Eminent Hands by William Makepeace Thackeray
PHIL FOGARTY. A
TALE OF THE
THE STARS AND
A PLAN FOR A
NOVELS BY EMINENT HANDS.
GEORGE DE BARNWELL
BY SIR E. L. B. L., BART.
In the Morning of Life the Truthful wooed the Beautiful, and their
offspring was Love. Like his Divine parents, He is eternal. He has
his Mother's ravishing smile; his Father's steadfast eyes. He rises
every day, fresh and glorious as the untired Sun-God. He is Eros, the
ever young. Dark, dark were this world of ours had either Divinity
left it—dark without the day-beams of the Latonian Charioteer, darker
yet without the daedal Smile of the God of the Other Bow! Dost know
Old is he, Eros, the ever young. He and Time were children
together. Chronos shall die, too; but Love is imperishable.
Brightest of the Divinities, where hast thou not been sung? Other
worships pass away; the idols for whom pyramids were raised lie in
the desert crumbling and almost nameless; the Olympians are fled,
their fanes no longer rise among the quivering olive-groves of
Ilissus, or crown the emerald-islets of the amethyst Aegean! These
are gone, but thou remainest. There is still a garland for thy
temple, a heifer for thy stone. A heifer? Ah, many a darker
sacrifice. Other blood is shed at thy altars, Remorseless One, and
the Poet Priest who ministers at thy Shrine draws his auguries from
the bleeding hearts of men!
While Love hath no end, Can the Bard ever cease singing? In Kingly
and Heroic ages, 'twas of Kings and Heroes that the Poet spake. But
in these, our times, the Artisan hath his voice as well as the
Monarch. The people To-Day is King, and we chronicle his woes, as
They of old did the sacrifice of the princely Iphigenia, or the fate
of the crowned Agamemnon.
Is Odysseus less august in his rags than in his purple? Fate,
Passion, Mystery, the Victim, the Avenger, the Hate that harms, the
Furies that tear, the Love that bleeds, are not these with us Still?
are not these still the weapons of the Artist? the colors of his
palette? the chords of his lyre? Listen! I tell thee a tale— not of
Kings—but of Men—not of Thrones, but of Love, and Grief, and Crime.
Listen, and but once more. 'Tis for the last time (probably) these
fingers shall sweep the strings.
E. L. B. L.
NOONDAY IN CHEPE.
'Twas noonday in Chepe. High Tide in the mighty River City!—its
banks wellnigh overflowing with the myriad-waved Stream of Man! The
toppling wains, bearing the produce of a thousand marts; the gilded
equipage of the Millionary; the humbler, but yet larger vehicle from
the green metropolitan suburbs (the Hanging Gardens of our Babylon),
in which every traveller might, for a modest remuneration, take a
republican seat; the mercenary caroche, with its private freight; the
brisk curricle of the letter-carrier, robed in royal scarlet: these
and a thousand others were laboring and pressing onward, and locked
and bound and hustling together in the narrow channel of Chepe. The
imprecations of the charioteers were terrible. From the noble's
broidered hammer-cloth, or the driving-seat of the common coach, each
driver assailed the other with floods of ribald satire. The pavid
matron within the one vehicle (speeding to the Bank for her semestrial
pittance) shrieked and trembled; the angry Dives hastening to his
office (to add another thousand to his heap,) thrust his head over the
blazoned panels, and displayed an eloquence of objurgation which his
very Menials could not equal; the dauntless street urchins, as they
gayly threaded the Labyrinth of Life, enjoyed the perplexities and
quarrels of the scene, and exacerbated the already furious combatants
by their poignant infantile satire. And the Philosopher, as he
regarded the hot strife and struggle of these Candidates in the race
for Gold, thought with a sigh of the Truthful and the Beautiful, and
walked on, melancholy and serene.
'Twas noon in Chepe. The ware-rooms were thronged. The flaunting
windows of the mercers attracted many a purchaser: the glittering
panes behind which Birmingham had glazed its simulated silver,
induced rustics to pause: although only noon, the savory odors of the
Cook Shops tempted the over hungry citizen to the bun of Bath, or to
the fragrant potage that mocks the turtle's flavor—the turtle! O
dapibus suprimi grata testudo Jovis! I am an Alderman when I think of
thee! Well: it was noon in Chepe.
But were all battling for gain there? Among the many brilliant
shops whose casements shone upon Chepe, there stood one a century
back (about which period our tale opens) devoted to the sale of
Colonial produce. A rudely carved image of a negro, with a fantastic
plume and apron of variegated feathers, decorated the lintel. The
East and West had sent their contributions to replenish the window.
The poor slave had toiled, died perhaps, to produce yon pyramid of
swarthy sugar marked "ONLY 6 1/2d."—That catty box, on which was the
epigraph "STRONG FAMILY CONGO ONLY 3s. 9d," was from the country of
Confutzee—that heap of dark produce bore the legend "TRY OUR REAL
NUT"—'Twas Cocoa—and that nut the Cocoa-nut, whose milk has
refreshed the traveller and perplexed the natural philosopher. The
shop in question was, in a word, a Grocer's.
In the midst of the shop and its gorgeous contents sat one who, to
judge from his appearance (though 'twas a difficult task, as, in
sooth, his back was turned), had just reached that happy period of
life when the Boy is expanding into the Man. O Youth, Youth! Happy
and Beautiful! O fresh and roseate dawn of life; when the dew yet
lies on the flowers, ere they have been scorched and withered by
Passion's fiery Sun! Immersed in thought or study, and indifferent to
the din around him, sat the boy. A careless guardian was he of the
treasures confided to him. The crowd passed in Chepe; he never marked
it. The sun shone on Chepe; he only asked that it should illumine the
page he read. The knave might filch his treasures; he was heedless of
the knave. The customer might enter; but his book was all in all to
And indeed a customer WAS there; a little hand was tapping on the
counter with a pretty impatience; a pair of arch eyes were gazing at
the boy, admiring, perhaps, his manly proportions through the homely
and tightened garments he wore.
"Ahem! sir! I say, young man!" the customer exclaimed.
"Ton d'apameibomenos prosephe," read on the student, his voice
choked with emotion. "What language!" he said; "how rich, how noble,
how sonorous! prosephe podas—"
The customer burst out into a fit of laughter so shrill and cheery,
that the young Student could not but turn round, and blushing, for
the first time remarked her. "A pretty grocer's boy you are," she
cried, "with your applepiebomenos and your French and lingo. Am I to
be kept waiting for hever?"
"Pardon, fair Maiden," said he, with high-bred courtesy: "'twas not
French I read, 'twas the Godlike language of the blind old bard. In
what can I be serviceable to ye, lady?" and to spring from his desk,
to smooth his apron, to stand before her the obedient Shop Boy, the
Poet no more, was the work of a moment.
"I might have prigged this box of figs," the damsel said good-
naturedly, "and you'd never have turned round."
"They came from the country of Hector," the boy said. "Would you
have currants, lady? These once bloomed in the island gardens of the
blue Aegean. They are uncommon fine ones, and the figure is low;
they're fourpence-halfpenny a pound. Would ye mayhap make trial of
our teas? We do not advertise, as some folks do: but sell as low as
any other house."
"You're precious young to have all these good things," the girl
exclaimed, not unwilling, seemingly, to prolong the conversation. "If
I was you, and stood behind the counter, I should be eating figs the
whole day long."
"Time was," answered the lad, "and not long since I thought so too.
I thought I never should be tired of figs. But my old uncle bade me
take my fill, and now in sooth I am aweary of them."
"I think you gentlemen are always so," the coquette said.
"Nay, say not so, fair stranger!" the youth replied, his face
kindling as he spoke, and his eagle eyes flashing fire. "Figs pall;
but oh! the Beautiful never does. Figs rot; but oh! the Truthful is
eternal. I was born, lady, to grapple with the Lofty and the Ideal.
My soul yearns for the Visionary. I stand behind the counter, it is
true; but I ponder here upon the deeds of heroes, and muse over the
thoughts of sages. What is grocery for one who has ambition? What
sweetness hath Muscovada to him who hath tasted of Poesy? The Ideal,
lady, I often think, is the true Real, and the Actual, but a visionary
hallucination. But pardon me; with what may I serve thee?"
"I came only for sixpenn'orth of tea-dust," the girl said, with a
faltering voice; "but oh, I should like to hear you speak on for
Only for sixpenn'orth of tea-dust? Girl, thou camest for other
things! Thou lovedst his voice? Siren! what was the witchery of
thine own? He deftly made up the packet, and placed it in the little
hand. She paid for her small purchase, and with a farewell glance of
her lustrous eyes, she left him. She passed slowly through the
portal, and in a moment was lost in the crowd. It was noon in Chepe.
And George de Barnwell was alone.
We have selected the following episodical chapter in preference to
anything relating to the mere story of George Barnwell, with which
most readers are familiar.
Up to this passage (extracted from the beginning of Vol. II.) the
tale is briefly thus:
The rogue of a Millwood has come back every day to the grocer's
shop in Chepe, wanting some sugar, or some nutmeg, or some figs, half
a dozen times in the week.
She and George de Barnwell have vowed to each other an eternal
This flame acts violently upon George. His bosom swells with
ambition. His genius breaks out prodigiously. He talks about the
Good, the Beautiful, the Ideal, in and out of all season, and is
virtuous and eloquent almost beyond belief—in fact like Devereux, or
P. Clifford, or E. Aram, Esquires.
Inspired by Millwood and love, George robs the till, and mingles in
the world which he is destined to ornament. He outdoes all the
dandies, all the wits, all the scholars, and all the voluptuaries of
the age—an indefinite period of time between Queen Anne and George
II.—dines with Curll at St. John's Gate, pinks Colonel Charteris in a
duel behind Montague House, is initiated into the intrigues of the
Chevalier St. George, whom he entertains at his sumptuous pavilion at
Hampstead, and likewise in disguise at the shop in Cheapside.
His uncle, the owner of the shop, a surly curmudgeon with very
little taste for the True and Beautiful, has retired from business to
the pastoral village in Cambridgeshire from which the noble Barnwells
came. George's cousin Annabel is, of course, consumed with a secret
passion for him.
Some trifling inaccuracies may be remarked in the ensuing brilliant
little chapter; but it must be remembered that the author wished to
present an age at a glance: and the dialogue is quite as fine and
correct as that in the "Last of the Barons," or in "Eugene Aram," or
other works of our author, in which Sentiment and History, or the True
and Beautiful, are united.
BUTTON'S IN PALL MALL.
Those who frequent the dismal and enormous Mansions of Silence
which society has raised to Ennui in that Omphalos of town, Pall
Mall, and which, because they knock you down with their dulness, are
called Clubs no doubt; those who yawn from a bay-window in St. James's
Street, at a half-score of other dandies gaping from another
bay-window over the way; those who consult a dreary evening paper for
news, or satisfy themselves with the jokes of the miserable Punch by
way of wit; the men about town of the present day, in a word, can have
but little idea of London some six or eight score years back. Thou
pudding-sided old dandy of St. James's Street, with thy lacquered
boots, thy dyed whiskers, and thy suffocating waistband, what art thou
to thy brilliant predecessor in the same quarter? The Brougham from
which thou descendest at the portal of the "Carlton" or the
"Travellers'," is like everybody else's; thy black coat has no more
plaits, nor buttons, nor fancy in it than thy neighbor's; thy hat was
made on the very block on which Lord Addlepate's was cast, who has
just entered the Club before thee. You and he yawn together out of
the same omnibus-box every night; you fancy yourselves men of
pleasure; you fancy yourselves men of fashion; you fancy yourselves
men of taste; in fancy, in taste, in opinion, in philosophy, the
newspaper legislates for you; it is there you get your jokes and your
thoughts, and your facts and your wisdom—poor Pall Mall dullards.
Stupid slaves of the press, on that ground which you at present
occupy, there were men of wit and pleasure and fashion, some five-
and-twenty lustres ago.
We are at Button's—the well-known sign of the "Turk's Head." The
crowd of periwigged heads at the windows—the swearing chairmen round
the steps (the blazoned and coronalled panels of whose vehicles denote
the lofty rank of their owners),—the throng of embroidered beaux
entering or departing, and rendering the air fragrant with the odors
of pulvillio and pomander, proclaim the celebrated resort of London's
Wit and Fashion. It is the corner of Regent Street. Carlton House
has not yet been taken down.
A stately gentleman in crimson velvet and gold is sipping chocolate
at one of the tables, in earnest converse with a friend whose suit is
likewise embroidered, but stained by time, or wine mayhap, or wear. A
little deformed gentleman in iron-gray is reading the Morning
Chronicle newspaper by the fire, while a divine, with a broad brogue
and a shovel hat and cassock, is talking freely with a gentleman,
whose star and ribbon, as well as the unmistakable beauty of his
Phidian countenance, proclaims him to be a member of Britain's
Two ragged youths, the one tall, gaunt, clumsy and scrofulous, the
other with a wild, careless, beautiful look, evidently indicating
Race, are gazing in at the window, not merely at the crowd in the
celebrated Club, but at Timothy the waiter, who is removing a plate
of that exquisite dish, the muffin (then newly invented), at the
desire of some of the revellers within.
"I would, Sam," said the wild youth to his companion, "that I had
some of my mother Macclesfield's gold, to enable us to eat of those
cates and mingle with yon springalds and beaux."
"To vaunt a knowledge of the stoical philosophy," said the youth
addressed as Sam, "might elicit a smile of incredulity upon the cheek
of the parasite of pleasure; but there are moments in life when
History fortifies endurance: and past study renders present
deprivation more bearable. If our pecuniary resources be exiguous,
let our resolution, Dick, supply the deficiencies of Fortune. The
muffin we desire to-day would little benefit us to-morrow. Poor and
hungry as we are, are we less happy, Dick, than yon listless
voluptuary who banquets on the food which you covet?"
And the two lads turned away up Waterloo Place, and past the
"Parthenon" Club-house, and disappeared to take a meal of cow-heel at
a neighboring cook's shop. Their names were Samuel Johnson and
Meanwhile the conversation at Button's was fast and brilliant. "By
Wood's thirteens, and the divvle go wid 'em," cried the Church
dignitary in the cassock, "is it in blue and goold ye are this
morning, Sir Richard, when you ought to be in seebles?"
"Who's dead, Dean?" said the nobleman, the dean's companion.
"Faix, mee Lard Bolingbroke, as sure as mee name's Jonathan Swift—
and I'm not so sure of that neither, for who knows his father's
name?—there's been a mighty cruel murther committed entirely. A
child of Dick Steele's has been barbarously slain, dthrawn, and
quarthered, and it's Joe Addison yondther has done it. Ye should
have killed one of your own, Joe, ye thief of the world."
"I!" said the amazed and Right Honorable Joseph Addison; "I kill
Dick's child! I was godfather to the last."
"And promised a cup and never sent it," Dick ejaculated. Joseph
"The child I mean is Sir Roger de Coverley, Knight and Baronet.
What made ye kill him, ye savage Mohock? The whole town is in tears
about the good knight; all the ladies at Church this afternoon were in
mourning; all the booksellers are wild; and Lintot says not a third of
the copies of the Spectator are sold since the death of the brave old
gentleman." And the Dean of St. Patrick's pulled out the Spectator
newspaper, containing the well- known passage regarding Sir Roger's
death. "I bought it but now in 'Wellington Street,'" he said; "the
newsboys were howling all down the Strand."
"What a miracle is Genius—Genius, the Divine and Beautiful," said
a gentleman leaning against the same fireplace with the deformed
cavalier in iron-gray, and addressing that individual, who was in
fact Mr. Alexander Pope. "What a marvellous gift is this, and royal
privilege of Art! To make the Ideal more credible than the Actual: to
enchain our hearts, to command our hopes, our regrets, our tears, for
a mere brain-born Emanation: to invest with life the Incorporeal, and
to glamour the cloudy into substance,—these are the lofty privileges
of the Poet, if I have read poesy aright; and I am as familiar with
the sounds that rang from Homer's lyre, as with the strains which
celebrate the loss of Belinda's lovely locks"—(Mr. Pope blushed and
bowed, highly delighted)—"these, I say, sir, are the privileges of
the Poet—the Poietes—the Maker— he moves the world, and asks no
lever; if he cannot charm death into life, as Orpheus feigned to do,
he can create Beauty out of Nought, and defy Death by rendering
Thought Eternal. Ho! Jemmy, another flask of Nantz."
And the boy—for he who addressed the most brilliant company of
wits in Europe was little more—emptied the contents of the brandy-
flask into a silver flagon, and quaffed it gayly to the health of the
company assembled. 'Twas the third he had taken during the sitting.
Presently, and with a graceful salute to the Society, he quitted the
coffee-house, and was seen cantering on a magnificent Arab past the
"Who is yon spark in blue and silver? He beats Joe Addison
himself, in drinking,, and pious Joe is the greatest toper in the
three kingdoms," Dick Steele said, good-naturedly.
"His paper in the Spectator beats thy best, Dick, thou sluggard,"
the Right Honorable Mr. Addison exclaimed. "He is the author of that
famous No. 996, for which you have all been giving me the credit."
"The rascal foiled me at capping verses," Dean Swift said, "and won
a tenpenny piece of me, plague take him!"
"He has suggested an emendation in my 'Homer,' which proves him a
delicate scholar," Mr. Pope exclaimed.
"He knows more of the French king than any man I have met with; and
we must have an eye upon him," said Lord Bolingbroke, then Secretary
of State for Foreign Affairs, and beckoning a suspicious- looking
person who was drinking at a side-table, whispered to him something.
Meantime who was he? where was he, this youth who had struck all
the wits of London with admiration? His galloping charger had
returned to the City; his splendid court-suit was doffed for the
citizen's gabardine and grocer's humble apron.
George de Barnwell was in Chepe—in Chepe, at the feet of Martha
THE CONDEMNED CELL.
"Quid me mollibus implicas lacertis, my Elinor? Nay," George
added, a faint smile illumining his wan but noble features, "why
speak to thee in the accents of the Roman poet, which thou
comprehendest not? Bright One, there be other things in Life, in
Nature, in this Inscrutable Labyrinth, this Heart on which thou
leanest, which are equally unintelligible to thee! Yes, my pretty
one, what is the Unintelligible but the Ideal? what is the Ideal but
the Beautiful? what the Beautiful but the Eternal? And the Spirit of
Man that would commune with these is like Him who wanders by the thina
poluphloisboio thalasses, and shrinks awe-struck before that Azure
Emily's eyes filled with fresh-gushing dew. "Speak on, speak ever
thus, my George," she exclaimed. Barnwell's chains rattled as the
confiding girl clung to him. Even Snoggin, the turnkey appointed to
sit with the Prisoner, was affected by his noble and appropriate
language, and also burst into tears.
