morning I was seen at
prayers, seated in the same pew with the
reigning belle. Questions were whispered
about the aisles, after service,
"Who is he?" and "What is he?" And
the replies were as usual, "A young
gentleman of good family and fortune,
and great expectations."

I was much struck with the peculiarities
of this reverend little place. A
cathedral, with its dependencies and regulations,

presents a picture of other
times, and of a different order of things.
It is a rich relic of a more poetical age.
There still linger about it the silence and
solemnity of the cloister. In the present
instance especially, where the cathedral
was large, and the town was small, its
influence was the more apparent. The
solemn pomp of the service, performed
twice a day, with the grand intonations
of the organ, and the voices of the choir
swelling through the magnificent pile,
diffused, as it were, a perpetual sabbath
over the place. This routine of solemn
ceremony continually going on, independent,
as it were, of the world; this
daily offering of melody and praise, ascending
like incense from the altar, had
a powerful effect upon my imagination.

The aunt introduced me to her coterie,
formed of families connected with the
cathedral, and others of moderate fortune,
but high respectability, who had
nestled themselves under the wings of
the cathedral to enjoy good society at
moderate expense. It was a highly
aristocratical little circle; scrupulous in
its intercourse with others, and jealously
cautious about admitting any thing common
or unclean.

It seemed as if the courtesies of the
old school had taken refuge here. There
were continual interchanges of civilities,
and of small presents of fruits and delicacies,
and of complimentary crow-quill
billets; for in a quiet, well-bred community
like this, living entirely at ease,
little duties, and little amusements, and
little civilities, fill up the day. I have
seen, in the midst of a warm day, a corpulent,
powdered footman, issuing from
the iron gateway of a stately mansion,
and traversing the little place with an
air of mighty import, bearing a small
tart on a large silver salver.

Their evening amusements were sober
and primitive. They assembled at a
moderate hour; the young ladies played
music, and the old ladies whist; and at
an early hour they dispersed. There
was no parade on these social occasions.
Two or three old sedan chairs were in
constant activity, though the greater part
made their exit in clogs and pattens, with
a footman or waiting-maid carrying a
lantern in advance; and long before
midnight the clank of pattens and gleam
of lanterns about the quiet little place
told that the evening party had dissolved.

Still I did not feel myself altogether so
much at my ease as I had anticipated,
considering the smallness of the place.
I found it very different from other country
places, and that it was not so easy
to make a dash there. Sinner that I
was! the very dignity and decorum of
the little community was rebuking to me.
I feared my past idleness and folly would
rise in judgment against me. I stood in
awe of the dignitaries of the cathedral,
whom I saw mingling familiarly in society.
I became nervous on this point.
The creak of a prebendary's shoes,
sounding from one end of a quiet street
to the other, was appalling to me; and
the sight of a shovel-hat was sufficient
at any time to check me in the midst of
my boldest poetical soarings.

And then the good aunt could not be
quiet, but would cry me up for a genius,
and extol my poetry to every one. So
long as she confined this to the ladies it
did well enough, because they were able
to feel and appreciate poetry of the new
romantic school. Nothing would content
the good lady, however, but she must
read my verses to a prehendary, who
had long been the undoubted critic of the
place. He was a thin, delicate old gentleman,
of mild, polished manners, steeped
to the lips in classic lore, and not
easily put in a heat by any hot-blooded
poetry of the day. He listened to my
most fervid thoughts and fervid words
without a glow; shook his head with a
smile, and condemned them as not being
according to Horace, as not being legitimate
poetry.

Several old ladies, who had heretofore
been my admirers, shook their heads at
hearing this; they could not think of
praising any poetry that was not according
to Horace; and as to any thing illegitimate,
it was not to be countenanced
in good society. Thanks to my stars,
however, I had youth and novelty on my
side: so the young ladies persisted in
admiring my poetry in despite of Horace
and illegitimacy.

I consoled myself with the good opinion
of the young ladies, whom I had always
found to be the best judges of poetry.

As to these old scholars, said I, they are
apt to be chilled by being steeped in the
cold fountains of the classics. Still I felt
that I was losing ground, and that it was
necessary to bring matters to a point.
Just at this time there was a public ball,
attended by the best society of the place,
and by the gentry of the neighbourhood:
I took great pains with my toilet on the
occasion, and I had never looked better.
I had determined that night to make my
grand assault on the heart of the young
lady, to battle it with all my forces, and
the next morning to demand a surrender
in due form.

I entered the ball-room amidst a buzz
and flutter, which generally took place
among the young ladies on my appearance.
I was in fine spirits; for, to tell
the truth, I had exhilarated myself by a
cheerful glass of wine on the occasion. I
talked, and rattled, and said a thousand
silly things, slap-dash, with all the confidence
of a man sure of his auditors,—
and every thing had its effect.

In the midst of my triumph I observed
a little knot gathering together in the
upper part of the room. By degrees it
increased. A tittering broke out there,
and glances were cast round at me, and
then there would be fresh tittering. Some
of the young ladies would hurry away
to distant parts of the room, and whisper
to their friends. Wherever they went,
there was still this tittering and glancing
at me. I did not know what to make of
all this. I looked at myself from head
to foot, and peeped at my back in a glass,
to see if any thing was odd about my
person; any awkward exposure, any
whimsical tag hanging out:—no—every
thing was right—I was a perfect picture.
I determined that it must be some choice
saying of mine that was bandied about
in this knot of merry beauties, and I
determined to enjoy one of my good
things in the rebound. I stepped gently,
therefore, up the room, smiling at every
one as I passed, who, I must say, all
smiled and tittered in return. I approached
the group, smirking and perking my
chin, like a man who is full of pleasant
feeling, and sure of being well received.
The cluster of little belles opened as I
advanced.

Heavens and earth! whom should I
perceive in the midst of them but my
early and tormenting flame, the everlasting
Sacharissa! She was grown, it
is true, into the full beauty of womanhood;
but showed, by the provoking
merriment of her countenance, that she
perfectly recollected me, and the ridiculous
flagellations of which she had twice
been the cause.

I saw at once the exterminating cloud
of ridicule that was bursting over me.
My crest fell. The flame of love went
suddenly out of my bosom, or was extinguished
by overwhelming shame. How
I got down the room I know not: I fancied
every one tittering at me. Just as
I reached the door, I caught a glance of
my mistress and her aunt listening to the
whispers of Sacharissa, the old lady raising
her hands and eyes, and the face of
the young one lighted up, as I imagined,
with scorn ineffable. I paused to see no
more, but made two steps from the top of
the stairs to the bottom. The next morning,
before sunrise, I beat a retreat, and
did not feel the blushes cool from my
tingling cheeks, until I had lost sight of
the old towers of the cathedral.

I now returned to town thoughtful
and crestfallen. My money was nearly
spent, for I had lived freely and without
calculation. The dream of love was over,
and the reign of pleasure at an end. I
determined to retrench while I had yet a
trifle left: so selling my equipage and
horses for half their value, I quietly put
the money in my pocket, and turned
pedestrian. I had not a doubt that, with
my great expectations, I could at any
time raise funds, either on usury or by
borrowing; but I was principled against
both one and the other, and resolved, by
strict economy, to make my slender
purse hold out until my uncle should
give up the ghost, or rather the estate. I
stayed at home, therefore, and read, and
would have written, but I had already
suffered too much from my poetical productions,
which had generally involved
me in some ridiculous scrape. I gradually
acquired a rusty look, and had a
straitened money-borrowing air, upon
which the world began to shy me. I
have never felt disposed to quarrel with
the world for its conduct; it has always
used me well. When I have been flush

and gay, and disposed for society, it has
caressed me; and when I have been
pinched and reduced, and wished to be
alone, why it has left me alone; and
what more could a man desire? Take
my word for it, this world is a more obliging
world than people generally represent
it.

Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment,
my retirement, and my studiousness,
I received news that my uncle was
dangerously ill. I hastened on the wings
of an heir's affections to receive his dying
breath and his last testament. I found
him attended by his faithful valet, old
Iron John; by the woman who occasionally
worked about the house, and by
the foxy-headed boy, young Orson, whom
I had occasionally hunted about the park.
Iron John gasped a kind of asthmatical
salutation as I entered the room, and
received me with something almost like
a smile of welcome. The woman sat
blubbering at the foot of the bed; and
the foxy-headed Orson, who had now
grown up to be a lubberly lout, stood
gazing in stupid vacancy at a distance.

My uncle lay stretched upon his back.
The chamber was without fire, or any of
the comforts of a sick room. The cobwebs
flaunted from the ceiling. The
tester was covered with dust, and the
curtains were tattered. From underneath
the bed peeped out one end of his
strong-box. Against the wainscot were
suspended rusty blunderbusses, horse-pistols,
and a cut-and-thrust sword, with
which he had fortified his room to defend
his life and treasure. He had employed
no physician during his illness; and from
the scanty relics lying on the table,
seemed almost to have denied to himself
the assistance of a cook.

When I entered the room, he was lying
motionless; his eyes fixed and his mouth
open: at the first look I thought him a
corpse. The noise of my entrance made
him turn his head. At the sight of me
a ghastly smile came over his face, and
his glazing eye gleamed with satisfaction.
It was the only smile he had ever given
me, and it went to my heart. "Poor old
man!" thought I, "why would you force
me to leave you thus desolate, when I
see that my presence has the power to
cheer you?"

"Nephew," said he, after several efforts,
and in a low gasping voice—"I
am glad you are come. I shall now die
with satisfaction. Look," said he, raising
his withered hand, and pointing—
"Look in that box on the table: you
will find that I have not forgotten you."

I pressed his hand to my heart, and
the tears stood in my eyes. I sat down
by his bedside and watched him, but he
never spoke again. My presence, however,
gave him evident satisfaction; for
every now and then, as he looked at me,
a vague smile would come over his visage,
and he would feebly point to the sealed
box on the table. As the day wore away,
his life appeared to wear away with it.
Towards sunset his hand sunk on the
bed, and lay motionless, his eyes grew
glazed, his mouth remained open, and
thus he gradually died.

I could not but feel shocked at this
absolute extinction of my kindred. I
dropped a tear of real sorrow over this
strange old man, who had thus reserved
the smile of kindness to his death-bed;
like an evening sun after a gloomy day,
just shining out to set in darkness. Leaving
the corpse in charge of the domestics,
I retired for the night.

It was a rough night. The winds
seemed as if singing my uncle's requiem
about the mansion, and the bloodhounds
howled without, as if they knew of the
death of their old master. Iron John
almost grudged me the tallow candle to
burn in my apartment, and light up its
dreariness, so accustomed had he been
to starveling economy. I could not sleep.
The recollection of my uncle's dying
scene, and the dreary sounds about the
house affected my mind. These, however,
were succeeded by plans for the
future, and I lay awake the greater part
of the night, indulging the poetical anticipation
how soon I should make these
old walls ring with cheerful life, and
restore the hospitality of my mother's
ancestors.

My uncle's funeral was decent but
private. I knew there was nobody that
respected his memory, and I was determined
that none should be summoned to
sneer over his funeral, and make merry
at his grave. He was buried in the
church of the neighbouring village,

though it was not the burying-place of
his race; but he had expressly enjoined
that he should not be buried with his
family; he had quarrelled with most of
them when living, and he carried his
resentments even into the grave.

I defrayed the expenses of his funeral
out of my own purse, that I might have
done with the undertakers at once, and
clear the ill-omened birds from the premises.
I invited the parson of the parish,
and the lawyer from the village, to attend
at the house the next morning, and hear
the reading of the will. I treated them
to an excellent breakfast, a profusion that
had not been seen at the house for many
a year. As soon as the breakfast things
were removed, I summoned Iron John,
the woman, and the boy, for I was particular
in having every one present and
proceeding regularly. The box was
placed on the table—all was silence—I
broke the seal—raised the lid, and beheld
—not the will—but my accursed poem
of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair!

Could any mortal have conceived that
this old withered man, so taciturn and
apparently so lost to feeling, could have
treasured up for years the thoughtless
pleasantry of a boy, to punish him with
such cruel ingenuity? I now could account
for his dying smile, the only one
he had ever given me. He had been a
grave man all his life; it was strange
that he should die in the enjoyment of a
joke, and it was hard that that joke
should be at my expense.

The lawyer and the parson seemed at
a loss to comprehend the matter. "Here
must be some mistake," said the lawyer;
"there is no will here."

"Oh!" said Iron John, creaking forth
his rusty jaws, "if it is a will you are
looking for, I believe I can find one."

He retired with the same singular smile
with which he had greeted me on my
arrival, and which I now apprehended
boded me no good. In a little while he
returned with a will perfect at all points,
properly signed and sealed, and witnessed
and worded with horrible correctness; in
which the deceased left large legacies to
Iron John and his daughter, and the
residue of his fortune to the foxy-headed
boy; who, to my utter astonishment, was
his son by this very woman; he having
married her privately, and, as I verily
believe, for no other purpose than to
have an heir, and so balk my father and
his issue of the inheritance. There was
one little proviso, in which he mentioned,
that, having discovered his nephew to
have a pretty turn for poetry, he presumed
he had no occasion for wealth;
he recommended him, however, to the
patronage of the heir, and requested that
he might have a garret, rent-free, in
Doubting Castle.

GRAVE REFLECTIONS
OF
A DISAPPOINTED MAN.

Mr. Buckthorne had paused at the
death of his uncle, and the downfall of
his great expectations, which formed, as
he said, an epoch in his history; and it
was not until some little time afterwards,
and in a very sober mood, that he resumed
his party-coloured narrative.

After leaving the remains of my defunct
uncle, said he, when the gate closed
between me and what was once to have
been mine, I felt thrust out naked into
the world, and completely abandoned to
fortune. What was to become of me?
I had been brought up to nothing but expectations,
and they had all been disappointed.
I had no relations to look to
for counsel or assistance. The world
seemed all to have died away from me.
Wave after wave of relationship had
ebbed off, and I was left a mere hulk
upon the strand. I am not apt to be
greatly cast down, but at this time I felt
sadly disheartened. I could not realize
my situation, nor form a conjecture how
I was to get forward. I was now to endeavour
to make money. The idea was
new and strange to me. It was like
being asked to discover the philosopher's
stone. I had never thought about money
otherwise than to put my hand into my
pocket and find it; or if there were none
there, to wait until a new supply came
from home. I had considered life as a
mere space of time to be filled up with
enjoyments: but to have it portioned out
into long hours and days of toil, merely

that I might gain bread to give me
strength to toil on—to labour but for the
purpose of perpetuating a life of labour,
was new and appalling to me. This
may appear a very simple matter to
some; but it will be understood by every
unlucky wight in my predicament, who
has had the misfortune of being born to
great expectations.

I passed several days in rambling
about the scenes of my boyhood; partly
because I absolutely did not know what
to do with myself, and partly because I
did not know that I should ever see them
again. I clung to them as one clings to
a wreck, though he knows he must
eventually cast himself loose and swim
for his life. I sat down on a little hill
within sight of my paternal home, but I
did not venture to approach it, for I felt
compunction at the thoughtlessness with
which I had dissipated my patrimony:
yet was I to blame, when I had the rich
possessions of my curmudgeon of an
uncle in expectation?

The new possessor of the place was
making great alterations. The house
was almost rebuilt. The trees which
stood about it were cut down: my mother's
flower-garden was thrown into a
lawn—all was undergoing a change. I
turned my back upon it with a sigh, and
rambled to another part of the country.

How thoughtful a little adversity makes
one! As I came within sight of the
schoolhouse where I had so often been
flogged in the cause of wisdom, you
would hardly have recognised the truant
boy, who, but a few years since, had
eloped so heedlessly from its walls. I
leaned over the paling of the play-ground,
and watched the scholars at their games,
and looked to see if there might not be
some urchin among them like what I was
once, full of gay dreams about life and
the world. The play-ground seemed
smaller than when I used to sport about
it. The house and park, too, of the
neighbouring squire, the father of the
cruel Sacharissa, had shrunk in size and
diminished in magnificence. The distant
hills no longer appeared so far off, and,
alas! no longer awakened ideas of a fairy
land beyond.

As I was rambling pensively through
a neighbouring meadow, in which I had
many a time gathered primroses, I met
the very pedagogue who had been the
tyrant and dread of my boyhood. I had
sometimes vowed to myself, when suffering
under his rod, that I would have my
revenge if I ever met him when I had
grown to be a man. The time had come;
but I had no disposition to keep my vow.
The few years which had matured me
into a vigorous man had shrunk him into
decrepitude. He appeared to have had a
paralytic stroke. I looked at him, and
wondered that this poor helpless mortal
could have been an object of terror to
me; that I should have watched with
anxiety the glance of that failing eye, or
dreaded the power of that trembling
hand. He tottered feebly along the path,
and had some difficulty in getting over a
stile. I ran and assisted him. He looked
at me with surprise, but did not recognise
me, and made a low bow of humility
and thanks. I had no disposition to make
myself known, for I felt that I had
nothing to boast of. The pains he had
taken, and the pains he had inflicted,
had been equally useless. His repeated
predictions were fully verified, and I felt
that little Jack Buckthorne, the idle boy,
had grown to be a very good-for-nothing
man.

This is all very comfortless detail; but
as I have told you of my follies, it is
meet that I show you how for once I was
schooled for them. The most thoughtless
of mortals will some time or other
have his day of gloom, when he will be
compelled to reflect.

I felt on this occasion as if I had a
kind of penance to perform, and I made
a pilgrimage in expiation of my past
levity. Having passed a night at Leamington,
I set off by a private path, which
leads up a hill through a grove and
across quiet fields, till I came to the
small village, or rather hamlet, of Lenington.
I sought the village church. It
is an old low edifice of gray stone, on
the brow of a small hill, looking over
fertile fields, towards where the proud
towers of Warwick Castle lift themselves
against the distant horizon.

A part of the churchyard is shaded by
large trees. Under one of them my
mother lay buried. You have no doubt
thought me a light, heartless being. I

thought myself so; but there are moments
of adversity which let us into some
feelings of our nature to which we might
otherwise remain perpetual strangers.

I sought my mother's grave: the weeds
were already matted over it, and the
tombstone was half hid among nettles.
I cleared them away, and they stung my
hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for
my heart ached too severely. I sat down
on the grave, and read over and over
again the epitaph on the stone.

It was simple,—but it was true. I
had written it myself. I had tried to
write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; my
feelings refused to utter themselves in
rhyme. My heart had gradually been
filling during my lonely wanderings; it
was now charged to the brim, and overflowed.
I sunk upon the grave, and
buried my face in the tall grass, and
wept like a child. Yes, I wept in manhood
upon the grave, as I had in infancy
upon the bosom of my mother. Alas!
how little do we appreciate a mother's
tenderness while living! how heedless are
we in youth of all her anxieties and kindness!
But when she is dead and gone;
when the cares and coldness of the world
come withering to our hearts; when we
find how hard it is to find true sympathy;
—how few love us for ourselves; how
few will befriend us in our misfortune—
then it is that we think of the mother we
have lost. It is true I had always loved
my mother, even in my most heedless
days; but I felt how inconsiderate and
ineffectual had been my love. My heart
melted as I retraced the days of infancy,
when I was led by a mother's hand, and
rocked to sleep in a mother's arms, and
was without care or sorrow. "O my
mother!" exclaimed I, burying my face
again in the grass of the grave; "O that
I were once more by your side; sleeping,
never to wake again on the cares and
troubles of this world."

I am not naturally of a morbid temperament,
and the violence of my emotion
gradually exhausted itself. It was
a hearty, honest, natural discharge of
grief which had been slowly accumulating,
and gave me wonderful relief. I
rose from the grave as if I had been offering
up a sacrifice, and I felt as if that
sacrifice had been accepted.

I sat down again on the grass, and
plucked, one by one, the weeds from her
grave: the tears trickled more slowly
down my cheeks, and ceased to be bitter.
It was a comfort to think that she had
died before sorrow and poverty came
upon her child, and that all his great expectations
were blasted.

I leaned my cheek upon my hand,
and looked upon the landscape. Its quiet
beauty soothed me. The whistle of a
peasant from an adjoining field came
cheerily to my ear. I seemed to respire
hope and comfort with the free air that
whispered through the leaves, and played
lightly with my hair, and dried the tears
upon my cheek. A lark, rising from
the field before me, and leaving as it
were a stream of song behind him as he
rose, lifted my fancy with him. He
hovered in the air just above the place
where the towers of Warwick Castle
marked the horizon, and seemed as if
fluttering with delight at his own melody.
"Surely," thought I, "if there were such
a thing as transmigration of souls, this
might be taken for some poet let loose
from earth, but still revelling in song,
and carolling about fair fields and lordly
towers."

At this moment the long-forgotten feeling
of poetry rose within me. A thought
sprung at once into my mind.—"I will
become an author!" said I. "I have
hitherto indulged in poetry as a pleasure,
and it has brought me nothing but pain;
let me try what it will do when I cultivate
it with devotion as a pursuit."

The resolution thus suddenly aroused
within me heaved a load from off my
heart. I felt a confidence in it from the
very place where it was formed. It
seemed as though my mother's spirit
whispered it to me from her grave. "I
will henceforth," said I, "endeavour to
be all that she fondly imagined me. I
will endeavour to act as if she were witness
of my actions; I will endeavour to
acquit myself in such a manner that,
when I revisit her grave, there may at
least be no compunctious bitterness in
my tears."

I bowed down and kissed the turf in
solemn attestation of my vow. I plucked
some primroses that were growing there,
and laid them next my heart. I left the

churchyard with my spirits once more
lifted up, and set out a third time for
London in the character of an author.—

Here my companion made a pause,
and I waited in anxious suspense, hoping
to have a whole volume of literary life
unfolded to me. He seemed, however,
to have sunk into a fit of pensive musing,
and when, after some time, I gently
roused him by a question or two as to
his literary career,

"No," said he, smiling, "over that
part of my story I wish to leave a cloud.
Let the mysteries of the craft rest sacred
for me. Let those who have never ventured
into the republic of letters still look
upon it as a fairy land. Let them suppose
the author the very being they picture
him from his works—I am not the
man to mar their illusion. I am not
the man to hint, while one is admiring
the silken web of Persia, that it has been
spun from the entrails of a miserable
worm."

"Well," said I, "if you will tell me
nothing of your literary history, let me
know at least if you have had any further
intelligence from Doubting Castle."

"Willingly," replied he, "though I
have but little to communicate."

THE BOOBY SQUIRE.

A long time elapsed, said Buckthorne,
without my receiving any accounts of
my cousin and his estate. Indeed, I felt
so much soreness on the subject, that I
wished if possible to shut it from my
thoughts. At length chance took me to
that part of the country, and I could not
refrain from making some inquiries.

I learnt that my cousin had grown up
ignorant, self-willed, and clownish. His
ignorance and clownishness had prevented
his mingling with the neighbouring
gentry: in spite of his great fortune,
he had been unsuccessful in an attempt
to gain the hand of the daughter of the
parson, and had at length shrunk into
the limits of such society as a mere man
of wealth can gather in a country neighbourhood.

He kept horses and hounds, and a
roaring table, at which were collected
the loose livers of the country round, and
the shabby gentlemen of a village in the
vicinity. When he could get no other
company, he would smoke and drink
with his own servants, who in turn
fleeced and despised him. Still, with all
his apparent prodigality, he had a leaven
of the old man in him which showed that
he was his true-born son. He lived far
within his income, was vulgar in his expenses,
and penurious in many points
wherein a gentleman would be extravagant.
His house-servants were obliged
occasionally to work on his estate,
and part of the pleasure-grounds were
ploughed up and devoted to husbandry.

His table, though plentiful, was coarse;
his liquors strong and bad; and more
ale and whisky were expended in his
establishment than generous wine. He
was loud and arrogant at his own table,
and exacted a rich man's homage from
his vulgar and obsequious guests.

As to Iron John, his old grandfather,
he had grown impatient of the tight hand
his own grandson kept over him, and
quarrelled with him soon after he came
to the estate. The old man had retired
to the neighbouring village, where he
lived on the legacy of his late master,
in a small cottage, and was as seldom
seen out of it as a rat out of his hole in
daylight.

The cub, like Caliban, seemed to have
an instinctive attachment to his mother.
She resided with him, but, from long
habit, she acted more as a servant than
as mistress of the mansion; for she toiled
in all the domestic drudgery, and was
oftener in the kitchen than in the parlour.
Such was the information which
I collected of my rival cousin, who had
so unexpectedly elbowed me out of all
my expectations.

I now felt an irresistible hankering to
pay a visit to this scene of my boyhood,
and to get a peep at the odd kind of life
that was passing within the mansion of
my maternal ancestors. I determined
to do so in disguise. My booby cousin
had never seen enough of me to be very
familiar with my countenance, and a
few years make great difference between
youth and manhood. I understood he
was a breeder of cattle, and proud of his
stock; I dressed myself therefore as a

substantial farmer, and with the assistance
of a red scratch that came low
down on my forehead, made a complete
change in my physiognomy.

It was past three o'clock when I arrived
at the gate of the park, and was
admitted by an old woman, who was
washing in a dilapidated building which
had once been a porter's lodge. I advanced
up the remains of a noble avenue,
many of the trees of which had been cut
down and sold for timber. The grounds
were in scarcely better keeping than
during my uncle's lifetime. The grass
was overgrown with weeds, and the trees
wanted pruning and clearing of dead
branches. Cattle were grazing about the
lawns, and ducks and geese swimming in
the fish-ponds. The road to the house
bore very few traces of carriage wheels,
as my cousin received few visiters but
such as came on foot or horseback, and
never used a carriage himself. Once
indeed, as I was told, he had the old
family carriage drawn out from among
the dust and cobwebs of the coach-house,
and furbished up, and had driven, with
his mother, to the village church, to take
formal possession of the family pew; but
there was such hooting and laughing
after them, as they passed through the
village, and such giggling and bantering
about the church-door, that the pageant
had never made a re-appearance.

As I approached the house, a legion of
whelps sallied out, barking at me, accompanied
by the low howling, rather than
barking, of two old worn-out bloodhounds,
which I recognised for the ancient
life-guards of my uncle. The house
had still a neglected random appearance,
though much altered for the better since
my last visit. Several of the windows
were broken and patched up with boards,
and others had been bricked up to save
taxes. I observed smoke, however, rising
from the chimneys, a phenomenon rarely
witnessed in the ancient establishment.
On passing that part of the house where
the dining-room was situated, I heard
the sound of boisterous merriment, where
three or four voices were talking at once,
and oaths and laughter were horribly
mingled.

The uproar of the dogs had brought a
servant to the door, a tall hard-fisted
country clown, with a livery-coat put
over the under garments of a ploughman.
I requested to see the master of the house,
but was told he was at dinner with some
"gemmen" of the neighbourhood. I
made known my business, and sent in to
know if I might talk with the master
about his cattle, for I felt a great desire
to have a peep at him in his orgies.

Word was returned that he was engaged
with company, and could not
attend to business, but that if I would
step in and take a drink of something, I
was heartily welcome. I accordingly
entered the hall, where whips and hats
of all kinds and shapes were lying on
an oaken table; two or three clownish
servants were lounging about; every
thing had a look of confusion and carelessness.

The apartments through which I
passed had the same air of departed
gentility and sluttish housekeeping. The
once rich curtains were faded and dusty,
the furniture greased and tarnished. On
entering the dining-room I found a number
of odd, vulgar-looking, rustic gentlemen
seated round a table, on which were
bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and
tobacco. Several dogs were lying about
the room, or sitting and watching their
masters, and one was gnawing a bone
under a side-table. The master of the
feast sat at the head of the board. He
was greatly altered. He had grown
thickset and rather gummy, with a fiery
foxy head of hair. There was a singular
mixture of foolishness, arrogance,
and conceit, in his countenance. He
was dressed in a vulgarly fine style,
with leather breeches, a red waistcoat,
and green coat, and was evidently, like
his guests, a little flushed with drinking.
The whole company stared at me with a
whimsical muzzy look, like men whose
senses were a little obfuscated by beer
rather than wine.

My cousin (God forgive me! the appellation
sticks in my throat), my cousin
invited me with awkward civility, or, as
he intended it, condescension, to sit to
the table and drink. We talked, as
usual, about the weather, the crops, politics,
and hard times. My cousin was a
loud politician, and evidently accustomed
to talk without contradiction at his own

table. He was amazingly loyal, and
talked of standing by the throne to the
last guinea, "as every gentleman of fortune
should do." The village exciseman,
who was half asleep, could just
ejaculate "very true" to every thing he
said. The conversation turned upon
cattle; he boasted of his breed, his mode
of crossing it, and of the general management
of his estate. This unluckily drew
on a history of the place and of the
family. He spoke of my late uncle with
the greatest irreverence, which I could
easily forgive. He mentioned my name,
and my blood began to boil. He described
my frequent visits to my uncle,
when I was a lad; and I found the varlet,
even at that time, imp as he was, had
known that he was to inherit the estate.
He described the scene of my uncle's
death, and the opening of the will, with
a degree of coarse humour that I had
not expected from him; and, vexed as I
was, I could not help joining in the
laugh, for I have always relished a joke,
even though made at my own expense.
He went on to speak of my various pursuits,
my strolling freak, and that somewhat
nettled me; at length he talked of
my parents. He ridiculed my father; I
stomached even that, though with great
difficulty. He mentioned my mother
with a sneer, and in an instant he lay
sprawling at my feet.

Here a tumult succeeded: the table
was nearly overturned; bottles, glasses,
and tankards, rolled crashing and clattering
about the floor. The company
seized hold of both of us, to keep us from
doing any further mischief. I struggled
to get loose, for I was boiling with fury.
My cousin defied me to strip and fight
him on the lawn. I agreed, for I felt the
strength of a giant in me, and I longed
to pommel him soundly.

Away then we were borne. A ring
was formed. I had a second assigned
me in true boxing style. My cousin, as
he advanced to fight, said something
about his generosity in showing me such
fair play, when I had made such an unprovoked
attack upon him at his own
table. "Stop there," cried I, in a rage.
"Unprovoked! know that I am John
Buckthorne, and you have insulted the
memory of my mother."

The lout was suddenly struck by what
I said: he drew back, and thought for a
moment.

"Nay, damn it," said he, "that's too
much—that's clean another thing—I've
a mother myself—and no one shall speak
ill of her, bad as she is."

He paused again; nature seemed to
have a rough struggle in his rude bosom.

"Damn it, cousin," cried he, "I'm
sorry for what I said. Thou'st served
me right in knocking me down, and I
like thee the better for it. Here's my
hand: come and live with me, and damn
me but the best room in the house, and
the best horse in the stable, shall be at
thy service."

I declare to you I was strongly moved
at this instance of nature breaking her
way through such a lump of flesh. I
forgave the fellow in a moment his two
heinous crimes, of having been born in
wedlock, and inheriting my estate. I
shook the hand he offered me, to convince
him that I bore him no ill will;
and then making my way through the
gaping crowd of toad-eaters, bade adieu
to my uncle's domains for ever. This
is the last I have seen or heard of my
cousin, or of the domestic concerns of
Doubting Castle.

THE STROLLING MANAGER.

As I was walking one morning with
Buckthorne near one of the principal
theatres, he directed my attention to a
group of those equivocal beings that may
often be seen hovering about the stage-doors
of theatres. They were marvellously
ill-favoured in their attire, their
coats buttoned up to their chins; yet
they wore their hats smartly on one
side, and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike
air, which is common to
the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne
knew them well by early experience.

"These," said he, "are the ghosts of
departed kings and heroes; fellows who
sway sceptres and truncheons; command
kingdoms and armies; and after
giving away realms and treasures over
night, have scarce a shilling to pay for

a breakfast in the morning. Yet they
have the true vagabond abhorrence of all
useful and industrious employment; and
they have their pleasures too; one of
which is to lounge in this way in the
sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals,
and make hackneyed theatrical
jokes on all passers-by. Nothing is
more traditional and legitimate than the
stage. Old scenery, old clothes, old
sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes,
are handed down from generation to generation;
and will probably continue to
be so until time shall be no more.
Every hanger-on of a theatre becomes a
wag by inheritance, and flourishes about
at tap-rooms and sixpenny clubs with
the property jokes of the green-room."

While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring
this group, we noticed one in
particular who appeared to be the oracle.
He was a weatherbeaten veteran, a little
bronzed by time and beer, who had no
doubt grown gray in the parts of robbers,
cardinals, Roman senators, and
walking noblemen.

"There is something in the set of that
hat, and the turn of that physiognomy,
that is extremely familiar to me," said
Buckthorne. He looked a little closer.
"I cannot be mistaken," added he, "that
must be my old brother of the truncheon,
Flimsey, the tragic hero of the Strolling
Company."

It was he in fact. The poor fellow
showed evident signs that times went
hard with him, he was so finely and
shabbily dressed. His coat was somewhat
threadbare, and of the Lord Townley
cut; single-breasted, and scarcely
capable of meeting in front of his body,
which, from long intimacy, had acquired
the symmetry and robustness of a beer
barrel. He wore a pair of dingy-white
stockinet pantaloons, which had much
ado to reach his waistcoat; a great
quantity of dirty cravat; and a pair of
old russet-coloured tragedy boots.

When his companions had dispersed,
Buckthorne drew him aside, and made
himself known to him. The tragic
veteran could scarcely recognise him, or
believe that he was really his quondam
associate, "little gentleman Jack."
Buckthorne invited him to a neighbouring
coffee-house to talk over old times;
and in the course of a little while we
were put in possession of his history in
brief.

He had continued to act the heroes in
the strolling company for some time after
Buckthorne had left it, or rather had
been driven from it so abruptly. At
length the manager died, and the troop
was thrown into confusion. Every one
aspired to the crown, every one was for
taking the lead; and the manager's
widow, although a tragedy queen, and a
brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly
impossible for a woman to keep any control
over such a set of tempestuous rascallions.

"Upon this hint, I spake," said Flimsey.
I stepped forward, and offered my
services in the most effectual way.
They were accepted. In a week's time
I married the widow, and succeeded to
the throne. "The funeral baked meats
did coldly furnish forth the marriage
table," as Hamlet says. But the ghost
of my predecessor never haunted me;
and I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls,
daggers, and all the stage-trappings and
trumpery, not omitting the widow, without
the least molestation.

I now led a flourishing life of it; for
our company was pretty strong and attractive,
and as my wife and I took the
heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great
saving to the treasury. We carried off
the palm from all the rival shows at
country fairs; and I assure you we have
even drawn full houses, and been applauded
by the critics at Bartlemy Fair
itself, though we had Astley's troop, the
Irish giant, and "the death of Nelson"
in wax-work, to contend against.

I soon began to experience, however,
the cares of command. I discovered that
there were cabals breaking out in the
company, headed by the clown, who
you may recollect was a terribly peevish,
fractious fellow, and always in ill-humour.
I had a great mind to turn him
off at once, but I could not do without
him, for there was not a droller scoundrel
on the stage. His very shape was
comic, for he had but to turn his back
upon the audience, and all the ladies
were ready to die with laughing. He
felt his importance, and took advantage
of it. He would keep the audience in a

continual roar, and then come behind
the scenes, and fret and fume, and play
the very devil. I excused a great deal
in him, however, knowing that comic
actors are a little prone to this infirmity
of temper.

I had another trouble of a nearer and
dearer nature to struggle with, which
was the affection of my wife. As ill-luck
would have it, she took it into her
head to be very fond of me, and became
intolerably jealous. I could not keep a
pretty girl in the company, and hardly
dared embrace an ugly one, even when
my part required it. I have known her
reduce a fine lady to tatters, "to very
rags," as Hamlet says, in an instant,
and destroy one of the very best dresses
in the wardrobe, merely because she saw
me kiss her at the side scenes; though I
give you my honour it was done merely
by way of rehearsal.

This was doubly annoying, because I
have a natural liking to pretty faces, and
wish to have them about me; and because
they are indispensable to the success
of a company at a fair, where one
has to vie with so many rival theatres.
But when once a jealous wife gets a freak
in her head, there's no use in talking of
interest or any thing else. Egad, sir,
I have more than once trembled when,
during a fit of her tantrums, she was
playing high tragedy, and flourishing
her tin dagger on the stage, lest she
should give way to her humour, and stab
some fancied rival in good earnest.

I went on better, however, than could
be expected, considering the weakness of
my flesh, and the violence of my rib. I
had not a much worse time of it than old
Jupiter, whose spouse was continually
ferreting out some new intrigue, and
making the heavens almost too hot to
hold him.

At length, as luck would have it, we
were performing at a country fair, when
I understood the theatre of a neighbouring
town to be vacant. I had always
been desirous to be enrolled in a settled
company, and the height of my desire
was to get on a par with a brother-in-law,
who was manager of a regular
theatre, and who had looked down upon
me. Here was an opportunity not to
be neglected. I concluded an agreement
with the proprietors, and in a few days
opened the theatre with great eclat.

Behold me now at the summit of my
ambition, "the high top-gallant of my
joy," as Romeo says. No longer a
chieftain of a wandering tribe, but a
monarch of a legitimate throne, and entitled
to call even the great potentates of
Covent Garden and Drury Lane cousins.
You, no doubt, think my happiness complete.
Alas, sir! I was one of the most
uncomfortable dogs living. No one
knows, who has not tried, the miseries
of a manager; but above all of a country
manager. No one can conceive the contentions
and quarrels within doors, the
oppressions and vexations from without.
I was pestered with the bloods and
loungers of a country town, who infested
my green-room, and played the mischief
among my actresses. But there was no
shaking them off. It would have been
ruin to affront them; for though troublesome
friends, they would have been dangerous
enemies. Then there were the
village critics and village amateurs, who
were continually tormenting me with advice,
and getting into a passion if I
would not take it; especially the village
doctor and the village attorney, who had
both been to London occasionally, and
knew what acting should be.

I had also to manage as arrant a crew
of scapegraces as ever were collected together
within the walls of a theatre. I
had been obliged to combine my original
troop with some of the former troop of
the theatre, who were favourites of the
public. Here was a mixture that produced
perpetual ferment. They were all
the time either fighting or frolicking with
each other, and I scarcely know which
mood was least troublesome. If they
quarrelled, every thing went wrong; and
if they were friends, they were continually
playing off some prank upon each
other, or upon me; for I had unhappily
acquired among them the character of
an easy good-natured fellow—the worst
character that a manager can possess.

Their waggery at times drove me
almost crazy; for there is nothing so
vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and
hoaxes and pleasantries of a veteran
band of theatrical vagabonds. I relished
them well enough, it is true, while

I was merely one of the company, but
as manager I found them detestable.
They were incessantly bringing some
disgrace upon the theatre by their tavern
frolics, and their pranks about the
country town. All my lectures about
the importance of keeping up the dignity
of the profession and the respectability
of the company were in vain. The villains
could not sympathize with the delicate
feelings of a man in station. They
even trifled with the seriousness of stage
business. I have had the whole piece
interrupted, and a crowded audience of
at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting,
because the actors had hid away the
breeches of Rosalind; and have known
Hamlet to stalk solemnly on to deliver
his soliloquy, with a dishclout pinned to
his skirts. Such are the baleful consequences
of a manager's getting a character
for good-nature.

I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the
great actors who came down starring, as
it is called, from London. Of all baneful
influences, keep me from that of a
London star. A first-rate actress going
the rounds of the country theatres is as
bad as a blazing comet whisking about
the heavens, and shaking fire and plagues
and discords from its tail.

The moment one of these "heavenly
bodies" appeared in my horizon, I was
sure to be in hot water. My theatre
was overrun by provincial dandies, copper-washed
counterfeits of Bond Street
loungers, who are always proud to be in
the train of an actress from town, and
anxious to be thought on exceeding good
terms with her. It was really a relief
to me when some random young nobleman
would come in pursuit of the bait,
and awe all this small fry at a distance.
I have always felt myself more at ease
with a nobleman than with the dandy of
a country town.

And then the injuries I suffered in my
personal dignity and my managerial
authority from the visits of these great
London actors! 'Sblood, sir, I was no
longer master of myself on my throne.
I was hectored and lectured in my own
green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop
on my own stage. There is
no tyrant so absolute and capricious as
a London star at a country theatre. I
dreaded the sight of all of them, and yet
if I did not engage them, I was sure of
having the public clamorous against me.
They drew full houses, and appeared to
be making my fortune; but they swallowed
up all the profits by their insatiable
demands. They were absolute tapeworms
to my little theatre; the more it
took in the poorer it grew. They were
sure to leave me with an exhausted
public, empty benches, and a score or
two of affronts to settle among the
town's folk, in consequence of misunderstandings
about the taking of places.

