CHAPTER V.

Ben Brailsford lost not a moment in raising the insensible Frank in his arms, and was about to quit the ground, when he caught sight of the prostrate lieutenant, who now began to recover something like consciousness. He hesitated to depart, and that hesitation was fatal to their freedom, for the enemy had rallied, and receiving a strong reinforcement, became in turn the assailants. The allies were beaten back, and in a few minutes Ben and his young charge were prisoners of war under the guard of the very soldier who had so shortly before been defeated by the seaman. In their progress to the rear they stopped at a dilapidated house near Alcoule, which was occupied as an hospital, and Frank's wound, which was not very serious, was dressed by a surgeon, and the youth recovered.

In the same apartment were several wounded officers, amongst whom were General O'Hara and the man who subsequently ruled the destinies of France--Napoleon Buonaparte. But the young midshipman and his gallant protector were not suffered to remain; they were placed with a number of other prisoners under an escort, and proceeded on towards Paris. At Louviers they were joined by another detachment from Toulon, and amongst them was their old acquaintance Sambo. But the negro was not a prisoner: with the cunning of his race, he had no sooner been captured than he declared himself the servant of Monsieur Polverel, and that being forced into the English service, he was endeavouring to escape. His story was not at first credited; but being recognised by the younger Robespierre (then acting as the chief of the commissariat before Toulon), who had seen him in Paris, he was released. A plausible tale deceived the Frenchman, and Sambo was sent round to join his master.

Ben hailed the black with great glee, and Frank addressed him, expressing regret at his capture; but the wary negro pretended not to know them, though when they halted for the night, he found means to supply them with provisions, and clean straw to sleep upon.

At length they entered Paris, and were met by a revolutionary mob which had just been witnessing the feeding of the guillotine with victims from their own body. The appearance of the prisoners was hailed with loud shouts, and numbers of both sexes rushed forward to wreak their still unsatiated vengeance. Sambo had stood aloof; but when he saw the extreme danger which his old friends were in, he joined them, fully determined to afford all the protection in his power. The sight of a black seemed to awaken a still greater degree of excitement amongst the rabble, especially as the negro by his position manifested opposition to their designs. Yells and shouts arose. "A bas les noirs!" "à la lanterne!" "à la place de Grève!" "let us see what colour his blood is!" "an experiment! an experiment!" "away with him to the guillotine!" "we have had no negro yet! an experiment! an experiment!" A desperate rush was made upon them, and both Sambo and the young midshipman were separated from the rest and borne away by the mob.

It was perhaps well for Frank that he had been plundered of his uniform soon after his capture; for such was the demoniac hatred of the English, that, as an officer, he probably might have been torn to pieces. The negro addressed them in their own language, announcing himself a native of San Domingo, employed by Monsieur Polverel, but his voice was drowned in the universal outcry, and then he joined in their shouts of "Vive la Nation!" sung snatches of revolutionary songs, danced as they danced, and tried by every means to appease their fury. But the wretches wanted to see a black man die; it promised a new sensation.

The mob approached the Hôtel de Ville, when their progress was arrested by a tall man who was supported on a post that elevated him so as to be distinctly conspicuous to all. His dress was shabby in the extreme, and on his head he wore the revolutionary cap, but both Frank and the negro instantly recognised Monsieur Polverel. He spoke to the rabble, and in a vehement address that drew down loud applause he approved of their excesses, whilst the mob, to show that they had fresh victims to immolate, thrust forward the negro and the youth, so that he might see them. Polverel instantly descended, and, rushing amongst the throng, clasped the negro in his arms.

"What do you?" exclaimed he; "in your just fury the eye of reason is dimmed--is he not a man and a brother?" and again he embraced him, to the great surprise of the black. "Cease, my friends," continued Polverel; "know ye not that deputies have arrived from San Domingo to sit in the great council of the nation? This is one of them; I am a member of the Society of 'Les Amis des Noirs,' and know him well." He turned to Sambo, "Pardon, citizen deputy, the zeal of the people." He took the arm of the astonished negro, and pinching it most unmercifully, shouted "Vive le peuple, vive la nation;" the _impressive_ hint was not lost, for Sambo's voice rose high in chorus.

In an instant the scene was changed, the merciless wretches were diverted from their purpose, and the negro whom they would have murdered in pastime but for this fortunate intervention was raised upon the shoulders of two stout men and greeted with cheers of welcome; they bore him along to the Hôtel de Ville. In his joy for deliverance Sambo forgot his young master, but it was only for the moment; and in turning to look for him, he saw that Monsieur Polverel had taken him under his protection, and was leading him away from the throng; for the Frenchman had not forgotten the obligation he was under to Frank for saving him from the fury of an English mob; he withdrew him cautiously from the dangerous company he was in, and placing the youth under the charge of a friend, followed the rabble in order to perfect the rescue of his servant.

The person to whose care Frank was entrusted was an elderly man apparently verging upon sixty years of age, but there was a keenness in his eye and a vivacity in his manner that manifested an active and intelligent mind; his dress was slovenly, but he wore a handsome tri-color sash round his loins, and carried a red cap in his hand. At first he spoke to Frank in French, but something occurring to displease him, he broke out into broad English, and muttered his anathemas against the cause.

"You are an Englishman, then," said Frank, with symptoms of disgust which did not escape the other's notice.

"Thou art right," returned the man; "I am an Englishman by birth, but a citizen of the world--a friend to the whole human race on the principles of universal liberty. Expatriated and driven from my country, this noble and enlightened nation has adopted me; and here in brotherly affection I can carry out into practice my theory of the rights of man. What is life, my young friend, without the blessings of freedom!"

At this moment a municipal officer, attended by three or four subordinates, stepped up to Frank's companion, and, grasping him by the arm, uttered "Citizen Paine, you are our prisoner."

"By whose authority?" demanded the Englishman, his face assuming a deadly paleness.

"The authority is here," returned the officer, showing a paper with the signature of Robespierre attached to it, and, a fiacre immediately stopping by their side, citizen Paine was hurried into it and driven off to the Luxembourg, where, in the chamber which had been occupied by many a victim to the revolutionary mania, he contemplated the paternal regard of the nation that had adopted him, and sighed for the blessing of that freedom of which he had so vainly boasted. He had sat in judgment on the mock trial of the unfortunate Louis, but had given his vote against the monarch's death. This had rendered the ambitious dictator his enemy, and an opportunity was soon sought to take his life. The egotistical boasting of Thomas Paine afforded a pretext for arresting him; he was sent to prison, and would have been sacrificed by "his friends" but for an accident which saved him.

Frank, hungry and thirsty, destitute of money, and but with few rags to cover him, now stood alone in one of the by-streets of Paris. As evening came on, he crept into the cellar-way of an uninhabited house. At daylight he emerged from his concealment, and proceeded in the same direction in which he had been going when parted from his guide. It was yet early when, on turning a corner, he beheld a well-looking young man, accompanied by a stout Amazonian female, who were hurrying forward, but, on seeing the youth, suddenly stopped, and Frank felt his arm grasped by the woman, whilst a chuckle of delight escaped from the young man, who uttered in a whisper--

"Yah no for peak-a me, Massa Frank, hearee? Dere him, massa, for me behind--tan lilly bit become for you."

Frank stared with astonishment--the voice was that of Sambo, but the skin was fair. "How--what is this?" demanded he.

"Oh, it's all ship-shape enough, Master Frank," said the woman in a masculine tone, and hitching up her petticoats in true nautical style. "I'm bless'd, young gentleman, but you do shake a cloth or two in the wind--but there, what's the odds so as you're happy? Mountseer Pulthebell is coming up astarn, and a precious cruise they've had arter you."

"Yah no for tand palaver here, Missy Ben," muttered Sambo, with a grin of mirth. "Golly me black deputy now, and dem debbil take off white head at 'em gullemtine, no sabby de citizen nigger," and he pushed forward with his companion.

In spite of all his mishaps Frank could not refrain from laughing at the awkwardness of the pretended female, who straddled along with swinging arms, the petticoats evidently embarrassing the wearer. In a few minutes the youth was joined by Monsieur Polverel, who cautioned him to preserve silence and follow his movements. Shortly afterwards he stopped before the entrance of a mean-looking building, and knocking at the door, was immediately admitted. Frank followed, and was ushered into an apartment poorly furnished, where he found Sambo and the seaman, and learned that Polverel, by means of his influence and some little intrigue, had procured Ben's release, and disguised in woman's clothes, under the guidance of Sambo, whose face was concealed beneath a mask, had got him clear away from present danger.

Refreshment was ordered, and Polverel led Frank through the house to some back premises, where the apartments were fitted up in the most elegant style, everything displaying an air of luxury which strongly contrasted with the appearance of the front building, which served as a blind to the populace, who had declared a lasting enmity to all things beyond their own sphere of enjoyment, though themselves were the principal sufferers through the want of demand for their manufactures and the consequent stoppage of industrious labour.

Here Frank and Ben remained, and Polverel renewed his attempts to undermine the youth's loyalty; he took him with him to the clubs; offers of lucrative appointments were made, powerful inducements were held out, but all were firmly rejected. He loved his country too well to swerve from his allegiance; his heart yearned to see his mother once again; but had there not been these incentives, the horrible atrocities he had witnessed were too deeply impressed upon his mind to permit a willing companionship with the wretches who perpetrated and sanctioned them.

In his evening excursions Frank had frequently encountered a tall man whose features were familiar to him, and more than once or twice he had observed him enter the house of Monsieur Polverel. An indefinable curiosity induced him to watch this man, and being on one occasion in a remote part of the room, when he and the deputy came in, he remained perfectly still and undiscovered, and was not long in ascertaining by their conversation that the stranger was an Englishman in the pay of the Jacobins, and had brought over some important intelligence relative to the designs of the English government, which he was now in a traitorous manner betraying to the enemy.

Frank scarcely suppressed an indignant exclamation, but fortunately he did suppress it, and rose to quit the room. This was the first intimation they had of his presence, and as he passed the spy the youth looked boldly in his face. In an instant the man's countenance underwent a change; there was the peculiar rolling of the eye which Frank had never forgotten, and lawyer Brady was revealed before him.

The young midshipman now resolved to attempt an escape, and Polverel finding that all his endeavours to detain him were useless, at last furnished him with the means. Stores were about to be forwarded to the Army of the North, and it was proposed that the seaman and his young officer should accompany them; the former habited as a Dutchwoman, the latter as a volunteer, taking their chance to slip away wherever and whenever they could; but the very night these arrangements were completed, Polverel was seized by order of his _friend_, Robespierre, a sham trial was hurried over, and the next day he was consigned to the guillotine.

