ACT 3.

King RUFUS is cross when he comes to reflect That as King he's been treated with gross disrespect; So he pens a short note to a holy physician, And gives him a rather unholy commission, Viz. to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup, Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up. Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir Walter Perceives in his walks this same cup on the altar. As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking, When Miss Faucit, in tears, comes in running like winking; He pauses of course, and, as she's thirsty too, Says, very politely, "Miss F., after you!" The young Lady curtsies, and, being so dry, Raises somehow her fair little-finger so high, That there's not a drop left him to "wet t'other eye:" While, the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise, She merely says, "Thankee, Sir Walter!" and dies. At that moment the King, who is riding to cover, Pops in _en passant_ on the desperate lover, Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him; --So he does,--he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him. From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows, The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose; And Sir Walter, thus having concluded his quarrel, Walks down to the foot-lights, and draws this fine moral.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Lead sober lives;-- Don't meddle with other folks' Sweethearts or Wives!-- When you go out a sporting, take care of your Gun, And--Never shoot elderly people for fun!"

JOHN POOLEDOUNE, THE VICTIM OF IMPROVEMENTS!

It was on a fine warm day in June, several years before Beulah Spa was invented, that, eviting leafy Hampstead, and airy Highgate, and woody Hornsey, John Pooledoune, with a party of companions, sought the delights of a rural ramble and pic-nic, amid the sylvan scenery of Norwood. Of the journey thither, the sporting there, the banquet on the grass, the hilarious after-dinner bumpers, the casting away of bottles, and the wide-spread waste of orts, there is no occasion to speak; suffice it to state, that the frolic and profusion attracted a visit from a couple of dark-haired and bright-glancing Gipsies, whose sojourn was thereabouts, and who, though reckless of the present, were, or pretended to be, deeply read in the future. Their appearance added to the merriment of the occasion; and, with that natural curiosity which belongs to human nature, our revellers agreed to have a peep into futurity palmed upon them, at the small cost of a few silver coins. One after another were their lines submitted to Sibyllic inspection; and loud were their laughs as the pretty "brows of Egypt" bent over their destinies, and told of coming estates, and wives, and children, and, sooth to add, little amours and indiscretions which nevertheless promised pleasures hardly less acceptable to the expectant listeners. At length it fell to the turn of Jack Pooledoune, who was indeed so well off in the world, that he had little either to hope or to fear from the fickle goddess; when, all at once, a sudden chill crept over the group, "a change came o'er the spirit of their dream," and the hitherto gay and giggling priestesses of mystery assumed aspects of horror and dismay. What before was curiosity was now intense interest. Whence the cause of this awful alteration?--why had mirth in a moment given place to these boding looks and signs of terror? Time and our tale will show; and we have only here to record the prediction reluctantly wrung from one of the distraught and shuddering Gipsies.

"Oh! strange unfortunate Fortunate!" she exclaimed as she conned John Pooledoune's hand,

"By making rich, made poor; By making happy, miserable; By amending, hurt; by curing, slain;

never Lost on earth, alive or dead, yet Found by numbers; bodiless corpse; _The Victim of Improvement_, for ever to improve;--

"No hand to close thy eyes, No eye to see thy grave, No grave to give thee rest,-- STRANGE BEING!

Dead; resembling Death, yet keeping thy place among the dead and the living; thy end shall not be an ending, and every one shall know that thou art and art not!"

With this fearful prophecy the Gipsies took to their heels; and Jack, with an oath at their impudent mummery, shied half a half-quartern loaf at their retreating heads. The iced punch was speedily resumed; but, so strong is the hold of superstition upon us, even when wine and punch have infused a factitious courage, it was found impossible to re-animate the convivial festival, and the party returned to town, either in silent abstraction, or reverting to and commenting on the oddness of the Gipsy foolery!

Old Roger Pooledoune was one of the busiest and most substantial of hosiers in the ward of Cheap; a respectable citizen, whose heart and soul were in his business, to which he attended from morning to night as if, instead of toil, it were pleasure; and indeed it did comprehend the mighty pleasure of profit, the be-all and the end-all of many a cit. Stockings, stocks, and socks, braces, collars, gloves, nightcaps, and garters, were all the same to honest Roger; and he would serve his customers with equal cordiality with every one of these articles, from the price of a grey groat to the cost of sterling gold. Thus he dealt and throve. His shop was never empty, for his commodities were reputed to be of good quality; and, in process of years, his industry was rewarded with such increase, that his neighbours declared him to be a warm man, and guessed his worth at no less than thirty thousand pounds. Nor were they far wrong.

Roger, like a man ignorant of Malthus, had in the midst of all his occupations found leisure to court and win a wife; and, in due process, a certain portion of the stock in the warehouse, namely, some very small socks, gaiters, &c. had to be transferred _gratis_ to the nursery, where Isabella, Matilda, and Margaret, and last, John Pooledoune, the only son, the fruits of his marriage-bed, required such equipments from their fond father,--the fonder in consequence of the last family event having made him a widower. Twenty years had elapsed since that period of mingled joy and woe, of birth and death,--the conjunction of the two extremes of human life,--when it occurred to the corporation of the city of London that it would be a vast improvement in the approaches thereto, and accommodation to the traffic thereof, to have a new bridge thrown across the bosom of old Father Thames, just where it suited a company of keen-sighted, speculative, and money-making gentry to have that operation performed for the public and their own benefit. It so happened that the site so agreeable to them was exceedingly disagreeable to Roger Pooledoune, inasmuch as it created a necessity for carrying a street, as it were the string of a bow, direct to the bridge, not only leaving his shop at the farthest bend of the said bow, but plunging it into an unfrequented valley, or _cul de sac_, at which it was irksome to look from the popular balustrades of the recent direct and splendid erections. Old Roger, it is true, claimed and received a handsome,--a very handsome, and neighbourly, and citizen-like compensation: for his loss in the daily sale of nightcaps and garters was estimated at the sum of fourteen thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven pounds sixteen shillings and fivepence three farthings: but, like Othello, his occupation was gone. The money obtained in a lump was not like the money gained by slow and minute degrees. He became uncomfortable, uneasy, irritable; he would gaze up towards the new street to the new bridge, and, counting the passing crowds, would calculate on the proportional passing demand for ready-made hosiery of every description. The whole was diverted into another channel: he could not bear the sight, he could not endure the idea; and so he pined, and he sickened, and he died, for want of a brisk retail.

The disposition of the defunct hosier's property was such as might be expected from a wealthy and prudent tradesman. He had sunk the fourteen thousand and odd pounds in annuities on his three daughters, and so tied them up, that none but themselves--nor brother, nor friend, nor husband, nor lover--could receive the half-yearly dividends; and, if loan or mortgage were attempted upon them, they were forfeited for ever. Thus were they provided with inalienable competencies for the terms of their natural lives. To John was left the residue, which, when the good will of the shop was with good will disposed of for nothing, everything else settled, and affairs wound up, was ascertained to amount to the neat round sum of two-and-thirty thousand pounds; and thus warmly provided, the gipsy foredoomed Victim of Improvements began the world, his own master, and for himself alone.

John Pooledoune had received what is called a first-rate "commercial and classical education," at a boarding-school near Deptford, where these identical words were painted in capital letters on a board which ran along the entire façade of the building. He had thus been prepared for more general and severer pursuits; and accordingly, about that era when the first drum was beat for the March of Intellect, he enrolled himself in the ranks for the diffusion of knowledge, and, to speak comparatively, soon reached the distinction of a halbert in the cause. He became a leading man in the Mechanics' Institutes, attended lectures on every possible subject at least five evenings in every week, was elected a member of the Society of Arts and of the Statistical Society, joined the British Association at Bristol,[104] and, in fine, adopted the most admired course to become a utilitarian of the first water. He was acknowledged to be an independent, and sensible, and well-informed individual; he needed neither favour nor assistance, had plenty of ready money in the funds, and was courted and caressed accordingly. He was, in short, a faultless monster.

But not only had Fortune been kind to him; Nature was equally liberal: he was well-proportioned in lith and limb; stout, healthy, and well-looking. If not a perfect, but, rather, as George the Fourth would say, an ungentlemanly gentleman, he was not a vulgar plebeian; and, altogether, hardly ever did a man start in the middle walks of life with so fair a promise of prosperity and happiness. John Pooledoune had the silver spoon to his mouth,--the salt of the earth to his portion.

With such qualities, and to such a character, inactivity was impossible. Inclination and means led to projects of utility, and John was determined to benefit mankind by his efforts in promoting the ingenious conceptions of the clever and the "talented." His apartments were encumbered with models, his chairs and his tables laden with plans; nay, he even fancied at times that he was himself an inventor. It was, to be sure, only in a small way, but it kept the ruling passion in a blaze; and when he took out his first patent for a broom to eat its own dust, his ecstasies had nearly laid him with the dust, to which he was thus made doubly akin.

It is wonderful to behold how many of our species, full of the most extraordinary and indubitable inventions, from which indescribable riches must accrue, languish in abject poverty: to such, a John Pooledoune is a god-send, even though it may be that in the issue he is reduced to fraternization. He was the friend of projectors, the believer in perfectibility, but singularly unlucky in nearly all his undertakings. Of these we must mention a few, the leading incidents of a brief career.

We have alluded to the patent for a dust-consuming broom, with which John was so marvellously elated. The worst of it was, that it involved him in a law-suit with Mr. Pratt, who clearly proved to the judge and jury that he had perfected a similar besom five years before. It was in vain that John's counsel argued that his broom acted transversely, not horizontally; and possessed a vertical, not a rotary action; in vain he asserted that new brooms swept cleanest: the verdict was for the plaintiff; and the infringement of the right to use a useless brush cost Mr. Pooledoune within a trifle of a thousand pounds. The lawyers and attorneys declared that it was a shameful verdict, and advised Mr. Pooledoune to move for a new trial; but he had sense enough to be satisfied with one.

Misfortunes, we are told, never come single. Like crows, if you see one alight on a field, you may be pretty sure there will soon be a few more, and probably a flock; and so it fell out with our hero's mischances.

A company was formed upon the most admirable principles to supply the metropolis with pure water instead of the abomination hitherto imbibed from the polluted river, the grand recipient of the filth of a million and a half of nasty people. It was to be brought from Tonbridge Wells, laid on in crystal pipes, and supplied with a bounty that defied competition. John Pooledoune became a large shareholder and a director; but somehow or other the stream did not run smooth, the crystal pipes broke, and so did the company; and John, being a responsible person, got out with the largest share--of the loss. He next embarked in gas works, the most prosperous that ever were demonstrated by calculations and estimates on the tables printed by the projectors. But this design, alas! also failed: the gas dissolved into thin air; and another troublesome and expensive law-suit proved that the thousands of tons of coke which had been consumed were utterly wasted, as their use in that particular way, custom, and manner, was not sanctioned by Coke upon Lyttleton.--See _Vesey's Reports_, div. 4, cap. 3, lib. 2, page 1.

This was another rather severe blow upon Mr. Pooledoune, who began to reflect on the uncertainty of all pursuits of the kind. "I will not," said he to himself, "risk any more considerable sums in such plans. Houses and lands," said he, "are certain, real, visible, tangible property: I will buy an estate and build a house upon it." Accordingly, day after day did he examine those oracles of truth, the morning newspapers; and particularly that portion of them which is the truest of the true, the advertisements of the auctioneers. Long did he ponder over the most desirable of investments, the most eligible of sites, the paradises of nature, the soils which scantily concealed inexhaustible mines, the views of hanging woods whose trees never changed their fruits: long did he balance which it were best to possess; and at last he was fortunate enough to be allowed to purchase one of George Robins' most extraordinary bargains, an estate which was positively "given away". It was nevertheless dear enough to the buyer; and the seller had not so much reason as might be imagined to be dissatisfied with the prodigal liberality of his agent on the occasion. The land was found to be susceptible of no inconsiderable improvement; and the charming, picturesque, indescribably interesting, and gothically elegant, fine, ancient mansion, was in truth little better than an inconvenient and incongruous pile of ruins. But as Mr. Pooledoune had, from the first, intended to cultivate the earth in his own way, and to erect a mansion upon his own design, these slight discrepancies did not so much signify. The titles were actually good, and old Hurlépoer Hall was regularly transferred, made over, granted, and assigned to its new proprietor, John Pooledoune, esquire. It is a proud thing to be an esquire, the owner of broad acres, to walk over fields you can call your own, to speak of your domain and your country house, of your Hurlépoer Hall, and the parts and appurtenances thereunto pertaining. Never did John Pooledoune feel so elevated as when he arrived in a post-chaise to take possession of his beautiful estate. It was only an amusing drawback, which served to occupy his time, that he had to pull down the old hall and re-edify it in a modern style. There was ready money, and the work went briskly on, till at last a handsome villa stood where Hurlépoer, or at least some of its walls, had outbraved the winds and rains two hundred winters. It was christened Hosiery Hall by some of the poor and envious landlords round about; but it was nevertheless a very pretty place, and constructed on the most novel and approved principles of architecture. The foundations were laid in Roman cement, the timbers were steeped to saturation in Kyan's anti-dry-rot composition, and the roof was of patent cast-iron. Nor had Mr. P. during the season been inattentive to the cultivation of his ground. The steward, a positive, ignorant, and impracticable ass, was dismissed the service, for insisting upon sowing wheat, and barley, and oats; laying certain portions fallow, and turnip-cropping other parts. The squire taking affairs into his own hands, the farm-horses were sold, and a wonderfully perfect steam-plough put into operation. Instead of turnips, the cow-cabbage was introduced, and room left about every plant to allow it to extend to its full dimensions of from eighteen to twenty-two feet in diameter. The corn-arable was converted into plantations of beetroot for the manufacture of sugar, and a thousand hogsheads for its reception were ordered of the coopers. Everything went on tolerably well for a while, except the plough, which always refused to move up hill or to go straight on the level, and very soon denied motion in any manner, or in any direction. Mr. Pooledoune, incensed at this misconduct, which he attributed to the stupidity of the ploughman and the malice of the quondam driver, who had no longer any horses to drive, and consequently went whistling alongside, occasionally eyeing his useless whip, as if he would gladly apply it to his master's back, in a moment of anger took the stilts himself, to show the boors how it ought to be done. He poked the fire and filled the kettle, and off set the machine with a run. Unluckily there was a great stone in the line of the furrow, against which the plough was dashed with so much force that it tilted up, and, throwing down its unfortunate holder, dashed the burning coals and boiling steam all over his body. Dreadfully scalded, it was many weeks before the squire was sufficiently convalescent to leave his room; and when he did once again visit his _ci-devant_ green fields, it was as a cripple from the severe accident. The melancholy of autumn, too, was upon the scene,--a melancholy untempered to him by the sight of sweeps of ripened grain, (the yellow gold of nature,) and the busy hum of harvest. The season had been unusually dry, and the soil was chalky. Owing to this the cow-cabbages had not flourished, and only one here and there was visible, and about the ordinary size of a tailor's dinner, though with plenty of room to grow larger if it liked. The cultivation of the beetroot was hardly more successful; still there was wherewithal to try the experiment of sugar-making, and to this our sanguine hero turned with his indomitable spirit. The process went on, and the roots were crushed;--so, speedily, were his hopes. Twenty-seven barrels of bad molasses was the produce of above eight hundred acres of the best land belonging to Hurlépoer Hall. It was a year of dead loss, and there was nothing left for it but to get through the winter as comfortably as possible, and prepare for taking the field in the spring with greater experience, and a more _improved_ system throughout.

