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Old Friends - Essays in Epistolary Parody

by Andrew Lang

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from the 1890 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition.

OLD FRIENDS

PREFACE

The studies in this volume originally appeared in the "St. James's

Gazette." Two, from a friendly hand, have been omitted here by the

author of the rest, as non sua poma. One was by Mr. RICHARD

SWIVELLER to a boon companion and brother in the lyric Apollo; the

other, though purporting to have been addressed by Messrs. DOMBEY &

SON to Mr. TOOTS, is believed, on internal evidence, to have been

composed by the patron of the CHICKEN himself. A few prefatory

notes, an introductory essay, and two letters have been added.

The portrait in the frontispiece, copied by Mr. T. Hodge from an

old painting in the Club at St. Andrews, is believed to represent

the Baron Bradwardine addressing himself to his ball.

1. L.

FRIENDS IN FICTION

Every fancy which dwells much with the unborn and immortal

characters of Fiction must ask itself, Did the persons in

contemporary novels never meet? In so little a world their paths

must often have crossed, their orbits must have intersected, though

we hear nothing about the adventure from the accredited narrators.

In historical fiction authors make their people meet real men and

women of history--Louis XI., Lazarus, Mary Queen of Scots, General

Webbe, Moses, the Man in the Iron Mask, Marie Antoinette; the list

is endless. But novelists, in spite of Mr. Thackeray's advice to

Alexandre Dumas, and of his own example in "Rebecca and Rowena,"

have not introduced each other's characters. Dumas never pursued

the fortunes of the Master of Ravenswood after he was picked up by

that coasting vessel in the Kelpie's Flow. Sometimes a meeting

between characters in novels by different hands looked all but

unavoidable. "Pendennis" and "David Copperfield" came out

simultaneously in numbers, yet Pen never encountered Steerforth at

the University, nor did Warrington, in his life of journalism,

jostle against a reporter named David Copperfield. One fears that

the Major would have called Steerforth a tiger, that Pen would have

been very loftily condescending to the nephew of Betsy Trotwood.

But Captain Costigan would scarcely have refused to take a sip of

Mr. Micawber's punch, and I doubt, not that Litimer would have

conspired darkly with Morgan, the Major's sinister man. Most of

those delightful sets of old friends, the Dickens and Thackeray

people, might well have met, though they belonged to very different

worlds. In older novels, too, it might easily have chanced that

Mr. Edward Waverley of Waverley Honour, came into contact with

Lieutenant Booth, or, after the Forty-five, with Thomas Jones, or,

in Scotland, Balmawhapple might have foregathered with Lieutenant

Lismahagow. Might not even Jeanie Deans have crossed the path of

Major Lambert of the "Virginians," and been helped on her way by

that good man? Assuredly Dugald Dalgetty in his wanderings in

search of fights and fortune may have crushed a cup or rattled a

dicebox with four gallant gentlemen of the King's Mousquetaires.

It is agreeable to wonder what all these very real people would

have thought of their companions in the region of Romance, and to

guess how their natures would have acted and reacted on each other.

This was the idea which suggested the following little essays in

parody. In making them the writer, though an assiduous and veteran

novel reader, had to recognise that after all he knew, on really

intimate and friendly terms, comparatively few people in the

Paradise of Fiction. Setting aside the dramatic poets and their

creations, the children of Moliere and Shakspeare, the reader of

novels will find, may be, that his airy friends are scarce so many

as he deemed. We all know Sancho and the Don, by repute at least;

we have all our memories of Gil Blas; Manon Lescaut does not fade

from the heart, nor her lover, the Chevalier des Grieux, from the

remembrance. Our mental picture of Anna Karenine is fresh enough

and fair enough, but how few can most of us recall out of the

myriad progeny of George Sand! Indiana, Valentine, Lelia, do you

quite believe in them, would you know them if you met them in the

Paradise of Fiction? Noun one might recognise, but there is a

haziness about La Petite Fadette. Consuelo, let it be admitted, is

not evanescent, oblivion scatters no poppy over her; but Madame

Sand's later ladies, still more her men, are easily lost in the

forests of fancy. Even their names with difficulty return to us,

and if we read the roll-call, would Horace and Jacques cry Adsum

like the good Colonel? There are living critics who have all Mr.

George Meredith's heroines and heroes and oddities at their finger

ends, and yet forget that musical name, like the close of a rich

hexameter, Clare Doria Forey. But this is a digression; it is

perhaps admitted that George Sand, so great a novelist, gave the

world few characters who live in and are dear to memory. We can

just fancy one of her dignified later heroines, all self-

renunciation and rural sentiment, preaching in vain to that real

woman, Emma Bovary. HER we know, her we remember, as we remember

few, comparatively, of Balzac's thronging faces, from La Cousine

Bette to Seraphitus Seraphita. Many of those are certain to live

and keep their hold, but it is by dint of long and elaborate

preparation, description, analysis. A stranger intermeddleth not

with them, though we can fancy Lucien de Rubempre let loose in a

country neighbourhood of George Sand's, and making sonnets and love

to some rural chatelaine, while Vautrin might stray among the

ruffians of Gaboriau, a giant of crime. Among M. Zola's people,

however it may fare with others, I find myself remembering few:

the guilty Hippolytus of "La Curee," the poor girl in "La Fortune

des Rougon," the Abbe Mouret, the artist in "L'Oeuvre," and the

half idiotic girl of the farm house, and Helene in "Un Page

d'Amour." They are not amongst M. Zola's most prominent creations,

and it must be some accident that makes them most memorable and

recognisable to one of his readers.

Probably we all notice that the characters of fiction who remain

our intimates, whose words come to our lips often, whose conduct in

this or that situation we could easily forecast, are the characters

whom we met when we were young. We may be wrong in thinking them

the best, the most true and living of the unborn; perhaps they only

seem so real because they came fresh to fresh hearts and unworn

memories. This at least we must allow for, when we are tempted to

say about novelists, "The old are better." It was we who, long

ago, were young and better, better fitted to enjoy and retain the

pleasure of making new visionary acquaintances. If this be so,

what an argument it is in favour of reading the best books first

and earliest in youth! Do the ladies who now find Scott slow, and

Miss Austen dull, and Dickens vulgar, and Thackeray prosy, and

Fielding and Richardson impossible, come to this belief because

they began early with the volumes of the circulating library? Are

their memories happily stored with the words and deeds of modern

fictitious romps, and passionate governesses, and tremendous

guardsmen with huge cigars? Are the people of--well, why mention

names of living authors?--of whom you will--are those as much to

the young readers of 1890 as Quentin Durward, and Colonel Newcome,

and Sam Weller, and Becky Sharp, and Anne Elliot, and Elizabeth

Bennett, and Jane Eyre were to young readers of 1860? It may very

well be so, and we seniors will not regret our choice, and the

young men and maids will be pleased enough with theirs. Yet it is

not impossible that the old really are better, and do not gain all

their life and permanent charm merely from the unjaded memories and

affections with which we came to them long ago.

We shall never be certain, for even if we tried the experiment of

comparing, we are no longer good judges, our hearts are with our

old friends, whom we think deathless; their birth is far enough off

in time, but they will serve us for ours.

These friends, it has been said, are not such a very numerous

company after all. Most of them are children of our own soil,

their spirits were made in England, or at least in Great Britain,

or, perhaps, came of English stock across the seas, like our dear

old Leather Stocking and Madam Hester Prynne. Probably most of us

are insular enough to confess this limitation; even if we be so

unpatriotic to read far more new French than new English novels.

One may study M. Daudet, and not remember his Sidonie as we

remember Becky, nor his Petit Chose or his Jack as we remember

David Copperfield. In the Paradise of Fiction are folk of all

nations and tongues; but the English (as Swedenborg saw them doing

in his vision of Heaven) keep very much to themselves. The

American visitors, or some of them, disdain our old acquaintances,

and associate with Russian, Spanish, Lithuanian, Armenian heroes

and heroines, conversing, probably, in some sort of French. Few of

us "poor islanders" are so cosmopolitan; we read foreign novels,

and yet among all the brilliant persons met there we remember but a

few. Most of my own foreign friends in fiction wear love-locks and

large boots, have rapiers at their side which they are very ready

to draw, are great trenchermen, mighty fine drinkers, and somewhat

gallant in their conduct to the sex. There is also a citizen or

two from Furetiere's "Roman Bourgeois," there is Manon, aforesaid,

and a company of picaroons, and an archbishop, and a lady styled

Marianne, and a newly ennobled Count of mysterious wealth, and two

grisettes, named Mimi and Musette, with their student-lovers. M.

Balzac has introduced us to mystics, and murderers, and old maids,

and doctors, and adventurers, and poets, and a girl with golden

eyes, and malefactors, and bankrupts, and mad old collectors,

peasants, cures, critics, dreamers, debauchees; but all these are

somewhat distant acquaintances, many of them undesirable

acquaintances. In the great "Comedie Humaine" have you a single

real friend? Some of Charles de Bernard's folk are more akin to

us, such as "La Femme de Quarante Ans," and the owner of the hound

Justinian, and that drunken artist in "Gerfaut." But an Englishman

is rather friendless, rather an alien and an outcast, in the

society of French fiction. Monsieur de Camors is not of our monde,

nor is the Enfant du Siecle; indeed, perhaps good Monsieur

Sylvestre Bonnard is as sympathetic as anyone in that populous

country of modern French romance. Or do you know Fifi Vollard?

Something must be allowed for strange manners, for exotic ideas,

and ways not our own. More perhaps is due to what, as Englishmen

think, is the lack of HUMOUR in the most brilliant and witty of

races. We have friends many in Moliere, in Dumas, in Rabelais; but

it is far more difficult to be familiar, at ease, and happy in the

circles to which Madame Sand, M. Daudet, M. Flaubert, or M. Paul

Bourget introduce us. M. Bourget's old professor, in "Le

Disciple," we understand, but he does not interest himself much in

us, and to us he is rather a curiosity, a "character," than an

intimate. We are driven to the belief that humour, with its loving

and smiling observation, is necessary to the author who would make

his persons real and congenial, and, above all, friendly. Now

humour is the quality which Dumas, Moliere, and Rabelais possess

conspicuously among Frenchmen. Montaigne has it too, and makes

himself dear to us, as the humorous novelists make their fancied

people dear. Without humour an author may draw characters distinct

and clear, and entertaining, and even real; but they want

atmosphere, and with them we are never intimate. Mr. Alfred Austin

says that "we know the hero or the heroine in prose romance far

more familiarly than we know the hero or heroine in the poem or the

drama." "Which of the serious characters in Shakspeare's plays are

not indefinite and shadowy compared with Harry Esmond or Maggie

Tulliver?" The SERIOUS characters--they are seldom very familiar

or definite to us in any kind of literature. One might say, to be

sure, that he knows Hotspur a good deal more intimately than he

knows Mr. Henry Esmond, and that he has a pretty definite idea of

Iago, Othello, Macbeth, King Lear, as definite as he has (to follow

Mr. Austin) of Tito Melema. But we cannot reckon Othello, or

Macbeth, or King Lear as FRIENDS; nay, we would rather drink with

the honest ancient. All heroes and the heroines are usually too

august, and also too young, to be friendly with us; to be handled

humorously by their creators. We know Cuddie Headrigg a great deal

better than Henry Morton, and Le Balafre better than Quentin

Durward, and Dugald Dalgetty better than anybody. Humour it is

that gives flesh and blood to the persons of romance; makes Mr.

Lenville real, while Nicholas Nickleby is only a "walking

gentleman." You cannot know Oliver Twist as you know the Dodger

and Charlie Bates. If you met Edward Waverley you could scarce

tell him from another young officer of his time; but there would be

no chance of mistake about the Dugald creature, or Bailie Nicol

Jarvie, or the Baron Bradwardine, or Balmawhapple.