Frank did not delay another instant (for he was aware that the property of the deputy would be plundered by the populace), and being provided with the papers furnished by Polverel, set out on his journey, accompanied by Ben in short petticoats, wooden shoes, and a large hat; his whiskers were shaved off, but he would not part with his tail, and it was therefore braided up round his head, and a fine buxom vrow he made. Sambo had no inducement to remain behind; so securing what money he could find, and taking his fiddle, he joined his young master, and all three proceeded on their way. The stores for the army were not ready, and they, therefore, resolved to travel as "independent" characters.

In the evening they stopped at a small village, about thirty miles from Paris, and entering the kitchen of a cabaret, they ordered supper; but finding they were objects of notice, Frank directed Sambo to tune his violin, and he chanted forth a chansonette with much taste and feeling, to the great gratification of several young demoiselles, who honoured the performance with applause, and pronounced it "bien bon!"

Sambo next struck up a lively tune, and footing it first to one and then to another, the company caught up the humour, and to dancing they went with great glee. Frank, selecting a pretty little girl for a partner, joined in the sport; and Ben, in short, quilted, red petticoats, nearly up to his knees--his stout sustainers covered with blue worsted stockings and heavy sabots--with a tight-fitting woman's jacket and red neckerchief as a body-dress, and his pipe raised in the air, footed it merrily enough to Sambo and his violin. Frank, in a jacket with silver lace on the collar and cuffs, and diminutive worsted epaulettes on the shoulders--striped gingham trousers, and a tri-color sash round his loins, wheeled with grace and agility through the mazy figures with his beautiful little partner. She was tastefully arrayed in a white frock, embroidered with flowers, (for it was the festival of her tutelar saint,) and her hair was wreathed with vine-leaves, jasmine, and roses. Several young females, who had come to visit her on the occasion, were clad in their best attire, and, as a matter of course, the youths of the neighbourhood had joined them after their day's labour; and now they were all in motion, till dark night put an end to the revelry; and the trio, accommodated in a barn, soon forgot their cares and their pleasures in sweet, refreshing sleep.

The next morning the three quitted the cabaret--at the door they were accosted by a gendarme; but the youth told his ready tale, showed his papers, and they received no further molestation. Numerous were their adventures as they progressed--sometimes in extreme danger of detection--at others, enjoying themselves in perfect confidence. Two days they passed in the woods without food, journeying only by night.

At length they abandoned the direct road, and kept away to the left for the coast; hoping to reach some place in the neighbourhood of Blankenberg, a fishing village on the sea-shore. This they accomplished, and arrived about midnight on the beach, which they crept along, at some distance from the vessels, lest they should be detected. Not a boat to suit their purpose could they find at liberty--all were fast secured by chains, and their oars removed, as if some such visitation as the present had been feared. In this dilemma they cautiously returned to the village, and searched amongst the cottages; but here they were again doomed to disappointment, and were about to retreat to some place of concealment till the following night, when the sound of voices was heard in a small cabin, and Frank, stealthily approaching to listen, at length got near enough to a chink in the window to see the interior, and ascertained that an Englishman, with two females, was endeavouring, by the offer of a considerable sum, to bribe three or four fishermen to convey them either to Holland or to England. The men at first seemed disinclined to listen to any proposals that might bring upon them the vengeance of the police, and they talked of surrendering them to the authorities.

"That will at once seal my doom!" exclaimed the Englishman, in agony. "Have not the wretches denounced me, because of the money they owed me, and their base designs upon my child? Oh, God! do thou appear for me in this trying moment!"

The fishermen consulted together in whispers, whilst the females clung to the Englishman; and Frank ascertained by their discourse that the elder lady was the wife, and the younger the daughter, of the man. Again the latter earnestly urged his appeal to their generosity, their humanity, and every better principle of human nature--the ladies, too, joined their entreaties. Frank was half-tempted to the hazardous experiment of bringing up his companions and forcing them into compliance.

At length the fishermen consented to embark them for Holland, or any place occupied by the Allies, on condition that they gave up all the money and every valuable in their possession previously to their departure, and insured a still further sum on reaching a place of safety. Elated at the prospect of escape, the terms were immediately complied with; and now Frank became aware of the extreme danger he should have incurred had he attempted to attack them, for whilst the Englishman and the females were divesting themselves of their cash and every valuable they had, three other athletic men came from an inner apartment--making seven in all--to claim their share of the spoil.

As soon as the division had taken place, they departed to launch their boat, commanding the Englishman and the ladies to remain quietly in the cottage till they were sent for. Frank concealed himself in an adjacent shed, occupied by his companions, till they were gone.

"It's all plain enough, young gen'l'man," whispered Ben; "they will get the great vessel afloat--come ashore in the punt for the passengers--we must seize on her, shove off, and capture the big craft--then take the ladies on board, and make sail for the North Foreland--though the wind is dead again us; but what's the odds--"

"That," interrupted Frank, "could only be effected by leaving our countryman and the ladies behind; an idea I will not for one moment entertain. Remain here--if I want you, I will whistle--then come without delay."

The youth returned to the cottage, and addressing the gentleman in French, he acknowledged that he had overheard their scheme, and earnestly implored him to permit himself, a female servant, and a negro, to embark in the same vessel, provided they could gain the consent of the crew. The gentleman steadfastly refused--"he would not endanger his own safety by acceding to it."

Rather mortified at being thus harshly treated--especially as he knew that he might ensure his own safety by leaving them behind--Frank would have answered indignantly, but he preferred remonstrance, avowed himself a royalist desirous of joining the Allies, and assured him that no danger could occur by giving his consent. The man continued inflexible, till the ladies, won by the youth's earnestness, interceded, and an unwilling assent was obtained.

The light of coming day had become visible when one of the fishermen returned, and great was his apparent vexation to find other suppliants for a passage in the vessel. However, he offered but slight objection, and in a few minutes they were all down on the beach. Here a difficulty arose as to their embarkation. The punt would carry no more than two passengers beside the men that pulled, and the gentleman was unwilling to leave either his wife or his daughter behind, nor would the females consent to go without him.

"Do not fear," said one of the fishermen. "Time is precious with us--we ought to be all on board now; and rely upon it we are not such fools as to leave any one behind to betray our movements."

The latter argument was the most conclusive, and the gentleman embarked with his wife, leaving his daughter to the care of Frank, who spoke soothingly to her, and tried to allay her alarm; he took off his jacket and wrapped it round her shoulders, as a protection from the cold air, and in her fear she clung to his arm whilst he supported her.

The punt was not long away--all were soon aboard--the anchor was weighed, and they hauled off from the shore. The father with the females took up his station abaft, whilst Frank and his party occupied the midships, and the seaman and the negro were soon fast asleep; but the young midshipman's thoughts were too pleasantly occupied by his escape, and the prospects of an interview with his mother, to compose himself to slumber. Another object too now presented itself; it was the fair young creature who had so confidingly clung to him on the beach. However, to prevent observation, and the better to indulge in meditation, he closed his eyes, and pretended to be oblivious to all that passed. Whilst thus reclining, he overheard a sort of muttered conversation between two of the fishermen which, though he could only catch disjointed sentences, apprised him that treachery was at work; and he now readily understood the reason that greater obstruction had not been offered to the embarkation. The crew doubted the promise to receive further recompense, and expecting to be rewarded for delivering them up as prisoners, had come to the determination of making for a French port. Frank's ears tingled whilst listening to this avowal of abominable treachery, but he cautiously abstained from exciting any suspicion that he was aware of their designs. He determined to watch them narrowly, and when opportunity offered, he got close to Ben, who, on making a tack to windward, had roused up, and without mentioning particulars, told him "they were betrayed unless they could master the crew, and directed him to be ready for an attack at a moment's warning." He then briefly conveyed a similar communication to Sambo, and vainly tried to catch the eye of the gentleman abaft for the purpose of inciting him to wariness.

The breeze was to the northward, with a lee tide running, so that, though apparently working to windward between the sands and the shore, they were rapidly drifting down towards Ostend, which was then in the hands of the French. Ben comprehended the whole of this in an instant, and saw, what the others, from their want of nautical knowledge, did not observe, that the helmsman frequently edged off from the wind, so as to facilitate their approach to Ostend, which was soon upon their lee-bow, and the boat standing for the harbour.

The gentleman, wholly insensible to the danger which threatened them, sat between his wife and daughter, and was speaking words of cheering import, relative to their being rescued from the enemy, and the prospect of soon enjoying the comforts of their native land. Everything was perfectly tranquil in the vessel, which was lightly dancing over the smooth waters and breaking the sun-light upon its surface. He also remarked upon the quietude of their fellow-passengers, and even ventured a joke upon the apparently solid countenance of the Dutchwoman, when suddenly--in an instant, as if madness ruled the moment, they saw her spring to her feet, and, grasping the pump-brake in her hand, she flourished it right and left, laying a fisherman prostrate at every blow. Sambo also grappled an opponent, whom he lifted over the gunwale, hurled into the sea and then attacked another, whilst Frank rushed aft to the steersman, shouting to the gentleman, "We are Englishmen, it is a French port under our lee, and we are betrayed; for the sake of those you love--hurrah!--do not remain inactive."

Nothing could exceed the amazement of the gentleman at this wholly unexpected occurrence, and his astonishment was still more increased when the supposed Dutchwoman, came bounding aft, flourishing her weapon, and shouting in the nautical language of his native land, as he hurled the steersman from his place,--"Ware hause, you lubber--what's the odds, so as you're happy?" and taking the tiller, he put the vessel right before the wind. "Bear a hand, Master Frank," continued Ben, "and keep her as she goes: and I'm saying, ould gentleman, jist you show yourself smart, and let 'em know as you've a little English blood in your veins. Hurrah!--what's the odds?"--and again he rushed forward to assist Sambo, who was stoutly contesting it with his foes.

British prowess triumphed--the struggle, though severe, did not last long--the Blankenbergers were conquered; the punt was cast adrift for those who were swimming--the remainder were bound hand and foot; the sails were trimmed to stand off from the land; and great indeed was the gratitude of the husband and the father, and still more delightful were the acknowledgments of the ladies, when they ascertained the great service that had been rendered to them. Mutual explanations ensued--hearty congratulations were given; and in the afternoon they fell in with an English brig which received them all on board. The fishermen, after a sound rope's-ending for their treachery, had their vessel restored; and the rescued party were the next morning gratified by entering the river Thames.

THE MUFFIN-MAN

A little man who muffins sold, When I was little too, Carried a face of giant mould, But tall he never grew.

His arms were legs for strength and size, His coat-tail touch'd his heels; His brows were forests o'er his eyes, His voice like waggon-wheels.

When fallen leaves together flock, And gusts begin to squall, And suns go down at six o'clock, You heard his muffin call.

Born in the equinoctial blast, He came and shook his bell; And with the equinox he pass'd, But whither none could tell.

Some thought the monster turn'd to dew, When muffins ceased to reign, And lay in buds the summer through Till muffin-time again.