It is a well-known fact with regard to the weather in England, that if there be a balance of good and bad, the latter never fails to occupy its fair proportion of foulness. As the summer had been unusually warm and dry, the winter turned out unusually cold and wet. The rain hardly ceased during four months, the country was a swamp, and there was not even enough for a dry joke in the parish. One night the storm descended, hail was shaken and lightning glanced from the wings of the mighty tempest: it was a _perfect_ hurricane, (for hurricanes are so called when they are most fearfully outrageous,) and blew great guns. In the midst of the rattling, and spouting, and howling, a dreadful crash was heard by the inhabitants of Hurlépoer villa; the walls tottered, and they rushed forth in nakedness and desperation. Nor had they a moment to spare; for the Roman-cement foundations gave way, the anti-dry-rot timbers split into a thousand splinters, and the ponderous patent iron roof descended with one awful and crushing demolition upon the wrecks below. Poor Pooledoune was again unfortunate. Having delayed a minute to save an electrical apparatus for making diamonds of flints and asparagus, in which he had all but succeeded, he was struck by a projected mass of the broken wood, and had his right arm very badly fractured.

With these calamities terminated John Pooledoune's rural experiments. Hurlépoer was soon again in the market, but the value of land had fallen tremendously within the last eighteen months; and, though the auctioneer did his utmost, that which had cost twenty thousand pounds so short a while ago was sold for eight thousand pounds, and John's whole fortune reduced to little more than ten. Still there was a competency; and with the mind of a projector there is always contentment. John bought a small ready-furnished house, about two miles out of London, and sat down under its lowly slate roof, and all his troubles, with most philosophic apathy.

He engaged in lesser speculations with the same ardour with which he had embarked in extensive undertakings; but the doom of the Gipsies of Norwood was still upon him, and

"By making rich, made poor; By making happy, miserable; By amending, hurt;" ***

continued to mark his progress--his progress!--his retrograde progress in life.

He had not been settled in his humble abode beyond the first quarter, making discoveries in science of the most astonishing description, when a railroad between Billingsgate and Blackwell drove him from his home. Private interests must always yield to public advantages. The road went right through Mr. Pooledoune's parlour; but then, when completed, how easy it would be to bring, by its ready means, white-bait from the water-side to the city; and how much toil and expense would be saved to the citizens in having their feed without the trouble of journeying so far for it in the heat of sultry summer. The greatest affliction to the individual was not the deterioration which his fortune again experienced in removing, but a calamity which had almost overwhelmed even his steadfast soul. We have said he was on the point of realising the most amazing discoveries in natural science. By a battery of unlimited galvanic power, continually directed to stones abstracted from St. Paul's Cathedral, Waterloo-bridge, and the Monument, he had ascertained that the church was built of the fur of the _pulex_, the bridge of butterflies' facets, and the Monument of midges' wings. Indeed he had obtained all these creatures entire and lively, in the course of his experiments upon decomposing the St. Paul pebbles, the Waterloo-bridge granite, and the Monumental free-stone; and the only difficulty which remained for solution was, that above a hundred other unknown and undescribed insects, probably of the antediluvian world, had been produced at the same time, and by the same means. It was hard, but the railroad caused the destruction of this theory; and several of the retorts being broken, the revivification interrupted, the reanimated killed, and the whole process served out, Mr. Pooledoune never enjoyed another opportunity for demonstrating these incomparable results. Thousands of years may elapse before any other experimentalist succeed to such an extent; and millions of men and philosophers of intermediate generations will die meanwhile, ignorant of the prodigious injury done to science and to John Pooledoune by the railroad between Billingsgate and Blackwell.

As we descend, we diminish in the eyes of those to whom we were distinguished objects whilst dwelling on the same or a higher elevation:--do we not really become less and less? Pooledoune's pursuits continued to be similar in character, in opinions, in expectations; but, ah! how different in worldly esteem! At the Mechanics' Institutes he was no longer promoted to the front-seats,--at the Society of Arts he was no more invited to deliver his sentiments,--his little contribution of insulated facts was unsought by the Statisticals,--and the British Association was too far off, with its Edinburgh and Dublin festivities, to meet his conveniency. Yet he devoted himself to the confusion of knowledge; and, in order to obtain larger interest on his fading capital, he dabbled in Mexican and Payous, and Greek loans.

Perfecting a fulminating powder to supersede the use of gunpowder, which could not explode except by the touch of a particular preparation, an ounce of it accidentally ignited one day, and blew out his right eye.

John's hair grew prematurely grey with such crosses, and he invented a dye to render it beautifully black. Most of those whom he persuaded to give it a trial were turned most curiously grizzle, green, or yellow;[105] but, perhaps from using an inordinate quantity, his own scalp was utterly removed, and his scull rendered as bald and shining as a polished pewter plate, whence the meat had been removed, but not the gravy.

He patronised Mechi's razor-strops and Hubert's roseate powder, in consequence of which all the lower features of his face became a mass of purulent offence.

He took to an infallible dentifrice, which preserved the enamel, and whitened without injuring the teeth. It was a noble specific, and did not contradict its advertisement: but all John's teeth fell out; and though the enamel was preserved, and they were white, his gums were exposed, empty, and red. He supplied his loss with a set of china ornaments, which made him grin and nod like a Mandarin, but with which he could not eat like a Christian, nor sleep like a savage.

John got poorer and poorer, shabbier and shabbier, sicklier and sicklier. He had been blown up by gas, burnt down by steam, ruined by railroads, cursed by every improvement on the whole pack of cards. He was crippled in his limbs, deficient of an eye, disfigured in face and person, and, worse than worst of all, his friends knew that he had but little left, and less to hope for. It was not four years since John Pooledoune had begun his career with a sound constitution, and two-and-thirty thousand pounds of ready money,--worth sixty thousand in any other way! Surely he was the "_Victim of Improvement_."

Nearly at last, when seen in the streets, John would point to his waterproof shoes, and hat the better for being soaked twenty-four hours in a washing-tub; and one noticed that his ugly-looking outer garment was a proof Macintosh, and his patent spectacles set in cases of india-rubber. And even his sorry truckle-bed, to which the late squire of Hurlépoer Hall now nightly sought his obscure and darkling way, was surmounted by a patent tick (it was double tick, for he had it on credit from an old philosophical crony,) filled with hot water,--as had been the brief course of the unfortunate to whom it could afford no rest.

Whether from the Macintosh preservative cloak, the waterproof shoes, the water-filled bed, the india-rubber, or the rubs of the weather, we have not ascertained; but poor John caught a horrid cold, and his cough was sadly aggravated by a contrivance in his chimney for consuming its own smoke. This the chimney resolutely refused; and, like all other quarrels, got so incensed that it would not even carry the smoke up. Cold, asthma, suffocation and starvation, were then the miserable companions of the quondam wealthy John Pooledoune.

In the misery of his heart, the wretched man took to drinking. _That_ resource, under any circumstances, must very quickly have brought on the crisis; but true to the last, John resorted to patent British brandy, and his fate was astonishingly accelerated.

One dusky evening, in a state of inebriety, the ragged philosopher walked, or rather staggered out. The cool air breathed upon his fevered brow; he saw the streets illumed with gas, he witnessed the smoke ascending from steam-engines, and, overcome by his emotions, when a Gravesend steamer, having beautifully run down another a hundred yards below, swept into the Adelaide Wharf he threw himself over London Bridge, and sank in the disturbed bosom of the silver, insulted, and persecuted Thames.

Wearily had his life dragged on for many a day, and yet it was doomed to another drag. Before he had been two minutes in the water, this last-mentioned combination of cards, creepers, and hooks, brought him to the surface, having caught him by his bald pate, and he was carried ashore in a sculler. The nearest surgeon being called in, happened to differ from the Humane Society, and hung him up by the heels while he administered stimulants; but John had imbibed so little of the element, that even this treatment did not kill him. But his look was deadly, and he was so debilitated by the medical treatment, that to be restored was impossible; and the parish authorities of _Saint ---- _, inspecting his sorry equipments, became alarmed lest he should die where he had no business, and put them to the expense of a funeral. He was asked where he lived, in order that he might also die there; and a cart being procured, under the New Poor Law Act, he was carted towards the dismal abode he had indicated. His road lay along the new street to the new bridge; and, about a hundred yards down, in a dark avenue on his left, _he_ could _not_, though others might, see the once rich and respected tenement of his father, Roger Pooledoune, hosier and citizen of London.

The night was frosty and bleak: John's clothes were thin and wet. Had he been taken to an old woman instead of a medical theorist, and dried and cherished even by the commonest fire of the parish workhouse, he would have survived his "accident:" but the law was imperative; he must be moved to his own parish, and he was moved into the parish of Eternity,--the parish which holds the rich and the poor, and Heaven only knows how they are provided for. Before the cart reached the "Union," John Pooledoune was a corpse.

On the ensuing day but one, a coroner's inquest sat upon his body, and one or two of the jurors were men who had known him in his prosperity. They could hardly identify the meagre and mutilated remains; but, in tenderness to the officials, who had killed him by doing all for the best, they returned a verdict of "Found Drowned."

Not being conchologists, we shall not attempt to describe the shell in which it was pretended that John Pooledoune was buried. In that shell no muscle of his ever reposed; it held a few of the paving-stones of the adjacent lane, which, if John had been alive to submit to his galvanic battery, would have been demonstrated to be composed of bumble bees' sacchyrometers. About the same hour that the stones were interred with the solemn ritual of the church service by the chaplain, the body also furnished the subject of a lecture by the surgeon of the workhouse to the pupils in an adjoining hospital. The scull in particular was singularly formed, at least it was so declared by the phrenologists, who were allowed to claw it, and who clearly showed that the bumps (caused by the watermen's drags) were organs of philoprogenitiveness, amativeness, and destructiveness.

In due time a perfect skeleton of John Pooledoune was scraped and prepared, and placed in a glass case in the museum of the hospital.

And thus was fulfilled the Gipsy's prophecy. He was "by curing, slain;" he was "never lost on earth, alive or dead," for he was dragged from the river and preserved in the surgeons' hall; he was "found by numbers" of sensible coroner's inquest men! he is yet in his glass case a "bodiless corpse, the victim of improvement, for ever to improve" the students of anatomy. There was

"_No hand to close his eyes; No eye to see his grave; No grave to give him rest!_"

He is "dead, resembling Death," yet keeps "his place among the dead and the living." "His end has not been an ending," and every one who inspects the hospital collection may know that "he _is_ and _is not_!"

In a moral magazine such as Bentley's Miscellany it is naturally expected that a useful and instructive inference should be drawn from every tale; and assuredly ours needs little to point it: "_May we all be preserved from the fascinations of Gipsies!_"

[104] All anachronisms are wilful. Witness the hand of the writer hereof [graphic symbol: hand]. ]

[105] Three under the metamorphoses were called by their acquaintance, the Grey Goose, the Merman, and the Yellow-haired Laddie. --Note, passim.

THE LEGEND OF MOUNT PILATE.

Superstition is to this day a strong characteristic of the inhabitants of the Alps. A reason for this, is easily found in the various and imposing phenomena of Nature, to which these simple mountaineers are daily and nightly witnesses. A storm, which on the plains would scarcely attract attention, offers at each instant, in these lofty and diversified regions, some new and appalling spectacle. Each clap of thunder finds a thousand echoes, and is reverberated almost to infinity. The lightning's flash plays not only above, but about and underneath the beholder. Here a roaring torrent dashes past him down the precipitous rocks, driving all before it in its impetuous course; there a sudden whirlwind uproots the sturdy monarch of the forest, and bears it aloft, as though it were a feather on the breeze. The heavy cloud, which one moment envelopes the poor shepherd in its vapoury folds, in the next is seen rolling its dense masses over the lower earth, hundreds of fathoms beneath his feet. Nor are the calmer sublimities by which he is at other times surrounded less calculated to speak to his imagination than the loud voice of the bellowing tempest. The plaintive murmuring of the vernal breeze amid the lofty pines; the deep silence of the summer's burning noon; the fantastic changes of the fleecy cloud, whose form is varied by every pinnacle of the mountain; the hollow and mournful moaning of the autumnal gusts as they scatter far and wide the falling leaves; the bright beam of the resplendent moon, across which each jutting crag throws some grotesque shadow; and above all, the mist, which, rising from the plains a mere mass of dull and dank vapour, here first appears to receive life, and takes innumerable shapes and forms, incredible to those who have never witnessed its airy evolutions! These are the ever-varying phantasmata of nature that pass in scenic succession before the eyes of the Alpine peasant, and add fresh fuel to the fire of his superstitious inclinations.