But the worse thing I had to undergo
in my managerial career was patronage.
Oh, sir! of all things deliver me from
the patronage of the great people of a
country town. It was my ruin. You
must know that this town, though small,
was filled with feuds, and parties, and
great folks; being a busy little trading
and manufacturing town. The mischief
was that their greatness was of a kind
not to be settled by reference to the court
calendar, or college of heraldry; it was
therefore the most quarrelsome kind of
greatness in existence. You smile, sir,
but let me tell you there are no feuds
more furious than the frontier feuds which
take place in these "debatable lands" of
gentility. The most violent dispute that
I ever knew in high life was one which
occurred at a country town, on a question
of precedence between the ladies of
a manufacturer of pins and a manufacturer
of needles.

At the town where I was situated there
were perpetual altercations of the kind.
The head manufacturer's lady, for instance,
was at daggers-drawings with the
head shopkeeper's, and both were too
rich and had too many friends to be
treated lightly. The doctor's and lawyer's
ladies held their heads still higher;
but they in their turn were kept in check
by the wife of a country banker, who
kept her own carriage: while a masculine
widow of cracked character and
secondhand fashion, who lived in a large
house, and claimed to be in some way
related to nobility, looked down upon
them all. To be sure, her manners were
not over elegant, nor her fortune over
large; but then, sir, her blood—oh, her
blood carried it all hollow: there was no

withstanding a woman with such blood
in her veins.

After all, her claims to high connexion
were questioned, and she had frequent
battles for precedence at balls and assemblies
with some of the sturdy dames of
the neighbourhood, who stood upon their
wealth and their virtue; but then she
had two dashing daughters, who dressed
as fine as dragons, had as high blood as
their mother, and seconded her in every
thing: so they carried their point with
high heads, and every body hated, abused,
and stood in awe of the Fantadlins.

Such was the state of the fashionable
world in this self-important little town.
Unluckily, I was not as well acquainted
with its politics as I should have been. I
had found myself a stranger and in great
perplexities during my first season; I
determined, therefore, to put myself under
the patronage of some powerful name,
and thus to take the field with the prejudices
of the public in my favour. I cast
round my thoughts for the purpose, and
in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs. Fantadlin.
No one seemed to me to have
a more absolute sway in the world of
fashion. I had always noticed that her
party slammed the box-door the loudest
at the theatre; that her daughters entered
like a tempest with a flutter of red shawls
and feathers; had most beaus attending
on them; talked and laughed during the
performance, and used quizzing-glasses
incessantly. The first evening of my
theatre's re-opening, therefore, was announced
in staring capitals on the playbills,
as under the patronage of "The
Honourable Mrs. Fantadlin."

Sir, the whole community flew to
arms! Presume to patronise the theatre!
Insufferable! And then for me to
dare to term her "The Honourable!"
What claim had she to the title, forsooth!
The fashionable world had long groaned
under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and
were glad to make a common cause
against this new instance of assumption.
All minor feuds were forgotten. The
doctor's lady and the lawyer's lady met
together, and the manufacturer's lady
and the shopkeeper's lady kissed each
other: and all, headed by the banker's
lady, voted the theatre a bore, and determined
to encourage nothing but the
Indian Jugglers and Mr. Walker's Eidouranion.

Such was the rock on which I split. I
never got over the patronage of the Fantadlin
family. My house was deserted;
my actors grew discontented because
they were ill paid; my door became a
hammering place for every bailiff in the
country; and my wife became more and
more shrewish and tormenting the more
I wanted comfort.

I tried for a time the usual consolation
of a harassed and henpecked man: I took
to the bottle, and tried to tipple away my
cares, but in vain. I don't mean to decry
the bottle; it is no doubt an excellent
remedy in many cases, but it did not
answer in mine. It cracked my voice,
coppered my nose, but neither improved
my wife nor my affairs. My establishment
became a scene of confusion and
peculation. I was considered a ruined
man, and of course fair game for every
one to pluck at, as every one plunders a
sinking ship. Day after day some of the
troop deserted, and, like deserting soldiers,
carried off their arms and accoutrements
with them. In this manner my
wardrobe took legs and walked away,
my finery strolled all over the country,
my swords and daggers glittered in every
barn, until, at last, my tailor made "one
fell swoop," and carried off three dress
coats, half a dozen doublets, and nineteen
pair of flesh-coloured pantaloons.
This was the "be all and the end all" of
my fortune. I no longer hesitated what
to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is
the order of the day, I'll steal too: so I
secretly gathered together the jewels of
my wardrobe, packed up a hero's dress
in a handkerchief, slung it on the end of
a tragedy sword, and quietly stole off at
dead of night, "the bell then beating
one," leaving my queen and kingdom to
the mercy of my rebellious subjects, and
my merciless foes the bumbailiffs.

Such, sir, was the "end of all my
greatness." I was heartily cured of all
passion for governing, and returned once
more into the ranks. I had for some time
the usual run of an actor's life: I played
in various country theatres, at fairs, and
in barns; sometimes hard pushed, sometimes
flush, until, on one occasion, I
came within an ace of making my fortune,

and becoming one of the wonders
of the age.

I was playing the part of Richard the
Third in a country barn, and in my best
style; for, to tell the truth, I was a little
in liquor, and the critics of the company
always observed that I played with most
effect when I had a glass too much.
There was a thunder of applause when I
came to that part where Richard cries
for "a horse! a horse!" My cracked
voice had always a wonderful effect here;
it was like two voices run into one; you
would have thought two men had been
calling for a horse, or that Richard had
called for two horses. And when I flung
the taunt at Richmond, "Richard is
hoarse with calling thee to arms," I
thought the barn would have come down
about my ears with the raptures of the
audience.

The very next morning a person waited
upon me at my lodgings. I saw at once
he was a gentleman by his dress; for he
had a large brooch in his bosom, thick
rings on his fingers, and used a quizzingglass.
And a gentleman he proved to
be; for I soon ascertained that he was a
kept author, or kind of literary tailor to
one of the great London theatres; one
who worked under the manager's directions,
and cut up and cut down plays,
and patched and pieced, and new-faced,
and turned them inside out: in short, he
was one of the readiest and greatest
writers of the day.

He was now on a foraging excursion
in quest of something that might be got
up for a prodigy. The theatre, it seems,
was in desperate condition—nothing but
a miracle could save it. He had seen
me act Richard the night before, and had
pitched upon me for that miracle. I had
a remarkable bluster in my style and
swagger in my gait. I certainly differed
from all other heroes of the barn: so the
thought struck the agent to bring me out
as a theatrical wonder, as the restorer of
natural and legitimate acting, as the only
one who could understand and act Shakspeare
rightly.

When he opened his plan I shrunk
from it with becoming modesty, for, well
as I thought of myself, I doubted my
competency to such an undertaking.

I hinted at my imperfect knowledge of
Shakespeare, having played his characters
only after mutilated copies, interlarded
with a great deal of my own talk by
way of helping memory or heightening
the effect.

"So much the better," cried the gentleman
with rings on his fingers; "so
much the better. New readings, sir!—
new readings! Don't study a line—let
us have Shakespeare after your own
fashion."

"But then my voice was cracked; it
could not fill a London theatre."

"So much the better! so much the
better! The public is tired of intonation
the ore rotundo has had its day. No, sir,
your cracked voice is the very thing—
spit and splutter, and snap and snarl,
and `play the very dog' about the stage,
and you'll be the making of us."

"But then,"—I could not help blushing
to the end of my very nose as I said
it, but I was determined to be candid;—
"but then," added I, "there is one awkward
circumstance; I have an unlucky
habit—my misfortunes, and the exposures
to which one is subjected in country
barns, have obliged me now and then to—
to—take a drop of something comfortable—and
so—and so—"

"What! you drink?" cried the agent
eagerly.

I bowed my head in blushing acknowledgment.

"So much the better! so much the
better! The irregularities of genius! A
sober fellow is commonplace. The public
like an actor that drinks. Give me
your hand, sir. You're the very man
to make a dash with."

I still hung back with lingering diffidence,
declaring myself unworthy of such
praise.

"'Sblood, man," cried he, "no praise
at all. You don't imagine I think you a
wonder; I only want the public to think
so. Nothing is so easy as to gull the
public, if you only set up a prodigy.
Common talent any body can measure
by common rule; but a prodigy sets all
rule and measurement at defiance."

These words opened my eyes in an
instant; we now came to a proper understanding;
less flattering, it is true, to my
vanity, but much more satisfactory to
my judgment.

It was agreed that I should make my
appearance before a London audience, as
a dramatic sun just bursting from behind
the clouds: one that was to banish all
the lesser lights and false fires of the
stage. Every precaution was to be taken
to possess the public mind at every avenue.
The pit was to be packed with
sturdy clappers; the newspapers secured
by vehement puffers; every theatrical
resort to be haunted by hireling talkers.
In a word, every engine of theatrical
humbug was to be put in action. Wherever
I differed from former actors, it was
to be maintained that I was right and
they were wrong. If I ranted, it was to
be pure passion; if I were vulgar, it was
to be pronounced a familiar touch of nature;
if I made any queer blunder, it
was to be a new reading. If my voice
cracked, or I got out in my part, I was
only to bounce, and grin, and snarl at
the audience, and make any horrible
grimace that came into my head, and
my admirers were to call it "a great
point," and to fall back and shout and
yell with rapture.

"In short," said the gentleman with
the quizzing-glass, "strike out boldly
and bravely: no matter how or what
you do, so that it be but odd and strange.
If you do but escape pelting the first
night, your fortune and the fortune of
the theatre is made."

I set off for London, therefore, in company
with the kept author, full of new
plans and new hopes. I was to be the
restorer of Shakespeare and Nature, and
the legitimate drama; my very swagger
was to be heroic, and my cracked voice
the standard of elocution. Alas, sir, my
usual luck attended me: before I arrived
at the metropolis a rival wonder had appeared;
a woman who could dance the
slack-rope, and run up a cord from the
stage to the gallery with fireworks all
round her. She was seized on by the
manager with avidity. She was the saving
of the great national theatre for the
season. Nothing was talked of but Madame
Saqui's fireworks and flesh-coloured
pantaloons; and Nature, Shakespeare,
the legitimate drama, and poor Pilgarlick
were completely left in the lurch.

When Madame Saqui's performance
grew stale, other wonders succeeded:
horses, and harlequinades, and mummery
of all kinds; until another dramatic
prodigy was brought forward to play
the very game for which I had been
intended. I called upon the kept author
for an explanation, but he was deeply
engaged in writing a melo-drama or a
pantomime, and was extremely testy on
being interrupted in his studies. However,
as the theatre was in some measure
pledged to provide for me, the manager
acted, according to the usual phrase,
"like a man of honour," and I received
an appointment in the corps. It had
been a turn of a die whether I should
be Alexander the Great or Alexander
the coppersmith—the latter carried it.
I could not be put at the head of the
drama, so I was put at the tail of it. In
other words, I was enrolled among the
number of what are called useful men;
those who enact soldiers, senators, and
Banquo's shadowy line. I was perfectly
satisfied with my lot; for I have always
been a bit of a philosopher. If my situation
was not splendid, it at least was
secure; and in fact I have seen half a
dozen prodigies appear, dazzle, burst
like bubbles and pass away, and yet
here I am, snug, unenvied and unmolested,
at the foot of the profession.

No, no, you may smile; but let me
tell you, we useful men are the only
comfortable actors on the stage. We
are safe from hisses, and below the hope
of applause. We fear not the success
of rivals, nor dread the critic's pen. So
long as we get the words of our parts,
and they are not often many, it is all we
care for. We have our own merriment,
our own friends, and our own admirers
—for every actor has his own friends
and admirers, from the highest to the
lowest. The first-rate actor dines with
the noble amateur, and entertains a
fashionable table with scraps and songs,
and theatrical slipslop. The second-rate
actors have their second-rate friends
and admirers, with whom they likewise
spout tragedy and talk slipslop—and so
down even to us; who have our friends
and admirers among spruce clerks and
aspiring apprentices—who treat us to a
dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth
hand the same scraps and songs and
slipslop that have been served up by our

more fortunate brethren at the tables of
the great.

I now, for the first time in my theatrical
life, experience what true pleasure
is. I have known enough of notoriety
to pity the poor devils who are called
favourites of the public. I would rather
be a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child,
to be one moment patted and pampered,
and the next moment thumped over the
head with the spoon. I smile to see our
leading actors fretting themselves with
envy and jealousy about a trumpery renown,
questionable in its quality, and
uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too,
though of course in my sleeve, at the
bustle and importance, and trouble and
perplexities of our manager, who is harassing
himself to death in the hopeless
effort to please every body.

I have found among my fellow-subalterns
two or three quondam managers,
who like myself have wielded the sceptres
of country theatres, and we have
many a sly joke together at the expense
of the manager and the public. Sometimes
too, we meet, like deposed and exiled
kings, talk over the events of our
respective reigns, moralize over a tankard
of ale, and laugh at the humbug of
the great and little world; which, I take
it, is the essence of practical philosophy.

Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne
and his friends. It grieves me much that
I could not procure from him further particulars
of his history, and especially of
that part of it which passed in town.
He had evidently seen much of literary
life; and, as he had never risen to eminence
in letters, and yet was free from
the gall of disappointment, I had hoped
to gain some candid intelligence concerning
his contemporaries. The testimony
of such an honest chronicler
would have been particularly valuable
at the present time; when, owing to the
extreme fecundity of the press, and the
thousand anecdotes, criticisms, and biographical
sketches that are daily poured
forth concerning public characters, it is
extremely difficult to get at any truth
concerning them.

He was always, however, excessively
reserved and fastidious on this point, at
which I very much wondered, authors
in general appearing to think each other
fair game, and being ready to serve each
other up for the amusement of the public.

A few mornings after our hearing the
history of the ex-manager, I was surprised
by a visit from Buckthorne before
I was out of bed. He was dressed for
travelling.

"Give me joy! give me joy!" said
he, rubbing his hands with the utmost
glee, "my great expectations are realized!"

I gazed at him with a look of wonder
and inquiry.

"My booby cousin is dead!" cried he;
"may he rest in peace! he nearly broke
his neck in a fall from his horse in a
fox-chase. By good luck, he lived long
enough to make his will. He has made
me his heir, partly out of an odd feeling
of retributive justice, and partly because,
as he says, none of his own family or
friends know how to enjoy such an estate.
I'm off to the country to take possession.
I've done with authorship. That
for the critics!" said he, snapping his
fingers. "Come down to Doubting Castle,
when I get settled, and, egad, I'll give
you a rouse." So saying, he shook me
heartily by the hand, and bounded off in
high spirits.

A long time elapsed before I heard
from him again. Indeed, it was but
lately that I received a letter, written in
the happiest of moods. He was getting
the estate into fine order; every thing
went to his wishes, and, what was more,
he was married to Sacharissa, who it
seems had always entertained an ardent
though secret attachment for him, which
he had fortunately discovered just after
coming to his estate.

"I find," said he, "you are a little
given to the sin of authorship, which I
renounce: if the anecdotes I have given
you of my story are of any interest,
you may make use of them; but come
down to Doubting Castle, and see how
we live, and I'll give you my whole
London life over a social glass; and a
rattling history it shall be about authors
and reviewers."

If ever I visit Doubting Castle and get
the history he promises, the public shall
be sure to hear of it.

III. PART III.

THE ITALIAN BANDITTI.

THE INN AT TERRACINA.

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

"Here comes the estafette from Naples,"
said mine host of the inn at Terracina;
"bring out the relay."

The estafette came galloping up the
road according to custom, brandishing
over his head a short-handled whip,
with a long, knotted lash, every smack
of which made a report like a pistol.
He was a tight, square-set young fellow,
in the usual uniform: a smart blue coat,
ornamented with facings and gold lace,
but so short behind as to reach scarcely
below his waisthand, and cocked up not
unlike the tail of a wren; a cocked hat,
edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff
riding boots; but, instead of the usual
leathern breeches, he had a fragment of
a pair of drawers, that scarcely furnished
an apology for Modesty to hide behind.

The estafette galloped up to the door,
and jumped from his horse.

"A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and
a pair of breeches, and quickly, per
l'amor di Dio. I am behind my time,
and must be off!"

"San Gennaro!" replied the host;
"why, where hast thou left thy garment?"

"Among the robbers between this and
Fondi."

"What, rob an estafette! I never
heard of such folly. What could they
hope to get from thee?"

"My leather breeches!" replied the
estafette. "They were bran new, and
shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the
captain."

"Well, these fellows grow worse and
worse. To meddle with an estafette!
and that merely for the sake of a pair
of leather breeches!"

The robbing of a government messenger
seemed to strike the host with more
astonishment than any other enormity
that had taken place on the road; and,
indeed, it was the first time so wanton
an outrage had been committed; the
robbers generally taking care not to
meddle with any thing belonging to government.

The estafette was by this time equipped,
for he had not lost an instant in
making his preparations while talking.
The relay was ready; the rosolio tossed
off; he grasped the reins and the stirrup.

"Were there many robbers in the
band?" said a handsome, dark young
man, stepping forward from the door of
the inn.

"As formidable a band as ever I
saw," said the estafette, springing into
the saddle.

"Are they cruel to travellers?" said
a beautiful young Venitian lady, who
had been hanging on the gentleman's
arm.

"Cruel, signora!" echoed the estafette,
giving a glance at the lady as he put spurs
to his horse. "Corpo di Bacco! They
stiletto all the men; and, as to the women—"
Crack! crack! crack! crack!
crack!—The last words were drowned
in the smacking of the whip, and away
galloped the estafette along the road to
the Pontine marshes.

"Holy Virgin!" ejaculated the fair
Venitian; "what will become of us!"

The inn of which we are speaking
stands just outside of the walls of Terracina,
under a vast precipitous height
of rocks, crowned with the ruins of the
castle of Theodoric the Goth. The
situation of Terracina is remarkable.
It is a little, ancient, lazy Italian town,
on the frontiers of the Roman territory.
There seems to be an idle pause in every
thing about the place. The Mediterranean
spreads before it—that sea without
flux or reflux. The port is without a
sail, excepting that once in a while a
solitary felucca may be seen disgorging
its holy cargo of baccala, the meagre
provision for the quaresima or Lent.
The inhabitants are apparently a listless,
heedless race, as people of soft
sunny climates are apt to be; but under
this passive, indolent exterior, are said
to lurk dangerous qualities. They are
supposed by many to be little better
than the banditti of the neighbouring
mountains, and indeed to hold a secret

correspondence with them. The solitary
watch-towers, erected here and
there along the coast, speak of pirates
and corsairs that hover about these
shores; while the low huts, as stations
for soldiers, which dot the distant road,
as it winds up through an olive grove,
intimate that in the ascent there is danger
for the traveller, and facility for the
bandit. Indeed, it is between this town
and Fondi that the road to Naples is
most infested by banditti. It has several
winding and solitary places, where the
robbers are enabled to see the traveller
from a distance, from the brows of hills
or impending precipices, and to lie in
wait for him at lonely and difficult passes.

The Italian robbers are a desperate
class of men that have almost formed
themselves into an order of society.
They wear a kind of uniform, or rather
costume, which openly designates their
profession. This is probably done to
diminish its skulking, lawless character,
and to give it something of a military
air in the eyes of the common people;
or, perhaps, to catch by outward show
and finery the fancies of the young men
of the villages, and thus to gain recruits.
Their dresses are often very rich and
picturesque. They wear jackets and
breeches of bright colours, sometimes
gaily embroidered; their breasts are
covered with medals and relics; their
hats are broad-brimmed, with conical
crowns, decorated with feathers, or variously-coloured
ribands; their hair is
sometimes gathered in silk nets; they
wear a kind of sandal of cloth or
leather, bound round the legs with
thongs, and extremely flexible, to enable
them to scramble with ease and
celerity among the mountain precipices;
a broad belt of cloth, or a sash of silk
net, is stuck full of pistols and stilettos;
a carbine is slung at the back; while
about them is generally thrown, in a
negligent manner, a great dingy mantle,
which serves as a protection in storms,
or a bed in their bivouacs among the
mountains.

They range over a great extent of
wild country, along the chain of Apennines,
bordering on different states; they
know all the difficult passes, the short
cuts for retreat, and the impracticable
forests of the mountain summits, where
no force dare follow them. They are
secure of the good-will of the inhabitants
of those regions, a poor and semi-barbarous
race, whom they never disturb and
often enrich. Indeed they are considered
as a sort of illegitimate heroes among the
mountain villages, and in certain frontier
towns, where they dispose of their plunder.
Thus countenanced, and sheltered,
and secure in the fastnesses of their
mountains, the robbers have set the weak
police of the Italian states at defiance. It
is in vain that their names and descriptions
are posted on the doors of country
churches, and rewards offered for them
alive or dead; the villagers are either
too much awed by the terrible instances
of vengeance inflicted by the brigands,
or have too good an understanding with
them to be their betrayers. It is true
they are now and then hunted and shot
down like beasts of prey by the gensd'armes,
their heads put in iron cages,
and stuck upon posts by the roadside, or
their limbs hung up to blacken in the
trees near the places where they have
committed their atrocities; but these
ghastly spectacles only serve to make
some dreary pass of the road still more
dreary, and to dismay the traveller,
without deterring the bandit.

At the time that the estafette made his
sudden appearance, almost in cuerpo, as
has been mentioned, the audacity of the
robbers had risen to an unparalleled
height. They had laid villas under contribution,
they had sent messages into
country towns, to tradesmen and rich
burghers, demanding supplies of money,
of clothing, or even of luxuries, with
menaces of vengeance in case of refusal.
They had their spies and emissaries in
every town, village, and inn, along the
principal roads, to give them notice of
the movements and quality of travellers.
They had plundered carriages, carried
people of rank and fortune into the
mountains, and obliged them to write
for heavy ransoms, and had committed
outrages on females who had fallen into
their hands.

Such was briefly the state of the robbers,
or rather such was the amount of
the rumours prevalent concerning them,
when the scene took place at the inn at

Terracina. The dark handsome young
man, and the Venitian lady, incidentally
mentioned, had arrived early that afternoon
in a private carriage drawn by
mules, and attended by a single servant.
They had been recently married, were
spending the honeymoon in travelling
through these delicious countries, and
were on their way to visit a rich aunt of
the bride at Naples.

The lady was young, and tender, and
timid. The stories she had heard along
the road had filled her with apprehension,
not more for herself than for her
husband; for though she had been married
almost a month, she still loved him
almost to idolatry. When she reached
Terracina, the rumours of the road had
increased to an alarming magnitude; and
the sight of two robbers' sculls, grinning
in iron cages, on each side of the old
gateway of the town, brought her to
a pause. Her husband had tried in vain
to reassure her, they had lingered all the
afternoon at the inn, until it was too late
to think of starting that evening, and the
parting words of the estafette completed
her affright.

"Let us return to Rome," said she,
putting her arm within her husband's,
and drawing towards him as if for protection,—"Let
us return to Rome, and
give up this visit to Naples."

"And give up the visit to your aunt,
too?" said the husband.

"Nay,—what is my aunt in comparison
with your safety?" said she, looking
up tenderly in his face.

There was something in her tone and
manner that showed she really was thinking
more of her husband's safety at that
moment than of her own; and being so
recently married, and a match of pure
affection too, it is very possible that she
was: at least her husband thought so.
Indeed, any one who has heard the sweet
musical tone of a Venitian voice, and the
melting tenderness of a Venitian phrase,
and felt the soft witchery of a Venitian
eye, would not wonder at the husband's
believing whatever they professed. He
clasped the white hand that had been
laid within his, put his arm around her
slender waist, and drawing her fondly to
his bosom, "This night, at least," said
he, "we will pass at Terracina."

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!
Another apparition of the road attracted
the attention of mine host and his guests.
From the direction of the Pontine marshes
a carriage, drawn by half a dozen horses,
came driving at a furious rate; the postilions
smacking their whips like mad,
as is the case when conscious of the
greatness or of the munificence of their
fare. It was a landaulet, with a servant
mounted on the dickey. The compact,
highly-finished, yet proudly simple construction
of the carriage; the quantity
of neat, well-arranged trunks and conveniences;
the loads of box-coats on the
dickey; the fresh, burly, bluff-looking
face of the master at the window; and
the ruddy, round-headed servant, in close-cropped
hair, short coat, drab breeches,
and long gaiters, all proclaimed at once
that this was the equipage of an Englishman.

"Horses to Fondi," said the Englishman,
as the landlord came bowing to the
carriage-door.

"Would not his Eccellenza alight and
take some refreshment?"

"No—he did not mean to eat until he
got to Fondi."

"But the horses will be some time in
getting ready."

"Ah! that's always the way; nothing
but delay in this cursed country."

"If his Excellenza would only walk
into the house—"

"No, no, no!—I tell you no!—I want
nothing but horses, and as quick as possible.
John, see that the horses are got
ready, and don't let us be kept here an
hour or two. Tell him if we're delayed
over the time, I'll lodge a complaint with
the postmaster."

John touched his hat, and set off to
obey his master's orders with the taciturn
obedience of an English servant.

In the mean time, the Englishman got
out of the carriage, and walked up and
down before the inn with his hands in
his pockets, taking no notice of the crowd
of idlers who were gazing at him and his
equipage. He was tall, stout, and well
made; dressed with neatness and precision;
wore a travelling cap of the colour
of gingerbread; and had rather an unhappy
expression about the corners of
his mouth; partly from not having yet

made his dinner, and partly from not
having been able to get on at a greater
rate than seven miles an hour. Not that
he had any other cause for haste than an
Englishman's usual hurry to get to the
end of a journey; or, to use the regular
phrase, "to get on." Perhaps too he
was a little sore from having been fleeced
at every stage.

After some time, the servant returned
from the stable with a look of some
perplexity.

"Are the horses ready, John?"

"No, sir—I never saw such a place.
There's no getting any thing done. I
think your honour had better step into
the house and get something to eat; it
will be a long while before we get to
Fundy."

"D—n the house—it's a mere trick—
I'll not eat any thing, just to spite them,"
said the Englishman, still more crusty at
the prospect of being so long without his
dinner.

"They say your honour's very wrong,"
said John, "to set off at this late hour.
The road's full of highwaymen."

"Mere tales to get custom."

"The estafette which passed us was
stopped by a whole gang," said John,
increasing his emphasis with each additional
piece of information.

"I don't believe a word of it."

"They robbed him of his breeches,"
said John, giving, at the same time, a
hitch to his own waistband.

"All humbug!"

Here the dark handsome young man
stepped forward, and addressing the Englishman
very politely, in broken English,
invited him to partake of a repast he was
about to make.

"Thank'ee," said the Englishman,
thrusting his hands deeper into his
pockets, and casting a slight side glance
of suspicion at the young man, as if he
thought, from his civility, he must have
a design upon his purse.

"We shall be most happy, if you will
do us that favour," said the lady in her
soft Venitian dialect. There was a
sweetness in her accents that was most
persuasive. The Englishman cast a look
upon her countenance; her beauty was
still more eloquent. His features instantly
relaxed. He made a polite bow.
"With great pleasure, Signora," said
he.

In short, the eagerness to "get on"
was suddenly slackened; the determination
to famish himself as far as Fondi, by
way of punishing the landlord, was abandoned;
John chose an apartment in the
inn for his master's reception; and preparations
were made to remain there
until morning.

The carriage was unpacked of such of
its contents as were indispensable for the
night. There was the usual parade of
trunks and writing-desks, and portfolios,
and dressing-boxes, and those other oppressive
conveniences which burthen a
comfortable man. The observant loiterers
about the inn-door, wrapped up in
great dirt-coloured cloaks, with only a
hawk's eye uncovered, made many remarks
to each other on this quantity of
luggage, that seemed enough for an
army. The domestics of the inn talked
with wonder of the splendid dressing-case,
with its gold and silver furniture,
that was spread out on the toilet-table,
and the bag of gold that chinked as it
was taken out of the trunk. The strange
milor's wealth, and the treasures he carried
about him, were the talk, that evening,
over all Terracina.

The Englishman took some time to
make his ablutions and arrange his dress
for table; and, after considerable labour
and effort in putting himself at his ease,
made his appearance, with stiff white
cravat, his clothes free from the least
speck of dust, and adjusted with precision.
He made a civil bow on entering,
in the unprofessing English way, which
the fair Venitian, accustomed to the
complimentary salutations of the continent,
considered extremely cold.

The supper, as it was termed by the
Italian, or dinner, as the Englishman
called it, was now served: heaven and
earth, and the waters under the earth, had
been moved to furnish it; for there were
birds of the air, and beasts of the field,
and fish of the sea. The Englishman's
servant, too, had turned the kitchen
topsy-turvy in his zeal to cook his master
a beefsteak; and made his appearance,
loaded with ketchup, and soy, and
Cayenne pepper, and Harvey sauce, and
a bottle of port wine, from that warehouse

the carriage, in which his master
seemed desirous of carrying England
about the world with him. Indeed the
repast was one of those Italian farragoes
which require a little qualifying. The
tureen of soup was a black sea, with
livers, and limbs, and fragments of all
kinds of birds and beasts floating like
wrecks about it. A meagre winged animal,
which my host called a delicate
chicken, had evidently died of a consumption.
The macaroni was smoked.
The beefsteak was tough buffalo's flesh.
There was what appeared to be a dish of
stewed eels, of which the Englishman
ate with great relish; but had nearly
refunded them when told that they were
vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina,
and esteemed a great delicacy.

There is nothing, however, that conquers
a traveller's spleen sooner than
eating, whatever may be the cookery;
and nothings brings him into good humour
with his company sooner than eating
together; the Englishman, therefore,
had not half finished his repast and his
bottle, before he began to think the
Venitian a very tolerable fellow for a
foreigner, and his wife almost handsome
enough to be an Englishwoman.

In the course of the repast, the usual
topics of travellers were discussed, and
among others, the reports of robbers,
which harassed the mind of the fair
Venitian. The landlord and waiter
dipped into the conversation with that
familiarity permitted on the continent,
and served up so many bloody tales
as they served up the dishes that they
almost frightened away the poor lady's
appetite.

The Englishman, who had a national
antipathy to every thing that is technically
called "humbug," listened to them
all with a certain screw of the mouth,
expressive of incredulity. There was
the well-known story of the school of
Terracina, captured by the robbers; and
one of the students coolly massacred, in
order to bring the parents to terms for
the ransom of the rest. And another,
of a gentleman of Rome, who received
his son's ear in a letter, with information,
that his son would be remitted to him in
this way, by instalments, until he paid
the required ransom.

The fair Venitian shuddered as she
heard these tales; and the landlord, like
a true narrator of the terrible, doubled
the dose when he saw how it operated.
He was just proceeding to relate the misfortunes
of a great English lord and his
family, when the Englishman, tired of
his volubility, interrupted him, and pronounced
these accounts to be mere travellers'
tales, or the exaggerations of
ignorant peasants and designing innkeepers.
The landlord was indignant
at the doubt levelled at his stories, and
the inuendo levelled at his cloth; he
cited, in corroboration, half a dozen tales
still more terrible.

"I don't believe a word of them," said
the Englishman.

"But the robbers have been tried and
executed."

"All a farce!"

"But their heads are stuck up along
the road!"

"Old sculls, accumulated during a
century."

The landlord muttered to himself as he
went out at the door, "San Gennaro!
quanto sono singolari questi Inglesi!"

A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced
the arrival of more travellers;
and, from the variety of voices, or rather
of clamours, the clattering of hoofs, the
rattling of wheels, and the general uproar
both within and without, the arrival
seemed to be numerous.

It was, in fact, the procaccio and its
convoy; a kind of caravan which sets
out on certain days for the transportation
of merchandise, with an escort of soldiery
to protect it from the robbers.
Travellers avail themselves of its protection,
and a long file of carriages generally
accompany it.

A considerable time elapsed before
either landlord or waiter returned; being
hurried hither or thither by that tempest
of noise and bustle, which takes place
in an Italian inn on the arrival of any
considerable accession of custom. When
mine host re-appeared, there was a smile
of triumph on his countenance.

"Perhaps," said he, as he cleared the
table, "perhaps the signor has not heard
of what has happened?"

"What?" said the Englishman, drily.

"Why, the procaccio has brought

accounts of fresh exploits of the robbers."

"Pish!"

"There's more news of the English
Milor and his family," said the host, exultingly.

"An English lord? what English
lord?"

"Milor Popkin."

"Lord Popkins? I never heard of
such a title!"

"O sicuro! a great nobleman, who
passed through here lately with mi ladi
and her daughters. A magnifico, one
of the grand counsellors of London, an
almanno!"

"Almanno—almanno?—tut—he
means alderman."

"Sicuro—Aldermanno Popkin, and
the Principessa Popkin, and the Signorine
Popkin!" said mine host, triumphantly.

He now put himself into an attitude,
and would have launched into a full
detail, had he not been thwarted by the
Englishman, who seemed determined
neither to credit nor indulge him in his
stories, but drily motioned for him to
clear away the table.

An Italian tongue, however, is not
easily checked: that of mine host continued
to wag with increasing volubility,
as he conveyed the relics of the repast
out of the room; and the last that could
be distinguished of his voice, as it died
away along the corridor, was the iteration
of the favourite word, Popkin—
Popkin—Popkin—pop—pop—pop.

The arrival of the procaccio had, indeed,
filled the house with stories, as it
had with guests. The Englishman and
his companions walked after supper up
and down the large hall, or common
room of the inn, which ran through the
centre of the building. It was spacious
and somewhat dirty, with tables placed
in various parts, at which groups of travellers
were seated; while others strolled
about, waiting, in famished impatience,
for their evening's meal.

It was a heterogeneous assemblage of
people of all ranks and countries, who
had arrived in all kind of vehicles.
Though distinct knots of travellers, yet
the travelling together, under one common
escort, had jumbled them into a
certain degree of companionship on the
road: besides, on the continent travellers
are always familiar, and nothing is more
motley than the groups which gather
casually together in sociable conversation
in the public rooms of inns.

The formidable number, and formidable
guard of the procaccio, had prevented
any molestation from banditti; but every
party of travellers had its tale of wonder,
and one carriage vied with another in
its budget of assertions and surmises.
Fierce, whiskered faces had been seen
peering over the rocks; carbines and
stilettos gleaming from among the
bushes; suspicious-looking fellows, with
flapped hats and scowling eyes, had
occasionally reconnoitred a straggling
carriage, but had disappeared on seeing
the guard.

The fair Venitian listened to all these
stories with that avidity with which we
always pamper any feeling of alarm;
even the Englishman began to feel interested
in the common topic, and desirous
of getting more correct information
than mere flying reports. Conquering,
therefore, that shyness which is prone to
keep an Englishman solitary in crowds,
he approached one of the talking groups,
the oracle of which was a tall, thin
Italian, with long aquiline nose, a high
forehead, and lively prominent eye,
beaming from under a green velvet
travelling-cap, with gold tassel. He
was of Rome, a surgeon by profession,
a poet by choice, and something of an
improvisatore.

In the present instance, however, he
was talking in plain prose, but holding
forth with the fluency of one who talks
well, and likes to exert his talent. A
question or two from the Englishman
drew copious replies; for an Englishman
sociable among strangers is regarded as
a phenomenon on the continent, and
always treated with attention for the
rarity's sake. The improvisatore gave
much the same account of the banditti
that I have already furnished.

"But why does not the police exert
itself, and root them out?" demanded the
Englishman.

"Because the police is too weak, and
the banditti are too strong," replied the
other. "To root them out would be a

more difficult task than you imagine.
They are connected and mostly identified
with the mountain peasantry and the
people of the villages. The numerous
bands have an understanding with each
other, and with the country round. A
gendarme cannot stir without their being
aware of it. They have their scouts
every where, who lurk about towns,
villages, and inns, mingle in every
crowd, and pervade every place of
resort. I should not be surprised if
some one should be supervising us at
this moment."

—The fair Venitian looked round
fearfully, and turned pale.

Here the improvisatore was interrupted
by a lively Neapolitan lawyer.

"By the way," said he, "I recollect
a little adventure of a learned doctor, a
friend of mine, which happened in this
very neighbourhood; not far from the
ruins of Theodoric's Castle, which are
on the top of those great rocky heights
above the town."

A wish was, of course, expressed to
hear the adventure of the doctor by all
excepting the improvisatore, who, being
fond of talking and of hearing himself
talk, and accustomed, moreover, to harangue
without interruption, looked rather
annoyed at being checked when in
full career. The Neapolitan, however,
took no notice of his chagrin, but related
the following anecdote.

THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY.

My friend, the doctor, was a thorough
antiquary; a little rusty, musty old
fellow, always groping among ruins.
He relished a building as you Englishmen
relish a cheese,—the more
mouldy and crumbling it was, the more
it suited his taste. A shell of an old
nameless temple, or the cracked walls of
a broken-down amphitheatre, would throw
him into raptures; and he took more delight
in these crusts and cheese-parings
of antiquity, than in the best-conditioned
modern palaces.

He was a curious collector of coins
also, and had just gained an accession of
wealth that almost turned his brain.
He had picked up, for instance, several
Roman Consulars, half a Roman As,
two punics, which had doubtless belonged
to the soldiers of Hannibal,
having been found on the very spot
where they had encamped among the
Apennines. He had, moreover, one
Samnite, struck after the Social War,
and a Philistis, a queen that never
existed; but above all, he valued himself
upon a coin, indescribable to any but the
initiated in these matters, bearing a cross
on one side, and a Pegasus on the other,
and which, by some antiquarian logic,
the little man adduced as an historical
document, illustrating the progress of
Christianity.

All these precious coins he carried
about him in a leathern purse, buried
deep in a pocket of his little black
breeches.

The last maggot he had taken into his
brain, was to hunt after the ancient cities
of the Pelasgi, which are said to exist to
this day among the mountains of the
Abruzzi; but about which a singular degree
of obscurity prevails.[1] He had made

many discoveries concerning them, and
had recorded a great many valuable
notes and memorandums on the subject,
in a voluminous book, which he always
carried about with him; either for the
purpose of frequent reference, or through
fear lest the precious document should
fall into the hands of brother antiquaries.
He had, therefore, a large pocket in the
skirt of his coat, where he bore about
this inestimable tome, banging against
his rear as he walked.

Thus heavily laden with the spoils of
antiquity, the good little man, during a
sojourn at Terracina, mounted one day
the rocky cliffs which overhang the town,
to visit the castle of Theodoric. He was
groping about the ruins towards the hour
of sunset, buried in his reflections, his
wits no doubt wool-gathering among the
Goths and Romans, when he heard footsteps
behind him.

He turned, and beheld five or six young
fellows, of rough, saucy demeanour, clad
in a singular manner, half peasant, half
huntsman, with carbines in their hands.
Their whole appearance and carriage
left him no doubt into what company he
had fallen.

The doctor was a feeble little man,
poor in look, and poorer in purse, he had
but little gold or silver to be robbed of;
but then he had his curious ancient coin
in his breeches-pocket. He had, moreover,
certain other valuables, such as an
old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with
figures on it large enough for a clock;
and a set of seals at the end of a steel
chain, that dangled half way down to his
knees. All these were of precious esteem,
being family relies. He had also a seal-ring,
a veritable antique intaglio, that
covered half his knuckles. It was a
Venus, which the old man almost worshipped
with the zeal of a voluptuary.
But what he most valued was his inestimable
collection of hints relative to the
Pelasgian cities, which he would gladly
have given all the money in his pocket
to have had safe at the bottom of his
trunk in Terracina.

However, he plucked up a stout heart,
at least as stout a heart as he could, seeing
that he was but a puny little man at
the best of times. So he wished the
hunters a "buon giorno." They returned
his salutation, giving the old gentleman
a sociable slap on the back that
made his heart leap into his throat.

They fell into conversation, and walked
for some time together among the heights,
the doctor wishing them all the while at
the bottom of the crater of Vesuvius.
At length they came to a small osteria
on the mountain, where they proposed to
enter and have a cup of wine together:
the doctor consented, though he would
as soon have been invited to drink hemlock.