Or Satyr, used the woods to rove, Or ev'n old Caliban; Drawn by the lure of oven-stove To be a muffin-man.

The dwarf was not a churlish elf, Who thought folks stared to scoff; But used deformity itself To set his muffins off.

He stood at doors, and talk'd with cooks, While strangers took his span, And grimly smiled with childhood's looks At him, the muffin-man.

When others fled from nipping frost, And fled from drenching skies, And when in fogs the street was lost, You saw his figure rise.

One night his tinkle did not sound, He fail'd each 'custom'd door; 'Twas first of an eternal round Of nights he walk'd no more.

When, borne in arms, my infant eye The restless search began, The nursery-maid was wont to cry, "See John, the muffin-man!"

My path, with things familiar spread, Death's foot had seldom cross'd; And when they said that John was dead, I stood in wonder lost.

New muffin-men from lamp to lamp, With careless glance I scan; For none can ever raze thy stamp, Oh John, thou muffin-man!

Thou standest snatch'd from time and storm, A statue of the soul; And round thy carved and goblin form, Past days--past days unroll.

We will not part--Affection dim This song shall help to fan; And Memory, firmer bound to him, Shall keep her Muffin-man.

A TIGER-HUNT IN ENGLAND.

"Who has let loose my tiger?" demanded Sir Pimpleton Pettibones of his butler, whom he had summoned to the breakfast parlour by the sound of the bell in a manner that indicated great impatience. "Who has dared to let him loose? I locked him up last night for robbing the larder, and this morning he is missing; where is he?"

The butler obsequiously bowed. "Extremely sorry, Sir Pimpleton; but really, Sir Pimpleton, I am ignorant and innocent of the whole affair."

"Somebody must have let him out," responded the irascible baronet, "and I shall be too late for the meet. Let search be instantly made--such a tiger as that is not to be caught every day."

The butler bowed and withdrew; whilst his master, arrayed in a scarlet hunting-coat, sat down to his repast, venting imprecations upon the tiger, whom he declared it was his determination to catch before he should accomplish further mischief. This happened at a beautiful mansion in Kent, whither Sir Pimpleton had gone down for the hunting season, taking his tiger (who was a great favourite) with him. Whilst the search was still in progress, word was brought to the baronet that the "creature" had been seen early that morning in the stable-yard, and a beautiful swift-footed pony was missing, which--as the tiger had shown great partiality to horse-flesh--it was supposed he had made away with.

"Hillio--hillio!--quick--saddle every horse in the stables," shouted the baronet, "we'll scour the country--the game is up--hark forward--hark forward!--yoicks, tally ho!" and away he went with grooms and keepers down to the stalls, where he himself saddled his best hunter, and in a few minutes he was flying away across the park, with a long straggling tail like a comet after him, towards the village.

"Have you seen my tiger?" demanded the baronet, reining up his gallant steed in front of the Pettibones Arms, and addressing the landlord--a red, platter-faced man of some seventeen stone; "have you seen him? he broke cover and stole away this morning--he must be prowling somewhere about--have you seen him?"

"Lor love yer honour, no," responded mine host, with a grin of astonishment and stupidity. "Them tigers are thirsty sowls; but he's never been here to drink."

"Hillio, hillio!" shouted Sir Pimpleton, as his attendants came riding up, "handle your whips and follow me;" and dismounting, he entered the hostelry, where the good dame was busy in culinary operations. "Where's my tiger?" was again the cry. "He's crouching somewhere here."

"Now laws ha' mercy upon us, I hope not, yer honour!" exclaimed the old dame in dreadful alarm. "What, a real tiger, yer honour? Be em a live un or a stuffed un?"

"Fool!" vociferated the baronet, "a live one to be sure, with large goggle eyes and a fang tooth. I must find his lair." The entire premises were examined, but the tiger was not there.

"To horse, to horse," commanded the baronet, to the great relief of the old lady; "and hark ye, dame, if he should come here, shut him up directly, and let me know. Away, my men, away." Sir Pimpleton rushed forth, mounted his horse, and away he scoured like a madman, or what is next of kin to a madman, a break-neck squire.

"Jeames, Jeames," called the hostess as soon as the cavalcade had departed, "come in, Jeames, fasten the door, and get thees blunderbusk, and load un wi' bullocks" (bullets probably), "and if so be the crittur comes this way, shoot un, Jeames--shoot un without benefit of clargy."

On rode the baronet full pelt, and tailing after him followed half-a-dozen attendants in scarlet coats and black velvet caps. The coverts were tried, every nook was searched, but without effect, and they soon afterwards entered another village.

"My tiger! my tiger!" exclaimed the baronet as he burst into the first cottage, which contained a female with five or six children playing and sprawling about the floor. "Have you seen the tiger? he has broke loose, and cannot be far off."

"The tiger!" repeated the woman, terribly alarmed for the safety of her infants, which she speedily gathered up and thrust into a capacious closet. "Oh dear, what shall we do!" The cottage was searched, as were also several others, to the great consternation of the villagers. Then arose the cries of mothers for "Johnnies" and "Billies" and "Kitties" and "Sukies" and "Tommies," to collect the stray lambs of the fold, or, in other words, the toddling children that were playing on the green; and in a few minutes not a soul of that population was to be seen.

A turnpike was close at hand, and thither Sir Pimpleton galloped; and after a few words with the 'pikeman, his sonorous voice was heard. "Hillio--hillio!--stole away--hark forward--hark forward!" and clapping spurs to his steed, onwards they pressed, flying over hedges and ditches to make a short cut.

Now it so happened that the hounds of a neighbouring squire were out, and as the muster at the meet was pretty strong, and Sir Pimpleton was well known for an eccentric, several members of the hunt rode up and inquired "what game they had started?"

"A tiger! a tiger!" shouted the baronet; "we're hard upon him--hark forward--yoicks--tally ho!"

A tiger-hunt in England was something new in the annals of sporting; and though they thought it strange to chase the animal without dogs, yet they were aware that Sir Pimpleton had passed many years in the East Indies, and probably accustomed to the sport, they concluded it was "all right;" and desirous of witnessing the novelty, many joined in the pursuit, amongst whom was the master of the hounds and his pack.

The cavalcade drew near a large town, and in they dashed, the baronet still shouting, out of breath, "The tiger!--the tiger! Have you seen my Ben--g-g-gal?" The words were quickly caught up; and the announcement that a fierce Bengal tiger was adrift in the town spread like wildfire. The tradesmen shut up their shops; the inhabitants fastened their doors; there was a brief running to and fro in terror, but the streets were speedily cleared; and from many an up-stairs window was protruded a blunderbuss, a fowling-piece, or a pistol, the proprietors of which were eagerly intent upon destroying the furious animal, though some few even thus elevated scarcely considered themselves safe from his bound. The cry of the hounds, the shouting of the hunters, the rattling of horses' hoofs upon the stones, and the wailings of women, with the cheers of the men, produced a clamour such as had never before been heard in that place. Mothers clasped their children and concealed them in beaufets, or turned them up in press-bedsteads--fathers armed themselves with defensive weapons, and a body of volunteers mustered in the inn yard with loaded muskets, taking good care however to keep the gates shut.

"Have you seen the tiger?" was still the cry; and Sir Pimpleton having obtained some information, "Stole away--hark forward," was again the word.

They shot up Shooter's-hill without stopping to breathe, and when on the brow, an animal, with apparently a blood-red back, was seen scouring towards Blackheath. The baronet, with the lungs of a northerly gale, uttered the "view halloo," which was caught up and repeated by the rest. The hounds gave tongue and made play. It was a beautiful burst. The whip and spur were plied. The steeds, though jaded, knew well by instinct that the "warmint" was in sight, and kept up their speed, and down the hill they swept like a mountain torrent.

But the tiger was not to be easily caught. There was no jungle or hollow to hide in, and away he scudded over the heath with great velocity, as if sensible that the enemy was behind him. Once he was missed, and it was supposed had run to earth in a sand-pit; but the next moment he was seen on the other side climbing the bank to shorten his distance, and in a few minutes he was over the brow of the hill past the Green Man, and descending at a tremendous rate. The hunters followed hard upon him, the hounds in full cry, and again rose the shout from a dozen voices--"The tiger! the tiger!" But the tiger had disappeared amongst the horses, and they had now no clue to his advance, except from the amazed spectators, who hastily cleared the road at the novel and somewhat alarming spectacle. "The tiger! the chase!" exclaimed Sir Pimpleton. Three or four hands were extended to point out the direction he had taken; and those who had not "dropped off" still followed the hounds. Away they rattled through the Broadway, Deptford, amidst cries and cheers of "Go it, you'll catch him directly. Hurrah!" And they once more caught sight of the tiger on the line of road towards New Cross. Cheerily again sounded the "view halloo,"--the animal seemed to be sensible that his pursuers were spurring in hot haste after him--the turnpike-men enjoyed the sport and threw open their gates--hounds and horses, and men rattled through--the Bricklayers' Arms, the Elephant and Castle, Westminster-bridge, saw them rush past like a whirlwind, the tiger still in advance; nor did the chase cease till the baronet's town mansion, close to St. James's Park, was reached. A reeking pony stood at the door, which was open. Sir Pimpleton dismounted, cheering the hunters on--the game was all alive; the whole threw themselves from their horses, and hounds and men following, the baronet bounced into the drawing-room, where Lady Pettibones was receiving morning visits from dashing young spinsters and elderly dowagers.

"The tiger--my tiger," exclaimed Sir Pimpleton, in a wild and loud voice, "he has broke loose, and is now in the house."

Dreadful was the consternation at this announcement--a mouse crossing the floor would have been terrific, but to have a savage and sanguinary tiger ranging about, the thought was horrible. Shrieks and screams abounded--some ladies threw themselves into the arms of the gentlemen, others ran hurriedly about, and many, in their terror, could not distinguish between the ferocious animal and a hound, so as to tell "vich vos the tiger and vich vos the dog." At length, one of the whippers-in rushed through the door-way, exclaiming "We've got him, your honour, they're bringing him along." The confusion grew tenfold. Screams and shrieks mingled with the loud cheers of the hunters, and the mouthing of the hounds, when a couple of grooms appeared, dragging in a diminutive being in a scarlet jacket, buckskin tights, and white top-boots, with several dirty and ragged fish hanging by a long string in his hand; they placed him in the middle of the floor right before the baronet, and it was with difficulty that the hounds could be kept off.

"You rascal," vociferated Sir Pimpleton, raising his whip, "what do you mean by leading me such a dance! Didn't I lock you up for thieving--didn't I?"

"Vy yes, your honour," responded this perfect miniature of man; "but afore that, you ordered me to carry a bundle o' red-herrings to town, and give this here letter to deliver to her ladyship, and, when I came back, to bring down the cab; so I only obeyed orders." He held up the letter, and whilst trying to conceal the tattered fish, he looked smirkingly in the baronet's face, and added, "I say, your honour, that 'ere pony's worth his weight in gowld."

