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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1991-0.txt b/1991-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a20ceb1 --- /dev/null +++ b/1991-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3908 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Old Friends, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Old Friends + Essays in Epistolary Parody + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: March 1, 2013 [eBook #1991] +[This file was first posted on April 16, 1999] + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD FRIENDS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1890 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: The Baron at St. Andrews. From an old painting] + + + + + + OLD FRIENDS + + + _ESSAYS IN EPISTOLARY PARODY_ + + * * * * * + + BY + ANDREW LANG + + * * * * * + + LONDON + + LONGMAN’S, GREEN, AND CO. + AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET + 1890 + + _All rights reserved_ + + * * * * * + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + * * * * * + + _TO_ + + _MISS RHODA BROUGHTON_ + + + + +PREFACE + + +THE studies in this volume originally appeared in the “St. James’s +Gazette.” Two, from a friendly hand, have been omitted here by the +author of the rest, as _non sua poma_. One was by Mr. RICHARD SWIVELLER +to a boon companion and brother in the lyric Apollo; the other, though +purporting to have been addressed by Messrs. DOMBEY & SON to Mr. TOOTS, +is believed, on internal evidence, to have been composed by the patron of +the CHICKEN himself. A few prefatory notes, an introductory essay, and +two letters have been added. + +The portrait in the frontispiece, copied by Mr. T. Hodge from an old +painting in the Club at St. Andrews, is believed to represent the Baron +Bradwardine addressing himself to his ball. + + A. L. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + I. +_From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. Arthur Pendennis_ 27 + II. +_From the Hon. Cecil Bertie to the Lady Guinevere_ 31 + III. +_From Mr. Redmond Barry to his Uncle_ 37 + IV. +_From Mrs. Gamp to Mrs. Prig_ 42 + V. +_From Herodotus of Halicarnassus to Sophocles the 49 +Athenian_ + VI. +_From Mrs. Proudie to Mrs. Quiverful_ 55 +_From Mrs. Quiverful to Mrs. Proudie_ 60 + VII. +_From Robert Surtees_, _Esq._, _of Mainsforth_, _to 64 +Jonathan Oldbuck_, _Esq._, _of Monkbarns_ +_From Jonathan Oldbuck_, _Esq._, _of Monkbarns_, _to 72 +Robert Surtees_, _Esq._, _Mainsforth_ +_From Robert Surtees_, _Esq._, _to Jonathan Oldbuck_, 74 +_Esq._ + VIII. +_From Nicholas to the Editor of the_ ‘_St. James’s 75 +Gazette_’ + IX. +_From the Earl of Montrose to Captain Dugald Dalgetty_ 82 +_From Captain Dugald Dalgetty_, _of Drumthwacket_, _to the 84 +Most Noble and Puissant Prince James_, _Earl of Montrose_, +_commanding the musters of the King in Scotland_ + X. +_From Mr. Lovelace to John Belford_, _Esq._ 90 + XI. +_From Miss Catherine Morland to Miss Eleanor Tilney_ 97 + XII. +_From Montague Tigg_, _Esq._, _to Mr. David Crimp_ 102 +_From Mr. David Crimp to Montague Tigg_, _Esq._ 112 + XIII. +_From Christian to Piscator_ 113 +_From Piscator to Christian_ 115 + XIV. +_From Truthful James to Mr. Bret Harte_ 120 + XV. +_From Professor Forth to the Rev. Mr. Casaubon_ 123 +_From the Rev. Mr. Casaubon to James Forth_, _Esq._, 126 +_Professor of Etruscan_, _Oxford_ +_From Professor Forth to Rev. Mr. Casaubon_ 128 +_From Mrs. Forth_, _Bradmore Road_, _Oxford_, _to David 128 +Rivers_, _Esq._, _Milnthorpe_, _Yorkshire_ +_From David Rivers_, _Esq._, _to Mrs. Forth_, _Oxford_ 129 +_From Mrs. Casaubon to William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, 129 +_Stratford-on-Avon_ +_From William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, _to the Hon. Secretary of 131 +the Literary and Philosophical Mechanics’ Institute_, +_Middlemarch_ +_From William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, _to Mrs. Casaubon_ 132 +_From Mrs. Casaubon to Mrs. Forth_ 132 + XVI. +_From Euphues to Sir Amyas Leigh_, _Kt._ 135 +_From Sir Amyas Leigh to Euphues_ 137 + XVII. +_From Mr. Paul Rondelet to the Very Rev. Dean Maitland_ 139 + XVIII. +_From Harold Skimpole_, _Esq._, _to the Rev. Charles 144 +Honeyman_, _M.A._ +_From the Rev. Charles Honeyman to Harold Skimpole_, 149 +_Esq._ + XIX. +_From Miss Harriet to M. Guy de Maupassant_ 153 + XX. +_From S. Gandish_, _Esq._, _to the_ ‘_Newcome 156 +Independent_’ +_From Thomas Potts_, _Esq._, _of the_ ‘_Newcome 164 +Independent_,’ _to S. Gandish_, _Esq._ + XXI. +_From Monsieur Lecoq_, _Rue Jérusalem_, _Paris_, _to 167 +Inspector Bucket_, _Scotland Yard_ +_From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq_ 169 +_From Count Fosco to Samuel Pickwick_, _Esq._, 170 +_G.C.M.P.C._, _Goswell Road_ +_From Mr. Pickwick to the Count Fosco_ 172 +_From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq_ 173 +_From Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Perker_, _Solicitor_, _Gray’s 174 +Inn_ +_From Monsieur Lecoq to Inspector Bucket_ 175 + XXII. +_From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis_ 178 + XXIII. +_From the Baron Bradwardine to Edward Waverley_, _Esq._, 189 +_of Waverley Honour_ + APPENDIX +_Note on Letter of Mr. Surtees to Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck_ 197 + + + + +FRIENDS IN FICTION + + +EVERY fancy which dwells much with the unborn and immortal characters of +Fiction must ask itself, Did the persons in contemporary novels never +meet? In so little a world their paths must often have crossed, their +orbits must have intersected, though we hear nothing about the adventure +from the accredited narrators. In historical fiction authors make their +people meet real men and women of history—Louis XI., Lazarus, Mary Queen +of Scots, General Webbe, Moses, the Man in the Iron Mask, Marie +Antoinette; the list is endless. But novelists, in spite of Mr. +Thackeray’s advice to Alexandre Dumas, and of his own example in “Rebecca +and Rowena,” have not introduced each other’s characters. Dumas never +pursued the fortunes of the Master of Ravenswood after he was picked up +by that coasting vessel in the Kelpie’s Flow. Sometimes a meeting +between characters in novels by different hands looked all but +unavoidable. “Pendennis” and “David Copperfield” came out simultaneously +in numbers, yet Pen never encountered Steerforth at the University, nor +did Warrington, in his life of journalism, jostle against a reporter +named David Copperfield. One fears that the Major would have called +Steerforth a tiger, that Pen would have been very loftily condescending +to the nephew of Betsy Trotwood. But Captain Costigan would scarcely +have refused to take a sip of Mr. Micawber’s punch, and I doubt, not that +Litimer would have conspired darkly with Morgan, the Major’s sinister +man. Most of those delightful sets of old friends, the Dickens and +Thackeray people, might well have met, though they belonged to very +different worlds. In older novels, too, it might easily have chanced +that Mr. Edward Waverley of Waverley Honour, came into contact with +Lieutenant Booth, or, after the Forty-five, with Thomas Jones, or, in +Scotland, Balmawhapple might have foregathered with Lieutenant +Lismahagow. Might not even Jeanie Deans have crossed the path of Major +Lambert of the “Virginians,” and been helped on her way by that good man? +Assuredly Dugald Dalgetty in his wanderings in search of fights and +fortune may have crushed a cup or rattled a dicebox with four gallant +gentlemen of the King’s Mousquetaires. It is agreeable to wonder what +all these very real people would have thought of their companions in the +region of Romance, and to guess how their natures would have acted and +reacted on each other. + +This was the idea which suggested the following little essays in parody. +In making them the writer, though an assiduous and veteran novel reader, +had to recognise that after all he knew, on really intimate and friendly +terms, comparatively few people in the Paradise of Fiction. Setting +aside the dramatic poets and their creations, the children of Molière and +Shakspeare, the reader of novels will find, may be, that his airy friends +are scarce so many as he deemed. We all know Sancho and the Don, by +repute at least; we have all our memories of Gil Blas; Manon Lescaut does +not fade from the heart, nor her lover, the Chevalier des Grieux, from +the remembrance. Our mental picture of Anna Karénine is fresh enough and +fair enough, but how few can most of us recall out of the myriad progeny +of George Sand! Indiana, Valentine, Lélia, do you quite believe in them, +would you know them if you met them in the Paradise of Fiction? Noun one +might recognise, but there is a haziness about La Petite Fadette. +Consuelo, let it be admitted, is not evanescent, oblivion scatters no +poppy over her; but Madame Sand’s later ladies, still more her men, are +easily lost in the forests of fancy. Even their names with difficulty +return to us, and if we read the roll-call, would Horace and Jacques cry +_Adsum_ like the good Colonel? There are living critics who have all Mr. +George Meredith’s heroines and heroes and oddities at their finger ends, +and yet forget that musical name, like the close of a rich