CHAPTER IV.

Never was there a more instructive lesson issued to the nations of the earth than that which marked the origin, progress, and termination of the French Revolution, with all its concomitant circumstances and final results.

England with free institutions, and increasing in population, industry, and commerce, had set a bright example of what may be achieved under constitutional means; and as the English were ardent lovers of liberty, it cannot be supposed that they were indifferent to its extension on the Continent. Nor were they inactive at home; the changes in France had caused a feverish excitement amongst the working classes here, which interested traders in politics were not slow in turning to their own advantage. In order to counteract and defeat the evil machinations of such men, the government took into pay a number of individuals to act as spies in the camp of the disaffected; and as their wages depended upon the continuance of commotion, it very naturally followed that in numerous cases they were the secret promoters of agitation. But the political movement was not confined exclusively to the lower ranks in life; many of the middle grade had joined in it, and amongst the active disseminators of revolutionary principles was Mr. Jocelyn Brady. But he moved in an elevated sphere, and was looked upon and treated with confidence by his party, both high and low. His legal practice was reported to be extensive, and he was said to be possessed of considerable property. He had both a town and a country residence, and he gave excellent dinners. But he was unrelenting in his avarice, vindictive when offended.

The principal associate of Mr. Brady in most of his political transactions was a Mr. Acteon Shaft, an acute intelligent man, whose grey hairs proclaimed him to be of an advanced age; and to him the lawyer was greatly indebted for much of the information and knowledge he obtained. Mr. Shaft had travelled far, and had visited foreign courts, and though his manners were rather uncouth, yet there was a charm in his conversation that rendered his society courted by men of talent. He was an ardent lover of rational liberty, and his generosity was the theme of universal praise.

Why two men so opposite in temper and disposition should form companionship must remain amongst those anomalies which every day's experience displays; even the pure metal requires a base alloy before it can be converted into sterling coin. But to return to Mrs. Heartwell, who had once more a comfortable residence, and devoted herself in every way to the improvement of her son. Frank, on his part, was most affectionately attached to his mother, whom he revered with an intensity of feeling that was truly gratifying to her heart, and she was pleased to see that he evinced a kindly and generous feeling towards his fellow-creatures. He was mirthful, but inoffensive, mild and forbearing, except when aroused by severe injury to himself or others, and then his rage was uncontrollable.

The first lodger that occupied Mrs. Heartwell's apartments was a Monsieur Polverel, a French deputy, who under the specious pretext of visiting and studying the institutions of England, availed himself of the opportunity to disseminate the doctrines of "liberty and equality;" nor was he long in finding an enlarged circle of congenial spirits--members of revolutionary clubs and corresponding societies, who, though advocating "equality," took especial care that no one below a certain rank should be admitted to their meetings; and the minister of liberty from France, Monsieur Polverel, finding that his black servant was accustomed to go out during his absence, actually locked him up in his room whenever he himself went in an evening to enjoy festivity amongst his friends, and to preach up the blessings of freedom.

Ben and Frank, however, could not reconcile such tyranny to their minds, and a duplicate key being procured, the door was speedily thrown open, and forth issued Sambo to join in their amusements, and many hours did the youth listen to the negro's narratives of his native place--Port au Prince, in San Domingo--but care was always taken that he was again placed in confinement before the time of his master's return.

Monsieur Polverel was one of those finicking, all legs-and-wings sort of Frenchmen who when in conversation throw themselves into attitudes not inaptly resembling the wooden harlequins of children whose members are put into motion by pulling a string, only that his body was more elongated and had something of the greyhound build; his head was very large, and when he stood erect he looked like a beadle's staff with a globe on the top; in fact, it would have been no difficult task to have doubled him up like a two-foot rule, or to have put his body between his legs like a clasp knife. Although a leveller, and affecting to despise distinctions, his clothes were richly ornamented and his fingers were brilliant with costly rings.

When he passed an evening at home without company, he generally contrived to get Frank and Ben, and the negro into his room, where, in broken English, he propounded to them the doctrines of republicanism. Sometimes Mr. Peach was admitted, and the discussions, whilst they afforded mirth to Frank, and offence to the seaman, tended to open the understanding of the youth to subjects to which he had hitherto been a stranger.

Frank had now passed his thirteenth year. His predilection was for the sea; but his mother, who still had numerous difficulties to contend against, and looked upon her child as her best hope and encouragement, endeavoured by earnest persuasion to prevail upon him to settle on shore. In this she was supported by Mr. Peach; but the lad's longings could not be overcome, though he was deterred from proclaiming them, and thus balancing between affection for his parent and the desire to become a sailor, he remained undetermined and inactive.

It was about this time that, to the great regret of Mrs. Heartwell, and the almost inconsolable grief of her son, Ben Brailsford was pressed; and disdaining to be anything but a volunteer in the service of his king and country, he entered for a ship-of-the line, then commanded by the Honourable Keith Elphinstone (afterwards, Lord Keith). He wrote to inform them of this event, hoped that he should make prize-money--wished Frank was with him on the quarter-deck as an officer--expressed sorrow at parting with them, but wound up all with his old expletive--"But what's the odds, so as you're happy?"

The youth fretted, and almost sickened at the loss of his old and faithful associate; he neglected his studies, became melancholy and restless, and adhered closer to Monsieur Polverel, so as to be noticed by a distinguished visitor to the deputy, no other than the Duke of Orleans, who had been prevailed upon to visit London, by Lafayette, in order to get him out of the way of doing mischief. Frank became a great favourite with the Duke, who treated him with much kindness, and made Mrs. Heartwell a very handsome present to assist in promoting the lad's welfare; and ultimately offered to take him to Paris and provide for him; but this was declined--the mother could not part with her child.

The beheading of the King of France excited a general feeling of horror and indignation throughout England. War was declared. The utmost activity prevailed in the dockyards; and a naval armament was put in motion. The aristocracy, the clergy, the corporate bodies, the landed proprietors, the merchants, the bankers, became alarmed, and took the lead in the re-action that ensued. The Sectarians looked upon the French as infidels, and hailed the approach of war as the mighty engine which was to restore religion and morality.

In this state of things the situation of Monsieur Polverel was not of the most pleasant description. He was well known to the French emigrants who crowded the metropolis; and on his returning one afternoon from a republican party, he was pointed out as a disseminator of those principles which had compelled them to abandon their country. A crowd collected, who vented their abhorrence in groans and hisses. He quickened his pace, but his pursuers increased as they progressed, till the deputy was urgently persuaded to run, by hearing the clattering of stones along the pavement, and feeling more than one or two hard blows on his back. Now it was that the length of his legs rendered him good service, and a chase commenced that caused roars of laughter to the spectators, who clapped their hands and shouted with delight. On reaching Mrs. Heartwell's he knocked and rung violently, but Sambo was locked up, and the maid-servant being busy, was in no great hurry to let him in. Frank, however, had been looking out at the window, and instantly suspecting the cause of the uproar, he ran and opened the door, and the Frenchman had just time to enter as his assailants were ascending the steps. It was at first feared that they would attack the house, but on being assured that Monsieur Polverel had taken his departure by the back way, the mob again set out in pursuit, but the deputy distanced them; for without waiting for bag or baggage, he hurried to Dover as fast as a chaise-and-four could convey him, and at this latter place he received a no very gentle intimation that his presence on British ground could be entirely dispensed with; and elated was Monsieur Polverel when he once more found himself within the gates of Calais.

Nothing could exceed the joy of Sambo at his master's departure--the door was no longer locked upon him--he was free. Since Ben's departure Frank had greatly attached himself to the negro, whose good humour and constant willingness to oblige rendered him a favourite in the house. Other lodgers came to Mrs. Heartwell's; and as Sambo had become useful, his services were retained.

Frank continued at school for a few months longer, when a new scene opened before him. He had heard of a seventy-four to be launched at Deptford, and never having witnessed a ship-launch, he went, accompanied by Sambo, to see it. But the press-gangs were abroad, and they both fell into their hands; for such was, at that time, the demand for men and lads to complete the complements of the ships of war, that respectable shopkeepers, who had formerly been to sea, were impressed at their own doors, and youths of "gentle blood" forced away by the gangs if found near the water-side.

Sambo would have resisted when he saw that Frank was seized, but the youth saw how unavailing it would be, and desired him to desist. He told the officer that he was the son of a lieutenant in the navy, and requested to be allowed to return to his home; but this was positively refused. He then entreated that some one might be sent to apprise his mother of his detention, and the officer promised that it should be done, and the lad, who suffered most on his parent's account, became more appeased, till on being put on board the Tender, off the Tower, a spectacle presented itself that filled his very soul with disgust.

The receiving-ship was an old sloop of war, and in her hold were not less than three hundred human beings crowded together on the shingle ballast, without a single seat except the bundles which some few possessed, and sat upon for safe protection. Here were crowded together seamen and landsmen, pickpockets, the refuse of the streets, and shabby-genteel gentlemen. Many a countenance was marked by sorrow, but the principal portion was composed of wild, reckless, and even lawless, men. The gratings were over the hatchways, above which sentinels were placed, and the atmosphere in the hold was hot and fetid. Several of the impressed men were in a state of intoxication, which produced repeated quarrels; and though there was scarcely room to move, blows were exchanged, and heavy falls upon the shingle or against the timbers in the side caused swollen and blackened eyes, and severe contusions. Some had received cuts and injuries in their contest with the gangs, and lacerated faces presented a hideous and sickening spectacle.