"Be off then, and take every care of him," said the more appeased baronet, looking at the fish and laughing. The lad, winking at the grooms, waited for no further orders. "And now, ladies and gentlemen," continued Sir Pimpleton, "that is Ben Gall, my tiger. Men, take off the hounds; we have had a capital run, gentlemen, which, no doubt, must have given you good appetites. Your horses shall have every attention--refreshment shall be immediately brought up for yourselves--a bumper of brandy round shall open the entertainment, and since we are all here together, why we'll wind up the day like true sons of Nimrod after an English TIGER HUNT."

OMNIBUS CHAT.

Our monthly chat commences with a short dissertation on a very ample topic--

INGENIOUS ROGUERIES.

It may be remarked by any one who chooses to note the fact, that the most ingenious rogueries are seldom those which succeed best. The deep-laid scheme will often explode of itself; the right hand that never lost its cunning will sometimes miss its reward; the genius of knavery will walk barefoot, with an appetite as keen as itself; while the common bungler, the blundering rascal, the scoundrel who is idiot also, shall succeed in all his stupid, shallow, contemptible designs, and ride home to dinner quite convinced that, though not strictly honest, he is astonishingly clever, or _talented_--for that is, in these cases, the more orthodox word.

It is not the most skilful burglar that safely worms his way to the butler's pantry, or insinuates with most success his hand into the plate-chest; nor is it the most dexterous picker of pockets who is permitted longest to ply his art, or earliest retires upon a Pelion of purses piled upon an Ossa of bandannas. The blockheads in this, as in some other professions, often carry off the palm. "Whom the gods love die young." The thief of high and cultivated talent, the swindler of fine taste and exquisite discernment, is frequently destined to suffer early the fate which considerably later overtakes the fool. Somehow the world does not do justice even to its rogues. It refuses to be taken in by the profound rascal, while it readily falls a victim to the veriest dunce in the great School for Scoundrels.

While we see so many expert horsemen breaking the necks of their nags, or throwing involuntary summersets;--while we observe how extremely careful, and how eminently well skilled, is every captain of every steamer that happens to figure in a horrible collision in broad daylight;--while we are called upon to bear witness to the excessive caution and singular scientific proficiency of every soul associated with a railway; and have to notice besides that all their care, and all their science, has invariably been exercised whenever a frightful accident may have happened upon their beat;--these failures of roguish talent, and misfortunes of accomplished knavery, cease to be peculiarly wonderful.

This remark has been suggested by observing the signal failure of a rather ingenious device, put forth in the form of an advertisement in some of the daily papers. It is an invitation to everybody who may chance to possess "unstamped receipts" for sums above £5, to communicate with the advertiser, who is, of course, to reward the production of such documents! Any simple person would suppose--as there are very droll specimens of collectors yet alive--more curious by far than any of the curiosities they collect--collectors of turnpike tickets, and of complete sets of checks for readmission to the Opera for eleven successive seasons!--that here was a gentleman who had taken a fancy for collecting a perfect set of unstamped receipts from the year 1800 to the present time. A little reflection, however, would show that his object _might_ be to lay informations against the parties who had signed them. The design has been penetrated into still further; for it appears that all parties showing such receipts put themselves in the power of the advertiser, as being equally liable with the signers for accepting them unstamped!

Yes, we are bound to say that here was considerable ingenuity exercised. Here was a stone flung that seemed sure to kill two birds. The possessor of such a document was more than likely to be tempted to show it, by the reward of one sovereign; which the other party could well afford to pay out of the many sovereigns extracted in the shape of penalty from the said producer's pocket--to say nothing of the same amount drawn from the signer of the receipt. Since the coaxing cry of "Biddy, come and be killed" was first raised, no more seductive snare has been conceived. "I have assembled you," said the considerate proprietor of live stock in the story, "I have assembled you, my pretty birds, to learn from you what sauce you would like to be eaten with." "But we don't want to be eaten," said the birds with one voice. "You wander from the point," was the answer. So, perhaps, would the collector of unstamped receipts have said to the producers. "I have assembled you here to know what you would like to pay me in lieu of the penalty you have incurred." "But we don't want to pay any penalty." "You wander from the point."

We have all heard the most scandalous and groundless stories about lawyers;--of opinions delivered concerning the genuineness of a half sovereign, followed by the deduction of six-and-eightpence for the advice;--of thirteen-and-fourpence charged for "attending, consulting, and advising," when the occasion was a splendid dinner given by the client--followed by a demand on the angry client's part for wine had and consumed--and this succeeded in turn by an information against the said client for selling wine without a licence. These, and a thousand such libels, we can all remember; but the reality above recorded is at least as striking as the most ingenious of such fictions.

To contrast with the non-success of this wily experiment upon a grand scale, we may cite an instance of equal ingenuity, exercised in a much humbler walk, and taking the form of knavery in its mixed character. We distinctly remember it to have happened. The scene may be a seaport, or the banks of the Thames below bridge. A seaman, bearing a huge stone bottle, applies at the Nelson's Head for a gallon of whisky for Captain Rope of the Matilda, lying off shore--to fill up the bottle already half full. The spirit is duly poured in, and the cash demanded. "Oh! the capp'n said nothen about that"--the whisky was to be added to his account, and that was all he knew. But "mine host" did not know the captain well enough, and couldn't let the whisky go. The gallon was therefore poured back again into the landlord's measure, and set aside to be called for. So far there appeared to be no knavery at all; but the spirit so poured back, presently turned out to be, not whisky, but excellent _one-water grog_; for the two-gallon bottle of the sailor contained exactly one gallon of pure water when it was brought in, and one gallon of pure whisky and water when it was taken out.

The means in this, as in myriads of cases, are curiously disproportioned to the end. How miserably poor is the prize, considered in reference to the risk; to the cleverness in the invention of the stratagem; to the address demanded for the due execution of it, to the time consumed, the trouble taken, the agencies employed! But the truth is, that the very cleverest rascals are rarely more than half-cunning. The ablest of knaves must be at best half a blockhead. When we remember how the great Bardolph, having stolen a lute-case, "carried it twelve miles and sold it for three half-pence," the perilous, profitless, toilsome, half-witted nature of roguery needs no illustration. One would like to have seen him walking back, thirsty and way-wearied, under a broiling sun, and never sure but that the lady who once owned the lute-case might be walking that way too!

That famous exploit of Master Bardolph's ought to be registered in large letters over every judgment-seat, and on the door of every police-office. The record would save much judicial breath, and supersede volumes of admonition.

* * * * *

Shakspeare's illustrations of Vice might possibly have led us into a dissertation at least as long upon Shakspeare's illustrations of Virtue, but that the learned Dr. Bulgardo here honoured our humble vehicle with his presence, and called general attention to a contrast equally striking, under the following title:--

THE SISTER SCIENCES; OR, BOTANY AND HORTICULTURE.

By DR. BULGARDO, L. S. D.,

Treasurer of several Learned Societies, and Professor of Asparagus at the University of Battersea.

BOTANY.

TO MARY, WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS.

Nay! say not faded--'tis despair Has thus subdued them, for they see That in themselves however fair, They ne'er can hope to equal thee! The Rose's joyous blush has fled, With which no other lip could vie; The Heartsease turns aside its head, Fearing to meet thy deep-blue eye. More sad the Myrtle's hue appears, The Jasmine's silver star is dim; Surpass'd by thee, thou seest the tears That tremble on the Harebell's brim. The Woodland Lily's silver cup Was never seen to droop as now, It dares not lift its flowerets up To gaze upon thy gentle brow. How canst thou look thus calmly on, And watch them slowly die the while? Recal them yet, ere life be gone, Enchantress, with thy sunny smile!

HORTICULTURE.

TO MOLLY, WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT AND VEGETABLES.

Nay! say not shrivell'd--'tis despair Has thus subdued them, for they see That in themselves however fair, They'll ne'er be relish'd, love, like thee! A deeper blush the Raspberry paints, Pale is the ruddy Beetroot's lip; And e'en the red-cheek'd Apple faints, As though it suffer'd from the pip. Severely frown the Baking Pears; The Artichoke's bold crest is down; The awe-struck Medlar wildly stares To see thy cheek a swarthier brown. The icy Cucumber is hot, The freckled Cauliflower wan; The Mushroom has no longer got A single leg to stand upon! See how the rich, round-shoulder'd Figs Bow to thy figure's graceful swell; The sobbing Orange bursts its pigs To find thee such a Nonpareil!

The Sister Sciences, female Siamese twins, having vanished from the scene, our correspondent, Mr. H. G. Adams, presented a second specimen of his curious

PHOTOGENIC PICTURES: A SCENE NEAR FOLKSTONE.

[Folkstone was made, says tradition, of the "odds and ends" left after the rest of the world was finished; and any one who has visited that jumble of heights and hollows, becomes impressed with the conviction that tradition sometimes speaks the truth.]

Some weather-beaten men with clothes all tar-ry, Keeping a sharp look-out upon the ocean, And little Tom, and Jack, and Bill, and Harry, Making upon the beach a dire commotion,-- Dabbling, like dab-chicks, in the billows briny, Hunting for crabs, and other things crustaceous, While a Newfoundland dog, in sport called "Tiny," Wags his huge bushy tail, and looks sagacious: Here wades a shrimper to his waist in water, There swims a bather, snorting like a grampus; And lo! James Muddle, with his wife and daughter, All in a boat, and crying out, "Don't swamp us!" Far in the offing you may see a cutter, Her white sails gleaming like the sea-gull's pinions,-- She means to overhaul that craft, with butter Laden, and cheese, from swampy Scheldt's dominions; I shouldn't wonder if _Schiedam_--however, That's not my business;--turn our glances landward, There's Farley in his garden--well, I never!-- A-talking down the chimney, to my landlord; He says, "I see you've got some greens for dinner, "And pickled pork," but can't say more for coughing; That smoke just serves him right--the prying sinner! He's always jeering folks, and at them scoffing: White cliffs, and houses, underneath and over, And roads that seem to lead to regions airy-- Old boats converted into roofs, that cover Buildings, in shape and size that greatly vary, Denote the place, which popular believings Point out as being made of ends and leavings.

Here we were reminded by a particularly ample, and unprecedentedly flaring wood-cut, borne on an appropriate pole past the vehicle, and intended to describe the indescribable effects of the fireworks in the Surrey Zoological Gardens, of a pleasant discourse which we overheard in that suburban retreat. "Quite a gem," cried a lady from Portland Place, contemplating the splendid pictorial model of Rome; "really quite a monument of the artist's abilities." "I see _St. Paul's_," said a lady from Shadwell, who was standing by, looking at the same time at the crowning feature of the picture, "I see St. Paul's quite plain, but _where's the Monument?_"

"How those butcher-boys do ride!" exclaimed an elderly gentleman in the further corner, as one of the blue-frocked fraternity, with basket on arm, and "spur on heel," dashed past at headlong speed. "Ay, sir, they ride sharp enough," replied his next neighbour, whose bronzed features and brawny shoulders bespoke him a son of old Ocean; "but of all the rough-riding I have ever seen, nothing comes up to

A NEGRO BOY IN THE WEST INDIES.