hexameter, +Clare Doria Forey. But this is a digression; it is perhaps admitted that +George Sand, so great a novelist, gave the world few characters who live +in and are dear to memory. We can just fancy one of her dignified later +heroines, all self-renunciation and rural sentiment, preaching in vain to +that real woman, Emma Bovary. _Her_ we know, her we remember, as we +remember few, comparatively, of Balzac’s thronging faces, from La Cousine +Bette to Séraphitus Séraphita. Many of those are certain to live and +keep their hold, but it is by dint of long and elaborate preparation, +description, analysis. A stranger intermeddleth not with them, though we +can fancy Lucien de Rubempré let loose in a country neighbourhood of +George Sand’s, and making sonnets and love to some rural _châtelaine_, +while Vautrin might stray among the ruffians of Gaboriau, a giant of +crime. Among M. Zola’s people, however it may fare with others, I find +myself remembering few: the guilty Hippolytus of “La Curée,” the poor +girl in “La Fortune des Rougon,” the Abbé Mouret, the artist in +“L’Oeuvre,” and the half idiotic girl of the farm house, and Hélène in +“Un Page d’Amour.” They are not amongst M. Zola’s most prominent +creations, and it must be some accident that makes them most memorable +and recognisable to one of his readers. + +Probably we all notice that the characters of fiction who remain our +intimates, whose words come to our lips often, whose conduct in this or +that situation we could easily forecast, are the characters whom we met +when we were young. We may be wrong in thinking them the best, the most +true and living of the unborn; perhaps they only seem so real because +they came fresh to fresh hearts and unworn memories. This at least we +must allow for, when we are tempted to say about novelists, “The old are +better.” It was we who, long ago, were young and better, better fitted +to enjoy and retain the pleasure of making new visionary acquaintances. +If this be so, what an argument it is in favour of reading the best books +first and earliest in youth! Do the ladies who now find Scott slow, and +Miss Austen dull, and Dickens vulgar, and Thackeray prosy, and Fielding +and Richardson impossible, come to this belief because they began early +with the volumes of the circulating library? Are their memories happily +stored with the words and deeds of modern fictitious romps, and +passionate governesses, and tremendous guardsmen with huge cigars? Are +the people of—well, why mention names of living authors?—of whom you +will—are those as much to the young readers of 1890 as Quentin Durward, +and Colonel Newcome, and Sam Weller, and Becky Sharp, and Anne Elliot, +and Elizabeth Bennett, and Jane Eyre were to young readers of 1860? It +may very well be so, and we seniors will not regret our choice, and the +young men and maids will be pleased enough with theirs. Yet it is not +impossible that the old really are better, and do not gain all their life +and permanent charm merely from the unjaded memories and affections with +which we came to them long ago. + +We shall never be certain, for even if we tried the experiment of +comparing, we are no longer good judges, our hearts are with our old +friends, whom we think deathless; their birth is far enough off in time, +but they will serve us for ours. + +These friends, it has been said, are not such a very numerous company +after all. Most of them are children of our own soil, their spirits were +made in England, or at least in Great Britain, or, perhaps, came of +English stock across the seas, like our dear old Leather Stocking and +Madam Hester Prynne. Probably most of us are insular enough to confess +this limitation; even if we be so unpatriotic to read far more new French +than new English novels. One may study M. Daudet, and not remember his +Sidonie as we remember Becky, nor his Petit Chose or his Jack as we +remember David Copperfield. In the Paradise of Fiction are folk of all +nations and tongues; but the English (as Swedenborg saw them doing in his +vision of Heaven) keep very much to themselves. The American visitors, +or some of them, disdain our old acquaintances, and associate with +Russian, Spanish, Lithuanian, Armenian heroes and heroines, conversing, +probably, in some sort of French. Few of us “poor islanders” are so +cosmopolitan; we read foreign novels, and yet among all the brilliant +persons met there we remember but a few. Most of my own foreign friends +in fiction wear love-locks and large boots, have rapiers at their side +which they are very ready to draw, are great trenchermen, mighty fine +drinkers, and somewhat gallant in their conduct to the sex. There is +also a citizen or two from Furetière’s “Roman Bourgeois,” there is Manon, +aforesaid, and a company of picaroons, and an archbishop, and a lady +styled Marianne, and a newly ennobled Count of mysterious wealth, and two +grisettes, named Mimi and Musette, with their student-lovers. M. Balzac +has introduced us to mystics, and murderers, and old maids, and doctors, +and adventurers, and poets, and a girl with golden eyes, and malefactors, +and bankrupts, and mad old collectors, peasants, _curés_, critics, +dreamers, debauchees; but all these are somewhat distant acquaintances, +many of them undesirable acquaintances. In the great “Comédie Humaine” +have you a single real friend? Some of Charles de Bernard’s folk are +more akin to us, such as “La Femme de Quarante Ans,” and the owner of the +hound Justinian, and that drunken artist in “Gerfaut.” But an Englishman +is rather friendless, rather an alien and an outcast, in the society of +French fiction. Monsieur de Camors is not of our _monde_, nor is the +Enfant du Siècle; indeed, perhaps good Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard is as +sympathetic as anyone in that populous country of modern French romance. +Or do you know Fifi Vollard? + +Something must be allowed for strange manners, for exotic ideas, and ways +not our own. More perhaps is due to what, as Englishmen think, is the +lack of _humour_ in the most brilliant and witty of races. We have +friends many in Molière, in Dumas, in Rabelais; but it is far more +difficult to be familiar, at ease, and happy in the circles to which +Madame Sand, M. Daudet, M. Flaubert, or M. Paul Bourget introduce us. M. +Bourget’s old professor, in “Le Disciple,” we understand, but he does not +interest himself much in us, and to us he is rather a curiosity, a +“character,” than an intimate. We are driven to the belief that humour, +with its loving and smiling observation, is necessary to the author who +would make his persons real and congenial, and, above all, friendly. Now +humour is the quality which Dumas, Molière, and Rabelais possess +conspicuously among Frenchmen. Montaigne has it too, and makes himself +dear to us, as the humorous novelists make their fancied people dear. +Without humour an author may draw characters distinct and clear, and +entertaining, and even real; but they want atmosphere, and with them we +are never intimate. Mr. Alfred Austin says that “we know the hero or the +heroine in prose romance far more familiarly than we know the hero or +heroine in the poem or the drama.” “Which of the serious characters in +Shakspeare’s plays are not indefinite and shadowy compared with Harry +Esmond or Maggie Tulliver?” The _serious_ characters—they are seldom +very familiar or definite to us in any kind of literature. One might +say, to be sure, that he knows Hotspur a good deal more intimately than +he knows Mr. Henry Esmond, and that he has a pretty definite idea of +Iago, Othello, Macbeth, King Lear, as definite as he has (to follow Mr. +Austin) of Tito Melema. But we cannot reckon Othello, or Macbeth, or +King Lear as _friends_; nay, we would rather drink with the honest +ancient. All heroes and the heroines are usually too august, and also +too young, to be friendly with us; to be handled humorously by their +creators. We know Cuddie Headrigg a great deal better than Henry Morton, +and Le Balafré better than Quentin Durward, and Dugald Dalgetty better +than anybody. Humour it is that gives flesh and blood to the persons of +romance; makes Mr. Lenville real, while Nicholas Nickleby is only a +“walking gentleman.” You cannot know Oliver Twist as you know the Dodger +and Charlie Bates. If you met Edward Waverley you could scarce tell him +from another young officer of his time; but there would be no chance of +mistake about the Dugald creature, or Bailie Nicol Jarvie, or the Baron +Bradwardine, or Balmawhapple. + +These ideas might be pushed too far; it might be said that only the +persons in “character parts”—more or less caricatures—are really vivid in +the recollection. But Colonel Newcome is as real as Captain Costigan, +and George Warrington as the Chevalier Strong. The hero is commonly too +much of a _beau ténébreux_ to be actual; Scott knew it well, and in one +of his unpublished letters frankly admits that his heroes are wooden, and +no favourites of his own. He had to make them, as most authors make +their heroes, romantic, amorous, and serious; few of them have the life +of Roland Graeme, or even of Quentin Durward. Ivanhoe might put on the +cloak of the Master of Ravenswood, the Master might wear the armour of +the Disinherited Knight, and