It was in scenes of this inspiring character that Ossian saw his shadowy armies, his warrior ghosts, his visionary maids, and heard the wild music of their aërial harps. And although from the imperfectness of our nature, we are all liable to have "our eyes made the fools of the other senses," yet is it in these cloud-capped regions alone that the illusions are always of a dignified order, and that poetry spreads her veil of enchantment over the dull realities of life.

Such was the nature of my reflections after I had retired to rest upon the night before my intended pilgrimage to Mount Pilate; and, having made them, I slept soundly until the bright beams of a July sun darting in at my latticed window gave me notice of the morning's growth. I arose from my bed of leaves and rushes, and, strolling forth into the open air, tasted the delicious sweetness of the hour. Never do I remember a more enchanting prospect than here met my view. It seemed as if Nature had proclaimed a universal holiday. She was abroad in her gala dress; while Spring and Summer, her vernal and blooming handmaids,--the former lingering as though loth to quit her mistress, the latter rushing to anticipate her call,--appeared on either side of her, and strewed her rosy path with freshness and fragrance. The dews of night, glistening in the first rays of the slanting sun, spangled the green carpet of the earth; and the tall pines, ever the first to greet the morning breeze, gracefully bowed their dark heads to welcome day's return. Far across the intervening lake, the flocks and herds were seen winding slowly up the mountain's side in search of their wholesome pasture; while the simple harmony of their bells, mingling with the wild song or whistle of their urchin conductors, came upon my ear over the still waters in distant snatches, and formed, with the loud melody of the feathered minstrels close around me, a rural concert in happiest unison with the scene. A tap on the shoulder from my venerable conductor aroused me from my reverie. Our preparations were soon made; and with a small wallet destined to contain the necessary provision for such a journey, and each a long staff, pointed at one end and hooked at the other, such as is required for the ascent and descent of the precipitous paths we were to tread, we commenced our march. We proceeded first to Brunnen, where we took water upon the fairest of Switzer's lakes, and before sunset arrived at Lucerne, the town from which it takes its name. The next morning we were again afoot betimes, and, as we jogged along, I obtained the result of my companion's long gleanings in this fruitful land of romance and superstition.

"First," said he, "with regard to the name[106] of this celebrated mountain. Some have thought that it obtained the designation of Mount Pilate from a tradition of its having been formerly peopled by a band of Roman deserters, who sought refuge among its almost inaccessible rocks,--the Latin word _pila_ having been often used to signify a mountain-pass; others, that it is a corruption from _pileus_, a hat, because its bald summit is often covered by a complete cap of clouds,--and hence the old proverb so often quoted in this country,

"'Quand Pilate a mis son chapeau, Le temps sera serein et beau.'

But the explanation drawing most largely upon the liberal credulity of the simple inhabitants of the Underwald, and therefore sure to be the best received, is the following amusing fable:

"Pontius Pilate having been condemned to death for his crimes, to avert the shame of a public execution, committed suicide. His body being found, was by the enraged multitude fastened to an immense weight of stones, and thrown into the Tyber. But the spirit of that noble river, outraged by her waters being made the deposit of so foul a carcase, from that hour rose in foam and torrent to resent the injury; and, interesting great Nature in her behalf, the most frightful storms and whirlwinds, with hail, thunder, and lightning, ravaged the whole country from the Mediterranean shores to the opposite Adriatic; nor did the elemental uproar cease until the terrified inhabitants, by dint of the greatest exertions, dragged the body up again, and in all haste caused it to be conveyed as far as Vienne in Dauphiny, and there anew committed to the deep.[107] But what was the consequence? The Rhone would no more suffer such an insult than had the Tyber; and its blue waters, swelling with the indignity offered them, overflowed their natural banks, and rushed with headlong rapidity, as if to fly the spot of pollution. No bark could live an instant on the tremendous waves, which now so frightfully disguised this hitherto calmly majestic stream; and the Dauphinois, like the Romans, had no remedy for the crying evil, but, as they had done, to rid themselves and their river of such an ill-omened guest. This was at length accomplished: but the noble Rhone, although cleansed of his 'filthy bargain,' could not so easily forget the deep affront; and yearly, at that very season, he has ever since marked his undying resentment by a repetition of the same angry demonstrations. Meantime the offending cause of all this tribulation was secretly transported to Lausanne, and there condemned to a third watery grave. Why a preference so little flattering was given to this beautiful spot, is not known; but certain it is that its inhabitants, being made acquainted with the new arrival, presaged but little good to their '_placid Leman_' from so confirmed a disturber of the silent waters, and before his presence could have time to create its usual uproar, and thus prevent or impede such a measure, the body was once more brought to land; and, a council being held, it was then determined that a small and isolated lake,[108] situated near the summit of the Frakmont, should be the chosen place of interment. Being situated at a good forty leagues from their city, they would at least have little to dread from his future operations; and the bleak and barren nature of the soil surrounding his new residence would, as they hoped, neutralize, if not entirely destroy, his baneful influence.

"There, then, he was finally deposited; but soon this desolate region, as though doubly cursed by his coming, felt the dire effects of his sojourn. The lake itself turned black; and its surrounding shores, infected by the noxious vapours which it now emitted, could no longer yield a wholesome herbage, but became one huge and marshy swamp, where the rankest weeds alone could thrive. The surface of the water was covered with the blanched bodies of its finny inhabitants; the water-fowl that used to haunt its banks no sooner came within its unhealthful precincts than they shared the universal doom, and fell dead upon the earth; the venomous snake lay stiffening in the sun, conquered by a superior poison; and the slimy toad expired in a vain attempt to crawl from an atmosphere too fetid even for his loathsome nature.[109]

"The peasants, from their hamlets in the neighbouring plains, had marked the striking change in the appearance of the mountain's top, which, instead of standing out clear against the blue sky, was almost always enveloped in a shroudy mist, or, if for a short period it could rid itself of that encumbrance, still appeared like a heavy blot upon the surface of the earth, reflecting no single ray of that bright sun which beamed on all around it. Convinced that such a sudden change could proceed but from some supernatural cause, a thousand speculations were hazarded as to what was actually going on at the summit itself; and at length one among them, more hardy than the rest, set out, determined to explore the mystery. His presumption, however, was awfully punished; for although, by dint of an extraordinary courage, he returned to his anxious friends, yet the sights he had seen, the fright he had endured, and the bodily exertions he had used to quicken his descent, were too much for him. It was permitted only that he should relate to the throng crowding around him the pestilent appearances of the once beautiful little lake, and then ague-fits, convulsions, and a raging fever ended the poor wretch's mortal struggles.

"Whether the circumstances of this intrusive visit added fresh fuel to the demon's rage, or whether the moment was now come when, having no longer within his reach any living object on which to vent his diabolical vengeance, he became impatient of his watery incarceration, certain it is that, from the very day of the luckless villager's return, new sounds and sights of horror and desolation startled the whole country around. A hollow rumbling noise, as of distant thunder or a smothered volcano, issued, with scarcely a minute's intermission, during the hours of light, from the mountain's summit; while the deep silence of midnight was suddenly broken by shrieks and yells so hideous and piercing, that, compared with them, the war-whoop of a whole nation of Whyndots or Cherokees would have seemed soft music. Thus were announced to the affrighted listeners the terrific struggles then making by the foul spirit to burst his liquid bonds. At length, one luckless morn, he succeeded in his attempt to breathe again the free air; and his first feat was to celebrate the unholy triumph by a storm that hid the sun's face from the world during eight and forty hours, being the exact number of days of his forced sojourn in the lake.

"It seemed, from his remaining afterwards on this bleak and desolate station, either that his infernal art could not compass his entire removal from the mountain, or that he preferred it to the low grounds on account of the advantage which its elevated situation gave him to direct the tempests, and with greater certainty to launch the fires of destruction upon those particular parts of the country from which he was at the moment pleased to select his victims. Whichever of these was the cause of his stay, he, at any rate, by force, or by choice, did remain there for some hundreds of years; during the whole of which period he continued more or less, and by every means within his fell power, to vent his undying rage upon the hapless peasantry and their little possessions. In the midst of the most terrific of the storms with which it was his custom to visit the valleys below, the phantom himself would sometimes be for a moment visible to one or other of the terror-struck shepherds, and then some dreadful mortality among his flocks and herds was sure to be the lot of the luckless wight by whom the apparition had been seen.

"Once, during a dreadful hurricane that tore up the largest trees by the roots, and scattered ruin and dismay abroad, the grisly fiend was plainly seen perched upon the very highest pinnacle of his rocky dominion, in desperate conflict with a second unearthly being, who, by the violent gesticulations displayed on both sides, could be no other than his once mortal enemy, the renowned King Herod. In short, nothing could exceed either in variety or extent, the mischief caused to the pastoral inhabitants of the two cantons of Lucerne and Underwald by this '_Lord of the Black Mountain_,' the name by which their demoniac tormentor was universally known. It gave them, therefore, joy beyond expression when their good genius at last sent them some hope of deliverance from the evil power, in the person of a pious and learned doctor, who, being informed of the devastation, agreed to try conclusions with the imp of Satan. This champion in the good cause was a celebrated brother of the Rosy Cross, who had already taken the highest degrees in the university of Salamanca, and who, having dived deeper than his fellow students into the mysteries of the far-famed Bactrian sage, possessed a reputation that placed him almost on a level with Zoroaster himself. Like a good alchymist, gold was the ultimate object of his philosophical researches; and for a sufficient sum, (to obtain which many a poor peasant was deprived of his last kreutzer,) he undertook to rid the country of what had been so long a scourge to it.

"He set out accordingly for the conflict; but alone and unarmed, having refused all aid or guidance but such as his sacred mission and his hidden knowledge gave him. The combat was long and obstinate, but never for a moment doubtful. Arrived at the mountain's summit, the Rosicrucian took up his station on a commanding point of the rock, and called upon the phantom to appear before him. This simple summons remaining unnoticed, he proceeded to a display of his cabalistic powers, and finally brought the stubborn offender into his presence; but not until the force of his mystic conjurations had torn the huge fragment on which he stood from its solid base, and left it balancing on a mere point, where, indeed, it may to this day be seen, a trembling memento of that awful hour.

"Unable to make head against the superior prowess of his opponent, the malignant spirit sought safety in flight but was pursued by the victorious astrologer, who, coming up with him again on the part of the mountain now called the Hill of Widerfield, renewed the contest with fresh vigour; and so furious were the attack and defence on this spot, and so violent the arts of exorcism to which the reverend champion had recourse, that the grass beneath their feet was burnt up as by the fire of heaven, and has never since recovered from the unnatural blight. Success at length crowned the efforts of the holy father, who, however, was forced to consent to a sort of honourable capitulation on the part of the vanquished. It was therefore finally agreed between them, that the spectre should return to his watery sepulchre, there to remain inactive during three hundred and sixty-four days in every year. On Good Friday alone he was to be permitted to walk abroad, clothed in those magisterial robes which he was wont to wear when living; even then, however, pledging himself not to overstep the limits of the mountain's summit, and never, unless provoked by previous violence or insult, to do harm to aught that had existence.

"This settled, he mounted a coal-black charger, which, as a ratification of their solemn treaty, was presented to him by his conqueror, and which on starting struck his hoof into the neighbouring rock, and left to all eternity its huge print there. Then, with a noise that resembled the hissing of an army of serpents, he plunged into the lake and disappeared; nor has he ever since been known to violate the engagements then incurred by showing himself to the world, save on the anniversary of the day above mentioned, or when irritated beyond his bearing by the language of abuse or some overt act of aggression, such as the throwing of stones or other substances into his prison-lake. The treaty thus broken, he has never failed to exercise the power still left him, and to evince his anger by some terrific storm or inundation, which would shortly after, and generally in the very midst of the brightest and clearest weather, suddenly proclaim his sense of the insult offered him.

"In consequence of these infractions, by the ignorant or the disobedient, of a treaty solemnly entered into, a general order was issued by the competent authorities, interdicting all persons whatsoever, under severe pains and punishments, from making the ascent of this mountain without a special permission to that effect, from the chief magistrate of the district, who at the same time was to appoint proper and trustworthy guides, they being answerable with their lives for the attention of the whole party to certain prescribed rules.[110] The shepherds, too, by whom the lower part of the Pilate was peopled, were obliged every year to appear before a certain tribunal, and to take an oath that they would make no attempt to visit these prohibited regions.[111]

"Things remained nearly in this state until the event of the Reformation; after which both Catholic and Protestant united to remove from the minds of the vulgar, prejudices which ages of ignorant habits had tended to fix on them. Among the rest, in the year 1585, one Muller, the curé of Lucerne, having appointed a day for that purpose, and invited all who were willing so to do to accompany him, set out on an expedition to the summit of Mount Pilate, and was followed thither by some hundreds of his parishioners. Arrived at the so much dreaded lake itself, he proceeded to throw into it, stones, blocks of wood, and missiles of various descriptions, accompanying the action with words the most likely to provoke the wrath of the redoubted fiend; but, to the surprise of the assembled multitude, who had beheld with affright the audacious ceremony, all remained silent,--neither sound nor sight replied to the daring invocation, and the sky was not in consequence overcast by a single cloud. In order to follow up the partial light which he had thus let in upon the darkness of ages, the worthy curé soon afterwards obtained an order from the government of Lucerne, authorizing the draining of the lake itself,--a work which was actually begun in the year 1594, but to which a want of the necessary funds, and other minor causes, put a stop before it could be entirely accomplished."

I have thus repeated at some length the fabulous histories which I that day learned during our long and laborious ascent to the summit of the mountain in question; and I will now only add, that the various scenes therein alluded to, as having been the theatre of the phantom's exploits, were pointed out to me by my companion; nor could I avoid perceiving, by the fondness with which he dwelt rather upon the superstition itself, than such refutation as followed it, that he was himself in no slight degree tinged with the popular belief.