The negro boys there are the most cunning imps I have ever had to do with. I recollect on my last voyage to Jamaica, while my vessel was lying in St. Anne's bay, I had to go to Port Maria to look for some cargo; and on my way thither, near Ora Cabeça, I came to one of the numerous small rivers that empty themselves into the little bays along the coast--I think it was the Salt Gut. When at some distance, I had observed a negro boy belabouring a mule most heartily; but before I got up he had left off his thumping and dismounted, and now appeared in earnest talk with his beast, which, with fore-legs stretched out firm, and ears laid down, seemed proof against all arguments to induce him to enter the water. Quashie was all animation, and his eyes flashed like fire-flies.

"Who--o! you no go ober? Berry well--me bet you fippenny me make you go--No? Why for you no bet?--why for you no go ober?" Here the mule shook his ears to drive off the flies, which almost devour the poor animals in that climate. "Oh! you do bet--berry well--den me try."

The young rascal (he was not more than ten years old) disappeared in the bush, and returned in a few seconds with some strips of fan-weed, a few small pebbles, and a branch of the cactus plant. To put three or four pebbles in each of the mule's ears, and tie them up with the fan-weed, was but the work of a minute. He then jumped on the animal's back, turned round, put the plant to his tail, and off they went, as a negro himself would say, "like mad, massa." Into the water they plunged--the little fellow grinning and showing his teeth in perfect ecstasy. Out they got on the other side--head and ears down--tail and heels up--and the boy's arms flying about as if they did not belong to him; and I lost sight of him as he went over the rocky steep at full gallop, where one false step would have precipitated them into the sea beneath, from whence there would have been but small chance of escape. No, no, a butcher's boy is nothing to a negro boy--the one may ride like the deuce, but the other is the very deuce himself riding.

"Did you see any more of him, sir?" inquired a young lady opposite.

"Yes, madam, about two hours afterwards I reached Port Maria, and in an open space near the stores, there sat, or rather lay, young Quashie eating cakes; and there also stood the mule, eating guinea grass, and looking much more cheerful than when I first saw him at the Salt Gut. 'Well, Quashie,' I said, 'you have got here I see, but which of you won?'--'Quashie win, massa--Quashie never lose.'--'But will he pay?' I inquired.--'Quashie pay himself, massa. You see, Massa Buccra, massa gib Quashie tenpenny-bit for grass for mule. Quashie bet fippenny him make him go ober de Gut--Quashie win--Quashie hab fippenny for cake, mule hab fippenny for grass.'"

"Had that defrauded mule, sir," here interposed a stranger, "been born in Ireland a brief while ago, he would have fallen to and devoured the young nigger out of hand, for cheating him of half his grass; that is, he would, if he had ever read the ancient records of that country, and become acquainted with the fact I am about to relate--but stay, perhaps you may relish it better in slip-shod verse."

THE TERRIFIC LEGEND OF THE KILKENNY CATS.

O'Flyn she was an Irishman, as very well was known, And she lived down by Kilkenny, and she lived there all alone, With only six great large tom-cats as knew their ways about, And ev'ry body else besides she scrup'lously shut out. Oh, very fond o' cats was she--(and whisky too, 'tis said,) She didn't feed 'em very much, but she comb'd 'em well instead; As may be guess'd, these large tom-cats, they didn't get very sleek Upon a combing once a-day, and a "ha'porth" once a-week.

Now on one dreary winter's night, O'Flyn she went to bed, The whisky-bottle under her arm, (the whisky in her head,) The six great large tom-cats they sat all in a dismal row, And horridly glared their hungry eyes--their tails wagg'd to and fro At last one grim greymalkin spoke in accents dire to tell, And dreadful were the words which in his awful whisper fell-- When all the other five tom-cats in answer loud did squall, "Let's kill her--and let's eat her--body and bones and all!"

Oh horrible! oh terrible! oh deadly tale to tell! When the sun shone in the window-hole all there seem'd still and well; The cats they sat and lick'd their paws, all in a merry ring, _But nothing else within the place looked like a living thing_; Anon they quarrell'd savagely, and spit, and swore, and hollo'd, Till at last these six great large tom-cats they one another swallow'd; And nought but one long tail was left in that once peaceful dwelling, And a very tough one too it was--it's the same as I've been telling. [C. B.]

MADEMOISELLE RACHEL.

Colley Cibber is the best theatrical critic we know, but if he had been asked to describe Rachel, we should fancy him falling into one of his old regrets. 'Could _how_ Rachel spoke be as easily known as _what_ she spoke, then might you see the muse of Racine in her triumph, with all her beauties in their best array, rising into real life and charming her beholders. But, alas! since all this is so far out of the reach of description, how shall I show you Rachel?'

The best attempt _we_ have been able to make, is printed on the opposite page. Truth to say, a good portrait, such as one may bind up with one's copy of Racine, is the only tolerable criticism after all. So, gentle reader, there is Rachel for you: and to flatter your national likings, if you have any, she is in the dress of Mary Stuart, though the woes of Mary Stuart are not in Racine.

Quiet, earnest, intense, with a look of passion that has its spring in tenderness, that is just the expression she should wear. It pervaded all her performances, because in all of them she was the Woman. There it was, as you see it, when she said for this unhappy _Mary_ that she was ready to go to death, for that all which could bind her to the earth had passed away; and as she said it, there came with its choking denial to her heart a sense of the still living capacity for joy or grief about to be quenched for ever. She wore that look, when, in _Camille_, she recalled the transient and deceitful dream wherein everything had spoken of her lover, and whispered happy issue to her love. It spread its mournful radiance over her face, when, for the wronged and deserted _Hermione_, she told the betrayer that she had loved him in his inconstancy, and with what something surpassing love would she have rewarded his fidelity.

Je t'aimais inconstant; qu'aurais-je fait fidèle!

Exquisitely perfect, let us say, was that performance of Hermione. Sometimes, it will not be heretical to whisper, her genius nodded or even slept: never here. The _Roxane_ would not suffer her to do justice to her finest qualities: in the _Emilie_ (for she was wilful) she refused herself that justice: in the _Marie Stuart_ she was unequal: in _Camille_, always great undoubtedly, she had yet a very limited range: but in _Hermione_, she achieved a triumph of high and finished art, which will never fade from the recollections of those who witnessed it. It occurs to us, as we write, that it was in this very _Hermione_ the famous Mademoiselle de Champmelé won the heart of Racine himself, who, after the performance, flung himself at her feet in a transport of gratitude, which soon merged into love. Luckless Rachel, that Champmelé should have been beforehand with her. How the poet would have shaken out love and gratitude upon _her_, from every curl of his full-bottomed peruke!

You have heard, no doubt, good reader--if you have not seen this accomplished Frenchwoman--that she is a scold, a fury, a womanly Kean, in a constant fret of passion. Do not believe it. Her forte is tenderness: she is much greater in the gentle grasp with which she embraces the whole intention of a part, than in the force with which she gives distinct hits: she is more at home in those emotions we call domestic, than in those which walk away from home on very lofty stilts. How the false notion obtained currency, we do not know. The French critics are men of lively imaginations, and it was perhaps natural that the feeling of that start of surprise with which Rachel broke upon them, should seek to ally itself to the occasionally sudden and terrible, the flighty and impetuous, rather than to the various tenderness and quiet truth which gave the actress her lasting victory.

What Rachel was before she was the first actress of France, probably the reader knows. She sold oranges on the Boulevards. Her name was Rachel Felix--an augury of fortune. An early hankering for the stage took her to the GYMNASE in 1837, where she played bad parts badly enough. Not without a gleam of something beyond, however: for Sanson the actor happened to see her there, and thought it worth while to take her into teaching. He cured her of a false accent (she was a Swiss Jewess), and brought her out at the FRANCAIS in 1838, upon a salary of four thousand francs. She took the audience by storm, and her four thousand went up to a hundred and fifty thousand. Long may she flourish, to deserve and to enjoy them.

FRIGHTS!--No. II.

We now propose to turn to other illustrations of fright familiar to every family, and susceptible of description. Let us take a night-scene, conjured up by a sudden alarm of

THIEVES!

'Tis midnight, and "the very houses seem asleep," out-houses and all. The "quiet family" has attained its utmost pitch of quietness. All sleep soundly, where no sound is heard. A breathless hush pervades the domicile. On a sudden, there is a smart crash, a rattling sound, below. This sleeper starts up in bed; that, darts farther under the clothes. "What's that?" is the inward question of everybody. The thought of thieves occurs to each in turn; one is certain that the area-door has been forced open; another is sure that the back-parlour sash has been raised. They lie still, with panting hearts, and listen. Again there is a noise; it is like creaking footsteps on the stairs, or the opening of drawers; then all is silent again, and then the noise is renewed.

At last one little quaking Miss ventures half-stifled to whisper, "Sarah, are you awake?" And Sarah faintly answers, "Yes, did you hear that?" and both bury themselves in the bed, and dare not breathe. And then they hear a door open softly, and they utter a low cry of terror; and then in another minute the door of their own room opens, and with a loud scream they start up--only to see their dear good mama with a candle in her hand; but she is pale and frightened, and desires to know if _they_ had made the noise--but they had not; only they distinctly heard somebody getting in at the back-door, or the parlour-window. Then papa commands the whole assembled family "not to be frightened," and shakes dreadfully--with cold--as he looks at his blunderbuss, and avows his determination to proceed down-stairs. And then there is a "hush!" and a general listening. Yes, there _is_ a noise still, and to the stairs he advances; while his better-half lights his way and holds his garments tight to check his desperate enthusiasm; and the eldest daughter hardly ventures beyond the chamber-door, but with astonishing boldness and exemplary daring springs a rattle; and the others hold on each by each, taking fresh fright from one another's fears. What an amount of suffering, dread, terror--is in the bosom of the little quiet family, as down to the scene of danger they creep with tortoise-pace! And what is all this anxiety, this trepidation, this sickness of the heart, for! What has occasioned so terrific a commotion! Perhaps the tongs have fallen down, and the clatter has filled their ears with all sorts of imaginary noises! Perhaps the cat is clawing at a string tied to the latch of the pantry-door; or perhaps the stupid little kitten, having got her tail into the catch of the last new patent mouse-trap, has dragged that excellent invention off the dresser, and is whisking round at intervals in a wearying and vain endeavour to extricate her unprehensile appendage! "Dear me! well I declare how I have been frightening myself!" cries every member of the shivering family; and the very next night, should the very same noises again be heard, the whole frightened family would start, turn pale, quake, wonder, pant, scream, and spring rattles, exactly as before. Where Fear has once taken possession, Experience does not always make folks wise.

