Part 13

Maurice, in the meantime, has returned to his sick friend, where he finds his brother’s wife, for whom he has a warm affection. Quitting the chamber, to fetch some medicine from a neighbouring apothecary, he sees an old woman, who, looking at him very attentively, passes her shrivelled hand several times over the collar of his coat.

Maurice, not quite understanding this familiarity, draws back, and looks at her attentively. Her thin and colourless features were strangely contrasted with the benevolent vivacity which seemed to animate them. She asks him to sell his cloak, and, on his refusal, expresses some surprise that he can be attached to such a rag.

‘No matter,’ he replies; ‘rag as it is, it is dear to me.’

‘Not for its beauty, surely?’

‘No; but if you must know, it’s my father’s legacy.’

‘Your father’s! Oh, my child, you ought to honour his memory; for no one can deny that you are his son. Every feature resembles him, excepting that you have a good-natured sort of smile in the corner of your mouth, which he never had.

‘Oh, yes, he had once, but the world had deprived him of it?’

‘Say rather, that years had, child; for they do every thing in this world; and even I, who now talk to you, if I had some few scores of years less, would you have let me stand here in the snow so long? Oh, no; you would have whipped this precious cloak over my shoulders.’

‘Go along, you old gipsey; such nymphs are not to my taste.’

‘Well, my son, the frankness of your heart pleases me, and I will reward it.’

‘Oh, pray keep your rewards: I am not in want of them.’

‘How naturally that word want comes out of your mouth; and merely because your head is full of it.’

‘Who are you, infernal sybil?’ said Maurice, drawing her towards the light.

‘The sight of my wrinkled face will give you no great pleasure, my child, but, perhaps, my advice may. Listen to me, then. Go home to your own chamber, lock the door, and rip up the collar of your cloak, and when you have done so you will have nothing more to do but to pray to God, as the great king Solomon did, to grant you wisdom.’ As she spoke thus, the old woman hobbled hastily away.

Maurice put his hand to the collar of his cloak, and thought he heard a noise like the rustling of paper. He hastened back to Marie and the town clerk, and told them of his adventure.

‘Just heaven!’ cried Waldau, ‘it must be so. You remember your late father, Maurice, and his eternal apprehensions, which all the locks in the world could not have quieted. You know, too, that he was often obliged to come to this city for the purpose of receiving large sums of money. What would a suspicious man do in such a case? He would convert his money, not into gold, but into paper, because they might easily be concealed.

I do not doubt, from the story of the old woman, who has perhaps been his hostess, his housekeeper, or some faded flower of the mysterious garland of the past, that this cloak served your father for a strong box. Better acquainted with handling ducats than a needle, he probably had recourse to this old woman. You know it was upon his return from a journey that he died. Marie, open the collar quickly--Maurice, take my scissors, they are in my bag--quick.’

Marie uttered a joyful exclamation, as she felt papers through the fold of the cloth. At the same moment, a loud noise was heard, and Maurice rose.

The unhappy Pierre, upon quitting the theatre in a state of distraction, had fallen into the canal, and, although he was quickly extricated, he had only time to mention the place of his abode before he died. The noise was caused by persons bringing home his corpse. In the confusion which followed, the cloak, now become so important an object, was stolen, and all searches and inquiries for its recovery were fruitless.

When the first grief for the death of Pierre is over, Maurice finds that his father’s property, which he divides with his brother’s widow, is enough to enable him to marry his Louisa: he returns to Berling, and on the day fixed for the wedding, on which also Waldau is married to Marie, the old woman appears at the door in the old cloak. Maurice brings her into the middle of the room.

‘Who are you?’ said he, ‘and whence did you get this cloak?--What brings you here?--Quick--speak--explain yourself.’

‘You put a great many questions at once,’ said the old woman. ‘What brings me here?--your good stars. As to the cloak--it is mine, for I bought it.’

While she spoke, Maurice looked at her, distrustingly. ‘This old woman,’ said he to himself, ‘has duped me once, and would willingly do so again. She has found the money in the cloak, and has now come to make a merit of restoring just so much of it as she thinks fit.’