the disguise would deceive the keenest. +Nay, Mr. Henry Esmond might pass for either, if arrayed in appropriate +costume. + +To treat a hero with humour is difficult in romance, all but impossible. +Hence the heroes are rarely our friends, except in Fielding, or, now and +then, in Thackeray. No book is so full of friends as the novel that has +no hero, but has Rawdon Crawley, Becky, Lady Jane, Mr. Jim Crawley, +MacMurdo, Mrs. Major O’Dowd, and the rest. Even Dobbin is too much the +hero to be admitted among our most kindly acquaintances. So unlucky are +heroes that we know Squire Western and the Philosopher Square and Parson +Adams far better than even that unheroic hero, Tom Jones, or Joseph +Andrews. The humour of Fielding and his tenderness make Amelia and +Sophia far more sure of our hearts than, let us say, Rowena, or the Fair +Maid of Perth, or Flora MacIvor, or Rose Bradwardine. It is humour that +makes Mr. Collins immortal, and Mrs. Bennett, and Emma; while a multitude +of nice girls in fiction, good girls too, are as dead as Queen Tiah. + +Perhaps, after all, this theory explains why it is so very hard to recall +with vividness the persons of our later fiction. Humour is not the +strong point of novelists to-day. There may be amateurs who know Mr. +Howells’s characters as their elders know Sophia and Amelia and Catherine +Seyton—there may be. To the old reader of romance, however earnestly he +keeps up with modern fiction, the salt of life seems often lacking in its +puppets or its persons. Among the creations of living men and women I, +for one, feel that I have two friends at least across the sea, Master +Thomas Sawyer and his companion, Huckleberry Finn. If these are not real +boys, then Dr. Farrar’s Eric _is_ a real boy; I cannot put it stronger. +There is a lady on those distant shores (for she never died of Roman +fever) who I may venture to believe is not unfriendly—Miss Annie P. +Miller—and there is a daughter of Mr. Silas Lapham whom one cannot +readily forget, and there is a beery journalist in a “Modern Instance,” +an acquaintance, a distant professional acquaintance, not a friend. The +rest of the fictitious white population of the States are shadowy to +myself; I have often followed their fortunes with interest, but the +details slip my aging memory, which recalls Topsy and Uncle Remus. + +To speak of new friends at home is a more delicate matter. A man may +have an undue partiality for the airy children of his friends’ fancy. +Mr. Meredith has introduced me to an amiable Countess, to a strange +country girl named Rhoda, to a wonderful old Æschylean nurse, to some +genuine boys, to a wise Youth,—but that society grows as numerous as +brilliant. Mr. Besant has made us friends with twins of literary and +artistic genius, with a very highly-cultured Fellow of Lothian, with a +Son of Vulcan, with a bevy of fair but rather indistinguishable damsels, +like a group of agreeable-looking girls at a dance. But they are too +busy with their partners to be friendly. We admire them, but they are +unconcerned with us. In Mr. Black’s large family the Whaup seems most +congenial to some strangers; the name of one of Mr. Payn’s friendly lads +is Legion, and Miss Broughton’s dogs, with _their_ friend Sara, and Mrs. +Moberley, welcome the casual visitor with hospitable care. Among the +kindly children of a later generation one may number a sailor man with a +wooden leg; a Highland gentleman, who, though landless, bears a king’s +name; an Irish chevalier who was out in the ’45; a Zulu chief who plied +the axe well; a private named Mulvaney in Her Majesty’s Indian army; an +elderly sportsman of agile imagination or unparalleled experience in +remote adventure. {20} All these a person who had once encountered them +would recognise, perhaps, when he was fortunate enough to find himself in +their company. + +There are children, too, of a dead author, an author seldom lauded by +critics, who, possibly, have as many living friends as any modern +characters can claim. A very large company of Christian people are fond +of Lord Welter, Charles Ravenshoe, Flora and Gus, Lady Ascot, the boy who +played fives with a brass button, and a dozen others of Henry Kingsley’s +men, women, and children, whom we have laughed with often, and very +nearly cried with. For Henry Kingsley had humour, and his children are +dear to us; while which of Charles Kingsley’s far more famous offspring +would be welcome—unless it were Salvation Yeo—if we met them all in the +Paradise of Fiction? + +It is not very safe, in literature as in life, to speak well of our +friends or of their families. Other readers, other people, have theirs, +whom we may not care much for, whom we may even chance never to have met. +In the following Letters from Old Friends (mainly reprinted from the “St. +James’s Gazette”), a few of the writers may, to some who glance at the +sketches, be unfamiliar. When Dugald Dalgetty’s epistle on his duel with +Aramis was written, a man of letters proposed to write a reply from +Aramis in a certain journal. But his Editor had never heard of any of +the gentlemen concerned in that affair of honour; had never heard of +Dugald, of Athos, Porthos, Aramis, nor D’Artagnan. He had not been +introduced to them. This little book will be fortunate far beyond its +deserts if it tempts a few readers to extend the circle of their +visionary acquaintances, of friends who, like Brahma, know not birth, nor +decay, “sleep, waking, nor trance.” + +A theme more delicate and intimate than that of our Friends in fiction +awaits a more passionate writer than the present parodist. Our _Loves_ +in fiction are probably numerous, and our choice depends on age and +temperament. In romance, if not in life, we can be in love with a number +of ladies at once. It is probable that Beatrix Esmond has not fewer +knights than Marie Antoinette or Mary Stuart. These ladies have been the +marks of scandal. Unkind things are said of all three, but our hearts do +not believe the evil reports. Sir Walter Scott refused to write a life +of Mary Stuart because his opinion was not on the popular side, nor on +the side of his feelings. The reasoning and judicial faculties may be +convinced that Beatrix was “other than a guid ane,” but reason does not +touch the affections; we see her with the eyes of Harry Esmond, and, like +him, “remember a paragon.” With similar lack of logic we believe that +Mrs. Wenham really had one of her headaches, and that Becky was guiltless +on a notorious occasion. Bad or not so bad, what lady would we so gladly +meet as Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, whose kindness was so great that she even +condescended to be amusing to her own husband? For a more serious and +life-long affection there are few heroines so satisfactory as Sophia +Western and Amelia Booth (_née_ Harris). Never before nor since did a +man’s ideal put on flesh and blood—out of poetry, that is,—and apart from +the ladies of Shakspeare. Fielding’s women have a manly honour, +tolerance, greatness, in addition to their tenderness and kindness. +Literature has not their peers, and life has never had many to compare +with them. They are not “superior” like Romola, nor flighty and +destitute of taste like Maggie Tulliver; among Fielding’s crowd of +fribbles and sots and oafs they carry that pure moly of the Lady in +“Comus.” It is curious, indeed, that men have drawn women more true and +charming than women themselves have invented, and the heroines of George +Eliot, of George Sand (except Consuelo), and even of Miss Austen, do not +subdue us like Di Vernon, nor win our sympathies like Rebecca of York. +They may please and charm for their hour, but they have not the +immortality of the first heroines of all—of Helen, or of that Alcmena who +makes even comedy grave when she enters, and even Plautus chivalrous. +Poetry, rather than prose fiction, is the proper home of our spiritual +mistresses; they dwell where Rosalind and Imogen are, with women perhaps +as unreal or as ideal as themselves, men’s lost loves and unforgotten, in +a Paradise apart. + + + + +I. + + + _From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. Arthur Pendennis_. + +Mr. Newcome, a married man and an exile at Boulogne, sends Mr. Arthur +Pendennis a poem on his undying affection for his cousin, Miss Ethel +Newcome. He desires that it may be published in a journal with which Mr. +Pendennis is connected. He adds a few remarks on his pictures for the +Academy. + + Boulogne, March 28. + +DEAR PEN,—I have finished Belisarius, and he has gone to face the +Academicians. There is another little thing I sent—“Blondel” I call it—a +troubadour playing under a castle wall. They have not much chance; but +there is always the little print-shop in Long Acre. My sketches of +mail-coaches continue to please the public; they have raised the price to +a guinea. + +Here we are not happier than when you visited us. My poor wife is no +better. It is something to have put my father out of hearing of her +mother’s tongue: that cannot cross the Channel. Perhaps I am as well +here as in town. There I always hope, I always fear to meet _her_ . . . +my cousin, you know. I think I see her face under every bonnet. God +knows I don’t go where she is likely to be met. Oh, Pen, _hæret lethalis +arundo_; it is always right—the Latin Delectus! Everything I see is full +of her, everything I do is done for her. “Perhaps she’ll see it and know +the hand, and remember,” I think, even when I do the mail-coaches and the +milestones. I used to draw for her at Brighton when she was a child. My +sketches, my pictures, are always making that silent piteous appeal to +her, _Won’t you look at us_? _won’t you remember_? I dare say she has +quite forgotten. Here I send you a little set of rhymes; my picture of +Blondel and this old story brought them into my mind. They are _gazés_, +as the drunk painter says in “Gerfaut;” they are veiled, a mystery. I +know she’s not in a castle or a tower or a cloistered cell anywhere; she +is in Park Lane. Don’t I read it in the “Morning Post?” But I can’t, I +won’t, go and sing at the area-gate, you know. Try if F. B. will put the +rhymes into the paper. Do they take it in in Park Lane? See whether you +can get me a guinea for these tears of mine: “Mes Larmes,” Pen, do you +remember?