CHAPTER VIII.

The attempt to break into Mrs. Heartwell's cottage, and the important discovery that succeeded, were, as far as possible, kept secret; and Mr. Wendover's steward, in expectation of another visit from the nocturnal intruder, set a watch upon the premises. No one, however, appeared to disturb the tranquillity of the place; but still the lady could not suppress her fears, and a constant dread weighed heavily upon her spirits.

Frank had gone down to the Nore to join the prize-crew on board the Sandwich, but during his absence they had been sent round by sea to Plymouth, and as no other vessel was expected to go down the Channel for some time, he obtained permission to travel thither by land, hoping, as there had been a long run of strong westerly winds, to reach that port as soon as his men did. Accordingly he started for London to visit his mother, and finding her much alarmed, and averse to remaining at the cottage, he removed her to ready-furnished lodgings at Marylebone; when, after an interview with Mr. Unity Peach (who promised to use his best endeavours to promote the comfort of Mrs. Heartwell), the young officer set out in the mail for Plymouth, where, on his arrival, he at once reported himself on board the Admiral, and ascertained that the vessel with the seamen had not yet got round. As his own hammock and chest were in her, permission was granted for his remaining on shore till she came into the Sound. Of his ship nothing accurate was known, but it was believed she had gone up the Mediterranean, to join the fleet under Earl St. Vincent.

Frank's ardent attachment to Helen had always exercised a powerful control over his actions. Before her departure from Finchley he had cherished the most sanguine hopes that his affection was returned; nothing, in fact, had ever occurred to raise the slightest doubt in his mind upon the subject; for the course of his love, though unavowed, had experienced no obstruction, nor was it till their separation that he awakened to a painful conviction of the vast difference which existed in their pecuniary circumstances. This raised apprehensions that he might have been deceiving himself, by mistaking the operations of a grateful spirit for feelings of personal regard towards himself.

The mansion of Mr. Wendover was situated on the right bank of the river Fowey, close to the pretty and romantic harbour of the same name. The distance from Plymouth could not exceed twenty miles--the Falmouth coach passed within a short walk of the neighbourhood--a strong westerly breeze was blowing--what, then, prevented him from trying to obtain an interview with the fair girl, and to learn from her own lips the real sentiments which she entertained for him?

Thus argued Frank. The temptation was too powerful to be subdued--his mind was tortured by suspense, and yielding to the quick impulse of his nature, in little more than three hours he was on the borders of the domain of the wealthy merchant--and a lovely place it was. The gradual development of spring was evidenced in the bright tints of the spreading foliage; the young grass was springing in rich luxuriance; art and nature were combined to heighten the beauty of the scenery; and slumbering on the surface of the stream that ran in front of the building, laid a superb little cutter-yacht, rigged with peculiar neatness, and her ensign blowing out freely in the wind. Frank's eyes glistened with the peculiar pleasure that a seaman always experiences when beholding a well-finished piece of work connected with his profession; but that was not all--the young midshipman rightly conjectured that the yacht belonged to Mr. Wendover; Helen had most likely sailed in it; and what would he not have given to have been with her, to display his knowledge of seamanship in managing the vessel.

The little punt, with two men in it, put off from the cutter to the shore; Frank hurried to meet them when they landed; it was a precious opportunity by which he might gain information relative to the family. Flatter a sailor's vanity in reference to his craft, and you at once possess a key to his heart. The young officer praised the beautiful vessel, and having expressed a wish to inspect her closely, he was invited to go on board. This was precisely what he wanted; the men were communicative, and he was not long in ascertaining that Mr. Wendover had been summoned to London on urgent business--that Mrs. Wendover was confined to the house by indisposition--and that Miss Helen was often to be seen taking her lonely walks about the grounds.

The deck of the yacht commanded a full view of the house and lawn, and Frank, whilst learning these particulars, watched eagerly, in hope that Helen would make her appearance; nor was he disappointed, for, after a short interval, a female was observed descending the steps of the mansion, and the spy-glass at once announced to him who it was. He had already taken a hasty survey of the vessel, and having presented a donation to the crew, he requested to be put on shore.

Helen had never ceased to cherish a strong feeling of real affection for Frank Heartwell, but she had never adequately known its power and extent, till the period of their separation; and though her father had not openly declared the occasion of her removal from Finchley, yet love is quick-witted in discovering causes; and knowing his determined character, she saw at once that he had opposed a barrier to her heart's dearest wishes. His conversations relative to her future prospects of aggrandisement opened to her conviction that he expected rigid obedience to his commands. But Helen could not--in fact, she did not try, to conquer the esteem for the young sailor, which had strengthened with her years--he had been the means of rescuing herself and her parents from threatened destruction--gratitude had ripened into love, and had become the sweetest contemplation of her life. Yet Frank had never made any avowal, and doubts similar to his own would at times cross her mind. Mr. Wendover could not but be sensible, by the change in his daughter's health and gaiety, that the disappointment had caused the most acute distress; still, however, he hoped that time would deaden the affliction, and she would forget the young officer. It was in vain, however, that he strove to raise her sunken spirits by excursions of pleasure abroad, and amusing pastimes at home. The bloom was leaving her cheeks, and her beautiful form began to waste away, for there was a sickness at her heart.

When Helen left the house that morning, her thoughts were dwelling upon Frank with all the tenderness of woman's gentle nature; she loved to stroll through the avenues alone, for no one there could disturb her meditations. She was turning the angle of one of the alleys, when Frank stood before her, and, the ardour of her feelings overcoming the coldness of formality, the next instant she was encircled in his arms, whilst unrepressed tears of surprise and delight came gushing from her eyes.

When the first burst of joy at meeting had subsided, they conversed more calmly, and Frank, whose doubts had been at once dispersed through the undisguised manifestations of attachment which his reception had evinced, now unequivocally declared, that "the happiness of his future existence depended upon Helen. He was not insensible to the hostility he must expect to meet with from her father; but he hoped by strenuous exertions in his profession to overcome even that, provided he might rely with confidence on her undeviating regard."

Their interview was not of long duration, but it was decisive to the peace of both. Helen candidly admitted her love for Frank, and though with the acknowledgment came apprehensions of her father's displeasure, yet he tried to soothe her alarm, by assurances that his prospects would brighten--prosperity had already smiled upon him--and could he once attain the rank of captain, he should consider himself eligible to propose to Mr. Wendover for his daughter's hand. At all events, he determined to persevere with unremitting ardour and hope, and enterprise gave promise of success.

Harmonious to the ear and grateful to the heart is the persuasive voice of one beloved. Helen placed perfect reliance on all Frank said, and there, in the sight of Heaven, they mutually pledged their vows of faith and constancy. The young officer returned to Plymouth more assured, nay, comparatively happy, and, the vessel arriving with his people, he solicited to be put in active service. A number of ships were fitting out to join Earl St. Vincent, and strengthen the force in the Mediterranean. Frank and his men were sent on board a frigate, which soon afterwards went out from Hamoaze into Cawsand Bay, but, as a matter of course, the boats were still employed in bringing off stores.

It was about three weeks after his interview with Helen, that Frank had charge of a pinnace to convey a rather heavy freight from the Dockyard, and though blowing hard from the north-west, he had strict orders to use his best endeavours to get out to the ship. The gale, however, increased, and the broken sea came tumbling in against a strong tide, so that he was driven to leeward. A dark night closed in upon them--the boat was half full of water--and, to add to their calamities, they struck upon the Shagstone rocks, and narrowly escaped with their lives. The pinnace was in a sinking state, when Frank deemed it advisable to lighten the boat, and to bear up for Yealur river; but the atmosphere was too dense to allow of their distinguishing objects on the land, and the sea was breaking fearfully high wherever they approached the shore, so that it threatened certain death should an attempt be made to run the boat in. All night they toiled, but towards daylight they were so close to the rocks, and drifted in so fast, that their fate seemed inevitable. The pinnace struck and was dashed to pieces; but Frank, being an excellent swimmer, after some buffeting amongst the breakers, succeeded in getting sure footing; and now that he was himself in safety, his anxious care was turned to his boat's crew. This is a trying moment to an officer, whose first thoughts are generally devoted to the brave fellows who have shared his perils, and Frank felt it. Two or three he knew were saved, for they were with him, but the fate of the rest could be but conjecture. Happily, however, though separated when wrecked, daylight brought them again round their officer, and the reckless humour of the tar soon prevailed over all sense of the dangers they had escaped. A few fishermen's huts afforded them shelter, and as these men occasionally ran across to Guernsey and Jersey, there was no lack of brandy, though at first it was produced with great caution.

The pinnace was irrecoverably gone--not a single trace of her was to be seen, and, consequently, after a plentiful repast, and a short rest, Frank prepared to set out with his men on foot for Mount Batten, where he expected to obtain boats to carry them over to Plymouth. The gallant fellows had mustered in what they called "good sailing trim," and were just on the point of departure when a cutter was seen urging her wild and headlong course towards the rocks, and from the manner of her approach, a nautical eye could easily detect that either her rudder was gone, or had sustained so much injury as to defy all control from the helm--her sails were blown to ribands--her topmast and bowsprit were carried away--and it was evident to all that she was hurrying to destruction.

Sometimes taking the seas clean over her broadside; at others almost buried beneath the waves that broke over as she rushed stem on, the deck of the cutter was now distinctly visible, as the crew, in wild despair, were clinging to the rigging; but what was Frank's agony when, by the aid of a glass he recognized the vessel to be the pretty little yacht that he had inspected, as she laid at anchor before Mr. Wendover's house, at Fowey; and as he could distinguish the white dresses of females, he made no doubt that Helen and her mother were on board. The young officer immediately assumed a command--his own men were prompt in obedience, and the fishermen were not less so through humanity. They tried to launch a boat, but the thing was impracticable; the sea drove her instantly back again, a perfect wreck.

Onwards came the cutter, till she struck on the rocks, at no great distance from the shore; the boat was launched from her deck, and a temporary lull enabled most of those on board to jump into her; but another sea came rolling in, and the boat was separated from the vessel. What anxious agonizing moments were those to Frank! he could not see who had left the cutter; but amidst the foaming of the breakers, it was evident that more than one swimmer in his strong agony was struggling with death. The small boat rose buoyant on the summits of the waves; the men pulled steadily; the people on shore waved them to the safest place for landing, and thither they sped; but before they could reach the shore they were caught by the recoil of the sea, as a raging breaker came curling its monstrous head astern, the boat was overset by its violence, and then dashed up upon the strand. In a moment Frank threw off his coat and waistcoat, and with his hardy band, rushed forward and grasped at all within their reach; the young midshipman was guided to a female, by her clothes appearing for an instant floating on the surface of the troubled waters. She was sinking, but he dived and brought her up again, just as the swell washed them within the range of further help from the shore, and the female was carried forward to a place of safety; it was Helen's mother. But where was the daughter? Frank would have again plunged into the waves; but on passing through a group, near where the boat had been thrown up, he heard the voice of Mr. Wendover, in earnest entreaty for them "to save his child." He seemed to be almost bereft of reason, as he wildly clutched his hair in agony, and pointed to the cutter, where a female was discerned clinging to the taffrail.

"Launch the boat again!" he loudly shouted, "I will go myself if no one will accompany me;" and then with imploring cries he offered the most lavish rewards to any one who should save his child from such imminent danger.

To satisfy him, the men endeavoured to launch the boat--but Frank saw the impossibility of accomplishing it, and instantly nerved himself for the occasion, with coolness and intrepidity. He watched for a moment the set of the tide and the drift of the sea; then hurrying to a projecting rock to take advantage of both, he bound a handkerchief tight round his loins, as he looked undauntedly upon his task, breathed a short prayer to Heaven for its aid, and then exclaiming "Helen, Helen, I will save you or we will die together!" he plunged into the foaming billows just as the boat washed back again upon the beach showed the utter impracticability of affording help from that quarter.

