Chapter 4

"Meekly I followed him through long avenues of silks, damasks, brocades, and other costly examples of Oriental luxury in all the tints of the rainbow. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable at the thought of causing him so much trouble, when he paused at the entrance to another department, and called out, 'Japanese baskets, please.' Then turning to me, he said, 'If you will be good enough to step forward, they will be most happy to serve you.' I did so, and found myself on the threshold of an Eastern bazaar. Another nobleman now took me in hand. 'And what may I have the pleasure----' he began, making a courteous bow. 'I only want one of those little Japanese baskets which you have in a corner of your window, marked, I believe, twopence each--or, possibly, they may be two shillings?' I said in a shaky voice. 'No, sir, quite right--they are twopence each,' he replied, to my great relief; for I had begun to suspect they might be two guineas. 'Will you do me the favour to step this way?' While following at his side, I asked myself whether, at the end of my travels, I should ever be able to find my way back again; so bewildering were the ramifications through which we passed. Presently he handed me over to another nobleman, who, having learned my pleasure (which by this time had developed rather painful tendencies), graciously escorted me to the further end of a long counter, and begged me to take a chair. A stylishly-dressed young lady sailed towards us behind the counter. 'I shall feel extremely obliged,' said the nobleman to her, 'If you will be so good as to request Miss Doubleyou to step down, and serve this gentleman. 'Yes, sir,' answered the young lady, as she vanished somewhere behind me; for my eyes were now following the retreating figure of the nobleman. After a little while I heard a pattering of feet, and, looking round, beheld some tokens of a young lady descending a spiral staircase. She was behind the counter the next moment and then I made a discovery. It was the same young lady who had served me with the farthing's worth of pins years before! I recognised her at once, and I suspect the recognition was mutual. But, of course, she never betrayed the least emotion.'And what article may I have the pleasure to serve you with?' she asked, m the still small voice of a duchess. There was a gulping sensation in my throat as I answered, 'You have, I believe, in one corner of one of your windows a number of little Japanese baskets, marked, if my eyes did not deceive me, twopence each. (The graceful nod of her head was reassuring.) I should be very glad to become the possessor of one of those articles.' 'Certainly, sir, I'll bring it to you,' she answered. 'Oh, thank you!' I returned, delighted at the prospect; and so she departed on her errand of mercy.

"Whether, by the rules of the establishment, it was necessary for her to obtain a written permission from each of those three noblemen to pass over their territory and invade the shop window, or whether she lost herself in the numerous windings and turnings through which I had been conducted in perfect safety, I cannot say; I only know that she was gone a very long time. But when at last she made her reappearance with one of those little Japanese baskets in her hand, and beaming with smiles, I felt I owed her an everlasting debt of gratitude. She did not ask me if there was any other article she could have the pleasure of showing me; she had asked me that before and she remembered that I was proof against her persuasiveness! The fair creature simply made a movement towards the spiral staircase, as I thought, to fetch down a witness to the important transaction, until my eyes rested on some tissue paper. 'Pray don't stay to wrap it up,' I exclaimed, 'my pockets are ample,' and my thanks were profuse. Seizing the coveted treasure, I laid my twopence down on the counter and walked straight forward in a contrary direction to that by which I had entered, gladdened by the prospect that I was making direct for the street. If anyone had arrested my progress for the sake of further formalities, I should unquestionably have knocked them down. But everyone must have seen the glare of defiant desperation flashing from my restless eyes and no one dared to bar my egress. As I emerged from that shop into Regent Street, I felt as exhausted as if I had just bought a grand piano or a suite of furniture. 'Really,' I said to my wife in conclusion, 'if I could have foreseen all the trouble in store for me over buying this little Japanese basket, price twopence, it would have been still reposing with its companions in the corner of that magnificent shop window in Regent Street.'"

She promised to prize it all the more on that account. And now, when I look at that little Japanese basket, my mind wanders back to the farthing's worth of pins I purchased in my old bachelor days.

SHAMUS O'BRIEN: A TALE OF '98.

BY J. SHERIDAN LE FANU.

