Part 6

“I gave her a grateful look, Mr. Tramp, and she smiled in return; from that hour, sir, we understood each other. I pursued my Egyptian studies nearly the entire of that night, and the next day came on deck, with four chapters of Irby and Mangles off by heart. My head swam round with ideas of things Oriental,--patriarchs and pyramids, Turks, dragomans, catacombs, and crocodiles, danced an infernal quadrille in my excited brain, and I convulsed the whole cabin at breakfast, by replying to the captain’s offer of some tea, with a profound salaam, and an exclamation of ‘_Bish millah, allah il allah_.’

“‘You have infatuated me with your love of the East, Mr. Yellowley,’ said Lady Blanche, one morning, as she met me. ‘I have been thinking over poor Princess Shezarade and Noureddin, and the little tailor of Bagdad, and the wicked Cadi, and all the rest of them.’

“‘Have I,’ cried I, joyfully; ‘have I indeed!’

“‘I feel I must see the Pyramids,’ said she. ‘I cannot resist an impulse on which my thoughts are concentrated, and yours be all the blame of this wilful exploit.’

“’ Yes,’ said I.

“’ T is hard at some appointed place To check your course and turn your prow, And objects for themselves retrace You past with added hope just now.’

“‘Yours,’ said she, smilingly.

“‘A poor thing,’ said I, ‘I did for one of the Keepsakes.’

“Ah, Mr. Tramp, it is very hard to distinguish one’s own little verse from the minor poets. All my life I have been under the delusion that I wrote ‘O’Connor’s Child,’ and the ‘Battle of the Baltic;’ and, now I think of it, those lines are Monckton Milnes’s.

“We reached Alexandria a few days after, and at once joined the great concourse of passengers bound for the East.

“I perceive you are looking at your watch, Mr. Tramp.”

“I must indeed ask your pardon. I sail for Calais at the next ebb.”

“I shall not be tedious now, sir. We began ‘the overland,’--the angel travelling as Lady Blanche Yellowley, to avoid any possible inquiry or impertinence from the official people. This was arranged between Virginie and myself, without her knowledge. Then, indeed, began my Arabian nights. Ah, Mr. Tramp, you never can know the happiness enjoyed by him who, travelling for fourteen long hours over the hot sand, and beneath the scorching sun of the desert, comes at last to stretch his wearied limbs upon his carpet at evening, and gazes on celestial beauty as he sips his mocha. Mahomet had a strong case, depend upon it, when he furnished his paradise with a houri and a hubble-bubble; and such nights were these, as we sat and chatted over the once glories of that great land, while in the lone khan of the desert would be heard the silvery sounds of a fair woman’s voice, as she sung some little barcarole, or light Venetian canzonette. Ah, Mr. Tramp, do you wonder if I loved--do you wonder if I confessed my love? I did both, sir,--ay, sir, both.

“I told her my heart’s secret in an impassioned moment, and, with the enthusiasm of true affection, explained my position and my passion.

“‘I am your slave,’ said I, with trembling adoration,--‘_your_ slave, and the Secretary at Santancantantarabad. _You_ own my heart. _I_ possess nothing but a Government situation and three thousand per annum. I shall never cease to love you, and my widow must have a pension from the Company.’

“She covered her face with her handkerchief as I spoke, and her sobs--they must have been sobs--actually penetrated my bosom.

“‘You must speak of this no more, dear Mr. Yellowley,’ said she, wiping her eyes; ‘you really must not, at least until I arrive at Calcutta.’

“‘So you consent to go that far,’ cried I, in ecstasy.

“She seemed somewhat confused at her own confession, for she blushed and turned away; then said, in a voice of some hesitation,--

“‘Will you compel me to relinquish the charm of your too agreeable society, or will you make me the promise I ask?’

“‘Anything--everything,’ exclaimed I; and from that hour, Mr. Tramp, I only _looked_ my love, at least, save when sighs and interjections contributed their insignificant aid.

I gave no expression to my consuming flame. Not the less progress, perhaps, did I make for that. You can educate a feature, sir, to do the work of four,--I could after a week or ten days look fifty different things, and she knew them,--ay, that she did, as though it were a book open before her.