All eyes were now directed towards the swimmer, who boldly breasted the surge, dashing aside the white spray, as the raging element yielded to the energy of his sinewy arms: sometimes lost to sight in the hollow between the waves, then rising on the coom of the sea, he became a conspicuous object as he fearlessly cleaved his way, and bursts of admiration, as well as fervent petitions for his success, arose from the throng assembled on the shore.

The fainting Helen beheld his approach, but she knew not who it was that was thus risking his existence to try and preserve hers--the never-dying principles of hope revived her faculties; though at times when the head of the swimmer was obscured by intervening billows, her heart sickened with alarm as she feared he had sunk to rise no more. Then again when surmounting the crest of the wave, she saw him fearlessly lessening the distance between them, a re-action took place in her bosom, and fervently she prayed to the Omnipotent to stretch forth his hand and save. The pleasures of past enjoyments never seem so precious and valuable as when the extreme of peril threatens dissolution. Home, friends, and those beloved cling round the very soul as if to bind it more firmly to existence, and to render more arduous the struggle of separation from the body. Helen experienced this as the seas came breaking over the cutter, and she beheld her relatives upon the shore. But her principal remembrances were devoted to Frank; and as the swimmer approached, and his features became more distinct, she fancied she could trace a resemblance to him of whom she was thinking; the bare conjecture caused a sudden thrill through every vein; but when she heard the voice of her lover as he ascended to the deck and gained the taffrail, even the appalling danger was almost forgotten in the sudden delight of her heart at his noble and generous conduct. His presence re-assured her; his soothing language allayed her fears; and though the sea at intervals broke over them, yet there was now a confidence in her bosom, for Frank was with her.

But no time was to be lost; the young midshipman feared that his own strength would not bear him out to carry her to the shore; the wreck of the main-boom was floating alongside, and he resolved to lash Helen to the spar. At first she shrunk from the hazard, but Frank clasped her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, and fervently imploring the blessing of Omnipotence upon his efforts, at once proceeded to his perilous undertaking; he succeeded in lashing Helen to the boom, impressed upon her mind the absolute necessity of clinging fast to her support, and then with his knife was cutting away the jaw-rope, as the body of a female floated up the space that had been covered by the skylight--she was dead.

Helen did not see her, and Frank, without delay, separated the boom from the wreck. Then springing into the sea, he directed the course of its drift for the shore, where the agonized father and the anxious seamen beheld what was passing, and waited in excited expectation for the result. The raft bore up its burthen well, and Frank swimming close to her cheered the terrified girl as they neared the land, and the waves dashed over them with resistless fury. The spectators calculating the precise spot where they would take the ground, hastened thither, and more than one brave fellow rushed through the surf to lend his officer a hand.

They were in the breakers; the boiling and bubbling foam was raging around them--the noise of the waters was hissing and howling in their ears, when Frank cut away the lashing that sustained Helen, and disengaged her from the spar, lest she should be injured by the concussion as it struck the rocks: supporting her by one arm, he manfully plied the other; two of the seamen kept near him; a heavy sea rolled them over, but Frank, though almost exhausted, still maintained his hold; the next minute they were washed up upon the shore, and, raised on the shoulders of the people, were carried to dry land.

Extreme, indeed, was the joy of Mr. Wendover as he clasped his child, and implored blessings on her deliverer, whom in his wet condition, with his hair hanging about his face, the merchant did not recognize, but to whom he promised payment of the large reward which he had offered, supposing that alone to have been the motive for going to the rescue of Helen. Frank made no reply, for ignorant of Mr. Wendover's forgetfulness, he imagined that he must be known, and he felt indignant at money being offered for saving one who was far more precious to him than his own life. Helen was carried to the hut where her mother had already been kindly cared for, and the merchant never left his child, who, at first, sank into insensibility through terror and fatigue, and on her recovery gazed wildly round, and called upon Frank as her rescuer from death. Mr. Wendover at first considered it the ravings of a disordered imagination; but when grown more calm his daughter assured him of the fact, the merchant exclaimed, "The hand of Providence is in this; he above all others is the man I wish to see, nor will I any longer oppose your affection; he has a second time saved my child, and he is worthy of her."

Wishing to atone for his neglect, he went himself in search of Frank, but young Heartwell, after seeing Helen in security, had quitted the place with his people, and was some distance on his way to Plymouth. One of the seamen of the cutter accompanied them, and from him the young officer learned that they were on their way round to the Thames when the gale caught them. At the time the yacht struck the rocks and the boat was launched, a favourite servant of Miss Wendover's was in the cabin; Helen had generously hastened down with the captain to fetch her up. Whilst thus engaged, the rope that held the boat parted--the cabin was nearly filled--Helen was forced by the captain to the deck and lashed to the taffrail--he himself was washed overboard; and Frank rightly conjectured that the body he had seen floating was that of the drowned servant.

Mr. Wendover would have sent messengers after young Heartwell, but, as he purposed removing his family as soon as conveyances could be procured, he thought the delay of a day or two could not be of much consequence; but when the time arrived, and Helen was all delight at the prospect which was opening before her, they ascertained that the frigate had sailed only a few hours before for the Mediterranean.

A THEATRICAL CURIOSITY.

Once in a barn theatric, deep in Kent, A famed tragedian--one of tuneful tongue-- Appeared for that night only--'twas Charles Young. As Rolla he. And as that Innocent, The Child of hapless Cora, on there went A smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flung A shadow, as she walked the lamps among-- So light she seem'd, and so intelligent! That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap: Snatching the creature by her tiny gown, He plants her on his shoulder,--All, all clap! While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown, _She_ lisps in Rolla's ear,--"_Look out, old chap, Or else I'm blow'd if you don't have me down!_"

SLIDING-SCALES.

The most remarkable sliding-scale of which Fiction has any record is the rainbow on which Munchausen, with such inimitable ease, effected his railroad descent from mid-air; but Fact has her extraordinary sliding-scales too. Take a modern example in the one which carried Napoleon from Moscow to Elba, equalled only by that which bore him afterwards from Waterloo to St. Helena.

Life in its several stages is but a succession of sliding-scales. Take a bird's-eye view of society, and what do you see but two classes; one endeavouring to slide up an ascent, and another endeavouring not to slide down. The world, instead of being represented as round as an O, might more aptly be figured by the letter A, which is composed of two inclined planes; the way up being narrow and hard to climb, but the way down being broad and open enough.

There is the moral sliding-scale and the intellectual sliding-scale. On the one, we see a man passing, by regular degrees, from a meanness to a degradation; from a little shabbiness to a great crime; from a lie thought to a lie acted; from an evasion to a shuffle; from a shuffle to a swindle; from swindling to consummate depravity; from the first sixpence penuriously saved to the heaped hoards of avarice. On the other, we see the mind gradually drawn out from weakness to power; from dulness to brilliancy; from the frivolous dreams of childhood to the conceptions of a gigantic imagination; the heavy schoolboy ripening into the lively poet; the reckless truant settling into the wise and thoughtful student.

There is the sliding-scale of fortune, the sliding-scale of manners, the sliding-scale of appetite; penury slides into affluence, rustic modesty becomes town-bred impudence, the _gourmand_ eats himself down to a dry crust. It is sad enough to see a gentlemen slide off his saddle-horse, and take to drawing a truck; but these declensions will happen, and they are not so distressing as it is to see a philosopher turning footman, an orator turning twaddler, or a patriot turning toady.

Then there is the sliding-scale theatrical. By what a natural and unerring sliding-scale does some popular tragedian come down at last from Richard the Third to the Lord Mayor! "I wore that very dress as Romeo," said a London player, of small parts, "when I starred it in the provinces." The romantic beauty of Juliet declines into the grotesque rheumatism of the Nurse.

We say nothing of the tradesman's scale, which is an affair of weights; nor of the scale-musical, which is one of measures. But of the sliding-scale which is best understood, and perhaps most freely acted upon in every great city and small town, our marginal series of "scenes from real life" will afford the best exemplification; and so we direct the reader to them. [Illustration]

SKETCHES HERE, THERE, AND EVERYWHERE.

BY A. BIRD.

A STAGE-COACH RACE.

Poor Macadam! his honoured dust will soon be forgotten! In cities it is buried, or soon will be, in wood; and few of the millions who glide and slide over the wooden pavement, will think of the "Colossus of Roads," whose dust it covers like a coffin. Our course is no longer "o'er hills and dales, through woods and vales," which the many-handed Macadam made smooth and easy. Our carriage, placed like the toy of a child, goes without horses. The beautiful country--the cheerful "public," with its porch, its honeysuckle and roses--the sign which bade the "weary traveller rest" on the seat beneath the spreading elm;--these are no more!--This is the iron age--fire and steam are as the breath of our nostrils--we speak by the flash of lightning--we have given life to emptiness, and fly upon the wings of a vacuum--our path is through the blasted rock, the cold dark dreary tunnel--through cheerless banks, which shut us from the world like a living grave--on--on--on--we speed! The dying must die! The burning must burn! There is no appeal--no tarrying by the way. Like the whirlwind we are hurried to our end. The screech of women in despair is drowned by the clash, the din, the screech of the "blatant beast," the mad monster which man has laid his finger on, and tamed to his uses.

This is all very fine, and, doubtless, _il faut marcher avec son siècle_, if we do not wish to be left behind in the race that is before us. Doubtless, too, our children, like calves born by the side of a railroad, will look on these things as a matter of course, and let them pass with high-bred indifference. And if, as most assuredly will be the case, some of these children should become mothers in due course of time, we can fancy them so philosophized by force of habit, so inured to the wholesale smashing and crashing of the human form divine, that, should a door fly open and let an infant drop, the mama will sit quiet till the next station cries Halt! and then merely request that a man and basket be despatched to pick up the pieces left some seven miles off![15]

"_Chi lo sa!_" as the Neapolitans say in cases of extreme doubt and difficulty; "_chi lo sa_," say I; and having been born before the earth was swaddled up in iron, or the sea danced over by iron ships, I confess a sneaking fondness for the highways, and byways, and old ways of old England; and, when not pressed for time, I delight in honouring the remains of poor old Macadam.

A fortnight ago, having occasion to visit Somerset, I found myself _en route_, at Cheltenham--a place, by the way, which always reminds me of miscellaneous articles stored in a second-hand shop; it is sure to come into use once in seven years. There I was for the night, luxuriously lodged in this Anglo-foreign town, this self-styled "queen of watering-places," this city of salt--or salts, as some malicious pluralists will have it--there I was, and long ere morning broke, I had decided upon cutting the rail and coaching it to Bristol; in other words, as time was not an object, I would not go some fifty miles round to save it.

I was soon seated by my old friend, "coachee." Coachee was a character _sui generis_, of a race which will soon be extinct; I had known him in the "palmy days" of the road, and remembered the time when he, with his pair, was selected to tease and oppose the prettiest four-in-hand that ever trotted fourteen miles an hour.

It was, if I'm not mistaken, in 1832, that "The Exquisite" first started from Exeter to Cheltenham, and weighing the coach, the cattle and coachman together, never was a turn-out more worthy of the title. To oppose this with a pair was a bold conception, but "coachee" was an old stager; "what man dared do" he dared, and did it well. "Strange changes, Mr. Coachee, since you and I first knew each other," said I to my right hand friend, as soon as we had cleared the rattle of the stones. Coachee turned his head slowly round, and looked me full in the face; he _drew in_ such a sigh, and put on such a look of miserable scorn, that I felt for the silent sufferer. Yet was I dumbfounded by his silence; I had looked for the jibes and jests which were wont to put us outsides in a roar,--but to see "coachee" turned into a man of mute sorrow, was a character so new and unnatural, that--extremes will meet--I burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

Coachee attempted to preserve the penseroso, and with ill-feigned gravity tried to reprove me, by saying,--"_You_ may laugh, sir, but it's no joke for _us_ as loses." With what tact I could bring to bear, I revived the memory of former days, the coachman's golden age! I spoke of "the Exquisite," and asked if he did not once beat it with his pair.