There was but little light during the day; but when night arrived, only a solitary lantern shed its feeble rays, and the prowling thieves commenced their work of plunder upon their unfortunate fellow-captives. Resistance was vain; cries of distress arose, but they were quickly subdued; two or three held down the victim whilst his pockets were rifled: the means of obtaining liquor were thus in the power of the abandoned; nor was it scantily, though stealthily supplied; and drunkenness increased the disorder that prevailed till a general fight took place, which was only quelled by an armed party of seamen being sent down to preserve order.

Horrible, indeed, was that night to poor Frank. To sleep was impossible. The noise was almost deafening; and his heart sickened at the oaths and imprecations he was compelled to hear. A miscreant had forcibly grappled with him and demanded his money; but Sambo, who had patiently borne with the jokes and the taunts, and even the mischievous pranks of his fellow-captives, would not endure this; he manfully resisted, exclaiming, "Me young massa good massa for me! Ye nebber for do him harm while Sambo here!" Nor did the youth tamely yield to the plunderers: his spirit was aroused, and placing himself in attitude, he not only repelled the attack, but with determined resolution he stood up to his assailants, whilst the negro dealt out sturdy blows and kept them in check. One fellow was struck down, but another immediately came on, whom Frank met with vigorous boldness; and thanks to the instructions of Ben, his opponent found that he had both courage and science to contend against; and having no love for fighting, and seeing Sambo come to the assistance of his young master, he drew back. But the thieves commenced another desperate attack. One of them rushed in and seized Frank by the throat; another gathered up a handful of shingle to throw in his face; whilst a third drew a large knife, and laying hold of the youth's long hair, was about to inflict a deadly wound, when a stout old man-of-war's man, who had been leaning against the mast, suddenly seized the cowardly rascal by the wrist, and twisting his arm round so as nearly to throw him on his back, exclaimed, "Avast there, you lubber! do you call that English fashion? bright blades again a countryman's fist? drop the knife, and let the lad alone--drop it, I say!" and another twist compelled the fellow to obey. The seaman gave him a kick in the stern that sent him flying away amongst the crowd, and then springing to Frank's rescue, the robbers were driven off.

"What cheer, what cheer, my lad, eh?" said the tar, taking the youth's hand; "you tackled to 'em bravely, the picarooning vagabones. But here, keep under my lee, and no soul fore and aft shall mislest you. Have you ever been to sea?"

"No," returned Frank, placing himself by the side of the seaman, "I have never been to sea, but I am the son of a sailor; my father was a lieutenant in the navy."

"Indeed!" said the tar, "and pray what name did he hail by?--the son of a British officer ought to have better usage."

Frank felt the justice of the latter remark, but he did not allude to it, and merely replied, "His name was Heartwell."

"What?" exclaimed the seaman, looking earnestly in the youth's face, "Heartwell,--Muster Frank Heartwell as was in the ould Robust?"

"Yes, he was the senior lieutenant of the Robust," responded the youth, who had through Ben's means made himself acquainted with his father's history.

"Then I sailed with him," rejoined the tar, "and a better officer never had charge of a quarter-deck. And what's become of him, my boy?"

The youth briefly related the circumstances of his father's disappearance, and a conversation ensued, the seaman fully performing his promise to preserve Frank from further molestation; he also praised the negro for standing up for his young master, and Sambo remarked, "Ah Massa Frank, dis no laand o' liberty board a ship."

Still Frank's wretchedness was great; he reflected on the delightful dictures of enjoyment from universal freedom and equality which Monsieur Polverel had powerfully delineated, and he contrasted them with the scene before him, where the defenders of their country were treated worse than brutes by the hand of power. It is probable that he would have sunk under the infliction, but the hope that he cherished of seeing his mother come to his rescue. Yet even that hope was mingled with many misgivings, lest the officer should not have communicated with her, and he might be sent away without being able to acquaint her where he was.

The morning came, a cutter was hauled alongside the Tender, and Frank and Sambo, with about one hundred and fifty others, were put on board; her sails were set, and with a fair breeze she was soon gliding down the river. But Frank, though aware that they were on the move, could see nothing of the proceedings; the impressed men were all confined in the hold, and so crowded together that to sit down was impossible.

At length they reached the Nore, and the impressed hands were transferred to a gun-brig that immediately got under-weigh for the Downs. Confinement was now at an end, the men were permitted to be on deck, and the refreshing breeze came delightful to the wearied frame of the youth. Provisions were also served out, and by the time they had reached their first destination he had in a great measure recovered his proper tone. But the brig did not anchor here; a signal was made for her to proceed to Plymouth, and without delay she made sail through the Straits of Dover. The noble white cliffs and the beautiful scenery of the coast delighted Frank. The sun sparkled upon the waves of the blue ocean, and threw its golden gleams upon the fertile land of his nativity, whose lofty barriers rose in grandeur to defend its shores, and whose "wooden walls" floated in pride to protect its commerce. The horizon was studded with the white sails of distant vessels, and the ships as they approached or passed, hoisting their ensigns, gave a bright break in the picture.

Still the thoughts of his mother's uneasiness operated on Frank's heart, and he determined to write to her as soon as they got to Plymouth; but even this satisfaction was denied to him, for when abreast of Torbay a seventy-four came out and received a draft of hands from the brig, amongst whom was the disappointed lad and the negro, and without communicating with the shore she spread her canvas for the Mediterranean.

This preyed upon the lad's mind, but no time was allowed him to indulge in dejection; he was ordered to go to the purser's steward and get supplied with sailor's apparel, which having dressed himself in, he was mustered before the first lieutenant, who questioned him as to his abilities in order to give him a station. Frank at once told him he was the son of an officer, and had never been to sea before; he named his father, and as the circumstances of his disappearance were pretty well known, Mr. Evans not only took the lad by the hand, but declared himself an old friend and messmate of Mr. Heartwell's, and the emotion he evinced plainly indicated what his feelings towards him were. He was requested to stand on one side till the muster was over, when the lieutenant introduced him to the captain, a noble and generous-minded seaman, who listened with attention and commiseration to Frank's narrative, inquired whether he wished to continue in the service, and finding the lad was desirous to do so he sent for the clerk, and the rating of midshipman was entered against the name of Frank in the muster-book.

It would be impossible to describe the varied feelings of Frank at this favourable change in his fortune, which he regretted he could not at once communicate to his mother. On the passage out, however, they fell in with a corvette homeward bound, and the newly-made midshipman having a letter ready written describing the events that had occurred, he was enabled to send it by this conveyance, and his mind became more tranquil, and his heart more buoyant.

As for Sambo, he was very soon reconciled to his lot, especially when he saw that his young friend and master was made an officer, and treated with kindness and respect. The negro was stationed in the main-top, and showed himself desirous to learn his duty.

History has recorded the events connected with the occupation of Toulon by the allied forces; and here it was that Frank first beheld a scene of warfare. Splendid was the spectacle to his young and ardent mind. There lay the combined fleets of England and Spain, their bright colours and floating pennants flashing in the sun; whilst in the background rose the almost perpendicular mountains of granite, relieved at the base by the white batteries and buildings of the town. As they approached the noble harbour, the smoke from the cannon and musketry proclaimed that active hostility was going on; and Frank felt his heart swell at the thoughts of being engaged with the enemies of his country.

They had scarcely moored the ship, when reinforcements were demanded for the shore; and a party of seamen and marines was landed under the command of Lieutenant Evans, and Frank was permitted to accompany him on duty in the town.

Here he had indeed opportunity of beholding all the pomp, the circumstances, and the cruelties of war; for scarcely a day passed that did not bring with it a skirmish with the enemy. It was not, however, till several weeks had elapsed that Frank was engaged in hostility. It was on the night of the sortie made by General O'Hara against the masked battery that had been constructed by Buonaparte to play upon Fort Malbosquet.

Armed with a cutlass, a brace of pistols, and a pike, the young midshipman accompanied his party to the attack. He felt that he was now an officer in the service of his country; and though his heart palpitated at the thoughts of going into battle, he determined not to flinch. The night was dark; and silently and stealthily they proceeded up the mountain.

This enemy had suspected the design, and were in readiness to receive them; and then began the terrible affray. Frank kept as close to Mr. Evans as he could; he had in some measure become used to the peals of musketry, but not to the consequences of the murderous discharge; and his heart quailed when he beheld body after body rolling down the declivity, and heard the shrieks of the wounded as they lay bleeding on the ground, or fell from crag to crag mangled and dying.

This dread did not last long, for he was hurled into the very thick of the mêlée, and desperation lent strength to his arm. Encouraged by Mr. Evans, who cheered on his men, he rushed forward with the advance, his spirit rising as the strife increased. For a short time he was separated from the lieutenant, but the tide of contest ranging back, he once more joined him at the moment that he had been brought to the earth by a blow from the butt of a French musket; and the soldier was about to repeat the stroke, when Frank with his pike charged with the utmost violence he could muster against the man; the sharpened iron entered his breast so as to throw the soldier off his balance, the blow descended short of the intended victim, and the weapon was shattered to pieces.