“I could have strained my eyes to see through the canvas of a tent, Mr. Tramp, if she were inside of it. And she, had you but seen _her_ looks! what archness and what softness,--how piquant, yet how playful,--what witchcraft and what simplicity! I must hasten on. We arrived within a day of our journey’s end. The next morning showed us the tall outline of Fort William against the sky. The hour was approaching in which I might declare my love, and declare it with some hope of a return!”

“Mr. Tramp,” said a waiter, hurriedly, interrupting Mr. Yellowley at this crisis of his tale, “Captain Smithet, of the ‘Hornet,’ says he has the steam up and will start in ten minutes.”

“Bless my heart,” cried I; “this is a hasty summons;” while snatching up my light travelling portmanteau, I threw my cloak over my shoulders at once.

“You ‘ll not go before I conclude my story,” cried Mr. Yellowley, with a voice of indignant displeasure.

“I regret it deeply, sir,” said I, “from my very heart; but I am the bearer of government despatches for Vienna; they are of the greatest consequence,--delay would be a ruinous matter.”

“I ‘ll go down with you to the quay,” cried Yellowley, seizing my arm; and we turned into the street together. It was still blowing a gale of wind, and a heavy sleet was drifting in our faces, so that he was compelled to raise his voice to a shout, to become audible.

“‘We are near Calcutta, dearest Lady Blanche,’ said I; ‘in a moment more we shall be no longer bound by your pledge’--do you hear me, Mr. Tramp?”

“Perfectly; but let us push along faster.”

“She was in tears, sir,--weeping. She is mine, thought I. What a night, to be sure! We drove into the grand Cassawaddy; and the door of our conveyance was wrenched open by a handsome-looking fellow, all gold and moustaches.

“‘Blanche--my dearest Blanche!’ said he.

“‘My own Charles!’ exclaimed she.”

“Her brother, I suppose, Mr. Yellowley?”

“No, sir,” screamed he, “her husband!!!”

“The artful, deceitful, designing woman had a husband!” screamed Yellowley, above the storm and the hurricane. “They had been married privately, Mr. Tramp, the day he sailed for India, and she only waited for the next ‘overland’ to follow him out; and I, sir, the miserable dupe, stood there, the witness of their joys.

“‘Don’t forget this dear old creature, Charles,’ said she: ‘he was invaluable to me on the journey!’ But I rushed from the spot, anguish-torn and almost desperate.”

“Come quickly, sir; we must catch the ebb-tide,” cried a sailor, pushing me along towards the jetty as he spoke.

“My misfortunes were rife,” screamed Yellowley, in my ear. “The Rajah to whose court I was appointed had offended Lord Ellenborough, and it was only the week before I arrived that his territory bad been added to ‘British India,’ as they call it, and the late ruler accommodated with private apartments in Calcutta, and three hundred a year for life; so that I had nothing to do but come home again. Good-bye,--good-bye, sir.”

“Go on,” cried the captain from the paddle-box; and away we splashed, in a manner far more picturesque to those on land than pleasant to us on board, while high above the howling wind and rattling cordage came Yellowley voice,--“Don’t forget it, Mr. Tramp, don’t forget it! Asleep or awake, never trust them!”

THE ROAD VERSUS THE RAILS

Although the steam-engine itself is more naturalized amongst us than with any other nation of Europe, railroad travelling has unquestionably outraged more of the associations we once cherished and were proud of, than it could possibly effect in countries of less rural and picturesque beauty than England. “La Belle France” is but a great cornfield,--in winter a dreary waste of yellow soil, in autumn a desert of dried stubble; Belgium is only a huge cabbage-garden,--flat and fetid; Prussia, a sandy plain, dotted with sentry-boxes. To traverse these, speed is the grand requisite; there is little to remark, less to admire. The sole object is to push forward; and when one remembers the lumbering diligence and its eight buffaloes, the rail is a glorious alternative.