—Yours ever, + + C. N. + +The verses are enclosed. + + THE NEW BLONDEL. + + _O ma Reine_! + + Although the Minstrel’s lost you long, + Although for bread the Minstrel sings, + Ah, still for you he pipes the song, + And thrums upon the crazy strings! + + As Blondel sang by cot and hall, + Through town and stream and forest passed, + And found, at length, the dungeon wall, + And freed the Lion-heart at last— + + So must your hapless minstrel fare, + By hill and hollow violing; + He flings a ditty on the air, + He wonders if you hear him sing! + + For in some castle you must dwell + Of this wide land he wanders through— + In palace, tower, or cloistered cell— + He knows not; but he sings to _you_! + + The wind may blow it to your ear, + And you, perchance, may understand; + But from your lattice, though you hear, + He knows you will not wave a hand. + + Your eyes upon the page may fall, + More like the page will miss your eyes; + You may be listening after all, + So goes he singing till he dies. + + + + +II. + + + _From the Hon. Cecil Bertie to the Lady Guinevere_. + +Mr. Cecil Tremayne, who served “Under Two Flags,” an officer in her +Majesty’s Guards, describes to the Lady Guinevere the circumstances of +his encounter with Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller. The incident has +been omitted by Ouida and Mr. Henry James. + +YOU ask me, Camarada, what I think of the little American _donzella_, +Daisy Miller? _Hesterna Rosa_, I may cry with the blind old bard of +Tusculum; or shall we say, _Hesterna Margaritæ_? Yesterday’s Daisy, +yesterday’s Rose, were it of Pæstum, who values it to-day? _Mais où sont +les neiges d’automne_? However, yesterday—the day before yesterday, +rather—Miss Annie P. Miller was well enough. + +We were smoking at the club windows on the Ponte Vecchio; Marmalada, +Giovanelli of the Bersaglieri, young Ponto of the K.O.B.’s, and +myself—men who never give a thought save to the gold embroidery of their +_pantoufles_ or the exquisite ebon laquer of their Russia leather +cricket-shoes. Suddenly we heard a clatter in the streets. The +riderless chargers of the Bersaglieri were racing down the Santo Croce, +and just turning, with a swing and shriek of clattering spurs, into the +Maremma. In the midst of the street, under our very window, was a little +thing like a butterfly, with _yeux de pervenche_. You remember, +Camarada, Voltaire’s love of the _pervenche_; we have plucked it, have we +not? in his garden of Les Charmettes. _Nous n’irons plus aux bois_! +_Basta_! + +But to return. There she stood, terror-stricken, petrified, like her who +of old turned her back on Zoar and beheld the incandescent hurricane of +hail smite the City of the Plain! She was dressed in white muslin, _joli +comme un cœur_, with a myriad frills and flounces and knots of +pale-coloured ribbon. Open-eyed, open-mouthed, she stared at the tide of +foaming steeds, like a maiden martyr gazing at the on-rushing waves of +ocean! “Caramba!” said Marmalada, “voilà une jeune fille pas trop bien +gardée!” Giovanelli turned pale, and, muttering _Corpo di Bacco_, +quaffed a _carafon_ of green Chartreuse, holding at least a quart, which +stood by him in its native pewter. Young Ponto merely muttered, “Egad!” +I leaped through the open window and landed at her feet. + +The racing steeds were within ten yards of us. Calmly I cast my eye over +their points. Far the fleetest, though he did not hold the lead, was +Marmalada’s charger, the Atys gelding, by Celerima out of Sac de Nuit. +With one wave of my arm I had placed her on his crupper, and, with the +same action, swung myself into the saddle. Then, in a flash and thunder +of flying horses, we swept like tawny lightning down the Pincian. The +last words I heard from the club window, through the heliotrope-scented +air, were “Thirty to one on Atys, half only if declared.” They were +wagering on our lives; the slang of the paddock was on their lips. + +Onward, downward, we sped, the fair stranger lifeless in my arms. Past +scarlet cardinals in mufti, past brilliant έτᾶιραὶ like those who swayed +the City of the Violet Crown; past _pifferari_ dancing in front of many +an _albergo_; through the Ghetto with its marmorine palaces, over the +Fountain of Trevi, across the Cascine, down the streets of the Vatican we +flew among yells of “Owner’s up,” “The gelding wins, hard held,” from the +excited _bourgeoisie_. Heaven and earth swam before my eyes as we +reached the Pons Sublicia, and heard the tawny waters of Tiber swaying to +the sea. + +_The Pons Sublicia was up_! + +With an oath of despair, for life is sweet, I rammed my persuaders into +Atys, caught him by the head, and sent him straight at the flooded Tiber! + +“_Va-t-en donc_, _espèce de type_!” said the girl on my saddle-bow, +finding her tongue at last. Fear, or girlish modesty, had hitherto kept +her silent. + +Then Atys rose on his fetlocks! Despite his double burden, the good +steed meant to have it. He deemed, perchance, he was with the Quorn or +the Baron’s. He rose; he sprang. The deep yellow water, cold in the +moon’s rays, with the farthest bank but a chill grey line in the mist, +lay beneath us! A moment that seemed an eternity! Then we landed on the +far-off further bank, and for the first time I could take a pull at his +head. I turned him on the river’s brim, and leaped him back again. + +The runaway was now as tame as a driven deer in Richmond Park. + +Well, Camarada, the adventure is over. She was grateful, of course. +These _pervenche_ eyes were suffused with a dewy radiance. + +“You can’t call,” she said, “for you haven’t been introduced, and Mrs. +Walker says we must be more exclusive. I’m dying to be exclusive; but +I’m very much obliged to you, and so will mother be. Let’s see. I’ll be +at the Colosseum to-morrow night, about ten. I’m bound to see the +Colosseum, by moonlight. Good-bye;” and she shook her pale parasol at +me, and fluttered away. + +Ah, Camarada, shall I be there? _Que scais-je_? Well, ’tis time to go +to the dance at the Holy Father’s. Adieu, Carissima.—Tout à vous, + + CIS. + + + + +III. + + +Mr. Redmond Barry (better known as Barry Lyndon) tells his uncle the +story of a singular encounter at Berlin with Mr. Alan Stuart, called Alan +Breck, and well known as the companion of Mr. David Balfour in many +adventures. Mr. Barry, at this time, was in the pay of Herr Potzdorff, +of his Prussian Majesty’s Police, and was the associate of the Chevalier, +his kinsman, in the pursuit of fortune. + + Berlin, April 1, 1748. + +UNCLE BARRY,—I dictate to Pippi, my right hand being wounded, and that by +no common accident. Going down the Linden Strasse yesterday, I +encountered a mob; and, being curious in Potzdorff’s interest, penetrated +to the kernel of it. There I found two men of my old regiment—Kurz and +another—at words with a small, dark, nimble fellow, who carried bright +and dancing eyes in a pock-marked face. He had his iron drawn, a heavy +box-handled cut-and-thrust blade, and seemed ready to fall at once on the +pair that had been jeering him for his strange speech. + +“Who is this, lads?” I asked. + +“Ein Engländer,” answered they. + +“No Englishman,” says he, in a curious accent not unlike our brogue, “but +a plain gentleman, though he bears a king’s name and hath Alan Breck to +his by-name.” + +“Come, come,” says I in German, “let the gentleman go his way; he is my +own countryman.” This was true enough for them; and you should have seen +the Highlander’s eyes flash, and grow dim again. + +I took his arm, for Potzdorff will expect me to know all about the +stranger, and marched him down to the _Drei Könige_. + +“I am your host, sir; what do you call for, Mr. Stuart of —?” said I, +knowing there is never a Scot but has the name of his kailyard tacked to +his own. + +“A King’s name is good enough for me; I bear it plain. Mr. —?” said he, +reddening. + +“They call me the Chevalier Barry, of Ballybarry.” + +“I am in the better company, sir,” quoth he, with a grand bow. + +When a bowl of punch was brought he takes off his hat, and drinks, very +solemnly, “To the King!” + +“Over the water?” I asked. + +“Nay, sir, on _this_ side,” he said; and I smoked the Jacobite. But to +shorten the story, which amuses my tedium but may beget it in you, I +asked