These ideas might be pushed too far; it might be said that only the

persons in "character parts"--more or less caricatures--are really

vivid in the recollection. But Colonel Newcome is as real as

Captain Costigan, and George Warrington as the Chevalier Strong.

The hero is commonly too much of a beau tenebreux to be actual;

Scott knew it well, and in one of his unpublished letters frankly

admits that his heroes are wooden, and no favourites of his own.

He had to make them, as most authors make their heroes, romantic,

amorous, and serious; few of them have the life of Roland Graeme,

or even of Quentin Durward. Ivanhoe might put on the cloak of the

Master of Ravenswood, the Master might wear the armour of the

Disinherited Knight, and the disguise would deceive the keenest.

Nay, Mr. Henry Esmond might pass for either, if arrayed in

appropriate costume.

To treat a hero with humour is difficult in romance, all but

impossible. Hence the heroes are rarely our friends, except in

Fielding, or, now and then, in Thackeray. No book is so full of

friends as the novel that has no hero, but has Rawdon Crawley,

Becky, Lady Jane, Mr. Jim Crawley, MacMurdo, Mrs. Major O'Dowd, and

the rest. Even Dobbin is too much the hero to be admitted among

our most kindly acquaintances. So unlucky are heroes that we know

Squire Western and the Philosopher Square and Parson Adams far

better than even that unheroic hero, Tom Jones, or Joseph Andrews.

The humour of Fielding and his tenderness make Amelia and Sophia

far more sure of our hearts than, let us say, Rowena, or the Fair

Maid of Perth, or Flora MacIvor, or Rose Bradwardine. It is humour

that makes Mr. Collins immortal, and Mrs. Bennett, and Emma; while

a multitude of nice girls in fiction, good girls too, are as dead

as Queen Tiah.

Perhaps, after all, this theory explains why it is so very hard to

recall with vividness the persons of our later fiction. Humour is

not the strong point of novelists to-day. There may be amateurs

who know Mr. Howells's characters as their elders know Sophia and

Amelia and Catherine Seyton--there may be. To the old reader of

romance, however earnestly he keeps up with modern fiction, the

salt of life seems often lacking in its puppets or its persons.

Among the creations of living men and women I, for one, feel that I

have two friends at least across the sea, Master Thomas Sawyer and

his companion, Huckleberry Finn. If these are not real boys, then

Dr. Farrar's Eric IS a real boy; I cannot put it stronger. There

is a lady on those distant shores (for she never died of Roman

fever) who I may venture to believe is not unfriendly--Miss Annie

P. Miller--and there is a daughter of Mr. Silas Lapham whom one

cannot readily forget, and there is a beery journalist in a "Modern

Instance," an acquaintance, a distant professional acquaintance,

not a friend. The rest of the fictitious white population of the

States are shadowy to myself; I have often followed their fortunes

with interest, but the details slip my aging memory, which recalls

Topsy and Uncle Remus.

To speak of new friends at home is a more delicate matter. A man

may have an undue partiality for the airy children of his friends'

fancy. Mr. Meredith has introduced me to an amiable Countess, to a

strange country girl named Rhoda, to a wonderful old AEschylean

nurse, to some genuine boys, to a wise Youth,--but that society

grows as numerous as brilliant. Mr. Besant has made us friends

with twins of literary and artistic genius, with a very highly-

cultured Fellow of Lothian, with a Son of Vulcan, with a bevy of

fair but rather indistinguishable damsels, like a group of

agreeable-looking girls at a dance. But they are too busy with

their partners to be friendly. We admire them, but they are

unconcerned with us. In Mr. Black's large family the Whaup seems

most congenial to some strangers; the name of one of Mr. Payn's

friendly lads is Legion, and Miss Broughton's dogs, with THEIR

friend Sara, and Mrs. Moberley, welcome the casual visitor with

hospitable care. Among the kindly children of a later generation

one may number a sailor man with a wooden leg; a Highland

gentleman, who, though landless, bears a king's name; an Irish

chevalier who was out in the '45; a Zulu chief who plied the axe

well; a private named Mulvaney in Her Majesty's Indian army; an

elderly sportsman of agile imagination or unparalleled experience

in remote adventure. {1} All these a person who had once

encountered them would recognise, perhaps, when he was fortunate

enough to find himself in their company.

There are children, too, of a dead author, an author seldom lauded

by critics, who, possibly, have as many living friends as any

modern characters can claim. A very large company of Christian

people are fond of Lord Welter, Charles Ravenshoe, Flora and Gus,

Lady Ascot, the boy who played fives with a brass button, and a

dozen others of Henry Kingsley's men, women, and children, whom we

have laughed with often, and very nearly cried with. For Henry

Kingsley had humour, and his children are dear to us; while which

of Charles Kingsley's far more famous offspring would be welcome--

unless it were Salvation Yeo--if we met them all in the Paradise of

Fiction?

It is not very safe, in literature as in life, to speak well of our

friends or of their families. Other readers, other people, have

theirs, whom we may not care much for, whom we may even chance

never to have met. In the following Letters from Old Friends

(mainly reprinted from the "St. James's Gazette"), a few of the

writers may, to some who glance at the sketches, be unfamiliar.

When Dugald Dalgetty's epistle on his duel with Aramis was written,

a man of letters proposed to write a reply from Aramis in a certain

journal. But his Editor had never heard of any of the gentlemen

concerned in that affair of honour; had never heard of Dugald, of

Athos, Porthos, Aramis, nor D'Artagnan. He had not been introduced

to them. This little book will be fortunate far beyond its deserts

if it tempts a few readers to extend the circle of their visionary

acquaintances, of friends who, like Brahma, know not birth, nor

decay, "sleep, waking, nor trance."

A theme more delicate and intimate than that of our Friends in

fiction awaits a more passionate writer than the present parodist.

Our LOVES in fiction are probably numerous, and our choice depends

on age and temperament. In romance, if not in life, we can be in

love with a number of ladies at once. It is probable that Beatrix

Esmond has not fewer knights than Marie Antoinette or Mary Stuart.

These ladies have been the marks of scandal. Unkind things are

said of all three, but our hearts do not believe the evil reports.

Sir Walter Scott refused to write a life of Mary Stuart because his

opinion was not on the popular side, nor on the side of his

feelings. The reasoning and judicial faculties may be convinced

that Beatrix was "other than a guid ane," but reason does not touch

the affections; we see her with the eyes of Harry Esmond, and, like

him, "remember a paragon." With similar lack of logic we believe

that Mrs. Wenham really had one of her headaches, and that Becky

was guiltless on a notorious occasion. Bad or not so bad, what

lady would we so gladly meet as Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, whose kindness

was so great that she even condescended to be amusing to her own

husband? For a more serious and life-long affection there are few

heroines so satisfactory as Sophia Western and Amelia Booth (nee

Harris). Never before nor since did a man's ideal put on flesh and

blood--out of poetry, that is,--and apart from the ladies of

Shakspeare. Fielding's women have a manly honour, tolerance,

greatness, in addition to their tenderness and kindness.

Literature has not their peers, and life has never had many to

compare with them. They are not "superior" like Romola, nor

flighty and destitute of taste like Maggie Tulliver; among

Fielding's crowd of fribbles and sots and oafs they carry that pure

moly of the Lady in "Comus." It is curious, indeed, that men have

drawn women more true and charming than women themselves have

invented, and the heroines of George Eliot, of George Sand (except

Consuelo), and even of Miss Austen, do not subdue us like Di

Vernon, nor win our sympathies like Rebecca of York. They may

please and charm for their hour, but they have not the immortality

of the first heroines of all--of Helen, or of that Alcmena who

makes even comedy grave when she enters, and even Plautus

chivalrous. Poetry, rather than prose fiction, is the proper home

of our spiritual mistresses; they dwell where Rosalind and Imogen

are, with women perhaps as unreal or as ideal as themselves, men's

lost loves and unforgotten, in a Paradise apart.

LETTER: From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. Arthur Pendennis.

Mr. Newcome, a married man and an exile at Boulogne, sends Mr.

Arthur Pendennis a poem on his undying affection for his cousin,

Miss Ethel Newcome. He desires that it may be published in a

journal with which Mr. Pendennis is connected. He adds a few

remarks on his pictures for the Academy.

Boulogne, March 28.

Dear Pen,--I have finished Belisarius, and he has gone to face the

Academicians. There is another little thing I sent--"Blondel" I

call it--a troubadour playing under a castle wall. They have not

much chance; but there is always the little print-shop in Long

Acre. My sketches of mail-coaches continue to please the public;

they have raised the price to a guinea.

Here we are not happier than when you visited us. My poor wife is

no better. It is something to have put my father out of hearing of

her mother's tongue: that cannot cross the Channel. Perhaps I am

as well here as in town. There I always hope, I always fear to

meet HER . . . my cousin, you know. I think I see her face under

every bonnet. God knows I don't go where she is likely to be met.

Oh, Pen, haeret lethalis arundo; it is always right--the Latin

Delectus! Everything I see is full of her, everything I do is done

for her. "Perhaps she'll see it and know the hand, and remember,"

I think, even when I do the mail-coaches and the milestones. I

used to draw for her at Brighton when she was a child. My

sketches, my pictures, are always making that silent piteous appeal

to her, WON'T YOU LOOK AT US? WON'T YOU REMEMBER? I dare say she

has quite forgotten. Here I send you a little set of rhymes; my

picture of Blondel and this old story brought them into my mind.

They are gazes, as the drunk painter says in "Gerfaut;" they are

veiled, a mystery. I know she's not in a castle or a tower or a

cloistered cell anywhere; she is in Park Lane. Don't I read it in

the "Morning Post?" But I can't, I won't, go and sing at the area-

gate, you know. Try if F. B. will put the rhymes into the paper.

Do they take it in in Park Lane? See whether you can get me a

guinea for these tears of mine: "Mes Larmes," Pen, do you

remember?--Yours ever, C. N.

The verses are enclosed.

THE NEW BLONDEL.

O ma Reine!

Although the Minstrel's lost you long,

Although for bread the Minstrel sings,

Ah, still for you he pipes the song,

And thrums upon the crazy strings!

As Blondel sang by cot and hall,

Through town and stream and forest passed,

And found, at length, the dungeon wall,

And freed the Lion-heart at last -

So must your hapless minstrel fare,

By hill and hollow violing;

He flings a ditty on the air,

He wonders if you hear him sing!

For in some castle you must dwell

Of this wide land he wanders through -

In palace, tower, or cloistered cell -

He knows not; but he sings to YOU!

The wind may blow it to your ear,

And you, perchance, may understand;

But from your lattice, though you hear,

He knows you will not wave a hand.

Your eyes upon the page may fall,

More like the page will miss your eyes;

You may be listening after all,

So goes he singing till he dies.

LETTER: From the Hon. Cecil Bertie to the Lady Guinevere.

Mr. Cecil Tremayne, who served "Under Two Flags," an officer in her

Majesty's Guards, describes to the Lady Guinevere the circumstances

of his encounter with Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller. The

incident has been omitted by Ouida and Mr. Henry James.

You ask me, Camarada, what I think of the little American donzella,

Daisy Miller? Hesterna Rosa, I may cry with the blind old bard of

Tusculum; or shall we say, Hesterna Margaritae? Yesterday's Daisy,

yesterday's Rose, were it of Paestum, who values it to-day? Mais

ou sont les neiges d'automne? However, yesterday--the day before

yesterday, rather--Miss Annie P. Miller was well enough.

We were smoking at the club windows on the Ponte Vecchio;

Marmalada, Giovanelli of the Bersaglieri, young Ponto of the

K.O.B.'s, and myself--men who never give a thought save to the gold

embroidery of their pantoufles or the exquisite ebon laquer of

their Russia leather cricket-shoes. Suddenly we heard a clatter in

the streets. The riderless chargers of the Bersaglieri were racing

down the Santo Croce, and just turning, with a swing and shriek of

clattering spurs, into the Maremma. In the midst of the street,

under our very window, was a little thing like a butterfly, with

yeux de pervenche. You remember, Camarada, Voltaire's love of the

pervenche; we have plucked it, have we not? in his garden of Les

Charmettes. Nous n'irons plus aux bois! Basta!