"So you've heard tell of that, have you?" And Alexander never chuckled half so much to hear his praises sung, as coachee did at the thoughts of his victory. I told him I had heard of it from others, but never from his own mouth, which was half the battle. There needed but little persuasion to make him tell his own story.

"It's all as true as I am sitting on this here box, and this is how it came to pass. It was one Sunday evening that some of us whips had met to crack a few bottles. 'The Exquisite' had just been put upon the road, and who should be there but Mr. Banks as drove it, and who should be there too but I as was started to oppose it. Well, it so happened I hadn't a single passenger booked inside nor out, for Monday! Well, thinks I, Mr. Banks, if I and my coach can't give you the go-by to-morrow, I don't know inside from out, and so I told him. 'That's _your_ opinion is it, Mr. Bond?' said Mr. Banks, with a smile, and a sniff at a pink in his button-hole. 'Yes, Mr. Banks,' says I; 'and what's more, I'll stick to it, and here's a sovereign to back it.' Will. Meadows, him as used to drive the 'Hi-run-dell,' he thought he'd do me; so he claps down his bit of gold, and the bet was made. There's an end of that, said I, and now, Mr. Banks, let's have a bumper. 'Here's to you, my Exquisite,' says I, as we bobbed and nobbed. 'Here's to you, Mr. H-opposition,' says he, and I hopes you'll tell me the time o' day to-morrow morning.' But he didn't think I should for all that. Well, now, sir, what do you think I should find when I goes the first thing on Monday morning to our office?"

"Your H-opposition coach and a pair of horses?" said I, inquiringly.

"Right enough, so far,--but what think you of finding four ins and eight outs, all booked for Bristol! Well, thinks I, Mr. Banks, this alters the case, and my sovereign felt uncommon light all of a sudden. Howsomever, up I gets, and, says I to my box-companion, you won't mind if I goes a little fast, will you? 'Mind!' said he, 'why, you can't go too fast for me.' He was one of the right sort, d'ye see, and enjoyed the fun as much as me. 'All right?' says I; 'All right,' says Bill, and away we goes. I got the start, for in those days 'the Exquisite' was sure to load like a waggon. Away I went, with such a pair! they stepped as if they hadn't got but four legs between 'em; and, up to Gloucester, Mr. Exquisite's four tits couldn't touch 'em. Now, as ill-luck would have it, it wasn't my day for 'the Bell,' so while I turns out of the line to change at the Booth Hall, up comes 'the Exquisite' and gives us the go-by: there warn't no help for it, but what aggravated me the most was, to see Mr. Banks tip me a nod with his elbow, as much as to say, 'Good bye till to-morrow!' What was worse, two of my ins was booked for Gloucester; and what was worse again, they was both ladies. Now, ladies--bless 'em all for all that!--but ladies and luggage are one, says I, they never goes apart; and such a load of traps I never see'd, with a poll parrot, and a dozen dicky-birds for a clincher! Well, there warn't no help for it.--Come, Jacky, my boy, says I, give a hand with them straps--there--now t'other--all snug?--off with you!--And Jack soon found the wheel warn't meant for a footstool--off he leapt--the ladder fell into the gutter, and away we went at last. We couldn't touch 'em that stage--no wonder neither, for there never was a prettier team before me, and that 'ere Exquisite chap--though I used to call him 'Mr. H-opposition'--handled his ribbons like a man. The dust was light, and I tracked him like a hare in the snow. He never lost an inch that day--there were his two wheel-marks right ahead--straight as an arrow, and looked for all the world as if ruled with a--what do ye call them 'ere rulers that walk after one another?"

I hesitated for a moment, and then hit upon--a parallel ruler--

"Aye, to be sure. Well, his two tracks looked for all the world as if they'd been ruled with a parable ruler; but for all that, we got a sight of him before he changed again. 'Now or never!' thought I, for I could do as I liked in those days, as one man horsed the whole line. 'So,' says I to our ostler, 'you go and clap the harness on the bay-mare, while I tackle these two; I've a heavy load, and wants a little help.' No sooner said, than done. 'Now, my pretty one,' says I to the little mare, 'you must step out for me to-day, and it's in you I know.' So I just let my lash fall like a feather on her haunch, and, for the life and soul of me, I thought she'd have leapt out of the harness. All right, thinks I, I have it now; and bating twelvepence, my sovereign's worth a guinea.

"We wasn't long a coming up, and when 'Mr. H-opposition' saw my pair with the bay mare a-head, he didn't like it, you may be sure of that. Well, I let's him take the lead that stage. We wasn't long a changing--a wisp o' wet hay to the little mare's nose, and away she went again as fresh as a four-year-old, and 'the Exquisite' couldn't get away from us no more than a dog from his tail.

"'Ah!' says Mr. Banks, as I puts my leader alongside of him, 'is that you, Mr. Bond! have you been coming across the fields? I didn't think to hear the time o' day from you, Mr. Bond.' 'Didn't you?' says I. 'No,' says, he; 'shall I say you're a coming into Bristol?'

"Before I could say yes or no, he gave the prettiest double cut to his leaders with one turn of his hand, that ever I see'd--they sprang like light--whish! whish! went the double thong across the wheelers.--He warn't a second about it all, and while I looked, he was gone like a shot. Though I didn't like it much then, I must say it was the cleanest start I ever clapped eyes upon, and ne'er a whip in England couldn't say it warn't. 'No chance that stage,' said I, growing rather impatient; we warn't far behind for all that--and now, thought I, comes my turn--play or pay's the word--for I knowed my country; leaders down hill ben't no manner of use, quite contrawise; a coachman has enough to do to keep the pole from tickling their tails, and hasn't much time for nothing else. The little mare had done her work, and away we went with such a pair! They'd ha' pulled the wheels off if I'd 'a told them; they know'd I'd got a bet as well as if I'd said so, and away they went the railroad pace."

"What!" asked I, "before railroads were thought of?"

Coachee always had his answer--"What if they war'n't?--no odds for that--we got the start of _them_ that day, and, maybe, they took the hint--worse luck too, say I--but away we went--it was all neck-and-neck--first and second--second and first. If Banks beat, up--Bond beat, down--till at last 'Mr. H-opposition' see'd how the game was going, and that he hadn't a chance; but he wouldn't allow it, not he. So he pulls up and calls to his guard, and tells him to put the tackle to rights, though there war'n't nothing the matter--and lets me go by as if he wasn't beaten. So, as we passes, I pulls out my watch and _tells him the time o' day_! 'and, Mr. Banks,' says I, 'what shall I order for your supper?'"

As coachee wound up the tale of his by-gone victory, it brought on a fit of laughter, which I began to think would never end; when, on a sudden it ceased, and with horror and consternation painted in his face, he exclaimed, "Well, bless my heart alive, that ever I should live to see such a thing!" "Where! what!" said I looking right and left, and almost expecting to see some wonderful beast pop over the hedge. "Well, now, it hasn't got no outside, and"--after a pause--"no, nor I'm blest if it has any inside!"

I guessed his meaning by this time; but affecting ignorance, I asked, "What is that wonderful animal without any inside?" "Animal!" he exclaimed, "why, don't you see the poor old Exquisite a coming by itself?"

"There is a coachman," said I, as gravely as I could. "Poor Banks!" said coachee, quite touched with compassion, and heedless of my remark. He pulled up, so did the Exquisite.

"Well, now, I'm blest, if this isn't worse than solitary confinement, it makes my stomach ache, Mr. Banks!"

(A poet would have said, "_my heart_," but depend upon it, coachee meant the same thing.)

"A bad day's work, Mr. Bond, but we can't expect no otherwise now," said he of the once "palmy" Exquisite, yet looking more cheerful than might have been expected.

"A sad change, Mr. Banks. Why, that 'ere near leader looks as if it hadn't strength to draw your hat off."

"You're about right there, Mr. Bond, but,"--and here the flash of humour of brighter days lit up the features of Mr. Banks,--"but do you know what the Tories are going to do with us old coachmen?"

Mr. Bond shook his head, and murmured--"Not I!"

"Well, then, I'll tell you, Mr. Bond: they're agoing to plant us for milestones along the railroad."

Another fit of laughter came on, and it was with difficulty that Mr. Bond could articulate, "Good bye! good bye!" as we drove on our course to Bristol.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 15: Not long since a man, heedless or drunk, fell asleep upon a railroad; the train arrived, and literally cut him to pieces. "I suppose, sir, we had better _get the man together_?" said a labourer, soon after the accident had occurred. "By all means," answered he in authority. Death is but death, we allow; but death by the railroad is not only wholesale but frightfully terrific. To avoid the chance of such accidents, when possible, is an imperative duty, and every road which crosses a _railroad_ should be _over or under it_. We need only refer to two recent accidents caused by the want of such prevention.]

ANOTHER CURIOSITY OF LITERATURE.

The Knocker aches with motion; day by day The door groans on with hard and desperate knocks; Duns--gentle, fervent, furious--come in flocks; And still they press, and still they go away, And call again, and saunter off, or stay; Duns of all shapes--the goose, the wolf, the fox-- All punctual by their several parish-clocks: And still the answer is the same--no pay! Alas! that house one penny doth not hold,-- One farthing were not found, on hands and knees, No, not a doit, in all its crevices; Yet sits the Inmate, cramp'd, and lean, and cold, Writing a pamphlet;--and its title? "_Gold!_ Or, England's Debt paid off with perfect ease."

A HORRIBLE PASSAGE IN MY EARLY LIFE.

"Make the most of your school-days, my lad; they'll be the happiest of your life!"

So said a kind friend, who called on me once when I was in that state called _pupillaris_. He gave me the advice, and I grinned approval; he did _not_ give me a "tip," and I considered him a mean and despicable wretch, and his advice not worth listening to. Still did the words oft recur to me; and with especial force did they recur on the subsequent Saturday, when I was preparing to "avail myself of a kind invitation" to dine and sleep out, and was packing carefully up, in a crumpled piece of _Bell's Life_, (which, in the capacity of fag, I had appropriated as a perquisite from my master's store,) such necessaries as such a sojourn demanded. And the result was, that as my nose inhaled the undeniable evidence of the approach of dinner below, and I felt the pleasing conviction to an empty stomach, that, until seven, at least, _I_ should not hear the apoplectic butler assert, in voice abdominal, that dinner was on the table, I gave a long sniff, and sighed, "Well! perhaps they are!"

I had got at last clear of the city. My pocket was devoid of coin--of the lowest even, else should I have called a cab, (for in those days neither Shillibeer nor G. C^k. had started a "bus.") As it was, I walked, and was just entering Piccadilly from the Circus, when a laugh in my rear made me turn rapidly, and my eyes encountered--a tall butcher's boy! He was habited in a grey frieze coat, corduroy smalls, and blue apron. His hair was well plastered down. He had no cap; but he had a pair of "aggravators" trained on either temple. His eyes were large; his cheeks beefy; and withal, he carried on his shoulder a tray, and _it_ carried--ugh!----a large piece of _liver_! _That_ I saw _then_. An indescribable awe spread through my frame--my feelings were what the wretch behind me would have called "offal." I knew, as though by instinct, that I had in Piccadilly seen, what Napoleon saw at Acre--the man who should mar my destiny!

Abstractedly, there is nothing absolutely and inherently vicious in a butcher's boy; on the contrary, he may be decidedly virtuous--nay, we have in our mind's eye cases which would go far to prove that high moral integrity and humanity of sentiment are quite compatible with his most necessary trade. Is it then asked, why this individual should excite at once in my boyish bosom such lively feelings of horror--such forebodings of evil? I can give no more reason for it than did my friend Grant, (who tells such jolly stories,) for declining to show his box of silk-worms to an inquiring friend. "Grant! just let's have a look at your silk-worms--there's a good fellow!"--"No!"--"Why not, man?"--"_Because not!_" My answer must be similar in spirit, if not in letter. I _knew_ that the odious individual was destined to be my evil genius for the day.