But the French soldier was not defeated; and snatching at the prostrate officer's sword he possessed himself of it, and prepared to take ample revenge on the stripling who had no other weapon to oppose to his gigantic strength than his cutlass. Frank gazed at his powerful adversary and believed his last hour was come; but he determined not to abandon the lieutenant. One thought--one moment's thought of his mother intruded--a pang of bitterness and anguish passed through his heart; and then placing himself on the defensive, and purposing if possible to elude his enemy by activity, he saw him advance. At this instant, however, a British corporal interposed, and lunged at the Frenchman with his bayonet; but the brave fellow had been previously wounded and his strength was failing him; still his spirit was indomitable, and a sharp conflict ensued, Frank occasionally getting a cut at the Frenchman, whose superior fencing gave him an admirable command of his weapon; and the youth with horror saw the sword of Mr. Evans passed through and through the body of the corporal: it was done with the rapidity of lightning, and the gallant man fell to the ground with one deep and parting groan.

A laugh--a horrible laugh of triumph issued from the enemy as he now considered his young victim safe to satiate his revenge. The body of the lieutenant lay between them; and as he began to give tokens of returning animation, the soldier seemed undecided whether he should attack the youth or give the officer the _coup-de-grace_. Frank beheld him advance--he would not retreat, but with cool determination parried the thrust; but the superior strength of his opponent prevailed; his guard was beat down, and the sword that had so recently taken life was again wet with blood; the youth was borne backward on its point, and in all probability another second would have stretched him lifeless by the side of Mr. Evans, had not a bold athletic seaman flung himself against the soldier, who promptly recovered his blade, but not till he was staggered by a blow from the tar, who shouted in a voice that Frank instantly recognised, "Ware hawse, you lubber--puckalow that--what's the odds, so as you're happy?"--it was Ben Brailsford.

A cry of delight burst from the youth as he incautiously hailed his old companion; for Ben was not aware who it was that he had preserved; but on hearing the well-remembered tongue of his young friend, he turned suddenly round. The Frenchman instantly perceived his advantage, and made a pass that must have dangerously wounded if not killed the worthy seaman, but that the tar, intuitively sensible of his error, sprang on one side, and the sword of his antagonist did but graze his arm. For several minutes the conflict was desperate; Ben was unskilled in the practices of scientific fencing, but he was perfect master of the guards and cuts; and the Frenchman's vigour began to relax through the wounds he had received, and the excessive exertions he had undergone. At last finding resistance futile, the soldier dropped the point of his sword in token of surrender, and the seaman, after disarming him, hastened to the side of the youth, who had fallen to the ground inanimate.

THE LIVERY--OUT OF LONDON.

At my friend the squire's, when he lived down at Grassby Farm in Cheshire, I was a constant visitor; and for nothing was that pleasant hospitable house more remarkable than for the eccentric animals that found their way into it, whether as guests or as servants. Of both classes, in the course of a very few years, there were several queer specimens. I laugh as I recal them to mind.

Delightful Grassby, what joyous hours have rolled away there! Well content should I have been to have remained a welcome guest there for ever, if I could but have secured the privilege of dining as sparingly as I liked, and of taking just as few glasses of the old ale or the old port as suited _me_, rather than my friend. But with the old-fashioned notions of hospitality prevalent there, the comfort of "enough" was out of the question. It was a word never used at the squire's table. If you desired to taste a second or a third dish, good bountiful Mrs. N. sent you a second or third _dinner_; and not to eat _all_ that was placed before you, though already long past the point where appetite and desire cease, was to break through every principle of their establishment, and violate all their simple ideas of etiquette and good breeding. If you left the remaining wing of the turkey, they would be wretched for the rest of the day--"You didn't like it," "you were not comfortable." After a year or two, Mrs. N. did so far relax, and mingle mercy with her hospitality, as to say when placing two ribs of roast beef upon one's plate, "I hope if there's more than you wish for, that you won't scruple to leave it." The reader will be lucky if he can secure as much indulgence as this, at many country-houses where old fashions and principles yet prevail, and my Lady Bountiful reigns supreme.

Consequences the most alarming sometimes ensued from this sense of the necessity of consuming whatsoever was placed before you by your host. A travelling acquaintance of the squire's (one Mr. Joseph Miller) paid him a flying visit one morning; and as he could not possibly stay one moment, and insisted upon not taking any refreshment at all, he was let off with a tankard of ale, and some of the finest cheese in the county. The traveller threw upward a look of despair as he saw about half a magnificent "Cheshire" introduced to his notice; but as time was precious, he went to work, and ate with vigour for half-an-hour, when the postboy knocked to remind him of the necessity of completing that stage in a given time, or the journey would be fruitless. The answer returned was, that the traveller "would come as soon as he could;" and upon the cheese he fell again with increased energy. Another thirty minutes elapsed, when he paused to gaze, with evident symptoms of exhaustion, on the semicircle of Cheshire, not yet visibly diminished; a second rap now summoned him, but his reply was an anxious, hopeless look, and the faint ejaculation "Wait!" The attack on the cheese was once more renewed, but by no means fiercely. "Gad," cried the squire, at last, "had I guessed you could ha' staid so long, we'd a hastened dinner a bit." "So long!" exclaimed the traveller in a tone of despair; "let me tell you such a piece of cheese as that isn't to be got through so soon as you think for!"

Another case, and a still more piteous one, was that of a young and simple damsel from a neighbouring county, who brought with her to Grassby Farm the established consciousness (prevailing still over a large portion of the country) of the unpardonable rudeness of sending away anything presented by the host. Accordingly, one day at dinner, when cheese was sent round, and a plate containing several pieces was handed to the young lady, she presumed it to be meant for her, and as in duty bound devoured the whole supply. It so happened that she did not visit at the squire's again for some considerable time; and then, when remonstrated with for not calling upon her friends at the farm, she said, "Well, I will call, I shall be delighted to dine with you again; but--pray don't give me so much cheese!"

All who entered the farm seemed alike under the influence of one dreary and imperative necessity; that they must take whatever was offered them--which never failed to be too much. A French gentleman one evening underwent with exemplary politeness the martyrdom of drinking sixteen cups of tea, simply from not knowing that he was expected, when tired, to put the spoon in the cup. This at last he did, by mere accident, or good Mrs. N. would have gone on pouring out for him all night, to her great felicity.

Never but once--only once--was that excellent lady convicted of a fit of moderation in the arrangements of her table, and that was when some fine London acquaintances had been persuading her to transform a rustic lout of a stripling into a page, and assuring her that thick pieces of bread at dinner were quite barbarous and vulgar. She did so far forget her original nature, as to decorate the boy with roley-poley buttons, to turn his Christian name of Colin into the surname of Collins, and to admonish him on the subject of bread thus--"Collins, don't cut up so many loaves when we have company at dinner; I don't like very small pieces, but then there shouldn't be too many; you should _count heads_; you must know how much bread will be wanted, and cut accordingly. Now mind!" Kind, hospitable dame, how was she punished for her precaution! When the next dinner-party assembled, and a dozen persons had taken their seats at the table, Collins proceeded to hand the bread round after the provincial fashion of twenty years ago; but by the time he reached his mistress, the last person of the dozen, the bread was gone. "Collins," said she, in a low discreet whisper, "some bread, some more bread." Collins's whisper in reply was meant to be equally discreet, but it was more audible. "Please, ma'am, I did count heads, and cut twelve bits, but that 'ere gentleman _has took two pieces_!"

Collins, the page, was but the folly of a day; he speedily disappeared; yet there remained for some time in the heart of his mistress a lurking desire to engraft a few of the best London usages upon the more substantial country customs, and if not to keep pace with the spirit of the present age, at least to emerge out of the deep recesses of the past. Robin, the successor of Collins, was a victim to this spirit of innovation. He was a rustic of one idea; which was, to do whatever he was ordered as well as he could. If told to make haste, he would simply start off at the top of his speed; if told to fly, he would assuredly attempt with his arms and coatflaps an imitation of the action of a bird, and fly as well as he was able. He understood all instructions literally; Robin had no imagination. To bring in everything upon a waiter, was an order he could easily comprehend; mistake was impossible. "Well, I declare!" cried Mrs. N. to some visitors one morning, "you haven't yet seen my pets;" (some pups of an illustrious breed, that had just seen the light;) "Robin, bring in the pets--they are miracles." There was considerable delay, however, in the execution of this order; and more than one inquiry went forth, why Robin did not bring in the pups. At last, when curiosity was at its height, and expectation on tiptoe, Robin did contrive, after a "to do" outside the door, to make a formal appearance with the pups, and to explain the delay:--"Here be pups, ma'am, only dang it they won't keep on waiter."

Where the squire picked up the Imperturbable who came next, I never understood. At this distance of time it is not unreasonable to doubt whether he was in reality a human being; he might have been a talking automaton. He never appeared to have "organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions;" he seemed to be simply a thing of clock-work. "Master wants a bit more muffin," or "The ice has broke and master's drownded in the pond," would be uttered by him in exactly the same formal tone of voice, with exactly the same stiff and deliberate air. It was all one to him whether he had to announce--"There's a cricket-match on the common," or "the French have landed." Never shall I forget his walking into the room one day, an hour after dinner, and fixing himself beside his master's chair while the squire was telling us one of his sporting stories which were sometimes rather long; waiting patiently until the close for the signal to proceed, and then when the Squire had turned round leisurely to know what he wanted, saying in his slow tone, "When I went up stairs, sir, a little while ago, the house was a-fire! It's burning now."