him if he knew the cards. + +“I’m just daft when I get to the cartes,” he answered in his brogue, and +we fell to piquet. Now my Scot wore a very fine coat, and on the same +very large smooth silver buttons, well burnished. Therefore, perceiving +such an advantage as a skilled player may enjoy, I let him win a little +to whet his appetite, but presently used his buttons as a mirror, wherein +I readily detected the strength of the cards he held. Before attempting +this artifice, I had solemnly turned my chair round thrice. + +“You have changed the luck, sir,” says Mr. Breck, or Stuart, presently; +and, rising with a mighty grave air, he turned his coat and put it on +inside out. + +“Sir,” says I, “what am I to understand by this conduct?” + +“What for should not I turn my coat, for luck, if you turn your chair?” +says he. “But if you are not preceesely satisfied, I will be proud to +step outside with you.” + +I answered that we were not in a Highland wilderness, and that if no +malice were meant no affront was taken. We continued at the game till, +though deprived of my mirror, I had won some 500 Fredericks. On this he +rose, saying, “Sir, in this purse you will find the exact sum that I am +owing you, and I will call for my empty sporran the morn. It was Rob +Roy’s before it was mine.” Therewith he laid on the table a sort of +goatskin pouch, such as Highlanders gird about their loins, and marched +forth. + +I set to work at opening his pouch, that was fastened by a spring and +button, seeming easy enough of access. But I had scarce pressed the +button when lo! a flash, a pistol shot, and my right hand is grazed with +a bullet that flew out of the bag. This Highlander of the Devil had some +mechanism in his purse that discharged a small steel pistol when unwarily +opened. My hand is but slightly wounded, yet I cannot hold my sword, nor +hath my search brought me any news of Alan Breck. He has vanished like +an emissary of the Devil or the Pretender, as I doubt not he is. But I +will have his blood, if he is not one of their Scotch fairies.—Your +loving Nephew, + +REDMOND BARRY, OF BALLYBARRY. + +P.S.—The Fredericks were in the bag, all told. + + + + +IV. + + + _From Mrs. Gamp to Mrs. Prig_. + +Mrs. Gamp nurses an old friend who is under a singular delusion. + + Todgers’s. + +MY PRECIOUS BETSY,—Which when last we parted it was not as I could wish, +but bearing malice in our hearts. But, as often and often Mrs. Harris +have said it before me, with the tears in her angel eyes—one of them +having a slight cast from an accident with the moderator lamp, Harris +being quick in his temper—often and often have she said to me: “Ah, +Sairey, the quarrels of friends is affection’s best restorer.” And good +reason to know it she have, with a husband as was ever true, and never +gave her no cause to form the wish to pizen them as has good looks, but, +for I will not deceive you, ready with his hands. + +And so, between you and me may it be, Betsy Prig, as was constant +partners afore them Chuzzlewidges, and Nadgetts, and Lewsomses, and +Tiggses, and Chuffeys got that mixed and that aggerawating that to +remember who of them poisoned which or for why in a slime draught, it +makes my poor head go round, nor could such be soothing to the temper. +So let bygones be bygones between us. For, wanting of my Betsy, I am now +in a nice state of confusion, with a patient as was well beknown to me in +younger days, when there wasn’t so much of a shadder on this mortial +vial, {43} meaning Mr. Pecksniff. Which you will not forget of him, by +reason of his daughter as married that Jonadge, and his collars as mints +of money must have gone to the getting them up; but is now at Todgers’s, +and confused in his poor mind, thinking hisself Somebody else high in +Parliament. And wonder at it I do not, them Chuzzlewidges and Chuffeys +being that distracting, and ever proving to be some other pusson in +disguise, as would confuge a calkilating boy. + +So being applied to for to nightly him, there in that very sick room—for +why should I deceive you?—I meets the daily nuss; and, Betsy, I was that +overcome to have such a pardner propoged to me as I had to ring and ask +the young woman immediate for a small glass of their oldest rum, being +what I am not accustomed to but having had a turn. For, will you believe +it, she was not a widger woman as has experience in the ways of men, but +a huzzy in a bragian cap like them the Nuns wear in “Mariar Monk,” as you +may have seen it in the small sweet-shops, at a penny. And her hands as +white as her papistry cap, and she a turning up of her nose at what I had +took, and a presuming to give _me_ advice about nussing, as St. +Pancradge’s Churchyard wouldn’t hold them I’ve seen comfortable to their +long homes, and no complaints made but ever the highest satigefaction. +So I ups and gives her a bit of my mind; and Mrs. Todgers coming down, +“It’s she goes or me,” says I, “for never will Sairey Gamp nuss, sick or +monthly, with a pardner as has not confidence in me, nor I in her, but +contrary.” Then _she_ says she’ll go and speak to the doctor about it; +and out she tramps with her nose in the air, and sneezing most awful, not +being accustomed to that which I take, find it strengthening, but as it +have been a cause of sorrow and strife let it be nameless between you and +me. For to have the name “Snuffey” brought forward it is what the heart +can forgive, but never forget in this valley of the shaddock. + +I have nussed a many lunacies, Betsy, and in a general way am dispoged to +humour them rather than set them right up agin the fire when fractious. +But this Pecksniff is the tryingest creature; he having got it in his +mind as he is Somebody very high, and talking about the House, and Bills, +and clauses, and the “sacred cause of Universal Anarchy,” for such was +his Bible language, though meaning to me no more than the babe unborn. +Whereby Mrs. Harris she have often said to me, “What _do_ them blessed +infants occupy their little minds with afore they are called into that +condition where, unless changed at nuss, Providence have appointed them?” +And many a time have I said, “Seek not, Mrs. Harris, to diskiver; for we +know not wot’s hidden in our own hearts, and the torters of the +Imposition should not make me diwulge it.” + +But Pecksniff is that aggravating as I can hardly heed the words I now +put on the paper. + +“Some of my birds have left me,” says he, “for the stranger’s breast, and +one have took wing for the Government benches. {47} But I have ever +sacrificed my country’s happiness to my own, and I will not begin to +regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. I know the purity of my +own motives, and while my Merry, my little Sir William, playful warbler, +prattles under this patriarchal wing, and my Cherry, my darling Morley, +supports the old man’s tottering walk, I can do without my Goschy, my +dears, I can do without him.” And wants to borrer _my_ umbreller for +them “to rally round,” the bragian idgiot! + +A chattering creature he always were, and will be; but, Betsy, I have +this wery momink fixed him up with a shoehorn in his mouth, as was lying +round providential, and the strings of my bonnet, and the last word as he +will say this blessed night was some lunacy about “denouncing the +clogeure,” as won’t give much more trouble now. + +So having rung for a shilling’s worth of gin-and-water warm, and wishing +you was here to take another of the same, I puts my lips to it, and +drinks to one as was my frequent pardner in this mortial vale, and am, as +in old days, my Betsy’s own + + SAIREY GAMP. + + + + +V. + + + _From Herodotus of Halicarnassus to Sophocles the Athenian_. + +Herodotus describes, in a letter to his friend Sophocles, a curious +encounter with a mariner just returned from unknown parts of Africa. + +TO Sophocles, the Athenian, greeting. Yesterday, as I was going down to +the market-place of Naucratis, I met Nicaretê, who of all the _hetairai_ +in this place is the most beautiful. Now, the _hetairai_ of Naucratis +are wont somehow to be exceedingly fair, beyond all women whom we know. +She had with her a certain Phocæan mariner, who was but now returned from +a voyage to those parts of Africa which lie below Arabia; and she saluted +me courteously, as knowing that it is my wont to seek out and inquire the +tidings of all men who have intelligence concerning the ends of the +earth. + +“Hail to thee, Nicaretê,” said I; “verily thou art this morning as lovely +as the dawn, or as the beautiful Rhodopis that died ere thou wert born to +us through the favour of Aphrodite.” {50} + +Now this Rhodopis was she who built, they say, the Pyramid of Mycerinus: +wherein they speak not truly but falsely, for Rhodopis lived long after +the kings who built the Pyramids. + +“Rhodopis died not, O Herodotus,” said Nicaretê, “but is yet living, and +as fair as ever she was; and he who is now my lover, even this Phanes of +Phocæa, hath lately beheld her.” + +Then she seemed to me to be jesting, like that scribe who told me of +Krôphi and Môphi; for Rhodopis lived in the days of King Amasis and of +Sappho the minstrel, and was beloved by Charaxus, the brother of Sappho, +wherefore Sappho reviled him in a song. How then could Rhodopis, who +flourished