One of the gang remained sentinel at
the door; the others swaggered into the
house, stood their guns in the corner of
the room, and each drawing a pistol or
stiletto out of his belt, laid it upon the
table. They now drew benches round
the board, called lustily for wine, and,
hailing the doctor as though he had
been a boon companion of long standing,
insisted upon his sitting down and making
merry.

The worthy man complied with forced
grimace, but with fear and trembling;
sitting uneasily on the edge of his chair;
eyeing ruefully the black-muzzled pistols,
and cold, naked stilettos; and supping
down heartburn with every drop of liquor.
His new comrades, however, pushed the
bottle bravely, and plied him vigorously.
They sang, they laughed; told excellent
stories of their robberies and combats,
mingled with many ruffian jokes; and the
little doctor was fain to laugh at their
cut-throat pleasantries, though his heart
was dying away at the very bottom of
his bosom.

By their own account, they were young
men from the villages, who had recently
taken up this line of life out of the wild
caprice of youth. They talked of their
murderous exploits as a sportsman talks
of his amusements: to shoot down a traveller
seemed of little more consequence

to them than to shoot a hare. They
spoke with rapture of the glorious roving
life they led, free as birds; here to-day,
gone to-morrow; ranging the forests,
climbing the rocks, scouring the valleys;
the world their own wherever they could
lay hold of it; full purses—merry companious—pretty
women. The little antiquary
got fuddled with their talk and
their wine, for they did not spare bumpers.
He half forgot his fears, his seal-ring,
and his family-watch; even the treatise
on the Pelasgian cities, which was warming
under him, for a time faded from his
memory in the glowing picture that they
drew. He declares that he no longer
wonders at the prevalence of this robber
mania among the mountains; for he felt
at the time, that, had he been a young
man, and a strong man, and had there
been no danger of the galleys in the background,
he should have been half tempted
himself to turn bandit.

At length the hour of separating arrived.
The doctor was suddenly called
to himself and his fears by seeing the
robbers resume their weapons. He now
quaked for his valuables, and, above all,
for his antiquarian treatise. He endeavoured,
however, to look cool and unconcerned;
and drew from out his deep
pocket a long, lank, leathern purse, far
gone in consumption, at the bottom of
which a few coin chinked with the trembling
of his hand.

The chief of the party observed his
movement, and laying his hand upon the
antiquary's shoulder, "Harkee! Signor
Dottore!" said he, "we have drunk together
as friends and comrades; let us
part as such. We understand you. We
know who and what you are, for we
know who every body is that sleeps at
Terracina, or that puts foot upon the
road. You are a rich man, but you
carry all your wealth in your head: we
cannot get at it, and we should not know
what to do with it if we could. I see you
are uneasy about your ring; but don't
worry yourself, it is not worth taking;
you think it an antique, but it's a counterfeit—a
mere sham."

Here the ire of the antiquary arose:
the doctor forgot himself in his zeal for
the character of his ring. Heaven and
earth! his Venus a sham! Had they
pronounced the wife of his bosom "no
better than she should be," he could not
have been more indignant. He fired up
in vindication of his intaglio.

"Nay, nay," continued the robber,
"we have no time to dispute about it;
value it as you please. Come, you're a
brave little old signor—one more cup of
wine and we'll pay the reckoning. No
compliments—You shall not pay a grain
—You are our guest—I insist upon it.
So—now make the best of your way
back to Terracina; it's growing late.
Buon viaggio! And harkee! take care
how you wander among these mountains,
—you may not always fall into such good
company."

They shouldered their guns; sprang
gaily up the rocks; and the little doctor
hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing
that the robbers had left his watch, his
coins, and his treatise, unmolested; but
still indignant that they should have pronounced
his Venus an impostor.

The improvisatore had shown many
symptoms of impatience during this recital.
He saw his theme in danger of
being taken out of his hands, which, to
an able talker, is always a grievance, but
to an improvisatore is an absolute calamity:
and then for it to be taken away
by a Neapolitan, was still more vexatious;
the inhabitants of the different Italian
states having an implacable jealousy of
each other in all things, great and small.
He took advantage of the first pause of
the Neapolitan to catch hold again of the
thread of the conversation.

"As I observed before," said he, "the
prowlings of the banditti are so extensive,
they are so much in league with one
another, and so interwoven with various
ranks of society—"

"For that matter," said the Neapolitan,
"I have heard that your government has
had some understanding with those gentry;
or, at least, has winked at their misdeeds."

"My government!" said the Roman,
impatiently.

"Ay, they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi—"

"Hush!" said the Roman, holding up
his finger, and rolling his large eyes
about the room.

"Nay I only repeat what I heard
commonly rumoured in Rome," replied
the Neapolitan, sturdily. "It was openly
said, that the cardinal had been up to the
mountains, and had an interview with
some of the chiefs. And I have been
told, moreover, that while honest people
have been kicking their heels in the
cardinal's antechamber, waiting by the
hour for admittance, one of these stilettolooking
fellows has elbowed his way
through the crowd, and entered without
ceremony into the cardinal's presence."

"I know," observed the improvisatore,
"that there have been such reports, and
it is not impossible that government may
have made use of these men at particular
periods; such as at the time of your late
abortive revolution, when your carbonari
were so busy with their machinations all
over the country. The information which
such men could collect who were familiar,
not merely with the recesses and
secret places of the mountains, but also
with the dark and dangerous recesses
of society; who knew every suspicious
character, and all his movements and all
his lurkings; in a word, who knew all
that was plotting in the world of mischief;
—the utility of such men as instruments
in the hands of government was too obvious
to be overlooked; and Cardinal
Gonsalvi, as a politic statesman, may,
perhaps, have made use of them. Besides,
he knew that, with all their atrocities,
the robbers were always respectful
towards the church, and devout in their
religion."

"Religion! religion!" echoed the Englishman.

"Yes, religion," repeated the Roman.
"They have each their patron saint.
They will cross themselves and say their
prayers, whenever, in their mountain
haunts, they hear the matin or the ave-maria
bells sounding from the valleys:
and will often descend from their retreats,
and run imminent risks to visit some favourite
shrine. I recollect an instance
in point.

"I was one evening in the village of
Frascati, which stands on the beautiful
brow of a hill rising from the Campagna,
just below the Abruzzi mountains. The
people, as is usual in fine evenings in our
Italian towns and villages, were recreating
themselves in the open air, and chatting
in groups in the public square. While I
was conversing with a knot of friends, I
noticed a tall fellow, wrapped in a great
mantle, passing across the square, but
skulking along in the dusk, as if anxious
to avoid observation. The people drew
back as he passed. It was whispered to
me that he was a notorious bandit."

"But why was he not immediately
seized?" said the Englishman.

"Because it was nobody's business;
because nobody wished to incur the vengeance
of his comrades; because there
were not sufficient gendarmes near to insure
security against the number of desperadoes
he might have at hand; because
the gendarmes might not have received
particular instructions with respect to
him, and might not feel disposed to engage
in a hazardous conflict without
compulsion. In short, I might give you
a thousand reasons rising out of the state
of our government and manners, not one
of which after all might appear satisfactory."

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders
with an air of contempt.

"I have been told," added the Roman,
rather quickly, "that even in your metropolis
of London, notorious thieves,
well known to the police as such, walk
the streets at noonday in search of their
prey, and are not molested, unless caught
in the very act of robbery."

The Englishman gave another shrug,
but with a different expression.

"Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this
daring wolf, thus prowling through the
fold, and saw him enter a church. I
was curious to witness his devotion. You
know our spacious magnificent churches.
The one in which he entered was vast,
and shrouded in the dusk of evening.
At the extremity of the long aisles a
couple of tapers feebly glimmered on the
grand altar. In one of the side chapels
was a votive candle placed before the
image of a saint. Before this image the
robber had prostrated himself. His mantle
partly falling off from his shoulders
as he knelt, revealed a form of Herculean
strength; a stiletto and pistol glittered
in his belt; and the light falling
on his countenance, showed features not
unhandsome, but strongly and fiercely

characterized. As he prayed, he became
vehemently agitated; his lips quivered;
sighs and murmurs, almost groans, burst
from him; he beat his breast with violence;
then clasped his hands and wrung
them convulsively, as he extended them
towards the image. Never had I seen
such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt
fearful of being discovered watching him,
and withdrew. Shortly afterwards I saw
him issue from the church wrapped in
his mantle. He re-crossed the square,
and no doubt returned to the mountains
with a disburthened conscience, ready to
incur a fresh arrear of crime."

Here the Neapolitan was about to get
hold of the conversation, and had just
preluded with the ominous remark,
"That puts me in mind of a circumstance,"
when the improvisatore, too
adroit to suffer himself to be again superseded,
went on, pretending not to hear
the interruption.

"Among the many circumstances connected
with the banditti, which serve to
render the traveller uneasy and insecure,
is the understanding which they sometimes
have with innkeepers. Many an
isolated inn among the lonely parts of
the Roman territories, and especially
about the mountains, are of a dangerous
and perfidious character. They are places
where the banditti gather information,
and where the unwary traveller, remote
from hearing or assistance, is betrayed
to the midnight dagger. The robberies
committed at such inns are often accompanied
by the most atrocious murders;
for it is only by the complete
extermination of their victims that the
assassins can escape detection. I recollect
an adventure," added he, "which
occurred at one of these solitary mountain
inns, which, as you all seem in a
mood for robber anecdotes, may not be
uninteresting."

Having secured the attention and awakened
the curiosity of the bystanders,
he paused for a moment, rolled up his
large eyes as improvisatori are apt to do
when they would recollect an impromptu,
and then related with great dramatic
effect the following story, which had,
doubtless, been well prepared and digested
beforehand.

THE BELATED TRAVELLERS.

It was late one evening that a carriage,
drawn by mules, slowly toiled its
way up one of the passes of the Apennines.
It was through one of the wildest
defiles, where a hamlet occurred only at
distant intervals, perched on the summit
of some rocky height, or the white towers
of a convent peeped out from among the
thick mountain foliage. The carriage
was of ancient and ponderous construction.
Its faded embellishments spoke of
former splendour, but its crazy springs
and axletrees creaked out the tale of
present decline. Within was seated a
tall, thin old gentleman, in a kind of
military travelling dress, and a foraging
cap trimmed with fur, though the gray
locks which stole from under it hinted
that his fighting days were over. Beside
him was a pale beautiful girl of eighteen,
dressed in something of a northern or
Polish costume. One servant was seated
in front, a rusty, crusty-looking fellow,
with a sear across his face, an orange-tawny
schnur-bart, or pair of mustachios,
bristling from under his nose, and altogether
the air of an old soldier.

It was, in fact, the equipage of a Polish
nobleman; a wreck of one of those
princely families which had lived with
almost oriental magnificence, but had
been broken down and impoverished by
the disasters of Poland. The count, like
many other generous spirits, had been
found guilty of the crime of patriotism,
and was, in a manner, an exile from his
country. He had resided for some time
in the first cities of Italy, for the education
of his daughter, in whom all his
cares and pleasures were now centred.
He had taken her into society, where
her beauty and her accomplishments had
gained her many admirers; and had she
not been the daughter of a poor broken-down
Polish nobleman, it is more than
probable that many would have contended
for her hand. Suddenly, however,
her health had become delicate and
drooping; her gayety fled with the roses
of her cheek, and she sunk into silence
and debility. The old count saw the
change with the solicitude of a parent.
"We must try a change of air and
scene," said he; and in a few days the

old family carriage was rumbling among
the Apennines.

Their only attendant was the veteran
Caspar, who had been born in the family,
and grown rusty in its service. He had
followed his master in all his fortunes;
had fought by his side; had stood over
him when fallen in battle; and had
received, in his defence, the sabre-cut
which had added such grimness to his
countenance. He was now his valet,
his steward, his butler, his factotum.
The only being that rivalled his master
in his affections was his youthful mistress.
She had grown up under his eye,
he had led her by the hand when she
was a child, and he now looked upon her
with the fondness of a parent. Nay, he
even took the freedom of a parent in
giving his blunt opinion on all matters
which he thought were for her good;
and felt a parent's vanity in seeing her
gazed at and admired.

The evening was thickening; they had
been for some time passing through narrow
gorges of the mountains, along the
edge of a tumbling stream. The scenery
was lonely and savage. The rocks often
beetled over the road, with flocks of white
goats browsing on their brinks, and
gazing down upon the travellers. They
had between two and three leagues yet
to go before they could reach any village;
yet the muleteer, Pietro, a tippling
old fellow, who had refreshed himself at
the last halting-place with a more than
ordinary quantity of wine, sat singing
and talking alternately to his mules, and
suffering them to lag on at a snail's pace,
in spite of the frequent entreaties of the
count, and maledictions of Caspar.

The clouds began to roll in heavy
masses among the mountains, shrouding
their summits from the view. The air
of these heights, too, was damp and
chilly. The count's solicitude on his
daughter's account overcame his usual
patience. He leaned from the carriage,
and called to old Pietro in an angry
tone.

"Forward!" said he. "It will be
midnight before we arrive at our inn."

"Yonder it is, signore," said the muleteer.

"Where?" demanded the count.

"Yonder," said Pietro, pointing to a
desolate pile of building about a quarter
of a league distant.

"That the place?—why, it looks more
like a ruin than an inn. I thought we
were to put up for the night at a comfortable
village."

Here Pietro uttered a string of piteous
exclamations and ejaculations, such as
are ever at the tip of the tongue of a delinquent
muleteer. "Such roads! and
such mountains! and then his poor animals
were wayworn, and leg-weary;
they would fall lame; they would never
be abie to reach the village. And then
what could his Eccellenza wish for better
than the inn; a perfect castello—a palazza—and
such people!—and such a
larder!—and such beds!—His Eccellenza
might fare as sumptuously, and sleep
as soundly there as a prince!"

The count was easily persuaded, for
he was anxious to get his daughter out
of the night air; so in a little while the
old carriage rattled and jingled into the
great gateway of the inn.

The building did certainly in some
measure answer to the muleteer's description.
It was large enough for either
castle or palace; built in a strong, but
simple and almost rude style; with a
great quantity of waste room. It had, in
fact, been, in former times, a hunting-seat
of one of the Italian princes. There
was space enough within its walls and
in its out-buildings to have accommodated
a little army. A scanty household
seemed now to people this dreary
mansion. The faces that presented themselves
on the arrival of the travellers
were begrimed with dirt, and scowling
in their expression. They all knew old
Pietro, however, and gave him a welcome
as he entered, singing and talking,
and almost whooping, into the gateway.

The hostess of the inn waited herself
on the count and his daughter, to show
them the apartments. They were conducted
through a long gloomy corridor,
and then through a suite of chambers
opening into each other, with lofty ceilings,
and great beams extending across
them. Every thing, however, had a
wretched squalid look. The walls were
damp and bare, excepting that here and
there hung some great painting, large

enough for a chapel, and blackened out
of all distinctness.

They chose two bed-rooms, one within
another; the inner one for the daughter.
The bedsteads were massive and misshapen;
but on examining the beds so
vaunted by old Pietro, they found them
stuffed with fibres of hemp knotted in
great lumps. The count shrugged his
shoulders, but there was no choice left.

The chilliness of the apartments crept
to their bones; and they were glad to
return to a common chamber or kind of
hall, where there was a fire burning in a
huge cavern, miscalled a chimney. A
quantity of green wood had just been
thrown on, which puffed out volumes of
smoke. The room corresponded to the
rest of the mansion. The floor was
paved and dirty. A great oaken table
stood in the centre, immovable from its
size and weight.

The only thing that contradicted this
prevalent air of indigence was the dress
of the hostess. She was a slattern of
course; yet her garments, though dirty
and negligent, were of costly materials.
She wore several rings of great value on
her fingers, and jewels in her ears, and
round her neck was a string of large
pearls, to which was attached a sparkling
crucifix. She had the remains of beauty;
yet there was something in the expression
of her countenance that inspired the
young lady with singular aversion. She
was officious and obsequious in her attentions;
and both the count and his daughter
felt relieved, when she consigned them
to the care of a dark, sullen-looking servant-maid,
and went off to superintend
the supper.

Caspar was indignant at the muleteer
for having either through negligence or
design, subjected his master and mistress
to such quarters; and vowed by his mustachios
to have revenge on the old varlet
the moment they were safe out from
among the mountains. He kept up a
continual quarrel with the sulky servant-maid,
which only served to increase the
sinister expression with which she regarded
the travellers, from under her
strong dark eyebrows.

As to the count, he was a good-humoured
passive traveller. Perhaps real
misfortune had subdued his spirit, and
rendered him tolerant of many of those
petty evils which make prosperous men
miserable. He drew a large, broken armchair
to the fireside for his daughter, and
another for himself, and seizing an enormous
pair of tongs, endeavoured to rearrange
the wood so as to produce a
blaze. His efforts, however, were only
repaid by thicker puffs of smoke, which
almost overcame the good gentleman's
patience. He would draw back, cast a
look upon his delicate daughter, then
upon the cheerless, squalid apartment,
and shrugging his shoulders, would give
a fresh stir to the fire.

Of all the miseries of a comfortless
inn, however, there is none greater than
sulky attendance: the good count for
some time bore the smoke in silence,
rather than address himself to the scowling
servant-maid. At length he was
compelled to beg for drier firewood. The
woman retired muttering. On re-entering
the room hastily, with an armful of
fagots, her foot slipped; she fell, and
striking her head against the corner of a
chair, cut her temple severely. The blow
stunned her for a time, and the wound
bled profusely. When she recovered,
she found the count's daughter administering
to her wound, and binding it up
with her own handkerchief. It was such
an attention as any woman of ordinary
feeling would have yielded; but perhaps
there was something in the appearance
of the lovely being who bent over her, or
in the tones of her voice, that touched
the heart of the woman, unused to be
ministered to by such hands. Certain it
is, she was strongly affected. She caught
the delicate hand of the Polonaise, and
pressed it fervently to her lips:

"May San Francesco watch over you,
signora!" exclaimed she.

A new arrival broke the stillness of
the inn. It was a Spanish princess with
a numerous retinue. The court-yard was
in an uproar; the house in a bustle. The
landlady hurried to attend such distinguished
guests; and the poor count and
his daughter, and their supper, were for
the moment forgotten. The veteran Caspar
muttered Polish maledictions enough
to agonize an Italian ear; but it was
impossible to convince the hostess of
the superiority of his old master and

young mistress to the whole nobility of
Spain.

The noise of the arrival had attracted
the daughter to the window just as the
new-comers had alighted. A young cavalier
sprang out of the carriage, and
handed out the princess. The latter was
a little shrivelled old lady, with a face of
parchment, and a sparkling black eye;
she was richly and gaily dressed, and
walked with the assistance of a gold-headed
cane as high as herself. The
young man was tall and elegantly formed.
The count's daughter shrunk back
at sight of him, though the deep frame of
the window screened her from observation.
She gave a heavy sigh as she
closed the casement. What that sigh
meant I cannot say. Perhaps it was at
the contrast between the splendid equipage
of the princess, and the crazy, rheumatic-looking
old vehicle of her father,
which stood hard by. Whatever might
be the reason, the young lady closed the
casement with a sigh. She returned to
her chair,—a slight shivering passed
over her delicate frame: she leaned her
elbow on the arm of the chair, rested her
pale cheek in the palm of her hand, and
looked mournfully into the fire.

The count thought she appeared paler
than usual.

"Does any thing ail thee, my child?"
said he.

"Nothing, dear father!" replied she,
laying her hand within his, and looking
up smiling in his face; but as she said
so, a treacherous tear rose suddenly to
her eye, and she turned away her head.

"The air of the window has chilled
thee," said the count, fondly, "but a good
night's rest will make all well again."

The supper-table was at length laid,
and the supper about to be served, when
the hostess appeared, with her usual
obsequiousness, apologizing for showing
in the new-comers; but the night air was
cold, and there was no other chamber in
the inn with a fire in it. She had scarcely
made the apology when the princess entered,
leaning on the arm of the elegant
young man.

The count immediately recognised her
for a lady whom he had met frequently
in society both at Rome and Naples; and
at whose conversaziones, in fact, he had
constantly been invited. The cavalier,
too, was her nephew and heir, who had
been greatly admired in the gay circle
both for his merits and prospects, and
who had once been on a visit at the same
time with his daughter and himself at the
villa of a nobleman near Naples. Report
had recently affianced him to a rich
Spanish heiress.

The meeting was agreeable to both the
count and the princess. The former was
a gentleman of the old school, courteous
in the extreme; the princess had been
a belle in her youth, and a woman of
fashion all her life, and liked to be
attended to.

The young man approached the daughter,
and began something of a complimentary
observation; but his manner
was embarrassed, and his compliment
ended in an indistinct murmur; while
the daughter bowed without looking up,
moved her lips without articulating a
word, and sunk again into her chair,
where she sat gazing into the fire, with
a thousand varying expressions passing
over her countenance.

This singular greeting of the young
people was not perceived by the old
ones, who were occupied at the time with
their own courteous salutations. It was
arranged that they should sup together;
and as the princess travelled with her
own cook, a very tolerable supper soon
smoked upon the board. This, too, was
assisted by choice wines, and liqueurs,
and delicate confitures brought from one
of her carriages; for she was a veteran
epicure, and curious in her relish for the
good things of this world. She was, in
fact, a vivacious little old lady, who mingled
the woman of dissipation with the
devotee. She was actually on her way
to Loretto to expiate a long life of gallantries
and peccadilloes by a rich offering
at the holy shrine. She was, to be
sure, rather a luxuriant penitent, and a
contrast to the primitive pilgrims, with
scrip and staff, and cockle-shell; but then
it would be unreasonable to expect such
self-denial from people of fashion; and
there was not a doubt of the ample efficacy
of the rich crucifixes, and golden
vessels, and jewelled ornaments, which
she was bearing to the treasury of the
blessed Virgin.

The princess and the count chatted
much during supper about the scenes
and society in which they had mingled,
and did not notice that they had all the
conversation to themselves: the young
people were silent and constrained. The
daughter ate nothing in spite of the politeness
of the princess, who continually
pressed her to taste of one or other of the
delicacies. The count shook his head.

"She is not well this evening," said
he. "I thought she would have fainted
just now as she was looking out of the
window at your carriage on its arrival."

A crimson glow flushed to the very
temples of the daughter, but she leaned
over her plate, and her tresses cast a
shade over her countenance.

When supper was over, they drew
their chairs about the great fireplace.
The flame and smoke had subsided, and
a heap of glowing embers diffused a
grateful warmth. A guitar, which had
been brought from the count's carriage,
leaned against the wall; the princess
perceived it: "Can we not have a little
music before parting for the night?"
demanded she.

The count was proud of his daughter's
accomplishment, and joined in the request.
The young man made an effort
of politeness, and taking up the guitar,
presented it, though in an embarrassed
manner, to the fair musician. She would
have declined it, but was too much confused
to do so; indeed she was so nervous
and agitated, that she dared not
trust her voice to make an excuse. She
touched the instrument with a faltering
hand, and, after preluding a little, accompanied
herself in several Polish airs. Her
father's eyes glistened as he sat gazing on
her. Even the crusty Caspar lingered in
the room, partly through a fondness for
the music of his native country, but
chiefly through his pride in the musician.
Indeed, the melody of the voice, and the
delicacy of the touch, were enough to
have charmed more fastidious ears. The
little princess nodded her head and tapped
her hand to the music, though exceedingly
out of time; while the nephew sat
buried in profound contemplation of a
black picture on the opposite wall.

"And now," said the count, patting
her cheek fondly, "one more favour.
Let the princess hear that little Spanish
air you were so fond of. You can't
think," added he, "what a proficiency
she has made in your language; though
she has been a sad girl, and neglected it
of late."

The colour flushed the pale cheek of
the daughter. She hesitated, murmured
something; but with a sudden effort collected
herself, struck the guitar boldly,
and began. It was a Spanish romance,
with something of love and melancholy
in it. She gave the first stanza with
great expression, for the tremulous, melting
tones of her voice went to the heart;
but her articulation failed, her lip quivered,
the song died away, and she burst
into tears.

The count folded her tenderly in his
arms. "Thou art not well, my child,"
said he, "and I am tasking thee cruelly.
Retire to thy chamber, and God bless
thee!" She bowed to the company without
raising her eyes, and glided out of
the room.

The count shook his head as the door
closed. "Something is the matter with
that child," said he, "which I cannot
divine. She has lost all health and
spirits lately. She was always a tender
flower, and I had much pains to rear
her. Excuse a father's foolishness," continued
he, "but I have seen much trouble
in my family; and this poor girl is
all that is now left to me; and she used
to be so lively—"

"Maybe she's in love!" said the little
princess, with a shrewd nod of the head.

"Impossible!" replied the good count
artlessly. "She has never mentioned a
word of such a thing to me."

How little did the worthy gentleman
dream of the thousand cares, and griefs,
and mighty love concerns which agitate
a virgin heart, and which a timid girl
scarcely breathes unto herself!

The nephew of the princess rose abruptly
and walked about the room.

When she found herself alone in her
chamber, the feelings of the young lady,
so long restrained, broke forth with violence.
She opened the casement, that
the cool air might blow upon her throbbing
temples. Perhaps there was some
little pride or pique mingled with her
emotions; though her gentle nature did

not seem calculated to harbour any such
angry inmate.

"He saw me weep!" said she, with a
sudden mantling of the cheek, and a
swelling of the throat,—"but no matter!
—no matter!"

And so saying, she threw her white
arms across the window-frame, buried
her face in them, and abandoned herself
to an agony of tears. She remained lost
in a revery, until the sound of her
father's and Caspar's voices in the adjoining
room gave token that the party
had retired for the night. The lights
gleaming from window to window,
showed that they were conducting the
princess to her apartments, which were
in the opposite wing of the inn; and she
distinctly saw the figure of the nephew
as he passed one of the casements.

She heaved a deep heart-drawn sigh,
and was about to close the lattice, when
her attention was caught by words spoken
below her window by two persons who
had just turned an angle of the building.

"But what will become of the poor
young lady?" said a voice which she recognised
for that of the servant-woman.

"Pooh! she must take her chance,"
was the reply from old Pietro.

"But cannot she be spared?" asked
the other entreatingly; "she's so kind-hearted!"

"Cospetto! what has got into thee?"
replied the other petulantly: "would
you mar the whole business for the sake
of a silly girl?" By this time they had
got so far from the window that the Polonaise
could hear nothing further.

There was something in this fragment
of conversation that was calculated to
alarm. Did it relate to herself?—and if
so, what was this impending danger from
which it was entreated that she might be
spared? She was several times on the
point of tapping at her father's door, to
tell him what she had heard; but she
might have been mistaken; she might
have heard indistinctly; the conversation
might have alluded to some one
else; at any rate, it was too indefinite to
lead to any conclusion. While in this
state of irresolution, she was startled by
a low knocking against the wainscot in
a remote part of her gloomy chamber.
On holding up the light, she beheld a
small door there, which she had not before
remarked. It was bolted on the inside.
She advanced, and demanded who
knocked, and was answered in the voice
of the female domestic. On opening the
door, the woman stood before it pale and
agitated. She entered softly, laying her
finger on her lips in sign of caution and
secrecy.

"Fly!" said she: "leave this house
instantly, or you are lost!"

The young lady, trembling with
alarm, demanded an explanation.

"I have no time," replied the woman,
"I dare not—I shall be missed if I
linger here—but fly instantly, or you
are lost."

"And leave my father?"

"Where is he?"

"In the adjoining chamber."

"Call him, then, but lose no time."

The young lady knocked at her
father's door. He was not yet retired
to bed. She hurried into his room, and
told him of the fearful warning she had
received. The count returned with her
into her chamber, followed by Caspar.
His questions soon drew the truth out of
the embarrassed answers of the woman.
The inn was beset by robbers. They
were to be introduced after midnight,
when the attendants of the princess and
the rest of the travellers were sleeping,
and would be an easy prey.

"But we can barricado the inn, we
can defend ourselves," said the count.

"What! when the people of the inn
are in league with the banditti?"

"How then are we to escape? Can
we not order out the carriage and depart?"

"San Francesco! for what? To give
the alarm that the plot is discovered?
That would make the robbers desperate,
and bring them on you at once. They
have had notice of the rich booty in the
inn, and will not easily let it escape
them."

"But how else are we to get off?"

"There is a horse behind the inn,"
said the woman, "from which the man
has just dismounted who has been to
summon the aid of part of the band who
were at a distance."

"One horse; and there are three of
us!" said the count.

"And the Spanish princess!" cried
the daughter anxiously—"How can she
be extricated from the danger?"

"Diavolo! what is she to me?" said
the woman in sudden passion. "It is
you I come to save, and you will betray
me, and we shall all be lost! Hark!"
continued she, "I am called—I shall be
discovered—one word more. This door
leads by a staircase to the court-yard.
Under the shed in the rear of the yard,
is a small door leading out to the fields.
You will find a horse there; mount it;
make a circuit under the shadow of a
ridge of rocks that you will see; proceed
cautiously and quietly until you cross a
brook, and find yourself on the road just
where there are three white crosses
nailed against a tree; then put your
horse to his speed, and make the best of
your way to the village—but recollect,
my life is in your hands—say nothing of
what you have heard or seen, whatever
may happen at this inn."

The woman hurried away. A short
and agitated consultation took place between
the count, his daughter, and the
veteran Caspar. The young lady
seemed to have lost all apprehension for
herself in her solicitude for the safety of
the princess. "To fly in selfish silence,
and leave her to be massacred!"—A
shuddering seized her at the very
thought. The gallantry of the count,
too, revolted at the idea. He could not
consent to turn his back upon a party of
helpless travellers, and leave them in
ignorance of the danger which hung
over them.

"But what is to become of the young
lady," said Caspar, "if the alarm is
given, and the inn thrown in a tumult?
What may happen to her in a chance-medley
affray?"

Here the feelings of the father were
roused: he looked upon his lovely, helpless
child, and trembled at the chance of
her falling into the hands of ruffians.

The daughter, however, thought nothing
of herself. "The princess! the
princess!—only let the princess know
her danger." She was willing to share
it with her.

At length Caspar interfered with the
zeal of a faithful old servant. No time
was to be lost—the first thing was to
get the young lady out of danger.
"Mount the horse," said he to the count,
"take her behind you, and fly! Make
for the village, rouse the inhabitants, and
send assistance. Leave me here to give
the alarm to the princess and her people.
I am an old soldier, and I think we shall
be able to stand siege until you send us
aid."

The daughter would again have insisted
on staying with the princess—

"For what?" said old Caspar bluntly,
"You could do no good—You would be
in the way—We should have to take
care of you instead of ourselves."

There was no answering these objections:
the count seized his pistols, and
taking his daughter under his arm,
moved towards the staircase. The
young lady paused, stepped back, and
said, faltering with agitation—"There is
a young cavalier with the princess—her
nephew—perhaps he may—"

"I understand you, Mademoiselle,"
replied old Caspar with a significant
nod; "not a hair of his head shall suffer
harm if I can help it!"

The young lady blushed deeper than
ever: she had not anticipated being so
thoroughly understood by the blunt old
servant.

"That is not what I mean," said she,
hesitating. She would have added something,
or made some explanation; but
the moments were precious, and her
father hurried her away.

They found their way through the
court-yard to the small postern-gate,
where the horse stood, fastened to a ring
in the wall. The count mounted, took
his daughter behind him, and they proceeded
as quietly as possible in the direction
which the woman had pointed
out. Many a fearful and anxious look
did the daughter cast back upon the
gloomy pile of building; the lights which
had feebly twinkled through the dusty
casements were one by one disappearing,
a sign that the house was gradually
sinking to repose; and she trembled
with impatience, lest succour should not
arrive until that repose had been fatally
interrupted.

They passed silently and safely along
the skirts of the rocks, protected from
observation by their overhanging shadows.

They crossed the brook, and
reached the place where three white
crosses nailed against a tree told of some
murder that had been committed there.
Just as they had reached this ill-omened
spot they beheld several men in the
gloom coming down a craggy defile
among the rocks.

"Who goes there!" exclaimed a
voice.

The count put spurs to his horse, but
one of the men sprang forward and
seized the bridle. The horse became
restive, started back, and reared, and
had not the young lady clung to her
father, she would have been thrown off.
The count leaned forward, put a pistol
to the very head of the ruffian, and fired.
The latter fell dead. The horse sprang
forward. Two or three shots were fired
which whistled by the fugitives, but only
served to augment their speed. They
reached the village in safety.

The whole place was soon aroused;
but such was the awe in which the banditti
were held, that the inhabitants
shrunk at the idea of encountering them.
A desperate band had for some time infested
that pass through the mountains,
and the inn had long been suspected of
being one of those horrible places where
the unsuspicious wayfarer is entrapped
and silently disposed of. The rich ornaments
worn by the slattern hostess of
the inn had excited heavy suspicions.
Several instances had occurred of small
parties of travellers disappearing mysteriously
on that road, who, it was supposed
at first, had been carried off by
the robbers for the sake of ransom, but
who had never been heard of more.
Such were the tales buzzed in the ears
of the count by the villagers as he endeavoured
to rouse them to the rescue of
the princess and her train from their
perilous situation. The daughter seconded
the exertions of her father with
all the eloquence of prayers, and tears,
and beauty. Every moment that elapsed
increased her anxiety until it became
agonizing. Fortunately, there was a
body of gendarmes resting at the village.
A number of the young villagers volunteered
to accompany them, and the little
army was put in motion. The count
having deposited his daughter in a place
of safety, was too much of the old soldier
not to hasten to the scene of danger.
It would be difficult to paint the anxious
agitation of the young lady while awaiting
the result.

The party arrived at the inn just in
time. The robbers, finding their plans
discovered, and the travellers prepared
for their reception, had become open and
furious in their attack. The princess's
party had barricadoed themselves in one
suite of apartments, and repulsed the
robbers from the doors and windows.
Caspar had shown the generalship of a
veteran, and the nephew of the princess
the dashing valour of a young soldier.
Their ammunition, however, was nearly
exhausted, and they would have found it
difficult to hold out much longer, when a
discharge from the musketry of the
gendarmes gave them the joyful tidings
of succour.

A fierce fight ensued, for part of the
robbers were surprised in the inn, and
had to stand siege in their turn; while
their comrades made desperate attempts
to relieve them from under cover of the
neighbouring rocks and thickets.

I cannot pretend to give a minute
account of the fight, as I have heard it
related in a variety of ways. Suffice it
to say, the robbers were defeated; several
of them killed, and several taken prisoners;
which last, together with the
people of the inn, were either executed
or sent to the galleys.

I picked up these particulars in the
course of a journey which I made some
time after the event had taken place.
I passed by the very inn. It was then
dismantled, excepting one wing, in which
a body of gendarmes was stationed.
They pointed out to me the shot-holes
in the window-frames, the walls, and the
panels of the doors. There were a
number of withered limbs dangling from
the branches of a neighbouring tree,
and blackening in the air, which I was
told were the limbs of the robbers who
had been slain, and the culprits who had
been executed. The whole place had a
dismal, wild, forlorn look.

"Were any of the princess's party
killed?" inquired the Englishman.

"As far as I can recollect, there were
two or three."

"Not the nephew, I trust?" said the
fair Venitian.

"Oh no; he hastened with the count
to relieve the anxiety of the daughter
by the assurances of victory. The
young lady had been sustained throughout
the interval of suspense by the very
intensity of her feelings. The moment
she saw her father returning in safety,
accompanied by the nephew of the princess,
she uttered a cry of rapture and
fainted. Happily, however, she soon
recovered, and what is more, was married
shortly after to the young cavalier;
and the whole party accompanied the
old princess in her pilgrimage to Loretto,
where her votive offerings may
still be seen in the treasury of the Santa
Casa."

It would be tedious to follow the devious
course of the conversation as it
wound through a maze of stories of the
kind, until it was taken up by two other
travellers who had come under convoy
of the procaccio—Mr. Hobbs and Mr.
Dobbs, a linen-draper and a greengrocer,
just returning from a hasty tour
in Greece and the Holy Land. They
were full of the story of Alderman
Popkins. They were astonished that
the robbers should dare to molest a
man of his importance on 'Change, he
being an eminent dry-salter of Throgmorton
Street, and a magistrate to boot.

In fact, the story of the Popkins
family was but too true. It was attested
by too many present to be for a moment
doubted; and from the contradictory
and concordant testimony of half a
score, all eager to relate it, and all
talking at the same time, the Englishman
was enabled to gather the following
particulars.

THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE POPKINS FAMILY.

It was but a few days before, that the
carriage of Alderman Popkins had driven
up to the inn of Terracina. Those who
have seen an English family carriage on
the continent must have remarked the
sensation it produces. It is an epitome
of England; a little morsel of the old
island rolling about the world. Every
thing about it compact, snug, finished,
and fitting. The wheels turning on
patent axles without rattling; the body,
hanging so well on its springs, yielding
to every motion, yet protecting from
every shock; the ruddy faces gaping
from the windows—sometimes of a portly
old citizen, sometimes of a voluminous
dowager, and sometimes of a fine fresh
hoyden just from boarding-school. And
then the dickeys loaded with well-dressed
servants, beef-fed and bluff; looking
down from their heights with contempt
on all the world around; profoundly
ignorant of the country and the people,
and devoutly certain that every thing
not English must be wrong.

Such was the carriage of Alderman
Popkins as it made its appearance at
Terracina. The courier who had preceded
it to order horses, and who was
a Neapolitan, had given a magnificent
account of the riches and greatness of
his master; blundering with an Italian's
splendour of imagination about the alderman's
titles and dignities. The host
had added his usual share of exaggeration;
so that by the time the alderman
drove up to the door, he was a milor—
magnifico—principe—the Lord knows
what!

The alderman was advised to take an
escort to Fondi and Itri, but he refused.
It was as much as a man's life was
worth, he said, to stop him on the king's
highway: he would complain of it to the
ambassador at Naples; he would make
a national affair of it. The Principessa
Popkins, a fresh, motherly dame, seemed
perfectly secure in the protection of her
husband, so omnipotent a man in the
city. The Signorine Popkins, two fine
bouncing girls, looked to their brother
Tom, who had taken lessons in boxing;
and as to the dandy himself, he swore
no scaramouch of an Italian robber
would dare to meddle with an Englishman.
The landlord shrugged his shoulders,
and turned out the palms of his
hands with a true Italian grimace, and
the carriage of Milor Popkins rolled on.

They passed through several very suspicious
places without any molestation.
The Miss Popkins, who were very romantic,
and had learnt to draw in water-colours,
were enchanted with the savage
scenery around; it was so like what
they had read in Mrs. Radcliffe's romances;
they should like of all things
to make sketches. At length the carriage
arrived at a place where the road
wound up a long hill. Mrs. Popkins
had sunk into a sleep; the young ladies
were lost in the "Loves of the Angels;"
and the dandy was hectoring the postilions
from the coach-box. The alderman
got out, as he said, to stretch his
legs up the hill. It was a long, winding
ascent, and obliged him every now and
then to stop and blow and wipe his forehead,
with many a pish! and phew!
being rather pursy and short of wind.
As the carriage, however, was far behind
him, and moved slowly under the
weight of so many well-stuffed trunks
and well-stuffed travellers, he had plenty
of time to walk at leisure.

On a jutting point of rock that overhung
the road, nearly at the summit of
the hill, just where the route began
again to descend, he saw a solitary man
seated, who appeared to be tending
goats. Alderman Popkins was one of
your shrewd travellers who always like
to be picking up small information along
the road; so he thought he'd just scramble
up to the honest man, and have a
little talk with him by way of learning
the news, and getting a lesson in Italian.
As he drew near to the peasant, he did
not half like his looks. He was partly
reclining on the rocks, wrapped in the
usual long mantle, which, with his
slouched hat, only left a part of a
swarthy visage, with a keen black eye,
a beetle brow, and a fierce moustache
to be seen. He had whistled several
times to his dog, which was roving about
the side of the hill. As the alderman
approached, he rose and greeted him.
When standing erect, he seemed almost
gigantic, at least in the eyes of Alderman
Popkins, who, however, being a short
man, might be deceived.