"You weep, my Snoggin," the Boy said; "and why? Hath Life been so
charming to me that I should wish to retain it? hath Pleasure no
after-Weariness? Ambition no Deception; Wealth no Care; and Glory no
Mockery? Psha! I am sick of Success, palled of Pleasure, weary of
Wine and Wit, and—nay, start not, my Adelaide—and Woman. I fling
away all these things as the Toys of Boyhood. Life is the Soul's
Nursery. I am a Man, and pine for the Illimitable! Mark you me! Has
the Morrow any terrors for me, think ye? Did Socrates falter at his
poison? Did Seneca blench in his bath? Did Brutus shirk the sword
when his great stake was lost? Did even weak Cleopatra shrink from
the Serpent's fatal nip? And why should I? My great Hazard hath been
played, and I pay my forfeit. Lie sheathed in my heart, thou flashing
Blade! Welcome to my Bosom, thou faithful Serpent; I hug thee,
peace-bearing Image of the Eternal! Ha, the hemlock cup! Fill high,
boy, for my soul is thirsty for the Infinite! Get ready the bath,
friends; prepare me for the feast To-morrow—bathe my limbs in odors,
and put ointment in my hair."
"Has for a bath," Snoggin interposed, "they're not to be 'ad in
this ward of the prison; but I dussay Hemmy will git you a little
hoil for your 'air."
The Prisoned One laughed loud and merrily. "My guardian
understands me not, pretty one—and thou? what sayest thou? From
those dear lips methinks—plura sunt oscula quam sententiae—I kiss
away thy tears, dove!—they will flow apace when I am gone, then they
will dry, and presently these fair eyes will shine on another, as they
have beamed on poor George Barnwell. Yet wilt thou not all forget
him, sweet one. He was an honest fellow, and had a kindly heart for
all the world said—"
"That, that he had," cried the gaoler and the girl in voices
gurgling with emotion. And you who read! you unconvicted Convict—
you murderer, though haply you have slain no one—you Felon in posse
if not in esse—deal gently with one who has used the Opportunity that
has failed thee—and believe that the Truthful and the Beautiful bloom
sometimes in the dock and the convict's tawny Gabardine!
. . . . . . . .
In the matter for which he suffered, George could never be brought
to acknowledge that he was at all in the wrong. "It may be an error
of judgment," he said to the Venerable Chaplain of the gaol, "but it
is no crime. Were it Crime, I should feel Remorse. Where there is no
remorse, Crime cannot exist. I am not sorry: therefore, I am
innocent. Is the proposition a fair one?"
The excellent Doctor admitted that it was not to be contested.
"And wherefore, sir, should I have sorrow," the Boy resumed, "for
ridding the world of a sordid worm;* of a man whose very soul was
dross, and who never had a feeling for the Truthful and the
Beautiful? When I stood before my uncle in the moonlight, in the
gardens of the ancestral halls of the De Barnwells, I felt that it
was the Nemesis come to overthrow him. 'Dog,' I said to the
trembling slave, 'tell me where thy Gold is. THOU hast no use for
it. I can spend it in relieving the Poverty on which thou tramplest;
in aiding Science, which thou knowest not; in uplifting Art, to which
thou art blind. Give Gold, and thou art free.' But he spake not, and
I slew him."
"I would not have this doctrine vulgarly promulgated," said the
admirable chaplain, "for its general practice might chance to do
harm. Thou, my son, the Refined, the Gentle, the Loving and Beloved,
the Poet and Sage, urged by what I cannot but think a grievous error,
hast appeared as Avenger. Think what would be the world's condition,
were men without any Yearning after the Ideal to attempt to reorganize
Society, to redistribute Property, to avenge Wrong."
"A rabble of pigmies scaling Heaven," said the noble though
misguided young Prisoner. "Prometheus was a Giant, and he fell."
"Yes, indeed, my brave youth!" the benevolent Dr. Fuzwig exclaimed,
clasping the Prisoner's marble and manacled hand; "and the Tragedy of
To-morrow will teach the World that Homicide is not to be permitted
even to the most amiable Genius, and that the lover of the Ideal and
the Beautiful, as thou art, my son, must respect the Real likewise."
"Look! here is supper!" cried Barnwell gayly. "This is the Real,
Doctor; let us respect it and fall to." He partook of the meal as
joyously as if it had been one of his early festals; but the worthy
chaplain could scarcely eat it for tears.
* This is a gross plagiarism: the above sentiment is expressed much
more eloquently in the ingenious romance of Eugene Aram:—"The
burning desires I have known—the resplendent visions I have
nursed—the sublime aspirings that have lifted me so often from sense
and clay: these tell me, that whether for good or ill, I am the thing
of an immortality and the creature of a God. . . . I have destroyed a
man noxious to the world! with the wealth by which he afflicted
society, I have been the means of blessing many."
BY D. SHREWSBERRY, ESQ.
"The whole world is bound by one chain. In every city in the globe
there is one quarter that certain travellers know and recognize from
its likeness to its brother district in all other places where are
congregated the habitations of men. In Tehran, or Pekin, or Stamboul,
or New York, or Timbuctoo, or London, there is a certain district
where a certain man is not a stranger. Where the idols are fed with
incense by the streams of Ching-wang-foo; where the minarets soar
sparkling above the cypresses, their reflections quivering in the
lucid waters of the Golden Horn; where the yellow Tiber flows under
broken bridges and over imperial glories; where the huts are squatted
by the Niger, under the palm-trees; where the Northern Babel lies,
with its warehouses, and its bridges, its graceful factory-chimneys,
and its clumsy fanes—hidden in fog and smoke by the dirtiest river in
the world—in all the cities of mankind there is One Home whither men
of one family may resort. Over the entire world spreads a vast
brotherhood, suffering, silent, scattered, sympathizing, WAITING—an
immense Free-Masonry. Once this world-spread band was an Arabian
clan—a little nation alone and outlying amongst the mighty monarchies
of ancient time, the Megatheria of history. The sails of their rare
ships might be seen in the Egyptian waters; the camels of their
caravans might thread the sands of Baalbec, or wind through the
date-groves of Damascus; their flag was raised, not ingloriously, in
many wars, against mighty odds; but 'twas a small people, and on one
dark night the Lion of Judah went down before Vespasian's Eagles, and
in flame, and death, and struggle, Jerusalem agonized and died. . . .
Yes, the Jewish city is lost to Jewish men; but have they not taken
the world in exchange?"
Mused thus Godfrey de Bouillon, Marquis of Codlingsby, as he
debouched from Wych Street into the Strand. He had been to take a
box for Armida at Madame Vestris's theatre. That little Armida was
folle of Madame Vestris's theatre; and her little brougham, and her
little self, and her enormous eyes, and her prodigious opera-glass,
and her miraculous bouquet, which cost Lord Codlingsby twenty guineas
every evening at Nathan's in Covent Garden (the children of the
gardeners of Sharon have still no rival for flowers), might be seen,
three nights in the week at least, in the narrow, charming,
comfortable little theatre. Godfrey had the box. He was strolling,
listlessly, eastward; and the above thoughts passed through the young
noble's mind as he came in sight of Holywell Street.
The occupants of the London Ghetto sat at their porches basking in
the evening sunshine. Children were playing on the steps. Fathers
were smoking at the lintel. Smiling faces looked out from the
various and darkling draperies with which the warehouses were hung.
Ringlets glossy, and curly, and jetty—eyes black as night—
midsummer night—when it lightens; haughty noses bending like beaks
of eagles—eager quivering nostrils—lips curved like the bow of
Love—every man or maiden, every babe or matron in that English Jewry
bore in his countenance one or more of these characteristics of his
peerless Arab race.
"How beautiful they are!" mused Codlingsby, as he surveyed these
placid groups calmly taking their pleasure in the sunset.
"D'you vant to look at a nishe coat?" a voice said, which made him
start; and then some one behind him began handling a masterpiece of
Stultz's with a familiarity which would have made the baron tremble.
"Rafael Mendoza!" exclaimed Godfrey.
"The same, Lord Codlingsby," the individual so apostrophized
replied. "I told you we should meet again where you would little
expect me. Will it please you to enter? this is Friday, and we close
at sunset. It rejoices my heart to welcome you home." So saying
Rafael laid his hand on his breast, and bowed, an oriental reverence.
All traces of the accent with which he first addressed Lord
Codlingsby had vanished: it was disguise; half the Hebrew's life is a
disguise. He shields himself in craft, since the Norman boors
They passed under an awning of old clothes, tawdry fripperies,
greasy spangles, and battered masks, into a shop as black and hideous
as the entrance was foul. "THIS your home, Rafael?" said Lord
"Why not?" Rafael answered. "I am tired of Schloss Schinkenstein;
the Rhine bores me after a while. It is too hot for Florence;
besides they have not completed the picture-gallery, and my place
smells of putty. You wouldn't have a man, mon cher, bury himself in
his chateau in Normandy, out of the hunting season? The Rugantino
Palace stupefies me. Those Titians are so gloomy, I shall have my
Hobbimas and Tenierses, I think, from my house at the Hague hung over
"How many castles, palaces, houses, warehouses, shops, have you,
Rafael?" Lord Codlingsby asked, laughing.
"This is one," Rafael answered. "Come in."
The noise in the old town was terrific; Great Tom was booming
sullenly over the uproar; the bell of Saint Mary's was clanging with
alarm; St. Giles's tocsin chimed furiously; howls, curses, flights of
brickbats, stones shivering windows, groans of wounded men, cries of
frightened females, cheers of either contending party as it charged
the enemy from Carfax to Trumpington Street, proclaimed that the
battle was at its height.
In Berlin they would have said it was a revolution, and the
cuirassiers would have been charging, sabre in hand, amidst that
infuriate mob. In France they would have brought down artillery, and
played on it with twenty-four pounders. In Cambridge nobody heeded
the disturbance—it was a Town and Gown row.
The row arose at a boat-race. The Town boat (manned by eight stout
Bargees, with the redoubted Rullock for stroke) had bumped the
Brazenose light oar, usually at the head of the river. High words
arose regarding the dispute. After returning from Granchester, when
the boats pulled back to Christchurch meadows, the disturbance between
the Townsmen and the University youths—their invariable
opponents—grew louder and more violent, until it broke out in open
battle. Sparring and skirmishing took place along the pleasant
fields that lead from the University gate down to the broad and
shining waters of the Cam, and under the walls of Balliol and Sidney
Sussex. The Duke of Bellamont (then a dashing young sizar at Exeter)
had a couple of rounds with Billy Butt, the bow-oar of the Bargee
boat. Vavasour of Brazenose was engaged with a powerful butcher, a
well-known champion of the Town party, when, the great University
bells ringing to dinner, truce was called between the combatants, and
they retired to their several colleges for refection.
During the boat-race, a gentleman pulling in a canoe, and smoking a
narghilly, had attracted no ordinary attention. He rowed about a
hundred yards ahead of the boats in the race, so that he could have a
good view of that curious pastime. If the eight-oars neared him, with
a few rapid strokes of his flashing paddles his boat shot a furlong
ahead; then he would wait, surveying the race, and sending up volumes
of odor from his cool narghilly.
"Who is he?" asked the crowds who panted along the shore,
encouraging, according to Cambridge wont, the efforts of the oarsmen
in the race. Town and Gown alike asked who it was, who, with an ease
so provoking, in a barque so singular, with a form seemingly so
slight, but a skill so prodigious, beat their best men. No answer
could be given to the query, save that a gentleman in a dark
travelling-chariot, preceded by six fourgons and a courier, had
arrived the day before at the "Hoop Inn," opposite Brazenose, and that
the stranger of the canoe seemed to be the individual in question.
No wonder the boat, that all admired so, could compete with any
that ever was wrought by Cambridge artificer or Putney workman. That
boat—slim, shining, and shooting through the water like a pike after
a small fish—was a caique from Tophana; it had distanced the Sultan's
oarsmen and the best crews of the Capitan Pasha in the Bosphorus; it
was the workmanship of Togrul-Beg, Caikjee Bashee of his Highness.
The Bashee had refused fifty thousand tomauns from Count Boutenieff,
the Russian Ambassador, for that little marvel. When his head was
taken off, the Father of Believers presented the boat to Rafael
It was Rafael Mendoza that saved the Turkish monarchy after the
battle of Nezeeb. By sending three millions of piastres to the
Seraskier; by bribing Colonel de St. Cornichon, the French envoy in
the camp of the victorious Ibrahim, the march of the Egyptian army
was stopped—the menaced empire of the Ottomans was saved from ruin;
the Marchioness of Stokepogis, our ambassador's lady, appeared in a
suite of diamonds which outblazed even the Romanoff jewels, and Rafael
Mendoza obtained the little caique. He never travelled without it.
It was scarcely heavier than an arm-chair. Baroni, the courier, had
carried it down to the Cam that morning, and Rafael had seen the
singular sport which we have mentioned.
The dinner over, the young men rushed from their colleges, flushed,
full-fed, and eager for battle. If the Gown was angry, the Town,
too, was on the alert. From Iffly and Barnwell, from factory and
mill, from wharf and warehouse, the Town poured out to meet the
enemy, and their battle was soon general. From the Addenbrook's
hospital to the Blenheim turnpike, all Cambridge was in an uproar—
the college gates closed—the shops barricaded—the shop-boys away in
support of their brother townsmen—the battle raged, and the Gown had
the worst of the fight.
A luncheon of many courses had been provided for Rafael Mendoza at
his inn; but he smiled at the clumsy efforts of the university cooks
to entertain him, and a couple of dates and a glass of water formed
his meal. In vain the discomfited landlord pressed him to partake of
the slighted banquet. "A breakfast! psha!" said he. "My good man, I
have nineteen cooks, at salaries rising from four hundred a year. I
can have a dinner at any hour; but a Town and Gown row" (a brickbat
here flying through the window crashed the caraffe of water in
Mendoza's hand)—"a Town and Gown row is a novelty to me. The Town
has the best of it, clearly, though: the men outnumber the lads. Ha,
a good blow! How that tall townsman went down before yonder slim
young fellow in the scarlet trencher cap."
"That is the Lord Codlingsby," the landlord said.
"A light weight, but a pretty fighter," Mendoza remarked. "Well
hit with your left, Lord Codlingsby; well parried, Lord Codlingsby;
claret drawn, by Jupiter!"
"Ours is werry fine," the landlord said. "Will your Highness have
Chateau Margaux or Lafitte?"
"He never can be going to match himself against that bargeman!"
Rafael exclaimed, as an enormous boatman—no other than Rullock—
indeed, the most famous bruiser of Cambridge, and before whose fists
the Gownsmen went down like ninepins—fought his way up to the spot
where, with admirable spirit and resolution, Lord Codlingsby and one
or two of his friends were making head against a number of the town.
The young noble faced the huge champion with the gallantry of his
race, but was no match for the enemy's strength and weight and sinew,
and went down at every round. The brutal fellow had no mercy on the
lad. His savage treatment chafed Mendoza as he viewed the unequal
combat from the inn-window. "Hold your hand!" he cried to this
Goliath; "don't you see he's but a boy?"
"Down he goes again!" the bargeman cried, not heeding the
interruption. "Down he goes again: I likes wapping a lord!"
"Coward!" shouted Mendoza; and to fling open the window amidst a
shower of brickbats, to vault over the balcony, to slide down one of
the pillars to the ground, was an instant's work.
At the next he stood before the enormous bargeman.
. . . . . . . .
After the coroner's inquest, Mendoza gave ten thousand pounds to
each of the bargeman's ten children, and it was thus his first
acquaintance was formed with Lord Codlingsby.
But we are lingering on the threshold of the house in Holywell
Street. Let us go in.
Godfrey and Rafael passed from the street into the outer shop of
the old mansion in Holywell Street. It was a masquerade warehouse to
all appearance. A dark-eyed damsel of the nation was standing at the
dark and grimy counter, strewed with old feathers, old yellow hoots,
old stage mantles, painted masks, blind and yet gazing at you with a
look of sad death-like intelligence from the vacancy behind their
A medical student was trying one of the doublets of orange-tawny
and silver, slashed with dirty light blue. He was going to a
masquerade that night. He thought Polly Pattens would admire him in
the dress—Polly Pattens, the fairest of maids-of-all-work—the
Borough Venus, adored by half the youth of Guy's.
"You look like a prince in it, Mr. Lint," pretty Rachel said,
coaxing him with her beady black eyes.
"It IS the cheese," replied Mr. Lint; "it ain't the dress that
don't suit, my rose of Sharon; it's the FIGURE. Hullo, Rafael, is
that you, my lad of sealing-wax? Come and intercede for me with this
wild gazelle; she says I can't have it under fifteen bob for the
night. And it's too much: cuss me if it's not too much, unless you'll
take my little bill at two months, Rafael."
"There's a sweet pretty brigand's dress you may have for half de
monish," Rafael replied; "there's a splendid clown for eight bob; but
for dat Spanish dress, selp ma Moshesh, Mistraer Lint, ve'd ask a
guinea of any but you. Here's a gentlemansh just come to look at it.
Look 'ear, Mr. Brownsh, did you ever shee a nisher ting dan dat?" So
saying, Rafael turned to Lord Codlingsby with the utmost gravity, and
displayed to him the garment about which the young medicus was
"Cheap at the money," Codlingsby replied; "if you won't make up
your mind, sir, I should like to engage it myself." But the thought
that another should appear before Polly Pattens in that costume was
too much for Mr. Lint; he agreed to pay the fifteen shillings for the
garment. And Rafael, pocketing the money with perfect simplicity,
said, "Dis vay, Mr. Brownsh: dere's someting vill shoot you in the
Lord Codlingsby followed him, wondering.
"You are surprised at our system," said Rafael, marking the evident
bewilderment of his friend. "Confess you would call it meanness— my
huckstering with yonder young fool. I call it simplicity. Why throw
away a shilling without need? Our race never did. A shilling is four
men's bread: shall I disdain to defile my fingers by holding them out
relief in their necessity? It is you who are mean—you Normans—not
we of the ancient race. You have your vulgar measurement for great
things and small. You call a thousand pounds respectable, and a
shekel despicable. Psha, my Codlingsby! One is as the other. I trade
in pennies and in millions. I am above or below neither."
They were passing through a second shop, smelling strongly of
cedar, and, in fact, piled up with bales of those pencils which the
young Hebrews are in the habit of vending through the streets. "I
have sold bundles and bundles of these," said Rafael. "My little
brother is now out with oranges in Piccadilly. I am bringing him up
to be head of our house at Amsterdam. We all do it. I had myself to
see Rothschild in Eaton Place this morning, about the Irish loan, of
which I have taken three millions: and as I wanted to walk, I carried
"You should have seen the astonishment of Lauda Latymer, the
Archbishop of Croydon's daughter, as she was passing St. Bennet's,
Knightsbridge, and as she fancied she recognized in the man who was
crying old clothes the gentleman with whom she had talked at the
Count de St. Aulair's the night before." Something like a blush
flushed over the pale features of Mendoza as he mentioned the Lady
Lauda's name. "Come on," said he. They passed through various
warehouses—the orange room, the sealing-wax room, the six-bladed
knife department, and finally came to an old baize door. Rafael
opened the baize door by some secret contrivance, and they were in a
black passage, with a curtain at the end.