more than a hundred years before my time, be living yet? + +While I was considering these things they led me into the booth of one +that sold wine; and when Nicaretê had set garlands of roses on our heads, +Phanes began and told me what I now tell thee but whether speaking truly +or falsely I know not. He said that being on a voyage to Punt (for so +the Egyptians call that part of Arabia), he was driven by a north wind +for many days, and at last landed in the mouth of a certain river where +were many sea-fowl and water-birds. And thereby is a rock, no common +one, but fashioned into the likeness of the head of an Ethiopian. There +he said that the people of that country found him, namely the Amagardoi, +and carried him to their village. They have this peculiar to themselves, +and unlike all other peoples whom we know, that the woman asks the man in +marriage. They then, when they have kissed each other, are man and wife +wedded. And they derive their names from the mother; wherein they agree +with the Lycians, whether being a colony of the Lycians, or the Lycians a +colony of theirs, Phanes could not give me to understand. But, whereas +they are black and the Lycians are white, I rather believe that one of +them has learned this custom from the other; for anything might happen in +the past of time. + +The Amagardoi have also this custom, such as we know of none other +people; that they slay strangers by crowning them with amphoræ, having +made them red-hot. Now, having taken Phanes, they were about to crown +him on this wise, when there appeared among them a veiled woman, very +tall and goodly, whom they conceive to be a goddess and worship. By her +was Phanes delivered out of their hands; and “she kept him in her hollow +caves having a desire that he should be her lover,” as Homer says in the +Odyssey, if the Odyssey be Homer’s. And Phanes reports of her that she +is the most beautiful woman in the world, but of her coming thither, +whence she came or when, she would tell him nothing. But he swore to me, +by him who is buried at Thebes (and whose name in such a matter as this +it is not holy for me to utter), that this woman was no other than +Rhodopis the Thracian. For there is a portrait of Rhodopis in the temple +of Aphrodite in Naucratis, and, knowing this portrait well, Phanes +recognised by it that the woman was Rhodopis. {53} Therefore Rhodopis is +yet living, being now about one hundred and fifty years of age. And +Phanes added that there is in the country of the Amagardoi a fire; and +whoso enters into that fire does not die, but is “without age and +immortal,” as Homer says concerning the horses of Peleus. Now, I would +have deemed that he was making a mock of that sacred story which he knows +who has been initiated into the mysteries of Demeter at Eleusis. But he +and Nicaretê are about to sail together without delay to the country of +the Amagardoi, believing that there they will enter the fire and become +immortal. Yet methinks that Rhodopis will not look lovingly on Nicaretê, +when they meet in that land, nor Nicaretê on Rhodopis. Nay, belike the +amphora will be made hot for one or the other. + +Such, howbeit, was the story of Phanes the Phocæan, whether he spoke +falsely or truly. The God be with thee. + + HERODOTUS. + + + + +VI. + + +Mrs. Proudie, wife of the Bishop of Barchester, admits Mrs. Quiverful +into her confidence. Mrs. Proudie first takes pleasure in a new and +pious acquaintance, Lady Crawley (_née_ Sharp), but afterwards discovers +the true character of this insidious and dangerous woman. + + The Palace, Barchester, July 17. + +DEAR LETITIA,—The appearance of mumps in a small family of fourteen like +yours, is indeed one of those dispensations which teach us how mysterious +are the ways! But I need not tell you to be most careful about cold, +which greatly adds to the virulence of the complaint, and it is difficult +for you, in lodgings at Brighton, to keep a watchful eye on so many at +once. May this discipline be blessed to you, and to the dear children! + +I have much to tell you of Barchester. The light worldly tone of some +families in this place (I will not mention the Grantleys nor the Arabins) +has been checked, I hope, by one of those accidents which surely, surely, +are not to be considered accidents alone! You know how strong is my +objection to fancy fairs or bazaars, too often rather scenes of giddy +merriment than exhibitions of genuine Christian feeling. Yet by means of +one of these (how strangely are things ordered!) a happy change, I trust, +is being brought about in our midst. + +You have heard of Hogglestock, though you may never have visited that +benighted and outlying parish. Indeed, I was never there myself till +last week, when Tom felt it his duty (though woefully misdirected, to my +mind, but we are fallible creatures) to go and open a bazaar in that +place for the restoration of the church. {56} I accompanied him; for I +trusted that an opportunity might be made for me, and that I might +especially bear in on the mind of the rector’s wife the absolute +necessity of Sabbath-day schools. The rector is a Mr. Crawley. He led +us on our arrival into a scene of red cloth, wax dolls most indelicately +displayed, cushions, antimacassars, and similar _idols_. The Bishop’s +speech (I composed it myself) you will read in the “Barchester Guardian,” +which I send you. While approving the _end_ he rebuked the _means_, and +took the opportunity to read a much-needed lesson on _Jesuitry_ and the +dangers of worldliness in high ecclesiastical places. Let those wince +who feel a sense of their own backslidings. When the Bishop had ended, I +determined to walk once through the bazaar just to make sure that there +were no lotteries nor games of chance—a desecration of our _mites_ now +too, too frequent. As I was returning through the throng, alas! of +_pleasure-seekers_, and wishing that I might scourge them out of the +schoolroom, Mr. Crawley met me, in company with a lady who desired, he +said, to be presented to me. He is a distant relation of the well-known +county family, the Crawleys, of Queen’s Crawley; the present baronet, Sir +Rawdon, having recently married Miss Jane Dobbin, daughter of Colonel +Dobbin. The lady who was now introduced to me, and whose _still +pleasing_ face wears an aspect of humble devoutness, was Lady Crawley, +mother of the present baronet. + +“Madam,” she said, “I came here in the belief that I was discharging a +pious duty. My life, alas! has been one of sore trial, and I only try to +do good.” . . . + +I was going to say that I had seen her name in a score of charity lists, +and knew her as a patroness of the Destitute Orange-Girls, the Neglected +Washerwomen, and the Distressed Muffin-Men. But she shook her head; and +then, looking up at me with eyes like a _saint’s_ (if our _privileges_ +permitted us to believe in these fabulous beings of the Romish +superstition), she said, “Ah, no! I have always been in the wrong. The +beautiful address of the Bishop of Barchester has awakened me, and +convinced me that the _path_ does not lie through Fancy Fairs. I have to +begin again. Who shall guide me?” + +I trust I am not subject to vanity; but the news that I (for I composed +the Charge, as I may almost call it) had been the instrument of so +affecting a change did not fail to please me. I thanked Lady Crawley, +and expressed my deep interest in her altered convictions. Finally she +promised to come on a visit to us at the Palace (she usually resides at +Bath or Cheltenham), and has been three days an inmate. Never have I met +a more singular example of what the Truth can do for one who, as she +admits, was long ago a worldling. “I have seen the vanity of it,” she +tells me, with tears in her eyes; and from her example I expect an +_awakening_ among our worldlings. They will follow the path of a +_titled_ person. Tom is much interested in his _convert_, as he thinks +her. Not to _me_ be the glory!—Your assured friend, + + EMILY BARNUM. {60a} + + * * * * * + + _From Mrs. Proudie to Mrs. Quiverful_. + + The Palace, Barchester, July 22. + +DEAR LETITIA,—My hand trembles so with indignation that I can hardly +direct my pen. Pray _burn_ my letter of July 17 at once, if you have not +already done so. {60b} We have been _deceived_ in that woman! She is a +brazenfaced, painted daughter of Heth, and has no more right to the title +of Lady Crawley than _you_ have. I am told that she was at one time the +paramour of Lord Steyne, and that her conduct made it impossible for her +husband to live with her. And this is the woman who has come within the +gates of the palace of a Christian prelate; nay, more, who has secured +his signature to a cheque of very considerable value. I think my +suspicions were first excited by the disappearance of the brandy in the +liqueur-stand, and by meeting “her ladyship’s” maid carrying the bottle +up to her room! I spoke to the Bishop, but he would not listen to +me—quite unlike himself; and even turned on me in her defence. + +Entering his study hastily on the following day, I found her kneeling at +his feet, her yellow hair (dyed, no doubt, for she must be sixty if she +is a day) about her shoulders, doing what do you suppose—? _Confessing +herself to the Bishop of Barchester_! + +And he was listening to her “confession” with an appearance of interest, +and with one of her hands in his. + +“Serpent!” I said—and her green eyes glittered just like one—“unhand his +lordship!” She gave a little laugh and said, “Dear Mrs. Proudie, do not +let me monopolise the Bishop’s time. Perhaps I am in the way?” + +“And you shall go out of it,” I said. “You are one of those who cause +Israel to sin. You bring the Confessional, for it is no better, into the +house of a Prelate of the Protestant Church of England!” Would you +believe that she had the assurance to answer me with a passage from the +Prayer Book, which I have often felt certain must be _mistranslated_? + +“Pack, madam,” said I; “we know who can quote Scripture for his own +ends!” + +And I pretty soon saw her out of the house, though _not in time_; for the +infatuated Bishop had already given her a cheque for a sum which I cannot +bring myself to tell you, for the Funds of the Destitute Orange-Girls. +Not a penny of it will they ever see; nor do I approve of such +ostentatious alms in any case.