But to my tale. The owner of the large optics--the bearer of "the tray," returned my gaze. Its result as to any favourable impression of my personal appearance on his mind seemed doubtful. He merely remarked, however, "Vell, you _are_ a nice swell for a small party, you are!"

I walked on. The observation set me contemplating my admirable blue jacket, with its neat row of buttons; my exceedingly pleasing waistcoat, and pantaloons of black; my large white collar, and unexceptionable shirt-front; not to mention the Oxford shoes, and the beaver hat, which, on a pretence of excessive heat, and after the manner of elderly gentlemen in Kensington Gardens, I took off, that my eyes might be satisfied that _it_ was all right. The result of the scrutiny was a feeling that the remark of the wretch (who might or might not be following--look round again I dared not) was not only quite natural, but, taking the word "swell" in its better acceptation, quite consistent with the truth. On, therefore, I walked, and by the time I reached Sackville Street, became tranquil again. Now, to all London peripatetics the print-shop at the corner of that street must be well known. It was at this identical place that I made a halt, and a determination at the same time to have a regular jolly good look at all the pictures (for by St. James's it was now only two o'clock); beginning, in the orthodox way, with the last bar of the "airy" up Sackville Street, and "the Norwich mail in a thunderstorm;" and gradually proceeding to the last bar up Piccadilly, and an earnest scrutiny of some stout gentleman in spectacles, who always _will_ stand at the end of a print-shop window, to prevent one's satisfactorily finishing everything.

"How uncertain are all sublunary things!"--"All that's bright must fade," &c., are remarks which one occasionally meets with in the works of English authors, and is very apt to treat with contempt. Yet who can predicate at two o'clock that he shall be happy at a quarter past? I had, in the prosecution of my plan, got half-way down the railings in Sackville Street, and had arrived opposite a peculiar pane of glass, wherein, as in a mirror, my own happy face, and the especial whiteness of my shirt-collar, were revealed to my gratified vision. I had just given the last-named a gentle pull up, and was smiling in the consciousness of "youth and grace, and"--in short, I was _satisfied_ with myself--when--

"Vell, I'm blowed if you an't precious sveet on that 'ere phiz o' your'n, young un!"

I turned in horror. Close behind me there stood a butcher's boy--_the_ butcher's boy! (there was but one in London that day)--those eyes--those corduroys--_that tray_! I shrunk within myself--I almost wished that the bar I stood on might give way and admit me into the "airy." I mechanically uttered some deprecatory expression, scarce conscious of anything but the existence of a butcher's boy, with large eyes, and a tray!

"Vell, Turnips!" (I had light--very light hair) "vot are yer a looking at now?--a com-paring that ugly phiz o' yourn with a gen'leman's?" I felt that the last word conveyed a reproach, and my spirits rose so high as to explode in the assertion, "I didn't speak to you!"

"O, didn't yer, Turnips?-vell, just take _that_, then; and never mind the change!"

His hand was raised rapidly to his tray--a dark substance rose high in the air. Blash! it came--all over my face--my collar: _the_ cherished collar! My eyes sought the pane wherein so lately I had gazed with pride. "One dark red stain" was too visible. I _felt_ then, and _knew_, that I had had my face slapped--literally slapped--with a piece of _liver_!

The criminal on the gallows, exposed to the groans of the brutal mob, may feel as degraded (no one else can) as I did, whilst weeping I pursued my way. The very red plush smalls of him who admitted me at last into the privacy of a house, from the gaze of grinning thousands, seemed to mock my misery. I dared not go up-stairs. I remained below weeping; till a kind old lady--whence should relief to the wretched come?--came to comfort me. My face was cleansed from the stain, but remembrance could not be washed away; I was supplied with a pretty suit from her son's wardrobe--it could not cover my sense of degradation. Even the desired dinner failed to bring the desired oblivion; and when two elderly ladies who _would_ sing duets began to practise their favourite one, the words that struck my ears were, "Flow on, thou shining _liver_!" * * *

JOHN COPUS.

The miscreant author of my woe has not escaped. For in one of _his_ limnings in whose vehicle I ride, there may be seen, with a malicious grin on his face, such as he wore after the consummation of my woe, contemplating the capture of poor Oliver Twist by the interesting Nancy, and her ruffian Bill Sikes--a _butcher's boy_. Note him well--_the_ butcher's boy. Hair--corduroys--and _tray_!--J. C.

*** Our sensitive and acutely-suffering correspondent who so keenly remembers the woes of his boyhood, has, by the force of his memory, recalled to our own recollection another specimen of the tray-carrying fraternity. We subjoin his portrait, for the benefit of every juvenile diner-out who entertains a horror of liver! The artist insists that it _is_ a portrait, and no invention.

TWO OF A TRADE.

"With such a dear companion at my side."---WORDSWORTH.

Oh! marvellous Boy, what marvel when I met thy Dog and thee, I marvell'd if to dogs or men You traced your ancestry!

If changed from what you once were known, As sorrow turns to joy, The Boy more like the Dog had grown, The Dog more like the Boy.

It would a prophet's eyesight baulk, To see through time's dark fog, If on four legs the Boy will walk, Or if on two the Dog.

Oh pair! what were ye both _at first_? The one a feeble pup; A babe the other, fondly nursed-- How _have_ ye been brought up?

Oh, Boy! and wert thou once a child, A cherub small and soft, On whom two human beings smiled, And pray'd for, oft and oft?

A creature, rosy, plump and fair, Half meekness and half joy; A wingless angel with light hair!-- Oh! wert thou, Butcher-boy?

A thing more gentle, laughing, light, More blythe, more full of play, Than e'er _he_ was--that luckless wight!-- The lamb you stuck to-day?

And thou, O Dog, with deep-set eyes, Wert thou, like Love, once blind; With helpless limbs, of pigmy size, And voice that scarcely whined?

How grew your legs so like to _his_, Your growl so like his tone? And when did he first see your phiz Reflected in his own?

Bravely have both your likeness worn; Alike, without, within; Brethren ye are, and each was born, Like Happiness, "a twin!"

Yet can it be, oh! Butcher-boy, Thou com'st of Adam's race? Then Adam's gold has much alloy!-- Was this _his_ form and face?

Art thou descended from the pair From whom the Cæsars came? Wore Alexander such an air? Look'd Cheops much the same?

And thou, oh! Butcher's cur, is't true That _thy_ first parents e'er From Eden's garden lapp'd the dew, And breathed in rapture there?

Yes! those from whom you spring, no doubt, Who lived like dogs, and died, Must once have follow'd Eve about, And walk'd by Adam's side.

L. B.

OMNIBUS CHAT.

The noble art of boxing made a hit in its day; but it is now numbered amongst the dead or dying, and the art of striking reigns in its stead. Little has been heard of throughout the month but the "strikes" that have taken place at the various public works, among the masons. "Masonic brethren" they have proved themselves, by the secrecy of their communications, and the sympathetic character of their movements. They struck first at the Houses of Parliament, then at Nelson's Monument, then at Woolwich. Not being in want of bread, they refused us a stone. Punctual to a moment, as the Horse Guards' clock struck, they did. Our Omnibus stopped, like the workmen, at Charing-cross. "So the masons at Nelson's Monument are going to strike," said we. "Glad to hear it," rejoined a punning acquaintance, "there ought to be something striking about a monument to _him_!"

The name of Nelson set all our companions talking; but an "old sailor" (not _the_) was the first to give his discourse a reportable shape, by relating a little historical fact that has escaped history--unimportant, perhaps, but not uninteresting.

THE TWO NAVAL HEROES.

Everybody knows Tower Hill, but it is not every one we meet with in an Omnibus, who can recollect it as it was fifty years ago, when Steel kept his shop there, and first published the Navy List. However, we cannot stop to speak of him, or his book, nor of the itinerants who were wont to vend their various wares under the trees which shaded the houses in Postern-row; nor of the pump, which then, as now, was declared to be a very good pump; nor of the ditch, into which, in that day, many a passenger was tumbled after being robbed and beaten by the thieves and disorderlies--land privateers as they were called, who cruised in the neighbourhood after dark. We do not intend to relate any thing of these, nor of the sundry stout, ill-favoured, savage-looking vagabonds in fearnought coats, who were ever to be found lolling over the row of posts which fenced the eastern side of the hill--the commissioned press-gang, who used to amuse themselves by scrutinizing the passers-by, and now and then by breaking the head of some unfortunate blue-jacket who had incautiously strolled too near their precincts to avoid capture or a fight.

We have taken you out of the city, reader, into a district not inhabited by the most honest or well conducted; but we must still bring you through East Smithfield into Wapping, to a spot a little west of the entrance of the London Docks; and hereabouts one Richardson kept a slop-shop.

Early one morning a cheerful-looking hale old man came out of Steel's navigation warehouse, leading by the hand a slender stripling of a lad who carried a chart under his arm, and seemed to regard his companion with the respect due to a patron. They took their way along the same track precisely by which we have conducted you, and parted opposite Richardson's slop-shop. As the man (_it was Porteous, the king's pilot_) shook the lad by the hand, he ejaculated loud enough to be heard half down the street--"Mind, high water at a quarter past twelve; I won't wait a minute; be there by twelve!"

Old Richardson was at this moment busied about his accounts, and too intent on his occupation to perceive that anybody had approached his counter, until the lad who had entered the shop drew his attention. He wanted some sea-clothing, and tendered a list of check shirts, duck trousers, &c. The articles were exhibited, examined, and approved; they were to be packed up and sent to the Dundee Arms by noon. The honest chapman recognized the signature at the foot of the order, and the youth took his departure.

There was something in the lad's manners and appearance that would have induced an observation upon the choice he had made of a profession so full of danger and difficulty; and the slopseller was once or twice about to address his young customer on the subject, who however gave him no opportunity of entering upon it.

The lad gone, the shopkeeper resumed his employment at his books, and, as he turned over leaf after leaf, accompanied the process with certain verbal remarks which a pen he held between his lips rendered somewhat indistinct; at length, laying down the implement and adjusting his spectacles, he pondered over the contents of the page, and after a pause exclaimed--"Ah! I do remember, about the same time in the morning too. Let me see--watch-coat--fearnought trousers--pair of boots--sword-belt--he was rather a different looking chap to the lad that came just now; a hard-faced, smart-built, bold dog he was--fine eye; snapped at me as I showed him the things--sent 'em to Water-lane, but never got the money! Early customers differ otherwise than in looks; this pays, that don't--but it can't be helped; if they are not all--let's see, what's the lads name," (and here he re-examined the order that had just been left with him) "ay--_Horatio Nelsons_, they are not all _Paul Joneses_"--And these two widely distinguished heroes, reader, were the customers between whom old Richardson drew a comparison[16].

Nelson, and the modern navy, and Napier, and ship-building, and discipline, and improvement, were the changes rung for some time, until at last somebody adverted to a peculiarity of the Jack Tar which may be discussed under the title of

TAR AND FEATHERS.

The sailor must have his joke in defiance of danger and death. When Commodore Anson took Panama in 1742, his men clothed themselves over their jackets and trousers in all the gay apparel they could collect. They did the same at Capua under Nelson; and the hero, elevated on a cask in the grand square, and surrounded by motley groups of masquerading tars, drank rich wine out of a golden goblet to the toast of "Better times to us." In 1805, the brave Yeo, then a lieutenant of the Loire frigate, with a mere handful of men, stormed the heavy fort of El Muros, near Finisterre, and carried it at noon-day. Having destroyed the fortification and sent off the stores, the seamen arrayed themselves in the immense Spanish grenadiers' bear skin caps and accoutrements, and all black and dirty with their labour, rowed off in this state to the ship, to the great amusement of Captain Maitland and the hearty approval of their shipmates. Many other anecdotes of a similar kind might be related; and now it appears, by recent accounts from China, that Jack is still pursuing his old game; for it is related that at the destruction of several war-junks in the neighbourhood of Canton, the English seamen arrayed themselves in the spoils of the enemy, and figured away in mandarin caps and tunics, and the curly-toed shoes of the Chinamen; nor was the essential tail wanted; for many of the bodies were divested of this ornament, which Jack being in a "cue" for humour, suspended at his own back, occasionally raising it in a coil, and offering to take a messmate in tow by it.