He clapped his hands; the curtain at the end of the passage drew
back, and a flood of golden light streamed on the Hebrew and his
They entered a moderate-sized apartment—indeed, Holywell Street is
not above a hundred yards long, and this chamber was not more than
half that length—it was fitted up with the simple taste of its
The carpet was of white velvet—(laid over several webs of
Aubusson, Ispahan, and Axminster, so that your foot gave no more sound
as it trod upon the yielding plain than the shadow did which followed
you)—of white velvet, painted with flowers, arabesques, and classic
figures, by Sir William Ross, J. M. W. Turner, R. A., Mrs. Mee, and
Paul Delaroche. The edges were wrought with seed-pearls, and fringed
with Valenciennes lace and bullion. The walls were hung with cloth of
silver, embroidered with gold figures, over which were worked
pomegranates, polyanthuses, and passion-flowers, in ruby, amethyst,
and smaragd. The drops of dew which the artificer had sprinkled on
the flowers were diamonds. The hangings were overhung by pictures yet
more costly. Giorgione the gorgeous, Titian the golden, Rubens the
ruddy and pulpy (the Pan of Painting), some of Murillo's beatified
shepherdesses, who smile on you out of darkness like a star, a few
score first-class Leonardos, and fifty of the master-pieces of the
patron of Julius and Leo, the Imperial genius of Urbino, covered the
walls of the little chamber. Divans of carved amber covered with
ermine went round the room, and in the midst was a fountain, pattering
and babbling with jets of double-distilled otto of roses.
"Pipes, Goliath!" Rafael said gayly to a little negro with a silver
collar (he spoke to him in his native tongue of Dongola); and welcome
to our snuggery, my Codlingsby. We are quieter here than in the front
of the house, and I wanted to show you a picture. I'm proud of my
pictures. That Leonardo came from Genoa, and was a gift to our father
from my cousin, Marshal Manasseh: that Murillo was pawned to my uncle
by Marie Antoinette before the flight to Varennes—the poor lady could
not redeem the pledge, you know, and the picture remains with us. As
for the Rafael, I suppose you are aware that he was one of our people.
But what are you gazing at? Oh! my sister—I forgot. Miriam! this is
the Lord Codlingsby."
She had been seated at an ivory pianoforte on a mother-of-pearl
music-stool, trying a sonata of Herz. She rose when thus
apostrophized. Miriam de Mendoza rose and greeted the stranger.
The Talmud relates that Adam had two wives—Zillah the dark beauty;
Eva the fair one. The ringlets of Zillah were black; those of Eva
were golden. The eyes of Zillah were night; those of Eva were
morning. Codlingsby was fair—of the fair Saxon race of Hengist and
Horsa—they called him Miss Codlingsby at school; but how much fairer
was Miriam the Hebrew!
Her hair had that deep glowing tinge in it which has been the
delight of all painters, and which, therefore, the vulgar sneer at.
It was of burning auburn. Meandering over her fairest shoulders in
twenty thousand minute ringlets, it hung to her waist and below it. A
light blue velvet fillet clasped with a diamond aigrette (valued at
two hundred thousand tomauns, and bought from Lieutenant Vicovich, who
had received it from Dost Mahomed), with a simple bird of paradise,
formed her head-gear. A sea-green cymar with short sleeves, displayed
her exquisitely moulded arms to perfection, and was fastened by a
girdle of emeralds over a yellow satin frock. Pink gauze trousers
spangled with silver, and slippers of the same color as the band which
clasped her ringlets (but so covered with pearls that the original hue
of the charming little papoosh disappeared entirely) completed her
costume. She had three necklaces on, each of which would have dowered
a Princess—her fingers glistened with rings to their rosy tips, and
priceless bracelets, bangles, and armlets wound round an arm that was
whiter than the ivory grand piano on which it leaned.
As Miriam de Mendoza greeted the stranger, turning upon him the
solemn welcome of her eyes, Codlingsby swooned almost in the
brightness of her beauty. It was well she spoke; the sweet kind
voice restored him to consciousness. Muttering a few words of
incoherent recognition, he sank upon a sandalwood settee, as Goliath,
the little slave, brought aromatic coffee in cups of opal, and
alabaster spittoons, and pipes of the fragrant Gibelly.
"My lord's pipe is out," said Miriam with a smile, remarking the
bewilderment of her guest—who in truth forgot to smoke—and taking
up a thousand pound note from a bundle on the piano, she lighted it
at the taper and proceeded to re-illumine the extinguished chibouk of
When Miriam, returning to the mother-of-pearl music-stool, at a
signal from her brother, touched the silver and enamelled keys of the
ivory piano, and began to sing, Lord Codlingsby felt as if he were
listening at the gates of Paradise, or were hearing Jenny Lind.
"Lind is the name of the Hebrew race; so is Mendelssohn, the son of
Almonds; so is Rosenthal, the Valley of the Roses: so is Lowe or
Lewis or Lyons or Lion. The beautiful and the brave alike give
cognizances to the ancient people: you Saxons call yourselves Brown,
or Smith, or Rodgers," Rafael observed to his friend; and, drawing the
instrument from his pocket, he accompanied his sister, in the most
ravishing manner, on a little gold and jewelled harp, of the kind
peculiar to his nation.
All the airs which the Hebrew maid selected were written by
composers of her race; it was either a hymn by Rossini, a polacca by
Braham, a delicious romance by Sloman, or a melody by Weber, that,
thrilling on the strings of the instrument, wakened a harmony on the
fibres of the heart; but she sang no other than the songs of her
"Beautiful one! sing ever, sing always," Codlingsby thought. "I
could sit at thy feet as under a green palm-tree, and fancy that
Paradise-birds were singing in the boughs."
Rafael read his thoughts. "We have Saxon blood too in our veins,"
he said. "You smile! but it is even so. An ancestress of ours made
a mesalliance in the reign of your King John. Her name was Rebecca,
daughter of Isaac of York, and she married in Spain, whither she had
fled to the Court of King Boabdil, Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe; then a
widower by the demise of his first lady, Rowena. The match was deemed
a cruel insult amongst our people but Wilfred conformed, and was a
Rabbi of some note at the synagogue of Cordova. We are descended from
him lineally. It is the only blot upon the escutcheon of the
As they sat talking together, the music finished, and Miriam having
retired (though her song and her beauty were still present to the
soul of the stranger) at a signal from Mendoza, various messengers
from the outer apartments came in to transact business with him.
First it was Mr. Aminadab, who kissed his foot, and brought papers
to sign. "How is the house in Grosvenor Square, Aminadab; and is
your son tired of his yacht yet?" Mendoza asked. "That is my
twenty-fourth cashier," said Rafael to Codlingsby, when the
obsequious clerk went away. "He is fond of display, and all my
people may have what money they like."
Entered presently the Lord Bareacres, on the affair of his
mortgage. The Lord Bareacres, strutting into the apartment with a
haughty air, shrank back, nevertheless, with surprise on beholding
the magnificence around him. "Little Mordecai," said Rafael to a
little orange-boy, who came in at the heels of the noble, "take this
gentleman out and let him have ten thousand pounds. I can't do more
for you, my lord, than this—I'm busy. Good-by!" And Rafael waved
his hand to the peer, and fell to smoking his narghilly.
A man with a square face, cat-like eyes, and a yellow moustache,
came next. He had an hour-glass of a waist, and walked uneasily upon
his high-heeled boots. "Tell your master that he shall have two
millions more, but not another shilling," Rafael said. That story
about the five-and-twenty millions of ready money at Cronstadt is all
bosh. They won't believe it in Europe. You understand me, Count
"But his Imperial Majesty said four millions, and I shall get the
"Go and speak to Mr. Shadrach, in room Z 94, the fourth court,"
said Mendoza good-naturedly. "Leave me at peace, Count: don't you
see it is Friday, and almost sunset?" The Calmuck envoy retired
cringing, and left an odor of musk and candle-grease behind him.
An orange-man; an emissary from Lola Montes; a dealer in piping
bullfinches; and a Cardinal in disguise, with a proposal for a new
loan for the Pope, were heard by turns; and each, after a rapid
colloquy in his own language, was dismissed by Rafael.
"The queen must come back from Aranjuez, or that king must be
disposed of," Rafael exclaimed, as a yellow-faced amabassador from
Spain, General the Duke of Olla Podrida, left him. "Which shall it
be, my Codlingsby?" Codlingsby was about laughingly to answer—for
indeed he was amazed to find all the affairs of the world represented
here, and Holywell Street the centre of Europe—when three knocks of a
peculiar nature were heard, and Mendoza starting up, said, "Ha! there
are only four men in the world who know that signal." At once, and
with a reverence quite distinct from his former nonchalant manner, he
advanced towards the new-comer.
He was an old man—an old man evidently, too, of the Hebrew race—
the light of his eyes was unfathomable—about his mouth there played
an inscrutable smile. He had a cotton umbrella, and old trousers, and
old boots, and an old wig, curling at the top like a rotten old pear.
He sat down, as if tired, in the first seat at hand, as Rafael made
him the lowest reverence.
"I am tired," says he; "I have come in fifteen hours. I am ill at
Neuilly," he added with a grin. "Get me some eau sucree, and tell me
the news, Prince de Mendoza. These bread rows; this unpopularity of
Guizot; this odious Spanish conspiracy against my darling Montpensier
and daughter; this ferocity of Palmerston against Coletti, makes me
quite ill. Give me your opinion, my dear duke. But ha! whom have we
The august individual who had spoken, had used the Hebrew language
to address Mendoza, and the Lord Codlingsby might easily have pleaded
ignorance of that tongue. But he had been at Cambridge, where all the
youth acquire it perfectly.
"SIRE," said he, "I will not disguise from you that I know the
ancient tongue in which you speak. There are probably secrets
between Mendoza and your Maj—"
"Hush!" said Rafael, leading him from the room. "Au revoir, dear
Codlingsby. His Majesty is one of US," he whispered at the door; "so
is the Pope of Rome; so is . . ."—a whisper concealed the rest.
"Gracious powers! is it so?" said Codlingsby, musing. He entered
into Holywell Street. The sun was sinking.
"It is time," said he, "to go and fetch Armida to the Olympic."
PHIL FOGARTY. A TALE OF THE FIGHTING
BY HARRY ROLLICKER.
The gabion was ours. After two hours' fighting we were in
possession of the first embrasure, and made ourselves as comfortable
as circumstances would admit. Jack Delamere, Tom Delancy, Jerry
Blake, the Doctor, and myself, sat down under a pontoon, and our
servants laid out a hasty supper on a tumbrel. Though Cambaceres had
escaped me so provokingly after I cut him down, his spoils were mine;
a cold fowl and a Bologna sausage were found in the Marshal's
holsters; and in the haversack of a French private who lay a corpse
on the glacis, we found a loaf of bread, his three days' ration.
Instead of salt, we had gunpowder; and you may be sure, wherever the
Doctor was, a flask of good brandy was behind him in his
instrument-case. We sat down and made a soldier's supper. The
Doctor pulled a few of the delicious fruit from the lemon-trees
growing near (and round which the Carabineers and the 24th Leger had
made a desperate rally), and punch was brewed in Jack Delamere's
"'Faith, it never had so much wit in it before," said the Doctor,
as he ladled out the drink. We all roared with laughing, except the
guardsman, who was as savage as a Turk at a christening.
"Buvez-en," said old Sawbones to our French prisoner; "ca vous fera
du bien, mon vieux coq!" and the Colonel, whose wound had been just
dressed, eagerly grasped at the proffered cup, and drained it with a
health to the donors.
How strange are the chances of war! But half an hour before he and
I were engaged in mortal combat, and our prisoner was all but my
conqueror. Grappling with Cambaceres, whom I knocked from his horse,
and was about to despatch, I felt a lunge behind, which luckily was
parried by my sabretache; a herculean grasp was at the next instant at
my throat—I was on the ground—my prisoner had escaped, and a
gigantic warrior in the uniform of a colonel of the regiment of Artois
glaring over me with pointed sword.
"Rends-toi, coquin!" said he.
"Allez an Diable!" said I: "a Fogarty never surrenders."
I thought of my poor mother and my sisters, at the old house in
Killaloo—I felt the tip of his blade between my teeth—I breathed a
prayer, and shut my eyes—when the tables were turned—the butt- end
of Lanty Clancy's musket knocked the sword up and broke the arm that
"Thonamoundiaoul nabochlish," said the French officer, with a curse
in the purest Irish. It was lucky I stopped laughing time enough to
bid Lanty hold his hand, for the honest fellow would else have brained
my gallant adversary. We were the better friends for our combat, as
what gallant hearts are not?
The breach was to be stormed at sunset, and like true soldiers we
sat down to make the most of our time. The rogue of a Doctor took
the liver-wing for his share—we gave the other to our guest, a
prisoner; those scoundrels Jack Delamere and Tom Delaney took the
legs—and, 'faith, poor I was put off with the Pope's nose and a bit
of the back.
"How d'ye like his Holiness's FAYTURE?" said Jerry Blake.
"Anyhow you'll have a MERRY THOUGHT," cried the incorrigible
Doctor, and all the party shrieked at the witticism.
"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," said Jack, holding up the drumstick
"'Faith, there's not enough of it to make us CHICKEN-HEARTED,
anyhow," said I; "come, boys, let's have a song."
"Here goes," said Tom Delaney, and sung the following lyric, of his
"Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,
And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the hill,
Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot,
As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot—
In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass,
And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass.
"One morning in summer, while seated so snug,
In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug,
Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear,
And said, 'Honest Thomas, come take your last bier;'
We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can,
From which let us drink to the health of my Nan."
"Psha!" said the Doctor, "I've heard that song before; here's a new
one for you, boys!" and Sawbones began, in a rich Corkagian voice—
"You've all heard of Larry O'Toole,
Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole;
He had but one eye,
To ogle ye by—
Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l!
He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.
"'Twas he was the boy didn't fail,
That tuck down pataties and mail;
He never would shrink
From any sthrong dthrink,
Was it whisky or Drogheda ale;
This Larry would swallow a pail.
"Oh, many a night at the bowl,
With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl;
He's gone to his rest,
Where there's dthrink of the best,
And so let us give his old sowl
For twas he made the noggin to rowl."
I observed the French Colonel's eye glistened as he heard these
well-known accents of his country but we were too well-bred to
pretend to remark his emotion.
The sun was setting behind the mountains as our songs were
finished, and each began to look out with some anxiety for the
preconcerted signal, the rocket from Sir Hussey Vivian's quarters,
which was to announce the recommencement of hostilities. It came
just as the moon rose in her silver splendor, and ere the rocket-
stick fell quivering to the earth at the feet of General Picton and
Sir Lowry Cole, who were at their posts at the head of the
storming-parties, nine hundred and ninety nine guns in position
opened their fire from our batteries, which were answered by a
tremendous canonnade from the fort.
"Who's going to dance?" said the Doctor: "the ball's begun. Ha!
there goes poor Jack Delamere's head off! The ball chose a soft one,
anyhow. Come here, Tim, till I mend your leg. Your wife has need
only knit half as many stockings next year, Doolan my boy. Faix! there
goes a big one had wellnigh stopped my talking: bedad! it has snuffed
the feather off my cocked hat!"
In this way, with eighty-four-pounders roaring over us like hail,
the undaunted little Doctor pursued his jokes and his duty. That he
had a feeling heart, all who served with him knew, and none more so
than Philip Fogarty, the humble writer of this tale of war.
Our embrasure was luckily bomb-proof, and the detachment of the
Onety-oneth under my orders suffered comparatively little. "Be cool,
boys," I said; "it will be hot enough work for you ere long." The
honest fellows answered with an Irish cheer. I saw that it affected
"Countryman," said I, "I know you; but an Irishman was never a
"Taisez-vous!" said he, putting his finger to his lip. "C'est la
fortune de la guerre: if ever you come to Paris, ask for the Marquis
d' O'Mahony, and I may render you the hospitality which your tyrannous
laws prevent me from exercising in the ancestral halls of my own
I shook him warmly by the hand as a tear bedimmed his eye. It was,
then, the celebrated colonel of the Irish Brigade, created a Marquis
by Napoleon on the field of Austerlitz!
"Marquis," said I, "the country which disowns you is proud of you;
but—ha! here, if I mistake not, comes our signal to advance." And
in fact, Captain Vandeleur, riding up through the shower of shot,
asked for the commander of the detachment, and bade me hold myself in
readiness to move as soon as the flank companies of the Ninety- ninth,
and Sixty-sixth, and the Grenadier Brigade of the German Legion began
to advance up the echelon. The devoted band soon arrived; Jack Bowser
heading the Ninety-ninth (when was he away and a storming-party to the
fore?), and the gallant Potztausend, with his Hanoverian veterans.
The second rocket flew up.
"Forward, Onety-oneth!" cried I, in a voice of thunder. "Killaloo
boys, follow your captain!" and with a shrill hurray, that sounded
above the tremendous fire from the fort, we sprung upon the steep;
Bowser with the brave Ninety-ninth, and the bold Potztausend, keeping
well up with us. We passed the demilune, we passed the culverin,
bayoneting the artillerymen at their guns; we advanced across the two
tremendous demilunes which flank the counterscarp, and prepared for
the final spring upon the citadel. Soult I could see quite pale on
the wall; and the scoundrel Cambaceres, who had been so nearly my
prisoner that day, trembled as he cheered his men. "On, boys, on!" I
hoarsely exclaimed. "Hurroo!" said the fighting Onety-oneth.
But there was a movement among the enemy. An officer, glittering
with orders, and another in a gray coat and a cocked hat, came to the
wall, and I recognized the Emperor Napoleon and the famous Joachim
"We are hardly pressed, methinks," Napoleon said sternly. "I must
exercise my old trade as an artilleryman;" and Murat loaded, and the
Emperor pointed the only hundred-and-twenty-four-pounder that had not
been silenced by our fire.
"Hurray, Killaloo boys!" shouted I. The next moment a sensation of
numbness and death seized me, and I lay like a corpse upon the
"Hush!" said a voice, which I recognized to be that of the Marquis
d' O'Mahony. "Heaven be praised, reason has returned to you. For
six weeks those are the only sane words I have heard from you."
"Faix, and 'tis thrue for you, Colonel dear," cried another voice,
with which I was even more familiar; 'twas that of my honest and
gallant Lanty Clancy, who was blubbering at my bedside overjoyed at
his master's recovery.