But I ought to relate one more example of the manner in which the patience of the Squire's lady was tried, by the rusticity of her attendants, during the short season of her attempt to elevate her household arrangements into something like fashionable dignity. One day, when the Squire had sent off, upon some frivolous errand, every servant in the house except cook and coachman, in dropped a very important visitor who proffered his company at dinner, to the consternation of the lady: hospitable as she was, she was in a dilemma; but it could not be helped. The services of the coachman were duly called into requisition to wait at table, greatly to his chagrin, for he detested the duty, and whenever he chanced to be called upon to perform it, was sure to find some means of letting all the room know that he did. He abhorred indoor work, and took a pride in proclaiming himself to be coachee. On this occasion, having some apple-dumplings to bring in (vulgarities to which the Squire was considerably attached), the coachman, not qualified by daily practice for the duty, let some of them slip off the dish; but recovering himself, he contrived to balance the dish as he held it out, and to steady the rolling dumplings therein, with a "Who-o, whoo-oo, _whut!_" Neither the Squire nor his lady ever affected the "gentilities" after this, or allowed their honest hearts to be disconcerted about trifles; and with this last "tray" of domestic awkwardness, I for the present take my leave of the Livery.

RUS IN URBE.

OMNIBUS CHAT.

"Easy travelling this, sir; smooth roads, no turnpikes; no dirt thrown about, no splashing. Pleasant for me, who have just arrived from Van Diemen's Land," (we all looked up at our new visitor V. D. L.)--"yes, sir, where they are 'mending their ways,' as you are here, only not quite so fast; haven't got to Indian-rubber roads yet, though advanced beyond the point at which the traveller in my legend was obliged to stop." This allusion being evidently preparatory to the production of a story, V. D. L. was invited to explain, which he instantly did by chanting the following

LEGEND OF VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.

Long time ago, when public roads In far Van Diemen's Land, Were only fit for frogs and toads, Composed of pools and sand; (For folks had not tried newest modes Of making wood-ways grand); And narrow wheels, and heavy loads, Made ups and downs on every hand: Long time ago, When things were so, By some arch wag it was averr'd The following incident occurr'd.-- It chanced, on one of old October's days, A traveller was travelling along, And, as he jolted in his strong-spring'd chaise, "Beguiled the tedious minutes" with a song: When, lo! a hat upon a pool he sees, That did not seem to feel the "balmy breeze," But in the middle kept its place! As if it had resolved, with honest pride, Not to be driven down upon the side, When it might hold the central space. The traveller got out, and took it up,-- Most strange!--a head beneath the hat appears, Whose hair had of the puddle ta'en a sup, And now was weeping dirty-looking tears:-- "How?" said the traveller, "why! how is this? You've sunk a precious depth, my friend, in mud; How did you 'come to go' so much amiss, As walk in muddy water--in cold blood?-- Ye gods! why, sir, you must have been like lead, So deep into this puddle to have gone." "If _I'm so deep_," the other gruffly said, "_Where, where, must be the horse that I am on?_"

"Accidents of that sort will happen in the best regulated countries," remarked a modern Traveller, who had now, with an air of subdued jollity, taken his place amongst us, and who was distinguished among his familiars as Illustrious Tom, "though I can't say I ever witnessed such an adventure in Cheapside. But you call to mind a home-adventure, a scene at Bolton. Most towns, you must know, in almost every county, can boast of their little evening coterie, in which the affairs of the nation are more or less learnedly discussed, and where the wags of the place play off their jokes, practical, comical, or serious. It generally happens, too, that these congregated sons of smoke (for smokers they all are) take up some district name; as the 'Bolton Trotters,' the 'Wigan Badgers,' the 'Item Dolls,' the 'Corporation of the King's Arms Kitchen,' the 'Quarter of Hundred Bricks,' or a hundred other names that might be mentioned; and all these coteries are composed of about the same materials, the doctors, lawyers, retired tradesmen, country squires, and budding wags. It may be my province by and by to detail a few of the farcicalities which I have either taken part in, or heard related by some old Brick-Badger, Trotter, or Doll. For the present, here is a tale, related to me with many a deep sigh by an old one, whose trot is now reduced to a most miserable shamble.

"It had been a stormy November day, when a commercial traveller alighted at the door of the Swan Inn. It was almost dark. He was a gentleman from Leeds, in the cloth trade, and had ridden over the moors--not as the young ones do now who drive--but on a strong Cleveland bay cob, wrapped in a good Devon kersey coat, that would defy all weathers, much better than your nasty Mackintoshes. Well, sir, there was a good deal o' guessing, among us who were having a bit o' trot, at who he was. The waiter was called in, and 'thowt he was a new chap,'--he didn't know him. In about an hour he made his appearance, and begged to be allowed to join us. He was a strapping Leeds win'er, and no toy to play with, I assure you. The trotting was very slow for a time, when the bold wag, Jem Brown, went in to win, and filled his pipe. Mr. A., the lawyer, sat on one side the fire; the traveller, in what was called Travellers' Chair, on the other. Up got Jem to ring the bell, and then, as he passed by him--'You must have had a rough day,' says Jem; 'didn't I see you ride in about an hour ago?' 'Mebby ye did, I come in about that toime,' was the answer. 'On a bay cob?' says Jem. 'Eigh, a did.' 'A clever little hack, I be bound,' says Jem again. 'Eigh,' rejoins the traveller, 'the fastest in any town he goes inta.' 'Wew!' says Jem, 'I'll upo'd him a good 'un, but that's going ow'er far.' 'I'll bet a pound on't,' says the traveller. 'Nay, I never bet money--but I'll bet brandies round, I've a faster.' 'Dun,' says the traveller. 'Order in the brandy, and book it,' says Mr. A. Down went the bet, and down went the brandy, and the horses were ordered out. The traveller was soon mounted, and sure enough it was as nice a tit as onny man need wish throw a leg over. The traveller began to be impatient, when Jem at last made his appearance at the door, pipe in hand. What's that your fast hoss? let's see him walk.' On he went. 'Here, come back, and come in, for ye've lost.' 'Lost, how?' 'Why,' says Jem, 'mine's been stuck fast at Bolton-moor clay-pit this three days, and gone dead this afternoon.' 'A fair trot,' cried the whole party, amidst a roar o' laughter, as Jem retreated out o' the way of the strapping and irritated loser. (Now it was on the same evening, and at the expense of this same sturdy Yorkshireman, to provoke whom was no joke, that a joke was played off, which is commemorated in an oil painting that now hangs up in the commercial room of the Swan. Mr. A.'s leg was covered with a black silk stocking; the traveller's was cased in stout leather; when a bet was laid that the wearer of the silks would hold his leg longer in hot water than the wearer of the leathers. The experiment was tried in boiling water. In two minutes the Yorkshireman was in agony, while the lawyer looked on with astonishing composure-for his was a _cork leg_.")

"But a Yorkshireman may be a philosopher," observed C.E.W., who now interposed a remark, "and philosophy can stand every description of hot water, save that which love brings us into. Practical jokes are of many kinds; a kiss is very often but a practical joke; and as an appropriate successor to your tale of the silk stocking and the boot, let me give you the story of

THE GIRL AND THE PHILOSOPHER.

As Kate went tripping up the town (No lassie e'er looked prettier), An "unco chiel" in cap and gown (No mortal e'er looked grittier) Accosted Kitty in the street, As she was going to cross over, And robb'd her of a kiss--the cheat, Saying, "I'm a _philosopher_!" "A what?" said Kitty, blushing red, And gave his cap a toss over; "Are you? Oh, _phi_!" and off she sped, Whilst he bewail'd the "_los-oph-er!_"

"The learned lover, sir, who bewailed the '_los-oph-er_'(said a visitor, who now favoured us with his company) was the last man in the world to die of love. No man ever died of love, who did not kill himself; and no man ever killed himself, who knew what philosophy was. True philosophy may buy prussic-acid, but, like Tantalus, taste not a drop; true philosophy saunters to the Serpentine, and then saunters back to supper and a cigar. This," said Dr. Bulgardo, L.S.D., "I shall endeavour to illustrate in a poetical tribute to

THE GRAVE OF THE SUICIDE (WHO THOUGHT BETTER OF IT).

My eye grew as dull as a half-scallop'd oyster, And soon would my death in the _Times_ have rejoiced her; So to Battersea-fields, for no meadows are moister, I hurried to drown both myself and my woes. Down life's sunny stream many seasons I'd floated Till pleasures now bored me, on which I had doted; So I vowed that my death should by lovers be quoted Where the pale, sentimental asparagus grows.

Alas! I exclaim'd, with a half-broken hiccup, The soft crumbs of comfort no more can I pick up; My sorrows are mix'd as it were in a tea-cup, Without any sugar to take off the taste. But sorrows are often inflicted to try us; Kind fortune, invisibly, often stands by us; And now on the roof of the famous eel-pie house The blinker-eyed goddess was luckily placed.

She kindly assured me my views were mistaken, That really by Betty I wasn't forsaken; So I walk'd back to town and got into the Fakenham coach, to return to my Betty again. Four lovers already had tried to divert her Attentions from me, but their eagerness hurt her; She said that she knew that I wouldn't desert her, And now is the suicide gayest of men!"

A RIGID SENSE OF DUTY.