Let us take for another example of the daily domestic romance--

THE STRANGE CAT.

How vividly, among the events of our boyish days, do we remember the "strange cat" that got into the lumber-room at the top of the house! Our elder brother and "the boy" had endeavoured to dislodge the animal, which figured in their description as a thing of intense blackness and monstrous dimensions, with great frightful staring green eyes, horrid long claws, and such a tail! Not "frightened of cats" were we, for we had a favourite one of our own; but _this_--it trebled in magnitude and horror the wildest and most savage inhabitants of the then Exeter Change. Their own fears had magnified the "strange cat" into a monster; and then they wilfully enlarged the picture to terrify _us_--a feat, in which they succeeded, as we dared not go to the upper rooms alone. For two or three days this "reign of terror" lasted; when, a favourable opportunity being watched for, the "young master" and the "young man" marched up, broom and brush in hand, to hunt out this strange secreted intruder--the black tiger of the upper wilderness. As for our tiny self, we had ventured a part of the way up-stairs to witness the result, imagining that the enemy would make its exit by an attic window. Oh horror! A loud knocking was heard above; a tremendous shouting next arose, succeeded instantly by an appalling cry of "Here it comes!" This was, shall we say _enough_?--it was too much; we turned and _flew_ down-stairs--the last "flight" of stairs being, with the aid of the handrail, but one leap. The street door! No, we could not open it. Against it then we set our back in an agony of fear, and uttered a cry that would have terrified a whole legion of cats. The hunters were in full cry. Down came the wild animal, followed by brooms and brushes, bounding and rattling over the stairs--a clatter that rent the roof. What saw we then? Not a poor half-starved _frightened_ animal leaping over the banisters to get out of _our_ way, and to escape through the garden-door; no, of this piteous, this actual spectacle we saw nothing,--but in its place--_this_!

This little "tail-piece" expanded to the dimensions of a full-sized Newfoundland dog, surrounded by a blaze of fire, will convey some idea of what, in the extremity of our apprehensions, we actually did see.

A SHORT CRUISE AT MARGATE.

Being at Margate the other day, we strolled, in company with "THE OLD SAILOR," down to the "Jetty," where we were accosted by the veteran Hemptage, a boatman of the old school, who, with a salute, inquired "Will you take a trip this morning, Sir?"

"Not if it blows," answered the Old Sailor, assuming as much as possible the look and manners of a landsman, "I have made up my mind never to go sailing if there's a breath of wind."

The old man gave him a look, which spoke as plainly as look could--"Here's a precious lubber, to talk of sailing without wind."

"It would be on possible to move a-head and no breeze, Sir."

"I don't care for that," rejoined the Old Sailor, "I am very timid on the water; but if you're sure there's no danger, and it will be quite calm (it was nearly so), I will venture to take a sail."

"Danger!" repeated the veteran somewhat contemptuously, though there was an expression of doubt and suspicion on his countenance that seemed to say "I think you're a gammoning me."--"What danger can there be when there's hardly wind enough to fill the canvas?"

After some further conversation relative to the perils of the ocean, which drew forth some scornful glances from the veteran, we embarked in a pretty green boat, with two masts or poles, one sticking up behind and the other near the middle, to which sails were fastened. Whilst Hemptage was loosing what we believe is named the main-sail, the Old Sailor jumped aft to set what he called the "lug mizen," and he was shoving out a pole from the stern, right over the water. We immediately informed the boatman that our companion was "meddling with the things at the other end," and the veteran promptly turned round and exclaimed, "You'd better let that ere alone, Sir. You'll find somut as 'ull puzzle you there."

"Avast, old boy!" returned the Old Sailor, laughing; "I've rigged out as many bumkins[6] as you have in my time."

"Ay, ay," drawled out the veteran--"hang me if I didn't think so by the cut of your jib--I thought it was all gammon, and you knowed better than to go sailing without wind."

"You have belonged to a man-of-war," said the Old Sailor, as we were standing off from the shore.

"Why, yes, I've had a spell at it," returned Hemptage somewhat knowingly, "I was in the owld Hyacinth with Tommy Ussher, and a better Captain never walked a ship's quarter-deck. I was with him too in the Ondaunted frigate up the Mediterranean----"

"What! were you in her, in Frejus Bay, when Buonaparte embarked for Elba?" inquired the Old Sailor.

"Why to be sure I was, and remembers it well enough," returned he with animation. "And the first thing Boney did when he got aboard was to come forud on to the foksle and have a yarn with the foksle men[7]."

"What sort of a man was he?" we asked with quickness.

"What sort of a man," reiterated the veteran, "why a stout good-looking chap enough, only very swarthy. Them images as the Italian boys brings about is very like, only I never seed him in that little cocked hat."

"Why what did he wear then?" inquired we with some eagerness.

"Oh he wore a round hat[8]," replied Hemptage, "and he used to lean against the breech of the foksle gun and spin yarns with us for the hour together."

"Well!" we thought, "we never shall have done with Boney." We had never drawn him in a round hat, and the temptation was too strong to be resisted--so we have accordingly placed him at the head of this article--and as of course he would have a fashionable beaver, we have given him one of the shape of that period, and placed him in contrast with himself.--Boney _versus_ Boney--cock'd hat against round.

It may be said "What's in a hat?" And when upon the head it becomes a rather important question. In many cases the answer would be "not much," but with respect to Napoleon it certainly must be admitted that there was _something_ in it.

"But (we asked in continuation of our conversation) how could you talk with Buonaparte--did he speak English?"

"O yes, pretty well, considering--very well for him," replied Hemptage, "he mixed a little of his own lingo up with it--but we made it out. During the passage he used very often to come forud, and he told us he liked English sailors, and one had wounded him once at Toulon."

Fully aware that the fact of Napoleon's being wounded at Toulon had long been a disputed point, we questioned the man, and received the following statement:--

"Why," said the veteran, "he told us the English made a _sortie_, as they call it, and drove the French before them. Boney run as well as the rest, and an English seaman chaced after him; but whether the man was tired, or thought he'd gone far enough, he didn't know, but he gave him a shove in the starn with his bagonet, and said, 'TAKE THAT, YOU FRENCH LUBBER.' The sailor might have killed him if he had been so disposed, but he acted generously and spared his life. 'And,' says Boney, 'if ever I could have discovered the man who acted so nobly, I would have made him comfortable for life.' The wound was in his thigh."

Now had that Jack Tar taken one step further, or have made a deadly thrust, the fate of _Major_ Buonaparte would have been sealed at Toulon, and the world would never have heard of the EMPEROR NAPOLEON. We fancy we hear some of our Hibernian friends exclaiming, "Faith, then, and it's a pity the sailor didn't know that Boney would be after doing so much mischief."

Thus conversing and moralising, we finished our "Short cruise at Margate." Hemptage is approaching his seventieth year, and his countenance displays the colours of a thorough seaman. He has been several times wounded, but looking hale and hearty. When paid off he was refused a pension--visitors will find him a pleasant shipmate in a trip--and the lovers of the marvellous may enjoy the satisfaction of conversing with a man who has seen and talked with "a live Bonyparty."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: The bumkin is the spar that projects out from the stern to haul the mizen-sheet home.--_Naval Dictionary._ Here, however, it is probable that a _double entendre_ was meant.]

[Footnote 7: In No. CXLIII. of the _United Service Journal_, Sir Thomas Ussher has given an interesting account of the embarkation and conveyance of Napoleon from Frejus to Elba, in which we find the following passage:--"On arriving alongside, I immediately went up the side to receive the Emperor on the quarter-deck. He took his hat off, and bowed to the officers who were assembled on the deck. He then immediately went forward to the forecastle amongst the people, and I found him there talking to some of the men, conversing with those among them who understood a little French."]

[Footnote 8: In another part of the same article, in the _United Service Journal_, Sir Thomas Ussher says--"This evening a small trading vessel passed near us, I ordered her to be examined; and as Napoleon was anxious to know the news, I desired the Captain to be sent on board. Napoleon was on the quarter-deck--he had a great coat and round hat on." At another place, after their arrival at Elba--"At eight, the Emperor asked me for a boat, as he intended taking a walk on the opposite side of the bay. He wore a great coat and a round hat."]

EPIGRAMS.

"Buonaparte was certainly, as Sir John Carr called him, a 'splendid scoundrel,' but he was a scoundrel still."--_Daily Paper._

Not so, for if a scoundrel--doubt who will-- Napoleon was a scoundrel, _never_ still!

_Scene_--OUTSIDE OF THE GREYHOUND INN.

"You'll take a glass of ale or so? Here's _double X_ upon the door;" "Is there," says John, "then I don't go-- It so reminds me of _a score_!"

THE MALADY OF DEBT.

Some people often have, they say, What's call'd the "Maladie de pays"-- But Schneider of his customers was saying, _They_ had the malady _of never paying_.

C. H. W.

PASSIONATE PEOPLE.

"So you will fly out! Why can't you be cool like me? What good can passion do? Passion's of no use, you impudent, obstinate, overbearing reprobate."--_Sir Anthony Absolute._

Of all the evils, all the injuries, all the calamities, by which passionate people are liable to be visited, none are so perilous, so overwhelming, as the encounter with a meek, cool, patient, unanswering adversary--if adversary such a wretch can be called. There is no trial in life like this. The bare idea of it puts one out of temper. To be placed, when in the full swing of a violent fit of rage, when indulging to an excess in the wildest transports of the soul, when giving loose to the most riotous emotions of our nature; to be placed at such a juncture right opposite some cold calm personification of indifference, some compound of sadness and tranquillity, with an air of entire submission, with drooping lids, and perhaps a smile not entirely free from _pity_; to see some such person sitting there imperturbably philosophical, putting the best construction possible upon one's violence, and evidently making silent excuses for one's ungovernable fury! I put it to any rational madman--that is to say to any man I know--whether this be not a species of exasperation too great to be borne, and quite enough to make one start off for Niagara, to enjoy the intense satisfaction, the indispensable relief, of jumping down.

I wouldn't give one drop of ink for a man who never goes into terrific passions, who never lets his blood boil over, at least now and then; but I should feel peculiar pleasure in hurling any inkstand--the writing-desk would be better--at the head of him whose fury did not instantly become ten thousand times more inflamed by the mere presence of that smooth oily virtue, that "ostentatious meekness," which at once sighs in submissiveness and smiles in superiority.