[106] Its German name is Frakmont, from the Latin words "Mons fractus," an appellation naturally bestowed upon its broken and irregular summit.

[107] Eusebius, in his "_Histoire Ecclesiastique_," (liv. ii. chap. 7,) relates that, about forty years after the birth of Christ, and under the reign of Caligula, Pontius Pilate was recalled from the government of Judea to Rome, and, fearing the consequences with which his conduct was threatened, he committed suicide; but he does not say where this fact occurred. Naucler tells us that Pilate, having been banished to Lyons by the emperor, there died by his own sword; and other authors, among whom is Otho of Frisinguen, assert that, being exiled by Caligula, he threw himself into the Rhone at Vienne in Dauphiny, and was drowned. He adds, that, according to the statement of the inhabitants of that neighbourhood, the river has ever since that period, at certain intervals, been extremely difficult and dangerous to navigate.--(Vide _Pa Chronique_, liv. iii. chap. 13. )

[108] This mountain lake is situated in the centre of a small forest of dark and time-worn pines, and is surrounded by bogs and marshes. In form it is nearly elliptical, being one hundred and fifty-four feet long, and seventy-eight broad, and it is in no part more than four feet deep. In the year 1560 it was measured by Cisat, and, according to his account of its dimensions, was at that time just one-third less than it is know known to be now; but whether his admeasurement was defective, or whether the body of water has actually increased since that period, may be matter of doubt.

[109] Treatise on Exorcisms, entitled "Malleus Maleficarum," (a Hammer for Sorcerers,) by Felix Hemmerlein, Provost of Soleure; printed at Frankfort, in 1582.

[110] Vadian's Commentaries, published at Vienna in 1518.

[111] Conservateur Suisse, vol. iv.

GLORVINA, THE MAID OF MEATH. BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

Ireland has had her heroines. Glorvina, the daughter of Malachi, king of Meath, was the joy and pride of her father, yet at the same time his anxious, never-resting care; for the Dane was in the land. The rovers were led by Turgesius, a voluptuous prince, though advanced in years. Turgesius approached the gate of Malachi with the smile of peace upon his countenance, but with the thoughts of rapine in his heart. He was hospitably received; the banquet was spread for him; and when he was weary with feasting and hilarity, he was conducted to the richest, softest couch.

He had not yet seen Glorvina, but he had heard of her surpassing beauty; and one day he requested of the king that his daughter should sit at the feast. A shade came over the brow of Malachi; but he bowed his head, and it was gone. With a timid, yet stately step, the virgin entered the hall. Thick and clustering, and reaching far below her tapering waist, hung her auburn hair; her eyes were cast down; her fair skin mantled and faded, as her colour came and went; and she spake not as she sank in modest, graceful obeisance, to the salutation of Turgesius.

The Dane had no appetite for the banquet that day. He seemed to be conscious of nothing but the presence of Glorvina. Alarm and ire were painted in the countenance of the king, but Turgesius noted it not. He never removed his eyes from the royal maid; they wandered incessantly over her features and her form, and followed the movements of her white, roundly-moulded arms, as she accepted or returned the cup or the viands which were proffered for her use. Haughty for the first time was the fair brow of Glorvina: the bold stare of man was a stranger to her. Again and again she offered to retire, but was withheld by the dissuasions of Turgesius, seconded by the admonishing glances of her father. At last, however, in spite of all opposition, she withdrew.

The Dane sat abstracted with a clouded brow; deep sighs came thick and strugglingly from his breast. Malachi tried to rouse his guest, and succeeded at last, with the aid of the cup. Turgesius waxed wildly joyous; he spoke of love, and of the idol before which the passion bows; and he asked for the strain that was in unison with the tone of his soul; the song of desire was awakened at his call; and as it flowed, swelling and sinking with the mood of the fitful theme, the rover's cheek flushed more and more, and his eyes more wildly flamed.

Turgesius did not sleep at the castle that night. He was summoned on a sudden to a distance: oppression had produced reaction. In the place of the slave, the man had started up; and the air all at once was thick with weapons, where for months the glare of brass or of steel had not been seen, except in the hand of the foreigner. Outposts had been driven in; large bands were retracing steps which they had no right to take; the sway of the freebooter was tottering. His presence saved it, and the native again bowed sullenly to resume the yoke.

After the lapse of a few weeks, Turgesius once more drew near the gate of Malachi. Loudly the blast of his herald demanded the customed admission, and with impatience the Dane awaited the reply to his summons. It came; but there was wailing in the voice of welcome, and the visitor felt that he grew cold. The mourner received him in the hall:--Glorvina was no more! Turgesius turned his face away from the house of death, and departed for his own stronghold, where with alternate sports and revels he endeavoured to assuage disappointment and obliterate recollection.

Dusk fell. Silent and gloomy was the aisle of the royal chapel. Before a monument, newly erected, stood a lonely figure gazing upon the name of Glorvina, which was carved upon the stone. The figure was that of a youth, tall, and of matchless symmetry. His arms were folded, his head drooped, he uttered no sound; his soul was with the inmate of the narrow house. He heard not the step of the bard who was approaching, and who presently stood by his side unnoted by him.

Long did the reverend man gaze upon the youth without attempting to accost him. More and more he wondered who it could be whom sorrow so enchained in abstraction. At length the lips of the figure moved, and a sigh, deep-drawn, ushered forth the name of Glorvina. No stranger to the bard was the voice that fell upon his ear. "Niall!" he exclaimed. The youth started and turned; it _was_ Niall. He threw himself upon the neck of the bard. The flood of the eyes began to flow: he sobbed forth aloud and incontinently the name of Glorvina!

"Niall," said the bard, as soon as the paroxysm of grief had a little subsided,--"Niall, you are changed in form, your stature has shot up, your shoulders have spread, and your chest has rounded. Your features, too, I can see by this spare light, have received from manhood a stamp which they did not bear before; but your heart, my son, is the same. Niall in his affections has come back what he went. The Saxon has not changed him, nor the Saxon's daughter; her golden hair has waved before his eyes, her skin of pearl has shone upon them, the silver harp of her voice has streamed upon his ear; but his heart hath been still with Glorvina!"

"To what end?" passionately burst forth the youth. "Glorvina is in the tomb!" The tears gushed again; the bard was silent.

"Where is your prophetic Psalter?" resumed Niall; "where is it? Who will give credence to it now? Did you not say that Glorvina was the fair maid of Meath by whom it foretold that the land was to be rescued from the Dane; and that I was that son of my house who should be joined with her in perilous, yet happy wedlock? This did you not say and repeat a thousand times?--Then why do I look upon that tomb?"

"Niall," said the bard, "have faith, though you look upon the tomb of Glorvina!" The youth shook his head.--"Have you yet seen the king?" inquired the bard. Niall replied in the negative. "Come, then, young man, and look upon a father's grief!"

The bard led the way towards the closet of the king. The light of the taper streamed from the half-open door: and as Niall, by the side of the bard, stood in the comparative darkness of the ante-chamber, he stared upon the face of Malachi, bright with a smile at a false move at chess which a person with whom the king was playing had just that moment made. Niall could scarce believe his vision.--"Where is the grief of the father?" whispered he to the bard.

"Note on!" was the old man's reply.

"He laughs!" exclaimed Niall, almost loud enough to be heard by those within.--"Yes," said the bard; "he who wins may laugh. He has got the game."

"And where is his child?" ejaculated Niall with a groan so audible that Malachi heard it and started; but the bard hurried the youth from the room.

Niall and the bard sat alone in the apartment of the latter. Sparingly the youth partook of the repast, which was presently removed. He sat silent, leaning his head upon his hand. At length he lifted his eyes to the face of the bard; it was smiling like the king's, as he played the game of chess. The young man stared; the bard smiled on.

"A strain!" cried the reverend man, and took his harp and tuned it, and tried the chords till every string had its proper tone. "Now!" he exclaimed, ready to begin. The young man watched the waking of the lay, which he expected would be in unison with the mood of his soul: but, lo! note rapidly followed note in mirthful chase, still quickening to the close; and the countenance of Niall, overcast before with grief, now lowered with anger.

"I list not strain like that!" he exclaimed, starting from his seat.

"You list no other, boy, from me," rejoined the old man; "it is your welcome home."--"My home," ejaculated Niall, "is the tomb where Glorvina sleeps the sleep of death!"

"The Psalter," said the old man solemnly, "is the promise of Destiny, and is sure to be fulfilled."

"Why, then," asked the youth sternly,--"why, then, is Glorvina no longer among the living?--Why in the place of her glowing cheek do I meet the tomb?--the silence of death, instead of her voice?"

The bard made no reply, but leaned over his harp again, and spanned its golden strings. He sang of the chase. The game was a beauteous hind; eager was the hunter, but too swift was her light foot for his wish. She distanced him like the wind, which at one moment brushes the cheek, and the next will be leagues away; and now she was safe, pressing the mossy sward in the region of the mountain and the lake, where the waters mingle and spread one silvery sheet for the fair tall heavens to look into.

Niall sat amazed!--conjecture and doubt seemed to divide his soul. He sprang towards the old man, and, throwing himself at his feet, snatched the hand that still lay upon the strings and caught it to his bosom. Yet he spake not, save by his eyes; in the intense expression of which, inquiry, and entreaty, and deprecation were mingled.

The old man rose and stood silent for a time, looking down benevolently upon Niall, who seemed scarcely to breathe, watching the lips that he felt were about to move.

"Niall," at length said the bard,--"Niall, the strength of the day is the rest of night. Fair upon the eye of the sleeper, awakening him, breaks the light of morning. Then he springs from his couch, and stretches his limbs, and braces them, eager for action; and he asks who will go with him to the field of the feat; or haply betakes him to the road to try his strength alone; and following it through hill and valley, moor and mead, suddenly shows his triumph-shining face to the far friend that looked not for him!"

The bard ceased. Both he and the youth remained motionless for several seconds, intently regarding one another. At last Niall sprang upon his feet, and threw himself upon the neck of the old man, whose arms simultaneously closed around the boy.

"You will sleep to-night, my son," said the bard, withdrawing himself at length from the embrace of Niall. "The dawn shall not come to thy casement before thou shalt hear my summons at thy door. Good-night!" They parted.

* * * * *

By the side of a bright river strayed hand in hand two young females, seemingly rustics. Rain had fallen. The thousand torrents of the mountains were in play; and the general waters, swoln beyond the capacity of their customed channel, ran hurried and ruffled.

"Who would think," remarked the younger of the two,--"who would think that this was the river we saw yesterday?"

"'Tis changed indeed," said her companion; "but the sky that was lowering yesterday, you see, is bright and serene to-day. Did you hear the storm in the night?"

"No: I would I had. It would have saved me from a dream darker than any storm."

"A dream!--Tell it me. I am a reader of dreams."

"You know," began the younger,--"you know I was brought up with the only son of a distant branch of my father's house. I know not how it was, but, from my earliest recollection, my foster-mother, and others as well as she, set me down for his wife; and, strangely enough, I fancied myself so. Yet could it be nothing more than a sister's love that I bore him. Much he used to make of me. His pastime--even his studies--were regulated by my will. Being older than I, he let me play the fool to the very height of my caprice, which cost me many a chiding,--but not from him, though he had to bear the greater portion of the consequences. You know by his father's will he was enjoined to travel the last four years preceding his majority. He set out the very day that I completed my fourteenth year. I wish it had been before. I should have felt the separation less, for indeed it cost me real agony. For months after, they would catch me weeping: they did not know the cause; but 'twas for him! Still I only loved him as a brother--but a dear one,--Oh, Myra! I cannot tell you how dear!--and absence has not abated my feelings, as you may more than guess by my dream last night."

"Look!" interrupted the other; "see you not some one through the interval of the trees descending yonder road that winds round the foot of the nearest mountain?"

"No," replied the former, after she had looked in the direction a moment or two. "But attend to my dream. I thought I was married indeed, and that he was my husband; and that we were sitting at the bridal feast, placed on each side of my father; and there were the viands, and the wine, and the company, and everything as plain as you are that are standing there before me; when, all at once----"

"I see him again!" a second time interrupted the friend. "Look! don't you catch the figure?"--"No."

"Then you'll not catch it at all now, for he has dived into the wood through which the road runs."

"Was it a single person?"--"Yes."

"Then we have nothing to care for; so don't interrupt me in my dream again."

"Go on with it," said the other.

"Well; we were sitting, as I said, at the bridal feast, when, turning to speak to my father, the fiery eyes of one I hope never to see again were glaring on me, and my father was gone; and fierce men, with gleaming weapons waving above their heads, surrounded him to whom I had just pledged my troth, and bore him, in spite of his struggles and my screams, away: leaving me to the mercy of the spoiler, who straight, methought, started up with the intent of dragging me to the couch which had been prepared for another!"

"Do you mark," interrupted the friend, "as you increase in loudness, the echoes waken? I heard the last word repeated as distinctly as you yourself uttered it. But go on. Yet beware these echoes; they may be tell-tales. What followed?"

"Oh, what harrows my soul even now! Thither, where I told you, did he try to force me, struggling with all my might to resist him. I called on my father,--I called on my bridegroom,--I called on every one I could think of; but no one came to me, and fast we approached the door, on the threshold of which to have died, I thought in my dream, would be bliss to the horror of crossing it, and there at last we stood: but it was shut. Yet soon it moved; and who think you it was that opened it? Niall!--Niall himself! and no resistance did he offer to him that forced me onward,--none, though I called to him by his name, shrieking it louder than I am speaking now, 'Niall!--Niall!' He spoke not,--he moved not; and I was within a foot of the very couch, when I awoke, my face bathed in the dew of terror. 'Niall!--Niall!' did I cry, did I shriek; and Niall was there, and I shrieked in vain--'Niall!--Niall!'----"

"Here!" cried Niall himself, springing from a copse, out of which led a path that made a short cut across an angle of the road, and throwing himself breathless at the feet of Glorvina.

The astonished maid stood motionless, gazing on the young man, who remained kneeling, until her companion, taking her hand, and calling her by her name, aroused her from the trance of astonishment.