At one of our sea-port towns there stood (and, we believe, doth stand there still) a fort, on the outside of which is a spacious field, overlooking a delightful prospect of land and water. At the time we are speaking of, a Major Brown was the commandant; and his family being fond of a milk diet, the veteran had several cows that pastured in the land aforesaid; a sentry was placed near the entrance, part of whose duty it was to prevent strangers and stray cattle from trespassing therein. Upon one occasion, an Irish marine, a stranger to the place, was on guard at this post, and having received the regular orders not to allow any one to go upon the grass but the major's cows, determined to adhere to them strictly. He had not been long at his post, when three elegant young ladies presented themselves at the entrance for the purpose of taking their usual evening walk, and were quickly accosted by the marine with "You can't go there!"

"Oh! but we may," uttered the ladies with one voice, "we have the privilege to do so."

"Privilege," repeated the sentry; "fait an' I don't care what ye have, but you mustn't go there, I tell ye; it's Major Brown's positive orders to the conthrary."

"Oh--ay--yes--we know that," said the eldest of the ladies with dignity, "but we are Major Brown's daughters."

"Ah, well, you don't go in there then anyhow," exclaimed Pat, bringing his firelock to the post, "you may be Major Brown's daughters, but you're not Major Brown's cows."

* * * * *

The answer to Mr. Sly's Enigma (in last No.) is a _liquid_[5], which forms the _third_ part of _Rum_, the _fourth_ of Port, the _fifth_ of _Shrub_, the _sixth_ of _Brandy_, the _seventh_ of _Madeira_, the _eighth_ of _Burgundy_, the _ninth_ of _Bordeaux_, the _tenth_ of _Maraschino_. It is a letter which is not seen in _the alphabet_, forms no part of a _syllable_, and yet is found in _every_ word.--V. D. L.

* * * * *

"Are there two 'S's' in St. Asaph?" asked Lord Dunce of a popular humourist, as he was directing a letter to a learned Bishop who bore that title. "Unless _you_ wish to make an 'ass' of his Lordship, decidedly not," was the answer; and Lord Dunce finished the address without further inquiry.

* * * * *

_Driver_ (calling out). Tom, is that 'ere elderly lady come, as ve vaited for last trip?

_Cad_. Vel, I _do_ think I sees her a coming.

_Driver_. But are you sure it's the same?

_Cad_. Oh yes--Vy I was in the office ven the Governor booked her, by the name o' Mrs. Toddles, and eh?--hang me if she arn't a toddling off the wrong vay arter all. Vel, drive on, ve can't wait for nobody. Some people alvers _aire_ too late, and alvers vill be.

_Driver_. Vy, yes, Tom; but I reckon it must take _her_ a couple o' hours to put on that bonnet afore she comes out. She must git up a little earlier, or else I should reckimend her to put it on the night afore.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 5: The liquids are "l, m, n, r."--_Lindley Murray._]

FRIGHTS!

There is no fever so contagious as fright. It runs, like a bell-wire, through the house, communicating from one line of agitation to another.

Frights, in a national point of view, are called "clouds on the political horizon." These clouds are very catching; if one nation in Europe has the vapours, all have--as we have lately had an opportunity of witnessing. In a civic, or we should say rather in a commercial, sense, frights are called "panics;" they are wonderfully contagious. No sooner is one house in danger, than another feels itself in peril. You walk at such a season through some vast capital, amidst lines of lofty and durable-looking mansions, and every one that begins to totter puts at least a couple in mind of tottering also. As this nods to its fall, that returns the nod instinctively. Once set the panic afoot, and each seems inclined to be foremost, rather than hindmost, in the road to ruin; let but a single firm topple down unexpectedly, and its neighbours break too, from nothing but sheer apprehension of breaking. Amidst large assemblages of people--in ball-rooms, theatres, often in churches--fright is irresistible in its progress, if once kindled. The cry of "fire," or a sound construed into the cracking of the wainscot, is enough. The strong, the weak, the bold, the nervous, the old stager and the young novice--are all reduced simultaneously to a common level: they become one mass of flying, fluttering, struggling, shrieking, _selfish_ mortality--rushing to the door, and there effectually blocking up the way; each bent on escape, and each helping to render escape impossible; trampling, stifling, crushing one another, in hideous rout and disorder, without one rational idea amongst the bewildered multitude of the reality of the danger, or one courageous impulse to face it.

This wild alarm, like jealousy, makes the meat it feeds on. There is something so contradictory in it, that the presence of numbers, which should be its protection, increases its confusion. It sees its own pale, glaring, terror-stricken image in each man's face, and its diseased imagination multiplies the causes of fear, because its effects are manifold.

While such panics prevail, as all veracious chronicles show they do, amongst mankind, who shall presume ungallantly to laugh at thy innocent objects of terror, oh, womankind! or, childhood, even at thine! All have their favourite antipathies. Gentlemen ere now have been appalled at the sight of a black-bottle; many a lady yet looks aghast at the intrusion of a black-beetle; while the child still screams, affrighted at the idea of black-bogy. Leaving the first to the satirist, and the last to the schoolmaster, let us picture to the eyes of ladies a scene, in which every fair reader almost must have been, at least _once_ in her life, an actress.

We will suppose that scene to be a lady's "finishing establishment"--for there are no schools now--the school went out of fashion with the shop, and the "establishment" came in with the "depôt" and the "emporium."

The group is the prettiest possible, as a specimen of still-life; there is not a whisper, scarcely a motion; the superior is silently calculating the amount of her Michaelmas accounts; the assistant is mutely wondering whether young Ariosto Jackson, whom she met at Northampton last holidays, will again be there at the next breaking up; and several young ladies, in process of tuition, are learning irregular verbs by heart, reading treatises abstrusely scientific, and thinking all the time of nothing; when--all of a sudden--but no, that is not the word--quicker than lightning, transformed as by magic, the scene presents to the eye but one image of consternation--to the ear but one note of terror and dismay.

In the centre of the sacred apartment has been detected a small sable intruder. A cry of horror from one young lady--"Oh! my good gracious, there's a great black _beadle_!" brings every other young lady's heart into her mouth. In an instant the room resounds with wild piercing screams. Every chair has its pedestalled votary of Fear, its statue of Alarm exquisitely embodied; the sofa boasts a rare cluster of affrighted nymphs--more agonised by far than if they had been, by some wicked bachelor of a magician, locked for life into a nunnery. The lady-president, to exhibit an example of presence of mind, has leaped upon a chair for the purpose of pulling the bell; she at the same time conveys a lesson of industry, for she agitates it like a "ringer" pulling for a leg of mutton and trimmings. The bell-rope breaks, and the other is out of reach. The screams increase; the servants are summoned by more names than they were ever christened by. "Cook, Sarah, Betsy, Betsy, Jane, Cook, Sarah," are called, together with several domestics who have long since gone away.

In the mean time let us snatch a glance at the little dingy contemptible insect, the sable agitator, the Christophe of entomology, who has innocently created all this palpitation in tender bosoms, this distortion of beautiful features, this trembling of limbs, and this discord in voices the most musical. He stands a moment stupified, petrified with astonishment at the rush and the roar around him; recovering from his first surprise, he creeps a pace or two in blank perplexity; he wrestles with his fears--for frightened he is out of his little black wits, you may depend upon it--runs here and there, a few inches to the east, and then a few inches westward, to and fro like a bewildered thing; and then making up his mind, "away he cuts" as hard as he can pelt into the obscurest corner. The enemy out of sight, the boldest of the party, after a minute or two, ventures down and makes a desperate rush to the door; others soon follow this heroine's example; and when they reach the landing--there pale, though recent from the roasting jack, and peeping up from one of the lower stairs of the kitchen flight, they perceive the face of the cook--a face whose expression is half curiosity, half fear. Aspects of wonder and wo-begone alarm are discernible beyond, and fill up the picture of agitation.

"Oh, cook! where have you been?" cry the pretty tremblers.

"Oh, Miss! what _is_ the matter?" sighs the cook sentimentally, observing at the same time that "her heart beats that quick as she ain't sure she knows her own name when she hears it."

"Oh, cook!" cries the least exhausted of the party, "here's a great--here's a great black beadle in the parlour!" On which a very small scream, and a pretty shudder at the recollection, pervade the assembly.

"A black-beadle, Miss Higgins! _is that all_! Lauk, well that is disappineting; we thought as you was all a being murdered, and so we couldn't move, we was so frightened. Why, I minds a black-beadle no more nor--no more nor--no, that I don't! But if it had bin a hearwig, Miss Higgins!--ur-r-r-rh! now that's a ruptile as I never could abide!"

Had we rushed down stairs sooner, just before the first ring of the bell, a kitchen-group might have presented itself, not unworthy of being sketched. There should we have seen a feminine party of four seated round a table spread with solid viands; the actresses have played their parts to perfection; not like unfortunate players on the mimic stage, who raise to their parched lips empty japan cups, and affect to eat large slices of pasteboard turkeys. No; they have, in the fullest sense of the word, _dined_; and are in that delicious state of dreamy repose, induced by a hearty meal, about mid-day in summer, after having risen early and "washed" till twelve! It is at this juncture they hear the loud quick ring of the parlour-bell. At such a moment, when Missus know'd they was at dinner! Again, again, again; nay, the peal is continuous, and mingled with confused screams. Terror and the cold beef combined, strong ale and intense alarm, prevent them from stirring. Still the bell rings, the screams continue, and grow more distinct! Sarah faints, Betsy manages about half a fit, and Jane staggers a few paces and falls into the arms of Robert the gardener. A jug of ale, which the cook mistakes for water, flung into the face of the fair insensible, causes a sensation that arouses the whole party; and curiosity overcoming fear, leads them towards the stairs, where, hushed and horror-stricken, they await the dread intelligence that "a great black beadle has got into the parlour," his first appearance this season!