All the mischiefs that arise from the excesses of anger and rage must be conscientiously set down to the account of that provoking passiveness, that calmness which irritates the fiery beholder past endurance. Let the physician, who would minister to the mind diseased, take any shape but that. Who is there that cannot bear testimony to its galling effects from his own observation or experience! Only say to a man in a pet, "Now don't lose your temper," and he falls naturally into a rage; say to one already exasperated, and on the verge of a fit of fury, "Pray don't put yourself into a passion, it's all a mistake, there's nothing to be angry about;" and what so sure to set him off at a pace past stopping!

The image of "Patience on a monument smiling at Grief" has been greatly admired, but as a design it would hardly hold together for five minutes. Shakspeare was a little out for once. Patience _smiling_ at Grief! How could Grief stand it! She would be transformed into Rage in no time. If at all in earnest, she must necessarily be provoked to jump down in a paroxysm, or to pitch Patience off the monument.

To the truly irritable, and I confess that I am one of them, all such irritation, to say the least of it, is superfluous. To us who have "free souls" no such provocation is wanting at any time. We are always ready to go ahead without this high pressure; our quick blood renders the spur unnecessary. We never wait for "the motive and the cue for passion" that Hamlet speaks of.

The real relish and enjoyment of it consists in going into a rage about nothing. The next pleasure to that consists in being roused to fury about other people's affairs; in lashing oneself into madness about some grievance borne by a person who seems perfectly indifferent to it. There are numbers of people who may be thus said to go into passions by proxy. They have experienced a slight, of which they give a cool account to some susceptible friend, who stamps and raves at every word of the narrative. They calmly inform you that they have been shamefully ill-used; upon which they stroke their chins complacently, and leave you to tear your hair. The man who has been cruelly wronged describes with a glib tongue, while the uninjured auditor disinterestedly gnashes his teeth. I have always admired that passage in one of George Colman's plays, where a warm-hearted fellow, giving an account of some flagrant act of oppression to which he had been a witness, observes,--"Well, you know, that wasn't _no affair of mine_; no--and _so I felt all my blood creeping into my knuckles_"--and the result shows that he fell, with exemplary promptitude, into a glorious passion in behalf of the oppressed but uncomplaining stranger.

This bit of fiction calls to mind a fact which may with no impropriety be here related. It is an anecdote of a distinguished writer now no more, W. G. He had complained to me of some ungracious conduct, by which he felt hurt and insulted; he was helpless, and this made the sense of injury more acute. He spoke with bitterness, though in gentle tones. I did not echo those tones; for he was illustrious by his intellect, and venerable by his years; and, as the phrase is, I at once "rapped out"--pouring a torrent of reproach, and heaping a mountain of invectives, on the heads of those, who, to use his own words, "had dared to put an indignity upon him." He heard me, very quietly, until the full burst of indignation with which his more moderate complaint had inspired me was exhausted, and then said with an ejaculation short, sharp, and peculiar to him,--"I'm afraid you've been picking up some queer doctrines of late; the principle of them is, as far as I can understand, to be discontented with everything!" Now as _he_ had taught me just then to be discontented, and as I was moreover only discontented on his account, I did _not_ immediately leap out of my fit of passion into one of philosophy; and I believe he was upon that occasion much struck with certain metaphysical phenomena, on which I left him to brood; with the curious distinction, that is to say, between one fellow-creature undergoing the punishment of the knout without exhibiting a symptom of distress, and another fellow-creature looking on, all grief and anguish, shuddering at the spectacle, and feeling every lash on his own heart.

These are the most generous bursts of rage that can be indulged in; and, next to those that are altogether destitute even of the shadow of a cause, are the most delicious to the irritable. The wrongs, troubles, and perversities of individuals, from near relatives to total strangers, generally form a plentiful supply; in fact, the smallest offence will be thankfully received, as the history of irascible people amply shows. Very good grounds for anger occur, as we can all remember, when a fellow-traveller at an inn refuses to take mustard with his pork-chop; or when another, in spite of every hint, persists in breaking his eggs at the small end, or lighting his cheroot at the large end; or when a sturdy fellow walks just before you through a smart shower of rain, and won't put his umbrella up, though you obligingly tap him on the shoulder, and remind him that it's pouring; or when an obstinate one declines the adoption of somebody else's opinion, merely because he has not been convinced of its reasonableness; or when an affected one pronounces the word London "Lunnun," and Birmingham "Brummagem," and, while he asserts in his justification that Lord Brougham calls the places by those names, refuses to distinguish his lordship as Lord Bruffham.

If individual grievances or peculiarities should fail, which is scarcely possible, national ones will do as well. Nay, I know a philanthropist whose heart was broken fifty times a year, whose blood boiled hourly, at the recollection of some great outrage that had happened in the dark ages. Passion, moreover, has this convenience, that it is an essential privilege of it to reason from the individual to the national; thus, if a Russian government, or a Russian faction, inflict wrongs on Poland, all Russia may be indiscriminately condemned; and thus too, if an American visiting this country should be wanting in good manners, or give you any cause of offence, you can with strict propriety launch out into a tirade against the American people, their customs and institutions, laws and dispositions--wrath will there find "elbow room." You may wind up with the observation that, bad as is the brute whom you have just encountered, you believe him to be quite as good as the very best of his countrymen.

This, indeed, may be laid down as a rule; when a Scotchman offends you, abuse all Scotland, and offer to prove that Burns was no poet;--when an Irishman puts you in a heat, be sure to denounce Ireland, and hint that St. Patrick was no gentleman, nor were his ancestors decent people. With an Englishman the case is rather different, because anything you may say against John Bull is pretty sure to please, instead of annoying a member of his family; who won't much mind a back-handed hit at himself, if you direct the principal force of your attack against the national character. It is expedient, therefore, to be less sweeping in your charge, to concentrate your forces, and to content yourself with a small explosion, fatal only to his immediate friends and relations. Point out how remarkable it is that so many persons of the same name should have been hanged for sheep-stealing; question the depth of his breeches-pocket, where he rattles a bunch of keys, as though he had anything to lock up; and pick out some cousin of his who is very badly off, and spitefully ask him to dinner. But you will never vent your rage satisfactorily, by merely abusing Old England in an Englishman's presence.

To get into a passion in the street is sometimes peculiarly awkward. It makes you feel like a bottle of soda-water that wants to go off and can't. Some people ought to have their hats wired down, cork-fashion. Walking with an irascible friend the other day--I am fond of such companions, and can boast a great variety of them--he worked himself into as pretty a specimen of fury as I have lately seen; but what was to be done? There was nothing to cause it, and there was no relief to be had. Apple-stalls upset are but vulgar exploits; me, he could not strangle in the open street; there was no temptation to smash a lamp in the broad daylight, however agreeable and comforting at night; there was no loitering schoolboy in the way, to be kicked "for _always_ tieing that shoe;" yet, "as fires imprisoned fiercest burn," out the blaze must burst, the volcano was not to be smothered up. Accordingly, just as we reached the open window of a butcher's shop, on the board of which a lad in blue sleeves, and black, glossy, curling hair, sat intently reading the "Sorrows of Werter," my passionate friend stopped. Whether he meant to snatch, a weapon, à la Virginius, was doubtful. I thought at least he would have snatched the grease-marked volume out of the hands of the sentimental butcher-boy, and trampled it under-foot; when instead, off he darted across the wide street, I following--rushed up to a house opposite, seized the large knocker, and plied it with the combined force of forty footmen, or a legion of penny-postmen rolled into one! I stood, looking on, amazed, while he knocked and knocked, without one moment's cessation, until the door was torn open, and the knocker dropped from his fingers. The servant-maid looked aghast, yet the accustomed spirit of inquiry, Who was he? What _did_ he want? was uppermost in her face. "Oh!" said my now subdued companion, "Oh! ah!-a-I'm sorry to have troubled you! I-a-I don't want anybody--it's all right--thank you--I'm better now!" Thus saying he quietly took my arm, and we sauntered off. I never saw a fellow in a more charming flow of spirits than his were throughout the rest of that day.

But it is more judicious to choose a spot where you can fall into a rage comfortably. It is a pity for example to get excited at Charing-cross, merely by the sight of a Dover coach, with the name of the town upon it spelt with two o's, "Dovor." "There goes one of those confounded coaches again," said a companion the other day; "how savage they make me! Do_vor_! Why can't they spell the name properly?" "Oh, what does it signify?"--"Signify! why it's my native town! it puts me in such a passion that I can't walk;" and by the pace at which he went there appeared a probability of his overtaking the coach. As a man intoxicated can run easily, when walking is difficult, so a man in a passion finds similar relief. I have heard of a nervously-excited individual who was so annoyed by the cry of "Bank, Bank" all down the Strand, that he jumped into one of the vehicles, resolved to go to the Bank and draw out his balance; nor did he remember, until he got there, that he had performed that ceremony the day before.

What I should respectfully recommend to any one on whom the fit comes suddenly out-of-doors, whether occasioned by some irritating train of thought, or a casual encounter equally provocative, is to go directly home, and give his family the benefit of it. Surely the best compliment he can pay his wife is to presume that her attachment to him is so great that she will endure any ill-usage--that she would rather see him return home in a tremendous passion than have him stay longer away from her. A man who truly relishes his fit of rage will find a sweet relief in making his family uncomfortable. The children he can immediately order up to bed in the dark; and if anything in the shape of protest falls from the doting mother, he can take an opportunity, slyly, of upsetting a vase of flowers, water and all, into her work-box, or of tilting the inkstand upon the favourite autograph in her album.

In the case of a single man, who has neither fond parent nor devoted partner to vent his fury on, a theatre is no bad resource; he can take his seat in some quiet corner and hiss the performance,--he will find it very soothing to his feelings; but he should choose, if possible, the first night of a new drama, and be constantly on his guard, or he will be tricked out of all his pleasure by the actors. I know a man who went in a great passion on purpose to hiss a new comedy, but being off his guard, he sat and laughed all the evening.

Brutus desires Cassius to "go show his slaves how choleric he is, and make his bondmen tremble;" implying that it was still more vulgar and degrading to go into a passion before servants. This notion prevails amongst a certain class of the choleric to this day. It is not at all uncommon in genteel families, where appearances must at all sacrifices be kept up, for John to be desired to shut the door, and perhaps to be despatched to the remotest part of the house, while his master and mistress sit down to fight out a pitched battle with bated breath; whispering their fierce retorts, and dealing out their virulence _sotto voce_, that it may not reach the kitchen; recrimination, with savage aspect, speaking in the blandest key, and threats of separate maintenance breathing in tones that would have added a delicious tenderness to the fondest sentiment. All of a sudden, perhaps, a violent crash is heard; the lady, who "could bear it no longer," has commenced some sportive sallies with the tea-cups, and the gentleman has promptly followed in some equally lively experiments with the saucers; and John, when in wild alarm he re-enters the apartment, perceives in an instant, as clear as crockery itself, that naughty Dash has _not_ been jumping upon the tea-table, and that it is _not_ that calumniated quadruped by whom the best blue-and-gold service has been devoted to destruction.