But to return. There she stood, terror-stricken, petrified, like

her who of old turned her back on Zoar and beheld the incandescent

hurricane of hail smite the City of the Plain! She was dressed in

white muslin, joli comme un coeur, with a myriad frills and

flounces and knots of pale-coloured ribbon. Open-eyed, open-

mouthed, she stared at the tide of foaming steeds, like a maiden

martyr gazing at the on-rushing waves of ocean! "Caramba!" said

Marmalada, "voila une jeune fille pas trop bien gardee!"

Giovanelli turned pale, and, muttering Corpo di Bacco, quaffed a

carafon of green Chartreuse, holding at least a quart, which stood

by him in its native pewter. Young Ponto merely muttered, "Egad!"

I leaped through the open window and landed at her feet.

The racing steeds were within ten yards of us. Calmly I cast my

eye over their points. Far the fleetest, though he did not hold

the lead, was Marmalada's charger, the Atys gelding, by Celerima

out of Sac de Nuit. With one wave of my arm I had placed her on

his crupper, and, with the same action, swung myself into the

saddle. Then, in a flash and thunder of flying horses, we swept

like tawny lightning down the Pincian. The last words I heard from

the club window, through the heliotrope-scented air, were "Thirty

to one on Atys, half only if declared." They were wagering on our

lives; the slang of the paddock was on their lips.

Onward, downward, we sped, the fair stranger lifeless in my arms.

Past scarlet cardinals in mufti, past brilliant [Greek text] like

those who swayed the City of the Violet Crown; past pifferari

dancing in front of many an albergo; through the Ghetto with its

marmorine palaces, over the Fountain of Trevi, across the Cascine,

down the streets of the Vatican we flew among yells of "Owner's

up," "The gelding wins, hard held," from the excited bourgeoisie.

Heaven and earth swam before my eyes as we reached the Pons

Sublicia, and heard the tawny waters of Tiber swaying to the sea.

THE PONS SUBLICIA WAS UP!

With an oath of despair, for life is sweet, I rammed my persuaders

into Atys, caught him by the head, and sent him straight at the

flooded Tiber!

"Va-t-en donc, espece de type!" said the girl on my saddle-bow,

finding her tongue at last. Fear, or girlish modesty, had hitherto

kept her silent.

Then Atys rose on his fetlocks! Despite his double burden, the

good steed meant to have it. He deemed, perchance, he was with the

Quorn or the Baron's. He rose; he sprang. The deep yellow water,

cold in the moon's rays, with the farthest bank but a chill grey

line in the mist, lay beneath us! A moment that seemed an

eternity! Then we landed on the far-off further bank, and for the

first time I could take a pull at his head. I turned him on the

river's brim, and leaped him back again.

The runaway was now as tame as a driven deer in Richmond Park.

Well, Camarada, the adventure is over. She was grateful, of

course. These pervenche eyes were suffused with a dewy radiance.

"You can't call," she said, "for you haven't been introduced, and

Mrs. Walker says we must be more exclusive. I'm dying to be

exclusive; but I'm very much obliged to you, and so will mother be.

Let's see. I'll be at the Colosseum to-morrow night, about ten.

I'm bound to see the Colosseum, by moonlight. Good-bye;" and she

shook her pale parasol at me, and fluttered away.

Ah, Camarada, shall I be there? Que scais-je? Well, 'tis time to

go to the dance at the Holy Father's. Adieu, Carissima.--Tout a

vous,

CIS.

LETTER: Barry Lyndon

Mr. Redmond Barry (better known as Barry Lyndon) tells his uncle

the story of a singular encounter at Berlin with Mr. Alan Stuart,

called Alan Breck, and well known as the companion of Mr. David

Balfour in many adventures. Mr. Barry, at this time, was in the

pay of Herr Potzdorff, of his Prussian Majesty's Police, and was

the associate of the Chevalier, his kinsman, in the pursuit of

fortune.

Berlin, April 1, 1748.

Uncle Barry,--I dictate to Pippi, my right hand being wounded, and

that by no common accident. Going down the Linden Strasse

yesterday, I encountered a mob; and, being curious in Potzdorff's

interest, penetrated to the kernel of it. There I found two men of

my old regiment--Kurz and another--at words with a small, dark,

nimble fellow, who carried bright and dancing eyes in a pock-marked

face. He had his iron drawn, a heavy box-handled cut-and-thrust

blade, and seemed ready to fall at once on the pair that had been

jeering him for his strange speech.

"Who is this, lads?" I asked.

"Ein Englander," answered they.

"No Englishman," says he, in a curious accent not unlike our

brogue, "but a plain gentleman, though he bears a king's name and

hath Alan Breck to his by-name."

"Come, come," says I in German, "let the gentleman go his way; he

is my own countryman." This was true enough for them; and you

should have seen the Highlander's eyes flash, and grow dim again.

I took his arm, for Potzdorff will expect me to know all about the

stranger, and marched him down to the Drei Konige.

"I am your host, sir; what do you call for, Mr. Stuart of -?" said

I, knowing there is never a Scot but has the name of his kailyard

tacked to his own.

"A King's name is good enough for me; I bear it plain. Mr. -?"

said he, reddening.

"They call me the Chevalier Barry, of Ballybarry."

"I am in the better company, sir," quoth he, with a grand bow.

When a bowl of punch was brought he takes off his hat, and drinks,

very solemnly, "To the King!"

"Over the water?" I asked.

"Nay, sir, on THIS side," he said; and I smoked the Jacobite. But

to shorten the story, which amuses my tedium but may beget it in

you, I asked him if he knew the cards.

"I'm just daft when I get to the cartes," he answered in his

brogue, and we fell to piquet. Now my Scot wore a very fine coat,

and on the same very large smooth silver buttons, well burnished.

Therefore, perceiving such an advantage as a skilled player may

enjoy, I let him win a little to whet his appetite, but presently

used his buttons as a mirror, wherein I readily detected the

strength of the cards he held. Before attempting this artifice, I

had solemnly turned my chair round thrice.

"You have changed the luck, sir," says Mr. Breck, or Stuart,

presently; and, rising with a mighty grave air, he turned his coat

and put it on inside out.

"Sir," says I, "what am I to understand by this conduct?"

"What for should not I turn my coat, for luck, if you turn your

chair?" says he. "But if you are not preceesely satisfied, I will

be proud to step outside with you."

I answered that we were not in a Highland wilderness, and that if

no malice were meant no affront was taken. We continued at the

game till, though deprived of my mirror, I had won some 500

Fredericks. On this he rose, saying, "Sir, in this purse you will

find the exact sum that I am owing you, and I will call for my

empty sporran the morn. It was Rob Roy's before it was mine."

Therewith he laid on the table a sort of goatskin pouch, such as

Highlanders gird about their loins, and marched forth.

I set to work at opening his pouch, that was fastened by a spring

and button, seeming easy enough of access. But I had scarce

pressed the button when lo! a flash, a pistol shot, and my right

hand is grazed with a bullet that flew out of the bag. This

Highlander of the Devil had some mechanism in his purse that

discharged a small steel pistol when unwarily opened. My hand is

but slightly wounded, yet I cannot hold my sword, nor hath my

search brought me any news of Alan Breck. He has vanished like an

emissary of the Devil or the Pretender, as I doubt not he is. But

I will have his blood, if he is not one of their Scotch fairies.--

Your loving Nephew,

REDMOND BARRY, OF BALLYBARRY.

P.S.--The Fredericks were in the bag, all told.

LETTER: From Mrs. Gamp to Mrs. Prig.

Mrs. Gamp nurses an old friend who is under a singular delusion.

Todgers's.

My precious Betsy,--Which when last we parted it was not as I could

wish, but bearing malice in our hearts. But, as often and often

Mrs. Harris have said it before me, with the tears in her angel

eyes--one of them having a slight cast from an accident with the

moderator lamp, Harris being quick in his temper--often and often

have she said to me: "Ah, Sairey, the quarrels of friends is

affection's best restorer." And good reason to know it she have,

with a husband as was ever true, and never gave her no cause to

form the wish to pizen them as has good looks, but, for I will not

deceive you, ready with his hands.

And so, between you and me may it be, Betsy Prig, as was constant

partners afore them Chuzzlewidges, and Nadgetts, and Lewsomses, and

Tiggses, and Chuffeys got that mixed and that aggerawating that to

remember who of them poisoned which or for why in a slime draught,

it makes my poor head go round, nor could such be soothing to the

temper. So let bygones be bygones between us. For, wanting of my

Betsy, I am now in a nice state of confusion, with a patient as was

well beknown to me in younger days, when there wasn't so much of a

shadder on this mortial vial, {2} meaning Mr. Pecksniff. Which you

will not forget of him, by reason of his daughter as married that

Jonadge, and his collars as mints of money must have gone to the

getting them up; but is now at Todgers's, and confused in his poor

mind, thinking hisself Somebody else high in Parliament. And

wonder at it I do not, them Chuzzlewidges and Chuffeys being that

distracting, and ever proving to be some other pusson in disguise,

as would confuge a calkilating boy.

So being applied to for to nightly him, there in that very sick

room--for why should I deceive you?--I meets the daily nuss; and,

Betsy, I was that overcome to have such a pardner propoged to me as

I had to ring and ask the young woman immediate for a small glass

of their oldest rum, being what I am not accustomed to but having

had a turn. For, will you believe it, she was not a widger woman

as has experience in the ways of men, but a huzzy in a bragian cap

like them the Nuns wear in "Mariar Monk," as you may have seen it

in the small sweet-shops, at a penny. And her hands as white as

her papistry cap, and she a turning up of her nose at what I had

took, and a presuming to give ME advice about nussing, as St.

Pancradge's Churchyard wouldn't hold them I've seen comfortable to

their long homes, and no complaints made but ever the highest

satigefaction. So I ups and gives her a bit of my mind; and Mrs.

Todgers coming down, "It's she goes or me," says I, "for never will

Sairey Gamp nuss, sick or monthly, with a pardner as has not

confidence in me, nor I in her, but contrary." Then SHE says

she'll go and speak to the doctor about it; and out she tramps with

her nose in the air, and sneezing most awful, not being accustomed

to that which I take, find it strengthening, but as it have been a

cause of sorrow and strife let it be nameless between you and me.

For to have the name "Snuffey" brought forward it is what the heart

can forgive, but never forget in this valley of the shaddock.

I have nussed a many lunacies, Betsy, and in a general way am

dispoged to humour them rather than set them right up agin the fire

when fractious. But this Pecksniff is the tryingest creature; he

having got it in his mind as he is Somebody very high, and talking

about the House, and Bills, and clauses, and the "sacred cause of

Universal Anarchy," for such was his Bible language, though meaning

to me no more than the babe unborn. Whereby Mrs. Harris she have

often said to me, "What DO them blessed infants occupy their little

minds with afore they are called into that condition where, unless

changed at nuss, Providence have appointed them?" And many a time

have I said, "Seek not, Mrs. Harris, to diskiver; for we know not

wot's hidden in our own hearts, and the torters of the Imposition

should not make me diwulge it."

But Pecksniff is that aggravating as I can hardly heed the words I

now put on the paper.

"Some of my birds have left me," says he, "for the stranger's

breast, and one have took wing for the Government benches. {3} But

I have ever sacrificed my country's happiness to my own, and I will

not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. I

know the purity of my own motives, and while my Merry, my little

Sir William, playful warbler, prattles under this patriarchal wing,

and my Cherry, my darling Morley, supports the old man's tottering

walk, I can do without my Goschy, my dears, I can do without him."

And wants to borrer MY umbreller for them "to rally round," the

bragian idgiot!