"O musha, Masther Phil agrah! but this will be the great day
intirely, when I send off the news, which I would, barrin' I can't
write, to the lady your mother and your sisters at Castle Fogarty;
and 'tis his Riv'rence Father Luke will jump for joy thin, when he
reads the letther! Six weeks ravin' and roarin' as bould as a lion,
and as mad as Mick Malony's pig, that mistuck Mick's wig for a
cabbage, and died of atin' it!"
"And have I then lost my senses?" I exclaimed feebly.
"Sure, didn't ye call me your beautiful Donna Anna only yesterday,
and catch hould of me whiskers as if they were the Signora's jet-
black ringlets?" Lanty cried.
At this moment, and blushing deeply, the most beautiful young
creature I ever set my eyes upon, rose from a chair at the foot of
the bed, and sailed out of the room.
"Confusion, you blundering rogue," I cried; "who is that lovely
lady whom you frightened away by your impertinence? Donna Anna?
Where am I?"
"You are in good hands, Philip," said the Colonel; "you are at my
house in the Place Vendome, at Paris, of which I am the military
Governor. You and Lanty were knocked down by the wind of the
cannon-ball at Burgos. Do not be ashamed: 'twas the Emperor pointed
the gun;" and the Colonel took off his hat as he mentioned the name
darling to France. "When our troops returned from the sally in which
your gallant storming party was driven back, you were found on the
glacis, and I had you brought into the City. Your reason had left you,
however, when you returned to life; but, unwilling to desert the son
of my old friend, Philip Fogarty, who saved my life in '98, I brought
you in my carriage to Paris."
"And many's the time you tried to jump out of the windy, Masther
Phil," said Clancy.
"Brought you to Paris," resumed the Colonel, smiling; "where, by
the soins of my friends Broussais, Esquirol, and Baron Larrey, you
have been restored to health, thank heaven!"
"And that lovely angel who quitted the apartment?" I cried.
"That lovely angel is the Lady Blanche Sarsfield, my ward, a
descendant of the gallant Lucan, and who may be, when she chooses,
Madame la Marechale de Cambaceres, Duchess of Illyria."
"Why did you deliver the ruffian when he was in my grasp?" I cried.
"Why did Lanty deliver you when in mine?" the Colonel replied.
"C'est la fortune de la guerre, mon garcon; but calm yourself, and
take this potion which Blanche has prepared for you."
I drank the tisane eagerly when I heard whose fair hands had
compounded it, and its effects were speedily beneficial to me, for I
sank into a cool and refreshing slumber.
From that day I began to mend rapidly, with all the elasticity of
youth's happy time. Blanche—the enchanting Blanche—ministered
henceforth to me, for I would take no medicine but from her lily
hand. And what were the effects? 'Faith, ere a month was past, the
patient was over head and ears in love with the doctor; and as for
Baron Larrey, and Broussais, and Esquirol, they were sent to the
right-about. In a short time I was in a situation to do justice to
the gigot aux navets, the boeuf aux cornichons, and the other
delicious entremets of the Marquis's board, with an appetite that
astonished some of the Frenchmen who frequented it.
"Wait till he's quite well, Miss," said Lanty, who waited always
behind me. "'Faith! when he's in health, I'd back him to ate a cow,
barrin' the horns and teel." I sent a decanter at the rogue's head,
by way of answer to his impertinence.
Although the disgusting Cambaceres did his best to have my parole
withdrawn from me, and to cause me to be sent to the English depot of
prisoners at Verdun, the Marquis's interest with the Emperor
prevailed, and I was allowed to remain at Paris, the happiest of
prisoners, at the Colonel's hotel at the Place Vendome. I here had
the opportunity (an opportunity not lost, I flatter myself, on a
young fellow with the accomplishments of Philip Fogarty, Esq.) of
mixing with the elite of French society, and meeting with many of the
great, the beautiful, and the brave. Talleyrand was a frequent guest
of the Marquis's. His bon-mots used to keep the table in a roar. Ney
frequently took his chop with us; Murat, when in town, constantly
dropt in for a cup of tea and friendly round game. Alas! who would
have thought those two gallant heads would be so soon laid low? My
wife has a pair of earrings which the latter, who always wore them,
presented to her—but we are advancing matters. Anybody could see,
"avec un demioeil," as the Prince of Benevento remarked, how affairs
went between me and Blanche; but though she loathed him for his
cruelties and the odiousness of his person, the brutal Cambaceres
still pursued his designs upon her.
I recollect it was on St. Patrick's Day. My lovely friend had
procured, from the gardens of the Empress Josephine, at Malmaison
(whom we loved a thousand times more than her Austrian successor, a
sandy-haired woman, between ourselves, with an odious squint), a
quantity of shamrock wherewith to garnish the hotel, and all the
Irish in Paris were invited to the national festival.
I and Prince Talleyrand danced a double hornpipe with Pauline
Bonaparte and Madame de Stael; Marshal Soult went down a couple of
sets with Madame Recamier; and Robespierre's widow—an excellent,
gentle creature, quite unlike her husband—stood up with the Austrian
ambassador. Besides, the famous artists Baron Gros, David and
Nicholas Poussin, and Canova, who was in town making a statue of the
Emperor for Leo X., and, in a word, all the celebrities of Paris—as
my gifted countrywoman, the wild Irish girl, calls them— were
assembled in the Marquis's elegant receiving-rooms.
At last a great outcry was raised for La Gigue Irlandaise! La
Gigue Irlandaise! a dance which had made a fureur amongst the
Parisians ever since the lovely Blanche Sarsfield had danced it. She
stepped forward and took me for a partner, and amidst the bravoes of
the crowd, in which stood Ney, Murat, Lannes, the Prince of Wagram,
and the Austrian ambassador, we showed to the beau monde of the French
capital, I flatter myself, a not unfavorable specimen of the dance of
As I was cutting the double-shuffle, and toe-and-heeling it in the
"rail" style, Blanche danced up to me, smiling, and said, "Be on your
guard; I see Cambaceres talking to Fouche, the Duke of Otranto, about
us; and when Otranto turns his eyes upon a man, they bode him no
"Cambaceres is jealous," said I. "I have it," says she; "I'll make
him dance a turn with me." So, presently, as the music was going
like mad all this time, I pretended fatigue from my late wounds, and
sat down. The lovely Blanche went up smiling, and brought out
Cambaceres as a second partner.
The Marshal is a lusty man, who makes desperate efforts to give
himself a waist, and the effect of the exercise upon him was speedily
visible. He puffed and snorted like a walrus, drops trickled down his
purple face, while my lovely mischief of a Blanche went on dancing at
treble quick, till she fairly danced him down.
"Who'll take the flure with me?" said the charming girl, animated
by the sport.
"Faix, den, 'tis I, Lanty Clancy!" cried my rascal, who had been
mad with excitement at the scene; and, stepping in with a whoop and a
hurroo, he began to dance with such rapidity as made all present
As the couple were footing it, there was a noise as of a rapid
cavalcade traversing the Place Vendome, and stopping at the Marquis's
door. A crowd appeared to mount the stair; the great doors of the
reception-room were flung open, and two pages announced their
Majesties the Emperor and the Empress. So engaged were Lanty and
Blanche, that they never heard the tumult occasioned by the august
It was indeed the Emperor, who, returning from the Theatre
Francais, and seeing the Marquis's windows lighted up, proposed to
the Empress to drop in on the party. He made signs to the musicians
to continue: and the conqueror of Marengo and Friedland watched with
interest the simple evolutions of two happy Irish people. Even the
Empress smiled and, seeing this, all the courtiers, including Naples
and Talleyrand, were delighted.
"Is not this a great day for Ireland?" said the Marquis, with a
tear trickling down his noble face. "O Ireland! O my country! But
no more of that. Go up, Phil, you divvle, and offer her Majesty the
choice of punch or negus."
Among the young fellows with whom I was most intimate in Paris was
Eugene Beauharnais, the son of the ill-used and unhappy Josephine by
her former marriage with a French gentleman of good family. Having a
smack of the old blood in him, Eugene's manners were much more refined
than those of the new-fangled dignitaries of the Emperor's Court,
where (for my knife and fork were regularly laid at the Tuileries) I
have seen my poor friend Murat repeatedly mistake a fork for a
toothpick, and the gallant Massena devour pease by means of his knife,
in a way more innocent than graceful. Talleyrand, Eugene, and I used
often to laugh at these eccentricities of our brave friends; who
certainly did not shine in the drawing-room, however brilliant they
were in the field of battle. The Emperor always asked me to take wine
with him, and was full of kindness and attention.
"I like Eugene," he would say, pinching my ear confidentially, as
his way was—"I like Eugene to keep company with such young fellows
as you; you have manners; you have principles; my rogues from the
camp have none. And I like you, Philip my boy," he added, "for being
so attentive to my poor wife—the Empress Josephine, I mean." All
these honors made my friends at the Marquis's very proud, and my
enemies at Court crever with envy. Among these, the atrocious
Cambaceres was not the least active and envenomed.
The cause of the many attentions which were paid to me, and which,
like a vain coxcomb, I had chosen to attribute to my own personal
amiability, soon was apparent. Having formed a good opinion of my
gallantry from my conduct in various actions and forlorn hopes during
the war, the Emperor was most anxious to attach me to his service.
The Grand Cross of St. Louis, the title of Count, the command of a
crack cavalry regiment, the l4me Chevaux Marins, were the bribes that
were actually offered to me; and must I say it? Blanche, the lovely,
the perfidious Blanche, was one of the agents employed to tempt me to
commit this act of treason.
"Object to enter a foreign service!" she said, in reply to my
refusal. "It is you, Philip, who are in a foreign service. The
Irish nation is in exile, and in the territories of its French
allies. Irish traitors are not here; they march alone under the
accursed flag of the Saxon, whom the great Napoleon would have swept
from the face of the earth, but for the fatal valor of Irish
mercenaries! Accept this offer, and my heart, my hand, my all are
yours. Refuse it, Philip, and we part."
"To wed the abominable Cambaceres!" I cried, stung with rage. "To
wear a duchess's coronet, Blanche! Ha, ha! Mushrooms, instead of
strawberry-leaves, should decorate the brows of the upstart French
nobility. I shall withdraw my parole. I demand to be sent to
prison—to be exchanged—to die—anything rather than be a traitor,
and the tool of a traitress!" Taking up my hat, I left the room in a
fury; and flinging open the door tumbled over Cambaceres, who was
listening at the key-hole, and must have overheard every word of our
We tumbled over each other, as Blanche was shrieking with laughter
at our mutual discomfiture. Her scorn only made me more mad; and,
having spurs on, I began digging them into Cambaceres' fat sides as
we rolled on the carpet, until the Marshal howled with rage and
"This insult must be avenged with blood!" roared the Duke of
"I have already drawn it," says I, "with my spurs."
"Malheur et malediction!" roared the Marshal.
"Hadn't you better settle your wig?" says I, offering it to him on
the tip of my cane, "and we'll arrange time and place when you have
put your jasey in order." I shall never forget the look of revenge
which he cast at me, as I was thus turning him into ridicule before
"Lady Blanche," I continued bitterly, "as you look to share the
Duke's coronet, hadn't you better see to his wig?" and so saying, I
cocked my hat, and walked out of the Marquis's place, whistling
I knew my man would not be long in following me, and waited for him
in the Place Vendome, where I luckily met Eugene too, who was looking
at the picture-shop in the corner. I explained to him my affair in a
twinkling. He at once agreed to go with me to the ground, and
commended me, rather than otherwise, for refusing the offer which had
been made to me. "I knew it would be so," he said, kindly; "I told my
father you wouldn't. A man with the blood of the Fogarties, Phil my
boy, doesn't wheel about like those fellows of yesterday." So, when
Cambaceres came out, which he did presently, with a more furious air
than before, I handed him at once over to Eugene, who begged him to
name a friend, and an early hour for the meeting to take place.
"Can you make it before eleven, Phil?" said Beauharnais. "The
Emperor reviews the troops in the Bois de Boulogne at that hour, and
we might fight there handy before the review."
"Done!" said I. "I want of all things to see the newly-arrived
Saxon cavalry manoeuvre:" on which Cambaceres, giving me a look, as
much as to say, "See sights! Watch cavalry manoeuvres! Make your
soul, and take measure for a coffin, my boy!" walked away, naming our
mutual acquaintance, Marshal Ney, to Eugene, as his second in the
I had purchased from Murat a very fine Irish horse, Bugaboo, out of
Smithereens, by Fadladeen, which ran into the French ranks at
Salamanca, with poor Jack Clonakilty, of the 13th, dead, on the top
of him. Bugaboo was too much and too ugly an animal for the King of
Naples, who, though a showy horseman, was a bad rider across country;
and I got the horse for a song. A wickeder and uglier brute never
wore pig-skin; and I never put my leg over such a timber-jumper in my
life. I rode the horse down to the Bois de Boulogne on the morning
that the affair with Cambaceres was to come off, and Lanty held him as
I went in, "sure to win," as they say in the ring.
Cambaceres was known to be the best shot in the French army; but I,
who am a pretty good hand at a snipe, thought a man was bigger, and
that I could wing him if I had a mind. As soon as Ney gave the word,
we both fired: I felt a whiz past my left ear, and putting up my hand
there, found a large piece of my whiskers gone; whereas at the same
moment, and shrieking a horrible malediction, my adversary reeled and
"Mon Dieu, il est mort!" cried Ney.
"Pas de tout," said Beauharnais. "Ecoute; il jure toujours."
And such, indeed, was the fact: the supposed dead man lay on the
ground cursing most frightfully. We went up to him: he was blind
with the loss of blood, and my ball had carried off the bridge of his
nose. He recovered; but he was always called the Prince of Ponterotto
in the French army, afterwards. The surgeon in attendance having
taken charge of this unfortunate warrior, we rode off to the review
where Ney and Eugene were on duty at the head of their respective
divisions; and where, by the way, Cambaceres, as the French say, "se
It was arranged that Cambaceres' division of six battalions and
nine-and-twenty squadrons should execute a ricochet movement,
supported by artillery in the intervals, and converging by different
epaulements on the light infantry, that formed, as usual, the centre
of the line. It was by this famous manoeuvre that at Arcola, at
Montenotte, at Friedland, and subsequently at Mazagran, Suwaroff,
Prince Charles, and General Castanos were defeated with such
victorious slaughter: but it is a movement which, I need not tell
every military man, requires the greatest delicacy of execution, and
which, if it fails, plunges an army into confusion.
"Where is the Duke of Illyria?" Napoleon asked. "At the head of
his division, no doubt," said Murat: at which Eugene, giving me an
arch look, put his hand to his nose, and caused me almost to fall off
my horse with laughter. Napoleon looked sternly at me; but at this
moment the troops getting in motion, the celebrated manoeuvre began,
and his Majesty's attention was taken off from my impudence.
Milhaud's Dragoons, their bands playing "Vive Henri Quatre," their
cuirasses gleaming in the sunshine, moved upon their own centre from
the left flank in the most brilliant order, while the Carbineers of
Foy, and the Grenadiers of the Guard under Drouet d'Erlon, executed a
carambolade on the right, with the precision which became those
veteran troops; but the Chasseurs of the young guard, marching by twos
instead of threes, bore consequently upon the Bavarian Uhlans (an
ill-disciplined and ill-affected body), and then, falling back in
disorder, became entangled with the artillery and the left centre of
the line, and in one instant thirty thousand men were in inextricable
"Clubbed, by Jabers!" roared out Lanty Clancy. "I wish we could
show 'em the Fighting Onety-oneth, Captain darling."
"Silence, fellow!" I exclaimed. I never saw the face of man
express passion so vividly as now did the livid countenance of
Napoleon. He tore off General Milhaud's epaulettes, which he flung
into Foy's face. He glared about him wildly, like a demon, and
shouted hoarsely for the Duke of Illyria. "He is wounded, Sire,"
said General Foy, wiping a tear from his eye, which was blackened by
the force of the blow; "he was wounded an hour since in a duel, Sire,
by a young English prisoner, Monsieur de Fogarty."
"Wounded! a marshal of France wounded! Where is the Englishman?
Bring him out, and let a file of grenadiers—"
"Sire!" interposed Eugene.
"Let him be shot!" shrieked the Emperor, shaking his spyglass at me
with the fury of a fiend.
This was too much. "Here goes!" said I, and rode slap at him.
There was a shriek of terror from the whole of the French army, and
I should think at least forty thousand guns were levelled at me in an
instant. But as the muskets were not loaded, and the cannon had only
wadding in them, these facts, I presume, saved the life of Phil
Fogarty from this discharge.
Knowing my horse, I put him at the Emperor's head, and Bugaboo went
at it like a shot. He was riding his famous white Arab, and turned
quite pale as I came up and went over the horse and the Emperor,
scarcely brushing the cockade which he wore.
"Bravo!" said Murat, bursting into enthusiasm at the leap.
"Cut him down!" said Sieyes, once an Abbe, but now a gigantic
Cuirassier; and he made a pass at me with his sword. But he little
knew an Irishman on an Irish horse. Bugaboo cleared Sieyes, and
fetched the monster a slap with his near hind hoof which sent him
reeling from his saddle,—and away I went, with an army of a hundred
and seventy-three thousand eight hundred men at my heels. * * * *
BY G. P. R. JEAMES, ESQ., ETC.
It was upon one of those balmy evenings of November, which are only
known in the valleys of Languedoc and among the mountains of Alsace,
that two cavaliers might have been perceived by the naked eye
threading one of the rocky and romantic gorges that skirt the
mountain-land between the Marne and the Garonne. The rosy tints of
the declining luminary were gilding the peaks and crags which lined
the path, through which the horsemen wound slowly; and as these
eternal battlements with which Nature had hemmed in the ravine which
our travellers trod, blushed with the last tints of the fading
sunlight, the valley below was gray and darkling, and the hard and
devious course was sombre in twilight. A few goats, hardly visible
among the peaks, were cropping the scanty herbage here and there. The
pipes of shepherds, calling in their flocks as they trooped homewards
to their mountain villages, sent up plaintive echoes which moaned
through those rocky and lonely steeps; the stars began to glimmer in
the purple heavens spread serenely overhead and the faint crescent of
the moon, which had peered for some time scarce visible in the azure,
gleamed out more brilliantly at every moment, until it blazed as if in
triumph at the sun's retreat. 'Tis a fair land that of France, a
gentle, a green, and a beautiful; the home of arts and arms, of
chivalry and romance, and (however sadly stained by the excesses of
modern times) 'twas the unbought grace of nations once, and the seat
of ancient renown and disciplined valor.
And of all that fair land of France, whose beauty is so bright and
bravery is so famous, there is no spot greener or fairer than that
one over which our travellers wended, and which stretches between the
good towns of Vendemiaire and Nivose. 'Tis common now to a hundred
thousand voyagers: the English tourist, with his chariot and his
Harvey's Sauce, and his imperials; the bustling commis- voyageur on
the roof of the rumbling diligence; the rapid malle- poste thundering
over the chaussee at twelve miles an hour—pass the ground hourly and
daily now: 'twas lonely and unfrequented at the end of that
seventeenth century with which our story commences.