We did not break up our little Naval Board without mentioning impressment, and a thing called the CAT; the word was no sooner out, than it operated like the morning-gun in "The Critic," and off went the following:--

AN A_CAT_ALECTIC MONODY!

A _cat_ I sing, of famous memory, Though _cat_achrestical my song may be; In a small garden _cat_acomb she lies, And _cat_aclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the _cat_acoustic song Swells with her virtues' _cat_alogue along; No _cat_aplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed _cat_aracts of tears Once loud and strong her _cat_echist-like voice It dwindled to a _cat_call's squeaking noise; Most _cat_egorical her virtues shone, By _cat_enation join'd each one to one;-- But a vile _cat_chpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like _cat_ling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her _cat_erwauling pierced the heavy air, As _cat_aphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as _cat_erpillars drag away Their lengths, like _cat_tle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit _kat_ the Embodyment of this _cat_astrophe.--V. D. L.

"A play on words," said Mr. Cavil, (who happened to be our guest on this occasion), "a play on words, sir, is a pretty thing in its way; and I'm perfectly well aware that the public expect you to be jocular (as if there were nothing cheerful in seriousness). I know, too, that it's quite impossible to please everybody. But still, sir--still I think a little gravity now and then, eh?--a little gravity. I don't conceive that you give your attention sufficiently to science. Something scientific now--"

Mr. Cavil was not allowed to conclude; we had anticipated his want; we had already turned our thoughts that way, and could fortunately plume ourselves upon the presence of one of the _illustrissimi_ of science, who forthwith illumined our humble vehicle by a transcendent and exclusive report of the

THIRD MEETING OF THE BRIGHT-ISH ASSOCIATION FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF EVERYTHING.

_Section A.--Mathematical and Physical Science._

_President_--Prof. Cycloyd. _Vice-Presidents_--Dr. Spectrum & Major Fork.

"ON AN EXPERIMENT OF INTERFERENCE." By Inspector Jones.

The author stated, that one night he had observed a gentleman employed in experimenting upon the tintinnabular powers of bells, as produced by voltaic action communicated through copper wires; the end of the wire being conducted into the open air, and the point defended by a brass knob. Feeling interested in the prosecution of this experiment, the author immediately proceeded to the spot to make inquiries into its success; but when within two paces of the experimentalist, he had suddenly received so severe a shock that he was stunned for the moment. When he recovered from its effects, the gentleman was gone. This he particularly regretted, as he much wished to have discovered the power which had produced the shock that prostrated him; but as he had observed another gentleman a short distance behind him, he supposes that he, being an assistant of the experimentalist, was engaged in generating the galvanic fluid, which, passing from him to the one in connexion with the brass knob, (from thence to be communicated to the bell through the wire,) had produced the shock described--the author's body intercepting its flow, and thus being in a state of interference.

"A COMPARISON BETWEEN THE RESULTS GIVEN BY RAIN-GAUGES AND KNOWN FACTS WITH REGARD TO LACHRYMATOSE PRECIPITATIONS."

By Dr. Daw.

The object of this paper was, to point out the connexion which exists between the quantities of rain received on horizontal surfaces, at _different heights_ above the ground, and the quantity of lachrymal vapour condensed into tears, also at different heights; and showing that, in both cases, the less the elevation the greater were the quantities. Thus, a rain-gauge, four feet from the ground, will intercept less than one on the ground; and a child of _four_ feet high will produce less than one _two_ feet high.

"On the Expression of Unknown Quantities." By Prof. Muddelwitz.

A method of expressing unknown quantities by known formulæ has long been a desideratum in mathematical science. This process the author stated he had discovered; for that the fractions of coefficient indices, when used to express the powers of differential equations, are always capable of being solved into pure algebraic roots. Thus, if in an infinitesimal series, in which p, o, o2--t--t2 are unknown given quantities, a, a2, and e, known, and the value to be limited, the equation stands as follows:--

1. a x - a2 x p o t2 = t, o, e. 2. a x = t o e + a - p o t2 3. x = 2[sqrt](a - p o t2 + a2 - t o e)

Thus the generalization of the equation of x, to the nth degree, gives its fraction in the form of an algebraic root.

[To some readers the above demonstrations may seem rather obscure; but as the late Dr. Dundertop, in his treatise on the _Perspicuous_, clearly explains--"Ephpnxmqzomubh grudcnkrl, hqmpt on kronswt."]

* * * * *

We were all thrown into a state of such intense dumbness, such complete torpor, by the profundity of these scientific researches, that everybody tacitly admitted the appropriateness of the next subject; it was a case of still-life which met our startled eye the other evening, in the form of a pair of

RUM CORKS IN STOUT BOTTLES.

On our table stood, not one, but two "black bottles," two bottles that had held "Cork stout"--two we saw without seeing double. The corks had already been drawn, but upon them were two faces distinctly visible, which we resolved to draw likewise; and as the pencil wound itself about, we seemed to hear the following dialogue, in a sort of screw-like tone:--

"Arrah, Paddy now, and where are you from?"

"Sure I'm from Cork."

"Cork is it? fait den it's from Cork I am meself."

* * * * *

"Not such terrifying images, sir," said a nervous visitor, who trembled like Keeley in the old drama of the _Bottle Imp_, "not such terrifying images as that family of phantoms, that assemblage of the blues, which you conjured up in your last number. You might well call them "frights." I'm sure I've felt all over like the Derbyshire turnpike-man ever since; but I'm not at all afraid of those two bottle conjurors there."

The allusion to this mysterious Derbyshire pike-man produced inquiry, and we were all forthwith reminded by our agitated companion, of a midnight scene--

A HIGHWAY ADVENTURE

which was lately recorded in the public papers. It appears that when Van Amburgh travels, the large elephant goes on foot in the night, attended by four East Indians, men of negro complexions, in white dresses,--three of them riding on the elephant's back, and one on his tusks. One night as they were passing over Worksop forest, the party arrived at a toll-bar that was closed. The call "Gate" was raised, and out came the toll-keeper in his nightcap. Now it is suspected that this unfortunate individual had been long anticipating the coming of a gentleman in black, whose name is never mentioned to ears polite; for observing the monstrous and unlooked-for spectacle that then presented itself to his drowsy eyes, he, instead of opening the gate, was so terrified, that he ran back into the house, exclaiming in frantic tones, "_He's come at last!_"

"Frightened at an elephant," cried Mr. Cavil, with a profusion of pishes! "At an elephant merely! I wonder if he ever saw a young lady--young ladies such as I have seen! I was never afraid of a woman while she wore her hair turned up, powdered, pomatumed, and frizzed like my mother's and grandmother's; but only imagine the terror of a sensitive mortal on encountering a specimen of the fashions of the present day; on meeting a sample of the feminine gender, who, not satisfied with milliner's 'whiskers,' must exhibit to the affrighted gazer a face

'BEARDED LIKE THE PARD.'

Frightened at an elephant! Bless his five wits!--if he were only to come to London!"

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 16: The reader may use his own judgment as to the chronological accuracy of the foregoing tale. It is a fact that Jones and Nelson were both equipped by the same person, Richardson, and that the king's pilot took Horatio down to Wapping for that purpose.]

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND TIMES OF MRS. SARAH TODDLES!

BY SAM SLY.

It is customary with the romancists and novelists of the day to track their heroes and heroines to some mysterious origin, for which purpose they either draw them from the foot of the gallows, or the precincts of the palace, and the jail returns are ransacked, and the old Court Guides dissected, for suitable titles and localities. Thus, whilst one will unkennel his favourites from workhouses, and obscure holes and corners, another finds his pet in the queen's best bed-room, or sleeping in state in a golden cradle. It is lucky for us we are not obliged to run to either extreme. Sarah Toddles' life lies in a nutshell. And here again we cannot help expressing our satisfaction, that we should be more fortunate than those who have to beat about the hedge, and make long speeches, and fill volumes in hazarding and conjecturing respecting nurses and birth-places. There is nothing at all remarkable about the dawning of Sarah; it was the most simple, natural, straight-forward, and legitimate birth imaginable: there was neither ringing of bells, nor flourishing of trumpets. Mrs. James was the nurse, Mrs. Sarah Gunn the mother, and Mr. Timothy Gunn the father. He was a gingerbread-baker, and lived at Bow--Mile-end Bow--and kept a shop not far from the bridge, and baked "Banburys" as well as "parliament" for the fair. Over the bow-window of this shop, and a little to the left, Sarah first saw daylight, and heard Bow bells--not at that interesting moment, because we have already said the elements were quiet. Sarah was an only child, the gun never went off but once--at least Sarah was the only "living shot."

Sarah--our Sally--was born on the same day as the Duke of Wellington, but she could not help that. It seemed a little curious, and somewhat presumptuous; and her mother, had she anticipated such a result, would no doubt have avoided giving any offence, by forwarding or retarding the business, but she had no friend at court. And, after all, it is doubtful which is most honoured by the fact, his Grace or Sarah Toddles.

But such is the course of things. Mrs. Gunn was soon off the stocks; she was up and stirring; and Sarah, with unheard of rapidity, got out of the nurse's arms, and from pap to pudding, and pudding to pork; and soon found out the use of her eyes and feet, and "toddled" into the shop, and tip-toed to the top of the counter, and fingered the "Banburys," and licked the "parliament," and dabbled in the treacle, and painted her face with it, and was shaken and smacked, and all that sort of thing. She became at last "quite a girl," and would run over the bridge, and round the church-yard, and up "Mile-end," and down Old Ford, and through Bow fields, and Stepney church-yard, and all about, till Mrs. Gunn was "frightened out of her wits," and determined to send her to school. Now Bow church was not then as it is at present. In the olden times, or when Sarah was young, there was a market held close in front of it, and over this market was a school, and a Mr. Brown was the master; and here Sarah was first led into the mystery of letters, and got through "Vyse's New London Spelling Book," and that's all (for her progress, like her genius and her stature, was small); so after spoiling many copy-books and green bags, and wearing out many pattens in trotting from the shop to the school, she was ultimately relieved from her studies and her troubles by being taken away. This was good news for Sarah, "for now she should do as she liked, and have such bits of fun at Bow fair, without being bothered to get her lessons in the morning before she went, when half the day was gone; and wouldn't she though have some rare games in Stepney church-yard, and look at the tombstones and the fish in the ring! and wouldn't she often go to the World's-end tea-gardens, and to Fairlop fair, and Epping forest to get blackberries! She just would then." And she just did then; and this was the sunny spot of her life.

_Now_ her sun may be said to have gradually declined; she was no longer a free agent. She was told to "_think_ and mind what she was about," and was kept at home, and enlisted in domestic services (for her parents had no other housemaid), and also assisted in baking and minding the shop. Thus days rolled on; and Sarah at last became a woman--not a very tall one it is true, but still a woman--little and good, "short and sweet."