All these tamperings with passion are great mistakes; there can be no enjoyment but in speaking out, and letting all the world hear if they like. I always admired the unhesitating frankness of that respectable tradesman (I forget his name, purposely) who about nine one summer morning, after "some words" with his lady respecting the comparative merits of Souchong and Mocha, deliberately opened the first floor window, and dashed out the whole breakfast set, tray and all, into one of the leading streets of the metropolis. People, it is said, put up their umbrellas as they pass, to this day, in constant expectation of a milky shower, with small squares of sugar for hailstones. But all such experiments with cups and saucers, glasses, vases, mirrors, &c., are much better performed, for obvious reasons, at other people's houses than at your own. It is very pleasant, and quite pardonable, to sweep a few glasses off the table in a fit of enthusiasm, now and then--when you are dining out; but it is perfectly ridiculous to proceed to such extremities at home, where the modes of venting rage are infinite. For a somewhat similar reason, I differ from those who systematically tear their own hair when they fall into a paroxysm; there is no occasion for it, because you might happen to be wearing a wig, and the effect would be ludicrous. It is far better to thrust your hand desperately into the loose locks of somebody sitting next to you, tearing them violently for the space of an instant, and then apologizing for the wildness of your excitement, and the extreme susceptibility of your feelings. Your sensibility and the frankness of your disposition will find many admirers; but to pull your own hair has at best but an affected and theatrical look.

The practice common to many of the choleric--that of taking off their hats, flinging them at the first object they see, and then kicking them, regardless of expense--is one that seems to have arisen out of an instinctive feeling, but until lately it was to be condemned as ruinous to those who fall very frequently into a passion; it is less exceptionable now; the cheap hats are immense conveniences to the choleric. It is better however to snatch a friend's off his head, and set your foot upon it, taking care to pick it up immediately, tenderly putting it into shape a little, brushing its injured nap, and returning it with your unfeigned regrets. I should not omit to mention one ingenious expedient, which is sure to produce a speedy relief to over-excited feelings. It is recommended on authority, as infallible. You should first lock the door of your sitting-room, and then lie down on your back upon the rug before the fire--taking at the same time one of the long bell-ropes in either hand. In this position you will find a little violent pulling very pleasant. But don't leave off, merely because everybody in the house comes rattling at the door, desiring to know, not for their own, but for Heaven's sake, what's the matter. Keep on tugging at both bells, until the door is broken open--you will then come-to quite comfortably.

The great have some advantages over the humble, but they lack the luxury of giving a loose to rage at all seasons; they cannot storm and rave at their own sweet will; while the lowest creature committed to prison by the magistrate can always spring from the grasp of the constable and break a window or two. This may seem a poor relief; not so; there is, doubtless, an exquisite satisfaction in knowing that nothing less than a large county must pay the damage. Suppose you only shatter a dozen panes, or effect other wilful injury, is there not something grand in being revenged upon Middlesex, or venting your fury on all Yorkshire?

Great or humble, Rage is sweet to all. Anger, not Love, is the universal emotion. The mildest and most even-tempered man I ever met, let out the secret of his fiery disposition the other day, and betrayed the violent passions that sometimes seize him. Complaining of the extreme smallness of his new library, in a figurative style, at once emphatic and elegant, he said, "It isn't large enough to swing a cat in," adding, (evidently with a reference to his habits when under the influence of passion) "_which is very inconvenient_!" Cats are useful animals in a house. Is it doubtful, when Sir Anthony Absolute had stormed at the Captain, and the Captain in consequence had raved at Fag, and Fag in due succession had pummelled the footboy, that the footboy went forthwith and kicked the cat?

L. B.

OUR NEW COOKS!

"Too many cooks"--"the proverb's something musty."

We have just had another new Cook; but too sure I am that, like the whole tribe of Cooks that enter our family, she will never pass the boundaries of the cognomen "New Cook." All our Cooks have been _new_. The oldest one we have ever had, in my remembrance, was a prodigy of a month's service in our kitchen; and although it must be confessed that, even during that period, she was twice threatened or _warned_ by my mother, her long stay was astonishing to us all. Compared with her predecessors she was quite a fixture in the house.

It would take up "too much room in the Omnibus," to detail one half of the discrepancies of our Cooks. The great Cook who circumnavigated the globe--who traversed seas remote, and explored lands unknown, found no such curiosities among the monsters of the great deep, or the uncivilized eccentrics on shore. One, as my maiden aunt delicately observes, becomes quite "inebriated"--off she goes; another has "followers"--off she goes; another increases her "kitchen stuff" at the expense of the fat of the meat, which she cuts off to a nicety (and my father is particularly fond of fat)--off she goes--another cannot cook a potato--off she goes; another forms a clandestine match with the butler after a week's intimacy--off she goes--he too falling a victim and losing his place.

When I say that my mother seldom looks over the first offence, I explain pretty clearly how it is that every week finds us with a new cook. On the day of their engagement my sanguine parent invariably tells us "she has found a treasure;" a cook with such a character--never drinks--no followers--so honest--can cook anything;--such a woman for making "made up" (sometimes called French) dishes, &c. In a few days this treasure of a cook turns out to be, without a single exception, the very worst we ever had to endure (for it rather singularly happens that each in succession is "the very worst").--"Oh, that dreadful woman!" is the cry. She boils what she should roast, and roasts what she should boil; she is a snuff-taker, and almost everything she cooks is supposed to savour of Lundyfoot or Prince's mixture. Off _she_ goes before we find out a fair half of her intolerable propensities.

If it be but a chop to serve up, I like it served up in a style that I can depend upon. Underdone or overdone is of less consequence, so that I know beforehand, by experience of the cook's performances, _how_ it will be done. But this continual succession of "treasures" subjects us to a continual series of experiments.

If we don't settle soon, the office, so far as our family is concerned, will be in danger of abolition. Already has my distracted mother observed, on five different occasions, each time with deeper emphasis, "I _wish_ it were possible to do _without_ a cook." Yesterday, when this exclamation escaped her, my father, who, excepting in a taste for fat, is a man of very philosophical notions, caught up the note, and said, doubtingly, "My dear, do you consider it to be _quite_ necessary to have a _dinner_ every day!"

The last treasure we had only cooked our dinner on one day! She must have been a practitioner in some wholesale cooking establishment; cook to an ordinary on a grand scale, where dinners for a hundred and forty were daily prepared. We had to dine on cold meat for a week after she left us. You must know, that on the first day of her instalment in office, the butcher had been directed (we lived a few miles from town, and at a distance from any market-place) to send us a supply of animal food sufficient to last for about eight days. There were a leg of mutton--a saddle of mutton--a sirloin of beef--a round of beef, and various small nick-nacks for side dishes. Well, my dear credulous mother received the new cook as usual. She found her to be a most enormous treasure; and she can at this day make affidavit, if necessary, that she gave her the proper directions about the dinner. On the day the circumstance I am about to relate took place, we had merely the family at dinner. On entering the dining-room, I observed my mother gently start, as her eye encountered a great number of large dishes round the table. She, however, suppressed her astonishment, took her place at the head of the table (my father never carved), said grace, and was sinking slowly into her chair as the servant raised the first cover. My mother instantly started up, exclaiming, in a tone of alarm, and with turned-up eyes,

"Mercy on us! the leg of mutton!"

All eyes turned in a moment upon the uncovered mutton, and then on my agitated mother. The servant, after a pause, laid his hand on the second cover, upon which my mother had bent her looks. Up went the cover amidst curling wreaths of steam.

"Good gracious! look at the sirloin!" cried my mother.

We all looked accordingly at the sirloin, but without discovering in it anything peculiarly different from other sirloins.

The removal of the next cover exhibited the round of beef--another exclamation from my mother. We now all commenced staring, first, at the joints, then at my mother, and then at each other. We certainly began to think, when a fourth joint had appeared in view, that there _was_ "something wrong." A pause ensued--my father broke it.

"In the name of wonder," said he, "what's the matter?"

"O that new cook," answered my mother, with a groan.

"What has she _done_?" inquired my father.

"_The whole weeks marketing!_" said my mother, sinking into her chair, for she had been standing all this time.

"Stupid woman," continued my father, "send her off immediately."

"Did you ever hear of such a _dreadful_ creature?" said my mother. "Off she goes the first thing in the morning;" and sure enough our new cook gave place to another new one the very next day.

My chief object in taking a trip in the "Omnibus" is the hope of meeting somebody, in the course of its rounds, who may recommend to us some treasure of a cook, likely to suit my mother, and remain with her, say, for a month or two; for this changing once a week worries the life out of me. You all know the proverb that speaks of too many cooks. How true it is in our case! We want _one_, instead of a multitude.

I shall not mention the name of the personage who is proverbially said to "send cooks." Perhaps we have already had a protegée or two of his among our professors; but a cook of anybody's sending would be eagerly welcomed by me--so that she would but be a little steady, _and stop_!

W. S.

A SONG OF CONTRADICTIONS.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

"I am not what I am."--_Iago._

I.

The Passions, in festival meeting, I saw seated round, in a dream; And vow, by my hatred of cheating, The Passions are not what they seem. There's mirth under faces the gravest, There's woe under visages droll; There's fear in the breast of the bravest, And light in the desolate soul.

II.

Thus Joy, in my singular vision, Sat sobbing and gnashing his teeth; While Gentleness scoff'd in derision, And Hope pick'd the buds from his wreath. Despair, her tight bodice unlacing, With laughter seem'd ready to die; And Hate, her companions embracing, Won each with a smile or a sigh.

III.

There Peace bellow'd louder and louder, For Freedom, sent off to the hulks; Fear sat on a barrel of powder, And Pleasure stood by in the sulks. Here Dignity shoots like a rocket Past Grace, who is rolling in fat; There Probity's picking a pocket, Here Pity sits skinning a cat.

IV.

Then Temperance reeling off, quite full, Charged Friendship with drugging her draught; _She_ vowed it was Love that was spiteful, While Charity, blaming _all_, laugh'd; When Rage, with the blandest expression, And Vengeance, low-voiced like a child, Cried, "Mercy, forgive the transgression!" But Mercy look'd horribly wild.

V.

Old Wisdom was worshipping Fashion, And Jollity dozing in gloom; While Meekness was foaming with passion, And Misery danced round the room. Sweet Envy tripp'd off to her garret, Bright Malice smiled worthy of trust, Gay Want was enjoying his claret, And Luxury gnaw'd a dry crust.

VI.

At Pride, as she served up the dinner, Humility turn'd up her nose; Suspicion shook hands with each sinner, While Candour shunn'd all, as her foes. There's mirth under faces the gravest, There's woe under visages droll, There's fear in the breast of the bravest, And light in the desolate soul!

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.