—Yours in haste, + + EMILY BARNUM. + +P.S.—I have heard from Lady Courtney all her history. It is +_abominable_. + + + + +VII. + + + _From Robert Surtees_, _Esq._, _of Mainsforth_, _to Jonathan Oldbuck_, + _Esq._, _of Monkbarns_. + +It is well known that Mr. Surtees of Mainsforth not only palmed off on +Sir Waiter Scott several ballads of his own manufacture, but also +invented and pretended to have found in a document (since burned) the +story of the duel with the spectre knight which occurs in Marmion. In +the following letter this ingenious antiquary plays the same game with +Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, of Monkbarns, the celebrated antiquary. A note on +the subject is published in the Appendix. + + Mainsforth, May 9, 1815. + +DEAR SIR,—I am something of the Mussulman’s humour, as you know, and +never willingly pass by a scrap of printed paper, however it comes in my +way. I cannot, indeed, like the “Spectator,” “mention a paper kite from +which I have received great improvement,” nor “a hat-case which I would +not exchange for all the beavers in Great Britain.” It is in a less +unlikely place that I have made a little discovery which will interest +you, I hope; for as it chances, not only has a lost ballad been at least +partially recovered, but . . . however, I will keep your learned patience +on the tenterhooks for a while. + +Business taking me to Newcastle of late, I found myself in Bell’s little +shop on the quay. {65} You know the man by report at least; he is more a +collector than a bookseller, though poor; and I verily believe that he +would sell all his children—Douglas Bell, Percy Bell, Hobbie Bell, and +Kinmont Bell—“for a song.” Ballads are his foible, and he can hardly be +made to part with one of the broadsides in his broken portfolios. Well, +_semel insanivimus omnes_ (by the way, did it ever strike you that the +Roman “cribbed” that line, as the vulgar say, from an epigram in the +Anthology?), and you and I will scarce throw the first stone at the poor +man’s folly. However, I am delaying your natural eagerness. So now for +the story of my great discovery. As our friend Bell would scarce let his +dusty broadsheet lumber out of his hands, I was turning to leave him in +no very good humour, when I noticed a small and rather long octavo, in +dirty and crumpled vellum, lying on the top of a heap of rubbish, +Boston’s “Crook in the Lot,” “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” and other +chap-book trumpery. I do not know what good angel that watches over us +collectors made me take up the thing, which I found to be nothing less +than a copy of old Guillaume Coquillart. It was not Galliot du Pré’s +edition, in _lettres rondes_, but, still more precious had it only been +complete, an example in black letter. I give you the whole title. First +the motto, in the frieze of an architectural design, ΑΓΑΘΗ ΤΥΧΗ. Then, +in small capitals— + + LES ŒUVRES + MAISTRE GVIL + LAUME COQUIL + LART EN SON VI + VANT OFFICIAL + DE REIMS. NOV + VELLEMENT RE + VEVES ET CORRI + GEES. + + M. D. XXXV. + + On les vend à Lyon en la + Maison de Françoys Juste, + Demourant devant nostre + Dame de Confort. + +By bad (or good) luck this rare piece was imperfect—the back gaping and +three sheets gone. But, in turning over the leaves, I saw something that +brought my heart, as they say, into my mouth. So, beating down Bell from +his upset price of fourpence to six bawbees, I pushed the treasure +carelessly in my pocket, and never stopped till I was in a lonely place +by Tyne-side and secure from observation. Then, with my knife, I very +carefully uncased Maistre Guillaume, and extracted the sheet of +parchment, printed in black letter with red capitals, that had been used +to line the binding. A corner of it had crept out, through the injuries +of time, and on that, in Bell’s “crame” (for it is more a crame than a +shop), I had caught the mystic words Runjt macht Gunjt. + +And now, I think, Monkbarns, you prick up your ears and wipe your +spectacles. That is the motto, as every one of the learned family of +antiquaries is well aware, and, as you have often told me, of your great +forbear, the venerable and praiseworthy Aldobrand Oldenbuck the +Typographer, who fled from the Low Countries during the tyrannical +attempt of Philip II. to suppress at once civil and religious liberty. +As all the world knows, he withdrew from Nuremberg to Scotland, and set +up his Penates and (what you may not hitherto have been aware of) his +Printing Press at Fairport, and under your ancestral roof of Monkbarns. +But, what will surprise you yet more, the parchment sheet which bears +Aldobrand’s motto in German contains printed matter in good Scots! This +excellent and enterprising man must have set himself to ply his noble art +in his new home, and in our unfamiliar tongue. + +Yet, even now, we are not at the end of this most fortunate discovery. +It would appear that there was little demand for works of learning and +religion in Scotland, or at least at Fairport; for the parchment sheet +contains fragments of a Ballad in the Scots tongue. None but a poor and +struggling printer would then have lent his types to such work, and +fortunate for us has been the poverty of your great ancestor. Here we +have the very earliest printed ballad in the world, and, though +fragmentary, it is the more precious as the style proves to +demonstration, and against the frantic scepticism even of a Ritson, the +antique and venerable character of those compositions. I send you a copy +of the Ballad, with the gaps (where the tooth of time or of the worm, +_edax rerum_, hath impaired it) filled up with conjectural restorations +of my own. But how far do they fall short of the original simplicity! +_Non cuivis contingit_. As the title is lacking, as well as the imprint, +I have styled it + + THE FRAGMENT OF THE FAUSE LOVER AND THE DEAD LEMAN. + + O Willie rade, and Willie gaed + Atween the shore and sea, + And still it was his dead Lady + That kept him company. + + O Willie rade, and Willie gaed + Atween the [loch and heather], + And still it was his dead Lady + That [held his stirrup leather]. + + “O Willie, tak’ me up by ye, + Sae far it is I gang; + O tak’ me on your saddle bow, + Or [your day shall not be lang].” + + “Gae back, gae back, ye fause ill wife, + To the grave wherein ye lie, + It never was seen that a dead leman + Kept lover’s company! + + “Gae back, gae back frae me,” he said, + “For this day maun I wed, + And how can I kiss a living lass, + When ye come frae the dead? + + “If ye maun haunt a living man, + Your brither haunt,” says he, + “For it was never my knife, but his + That [twined thy life and thee!]” + + * * * * * + +We are to understand, I make no doubt, that Willie had been too fortunate +a lover, and that in his absence—the frailty of his lady becoming +conspicuous—her brother had avenged the family honour according to that +old law of Scotland which the courteous Ariosto styles “l’ aspra legge di +Scozia, empia e severa.” + +Pray let me know, at your leisure, what you think of this _trouvaille_. +It is, of course, entirely at your service, if you think it worthy of a +place in a new edition of the “Minstrelsy.” I have no room to inflict +more ballads or legends on you; and remain, most faithfully yours, + + R. SURTEES. + + * * * * * + + _From Jonathan Oldbuck_, _Esq._, _of Monkbarns_, _to Robert Surtees_, + _Esq._, _Mainsforth_. + + Monkbarns, June 1. + +MY DEAR SIR,—How kind hath Fortune been to you, and, in a secondary +degree, to myself. Your letter must dispel the unreasoning and I fear +envious scepticism of MacCribb, who has put forth a plaunflet (I love +that old spelling) in which he derides the history of Aldobrand Oldenbuck +as a fable. The Ballad shall, indeed, have an honoured place in my poor +Collection whenever the public taste calls for a new edition. But the +original, what would I not give to have it in my hands, to touch the very +parchment which came from the press of my revered ancestor, and, gloating +on the crabbed letters, confute MacCribb to his face _ipso visu et tactu_ +of so inestimable a rarity. Exchanges—or “swaps,” as the vulgar call +them—are not unknown among our fraternity. Ask what you will for this +treasure, to the half of my kingdom: my gold Aurelius (found at +Bermuckety, on the very limits of Roman Caledonia), my “Complaynte of +Scotland” (the only perfect copy known), + + My copperplate, with almanacks + Engrav’d upon’t, and other knacks; + My moon-dial, with Napier’s bones + And several constellation stones. + +Make your choice, in fact, of all my Gabions, as honest old George +Ruthven called them. + +Nay, excuse the covetousness of an Antiquary, my dear sir; I well know +that nothing I could offer were worth a tithe of your priceless +discovery, the oldest printed Scots Ballad extant. It shall suffice for +me to look on it, under the roof of Mainsforth, when next I make a raid +across the Border. I have conquered my passions, and can obey the last +of the Commandments. _Haud equiden invideo_, _minor magis_. I need not +bid you be watchful of your booty.