Sarah was thrice married. Her first husband was a Mr. Lightfoot, her second a Mr. Heavisides, and her third, and last, Mr. Toddles--Thomas Toddles. With the first two we have nothing to do, they were dead and buried before we were thought of, and we never make a point of enlarging about parties where we are not asked to the funeral, but we may merely remark for the benefit of the curious, that Sarah Toddles chose _them_ for no particular virtue or accomplishment, but merely for their size; they all stood _four feet three_ in their shoes, all were timid men, and all died childless. There was nothing at all wonderful about either of these courtships or weddings, all was "fair and above-board;" no rope ladders, no moonlight madness, no Gretna Green trips, no bribings, no hole-and-corner works, no skulking behind kitchen doors or tombstones, or winkings or blinkings in church, no lies, no sighs, no dyings for love and that trumpery, nothing of the sort. Mr. Gunn consented, Mrs. Gunn consented, Sarah consented, and they all consented; could anything be fairer? and what's the use of writing a volume upon it, as many of our contemporaries might? But, perhaps, we may be allowed to say a word or two on Mrs. Toddles' last engagement, since at his death we were asked to the funeral. As a baker, and doing a great deal of business for the fairs, Mr. Gunn required assistance, and he found a faithful and honest servant in Thomas Toddles. Mrs. Heavisides--our Sally--would often be found in the bakehouse helping her father and Thomas in "setting sponge," as it is termed, and in moulding and shaping buns and Banburys. Could anything be more natural than that words and looks should be exchanged on these occasions between her and Thomas, bordering upon the weather and the heat of the oven, and that this warmth should produce congenial thoughts and sentiments? It did so; for Thomas, though naturally timid, had all the arts or nature of an experienced lover. He would run from Buns to Banburys, and from Banburys to Bachelors, and from Bachelors to Bow Bells, and from Bow Bells to Bow Church, and from the Church to the Altar; he would then not forget to talk about rings, "and thought he knew of one just about her size"--here the oven would burn--"and would she allow him to try one." He would then steal a little nearer, and adopt a few innocent liberties, such as flirting a little flour in her face with his thumb and finger, then wipe it off afterwards with the corner of his apron, and, as a climax, "kiss the place to make it well," my Toddles!

It is not to be wondered at, that these things were a "decided hit," as the managers have it, and that they should have their full effect, by causing Bow Bells very soon to ring to the honour and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Toddles. But all that lives must fade, and Mrs. Toddles' troubles now came thick upon her. First, her mother died, soon after, her father, who bequeathed all his "Banburys," goods, and chattels to her and her husband; and within a very few months Thomas died also. He was unusually busy one night in preparing for Bow fair, where he kept a stall, and over-exerting himself, caught a cold, was taken to bed, slept sweetly, but over-slept himself, and saw Sarah Toddles no more.

Soon after, Mrs. T. wound up the business, sold off her stock and interest, and purchased a small annuity. In order to fill up her time, and in some measure to obliterate the past, she volunteered her services in one or two tract and Dorcas societies, where she assists in the making up of those very small articles which she was once in her longings led to suppose might fill her own baskets. A great deal of absurdity has gone forth at her expense amongst cads and omnibus drivers, who would not wait even five or ten minutes for her, when at the furthest she was never more than a quarter of an hour behind time, and how few know the cause of all this! Some have attributed it to an over-solicitude in her toilet, some to this thing and some to that, some to the putting on of those little black stockings, and some to the tying of the velvet shoes; when, if the truth must be known, it is--_Mrs. Sarah Toddles has corns_.

Some little reminiscence of Mr. Toddles may be required. In height he was about four feet three. His clothes were much too large for him, coming over his knuckles, and over his shoes, with a skirt nearly touching the ground. Moreover he had a monstrous hat, swelling at the crown, very much boated before and behind, a large mouth, and large eyes. It was curious to see this little couple trotting up Mile-end road towards Whitechapel on a Saturday night, he first, and she after, for a cheap market--he carrying a basket and she a bag, which they would fill either from the shops or from the stalls by the roadside; but before returning, take care to call in at the Blind Beggar for a drop of "summat short," "but strictly medicinally."

That very shawl at the back of Mrs. Toddles, and the large parasol, or small umbrella, were presents from Mr. T. one Bow-fair day; she keeps them and wears them in respect to his memory, and will continue to do so through all the changes of fashion. Those stockings were knitted by Miss Toddles, and those velvet shoes made by Timothy Toddles, her dear husband's brother and sister; in short, she is enveloped and surrounded with gifts from top to toe. The arm-chair was a relic of her mother's, the footstool was her father's, the bottle Lightfoot's, and the glass Heavisides', and the table Toddles', her last dear Toddles; the carpet was her cousin's, and the urn her uncle's.

But time, like Sarah, is toddling on; let us hope that she may meet with more civility, and that her end may be peaceful. If we are invited to the funeral, we shall look after her epitaph.

*** _We beg to state, that though assured of the great respectability of our correspondent, we do not personalty vouch for the authenticity of this Memoir_.-ED.

THE FIRE AT THE TOWER OF LONDON.

THE SCENE IN THE JEWEL TOWER--THE ARMOURY--THE BOWYER TOWER--LADY JANE GREY'S APARTMENT--THE TROPHIES.

The Queen's loving subjects are divided into two parties--those who have, and those who have not, visited the Tower. The former have their recollections of the visit--the latter have their regrets for its postponement. And let this be a lesson to all procrastinative sight-seers, to see things while they are to be seen; for the Great--or, as it was somewhat oddly designated--the Small Armoury, is no longer among the visibles or the visitables.

Association first conducts us to the _Jewel House_, the scene of Col. Blood's and of Mr. Swifte's doings. It is curious, that after 170 years the burglary (we were near saying the treason) should be repeated; and that Blood, the crown-stealer, should have been succeeded by Swifte, the crown-keeper. The soldier was favoured by King Charles, the civilian by Queen Victoria--the merry Master pardoned, the august Mistress approved. The stealer was rewarded with a pension, the keeper's recompense is--to come.

Having the benefit of Mr. Swifte's acquaintance, we were indulged with a view of the Jewel-room. It is really a curious contrast! Light, security, and splendour, changed into darkness, desolation, and vacancy--the regal treasury become an empty sepulchre! The tokens and the instruments of the violence used--broken railings, hatchets, and crow-bars--scattered about, as if "the gallant Colonel" had but just absconded! It was a comfort to think that the imperial crown, instead of being battered to bits in his bag, was safe and whole in the Governor's cellar.

We have endeavoured, in our plate, to give light and life to the Jewel-room, now so desolate. Not the light of six Argands, flashing down on diadem and sceptre, and--brightest of all--on the crown of our liege lady's yet brighter brow, irradiating the matchless sapphire, blue as an Italian sky--the mound of diamonds, numerous as its stars--and the priceless ruby of Edward and of Henry, multiplying their thousand prisms:--but, alas! the blink of one or two ten-to-the-pound tallows--sheepish-looking members of the "Kitchiner" tribe--glimmering on them, ghastly as dead men's eyes out of a plundered coffin.

And for the _life_ of the scene? There stood the keeper himself, his wife at his side, partaking the peril; and the warders, whom he had summoned to the rescue. We cannot, however, portray the stifling heat and smoke; the clamour of the soldiers outside the closed portal, which the fires of the Armoury were striving to reach; nor the roar of the still-excluded flames, the clang of the pumps, the hissing of the water-pipes, the gathering feet and voices of the multitude. These are beyond the pencil.

"The pressure from without" increased. Again the clamour rose high, and the furnace heat rose higher. But the keeper abided his time--the crow-bars were raised in a dozen hands awaiting his word. It was given! The first blow since the days of King Charles descended on the iron fence; and Queen Victoria's crown, safely deposited in its case, and sheltered therein from smoke and flame and the common gaze, was removed to the Governor's house. Orbs, diadems, and sceptres--dishes, flagons, and chalices--the services of court and of church, of altar and of banquet, were sent forth in the care of many a sturdy warder, gallant JOHN LUND being their leader. The huge baptismal font, soon to be called into use for the Prince of Wales, was last removed. The Jewel-room was as bare as if Blood the First had left nought behind him for Blood the Second. How must the spectators have gazed on the bright procession, as from window, and roof, and turret, the Armoury blazed out upon it! And how must the Colonel's ghost have wondered to behold his own meditated prey borne through that fiery midnight!

The Jewel-room was now emptied. The agents of its _emptification_ quitted the peril--glad enough were they, we'll be sworn--and all was again solitude and silence.

The Armoury, with its three burning floors, each 345 feet in length--their trophies of past, and provisions of future victory, wrapped in one flame, and flanked at either end by the Chapel and the Crown Jewel House--(Church and State in equal danger!)--deserve our description. That memorable night--so memorable, that, as the keeper's ancestor, Dean Swift, says of O'Rourke's feast, it will be remembered

"By those who were there, And those who were not,"

is described in two words, FUSION AND CONFUSION. They tell their story.

* * * * *

Next in sublimity to the spectacle of the blazing pile, was the scene afterwards presented, when, as the fire lessened, and the smoke cleared off, the whole space within the walls of the enormous Armoury was opened to the straining eye--a sight of awe and wonder. Above was the "sky" of a November morn; and below, covering the immense sweep of the floor, heaps of fused metal, of dimensions scarcely to be credited, with bayonet-points bristling up everywhere, close-set and countless, like long blades of grass. Innumerable as the stand of small-arms had appeared, they now seemed, starting from the crushed mass, still more multitudinous; the space appeared larger; the scene of destruction more gigantic; and we thought of the moralizing fox walking beside the tree which had been thrown down by a tempest:--"This is truly a noble tree; I never thought it so great while standing."

After a day or two there was something ridiculous blended with the terror of the spectacle. The Waterloo guns uninjured--(those guns which had played upon the guards at Waterloo with shot, and which the guards in return had played upon with water in _loo_ of shot)--the enormous pieces of artillery; the mighty anchor; the myriad bayonet-points; the masses of metal, dull or shining; the broken columns; the smouldering rubbish; were strangely contrasted with the forms of gaily-attired ladies, courageously clambering over hot heaps, creeping through apparently unapproachable avenues, and raking among the ashes for relics--gun-flints, green, blue, or white, and picturesque bits of metal.

Outside this building, in various directions, the most terrific visible symptom of the intense burning that had made night hideous, were the streams of molten lead from surrounding roofs; the liquid metal, as it fell upon the flagstones, having splashed up and sprinkled the walls to the height of two or three feet.

* * * * *

_Order_ has at length succeeded to the Confusion, and _orders_ on a large scale have followed the Fusion. The Armoury will be rebuilt and refurnished. The edifice, it is to be hoped, will be more in harmony with the antique character of the surrounding scene, and the new arms not less susceptible of beautiful arrangement for being better adapted to practical uses than the old. Thus far the nation will gain by its misfortune; nor will the loss, even in a pecuniary sense, be equal to a fourth of the first estimate. Every evil has been exaggerated--except the danger. That scarcely admitted of exaggeration.

Our fellow antiquaries, and not less (though for other reasons) our country-cousins everywhere, will join with us, not in lamenting the Loss, but in rejoicing at the Escape. The plan which heads this article, will enable them to understand it. Of the antiquities of the Tower, little or nothing has suffered. All that has stood for centuries, in fact, still stands there. That of which the memory is imperishable has not perished. The buildings which are destroyed, are--the Armoury, which was modern; the upper part of the Bowyer or Clarence Tower, which was also modern. The antique remains are figured on the preceding page. This tower was three stories high. The large square window below, next the ladder, is that of the chamber in which Clarence is supposed to have been murdered. In the apartment immediately over this the fire commenced. Above the belt, in the centre, all was modern. It will be seen by the Plan that this tower is exactly in the centre of the Small Armoury, at the back. The Brick Tower is of considerable antiquity, and the interior of this has been wofully damaged, so that the apartment in which the gentle Lady Jane Grey was confined, wears now a more forlorn and ruinous aspect than the slow hand of Time would have invested it with in additional centuries. Still, even here, what is gone is but the wood-work, the outward coating, the modern accessories or accumulations of the scene; the Destroyer has neither eaten through the old walls, nor undermined the deep and enduring foundations of any portion of the Old Fortress.