"Come," said Myra, "let us return;" and, motioning to the young man to follow them, she led her passive companion back to the lonely retreat whither Malachi had transported his fair child.

Glorvina did not perfectly recover her self-possession till she arrived at the door. Then she stopped, and turning, bent her bright gaze full upon the wondering Niall, who moved not another step.

"Niall--if you are Niall--" said the maid. She paused, and a sigh passed, in spite of them, the lips that would have kept it in: "If you are the Niall," she resumed, "to whom I said farewell four years ago, the day and the hour are not unwelcome that bring back, in health, and strength, and happiness, the playmate of our childhood to the land of his fathers; and we bless God that he has suffered them to shine. But why comes Niall hither? Who taught him to doubt the testimony of the tomb? Who directed his steps to the solitudes of the mountains, the woods, and the lakes? Who cried, "God speed!" when his heel left the home of my father behind it? Was it the master of that home?--was it Malachi, my father?"

A thought that had not occurred to him before, seemed suddenly to cross the mind of Niall. His lips that would have spoken remained motionless, his cheek coloured, his eye fell to the feet of Glorvina; he stood confounded and abashed.

"'Tis well!" cried the stately maid. "The tongue of Niall is yet unacquainted with falsehood, though his feet may be no strangers to the steps of rashness. The repast is spread; enter and partake!" and she paused for a second or two. Niall slowly lifted his eyes till they met those of Glorvina; apprehension and supplication mingled in the gaze of the youth. At length, with a tone that spoke at once compassion and resolve, the word "Depart!" found utterance; and the maid and her companion, stepping aside, left the entrance of their lonely habitation free, as Niall mechanically passed in.

(_To be concluded in our next._)

THE ROYAL ROSE OF ENGLAND. AN IRISH BALLAD, ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE PRINCESS VICTORIA,

MAY 24, 1837.

BY J. A. WADE.

Tune--"_Young Love lived once._"

I. Within a fine ould ancient pile (Where long may splendour And luck attend her!) The Royal Hope of Britain's isle Has shed her eighteenth summer's smile! No winter mornin' Was at her bornin', But with the spring she did come forth, A flow'r of Beauty, without guile, Perfumin' sweet the neighb'rin' earth!

II. We've seen the blossom 'pon the stem From early childhood-- Both in the wild-wood And in the halls where many a gem Did sparkle from the diadem, But always bloomin', Without presumin' On the rich cradle of her birth; Her eyes beam'd softly--while from them All _others_ gather'd love and mirth!

III. Dear offspring of a royal race, In this dominion (It's my opinion) There's not a soul that sees your face, But prays for it sweet Heaven's grace. May every birth-day Be found a mirth-day,-- No clouds or tears e'er frown or weep, But Pleasure's smile where'er you pace Bless you for ever 'wake or 'sleep!

NIGHTS AT SEA: _Or, Sketches of Naval Life during the War._ BY THE OLD SAILOR.

No. III.

WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

THE CHASE.--THE FORECASTLE YARN.

"Not a cloud is before her To dim her pure light; Not a shadow comes o'er her, Her beauty to blight: But she glows in soft lustre-- One star by her side-- From her throne in the azure, Earth's beautiful bride."

A cheerless and disheartening spectacle is a dismasted ship, with all her mass of wreck still clinging to the hull, that it once bore proudly over the billows! 'Tis like the unfortunate abandoned by his friends, who, however, continue to hang around him, though more to impede his way than to retrieve his fortunes! And there lay the Spankaway, with her long line of taper spars reversed, their heads in the water, and their heels uppermost; and, as if in mockery of the mishap, the beautiful bright moon showed their diminished shadows on the again smooth surface of the ocean. The squall had passed far away to leeward, and was dwindling to a mere speck of silvery vapour, whilst all besides was still, and calm, and passionless.

Now it was no pleasant sight to Lord Eustace Dash and his officers to witness the dismantling of the craft they loved; and, as the chief, it may be naturally supposed that the chagrin of his lordship far exceeded that of his subs: but there was one amongst them almost affected to tears, and that was old Will Parallel, the master.

"Smack smooth to the lower caps, by ----!" said his lordship, as he surveyed the havoc made in his dashing frigate; "not a rope-yarn above the lower mast-heads, and--"

"Not a bit of canvass abroad big enough to make a clout for a babby," chimed in the old master; "spanker, jib, topsels all gone to the devil, as 'll have no more manner o' use for 'em than a serjeant of jollies has for a hand-bible."

"Where's Mr. ----?" shouted his lordship, and the master's mate who had had charge of the deck stood before him. "How came all this, sir?"

"It was a white squall, my lord," returned the young man addressed; "not a soul saw it till it caught the ship, and the topmasts went over the side immediately."

"I shall inquire into the fact presently, sir," rejoined his lordship, excessively vexed and mortified. "Turn the hands up--clear the wreck!"

"Hands up--clear the wreck!" shouted the first lieutenant.

"Hands up--clear the wreck!" repeated the master's mate.

"Boatswain's mate, pipe 'Clear the wreck!'" reiterated the midshipmen. "Twhit! twhit!" went the call; and, "Clear wreck, a-hoy!" vociferated Jack Sheavehole, in a voice resembling the roar of the bellows of an anchor-forge. The summons, however, was hardly necessary, as every soul had _tumbled_ up at the moment the frigate righted; and all turned to with a hearty goodwill to repair damages, every officer and man using his best exertions.

"The squall spoilt our fun, master," said the first lieutenant to old Parallel, as the latter was superintending the preparations for unrigging the old, and rigging the new spare topmasts.

"Ay! ay! 'twas an onfortunate _blow_ to the harmony of the evening; but it will do for an incident for Nugent," responded the veteran. "Where's his fine lady curtcheying to herself in a mirror now? If he had stuck to plain matter-of-fact, mayhap the spars would have behaved better; though, arter all, it's a marcy they were so carroty, or mayhap her ladyship might have curtcheyed so low as to have gone to the bottom."

That night was a night of arduous but light-hearted toil; no man shrunk from his task; and, when they piped to breakfast next morning, the frigate was once more all ataunt'o, with royals and studding-sails set, in chase of a large ship of warlike appearance that was seen in the north-west, running away large, apparently bound in for Toulon.

"Foretopsel-yard, there!" shouted Lord Eustace, from the quarter-deck. "What do you make of her, Mr. Nugent?"

"She's nearly end on, my lord," responded the young lieutenant, as, steadying himself by the topsail-tie, he directed his glass towards the stranger; and then, in a few minutes, added, "She spreads a broad cloth, my lord; and, from the cut of her canvass, I should most certainly say----" and he paused to take another look.

"I'd take my daffy on it, Mr. Nugent," said the look-out man, "her topsels are more hollowed out than ourn; her royals never came out of a British dock-yard; and I'd bet my six months' whack again a scupper-nail that she's a Frenchman, and a large frigate too."

"Well, what is she, Nugent?" shouted the noble captain. "Can you see down to her courses!"

"Yes, my lord," responded the lieutenant; "we shall, I hope, have her hull in sight before long, as I have no hesitation in saying--that is, my lord, I think she's an enemy frigate."

This annunciation was heard fore and aft; for, during the time of his lordship hailing, every whisper was hushed, and scarcely even a limb moved, lest the listener should lose the replies. Expectations had been raised that the vessel in sight might be a French transport, from the Egyptian coast, or perhaps a merchantman; but the chance of an enemy's frigate was indeed joyous news. Breakfast was hastily despatched; the mess-kits were speedily stowed away, and the boatswain's shrill call echoed amongst the canvass as he piped "Make sail, ahoy!" In an instant every man was at his station; every yard of cloth that could catch a breath of wind was packed upon the Spankaway, who seemed to glide along through the water just as easy as when she first started from the buttered slips. Indeed, Jack Sheavehole declared that "she wur all the better for the spree she'd had the night afore."

An exciting period is the time of chase, and it is extremely interesting to observe the anxious looks of the officers as they eye the trim of the sails, and the ready attention of the tars as they execute the most minute command, as if everything depended on their own individual exertions. The usual routine of duty frequently gives place to the all-absorbing stimulus which actuates every mind alike; and, as the seamen group themselves together, they spin their yarns of battles and captures, and calculate their share of the amount of prize-money before they engage the enemy, totally regardless of the advice in the "Cook's Oracle," viz. "First catch an eel, and then skin him." But what have they to do with the "Cook's Oracle," when every man is by rotation cook of the mess in his own natural right, and "gets the plush (overplus) of grog?"

All day the chase continued; and the Spankaway overhauled the stranger so as materially to lessen the distance between them: in fact, her hull could be plainly discerned from the deck, and there was no longer any doubt of her national character. In the afternoon permission was given to take the hammocks below, but not a man availed himself of it; they were therefore re-stowed in readiness for that engagement which all hearts were eager for, all hands itching to begin. Evening closed in, and keen eyes were employed to keep sight of the enemy. The men lay down at their quarters; some to take a nigger's sleep,--one eye shut and the other open; some to converse in good audible whispers; some leaning out at the ports, and watching the moonbeams reflected on the waters, whilst the hissing and chattering noise made by the progress of the ship was sweet music to their ears.

It was a lovely night for contemplation,--but what did Jack want with contemplation whilst an enemy's frigate was in sight? The breeze was light enough to please a lady,--it would have scarcely vibrated the cords of an Æolian lyre: but this was not the breeze for our honest tars; they wanted to hear the gale thrilling through the harpstrings of the standing rigging, with a running accompaniment of deep bass from the ocean, as their counter, set in sea, trebled the piping noise of the wind. Yet there was one satisfaction; the Frenchman had no more than themselves, and they carried every fresh capful along with them before it reached the chase. The full round moon tried her best endeavour to make her borrowed radiance equally as luminous as that of the glorious orb which so generously granted the loan, with only one provision, that a certain rate of interest should be paid to the earth; but the old girl on this night tried to sport the principal. The waters were lucidly clear, and the mimic waves on its surface would scarcely have been a rough sea to that model of a Dutch dogger--a walnut-shell. Yet the Spankaway was stealing along some seven knots an hour, and the sails just slept a dreamer's sleep.

On the forecastle--that post of honour to a seaman, where the tallest and the best of Britain's pride are always to be found--men who can take the weather-wheel, heave the lead, splice a cable, or furl a foresail,--the A. B.'s of the royal navy,--on the forecastle, just in amidships, before the mast, sat our old friend, Jack Sheavehole, Sam Slick, the ship's tailor, Joe Nighthead, Mungo Pearl, a negro captain of the sweepers, Jemmy Ducks, the poulterer, Bob Martingal, a forecastleman, and several others, who were stationed at the foremost guns.

"I just tell you what it is, Jack," said Bob Martingal, continuing a dispute that had arisen, "I tell you what it is; some on you is as onbelieving as that 'ere Jew as they've legged down so much again, and who, they say, is working a traverse all over the world to this very hour, with a billy-goat's beard afore him as long as a chafing mat. But, take care, my boyo, you arn't conwincetecated some o' these here odd times, when you least expects it."

"Onbelieving about what, Bob?" responded the boatswain's mate. "Onbelieving 'cause we don't hoist in all your precious tough yarns as 'ud raise a fellow's hair on eend, and make his head look a mainshroud dead-eye stuck round with marlin'-spikes?"

"Or a cushionful of pins," chimed in Sam Slick.

"Or a duck with his tail up," added the poulterer.

"Hould your precious tongues, you lubbers!--what should you know about the build and rig of a devil's own craft? retorted Bob, addressing the two officials. "My messmate here, and that's ould Jack, has got a good and nat'ral right to calculate the jometry of the thing, seeing as he has sarved his life to the ocean, man and boy, and knows an eyelet-hole from a goose's gun-room, which, I take it, is more nor both on you together can diskiver either in the twist of a button-catcher or the drawing of a pullet. But I'm saying, Jack, you are onbelieving,--else why do you misdoubt the woracity of my reckoning."

"'Cause you pitches it too strong, Bob," answered the boatswain's mate; "your reck'ning is summut like ould Blowhard's, as keeps the Duncan's Head at Castle-rag,--chalks two for one. Spin your yarns to the marines, Bob; they'll always believe you. Cause why?--they expects you'll just hould on by their monkey-tails in return."

"Monkey-tails or no monkey-tails arn't the question," returned Bob with some warmth; "it's the devil's tail as I'm veering away upon, and----"

"I'm blessed if it won't bring you up all standing with a roundturn round your neck some o' these here days," uttered Jack, interrupting him.

"Never mind that," returned Bob with a knowing shake of the head; "I shall uncoil it again, if he arn't got the king's broad arrow on the end on it. But mayhap, then, you won't believe as there is such a justice o' peace as ould Davy?"

"Do I believe my catechiz as I forgot long ago?" responded old Jack. "Why, yes, messmate, I wooll believe that there is a consarn o' the kind; but not such a justice o' peace as you'd make of him, rigged out in one o' your 'long-shore clargy's sky-scraper shovel-nosed trucks, leather breeches, and top-boots! I tell you it won't do, Bob, in the regard o' the jography o' the matter. Why, where the h--is he to coil away his outrigger in a pair of tight leather rudder casings over his starn? Ax the tailor there whether it arn't onpossible. And how could he keep top-boots on to his d--d onprincipled shanks, as are no better in the fashion of their cut than a couple of cow's trotters? And what single truck would fit two mast-heads at once, seeing as he al'ays carries a pair of horns as big as a bull's. No, no, Bob; you wants to make a gentleman of the picarooning wagabone, when everybody as knows anything about him knows he's a thundering blagguard, as my ould captain, Sir Joseph Y--ke, used to say in one of his beautiful sarmons, 'he goes cruising about seeking to devour a roaring lion,' and that's no child's play anyhow! But, howsomever, a yarn's a yarn, ould chap; so lather-away with your oak stick: I'll hoist in all I can, just to confar a favour on you; and, as for the rest, why I'll let it go by the run."