Along the darkening mountain-paths the two gentlemen (for such
their outward bearing proclaimed them) caracoled together. The one,
seemingly the younger of the twain, wore a flaunting feather in his
barret-cap, and managed a prancing Andalusian palfrey that bounded and
curveted gayly. A surcoat of peach-colored samite and a purfled
doublet of vair bespoke him noble, as did his brilliant eye, his
exquisitely chiselled nose, and his curling chestnut ringlets.
Youth was on his brow; his eyes were dark and dewy, like spring-
violets; and spring-roses bloomed upon his cheek—roses, alas! that
bloom and die with life's spring! Now bounding over a rock, now
playfully whisking off with his riding rod a floweret in his path,
Philibert de Coquelicot rode by his darker companion.
His comrade was mounted upon a destriere of the true Norman breed,
that had first champed grass on the green pastures of Aquitaine.
Thence through Berry, Picardy, and the Limousin, halting at many a
city and commune, holding joust and tourney in many a castle and
manor of Navarre, Poitou, and St. Germain l'Auxerrois, the warrior
and his charger reached the lonely spot where now we find them.
The warrior who bestrode the noble beast was in sooth worthy of the
steed which bore him. Both were caparisoned in the fullest trappings
of feudal war. The arblast, the mangonel, the demiculverin, and the
cuissart of the period, glittered upon the neck and chest of the
war-steed; while the rider, with chamfron and catapult, with ban and
arriere-ban, morion and tumbrel, battle-axe and rifflard, and the
other appurtenances of ancient chivalry, rode stately on his
steel-clad charger, himself a tower of steel. This mighty horseman
was carried by his steed as lightly as the young springald by his
"'Twas well done of thee, Philibert," said he of the proof-armor,
"to ride forth so far to welcome thy cousin and companion in arms."
"Companion in battledore and shuttlecock, Romane de Clos-Vougeot!"
replied the younger Cavalier. "When I was yet a page, thou wert a
belted knight; and thou wert away to the Crusades ere ever my beard
"I stood by Richard of England at the gates of Ascalon, and drew
the spear from sainted King Louis in the tents of Damietta," the
individual addressed as Romane replied. "Well-a-day! since thy beard
grew, boy, (and marry 'tis yet a thin one,) I have broken a lance with
Solyman at Rhodes, and smoked a chibouque with Saladin at Acre. But
enough of this. Tell me of home—of our native valley—of my hearth,
and my lady-mother, and my good chaplain— tell me of HER, Philibert,"
said the knight, executing a demivolt, in order to hide his emotion.
Philibert seemed uneasy, and to strive as though he would parry the
question. "The castle stands on the rock," he said, "and the
swallows still build in the battlements. The good chaplain still
chants his vespers at morn, and snuffles his matins at even-song. The
lady-mother still distributeth tracts, and knitteth Berlin
linsey-woolsey. The tenants pay no better, and the lawyers dun as
sorely, kinsman mine," he added with an arch look.
"But Fatima, Fatima, how fares she?" Romane continued. "Since
Lammas was a twelvemonth, I hear nought of her; my letters are
unanswered. The postman hath traversed our camp every day, and never
brought me a billet. How is Fatima, Philibert de Coquelicot?"
"She is—well," Philibert replied; "her sister Anne is the fairest
of the twain, though."
"Her sister Anne was a baby when I embarked for Egypt. A plague on
sister Anne! Speak of Fatima, Philibert—my blue-eyed Fatima!"
"I say she is—well," answered his comrade gloomily.
"Is she dead? Is she ill? Hath she the measles? Nay, hath she
had the small-pox, and lost her beauty? Speak; speak, boy!" cried
the knight, wrought to agony.
"Her cheek is as red as her mother's, though the old Countess
paints hers every day. Her foot is as light as a sparrow's, and her
voice as sweet as a minstrel's dulcimer; but give me nathless the Lady
Anne," cried Philibert; "give me the peerless Lady Anne! As soon as
ever I have won spurs, I will ride all Christendom through, and
proclaim her the Queen of Beauty. Ho, Lady Anne! Lady Anne!" and so
saying—but evidently wishing to disguise some emotion, or conceal
some tale his friend could ill brook to hear— the reckless damoiseau
galloped wildly forward.
But swift as was his courser's pace, that of his companion's
enormous charger was swifter. "Boy," said the elder, "thou hast ill
tidings. I know it by thy glance. Speak: shall he who hath bearded
grim Death in a thousand fields shame to face truth from a friend?
Speak, in the name of heaven and good Saint Botibol. Romane de
Clos-Vougeot will bear your tidings like a man!"
"Fatima is well," answered Philibert once again; "she hath had no
measles: she lives and is still fair."
"Fair, ay, peerless fair; but what more, Philibert? Not false? By
Saint Botibol, say not false," groaned the elder warrior.
"A month syne," Philibert replied, "she married the Baron de
With that scream which is so terrible in a strong man in agony, the
brave knight Romane de Clos-Vougeot sank back at the words, and fell
from his charger to the ground, a lifeless mass of steel.
Like many another fabric of feudal war and splendor, the once vast
and magnificent Castle of Barbazure is now a moss-grown ruin. The
traveller of the present day, who wanders by the banks of the silvery
Loire, and climbs the steep on which the magnificent edifice stood,
can scarcely trace, among the shattered masses of ivy-covered masonry
which lie among the lonely crags, even the skeleton of the proud and
majestic palace stronghold of the Barons of Barbazure.
In the days of our tale its turrets and pinnacles rose as stately,
and seemed (to the pride of sinful man!) as strong as the eternal
rocks on which they stood. The three mullets on a gules wavy
reversed, surmounted by the sinople couchant Or; the well-known
cognizance of the house, blazed in gorgeous heraldry on a hundred
banners, surmounting as many towers. The long lines of battlemented
walls spread down the mountain to the Loire, and were defended by
thousands of steel-clad serving-men. Four hundred knights and six
times as many archers fought round the banner of Barbazure at
Bouvines, Malplaquet, and Azincour. For his services at Fontenoy
against the English, the heroic Charles Martel appointed the
fourteenth Baron Hereditary Grand Bootjack of the kingdom of France;
and for wealth, and for splendor, and for skill and fame in war,
Raoul, the twenty-eighth Baron, was in no-wise inferior to his noble
That the Baron Raoul levied toll upon the river and mail upon the
shore; that he now and then ransomed a burgher, plundered a neighbor,
or drew the fangs of a Jew; that he burned an enemy's castle with the
wife and children within;—these were points for which the country
knew and respected the stout Baron. When he returned from victory, he
was sure to endow the Church with a part of his spoil, so that when he
went forth to battle he was always accompanied by her blessing. Thus
lived the Baron Raoul, the pride of the country in which he dwelt, an
ornament to the Court, the Church, and his neighbors.
But in the midst of all his power and splendor there was a domestic
grief which deeply afflicted the princely Barbazure. His lovely
ladies died one after the other. No sooner was he married than he
was a widower; in the course of eighteen years no less than nine
bereavements had befallen the chieftain. So true it is, that if
fortune is a parasite, grief is a republican, and visits the hall of
the great and wealthy as it does the humbler tenements of the poor.
. . . . . .
"Leave off deploring thy faithless, gad-about lover," said the Lady
of Chacabacque to her daughter, the lovely Fatima, "and think how the
noble Barbazure loves thee! Of all the damsels at the ball last
night, he had eyes for thee and thy cousin only."
"I am sure my cousin hath no good looks to be proud of!" the
admirable Fatima exclaimed, bridling up. "Not that I care for my
Lord of Barbazure's looks. MY heart, dearest mother, is with him who
is far away!"
"He danced with thee four galliards, nine quadrilles, and twenty-
three corantoes, I think, child," the mother said, eluding her
"Twenty-five," said lovely Fatima, casting her beautiful eyes to
the ground. "Heigh-ho! but Romane danced them very well!"
"He had not the court air," the mother suggested.
"I don't wish to deny the beauty of the Lord of Burbazure's
dancing, mamma," Fatima replied. "For a short, lusty man, 'tis
wondrous how active he is; and in dignity the King's Grace himself
could not surpass him."
"You were the noblest couple in the room, love," the lady cried.
"That pea-green doublet, slashed with orange-tawny, those ostrich
plumes, blue, red, and yellow, those party-colored hose and pink
shoon, became the noble baron wondrous well," Fatima acknowledged.
"It must be confessed that, though middle-aged, he hath all the
agility of youth. But alas, madam! The noble baron hath had nine
"And your cousin would give her eyes to become the tenth," the
"My cousin give her eyes!" Fatima exclaimed. "It's not much, I'm
sure, for she squints abominably." And thus the ladies prattled, as
they rode home at night after the great ball at the house of the Baron
The gentle reader, who has overheard their talk, will understand
the doubts which pervaded the mind of the lovely Fatima, and the
well-nurtured English maiden will participate in the divided feelings
which rent her bosom. 'Tis true, that on his departure for the holy
wars, Romane and Fatima were plighted to each other; but the folly of
long engagements is proverbial; and though for many months the
faithful and affectionate girl had looked in vain for news from him,
her admirable parents had long spoken with repugnance of a match which
must bring inevitable poverty to both parties. They had suffered,
'tis true, the engagement to subside, hostile as they ever were to it;
but when on the death of the ninth lady of Barbazure, the noble baron
remarked Fatima at the funeral, and rode home with her after the
ceremony, her prudent parents saw how much wiser, better, happier for
their child it would be to have for life a partner like the baron,
than to wait the doubtful return of the penniless wanderer to whom she
Ah! how beautiful and pure a being! how regardless of self! how
true to duty! how obedient to parental command, is that earthly
angel, a well-bred woman of genteel family! Instead of indulging in
splenetic refusals or vain regrets for her absent lover, the exemplary
Fatima at once signified to her excellent parents her willingness to
obey their orders; though she had sorrows (and she declared them to be
tremendous), the admirable being disguised them so well, that none
knew they oppressed her. She said she would try to forget former
ties, and (so strong in her mind was DUTY above every other
feeling!—so strong may it be in every British maiden!) the lovely
girl kept her promise. "My former engagements," she said, packing up
Romane's letters and presents, (which, as the good knight was mortal
poor, were in sooth of no great price)—"my former engagements I look
upon as childish follies;—my affections are fixed where my dear
parents graft them—on the noble, the princely, the polite Barbazure.
'Tis true he is not comely in feature, but the chaste and well-bred
female knows how to despise the fleeting charms of form. 'Tis true he
is old; but can woman be better employed than in tending her aged and
sickly companion? That he has been married is likewise certain—but
ah, my mother! who knows not that he must be a good and tender
husband, who, nine times wedded, owns that, he cannot be happy without
It was with these admirable sentiments the lovely Fatima proposed
obedience to her parents' will, and consented to receive the
magnificent marriage-gift presented to her by her gallant bridegroom.
The old Countess of Chacabacque had made a score of vain attempts
to see her hapless daughter. Ever, when she came, the porters
grinned at her savagely through the grating of the portcullis of the
vast embattled gate of the Castle of Barbazure, and rudely bade her
begone. "The Lady of Barbazure sees nobody but her confessor, and
keeps her chamber," was the invariable reply of the dogged
functionaries to the entreaties of the agonized mother. And at
length, so furious was he at her perpetual calls at his gate, that
the angry Lord of Barbazure himself, who chanced to be at the
postern, armed a cross-bow, and let fly an arblast at the crupper of
the lady's palfrey, whereon she fled finally, screaming, and in
terror. "I will aim at the rider next time!" howled the ferocious
baron, "and not at the horse!" And those who knew his savage nature
and his unrivalled skill as a bowman, knew that he would neither break
his knightly promise nor miss his aim.
Since the fatal day when the Grand Duke of Burgundy gave his famous
passage of arms at Nantes, and all the nobles of France were present
at the joustings, it was remarked that the Barbazure's heart was
changed towards his gentle and virtuous lady.
For the three first days of that famous festival, the redoubted
Baron of Barbazure had kept the field against all the knights who
entered. His lance bore everything down before it. The most famous
champions of Europe, assembled at these joustings, had dropped, one by
one, before this tremendous warrior. The prize of the tourney was
destined to be his, and he was to be proclaimed bravest of the brave,
as his lady was the fairest of the fair.
On the third day, however, as the sun was declining over the
Vosges, and the shadows were lengthening over the plain where the
warrior had obtained such triumphs;—after having overcome two
hundred and thirteen knights of different nations, including the
fiery Dunois, the intrepid Walter Manny, the spotless Bayard, and the
undaunted Dugueselin, as the conqueror sat still erect on his charger,
and the multitudes doubted whether ever another champion could be
found to face him, three blasts of a trumpet were heard, faint at
first, but at every moment ringing more clearly, until a knight in
pink armor rode into the lists with his visor down, and riding a
tremendous dun charger, which he managed to the admiration of all
The heralds asked him his name and quality.
"Call me," said he, in a hollow voice, "the Jilted Knight." What
was it made the Lady of Barbazure tremble at his accents.
The knight refused to tell his name and qualities; but the
companion who rode with him, the young and noble Philibert de
Coquelicot, who was known and respected universally through the
neighborhood, gave a warranty for the birth and noble degree of the
Jilted Knight—and Raoul de Barbazure, yelling hoarsely for a two-
hundred-and-fourteenth lance, shook the huge weapon in the air as
though it were a reed, and prepared to encounter the intruder.
According to the wont of chivalry, and to keep the point of the
spear from harm, the top of the unknown knight's lance was shielded
with a bung, which the warrior removed; and galloping up to
Barbazure's pavilion, over which his shield hung, touched that noble
cognizance with the sharpened steel. A thrill of excitement ran
through the assembly at this daring challenge to a combat a
l'outrance. "Hast thou confessed, Sir Knight?" roared the Barbazure;
"take thy ground, and look to thyself; for by heaven thy last hour is
come!" "Poor youth, poor youth!" sighed the spectators; "he has
called down his own fate." The next minute the signal was given, and
as the simoom across the desert, the cataract down the rock, the shell
from the howitzer, each warrior rushed from his goal.
. . . . . .
"Thou wilt not slay so good a champion?" said the Grand Duke, as at
the end of that terrific combat the knight in rose armor stood over
his prostrate foe, whose helmet had rolled off when he was at length
unhorsed, and whose bloodshot eyes glared unutterable hate and
ferocity on his conqueror.
"Take thy life," said he who had styled himself the Jilted Knight;
"thou hast taken all that was dear to me." And the sun setting, and
no other warrior appearing to do battle against him, he was proclaimed
the conqueror, and rode up to the duchess's balcony to receive the
gold chain which was the reward of the victor. He raised his visor as
the smiling princess guerdoned him—raised it, and gave ONE sad look
towards the Lady Fatima at her side!
"Romane de Clos-Vougeot!" shrieked she, and fainted. The Baron of
Barbazure heard the name as he writhed on the ground with his wound,
and by his slighted honor, by his broken ribs, by his roused fury, he
swore revenge; and the Lady Fatima, who had come to the tourney as a
queen, returned to her castle as a prisoner.
(As it is impossible to give the whole of this remarkable novel,
let it suffice to say briefly here, that in about a volume and a
half, in which the descriptions of scenery, the account of the
agonies of the baroness, kept on bread and water in her dungeon, and
the general tone of morality, are all excellently worked out, the
Baron de Barbazure resolves upon putting his wife to death by the
hands of the public executioner.)
. . . . . .
Two minutes before the clock struck noon, the savage baron was on
the platform to inspect the preparation for the frightful ceremony of
The block was laid forth—the hideous minister of vengeance, masked
and in black, with the flaming glaive in his hand, was ready. The
baron tried the edge of the blade with his finger, and asked the
dreadful swordsman if his hand was sure? A nod was the reply of the
man of blood. The weeping garrison and domestics shuddered and shrank
from him. There was not one there but loved and pitied the gentle
Pale, pale as a stone, she was brought from her dungeon. To all
her lord's savage interrogatories, her reply had been, "I am
innocent." To his threats of death, her answer was, "You are my
lord; my life is in your hands, to take or to give." How few are the
wives, in our day, who show such angelic meekness! It touched all
hearts around her, save that of the implacable Barbazure! Even the
Lady Blanche, (Fatima's cousin), whom he had promised to marry upon
his faithless wife's demise, besought for her kinswoman's life, and a
divorce; but Barbazure had vowed her death.
"Is there no pity, sir?" asked the chaplain who had attended her.
"No pity?" echoed the weeping serving-maid.
"Did I not aye say I would die for my lord?" said the gentle lady,
and placed herself at the block.
Sir Raoul de Barbazure seized up the long ringlets of her raven
hair. "Now!" shouted he to the executioner, with a stamp of his
The man (who knew his trade) advanced at once, and poised himself
to deliver his blow: and making his flashing sword sing in the air,
with one irresistible, rapid stroke, it sheared clean off the head of
the furious, the bloodthirsty, the implacable Baron de Barbazure!
Thus he fell a victim to his own jealousy: and the agitation of the
Lady Fatima may be imagined, when the executioner, flinging off his
mask, knelt gracefully at her feet, and revealed to her the well-
known features of Romane de Clos-Vougeot.
LORDS AND LIVERIES.
BY THE AUTHORESS OF "DUKES AND DEJEUNERS," "HEARTS AND DIAMONDS,"
"MARCHIONESSES AND MILLINERS," ETC. ETC.
"CORBLEU! What a lovely creature that was in the Fitzbattleaxe box
to-night," said one of a group of young dandies who were leaning over
the velvet-cushioned balconies of the "Coventry Club," smoking their
full-flavored Cubas (from Hudson's) after the opera.
Everybody stared at such an exclamation of enthusiasm from the lips
of the young Earl of Bagnigge, who was never heard to admire anything
except a coulis de dindonneau a la St. Menehould, or a supreme de
cochon en torticolis a la Piffarde; such as Champollion, the chef of
the "Traveller's," only knows how to dress; or the bouquet of a flask
of Medoc, of Carbonell's best quality; or a goutte of Marasquin, from
the cellars of Briggs and Hobson.