A chattering creature he always were, and will be; but, Betsy, I

have this wery momink fixed him up with a shoehorn in his mouth, as

was lying round providential, and the strings of my bonnet, and the

last word as he will say this blessed night was some lunacy about

"denouncing the clogeure," as won't give much more trouble now.

So having rung for a shilling's worth of gin-and-water warm, and

wishing you was here to take another of the same, I puts my lips to

it, and drinks to one as was my frequent pardner in this mortial

vale, and am, as in old days, my Betsy's own

SAIREY GAMP.

LETTER: From Herodotus of Halicarnassus to Sophocles the Athenian.

Herodotus describes, in a letter to his friend Sophocles, a curious

encounter with a mariner just returned from unknown parts of

Africa.

To Sophocles, the Athenian, greeting. Yesterday, as I was going

down to the market-place of Naucratis, I met Nicarete, who of all

the hetairai in this place is the most beautiful. Now, the

hetairai of Naucratis are wont somehow to be exceedingly fair,

beyond all women whom we know. She had with her a certain Phocaean

mariner, who was but now returned from a voyage to those parts of

Africa which lie below Arabia; and she saluted me courteously, as

knowing that it is my wont to seek out and inquire the tidings of

all men who have intelligence concerning the ends of the earth.

"Hail to thee, Nicarete," said I; "verily thou art this morning as

lovely as the dawn, or as the beautiful Rhodopis that died ere thou

wert born to us through the favour of Aphrodite." {4}

Now this Rhodopis was she who built, they say, the Pyramid of

Mycerinus: wherein they speak not truly but falsely, for Rhodopis

lived long after the kings who built the Pyramids.

"Rhodopis died not, O Herodotus," said Nicarete, "but is yet

living, and as fair as ever she was; and he who is now my lover,

even this Phanes of Phocaea, hath lately beheld her."

Then she seemed to me to be jesting, like that scribe who told me

of Krophi and Mophi; for Rhodopis lived in the days of King Amasis

and of Sappho the minstrel, and was beloved by Charaxus, the

brother of Sappho, wherefore Sappho reviled him in a song. How

then could Rhodopis, who flourished more than a hundred years

before my time, be living yet?

While I was considering these things they led me into the booth of

one that sold wine; and when Nicarete had set garlands of roses on

our heads, Phanes began and told me what I now tell thee but

whether speaking truly or falsely I know not. He said that being

on a voyage to Punt (for so the Egyptians call that part of

Arabia), he was driven by a north wind for many days, and at last

landed in the mouth of a certain river where were many sea-fowl and

water-birds. And thereby is a rock, no common one, but fashioned

into the likeness of the head of an Ethiopian. There he said that

the people of that country found him, namely the Amagardoi, and

carried him to their village. They have this peculiar to

themselves, and unlike all other peoples whom we know, that the

woman asks the man in marriage. They then, when they have kissed

each other, are man and wife wedded. And they derive their names

from the mother; wherein they agree with the Lycians, whether being

a colony of the Lycians, or the Lycians a colony of theirs, Phanes

could not give me to understand. But, whereas they are black and

the Lycians are white, I rather believe that one of them has

learned this custom from the other; for anything might happen in

the past of time.

The Amagardoi have also this custom, such as we know of none other

people; that they slay strangers by crowning them with amphorae,

having made them red-hot. Now, having taken Phanes, they were

about to crown him on this wise, when there appeared among them a

veiled woman, very tall and goodly, whom they conceive to be a

goddess and worship. By her was Phanes delivered out of their

hands; and "she kept him in her hollow caves having a desire that

he should be her lover," as Homer says in the Odyssey, if the

Odyssey be Homer's. And Phanes reports of her that she is the most

beautiful woman in the world, but of her coming thither, whence she

came or when, she would tell him nothing. But he swore to me, by

him who is buried at Thebes (and whose name in such a matter as

this it is not holy for me to utter), that this woman was no other

than Rhodopis the Thracian. For there is a portrait of Rhodopis in

the temple of Aphrodite in Naucratis, and, knowing this portrait

well, Phanes recognised by it that the woman was Rhodopis. {5}

Therefore Rhodopis is yet living, being now about one hundred and

fifty years of age. And Phanes added that there is in the country

of the Amagardoi a fire; and whoso enters into that fire does not

die, but is "without age and immortal," as Homer says concerning

the horses of Peleus. Now, I would have deemed that he was making

a mock of that sacred story which he knows who has been initiated

into the mysteries of Demeter at Eleusis. But he and Nicarete are

about to sail together without delay to the country of the

Amagardoi, believing that there they will enter the fire and become

immortal. Yet methinks that Rhodopis will not look lovingly on

Nicarete, when they meet in that land, nor Nicarete on Rhodopis.

Nay, belike the amphora will be made hot for one or the other.

Such, howbeit, was the story of Phanes the Phocaean, whether he

spoke falsely or truly. The God be with thee.

HERODOTUS.

LETTER: Mrs Proudie

Mrs. Proudie, wife of the Bishop of Barchester, admits Mrs.

Quiverful into her confidence. Mrs. Proudie first takes pleasure

in a new and pious acquaintance, Lady Crawley (nee Sharp), but

afterwards discovers the true character of this insidious and

dangerous woman.

The Palace, Barchester, July 17.

Dear Letitia,--The appearance of mumps in a small family of

fourteen like yours, is indeed one of those dispensations which

teach us how mysterious are the ways! But I need not tell you to

be most careful about cold, which greatly adds to the virulence of

the complaint, and it is difficult for you, in lodgings at

Brighton, to keep a watchful eye on so many at once. May this

discipline be blessed to you, and to the dear children!

I have much to tell you of Barchester. The light worldly tone of

some families in this place (I will not mention the Grantleys nor

the Arabins) has been checked, I hope, by one of those accidents

which surely, surely, are not to be considered accidents alone!

You know how strong is my objection to fancy fairs or bazaars, too

often rather scenes of giddy merriment than exhibitions of genuine

Christian feeling. Yet by means of one of these (how strangely are

things ordered!) a happy change, I trust, is being brought about in

our midst.

You have heard of Hogglestock, though you may never have visited

that benighted and outlying parish. Indeed, I was never there

myself till last week, when Tom felt it his duty (though woefully

misdirected, to my mind, but we are fallible creatures) to go and

open a bazaar in that place for the restoration of the church. {6}

I accompanied him; for I trusted that an opportunity might be made

for me, and that I might especially bear in on the mind of the

rector's wife the absolute necessity of Sabbath-day schools. The

rector is a Mr. Crawley. He led us on our arrival into a scene of

re d cloth, wax dolls most indelicately displayed, cushions,

antimacassars, and similar IDOLS. The Bishop's speech (I composed

it myself) you will read in the "Barchester Guardian," which I send

you. While approving the END he rebuked the MEANS, and took the

opportunity to read a much-needed lesson on JESUITRY and the

dangers of worldliness in high ecclesiastical places. Let those

wince who feel a sense of their own backslidings. When the Bishop

had ended, I determined to walk once through the bazaar just to

make sure that there were no lotteries nor games of chance--a

desecration of our MITES now too, too frequent. As I was returning

through the throng, alas! of PLEASURE-SEEKERS, and wishing that I

might scourge them out of the schoolroom, Mr. Crawley met me, in

company with a lady who desired, he said, to be presented to me.

He is a distant relation of the well-known county family, the

Crawleys, of Queen's Crawley; the present baronet, Sir Rawdon,

having recently married Miss Jane Dobbin, daughter of Colonel

Dobbin. The lady who was now introduced to me, and whose STILL

PLEASING face wears an aspect of humble devoutness, was Lady

Crawley, mother of the present baronet.

"Madam," she said, "I came here in the belief that I was

discharging a pious duty. My life, alas! has been one of sore

trial, and I only try to do good." . . .

I was going to say that I had seen her name in a score of charity

lists, and knew her as a patroness of the Destitute Orange-Girls,

the Neglected Washerwomen, and the Distressed Muffin-Men. But she

shook her head; and then, looking up at me with eyes like a SAINT'S

(if our PRIVILEGES permitted us to believe in these fabulous beings

of the Romish superstition), she said, "Ah, no! I have always been

in the wrong. The beautiful address of the Bishop of Barchester

has awakened me, and convinced me that the PATH does not lie

through Fancy Fairs. I have to begin again. Who shall guide me?"

I trust I am not subject to vanity; but the news that I (for I

composed the Charge, as I may almost call it) had been the

instrument of so affecting a change did not fail to please me. I

thanked Lady Crawley, and expressed my deep interest in her altered

convictions. Finally she promised to come on a visit to us at the

Palace (she usually resides at Bath or Cheltenham), and has been

three days an inmate. Never have I met a more singular example of

what the Truth can do for one who, as she admits, was long ago a

worldling. "I have seen the vanity of it," she tells me, with

tears in her eyes; and from her example I expect an AWAKENING among

our worldlings. They will follow the path of a TITLED person. Tom

is much interested in his CONVERT, as he thinks her. Not to ME be

the glory!--Your assured friend,

EMILY BARNUM. {7}

From Mrs. Proudie to Mrs. Quiverful.

The Palace, Barchester, July 22.

Dear Letitia,--My hand trembles so with indignation that I can

hardly direct my pen. Pray BURN my letter of July 17 at once, if

you have not already done so. {8} We have been DECEIVED in that

woman! She is a brazenfaced, painted daughter of Heth, and has no

more right to the title of Lady Crawley than YOU have. I am told

that she was at one time the paramour of Lord Steyne, and that her

conduct made it impossible for her husband to live with her. And

this is the woman who has come within the gates of the palace of a

Christian prelate; nay, more, who has secured his signature to a

cheque of very considerable value. I think my suspicions were

first excited by the disappearance of the brandy in the liqueur-

stand, and by meeting "her ladyship's" maid carrying the bottle up

to her room! I spoke to the Bishop, but he would not listen to me-

-quite unlike himself; and even turned on me in her defence.

Entering his study hastily on the following day, I found her

kneeling at his feet, her yellow hair (dyed, no doubt, for she must

be sixty if she is a day) about her shoulders, doing what do you

suppose -? CONFESSING HERSELF TO THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER

And he was listening to her "confession" with an appearance of

interest, and with one of her hands in his.

"Serpent!" I said--and her green eyes glittered just like one--

"unhand his lordship!" She gave a little laugh and said, "Dear

Mrs. Proudie, do not let me monopolise the Bishop's time. Perhaps

I am in the way?"

"And you shall go out of it," I said. "You are one of those who

cause Israel to sin. You bring the Confessional, for it is no

better, into the house of a Prelate of the Protestant Church of

England!" Would you believe that she had the assurance to answer

me with a passage from the Prayer Book, which I have often felt

certain must be MISTRANSLATED?

"Pack, madam," said I; "we know who can quote Scripture for his own

ends!"

And I pretty soon saw her out of the house, though NOT IN TIME; for

the infatuated Bishop had already given her a cheque for a sum

which I cannot bring myself to tell you, for the Funds of the

Destitute Orange-Girls. Not a penny of it will they ever see; nor

do I approve of such ostentatious alms in any case.--Yours in

haste,

EMILY BARNUM.

P.S.--I have heard from Lady Courtney all her history. It is

ABOMINABLE.

LETTER: From Robert Surtees, Esq., of Mainsforth, to Jonathan

Oldbuck, Esq., of Monkbarns.

It is well known that Mr. Surtees of Mainsforth not only palmed off

on Sir Waiter Scott several ballads of his own manufacture, but

also invented and pretended to have found in a document (since

burned) the story of the duel with the spectre knight which occurs

in Marmion. In the following letter this ingenious antiquary plays

the same game with Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, of Monkbarns, the

celebrated antiquary. A note on the subject is published in the

Appendix.

Mainsforth, May 9, 1815.