"I must crave permission to put in a word, since I have been professionally appealed to," said Sam Slick with becoming gravity, and smoothing down the nap of his sleeping-jacket. "With respect to the breeches,--wash-leather, after they have been worn for some time, will give and stretch, and----"

"Come, none o' your stretching, Sam," chimed in Jemmy Ducks. "What you've got to show is, whether you can stow a cable in a hen-coop."

"Not exactly," returned Sam; "for I'm sure Mister Sheavehole must allow that the capacity and capability of a pair of leather breeches----"

"I shan't never allow no such consarns as them 'ere!" exclaimed Jack. "Do, Bob, get on with your yarn, and clap a stopper on the lubber's jawing-gear."

"Well, since you've put me upon it by misdoubting my woracity," said Bob, "why, I'll up and tell you a thing or two. Which on you has ever been down to Baltimore?"

"I have," returned a forecastleman, impatient to wedge in a word or two. "I was there onest in a ship transport, and our jolly-boat broke adrift in the night, and went ashore without leave; and so, next morning, we sees her lying on the beach all alone, as if she'd been a liberty-boy hard up in the regard o' the whiskey. And so the second mate and a party goes to launch her: but some wild Ingines, only they warn't quite black, came down, and wouldn't let us lay a finger on her till we'd paid summut for hauling her up, which was all nat'ral in course; but the second mate hadn't never got not a single copper whatsomever about him, and so he orders us to launch her whether or no, Tom Collins; and, my eyes! but they did kick up a shindy, jabbering in a lingo like double Dutch coiled again the sun; and says one on 'em, seeing as we were man-handling the boat, says he, 'Arrah, Tim, call to de boys to bring down de shticks---- '"

"You means Baltimore in Ireland," uttered Bob, with some degree of contempt, "and I means Baltimore in the United States o' Maryland, where the river runs along about three leagues out of Chesapeake Bay,--and a pretty place it is too of a Saturday night for a bit of a John Canooing, and a bite of pigtail, letting alone the grog and the gals----"

"Which you never did, Bob, I'll be sworn," said Jack laughing.

"Never did what, Jack?" asked the other, apparently surprised at the positive assertion.

"Why, let the grog and the gals alone, God A'mighty bless both on 'em!" replied the boatswain's mate; "but heave a-head, my hearty."

Bob gave a self-satisfied grin, and proceeded. "Why, d'ye mind, I'd been fool enough to grease my heels from a hooker,--no matter whatsomever her name might be or where she sailed from, seeing as she carried a coach-whip at her main-truck and a rogue's yarn in her standing and running gear. But I was young and foolish, and my brains hadn't come to their proper growth; and one o' your land-sharks had got a grip o' me; and there I was a-capering ashore, and jumping about like a ring-tail monkey over a hot plantain; and so I brings up at the sign of the General Washingtub, and there used to be a lot of outrageous tarnation swankers meet there for a night's spree,--fellows as carried bright marlin'-spikes in their pockets for toothpicks, and what not, and sported Spanish dollars on their jackets for buttons. They belonged to a craft as laid in the harbour,--a reg'lar clipper, all legs and wings: she had a white cherry-bum for a figure-head; ounly there was a couple o' grease-horns sprouting out on the forehead, and she was as pretty a piece of timber upon the water as ever was modelled by the hand of the devil."

"Why, how do you know who moulded her frame, Bob?" inquired Jack provokingly. "It might have been some honest man's son, instead of the ould chap as you mentions. But if any one sees a beautiful hooker that's more beautifuller nor another, then she's logged down as the devil's own build, and rigged by the captain of the sweepers."

"Wharra you mean by dat, Massa Jack?" exclaimed Mungo Pearl, who held that honourable station, and felt his dignity offended by the allusion; "wharra you mean by dat, eh?"

"Just shut your black-hole," answered Jack with a knowing look; "don't the ould witches ride upon birch-brooms, and sweep through the air,--and arn't the devil their commander-in-chief? Well, then, in course he is captain o' the sweepers. But go along, Bob. I'll lay my allowance o' grog to-morrow she was painted black."

"Well, so she was, Jack," responded Martingal, "all but a narrow fiery red ribbon round her sides, as looked for all the world like a flash o' lightning darting out of a thunder-cloud; and her name was the In-fun-oh (Infernaux), but I'm d--d if there was any fun in the consarn arter all. Well, d'ye see, the hands were a jolly jovial set, with dollars as plentiful as boys' dumps, and they pitched 'em away at the lucky, and made all sneer again. The skipper was a civil-spoken gentleman, with a goodish-sized ugly figure-head of his own, one eye kivered over with a black patch, and the other summut like a stale mackerel's; but it never laid still, and was al'ays sluing round and round, 'cause it had to do double duty. Still he was a pleasantish sort of a chap, and had such a 'ticing way with him, that when he axed me to ship in the craft, I'm blow'd if I could say 'No,' though I felt summut dubersome about the consarn; and the more in regard of an ould tar telling me the black patch was all a sham, but he was obliged to kiver the eye up, 'cause it was a ball o' fire as looked like a glowing cinder in a fresh breeze. He'd sailed with him a voyage or two, and he swore that he had often seen the skipper clap his cigar under the false port and light it by his eye; and one night in a gale o' wind, when the binnacle-lamp couldn't be kept burning, he steered the ship a straight course by the compass from the brightness of his eye upon the card. Howsomever, I didn't much heed to all that 'ere, seeing as I knowed how to spin a tough yarn myself: and then there was the grog and the shiners, a sweet ship and civil dealing; and I'll just ax what's the use o' being nice about owners, as long as you do what's right and ship-shape? 'Still, messmate,' thinks I to myself, 'it's best not to be too much in a hurry;' so I backs and fills, just dropping with the tide of inclination, and now and then letting go the kedge o' contradiction to swing off from the shore; and at last I tould him 'I'd let him know next day.' Well, I goes to the ould tar as I mentioned afore, and I tells him all about it. 'Don't go for to sign articles in no such a craft as that 'ere,' says he in a moloncholy way.--'Why not?' says I, quite gleesome and careless, though there was a summut that comothered me all over when he spoke.--'I mustn't tell you,' says he; 'but take my advice, and never set foot on board a craft that arn't got no 'sponsible owners,' says he.--'You must tell me more nor that,' says I, 'or you may as well tell me nothing. You've been to sea in her, and are safe enough; why shouldn't I?'--'I advise you for your good,' says he again, all fatherlike and gently; 'you can do as you please. You talk of my safety,' and he looked cautiously round him; 'but it's the parsen as has done it for me.'--'Oh! I see how the land lies,' says I; 'you're a bit of a methodish, and so strained the yarns o' your conscience, 'cause you made a trip to the coast o' Guinea for black wool.'--He shook his head: 'Black wool, indeed,' says he; 'but no man as knows what I knows would ever lay hand to sheet home a topsel for a commander who----' and he brought up his speech all standing.--'Who what?' axes I; but he wouldn't answer: and so, being a little hopstropulous in my mind, and willing to try the hooker, 'It's no matter,' says I, 'I'll have a shy at her if I loses my beaver. No man can expect to have the devil's luck and his own too.'--'That's it!' says he, starting out like a dogvane in a sudden puff.--'That's what?' axes I.--'The devil's luck!' says he: 'don't go for to ship in that craft. She's handsome to look at; but, like a painted scullerpar, or sea-poll-ker, or some such name, she's full o' dead men's bones.'--'Gammon!' says I boldly with my tongue, though I must own, shipmates, there was summut of a flusteration in my heart as made me rather timbersome; 'Gammon!' says I, 'what 'ud they do with such a cargo even in a slaver?'--'I sees you're wilful,' says he angrily; 'but log this down in your memory: if you do ship in that 'ere craft, you'll be d--d!'--'Then I'll be d--d if I don't:' says I, 'and so, ould crusty-gripes, here goes;' and away I started down to one of the keys just to take a look at her afore I entered woluntary; and there she lay snoozing as quiet as a cat on a hearth-rug, or a mouse in the caulker's oakum. Below, she was as black as the ace o' spades, and almost as sharp in the nose; but, aloft, her white tapering spars showed like a delicate lady's fingers in silk-net gloves----"

"Or holding a skein of silk," chimed in Sam Slick.

"Well, shipmates," continued Bob; "whilst I was taking a pretty long eye-drift over her hull and rigging, and casting my thoughts about the skipper, somebody taps me on the arm, and when I slued round, there he was himself, _in properer personnee_; and, 'Think o' the devil,' says I, 'and he's over your shoulder, saving your honour's presence, and I hopes no offence.' Well, I'm blessed but his eye--that's his onkivered one, messmates--twinkled and scaled over dark again, just for all the world like a revolving light, and 'Not no offence at all, my man,' says he; 'it's al'ays best to be plain-spoken in such consarns; we shall know one another better by-and-by. But how do you like the ship?'--'She's a sweet craft, your honour,' says I; 'and I should have no objection to a good berth on board her, provided we can come to reg'lar agreement.'--'We shall not quarrel, I dare say, my man,' says he, quite cool and insinivating; 'my people never grumble with their wages, and you see yourself they wants for nothing.'--'All well and good, your honour,' says I; 'and, to make short of the long of it, Bob Martingal's your own.' Well, his eye twinkled again, and there seemed to be such a heaving and setting just under the tails of his long togs, and a sort o' rustling down one leg of his trousers, that blow me if I could tell what to make on it; and 'I knew you'd be mine,' says he: 'we shall go to sea in the morning, so you'd better get your traps aboard as soon as possible.' Well, messmates, I bids him good morning; but, thinks I to myself, I'll just take a bit of a overhaul of the craft afore I brings my duds aboard; and so, jumping into a punt, a black fellow pulls me alongside, and away I goes on to the deck, and there the first person I seed was the skipper. How he came there was a puzzler, for d--the boat had left the key but our own since we parted a few minutes afore. 'And now, Bob,' says he, 'I suppose you are ready to sign.'--'All in good time, your honour,' says I. 'You're aboard afore me, but I'm blessed if I seed you come.'--'It warn't necessary you should,' says he; 'my boat travels quick, my man, and makes short miles.'--'All's the same for that, your honour,' says I, 'whether you man your barge or float off on the anchor-stock--it's all as one to Bob.'--'You're a 'cute lad,' says he, twinkling his eye, 'and must rise in the sarvice. Go below and visit your future shipmates.'--'Thanky, your honour,' says I, and down the hatchway I goes; and there were the messes, with fids o' roast beef and boiled yams in shining silver platters, with silver spoons, and bottles o' wine, all in grand style, as quite comflogisticated me; and 'What cheer--what cheer, shipmate?' says they; and then they axed me to take some grub with 'em, which in course I did. She'd a noble 'tween decks,--broad in the beam, with plenty o' room to swing hammocks; but, instead of finding ounly twenty hands, I'm blowed if there warn't more nor a hundred. So arter I'd had a good tuck-out, I goes on deck again and looks about me. She was a corvette, flush fore and aft, with a tier of port-holes, but ounly six guns mounted; and never even in a man-o'-war did I see everything so snug and neat. 'Well, your honour, I'm ready to sign articles,' says I.--'Very good,' says he; and down we goes into the cabin; and, my eyes! but there was a set-out,--gold candlesticks and lamps, and large silver figures, like young himps, and clear looking-glasses, and silk curtains, and handsome sofas; and there upon one on 'em sat a beautiful young creatur, with such a pair of large full eyes as blue as the sky, and white flaxen hair that hung like fleecy clouds about her forehead,--it made a fellow think of heaven and the angels: but she never smiled, shipmates,--there was a moloncholy about the lower part of her face as showed she warn't by no manner o' means happy; and whilst the skipper was getting the articles out of the locker, she motioned to me, but I couldn't make out what she meant. The skipper did, though; for he turned round in a fury, and stamped on the cabin deck as he lifted up the black patch, and a stream of light for all the world like the glow of a furnace through a chink in a dark night fell upon her. He had his back to me, so I couldn't make out where the light came from; but the poor young lady gave a skreek and fell backard on the sofa. Now, messmates, I'd obsarved that when he stamped with his foot that it warn't at all like a nat'ral human stamp, for it came down more like the hoof of a horse or a box; and thinks I to myself, 'I'm d--, Bob, but you're in for it now; the skipper must be a devil of a fellow to use such a lovely creatur arter that fashion.'--'You're right, my man,' says he, grinning like one o' them faces on the cat-head, 'he _is_ a _devil_ of a fellow.'--'I never spoke not never a word, your honour,' says I, thrown all aback by the concussion. 'No, but you thought it,' says he; 'don't trouble yourself to deny it: tell lies to everybody else, if you pleases, but it's no use selling 'em to me.'--'God forbid, your--' I was going to say 'honour,' but he stopped me with another stamp, and 'Never speak that name in my presence again,' says he; 'if you do, it ull be the worse for you. Come and sign the articles.' My eyes! shipmates, but I was in a pretty conflobergasticationment; there stood the skipper, with a bright steel pen in his hand as looked like a doctor's lanchet, and there close by his side, upon her beam-ends, laid that lovely young creatur, the sparkling jewels in her dress mocking the wretchedness of her countenance. 'Are you ready?' says he; and his onkivered eye rolled round and round, and seemed to send out sparks through the friction. 'Not exactly, your honour,' says I, 'for I carn't write, in regard o' my having sprained both ankles, and got a twist in my knee-joint when I warn't much higher than a quart pot.'--'That's a lie, Bob,' says he; and so it was, messmates, for I thought I must make some excuse to save time. 'Howsomever,' says he, 'you can make your mark.'--Thinks I so myself, 'I would pretty soon, my tight un, if I had you ashore.'--'I know it,' says he; 'but you're aboard now, and so you may either sign or not, just as it suits your fancy, my man; ounly understand this--if you don't sign, you shall be clapped in irons, and fed upon iron hoops and scupper-nails for the next six months, and I wish you a good disgestion.'--'Thanky, your honour,' says I; 'and what if I do sign?'--'Why then,' says he, 'you shall live like a fighting-cock, and have as much suction as the Prince of Whales.' Well, shipmates, I was just like the Yankee's schooner when she got jammed atwixt two winds, and so I thought there could be no very great damage in making a scratch or two upon a bit o' parchment; and 'All right, your honour,' says I; 'hand us over the pen: but your honour hasn't got not never an inkstand.'--'That's none o' your business,' says he; 'if you are resolved to sign, I'll find materials.'--'Very good,' says I; 'I'll just make my mark.'--'Hould up!' says he to the young lady; and she scringed all together in a heap, and shut her large blue eyes as she held up a beautiful white round arm, bare up to the shoulder: it looked as solid and as firm as a piece of marble stationery."