As for the Trophies that are gone, they are things which this nation, more perhaps than any other, can afford to surrender without a sigh. If "Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along her steep," neither does she need tokens of her triumphant march over the mountain-wave in days gone by. Besides, as schoolboys say of birds'-eggs taken prisoners, or apples captured in orchards, "there's plenty more where these came from." It would have been something, to be sure, to have saved from the Consumer a thing so simple as the old wheel of the "Victory;" because it was no part of the vulgar spoil of war, no commonplace implement of devastation wrested from an enemy, but a precious relic associated with the dying-hour of England's favourite hero, and a symbol, in its very form, of the eternity of his fame. It is gone; but the list of losses is not half so long as fear made it; and among the trophies yet remaining, are numbers as indestructible as the great anchor taken at Camperdown, which, the day after the fire, was seen rearing its giant bulk amidst the multitude of bristling points, and masses of fused metal.

THE BLAZING ARMOURY--THE RAMPARTS--A CONTRAST.

The lamps of the City burn dull and dead, The wintry raindrops fall, And thick mists, borne from the River's bed, Round London's hoary Tower are spread, O'erhanging, like a pall.

When, suddenly--look! a red light creeps Up from the Tower on high! One shriek of "fire!"--and lo! it sweeps Through yon vast Armoury.

Up, up it springs, on giant wings, That still expand and soar; Can you not hear, through outcries loud, The beaten drum, and the tramp of the crowd, The mighty furnace roar!

Then trophy, and relic, and ancient spoil, One molten mass went down, And Ruin had stretch'd his red hand out To seize the sacred Crown.

And faces, that else were white with fear, Gleam'd in the woful light; While perils that distant seem'd, drew near, And ghastlier grew the night.

Dread rumour, outstripping the winged flame, Still spoke of powder stored, Ere deep in the moat 'twas safely roll'd, Sparing the walls of that White Tower old, Rich memory's darkest hoard.

And all the while the threaten'd pile Rang with a mingled roar, And hurried feet in danger meet, And dread struck more and more.

Yet all night there, within the bound Of that fortress black and stern, The appointed guard went stilly round, And on the customary ground The Soldier took his turn.

High overhead the lurid blaze Afar in fright was seen, Yet there, unmoved, the Sentry paced Each time-worn tower between.

Just o'er him broke the flash and smoke, Around was wild uproar; But there he trod, as there had trod His fellow the night before.

Amidst the deep terrific swell By myriad noises made, An echo from the ramparts fell-- The measured tread of the Sentinel In solitude and shade.

And to and fro, from hour to hour, His deep slow step was heard, Nor could the firemen there have pass'd Without the secret word.

Thus, silent 'midst a tumult wild; Thus, lonely 'midst a throng; Thus, bent his usual watch to keep, As though the Fortress were asleep, Shadow'd in drear and dead midnight, Yet neighbour'd by that living light, The Sentry paced along!

L. B.

MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE.

The month "in which Englishmen hang and drown themselves," has this year been signalised by first appearances;--the Heir-Apparent, Heaven bless him! having chosen to arrive in the midst of the bell-ringing and jollity of Lord Mayor's Day. Though a less glorious, scarcely a less welcome one--to all play-goers, artists, honest subjects "moved by concord of sweet sounds," and poets clinging to recollections of departed Genius--has been the entrance of "Norma" at Covent Garden. The artist has well caught her attitude on that evening as she advanced to take her place before her altar: as yet silent. We cannot keep pace with him, or write down a twentieth of the cheers of welcome that burst from heart and hand. Rarely have plaudits been so well merited!

What the Druidess may or may not do for the musical drama in England, let her own oracles expound. We are not prophets, but recorders; and while she is taking care for the future, we have but to say a word or two touching the past career of MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE. As to the date of her birth-day, that concerns not us. We are reserved when ladies are in the case; and are contented to remind the public that she is the younger daughter of Mr. Charles Kemble--that, to the dramatic heritage derived from him, she adds a right to the musician's gift, being child of one who, some years since, made the name of De Camp famous, as belonging to one of the most fascinating stage-singers of the time. Every circumstance, therefore, of position and education combined to develop the talents which nature had given her. The air she breathed was a stimulus to perpetuate the most classical traditions of music and the drama. To this was added consciousness of the honourable position always maintained by her family, and their liberal general cultivation--exciting her to do her part also, and to become, not merely a voice--not merely a _gesture_ personified, but an artist: that is, a gifted intelligence, to whom voice and gesture serve but as means of expressing its "fancies chaste and noble," and its elevated conceptions. Miss Kemble has trained herself for her profession, with that thorough-going industry and ardour, without which there are no Siddonses, no Pastas, no Malibrans. Like the second distinguished woman named, her voice, though amply sufficient for every theatrical purpose, may not originally have been a _willing_ one. Nothing, strange to say, has been so fatal to the attainment of the highest musical excellence, as too great a facility and richness of organ. By it Catalani was led astray--by it sundry contemporary warblers----but "comparisons are odious." We are discreet as well as reserved. Enough, that, under Signor Bordogni of Paris, Miss Kemble went through all that severe course of study, to which too few of her countrywomen will subject themselves. She was first heard in London in 1835, where she sang at a few concerts. Though then weighed down by a consciousness of power, with means as yet inadequate for its utterance, though restrained by an excess of timidity, it was even then to be seen that a great dramatic artist was there. We remember two words from the great duet in "Semiramide," which we heard her sing with Tamburini--merely an exulting "_O gioja_!"--but they said enough to make us sure of what would come. At the end of that season, after appearing at the York Festival, Miss Kemble was heard of no more in England. But ere long, rumours came from Germany of an English lady turning wise heads by her dramatic truth and energy of feeling; and late in the autumn of the year 1838, we were told that another of the Kembles had entered her proper arena, the stage--at no less distinguished a place than the Teatro della Scala, Milan.

From that time, in spite of lets and hindrances innumerable, which too generally beset the English gentlewoman undertaking a foreign artistic career, Miss Kemble has slowly and steadily advanced towards her present high position. At Venice she was applauded to the echo for her execution of Pasta's grand _cavatina_ in "_Niobe_,"--at Mantua made a _furore_, as an actress who was "_simpatica_" (there is a good deal in the word, as all Italians know); later still at the Teatro San Carlo, Naples, rising to such a height of popularity, that upon her contracting an engagement for Palermo, Barbaja, "_le bourru bienfaisant_" broke the contract, and paid the forfeit to retain her. Her chief parts have been in the operas of "_Lucia di Lammermoor_," "_Norma_," "_Elena da Feltre_," "_Gemma di Vergy_," "_La Sonnambula_," and "_Beatrice di Tenda_." But lest the English fancy that their favourite is but a _signora_ in disguise, be it known to them that the subject of our notice is as fine a linguist in music as the most universal of her contemporaries. We have heard her applauded to the echo by the Rhinelanders for her singing of Schubert and Beethoven:--We believe that she possesses a _cahier_ of French romances, which she can _say_ as well as sing, with _finesse_ enough to charm the fastidious ears of the Panserons and Adams who compose such dainty ware; and we know that she can do worthy homage--to Handel. The oratorio-goers may look for _the_ Miriam in her, and will not be disappointed.

What more remains?--save to record, that after having made her mature talent heard at the never-to-be-forgotten Polish _matinée_ at Stafford House, and at a private concert, Miss Kemble made a second German journey this autumn, as we said, to the infinite delight of the Rhinelanders, who are not easy to please;--and lastly, to give the second of this month as the date of her commencing a career among her own countrymen, which, for Art's sake, as well as her own, we fervently hope will be as long as it _must_ be brilliant.

R. O. D.

What more remains? By way of postscript to our dull prose, the world will, we think, be glad of half-a-dozen verses from a most accomplished pen (we would not for the world reveal its owner!) dropped by mistake in an _Omnibus_, on the morning after Miss Kemble's first appearance.

'Twas not Pasta--'twas not e'en Thy greater name, That in charms of voice and mien To fancy came--

As thy wild impassioned lays Enthralled our ears, And the eyes that fain would gaze Were blind with tears!

Whence the ray, that could impart Each subtle trace That defines the mother's heart, The matron's grace?

Whence the throes of jealousy That struggling rise, Big with mimic agony To those young eyes?

Love and Joy, thy gentle brow In turn caressing; Hate, with scorn or vengeance, now Its lines possessing:

On the classic pedestal Achieved by thee, Firm, and never failing, shall Thy footing be!

And the brightness that will still Thy name enshrine, TAKE THOU AS THE BOON OF GOD TO THEE AND THINE!

JACK GAY, ABROAD AND AT HOME.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

Who that had once met Jack Gay at dinner, where'er the feast of venison and the flow of port prevailed, ever forgot him! What lady, the luckiest of her sex, ever experienced his "delicate attentions" at a quiet evening party, a quiet concert, or a quiet dance, without speaking of him from that moment, not as the most charming of acquaintances, but as a very old friend--without feeling quite sure that she had known him all her life, though she had never seen him but that once?

What spirits he had! Other men had their jovial moods, but Jack was always jovial. To be lively by fits and starts, to be delightful when the humour sets in, to emulate the fair exquisite of Pope,

"And make a lover happy--_for a whim_--"

is within anybody's reach. But Jack had no fits and starts; the humour flowed in one unebbing course, and his whim consisted in making everybody as happy as he was at all seasons.

His joviality never depended upon the excellence of a dinner, the choice of wines, or any accident of the hour. His high spirits and invariable urbanity were wholly independent of the arrangements of the table, the selection of the guests, and the topics of conversation. He discovered pleasant things to hearken to, and found delightful themes to chat upon, even during the dreary twenty minutes before dinner. Yes, even _that_ was a lively time to Jack. Whenever he went out it was to enjoy a pleasant evening, and he enjoyed it.

The fish was spoil'd, the soup was cold, The meat was broil'd, the jokes were old, The tarts were dumps, the wine not cool, The guests were pumps, the host a fool--

but for all this Jack cared about as much as a flying-fish cares for a shower of rain. No combination of ill omens and perverse accidents ever proved a damper to him.

He is invited to meet (say) Johnson and Burke, and is greeted, on his entrance, with the well-known tidings that Johnson and Burke "couldn't come." Does Jack heave one sigh in compliment to the illustrious absentees, and in depreciation of the company who _have_ assembled? Not he. No momentary shade of disappointment dims his smiling face. He seems as delighted to meet the little parlour-full of dull people, as though the room were crammed with Crichtons. He has the honour of being presented to little Miss Somebody, from the country, who seems shy; and he takes the same pains to show his pleasure in the introduction, and to tempt the timid stranger to talk, that he would have exerted in an effort to interest Mrs. Siddons. He sits next to a solemn ignoramus, who is facetious in expounding the humours of Squire Bog, his neighbour, or didactic in developing the character of Dogsby the great patriot in his parish; and Jack listens as complacently as though his ear were being regaled with new-born bonmots of Sheridan's, or anecdotes of the Earl of Chatham.

Jack, like some statesmen, was born to be out; and to him, as to some other statesmen, all parties were the same. The only preference he ever seemed to entertain was for the particular party that chanced at the particular moment to rejoice in his presence. He enjoyed everything that happened. Leigh Hunt, describing a servant-maid "at the play," observes, that every occurrence of the evening adds to her felicity--for she likes even the waiting between the acts, which is tiresome to others. So with Jack at a party. He enjoyed some dislocated experiments on the harp, by an astonishing child, aged only fifteen; and was the sole person in the room who encored with _sincerity_ that little prodigy's convulsive edition of "Bid me discourse." He listened with laudable gravity to Master Henry's recitation of "Rolla's Address," and suggested the passages in which John Kemble was rather too closely followed. He enjoyed the glasses of warm wine handed round between the songs; he liked the long flat pauses, "when nobody said nothing to his neighbour;" and he liked the sudden burst of gabble in which, at the termination of the pause, as if by preconcerted agreement, every creature eagerly joined.