Dear Sir,--I am something of the Mussulman's humour, as you know,

and never willingly pass by a scrap of printed paper, however it

comes in my way. I cannot, indeed, like the "Spectator," "mention

a paper kite from which I have received great improvement," nor "a

hat-case which I would not exchange for all the beavers in Great

Britain." It is in a less unlikely place that I have made a little

discovery which will interest you, I hope; for as it chances, not

only has a lost ballad been at least partially recovered, but . . .

however, I will keep your learned patience on the tenterhooks for a

while.

Business taking me to Newcastle of late, I found myself in Bell's

little shop on the quay. {9} You know the man by report at least;

he is more a collector than a bookseller, though poor; and I verily

believe that he would sell all his children--Douglas Bell, Percy

Bell, Hobbie Bell, and Kinmont Bell--"for a song." Ballads are his

foible, and he can hardly be made to part with one of the

broadsides in his broken portfolios. Well, semel insanivimus omnes

(by the way, did it ever strike you that the Roman "cribbed" that

line, as the vulgar say, from an epigram in the Anthology?), and

you and I will scarce throw the first stone at the poor man's

folly. However, I am delaying your natural eagerness. So now for

the story of my great discovery. As our friend Bell would scarce

let his dusty broadsheet lumber out of his hands, I was turning to

leave him in no very good humour, when I noticed a small and rather

long octavo, in dirty and crumpled vellum, lying on the top of a

heap of rubbish, Boston's "Crook in the Lot," "The Pilgrim's

Progress," and other chap-book trumpery. I do not know what good

angel that watches over us collectors made me take up the thing,

which I found to be nothing less than a copy of old Guillaume

Coquillart. It was not Galliot du Pre's edition, in lettres

rondes, but, still more precious had it only been complete, an

example in black letter. I give you the whole title. First the

motto, in the frieze of an architectural design, [Greek text].

Then, in small capitals -

LES OEUVRES

MAISTRE GVIL

LAUME COQUIL

LART EN SON VI

VANT OFFICIAL

DE REIMS. NOV

VELLEMENT RE

VEVES ET CORRI

GEES.

M. D. XXXV.

On les vend a Lyon en la

Maison de Francoys Juste,

Demourant devant nostre

Dame de Confort.

By bad (or good) luck this rare piece was imperfect--the back

gaping and three sheets gone. But, in turning over the leaves, I

saw something that brought my heart, as they say, into my mouth.

So, beating down Bell from his upset price of fourpence to six

bawbees, I pushed the treasure carelessly in my pocket, and never

stopped till I was in a lonely place by Tyne-side and secure from

observation. Then, with my knife, I very carefully uncased Maistre

Guillaume, and extracted the sheet of parchment, printed in black

letter with red capitals, that had been used to line the binding.

A corner of it had crept out, through the injuries of time, and on

that, in Bell's "crame" (for it is more a crame than a shop), I had

caught the mystic words Runjt macht Gunjt.

And now, I think, Monkbarns, you prick up your ears and wipe your

spectacles. That is the motto, as every one of the learned family

of antiquaries is well aware, and, as you have often told me, of

your great forbear, the venerable and praiseworthy Aldobrand

Oldenbuck the Typographer, who fled from the Low Countries during

the tyrannical attempt of Philip II. to suppress at once civil and

religious liberty. As all the world knows, he withdrew from

Nuremberg to Scotland, and set up his Penates and (what you may not

hitherto have been aware of) his Printing Press at Fairport, and

under your ancestral roof of Monkbarns. But, what will surprise

you yet more, the parchment sheet which bears Aldobrand's motto in

German contains printed matter in good Scots! This excellent and

enterprising man must have set himself to ply his noble art in his

new home, and in our unfamiliar tongue.

Yet, even now, we are not at the end of this most fortunate

discovery. It would appear that there was little demand for works

of learning and religion in Scotland, or at least at Fairport; for

the parchment sheet contains fragments of a Ballad in the Scots

tongue. None but a poor and struggling printer would then have

lent his types to such work, and fortunate for us has been the

poverty of your great ancestor. Here we have the very earliest

printed ballad in the world, and, though fragmentary, it is the

more precious as the style proves to demonstration, and against the

frantic scepticism even of a Ritson, the antique and venerable

character of those compositions. I send you a copy of the Ballad,

with the gaps (where the tooth of time or of the worm, edax rerum,

hath impaired it) filled up with conjectural restorations of my

own. But how far do they fall short of the original simplicity!

Non cuivis contingit. As the title is lacking, as well as the

imprint, I have styled it

THE FRAGMENT OF THE FAUSE LOVER

AND THE DEAD LEMAN.

O Willie rade, and Willie gaed

Atween the shore and sea,

And still it was his dead Lady

That kept him company.

O Willie rade, and Willie gaed

Atween the [loch and heather],

And still it was his dead Lady

That [held his stirrup leather].

"O Willie, tak' me up by ye,

Sae far it is I gang;

O tak' me on your saddle bow,

Or [your day shall not be lang]."

"Gae back, gae back, ye fause ill wife,

To the grave wherein ye lie,

It never was seen that a dead leman

Kept lover's company!

"Gae back, gae back frae me," he said,

"For this day maun I wed,

And how can I kiss a living lass,

When ye come frae the dead?

"If ye maun haunt a living man,

Your brither haunt," says he,

"For it was never my knife, but his

That [twined thy life and thee!]

• * *

We are to understand, I make no doubt, that Willie had been too

fortunate a lover, and that in his absence--the frailty of his lady

becoming conspicuous--her brother had avenged the family honour

according to that old law of Scotland which the courteous Ariosto

styles "l' aspra legge di Scozia, empia e severa."

Pray let me know, at your leisure, what you think of this

trouvaille. It is, of course, entirely at your service, if you

think it worthy of a place in a new edition of the "Minstrelsy." I

have no room to inflict more ballads or legends on you; and remain,

most faithfully yours,

R. SURTEES.

LETTER: From Jonathan Oldbuck, Esq., of Monkbarns, to Robert

Surtees, Esq., Mainsforth.

Monkbarns, June 1.

My Dear Sir,--How kind hath Fortune been to you, and, in a

secondary degree, to myself. Your letter must dispel the

unreasoning and I fear envious scepticism of MacCribb, who has put

forth a plaunflet (I love that old spelling) in which he derides

the history of Aldobrand Oldenbuck as a fable. The Ballad shall,

indeed, have an honoured place in my poor Collection whenever the

public taste calls for a new edition. But the original, what would

I not give to have it in my hands, to touch the very parchment

which came from the press of my revered ancestor, and, gloating on

the crabbed letters, confute MacCribb to his face ipso visu et

tactu of so inestimable a rarity. Exchanges--or "swaps," as the

vulgar call them--are not unknown among our fraternity. Ask what

you will for this treasure, to the half of my kingdom: my gold

Aurelius (found at Bermuckety, on the very limits of Roman

Caledonia), my "Complaynte of Scotland" (the only perfect copy

known),

My copperplate, with almanacks

Engrav'd upon't, and other knacks;

My moon-dial, with Napier's bones

And several constellation stones.

Make your choice, in fact, of all my Gabions, as honest old George

Ruthven called them.

Nay, excuse the covetousness of an Antiquary, my dear sir; I well

know that nothing I could offer were worth a tithe of your

priceless discovery, the oldest printed Scots Ballad extant. It

shall suffice for me to look on it, under the roof of Mainsforth,

when next I make a raid across the Border. I have conquered my

passions, and can obey the last of the Commandments. Haud equiden

invideo, minor magis. I need not bid you be watchful of your

booty.--Yours most faithfully,

JONATHAN OLDBUCK.

From Robert Surtees, Esq., to Jonathan Oldbuck, Esq.

June 11.

My Dear Sir,--Alas, your warning comes too late. An accursed

example of womankind, fit descendant of that unhappy Betty Barnes,

cook to Mr. Warburton, who destroyed his ancient manuscript plays,

hath invaded my sanctum, and the original black-letter text of the

ballad has gone to join Shakspeare's "Stephen" and "Henry II." She

hath lit with it my study fire, and it is fortunate indeed that I

had made the copy of the ballad for you. But the volume of

Coquillart is alive to testify to the authenticity of the poem;

which, after all, is needless evidence, as not even Ritson could

suspect of either the skill or the malice of such a forgery, Yours

most faithfully,

ROBERT SURTEES.

LETTER: From Nicholas to the Editor of the St. James's Gazette,

It is only too probable that a later generation has forgotten

"Nicholas," the sporting Prophet of "Fun," in the reign of Mr. Hood

the younger. The little work, "Nicholas's Notes," in which Mr. W.

J. Prowse collected the papers of the old Prophet, is, indeed, not

an "edition de looks," as the aged Seer says, with his simple

humour. From the Paradise of Fiction, however (and the Paradise of

Touts), Nicholas has communicated, perhaps to the Psychical

Society, the following Epistle. His friendly mention of a brother

journalist speaks well for the Old Man's head and heart.

The Paradise of Fiction, Feb. 9, 1888.

Sir,--My dear young friend, it is ten to one, and no takers, that

the public, than whom, between you and me, I do not think much of

them, have forgotten Nicholas, or even never heard of the Prophet.

Youth will be served; and it is now between twenty years since he

left off vaticinating in "Fun," during young Mr. Hood's time, of

future sportive events for to come, and came to live HERE with the

other celebrated characters of Fiction, than whom I am sure a more

mixed lot, though perhaps a little gay. It having come to the

Prophet's knowledge that some of them was writing letters to "The

St. James's Gazette" (than which I am sure none more respectable,

though perhaps a little not quite so attentive to sportive

interests as it might be), he have decided that Nicholas will take

up his pen once more, as of old.

The State of the Turf, my dear young friend, since an old but still

handsome bird would freely alight (when not warned off) on

Newmarket Heath, have caused Nicholas some anxiety. Sir, between

you and me, IT IS RAPIDLY GETTING NO BETTER. Here is Lord -- (than

whom a more sterling sportsman) as good as saying to Sir -- (than

whom, perhaps), "Did you ever hear of a sporting character called

Swindells?" And the Prophet HAVE been told that it may furnish

matter for the gentlemen of the long robe--which, in my time, many

of them was backers of horses.

And all along of what? Why, of the "inexplicable in-and-out

running of horses," as the "Standard" says, and as will often

happen, you, perhaps, having a likely dark one as you want to get

light into a high-class autumn handicap. The days is long past

since Nicholas was nuts on the game little Lecturer, but still has

the interests of the Turf at heart; and, my dear young friend, if

horses never ran in and out, where would be "the glorious

uncertainty of the sport"? On the whole, then, if asked my opinion

on this affair, the Prophet would say--putting it ambiguous-like--

"Gentlemen, when there's so much dirty linen to wash, can't you

remember that we're all pretty much tarred with the same brush?" A

great politician--which a lot of his family is here, Coningsby, and

the Young Duke, and many other sportsmen--used to say as what the

Turf was "a gigantic engine of national demoralisation;" which

Nicholas is not quite sure but what he was right for him, though

his language on rather a large scale. Horses running in and out is

inexplicable! Why, gents all, which of us WOULDN'T do it, if he

had the chance to put the pot on handsome, human nature being what

it is, especially considering the lowness of the market odds as you

have often and often to be content with. In short, the more you

stir it the more it won't exactly remind you of gales from Araby

the Blest; than which a more delightful country, only not to be

found on any atlas as Nicholas ever cast a glance at the map,

however large.

But enough of a subject than which perhaps one more painful to me;

the Prophet having often and often, in early days, been warned off

Newmarket Heath himself, and called a "disreputable old tout,"

though only labouring in his vocation.

(Make a new beginning here, please, Printer.)