The latter would gladly now have
been back in the carriage, or even on
'Change in London; for he was by no
means well pleased with his company.
However, he determined to put the best
face on matters, and was beginning a
conversation about the state of the weather,
the baddishness of the crops, and
the price of goats in that part of the
country, when he heard a violent screaming.
He ran to the edge of the rock,
and looking over, beheld his carriage
surrounded by robbers. One held down
the fat footman, another had the dandy
by his starched cravat, with a pistol to
his head; one was rummaging a portmanteau,
another rummaging the principessa's
pockets; while the two Miss
Popkins were screaming from each window
of the carriage, and their waiting-maid
squalling from the dickey.

Alderman Popkins felt all the ire of
the parent and the magistrate roused
within him. He grasped his cane, and
was on the point of scrambling down
the rocks, either to assault the robbers,
or to read the riot act, when he was
suddenly seized by the arm. It was by
his friend the goatherd, whose cloak,
falling open, discovered a belt stuck full
of pistols and stilettos. In short, he
found himself in the clutches of the
captain of the band, who had stationed
himself on the rock to look out for travellers,
and to give notice to his men.

A sad ransacking took place. Trunks
were turned inside out, and all the finery
and frippery of the Popkins family scattered
about the road. Such a chaos of
Venice beads and Roman mosaics, and
Paris bonnets of the young ladies, mingled
with the alderman's nighteaps and
lambs' wool stockings, and the dandy's
hair-brushes, stays, and starched cravats.

The gentlemen were eased of their
purses and their watches, the ladies of
their jewels; and the whole party were
on the point of being carried up into the
mountain, when, fortunately, the appearance
of soldiery at a distance obliged
the robbers to make off with the spoils
they had secured, and leave the Popkins
family to gather together the remnants
of their effects, and to make the best of
their way to Fondi.

When safe arrived, the alderman
made a terrible blustering at the inn;
threatened to complain to the ambassador
at Naples, and was ready to shake

his cane at the whole country. The
dandy had many stories to tell of his
scuffles with the brigands, who overpowered
him merely by numbers. As
to the Miss Popkins, they were quite
delighted with the adventure, and were
occupied the whole evening in writing it
in their journals. They declared the
captain of the band to be a most romantic-looking
man, they dared to say
some unfortunate lover, or exiled nobleman;
and several of the band to be
very handsome young men—"quite picturesque!"

"In verity," said mine host of Terracina,
"they say the captain of the band
is un galantuomo."

"A gallant man!" said the Englishman
indignantly: "I'd have your gallant
man hanged like a dog!"

"To dare to meddle with Englishmen!"
said Mr. Hobbs.

"And such a family as the Popkinses!"
said Mr. Dobbs.

"They ought to come upon the county
for damages!" said Mr. Hobbs.

"Our ambassador should make a complaint
to the government of Naples," said
Mr. Dobbs.

"They should be obliged to drive
these rascals out of the country," said
Hobbs.

"If they did not, we should declare
war against them," said Dobbs.

"Pish!—humbug!" muttered the Englishman
to himself, and walked away.

The Englishman had been a little
wearied by this story, and by the ultra
zeal of his countrymen, and was glad
when a summons to their supper relieved
him from the crowd of travellers. He
walked out with his Venitian friends
and a young Frenchman of an interesting
demeanour, who had become sociable
with them in the course of the conversation.
They directed their steps
toward the sea, which was lit up by the
rising moon.

As they strolled along the beach, they
came to where a party of soldiers were
stationed in a circle. They were guarding
a number of galley-slaves, who were
permitted to refresh themselves in the
evening breeze, and sport and roll upon
the sand.

The Frenchman paused, and pointed
to the group of wretches at their sports.
"It is difficult," said he, "to conceive a
more frightful mass of crime than is here
collected. Many of these have probably
been robbers, such as you have heard
described. Such is, too often, the career
of crime in this country. The parricide,
the fratricide, the infanticide, the miscreant
of every kind, first flies from justice
and turns mountain bandit; and then,
when wearied of a life of danger, becomes
traitor to his brother desperadoes;
betrays them to punishment, and thus
buys a commutation of his own sentence
from death to the galleys; happy in the
privilege of wallowing on the shore an
hour a day, in this mere state of animal
enjoyment."

The fair Venitian shuddered as she
cast a look at the horde of wretches
at their evening amusement. "They
seemed," she said, "like so many serpents
writhing together." And yet the
idea that some of them had been robbers,
those formidable beings that haunted her
imagination, made her still cast another
fearful glance, as we contemplate some
terrible beast of prey, with a degree of
awe and horror, even though caged and
chained.

The conversation reverted to the tales
of banditti which they had heard at the
inn. The Englishman condemned some
of them as fabrications, others as exaggerations.
As to the story of the improvisatore,
he pronounced it a mere piece
of romance, originating in the heated
brain of the narrator.

"And yet," said the Frenchman,
"there is so much romance about the
real life of those beings, and about the
singular country they infest, that it is
hard to tell what to reject on the ground
of improbability. I have had an adventure
happen to myself which gave me an
opportunity of getting some insight into
their manners and habits, which I found
altogether out of the common run of
existence."

There was an air of mingled frankness
and modesty about the Frenchman which
had gained the good-will of the whole
party, not even excepting the Englishman.
They all eagerly inquired after
the particulars of the circumstance he

alluded to, and as they strolled slowly
up and down the sea-shore, he related
the following adventure.

THE PAINTER'S ADVENTURE.

I am an historical painter by profession,
and resided for some time in the
family of a foreign prince at his villa,
about fifteen miles from Rome, among
some of the most interesting scenery of
Italy. It is situated on the heights of
ancient Tusculum. In its neighbourhood
are the ruins of the villas of Cicero,
Sylla, Lucullus, Rufinus, and other illustrious
Romans, who sought refuge here
occasionally from their toils, in the bosom
of a soft and luxurious repose. From
the midst of delightful bowers, refreshed
by the pure mountain-breeze, the eye
looks over a romantic landscape full of
poetical and historical associations. The
Albanian mountains; Tivoli, once the
favourite residence of Horace and Mecænas;
the vast, deserted, melancholy Campagna,
with the Tiber winding through
it, and St. Peter's dome swelling in the
midst, the monument, as it were, over
the grave of ancient Rome.

I assisted the prince in researches
which he was making among the classic
ruins of his vicinity: his exertions were
highly successful. Many wrecks of admirable
statues and fragments of exquisite
sculpture were dug up; monuments
of the taste and magnificence that reigned
in the ancient Tusculan abodes. He had
studded his villa and its grounds with
statues, relievos, vases, and sarcophagi,
thus retrieved from the bosom of the
earth.

The mode of life pursued at the villa
was delightfully serene, diversified by
interesting occupations and elegant leisure.
Every one passed the day according
to his pleasure or pursuits; and
we all assembled in a cheerful dinner-party
at sunset.

It was on the fourth of November, a
beautiful screne day, that we had assembled
in the saloon at the sound of the
first dinner-bell. The family were surprised
at the absence of the prince's
confessor. They waited for him in vain,
and at length placed themselves at table.
They at first attributed his absence to his
having prolonged his customary walk;
and the early part of the dinner passed
without any uneasiness. When the dessert
was served, however, without his
making his appearance, they began to
feel anxious. They feared he might
have been taken ill in some alley of the
woods, or that he might have fallen into
the hands of robbers. Not far from the
villa, with the interval of a small valley,
rose the mountains of the Abruzzi, the
stronghold of banditti. Indeed, the neighbourhood
had for some time past been
infested by them; and Barbone, a notorious
bandit chief, had often been met
prowling about the solitudes of Tusculum.
The daring enterprises of these ruffians
were well known: the objects of their
cupidity or vengeance were insecure even
in palaces. As yet they had respected
the possessions of the prince; but the
idea of such dangerous spirits hovering
about the neighbourhood was sufficient
to occasion alarm.

The fears of the company increased
as evening closed in. The prince ordered
out forest guards and domestics with
flambeaux to search for the confessor.
They had not departed long when a
slight noise was heard in the corridor of
the ground-floor. The family were dining
on the first floor, and the remaining
domestics were occupied in attendance.
There was no one on the ground-floor at
this moment but the housekeeper, the
laundress, and three field-labourers who
were resting themselves, and conversing
with the women.

I heard the noise from below, and
presuming it to be occasioned by the
return of the absentee, I left the table
and hastened down stairs, eager to gain
intelligence that might relieve the anxiety
of the prince and princess. I had scarcely
reached the last step, when I beheld
before me a man dressed as a bandit; a
carbine in his hand, and a stiletto and
pistols in his belt. His countenance had
a mingled expression of ferocity and trepidation:
he sprang upon me, and exclaimed
exultingly, "Ecco il principe!"

I saw at once into what hands I had
fallen, but endeavoured to summon up
coolness and presence of mind. A glance

towards the lower end of the corridor
showed me several ruffians, clothed and
armed in the same manner with the one
who had seized me. They were guarding
the two females, and the field-labourers.
The robber, who held me firmly by
the collar, demanded repeatedly whether
or not I were the prince: his object
evidently was to carry off the prince,
and extort an immense ransom. He
was enraged at receiving none but vague
replies, for I felt the importance of misleading
him.

A sudden thought struck me how I
might extricate myself from his clutches.
I was unarmed, it is true, but I was
vigorous. His companions were at a
distance. By a sudden exertion I might
wrest myself from him, and spring up
the staircase, whither he would not dare
to follow me singly. The idea was put
in practice as soon as conceived. The
ruffian's throat was bare; with my right
hand I seized him by it, with my left
hand I grasped the arm which held the
carbine. The suddenness of my attack
took him completely unawares, and the
strangling nature of my grasp paralysed
him. He choked and faltered. I felt
his hand relaxing its bold, and was on
the point of jerking myself away, and
darting up the staircase, before he could
recover himself, when I was suddenly
seized by some one from behind.

I had to let go my grasp. The bandit,
once released, fell upon me with fury,
and gave me several blows with the butend
of his carbine, one of which wounded
me severely in the forehead and covered
me with blood. He took advantage of
my being stunned to rifle me of my
watch, and whatever valuables I had
about my person.

When I recovered from the effect of
the blow, I heard the voice of the chief
of the banditti, who exclaimed—"Quello
è il principe; siamo contenti; andiamo!"
(It is the prince; enough; let us be off.)
The band immediately closed round me
and dragged me out of the palace, bearing
off the three labourers likewise.

I had no hat on, and the blood flowed
from my wound; I managed to stanch it,
however, with my pocket-handkerchief,
which I bound round my forehead. The
captain of the band conducted me in triumph,
supposing me to be the prince.
We had gone some distance before he
learnt his mistake from one of the labourers.
His rage was terrible. It was
too late to return to the villa and endeavour
to retrieve his error, for by this
time the alarm must have been given,
and every one in arms. He darted at
me a ferocious look—swore I had deceived
him, and caused him to miss his
fortune—and told me to prepare for
death. The rest of the robbers were
equally furious. I saw their hands upon
their poniards, and I knew that death
was seldom an empty threat with these
ruffians. The labourers saw the peril
into which their information had betrayed
me, and eagerly assured the captain that
I was a man for whom the prince would
pay a great ransom. This produced a
pause. For my part, I cannot say that
I had been much dismayed by their
menaces. I mean not to make any
boast of courage; but I have been so
schooled to hardship during the late revolutions,
and have beheld death around
me in so many perilous and disastrous
scenes, that I have become in some
measure callous to its terrors. The frequent
hazard of life makes a man at
length as reckless of it as a gambler of
his money. To their threat of death,
I replied, "that the sooner it was executed
the better." This reply seemed to
astonish the captain; and the prospect of
ransom held out by the labourers had,
no doubt, a still greater effect on him.
He considered for a moment, assumed a
calmer manner, and made a sign to his
companions, who had remained waiting
for my death-warrant, "Forward!" said
he, "we will see about this matter by
and by!"

We descended rapidly towards the road
of La Molara, which leads to Rocca Priori.
In the midst of this road is a solitary
inn. The captain ordered the troop
to halt at the distance of a pistol-shot
from it, and enjoined profound silence.
He approached the threshold alone, with
noiseless steps. He examined the outside
of the door very narrowly, and then
returning precipitately, made a sign for
the troop to continue its march in silence.
It has since been ascertained, that this
was one of those infamous inns which

are the secret resorts of banditti. The
innkeeper had an understanding with
the captain, as he most probably had
with the chiefs of the different bands.
When any of the patrols and gendarmes
were quartered at his house, the brigands
were warned of it by a preconcerted
signal on the door; when there was no
such signal, they might enter with safety,
and be sure of welcome.

After pursuing our road a little further
we struck off towards the woody mountains
which envelope Rocea Priori. Our
march was long and painful; with many
circuits and windings: at length we clambered
a steep ascent, covered with a
thick forest; and when we had reached
the centre, I was told to seat myself on
the ground. No sooner had I done so
than, at a sign from their chief, the robbers
surrounded me, and spreading their
great cloaks from one to the other, formed
a kind of pavilion of mantles, to which
their bodies might be said to serve as
columns. The captain then struck a
light, and a flambeau was lit immediately.
The mantles were extended to prevent
the light of the flambeau from being seen
through the forest. Anxious as was my
situation, I could not look round upon
this screen of dusky drapery, relieved by
the bright colours of the robber's garments,
the gleaming of their weapons,
and the variety of strong-marked countenances,
lit up by the flambeau, without
admiring the picturesque effect of the
scene. It was quite theatrical.

The captain now held an inkhorn, and
giving me pen and paper, ordered me to
write what he should dictate. I obeyed.
It was a demand, couched in the style of
robber eloquence, "that the prince should
send three thousand dollars for my ransom;
or that my death should be the
consequence of a refusal."

I knew enough of the desperate character
of these beings to feel assured this
was not an idle menace. Their only
mode of insuring attention to their demands
is to make the infliction of the
penalty inevitable. I saw at once, however,
that the demand was preposterous,
and made in improper language.

I told the captain so, and assured him
that so extravagant a sum would never
be granted. "That I was neither a
friend nor relative of the prince, but a
mere artist, employed to execute certain
paintings. That I had nothing to offer
as a ransom but the price of my labours:
if this were not sufficient, my life was at
their disposal; it was a thing on which I
set but little value."

I was the more hardy in my reply,
because I saw that coolness and hardihood
had an effect upon the robbers. It
is true, as I finished speaking, the captain
laid his hand upon his stiletto; but
he restrained himself, and snatching the
letter, folded it, and ordered me in a
peremptory tone to address it to the
prince. He then despatched one of the
labourers with it to Tusculum, who promised
to return with all possible speed.

The robbers now prepared themselves
for sleep, and I was told that I might do
the same. They spread their great
cloaks on the ground, and lay down
around me. One was stationed at a
little distance to keep watch, and was
relieved every two hours. The strangeness
and wildness of this mountain bivouac
among the lawless beings, whose
hands seemed ever ready to grasp the
stiletto, and with whom life was so trivial
and insecure, was enough to banish
repose. The coldness of the earth and
of the dew, however, had a still greater
effect than mental causes in disturbing
my rest. The airs wafted to these
mountains from the distant Mediterranean,
diffused a great chilliness as the
night advanced. An expedient suggested
itself. I called one of my fellow-prisoners,
the labourers, and made him lie
down beside me. Whenever one of my
limbs became chilled, I approached it to
the robust limb of my neighbour, and
borrowed some of his warmth. In this
way I was able to obtain a little sleep.

Day at length dawned, and I was
roused from my slumber by the voice of
the chieftain. He desired me to rise and
follow him. I obeyed. On considering
his physiognomy attentively, it appeared
a little softened. He even assisted me in
scrambling up the steep forest, among
rocks and brambles. Habit had made
him a vigorous mountaineer; but I found
it excessively toilsome to climb these
rugged heights. We arrived at length
at the summit of the mountain.

Here it was that I felt all the enthusiasm
of my art suddenly awakened; and I
forgot in an instant all my perils and
fatigues at this magnificent view of sunrise
in the midst of the mountains of the
Abruzzi. It was on these heights that
Hannibal first pitched his camp, and
pointed out Rome to his followers. The
eye embraces a vast extent of country.
The minor height of Tusculum, with its
villas and its sacred ruins, lies below; the
Sabine hills and the Albanian mountains
stretch on either hand; and beyond Tusculum
and Frascati spreads out the
immense Campagna, with its lines of
tombs, and here and there a broken
aqueduct stretching across it, and the
towers and domes of the eternal city in
the midst.

Fancy this scene lit up by the glories
of a rising sun, and bursting upon my
sight as I looked forth from among the
majestic forests of the Abruzzi. Fancy,
too, the savage foreground, made still
more savage by groups of banditti,
armed and dressed in their wild picturesque
manner, and you will not
wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter
for a moment overpowered all his other
feelings.

The banditti were astonished at my
admiration of a scene which familiarity
had made so common in their eyes. I
took advantage of their halting at this
spot, drew forth a quire of drawing-paper,
and began to sketch the features
of the landscape. The height on which
I was seated was wild and solitary,
separated from the ridge of Tusculum
by a valley nearly three miles wide,
though the distance appeared less from
the purity of the atmosphere. This
height was one of the favourite retreats
of the banditti, commanding a look-out
over the country; while at the same time
it was covered with forests, and distant
from the populous haunts of men.

While I was sketching, my attention
was called off for a moment by the cries
of birds, and the bleatings of sheep. I
looked round, but could see nothing of
the animals which uttered them. They
were repeated, and appeared to come
from the summits of the trees. On looking
more narrowly, I perceived six of the
robbers perched in the tops of oaks,
which grew on the breezy crest of the
mountain, and commanded an uninterrupted
prospect. From hence they were
keeping a look-out, like so many vultures;
casting their eyes into the depths
of the valley below us; communicating
with each other by signs, or holding
discourse in sounds which might be
mistaken by the wayfarer for the cries of
hawks and crows, or the bleating of the
mountain flocks. After they had reconnoitred
the neighbourhood, and finished
their singular discourse, they descended
from their airy perch, and returned to
their prisoners. The captain posted
three of them at three naked sides of the
mountain, while he remained to guard
us with what appeared his most trusty
companion.

I had my book of sketches in my hand;
he requested to see it, and after having
run his eye over it, expressed himself
convinced of the truth of my assertion
that I was a painter. I thought I saw a
gleam of good feeling dawning in him,
and determined to avail myself of it. I
knew that the worst of men have their
good points and their accessible sides, if
one would but study them carefully.
Indeed there is a singular mixture in the
character of the Italian robber. With
reckless ferocity he often mingles traits
of kindness and good-humour. He is
not always radically bad; but driven to
his course of life by some unpremeditated
crime, the effect of those sudden
bursts of passion to which the Italian
temperament is prone. This has compelled
him to take to the mountains, or,
as it is technically termed among them,
"andare in campagna." He has become
a robber by profession; but like a
soldier, when not in action, he can lay
aside his weapon and his fierceness, and
become like other men.

I took occasion, from the observations
of the captain on my sketchings, to fall
into conversation with him. I found
him sociable and communicative. By
degrees I became completely at my ease
with him. I had fancied I perceived
about him a degree of self-love, which I
determined to make use of. I assumed
an air of careless frankness, and told
him, that, as an artist, I pretended to the
power of judging of the physiognomy;

that I thought I perceived something in
his features and demeanour which announced
him worthy of higher fortunes;
that he was not formed to exercise the
profession to which he had abandoned
himself; that he had talents and qualities
fitted for a nobler sphere of action; that
he had but to change his course of life,
and, in a legitimate career, the same
courage and endowments which now
made him an object of terror, would
assure him the applause and admiration
of society.

I had not mistaken my man: my discourse
both touched and excited him.
He seized my hand, pressed it, and
replied with strong emotion—"You have
guessed the truth: you have judged of
me rightly." He remained for a moment
silent; then, with a kind of effort,
he resumed—"I will tell you some particulars
of my life, and you will perceive
that it was the oppression of others,
rather than my own crimes, which drove
me to the mountains. I sought to serve
my fellow-men, and they have persecuted
me from among them." We seated ourselves
on the grass, and the robber gave
me the following anecdotes of his history.

THE STORY
OF
THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN.

I am a native of the village of Prossedi.
My father was easy enough in circumstances,
and we lived peaceably and
independently, cultivating our fields.
All went on well with us until a new
chief of the Sbirri was sent to our village
to take command of the police. He was
an arbitrary fellow, prying into every
thing, and practising all sorts of vexations
and oppressions in the discharge of
his office. I was at that time eighteen
years of age, and had a natural love of
justice and good neighbourhood. I had
also a little education, and knew something
of history, so as to be able to judge
a little of men and their actions. All
this inspired me with hatred for this
paltry despot. My own family, also,
became the object of his suspicion or
dislike, and felt more than once the
arbitrary abuse of his power. These
things worked together in my mind, and
I gasped after vengeance. My character
was always ardent and energetic, and,
acted upon by the love of justice, determined
me, by one blow, to rid the
country of the tyrant.

Full of my project, I rose one morning
before peep of day, and concealing a
stiletto under my waistcoat—here you
see it!—(and he drew forth a long keen
poniard) I lay in wait for him in the
outskirts of the village. I knew all his
haunts, and his habit of making his
rounds and prowling about like a wolf in
the gray of the morning. At length I
met him, and attacked him with fury.
He was armed, but I took him unawares,
and was full of youth and vigour. I
gave him repeated blows to make sure
work, and laid him lifeless at my feet.

When I was satisfied that I had done
for him, I returned with all haste to the
village, but had the ill luck to meet two
of the Sbirri as I entered it. They
accosted me, and asked if I had seen
their chief. I assumed an air of tranquillity,
and told them I had not. They
continued on their way, and within a
few hours brought back the dead body
to Prossedi. Their suspicions of me
being already awakened, I was arrested
and thrown into prison. Here I lay
several weeks, when the Prince, who
was Seigneur of Prossedi, directed judicial
proceedings against me. I was
brought to trial, and a witness was produced,
who pretended to have seen me
flying with precipitation not far from the
bleeding body; and so I was condemned
to the galleys for thirty years.

"Curse on such laws!" vociferated
the bandit, foaming with rage: "Curse
on such a government! and ten thousand
curses on the Prince who caused me
to be adjudged so rigorously, while so
many other Roman princes harbour and
protect assassins a thousand times more
culpable! What had I done but what
was inspired by a love of justice and my
country? Why was my act more culpable
than that of Brutus, when he sacrificed
Cæsar to the cause of liberty and
justice?"

There was something at once both

lofty and ludicrous in the rhapsody of
this robber chief, thus associating himself
with one of the great names of
antiquity. It showed, however, that
he had at least the merit of knowing the
remarkable facts in the history of his
country. He became more calm, and
resumed his narrative.

I was conducted to Civita Vecchia in
fetters. My heart was burning with rage.
I had been married scarce six months to
a woman whom I passionately loved, and
who was pregnant. My family was in
despair. For a long time I made unsuccessful
efforts to break my chain. At
length I found a morsel of iron, which I
hid carefully, and endeavoured, with a
pointed flint, to fashion it into a kind of
file. I occupied myself in this work
during the night-time, and when it was
finished, I made out, after a long time, to
sever one of the rings of my chain. My
flight was successful.

I wandered for several weeks in the
mountains which surround Prossedi, and
found means to inform my wife of the
place where I was concealed. She came
often to see me. I had determined to
put myself at the head of an armed band.
She endeavoured, for a long time, to dissuade
me, but finding my resolution fixed,
she at length united in my project of
vengeance, and brought me, herself, my
poniard. By her means I communicated
with several brave fellows of the neighbouring
villages, whom I knew to be
ready to take to the mountains, and only
panting for an opportunity to exercise
their daring spirits. We soon formed
a combination, procured arms, and we
have had ample opportunities of revenging
ourselves for the wrongs and injuries
which most of us have suffered. Every
thing has succeeded with us until now;
and had it not been for our blunder in
mistaking you for the prince, our fortunes
would have been made.

Here the robber concluded his story.
He had talked himself into complete companionship,
and assured me he no longer
bore me any grudge for the error of
which I had been the innocent cause.
He even professed a kindness for me,
and wished me to remain some time with
them. He promised to give me a sight
of certain grottoes which they occupied
beyond Villetri, and whither they resorted
during the intervals of their expeditions.
He assured me that they led a jovial life
there; had plenty of good cheer; slept
on beds of moss; and were waited upon
by young and beautiful females, whom I
might take for models.

I confess I felt my curiosity roused by
his description of the grottoes and their
inhabitants; they realized those scenes
in robber story which I had always looked
upon as mere creations of the fancy. I
should gladly have accepted his invitation,
and paid a visit to these caverns,
could I have felt more secure in my
company.

I began to find my situation less painful.
I had evidently propitiated the goodwill
of the chieftain, and hoped that he
might release me for a moderate ransom.
A new alarm, however, awaited me.
While the captain was looking out with
impatience for the return of the messenger
who had been sent to the prince, the
sentinel who had been posted on the side
of the mountain facing the plain of La
Molara came running towards us with
precipitation. "We are betrayed!" exclaimed
he. "The police of Frascati
are after us. A party of carabineers
have just stopped at the inn below the
mountain." Then, laying his hand on
his stiletto, he swore, with a terrible
oath, that if they made the least movement
towards the mountain, my life and
the lives of my fellow-prisoners should
answer for it.

The chieftain resumed all his ferocity
of demeanour, and approved of what his
companion said; but when the latter had
returned to his post, he turned to me
with a softened air: "I must act as
chief," said he, "and humour my dangerous
subalterns. It is a law with us
to kill our prisoners, rather than suffer
them to be rescued; but do not be alarmed.
In case we are surprised, keep by
me. Fly with us, and I will consider
myself responsible for your life."

There was nothing very consolatory
in this arrangement, which would have
placed me between two dangers. I
scarcely knew, in case of flight, from
which I should have most to apprehend,
the carbines of the pursuers, or the stilettoes

of the pursued. I remained silent,
however, and endeavoured to maintain a
look of tranquillity.

For an hour was I kept in this state of
peril and anxiety. The robbers, crouching
among their leafy coverts, kept an
eagle watch upon the carabineers below,
as they loitered about the inn; sometimes
lolling about the portal; sometimes
disappearing for several minutes;
then sallying out, examining their weapons,
pointing in different directions, and
apparently asking questions about the
neighbourhood. Not a movement, a gesture,
was lost upon the keen eyes of the
brigands. The carabineers having finished
their refreshment, seized their arms,
continued along the valley towards the
great road, and gradually left the mountain
behind them. "I felt almost certain,"
said the chief, "that they could
not be sent after us. They know too
well how prisoners have fared in our
hands on similar occasions. Our laws
in this respect are inflexible, and are
necessary for our safety. If we once
flinched from them, there would no longer
be any such thing as a ransom to be procured."

There were no signs yet of the messenger's
return. I was preparing to resume
my sketching, when the captain
drew a quire of paper from his knapsack.
"Come," said he, laughing, "you are a
painter,—take my likeness. The leaves
of your portfolio are small,—draw it on
this." I
gladly consented, for it was a
study that seldom presents itself to a
painter. I recollected that Salvator Rosa
in his youth had voluntarily sojourned
for a time among the banditti of Calabria,
and had filled his mind with the savage
scenery and savage associates by which
he was surrounded. I seized my pencil
with enthusiasm at the thought. I found
the captain the most decile of subjects,
and, after various shiftings of position, I
placed him in an attitude to my mind.

Picture to yourself a stern muscular
figure, in fanciful bandit costume; with
pistols and poniards in belt; his brawny
neck bare; a handkerchief loosely thrown
round it, and the two ends in front strung
with rings of all kinds, the spoils of travellers;
relics and medals hanging on
his breast; his hat decorated with various
coloured ribands; his vest and short
breeches of bright colours and finely
embroidered; his legs in buskins or leggings.
Fancy him on a mountain height,
among wild rocks and rugged oaks, leaning
on his carbine, as if meditating some
exploit; while far below are beheld villages
and villas, the scenes of his maraudings,
with the wide Campagna dimly
extending in the distance.

The robber was pleased with the
sketch, and seemed to admire himself
upon paper. I had scarcely finished,
when the labourer arrived who had been
sent for my ransom. He had reached
Tusculum two hours after midnight. He
brought me a letter from the prince, who
was in bed at the time of his arrival. As
I had predicted, he treated the demand
as extravagant, but offered five hundred
dollars for my ransom. Having no money
by him at the moment, he had sent
a note for the amount, payable to whomsoever
should conduct me safe and sound
to Rome. I presented the note of hand
to the chieftain: he received it with a
shrug. "Of what use are notes of hand
to us?" said he. "Who can we send
with you to Rome to receive it? We are
all marked men; known and described
at every gate and military post, and village
church-door. No; we must have
gold and silver; let the sum be paid
in cash, and you shall be restored to
liberty."

The captain again placed a sheet of
paper before me, to communicate his
determination to the prince. When I
had finished the letter, and took the
sheet from the quire, I found on the
opposite side of it the portrait which I
had just been tracing. I was about to
tear it off, and give it to the chief.

"Hold!" said he, "let it go to Rome:
let them see what kind of a looking fellow
I am. Perhaps the prince and his
friends may form as good an opinion of
me from my face as you have done."

This was said sportively, yet it was
evident there was vanity lurking at the
bottom. Even this wary, distrustful chief
of banditti forgot for a moment his usual
foresight and precaution, in the common
wish to be admired. He never reflected
what use might be made of this portrait
in his pursuit and conviction.

The letter was folded and directed,
and the messenger departed again for
Tusculum. It was now eleven o'clock
in the morning, and as yet we had eaten
nothing. In spite of all my anxiety, I
began to feel a craving appetite. I was
glad therefore to hear the captain talk
something about eating. He observed
that for three days and nights they had
been lurking about among rocks and
woods, meditating their expedition to
Tusculum, during which time all their
provisions had been exhausted. He
should now take measures to procure a
supply. Leaving me therefore in charge
of his comrade, in whom he appeared to
have implicit confidence, he departed,
assuring me that in less than two hours
we should make a good dinner. Where
it was to come from was an enigma to
me, though it was evident these beings
had their secret friends and agents
throughout the country.

Indeed, the inhabitants of these mountains,
and of the valleys which they embosom,
are a rude, half-civilized set.
The towns and villages among the forests
of the Abruzzi, shut up from the rest of
the world, are almost like savage dens.
It is wonderful that such rude abodes, so
little known and visited, should be embosomed
in the midst of one of the most
travelled and civilized countries of Europe.
Among these regions the robber
prowls unmolested; not a mountaineer
hesitates to give him secret harbour
and assistance. The shepherds, however,
who tend their flocks among the
mountains, are the favourite emissaries
of the robbers, when they would send
messages down to the valleys either for
ransom or supplies.

The shepherds of the Abruzzi are as
wild as the scenes they frequent. They
are clad in a rude garb of black or brown
sheepskin; they have high conical hats,
and coarse sandals of cloth bound round
their legs with thongs similar to those
worn by the robbers. They carry long
staves, on which as they lean, they form
picturesque objects in the lonely landscape,
and they are followed by their
ever-constant companion, the dog. They
are a curious questioning set, glad at
any time to relieve the monotony of their
solitude by the conversation of the passers-by;
and the dog will lend an attentive
ear, and put on as sagacious and inquisitive
a look as his master.

But I am wandering from my story.
I was now left alone with one of the robbers,
the confidential companion of the
chief. He was the youngest and most
vigorous of the band; and though his
countenance had something of that dissolute
fierceness which seems natural to
this desperate, lawless mode of life, yet
there were traces of manly beauty about
it. As an artist I could not but admire
it. I had remarked in him an air of
abstraction and revery, and at times a
movement of inward suffering and impatience.
He now sat on the ground, his
elbows on his knees, his head resting
between his clenched fists, and his eyes
fixed on the earth with an expression of
sad and bitter rumination. I had grown
familiar with him from repeated conversations,
and had found him superior in
mind to the rest of the band. I was
anxious to seize any opportunity of sounding
the feelings of these singular beings.
I fancied I read in the countenance of
this one traces of self-condemnation and
remorse; and the ease with which I had
drawn forth the confidence of the chieftain
encouraged me to hope the same
with his follower.

After a little preliminary conversation,
I ventured to ask him if he did not feel
regret at having abandoned his family,
and taken to this dangerous profession.
"I feel," replied he, "but one regret,
and that will end only with my life."

As he said this, he pressed his clenched
fists upon his bosom, drew his breath
through his set teeth, and added, with a
deep emotion, "I have something within
here that stiftes me; it is like a burning
iron consuming my very heart. I could
tell you a miserable story—but not now
—another time."

He relapsed into his former position,
and sat with his head between his hands,
muttering to himself in broken ejaculations,
and what appeared at times to be
curses and maledictions. I saw he was
not in a mood to be disturbed, so I left
him to himself. In a little while the exhaustion
of his feelings, and probably the
fatigues he had undergone in this expedition,
began to produce drowsiness. He

struggled with it for a time, but the
warmth and stillness of mid-day made it
irresistible, and he at length stretched
himself upon the herbage and fell fast
asleep.

I now beheld a chance of escape within
my reach. My guard lay before me at
my mercy. His vigorous limbs relaxed
by sleep—his bosom open for the blow—
his carbine slipped from his nerveless
grasp, and lying by his side—his stiletto
half out of the pocket in which it was
usually carried. Two only of his comrades
were in sight, and those at a considerable
distance on the edge of the
mountain, their backs turned to us, and
their attention occupied in keeping a
look-out upon the plain. Through a strip
of intervening forest, and at the foot of a
steep descent, I beheld the village of
Rocca Priori. To have secured the carbine
of the sleeping brigand; to have
seized upon his poniard, and have plunged
it in his heart, would have been the work
of an instant. Should he die without
noise, I might dart through the forest,
and down to Rocca Priori before my
flight might be discovered. In case of
alarm, I should have a fair start of the
robbers, and a chance of getting beyond
the reach of their shot.

Here then was an opportunity for both
escape and vengeance; perilous indeed,
but powerfully tempting. Had my situation
been more critical I could not have
resisted it. I reflected, however, for a
moment. The attempt, if successful,
would be followed by the sacrifice of my
two fellow-prisoners, who were sleeping
profoundly, and could not be awakened
in time to escape. The labourer who
had gone after the ransom might also fall
a victim to the rage of the robbers, without
the money which he brought being
saved. Besides, the conduct of the chief
towards me made me feel confident of
speedy deliverance. These reflections
overcame the first powerful impulse, and
I calmed the turbulent agitation which it
had awakened.

I again took out my materials for
drawing, and amused myself with sketching
the magnificent prospect. It was
now about noon, and every thing had
sunk into repose, like the bandit that lay
sleeping before me. The noontide stillness
that reigned over the mountains, the
vast landscape below, gleaming with
distant towns, and dotted with various
habitations and signs of life, yet all so
silent, had a powerful effect upon my
mind. The intermediate valleys, too,
which lie among the mountains, have a
peculiar air of solitude. Few sounds are
heard at mid-day to break the quiet of
the scene. Sometimes the whistle of a
solitary muleteer, lagging with his lazy
animal along the road which winds
through the centre of the valley; sometimes
the faint piping of a shepherd's
reed from the side of the mountain, or
sometimes the bell of an ass slowly
pacing along, followed by a monk with
bare feet, and hare, shining head, and
carrying provisions to his convent.

I had continued to sketch for some
time among my sleeping companions,
when at length I saw the captain of the
band approaching, followed by a peasant
leading a mule, on which was a well-filled
sack. I at first apprehended that
this was some new prey fallen into the
hands of the robbers; but the contented
look of the peasant soon relieved me,
and I was rejoiced to hear that it was our
promised repast. The brigands now came
running from the three sides of the mountain,
having the quick scent of vultures.
Every one busied himself in unloading
the mule, and relieving the sack of its
contents.

The first thing that made its appearance
was an enormous ham, of a colour
and plumpness that would have inspired
the pencil of Teniers; it was followed by
a large cheese, a bag of boiled chestnuts,
a little barrel of wine, and a quantity of
good household bread. Every thing was
arranged on the grass with a degree of
symmetry; and the captain, presenting
me his knife, requested me to help myself.
We all seated ourselves round the
viands, and nothing was heard for a
time but the sound of vigorous mastication,
or the gurgling of the barrel of
wine as it revolved briskly about the
circle. My long fasting, and the mountain
air and exercise, had given me a
keen appetite; and never did repast appear
to me more excellent or picturesque.

From time to time one of the band
was despatched to keep a look-out upon

the plain. No enemy was at hand, and
the dinner was undisturbed. The peasant
received nearly three times the value
of his provisions, and set off down the
mountain highly satisfied with his bargain.
I felt invigorated by the hearty
meal I had made, and notwithstanding
the wound I had received the evening
before was painful, yet I could not but
feel extremely interested and gratified by
the singular scenes continually presented
to me. Every thing was picturesque
about these wild beings and their haunts.
Their bivouacs; their groups on guard;
their indolent noontide repose on the
mountain-brow; their rude repast on the
herbage among rocks and trees; every
thing presented a study for a painter:
but it was towards the approach of evening
that I felt the highest enthusiasm
awakened.

The setting sun, declining beyond the
vast Campagna, shed its rich yellow
beams on the woody summit of the
Abruzzi. Several mountains crowned
with snow shone brilliantly in the distance,
contrasting their brightness with
others, which, thrown into shade, assumed
deep tints of purple and violet.
As the evening advanced, the landscape
darkened into a sterner character. The
immense solitude around; the wild mountains
broken into rocks and precipiees,
intermingled with vast oaks, corks, and
chestnuts; and the groups of banditti in
the foreground, reminded me of the
savage scenes of Salvator Rosa.

To beguile the time, the captain proposed
to his comrades to spread before
me their jewels and cameos, as I must
doubtless be a judge of such articles, and
able to form an estimate of their value.
He set the example, the others followed
it; and in a few moments I saw the grass
before me sparkling with jewels and gems
that would have delighted the eyes of an
antiquary or a fine lady.

Among them were several precious
jewels, and antique intaglios and cameos
of great value; the spoils, doubtless of
travellers of distinction. I found that
they were in the habit of selling their
booty in the frontier towns; but as these
in general were thinly and poorly peopled,
and little frequented by travellers, they
could offer no market for such valuable
articles of taste and luxury. I suggested
to them the certainty of their readily obtaining
great prices for these gems among
the rich strangers with whom Rome was
thronged.

The impression made upon their greedy
minds was immediately apparent. One
of the band, a young man, and the least
known, requested permission of the captain
to depart the following day, in disguise,
for Rome, for the purpose of traffic;
promising, on the faith of a bandit (a sacred
pledge among them), to return in
two days to any place he might appoint.
The captain consented, and a curious
scene took place: the robbers crowded
round him eagerly, confiding to him such
of their jewels as they wished to dispose
of, and giving him instructions what to
demand. There was much bargaining
and exchanging and selling of trinkets
among them; and I beheld my watch,
which had a chain and valuable seals,
purchased by the young robber-merchant
of the ruffian who had plundered me, for
sixty dollars. I now conceived a faint
hope, that if it went to Rome, I might
somehow or other regain possession of it.[2]

In the mean time day declined, and
no messenger returned from Tusculum.
The idea of passing another night in the
woods was extremely disheartening, for
I began to be satisfied with what I had
seen of robber-life. The chieftain now
ordered his men to follow him, that he
might station them at their posts; adding,
that if the messenger did not return before
night, they must shift their quarters to
some other place.

I was again left alone with the young
bandit who had before guarded me: he
had the same gloomy air and haggard
eye, with now and then a bitter sardonic
smile. I was determined to probe his
ulcerated heart, and reminded him of a
kind of promise he had given me to tell
me the cause of his suffering. It seemed
to me as if these troubled spirits were
glad of any opportunity to disburthen
themselves, and of having some fresh,

undiseased mind, with which they could
communicate. I had hardly made the
request, when he seated himself by my
side, and gave me his story in, as nearly
as I can recollect, the following words.

STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER.

I was born in the little town of Frosinone,
which lies at the skirts of the
Abruzzi. My father had made a little
property in trade, and gave me some
education, as he intended me for the
church; but I had kept gay company too
much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a
loiterer about the place. I was a heedless
fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasion,
but good-humoured in the main; so
I made my way very well for a time,
until I fell in love. There lived in our
town a surveyor or landbailiff of the
prince, who had a young daughter, a
beautiful girl of sixteen: she was looked
upon as something better than the common
run of our townsfolk, and was kept
almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally,
and became madly in love
with her—she looked so fresh and tender,
and so different from the sunburnt females
to whom I had been accustomed.