The old woman seemed to comprehend what was passing in his mind. ‘I see what you think,’ said she; ‘but why, Mr. Giddybrain, did you despise my advice? why did you so easily abandon this precious cloak? Did I not find it one fine day hanging up before the shop of my neighbour, the old clothesman, who told me he bought it of a porter? and what would become of the bills for twenty thousand florins which are sewed up in it, if I had not bought them at the exorbitant price of three silver pieces? There, take your own; keep it more safely for the future, and thank heaven for having preserved the life of your father’s nurse.’

Maurice embraces the old woman, who receives the praises and thanks of every body present. ‘Well, children,’ said she, ‘since you are all happy, you must find some little corner among you for me, where I may end my days in peace.’

‘O, yes!’ said Marie, with warmth, ‘you shall never quit us.’

A few days afterwards you might have thought that the old woman had never quitted the ancient dwelling, so much did the two families seem to look upon her as a mother. Their happiness was such as springs from humble virtue. Piety, innocence, and gentleness, adorned their lives, and their days had passed in an uniform and peaceable manner, when, about a year after the return of the old nurse, she appeared one morning before Maurice in the same attitude as on the day of his marriage, and covered with the same old cloak. He offered to embrace her, but, repulsing him, ‘Gently,’ said she, ‘take care.’--‘Do you bring me another treasure, then, my good mother?’ She smiled as she opened the cloak;--it was a son, which his Louisa had just given him.

[LES MANTEAUX.]

A COMICAL ADVENTURE.

As a sort of proëmium to the relation of the following adventure, I must preadmonish my readers, that I have always entertained a monstrous aversion to being roused from a comfortable sleep, by the appalling cry of “murder.” Heaven defend us! the very thought of such matters, even in broad day-light, causes a queer sensation about one’s throat and fifth rib: but at the solemn hour of midnight,--“just as the clock strikes twelve,”--when the winds are howling, and casements creaking, with all the other paraphernalia of a portentous night (vide ‘Mysteries of Udolpho’)--oh! it festers up the faculties, and acts as a scare-crow to the senses. Having premised thus much, and not in the least doubting that I have touched a sympathetic string in every bosom, I will forthwith proceed to relate my adventure.

Those who have travelled in the north of Scotland, may perchance recollect the road between Kincardine and Dingwall. On the right, stands a decently snug tenement, from which a swinging appendage announces to all peregrinators, that excellent entertainment is there provided for “man and beast.” In those parts it was my fortune to be travelling, on a bleak November evening, with no remarkably near prospect of supper or bed, when my eyes were suddenly gladdened by the appearance of the afore-mentioned sign; and so, it appears, were those of my horse, for without receiving previous notice from me, he instinctively halted at the door. I alighted, and after a comfortable supper, found myself snugly deposited in bed, next floor but one to the sky, the other floors being pre-engaged. But scarcely had gentle sleep diffused its balm over my eyelids, when I was aroused by a horrible confusion of noises in an adjoining apartment, from which I was separated only by a slight partition. First, I heard sundry stampings, and divers violent exclamations; then I plainly distinguished halfstifled cries of murder, and, at last, the groans of one, as it were, in his last agony. I was on my feet in the twinkling of an eye, and the reader may imagine that there was no occasion to make use of my hands in doffing my night-cap; the first sound of the word “murder” caused that to deposit itself very quietly on my pillow. My first movement was towards the door, from which I as quickly retreated, on discovering a murderous-looking person through the half-opened door of the next apartment; not, however, before I had uttered a yell loud enough to rouse all the inmates of the house. I next made towards the window, but there saw nothing, save a fearful profundity, which, I was well aware, was terminated by a yard, paved with rough stones.’Twas agony.