Jist afther the war, in the year '98, As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, To hang him by thrial--barrin' sich as was shot.-- There was trial by jury goin' on in the light, And martial-law hangin' the lavins by night It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon: If he got past the judges--he'd meet a dragoon; An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sintance, The divil an hour they gev for repintance. An' it's many's the boy that was then on his keepin', Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin'; An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned for to sell it, A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet-- Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, With the _heath_ for their _barrack, revenge_ for their _pay_.

The bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all, Was Shamus O'Brien, o' the town iv Glingall. His limbs were well-set, an' his body was light, An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white. But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, And his cheeks never warmed with the blush of the red; But for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright, Like a fire-flash crossing the depth of the night; He was the best mower that ever was seen, The handsomest hurler that ever has been. An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare, An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare; Be gorra, the whole world gev in to him there.

An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught, An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, An' it's many the one can remember right well The quare things he done: an' it's often heerd tell How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four, An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.--

But the fox _must_ sleep sometimes, the wild deer _must_ rest, An' treachery play on the blood iv the best.-- Afther many brave actions of power and pride, An' many a hard night on the bleak mountain's side, An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, In the darkness of night he was taken at last.

Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, For the door of the prison must close on you soon, An' take your last look on her dim lovely light, That falls on the mountain and valley this night;-- One look at the village, one look at the flood, An' one at the sheltering, far-distant wood. Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still; Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.--

An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail, An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail; The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound, An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground. An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there, As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air; An' happy rememberances crowding on ever, As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river, Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by, Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart Would not suffer _one_ drop down his pale cheek to start; Then he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave, By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave, That when he was mouldering low in the grave His enemies never should have it to boast His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost; His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry, For, undaunted he _lived_, and undaunted he'd _die_.

Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone, The terrible day iv the thrial kem on; There _was sich_ a crowd there was scarce room to stand, The sodgers on guard, the dhragoons sword-in-hand. An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered. Attorneys an' criers were just upon smothered; An' counsellers almost gev over for dead. The jury sat up in their box overhead; An' the judge on the bench so detarmined an' big, With his gown on his back, and an illigent wig; Then silence was called, and the minute 'twas said The court was as still as the heart of the dead, An' they heard but the turn of a key in a lock,-- An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.--

For a minute he turned his eye round on the throng, An' he looked at the irons, so firm and so strong, An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, A chance of escape, nor a word to defend; Then he folded his arms as he stood there alone, As calm and as cold as a statue of stone; And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, An' Jim didn't hear it, nor mind it a taste, An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?" An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread As Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:

"My lord, if you ask me, if ever a time I have thought any treason, or done any crime That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow, Before God and the world I would answer you, _No!_' But--if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the rebellion I carried a pike, An' fought for me counthry from op'ning to close, An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, _Yes_; and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, I glory that _then_ In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry, An' that _now_ for _her_ sake I am ready to die."

Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; By my sowl, it's himself was a crabbed ould chap! In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by, Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: "O, judge! darlin', don't, O, O, don't say the word! The crathur is young, O, have mercy, my lord; He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';-- You don't know him, my lord--don't give him to ruin!-- He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;-- Don't part us for ever, that's been so long parted. Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!"

That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken, When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears kem runnin' one afther th' other; An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake, But the sthrong manly voice seem'd to falther and break; But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and masthered his griefs swelling tide, "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart For, sooner or later, the dearest _must_ part; And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast From labour, and sorrow, for ever shall rest. Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour; For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!" Then facin' the judge Shamus bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sintance was said.

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;-- But why are the men standin' idle so late? An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street? What come they to talk of? what come they to see? An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?-- O, Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast, May the saints take your soul, for _this_ day is your _last_; Pray fast, an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.-- An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there, Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair; An' whisky was sellin', an' cussamuck too, An' the men and the women enjoying the view. An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark, There was no sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark; An' be gorra, 'twas thrue too, for never sich scruge, Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge. For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, All waitin' such time as the hangin' kem on.