As my father kept me in money, I
always dressed well, and took all opportunities
of showing myself off to advantage
in the eyes of the little beauty. I
used to see her at church; and as I could
play a little upon the guitar, I gave a
tune sometimes under her window of an
evening; and I tried to have interviews
with her in her father's vineyard, not far
from the town, where she sometimes
walked. She was evidently pleased with
me, but she was young and shy; and her
father kept a strict eye upon her, and
took alarm at my attentions, for he had
a bad opinion of me, and looked for a
better match for his daughter. I became
furious at the difficulties thrown in my
way, having been accustomed always to
easy success among the women, being
considered one of the smartest young
fellows of the place.

Her father brought home a suitor for
her, a rich farmer, from a neighbouring
town. The wedding-day was appointed,
and preparations were making. I got
sight of her at her window, and I thought
she looked sadly at me. I determined
the match should not take place, cost
what it might. I met her intended bridegroom
in the market-place, and could not
restrain the expression of my rage. A
few hot words passed between us, when
I drew my stiletto and stabbed him to the
heart. I fled to a neighbouring church
for refuge, and with a little money I obtained
absolution, but I did not dare to
venture from my asylum.

At that time our captain was forming
his troop. He had known me from
boyhood; and, hearing of my situation,
came to me in secret, and made such
offers, that I agreed to enrol myself
among his followers. Indeed, I had more
than once thought of taking to this mode
of life, having known several brave fellows
of the mountains, who used to spend
their money freely among us youngsters
of the town. I accordingly left my
asylum late one night, repaired to the
appointed place of meeting, took the
oaths prescribed, and became one of
the troop. We were for some time in a
distant part of the mountains, and our
wild adventurous kind of life hit my
fancy wonderfully, and diverted my
thoughts. At length they returned with
all their violence to the recollection of
Rosetta: the solitude in which I often
found myself gave me time to brood over
her image; and, as I have kept watch
at night over our sleeping camp in
the mountains, my feelings have been
roused almost to a fever.

At length we shifted our ground, and
determined to make a descent upon the
road between Terracina and Naples. In
the course of our expedition we passed
a day or two in the woody mountains
which rise above Frosinone. I cannot
tell you how I felt when I looked down
upon the place, and distinguished the residence
of Rosetta. I determined to have
an interview with her;—but to what purpose?
I could not expect that she would
quit her home, and accompany me in
my hazardous life among the mountains.
She had been brought up too tenderly
for that; and when I looked upon the
women who were associated with some
of our troop, I could not have borne the

thoughts of her being their companion.
All return to my former life was likewise
hopeless, for a price was set upon my
head. Still I determined to see her; the
very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing
made me furious to accomplish it.

About three weeks since, I persuaded
our captain to draw down to the vicinity
of Frosinone, suggesting the chance of
entrapping some of its principal inhabitants,
and compelling them to a ransom.
We were in ambush towards evening,
not far from the vineyard of Rosetta's
father. I stole quietly from my companions,
and drew near to reconnoitre the
place of her frequent walks. How my
heart beat when among the vines I beheld
the gleaming of a white dress! I
knew it must be Rosetta's; it being rare
for any female of the place to dress in
white. I advanced secretly and without
noise, until, putting aside the vines, I
stood suddenly before her. She uttered
a piercing shriek, but I seized her in my
arms, put my hand upon her mouth, and
conjured her to be silent. I poured out
all the frenzy of my passion; offered to
renounce my mode of life; to put my
fate in her hands; to fly with her where
we might live in safety together. All
that I could say or do would not pacify
her. Instead of love, horror and affright
seemed to have taken possession of her
breast. She struggled partly from my
grasp, and filled the air with her cries.

In an instant the captain and the rest
of my companions were around us. I
would have given any thing at that moment
had she been safe out of our hands,
and in her father's house. It was too
late. The captain pronounced her a
prize, and ordered that she should be
borne to the mountains. I represented
to him that she was my prize; that I
had a previous claim to her; and I
mentioned my former attachment. He
sneered bitterly in reply; observed that
brigands had no business with village
intrigues, and that, according to the laws
of the troop, all spoils of the kind were
determined by lot. Love and jealousy
were raging in my heart, but I had to
choose between obedience and death. I
surrendered her to the captain, and we
made for the mountains.

She was overcome by affright, and
her steps were so feeble and faltering
that it was necessary to support her. I
could not endure the idea that my comrades
should touch her, and assuming a
forced tranquillity, begged that she might
be confided to me, as one to whom she
was more accustomed. The captain regarded
me, for a moment, with a searching
look, but I bore it without flinching,
and he consented. I took her in my
arms; she was almost senseless. Her
head rested on my shoulder; I felt her
breath on my face, and it seemed to fan
the flame which devoured. Oh God! to
have this glowing treasure in my arms,
and yet to think it was not mine!

We arrived at the foot of the mountain.
I ascended it with difficulty, particularly
where the woods were thick,
but I would not relinquish my delicious
burthen. I reflected with rage, however,
that I must soon do so. The thoughts
that so delicate a creature must be abandoned
to my rude companions maddened
me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my
hand, to cut my way through them all,
and bear her off in triumph. I scarcely
conceived the idea before I saw its rashness;
but my brain was fevered with the
thought that any but myself should enjoy
her charms. I endeavoured to outstrip
my companions by the quickness of my
movements, and to get a little distance
ahead, in case any favourable opportunity
of escape should present. Vain
effort! The voice of the captain suddenly
ordered a halt. I trembled, but
had to obey. The poor girl partly opened
a languid eye, but was without strength
or motion. I laid her upon the grass.
The captain darted on me a terrible look
of suspicion, and ordered me to scour
the woods with my companions in search
of some shepherd, who might be sent to
her father's to demand a ransom.

I saw at once the peril. To resist
with violence was certain death—but to
leave her alone, in the power of the captain!
I spoke out then with a fervour
inspired by my passion and my despair.
I reminded the captain that I was the
first to seize her; that she was my prize;
and that my previous attachment to her
ought to make her sacred among my
companions. I insisted, therefore, that
he should pledge me his word to respect

her, otherwise I should refuse obedience
to his orders. His only reply was to
cock his carbine, and at the signal my
comrades did the same. They laughed
with cruelty at my impotent rage. What
could I do? I felt the madness of resistance.
I was menaced on all hands,
and my companions obliged me to follow
them. She remained alone with the
chief—yes, alone—and almost lifeless!—

Here the robber paused in his recital,
overpowered by his emotions. Great
drops of sweat stood on his forehead;
he panted rather than breathed; his
brawny bosom rose and fell like the
waves of a troubled sea. When he had
become a little calm, he continued his
recital.

I was not long in finding a shepherd,
said he. I ran with the rapidity of a
deer, eager, if possible, to get back before
what I dreaded might take place. I had
left my companions far behind, and I rejoined
them before they had reached one
half the distance I had made. I hurried
them back to the place where we had
left the captain. As we approached, I
beheld him seated by the side of Rosetta.
His triumphant look, and the desolate
condition of the unfortunate girl, left me
no doubt of her fate. I know not how I
restrained my fury.

It was with extreme difficulty, and by
guiding her hand, that she was made to
trace a few characters, requesting her
father to send three hundred dollars as
her ransom. The letter was despatched
by the shepherd. When he was gone,
the chief turned sternly to me. "You
have set an example," said he, "of mutiny
and self-will, which, if indulged,
would be ruinous to the troop. Had I
treated you as our laws require, this
bullet would have been driven through
your brain. But you are an old friend;
I have borne patiently with your fury
and your folly. I have even protected
you from a foolish passion that would
have unmanned you. As to this girl,
the laws of our association must have
their course." So saying, he gave his
commands: lots were drawn, and the
helpless girl was abandoned to the troop.

Here the robber paused again, panting
with fury, and it was some moments
before he could resume his story.

Hell, said he, was raging in my heart.
I beheld the impossibility of avenging
myself; and I felt that, according to the
articles in which we stood bound to one
another, the captain was in the right. I
rushed with frenzy from the place; I
threw myself upon the earth; tore up
the grass with my hands; and beat my
head and gnashed my teeth in agony and
rage. When at length I returned, I
beheld the wretched victim, pale, dishevelled,
her dress torn and disordered.
An emotion of pity, for a moment, subdued
my fiercer feelings. I bore her to
the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently
against it. I took my gourd, which was
filled with wine, applying it to her lips,
endeavoured to make her swallow a
little. To what a condition was she reduced!
she, whom I had once seen the
pride of Frosinone; who but a short
time before I had beheld sporting in her
father's vineyard, so fresh, and beautiful,
and happy! Her teeth were clenched;
her eyes fixed on the ground; her form
without motion, and in a state of absolute
insensibility. I hung over her in an
agony of recollection at all that she had
been, and of anguish at what I now beheld
her. I darted round a look of horror
at my companions, who seemed like
so many fiends exulting in the downfall
of an angel; and I felt a horror at myself
for being their accomplice.

The captain, always suspicious, saw,
with his usual penetration, what was
passing within me, and ordered me to
go upon the ridge of the woods, to keep
a look-out over the neighbourhood, and
await the return of the shepherd. I
obeyed, of course, stifling the fury that
raged within me, though I felt, for the
moment, that he was my most deadly foe.

On my way, however, a ray of reflection
came across my mind. I perceived
that the captain was but following, with
strictness, the terrible laws to which we
had sworn fidelity. That the passion by
which I had been blinded might, with
justice, have been fatal to me, but for his
forbearance; that he had penetrated my
soul, and had taken precautions, by sending
me out of the way, to prevent my
committing any excess in my anger.
From that instant I felt that I was capable
of pardoning him.

Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived
at the foot of the mountain. The
country was solitary and secure, and in
a short time I beheld the shepherd at a
distance crossing the plain. I hastened
to meet him. He had obtained nothing.
He had found the father plunged in the
deepest distress. He had read the letter
with violent emotion, and then, calming
himself with a sudden exertion, he replied,
coldly: "My daughter has been
dishonoured by those wretches; let her be
returned without ransom, or let her die!"

I shuddered at this reply. I knew
that, according to the laws of our troop,
her death was inevitable. Our oaths
required it. I felt, nevertheless, that not
having been able to have her to myself, I
could become her executioner!

The robber again paused with agitation.
I sat musing upon his last frightful
words which proved to what excess
the passions may be carried, when
escaped from all moral restraint. There
was a horrible verity in this story that
reminded me of some of the tragic fictions
of Dante.

We now come to a fatal moment, resumed
the bandit. After the report of
the shepherd, I returned with him, and
the chieftain received from his lips the
refusal of the father. At a signal which
we all understood, we followed him to
some distance from the victim. He there
pronounced her sentence of death. Every
one stood ready to execute his order, but
I interfered. I observed that there was
something due to pity as well as to
justice. That I was as ready as any
one to approve the implacable law, which
was to serve as a warning to all those
who hesitated to pay the ransoms demanded
for our prisoners; but that
though the sacrifice was proper, it ought
to be made without cruelty. "The night
is approaching," continued I; "she will
soon be wrapped in sleep; let her then
be despatched. All I now claim on the
score of former fondness for her is, let
me strike the blow. I will do it as surely,
but more tenderly than another." Several
raised their voices against my proposition,
but the captain imposed silence on
them. He told me I might conduct her
into a thicket at some distance, and he
relied upon my promise.

I hastened to seize upon my prey.
There was a forlorn kind of triumph at
having at length become her exclusive
possessor. I bore her off into the thickness
of the forest. She remained in the
same state of insensibility or stupor. I
was thankful that she did not recollect
me, for had she once murmured my
name, I should have been overcome.
She slept at length in the arms of him
who was to poniard her. Many were
the conflicts I underwent before I could
bring myself to strike the blow. But my
heart had become sore by the recent
conflicts it had undergone, and I dreaded
lest, by procrastination, some other
should become her executioner. When
her repose had continued for some time,
I separated myself gently from her, that
I might not disturb her sleep, and seizing
suddenly my poniard, plunged it into her
bosom. A painful and concentrated murmur,
but without any convulsive movement,
accompanied her last sigh. So
perished this unfortunate!

He ceased to speak. I sat, horror-struck,
covering my face with my hands,
seeking, as it were, to hide from myself
the frightful images he had presented to
my mind. I was roused from this silence
by the voice of the captain: "You sleep,"
said he, "and it is time to be off. Come,
we must abandon this height, as night is
setting in, and the messenger is not returned.
I will post some one on the
mountain-edge to conduct him to the
place where we shall pass the night."

This was no agreeable news to me.
I was sick at heart with the dismal story
I had heard. I was harassed and fatigued,
and the sight of the banditti began
to grow insupportable to me.

The captain assembled his comrades.
We rapidly descended the forest, which
we had mounted with so much difficulty
in the morning, and soon arrived in what
appeared to be a frequented road. The
robbers proceeded with great caution,
carrying their guns cocked, and looking
on every side with wary and suspicious
eyes. They were apprehensive of encountering
the civic patrole. We left
Rocca Priori behind us. There was a
fountain near by, and as I was excessively
thirsty, I begged permission to

stop and drink. The captain himself
went and brought me water in his hat.
We pursued our route, when, at the extremity
of an alley which crossed the
road, I perceived a female on horseback,
dressed in white. She was alone. I
recollected the fate of the poor girl in
the story, and trembled for her safety.

One of the brigands saw her at the
same instant, and plunging into the
bushes, he ran precipitately in the direction
towards her. Stopping on the
border of the alley, he put one knee to
the ground, presented his carbine ready
to menace her, or to shoot her horse if
she attempted to fly, and in this way
awaited her approach. I kept my eyes
fixed on her with intense anxiety. I felt
tempted to shout and warn her of her
danger, though my own destruction
would have been the consequence. It
was awful to see this tiger crouching
ready for a bound, and the poor innocent
victim wandering unconsciously near
him. Nothing but a mere chance could
save her. To my joy the chance turned
in her favour. She seemed almost accidentally
to take an opposite path, which
led outside of the wood, where the robber
dared not venture. To this casual deviation
she owed her safety.

I could not imagine why the captain
of the band had ventured to such a distance
from the height on which he had
placed the sentinel to watch the return
of the messenger. He seemed himself
anxious at the risk to which he exposed
himself. His movements were rapid and
uneasy; I could scarce keep pace with
him. At length, after three hours of
what might be termed a forced march,
we mounted the extremity of the same
woods, the summit of which we had
occupied during the day; and I learnt
with satisfaction that we had reached our
quarters for the night. "You must be
fatigued," said the chieftain; "but it was
necessary to survey the environs, so as
not to be surprised during the night.
Had we met with the famous civic guard
of Rocca Priori, you would have seen
fine sport." Such was the indefatigable
precaution and forethought of this robber
chief, who really gave continual evidence
of military talent.

The night was magnificent. The
moon, rising above the horizon in a
cloudless sky, faintly lit up the grand
features of the mountain; while lights
twinkling here and there, like terrestrial
stars, in the wide dusky expanse of the
landscape, betrayed the lonely cabins of
the shepherds. Exhausted by fatigue,
and by the many agitations I had experienced,
I prepared to sleep, soothed by
the hope of approaching deliverance.
The captain ordered his companions to
collect some dry moss; he arranged
with his own hands a kind of mattress
and pillow of it, and gave me his ample
mantle as a covering. I could not but
feel both surprised and gratified by such
unexpected attentions on the part of this
benevolent cut-throat; for there is nothing
more striking than to find the ordinary
charities, which are matters of
course in common life, flourishing by the
side of such stern and sterile crime. It is
like finding the tender flowers and fresh
herbage of the valley growing among
the rocks and cinders of the volcano.

Before I fell asleep I had some further
discourse with the captain, who seemed
to feel great confidence in me. He referred
to our previous conversation of
the morning; told me he was weary of
his hazardous profession; that he had
acquired sufficient property, and was
anxious to return to the world, and lead
a peaceful life in the bosom of his family.
He wished to know whether it was not
in my power to procure for him a passport
to the United States of America. I
applauded his good intentions, and promised
to do every thing in my power to
promote its success. We then parted for
the night. I stretched myself upon my
couch of moss, which, after my fatigues,
felt like a bed of down; and, sheltered
by the robber-mantle from all humidity,
I slept soundly, without waking, until the
signal to arise.

It was nearly six o'clock, and the day
was just dawning. As the place where
we had passed the night was too much
exposed, we moved up into the thickness
of the woods. A fire was kindled. While
there was any flame, the mantles were
again extended round it; but when nothing
remained but glowing cinders, they
were lowered, and the robbers seated
themselves in a circle.

The scene before me reminded me of
some of those described by Homer.
There wanted only the victim on the
coals, and the sacred knife to cut off
the succulent parts, and distribute them
around. My companions might have
rivalled the grim warriors of Greece.
In place of the noble repasts, however,
of Achilles and Agamemnon, I beheld
displayed on the grass the remains of the
ham which had sustained so vigorous an
attack on the preceding evening, accompanied
by the relics of the bread, cheese,
and wine. We had scarcely commenced
our frugal breakfast, when I heard again
an imitation of the bleating of sheep,
similar to what I had heard the day
before. The captain answered it in the
same tone. Two men were soon after
seen descending from the woody height,
where we had passed the preceding evening.
On nearer approach, they proved
to be the sentinel and the messenger.
The captain rose, and went to meet
them. He made a signal for his comrades
to join him. They had a short
conference, and then returning to me
with eagerness, "Your ransom is paid,"
said he; "you are free!"

Though I had anticipated deliverance,
I cannot tell you what a rush of delight
these tidings gave me. I cared not to
finish my repast, but prepared to depart.
The captain took me by the hand, requested
permission to write to me, and
begged me not to forget the passport. I
replied, that I hoped to be of effectual
service to him, and that I relied on his
honour to return the prince's note for
five hundred dollars, now that the cash
was paid. He regarded me for a moment
with surprise, then seeming to recollect
himself, "E giusto," said he,
"eccolo—addio!"[3] He delivered me the
note, pressed my hand once more, and
we separated. The labourers were permitted
to follow me, and we resumed
with joy our road toward Tuseulum.

The Frenchman ceased to speak. The
party continued, for a few moments, to
pace the shore in silence. The story
had made a deep impression, particularly
on the Venitian lady. At that part which
related to the young girl of Frosinone,
she was violently affected. Sobs broke
from her; she clung closer to her husband,
and as she looked up to him as for
protection, the moonbeams shining on
her beautifully fair countenance, showed
it paler than usual, while tears glittered
in her fine dark eyes.

"Coraggio, mia vita!" said he, as he
gently and fondly tapped the white hand
that lay upon his arm.

The party now returned to the inn,
and separated for the night. The fair
Venitian, though of the sweetest temperament,
was half out of humour with the
Englishman, for a certain slowness of
faith which he had evinced throughout
the whole evening. She could not understand
this dislike to "humbug," as he
termed it, which held a kind of sway
over him, and seemed to control his
opinions and his very actions.

"I'll warrant," said she to her husband,
as they retired for the night, "I'll
warrant, with all his affected indifference,
this Englishman's heart would quake at
the very sight of a bandit."

Her husband gently, and good-humouredly,
checked her.

"I have no patience with these Englishmen,"
said she, as she got into bed—
"they are so cold and insensible!"

THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE ENGLISHMAN.

In the morning all was bustle in the
inn at Terracina. The procaccio had
departed at daybreak on its route towards
Rome, but the Englishman was yet to
start, and the departure of an English
equipage is always enough to keep an
inn in a bustle. On this occasion there
was more than usual stir, for the Englishman,
having much property about him,
and having been convinced of the real
danger of the road, had applied to the
police, and obtained, by dint of liberal
pay, an escort of eight dragoons and
twelve foot-soldiers, as far as Fondi.
Perhaps, too, there might have been a
little ostentation at bottom, though, to say

the truth, he had nothing of it in his
manner. He moved about, taciturn and
reserved as usual, among the gaping
crowd; gave laconic orders to John, as
he packed away the thousand and one
indispensable conveniences of the night;
double-loaded his pistols with great sang
froid, and deposited them in the pockets
of the carriage, taking no notice of a
pair of keen eyes gazing on him from
among the herd of loitering idlers.

The fair Venitian now came up with
a request, made in her dulcet tones, that
he would permit their carriage to proceed
under protection of his escort. The
Englishman, who was busy loading another
pair of pistols for his servant, and
held the ramrod between his teeth, nodded
assent, as a matter of course, but
without lifting up his eyes. The fair
Venitian was a little piqued at what she
supposed indifference:—"O Dio!" ejaculated
she softly as she retired, "Quanto
sono insensibili questi Inglesi!"

At length, off they set in gallant style.
The eight dragoons prancing in front,
the twelve foot-soldiers marching in rear,
and the carriage moving slowly in the
centre, to enable the infantry to keep
pace with them. They had proceeded
but a few hundred yards, when it was
discovered that some indispensable article
had been left behind. In fact, the Englishman's
purse was missing, and John
was despatched to the inn to search for
it. This occasioned a little delay, and
the carriage of the Venitians drove slowly
on. John came back out of breath
and out of humour. The purse was not
to be found. His master was irritated;
he recollected the very place where it
lay; he had not a doubt that the Italian
servant had pocketed it. John was again
sent back. He returned once more without
the purse, but with the landlord and
the whole household at his heels. A
thousand ejaculations and protestations,
accompanied by all sorts of grimaces
and contortions—"No purse had been
seen—his Eccellenza must be mistaken."

"No—his Eccellenza was not mistaken—the
purse lay on the marble table,
under the mirror, a green purse, half full
of gold and silver." Again a thousand
grimaces and contortions, and vows by
San Gennaro, that no purse of the kind
had been seen.

The Englishman became furious.—
"The waiter had pocketed it—the landlord
was a knave—the inn a den of
thieves—it was a vile country—he had
been cheated and plundered from one
end of it to the other—but he'd have
satisfaction—he'd drive right off to the
police."

He was on the point of ordering the
postilions to turn back, when, on rising,
he displaced the cushion of the carriage,
and the purse of money fell chinking to
the floor.

All the blood in his body seemed to
rush into his face—"Curse the purse,"
said he, as he snatched it up. He dashed
a handful of money on the ground before
the pale cringing waiter—"There—be
off!" cried he, "John, order the postilions
to drive on."

Above half an hour had been exhausted
in this altercation. The Venitian carriage
had loitered along; its passengers
looking out from time to time, and expecting
the escort every moment to follow.
They had gradually turned an
angle of the road that shut them out of
sight. The little army was again in
motion, and made a very picturesque
appearance as it wound along at the
bottom of the rocks; the morning sunshine
beaming upon the weapons of the
soldiery.

The Englishman lolled back in his
carriage, vexed with himself at what had
passed, and consequently out of humour
with all the world. As this, however, is
no uncommon case with gentlemen who
travel for pleasure, it is hardly worthy of
remark. They had wound up from the
coast among the hills, and came to a
part of the road that admitted of some
prospect ahead.

"I see nothing of the lady's carriage,
sir," said John, leaning down from the
coach-box.

"Pish!" said the Englishman, testily
—"don't plague me about the lady's
carriage; must I be continually pestered
with the concerns of strangers?" John
said not another word, for he understood
his master's mood.

The road grew more wild and lonely;
they were slowly proceeding on a foot-pace

up a hill; the dragoons were some
distance ahead, and had just reached the
summit of the hill, when they uttered an
exclamation, or rather shout, and galloped
forward. The Englishman was roused
from his sulky revery. He stretched his
head from the carriage, which had attained
the brow of the hill. Before him
extended a long hollow defile, commanded
on one side by rugged precipitous heights,
covered with bushes and scanty forest.
At some distance he beheld the carriage
of the Venitians overturned. A numerous
gang of desperadoes were rifling it;
the young man and his servant were
overpowered, and partly stripped; and
the lady was in the hands of two of the
ruffians. The Englishman seized his
pistols, sprang from the carriage, and
called upon John to follow him.

In the mean time, as the dragoons
came forward, the robbers, who were
busy with the carriage, quitted their
spoil, formed themselves in the middle
of the road, and taking a deliberate aim,
fired. One of the dragoons fell, another
was wounded, and the whole were for a
moment checked and thrown into confusion.
The robbers loaded again in an
instant. The dragoons discharged their
carbines, but without apparent effect.
They received another volley, which,
though none fell, threw them again into
confusion. The robbers were loading a
second time, when they saw the foot-soldiers
at hand. "Scampa via!" was the
word: they abandoned their prey, and
retreated up the rocks, the soldiers after
them. They fought from cliff to cliff,
and bush to bush, the robbers turning
every now and then to fire upon their
pursuers; the soldiers scrambling after
them, and discharging their muskets
whenever they could get a chance.
Sometimes a soldier or a robber was
shot down, and came tumbling among
the cliffs. The dragoons kept firing
from below, whenever a robber came
in sight.

The Englishman had hastened to the
scene of action, and the balls discharged
at the dragoons had whistled past him
as he advanced. One object, however,
engrossed his attention. It was the beautiful
Venitian lady in the hands of two
of the robbers, who, during the confusion
of the fight, carried her shricking up the
mountain. He saw her dress gleaming
among the bushes, and he sprang up the
rocks to intercept the robbers, as they
bore off their prey. The ruggedness of
the steep, and the entanglements of the
bushes, delayed and impeded him. He
lost sight of the lady, but was still guided
by her cries, which grew fainter and
fainter. They were off to the left, while
the reports of muskets showed that the
battle was raging to the right. At length
he came upon what appeared to be a
rugged footpath, faintly worn in a gully
of the rocks, and beheld the ruffians at
some distance hurrying the lady up the
defile. One of them hearing his approach,
let go his prey, advanced towards
him, and levelling the carbine which had
been slung on his back, fired. The ball
whizzed through the Englishman's hat,
and carried with it some of his hair. He
returned the fire with one of his pistols,
and the robber fell. The other brigand
now dropped the lady, and drawing a
long pistol from his belt, fired on his
adversary with deliberate aim. The ball
passed between his left arm and his side,
slightly wounding the arm. The Englishman
advanced, and discharged his
remaining pistol, which wounded the robber,
but not severely.

The brigand drew a stiletto and rushed
upon his adversary, who eluded the blow,
receiving merely a slight wound, and
defending himself with his pistol, which
had a spring-bayonet. They closed with
one another, and a desperate struggle
ensued. The robber was a square-built,
thick-set man, powerful, muscular, and
active. The Englishman, though of
larger frame and greater strength, was
less active and less accustomed to athletic
exercises and feats of hardihood, but
he showed himself practised and skilled
in the art of defence. They were on a
craggy height, and the Englishman perceived
that his antagonist was striving to
press him to the edge. A side-glance
showed him also the robber whom he
had first wounded, scrambling up to the
assistance of his comrade, stiletto in
hand. He had in fact attained the summit
of the cliff, he was within a few
steps, and the Englishman felt that his
case was desperate, when he heard suddenly

the report of a pistol, and the
ruffian fell. The shot came from John,
who had arrived just in time to save his
master.

The remaining robber, exhausted by
loss of blood and the violence of the contest,
showed signs of faltering. The Englishman
pursued his advantage, pressed
on him, and as his strength relaxed,
dashed him headlong from the precipice.
He looked after him, and saw him lying
motionless among the rocks below.

The Englishman now sought the fair
Venitian. He found her senseless on
the ground. With his servant's assistance
he bore her down to the road,
where her husband was raving like one
distracted. He had sought her in vain,
and had given her over for lost; and
when he beheld her thus brought back
in safety, his joy was equally wild and
ungovernable. He would have caught
her insensible form to his bosom had not
the Englishman restrained him. The
latter now really aroused, displayed a
true tenderness and manly gallantry,
which one would not have expected from
his habitual phlegm. His kindness, however,
was practical, not wasted in words.
He despatched John to the carriage for
restoratives of all kinds, and, totally
thoughtless of himself, was anxious only
about his lovely charge. The occasional
discharge of firearms along the height,
showed that a retreating fight was still
kept up by the robbers. The lady gave
signs of reviving animation. The Englishman,
eager to get her from this
place of danger, conveyed her to his
own carriage, and, committing her to the
care of her husband, ordered the dragoons
to escort them to Fondi. The
Venitian would have insisted on the
Englishman's getting into the carriage;
but the latter refused. He poured forth
a torrent of thanks and benedictions; but
the Englishman beckoned to the postilions
to drive on.

John now dressed his master's wounds,
which were found not to be serious,
though he was faint with loss of blood.
The Venitian carriage had been righted,
and the baggage replaced; and, getting
into it, they set out on their way towards
Fondi, leaving the foot-soldiers still engaged
in ferreting out the banditti.

Before arriving at Fondi, the fair Venitian
had completely recovered from her
swoon. She made the usual question—

"Where was she?"

"In the Englishman's carriage."

"How had she escaped from the robbers?"

"The Englishman had rescued her."

Her transports were unbounded; and
mingled with them were enthusiastic
ejaculations of gratitude to her deliverer.
A thousand times did she reproach herself
for having accused him of coldness
and insensibility. The moment she saw
him she rushed into his arms with the
vivacity of her nation, and hung about
his neck in a speechless transport of gratitude.
Never was man more embarrassed
by the embraces of a fine woman.

"Tut!—tut!" said the Englishman.

"You are wounded!" shrieked the
fair Venitian, as she saw blood upon
his clothes.

"Pooh! nothing at all!"

"My deliverer!—my angel!" exclaimed
she, clasping him again round the
neck, and sobbing on his bosom.

"Pish!" said the Englishman with a
good-humoured tone, but looking somewhat
foolish, "this is all humbug."

The fair Venitian, however, has never
since accused the English of insensibility.

IV. PART IV.

THE MONEY DIGGERS.

HELL-GATE.

About six miles from the renowned
city of the Manhattoes, in that sound or
arm of the sea which passes between the
main land and Nassau, or Long Island,

there is a narrow strait, where the current
is violently compressed between
shouldering promontories, and horribly
perplexed by rocks and shoals. Being,
at the best of times, a very violent,
impetuous current, it takes these impediments
in mighty dudgeon; boiling in
whirlpools; brawling and fretting in ripples;
raging and roaring in rapids and
breakers; and, in short, indulging in all
kinds of wrong-headed paroxysms. At
such times, wo to any unlucky vessel
that ventures within its clutches!

This termagant humour, however, prevails
only at certain times of tide. At
low water, for instance, it is as pacific a
stream as you would wish to see; but as
the tide rises, it begins to fret; at half-tide
it roars with might and main, like a
bully bellowing for more drink; but
when the tide is full, it relapses into
quiet, and, for a time, sleeps as soundly
as an alderman after dinner. In fact, it
may be compared to a quarrelsome toper,
who is a peaceable fellow enough when
he has no liquor at all, or when he has a
skin full, but who, when half-seas-over,
plays the very devil.

This mighty, blustering, bullying, hard-drinking
little strait, was a place of great
danger and perplexity to the Dutch navigators
of ancient days; hectoring their
tub-built barks in the most unruly style;
whirling them about in a manner to make
any but a Dutchman giddy, and not unfrequently
stranding them upon rocks and
reefs, as it did the famous squadron of
Oloffe the Dreamer, when seeking a place
to found the city of the Manhattoes.
Whereupon, out of sheer spleen they
denominated it Helle-gat, and solemnly
gave it over to the devil. This appellation
has since been aptly rendered into
English by the name of Hell-gate, and
into nonsense by the name of Hurl-gate,
according to certain foreign intruders,
who neither understood Dutch nor English—may
St. Nicholas confound them!

This strait of Hell-gate was a place of
great awe and perilous enterprise to me
in my boyhood; having been much of a
navigator on those small seas, and having
more than once run the risk of shipwreck
and drowning in the course of certain
holiday-voyages, to which, in common
with other Dutch urchins, I was rather
prone. Indeed, partly from the name,
and partly from various strange circumstances
connected with it, this place had
far more terrors in the eyes of my truant
companions and myself, than had Scylla
and Charybdis for the navigators of
yore.

In the midst of this strait, and hard by
a group of rocks called the Hen and
Chickens, there lay the wreck of a vessel
which had been entangled in the whirlpools,
and stranded during a storm.
There was a wild story told to us of
this being the wreck of a pirate, and
some tale of bloody murder which I
cannot now recollect, but which made us
regard it with great awe, and keep far
from it in our cruisings. Indeed, the
desolate look of the forlorn hulk, and
the fearful place where it lay rotting,
were enough to awaken strange notions.
A row of timber-heads, blackened by
time, just peered above the surface at
high water; but at low tide a considerable
part of the hull was bare, and its
great ribs, or timbers, partly stripped of
their planks, and dripping with seaweeds,
looked like the huge skeleton of
some sea-monster. There was also the
stump of a mast, with a few ropes and
blocks swinging about, and whistling in
the wind, while the sea-gull wheeled and
screamed around the melancholy carcass.
I have a faint recollection of some hobgoblin
tale of sailors' ghosts being seen
about this wreck at night, with bare
sculls, and blue lights in their sockets
instead of eyes, but I have forgotten all
the particulars.

In fact, the whole of this neighbourhood
was, like the Straits of Pelorus of
yore, a region of fable and romance to
me. From the strait to the Manhattoes
the borders of the Sound are greatly
diversified, being broken and indented
by rocky nooks overhung with trees,
which give them a wild and romantic
look. In the time of my boyhood,
they abounded with traditions
about pirates, ghosts, smugglers, and
buried money; which had a wonderful
effect upon the young minds of my companions
and myself.

As I grew to more mature years, I
made diligent research after the truth of
these strange traditions; for I have

always been a curious investigator of
the valuable but obscure branches of the
history of my native province. I found
infinite difficulty, however, in arriving at
any precise information. In seeking to
dig up one fact, it is incredible the number
of fables that I unearthed. I will
say nothing of the Devil's Steppingstones,
by which the arch-fiend made
his retreat from Connecticut to Long
Island, across the Sound; seeing the
subject is likely to be learnedly treated
by a worthy friend and contemporary
historian, whom I have furnished with
particulars thereof.[4] Neither will I say
any thing of the black man in a three-cornered
hat, seated in the stern of a
jolly-boat, who used to be seen about
Hell-gate in stormy weather, and who
went by the name of the pirate's spuke,
(i. e. pirate's ghost), and whom, it is
said, old Governor Stuyvesant once shot
with a silver bullet; because I never
could meet with any person of staunch
credibility who professed to have seen
this spectrum, unless it were the widow
of Manus Conklen, the blacksmith, of
Frogsneck; but then, poor woman, she
was a little purblind, and might have
been mistaken; though they say she
saw farther than other folks in the dark.

All this, however, was but little satisfactory
in regard to the tales of pirates
and their buried money, about which I
was most curious: and the following is
all that I could for a long time collect
that had any thing like an air of authenticity.

KIDD THE PIRATE.

In old times, just after the territory of
the New Netherlands had been wrested
from the hands of their High Mightinesses,
the Lords States-General of Holland,
by King Charles the Second, and
while it was as yet in an unquiet state,
the province was a great resort of random
adventurers, loose livers, and all
that class of hap-hazard fellows who live
by their wits, and dislike the old-fashioned
restraint of law and Gospel. Among
these, the foremost were the bucaniers.
These were rovers of the deep, who, perhaps,
in time of war, had been educated
in those schools of piracy, the privateers;
but having once tasted the sweets of plunder,
had ever retained a hankering after
it. There is but a slight step from the
privatcersman to the pirate: both fight
for the love of plunder; only that the
latter is the bravest, as he dares both the
enemy and the gallows.

But in whatever school they had been
taught, the bucaniers who kept about
the English colonies were daring fellows,
and made sad work in times of peace
among the Spanish settlements and
Spanish merchantmen. The easy access
to the harbour of the Manhattoes, the
number of hiding-places about its waters,
and the laxity of its scarcely organized
government, made it a great rendezvous
of the pirates: where they might dispose
of their booty, and concert new depredations.
As they brought home with them
wealthy lading of all kinds, the luxuries
of the tropics, and the sumptuous spoils
of the Spanish provinces, and disposed
of them with the proverbial carelessness
of freebooters, they were welcome visiters
to the thrifty traders of the Manhattoes.
Crews of these desperadoes,
therefore, the runagates of every country
and every clime, might be seen
swaggering in open day about the streets
of the little burgh, elbowing its quiet
mynheers, trafficking away their rich
outlandish plunder at half or quarter
price to the wary merchant; and then
squandering their prize-money in taverns,
drinking, gambling, singing, swearing,
shouting, and astounding the neighbourhood
with midnight brawl and ruffian
revelry.

At length these excesses rose to such
a height as to become a scandal to the
provinces, and to call loudly for the
interposition of government. Measures
were accordingly taken to put a stop to
the widely-extended evil, and to ferret
this vermin brood out of the colonies.

Among the agents employed to execute
this purpose was the notorious
Captain Kidd. He had long been an

equivocal character; one of those nondescript
animals of the ocean that are
neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. He was
somewhat of a trader, something more
of a smuggler, with a considerable dash
of the piccaroon. He had traded for
many years among the pirates, in a little
rakish, musquitto-built vessel, that could
run into all kinds of waters. He knew
all their haunts and lurking-places; was
always hooking about on mysterious
voyages, and as busy as a Mother
Carey's chicken in a storm.

This nondescript personage was pitched
upon by government as the very man to
hunt the pirates by sea, upon the good
old maxim of "setting a rogue to catch
a rogue;" or as otters are sometimes
used to catch their cousins-german, the
fish.

Kidd accordingly sailed for New York,
in 1695, in a gallant vessel called the
Adventure Galley, well armed and duly
commissioned. On arriving at his old
haunts, however, he shipped his crew on
new terms; enlisted a number of his
old comrades; lads of the knife and the
pistol; and then set sail for the East.
Instead of cruising against pirates, he
turned pirate himself; steered to the
Madeiras, to Bonavista, and Madagascar,
and cruised about the entrance of the
Red Sea. Here, among other maritime
robberies, he captured a rich Quedah
merchantman, manned by Moors, though
commanded by an Englishman. Kidd
would fain have passed this off for a
worthy exploit, as being a kind of crusade
against the infidels; but government
had long since lost all relish for such
Christian triumphs.

After roaming the seas, trafficking his
prizes, and changing from ship to ship,
Kidd had the hardihood to return to Boston,
laden with booty, with a crew of
swaggering companions at his heels.

Times, however, were changed. The
bucaniers could no longer show a whisker
in the colonies with impunity. The
new governor, Lord Bellamont, had signalized
himself by his zeal in extirpating
these offenders; and was doubly exasperated
against Kidd, having been instrumental
in appointing him to the trust
which he had betrayed. No sooner,
therefore, did he show himself in Boston,
than the alarm was given of his re-appearance,
and measures were taken to
arrest this cut-purse of the ocean. The
daring character which Kidd had acquired,
however, and the desperate fellows
who followed like bulldogs at his
heels, caused a little delay in his arrest.
He took advantage of this, it is said, to
bury the greater part of his treasures,
and then carried a high head about the
streets of Boston. He even attempted
to defend himself when arrested, but was
secured and thrown into prison, with his
followers. Such was the formidable
character of this pirate and his crew,
that it was thought advisable to despatch
a frigate to bring them to England.
Great exertions were made to screen
him from justice, but in vain; he and
his comrades were tried, condemned,
and hanged at Execution Dock in London.
Kidd died hard, for the rope with
which he was first tied up broke with
his weight, and he tumbled to the ground.
He was tied up a second time, and more
effectually; from hence came, doubtless,
the story of Kidd's having a charmed
life, and that he had to be twice hanged.

Such is the main outline of Kidd's history;
but it has given birth to an innumerable
progeny of traditions. The report
of his having buried great treasures of
gold and jewels before his arrest, set
the brains of all the good people along
the coast in a ferment. There were
rumours on rumours of great sums of
money found here and there, sometimes
in one part of the country, sometimes
in another; of coins with Moorish inscriptions,
doubtless the spoils of his
eastern prizes, but which the common
people looked upon with superstitious
awe, regarding the Moorish letters as
diabolical or magical characters.

Some reported the treasure to have
been buried in solitary, unsettled places
about Plymouth and Cape Cod; but by degrees
various other parts, not only on the
eastern coast, but along the shores of the
Sound, and even of Manhatta and Long
Island, were gilded by these rumours.
In fact, the rigorous measures of Lord
Bellamont had spread sudden consternation
among the bucaniers in every part
of the provinces: they had secreted their
money and jewels in lonely out-of-the-way

places, about the wild shores of the rivers
and sea-coast, and dispersed themselves
over the face of the country. The hand
of justice prevented many of them from
ever returning to regain their buried
treasures, which remained, and remain
probably to this day, objects of enterprise
for the money-digger.