In England, however, rural scenery is eminently characterized. The cottage of the peasant enshrined in honeysuckle, the green glade, the rich and swelling champaign, the quaint old avenues leading to some ancient hall, the dark glen, the shining river, follow each other in endless succession, suggesting so many memories of our people, and teeming with such information of their habits, tastes, and feelings. There was something distinctive, too, in that well-appointed coach, with its four blood bays, tossing their heads with impatience, as they stood before the village inn, waiting for the passengers to breakfast. I loved every jingle of the brass housings; the flap of the traces, and the bang of the swingle-bar, were music to my ears; and what a character was he who wrapped his great drab coat around his legs, and gathered up the reins with that careless indolence that seemed to say, “The beasts have no need of guidance,--they know what they are about!” The very leer of his merry eye to the buxom figure within the bar was a novel in three volumes; and mark how lazily he takes the whip from the fellow that stands on the wheel, proud of such a service; and hear him, as he cries, “All right, Bill, let ‘em go!”--and then mark the graceful curls of the long lash, as it plays around the leaders’ flanks, and makes the skittish devils bound ere they are touched. And now we go careering along the mountain-side, where the breeze is fresh and the air bracing, with a wide-spread country all beneath us, across which the shadows are moving like waves. Again, we move along some narrow road, overhung with trees, rich in perfumed blossoms, which fall in showers over us as we pass; the wheels are crushing the ripe apples as they lie uncared for; and now we are in a deep glen, dark and shady, where only a straggling sunbeam comes; and see, where the road opens, how the rabbits play, nor are scared at our approach! Ha, merry England! there are sights and sounds about you to warm a man’s heart, and make him think of home.

It was but a few days since I was seated in one of the cheap carriages of a southern line, when this theme was brought forcibly to my mind by overhearing a dialogue between a wagoner and his wife. The man, in all the pride and worldliness of his nature, would see but the advantages of rapid transit, where the poor woman saw many a change for the worse,--all the little incidents and adventures of a pleasant journey being now superseded by the clock-work precision of the rail, the hissing engine, and the lumbering train.

Long after they had left the carriage, I continued to dwell upon the words they had spoken; and as I fell asleep, they fashioned themselves into rude measure, which I remembered on awaking, and have called it--

THE SONG OF THE THIRD-CLASS TRAIN.

WAGONER. Time was when with the dreary load We slowly journeyed on, And measured every mile of road Until the day was gone; Along the worn and rutted way, When morn was but a gleam, And with the last faint glimpse of day Still went the dreary team. But no more now to earth we bow! Our insect life is past; With furnace gleam, and hissing steam, Our speed is like the blast

WIFE. I mind it well,--I loved it too, Full many a happy hour, When o’er our heads the blossoms grew That made the road a bower. With song of birds, and pleasant sound Of voices o’er the lea, And perfume rising from the ground Fresh turned by labor free. And when the night, star-lit and bright, Closed in on all around, Nestling to rest, upon my breast My boy was sleeping sonnd. His mouth was moved, as tho’ it provtd That even in his dream He grasped the whip--his tiny lip Would try to guide the team. Oh, were not these the days to please! Were we not happy so? The woman said. He hung his head, And still he muttered low: But no more now to earth we bow, Our insect life is past; With furnace gleam, and hissing steam, Our speed is like the blast.”

“I wish I had a hundred pounds to argue the question on either side,” as Lord Plunkett said of a Chancery case; for if we have lost much of the romance of the road, as it once existed, we have certainly gained something in the strange and curious views of life presented by railroad travelling; and although there was more of poetry in the pastoral, the broad comedy of a journey is always amusing. The caliph who once sat on the bridge of Bagdad, to observe mankind, and choose his dinner-party from the passers-by, would unquestionably have enjoyed a far wider scope for his investigation, had he lived in our day, and taken out a subscription ticket for the Great Western or the Grand Junction. A peep into the several carriages of a train is like obtaining a section of society; for, like the view of a house, when the front wall is removed, we can see the whole economy of the dwelling, from the kitchen to the garret; and while the grand leveller, steam, is tugging all the same road, at the same pace, subjecting the peer to every shock it gives the peasant, individual peculiarities and class observances relieve the uniformity of the scene, and afford ample opportunity for him who would read while he runs. Short of royalty, there is no one nowadays may not be met with “on the rail;” and from the Duke to Daniel O’Connell--a pretty long interval--your _vis-à-vis_ may be any illustrious character in politics, literature, or art. I intend, in some of these tales, to make mention of some of the most interesting characters it has been my fortune to encounter; meanwhile let me make a note of the most singular railroad traveller of whom I have ever heard, and to the knowledge of whom I accidentally came when travelling abroad. The sketch I shall call--

THE EARLY TRAIN TO VERSAILLES.