"Statuary, you mean," said Sam Slick, interrupting the narrative. "But I say, Bob, do you expect us to believe all this?"

"I believes every word on it," asserted Jemmy Ducks, who had been attentively listening, with his mouth wide open to catch all that was uttered: "what can you find onnat'ral or dubersome about it? The skipper was no doubt a black-hearted nigger."

"Nigger yousef, Massa Jemmy Ducks," exclaimed Mungo Pearl; "d--you black heart for twist 'em poultry neck."

"Silence there in amidships," said Mr. Parallel: "you make so much noise that I can't keep my glass steady. Spin your yarns, Mr. Pearl, with your mouth shut, like an oyster;" and then, addressing the captain, "We rise her fast, my lord, and the breeze freshens: the ould beauty knows she's got some work cut out for her; she begins to smell garlic, and walks along like an ostrich on the stretch--legs and wings, and all in full play."

"What distance are we from Toulon?" inquired Lord Eustace, as he carefully and anxiously scanned the stranger through his glass.

"About nine leagues," promptly answered Mr. Parallel; "and if the breeze houlds on, or comes stronger, another three hours will carry us alongside of the enemy."

"We shall soon have her within reach of the bow-guns," said the first lieutenant, "and a shot well thrown may take in some of her canvass."

"That's a good deal of it chance-work," responded the master; "it mought and it moughtn't; but firing is sure to frighten the----"

"Spirits of the wind," added Nugent, who stood close beside him; "they become alarmed and take to flight, and so we lose the flapping of their airy wings."

"Hairy grandmother," grumbled old Parallel, "hairy wings indeed; why, who ever seed such a thing? Spirits of wind, too,--rum spirits, mayhap, to cure flatulency. Stick to natur, Mr. Nugent, or she'll be giving us another squall, just out o' revenge for being ridiculed."

"Get on with your yarn, Bobbo," said Joe Nighthead in an under tone; "and just you take a reef in your bellows, Mister Mungo, and don't speak so loud again."

"Where was I?" inquired Bob thoughtfully: "oh, now I recollect;--down in the cabin, going to sign the articles. 'Are you quite ready?' says the skipper to me as he raised the pen. 'All ready,' says I.--'Then hould up,' says he to the young lady, and she raised her fair arm. 'Come here, my man,' says he again to me, and I clapped him close alongside at the table; 'be ready to grab hould o' the pen in a moment, and make your mark _there_,' and he pointed to a spot on the parchment, with a brimstone seal stamped again it--you might have smelt it, messmates, for half a league--and, I'm blessed if I didn't have a fit o' the doldrums; but, nevertheless, I put a bould face upon it, and, 'Happy go lucky,' says I, 'all's one to Bob!' and then there was another rustling noise down the leg of his trousers, and his eye--that's his onkivered one--flashed again, and took to rolling out sparks like a flint-mill; 'Listen, my man,' says he, 'to what I'm going to say, and pay strict attention to it'--'I wool, your honour,' says I; 'but hadn't the lady better put down her arm?' says I; 'it ull make it ache, keeping it up so long.'--'Mind your own business, Bob Martingal,' says he, quite cantankerously; 'she's houlding the inkstand.'--'Who's cracking now, your honour?' says I laughing; 'the lady arn't got not nothing whatsomever in her hand. I'm blowed if I don't think you all carries out the name o' the craft In-fun-oh.'--'Right,' says he; 'and now attend. If after I have dipt this here pen in the ink, you refuse to sign the articles--you have heard o' this?' and he touched the black patch. I gave a devil-may-care sort of a nod. 'Well, then, if you refuses to sign, I'll nillyate you.'--'Never fear,' says I, making out to be as bould as a lion, for there was ounly he and I men-folk in the cabin; and, thinks I to myself, 'I'm a match for him singly at any rate.'--'You're mistaken,' says he, 'and you'll find it out to your cost, if you don't mind your behaviour, Bob Martingal.'--'I never opened my lips, your honour,' says I.--'Take care you don't,' says he, 'and be sure to obey orders.' He turned to the lady. 'Are you prepared, Marian?' axes he; but she never spoke. 'She's faint, your honour,' says I, 'God bless her!' The spiteful wretch give me a red-hot look, and his d---- oncivil cloven foot--for I'd swear to the mark it made--came crushing on my toes, and made me sing out blue blazes. 'Is that obeying orders?' says he: 'didn't I command you never to use that name afore me?'--'You did, your honour,' says I; 'but you might have kept your hoof off my toes, seeing as I haven't yet signed articles.'--'It was an accident,' says he, 'and here's something to buy a plaster;' and he throws down a couple of doubloons, which I claps into my pocket. 'You enter woluntarily into my service, then?' says he.--'To be sure I do,' says I, though I'm blessed if I wouldn't have given a treble pork-piece to have been on shore again.--'And you'll make your mark to that?' says he, 'and ax no further questions?'--'To be sure I will,' says I; and I'll just tell you what it is, messmates, I'm blowed if ever I was more harder up in my life than when I seed him raise the pen, as looked like a sharp lanchet, in his infernal thieving-hooks, and job it right into that beautiful arm, and the blood spun out, and the lady gave a skreek; and 'Sign--sign!' says he; 'quick, my man--your mark!'--'No, I'm d--if I do,' says I; 'let blood be on them as sheds it.'--'You won't?' says he.--'Never, you spawn o' Bellzebub!' says I; for I'd found him out, shipmates.--'Then take the consequences,' says he; and up went the black patch, and, by the Lord Harry! he sported an eye that nobody never seed the like on in their lives; it looked as big and as glaring as one o' them red glass bottles of a night-time as stands in the potecarry's windows with a lamp behind 'em; but it was ten thousand times more brilliant than the fiercest furnace that ever blazed,--you couldn't look upon it for a moment; and I felt a burning heat in my heart and in my stomach, as if I'd swallowed a pint of vitriol; and my strength was going away and I was withering to a hatomy, when all at once I recollects a charm as my ould mother hung round my neck when I was a babby, and I snatches it off and houlds it out at arm's length right in his very face. My precious eyes and limbs! how he did but caper about the cabin, till his hat fell off, and there was his two fore-tack bumkins reg'larly shipped over his bows and standing up with a bit of a twist outwards just like the head-gear of a billy-goat. 'Keep off, you bitch's babby!' says I, for he tried onknown schemes and manoeuvres to get at me; till suddenly I hears a loud ripping of stitches, and away went the casings of his lower stancheons, and out came a tail as long----"

"Almost as long as your'n, I suppose," said old Jack Sheavehole; "a precious yarn you've been spinning us, Mister Bob!"

"But what became of the lady?" inquired Sam Slick; "and what a lubber of a tailor he must have been to have performed his work so badly!"

"The lady?" repeated Bob; "why, I gets her in tow under my arm, and shins away up the companion-ladder, the ould fellow chasing me along the deck with a boarding-pike, his tail sticking straight out abaft, just like a spanker-boom over his starn; but the charm kept him off, and away I runs to the gangway, where the shore-boat and the nigger were waiting, and you may guess, shipmates, I warn't long afore we were hard at work at the paddles; for I laid the lady down in the bottom o' the punt, and 'Give way, you bit of ebony,' says I, 'or Jumbee 'ull have you stock and fluke.' Well, if there warn't a bobbery aboard the In-fun-oh, there never was a bobbery kicked up in the world; and 'Get ready that gun there!' shouted the skipper."

At this moment the heavy booming of a piece of ordinance was heard sounding across the water. Up jumped Jemmy Ducks, and roared out, "Oh Lord! oh dear!--there's the devil again!--what shall I do!" and a general laugh followed.

"The chase is trying his range, my lord," exclaimed Mr. Seymour; "but the shot must have fallen very short, as we couldn't hear it."

"Keep less noise on the fokesel," said old Parallel. "What ails that lubberly wet-nurse to all the geese in the ship? Ay, ay, he'll have hould on you by-and-by! Get a pull of that topmast-stud'nsel tack."

The men immediately obeyed; and, as they were coming up fast with the enemy, excitement and impatience put an end to long yarns. But Bob just squeezed out time to tell them that he got safe ashore with the lady; and the "In-fun-oh" tripped her anchor that same tide, dropped down the river, and put to sea, nor was she ever heard of again afterwards. The lady was the daughter of a rich merchant in Baltimore, who had been decoyed away from her family, but by the worthy tar's instrumentality was happily restored again. Bob got a glorious tuck-out aboard, the two doubloons were safe in his pocket, and the father of Marian treated him like a prince.

Half an hour elapsed from the first discharge of the enemy's sternchaser, when he again tried his range; and, to prove how rapidly they were nearing each other, the shot this time passed over the British frigate. There was something exhilarating to the ears of the seamen in the whiz of its flight. Two or three taps on the drum aroused every man to his quarters; the guns were cast loose, and the bowchasers cleared away for the officers to practise. Heavy bets were made relative to hitting the target, the iron was well thrown, and every moment increased the eagerness of the tars to get fairly alongside. The land was rising higher and higher out of the water,--the French port was in view,--the enemy began to exult in the prospect of escape, when an eighteen-pounder, pointed by the hands of the old master, brought down her maintop-gallant-mast; and the Frenchman, finding it was utterly impossible to get away without fighting, shortened sail, and cleared for action. Three cheers hailed this manoeuvre. The British tars now made certain of their prize; and, when within half pistol-shot, in came the Spankaway's flying-kites, and in five minutes he was not only under snug commanding canvass, but the moment they returned to their quarters they passed close under the French frigate's stern, and steadily poured in a raking broadside, every shot doing its own proper duty, and crashing and tearing the enemy's stern-frame to pieces, ploughing up the decks as they ranged fore and aft, and diminishing the strength of their opponents by no less than twenty-seven killed and wounded. Still the Frenchman fought bravely, and handled his vessel in admirable style. Six of the Spankaway's lay dead, and thirteen wounded. Amongst the latter was our worthy old friend Will Parallel, the master; a splinter had struck him on the breast, and he was carried below insensible. Sea-fights have so often been described, that they have now but little novelty; let it therefore suffice, that, in fifty-six minutes from the first broadside, the tricoloured flag came down, and the national frigate _Hippolito_, mounting forty-four guns, struck to his Britannic Majesty's ship the Spankaway, whose first lieutenant, Mr. Seymour, was sent aboard to take possession, as a prelude to that step which he was now certain of obtaining. Thus two nights of labour passed away, and the triumph of the second made ample amendment for the misfortunes of the first; besides enabling the warrant-officers to expend their stores, and not a word about the white squall.

INDEX.

A. Addison, Mr. inedited letters of, 356, 357, 358, 360, 363; anecdotes of him, 357 _n._; remarks respecting him, 358, 359 _n._, 361, 362 _n._ Advertisement Extraordinary, theatrical, 152. Ainsworth, W. H. piece by, 325. Alps, inhabitants of the, observations on their superstition, 608. Anatomy of Courage, 398. An Evening of Visits, 80. Anselm, Abbot, 347. Anspach, Margravine of, mistake in her Memoirs respecting the elder George Colman, 7. Anti Dry-rot Company, song of the, 94. April Fools, song of the month, 325. Authors and Actors, a dramatic sketch, 132.

B. Bannister, J. his intimacy with George Colman, 14. Baon Ri Dhuv, or the Black Lady, legend of, 519. Barter, Richie, see _Richie Barter_. ----, Mrs. see _Plum, Lady_. Bath, Lord, 7. Bayly, T. Haynes, pieces by, 79, 153, 260, 354, 578. Beaumanoir, Col. de, 96. Beaumarchais, M. de, passage in his life, 233. Biographical Sketch of Richardson the Showman, 178. Black Lady, legend of, see _Baon Ri Dhuv_. Blue Wonder, story of the, 450. Bob Burns and Beranger, 525. Bobis Head, legend of, 519. Bottle of St. Januarius, song of the month for January, 1. "Boz," pieces by, 105, 218, 225, 291, 326, 430, 515. Budgell, Mr. his remarks respecting Lord Halifax and Mr. Addison, 358 n. Bugle, Miss Sarah, account of, 451. Bullfinch, Mr. Theophilus, 591. Bumble, Mr. 109, 218, 225, 430. Byron, his opinion of Sheridan, 427.

C. Canada, remarks on travelling in, 559. Carew, Molly, lament of her Irish lover, 527. Castlereagh, Lord, 581. Chapman, T. paper by, 410. Chapter in the Life of a Statesman, being inedited letters of Addison, 356. Clavijo, Don Joseph, 236. Claypole, Noah, his treatment of Oliver Twist, 327; his quarrel with him, 336; conversation with Mr. Bumble, 430. Cleaver, Dr. sketch of his life and character, 442. Clifton, the Hot Wells of, 63. C----, M. de, 86. Cobbler of Dort, story of the, 403. Coleridge, remarks respecting, 417. Collier, W. paper by, 485. Colman, Francis, 7. ----, the elder George, remarks respecting, 7. ----, George, memoir of, 7; lines written by, 12; impromptu by, 16. Conla, 522. Contradiction, 338. Cooper, J. F. piece by, 80. Courage, Anatomy of, 398. Cover, song of the, 402. Craggs, Mr. junior, remarks respecting him, 361 n. Crichton, James (the admirable,) eulogiums on, 416. Critical Gossip with Lady M. W. Montagu, 138. Curetoun, Dr. 123. ----, Mrs. C. 121.