This is the cause of those frequent
reports of trees and rocks bearing mysterious
marks, supposed to indicate the
spots where treasures lay hidden; and
many have been the ransackings after
the pirates' booty. In all the stories
which once abounded of these enterprises,
the devil played a conspicuous
part. Either he was conciliated by
ceremonies and invocations, or some
solemn compact was made with him.
Still, he was ever prone to play the
money-diggers some slippery trick.
Some would dig so far as to come to an
iron chest, when some baffling circumstance
was sure to take place. Either
the earth would fall in and fill up the
pit, or some direful noise or apparition
would frighten the party from the place:
sometimes the devil himself would appear,
and bear off the prize when within their
very grasp; and if they revisited the
place the next day, not a trace would
be found of their labours of the preceding
night.

All these rumours, however, were extremely
vague, and for a long time tantalized
without gratifying my curiosity.
There is nothing in this world so hard to
get at as truth, and there is nothing in
this world but truth that I care for. I
sought among all my favourite sources of
authentic information, the oldest inhabitants,
and particularly the old Dutch
wives of the province; but though I flatter
myself that I am better versed than most
men in the curious history of my native
province, yet for a long time my inquiries
were unattended with any substantial result.

At length it happened that, one calm
day in the latter part of summer, I was
relaxing myself from the toils of severe
study, by a day's amusement in fishing
in those waters which had been the favourite
resort of my boyhood. I was in
company with several worthy burghers
of my native city, among whom were
more than one illustrious member of the
corporation, whose names, did I dare to
mention them, would do honour to my
humble page. Our sport was indifferent.
The fish did not bite freely, and we frequently
changed our fishing-ground
without bettering our lack. We were at
length anchored close under a ledge of
rocky coast, on the eastern side of the
island of Manhattan. It was a still warm
day. The stream whirled and dimpled
by us without a wave or even a ripple;
and every thing was so calm and quiet,
that it was almost startling when the
kingfisher would pitch himself from the
branch of some dry tree, and after suspending
himself for a moment in the air
to take his aim, would souse into the
smooth water after his prey. While we
were lolling in our boat, half drowsy
with the warm stillness of the day, and
the dulness of our sport, one of our
party, a worthy alderman, was overtaken
by a slumber, and, as he dozzed, suffered
the sinker of his dropline to lie upon the
bottom of the river. On waking, he
found he had caught something of importance
from the weight. On drawing
it to the surface, we were much surprised
to find it a long pistol of very curious and
outlandish fashion, which, from its rusted
condition, and its stock being worm-eaten
and covered with barnacles, appeared to
have lain a long time under water. The
unexpected appearance of this document
of warfare, occasioned much speculation
among my pacific companions. One
supposed it to have fallen there during
the revolutionary war; another, from the
peculiarity of its fashion, attributed it to
the voyagers in the earliest days of the
settlement; perchance to the renowned
Adrian Block, who explored the Sound,
and discovered Block Island, since so
noted for its cheese. But a third, after
regarding it for some time, pronounced
it to be of veritable Spanish workmanship.

"I'll warrant," said he, "if this pistol
could talk, it would tell strange stories of
hard fights among the Spanish Dons.
I've no doubt but it is a relic of the
bucaniers of old times—who knows but it
belonged to Kidd himself?"

"Ah! that Kidd was a resolute fellow,"
cried an old iron-faced Cape Cod whaler.

"There's a fine old song about him, all
to the tune of—

And then it tells all about how he gained
the devil's good graces by burying the
Bible:

Odsfish, if I thought this pistol had belonged
to Kidd, I should set great store
by it, for curiosity's sake. By the way,
I recollect a story about a fellow who
once dug up Kidd's buried money, which
was written by a neighbour of mine, and
which I learnt by heart. As the fish
don't bite just now, I'll tell it to you by
way of passing away the time." And so
saying, he gave us the following narration.

THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER.

A few miles from Boston in Massachusetts,
there is a deep inlet, winding
several miles into the interior of the
country from Charles Bay, and terminating
in a thickly-wooded swamp or
morass. On one side of this inlet is a
beautiful dark grove; on the opposite
side the land rises abruptly from the
water's edge into a high ridge, on which
grow a few scattered oaks of great age
and immense size. Under one of these
gigantic trees, according to old stories,
there was a great amount of treasure
buried by Kidd the pirate. The inlet
allowed a facility to bring the money in a
boat secretly and at night to the very foot
of the hill; the elevation of the place permitted
a good look-out to be kept that no
one was at hand; while the remarkable
trees formed good landmarks by which
the place might easily be found again.
The old stories add, moreover, that the
devil presided at the hiding of the money,
and look it under his guardianship; but
this it is well known he always does with
buried treasure, particularly when it has
been ill-gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd
never returned to recover his wealth;
being shortly after seized at Boston, sent
out to England, and there hanged for a
pirate.

About the year 1727, just at the time
that earthquakes were prevalent in New
England, and shook many tall sinners
down upon their knees, there lived near
this place a meagre miserly fellow, of
the name of Tom Walker. He had a
wife as miserly as himself: they were so
miserly that they even conspired to cheat
each other. Whatever the woman could
lay hands on, she hid away; a hen could
not cackle but she was on the alert to
secure the new-laid egg. Her husband
was continually prying about to detect her
secret hoards, and many and fierce were
the conflicts that took place about what
ought to have been common property.
They lived in a forlorn-looking house
that stood alone, and had an air of starvation.
A few straggling savin-trees,
emblems of sterility, grew near it; no
smoke ever curled from its chimney;
no traveller stopped at its door. A
miserable horse, whose ribs were as articulate
as the bars of a gridiron, stalked
about a field, where a thin carpet of moss,
scarcely covering the ragged beds of
pudding-stone, tantalized and balked his
hunger; and sometimes he would lean
his head over the fence, look piteously at
the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance
from this land of famine.

The house and its inmates had altogether
a bad name. Tom's wife was a
tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of
tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice
was often heard in wordy warfare with
her husband; and his face sometimes
showed signs that their conflicts were
not confined to words. No one ventured,
however, to interfere between
them. The lonely wayfarer shrunk
within himself at the horrid clamour
and clapper-clawing; eyed the den of
discord askance; and hurried on his
way rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy.

One day that Tom Walker had been
to a distant part of the neighbourhood,
he took what he considered a short cut
homewards, through the swamp. Like
most short cuts, it was an ill-chosen
route. The swamp was thickly grown

with great gloomy pines and hemlocks,
some of them ninety feet high, which
made it dark at noonday, and a retreat
for all the owls of the neighbourhood.
It was full of pits and quagmires, partly
covered with weeds and mosses, where
the green surface often betrayed the
traveller into a gulf of black, smothering
mud; there were also dark and stagnant
pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the
bullfrog, and the water-snake; where the
trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-drowned,
half rotting, looking like alligators
sleeping in the mire.

Tom had long been picking his way
cautiously through this treacherous forest;
stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and
roots, which afforded precarious footholds
among deep sloughs; or pacing
carefully, like a cat, along the prostrate
trunks of trees; startled now and then
by the sudden screaming of the bittern,
or the quacking of a wild duck, rising on
the wing from some solitary pool. At
length he arrived at a piece of firm
ground, which ran out like a peninsula
into the deep bosom of the swamp. It
had been one of the strongholds of the
Indians during their wars with the first
colonists. Here they had thrown up a
kind of fort, which they had looked upon
as almost impregnable, and had used as
a place of refuge for their squaws and
children. Nothing remained of the old
Indian fort but a few embankments,
gradually sinking to the level of the surrounding
earth, and already overgrown
in part by oaks and other forest trees,
the foliage of which formed a contrast
to the dark pines and hemlocks of the
swamp.

It was late in the dusk of evening
when Tom Walker reached the old fort,
and he paused therefore a while to rest
himself. Any one but he would have
felt unwilling to linger in this lonely,
melancholy place, for the common people
had a bad opinion of it, from the
stories handed down from the time of
the Indian wars; when it was asserted
that the savages held incantations here,
and made sacrifices to the evil spirit.

Tom Walker, however, was not a man
to be troubled with any fears of the kind.
He reposed himself for some time on the
trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to
the boding cry of the tree-toad, and
delving with his walking-staff into a
mound of black mould at his feet. As
he turned up the soil unconsciously, his
staff struck against something hard. He
raked it out of the vegetable mould, and
lo! a cloven scull, with an Indian tomahawk
buried deep in it, lay before him.
The rust on the weapon showed the time
that had elapsed since this deathblow
had been given. It was a dreary memento
of the fierce struggle that had
taken place in this last foothold of the
Indian warriors.

"Humph!" said Tom Walker, as he
gave it a kick to shake the dirt from it.

"Let that scull alone!" said a gruff
voice. Tom lifted up his eyes, and
beheld a great black man seated directly
opposite him, on the stump of a
tree. He was exceedingly surprised,
having neither heard nor seen any one
approach; and he was still more perplexed
on observing, as well as the
gathering gloom would permit, that the
stranger was neither negro nor Indian.
It is true he was dressed in a rude half
Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash
swathed round his body; but his face
was neither black nor copper-colour, but
swarthy and dingy, and begrimed with
soot, as if he had been accustomed to
toil among fires and forges. He had a
shock of coarse black hair, that stood
out from his head in all directions, and
bore an axe on his shoulder.

He scowled for a moment at Tom
with a pair of great red eyes.

"What are you doing on my grounds?"
said the black man, with a hoarse growling
voice.

"Your grounds!" said Tom with a
sneer. "No more your grounds than
mine; they belong to Deacon Peabody."

"Deacon Peabody be d—d," said
the stranger, "as I flatter myself he will
be, if he does not look more to his own
sins and less to those of his neighbours.
Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody
is faring."

Tom looked in the direction that the
stranger pointed, and beheld one of the
great trees, fair and flourishing without,
but rotten at the core, and saw that it
had been nearly hewn through, so that
the first high wind was likely to blow it

down. On the bark of the tree was
scored the name of Deacon Peabody,—
an eminent man, who had waxed wealthy
by driving shrewd bargains with the
Indians. He now looked round, and
found most of the tall trees marked
with the name of some great man in the
colony, and all more or less scored by
the axe. The one on which he had
been seated, and which had evidently
just been hewn down, bore the name
of Crowninshield; and he recollected a
mighty rich man of that name, who
made a vulgar display of wealth, which
it was whispered he had acquired by
bucaniering.

"He's just ready for burning!" said
the black man, with a growl of triumph.
"You see I am likely to have a good
stock of firewood for winter."

"But what right have you," said
Tom, "to cut down Deacon Peabody's
timber?"

"The right of a prior claim," said the
other. "This woodland belonged to me
long before one of your white-faced race
put foot upon the soil."

"And pray who are you, if I may be
so bold?" said Tom.

"Oh, I go by various names. I am
the wild huntsman in some countries:
the black miner in others. In this
neighbourhood I am known by the name
of the black woodman. I am he to
whom the red men consecrated this spot,
and in honour of whom they now and
then roasted a white man, by way of
sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red
men have been exterminated by you
white savages, I amuse myself by presiding
at the persecutions of quakers
and anabaptists. I am the great patron
and prompter of slave-dealers and the
grand master of the Salem witches."

"The upshot of all which is, that, if
I mistake not," said Tom, sturdily, "you
are he commonly called Old Scratch."

"The same, at your service!" replied
the black man, with a half-civil nod.

Such was the opening of this interview,
according to the old story; though
it has almost too familiar an air to be
credited. One would think that to meet
with such a singular personage, in this
wild, lonely place, would have shaken
any man's nerves; but Tom was a hard-minded
fellow, not easily daunted, and
he had lived so long with a termagant
wife, that he did not even fear the devil.

It is said that after this commencement
they had a long and earnest conversation
together, as Tom returned homeward.
The black man told him of great
sums of money which had been buried
by Kidd the pirate, under the oak trees
on the high ridge, not far from the
morass. All these were under his command,
and protected by his power, so
that none could find them but such as
propitiated his favour. These he offered
to place within Tom Walker's reach,
having conceived an especial kindness
for him; but they were to be had only
on certain conditions. What these conditions
were may easily be surmised,
though Tom never disclosed them publicly.
They must have been very hard,
for he required time to think of them,
and he was not a man to stick at trifles
where money was in view. When they
had reached the edge of the swamp, the
stranger paused—"What proof have I
that all you have been telling me is
true?" said Tom. "There is my signature,"
said the black man, pressing
his finger on Tom's forehead. So saying,
he turned off among the thickets of
the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said,
to go down, down, down, into the earth,
until nothing but his head and shoulders
could be seen, and so on, until he totally
disappeared.

When Tom reached home, he found
the black print of a finger, burnt, as it
were, into his forehead, which nothing
could obliterate.

The first news his wife had to tell him
was the sudden death of Absalom Crowninshield,
the rich bucanier. It was announced
in the papers with the usual
flourish, that "A great man had fallen
in Israel."

Tom recollected the tree which his
black friend had just hewn down, and
which was ready for burning. "Let
the freebooter roast," said Tom, "who
cares!" He now felt convinced that all
he had heard and seen was no illusion.

He was not prone to let his wife into
his confidence, but as this was an uneasy
secret, he willingly shared it with her.
All her avarice was awakened at the

mention of hidden gold, and she urged
her husband to comply with the black
man's terms, and secure what would
make them wealthy for life. However
Tom might have felt disposed to sell
himself to the devil, he was determined
not to do so to oblige his wife; so he
flatly refused, out of the mere spirit of
contradiction. Many and bitter were
the quarrels they had on the subject, but
the more she talked, the more resolute
was Tom not to be damned to please her.

At length she determined to drive the
bargain on her own account, and if she
succeeded, to keep all the gain to herself.
Being of the same fearless temper
as her husband, she set off for the old
Indian fort towards the close of a summer's
day. She was many hours absent.
When she came back, she was reserved
and sullen in her replies. She spoke
something of a black man, whom she
had met about twilight, hewing at the
root of a tall tree. He was sulky,
however, and would not come to terms:
she was to go again with a propitiatory
offering, but what it was she forbore to
say.

The next evening she set off again for
the swamp, with her apron heavily laden.
Tom waited and waited for her, but in
vain; midnight came, but she did not
make her appearance: morning, noon,
night returned, but she did not come.
Tom now grew uneasy for her safety,
especially as he found she had carried
off in her apron the silver teapot and
spoons, and every portable article of
value. Another night elapsed, another
morning came; but no wife. In a word,
she was never heard of more.

What was her real fate nobody knows,
in consequence of so many pretending to
know. It is one of those facts which
have become confounded with a variety
of historians. Some asserted that she
lost her way among the tangled mazes
of the swamp, and sunk into some pit
or slough; others, more uncharitable,
hinted that she had eloped with the
household booty, and made off to some
other province; while others surmised
that the tempter had decoyed her into a
dismal quagmire, on the top of which
her hat was found lying. In confirmation
of this, it was said a great black
man, with an axe on his shoulder, was
seen late that very evening coming out
of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in
a check apron, with an air of surly triumph.

The most current and probable story,
however, observes that Tom Walker
grew so anxious about the fate of his
wife and his property, that he set out at
length to seek them both at the Indian
fort. During a long summer's afternoon
he searched about the gloomy place, but
no wife was to be seen. He called her
name repeatedly, but she was nowhere
to be heard. The bittern alone responded
to his voice, as he flew screaming
by; or the bullfrog croaked dolefully
from a neighbouring pool. At length, it
is said, just in the brown hour of twilight,
when the owls began to hoot, and
the bats to flit about, his attention was
attracted by the clamour of carrion-crows
that were hovering about a cypress
tree. He looked up and beheld a bundle
tied in a check apron, and hanging in
the branches of the tree, with a great
vulture perched hard by, as if keeping
watch upon it. He leaped with joy;
for he recognised his wife's apron, and
supposed it to contain the household
valuables.

"Let us get hold of the property,"
said he consolingly to himself, "and we
will endeavour to do without the woman."

As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture
spread its wide wings, and sailed
off screaming into the deep shadows of
the forest. Tom seized the check apron,
but woful sight! found nothing but a
heart and liver tied up in it!

Such, according to the most authentic
old story, was all that was to be found
of Tom's wife. She had probably attempted
to deal with the black man
as she had been accustomed to deal
with her husband; but though a female
scold is generally considered a match
for the devil, yet in this instance she
appears to have had the worst of it.
She must have died game, however; for
it is said that Tom noticed many prints
of cloven feet deeply stamped about the
tree, and found handfuls of hair, that
looked as if they had been plucked from
the coarse black shock of the woodman.
Tom knew his wife's prowess by experience.

He shrugged his shoulders, as
he looked at the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing.
"Egad," said he to himself,
"Old Scratch must have had a tough
time of it!"

Tom consoled himself for the loss of
his property with the loss of his wife,
for he was a man of fortitude. He even
felt something like gratitude towards the
black woodman, who, he considered, had
done him a kindness. He sought, therefore,
to cultivate a further acquaintance
with him, but for some time without
success; the old black-legs played shy,
for whatever people may think, he is
not always to be had for calling for:
he knows how to play his cards when
pretty sure of his game.

At length it is said, when delay had
whetted Tom's eagerness to the quick,
and prepared him to agree to any thing
rather than not gain the promised treasure,
he met the black man one evening
in his usual woodman's dress, with his
axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the
edge of the swamp, and humming a tune.
He affected to receive Tom's advances
with great indifference, made brief replies,
and went on humming his tune.

By degrees, however, Tom brought
him to business, and they began to haggle
about the terms on which the former
was to have the pirate's treasure. There
was one condition which need not be
mentioned, being generally understood in
all cases where the devil grants favours;
but there were others about which,
though of less importance, he was inflexibly
obstinate. He insisted that the money
found through his means should be employed
in his service. He proposed,
therefore, that Tom should employ it in
the black traffic; that is to say, that he
should fit out a slave-ship. This, however,
Tom resolutely refused: he was
bad enough in all conscience; but the
devil himself could not tempt him to turn
slave-dealer.

Finding Tom so squeamish on this
point, he did not insist upon it, but proposed
instead, that he should turn usurer;
the devil being extremely anxious for the
increase of usurers, looking upon them
as his peculiar people.

To this no objections were made, for
it was just to Tom's taste.

"You shall open a broker's shop in
Boston next month," said the black man.

"I'll do it to-morrow, if you wish,"
said Tom Walker.

"You shall lend money at two per
cent. a month."

"Egad, I'll charge four!" replied Tom
Walker.

"You shall extort bonds, foreclose
mortgages, drive the merchant to bankruptcy—"

"I'll drive him to the d—l," cried
Tom Walker.

"You are the usurer for my money!"
said the black-legs with delight. "When
will you want the rhino?"

"This very night."

"Done!" said the devil.

"Done!" said Tom Walker. So they
shook hands, and struck a bargain.

A few days' time saw Tom Walker
seated behind his desk in a counting-house
in Boston. His reputation for a
ready-moneyed man, who would lend
money out for a good consideration, soon
spread abroad. Every body remembers
the time of Governor Belcher, when
money was particularly scarce. It was
a time of paper credit. The country had
been deluged with government bills; the
famous Land Bank had been established;
there had been a rage for speculating;
the people had run mad with schemes
for new settlements; for building cities in
the wilderness; land-jobbers went about
with maps and grants, and townships,
and El Dorados, lying nobody knew
where, but which every body was ready
to purchase. In a word, the great speculating
fever which breaks out every now
and then in the country had raged to an
alarming degree, and every body was
dreaming of making sudden fortunes from
nothing. As usual, the fever had subsided;
the dream had gone off, and the
imaginary fortunes with it; the patients
were left in doleful plight, and the whole
country resounded with the consequent
cry of "hard times."

At this propitious time of public distress
did Tom Walker set up as a usurer
in Boston. His door was soon thronged
by customers. The needy and the
adventurous; the gambling speculator;
the dreaming land-jobber; the thriftless
tradesman; the merchant with cracked

credit; in short, every one driven to raise
money by desperate means and desperate
sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker.

Thus Tom was the universal friend of
the needy; and he acted like a "friend
in need;" that is to say, he always exacted
good pay and good security. In
proportion to the distress of the applicant
was the hardness of his terms. He accumulated
bonds and mortgages; gradually
squeezed his customers closer and closer;
and sent them at length dry as a sponge
from his door.

In this way he made money hand over
hand; became a rich and mighty man,
and exalted his cocked hat upon 'Change.
He built himself, as usual, a vast house
out of ostentation, but left the greater part
of it unfinished and unfurnished out of
parsimony. He even set up a carriage
in the fulness of his vainglory, though he
nearly starved the horses which drew it;
and as the ungreased wheels groaned and
screeched on the axletrees, you would
have thought you heard the souls of the
poor debtors he was squeezing.

As Tom waxed old, however, he grew
thoughtful. Having secured the good
things of this world, he began to feel
anxious about those of the next. He
thought with regret upon the bargain he
had made with his black friend, and set
his wits to work to cheat him out of the
conditions. He became, therefore, all of
a sudden a violent church-goer. He
prayed loudly and strenuously, as if
heaven were to be taken by force of
lungs. Indeed, one might always tell
when he had sinned most during the week
by the clamour of his Sunday devotion.
The quiet Christians who had been most
modestly and steadfastly travelling Zionward,
were struck with self-reproach at
seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped
in their career by this new-made convert.
Tom was as rigid in religious as in money
matters; he was a stern supervisor and
censurer of his neighbours, and seemed
to think every sin entered up to their account
became a credit on his own side of
the page. He even talked of the expediency
of reviving the persecution of Quakers
and Anabaptists. In a word, Tom's
zeal became as notorious as his riches.

Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention
to forms, Tom had a lurking dread
that the devil, after all, would have his
due. That he might not be taken unawares,
therefore, it is said he always
carried a small Bible in his coat-pocket.
He had also a great folio Bible on his
counting-house desk, and would frequently
be found reading it when people
called on business. On such occasions
he would lay his green spectacles in the
book to mark the place, while he turned
round to drive some usurious bargain.

Some say that Tom grew a little
crack-brained in his old days, and that,
fancying his end approaching, he had his
horse new-shod, saddled, and bridled, and
buried with his feet uppermost; because
he supposed that, at the last day, the
world would be turned upside down, in
which case he would find his horse
standing ready for mounting, and he was
determined, at the worst, to give his old
friend a run for it. This, however, is
probably a mere old wives' fable.

If he really did take such a precaution,
it was totally superfluous; at least so says
the authentic old legend, which closes his
story in the following manner.

On one hot afternoon in the dog-days
just as a terrible black thunder-gust was
coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house,
in his white linen cap, and India
silk morning-gown. He was on the
point of foreclosing a mortgage, by
which he would complete the ruin of an
unlucky land speculator, for whom he
had professed the greatest friendship.

The poor land-jobber begged him to
grant a few months' indulgence. Tom
had grown testy and irritated, and refused
another day.

"My family will be ruined, and
brought upon the parish," said the land-jobber.

"Charity begins at home," replied
Tom. "I must take care of myself in
these hard times."

"You have made so much money out
of me," said the speculator.

Tom lost his patience and his piety.

"The d—l take me," said he, "if I
have made a farthing."

Just then there were three loud knocks
at the street-door. He stepped out to see
who was there. A black man was holding
a black horse, which neighed and
stamped with impatience.

"Tom, you're come for!" said the
black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrank back,
but too late. He had left his little Bible
at the bottom of his coat-pocket, and his
big Bible on the desk, buried under the
mortgage he was about to foreclose;
never was sinner taken more unawares;
the black man whisked him like a child
into the saddle, gave the horse a lash,
and away he galloped, with Tom on his
back, in the midst of the thunder-storm.
The clerks stuck their pens behind their
ears, and stared after him from the windows.
Away went Tom Walker, dashing
down the streets, his white cap bobbing
up and down, his morning-gown fluttering
in the wind, and his steed striking
fire out of the pavement at every bound.
When the clerks turned to look for the
black man, he had disappeared.

Tom Walker never returned to foreclose
the mortgage. A countryman, who
lived on the border of the swamp, reported,
that in the height of the thundergust
he had heard a great clattering of
hoofs, and a howling along the road, and
that when he ran to the window, he just
caught sight of a figure such as I have
described, on a horse that galloped like
mad across the fields, over the hills, and
down into the black hemlock swamp,
towards the old Indian fort; and that
shortly after, a thunderbolt fell in that
direction, which seemed to set the whole
forest in a blaze.

The good people of Boston shook their
heads and shrugged their shoulders; but
had been so much accustomed to witches
and goblins, and tricks of the devil in all
kinds of shapes from the first settlement
of the colony, that they were not so much
horror struck as might have been expected.
Trustees were appointed to take
charge of Tom's effects. There was
nothing, however, to administer upon.
On searching his coffers, all his bonds
and mortgages were found reduced to
cinders. In place of gold and silver, his
iron chest was filled with chips and
shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable
instead of his half-starved horses; and
the very next day his great house took
fire, and was burnt to the ground.

Such was the end of Tom Walker and
his ill-gotten wealth. Let all griping
money-brokers lay this story to heart.
The truth of it is not to be doubted. The
very hole under the oak-trees, from
whence he dug Kidd's money, is to be
seen to this day; and the neighbouring
swamp and old Indian fort are often
haunted in stormy nights by a figure on
horseback, in morning-gown and white
cap, which is, doubtless, the troubled
spirit of the usurer. In fact the story
had resolved itself into a proverb, and is
the origin of that popular saying, so
prevalent throughout New England, of
"The Devil and Tom Walker."

Such, as nearly as I can recollect,
was the purport of the tale told by the
Cape Cod whaler. There were divers
trivial particulars which I have omitted,
and which whiled away the morning
very pleasantly, until, the time of tide
favourable to fishing being passed, it was
proposed that we should go to land and
refresh ourselves under the trees, till the
noontide heat should have abated.

We accordingly landed on a delectable
part of the Island of Manhattan, in that
shady and embowered tract formerly
under the dominion of the ancient family
of the Hardenbrooks. It was a spot
well known to me in the course of the
aquatic expeditions of my boyhood. Not
far from where we landed there was an
old Dutch family vault, constructed on
the side of a bank, which had been an
object of great awe and fable among my
schoolboy associates. We had peeped
into it during one of our coasting voyages,
and had been startled by the sight of
mouldering coffins, and musty bones
within; but what had given it the most
fearful interest in our eyes, was its being
in some way connected with the pirate
wreck which lay rotting among the
rocks of Hell-gate. There were stories,
also, of smuggling connected with it;
particularly relating to a time when this
retired spot was owned by a noted
burgher, called Ready-money Provost, a
man of whom it was whispered, that he
had many and mysterious dealings with
parts beyond seas. All these things,
however, had been jumbled together in
our minds, in that vague way in which
such themes are mingled up in the tales
of boyhood.

While I was pondering upon these

matters, my companions had spread a
repast from the contents of our well-stored
pannier, under a broad chestnut
on the green-sward, which swept down
to the water's edge. Here we solaced
ourselves on the cool grassy carpet
during the warm sunny hours of midday.
While lolling on the grass, indulging
in that kind of musing revery of
which I am fond, I summoned up the
dusky recollections of my boyhood respecting
this place, and repeated them,
like the imperfectly-remembered traces
of a dream, for the amusement of my
companions. When I had finished, a
worthy old burgher, John Josse Vandermoere,
the same who once related to
me adventures of Dolph Heyliger, broke
silence, and observed, that he recollected
a story of money-digging, which
occurred in this very neighbourhood,
and might account for some of the traditions
which I had heard in my boyhood.
As we knew him to be one of the most
authentic narrators in the province, we
begged him to let us have the particulars,
and accordingly, while we solaced
ourselves with a clean long pipe of Blase
Moore's best tobacco, the authentic John
Josse Vandermoere related the following
tale.

WOLFERT WEBBER;
OR,
GOLDEN DREAMS.

In the year of grace, one thousand
seven hundred and—blank—for I do not
remember the precise date; however, it
was somewhere in the early part of the
last century, there lived in the ancient
city of the Manhattoes a worthy burgher,
Wolfert Webber by name. He was descended
from old Cobus Webber of the
Brille in Holland, one of the original settlers,
famous for introducing the cultivation
of cabbages, and who came over to
the province during the protectorship of
Oloffe Van Kortlandt, otherwise called
the Dreamer.

The field in which Cobus Webber first
planted himself and his cabbages had remained
ever since in the family, who
continued in the same line of husbandry,
with that praiseworthy perseverance for
which our Dutch burghers are noted.
The whole family genius, during several
generations, was devoted to the study
and development of this once noble
vegetable, and to this concentration of
intellect may, doubtless, be ascribed the
prodigious size and renown to which the
Webber cabbages attained.

The Webber dynasty continued in
uninterrupted succession; and never did
a line give more unquestionable proofs
of legitimacy. The eldest son succeeded
to the looks as well as the territory of
his sire; and had the portraits of this
line of tranquil potentates been taken,
they would have presented a row of
heads marvellously resembling, in shape
and magnitude, the vegetables over which
they reigned.

The seat of government continued unchanged
in the family mansion, a Dutchbuilt
house, with a front, or rather gableend,
of yellow brick, tapering to a point,
with the customary iron weathercock at
the top. Every thing about the building
bore the air of long-settled ease and
security. Flights of martins peopled the
little coops nailed against its walls, and
swallows built their nests under the
eaves: and every one knows that these
house-loving birds bring good luck to the
dwelling where they take up their abode.
In a bright sunny morning, in early
summer, it was delectable to hear their
cheerful notes as they sported about in
the pure sweet air, chirping forth, as it
were, the greatness and prosperity of the
Webbers.

Thus quietly and comfortably did this
excellent family vegetate under the shade
of a mighty buttonwood tree, which, by
little and little, grew so great, as entirely
to overshadow their palace. The city
gradually spread its suburbs round their
domain. Houses sprang up to interrupt
their prospects; the rural lanes in the
vicinity began to grow into the bustle
and populousness of streets; in short,
with all the habits of rustic life, they
began to find themselves the inhabitants
of a city. Still, however, they maintained
their hereditary character and
hereditary possessions, with all the tenacity
of petty German princes in the midst

of the empire. Wolfert was the last of
the line, and succeeded to the patriarchal
bench at the door, under the family-tree,
and swayed the sceptre of his fathers, a
kind of rural potentate in the midst of a
metropolis.

To share the cares and sweets of sovereignity,
he had taken unto himself a
helpmate, one of that excellent kind
called stirring women; that is to say,
she was one of those notable little housewives
who are always busy when there
is nothing to do. Her activity, however,
took one particular direction; her whole
life scemed devoted to intense knitting:
whether at home or abroad, walking or
sitting, her needles were continually in
motion; and it is even affirmed that, by
her unwearied industry, she very nearly
supplied her household with stockings
throughout the year. This worthy couple
were blessed with one daughter, who
was brought up with great tenderness
and care; uncommon pains had been
taken with her education, so that she
could stitch in every variety of way,
make all kinds of pickles and preserves,
and mark her own name on a sampler.
The influence of her taste was seen, also,
in the family-garden, where the ornamental
began to mingle with the useful;
whole rows of fiery marigolds and splendid
hollyhocks bordered the cabbage-beds,
and gigantic sunflowers lolled
their broad jolly faces over the fences,
seeming to ogle most affectionately the
passers-by.

Thus reigned and vegetated Wolfert
Webber over his paternal acres, peaceful
and contentedly. Not but that, like
all other sovereigns, he had his occasional
cares and vexations. The growth
of his native city sometimes caused him
annoyance. His little territory gradually
became hemmed in by streets and houses,
which intercepted air and sunshine. He
was now and then subjected to the irruptions
of the border population that infest
the skirts of a metropolis; who would
sometimes make midnight forays into his
dominions, and carry off captive whole
platoons of his noblest subjects. Vagrant
swine would make a descent, too, now
and then, when the gate was left open,
and lay all waste before them; and mischievous
urchins would often decapitate
the illustrious sunflowers, the glory of
the garden, as they lolled their heads so
fondly over the walls. Still all these
were petty grievances, which might now
and then ruffle the surface of his mind,
as a summer breeze will ruffle the surface
of a millpond, but they could not
disturb the deep-seated quiet of his soul.
He would but seize a trusty staff that
stood behind the door, issue suddenly
out, and anoint the back of the aggressor,
whether pig or urchin, and then return
within doors, marvellously refreshed and
tranquillized.

The chief cause of anxiety to honest
Wolfert, however, was the growing prosperity
of the city. The expenses of
living doubled and trebled; but he could
not double and treble the magnitude of
his cabbages; and the number of competitors
prevented the increase of price.
Thus, therefore, while every one around
him grew richer, Wolfert grew poorer;
and he could not, for the life of him, perceive
how the evil was to be remedied.

This growing care, which increased
from day to day, had its gradual effect
upon our worthy burgher; insomuch,
that it at length implanted two or three
wrinkles in his brow, things unknown
before in the family of the Webbers;
and it seemed to pinch up the corners
of his cocked hat into an expression of
anxiety totally opposite to the tranquil,
broad-brimmed, low-crowned beavers of
his illustrious progenitors.

Perhaps even this would not have
materially disturbed the serenity of his
mind, had he had only himself and his
wife to care for; but there was his daughter
gradually growing to maturity; and
all the world knows that when daughters
begin to ripen, no fruit nor flower requires
so much looking after. I have
no talent at describing female charms,
else fain would I depict the progress of
this little Dutch beauty. How her blue
eyes grew deeper and deeper, and her
cherry lips redder and redder; and how
she ripened and ripened, and rounded
and rounded, in the opening breath of
sixteen summers; until in her seventeenth
spring she seemed ready to burst
out of her bodice like a half-blown rosebud.

Ah, well-a-day! could I but show her

as she was then tricked out on a Sunday
morning in the hereditary finery of
the old Dutch clothes-press, of which her
mother had confided to her the key. The
wedding-dress of her grandmother modernised
for use, with sundry ornaments,
handed down as heir-looms in the family;
her pale-brown hair, smoothed with buttermilk
in flat waving lines, on each side
of her fair forehead; the chain of yellow
virgin gold that encircled her neck; the
little cross that just rested at the entrance
of a soft valley of happiness, as if it
would sanctify the place; the—but, pooh
—it is not for an old man like me to be
prosing about female beauty. Suffice it
to say, Amy had attained her seventeenth
year. Long since had her sampler
exhibited hearts in couples, desperately
transfixed with arrows, and true-lover'sknots,
worked in deep blue silk; and it
was evident she began to languish for
some more interesting occupation than
the rearing of sunflowers, or pickling of
cucumbers.

At this critical period of female existence,
when the heart within a damsel's
bosom, like its emblem, the miniature
which hangs without, is apt to be engrossed
by a single image, a new visiter
began to make his appearance under the
roof of Wolfert Webber. This was Dirk
Waldron, the only son of a poor widow;
but who could boast of more fathers than
any lad in the province; for his mother
had had four husbands, and this only
child; so that, though born in her last
wedlock, he might fairly claim to be the
tardy fruit of a long course of cultivation.
This son of four fathers united the
merits and the vigour of all his sires.
If he had not had a great family before
him, he seemed likely to have a great
one after him; for you had only to look
at the fresh bucksome youth, to see that
he was formed to be the founder of a
mighty race.

This youngster gradually became an
intimate visiter of the family. He talked
little, but he sat long. He filled the
father's pipe when it was empty; gathered
up the mother's knitting-needle
or ball of worsted, when it fell to the
ground; stroked the sleek coat of the
tortoise-shell cat; and replenished the
teapot for the daughter, from the bright
copper kettle that sang before the fire.
All these quiet little offices may seem of
trifting import; but when true love is
translated into Low Dutch, it is in this
way that it eloquently expresses itself.
They were not lost upon the Webber
family. The winning youngster found
marvellous favour in the eyes of the
mother; the tortoise-shell cat, albeit the
most staid and demure of her kind, gave
indubitable signs of approbation of his
visits; the tea-kettle seemed to sing out
a cheery note of welcome at his approach;
and if the shy glances of the daughter
might be rightly read, as she sat bridling,
and dimpling, and sewing by her mother's
side, she was not a whit behind Dame
Webber, or grimalkin, or the tea-kettle
in good-will.

Wolfert alone saw nothing of what
was going on; profoundly wrapped up
in meditation on the growth of the city,
and his cabbages, he sat looking in the
fire and puffing his pipe in silence. One
night, however, as the gentle Amy, according
to custom, lighted her lover to
the outer door, and he, according to custom,
took his parting salute, the smack
resounded so vigorously through the long,
silent entry, as to startle even the dull
ear of Wolfert. He was slowly roused
to a new source of anxiety. It had
never entered into his head, that this
mere child, who, as it seemed, but the
other day, had been climbing about his
knees, and playing with dolls and baby-houses,
could, all at once, be thinking of
lovers and matrimony. He rubbed his
eyes; examined into the fact; and really
found, that while he had been dreaming
of other matters, she had actually grown
to be a woman, and what was worse, had
fallen in love. Here arose new cares for
poor Wolfert. He was a kind father;
but he was a prudent man. The young
man was a lively, stirring lad; but then
he had neither money nor land. Wolfert's
ideas all ran in one channel; and
he saw no alternative, in case of a marriage,
but to portion off the young couple
with a corner of his cabbage-garden, the
whole of which was barely sufficient for
the support of his family.

Like a prudent father, therefore, he
determined to nip this passion in the bud,
and forbade the youngster the house;

though sorely did it go against his fatherly
heart, and many a silent tear did
it cause in the bright eye of his daughter.
She showed herself, however, a
pattern of filial piety and obedience. She
never pouted and sulked; she never flew
in the face of parental authority; she
never fell into a passion, or fell into
hysterics, as many romantic, novel-read
young ladies would do. Not she, indeed!
She was none such heroical rebellious
trumpery, I'll warrant you. On
the contrary, she acquieseed like an obedient
daughter; shut the street door in
her lover's face; and if ever she did
grant him an interview, it was either out
of the kitchen window, or over the garden
fence.

Wolfert was deeply cogitating these
matters in his mind, and his brow wrinkled
with unusual care, as he wended his
way on Saturday afternoon to a rural
inn, about two miles from the city. It
was a favourite resort of the Dutch part
of the community, from being always
held by a Dutch line of landlords, and
retaining an air and relish of the good
old times. It was a Dutch-built house,
that had probably been a country-seat of
some opulent burgher in the early time
of the settlement. It stood near a point
of land called Corlear's Hook, which
stretches out into the Sound, and against
which the tide, at its flux and reflux, sets
with extraordinary rapidity. The venerable
and somewhat crazy mansion was
distinguished from afar by a grove of
elms and sycamores, that seemed to wave
a hospitable invitation, while a few weeping
willows, with their dank, drooping
foliage, resembling falling waters, gave
an idea of coolness that rendered it an
attractive spot during the heats of summer.
Here therefore, as I said, resorted
many of the inhabitants of the Manhattoes,
where, while some played at shuffleboard,
and quoits, and ninepins, others
smoked a deliberate pipe, and talked over
public affairs.

It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon
that Wolfert made his visit to the
inn. The grove of elms and willows
was stripped of its leaves, which whirled
in rustling eddies about the fields. The
ninepin alley was deserted, for the premature
chillness of the day had driven
the company within doors. As it was
Saturday afternoon, the habitual club
was in session, composed, principally, of
regular Dutch burghers, though mingled
occasionally with persons of various character
and country, as is natural in a
place of such motley population.

Beside the fireplace, in a huge leather-bottomed
armchair, sat the dictator of this
little world, the venerable Remm, or, as
it was pronounced, Ramm Rapelye. He
was a man of Walloon race, and illustrious
for the antiquity of his line, his great
grandmother having been the first white
child born in the province. But he was
still more illustrious for his wealth and
dignity: he had long filled the noble
office of alderman, and was a man to
whom the governor himself took off his
hat. He had maintained possession of
the leather-bottomed chair from time immemorial;
and had gradually waxed in
bulk as he sat in this seat of government;
until, in the course of years, he filled its
whole magnitude. His word was decisive
with his subjects; for he was so
rich a man that he was never expected
to support any opinion by argument.
The landlord waited on him with peculiar
officiousness; not that he paid better than
his neighbours, but then the coin of a
rich man seems always to be so much
more acceptable. The landlord had ever
a pleasant word and a joke to insinuate
in the ear of the august Ramm. It is
true, Ramm never laughed; and, indeed,
ever maintained a mastiff-like gravity,
and even surliness of aspect; yet he now
and then rewarded mine host with a
token of approbation; which, though
nothing more nor less than a kind of
grunt, still delighted the landlord more
than a broad laugh from a poorer man.