It have come to the knowledge of the Prophet that his "Notes" are

not quite so much read as they once was, partly owing, no doubt, to

the book being not so much an "edition de looks" as rather a low-

lived lot, to a casual eye, at fourpence; the picture outside

representing Nicholas rather as having had too much for to drink

than as a prominent member of the Blue Ribbon Society, which it did

not exist in his period, nor would it have enjoyed, to any

considerable extent, my personal or pecuniary support, he having

something else to do with his money. (Printer, please put in a

full stop somewhere here, Nicholas being a little out of the habit

of writing for the periodical press.) He have also heard that it

is proposed in literary circles to start a "Nicholas Society" for

the purpose of printing a limited edition of my works including my

lost treatise of Knur and Spell, on Japanese paper, illustrated

with photo-gravelures; they having come in since the Prophet's

period, though perhaps a little gay.

But, my dear though exquisite young friends, is there no better way

of rallying round the Prophet than THIS? I have heard, from

characters in ancient literature, such as Agamemnon--than whom a

more energetic soldier, though perhaps a trifle arbitrary--the

Prophet HAVE heard, I say, that a deal of liquor used to be poured

on the graves of coves like him and me, and that it did them good.

This may be the case, and anyway the experiment is well worth

trying; though, I would say, do not let it be milk, as I gather was

customary in early times, as didn't know any better; but, if

possible, a bottle or two of sherry wine, to which, as is well

beknown, Nicholas was partial. He will now conclude; and the

Prophet hopes that an experiment, than which, I am sure, one more

deeply interesting, will not be deferred; he not much taking to the

liquor here, though the company makes up for a great deal,

especially an Irish officer by the name of Costigan, than whom a

sweeter singer or a more honourable gentleman; and signs himself,

with gratitude for past favours, and kind respects to the Editor of

the "Guardian,"

NICHOLAS.

LETTER: From the Earl of Montrose to Captain Dugald Dalgetty.

Whoever has read the "Memoirs of Monsieur d'Artagnan"--a Marshal in

the French King's service--as they are published by Monsieur

Alexandre Dumas in "Les Trois Mousquetaires," will not have

forgotten that duel behind the Luxembourg, in which, as is

declared, an Englishman ran away from the Chevalier d'Herblay,

called Aramis in his regiment. Englishmen have never held that

Monsieur Dumas was well informed about this affair. The following

letters of the Great Marquis and Captain Dalgetty from the

"Kirkhope Papers" prove that Englishmen were in the right.

-, 164-.

Sir,--Touching that I did, to your apprehension, turn away from you

with some show of coldness on your late coming, it may be that you

but little misread me. But, for that no man is condemned without a

hearing, I would fain know under your own hand the truth concerning

that whereof a shameful report is bruited abroad, even in the

"Gallo Belgicus" and the "Fliegender Mercoeur" of Leipsic--namely,

that in a certain duel lately fought in Paris behind the Palace of

the Luxembourg, four Englishmen encountering as many Musketeers of

the French King's, one out of this realm, to our disgrace,

shamefully fled; and he (by report) Rittmaster Dugald Dalgetty.

Till which, bruit be either abolished, and the stain--as an ill

blot on a clean scutcheon--wiped away, or as shamefully

acknowledged as it is itself shameful, I abide, as I shall hear

from yourself,

MONTROSE.

From Captain Dugald Dalgetty, of Drumthwacket, to the Most Noble

and Puissant Prince James, Earl of Montrose, commanding the musters

of the King in Scotland. These -

My Lord,--As touching the bruit, or fama, as we said at the

Mareschal College, I shall forthwith answer, and that peremptorie.

For this story of the duello, as a man may say (though, indeed,

they that fought in it were not in the dual number, as your Grecian

hath it, but eight soldados--seven of them gallant men), truly the

story is of the longest; but as your lordship will have it, though

more expert with the sword than the goosequill, I must even buckle

to.

Let your lordship conceive of your poor officer, once lieutenant

and Rittmaster under that invincible monarch, the bulwark of the

Protestant faith, Gustavus the Victorious; conceive, I say, Dugald

Dalgetty, of Drumthwacket that should be, in Paris, concerned with

a matter of weight and moment not necessary to be mooted or minted

of. As I am sitting at my tavern ordinary, for I consider that an

experienced cavalier should ever lay in provenant as occasion

serveth, comes in to me a stipendiary of my Lord Winter, bidding me

know that his master would speak to me: and that not coram populo,

as I doubt not your lordship said at St. Leonard's College in St.

Andrews, but privily. Thereon I rise and wait on him; to be brief-

-brevis esse laboro, as we said lang syne--his lordship would have

me to be of his backers in private rencontre with four gentlemen of

the King's Musketeers.

Concerning the cause of this duello, I may well say teterrima

causa. His lordship's own sister Milady Clarik was in question;

she being, I fear me, rather akin in her way of life to Jean

Drocheils (whom your lordship may remember; for, the Baillies

expulsing her from Aberdeen, she migrated to St. Andrews, ad

eundem, as the saying is) than like, in her walk and conduct, to a

virtuous lady of a noble family. She was, indeed, as current

rumour had it, the light o'love or belle amie of Monsieur

d'Artagnan, his lordship's adversary.

But of siclike least said soonest mended. I take cloak and sword,

and follow with his lordship and two other experienced cavaliers

unto the place of rencontre, being a waste croft whereon a loon was

herding goats, behind the Palace of the Luxembourg. Here we find

waiting us four soldados, proper tall men of their hands, who

receive us courteously. He that first gave cause of quarrel to my

Lord Winter bore a worthy name enough out of Gascony, that is arida

nutrix, as we said at the Mareschal College, of honourable

soldados--to wit, as I said, he was Monsieur d'Artagnan. To his

friends, howbeit, he gave sic heathen titles as I never saw or

heard of out of the Grecian books: namely, Monsieur Porthos, a

very tall man, albeit something of a lourdaud; Monsieur Athos; and

he that was to be mine own opposite, Monsieur Aramis. Hearing

these outlandish and insolent appellations, I thought it becoming

me, as an honourable cavalier, to resent this fashion of

presenting: and demurred that a gentleman of the House of Dalgetty

of Drumthwacket could neither take affront from, nor give

honourable satisfaction to, a nameless landlouper. Wherein your

lordship, I doubt me not, will hold me justificate.

Lord Winter homologating mine opinion, he that called himself Athos

drew each of us apart, and whispered the true names and qualities

territorial of these gentlemen; the whilk, as may befall honourable

soldados, they had reason sufficient to conceal while serving as

private gentlemen in a regiment, though disdaining to receive

halberds, as unbecoming their birth. He that aligned himself

forenenst me was styled the Chevalier d'Herblay; and, the word

being given, we fell to.

Now, mine adversary declining to fight comminus gladio, but

breaking ground in a manner unworthy of a gallant soldado, and the

place, saving your presence, being somewhat slippery and

treacherous because of the goats that were fed there, I delivered a

sufficient onslaught; and he fell, his sword flying from his hand.

When I had taken his weapon--the spolia opima, as we said at

Mareschal College--I bid him rise, and then discoursed him on the

dishonour of such a hasty defeat. Then, he confessing himself to

me that, though under arms, he was a young fledgeling priest in

Popish orders, I began upon him with such words on his disgracing

the noble profession of arms as might have made him choose to

return to his cloister; when suddenly he fled, and, being young and

light-footed, robbed me, not only of such caduacs and casualties as

an experienced cavalier might well take from his prisoner for

ransom, but also, as now it appears, of my good name. For I doubt

not that this musketeer priest, Monsieur Aramis, or l'Abbe

d'Herblay (for he hath as many names as I have seen campaigns), was

the loon that beguiled with a lying tale the newsman of the "Gallo

Belgicus." And I have ever seen that an honourable soldado will

give the go-by to these newsmen and their flying sheets, as

unworthy of the notice of honourable cavaliers; of whom

(recommending your lordship for the truth of my tale to my Lord

Winter, now with his gracious Majesty the King) I am fain to

subscribe myself one, and your lordship's poor officer, as ye shall

entreat him,

DUGALD DALGETTY, of Drumthwacket,

Late Commander of the whole stift of Dunklespiel on the Lower

Rhine.

LETTER: From Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq.

The following letter must have been omitted from the papers to

which Mr. Samuel Richardson, the editor of "Clarissa," had access.

It was written, apparently, after the disgraceful success of

Lovelace's disgraceful adventure, and shows us that scoundrel in

company not choice, indeed, but better than he deserved, the

society of Mr. Thomas Jones, a Foundling. Mr. Jones's admirable

wife (nee Western), having heard of Lovelace's conduct, sent her

husband to execute that revenge which should have been competed for

by every man of heart. It will be seen that Mr. Jones was no match

for the perfidies of Mr. Lovelace. The cynical reflections of that

bad man on Lord Fellamar, and his relations with Mrs. Jones, will

only cause indignation and contempt among her innumerable and

honourable admirers. They will remember the critical and painful

circumstances as recorded in Mr. Henry Fielding's biography of Mr.

Jones.

Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras

Ictibus crebris juvenes protervi.

Curse upon thy stars, Jack! How long wilt thou beat me about the

head with thy musty citations from Nat Lee and thy troop of

poetical divines? Thou hast driven me to motto-hunting for the

comeliness of mine epistle, like the weekly scribblers. See, Jack,

I have an adventure to tell thee! It is not the avenging Morden

that hath flashed through the window, sword in hand, as in my

frightful dream; nor hath the statue of the Commandant visited me,

like Don Juan, that Rake of Spain; but a challenger came hither

that is not akin to my beloved Miss. Dost remember a tall, fresh-

coloured, cudgel-playing oaf that my Lady Bellaston led about with

her--as maids lead apes in hell, though he more of an ape than she

of a maid--'tis a year gone? This brawny-beefed chairman hath

married a fortune and a delicious girl, you dog, Miss Sophia

Western, of Somerset, and is now in train, I doubt not, to beget as

goodly a tribe of chuckle-headed boys and whey-faced wenches as you

shall see round an old squire's tomb in a parish church. Wherefore

does he not abide at this his appointed lawful husbandry, I marvel;

but not a whit!

Our cursed adventure hath spread from the flippanti of both sexes

down to the heathenish parts of Somerset; where it hath reached

Madam Jones's ears, and inflamed this pretty vixen with a desire to

avenge Miss Harlowe on me, and by the cudgel of Mr. Jones, his

Sophia having sent him up to town for no other purpose. De la

Tour, my man, came to me yesterday morning with the tidings that

the New Giant, as he supposes, waits on me to solicit the favour of

my patronage. I am in the powdering closet, being bound for a

rout, and cry, "Let the Giant in!" Then a heavy tread: and,

looking up, what do I see but a shoulder-of-mutton fist at my nose,

and lo! a Somerset tongue cries, "Lovelace, thou villain, thou

shalt taste of this!" A man in a powdering closet cannot fight,

even if he be a boxing glutton like your Figs and other gladiators

of the Artillery Ground. Needs must I parley. "What," says I,

"what, the happy Mr. Jones from the West! What brings him here

among the wicked, and how can the possessor of the beauteous Sophia

be a moment from her charms?"

"Take not her name," cries my clod-hopper, "into thy perjured

mouth. 'Tis herself sends me here to avenge the best, the most

injured . . . " Here he fell a-blubbering! Oh, Belford, the

virtue of this world is a great discourager of repentance.

"If Mr. Jones insists on the arbitrament of the sword . . . " I was

beginning--"Nay, none of thy Frenchified blades," cries he, "come

out of thy earth, thou stinking fox, and try conclusions with an

English cudgel!"

Belford, I am no cudgel-player, and I knew not well how to rid

myself of this swasher.

"Mr. Jones!" I said, "I will fight you how you will, where you

will, with what weapon you will; but first inform me of the nature

of our quarrel. Would you blazon abroad yet further the malignant

tales that have injured both me and a lady for whom I have none but

the most hallowed esteem? I pray you sit down, Sir; be calm, the

light is ill for any play with cudgel or sword. De la Tour, a

bottle of right Burgundy; Mr. Jones and I have business, and he

hath travelled far."