At last they threw open the big prison-gate, An' out came the sheriffs an' sodgers in state, An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it, Not _paler_, but _prouder_ than ever, that minute, An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, Wid prayin' an' blessin', and all the girls cryin', The wild wailin' sound it kem on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on; At every side swellin' around of the cart, A sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.

Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand; An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' Shamus O'Brien throws one look around. Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill, An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare, For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.

But the priest has done _more_, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground; Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbours. Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,-- By heaven he's free!--than thunder more loud, By one _shout_ from the people the heavens were shaken-- _One_ shout that the dead of the world might awaken. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang; To-night he'll be sleeping in Atherloe Glin, An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.-- The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; An' the sheriffs were both of them punished severely, An' fined like the divil for bein' done fairly.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

Sawtan i' the law court Wis once, sae I've heard tell-- "Oh! but hame is hamely!" Quo' Sawtan to himsel.'

THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.

BY W.M. THACKERAY.

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pairs of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa, that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best: For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms! I look'd and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone-- I sit here, alone, but we yet are a pair-- My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

THE ALMA.

September 20th,

1854. BY WILLIAM C. BENNET.

Yes--clash, ye pealing steeples! Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar! Tell what each heart is feeling, From shore to throbbing shore! What every shouting city, What every home would say, The triumph and the rapture That swell our hearts to-day.

And did they say, O England, That now thy blood was cold, That from thee had departed The might thou hadst of old! Tell them no deed more stirring Than this thy sons have done, Than this, no nobler triumph, Their conquering arms have won.

The mighty fleet bore seaward; We hushed our hearts in fear, In awe of what each moment Might utter to our ear; For the air grew thick with murmurs That stilled the hearer's breath, With sounds that told of battle, Of victory and of death.

We knew they could but conquer; O fearless hearts, we knew The name and fame of England Could but be safe with you. We knew no ranks more dauntless The rush of bayonets bore, Through all Spain's fields of carnage, Or thine, Ferozepore.

O red day of the Alma! O when thy tale was heard, How was the heart of England With pride and gladness stirred! How did our peopled cities All else forget, to tell Ye living, how ye conquered, And how, O dead, ye fell.

Glory to those who led you! Glory to those they led! Fame to the dauntless living! Fame to the peaceful dead! Honour, for ever, honour To those whose bloody swords Struck back the baffled despot, And smote to flight his hordes!

On, with your fierce burst onward! On, sweep the foe before, Till the great sea-hold's volleys Roll through the ghastly roar! Till your resistless onset The mighty fortress know, And storm-won fort and rampart Your conquering standards show.

Yes--clash, ye bells, in triumph! Yes--roar, ye cannon, roar! Not for the living only, But for those who come no more. For the brave hearts coldly lying In their far-off gory graves, By the Alma's reddened waters, And the Euxine's dashing waves.

For thee, thou weeping mother, We grieve; our pity hears Thy wail, O wife; the fallen, For them we have no tears; No--but with pride we name them, For grief their memory wrongs; Our proudest thoughts shall claim them, And our exalting songs.

Heights of the rocky Alma, The flags that scaled you bore "Plassey," "Quebec," and "Blenheim," And many a triumph more; And they shall show your glory Till men shall silent be, Of Waterloo and Maida Moultan and Meanee.

I look; another glory Methinks they give to fame; By Badajoz and Bhurtpoor Streams out another name; From captured fleet and city, And fort, the thick clouds roll, And on the flags above them Is writ "Sebastopol."

THE MAMELUKE CHARGE.

BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

Let the Arab courser go Headlong on the silent foe; Their plumes may shine like mountain snow, Like fire their iron tubes may glow, Their cannon death on death may throw, Their pomp, their pride, their strength, we know, But--let the Arab courser go.

The Arab horse is free and bold, His blood is noble from of old, Through dams, and sires, many a one, Up to the steed of Solomon. He needs no spur to rouse his ire, His limbs of beauty never tire, Then, give the Arab horse the rein, And their dark squares will close in vain. Though loud the death-shot peal, and louder, He will only neigh the prouder; Though nigh the death-flash glare, and nigher, He will face the storm of fire; He will leap the mound of slain, Only let him have the rein.