"This will be a rough night for the
money-diggers," said mine host, as a
gust of wind howled round the house
and rattled at the windows.

"What! are they at their work again?"
said an English half-pay captain with one
eye, who was a very frequent attendant
at the inn.

"Ay, are they," said the landlord,
"and well may they be. They've had
luck of late. They say a great pot of
money has been dug up in the field
just behind Stuyvesant's orchard. Folks

think it must have been buried there in
old times, by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch
governor."

"Fudge!" said the one-eyed man of
war, as he added a small portion of water
to a bottom of brandy.

"Well, you may believe or not, as
you please," said mine host, somewhat
nettled; "but every body knows that
the old governor buried a great deal of
his money at the time of the Dutch troubles,
when the English red-coats seized
on the province. They say too, the old
gentleman walks; ay, and in the very
same dress that he wears in the picture
that hangs up in the family-house."

"Fudge!" said the half-pay officer.

"Fudge, if you please! But didn't
Corny Van Zandt see him at midnight,
stalking about in the meadow with his
wooden leg, and a drawn sword in his
hand, that flashed like fire? And what
can he be walking for, but because people
have been troubling the place where
he buried his money in old times?"

Here the landlord was interrupted by
several guttural sounds from Ramm
Rapelye, betokening that he was labouring
with the unusual production of an
idea. As he was too great a man to be
slighted by a prudent publican, mine host
respectfully paused until he should deliver
himself. The corpulent frame of
this mighty burgher now gave all the
symptoms of a volcanic mountain on the
point of an cruption. First there was a
certain heaving of the abdomen, not unlike
an earthquake; then was emitted a
cloud of tobacco-smoke from that crater,
his mouth; then there was a kind of
rattle in the throat, as if the idea were
working its way up through a region of
phlegm; then there were several disjointed
members of a sentence thrown
out, ending in a cough: at length his
voice forced its way in the slow but
absolute tone of a man who feels the
weight of his purse, if not of his ideas;
every portion of his speech being marked
by a testy puff of tobacco-smoke.

"Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant's
walking?"—Puff—"Have people no respect
for persons?"—Puff—puff—"Peter
Stuyvesant knew better what to do with
his money than to bury it"—Puff—"I
know the Stuyvesant family"—Puff—
"Every one of them"—Puff—"Not a
more respectable family in the province"
—Puff—"Old standers"—Puff—"Warm
householders"—Puff—"None of your
upstarts"—Puff—puff—puff—"Don't
talk to me of Peter Stuyvesant walking."
—Puff—puff—puff—puff.

Here the redoubtable Ramm contracted
his brow, clasped up his mouth till it
wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled
his smoking with such vehemence, that
the cloudy volumes soon wreathed round
his head as the smoke envelopes the awful
summit of Mount Etna.

A general silence followed the sudden
rebuke of this very rich man. The subject,
however, was too interesting to be
readily abandoned. The conversation
soon broke forth again from the lips of
Peechy Prauw Van Hook, the chronicler
of the club, one of those prosy, narrative
old men who seem to be troubled with an
incontinence of words as they grow old.

Peechy could at any time tell as many
stories in an evening as his hearers could
digest in a month. He now resumed the
conversation by affirming, that to his
knowledge money had at different times
been dug up in various parts of the
island. The lucky persons who had discovered
them had always dreamt of them
three times beforehand; and, what was
worthy of remark, those treasures had
never been found but by some descendant
of the good old Dutch families, which
clearly proved that they had been buried
by Dutchmen in the olden time.

"Fiddlestick with your Dutchmen!"
cried the half-pay officer. "The Dutch
had nothing to do with them. They were
all buried by Kidd the pirate, and his
crew."

Here a key-note was touched which
roused the whole company. The name
of Captain Kidd was like a talisman in
those times, and was associated with a
thousand marvellous stories. The half-pay
officer took the lead, and in his
narrations fathered upon Kidd all the
plunderings and exploits of Morgan,
Blackbeard, and the whole list of bloody
bucaniers.

The officer was a man of great weight
among the peaceable members of the
club, by reason of his warlike character
and gunpowder tales. All his golden

stories of Kidd, however, and of the
booty he had buried, were obstinately
rivalled by the tales of Peechy Prauw;
who, rather than suffer his Dutch progenitors
to be eclipsed by a foreign freebooter,
enriched every field and shore in
the neighbourhood with the hidden wealth
of Peter Stuyvesant and his contemporaries.

Not a word of this conversation was
lost upon Wolfert Webber. He returned
pensively home, full of magnificent ideas.
The soil of his native island seemed to
be turned into gold-dust, and every field
to teem with treasure. His head almost
reeled at the thought, how often he must
have heedlessly rambled over places
where countless sums lay scarcely covered
by the turf beneath his feet. His
mind was in an uproar with this whirl of
new ideas. As he came in sight of the
venerable mansion of his forefathers, and
the little realm where the Webbers had
so long and so contentedly flourished,
his gorge rose at the narrowness of his
destiny.

"Unlucky Wolfert!" exclaimed he"Others
can go to bed and dream themselves
into whole mines of wealth; they
have but to seize a spade in the morning,
and turn up doubloons like potatoes; but
thou must dream of hardship and rise to
poverty—must dig thy fields from year's
end to year's end, and yet raise nothing
but cabbages!"

Wolfert Webber went to bed with a
heavy heart, and it was long before the
golden visions that disturbed his brain
permitted him to sink into repose. The
same visions, however, extended into his
sleeping thoughts, and assumed a more
definite form. He dreamt that he had
discovered an immense treasure in the
centre of his garden. At every stroke
of the spade he laid bare a golden ingot;
diamond crosses sparkled out of the dust;
bags of money turned up their bellies,
corpulent with pieces-of-eight, or venerable
doubloons; and chests, wedged close
with moidores, ducats, and pistareens,
yawned before his ravished eyes, and
vomited forth their glittering contents.

Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever.
He had no heart to go about his daily
concerns, which appeared so paltry and
profitless, but sat all day long in the
chimney-corner, picturing to himself
ingots and heaps of gold in the fire.

The next night his dream was repeated.
He was again in his garden, digging,
and laying open stores of hidden
wealth. There was something very
singular in this repetition. He passed
another day of revery; and though it
was cleaning-day, and the house, as
usual in Dutch households, completely
topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst
the general uproar.

The third night he went to bed with a
palpitating heart. He put on his red
nightcap wrong side outwards, for good
luck. It was deep midnight before his
anxious mind could settle into sleep.
Again the golden dream was repeated,
and again he saw his garden teeming
with ingots and money-bags.

Wolfert rose the next morning in complete
bewilderment. A dream, three
times repeated, was never known to lie,
and if so, his fortune was made. In his
agitation, he put on his waistcoat with
the hind part before, and this was a corroboration
of good luck. He no longer
doubted that a huge store of money lay
buried somewhere in his cabbage-field,
coyly waiting to be sought for; and he
repined at having so long been scratching
about the surface of the soil instead of
digging to the centre. He took his seat
at the breakfast-table, full of these speculations;
asked his daughter to put a lump
of gold into his tea; and on handing his
wife a plate of slapjacks, begged her to
help herself to a doubloon.

His grand care now was, how to secure
this immense treasure without its being
known. Instead of working regularly
in his grounds in the daytime, he now
stole from his bed at night, and with
spade and pickaxe, went to work to rip
up and dig about his paternal acres from
one end to the other. In a little time,
the whole garden, which had presented
such a goodly and regular appearance,
with its phalanx of cabbagez, like a
vegetable army in battle array, was
reduced to a scene of devastation;
while the relentless Wolfert, with nightcap
on head, and lantern and spade in
hand, stalked through the slaughtered
ranks, the destroying angel of his own
vegetable world.

Every morning bore testimony to the
ravages of the preceding night, in cabbages
of all ages and conditions, from
the tender sprout to the full-grown head,
piteously rooted from their quiet beds,
like worthless weeds, and left to wither
in the sunshine. It was in vain Wolfert's
wife remonstrated; it was in vain his
darling daughter wept over the destruction
of some favourite marigold. "Thou
shalt have gold of another guess sort,"
he would cry, chucking her under the
chin. "Thou shalt have a string of
crooked ducats for thy wedding necklace,
my child!"

His family began really to fear that
the poor man's wits were diseased. He
muttered in his sleep at night about mines
of wealth; about pearls, and diamonds,
and bars of gold. In the daytime he
was moody and abstracted, and walked
about as if in a trance. Dame Webber
held frequent councils with all the old
women of the neighbourhood. Scarce
an hour in the day but a knot of them
might be seen, wagging their white caps
together round her door, while the poor
woman made some piteous recital. The
daughter, too, was fain to seek for more
frequent consolation from the stolen
interviews of her favoured swain, Dirk
Waldron. The delectable little Dutch
songs with which she used to dulcify the
house grew less and less frequent; and
she would forget her sewing, and look
wistfully in her father's face, as he sat
pondering by the fireside. Wolfert
caught her eye one day fixed on him
thus anxiously, and for a moment was
roused from his golden reveries. "Cheer
up, my girl," said he, exultingly; "why
dost thou droop? Thou shalt hold up
thy head one day with the Brinckerhoffs
and the Schermerhorns, the Van Hornes,
and the Van Dams—by St. Nicholas, but
the patroon himself shall be glad to get
thee for his son!"

Amy shook her head at this vainglorious
boast, and was more than ever
in doubt of the soundness of the good
man's intellect.

In the mean time, Wolfert went on
digging and digging; but the field was
extensive, and as his dream had indicated
no precise spot, he had to dig at
random. The winter set in before one-tenth
of the scene of promise had been
explored. The ground became frozen
hard, and the nights too cold for the
labours of the spade. No sooner, however,
did the returning warmth of spring
loosen the soil, and the small frogs begin
to pipe in the meadows, but Wolfert resumed
his labours with renovated zeal.
Still, however, the hours of industry
were reversed. Instead of working
cheerily all day, planting and setting
out his vegetables, he remained thoughtfully
idle, until the shades of night summoned
him to his secret labours. In
this way he continued to dig, from night
to night, and week to week, and month
to month, but not a stiver did he find.
On the contrary, the more he digged,
the poorer he grew. The rich soil of
his garden was digged away, and the
sand and gravel from beneath were
thrown to the surface, until the whole
field presented an aspect of sandy barrenness.

In the mean time the seasons gradually
rolled on. The little frogs which had
piped in the meadows in early spring,
croaked as bullfrogs during the summer
heats, and then sunk into silence. The
peach-tree budded, blossomed, and bore
its fruit. The swallows and martens
came, twittered about the roof, built
their nest, reared their young, held their
congress along the eaves, and then
winged their flight in search of another
spring. The caterpillar spun its winding-sheet,
dangled in it from the great
buttonwood tree before the house, turned
into a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine
of summer, and disappeared; and,
finally, the leaves of the buttonwood tree
turned yellow, then brown, then rustled
one by one to the ground, and, whirling
about in little eddies of wind and dust,
whispered that winter was at hand.

Wolfert gradually woke from his dream
of wealth as the year declined. He had
reared no crop for the supply of his
household during the sterility of winter.
The season was long and severe, and,
for the first time, the family was really
straitened in its comforts. By degrees a
revulsion of thought took place in Wolfert's
mind, common to those whose
golden dreams have been disturbed by
pinching realities. The idea gradually

stole upon him that he should come to
want. He already considered himself
one of the most unfortunate men in the
province, having lost such an incalculable
amount of undiscovered treasure;
and now, when thousands of pounds had
eluded his search, to be perplexed for
shillings and pence was cruel in the
extreme.

Haggard care gathered about his
brow; he went about with a money-seeking
air; his eyes bent downwards
into the dust, and carrying his hands in
his pockets, as men are apt to do when
they have nothing else to put into them.
He could not even pass the city almshouse
without giving it a rueful glance,
as if destined to be his future abode.
The strangeness of his conduct and of
his looks occasioned much speculation
and remark. For a long time he was
suspected of being crazy, and then
every body pitied him; at length it
began to be suspected that he was poor,
and then every body avoided him.

The rich old burghers of his acquaintance
met him outside of the door when
he called; entertained him hospitably on
the threshold; pressed him warmly by
the hand at parting; shook their heads
as he walked away, with the kind-hearted
expression of "Poor Wolfert!"
and turned a corner nimbly, if by chance
they saw him approaching as they walked
the streets. Even the barber and
cobbler of the neighbourhood, and a tattered
tailor in an alley hard by, three of
the poorest and merriest rogues in the
world, eyed him with that abundant
sympathy which usually attends a lack
of means; and there is not a doubt but
their pockets would have been at his
command, only that they happened to
be empty.

Thus every body deserted the Webber
mansion, as if poverty were contagious,
like the plague; every body but honest
Dirk Waldron, who still kept up his
stolen visits to the daughter, and, indeed,
seemed to wax more affectionate as the
fortunes of his mistress were in the
wane.

Many months had elapsed since Wolfert
had frequented his old resort, the
rural inn. He was taking a long lonely
walk one Saturday afternoon, musing
over his wants and disappointments,
when his feet took, instinctively, their
wonted direction, and on awaking out of
a revery, he found himself before the
door of the inn. For some moments he
hesitated whether to enter, but his heart
yearned for companionship; and where
can a ruined man find better companionship
than at a tavern, where there is
neither sober example nor sober advice
to put him out of countenance?

Wolfert found several of the old frequenters
of the inn at their usual post,
and seated in their usual places; but one
was missing, the great Ramm Rapelye,
who for many years had filled the
leather-bottomed chair of state. His
place was supplied by a stranger, who
seemed, however, completely at home in
the chair and the tavern. He was rather
under size, but deep-chested, square, and
muscular. His broad shoulders, double
joints, and bow-knees, gave tokens of
prodigious strength. His face was dark
and weatherbeaten; a deep scar, as if
from the slash of a cutlass, had almost
divided his nose, and made a gash in his
upper lip, through which his teeth shone
like a bulldog's. A mop of iron-gray
hair gave a grizzly finish to his hard-favoured
visage. His dress was of an
amphibious character. He wore an old
hat edged with tarnished lace, and cocked
in martial style on one side of his head;
a rusty blue military coat with brass
buttons, and a wide pair of short petticoat
trousers, or rather breeches, for they
were gathered up at the knees. He
ordered every body about him with an
authoritative air; talked in a brattling
voice, that sounded like the crackling of
thorns under a pot; d—d the landlord
and servants with perfect impunity; and
was waited upon with greater obsequiousness
than had ever been shown to the
mighty Ramm himself.

Wolfert's curiosity was awakened to
know who and what was this stranger,
who had thus usurped absolute sway in
this ancient domain. Peechy Prauw
took him aside into a remote corner of
the hall, and there, in an under voice,
and with great caution, imparted to him
all that he knew on the subject. The
inn had been aroused, several months
before, on a dark stormy night, by

repeated long shouts, that seemed like
the howlings of a wolf. They came
from the water-side; and at length were
distinguished to be hailing the house
in the seafaring manner—House a-hoy!
The landlord turned out with his headwaiter,
tapster, ostler, and errand-boy,
that is to say, with his old negro, Cuff. On
approaching the place from whence the
voice proceeded, they found this amphibious-looking
personage at the water's
edge, quite alone, and seated on a great
oaken sea-chest. How he came there,
whether he had been set on shore from
some boat, or had
floated to land on his
chest, nobody could tell, for he did not
seem disposed to answer questions; and
there was something in his looks and
manners that put a stop to all questioning.
Suffice it to say, he took possession
of a corner room of the inn, to which
his chest was removed with great difficulty.
Here he had remained ever since,
keeping about the inn and its vicinity;
sometimes, it is true, he disappeared for
one, two, or three days at a time, going
and returning without giving any notice
or account of his movements. He
always appeared to have plenty of
money, though often of very strange,
outlandish coinage; and he regularly
paid his bill every evening before turning
in. He had fitted up his room to
his own fancy, having slung a hammock
from the ceiling instead of a bed, and
decorated the walls with rusty pistols
and cutlasses of foreign workmanship.
A great part of his time was passed in
this room, seated by the window, which
commanded a wide view of the Sound, a
short old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, a
glass of rum toddy at his elbow, and a
pocket-telescope in his hand, with which
he reconnoitered every boat that moved
upon the water. Large square-rigged
vessels seemed to excite but little attention;
but the moment he descried any
thing with a shoulder-of-mutton sail, or
that a barge, yawl, or jolly-boat hove in
sight, up went the telescope, and he
examined it with the most scrupulous
attention.

All this might have passed without
much notice, for in those times the province
was so much the resort of adventurers
of all characters and climes, that
any oddity in dress or behaviour attracted
but small attention. In a little while,
however, this strange sea-monster, thus
strangely cast upon dry land, began to
encroach upon the long-established customs
and customers of the place, and to
interfere, in a dictatorial manner, in the
affairs of the ninepin alley and the barroom,
until in the end be usurped an absolute
command over the whole inn. It was
all in vain to attempt to withstand his authority.
He was not exactly quarrelsome,
but boisterous and peremptory, like one
accustomed to tyrannise on a quarterdeck;
and there was a dare-devil air
about every thing he said and did, that
inspired a wariness in all bystanders.
Even the half-pay officer, so long the
hero of the club, was soon silenced by
him; and the quiet burghers stared with
wonder at seeing their inflammable man
of war so readily and quietly extinguished.
And then the tales that he would
tell were enough to make a peaceable
man's hair stand on end. There was
not a sea-fight, or marauding or freebooting
adventure that had happened
within the last twenty years, but he
seemed perfectly versed in it. He delighted
to talk of the exploits of the bucaniers
in the West Indies and on the
Spanish Main. How his eyes would
glisten as he described the waylaying of
treasure-ships, the desperate fights, yardarm
and yard-arm, broadside and broadside;
the boarding and capturing of huge
Spanish galleons! With what chuckling
relish would he describe the descent upon
some rich Spanish colony; the rifling of
a church; the sacking of a convent!
You would have thought you heard some
gormandizer dilating upon the roasting
of a savoury goose at Michaelmas, as he
described the roasting of some Spanish
Don to make him discover his treasure
—a detail given with a minuteness that
made every rich old burgher present turn
uncomfortably in his chair. All this
would be told with infinite glee, as if he
considered it an excellent joke; and then
he would give such a tyrannical leer in
the face of his next neighbour, that the
poor man would be fain to laugh out of
sheer faint-heartedness. If any one, however,
pretended to contradict him in any
of his stories, he was on fire in an instant.

His very cocked hat assumed a
momentary fierceness, and seemed to resent
the contradiction. "How the devil
should you know as well as I?—I tell
you it was as I say;" and he would at
the same time let slip a broadside of thundering
oaths and tremendous sea-phrases,
such as had never been heard before
within these peaceful walls.

Indeed, the worthy burghers began to
surmise that he knew more of these stories
than mere hearsay. Day after day
their conjectures concerning him grew
more and more wild and fearful. The
strangeness of his arrival, the strangeness
of his manners, the mystery that
surrounded him, all made him something
incomprehensible in their eyes. He was
a kind of monster of the deep to them—
he was a merman—he was Behemoth—
he was Leviathan—in short, they knew
not what he was.

The domineering spirit of this boisterous
sea-urchin at length grew quite
intolerable. He was no respecter of
persons; he contradicted the richest
burghers without hesitation; he took
possession of the sacred elbow-chair,
which, time out of mind, had been the
seat of sovereignty of the illustrious
Ramm Rapelye,—nay, he even went so
far, in one of his rough jocular moods, as
to slap that mighty burgher on the back,
drink his toddy, and wink in his face,—
a thing scarcely to be believed. From
this time Ramm Rapelye appeared no
more at the inn; and his example was
followed by several of the most eminent
customers, who were too rich to tolerate
being bullied out of their opinions, or
being obliged to laugh at another man's
jokes. The landlord was almost in despair;
but he knew not how to get rid of
the sea-monster and his sea-chest, who
seemed both to have grown like fixtures
or excrescences on his establishment.

Such was the account whispered cautiously
in Wolfert's ear by the narrator,
Peechy Prauw, as he held him by the
button in a corner of the hall; casting a
wary glance now and then towards the
door of the bar-room, lest he should be
overheard by the terrible hero of his tale.

Wolfert took his seat in a remote part
of the room in silence, impressed with
profound awe of this unknown, so versed
in freebooting history. It was to him a
wonderful instance of the revolutions of
mighty empires, to find the venerable
Ramm Rapelye thus ousted from the
throne, and a rugged tarpawling dictating
from his elbow-chair, hectoring the patriarchs,
and filling this tranquil little
realm with brawl and bravado.

The stranger was, on this evening, in
a more than usually communicative
mood, and was narrating a number of
astounding stories of plunderings and
burnings on the high seas. He dwelt
upon them with peculiar relish; heightening
the frightful particulars in proportion
to their effect on his peaceful
auditors. He gave a long swaggering
detail of the capture of a Spanish merchantman.
She was lying becalmed
during a long summer's day, just off from
an island which was one of the lurking-places
of the pirates. They had reconnoitred
her with their spyglasses from
the shore, and ascertained her character
and force. At night a picked crew of
daring fellows set off for her in a whaleboat.
They approached with muffled
oars, as she lay rocking idly with the
undulations of the sea, and her sails
flapping against the masts. They were
close under her stern before the guard on
deck was aware of their approach. The
alarm was given; the pirates threw hand-grenades
on deck, and sprang up the
mainchains sword in hand. The crew
flew to arms, but in great confusion;
some were shot down, others took refuge
in the tops, others were driven overboard
and drowned, while others fought hand
to hand from the maindeck to the quarterdeck,
disputing gallantly every inch of
ground. There were three Spanish gentlemen
on board with their ladies, who
made the most desperate resistance. They
defended the companionway, cut down
several of their assailants, and fought like
very devils, for they were maddened by
the shrieks of the ladies from the cabin.
One of the Dons was old, and soon despatched.
The other two kept their ground
vigorously, even though the captain of
the pirates was among the assailants.
Just then there was a shout of victory
from the maindeck—"The ship is ours!"
cried the pirates. One of the Dons immediately
dropped his sword and surrendered;

the other, who was a hot-headed
youngster, and just married, gave the
captain a slash in the face that laid all
open.

The captain just made out to articulate
the words "no quarter!"

"And what did they do with the prisoners?"
said Peechy Prauw, eagerly.

"Threw them all overboard!" was the
answer.

A dead pause followed this reply.

Peechy Prauw shrunk quietly back,
like a man who had unwarily stolen upon
the lair of a sleeping lion. The honest
burghers cast fearful glances at the deep
sear slashed across the visage of the
stranger, and moved their chairs a little
farther off. The seaman, however,
smoked on, without moving a muscle, as
though he either did not perceive, or did
not regard, the unfavourable effect he had
produced on his hearers.

The half-pay officer was the first to
break the silence, for he was continually
tempted to make ineffectual head against
this tyrant of the seas, and to regain his
lost consequence in the eyes of his ancient
companions. He now tried to match
the gunpowder tales of the stranger, by
others equally tremendous. Kidd, as
usual, was his hero, concerning whom
he seemed to have picked up many of the
floating traditions of the province. The
seaman had always evinced a settled
pique against the one-eyed warrior. On
this occasion he listened with peculiar impatience.
He sat with one arm a-kimbo,
the other elbow on a table, the hand holding
on to the small pipe he was pettishly
puffing; his legs crossed; drumming
with one foot on the ground, and casting
every now and then the side-glance of a
basilisk at the prosing captain. At length
the latter spoke of Kidd's having ascended
the Hudson with some of his crew, to
land his plunder in secrecy. "Kidd up
the Hudson!" burst forth the seaman with
a tremendous oath—"Kidd never was up
the Hudson!"

"I tell you he was," said the other.
"Ay, and they say he buried a quantity
of treasure on the little flat that runs out
into the river, called the Devil's Dans
Kammer."

"The Devil's Dans Kammer in your
teeth!" cried the seaman. "I tell you
Kidd never was up the Hudson. What a
plague do you know of Kidd and his
haunts?"

"What do I know?" echoed the half-pay
officer. "Why, I was in London at
the time of his trial; ay, and I had the
pleasure of seeing him hanged at Execution
Dock."

"Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw
as pretty a fellow hanged as ever trod
shoe-leather. Ay," putting his face
nearer to that of the officer, "and there
was many a landlubber looked on that
might much better have swung in his
stead."

The half-pay officer was silenced: but
the indignation thus pent up in his bosom
glowed with intense vehemence in his
single eye, which kindled like a coal.

Peechy Prauw, who never could remain
silent, observed that the gentleman certainly
was in the right. Kidd never did
bury money up the Hudson, nor indeed
in any of those parts, though many affirmed
such to be the fact. It was Bradish
and others of the bucaniers who
had buried money; some said in Turtle
Bay; others on Long Island; others in
the neighbourhood of Hell-gate. Indeed,
added he, I recollect an adventure of Sam,
the negro fisherman, many years ago,
which some think had something to do
with the bucaniers. As we are all
friends here, and as it will go no farther,
I'll tell it to you. "Upon a dark night,
many years ago, as Black Sam was returning
from fishing in Hell-gate—"

Here the story was nipped in the bud
by a sudden movement from the unknown,
who, laying his iron fist on the table,
knuckles downward, with a quiet force
that indented the very boards, and looking
grimly over his shoulder, with the
grin of an angry bear—

"Hark'ee, neighbour!" said he, with a
significant nodding of the head, "you'd
better let the bucaniers and their money
alone—they're not for old men and old
women to meddle with. They fought
hard for their money; they gave body
and soul for it; and wherever it lies
buried, depend upon it he must have a
tug with the devil who gets it!"

This sudden explosion was succeeded
by a blank silence throughout the room;
Peechy Prauw shrunk within himself,

and even the one-eyed officer turned pale.
Wolfert, who from a dark corner in the
room had listened with intense eagerness
to all his talk about buried treasure,
looked with mingled awe and reverence
at this bold bucanier, for such he really
suspected him to be. There was a
chinking of gold and a sparkling of
jewels in all his stories about the Spanish
Main that gave a value to every period;
and Wolfert would have given any thing
for the rummaging of the ponderous sea-chest,
which his imagination crammed
full of golden chalices, crucifixes, and
jolly round bags of doubloons.

The dead stillness that had fallen upon
the company was at length interrupted
by the stranger, who pulled out a prodigious
watch, of curious and ancient
workmanship, and which in Wolfert's
eyes, had a decidedly Spanish look.
On touching a spring, it struck ten
o'clock; upon which the sailor called for
his reckoning, and having paid it out of
a handful of outlandish coin, he drank off
the remainder of his beverage, and, without
taking leave of any one, rolled out of
the room, muttering to himself, as he
stumped up stairs to his chamber.

It was some time before the company
could recover from the silence into which
they had been thrown. The very footsteps
of the stranger, which were heard
now and then as he traversed his chamber,
inspired awe. Still the conversation
in which they had been engaged was too
interesting not to be resumed. A heavy
thundergust had gathered up unnoticed
while they were lost in talk, and the
torrents of rain that fell forbade all
thoughts of setting off for home until the
storm should subside. They drew nearer
together, therefore, and entreated the
worthy Peechy Prauw to continue the
tale which had been so discourteously
interrupted. He readily complied, whispering,
however, in a tone scarcely
above his breath, and drowned occasionally
by the rolling of the thunder; and
he would pause every now and then, and
listen with evident awe, as he heard the
heavy footsteps of the stranger pacing
overhead. The following is the purport
of his story.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK FISHERMAN.

Every body knows Black Sam, the
old negro fisherman, or, as he is commonly
called, Mud Sam, who has fished
about the Sound for the last half century.
It is now many years since Sam, who
was then as active a young negro as any
in the province, and worked on the farm
of Killian Suydam, on Long Island,
having finished his day's work at an
early hour, was fishing, one still summer
evening, just about the neighbourhood of
Hell-gate.

He was in a light skiff, and being well
acquainted with the currents and eddies,
he had shifted his station according to the
shifting of the tide, from the Hen and
Chickens to the Hog's Back, from the
Hog's Back to the Pot, and from the Pot
to the Frying-pan; but in the eagerness
of his sport he did not see that the tide
was rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of
the whirlpools and eddies warned him of
his danger; and he had some difficulty in
shooting his skiff from among the rocks
and breakers, and getting to the point of
Blackwell's Island. Here he cast anchor
for some time, waiting the turn of the
tide to enable him to return homewards.
As the night set in, it grew blustering
and gusty. Dark clouds came bundling
up in the west, and now and then a
growl of thunder, or a flash of lightning,
told that a summer storm was at
hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, under
the lee of Manhattan Island, and coasting
along, came to a snug nook, just under a
steep beetling rock, where he fastened
his skiff to the root of a tree that shot out
from a cleft in the rock, and spread its
broad branches, like a canopy, over the
water. The gust came scouring along;
the wind threw up the river in white
surges; the rain rattled among the leaves;
the thunder bellowed worse than that
which is now bellowing; the lightning
seemed to lick up the surges of the
stream; but Sam, snugly sheltered under
rock and tree, lay crouched in his skiff,
rocking upon the billows until he fell
asleep.

When he awoke, all was quiet. The
gust had passed away, and only now and
then a faint gleam of lightning in the
cast showed which way it had gone.
The night was dark and moonless; and
from the state of the tide Sam concluded
it was near midnight. He was on the
point of making loose his skiff to return
homewards, when he saw a light gleaming
along the water from a distance,
which seemed rapidly approaching. As
it drew near, he perceived it came from
a lantern in the bow of a boat, which
was gliding along under shadow of the
land. It pulled up in a small cove, close
to where he was. A man jumped on
shore, and searching about with the lantern,
exclaimed, "This is the place—
here's the iron ring." The boat was
then made fast, and the man returning on
board, assisted his comrades in conveying
something heavy on shore. As the
light gleamed among them, Sam saw that
they were five desperate-looking fellows,
in red woollen caps, with a leader in a
three-cornered hat, and that some of them
were armed with dirks, or long knives,
and pistols. They talked low to one
another, and occasionally in some outlandish
tongue which he could not understand.

On landing they made their way among
the bushes, taking turns to relieve each
other in lugging their burthen up the
rocky bank. Sam's curiosity was now
fully aroused; so, leaving his skiff, he
clambered silently up a ridge that overlooked
their path. They had stopped to
rest for a moment; and the leader was
looking about among the bushes with
his lantern. "Have you brought the
spades?" said one. "They are here,"
replied another, who had them on his
shoulder.

"We must dig deep, where there will
be no risk of discovery," said a third.

A cold chill ran through Sam's veins.
He fancied he saw before him a gang of
murderers about to bury their victim.
His knees smote together. In his agitation
he shook the branch of a tree with
which he was supporting himself, as he
looked over the edge of the cliff.

"What's that?" cried one of the
gang. "Some one stirs among the
bushes!"

The lantern was held up in the direction
of the noise. One of the red-caps
cocked a pistol and pointed it towards the
very place where Sam was standing.
He stood motionless—breathless—expecting
the next moment to be his last.
Fortunately, his dingy complexion was
in his favour, and made no glare among
the leaves.

"'Tis no one," said the man with the
lantern. "What a plague! you would
not fire off your pistol and alarm the
country?"

The pistol was uncocked, the burthen
was resumed, and the party slowly toiled
along the bank. Sam watched them as
they went, the light sending back fitful
gleams through the dripping bushes; and
it was not till they were fairly out of
sight that he ventured to draw breath
freely. He now thought of getting back
to his boat, and making his escape out of
the reach of such dangerous neighbours;
but curiosity was all powerful. He hesitated,
and lingered and listened. By
and by he heard the strokes of spades.
"They are digging the grave!" said he
to himself, and the cold sweat started
upon his forehead. Every stroke of a
spade, as it sounded through the silent
groves, went to his heart. It was evident
there was as little noise made as possible;
every thing had an air of terrible mystery
and secrecy. Sam had a great relish
for the horrible—a tale of murder was a
treat for him, and he was a constant
attendant at executions. He could not resist
an impulse, in spite of every danger,
to steal nearer to the scene of mystery,
and overlook the midnight fellows at
their work. He crawled along cautiously,
therefore, inch by inch, stepping with the
utmost care among the dry leaves lest
their rustling should betray him. He
came at length to where a steep rock intervened
between him and the gang; for
he saw the light of the lantern shining up
against the branches of the trees on the
other side. Sam slowly and silently
clambered up the surface of the rock, and
raising his head above its naked edge,
beheld the villains immediately below him,
and so near that though he dreaded discovery
he dared not withdraw, lest the
least movement should be heard. In this
way he remained, with his round black

face peering above the edge of the rock,
like the sun just emerging above the edge
of the horizon, or the round-cheeked
moon on the dial of a clock.

The red-caps had nearly finished their
work; the grave was filled up and they
were carefully replacing the turf. This
done, they scattered dry leaves over the
place; "And now," said the leader, "I
defy the devil himself to find it out!"

"The murderers!" exclaimed Sam,
involuntarily. The whole gang started,
and looking up, beheld the round black
head of Sam just above them; his white
eyes strained half out of their orbits, his
white teeth chattering, and his whole
visage shining with cold perspiration.

"We're discovered!" cried one.

"Down with him," cried another.

Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but
did not pause for the report. He scrambled
over rock and stone, through bush
and briar; rolled down banks like a
hedgehog; scrambled up others like a
catamount. In every direction he heard
some one or other of the gang hemming
him in. At length he reached the rocky
ridge along the river: one of the red-caps
was hard behind him. A steep rock like
a wall rose directly in his way; it seemed
to cut off all retreat, when, fortunately,
he espied the strong cord-like branch of
a grape-vine reaching half way down it.
He sprang at it with the force of a desperate
man; seized it with both hands;
and, being young and agile, succeeded in
swinging himself to the summit of the
cliff. Here he stood in full relief against
the sky, when the red-cap cocked his
pistol and fired. The ball whistled by
Sam's head. With the lucky thought of
a man in emergency, he uttered a yell,
fell to the ground, and detached at the
same time a fragment of the rock, which
tumbled with a loud splash into the river.

"I've done his business," said the redcap
to one or two of his comrades, as
they arrived panting: "he'll tell no tales,
except to the fishes in the river."

His pursuers now turned off to meet
their companions. Sam, sliding silently
down the surface of the rock, let himself
quietly into his skiff; cast loose the fastening,
and abandoned himself to the
rapid current, which in that place runs
like a mill-stream, and soon swept him
off from the neighbourhood. It was not,
however, until he had drifted a great distance
that he ventured to ply his oars;
when he made his skiff dart like an
arrow through the strait of Hell-gate,
never heeding the danger of Pot, Frying-pan,
or Hog's Back itself; nor did he feel
himself thoroughly secure until safely
nestled in bed in the cockloft of the
ancient farm-house of the Suydams.

Here the worthy Peechy Prauw paused
to take breath, and to take a sip of the
gossip tankard that stood at his elbow.
His auditors remained with open mouths
and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest
of swallows for an additional mouthful.

"And is that all?" exclaimed the half-pay
officer."

"That's all that belongs to the story,"
said Peechy Prauw.

"And did Sam never find out what
was buried by the red-caps?" said Wolfert,
eagerly, whose mind was haunted
by nothing but ingots and doubloons.

"Not that I know of," said Peechy;
"he had no time to spare from his work,
and, to tell the truth, he did not like to
run the risk of another race among the
rocks. Besides, how should he recollect
the spot where the grave had been digged,
every thing would look so different by
daylight? And then, where was the
use of looking for a dead body, when
there was no chance of hanging the
murderers?"

"Ay, but are you sure it was a dead
body they buried?" said Wolfert.

"To be sure," cried Peechy Prauw,
exultingly. "Does it not haunt in the
neighbourhood to this very day?"

"Haunts!" exclaimed several of the
party, opening their eyes still wider, and
edging their chairs still closer.

"Ay, haunts," repeated Peechy: "have
none of you heard of Father Redcap,
who haunts the old burnt farm-house in
the woods, on the border of the Sound,
near Hell-gate?"

"Oh! to be sure, I've heard tell of
something of the kind: but then I took
it for some old wives' fable."

"Old wives' fable or not," said Peechy
Prauw, "that farm-house stands hard by
the very spot. It's been unoccupied time
out of mind, and stands in a lonely part

of the coast; but those who fish in the
neighbourhood have often heard strange
noises there; and lights have been seen
about the wood at night; and an old
fellow in a red cap has been seen at the
windows more than once, which people
take to be the ghost of the body that
was buried there. Once upon a time
three soldiers took shelter in the building
for the night, and rummaged it from top
to bottom, when they found old Father
Redcap astride of a cider-barrel in the
cellar, with a jug in one hand and a
goblet in the other. He offered them a
drink out of his goblet; but just as one
of the soldiers was putting it to his
mouth—whew!—a flash of fire blazed
through the cellar, blinded every mother's
son of them for several minutes,
and when they recovered their eyesight,
jug, goblet, and Redcap, had vanished,
and nothing but the empty cider-barrel
remained!"

Here the half-pay officer, who was
growing very muzzy and sleepy, and
nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished
eye, suddenly gleamed up
like an expiring rushlight.

"That's all fudge!" said he, as Peechy
finished his last story.

"Well, I don't vouch for the truth of
it myself," said Peechy Prauw, "though
all the world knows that there's something
strange about that house and
grounds; but as to the story of Mud
Sam, I believe it just as well as if it
had happened to myself."

The deep interest taken in this conversation
by the company had made them
unconscious of the uproar that prevailed
abroad among the elements, when
suddenly they were all electrified by a
tremendous clap of thunder; a lumbering
crash followed instantaneously,
shaking the building to its very foundation—all
started from their seats, imagining
it the shock of an earthquake,
or that old Father Redcap was coming
among them in all his terrors. They
listened for a moment, but only heard
the rain pelting against the windows,
and the wind howling among the trees.
The explosion was soon explained by
the apparition of an old negro's bald
head thrust in at the door, his white
goggle eyes contrasting with his jetty
poll, which was wet with rain, and
shone like a bottle. In a jargon but
half intelligible, he announced that the
kitchen chimney had been struck with
lightning.

A sullen pause of the storm, which
now rose and sunk in gusts, produced
a momentary stillness. In this interval,
the report of a musket was heard, and a
long shout, almost like a yell, resounded
from the shore. Every one crowded to
the window. Another musket-shot was
heard, and another long shout, that mingled
wildly with a rising blast of wind.
It seemed as if the cry came up from
the bosom of the waters; for though
incessant flashes of lightning spread a
light about the shore, no one was to be
seen.

Suddenly the window of the room
overhead was opened, and a loud halloo
uttered by the mysterious stranger. Several
hailings passed from one party to
the other, but in a language which none
of the company in the bar-room could
understand; and presently they heard
the window closed, and a great noise
overhead, as if all the furniture were
pulled and hauled about the room. The
negro servant was summoned, and
shortly after was seen assisting the
veteran to lug the ponderous sea-chest
down stairs.

The landlord was in amazement—
"What!—you are not going on the
water in such a storm?"

"Storm!" said the other scornfully;
"do you call such a sputter of weather
a storm?"

"You'll get drenched to the skin—
you'll catch your death!" said Peechy
Prauw, affectionately.

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed
the merman; "don't preach about weather
to a man that has cruised in whirlwinds
and tornadoes!"

The obsequious Peechy was again
struck dumb. The voice from the water
was heard once more, in a tone
of impatience. The bystanders stared
with redoubled awe at this man of
storms, who seemed to have come up
out of the deep, and to be summoned
back to it again. As, with the assistance
of the negro, he slowly bore his

ponderous sea-chest towards the shore,
they eyed it with a superstitious feeling,
half doubting whether he were not
really about to embark upon it, and
launch forth upon the wild waves. They
followed him at a distance with a lantern.

"Douse the light!" roared the hoarse
voice from the water—"no one wants
lights here!"

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed
the veteran, turning short upon them;
"back to the house with you."