"Had it been a mad dog, indeed!" they all cry. Yes, and if it had been merely a tiny puppy with the smallest tin kettle tied to his tail, retreating affrightedly from roguish boys, they themselves would have been thrown into a fright indeed. Their instinct would have led them to cry, "Oh here's a mad dog," and to run right in his way.

Every man has his "fright." Toads are exceedingly unpopular. The deathwatch, like conscience, doth make cowards of us all. Spiders are unwelcome visitors. Rats (politics apart) are eminently disagreeable. One of a party who went out to kill buffaloes, happening to run away just as all his courage was required, explained the circumstance to his friends thus: "One man dislikes this, and another man that animal; gentlemen, my antipathy is the buffalo." But in certain climates, people are accustomed to horrors; they sup full of them. Nobody there screams out, "Oh here's a scorpion!" or "Good gracious, here's an alligator!" The visits of such common-places are not angelic, being neither few nor far between. It is only some rarer monster that can hope to make a sensation. Now, a hippopotamus, once a season, would come with a forty black-beetle power to an evening party; and a group of timid ladies, kicking the mere crocodiles and rattle-snakes away, may well be imagined rushing into a corner, startled by an unlooked-for intruder, and crying out "Oh my! if here isn't a mammoth! Mamma! here's a great large leviathan!"

A PEEP AT A "LEG-OF-BEEF SHOP."

It is a melancholy sight to witness the half-starved, anatomical-looking small youths, dressed in every variety of poverty's wardrobe, that linger for hours near a certain little bow-window in St. Giles's; where the nobility, gentry, and public are informed that by paying down the sum of threepence they will be allowed peaceably to depart with an imperial pint of leg-of-beef soup in their own jug. It is a moving sight. To see the hungry looks--the earnest gazes, that are darted through that little bow-window--to see with what intense relish they snuff up the odoriferous vapours which occasionally ascend through the gratings beneath that little bow-window, or roll out in their full fragrance through the doorway adjacent to that little bow-window, ensnaring at every other burst some new, hungry, unsuspecting wayfarer--to see this is indeed a moving sight. Seldom, very seldom is it the good fortune of these watchful youths to revel in such luxuries as leg-of-beef soup, or its rival, alamode; they are beings destined only to view such things afar off, and make vain speculations upon their ravishing flavour; to contemplate them as amalgams expressly prepared for the affluent--those happy ones who can spend threepence and not feel it. Oh! what felicity to be the master of such a shop!--to eat as much as he likes and nothing to pay--to be able to feast his eyesight with the savoury contents of those bright tin kettles when _not_ hungry--to dress in a white apron and striped jacket, and to have supreme command of that ladle--to be able to look sternly upon those perturbed spirits without, and disregard their earnest whisperings of "Oh, don't it smell jolly; and warn't that piece prime, though!"--to be able to go on fishing up the delicious morsels with the same provoking coolness. Oh! to what joys are some men born!

But see. Here come two that have had their enjoyment; maybe each has eaten a whole three-penn'orth. No longer do the fumes possess any charm for them; they can now walk composedly past those magic kettles. Now, two happy beings are entering the elysium--two whose delights are yet to come. One of them is a dustman in a spotted neckerchief, red wrist-cuffs, and a cap peculiar to gentlemen in that line of business; the other is his lady, glorying in the euphonic name of "Doll."

See with what a majestic air he strides in and takes his seat, as if he could buy up the whole establishment twice over if he chose. Hark with what a lordly voice he calls the waiting-boy, whose benevolent master, for services rendered, rewards him with ninepence per week, and the gratuitous licking of all the crockery soiled on the premises.

"Vater!" again vociferates he of the neckerchief. "Yes, sir," is the reply. "Didn't you heear me call vater afore?" "Sorry, sir, but the gen'l'm'n as is just gone was agoin' to forget to pay, sir--that's all, sir." "That's nuffin to do vith me. Ven I calls 'vater,' I vants yer. I can't afford to vaste my precious breath to no purpose as the members o' parliament do, so just prick up them long ears of your'n, and then I think you'll grow the viser." "Yes, sir." "Vell, then, bring this here leddy and me a freeha'penny plate each, and two penny crusties, and ven a gen'l'm'n calls agin, listen to his woice, or maybe it's not unpossible he may get his bit o' wittles at some other ho-tel." With another professional "Yes, sir," the urchin vanishes from the presence.

Once more the purveyor's ladle dives into the bright tin kettle. Again he tortures the hungry beholders outside the window--as they look on with outstretched necks and spasmodic mouths--with glimpses of its treasures. They see the choice bits of gristle but for an instant, and no more; for whilst gazing at the sight, in a paroxysm of longing and fever of desire, the plates are borne off to that vile dustman.

"Now, Mr. Imperence," says the lady, addressing the purveyor's protégé, at the same time, with much dexterity and elegance, converting a fork she has discovered upon the seat into a toothpick. "Now, Mr. Imperence, I hope you've brought a little less paddywack in it than there was yesterday. As Will says," she continues, stirring and scrutinising the contents of the plate, "bless'd if this house ain't quite losing its caroter." "Brayvo! Doll!" ejaculates her lord approvingly, as leaning backwards with extended leg he draws from his pocket a coin of the realm. "Here, jist valk yer laziness across the vay, and travel back agin vith a pint of half-and-half. Now, vot do you stand ringing o' the money for? Do you think other people is as vicked as yerself?"--"Th' s'picious little warmint!" rejoins the lady, swallowing a spoonful of the soup with alarming expedition, and fulfilling the purposes of a napkin with the back of her hand. "Did you see wot a imperent grin the little beast give?" "Never mind, old gal, you get on," responds the dustman, lounging with both elbows upon the table, and regarding with an air of much complacency the thin-visaged youths outside. "You get on, for I must soon be astirring."

In due time the boy and the solution of malt and hops present themselves, and after a hearty draught of the grateful beverage, the dustman evinces a disposition to become musical, and whistles an air or two with perhaps rather more of good will than of good taste. He suddenly looks round, and discovering his lady has finished the plate of soup and the last drain of beer also, summons forth the juvenile waiter from behind a little partition, just at the mortifying moment when his tongue is making clean the interiors and exteriors of two recently-used plates.

"Now, then, young imp, wot's the damage?"--"Sixpence, please sir," said the waiter, vainly endeavouring to quiet his tongue, which keeps playing round the sides of his mouth; "two plates and three loaves, please, sir." "We aint had free, you cheating little wagabond!" screams the lady; "we've only had two--you know that!" "Oh! beg pardon, ma'am," replies the boy, after a sly lick; "it was t'other box where the gen'lm'n was as had three. Fippence, then, please sir--two plates and two new'uns--fippence."

"You're a nice sample o' thievery for your age," says the dustman, contemplating the boy with one eye, and then counting out four penny pieces and four farthings with curious deliberation. "You're a nice article to cast a gen'l'm'n's bill. Do you happ'n to know a cove in London by the name o' Ketch--Jack Ketch?" "Yes, sir." "Vell then, the next time as you go his vay, have the goodness to leave your card, and say you was strongly recommended to him by me. Now, Doll."

Having delivered himself to this effect, greatly to the moral benefit of the boy, who mechanically replies at the conclusion of it, "Yes, sir," with a dignified step he leads the way to the door, merely condescending, as he places his foot upon the sill, to inform the proprietor, that "he's blow'd if there's a worser prog-shop in the whole blessed vurld!"

ALPHA.

A FEW NOTES ON UNPAID LETTERS.

The penny-postage has already wrought an extraordinary change in the public ideas of the value of money. Formerly, according to the old maxim, ninepence was but ninepence; but even twopence has now become a sum sterling, to demand which is to stir men's blood as violently as if the said coins were flung in their faces. To put a letter into the post, and an intimate friend to the expense of twopence, was, only the other day, perfectly natural; under the present system, it is fiendish.

A letter sent free costs the sender a penny; to receive a letter not pre-paid, is to expend double the amount. In the degree of attention shown to this little fact, it is not impossible to find a test of the principles of mankind--of the whole corresponding portion of creation at least.

The last post-office returns show, that there are upon an average 7654 persons--monsters in the human form, we should rather say--in this metropolis alone, who walk about day by day dropping stampless epistles into ravenous letter-boxes, from sheer misanthropy--hatred of their fellow-creatures; which feeling they are pleased to call forgetfulness, stamplessness, or copperlessness, as convenience may dictate.

Never become enraged when you receive a missive from one of them--never storm when you pay double--lest you should chance to justify where you mean to condemn.

At unpaid letters look not blue, Nor call your correspondent scamp; For if you storm, he proves that you Received his letter--_with_ "a stamp!"

Reflect seriously upon the character of such a correspondent. The man whose letters are not pre-paid may be thus denounced:--

He is selfish, because he would rather you should pay twice, than that he should pay once.

He would rather inflict an injury on his friend, than act fairly himself.

He is disloyal, because he ought to grace his letter with the head of his Queen, and he declines doing so.