My last resource was the chimney, in which I forthwith proceeded to enshell myself, taking good care to leave the space of a yard or two between me and the floor. Scarcely had I thus disposed of myself, when the landlord entered my apartment, followed by his wife and domestics; whose voice I no sooner distinguished, than I began very _coolly_ to descend: but, unfortunately, this being my first attempt at chimney-sweeping, I made such an unsweeper-like descent, that the landlord and his train, thinking Old Nick was at hand, scampered off, myself following with all imaginable speed. Helter-skelter we rushed down the first flight of stairs; at the bottom of which, finding a door half open, with a night-capped head protruding, in order, no doubt, to discover the cause of such a disturbance, we all burglariously entered, knocking down in our tumultuous incourse, the lawful possessor. There at length the foremost of our party wheeled to the right about, and the landlady, discovering me, hastily asked me what was the matter. I explained, as well as I could, the cause of my alarm; to which explanation, turning up the whites of her eyes, she replied, half festily, half laughing, “Quwhy, Gude safe us, Sir, ’twas nae mair than just Sanders Mac Grabbit, ane o’ the play-folk, a skirlin the bit tregedy, as he’s ganging to play in our barn like.”--“Um!” re-answered I; and in less than five minutes my nasal organ was playing bass to my next door neighbour’s treble.

[DIARY OF A TRAVELLER.]

HOW TO MAKE A PAPER.

SCENE.--THE SANCTUM AT THE ESTABLISHMENT IN CATHERINE-STREET, STRAND.

_The Editor sitting with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, leaning back in his chair, and looking very earnestly at the ceiling. In about ten minutes he gets up and walks to the window, breathes hard upon the glass, and flourishes a capital R with his finger in the wet he has made. Looks at his watch, and rings the Printer’s bell. Enter Printer._

_Editor_. How much matter have you got, Mr. Pica?

_Mr. P. (After a pause.)_ Not more than two columns, Sir.

_Editor_. The devil!--How many ads * can you muster to-day?

_Mr. P._ Three columns and a half, Sir, including quacks; but I must use “When men of education and professional skill,” and the “Real blessing to mothers.”

_Editor_. Have you no standing matter? ** _Mr. P_. Not a line, Sir, I used the last of the standing matter yesterday, the account of the “American sea-serpent,” which was left out full two months ago, to make room for the “Fire in Fleet-street.”

_Editor. (Musing.)_ Very well: I’ll touch your bell as soon as I have any copy ready.

* Advertisements.

** Articles already composed, or in type, but not yet used; such as good jokes that will keep a week or two--murders in America--or curious discoveries in the East Indies; that will read as well at Christmas as in the dog-days.

_Mr. P._ The men are all standing still, Sir, just now If you have any matter which you intend to use a week hence, they may as well be going on with it.

_Editor. (Rummages among his papers.)_ Here, take this “Romantic suicide.” It will do for any day when you want half a column for the back page.

_[Exit Mr. Pica; and a minute after, enter reading boy, in a hurry._

_Boy._ Copy--if you please, Sir!

_Editor_. I have just given Mr. Pica half a column.

_Boy_. Oh--I beg your pardon, Sir--I did not see Mr. Pica--I came from down stairs. _[Exit._

_Editor: (Puts his hands into his breeches’ pockets again, and begins to whistle a tune.)_ This will not do---I must write something--but what it is to be about I know no more than the monument. _(Nibs his pen--settles his inkstand--and gets his paper ready)_. The parliament is up--the law courts have adjourned for the long vacation--the Opera House and the Winter Theatres have closed--and at the Haymarket and English Opera House, they have both brought out pieces which are having a run--nothing stirring--not even a case of decent oppression in a night constable--or of tyranny in a police magistrate. Whigs and Tories have shaken hands, and political delinquencies are too common to be either new or scandalous. The editor of a daily paper may be aptly compared to a galley slave. When the winds roar, and the tempest is abroad, and the waves swell, his bark moves along swiftly; but when the calm comes, and the sky is serene, and the breeze is hushed, and the sea is smooth, it is then he must ply the oar, and tug, and pull, and toil, to give the vessel motion.--_( Takes his pen and writes furiously.)_ That will do for one of those short leaders * about nothing--. which look very much as if they alluded to something that could not be mentioned, _(Reads.)_--“There are certain rumours afloat--upon a delicate subject which has lately occasioned a great sensation in particular quarters. We are in possession of facts connected with this extraordinary affair, which we may perhaps feel ourselves at liberty to mention in a few days. Meanwhile, all we can say at present is, that disclosures _must_ take place, however painful they may be to _more than one distinguished_ individual. We shall only add, that the Duke of Wellington left town yesterday in his travelling chariot, with four horses, for Windsor, after a private interview of nearly three hours with an Illustrious Personage; and that it is reported his Grace ordered summonses for a cabinet council this day, before his departure from London. We shall not lose sight of this business.” _(Rings the Printer’s bell--Mr. Pica enters.)_ Make this the first leader, and you may as well put it in double leads. **

* “Leaders”, are those important articles in a paper, which are printed in large letters, and wherein the editorial _We_ is supposed to utter oracles _de omnibus rebus_.