Alured de Pentonville, eighteenth Earl of Bagnigge, Viscount Paon
of Islington, Baron Pancras, Kingscross, and a Baronet, was, like too
many of our young men of ton, utterly blase, although only in his
twenty-fourth year. Blest, luckily, with a mother of excellent
principles (who had imbued his young mind with that Morality which is
so superior to all the vain pomps of the world!) it had not been
always the young earl's lot to wear the coronet for which he now in
sooth cared so little. His father, a captain of Britain's navy,
struck down by the side of the gallant Collingwood in the Bay of
Fundy, left little but his sword and spotless name to his young,
lovely, and inconsolable widow, who passed the first years of her
mourning in educating her child in an elegant though small cottage in
one of the romantic marine villages of beautiful Devonshire. Her
child! What a gush of consolation filled the widow's heart as she
pressed him to it! How faithfully did she instil into his young bosom
those principles which had been the pole-star of the existence of his
In this secluded retreat, rank and wealth almost boundless found
the widow and her boy. The seventeenth Earl—gallant and ardent, and
in the prime of youth—went forth one day from the Eternal City to a
steeple-chase in the Campagna. A mutilated corpse was brought back to
his hotel in the Piazza di Spagna. Death, alas! is no respecter of
the Nobility. That shattered form was all that remained of the fiery,
the haughty, the wild, but the generous Altamont de Pentonville!
Such, such is fate!
The admirable Emily de Pentonville trembled with all a mother's
solicitude at the distinctions and honors which thus suddenly
descended on her boy. She engaged an excellent clergyman of the
Church of England to superintend his studies; to accompany him on
foreign travel when the proper season arrived; to ward from him those
dangers which dissipation always throws in the way of the noble, the
idle, and the wealthy. But the Reverend Cyril Delaval died of the
measles at Naples, and henceforth the young Earl of Bagnigge was
without a guardian.
What was the consequence? That, at three-and-twenty, he was a
cynic and an epicure. He had drained the cup of pleasure till it had
palled in his unnerved hand. He had looked at the Pyramids without
awe, at the Alps without reverence. He was unmoved by the sandy
solitudes of the Desert as by the placid depths of Mediterranean's sea
of blue. Bitter, bitter tears did Emily de Pentonville weep, when, on
Alured's return from the Continent, she beheld the awful change that
dissipation had wrought in her beautiful, her blue-eyed, her
perverted, her still beloved boy!
"Corpo di Bacco," he said, pitching the end of his cigar on to the
red nose of the Countess of Delawaddymore's coachman—who, having
deposited her fat ladyship at No. 236 Piccadilly, was driving the
carriage to the stables, before commencing his evening at the
"Fortune of War" public-house—"what a lovely creature that was! What
eyes! what hair! Who knows her? Do you, mon cher prince?"
"E bellissima, certamente," said the Duca de Montepulciano, and
stroked down his jetty moustache.
"Ein gar schones Madchen," said the Hereditary Grand Duke of
Eulenschreckenstein, and turned up his carroty one.
"Elle n'est pas mal, ma foi!" said the Prince de Borodino, with a
scowl on his darkling brows. "Mon Dieu, que ces cigarres sont
mauvais!" he added as he too cast away his Cuba.
"Try one of my Pickwicks," said Franklin Fox, with a sneer,
offering his gold etui to the young Frenchman; "they are some of
Pontet's best, Prince. What, do you bear malice? Come, let us be
friends," said the gay and careless young patrician; but a scowl on
the part of the Frenchman was the only reply.
"Want to know who she is? Borodino knows who she is, Bagnigge,"
the wag went on.
Everybody crowded around Monsieur de Borodino thus apostrophized.
The Marquis of Alicompayne, young De Boots of the Lifeguards, Tom
Protocol of the Foreign Office; the gay young Peers, Farintosh,
Poldoody, and the rest; and Bagnigge, for a wonder, not less eager
than any one present.
"No, he will tell you nothing about her. Don't you see he has gone
off in a fury!" Franklin Fox continued. "He has his reasons, ce cher
prince: he will tell you nothing; but I will. You know that I am au
mieux with the dear old duchess."
"They say Frank and she are engaged after the duke's death," cried
"I always thought Fwank was the duke's illicit gweatgwandson,"
drawled out De Boots.
"I heard that he doctored her Blenheim, and used to bring her wigs
from Paris," cried that malicious Tom Protocol, whose mots are known
in every diplomatic salon from Petersburg to Palermo.
"Burn her wigs and hang her poodle!" said Bagnigge. "Tell me about
this girl, Franklin Fox."
"In the first place, she has five hundred thousand acres, in a ring
fence in Norfolk; a county in Scotland, a castle in Wales, a villa at
Richmond, a corner house in Belgrave Square, and eighty thousand a
year in the three-per-cents."
"Apres?" said Bagnigge, still yawning.
"Secondly, Borodino lui fait la cour. They are cousins, her mother
was an Armagnac of the emigration; the old Marshal, his father,
married another sister. I believe he was footman in the family,
before Napoleon princified him."
"No, no, he was second coachman," Tom Protocol good-naturedly
interposed—"a cavalry officer, Frank, not an infantry man."
"'Faith you should have seen his fury (the young one's, I mean)
when he found me in the duchess's room this evening, tete-a-tete with
the heiress, who deigned to receive a bouquet from this hand."
"It cost me three guineas," poor Frank said, with a shrug and a
sigh, "and that Covent Garden scoundrel gives no credit: but she took
the flowers;—eh, Bagnigge?"
"And flung them to Alboni," the Peer replied, with a haughty sneer.
And poor little Franklin Fox was compelled to own that she had.
The maitre d'hotel here announced that supper was served. It was
remarked that even the coulis de dindonneau made no impression on
Bagnigge that night.
The sensation produced by the debut of Amethyst Pimlico at the
court of the sovereign, and in the salons of the beau-monde, was such
as has seldom been created by the appearance of any other beauty. The
men were raving with love, and the women with jealousy. Her eyes, her
beauty, her wit, her grace, her ton, caused a perfect fureur of
admiration or envy.
Introduced by the Duchess of Fitzbattleaxe, along with her Grace's
daughters, the Ladies Gwendoline and Gwinever Portcullis, the
heiress's regal beauty quite flung her cousins' simple charms into
the shade, and blazed with a splendor which caused all "minor lights"
to twinkle faintly. Before a day the beau-monde, before a week even
the vulgarians of the rest of the town, rang with the fame of her
charms; and while the dandies and the beauties were raving about her,
or tearing her to pieces in May Fair, even Mrs. Dobbs (who had been to
the pit of the "Hoperer" in a green turban and a crumpled yellow
satin) talked about the great HAIRESS to her D. in Bloomsbury Square.
Crowds went to Squab and Lynch's, in Long Acre, to examine the
carriages building for her, so faultless, so splendid, so quiet, so
odiously unostentatious and provokingly simple! Besides the
ancestral services of argenterie and vaisselle plate, contained in a
hundred and seventy-six plate-chests at Messrs. Childs', Rumble and
Briggs prepared a gold service, and Garraway, of the Haymarket, a
service of the Benvenuto Cellini pattern, which were the admiration of
all London. Before a month it is a fact that the wretched
haberdashers in the city exhibited the blue stocks, called
"Heiress-killers, very chaste, two-and-six:" long before that, the
monde had rushed to Madame Crinoline's, or sent couriers to Madame
Marabou, at Paris, so as to have copies of her dresses; but, as the
Mantuan bard observes, "Non cuivis contigit,"—every foot cannot
accommodate itself to the chaussure of Cinderella.
With all this splendor, this worship, this beauty; with these
cheers following her, and these crowds at her feet, was Amethyst
happy? Ah, no! It is not under the necklace the most brilliant that
Briggs and Rumble can supply, it is not in Lynch's best cushioned
chariot that the heart is most at ease. "Que je me ruinerai," says
Fronsac in a letter to Bossuet, "si je savais ou acheter le bonheur!"
With all her riches, with all her splendor, Amethyst was wretched—
wretched, because lonely; wretched, because her loving heart had
nothing to cling to. Her splendid mansion was a convent; no male
person even entered it, except Franklin Fox, (who counted for
nothing,) and the duchess's family, her kinsman old Lord Humpington,
his friend old Sir John Fogey, and her cousin, the odious, odious
The Prince de Borodino declared openly that Amethyst was engaged to
him. Crible de dettes, it is no wonder that he should choose such an
opportunity to refaire sa fortune. He gave out that he would kill any
man who should cast an eye on the heiress, and the monster kept his
word. Major Grigg, of the Lifeguards, had already fallen by his hand
at Ostend. The O'Toole, who had met her on the Rhine, had received a
ball in his shoulder at Coblentz, and did not care to resume so
dangerous a courtship. Borodino could snuff a bougie at a hundred and
fifty yards. He could beat Bertrand or Alexander Dumas himself with
the small-sword: he was the dragon that watched this pomme d'or, and
very few persons were now inclined to face a champion si redoutable.
Over a salmi d'escargot at the "Coventry," the dandies whom we
introduced in our last volume were assembled, there talking of the
heiress; and her story was told by Franklin Fox to Lord Bagnigge,
who, for a wonder, was interested in the tale. Borodino's
pretensions were discussed, and the way in which the fair Amethyst
was confined. Fitzbattleaxe House, in Belgrave Square, is—as
everybody knows—the next mansion to that occupied by Amethyst. A
communication was made between the two houses. She never went out
except accompanied by the duchess's guard, which it was impossible to
"Impossible! Nothing's impossible," said Lord Bagnigge.
"I bet you what you like you don't get in," said the young Marquis
"I bet you a thousand ponies I stop a week in the heiress's house
before the season's over," Lord Bagnigge replied with a yawn; and the
bet was registered with shouts of applause.
But it seemed as if the Fates had determined against Lord Bagnigge,
for the very next day, riding in the Park, his horse fell with him;
he was carried home to his house with a fractured limb and a
dislocated shoulder; and the doctor's bulletins pronounced him to be
in the most dangerous state.
Martingale was a married man, and there was no danger of HIS riding
by the Fitzbattleaxe carriage. A fortnight after the above events,
his lordship was prancing by her Grace's great family coach, and
chattering with Lady Gwinever about the strange wager.
"Do you know what a pony is, Lady Gwinever?" he asked. Her
ladyship said yes: she had a cream-colored one at Castle Barbican;
and stared when Lord Martingale announced that he should soon have a
thousand ponies, worth five-and-twenty pounds each, which were all now
kept at Coutts's. Then he explained the circumstances of the bet with
Bagnigge. Parliament was to adjourn in ten days; the season would be
over! Bagnigge was lying ill chez lui; and the five-and-twenty
thousand were irrecoverably his. And he vowed he would buy Lord
Binnacle's yacht—crew, captain, guns and all.
On returning home that night from Lady Polkimore's, Martingale
found among the many billets upon the gold plateau in his
antichambre, the following brief one, which made him start—
"DEAR MARTINGALE.—Don't be too sure of Binnacle's yacht. There
are still ten days before the season is over; and my ponies may lie
at Coutts's for some time to come.
"P. S.—I write with my left hand; for my right is still splintered
up from that confounded fall."
The tall footman, number four, who had come in the place of John,
cashiered, (for want of proper mollets, and because his hair did not
take powder well,) had given great satisfaction to the under- butler,
who reported well of him to his chief, who had mentioned his name with
praise to the house-steward. He was so good-looking and well-spoken a
young man, that the ladies in the housekeeper's room deigned to notice
him more than once; nor was his popularity diminished on account of a
quarrel in which he engaged with Monsieur Anatole, the enormous
Walloon chasseur, who was one day found embracing Miss Flouncy, who
waited on Amethyst's own maid. The very instant Miss Flouncy saw Mr.
Jeames entering the Servants' Hall, where Monsieur Anatole was engaged
in "aggravating" her, Miss Flouncy screamed: at the next moment the
Belgian giant lay sprawling upon the carpet; and Jeames, standing over
him, assumed so terrible a look, that the chasseur declined any
further combat. The victory was made known to the house-steward
himself, who, being a little partial to Miss Flouncy herself,
complimented Jeames on his valor, and poured out a glass of Madeira in
his own room.
Who was Jeames? He had come recommended by the Bagnigge people.
He had lived, he said, in that family two years. "But where there
was no ladies," he said, "a gentleman's hand was spiled for service;"
and Jeames's was a very delicate hand; Miss Flouncy admired it very
much, and of course he did not defile it by menial service: he had in
a young man who called him sir, and did all the coarse work; and
Jeames read the morning paper to the ladies; not spellingly and with
hesitation, as many gentlemen do, but easily and elegantly, speaking
off the longest words without a moment's difficulty. He could speak
French, too, Miss Flouncy found, who was studying it under
Mademoiselle Grande fille-de-chambre de confiance; for when she said
to him, "Polly voo Fransy, Munseer Jeames?" he replied readily, "We,
Mademaselle, j'ay passay boco de tong a Parry. Commong voo potty
voo?" How Miss Flouncy admired him as he stood before her, the day
after he had saved Miss Amethyst when the horses had run away with her
in the Park!
Poor Flouncy, poor Flouncy! Jeames had been but a week in
Amethyst's service, and already the gentle heart of the washing- girl
was irrecoverably gone! Poor Flouncy! Poor Flouncy! he thought not
It happened thus. Miss Amethyst being engaged to drive with her
cousin the prince in his phaeton, her own carriage was sent into the
Park simply with her companion, who had charge of her little Fido, the
dearest little spaniel in the world. Jeames and Frederick were behind
the carriage with their long sticks and neat dark liveries; the horses
were worth a thousand guineas each, the coachman a late
lieutenant-colonel of cavalry: the whole ring could not boast a more
The prince drove his curricle, and had charge of his belle cousine.
It may have been the red fezzes in the carriage of the Turkish
ambassador which frightened the prince's grays, or Mrs. Champignon's
new yellow liveries, which were flaunting in the Park, or hideous
Lady Gorgon's preternatural ugliness, who passed in a low
pony-carriage at the time, or the prince's own want of skill,
finally; but certain it is that the horses took fright, dashed wildly
along the mile, scattered equipages, pietons, dandies' cabs, and
snobs' pheaytons. Amethyst was screaming; and the prince, deadly
pale, had lost all presence of mind, as the curricle came rushing by
the spot where Miss Amethyst's carriage stood.
"I'm blest," Frederick exclaimed to his companion, "if it ain't the
prince a-drivin our missis! They'll be in the Serpingtine, or dashed
to pieces, if they don't mind." And the runaway steeds at this
instant came upon them as a whirlwind.
But if those steeds ran at a whirlwind pace, Jeames was swifter.
To jump from behind, to bound after the rocking, reeling curricle, to
jump into it, aided by the long stick which he carried and used as a
leaping-pole, and to seize the reins out of the hands of the miserable
Borodino, who shrieked piteously as the dauntless valet leapt on his
toes and into his seat, was the work of an instant. In a few minutes
the mad, swaying rush of the horses was reduced to a swift but steady
gallop; presently into a canter, then a trot; until finally they
pulled up smoking and trembling, but quite quiet, by the side of
Amethyst's carriage, which came up at a rapid pace.
"Give me the reins, malappris! tu m'ecrases le corps, manant!"
yelled the frantic nobleman, writhing underneath the intrepid
"Tant pis pour toi, nigaud," was the reply. The lovely Amethyst of
course had fainted; but she recovered as she was placed in her
carriage, and rewarded her preserver with a celestial smile.
The rage, the fury, the maledictions of Borodino, as he saw the
latter—a liveried menial—stoop gracefully forward and kiss
Amethyst's hand, may be imagined rather than described. But Jeames
heeded not his curses. Having placed his adored mistress in the
carriage, he calmly resumed his station behind. Passion or danger
seemed to have no impression upon that pale marble face.
Borodino went home furious; nor was his rage diminished, when, on
coming to dinner that day, a recherche banquet served in the
Frangipane best style, and requesting a supply of a puree a la bisque
aux ecrevisses, the clumsy attendant who served him let fall the
assiette of vermeille cisele, with its scalding contents, over the
prince's chin, his Mechlin jabot, and the grand cordon of the Legion
of honor which he wore.
"Infame," howled Borodino, "tu l'as fait expres!"
"Oui, je l'ai fait expres," said the man, with the most perfect
Parisian accent. It was Jeames.
Such insolence of course could not be passed unnoticed even after
the morning's service, and he was chassed on the spot. He had been
but a week in the house.
The next month the newspapers contained a paragraph which may
possibly elucidate the above mystery, and to the following effect:—
"Singular Wager.—One night, at the end of last season, the young
and eccentric Earl of B-gn-gge laid a wager of twenty-five thousand
pounds with a broken sporting patrician, the dashing Marquis of
M-rt-ng-le, that he would pass a week under the roof of a celebrated
and lovely young heiress, who lives not a hundred miles from B-lgr-ve
Squ-re. The bet having been made, the earl pretended an illness, and
having taken lessons from one of his lordship's own footmen (Mr. James
Plush, whose name he also borrowed) in 'the MYSTERIES of the
PROFESSION,' actually succeeded in making an entry into Miss P-ml-co's
mansion, where he stopped one week exactly; having time to win his
bet, and to save the life of the lady, whom we hear he is about to
lead to the altar. He disarmed the Prince of Borodino in a duel
fought on Calais sands—and, it is said, appeared at the C—— club
wearing his PLUSH COSTUME under a cloak, and displaying it as a proof
that he had won his wager."
Such, indeed, were the circumstances. The young couple have not
more than nine hundred thousand a year, but they live cheerfully, and
manage to do good; and Emily de Pentonville, who adores her
daughter-in-law and her little grandchildren, is blest in seeing her
darling son enfin un homme range.
BY JE-MES PL-SH, ESQ.
I'm not at libbaty to divulj the reel names of the 2 Eroes of the
igstrawny Tail which I am abowt to relait to those unlightnd paytrons
of letarature and true connyshures of merrit—the great Brittish
public—But I pledj my varacity that this singlar story of rewmantic
love, absobbing pashn, and likewise of GENTEEL LIFE, is, in the main
fax, TREW. The suckmstanzas I elude to, ocurd in the rain of our
presnt Gratious Madjisty and her beluvd and roil Concert Prince
Welthen. Some time in the seazen of 18— (mor I dar not rewheel)
there arrived in this metropulus, per seknd class of the London and
Dover Railway, an ellygant young foring gentleman, whom I shall
danomminate Munseer Jools De Chacabac.
Having read through "The Vicker of Wackfield" in the same oridganal
English tung in which this very harticle I write is wrote too, and
halways been remarkyble, both at collidge and in the estamminy, for
his aytred and orror of perfidgus Halbion, Munseer Jools was
considered by the prapriretors of the newspaper in which he wrote, at
Parris, the very man to come to this country, igsamin its manners and
customs, cast an i upon the politticle and finalshle stat of the
Hempire, and igspose the mackynations of the infyamous Palmerston, and
the ebomminable Sir Pill—both enemies of France; as is every other
Britten of that great, gloarus, libberal, and peasable country. In
one word, Jools de Chacabac was a penny-a- liner.