He liked the persons he had never met before, and those whom he was in the habit of meeting just seven times a week. He admired the piano that was always out of tune, and the lady who, kindly consenting to play, was always out of temper. He thought the persons to whom he had not been introduced very agreeable, and all the rest extremely entertaining. He was delighted with his evening, whether it exploded in a grand supper, or went-off, flash-in-the-pan fashion, with a sandwich.

He never bottled up his best things, to uncork them in a more brilliant company the next night; he was never dull because he was expected to shine, and never, by laborious efforts to shine, succeeded in showing that dulness was his forte. He pleased everybody because he was pleased himself; and he was himself pleased, because he could not help it. Many queer-looking young men sang better, but nobody sang with such promptness and good taste; many awkward gawkies danced with more exactness and care, but nobody danced so easily to himself or so acceptably to his partner; many handsome dashing fellows were more showy and imposing in their manners, but none produced the agreeable effect that followed a few words of his, or one of his joyous laughs--nay even a kind and sprightly glance. The elaborate, and long meditated impromptu of the reputed wit fell still-born, while one of Jack's unstudied gay-hearted sallies burst like a rocket, and showered sparkles over the room.

Everybody went away convinced that there was one human being in the world whose oasis of life had no surrounding desert. Jack lived but for enjoyment. The links of the chain that bound him to existence, were of pure gold--there was no rough iron clanking between. He seemed sent into the world to show how many may be amused, cheered, comforted, by one light heart. That heart appeared to tell him, that where his fellow-creatures were, it was impossible to be dull; and the spirit of this assurance prevailed in all he said and did; for if he staid till the last half dozen dropped off, he was just as fresh and jocund as when the evening began. He never knew what it was to be tired, and as the hospitable door was at last closed upon him, you heard him go laughing away down the steps. Upon his tomb indeed might be written a paraphrase of the epitaph so gloriously earned by his illustrious namesake:--

So that the merry and the wise might say, Pressing their jolly bosoms, "Here _laughs_ Gay!"

But did anybody, who may happen to see this page, ever see the aforesaid Jack at home?--at high-noon, or in the evening when _preparing to go out_! Behold him on the eve of departure--just going--about to plunge, at the appointed moment, into the revelries of a brilliant circle, where, if he were not, a score of sweet voices would fall to murmuring "I wish he were here!" For the admiration, the envy, the cordial liking which surely await him there, you would now be apt to substitute commiseration, regret--a bit of friendly advice to him to stop at home, and a pull at the bell for pen-and-ink that he might write an excuse.

The truth is, that Jack was a morbid, irresolute, wayward, cross-grained chap. He was kind-hearted in the main, and even generous; but his temper was often sullen, and his spirit often cynical. Catch him on a winter's afternoon, half an hour before he dressed for dinner! You would think him twenty years older, and five bottle-noses uglier. You would conclude that he was going to dine with Diogenes in his tub, or to become a partaker of a skeleton-feast in Surgeons'-hall. The last time we ever saw Jack out of company, he was in such a mood as we have hinted at. It was a November afternoon between five and six--there was no light in the room--but by the melancholy gleam of a low fire, he was to be seen seated on a music-stool with his feet on the fender, his elbows on his knees, his head resting upon his hands, and his eyes listlessly wandering over the dull coals in search of the picturesque.

"Come in!" growled the voice of the Charmer. "Can you grope your way? Dreary rooms these--and lights make 'em worse."

Then without moving his seat to give us a share of the fire, he applied the poker to the cinders, not to kindle a blaze and throw a light upon the gloom, but evidently to put out any little stray flame that might happen to be lingering there. There was just light enough to show that his face wore an air of profound sadness and despondency. To a serious inquiry as to the cause--if any thing had happened.

"Yes," murmured the Fascinator, with an amiable scowl, "the weather has happened, November has happened, and dinner will happen in another hour. Here's a night to go three miles for a slice of saddle o' mutton! My luck! Cold and wet, isn't it?" continued the Irresistible, knocking cinder after cinder into the ashes; "I'm miserable enough at home, and so forsooth, I must dress and go out. Ugh! This is what they call having a pleasant life of it. I don't know what you may think, but I look upon an invitation to dinner as nothing less than an insult. Why should I be dragged out of my wretched nook here, without an appetite, and against my will? We call this a free country, where nobody's allowed to be miserable in his own way--where every man's a slave to ceremony--a victim to his own politeness, a martyr to civil notes. Here's my saddle o' mutton acquaintance, for example; I never hurt or offended the man in all my days, and yet I must go and dine with him. I'd rather go to a funeral.--Well if you've anything to say, out with it--for my hour's come. Now mind, before I ring this bell, I predict that there's no hot water, and that my boots are damp."

The difference between Jack at six, and Jack at seven, was the difference between a clock down and a clock wound up--between a bird in the shell, and a bird on the wing--between a bowl of punch before, and after, the spirit is poured in,--it was the difference between Philip drunk and Philip sober (or the reverse if you will)--between a lord mayor in his plain blue-coat and kerseys, and a lord mayor in his state robes;--between Grimaldi at the side-scene waiting to go on, with that most melancholy shadow on his face which tradition has so touchingly painted, and Grimaldi on the stage, in view of the convulsed spectators, the illuminator of congregated dulness, the instantaneous disperser of the blues, the explorer of every crevice of the heart wherein care can lurk--an embodied grin. It was the difference, to speak more exactly still, between Sappho at her toilet, and Sappho at an evening mask.

To see Jack when just beginning to prepare for a drop-in somewhere, late at night--between ten and twelve--was almost as good as seeing him when arrived there. The rash promise made, he always contrived to fulfil it--though it was often ten chances to one that he did not, and he appeared to keep his engagements by miracle. As the hour drew nigh, you would imagine that he had just received tidings of the dreadful loss of several relatives per railroad, or that half his income had been swallowed up in a mine, or forged exchequer-bills. It would be impossible to conjecture that his shrugs and sighs, peevish gestures and muttered execrations, were but the dark shadows of a brilliant "coming event"--that discontent and mortification were the forerunners of the gay Hours, and that bitter moroseness, limping and growling, announced the approach of the dancing Pleasures!

So it was; for Jack at that moment, instead of hailing these dancing Pleasures by anticipation, and meeting them at least half-way, would gladly have ridden ten miles in any other direction. He could make himself tolerably comfortable anywhere, save at the place to which he was ruthlessly, imperiously bound--with anybody, save with the people who were anxiously waiting for a glimpse of his good-humoured visage. He was fully bent on going, in fact he felt that he must; yet he raised every obstacle that ill-temper could invent, knowing all the while that he should be obliged to surmount them.

He would even allow his reluctance to stir, to prevail so far over the gentlemanly principle of his nature, as to question secretly within himself whether he _ought_ to go, while he entertained a suspicion that the people who had again invited him were not _quite_ prudent in giving so many expensive parties!

He would catch hold of any rag of an acquaintance just then, to cover his loneliness, and to save him from utter solitude; to give him an excuse for procrastinating, and an opportunity of grumbling out his regrets at stripping from head to foot, not to go to bed, but to go _out_; at being doomed to shake off his quiet moping mood, and plunge head-foremost into festivity. And then, when the effort had been made, when the last obstacle had been overcome, when he was arrayed from top to toe, and could no longer complain of this thing not in readiness, and that thing mislaid, or the glove that split in drawing it on, or the cab that was not (_and never was_) on the stand when he wanted one, he would ask himself with a deep-drawn sigh the melancholy question: "Isn't it hard that a man _must_ go out, with a broken heart, to take an hour or two's jollification at this time of night!"

Off went Jack Gay; and until four in the morning the merry Hours lagged far behind his joyous spirits. Hospitality put on his magic boots to run a race with him, and the bewitching eyes of Pleasure herself looked grave and sleepy compared with the glistening orbs of her votary!

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.

BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH.

The noble King of Brentford Was old and very sick; He summoned his physicians To wait upon him quick; They stepped into their coaches, And brought their best physick.

They crammed their gracious master With potion and with pill; They drenched him and they bled him: They could not cure his ill. "Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer, I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate The lawyer did obey; The thought of six-and-eightpence Did make his heart full gay. "What is't," says he, "your majesty Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belaboured me With potion and with pill; My hours of life are counted, O man of tape and quill! Sit down and mend a pen or two, I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord, and eke of Kew; I've three per cents., and five per cents.; My debts are but a few; And to inherit after me I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son, A sober prince is he, And from the day we breeched him Till now he's twenty-three, He never caused disquiet To his poor mama or me.

"At school they never flogged him, At college, though not fast, Yet his little go and great go He creditably passed, And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling, Went never drunk to bed; He has not two ideas Within his honest head;-- In all respects he differs From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income Laid by at the year's end, Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend; But spunges on a tradesman, Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned must pass his mornings A-dawdling with the muse; While Tom frequents his banker, Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; Ah! cruel Fate, why made you My children differ thus? Why make of Tom a _dullard_, And Ned a _genius_?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of writs;-- "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits; And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits."

"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said, "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come, take your pens and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will as Brentford spoke it Was writ, and signed, and closed; He bade the lawyer leave him, And turned him round and dozed; And next week in the churchyard The good old king reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hat-band, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief; Tom hid his fat white countenance In his pocket-handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He faltered in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onwards he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn, As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford, That gentle king and just, With bell, and book, and candle, Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him (I mean to tax your bill); And as you signed and wrote it, I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sate eager round about. Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I feel for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom; Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." "You see, good Ned," says Thomas, "What he thought about us twain."

"Tho' small was your allowance, You saved a little store, And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more;" As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out at each his pace; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing, Steps gaily o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it, He clears it with a bound; But dulness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, You pass with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other, But onwards go your beat: While Genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet;

"And ever as he wanders Will have a pretext fine For sleeping in the morning, Or loitering to dine, Or dozing in the shade, Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him Your flashing genius throws, Are excellently suited To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven then for the blinkers It placed before your eyes; The stupidest are steadiest, The witty are not wise; O bless your good stupidity, It is your dearest prize!

"And though my lands are wide, And plenty is my gold, Still better gifts from nature, My Thomas, do you hold-- A brain that's thick and heavy, A heart that's dull and cold--

"Too dull to feel depression, Too hard to heed distress, Too cold to yield to passion, Or silly tenderness. March on; your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance, And you in greedy lust." ("I'faith," says Ned, "our father Is less polite than just.") "In you, son Tom, I've confidence, But Ned I cannot trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds, My lands and tenements, My parks, my farms, and orchards, My houses and my rents; My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock, My five and three per cents.;

"I leave to you, my Thomas." ("What, all?" poor Edward said; "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head.") "I leave to you, my Thomas-- To you, IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace, That at this fatal passage Came o'er Prince Tom his face; The wonder of the company, And honest Ned's amaze!

"'Tis surely some mistake," Good-naturedly cries Ned; The lawyer answered gravely, "'Tis even as I said; 'Twas thus his gracious majesty Ordained on his death-bed.

"See here, the will is witnessed, here's his autograph." "In truth our father's writing," Says Edward with a laugh; "But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom, We'll share it half-and-half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman, This sharing may not be; 'Tis written in the testament That Brentford spoke to me: 'I do forbid Prince Ned to give Prince Tom a halfpenny.

"'He hath a store of money, But ne'er was known to lend it; He never helped his brother, The poor he ne'er befriended; He hath no need of property Who knows not how to spend it.

"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to hoard; Let Thomas be the steward then, And Edward be the lord; And as the honest labourer Is worthy his reward,

"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son, And my successor dear, To pay to his intendant Five hundred pounds a-year; And to think of his old father, And live and make good cheer."

Such was old Brentford's honest testament. He did devise his moneys for the best, And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed, To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. He did; young Thomas lent at interest, And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew; But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward Was a deuced deal the richer of the two.

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.