D. Darby the Swift, his personal appearance, 543; story respecting him, 544. Dash, Capt. Lord Eustace, character of, 269; anecdote related by, 276. Davids, C. J. pieces by, 231, 297, 339. Dawkins, Jack, 439. Devil and Johnny Dixon, 251. Dibbs, Mrs. 565. Didler, Dick, adventures of, 565. Dixon, Johnny, description of, 252; account of his adventure with the Devil, 255. Doall, Dr. his professional schemes, 444. Downwithit, Dr. character of, 121. Doyle, Owen, 20. Dulcet, Dr. account of, 288. Dumb Waiter, lines on the, 341.

E. Edward Saville, a transcript, 155. Egan, Squire, 23, 27, 169; his adventures with Gustavus Granby O'Grady, owing to the mistakes of Handy Andy, 171; with Murlough Murphy, 373. English poets, Gossip with some Old, 98. Epigrams, 190, 381, 409, 493, 508. Eva, 522. Evening Meditation, 250. Evening of Visits, 80. Execution, the, a sporting anecdote, 561.

F. Falcon, Dr. his marriage, 450; his expectations from Miss Sarah Bugle, 451. Falstaff, Sir John, observations on his influence with Henry V. while Prince of Wales, 494; Johnson's character of 496; his Gadshill adventure, 503; remarks on his countenance, 506. Family Stories, No. 1. 191; No. 11. 266; No. III. 341; No. IV. 529; No. V. 561. Feaghan, Father Paul, 253. Fiddler, Mrs. 137. Fireside Stories, No. I, 191, see _Family Stories_. Fitzalban, Capt. Hon. A. F. story respecting his cow, 65. Fitzgerald, Lord E. observations on, 558. Fitzgrowl, Mr. 132. Fog, lines on a London, 492. Fontenelle, lines in imitation of, 88. Foote, Samuel, remarks respecting him, 10; memoir of, 298; his plays, 300; accusations against him, 303; his death, 304; opinions of his comedies, _ib._; of his dramas, _ib._; anecdotes of him, 305. Fothergill, Father, description of, 344. Fragment of Romance, 165. Friar Laurence and Juliet, a poem, 354.

G. Gamfield, Mr. 219. Garrick, David, Foote's ridicule of, 305. Goldsmith, Oliver, anecdotes of, 9. Goodere, Capt. 299. ----, Sir John, allusion to his murder, 299. Glorvina, the Maid of Meath, 614. Gossip with some Old English Poets, 98. Grand Cham of Tartary and the Humble-bee, a poem, 339. Green, Mr. specimen of his poetry, 101. Grey Dolphin, story of the, 341. Grummet, J. 67.

H. Hajji Baba, his remarks on England, 280; his projected mission to England, 284; his preparations, 364; instructions, 366; his remarks on the alterations among the Turks, 369; his inquiries on the state of England, 487; observations on France, 488; his passage to Dover, 489; remarks on the officers of customs, 490. Halifax, Earl of, see _Montague, Charles_. Hamburgh, Steam trip to, 509. Handy Andy, paper so called, No. I. 20; No. II. 169; No. III. 373. Headlong Hall, pieces by the author of, 29, 187. Hero and Leander, a poem, 410. Herrick, Mr. specimen of his poetry, 99. Hints for an Historical Play, 597. Hippothanasia; or, the last of Tails--a lamentable tale, 319. Hogarth, George, piece by, 233. Horse-pond, Reflections in a, 470. Hot Wells of Clifton, lines to the, 64.

I. Impromptu, by George Colman, 16; on "Boz," 297. Improvement, the victim of, 599. Ingoldsby, T. 201; papers by, 266, 341, 529. ----, Caroline, legend of "Tapton Everard" related by, 195. Inscription for a cemetery, 473. Introduction to the Biography of my Aunt Jemima, the Political Economist, 382. Ivory, Mr. his relation of the story of "Plunder Creek," 127.

J. Jackdaw of Rheims, 529. Jaques, criticism on Shakspeare's character of, 550. Jennings, Mr. 55, 59. ----, Mrs. story of, 591. Jordan, W. pieces written by, 178, 319. J----, Madame de, 86. Jocund, Joyce, piece written by, 190. Johnson, Dr. 8; anecdotes of, 9; his remarks on Foote, 301, 305; his Rasselas, 550. Johns, Richard, piece by, 313. Jonson, Ben, specimen of his poetry, 98.

K. Kats, Jacob, cobbler of Dort, story respecting, 403. Kingston, Duchess of, her persecution of Foote, 303. Knowles, Sheridan, paper by, 614. Kyan's Patent--the Nine Muses and the Dry-rot, 93.

L. Lament over the Bannister, 151. Lavender, Lord John, account of his projected marriage with Miss Sophy Miggins, 260. Leary the Piper's Lilt, song of the month for May, 429. Legends--of Manor Hall, 29; of Hamilton Tighe, 266; of Bohis Head, 519; of Mount Pilate, 608. Le Gros, C. F. paper by, 247. Les Poissons d'Avril, 397. Lines on the "Young Veteran," John Bannister, 168; to a Lyric and Artist, 177. Linley, Miss, poem to, 420; her marriage with Sheridan, 421; her death, 425. Lions, some particulars concerning a, 515. Literature of North America, observations on, 534. Little Bit of Tape, story of the, 313. Littlejohn, Mr. 67. London Fog, lines on a, 492. Love and Poverty, 469. Love in the City, 584. Lover, Samuel, pieces by, 20, 88, 169, 217, 373.

M. Mac Gawly, Roger, 34. ----, Biddy, 33. M'Flummery, Mr. story respecting, 210. Madrigal Society, description of the, 465. Magan, Mr. 255. Magian, Dr. papers by, 2, 105, 494, 550. Maguire, Barney, 191. Mann, Mrs. 109. Manor Hall, legend of, 29. Man with the Tuft, 576. Marbois, Marquis de, 81, 82 _n._ Mars and Venus, a poem, 247. Martingal, Bob, story related by, 625. Marvel, Andrew, extract from his poem addressed to Lord Fairfax, 99. May Morning, song of the month for May, 429. Meditation, an Evening, 250. Memoir of George Colman, 7. Merry Christmas, 260. Metastasio, an imitation of, 88. Metropolitan Men of Science, 89. Miggins, Mr. Peter, his letter to Lord John Lavender, 260. ----, Miss Sophy, 261, 265. Minister's Fate, the, 577. "Monstre" Balloon, a poem, 17. Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, remarks on her character, 138; comparison between, and Byron, 140; extracts from her letters, 141; her observations on Addison, 362 _n._ Montague, Charles, Earl of Halifax, Addison's letters to, 356, 358, 360, 363; remarks respecting him, 358 _n._ 359. Months, songs of the, No. I. 1; No. II. 105; No. III. 217; No. IV. 325; No. V. 429; No. VI. 533. Morgan, Mr. 25. Morier, J. Italian anecdote by, 103. Mount Pilate, legend of, 608. Murphy, Murtough, character of, 171; his duel with Squire Egan, 373. Murtough Murphy, _see Murphy_. Muskan, Prince Puckler, paper by, 398.

N. Nights at Sea; or Sketches of Naval Life during the War, No. I. 269; No. II. 474; No. III. 621. North American Indians, remarks on the periodical literature of, 534; on their poetry, 536. Nugent, Mr. specimen of his poetical taste, 272, 273.

O. Ode from the Emerald Isle, 620. O'Dryscull, Reddy, communications by, 45, 397, 525. O'Finn, Mrs. character of, 33; her conversation with Terence O'Shaughnessy, 41. O'Funnidos, Rigdum, piece written by, 208. Ogle, Miss, her marriage with Sheridan, 425. Old Age and Youth, a poem, 79. Old English Poets, a Gossip with, 98. Oliver Twist, his birth, 105; education and board, 107; escapes being apprenticed to a sweep, 218; his entry into public life, 225; conduct during his apprenticeship, 326; his quarrel with Noah Claypole, 334; his refractory conduct, 430; account of his journey to London, 435; of his rencontre with the strange young gentleman, 437; introduction to the Jew, 441. Ollier, Charles, paper by, 98. Opening Chaunt to the Miscellany, 6. "Original" Dragon, a legend of the Celestial Empire, 231. Original of "Not a drum was heard," 97. O'Shaughnessy, Terence, see _Terence O'Shaughnessy_.

P. Paddy Blake's Echo, 186. Palaver, Mrs. character of, 591. Pantomine of Life, 291. Parallel, Mr. story told by, 277, 616. Paris, remarks on society in, 86; picture of, in 1837, 387. Passage in the Life of Beaumarchais, 233. Perceval, Mr. remarks on his assassination, 679. Periodical Literature of the North American Indians, 534. Peter Plumbago's Correspondence, 448. Peters, Mr. 196. ----, Mrs. 196. Phillips, Ambrose, remarks respecting him, 359 _n._ "Plunder Creek," (1783,) a legend of New York, 121. Plum, Sir Toby, 116. ----, Lady, 116. Poets, Gossip with some Old English, 98. Pontius Pilate, legend respecting, 610. Pooledoune, John, the victim of improvement, 599. ----, Roger, 600. Portrait Gallery, No. I. 286; No. II. 442. Pounce, Mr. story related by him to the Wide-awake Club, 209. Poverty, glee in praise of, 525. Prologue to the miscellany, 2. "Prout, Father," pieces by, 1, 46, 63, 96, 397, 525.

Q. Queershanks, Mr. 135.

R. Randolph, Thomas, specimen of his poetry, 99. "Random Records," extract from, 14. Rankin, F. H. paper by, 382. "Rattlin the Reefer," piece by the author of, 65. Rasselas, remarks on, 550. Reckoning with Time, 12. Recollections of Childhood, 187. Reflections in a Horse-pond, 471. Remains of Hajji Baba, 280, 364, 487. Remnant of the time of Izaak Walton, a poem, 230. Reynolds, Hamilton, piece by, 138. Rheims, Jackdaw of, 529. Richardson, John, the Showman, biographical account of, 178. Richie Barter, story of, 116. Rising Periodical, 101. Robethon, M. de, Addison's letter to, 357. Romance of a Day, 565. Rooney, Andy, see _Handy Andy_. Rose, Sir George, piece by, 168.

S. Sabine Farmer's Serenade, 46. Saddleton, Emanuel, 341. Scenes in the Life of a Gambler, 387. Scowl, Mr. 133. Seaforth, Lieut. Charles, account of his somnambulism, 191. Seymour, Mr. story related by, 276. Shakspeare, criticisms on his plays, 551. Shakspeare Papers, No. I. 494; No. II. 550. Sheavehole, Jack, story told by, 476. Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, memoirs of, 419; his poem to Miss Linley, 420; private marriage with her, 421; his plays, 422; his parliamentary talents, 424; anecdote of, 425; his second marriage, _ib._; his misfortunes, 426; death, _ib._; character, 427; Byron's opinion of, _ib._ Shurland, Sir Ralph de, adventures of, 341. Signs of the Zodiac, a gastronomical chaunt, 397. Simpkinson, Mr. character of, 197. ----, Miss Julia, her poetic taste, 197; her ode, 200. Slowby, Richard, account of his adventures, 313. ----, Sir James, 313. Smyrk, Mr. Peter, 116. Snaps, Mr. story respecting, 210. Some particulars concerning a Lion, 515. Songs, for the private theatre or drawing-room, 92; of the Anti Dry-rot Company, 94; of the Cover, 402; songs of the month, No. I. 1; No. II. 105; No. III. 217; No. IV 325; No. V. 429; No. VI. 533. Sonnet to a Fog, 371. Sorrows of Life, lines on the, 290. Sowerberry, Mrs. character of, 229; dislike of Oliver Twist, 335. ----, Mr. description of, 225; takes Oliver Twist as an apprentice, 227; his conversation respecting him, 328; character of, 433. Spectre of Tappington, story of the, 191. Spencer, Charles, Earl of Sunderland, remarks respecting him, 363 _n._ Spriggings, Miss Priscilla, 572. Steam Trip to Hamburgh, 509. "Stories of Waterloo," pieces by the author of, 33, 251. Stray Chapters, No. I. 291; No. II. 515. Summer Night's Reverie, a poem, 428. Sunderland, Earl of, see _Spencer, Charles_. Swift, Dean, anecdote of, 2.

T. "Tales of an Antiquary," pieces by the author of, 121. Tappington Everard, description of the Manor House of, 192. Terence O'Shaughnessy, account of his first attempt to get married, 33. The Abbess and the Duchess, a poem, 153. The Abbey House, 187. Theatrical Advertisement Extraordinary, 152. "The Bee-Hive," pieces by the author of, 286, 442. "The Old Sailor," pieces by, 269, 474. The Spectre, a poem, 131. The Two Butlers, 306. Time, Reckoning with, a poem by Colman the Younger, 12. Timmins, Mr. his description of the Wide-awake Club, 209. Tom ----, story respecting, 306. Tomnoddy, Lord, 561. Travelling, remarks on, 561. Tulrumble, Mr. N. account of the public life of, 49. ----, Mrs. 51, 52. Twigger, Edward, 53.

U. Useful Young Man, a poem, 485.

V. Victoria, Princess, ode on her birth-day, 620. Visit to the Madrigal Society, 465. Visits, an Evening of, 80.

W. Wade, J. A. pieces by, 186, 492. Warwick, Countess of, notice of her marriage with Addison, 362 n. Webbe, Egerton, paper by, 371. Wharton, Duke of, anecdote of, 357 n. ----, Thomas, Earl of Wharton, lord lieutenant of Ireland, remarks respecting, 356 n. Whitehead, C. pieces by, 155, 461. Who are you? a song, 88. Who milked by cow? paper so called, 65. Wide-awake Club, character of the, 208. Whitbread, Mr. his respect for Mr. Perceval, 583.

Y. Youth's New Vade Mecum, a poem, 462.

Z. "Zohrab," papers by the author of, 280, 364, 487.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. London: Printed by Samuel Bentley, Dorset-street, Fleet-street.

End of Project Gutenberg's Bentley's Miscellany, Volume I, by Various