In a trice there was a chicken, a bottle, a set of knives and

forks, a white cloth, and a hungry oaf that did eat and swear! One

bottle followed another. By the third Mr. Jones embraced me,

saying that never had a man been more belied than I; that it was

Lord Fellamar, not I, was the villain. To this effect I own that I

did myself drop a hint; conceiving that the divine Sophia must

often have regretted our friend Fellamar when once she was bound to

the oaf, and that Jones was capable of a resentful jealousy. By

midnight I had to call a chair for my besotted challenger, and when

the Avenger was there safely bestowed, I asked him where the men

should carry him? His tongue being now thick, and his brains

bemused, he could not find the sign of his inn in his noddle. So,

the merry devil prompting me, I gave the men the address of his

ancient flame, my Lady Bellaston, and off they jogged with Jones.

Was there ever, Belford, a stranger amoris redintegratio than this

must have been, when our Lydia heard the old love at the rarely

shaken doors:

Me tuo longas pereunte noctes,

Lydia, dormis?

Ah, how little hath Madam Sophia taken by despatching her lord to

town, and all to break my head. My fellow, who carries this to

thee, has just met Fellamar's man, and tells me that FELLAMAR

YESTERDAY WENT DOWN INTO SOMERSET. What bodes this rare

conjunction and disjunction of man and wife and of old affections?

and hath "Thomas, a Foundling," too, gone the way of all flesh?

Thy LOVELACE.

No news of the dear fugitive! Ah, Belford, my conscience and my

cousins call me a villain! Minxes all.

LETTER: From Miss Catherine Morland to Miss Eleanor Tilney.

Miss Catherine Morland, of "Northanger Abbey," gives her account of

a visit to Mr. Rochester, and of his governess's peculiar

behaviour. Mrs. Rochester (nee Eyre) has no mention of this in her

Memoirs.

Thornfield, Midnight

At length, my dear Eleanor, the terrors on which you have so often

rallied me are become REALITIES, and your Catherine is in the midst

of those circumstances to which we may, without exaggeration, give

the epithet "horrible." I write, as I firmly believe, from the

mansion of a maniac! On a visit to my Aunt Ingram, and carried by

her to Thornfield, the seat of her wealthy neighbour, Mr.

Rochester, how shall your Catherine's trembling pen unfold the

mysteries by which she finds herself surrounded! No sooner had I

entered this battlemented mansion than a cold chill struck through

me, as with a sense of some brooding terror. All, indeed, was

elegance, all splendour! The arches were hung with Tyrian-dyed

curtains. The ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were of red

Bohemian glass. Everywhere were crimson couches and sofas. The

housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, pointed out to my notice some vases of

fine purple spar, and on all sides were Turkey carpets and large

mirrors. Elegance of taste and fastidious research of ornament

could do no more; but what is luxury to the mind ill at ease? or

can a restless conscience be stilled by red Bohemian glass or pale

Parian mantelpieces?

No, alas! too plainly was this conspicuous when, on entering the

library, we found Mr. Rochester--alone! The envied possessor of

all this opulence can be no happy man. He was seated with his head

bent on his folded arms, and when he looked up a morose--almost a

malignant--scowl blackened his features! Hastily beckoning to the

governess, who entered with us, to follow him, he exclaimed, "Oh,

hang it all!" in an accent of despair, and rushed from the chamber.

We distinctly heard the doors clanging behind him as he flew! At

dinner, the same hollow reserve; his conversation entirely confined

to the governess (a Miss Eyre), whose position here your Catherine

does not understand, and to whom I distinctly heard him observe

that Miss Blanche Ingram was "an extensive armful."

The evening was spent in the lugubrious mockery of pretending to

consult an old gipsy-woman who smoked a short black pipe, and was

recognised BY ALL as Mr. Rochester in disguise. I was conducted by

Miss Eyre to my bedroom--through a long passage, narrow, low, and

dim, with two rows of small black doors, all shut; 'twas like a

corridor in some Blue Beard's castle. "Hurry, hurry, I hear the

chains rattling," said this strange girl; whose position, my

Eleanor, in this house causes your Catherine some natural

perplexity. When we had reached my chamber, "Be silent, silent as

death," said Miss Eyre, her finger on her lip and her meagre body

convulsed with some mysterious emotion. "Speak not of what you

hear, do not remember what you see!" and she was gone.

I undressed, after testing the walls for secret panels and looking

for assassins in the usual place, but was haunted all the time by

an unnatural sound of laughter. At length, groping my way to the

bed, I jumped hastily in, and would have sought some suspension of

anguish by creeping far underneath the clothes. But even this

refuge was denied to your wretched Catherine! I could not stretch

my limbs; for the sheet, my dear Eleanor, had been so arranged, in

some manner which I do not understand, as to render this

impossible. The laughter seemed to redouble. I heard a footstep

at my door. I hurried on my frock and shawl and crept into the

gallery. A strange dark figure was gliding in front of me,

stooping at each door; and every time it stooped, came A LOW

GURGLING NOISE! Inspired by I know not what desperation of

courage, I rushed on the figure and seized it by the neck. It was

Miss Eyre, the governess, filling the boots of all the guests with

water, which she carried in a can. When she saw me she gave a

scream and threw herself against a door hung with a curtain of

Tyrian dye. It yielded, and there poured into the passage a blue

cloud of smoke, with a strong and odious smell of cigars, into

which (and to what company?) she vanished. I groped my way as well

as I might to my own chamber: where each hour the clocks, as they

struck, found an echo in the apprehensive heart of

THE ILL-FATED

CATHERINE MORLAND.

LETTER: From Montague Tigg, Esq., to Mr. David Crimp.

The following letter needs no explanation for any who have studied

the fortunes and admired the style of that celebrated and sanguine

financier, Mr. Montague Tigg, in "Martin Chuzzlewit." His chance

meeting with the romantic Comte de Monte Cristo naturally suggested

to him the plans and hopes which he unfolds to an unsympathetic

capitalist.

1542 Park Lane, May 27, 1848.

My Premium Pomegranate,--Oracles are not in it, David, with you, my

pippin, as auspicious counsellors of ingenious indigence. The

remark which you uttered lately, when refusing to make the trumpery

advance of half-a-crown on a garment which had been near to the

illustrious person of my friend Chevy Slime, that remark was

inspired. "Go to Holborn!" you said, and the longest-bearded of

early prophets never uttered aught more pregnant with Destiny. I

went to Holborn, to the humble establishment of the tuneful tonsor,

Sweedle-pipe. All things come, the poet says, to him who knows how

to wait--especially, I may add, to him who knows how to wait behind

thin partitions with a chink in them. Ensconced in such an ambush-

-in fact, in the back shop--I bided my time, intending to solicit

pecuniary accommodation from the barber, and studying human nature

as developed in his customers.

There are odd customers in Kingsgate Street, Holborn--foreign gents

and refugees. Such a cove my eagle eye detected in a man who

entered the shop wearing a long black beard streaked with the snows

of age, and who requested Poll to shave him clean. He was a

sailor-man to look at; but his profile, David, might have been

carved by a Grecian chisel out of an iceberg, and that steel grey

eye of his might have struck a chill, even through a chink, into

any heart less stout than beats behind the vest of Montague Tigg.

The task of rasping so hirsute a customer seemed to sit heavy on

the soul of Poll, and threatened to exhaust the resources of his

limited establishment. The barber went forth to command, as I

presume, a fresher strop, or more keenly tempered steel, and

glittering cans of water heated to a fiercer heat. No sooner was

the coast clear than the street-door opened, and my stranger was

joined by a mantled form, that glided into Poll's emporium. The

new-comer doffed a swart sombrero, and disclosed historic features

that were not unknown to the concealed observer--meaning me. Yes,

David, that aquiline beak, that long and waxed moustache, that

impassible mask of a face, I had seen them, Sir, conspicuous

(though their owner be of alien and even hostile birth) among

England's special chivalry. The foremost he had charged on the

Ides of April (I mean against the ungentlemanly Chartist throng)

and in the storied lists of Eglinton. The new-comer, in short, was

the nephew of him who ate his heart out in an English gaol (like

our illustrious Chiv)--in fact, he was Prince Louis N- B-.

Gliding to the seat where, half-lathered, the more or less ancient

Mariner awaited Poll's return, the Prince muttered (in the French

lingo, familiar to me from long exile in Boulogne):

"Hist, goes all well?"

"Magnificently, Sire!" says the other chap.

"Our passages taken?"

"Ay, and private cabins paid for to boot, in case of the storm's

inclemency."

The Prince nodded and seemed pleased; then he asked anxiously,

"The Bird? You have been to Jamrach's?"

"Pardon me, Sire," says the man who was waiting to be shaved, "I

can slip from your jesses no mercenary eagle. These limbs have yet

the pith to climb and this heart the daring to venture to the

airiest crag of Monte d'Oro, and I have ravished from his eyrie a

true Corsican eagle to be the omen of our expedition. Wherever

this eagle is your uncle's legions will gather together."

"'Tis well; and the gold?"

"TRUST MONTE CRISTO!" says the bearded man; and then, David, begad!

I knew I had them!

"We meet?"

"At Folkestone pier, 7.45, tidal train."

"I shall be there without fail," says the Prince, and sneaks out of

the street-door just as Poll comes in with the extra soap and

strop.

Well, David, to make it as short as I can, the man of the icy

glance was clean-shaved at last, and the mother who bore him would

not have known him as he looked in the glass when it was done. He

chucked Poll a diamond worth about a million piastres, and,

remarking that he would not trouble him for the change, he walked

out. By this characteristic swagger, of course, he more than

confirmed my belief that he was, indeed, the celebrated foreigner

the Count of Monte Cristo; whose name and history even YOU must be

acquainted with, though you may not be what I have heard my friend

Chevy Slime call himself, "the most literary man alive." A

desperate follower of the star of Austerlitz from his youth, a

martyr to the cause in the Chateau d'If, Monte Cristo has not

deserted it now that he has come into his own--or anybody else's.

Of course I was after him like a shot. He walked down Kingsgate

Street and took a four-wheeler that was loitering at the corner. I

followed on foot, escaping the notice of the police from the fact,

made only too natural by Fortune's cursed spite, that under the

toga-like simplicity of Montague Tigg's costume these minions

merely guessed at a cab-tout.

Well, David, he led me a long chase. He got out of the four-

wheeler (it was dark now) at the Travellers', throwing the cabman a

purse--of sequins, no doubt. At the door of the Travellers' he

entered a brougham; and, driving to the French Embassy in Albert

Gate, he alighted, IN DIFFERENT TOGS, quite the swell, and LET

HIMSELF IN WITH HIS OWN LATCH-KEY.

In fact, Sir, this conspirator of barbers' shops, this prisoner of

the Chateau d'If, this climber of Corsican eyries, is to-day the

French Minister accredited to the Court of St. James's!

And now perhaps, David, you begin to see how the land lies, the

Promised Land, the land where there is corn and milk and honey-dew.

I hold those eminent and highly romantic parties in the hollow of

my hand. A letter from me to M. Lecoq, of the Rue Jerusalem, and

their little game is up, their eagle moults, the history of Europe

is altered. But what good would all that do Montague Tigg? Will

it so much as put that delightful coin, a golden sovereign, in the

pocket of his nether garments? No, Tigg is no informer; a man who

has charged at the head of his regiment on the coast of Africa is

no vulgar spy. There is more to be got by making the Count pay

through the nose, as we say; chanter, as the French say; "sing a

song of sixpence"--to a golden tune.

But, as Fortune now uses me, I cannot personally approach his

Excellency. Powdered menials would urge me from his portals. An

advance, a small advance--say 30l.--is needed for preliminary

expenses: for the charges of the clothier, the bootmaker, the

hosier, the barber. Give me 30l. for the restoration of Tigg to

the semblance of the Montagues, and with that sum I conquer

millions. The diamonds of Monte Cristo, the ingots, the rubies,

the golden crowns with the image and superscription of Pope

Alexander VI.--all are mine: I mean are ours.