He prefers seeing his brother's _two_ pockets picked, to having a hand thrust into one of his own.

He is an old fool, who wants to be thought young, and affects carelessness, because it is a youthful fault.

Rather than take a bottle of wine out of his own cellar, he would drink a couple at his neighbour's expense.

Sooner than experience a stamp on his toe, he would see his old father's gouty feet trampled on.

He is ready to discharge a double-barrelled gun at anybody, to escape a single shot at himself.

He would ride his friend's horse fifty miles, to save his own from a journey of five-and-twenty.

To avoid an easy leap from the first-floor window, he would doom his nearest connexion to jump from the roof.

Rather than submit to the privation of half a meal, he would subject any human being to the misery of being dinnerless.

He is penny wise and twopence foolish. His penny saved is not a penny got, since the damage he occasions will recoil upon himself.

He is more mindful of the flourishing finances of the postmaster-general, than of the scanty funds of individuals who are dear to him.

He has no care for the revenue, for he shrinks from prompt payment.

He is dishonest, for rather than pay in advance he won't pay at all.

* * * * *

Above all, never listen to anything that may be urged in his defence. Never attach the slightest importance to such arguments as these:--

He is the best of patriots, because he raises a sinking revenue.

He is the best of friends, for he impels all whom he addresses to do good to the state at a slight cost to themselves.

He is the most loyal of men, for he cannot bear to part with his Queen's likeness, even upon a penny-piece.

He is a gentleman, and never has vulgar halfpence within reach.

He is kind to street-beggars, and gives away the penny in charity before he can get to the post-office.

He is well read in ancient literature, and knows that those who pay beforehand are the worst of paymasters.

He is delicate-minded, and feels that a pre-paid letter implies a supposition that the receiver would care about the postage.

His house is open to his acquaintances, who write so many notes there that he never has a stamp to use.

He scorns to subject the portrait of his lady-sovereign to the indignity of being tattooed like a New-Zealander.

He is a logician, and maintains that if a penny-postage be a good thing, a twopenny-postage must be exactly twice as good.

He enables others to do a double service to their country, rather than by doing half that service himself, prevent them from doing any.

He denies himself one pleasure that his fellow-creatures may have two.

He sympathises in the postman's joy at the receipt of twopence, as it brings back old times, and restores to him his youth.

He is so anxious to write to those he loves, that the stamp, hastily affixed, comes off in the letter-box.

Signing himself "your most obedient humble servant," of course he dares not take the liberty of paying for what _you_ receive.

He is married, and leaves it to bachelors to pay _single_ postage.

Mark his hand-writing, nevertheless; and when his unpaid epistle arrives, let your answer be, a copy of the "Times," supplement and all, sealed up in an unstamped envelope.

FIRST DISCOVERY OF VAN _DEMONS_' LAND.

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT, C. B.

The vessel rose upon the mountain waves, with her bowsprit pointing up to the northern star, and then plunged down into the trough of the sea, as if she were diving like the porpoises which played across her bows,--shaking and trembling fore and aft as she chopped through the masses of water which impeded her wild course. Sea after sea struck her on the chesstree or the beam, pouring over her decks and adding to the accumulation of water in her hold. Her sides were without a vestige of paint--her shrouds and standing rigging worn to less than inch-rope; her running rigging as mere threads; the foresail, the only sail set, as thin as gauze. Decay was visible in every part of her; her timbers were like touchwood; even her capstan had half rotted away; and her masts might have proved, if once ashore, a safe asylum to colonies of ants and woodpeckers. How then could a vessel in this forlorn condition continue afloat or contend with so fierce a gale? Because it was the spectre-ship with her spectre-crew; Vanderdecken, in the Flying Dutchman, still contending against the divine fiat, still persevering in his fatal oath--that he would double the Cape. Vanderdecken stood at the break of the weather-gangway with his chief officer, Jansen, by his side. The crew were most of them sheltering themselves under the weather-side of the deck; their large, flat, pale muffin faces sunk down deep in their chests; shoulders, high and bony; their nether garments like bladders half shrunken, as if there was nothing in them. When they shifted from one part of the deck to the other, their broad, flat feet made no sound as they passed along the planks, which were soft as pith.

Their dresses were now of the colour of mahogany or chocolate; seaweed was growing here and there on their jackets; and to the seats of their small-clothes, a crop of barnacles had become firmly attached. They all looked melancholy and disheartened; and as they shivered, the rattle of their bones was distinctly to be heard.

Vanderdecken put his speaking-trumpet to his lips--

"Another pull of the weather fore-brace," cried he.

"Yaw, yaw," replied the spectre-crew, put into motion by the order.

The boatswain piped belay--the sound could hardly be distinguished, as from long use he had blown away much of the metal of which his pipe was composed. Jansen, the mate, looked up at the fore-yard, and then at Vanderdecken. He appeared at first irresolute when he looked into the dogged countenance of Vanderdecken;--at last, he hitched up his nether garments with both hands, and spoke--"It won't do, Captain Vanderdecken,--and the men say it won't do--do you not, my lads, all of you?"

"Yaw," was the hollow, melancholy response of the seamen.

"Donder und blitzen--what won't do?" replied the captain.

"We must bear up, Captain Vanderdecken," replied Jansen; "the ship leaks like an old sieve; our hold is full of water; the men are worn out; every sail we have has been bent and split; nothing but the foresail left. It's no use, Captain Vanderdecken, we must bear up and refit."

"You forget mine oath," replied Vanderdecken, surlily. "Hold on, Jansen, that sea is aboard of us."

Jansen shook his three jackets and ten pair of small-clothes, as soon as the drenching had passed over.

"I tell you, Mynheer Vanderdecken, it won't do--we must bear up."

"Yaw, yaw," responded the crew.

"Mine oath!" cried the captain again, as he held on by one of the belaying pins.

"Without sails, without provisions, and without fresh water on board, you cannot keep your oath--which was to double the Cape. We must bear up, refit, and then try it again."

"Mine Oath--I have sworn--I cannot--I will not bear up; Jansen, hold your tongue."

"Well, you may keep your oath--for we will bear up for you against your will."

"We will! Who will? Do you mutiny?"

"Yaw, yaw; we all mutiny," cried the sailors; "we have been now two years trying to double this stormy Cape, and never had a dry jacket the whole time; we must mend our small-clothes, and darn our stockings. For two years and more we have had no fresh meat, and that is contrary to the articles. Captain Vanderdecken we do not mutiny; but we will bear up; with your will, if you please; if not, against your will."

"So you mutiny, you ungrateful rascals! Well, stop a moment, till I go into my cabin; when I come out again, I will hear what you have to say, and see if any man dares speak;" and Captain Vanderdecken in a great fury rushed aft and went into his cabin.

"I know what he will do, my men," said Jansen; "he has gone for his double-barrelled pistols, and will shoot us through the head;--we must not let him come out again."

"Nein, nein," replied the seamen; and they ran to the cabin-doors, and made them fast, so that Vanderdecken could not get out, and could shoot nobody but himself.

"Now my lads," said Jansen, "put the helm up, and square the yards."

"What's the course to be, Mynheer Jansen," asked the man at the helm.

"Keep her right before it, my man; how's her head now?"

"About south-west."

"That will do--it will fetch somewhere--she walks fast through it. Spielman, heave the log."

"What does she go?"

"Eighty-five miles an hour; but we must allow something for the heave of the sea," replied the second mate.

"She don't sail as well as she did; but we are half full of water," replied Jansen.

When a ship runs down more than two degrees of longitude in an hour, it does not take her long to go half round the world. The Flying Dutchman, as she flew along, was pursued by the demons of the storm visible to the crew on board, although not to mortal eyes: some, with puffed-out cheeks, were urging her through the water; others mouthed and yelled; some kicked her stern in derision; others tumbled and curveted in the air above her--ever keeping pace with the vessel, jibing and jeering at their victory; for the Flying Dutchman no longer battled against the adverse elements, but at last had yielded to them. The Dutchmen cared little for the imps, they were used to them, and they smoked their pipes in silence, all but Vanderdecken; the mutiny of the men had put his pipe out.

On the second day they had passed Cape Horn without perceiving it; the wind veered more to the east, and they steered more to the northward. On the fourth evening, the sailor on the look-out at the bow called out "Land, hoh!" They steered right for it and entered a large bay; the anchor, in many parts not thicker than a pipe-stem, was dropped, the foresail clued up, and having first armed themselves, the seamen let the captain loose. Vanderdecken was as savage as a bear. He ran out with a pistol in each hand, but a pea-jacket was thrown over his head, and he was disarmed.

"Cowardly villains!" exclaimed the captain, as soon as the jacket was removed; "mutinous scoundrels--"

"We return to our duty, Captain Vanderdecken," replied the crew, "we will obey your orders. What shall we do first? Shall we mend the sails, or mend our clothes? Shall we darn our stockings, or go on shore for fresh water? Shall we caulk the ship, or set up the rigging? Speak, Captain Vanderdecken, you shall order us as you please."

"Tousend tyfels!" replied Vanderdecken, "go to----, all of you."

"Show us the way, captain, and we will follow you," replied the crew.

Gradually the captain's wrath was appeased; the ship required refitting and watering; he never could have doubled the Cape in the state she was in; the mutiny had prevented his breaking his oath--and now the seamen were obedient.

"Shall we take possession of the land, in the name of his most Christian Majesty?" said Jansen.