"I will go see with my own I's," he said, "that infimus hiland of
which the innabitants are shopkeepers, gorged with roast beef and
treason. I will go and see the murderers of the Hirish, the pisoners
of the Chynese, the villians who put the Hemperor to death in
Saintyleany, the artful dodges who wish to smother Europe with their
cotton, and can't sleep or rest heasy for henvy and hatred of the
great inwinsable French nation. I will igsammin, face to face, these
hotty insularies; I will pennytrate into the secrets of their
Jessywhittickle cabinet, and beard Palmerston in his denn." When he
jumpt on shor at Foaxton (after having been tremenguously sick in the
fourcabbing), he exclaimed, "Enfin je te tiens, Ile maudite! je te
crache a la figure, vieille Angleterre! Je te foule a mes pieds an
nom du monde outrage," and so proseaded to inwade the metropulus.
As he wisht to micks with the very chicest sosiaty, and git the
best of infamation about this country, Munseer Jools of coarse went
and lodgd in Lester Square—Lester Squarr, as he calls it—which, as
he was infommed in the printed suckular presented to him by a very
greasy but polite comishner at the Custumus Stares, was in the scenter
of the town, contiggus to the Ouses of Parlyment, the prinsple
theayters, the parx, St. Jams Pallice, and the Corts of Lor. "I can
surwhey them all at one cut of the eye," Jools thought; "the Sovring,
the infamus Ministers plotting the destruction of my immortial
country; the business and pleasure of these pusprond Londoners and
aristoxy; I can look round and see all." So he took a three-pair back
in a French hotel, the "Hotel de l'Ail," kep by Monsieur Gigotot,
Cranbourne Street, Lester Squarr, London.
In this otell there's a billiard-room on the first floor, and a
tabble-doat at eighteenpence peredd at 5 o'clock; and the landlord,
who kem into Jools's room smoaking a segar, told the young gent that
the house was friquented by all the Brittish nobillaty, who reglar
took their dinners there. "They can't ebide their own quiseen," he
said. "You'll see what a dinner we'll serve you to- day." Jools
wrote off to his paper—
"The members of the haughty and luxurious English aristocracy, like
all the rest of the world, are obliged to fly to France for the
indulgence of their luxuries. The nobles of England, quitting their
homes, their wives, miladies and mistriss, so fair but so cold, dine
universally at the tavern. That from which I write is frequented by
Peel and Palmerston. I fremis to think that I may meet them at the
Singlar to say, Peel and Palmerston didn't dine at the "Hotel de
l'Ail" on that evening. "It's quite igstronnary they don't come,"
said Munseer de l'Ail.
"Peraps they're ingaged at some boxing-match or some combaw de
cock," Munseer Jools sejested; and the landlord egreed that was very
Instedd of English there was, however, plenty of foring sociaty, of
every nation under the sun. Most of the noblemen were great
hamatures of hale and porter. The tablecloth was marked over with
brown suckles, made by the pewter-pots on that and the previous days.
"It is the usage here," wrote Jools to his newspaper, "among the
Anglais of the fashonne to absorb immense quantities of ale and
porter during their meals. These stupefying, but cheap, and not
unpalatable liquors are served in shining pewter vessels. A mug of
foaming hafanaf (so a certain sort of beer is called) was placed by
the side of most of the convives. I was disappointed of seeing Sir
Peel: he was engaged to a combat of cocks which occurs at Windsor."
Not one word of English was spoke during this dinner, excep when
the gentlemen said "Garsong de l'afanaf," but Jool was very much
pleased to meet the eleet of the foringers in town, and ask their
opinion about the reel state of thinx. Was it likely that the
bishops were to be turned out of the Chambre des Communes? Was it
true that Lor Palmerston had boxed with Lor Broghamm in the House of
Lords, until they were sepparayted by the Lor Maire? Who was the Lor
Maire? Wasn't he Premier Minister? and wasn't the Archeveque de
Cantorbery a Quaker? He got answers to these questions from the
various gents round about during the dinner— which, he remarked, was
very much like a French dinner, only dirtier. And he wrote off all
the infamation he got to his newspaper.
"The Lord Maire, Lord Lansdowne, is Premier Ministre. His Grace
has his dwelling in the City. The Archbishop of Cantabery is not
turned Quaker, as some people stated. Quakers may not marry, nor sit
in the Chamber of Peers. The minor bishops have seats in the House of
Commons, where they are attacked by the bitter pleasantries of Lord
Brougham. A boxer is in the house; he taught Palmerston the science
of the pugilate, who conferred upon him the seat,"
His writing hover, Jools came down and ad a gaym at pool with two
Poles, a Bulgian, and 2 of his own countrymen. This being done
amidst more hafanaf, without which nothink is done in England, and as
there was no French play that night, he the two French gents walked
round and round Lester Squarr smoking segaws in the faces of other
French gents who were smoaking 2. And they talked about the granjer
of France and the perfidgusness of England, and looked at the
aluminated pictur of Madame Wharton as Haryadney till bedtime. But
befor he slep, he finished his letter you may be sure, and called it
his "Fust Imprestiuns of Anglyterre."
"Mind and wake me early," he said to Boots, the ony Brittish
subject in the "Hotel de l'Ail," and who therefore didn't understand
him. "I wish to be at Smithfield at 6 hours to see THE MEN SELL THEIR
WIVES." And the young roag fell asleep, thinking what sort of a one
This was the way Jools passed his days, and got infamation about
Hengland and the Henglish—walking round and round Lester Squarr all
day, and every day with the same company, occasionally dewussified by
an Oprer Chorus-singer or a Jew or two, and every afternoon in the
Quadrant admiring the genteal sosiaty there. Munseer Jools was not
over well funnisht with pocket-money, and so his pleasure was of the
gratis sort cheafly.
Well, one day as he and a friend was taking their turn among the
aristoxy under the Quadrant—they were struck all of a heap by
seeing— But, stop! who WAS Jools's friend? Here you have pictures
of both—but the Istory of Jools's friend must be kep for another
Not fur from that knowble and cheerflie Squear which Munseer Jools
de Chacabac had selacted for his eboad in London—not fur, I say,
from Lester Squarr, is a rainje of bildings called Pipping's
Buildings, leading to Blue Lion Court, leading to St. Martin's Lane.
You know Pipping's Buildings by its greatest ornament, an am and
beefouce (where Jools has often stood admiring the degstaraty of the
carver a-cuttin the varous jints), and by the little fishmungur's,
where you remark the mouldy lobsters, the fly-blown picklesammon, the
playbills, and the gingybear bottles in the window—above all, by the
"Constantinople" Divan, kep by the Misses Mordeky, and well known to
every lover of "a prime sigaw and an exlent cup of reel Moky Coffy for
The Constantinople Divann is greatly used by the foring gents of
Lester Squar. I never ad the good fortn to pass down Pipping's
Buildings without seeing a haf a duzen of 'em on the threshole of the
extablishment, giving the street an oppertunity of testing the odar of
the Misses Mordeky's prime Avannas. Two or three mor may be visable
inside, settn on the counter or the chestis, indulging in their
fav'rit whead, the rich and spisy Pickwhick, the ripe Manilly, or the
flagrant and arheumatic Qby.
"These Divanns are, as is very well known, the knightly resott of
the young Henglish nobillaty. It is ear a young Pier, after an arjus
day at the House of Commons, solazes himself with a glas of
gin-and-water (the national beveridge), with cheerful conversation on
the ewents of the day, or with an armless gaym of baggytell in the
So wrote at least our friend Jools to his newspaper, the Horriflam;
and of this back-parlor and baggytell-bord, of this counter, of this
"Constantinople" Divan, he became almost as reglar a frequenter as the
plaster of Parish Turk who sits smoking a hookey between the two blue
coffee-cups in the winder.
I have oftin, smokin my own shroot in silents in a corner of the
Diwann, listened to Jools and his friends inwaying aginst Hingland,
and boastin of their own immortial country. How they did go on about
Wellintun, and what an arty contamp they ad for him!—how they used to
prove that France was the Light, the Scenter-pint, the Igsample and
hadmiration of the whole world! And though I scarcely take a French
paper now-a-days (I lived in early days as groom in a French famly
three years, and therefore knows the languidg), though, I say, you
can't take up Jools's paper, the Orriflam, without readin that a
minister has committed bribery and perjury, or that a littery man has
committed perjury and murder, or that a Duke has stabbed his wife in
fifty places, or some story equally horrible; yet for all that it's
admiral to see how the French gents will swagger—how they will be the
scenters of civilization—how they will be the Igsamples of Europ, and
nothink shall prevent 'em— knowing they will have it, I say I listen,
smokin my pip in silence. But to our tail.
Reglar every evening there came to the "Constantanople" a young
gent etired in the igth of fashn; and indead presenting by the
cleanlyness of his appearants and linning (which was generally a pink
or blew shurt, with a cricketer or a dansuse pattern) rather a
contrast to the dinjy and whistkcard sosaity of the Diwann. As for
wiskars, this young mann had none beyond a little yallow tought to
his chin, which you woodn notas, only he was always pulling at it.
His statue was diminnative, but his coschume supubb, for he had the
tippiest Jane boots, the ivoryheadest canes, the most gawjus scarlick
Jonville ties, and the most Scotch-plaidest trowseys, of any customer
of that establishment. He was univusaly called Milord.
"Que est ce jeune seigneur? Who is this young hurl who comes
knightly to the 'Constantanople,' who is so proddigl of his gold (for
indeed the young gent would frequinly propoase gininwater to the
company), and who drinks so much gin?" asked Munseer Chacabac of a
friend from the "Hotel de l'Ail."
"His name is Lord Yardham," answered that friend. "He never comes
here but at night—and why?"
"Y?" igsclaimed Jools, istonisht.
"Why? because he is engaygd all day—and do you know where he is
engaygd all day?"
"Where?" asked Jools.
"At the Foring Office—NOW do you begin to understand?"—Jools
He speaks of his uncle, the head of that office.—"Who IS the head
of that offis?—Palmerston."
"The nephew of Palmerston!" said Jools, almost in a fit.
"Lor Yardham pretends not to speak French," the other went on. "He
pretends he can only say wee and commong porty voo. Shallow
humbug!—I have marked him during our conversations.—When we have
spoken of the glory of France among the nations, I have seen his eye
kindle, and his perfidious lip curl with rage. When they have
discussed before him, the Imprudents! the affairs of Europe, and
Raggybritchovich has shown us the next Circassian Campaign, or
Sapousne has laid hare the plan of the Calabrian patriots for the
next insurrection, I have marked this stranger—this Lor Yardham. He
smokes, 'tis to conceal his countenance; he drinks gin, 'tis to hide
his face in the goblet. And be sure, he carries every word of our
conversation to the perfidious Palmerston, his uncle."
"I will beard him in his den," thought Jools. "I will meet him
corps-a-corps—the tyrant of Europe shall suffer through his nephew,
and I will shoot him as dead as Dujarrier."
When Lor Yardham came to the "Constantanople" that night, Jools i'd
him savidgely from edd to foot, while Lord Yardham replied the same.
It wasn't much for either to do—neyther being more than 4 foot ten
hi—Jools was a grannydear in his company of the Nashnal Gard, and was
as brayv as a lion.
"Ah, l'Angleterre, l'Angleterre, tu nous dois une revanche," said
Jools, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth at Lord Yardham.
"Wee," said Lord Yardham; "wee."
"Delenda est Carthago!" howled out Jools.
"Oh, wee," said the Erl of Yardham, and at the same moment his glas
of ginawater coming in, he took a drink, saying, "A voternsanty,
Munseer:" and then he offered it like a man of fashn to Jools.
A light broak on Jools's mind as he igsepted the refreshmint.
"Sapoase," he said, "instedd of slaughtering this nephew of the
infamous Palmerston, I extract his secrets from him; suppose I pump
him—suppose I unveil his schemes and send them to my paper? La
France may hear the name of Jools de Chacabac, and the star of honor
may glitter on my bosom."
So axepting Lord Yardham's cortasy, he returned it by ordering
another glass of gin at his own expence, and they both drank it on
the counter, where Jools talked of the affaers of Europ all night. To
everything he said, the Earl of Yardham answered, "Wee, wee;" except
at the end of the evening, when he squeeged his and said, "Bong
"There's nothing like goin amongst 'em to equire the reel
pronounciation," his lordship said, as he let himself into his
lodgings with his latch-key. "That was a very eloquent young gent at
the 'Constantinople,' and I'll patronize him."
"Ah, perfide, je te demasquerai!" Jools remarked to himself as he
went to bed in his "Hotel de l'Ail." And they met the next night,
and from that heavning the young men were continyually together.
Well, one day, as they were walking in the Quadrant, Jools talking,
and Lord Yardham saying, "Wee, wee," they were struck all of a heap
But my paper is igshosted, and I must dixcribe what they sor in the
THE CASTLE OF THE ISLAND OF FOGO.
The travler who pesews his dalitefle coarse through the fair rellum
of Franse (as a great romantic landskippist and neamsack of mind
would say) never chaumed his i's within a site more lovely, or vu'd a
pallis more magniffiznt than that which was the buthplace of the
Eroing of this Trew Tale. Phansy a country through whose werdant
planes the selvery Garonne wines, like—like a benevvolent sarpent.
In its plasid busum antient cassles, picturask willidges, and waving
woods are reflected. Purple hills, crownd with inteak ruings;
rivvilets babbling through gentle greenwoods; wight farm ouses, hevvy
with hoverhanging vines, and from which the appy and peaseful okupier
can cast his glans over goolden waving cornfealds, and M. Herald
meddows in which the lazy cattle are graysinn; while the sheppard,
tending his snoughy flox, wiles away the leisure mominx on his
loot—these hoffer but a phaint pictur of the rurial felissaty in the
midst of widge Crinoline and Hesteria de Viddlers were bawn.
Their Par, the Marcus de Viddlers, Shavilear of the Legend of Honor
and of the Lion of Bulgum, the Golden Flease, Grand Cross of the
Eflant and Castle, and of the Catinbagpipes of Hostria, Grand
Chamberleng of the Crownd, and Major-Genaril of Hoss-Mareens, the
twenty-foth or fith Marquis that has bawn the Tittle; is disended
lenyally from King Pipping, and has almost as antient a paddygree as
any which the Ollywell Street frends of the Member of Buckinumsheer
His Marchyniss, the lovely ecomplisht Emily de St. Cornichon,
quitted this mortial spear very soon after she had presented her lord
with the two little dawling Cherrybins above dixcribed, in whomb,
after the loss of that angle his wife, the disconslit widderer found
his only jy on huth. In all his emusemints they ecumpanied him; their
edjacation was his sole bisniss; he atcheaved it with the assistnce of
the ugliest and most lernid masters, and the most hidjus and
egsimplary governices which money could procure. R, how must his
peturnle art have bet, as these Budds, which he had nurrisht, bust
into buty, and twined in blooming flagrance round his pirentle Busm!
The villidges all round his hancestral Alls blessed the Marcus and
his lovely hoffsprig. Not one villidge in their naybrood but was
edawned by their elygint benifisns, and where the inhabitnts wern't
rendered appy. It was a pattern pheasantry. All the old men in the
districk were wertuous tockative, ad red stockins and i-eeled drab
shoes, and beautiful snowy air. All the old women had peaked ats, and
crooked cains, and chince gowns tucked into the pockits of their
quiltid petticoats; they sat in pictarask porches, pretendin to spinn,
while the lads and lassis of the villidges danst under the hellums.
O, tis a noble sight to whitniss that of an appy pheasantry! Not one
of those rustic wassals of the Ouse of Widdlers, but ad his air curled
and his shirt-sheaves tied up with pink ribbing as he led to the macy
dance some appy country gal, with a black velvit boddice and a redd or
yaller petticoat, a hormylu cross on her neck, and a silver harrow in
When the Marcus ther young ladies came to the villidge it would
have done the i's of the flanthropist good to see how all reseaved
'em! The little children scattered calico flowers on their path, the
snowy-aired old men with red faces and rinkles took off their brown
paper ats to slewt the noble Marcus. Young and old led them to a
woodn bank painted to look like a bower of roses, and when they were
sett down danst ballys before them. O 'twas a noble site to see the
Marcus too, smilin ellygint with fethers in his edd and all his stars
on, and the young Marchynisses with their ploomes, and trains, and
They lived in tremenjus splendor at home in their pyturnle alls,
and had no end of pallises, willers, and town and country resadences;
but their fayvorit resadence was called the Castle of the Island of
Add I the penn of the hawther of a Codlingsby himself, I coodnt
dixcribe the gawjusness of their aboad. They add twenty-four footmen
in livery, besides a boy in codroys for the knives shoes. They had
nine meels aday—Shampayne and pineapples were served to each of the
young ladies in bed before they got up. Was it Prawns,
Sherry-cobblers, lobster-salids, or maids of honor, they had but to
ring the bell and call for what they chose. They had two new dresses
every day—one to ride out in the open carriage, and another to appear
in the gardens of the Castle of the Island of Fogo, which were
illuminated every night like Voxhall. The young noblemen of France
were there ready to dance with them, and festif suppers concludid the
Thus they lived in ellygant ratirement until Missfortune bust upon
this happy fammaly. Etached to his Princes and abommanating the ojus
Lewyphlip, the Marcus was conspiring for the benefick of the helder
branch of the Borebones—and what was the consquince?—One night a
fleat presented itself round the Castle of the Island of Fogo—and
skewering only a couple of chests of jewils, the Marcus and the two
young ladies in disgyise, fled from that island of bliss. And whither
fled they?—To England!—England the ome of the brave, the refuge of
the world, where the pore slave never setts his foot but he is free!
Such was the ramantic tail which was told to 2 friends of ours by
the Marcus de Viddlers himself, whose daughters, walking with their
page from Ungerford Market (where they had been to purchis a paper of
srimps for the umble supper of their noble father), Yardham and his
equaintnce, Munseer Jools, had remarked and admired.
But how had those two young Erows become equainted with the noble
Marcus?—That is a mistry we must elucydate in a futur vollam.
THE STARS AND STRIPES.
THE AUTHOR OR "THE LAST OF THE MULLIGANS," "PILOT," ETC
The King of France was walking on the terrace of Versailles; the
fairest, not only of Queens, but of women, hung fondly on the Royal
arm; while the children of France were indulging in their infantile
hilarity in the alleys of the magnificent garden of Le Notre (from
which Niblo's garden has been copied in our own Empire city of New
York), and playing at leap-frog with their uncle, the Count of
Provence; gaudy courtiers, emlazoned with orders, glittered in the
groves, and murmured frivolous talk in the ears of high-bred beauty.
"Marie, my beloved," said the ruler of France, taking out his
watch, "'tis time that the Minister of America should be here."
"Your Majesty should know the time," replied Marie Antoinette,
archly, and in an Austrian accent; "is not my Royal Louis the first
watchmaker in his empire?"
The King cast a pleased glance at his repeater, and kissed with
courtly grace the fair hand of her who had made him the compliment.
"My Lord Bishop of Autun," said he to Monsieur de Talleyrand
Perigord, who followed the royal pair, in his quality of arch-
chamberlain of the empire, "I pray you look through the gardens, and
tell his Excellency Doctor Franklin that the King waits." The Bishop
ran off, with more than youthful agility, to seek the United States'
Minister. "These Republicans," he added, confidentially, and with
something of a supercilious look, "are but rude courtiers, methinks."