“Droll people one meets travelling,--strange characters!” was the exclamation of my next neighbor in the Versailles train, as an oddly attired figure, with an enormous beard, and a tall Polish cap, got out at Sèvres; and this, of all the railroads in Europe, perhaps, presents the most motley array of travellers. The “militaire,” the shopkeeper, the actor of a minor theatre, the economist Englishman residing at Versailles for cheapness, the “modiste,” the newspaper writer, are all to be met with, hastening to and from this favorite resort of the Parisians; and among a people so communicative, and so well disposed to social intercourse, it is rare that even in this short journey the conversation does not take a character of amusement, if not of actual interest.

“The last time I went down in this train it was in company with M. Thiers; and, I assure you, no one could be more agreeable and affable,” said one.

“Horace Vernet was my companion last week,” remarked another; “indeed I never guessed who it was, until a chance observation of mine about one of his own pictures, when he avowed his name.”

“I had a more singular travelling-companion still,” exclaimed a third; “no less a personage than Aboul Djerick, the Arab chief, whom the Marshal Bugeaud took prisoner.”

“_Ma foi!_ gentlemen,” said a dry old lady from the corner of the carriage, “these were not very remarkable characters, after all. I remember coming down here with--what do you think?--for my fellow-traveller. Only guess. But it is no use; you would never hit upon it,--he was a baboon!”

“A baboon!” exclaimed all the party, in a breath.

“_Sacrebleu!_ Madame, you must be jesting.”

“No, gentlemen, nothing of the kind. He was a tall fellow, as big as M. le Capitaine yonder; and he had a tail--_mon Dieu!_ what a tail! When the conductor showed him into the carriage, it took nearly a minute to adjust that enormous tail.”

A very general roar of laughter met this speech, excited probably more by the serious manner of the old lady as she mentioned this occurrence than by anything even in the event itself, though all were unquestionably astonished to account for the incident.

“Was he quiet, Madame?” said one of the passengers.

“Perfectly so,” replied she,--“_bien poli_.”

Another little outbreak of laughter at so singular a phrase, with reference to the manners of an ape, disturbed the party.

“He had probably made his escape from the Jardin des Plantes,” cried a thin old gentleman opposite.

“No, Monsieur; he lived in the Rue St. Denis.”

“_Diable!_” exclaimed a lieutenant; “he was a good citizen of Paris. Was he in the Garde Nationale, Madame?”

“I am not sure,” said the old lady, with a most provoking coolness.

“And where was he going, may I ask?” cried another.

“To Versailles, Monsieur,--poor fellow, he wept very bitterly.”

“Detestable beast!” exclaimed the old gentleman; “they make a horrid mockery of humanity.”

“Ah! very true, Monsieur; there is a strong resemblance between the two species.” There was an unlucky applicability in this speech to the hook-nose, yellow-skinned, wrinkled little fellow it was addressed to, that once more brought a smile upon the party.

“Was there no one with him, then? Who took care of him, Madame?”

“He was alone, Monsieur. The poor fellow was a ‘_garçon_;’ he told me so himself.”

“Told you so!--the ape told you!--the baboon said that!” exclaimed each in turn of the party, while an outburst of laughter filled the carriage.

“‘T is quite true,--just as I have the honor to tell you,” said the old lady, with the utmost gravity; “and although I was as much surprised as you now are, when he first addressed me, he was so well-mannered, spoke such good French, and had so much agreeability that I forgot my fears, and enjoyed his society very much.”

It was not without a great effort that the party controlled themselves sufficiently to hear the old lady’s explanation. The very truthfulness of her voice and accent added indescribably to the absurdity; for while she designated her singular companion always as M. le Singe, she spoke of him as if he had been a naturalized Frenchman, born to enjoy all the inestimable privileges of “La Belle France.” Her story was this--but it is better, as far as may be, to give it in her own words:--

“My husband, gentlemen, is greffier of the Correctional Court of Paris; and although obliged, during the session, to be every day at the Tribunal, we reside at Versailles, for cheapness, using the railroad to bring us to and from Paris. Now, it chanced that I set out from Paris, where I had spent the night at a friend’s house, by the early train, which, you know, starts at five o’clock. Very few people travel by that train; indeed, I believe the only use of it is to go down to Versailles to bring up people from thence. It was a fine cheery morning--cold, but bright--in the month of March, as I took my place alone in one of the carriages of the train. After the usual delay (they are never prompt with this train), the word ‘En route’ was given, and we started; but before the pace was accelerated to a rapid rate, the door was wrenched open by the ‘conducteur’--a large full-grown baboon, with his tail over his arm, stepped in--the door closed, and away we went. Ah! gentlemen, I never shall forget that moment. The beast sat opposite me, just like Monsieur there, with his old parchment face, his round brown eyes, and his long-clawed paws, which he clasped exactly like a human being. _Mon Dieu!_ what agony was mine! I had seen these creatures in the Jardin des Plantes, and knew them to be so vicious; but I thought the best thing to do was to cultivate the monster’s good graces, and so I put my hand in my reticule and drew forth a morsel of cake, which I presented to him.