More, David; more, my premium tulip: we shall make the Count a

richer man than ever he has been. We shall promote new companies,

we shall put him on the board of directors. I see the prospectuses

from afar.

UNIVERSAL INTERNATIONAL TREASURE RECOVERY COMPANY.

Chairman.

His Excellency the COMTE DE MONTE CRISTO. K.G., K.C.B., Knight of

the Black Eagle.

Directors.

CHEVY SLIME, Esq., Berkeley Square.

MONTAGUE TIGG, Esq., Park Lane.

M. VAUTRIN (Les Bagnes pres de Toulon).

M. JEAN VALJEAN.

The CHEVALIER STRONG. (Would he come in?)

Hon. Secretary.--DAVID CRIMP, Esq.

Archaeological Adviser.--Dr. SPIEGELMANN, Berlin.

Then the prospectus! Treasure-hunting too long left to individual

and uneducated enterprise. Need of organised and instructed

effort. Examples of treasure easily to be had. Grave of Alaric.

Golden chain of Cuzco. Galleons of Vigo Bay. Loot of Delphi.

Straits of Salamis. Advice of most distinguished foreign experts

already secured. Paid-up capital, a 6 and as many 0's as the

resources of the printing establishment can command. The public

will rush in by the myriad. And I am also sketching a

"Disinterested Association for Securing the Rights of Foundlings,"

again with Monte Cristo in the chair. David, you have saved a few

pounds; in the confidence of unofficial moments you have confessed

as much (though not exactly HOW much) to me. Will you neglect one

of those opportunities which only genius can discover, but which

the humble capitalist can help to fructify? With thirty, nay, with

twenty pounds, I can master this millionaire and tame this Earthly

Providence. Behind us lies penury and squalor, before us glitters

jewelled opulence. You will be at 1542 Park Lane to-morrow WITH

THE DIBS?--Yours expectantly,

MONTAGUE TIGG.

From Mr. David Crimp to Montague Tigg, Esq.

The Golden Balls, May 28.

Dear Mr. Tigg,--You always WERE full of your chaff, but you must

have been drinking when you wrote all that cock-and-a-bull gammon.

Thirty pounds! No; nor fifteen; nor as many pence. I never heard

of the party you mention by the name of the Count of Monte Cristo;

and as for the Prince, he's as likely to be setting out for

Boulogne with an eagle as you are to start a monkey and a barrel-

organ in Jericho; or may be THAT'S the likeliest of the two. So

stow your gammon, and spare your stamps, is my last word.--Yours

respectfully to command,

D. CRIMP.

LETTER: From Christian to Piscator.

Walton and Bunyan were men who should have known each other. It is

a pleasant fancy, to me, that they may have met on the banks of

Ouse, while John was meditating a sermon, and Izaak was "attentive

of his trembling quill."

Sir,--Being now come into the Land of Beulah; here, whence I cannot

so much as see Doubting Castle; here, where I am solaced with the

sound of voices from the City,--my mind, that is now more at peace

about mine own salvation, misgives me sore about thine. Thou wilt

remember me, perchance, for him that met thee by a stream of the

Delectable Mountains, and took thee to be a man fleeing from the

City of Destruction. For, beholding thee from afar, methought that

thou didst carry a burden on thy back, even as myself before my

deliverance did bear the burden of my sins and fears. Yet when I

drew near I perceived that it was but a fisherman's basket on thy

back, and that thou didst rather seek to add to the weight of thy

burden than to lighten it or fling it away. But, when we fell into

discourse, I marvelled much how thou camest so far upon the way,

even among the sheep and the shepherds of that country. For I

found that thou hadst little experience in conflict with Apollyon,

and that thou hadst never passed through the Slough of Despond nor

wandered in the Valley of the Shadow. Nay, thou hadst never so

much as been distressed in thy mind with great fear, nor hadst thou

fled from thy wife and children, to save, if it might be, thy soul

for thyself, as I have done. Nay, rather thou didst parley with

the shepherds as one that loved their life; and I remember, even

now, that sweet carnal song

The Shepherd swains shall dance and sing,

For thy delight, each May morning;

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love.

These are not the songs that fit the Delectable Country; nay,

rather they are the mirth of wantons. Yet didst thou take pleasure

in them; and therefore I make bold to ask how didst thou flee at

all from the City of Destruction, and come so far upon thy way?

Beware lest, when thou winnest to that brook wherein no man casts

angle, even to that flood where there is no bridge to go over and

the River is very deep--beware, I say, of one Vain Hope, the

Ferryman! For I would not have thee lost, because thou art a

kindly man and a simple. Yet for Ignorance there is an ill way,

even from the very gates of the City.--Thy fellow-traveller,

CHRISTIAN.

From Piscator to Christian.

Sir,--I do indeed remember thee; and I trust thou art amended of

these gripings which caused thee to groan and moan, even by the

pleasant streams from the hills of the Delectable Mountains. And

as for my "burden" 'twas pleasant to me to bear it; for, like not

the least of the Apostles, I am a fisher, and I carried trout. But

I take no shame in that I am an angler; for angling is somewhat

like poetry; men are to be born so, and I would not be otherwise

than my Maker designed to have me. Of the antiquity of angling I

could say much; but I misdoubt me that thou dost not heed the

learning of ancient times, but art a contemner of good learning and

virtuous recreations. Yet it may a little move thee that in the

Book of Job mention is made of fish-hooks, and without reproof; for

let me tell you that in the Scriptures angling is always taken in

the best sense.

Touching my flight from the City of Destruction, I love that place

no more than thou dost; yet I fear not its evil communications, nor

would I so hastily desert it as to leave my wife and children

behind therein. Nor have I any experience of conflict with the

Evil One; wherefore I thank Him that hath set me in pleasant

fields, by clear waters, where come no wicked whispers (be they

from Apollyon or from our own hearts); but there is calmness of

spirit, and a world of blessings attending upon it. And hence can

no man see the towers of Doubting Castle, for the green trees and

the hedges white with May. This life is not wholly vile, as some

of thy friends declare (Thou, who makest thy pilgrims dance to the

lute, knowest better); and, for myself, I own that I love such

mirth as does not make men ashamed to look upon each other next

morning. Let him that bears a heavy heart for his ill-deeds turn

him to better, but not mourn as though the sun were taken out of

the sky. What says the song?--nay, 'tis as good balm for the soul

as many a hymn:

A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad one tires in a mile-a!

He that made the world made man to take delight in it; even as thou

saw'st me joyful with the shepherds--ay, with godly Mr. Richard

Hooker, "he being then tending his small allotment of sheep in a

common field," as I recount in a brief life of a good man. As to

what awaits me on the other side of that River, I do expect it with

a peaceful heart, and in humble hope that a man may reach the City

with a cheerful countenance, no less than through groans and sighs

and fears. For we have not a tyrant over us, but a Father, that

loveth a cheerful liver no less than a cheerful giver.

Nevertheless, I thank thee for thy kind thought of one that is not

of thy company, nor no Nonconformist, but a peaceful Protestant.

And, lest thou be troubled with apparitions of hobgoblins and evil

spirits, read that comfortable sermon of Mr. Hooker's to weak

believers, on the CERTAINTY OF ADHERENCE, though they want the

inward testimony of it.

But now falls there a sweet shower, "a singing shower" saith old

George Chapman, and methinks I shall have sport; for I do note that

the mayfly is up; and, seeing all these beautiful creatures playing

in the air and water, I feel my own heart play within me; and I

must out and dape under yonder sycamore tree. Wherefore, prithee,

pardon me a longer discourse as at this time.--Thy friend,

PISCATOR.

LETTER: From Truthful James to Mr. Bret Harte.

WILLIAM NYE'S EXPERIMENT.

Angel's.

Dear Bret Harte,

I'm in tears,

And the camp's in the dust,

For with anguish it hears

As poor William may bust,

And the last of the Nyes is in danger of

sleeping the sleep of the just.

No revolver it was

Interfered with his health,

The convivial glass

Did not harm him by stealth;

It was nary! He fell by a scheme which

he thought would accumulate wealth!

For a Moqui came round

To the camp--Injun Joe;

And the dollars was found

In his pockets to flow;

For he played off some tricks with live

snakes, as was reckoned a competent show.

They was rattlers; a pair

In his teeth he would hold,

And another he'd wear

Like a scarf to enfold

His neck, with them dangerous critters

as safe as the saint was of old.

Sez William, "That same

Is as easy as wink.

I am fly to his game;

For them rattlers, I think,

Has had all their incisors extracted.

They're harmless as suthin' to drink."

So he betted his pile

He could handle them snakes;

And he tried, with a smile,

And a rattler he takes,

Feeling safe as they'd somehow been

doctored; but bless you, that sarpent awakes!

Waken snakes! and they DID

And they rattled like mad;

For it was not a "kid,"

But some medicine he had,

Injun Joe, for persuadin' the critters but

William's bit powerful bad.

So they've put him outside

Of a bottle of Rye,

And they've set him to ride

A mustang as kin shy,

To keep up his poor circulation; and

that's the last chance for Bill Nye.

But a near thing it is,

And the camp's in the dust.

He's a pard as we'd miss

If poor Bill was to bust -

If the last of the Nyes were a-sleepin

the peaceable sleep of the just.

LETTER: From Professor Forth to the Rev. Mr. Casaubon.

The delicacy of the domestic matters with which the following

correspondence deals cannot be exaggerated. It seems that Belinda

(whose Memoirs we owe to Miss Rhoda Broughton) was at Oxford while

Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon were also resident near that pleasant city,

so famed for its Bodleian Library. Professor Forth and Mr.

Casaubon were friends, as may be guessed; their congenial

characters, their kindred studies, Etruscology and Mythology,

combined to ally them. Their wives were not wholly absorbed in

their learned pursuits, and if Mr. Ladislaw was dangling after Mrs.

Casaubon, we know that Mr. Rivers used to haunt with Mrs. Forth the

walks of Magdalen. The regret and disapproval which Mrs. Casaubon

expresses, and her desire to do good to Mrs. Forth, are, it is

believed, not alien to her devoted and exemplary character.

Bradmore-road, Oxford, May 29.

Dear Mr. Casaubon,--In the course of an investigation which my

researches into the character of the Etruscan "Involuti" have

necessitated, I frequently encounter the root Kad, k2ad, or Qad.

Schnitzler's recent and epoch-making discovery that d in Etruscan =

b2, has led me to consider it a plausible hypothesis that we may

convert Kad or Qad into Kab2, in which case it is by no means

beyond the range of a cautious conjecture that the Involuti are

identical with the Cab-iri (Cabiri). Though you will pardon me for

confessing, what you already know, that I am not in all points an

adherent to your ideas concerning a "Key to All Mythologies" (at

least, as briefly set forth by you in Kuhn's Zeitung), yet I am

deeply impressed with this apparent opportunity of bridging the

seemingly impassable gulf between Etrurian Religion and the

comparatively clear and comprehensible systems of the Pelasgo-

Phoenician peoples. That Kad or Kab can refer either (as in

Quatuor) to a four-footed animal (quadruped, "quad") or to a four-

wheeled vehicle (esseda, Celtic cab) I cannot for a moment believe,

though I understand that this theory has the support of Schrader,

Penka, and Baunder. {10} Any information which your learning can

procure, and your kind courtesy can supply, will be warmly welcomed

and duly acknowledged.--Believe me, faithfully yours,

JAMES FORTH.

P.S.--I open this note, which was written from my dictation by my

secretary, Mrs. Forth, to assure myself that her inexperience has

been guilty of no error in matters of so much delicacy and

importance. I have detected no mistake of moment, and begin to

hope that the important step of matrimony to which I was guided by

your example may not have been a rash experiment.

From the Rev. Mr. Casaubon to James Forth, Esq., Professor of

Etruscan, Oxford.