Wolfert and his companions shrunk
back in dismay. Still their curiosity
would not allow them entirely to withdraw.
A long sheet of lightning now
flickered across the waves, and discovered
a boat, filled with men, just under
a rocky point, rising and sinking with
the heaving surges, and swashing the
water at every heave. It was with difficulty
held to the rocks by a boat-hook,
for the current rushed furiously round
the point. The veteran hoisted one end
of the lumbering sea-chest on the gunwale
of the boat; he seized the handle
at the other end to lift it in, when the
motion propelled the boat from the shore;
the chest slipped off from the gunwale,
and sinking into the waves, pulled the
veteran headlong after it. A loud
shriek was uttered by all on shore,
and a volley of execrations, by those
on board—but boat and man were hurried
away by the rushing swiftness of
the tide. A pitchy darkness succeeded;
Wolfert Webber, indeed, fancied that he
distinguished a cry for help, and that he
beheld the drowning man beckoning for
assistance; but when the lightning again
gleamed along the water, all was void;
neither man nor boat were to be seen;
nothing but the dashing and weltering of
the waves as they hurried past.

The company returned to the tavern
to await the subsiding of the storm.
They resumed their seats, and gazed on
each other with dismay. The whole
transaction had not occupied five minutes,
and not a dozen words had been
spoken. When they looked at the oaken
chair, they could scarcely realize the
fact, that the strange being, who had so
lately tenanted it, full of life and Herculean
vigour, should already be a corpse.
There was the very glass he had just
drunk from; there lay the ashes from
the pipe which he had smoked, as it
were, with his last breath. As the
worthy burghers pondered on these
things, they felt a terrible conviction of
the uncertainty of existence, and each
felt as if the ground on which he stood
was rendered less stable by this awful
example.

As, however, the most of the company
were possessed of that valuable philosophy
which enables a man to bear up
with fortitude against the misfortunes of
his neighbours, they soon managed to
console themselves for the tragic end of
the veteran. The landlord was particularly
happy that the poor dear man had
paid his reckoning before he went: and
made a kind of farewell speech on the
occasion. "He came," said he, "in a
storm, and he went in a storm—he
came in the night, and he went in the
night—he came nobody knows from
whence, and he has gone nobody knows
where. For aught I know, he has gone
to sea once more on his chest, and may
land to bother some people on the other
side of the world! Though it's a thousand
pities," added he, "if he has gone
to Davy Jones's locker, that he had not
left his own locker behind him."

"His locker! St. Nicholas preserve
us!" cried Peechy Prauw—"I'd not
have had that sea-chest in the house
for any money; I'll warrant he'd come
racketing after it at nights, and making
a haunted house of the inn; and as to
his going to sea in his chest, I recollect
what happened to Skipper Onderdonk's
ship, on his voyage from Amsterdam.
The boatswain died during a storm, so
they wrapped him up in a sheet, and
put him in his own sea-chest, and threw
him overboard; but they neglected, in
their hurry-scurry, to say prayers over
him; and the storm raged and roared
louder than ever, and they saw the dead
man seated in his chest, with his shroud
for a sail, coming hard after the ship,
and the sea breaking before him in great
sprays, like fire; and there they kept
scudding day after day, and night after
night, expecting every moment to go to
wreck; and every night they saw the
dead boatswain, in his sea-chest, trying
to get up with them, and they heard his

whistle above the blasts of wind, and he
seemed to send great seas, mountain
high, after them, that would have
swamped the ship if they had not put
up the deadlights; and so it went on
till they lost sight of him in the fogs off
Newfoundland, and supposed he had
veered ship, and stood for Dead Man's
Isle. So much for burying a man at
sea, without saying prayers over him."

The thundergust which had hitherto
detained the company was at an end.
The cuckoo-clock in the hall told midnight;
every one pressed to depart, for
seldom was such a late hour of the night
trespassed on by these quiet burghers.
As they sallied forth, they found the
heavens once more serene. The storm
which had lately obscured them had
rolled away, and lay piled up in fleecy
masses on the horizon, lighted up by
the bright crescent of the moon, which
looked like a little silver lamp hung up
in a palace of clouds.

The dismal occurrence of the night,
and the dismal narrations they had
made, had left a superstitious feeling in
every mind. They cast a fearful glance
at the spot where the bucanier had disappeared,
almost expecting to see him
sailing on his chest in the cool moonshine.
The trembling rays glittered
along the waters, but a was placid;
and the current dimpled over the spot
where he had gone down. The party
huddled together in a little crowd as
they repaired homewards, particularly
when they passed a lonely field, where
a man had been murdered; and even the
sexton who had to complete his journey
alone, though accustomed, one would
think, to ghosts and goblins, yet went
a long way round, rather than pass by
his own churchyard.

Wolfert Webber had now carried home
a fresh stock of stories and notions to
ruminate upon. These accounts of pots
of money and Spanish treasures, buried
here and there and every where about
the rocks and bays of these wild shores,
made him almost dizzy. "Blessed St.
Nicholas!" ejaculated he, half aloud, "is
it not possible to come upon one of these
golden hoards, and to make one's self
rich in a twinkling? How hard that I
must go on, delving and delving, day in
and day out, merely to make a morsel
of bread, when one lucky stroke of a
spade might enable me to ride in my
carriage for the rest of my life!"

As he turned over in his thoughts all
that had been told of the singular adventure
of the negro fisherman, his imagination
gave a totally different complexion
to the tale. He saw in the gang of redcaps
nothing but a crew of pirates burying
their spoils, and his cupidity was
once more awakened by the possibility
of at length getting on the traces of some
of this lurking wealth. Indeed, his infected
fancy tinged every thing with
gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of
Bagdad, when his eyes had been greased
with the magic ointment of the dervise,
that gave him to see all the treasures of
the earth. Caskets of buried jewels,
chests of ingots, and barrels of outlandish
coins, seemed to court him from
their concealments, and supplicate him
to relieve them from their untimely
graves.

On making private inquiries about the
grounds said to be haunted by Father
Redcap, he was more and more confirmed
in his surmise. He learned that
the place had several times been visited
by experienced money-diggers, who had
heard Black Sam's story, though none of
them had met with success. On the contrary,
they had always been dogged with
ill luck of some kind or other, in consequence,
as Wolfert concluded, of not
going to work at the proper time, and
with the proper ceremonials. The last
attempt had been made by Cobus Quackenbos,
who dug for a whole night, and
met with incredible difficulty; for, as
fast as he threw one shovelful of earth
out of the hole, two were thrown in by
invisible hands. He succeeded so far,
however, as to uncover an iron chest,
when there was a terrible roaring, ramping,
and raging of uncouth figures about
the hole, and at length a shower of blows
dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belaboured
him off of the forbidden ground.
This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on
his deathbed, so that there could not be
any doubt of it. He was a man that
had devoted many years of his life to
money-digging, and it was thought would
have ultimately succeeded, had he not

died recently of a brain-fever in the
almshouse.

Wolfert Webber was now in a worry
of trepidation and impatience, fearful lest
some rival adventurer should get a scent
of the buried gold. He determined privately
to seek out the black fisherman,
and get him to serve as guide to the
place where he had witnessed the mysterious
scene of interment. Sam was
easily found, for he was one of those old
habitual beings that live about a neighbourhood
until they wear themselves a
place in the public mind, and become, in
a manner, public characters. There was
not an unlucky urchin about town that
did not know Mud Sam, the fisherman,
and think that he had a right to play his
tricks upon the old negro. Sam had led
an amphibious life, for more than half a
century, about the shores of the bay and
the fishing-grounds of the Sound. He
passed the greater part of his time on
and in the water, particularly about Hell-gate;
and might have been taken, in bad
weather, for one of the hobgoblins that
used to haunt that strait. There would
he be seen at all times, and in all weathers;
sometimes in his skiff anchored
among the eddies, or prowling like a
shark about some wreck, where the fish
are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes
seated on a rock, from hour to
hour, looking, in the mist and drizzle,
like a solitary heron watching for its
prey. He was well acquainted with
every hole and corner of the Sound, from
the Wallabout to Hell-gate, and from
Hell-gate even unto the Devil's Steppingstones;
and it was even affirmed that he
knew all the fish in the river by their
Christian names.

Wolfert found him at his cabin, which
was not much larger than a tolerable
dog-house. It was rudely constructed of
fragments of wrecks and drift-wood, and
built on the rocky shore, at the foot of
the old fort, just about what at present
forms the point of the Battery. A
"most ancient and fish-like smell" pervaded
the place. Oars, paddles, and
fishing-rods were leaning against the
wall of the fort; a net was spread on the
sands to dry; a skiff was drawn up
on the beach; and at the door of his
cabin was Mud Sam himself, indulging
in the true negro luxury of sleeping in
the sunshine.

Many years had passed away since
the time of Sam's youthful adventure,
and the snows of many a winter had
grizzled the knotty wool upon his head.
He perfectly recollected the circumstances,
however, for he had often been
called upon to relate them, though, in
his version of the story, he differed in
many points from Peechy Prauw; as is
not unfrequently the case with authentic
historians. As to the subsequent researches
of money-diggers, Sam knew
nothing about them, they were matters
quite out of his line; neither did the
cautious Wolfert care to disturb his
thoughts on that point. His only wish
was to secure the old fisherman as a
pilot to the spot, and this was readily
effected. The long time that had intervened
since his nocturnal adventure, had
effaced all Sam's awe of the place, and
the promise of a trifling reward roused him
at once from his sleep and his sunshine.

The tide was adverse to making the
expedition by water, and Wolfert was too
impatient to get to the land of promise
to wait for its turning; they set off therefore
by land. A walk of four or five
miles brought them to the edge of a
wood, which at that time covered the
greater part of the eastern side of the
island. It was just beyond the pleasant
region of Bloomen-dael. Here they struck
into a long lane, straggling among trees
and bushes, very much overgrown with
weeds and mullein stalks, as if but seldom
used, and so completely overshadowed,
as to enjoy but a kind of twilight.
Wild vines entangled the trees, and
flaunted in their faces; brambles and
briers caught their clothes as they
passed; the garter-snake glided across
their path; the spotted toad hopped and
waddled before them; and the restless
catbird mewed at them from every
thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been
deeply read in romantic legend, he might
have fancied himself entering upon forbidden,
enchanted ground; or that these
were some of the guardians set to keep
a watch upon buried treasure. As it
was, the loneliness of the place, and the
wild stories connected with it, had their
effect upon his mind.

On reaching the lower end of the lane,
they found themselves near the shore of
the Sound, in a kind of amphitheatre surrounded
by forest-trees. The area had
once been a grass-plot, but was now
shagged with briers and rank weeds.
At one end, and just on the river bank,
was a ruined building, little better than
a heap of rubbish, with a stack of chimneys
rising, like a solitary tower, out of
the centre; the current of the Sound
rushed along just below it, with wildly
grown trees drooping their branches into
its waves.

Wolfert had not a doubt that this was
the haunted house of Father Redcap,
and called to mind the story of Peechy
Prauw. The evening was approaching,
and the light, falling dubiously among
these woody places, gave a melancholy
tone to the scene, well calculated to foster
any lurking feeling of awe or superstitution.
The nighthawk, wheeling about
in the highest regions of the air, emitted
his peevish, boding cry. The woodpecker
gave a lonely tap now and then
on some hollow tree, and the fire-bird[5]
streamed by them with his deep-red
plumage. They now came to an enclosure
that had once been a garden. It
extended along the foot of a rocky ridge,
but it was little better than a wilderness
of weeds, with here and there a matted
rosebush, or a peach or plum tree, grown
wild and ragged, and covered with moss.
At the lower end of the garden they
passed a kind of vault in the side of a
bank, facing the water. It had the look
of a root-house. The door, though decayed,
was still strong, and appeared to
have been recently patched up. Wolfert
pushed it open. It gave a harsh grating
upon its hinges, and striking against
something like a box, a rattling sound
ensued, and a scull rolled on the floor.
Wolfert drew back shuddering, but was
reassured, on being informed by the
negro that this was a family-vault belonging
to one of the old Dutch families
that owned this estate; an assertion
which was corroborated by the sight of
coffins of various sizes piled within.
Sam had been familiar with all these
scenes when a boy, and now knew that
he could not be far from the place of
which they were in quest.

They now made their way to the water's
edge, scrambling along ledges of
rocks that overhung the waves, and
obliged often to hold by shrubs and
grape-vines to avoid slipping into the
deep and hurried stream. At length
they came to a small cove, or rather
indent of the shore. It was protected
by steep rocks, and overshadowed by a
thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, so as
to be sheltered and almost concealed.
The beach shelved gradually within the
cove, but the current swept, deep and
black and rapid, along its jutting points.

The negro paused; raised his remnant
of a hat, and scratched his grizzled poll
for a moment, as he regarded this nook:
then suddenly clapping his hands, he
stepped exultingly forward, and pointed
to a large iron ring, stapled firmly in the
rock, just where a broad shelf of stone
furnished a commodious landing-place.
It was the very spot where the red-caps
had landed. Years had changed the more
perishable features of the scene; but
rock and iron yield slowly to the influence
of time. On looking more closely,
Wolfert remarked three crosses cut in
the rock just above the ring; which had
no doubt some mysterious signification.

Old Sam now readily recognised the
overhanging rock under which his skiff
had been sheltered during the thundergust.
To follow up the course which
the midnight gang had taken, however,
was a harder task. His mind had been
so much taken up on that eventful occasion
by the persons of the drama, as to
pay but little attention to the scenes;
and these places look so different by
night and day. After wandering about
for some time, however, they came to an
opening among the trees, which Sam
thought resembled the place. There was
a ledge of rock of moderate height, like
a wall, on one side, which he thought
might be the very ridge from whence he
had overlooked the diggers. Wolfert
examined it narrowly, and at length discovered
three crosses, similar to those
above the iron ring, cut deeply into the
face of the rock, but nearly obliterated
by the moss that had grown over them.
His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted

not they were the private marks of the
bucaniers. All now that remained was
to ascertain the precise spot where the
treasure lay buried, for otherwise he
might dig at random in the neighbourhood
of the crosses, without coming upon
the spoils, and he had already had enough
of such profitless labour. Here, however,
the old negro was perfectly at a
loss, and indeed perplexed by a variety
of opinions; for his recollections were
all confused. Sometimes he declared it
must have been at the foot of a mulberry
tree hard by; then it was just beside a
great white stone; then it must have
been under a small green knoll, a short
distance from the ledge of rock; until at
length Wolfert became as bewildered as
himself.

The shadows of evening were now
spreading themselves over the woods, and
rock and tree began to mingle together.
It was evidently too late to attempt any
thing further at present; and indeed
Wolfert had come unprovided with implements
to prosecute his researches.
Satisfied, therefore, with having ascertained
the place, he took note of all its
landmarks that he might recognise it
again, and set out on his return homewards;
resolved to prosecute this golden
enterprise without delay.

The leading anxiety, which had
hitherto absorbed every feeling, being
now in some measure appeased, fancy
began to wander, and to conjure up a
thousand shapes and chimeras as he
returned through this haunted region.
Pirates hanging in chains seemed to
swing from every tree, and he almost
expected to see some Spanish Don, with
his throat cut from ear to ear, rising
slowly out of the ground, and shaking
the ghost of a money-bag.

Their way back lay through the desolate
garden, and Wolfert's nerves had
arrived at so sensitive a state, that the
flitting of a bird, the rustling of a leaf,
or the falling of a nut, was enough to
startle them. As they entered the confines
of the garden, they caught sight of
a figure at a distance, advancing slowly
up one of the walks, and bending under
the weight of a burthen. They paused,
and regarded him attentively. He wore
what appeared to be a woollen cap, and,
still more alarming, of a most sanguinary
red. The figure moved slowly on, ascended
the bank, and stopped at the very
door of the sepulchral vault. Just before
entering it, he looked around. What
was the affright of Wolfert, when he recognized
the grisly visage of the drowned
bucanier! He uttered an ejaculation of
horror. The figure slowly raised his
iron fist, and shook it with a terrible
menace.

Wolfert did not pause to see any more,
but hurried off as fast as his legs could
carry him, nor was Sam slow in following
at his heels, having all his ancient
terrors revived. Away then did they
scramble, through bush and brake, horribly
frightened at every bramble that
tugged at their skirts; nor did they pause
to breathe, until they had blundered their
way through this perilous wood, and had
fairly reached the high road to the city.

Several days elapsed before Wolfert
could summon courage enough to prosecute
the enterprise, so much had he been
dismayed by the apparition, whether
living or dead, of the grisly bucanier.
In the mean time, what a conflict of mind
did he suffer! He neglected all his concerns;
was moody and restless all day;
lost his appetite; wandered in his thoughts
and words, and committed a thousand
blunders. His rest was broken; and
when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in
shape of a huge money-bag, sat squatted
upon his breast. He babbled about incalculable
sums; fancied himself engaged
in money-digging; threw the bedelothes
right and left, in the idea that he was
shovelling away the dirt; groped under
the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged
forth, as he supposed, an inestimable
pot of gold.

Dame Webber and her daughter were
in despair at what they conceived a returning
touch of insanity. There are
two family oracles, one or other of which
Dutch housewives consult in all cases of
great doubt and perplexity—the dominie
and the doctor. In the present instance,
they repaired to the doctor. There was
at that time a little, dark, mouldy man of
medicine, famous among the old wives of
the Manhattoes for his skill, not only in
the healing art, but in all matters of
strange and mysterious nature. His

name was Dr. Knipperhausen, but he was
more commonly known by the appellation
of the High German doctor.[6] To
him did the poor woman repair for counsel
and assistance touching the mental
vagaries of Wolfert Webber.

They found the doctor seated in his
little study, clad in his dark camlet robe
of knowledge, with his black velvet cap,
after the manner of Boerhaave, Van Helmont,
and other medical sages; a pair of
green spectacles set in black horn upon
his clubbed nose; and poring over a
German folio that reflected back the
darkness of his physiognomy.

The doctor listened to their statement
of the symptoms of Wolfert's malady
with profound attention; but when they
came to mention his raving about buried
money, the little man pricked up his ears.
Alas, poor women! they little knew the
aid they had called in.

Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his
life engaged in seeking the short cuts to
fortune, in quest of which so many a
long lifetime is wasted. He had passed
some years of his youth among the Harz
mountains of Germany, and had derived
much valuable instruction from the
miners, touching the mode of seeking
treasure buried in the earth. He had
prosecuted his studies also under a travelling
sage, who united the mysteries of
medicine with magic and legerdemain.
His mind, therefore, had become stored
with all kinds of mystic lore; he had
dabbled a little in astrology, alchymy,
divination; knew how to detect stolen
money, and to tell where springs of water
lay hidden; in a word, by the dark nature
of his knowledge, he had acquired
the name of the High German doctor,
which is pretty nearly equivalent to that
of necromancer.

The doctor had often heard the rumours
of treasure being buried in various
parts of the island, and had long been
anxious to get in the traces of it. No
sooner were Wolfert's waking and sleeping
vagaries confided to him, than he
beheld in them the confirmed symptoms
of a case of money-digging, and lost no
time in probing it to the bottom. Wolfert
had long been sorely oppressed in
mind by the golden secret, and as a
family physician is a kind of father confessor,
he was glad of an opportunity of
unburthening himself. So far from
curing, the doctor caught the malady
from his patient. The circumstances unfolded
to him awakened all his cupidity;
he had not a doubt of money being buried
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the
mysterious crosses, and offered to join
Wolfert in the search. He informed
him that much secrecy and caution must
be observed in enterprises of the kind;
that money is only to be digged for at
night, with certain forms and ceremonies,
the burning of drugs, the repeating of
mystic words, and above all, that the
seekers must be provided with a divining-rod,
which had the wonderful property of
pointing to the very spot on the surface
of the earth under which treasure lay
hidden. As the doctor had given much
of his mind to these matters, he charged
himself with all the necessary preparations,
and as the quarter of the moon was
propitious, he undertook to have the divining-rod
ready by a certain night.[7]

D. K.

Wolfert's heart leaped with joy at
having met with so learned and able a
coadjutor. Every thing went on secretly
but swimmingly. The doctor had many
consultations with his patient, and the
good woman of the household lauded the
comforting effect of his visits. In the
mean time, the wonderful divining-rod,
that great key to nature's secrets, was
duly prepared. The doctor had thumbed
over all his books of knowledge for the
occasion; and the black fisherman was
engaged to take him in his skiff to the
scene of enterprise; to work with spade
and pickaxe in unearthing the treasure;
and to freight his bark with the weighty
spoils they were certain of finding.

At length the appointed night arrived
for this perilous undertaking. Before
Wolfert left his home, he counselled his
wife and daughter to go to bed, and feel
no alarm if he should not return during
the night. Like reasonable women, on
being told not to feel alarm, they fell immediately
into a panic. They saw at
once by his manner that something unusual
was in agitation; all their fears
about the unsettled state of his mind were
revived with tenfold force; they hung
about him, entreating him not to expose
himself to the night air, but all in vain.
When once Wolfert was mounted on his
hobby, it was no easy matter to get him
out of the saddle. It was a clear starlight
night, when he issued out of the
portal of the Webber palace. He wore
a large flapped hat, tied under the chin
with a handkerchief of his daughter's to
secure him from the night damp; while
Dame Webber threw her long red cloak
about his shoulders, and fustened it round
his neck.

The doctor had been no less carefully
armed and accoutred by his housekeeper,
the vigilant Frau Ilsy, and sallied forth
in his camlet robe by way of surcoat;
his black velvet cap under his cocked
hat; a thick clasped book under his arm;
a basket of drugs and dried herbs in one
hand, and in the other the miraculous
rod of divination.

The great church clock struck ten as
Wolfert and the doctor passed by the
churchyard, and the watchman bawled,
in a hoarse voice, a long and doleful
"All's well!" A deep sleep had already
fallen upon this primitive little burgh.
Nothing disturbed this awful silence, excepting
now and then the bark of some
profligate, night-walking dog, or the
serenade of some romantic cat.

It is true Wolfert fancied more than
once that he heard the sound of a stealthy
footfall at a distance behind them; but
it might have been merely the sound of
their own steps echoing along the quiet
street. He thought also, at one time,
that he saw a tall figure skulking after
them, stopping when they stopped, and
moving on as they proceeded; but the
dim and uncertain lamplight threw such
vague gleams and shadows, that this
might all have been mere fancy.

They found the old fisherman waiting
for them, smoking his pipe in the stern
of his skiff, which was moored just in
front of his little cabin. A pickaxe and
spade were lying in the bottom of the
boat, with a dark lantern, and a stone
bottle of good Dutch courage, in which
honest Sam, no doubt, put even more
faith than Dr. Knipperhausen in his
drugs.

Thus, then, did these three worthies
embark in their cockle-shell of a skiff
upon this nocturnal expedition, with a
wisdom and valour equalled only by the
three wise men of Gotham, who adventured
to sea in a bowl. The tide was
rising, and running rapidly up the Sound.
The current bore them along almost
without the aid of an oar. The profile of
the town lay all in shadow. Here and
there a light feebly glimmered from some
sick chamber, or from the cabin-window
of some vessel at anchor in the stream.
Not a cloud obscured the deep starry
firmament, the lights of which wavered
on the surface of the placid river; and a
shooting meteor, streaking its pale course
in the very direction they were taking,
was interpreted by the doctor into a most
propitious omen.

In a little while they glided by the
point of Corlear's Hook, with the rural

inn, which had been the scene of such
night adventures. The family had retired
to rest, and the house was dark and
still. Wolfert felt a chill pass over him
as they passed the point where the bucanier
had disappeared. He pointed it
out to Dr. Knipperhausen. While regarding
it, they thought they saw a boat
actually lurking at the very place; but
the shore cast such a shadow over the
border of the water, that they could discern
nothing distinctly. They had not
proceeded far, when they heard the low
sound of distant oars, as if cautiously
pulled. Sam plied his oars with redoubled
vigour, and knowing all the eddies
and currents of the stream, soon left their
followers, if such they were, far astern.
In a little while they stretched across
Turtle Bay and Kip's Bay, then shrouded
themselves in the deep shadows of the
Manhattan shore, and glided swiftly
along, secure from observation. At
length the negro shot his skiff into a
little cove, darkly embowered by trees,
and made it fast to the well-known iron
ring.

They now landed, and lighting the
lantern, gathered their various implements,
and proceeded slowly through the
bushes. Every sound startled them, even
that of their own footsteps among the
dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech
owl from the shattered chimney of the
neighbouring ruin made their blood run
cold.

In spite of all Wolfert's caution in
taking note of the landmarks, it was
some time before they could find the
open place among the trees, where the
treasure was supposed to be buried. At
length they came to the ledge of rock,
and on examining its surface by the aid
of the lantern, Wolfert recognised the
three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat
quick, for the momentous trial was at
hand that was to determine their hopes.

The lantern was now held by Wolfert
Webber, while the doctor produced the
divining-rod. It was a forked twig, one
end of which was grasped firmly in each
hand; while the centre, forming the
stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards.
The doctor moved this wand about,
within a certain distance of the earth,
from place to place, but for some time
without any effect; while Wolfert kept
the light of the lantern turned full upon
it, and watched it with the most breathless
interest. At length the rod began
slowly to turn. The doctor grasped it
with greater earnestness, his hands trembling
with the agitation of his mind. The
wand continued to turn gradually, until
at length the stem had reversed its position,
and pointed perpendicularly downward,
and remained pointing to one spot
as fixedly as the needle to the pole.

"This is the spot!" said the doctor in
an almost inaudible tone.

Wolfert's heart was in his throat.

"Shall I dig?" said the negro, grasping
the spade.

"Potstausends, no!" replied the little
doctor hastily. He now ordered his
companions to keep close by him, and
to maintain the most inflexible silence;
that certain precautions must be taken,
and ceremonies used, to prevent the evil
spirits which kept about buried treasure
from doing them any harm.

He then drew a circle about the place,
enough to include the whole party. He
next gathered dry twigs and leaves, and
made a fire, upon which he threw certain
drugs and dried herbs, which he had
brought in his basket. A thick smoke
arose, diffusing its potent odour, savouring
marvellously of brimstone and assafœtida,
which, however grateful it might
be to the olfactory nerves of spirits,
nearly strangled poor Wolfert, and produced
a fit of coughing and wheezing
that made the whole grove resound. Dr.
Knipperhausen then unclasped the volume
which he had brought under his arm,
which was printed in red and black
characters in German text. While Wolfert
held the lantern, the doctor, by the
aid of his spectacles, read off several
forms of conjuration in Latin and German.
He then ordered Sam to seize the
pickaxe and proceed to work. The
close-bound soil gave obstinate signs of
not having been disturbed for many a
year. After having picked his way
through the surface, Sam came to a bed
of sand and gravel, which he threw
briskly to right and left with the spade.

"Hark!" said Wolfert, who fancied
he heard a trampling among the dry
leaves, and a rustling through the bushes.

Sam paused for a moment, and they listened—no
footstep was near. The bat
flitted by them in silence; a bird, roused
from its roost by the light which glared
up among the trees, flew circling about
the flame. In the profound stillness of
the woodland they could distinguish the
current rippling along the rocky shore,
and the distant murmuring and roaring
of Hell-gate.

The negro continued his labours, and
had already digged a considerable hole.
The doctor stood on the edge, reading
formulæ, every now and then, from his
black-letter volume, or throwing more
drugs and herbs upon the fire, while
Wolfert bent anxiously over the pit,
watching every stroke of the spade.
Any one witnessing the scene, thus
lighted up by fire, lantern, and the reflection
of Wolfert's red mantle, might
have mistaken the little doctor for some
foul magician, busied in his incantations,
and the grizzly-headed negro for some
swart goblin obedient to his commands.

At length the spade of the old fisherman
struck upon something that sounded
hollow; the sound vibrated to Wolfert's
heart. He struck his spade again—

" 'Tis a chest," said Sam.

"Full of gold, I'll warrant it!" cried
Wolfert, clasping his hands with rapture.

Scarcely had he uttered the words
when a sound from above caught his
ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by
the expiring light of the fire, he beheld,
just over the disk of the rock, what appeared
to be the grim visage of the
drowned bucanier, grinning hideously
upon him.

Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall
the lantern. His panic communicated
itself to his companions. The negro
leaped out of the hole; the doctor dropped
his book and basket, and began to
pray in German. All was horror and
confusion. The fire was scattered about,
the lantern extinguished. In their hurry-scurry,
they ran against and confounded
one another. They fancied a legion of
hobgoblins let loose upon them, and that
they saw, by the fitful gleams of the
scattered embers, strange figures in red
caps, gibbering and ramping around them.
The doctor ran one way, the negro
another, and Wolfert made for the waterside.
As he plunged, struggling onwards
through bush and brake, he heard the
tread of some one in pursuit. He scrambled
frantickly forward. The footsteps
gained upon him. He felt himself grasped
by his cloak, when suddenly his pursuer
was attacked in turn. A fierce fight and
struggle ensued. A pistol was discharged
that lit up rock and bush for a second,
and showed two figures grappling together—all
was then darker than ever.
The contest continued; the combatants
clenched each other, and panted and
groaned, and rolled among the rocks.
There was snarling and growling as of a
cur, mingled with curses, in which Wolfort
fancied he could recognise the voice
of the bucanier. He would fain have
fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice,
and could go no farther. Again
the parties were on their feet; again
there was a tugging and struggling, as if
strength alone could decide the combat,
until one was precipitated from the brow
of the cliff, and sent headlong into the
deep stream that whirled below. Wolfert
heard the plunge, and a kind of strangling,
bubbling murmur; but the darkness
of the night hid every thing from
him, and the swiftness of the current
swept every thing instantly out of bearing.

One of the combatants was disposed
of, but whether friend or foe Wolfert
could not tell, or whether they might not
both be foes. He heard the survivor
approach, and terror revived. He saw,
where the profile of the rocks rose against
the horizon, a human form advancing.
He could not be mistaken—it must be
the bucanier. Whither should he fly?
a precipice was on one side, a murderer
on the other. The enemy approached—
he was close at hand. Wolfert attempted
to let himself down the face of the cliff.
His cloak caught in a thorn that grew
on the edge: he was jerked from off his
feet, and held dangling in the air, half
choked by the string with which his careful
wife had fastened the garment round
his neck. Wolfert thought his last moment
was arrived; already he had committed
his soul to St. Nicholas, when the
string broke, and he tumbled down the
bank, bumping from rock to rock, and
bush to bush, and leaving the red cloak

fluttering, like a bloody banner, in the
air.

It was a long while before Wolfert
came to himself. When he opened his
eyes, the ruddy streaks of morning were
already shooting up the sky. He found
himself lying in the bottom of a boat,
grievously battered. He attempted to sit
up, but was too sore and stiff to move.
A voice requested him, in friendly accents,
to lie still. He turned his eyes
towards the speaker—it was Dirk Waldron.
He had dogged the party at the
earnest request of Dame Webber and her
daughter, who, with the laudable curiosity
of their sex, had pried into the secret
consultations of Wolfert and the doctor.
Dirk had been completely distanced in
following the light skiff of the fisherman,
and had just come in time to rescue the
poor money-digger from his pursuer.

Thus ended this perilous enterprise.
The doctor and Black Sam severally
found their way back to the Manhattoes,
each having some dreadful tale of peril
to relate. As to poor Wolfert, instead of
returning in triumph, laden with bags of
gold, he was borne home on a shutter,
followed by a rabble rout of curious
urchins.

His wife and daughter saw the dismal
pageant from a distance, and alarmed
the neighbourhood with their cries; they
thought the poor man had suddenly settled
the great debt of nature in one of his
wayward moods. Finding him, however,
still living, they had him speedily to bed,
and a jury of old matrons of the neighbourhood
assembled to determine how he
should be doctored.

The whole town was in a buzz with
the story of the money-diggers. Many
repaired to the scene of the previous
night's adventures; but though they
found the very place of digging, they
discovered nothing that compensated
them for their trouble. Some say they
found the fragments of an oaken chest,
and an iron potlid, which savoured
strongly of hidden money, and that in
the old family vault there were traces of
bales and boxes, but this is all very
dubious.

In fact, the secret of all this story has
never to this day been discovered. Whether
any treasure were ever actually
buried at that place; whether, if so, it
were carried off at night by those who
had buried it; or whether it still remains
there under the guardianship of gnomes
and spirits, until it shall be properly
sought for, is all matter of conjecture.
For my part, I incline to the latter opinion,
and make no doubt that great sums
lie buried, both there and in many other
parts of this island and its neighbourhood,
ever since the times of the bucaniers
and the Dutch colonists; and I
would earnestly recommend the search
after them to such of my fellow-citizens
as are not engaged in any other speculations.
There were many conjectures
formed, also, as to who and what was
the strange man of the seas who had
domineered over the little fraternity at
Corlear's Hook for a time, disappeared
so strangely, and re-appeared so fearfully.

Some supposed him a smuggler, stationed
at that place to assist his comrades
in landing their goods among the
rocky coves of the island. Others, that
he was one of the ancient comrades,
either of Kidd or Bradish, returned to
convey treasures formerly hidden in the
vicinity. The only circumstance that
throws any thing like a vague light on
this mysterious matter, is a report which
prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop,
with much the look of a picaroon,
having been seen hovering about the
Sound for several days without landing
or reporting herself, though boats were
seen going to and from her at night;
and that she was seen standing out of
the mouth of the harbour, in the gray of
the dawn, after the catastrophe of the
money-diggers.

I must not omit to mention another
report, also, which I confess is rather
apocryphal, of the bucanier, who was
supposed to have been drowned, being
seen before daybreak with a lantern in
his hand, seated astride his great sea-chest,
and sailing through Hell-gate,
which just then began to roar and bellow
with redoubled fury.

While all the gossip world was thus
filled with talk and rumour, poor Wolfert
lay sick and sorrowful in his bed,
bruised in body, and sorely beaten down
in mind. His wife and daughter did all

they could to bind up his wounds, both
corporal and spiritual. The good old
dame never stirred from his bed-side,
where she sat knitting from morning till
night; while his daughter busied herself
about him with the fondest care. Nor
did they lack assistance from abroad.
Whatever may be said of the desertion
of friends in distress, they had no complaint
of the kind to make; not an old
wife of the neighbourhood but abandoned
her work to crowd to the mansion of
Wolfert Webber, inquire after his health,
and the particulars of his story. Not
one came, moreover, without her little
pipkin of pennyroyal, sage-balm, or other
herb-tea, delighted at an opportunity of
signalizing her kindness and her doctorship.
What drenchings did not the poor
Wolfert undergo! and all in vain. It
was a moving sight to behold him wasting
away day by day; growing thinner and
thinner, and ghastlier and ghastlier; and
staring with rueful visage from under an
old patchwork counterpane, upon the jury
of matrons kindly assembled to sigh and
groan, and look unhappy around him.

Dirk Waldron was the only being that
seemed to shed a ray of sunshine into
this house of mourning. He came in
with cheery look and manly spirit, and
tried to reanimate the expiring heart of
the poor money-digger; but it was all in
vain. Wolfert was completely done over.
If any thing was wanting to complete his
despair, it was a notice served upon him,
in the midst of his distress, that the corporation
were about to run a new street
through the very centre of his cabbage-garden.
He now saw nothing before
him but poverty and ruin—his last reliance,
the garden of his forefathers, was
to be laid waste—and what then was to
become of his poor wife and child? His
eyes filled with tears as they followed
the dutiful Amy out of the room one
morning. Dirk Waldron was seated
beside him; Wolfert grasped his hand,
pointed after his daughter, and for the
first time since his illness, broke the
silence he had maintained.

"I am going," said he, shaking his
head feebly; "and when I am gone—
my poor daughter—"

"Leave her to me, father!" said Dirk,
manfully; "I'll take care of her!"

Wolfert looked up in the face of the
cheery, strapping youngster, and saw
there was none better able to take care
of a woman.

"Enough," said he, "she is yours!—
and now fetch me a lawyer—let me
make my will and die."

The lawyer was brought, a dapper,
bustling, round-headed little man—Roorbach
(or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced)
by name. At the sight of him the women
broke into loud lamentations, for
they looked upon the signing of a will
as the signing of a death-warrant.
Wolfert made a feeble motion for them
to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face
and her grief in the bed-curtain; Dame
Webber resumed her knitting to hide her
distress, which betrayed itself, however,
in a pellucid tear which trickled silently
down, and hung at the end of her peaked
nose; while the cat, the only unconcerned
member of the family, played
with the good dame's ball of worsted, as
it rolled about the floor.

Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap
drawn over his forehead, his eyes closed,
his whole visage the picture of death. He
begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt
his end approaching, and that he had no
time to lose. The lawyer nibbed his pen,
spread out his paper, and prepared to
write.

"I give and bequeath," said Wolfert,
faintly, "my small farm—"

"What! all?" exclaimed the lawyer.

Wolfert half opened his eyes and
looked upon the lawyer.

"Yes—all," said he.

"What! all that great patch of land
with cabbages and sunflowers, which the
corporation is just going to run a main
street through?"

"The same," said Wolfert, with a
heavy sigh, and sinking back upon his
pillow.

"I wish him joy that inherits it!" said
the little lawyer, chuckling and rubbing
his hands involuntarily.

"What do you mean?" said Wolfert,
again opening his eyes.

"That he'll be one of the richest men
in the place!" cried little Rollebuck.

The expiring Wolfert seemed to step
back from the threshold of existence;
his eyes again lighted up; he raised

himself in his bed, shoved back his
worsted red nightcap, and stared broadly
at the lawyer.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed he.

"Faith, but I do!" rejoined the other.
"Why, when that great field, and that
huge meadow, come to be laid out in
streets, and cut up into snug buildinglots—why,
whoever owns it need not
pull off his hat to the patroon!"

"Say you so?" cried Wolfert, half
thrusting one leg out of bed; "why, then,
I think I'll not make my will yet!"

To the surprise of every body, the
dying man actually recovered. The
vital spark, which had glimmered faintly
in the socket, received fresh fuel from
the oil of gladness which the little lawyer
poured into his soul. It once more
burnt up into a flame. Give physic to
the heart, ye who would revive the body
of a spirit-broken man! In a few days
Wolfert left his room; in a few days
more his table was covered with deeds,
plans of streets, and building-lots. Little
Rollebuck was constantly with him, his
right-hand man and adviser, and instead
of making his will, assisted in the more
agreeable task of making his fortune.

In fact, Wolfert Webber was one of
those many worthy Dutch burghers of
the Manhattoes, whose fortunes have
been made in a manner in spite of themselves;
who have tenaciously held on to
their hereditary acres, raising turnips
and cabbages about the skirts of the city,
hardly able to make both ends meet, until
the corporation has cruelly driven streets
through their abodes, and they have suddenly
awakened out of their lethargy, and
to their astonishment found themselves
rich men!

Before many months had elapsed, a
great bustling street passed through the
very centre of the Webber garden, just
where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a
treasure. His golden dream was accomplished.
He did indeed find an unlooked-for
source of wealth; for when his
paternal lands were distributed into
building-lots, and rented out to safe
tenants, instead of producing a paltry
crop of cabbages, they returned him an
abundant crop of rents; insomuch that
on quarter-day it was a goodly sight to
see his tenants knocking at his door
from morning till night, each with a little
round-bellied bag of money, the golden
produce of the soil.

The ancient mansion of his forefathers
was still kept up; but instead of being a
little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a
garden, it now stood boldly in the midst
of a street, the grand house of the neighbourhood;
for Wolfert enlarged it with
a wing on each side, and a cupola or tearoom
on top, where he might climb up
and smoke his pipe in hot weather; and
in the course of time the whole mansion
was overrun by the chubby-faced progeny
of Amy Webber and Dirk Waldron.

As Wolfert waxed old, and rich, and
corpulent, he also set up a great gingerbread-coloured
carriage, drawn by a pair
of black Flanders mares, with tails that
swept the ground; and to commemorate
the origin of his greatness, he had for
his crest a full-blown cabbage painted
on the panels with the pithy motto
Alles opf, that is to say, ALL HEAD,
meaning thereby, that he had risen by
sheer head-work.

To fill the measure of his greatness,
in the fulness of time the renowned Ramm
Rapelye slept with his fathers, and Wolfert
Webber succeeded to the leather-bottomed
arm-chair, in the inn-parlour
at Corlear's Hook, where he long reigned,
greatly honoured and respected, insomuch
that he was never known to tell a
story without its being believed, nor to
utter a joke without its being laughed at.