** “Double leads” is a technical phrase for a mode of printing which is employed only when an article is either supposed to be, or is wished to be supposed, super-import- ant. The lines stand wide apart, and look like the bars of a gridiron.

_Mr. P._ Very well, Sir. There’s a long police case just come in, of a baronet’s daughter taken up for shoplifting; and an account of the bursting of a gasometer, which killed eleven men, three boys, and an old woman, who lived in a front garret over the way.

_Editor_. Use them both, the shop-lifting under the head of “Mysterious Charge of Theft,” and the accident to the gasometer under that of “Tremendous Explosion!--Fifteen Lives Lost!”

_Mr. P._ We shall do better with the _ads_. than I expected. Robins has just sent a long list of his auctions, which he says must go in to-morrow; and Kidd’s clerk has left eight or ten good book _ads._, so I shall be able to make out a full page without using the quacks. *

* It is necessary to remark here, by way of explanation, that there are gradations of rank and respectability in advertisements; and that a high aristocratical feeling pervades their location in a well regulated paper. The _quack ads_., alluded to by Mr. Pica, are those benevolent offers of aid to the afflicted, which announce that “rheumatism and lumbago are effectually relieved by a new process;” that the most excruciating toothache is allayed in one minute by an unrivalled anodyne cement; that “gout is cured without medicine, in a few hours,” and “blotched faces in no time at all;” that red whiskers are changed in a single night to beautiful shades of brown or black;” that “the healthy functions of the stomach and intestinal canal, are restored by an improved domestic instrument,” &c. &c. These are never allowed to show their faces in the genteel company of the other advertisements, unless there happens to be a lack of gentility, but herd together in what is technically called the, “back page” of the paper.

_Editor_. So much the better: I abominate “Nervous complaints and debility,” or the “Patent bug destroyer by steam only,” side by side with, “Thirty-five thousand pounds wanted”--“The daughter of a clergyman”--“Books published this day.”--_(Exit Printer, laughing at the humourous vein of the Editor.)_--Well! one leader only: I must write something else. No Paris papers--no Dutch mail--no Flander’s mail--no German mail--no mail from Buenos Ayres--no New York papers! By-the-bye, it will look like a piece of information to announce that there is nothing. _(Writes._’)--“We have seldom known a day so barren of intelligence of every description. There has not been a single arrival from the Continent, nor any ship, letters, or papers from the other side of the Atlantic. Whether this profound calm may be considered as the harbinger of a coming storm we know not; but when we remember the ominous complexion of the advices last received from the East of Europe, and the louring aspect of affairs in general in the transatlantic hemisphere, it is not unreasonable to conclude that our next accounts from both quarters will be important. Our readers have not forgotten the opinion we expressed on Tuesday, and the comprehensive view we took on Wednesday, of the whole of our political relations. We are standing, as it were, upon the crater of a volcano, which may break forth every moment. The attitude of Russia is equivocal--the intentions of France are doubtful--Austria still wears her mask (though we are not deceived by it)--while the Peninsula becomes more and more embarrassing to the great powers of Europe. If we turn our eyes towards the United States of North America, what do we behold? Alas! this question needs no answer from us. And if we look at the new republics of South America, does not the same scene present itself? But we will not pursue this painful theme. A few hours, in all probability, will put us in possession of facts that will more than justify all our predictions.” _(A knock at the door.)_ Come in. (Dr. Froth _enters_.) Froth, how are you?

_Dr. F_. Quite well, at your service, my friend.

_Editor._ Thank you--but you may keep your health for yourself, and your service for your other friends--you shall not physic me.