"Nay," interposed the lovely Antoinette, "rude courtiers, Sire,
they may be; but the world boasts not of more accomplished gentlemen.
I have seen no grandee of Versailles that has the noble bearing of
this American envoy and his suite. They have the refinement of the
Old World, with all the simple elegance of the New. Though they have
perfect dignity of manner, they have an engaging modesty which I have
never seen equalled by the best of the proud English nobles with whom
they wage war. I am told they speak their very language with a grace
which the haughty Islanders who oppress them never attained. They are
independent, yet never insolent; elegant, yet always respectful; and
brave, but not in the least boastful."
"What! savages and all, Marie?" exclaimed Louis, laughing, and
chucking the lovely Queen playfully under the royal chin. "But here
comes Doctor Franklin, and your friend the Cacique with him." In fact,
as the monarch spoke, the Minister of the United States made his
appearance, followed by a gigantic warrior in the garb of his native
Knowing his place as Minister of a sovereign state, (yielding even
then in dignity to none, as it surpasses all now in dignity, in
valor, in honesty, in strength, and civilization,) the Doctor nodded
to the Queen of France, but kept his hat on as he faced the French
monarch, and did not cease whittling the cane he carried in his hand.
"I was waiting for you, sir," the King said, peevishly, in spite of
the alarmed pressure which the Queen gave his royal arm.
"The business of the Republic, sire, must take precedence even of
your Majesty's wishes," replied Dr. Franklin. "When I was a poor
printer's boy and ran errands, no lad could be more punctual than
poor Ben Franklin; but all other things must yield to the service of
the United States of North America. I have done. What would you,
Sire?" and the intrepid republican eyed the monarch with a serene and
easy dignity, which made the descendant of St. Louis feel ill at ease.
"I wished to—to say farewell to Tatua before his departure," said
Louis XVI., looking rather awkward. "Approach, Tatua." And the
gigantic Indian strode up, and stood undaunted before the first
magistrate of the French nation: again the feeble monarch quailed
before the terrible simplicity of the glance of the denizen of the
The redoubted chief of the Nose-ring Indians was decorated in his
war-paint, and in his top-knot was a peacock's feather, which had
been given him out of the head-dress of the beautiful Princess of
Lamballe. His nose, from which hung the ornament from which his
ferocious tribe took its designation, was painted a light-blue, a
circle of green and orange was drawn round each eye, while serpentine
stripes of black, white, and vermilion alternately were smeared on his
forehead, and descended over his cheek-bones to his chin. His manly
chest was similarly tattooed and painted, and round his brawny neck
and arms hung innumerable bracelets and necklaces of human teeth,
extracted (one only from each skull) from the jaws of those who had
fallen by the terrible tomahawk at his girdle. His moccasins, and his
blanket, which was draped on his arm and fell in picturesque folds to
his feet, were fringed with tufts of hair—the black, the gray, the
auburn, the golden ringlet of beauty, the red lock from the forehead
of the Scottish or the Northern soldier, the snowy tress of extreme
old age, the flaxen down of infancy—all were there, dreadful
reminiscences of the chief's triumphs in war. The warrior leaned on
his enormous rifle, and faced the King.
"And it was with that carabine that you shot Wolfe in '57?" said
Louis, eying the warrior and his weapon. "'Tis a clumsy lock, and
methinks I could mend it," he added mentally.
"The chief of the French pale-faces speaks truth," Tatua said.
"Tatua was a boy when he went first on the war-path with Montcalm."
"And shot a Wolfe at the first fire!" said the King.
"The English are braves, though their faces are white," replied the
Indian. "Tatua shot the raging Wolfe of the English; but the other
wolves caused the foxes to go to earth." A smile played round Dr.
Franklin's lips, as he whittled his cane with more vigor than ever.
"I believe, your Excellency, Tatua has done good service elsewhere
than at Quebec," the King said, appealing to the American Envoy: "at
Bunker's Hill, at Brandywine, at York Island? Now that Lafayette and
my brave Frenchmen are among you, your Excellency need have no fear
but that the war will finish quickly—yes, yes, it will finish
quickly. They will teach you discipline, and the way to conquer."
"King Louis of France," said the Envoy, clapping his hat down over
his head, and putting his arms a-kimbo, "we have learned that from
the British, to whom we are superior in everything: and I'd have your
Majesty to know that in the art of whipping the world we have no need
of any French lessons. If your reglars jine General Washington, 'tis
to larn from HIM how Britishers are licked; for I'm blest if YU know
the way yet."
Tatua said, "Ugh," and gave a rattle with the butt of his carabine,
which made the timid monarch start; the eyes of the lovely Antoinette
flashed fire, but it played round the head of the dauntless American
Envoy harmless as the lightning which he knew how to conjure away.
The King fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a Cross of the Order
of the Bath. "Your Excellency wears no honor," the monarch said;
"but Tatua, who is not a subject, only an ally, of the United States,
may. Noble Tatua, I appoint you Knight Companion of my noble Order of
the Bath. Wear this cross upon your breast in memory of Louis of
France;" and the King held out the decoration to the Chief.
Up to that moment the Chief's countenance had been impassible. No
look either of admiration or dislike had appeared upon that grim and
war-painted visage. But now, as Louis spoke, Tatua's face assumed a
glance of ineffable scorn, as, bending his head, he took the bauble.
"I will give it to one of my squaws," he said. "The papooses in my
lodge will play with it. Come, Medecine, Tatua will go and drink
fire-water;" and, shouldering his carabine, he turned his broad back
without ceremony upon the monarch and his train, and disappeared down
one of the walks of the garden. Franklin found him when his own
interview with the French Chief Magistrate was over; being attracted
to the spot where the Chief was, by the crack of his well-known rifle.
He was laughing in his quiet way. He had shot the Colonel of the
Swiss Guards through his cockade.
Three days afterwards, as the gallant frigate, the "Repudiator,"
was sailing out of Brest Harbor, the gigantic form of an Indian might
be seen standing on the binnacle in conversation with Commodore Bowie,
the commander of the noble ship. It was Tatua, the Chief of the
Leatherlegs and Tom Coxswain did not accompany Tatua when he went
to the Parisian metropolis on a visit to the father of the French
pale-faces. Neither the Legs nor the Sailor cared for the gayety and
the crowd of cities; the stout mariner's home was in the
puttock-shrouds of the old "Repudiator." The stern and simple
trapper loved the sound of the waters better than the jargon of the
French of the old country. "I can follow the talk of a Pawnee," he
said, "or wag my jaw, if so be necessity bids me to speak, by a
Sioux's council-fire and I can patter Canadian French with the
hunters who come for peltries to Nachitoches or Thichimuchimachy; but
from the tongue of a Frenchwoman, with white flour on her head, and
war-paint on her face, the Lord deliver poor Natty Pumpo."
"Amen and amen!" said Tom Coxswain. "There was a woman in our aft-
scuppers when I went a-whalin in the little 'Grampus'—and Lord love
you, Pumpo, you poor land-swab, she WAS as pretty a craft as ever
dowsed a tarpauling—there was a woman on board the 'Grampus,' who
before we'd struck our first fish, or biled our first blubber, set the
whole crew in a mutiny. I mind me of her now, Natty,—her eye was
sich a piercer that you could see to steer by it in a Newfoundland
fog; her nose stood out like the 'Grampus's' jibboom, and her woice,
Lord love you, her woice sings in my ears even now:— it set the
Captain a-quarrelin with the Mate, who was hanged in Boston harbor for
harpoonin of his officer in Baffin's Bay;—it set me and Bob Bunting
a-pouring broadsides into each other's old timbers, whereas me and Bob
was worth all the women that ever shipped a hawser. It cost me three
years' pay as I'd stowed away for the old mother, and might have cost
me ever so much more, only bad luck to me, she went and married a
little tailor out of Nantucket; and I've hated women and tailors ever
since!" As he spoke, the hardy tar dashed a drop of brine from his
tawny cheek, and once more betook himself to splice the taffrail.
Though the brave frigate lay off Havre de Grace, she was not idle.
The gallant Bowie and his intrepid crew made repeated descents upon
the enemy's seaboard. The coasts of Rutland and merry Leicestershire
have still many a legend of fear to tell; and the children of the
British fishermen tremble even now when they speak of the terrible
"Repudiator." She was the first of the mighty American war-ships that
have taught the domineering Briton to respect the valor of the
The novelist ever and anon finds himself forced to adopt the
sterner tone of the historian, when describing deeds connected with
his country's triumphs. It is well known that during the two months
in which she lay off Havre, the "Repudiator" had brought more prizes
into that port than had ever before been seen in the astonished French
waters. Her actions with the "Dettingen" and the "Elector" frigates
form part of our country's history; their defence—it may be said
without prejudice to national vanity—was worthy of Britons and of the
audacious foe they had to encounter; and it must be owned, that but
for a happy fortune which presided on that day over the destinies of
our country, the chance of the combat might have been in favor of the
British vessels. It was not until the "Elector" blew up, at a quarter
past three P.M., by a lucky shot which fell into her caboose, and
communicated with the powder-magazine, that Commodore Bowie was
enabled to lay himself on board the "Dettingen," which he carried
sword in hand. Even when the American boarders had made their
lodgment on the "Dettingen's" binnacle, it is possible that the battle
would still have gone against us. The British were still seven to
one; their carronades, loaded with marline-spikes, swept the gun-deck,
of which we had possession, and decimated our little force; when a
rifle-ball from the shrouds of the "Repudiator" shot Captain Mumford
under the star of the Guelphic Order which he wore, and the Americans,
with a shout, rushed up the companion to the quarter-deck, upon the
astonished foe. Pike and cutlass did the rest of the bloody work.
Rumford, the gigantic first-lieutenant of the "Dettingen," was cut
down by Commodore Bowie's own sword, as they engaged hand to hand;
and it was Tom Coxswain who tore down the British flag, after having
slain the Englishman at the wheel. Peace be to the souls of the
brave! The combat was honorable alike to the victor and the
vanquished; and it never can be said that an American warrior
depreciated a gallant foe. The bitterness of defeat was enough to
the haughty islanders who had to suffer. The people of Herne Bay
were lining the shore, near which the combat took place, and cruel
must have been the pang to them when they saw the Stars and Stripes
rise over the old flag of the Union, and the "Dettingen" fall down
the river in tow of the Republican frigate.
Another action Bowie contemplated: the boldest and most daring
perhaps ever imagined by seaman. It is this which has been so
wrongly described by European annalists, and of which the British
until now have maintained the most jealous secrecy.
Portsmouth Harbor was badly defended. Our intelligence in that
town and arsenal gave us precise knowledge of the disposition of the
troops, the forts, and the ships there; and it was determined to
strike a blow which should shake the British power in its centre.
That a frigate of the size of the "Repudiator" should enter the
harbor unnoticed, or could escape its guns unscathed, passed the
notions of even American temerity. But upon the memorable 26th of
June, 1782, the "Repudiator" sailed out of Havre Roads in a thick
fog, under cover of which she entered and cast anchor in Bonchurch
Bay, in the Isle of Wight. To surprise the Martello Tower and take
the feeble garrison thereunder, was the work of Tom Coxswain and a
few of his blue-jackets. The surprised garrison laid down their arms
It was midnight before the boats of the ship, commanded by
Lieutenant Bunker, pulled off from Bonchurch with muffled oars, and
in another hour were off the Common Hard of Portsmouth, having passed
the challenges of the "Thetis" and the "Amphion" frigates, and the
There had been on that day great feasting and merriment on board
the Flag-ship lying in the harbor. A banquet had been given in honor
of the birthday of one of the princes of the royal line of the
Guelphs—the reader knows the propensity of Britons when liquor is in
plenty. All on board that royal ship were more or less overcome. The
Flag-ship was plunged in a deathlike and drunken sleep. The very
officer of the watch was intoxicated: he could not see the
"Repudiator's" boats as they shot swiftly through the waters; nor had
he time to challenge her seamen as they swarmed up the huge sides of
At the next moment Tom Coxswain stood at the wheel of the "Royal
George"—the Briton who had guarded, a corpse at his feet. The
hatches were down. The ship was in possession of the "Repudiator's"
crew. They were busy in her rigging, bending her sails to carry her
out of the harbor. The well-known heave of the men at the windlass
woke up Kempenfelt in his state-cabin. We know, or rather do not
know, the result; for who can tell by whom the lower-deck ports of
the brave ship were opened, and how the haughty prisoners below sunk
the ship and its conquerors rather than yield her as a prize to the
Only Tom Coxswain escaped of victors and vanquished. His tale was
told to his Captain and to Congress, but Washington forbade its
publication; and it was but lately that the faithful seaman told it
to me, his grandson, on his hundred-and-fifteenth birthday.
A PLAN FOR A PRIZE NOVEL.
IN A LETTER FROM THE EMINENT DRAMATIST BROWN TO THE EMINENT
"CAFE DES AVEUGLES.
"MY DEAR SNOOKS,—I am on the look-out here for materials for
original comedies such as those lately produced at your theatre; and,
in the course of my studies, I have found something, my dear Snooks,
which I think will suit your book. You are bringing, I see, your
admirable novel, 'The Mysteries of May Fair,' to an end— (by the way,
the scene, in the 200th number, between the Duke, his Grandmother, and
the Jesuit Butler, is one of the most harrowing and exciting I ever
read)—and, of course, you must turn your real genius to some other
channel; and we may expect that your pen shall not be idle.
"The original plan I have to propose to you, then, is taken from
the French, just like the original dramas above mentioned; and,
indeed, I found it in the law report of the National newspaper, and a
French literary gentleman, M. Emanuel Gonzales, has the credit of the
invention. He and an advertisement agent fell out about a question of
money, the affair was brought before the courts, and the little plot
so got wind. But there is no reason why you should not take the plot
and act on it yourself. You are a known man; the public relishes your
works; anything bearing the name of Snooks is eagerly read by the
masses; and though Messrs. Hookey, of Holywell Street, pay you
handsomely, I make no doubt you would like to be rewarded at a still
"Unless he writes with a purpose, you know, a novelist in our days
is good for nothing. This one writes with a socialist purpose; that
with a conservative purpose: this author or authoress with the most
delicate skill insinuates Catholicism into you, and you find yourself
all but a Papist in the third volume: another doctors you with Low
Church remedies to work inwardly upon you, and which you swallow down
unsuspiciously, as children do calomel in jelly. Fiction advocates all
sorts of truth and causes—doesn't the delightful bard of the Minories
find Moses in everything? M. Gonzales's plan, and the one which I
recommend to my dear Snooks, simply was to write an advertisement
novel. Look over The Times or the 'Directory,' walk down Regent
Street or Fleet Street any day— see what houses advertise most, and
put yourself into communication with their proprietors. With your
rings, your chains, your studs, and the tip on your chin, I don't know
any greater swell than Bob Snooks. Walk into the shops, I say, ask
for the principal, and introduce yourself, saying, 'I am the great
Snooks; I am the author of the "Mysteries of May Fair;" my weekly sale
is 281,000; I am about to produce a new work called "The Palaces of
Pimlico, or the Curse of the Court," describing and lashing fearlessly
the vices of the aristocracy; this book will have a sale of at least
530,000; it will be on every table—in the boudoir of the pampered
duke, as in the chamber of the honest artisan. The myriads of
foreigners who are coming to London, and are anxious to know about our
national manners, will purchase my book, and carry it to their distant
homes. So, Mr. Taylor, or Mr. Haberdasher, or Mr. Jeweller, how much
will you stand if I recommend you in my forthcoming novel?' You may
make a noble income in this way, Snooks.
"For instance, suppose it is an upholsterer. What more easy, what
more delightful, than the description of upholstery? As thus:—
"'Lady Emily was reclining on one of Down and Eider's voluptuous
ottomans, the only couch on which Belgravian beauty now reposes, when
Lord Bathershins entered, stepping noiselessly over one of Tomkins's
elastic Axminster carpets. "Good heavens, my lord!" she said—and the
lovely creature fainted. The Earl rushed to the mantel-piece, where
he saw a flacon of Otto's eau-de-Cologne, and,'
"Or say it's a cheap furniture-shop, and it may be brought in just
as easily, as thus:—
"'We are poor, Eliza,' said Harry Hardhand, looking affectionately
at his wife, 'but we have enough, love, have we not, for our humble
wants? The rich and luxurious may go to Dillow's or Gobiggin's, but
we can get our rooms comfortably furnished at Timmonson's for 20L.'
And putting on her bonnet, and hanging affectionately on her husband,
the stoker's pretty bride tripped gayly to the well-known mart, where
Timmonson, within his usual affability, was ready to receive them.
"Then you might have a touch at the wine-merchant and purveyor.
'Where did you get this delicious claret, or pate de fois gras, or
what you please?' said Count Blagowski to the gay young Sir Horace
Swellmore. The voluptuous Bart answered, 'At So-and-So's, or So-
and-So's.' The answer is obvious. You may furnish your cellar or
your larder in this way. Begad, Snooks! I lick my lips at the very
"Then, as to tailors, milliners, bootmakers, how easy to get a
word for them! Amranson, the tailor, waited upon Lord Paddington
with an assortment of his unrivalled waistcoats, or clad in that
simple but aristocratic style of which Schneider ALONE has the
secret. Parvy Newcome really looked like a gentleman, and though
corpulent and crooked, Schneider had managed to give him, Don't you
see what a stroke of business you might do in this way.
"The shoemaker.—Lady Fanny flew, rather than danced, across the
ball-room; only a Sylphide, or Taglioni, or a lady chausseed by
Chevillett of Bond Street could move in that fairy way; and
"The hairdresser.—'Count Barbarossa is seventy years of age,' said
the Earl. 'I remember him at the Congress of Vienna, and he has not
a single gray hair.' Wiggins laughed. 'My good Lord Baldock,' said
the old wag, 'I saw Barbarossa's hair coming out of Ducroissant's
shop, and under his valet's arm—ho! ho! ho!'—and the two bon-vivans
chuckled as the Count passed by, talking with,
"The gunmaker.—'The antagonists faced each other; and undismayed
before his gigantic enemy, Kilconnel raised his pistol. It was one
of Clicker's manufacture, and Sir Marmaduke knew he could trust the
maker and the weapon. "One, two, THREE," cried O'Tool, and the two
pistols went off at that instant, and uttering a terrific curse, the
Lifeguardsman,' sentence of this nature from your pen, my dear Snooks,
would, I should think, bring a case of pistols and a double-barrelled
gun to your lodgings; and, though heaven forbid you should use such
weapons, you might sell them, you know, and we could make merry with
"If my hint is of any use to you, it is quite at your service, dear
Snooks; and should anything come of it, I hope you will remember your