“‘_Merci, Madame_,’ said he, with a polite bow, ‘I am not hungry.’

“Ah! when I heard him say this, I thought I should have died. The beast spoke it as plain as I am speaking to you; and he bowed his yellow face, and made a gesture of his hand, if I may call it a hand, just this way. Whether he remarked my astonishment, or perceived that I looked ill, I can’t say; but he observed in a very gentle tone,--

“‘Madame is fatigued.’

“‘Ah! Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I never knew that you spoke French.’

“‘_Oui, parbleu!_’ said he, ‘I was born in the Pyrenees, and am only half a Spaniard.’

“‘Monsieur’s father, then,’ said I, ‘was he a Frenchman?’

“‘_Pauvre bête_,’ said he; ‘he was from the Basque Provinces. He was a wild fellow.’

“‘I have no doubt of it,’ said I; ‘but it seems they caught him at last.’

“‘You are right, Madame. Strange enough you should have guessed it. He was taken in Estremadura, where he joined a party of brigands. They knew my father by his queue; for, amid all his difficulties, nothing could induce him to cut it off.’

“‘I don’t wonder,’ said I; ‘it would have been very painful.’

“‘It would have made his heart bleed, Madame, to touch a hair of it. He was proud of that old queue; and he might well be,--it was the best-looking tail in the North of Spain.’

“‘Bless my heart,’ thought I, ‘these creatures have their vanities too.’

“‘Ah, Madame, we had more freedom in those days. My father used to tell me of the nights he has passed on the mountains, under the shade, or sometimes in the branches of the cork-trees, with pleasant companions, fellows of his own stamp. We were not hunted down then, as we are now; there was liberty then.’

“‘Well, for my part,’ said I, ‘I should not dislike the Jardin des Plantes, if I was like one of you. It ain’t so bad to have one’s meals at regular times, and a comfortable bed, and a good dry house.’

“‘I don’t know what you mean by the Jardin des Plantes. I live in the Rue St. Denis, and I for one feel the chain about my ankles, under this vile _régime_ we live in at present.’

“He had managed to slip it off this time, anyhow; for I saw the creature’s legs were free.

“‘Ah, Madame,’ exclaimed Le Singe, slapping his forehead with his paw, ‘men are but rogues, cheats, and swindlers.’

“‘Are apes better?’ said I, modestly.

“‘I protest I think they are,’ said he. ‘Except a propensity to petty pilfering, they are honest beasts.’

“‘They are most affectionate,’ said I, wishing to flatter him; but he took no notice of the observation.

“‘Madame,’ exclaimed he, after a pause, and with a voice of unusual energy, ‘I was so near being caught in a trap this very morning.’

“‘Dear me,’ said I, ‘and they laid a trap for you?’

“‘An infernal trap,’ said he. ‘A mistake might have cost me my liberty for life. Do you know M. Laborde, the director of the Gymnase?’

“‘Ihave heard of him, but no more.’

“‘What a “fripon” he is! There is not such a scoundrel living; but I ‘ll have him yet. Let him not think to escape me! Pardon, Madame, does my tail inconvenience you?’

“‘Not at all, sir. Pray don’t stir.’

“I must say that, in his excitement, the beast whisked the appendage to and fro with his paw in a very furious manner.

“‘Only conceive, Madame, I have passed the night in the open air; hunted, chased, pursued,--all on account of the accursed M. Laborde. I that was reared in a warm climate, brought up in every comfort, and habituated to the most tender care,--exposed, during six hours, to the damp dews of a night in the Bois de Boulogne. I know it will fall on my chest, or I shall have an attack of rheumatism. Ah, _mon Dieu!_ if I shouldn’t be able to climb and jump, it would be better for me to be dead.’