_Dr. F._ Ha! ha! ha! very good--you are always brilliant--any news to-day?

_Editor_. Not a syllable, that I have heard--have you any?

_Dr. F. (Looking grave.)_ The king is very ill!

_Editor_. Indeed!

_Dr. F_. He is, by Jove! It wont do to mention it, because of the way in which it came to my ears; but you may depend upon it he is in a very ticklish situation just now.

_Editor_. How do you mean? _(Dr. F. points to his head, with a very significant look.)_ Pooh! I don’t believe a word of it! where did you hear it? _(Dr. F. looks round the room, and then whispers in the Editor’s ear.)_ That should be good authority, but----

_Dr. F_. It is a fact, and you’ll hear more about it, before long. I met Mr. Peel on his way to Downing-street as I came here, and he appeared very agitated. He was walking uncommonly fast, though the day is so hot. But I’ll not interrupt you any longer, for I know your time is precious--so good bye. Do you happen to have the Haymarket card disengaged this evening? And if you _could_ spare me your Vauxhall ticket for next Friday I should be very much obliged to you. And when you have no _other_ use for it, I wish you would remember me for Mathews and Yates at the Adelphi. I have promised Mrs. Froth to take her; and she particularly desired me to ask you whether you have orders for any of the minor theatres? She does not care which--the Cobourg, or the Surrey, or Astley’s---but she wants to give our cook a treat before the season is over.

_Editor._ My Haymarket card is engaged this evening, I know; but the English Opera House is at liberty, if that will do.

_Dr. F_. Thank you, I’ll take it--and perhaps you’ll keep the Haymarket for me to-morrow evening? Can I have Vauxhall on Friday?

_Editor._ Yes.

_Dr. F_. You are a fine fellow--You’ll not forget Mathews and the minors--Good bye.

_Editor._ No, no. _(Exit Dr. Froth.)_--D--n these tickets--it is half my business every day to remember to whom they are promised. _( Writes. )_--

“There is a painful rumour in circulation this morning, in the highest quarters, upon a subject which is too delicate to mention explicitly. We hope it may prove altogether unfounded, or at leastmuch exaggerated: but the peculiar sources, from which we derive our information, justifies us in attaching more than ordinary weight to the distressing report. Should any thing further transpire, after our paper is put to press, we shall not fail to communicate it to our readers in a second edition.” _(Rings the Printer’s bell. Mr. Pica enters.)_ Here are two more leaders, Mr. Pica. How does your _matter stand now?_*

* (i.e.) How much more do you want to fill the paper?

_Mr. P_. I measured it just before you rung the bell, and I had about a column and a quarter open; but these leaders will make a third of a column.

_Editor_. Rather more I think.

_[Exit Mr. Pica. Editor alters a paragraph, just left for him to insert by an irritated dramatic manager, and falls into a brown study, which lasts several minutes. It is interrupted by the entrance of the clerk, who brings him the card of a gentleman below stairs, who wishes to speak with him for one minute. The clerk is ordered to show the gentleman up, and the Rev Judiah Flinn enters.]_

_Rev. Mr. Flinn_. Are you the Editor of the A--?

_Editor_. I am.

_Rev. Mr. F_. Then I have called upon you, Sir, to request that you will contradict a most malicious and unfounded report of the death of my uncle, which appeared in your paper yesterday.

_Editor_. With great pleasure, if it be unfounded; but I can assure you there was nothing malicious in the statement. Who is your uncle?

_Rev. Mr. F._ The Bishop of --------. This is a letter I received from him this morning, dated only yesterday; and your paper says, he died suddenly at his Episcopal palace, last Saturday. These false reports are not only most distressing to the friends and relations of an individual, but they are cruel disappointments to a numerous class of your readers. I have met three deans and one prebendary already, who have hurried up to town in consequence of the scandalous rumour.

_Editor_. I am really very sorry; but the fact is the rumour did not originate with us; it was copied from another paper: however I shall be most happy to give it a positive contradiction.

_Rev. Mr. F_. Sir, I am obliged to you. _(The Rev. Judiah Flinn puts his uncle’s letter into his pocket and departs.)_