"Take possession in the name of his Satanic Majesty," replied Vanderdecken, turning sulkily away.

The captain had not quite recovered his good-humour--he returned to his cabin, mixed a tumbler of brandy and gunpowder, set fire to it, and drank it off--this tisane cooled him down, and when he came out, the crew perceived that all was right, so they went aft and touched their hats.

"Liberty on shore for an hour or two if you please," said they; "it's a long while that we've been treading the planks."

"Yes, you may go; but I'll keelhaul every man who's not off to his work by daylight--recollect that," replied Vanderdecken.

Donder und blitzen--we will all be on board, captain.

"They be queer sort of people in this country," observed Jansen, who had been surveying the shore of the bay with his telescope. "I can't make them out at all. I see them put their heads down close to the ground, and then they stand up again; they wear their breeches very low, and yet they jump remarkably well--Hundred tousend tyfels!" continued he, as he looked through the telescope again; "there's one of them six feet high at least, and he has jumped twenty yards. It can't be a woman--if she is, what a springy partner she would make in a dance!"

"We'll take the fiddle and schnapps on shore, and have a dance with the natives," cried the boatswain.

"Mind you behave civilly and make friends with them," said Vanderdecken; "don't be rude to the women."

"Nein, Mynheer," replied the crew, who now lowered the boats and were very soon pulling for the shore--every man with his pipe in his mouth.

The spectre-crew gained the beach--quitted the boat, and took up a position under a high rock. The pipes were refilled--the schnapps handed round, and very soon they were as jolly as ghosts could be.

"Come, Jansen, give us a song," cried Spielman; "and you, Dirk Spattrel, keep company with your fiddle."

"My windpipe is not quite so fresh as it was once," said Jansen, putting his bony fingers up to his neck, "but here goes:--

"In spite of wind and weather, In spite of mountain waves, If our timbers hold together And we sink not to our graves; The Cape we still will double, boys, The stormy Cape we'll clear,-- Who cares for toil or trouble, boys, Who thinks of watery bier?

"We left our wives behind us, Bright India's realms to gain, Let nothing then remind us Of them and home again; Close luff'd with well-set sails, lads, We still our course will steer, And beaten back by adverse gales, lads, Cry 'Thus, boys, and so near.'

"Who cares for mocking billows, Or demons of the deep? One half sleep on our pillows, While t'others deck-watch keep; Who cares for lightning's flashing, boys, Or noisy thunder's roar? We laugh at wild spray dashing, boys, And clouds that torrents pour.

"The ocean is the seaman's slave, Though mutiny it may; Our beast of burden is the wave As well by night as day; To round the Cape we'll reckon, lads, For so our captain will'd; Three cheers for Vanderdecken, lads, His vow shall be fulfill'd."

"Yaw--yaw," cried the crew, "we'll round the Cape yet. Drink, boys, drink--three cheers for Vanderdecken! We'll caulk the old ship; we'll repair our old sail; we'll mend our old clothes; we'll darn our old stockings, and then to sea again. Hurrah!--hurrah!"

Thus did they continue to drink and carouse until, if they had had any eyes left in their head, they never could have seen visually; but ghosts see mentally, and in the midst of their mirth and jollity, they saw some tall objects coming down gradually and peeping over the rocks, probably attracted by the fiddle of Dirk Spattrel.

"The natives!"--cried Jansen, "the natives!--now, my men, recollect the captain's orders--don't be rude to the women."

"Yaw--nein--yaw!" replied the reeling spectres; "oh, nein, but we'll get them down here and have a dance; that's civility all over the world."

"But I say," hiccupped Spielman, "what rum beggars these islanders be! only look, they are coming down to us, all of their own accord!"

This was true enough; a herd of kangaroos, attracted by the sound of the music, but of course not able to distinguish the spectre seamen, who, like all others of a similar nature, were invisible to mortal and to kangaroo eyes, had come down fearlessly to the foot of the rock where the crew were carousing.

The Dutchmen had never seen an animal so tall which stood erect like a man, and they were all very drunk; it is not therefore surprising that they mistook the kangaroos for natives clothed in skins, and as the broadest part of their dress was down on the ground, of course they fancied they were the women belonging to the island.

"Strike up, Dirk Spattrel," cried Jansen, taking hold of the paws of one of the kangaroos. "Wel sie valtz, Fraulein?"

The kangaroo started back, although it saw nothing, and of course said nothing.

"Don't be shamming modest, Fraulein. Now then, strike up, Dirk;" and Jansen passed his arm round the kangaroo, which appeared very much alarmed, but, seeing nothing, did not hop away. The rest of the seamen seized the other kangaroos by the paws or round the body, and in a short time such a dance was seen as never took place before. Some of the kangaroos stood upon their thick tails and kicked at their invisible partners with their hind feet, so as to send their ghostships many yards distant; others hopped and jumped in their fright many feet from the ground, taking their partners with them; others struggled violently to disengage themselves from their unseen assailants. Shouts, laughter, and shrieks resounded from the drunken crew at this strange junketting; at last, in their struggling to detain the animals, and the attempts of the frightened kangaroos to escape, the Dutchmen found themselves all mounted on the backs of the kangaroos, who, frightened out of their senses, bounded away in every direction. Thus did the ball break up, every kangaroo carrying off its partner in a different direction. Dirk Spattrel was the only one left, but there was a kangaroo also unemployed; determined not to be left behind, the fiddler jumped on its back, and clinging fast by his legs, commenced such a furious screeching upon his instrument that the animal made a bound of nearly forty yards every time, Dirk Spattrel playing on like one possessed, until he had not only gained, but was far in advance of his brother riders. Away they all went over hill and dale, the fiddle still shrieking in advance, until the exhausted animals fell down panting, and the Dutchmen, tired with their own exertions, and overcome with liquor, dropped asleep where they fell,--for ghosts do sleep as well as mortal men.

The next morning there was no one on board at eight o'clock, and Vanderdecken was full of wrath.

At last Dirk Spattrel, the fiddler, made his appearance with the remains of his instrument in his hand.

"Donder und vind--where are the crew?" cried Vanderdecken.

"All gone off with the natives," replied the fiddler.

"I thought as much," roared Vanderdecken, "and now I'll give you something for your good news."

Vanderdecken seized the end of the fore-brace and commenced a most furious attack upon the shoulders of Dirk Spattrel. The blows were given with great apparent force, but there was no sound, it was like buffeting a bag of wind; notwithstanding Dirk worked round and round, twisting and wincing, and crying, "Ah, yaw, ah!"

"Take that, scoundrel!" cried Vanderdecken, as much out of breath as a ghost could be.

"They're coming off now, captain," said Dirk Spattrel, rubbing his shoulders.

Jansen and the rest of the crew now made their appearance, looking very sheepish.

"Where have you been, scoundrels?"

"Mynheer Vanderdecken," replied Jansen, "the island is peopled with ghosts and goblins, and demons and devils; one of them seized upon each of us and carried us off the Lord knows where."

"Fools!--do you believe in such nonsense as ghosts and spectres?" replied Vanderdecken, "or do you think me such an ass as to credit you? Who ever saw a ghost or spectre! Stuff, Jansen, stuff--you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"It's all true, captain; they came down and ran away with us. Is it not so, men?"

"Yaw, yaw," said the crew, "it's all true, Captain Vanderdecken; they leaped with us as high as the moon."

"Much higher," cried Dirk Spattrel.

"You're a parcel of lying drunken dogs," roared Vanderdecken; "I stop all your leaves--you sha'nt go on shore again."

"We don't want," replied Jansen, "we will never go on shore at such a place--full of devils--it is really Van Demon's Land;--we will have the fiddle on the forecastle."

"Nein," replied Dirk Spattrel, mournfully showing the fragments.

"De tyfel," exclaimed Jansen, "dat is the worst of all;--now, men, we will work hard and get away from this horrid place."

"Yaw, yaw," exclaimed the crew.

They did work hard; the sails were repaired, the ship was caulked, their clothes were mended, their stockings were darned, and all was ready.

The wind blew fiercely from off shore, roaring through the woods, and breaking down heavy branches.

Vanderdecken held his hand up--"I think there is a light air coming off the land, Jansen--Man the capstan."

"Only a cat's paw; it will not fill our sails, Captain Vanderdecken," replied the mate.

The gale increased until it was at the height of its fury. The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the rain came down in torrents. The wind howled in its rage.

"I think we shall have a light pleasant breeze soon," said Vanderdecken. "Heave round, my lads, a little more of it and we shall do. Hoist blue Peter and fire a gun." A colourless flag, thin as a cobweb, went to the mast-head; the match was applied to the gun, which was so honeycombed and worn out, that the smoke came out of it in every direction as if it had been a sieve. The anchor was hove up by the spectre crew; the sails were set, and once more the phantom-ship was under weigh, once more bounding through the waves to regain her position, and fulfil her everlasting doom. And as she flew before the hurricane, the crew, gathered together on the forecastle, broke out in the following chorus:--

Away, away! once more away, To beat about by night and day; With joy, the Demons' land we leave, Again the mountain waves to cleave. With a Ha--Ha--Ha!

Once more the stormy Cape we'll view, Again our fearless toil pursue; Defy the spirits of the air, Who scoffing bid us to despair. With their Yaw--Yaw--Yaw! Ha--Ha--Ha!

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.