—Yours most faithfully, + + JONATHAN OLDBUCK. + + * * * * * + + _From Robert Surtees_, _Esq._, _to Jonathan Oldbuck_, _Esq._ + + June 11. + +MY DEAR SIR,—Alas, your warning comes too late. An accursed example of +womankind, fit descendant of that unhappy Betty Barnes, cook to Mr. +Warburton, who destroyed his ancient manuscript plays, hath invaded my +sanctum, and the original black-letter text of the ballad has gone to +join Shakspeare’s “Stephen” and “Henry II.” She hath lit with it my +study fire, and it is fortunate indeed that I had made the copy of the +ballad for you. But the volume of Coquillart is alive to testify to the +authenticity of the poem; which, after all, is needless evidence, as not +even Ritson could suspect of either the skill or the malice of such a +forgery, Yours most faithfully, + + ROBERT SURTEES. + + + + +VIII. + + + _From Nicholas to the Editor of the St. James’s Gazette_. + +It is only too probable that a later generation has forgotten “Nicholas,” +the sporting Prophet of “Fun,” in the reign of Mr. Hood the younger. The +little work, “Nicholas’s Notes,” in which Mr. W. J. Prowse collected the +papers of the old Prophet, is, indeed, not an “edition de looks,” as the +aged Seer says, with his simple humour. From the Paradise of Fiction, +however (and the Paradise of Touts), Nicholas has communicated, perhaps +to the Psychical Society, the following Epistle. His friendly mention of +a brother journalist speaks well for the Old Man’s head and heart. + + The Paradise of Fiction, Feb. 9, 1888. + +SIR,—My dear young friend, it is ten to one, and no takers, that the +public, than whom, between you and me, I do not think much of them, have +forgotten Nicholas, or even never heard of the Prophet. Youth will be +served; and it is now between twenty years since he left off vaticinating +in “Fun,” during young Mr. Hood’s time, of future sportive events for to +come, and came to live _here_ with the other celebrated characters of +Fiction, than whom I am sure a more mixed lot, though perhaps a little +gay. It having come to the Prophet’s knowledge that some of them was +writing letters to “The St. James’s Gazette” (than which I am sure none +more respectable, though perhaps a little not quite so attentive to +sportive interests as it might be), he have decided that Nicholas will +take up his pen once more, as of old. + +The State of the Turf, my dear young friend, since an old but still +handsome bird would freely alight (when not warned off) on Newmarket +Heath, have caused Nicholas some anxiety. Sir, between you and me, _it +is rapidly getting no better_. Here is Lord — (than whom a more sterling +sportsman) as good as saying to Sir — (than whom, perhaps), “Did you ever +hear of a sporting character called Swindells?” And the Prophet _have_ +been told that it may furnish matter for the gentlemen of the long +robe—which, in my time, many of them was backers of horses. + +And all along of what? Why, of the “inexplicable in-and-out running of +horses,” as the “Standard” says, and as will often happen, you, perhaps, +having a likely dark one as you want to get light into a high-class +autumn handicap. The days is long past since Nicholas was nuts on the +game little Lecturer, but still has the interests of the Turf at heart; +and, my dear young friend, if horses never ran in and out, where would be +“the glorious uncertainty of the sport”? On the whole, then, if asked my +opinion on this affair, the Prophet would say—putting it +ambiguous-like—“Gentlemen, when there’s so much dirty linen to wash, +can’t you remember that we’re all pretty much tarred with the same +brush?” A great politician—which a lot of his family is here, Coningsby, +and the Young Duke, and many other sportsmen—used to say as what the Turf +was “a gigantic engine of national demoralisation;” which Nicholas is not +quite sure but what he was right for him, though his language on rather a +large scale. Horses running in and out is inexplicable! Why, gents all, +which of us _wouldn’t_ do it, if he had the chance to put the pot on +handsome, human nature being what it is, especially considering the +lowness of the market odds as you have often and often to be content +with. In short, the more you stir it the more it won’t exactly remind +you of gales from Araby the Blest; than which a more delightful country, +only not to be found on any atlas as Nicholas ever cast a glance at the +map, however large. + +But enough of a subject than which perhaps one more painful to me; the +Prophet having often and often, in early days, been warned off Newmarket +Heath himself, and called a “disreputable old tout,” though only +labouring in his vocation. + +(Make a new beginning here, please, Printer.) + +It have come to the knowledge of the Prophet that his “Notes” are not +quite so much read as they once was, partly owing, no doubt, to the book +being not so much an “edition de looks” as rather a low-lived lot, to a +casual eye, at fourpence; the picture outside representing Nicholas +rather as having had too much for to drink than as a prominent member of +the Blue Ribbon Society, which it did not exist in his period, nor would +it have enjoyed, to any considerable extent, my personal or pecuniary +support, he having something else to do with his money. (Printer, please +put in a full stop somewhere here, Nicholas being a little out of the +habit of writing for the periodical press.) He have also heard that it +is proposed in literary circles to start a “Nicholas Society” for the +purpose of printing a limited edition of my works including my lost +treatise of Knur and Spell, on Japanese paper, illustrated with +photo-gravelures; they having come in since the Prophet’s period, though +perhaps a little gay. + +But, my dear though exquisite young friends, is there no better way of +rallying round the Prophet than _this_? I have heard, from characters in +ancient literature, such as Agamemnon—than whom a more energetic soldier, +though perhaps a trifle arbitrary—the Prophet _have_ heard, I say, that a +deal of liquor used to be poured on the graves of coves like him and me, +and that it did them good. This may be the case, and anyway the +experiment is well worth trying; though, I would say, do not let it be +milk, as I gather was customary in early times, as didn’t know any +better; but, if possible, a bottle or two of sherry wine, to which, as is +well beknown, Nicholas was partial. He will now conclude; and the +Prophet hopes that an experiment, than which, I am sure, one more deeply +interesting, will not be deferred; he not much taking to the liquor here, +though the company makes up for a great deal, especially an Irish officer +by the name of Costigan, than whom a sweeter singer or a more honourable +gentleman; and signs himself, with gratitude for past favours, and kind +respects to the Editor of the “Guardian,” + + NICHOLAS. + + + + +IX. + + + _From the Earl of Montrose to Captain Dugald Dalgetty_. + +Whoever has read the “Memoirs of Monsieur d’Artagnan”—a Marshal in the +French King’s service—as they are published by Monsieur Alexandre Dumas +in “Les Trois Mousquetaires,” will not have forgotten that duel behind +the Luxembourg, in which, as is declared, an Englishman ran away from the +Chevalier d’Herblay, called Aramis in his regiment. Englishmen have +never held that Monsieur Dumas was well informed about this affair. The +following letters of the Great Marquis and Captain Dalgetty from the +“Kirkhope Papers” prove that Englishmen were in the right. + + —, 164-. + +SIR,—Touching that I did, to your apprehension, turn away from you with +some show of coldness on your late coming, it may be that you but little +misread me. But, for that no man is condemned without a hearing, I would +fain know under your own hand the truth concerning that whereof a +shameful report is bruited abroad, even in the “Gallo Belgicus” and the +“Fliegender Mercoeur” of Leipsic—namely, that in a certain duel lately +fought in Paris behind the Palace of the Luxembourg, four Englishmen +encountering as many Musketeers of the French King’s, one out of this +realm, to our disgrace, shamefully fled; and he (by report) Rittmaster +Dugald Dalgetty. Till which, bruit be either abolished, and the stain—as +an ill blot on a clean scutcheon—wiped away, or as shamefully +acknowledged as it is itself shameful, I abide, as I shall hear from +yourself, + + MONTROSE. + + * * * * * + +_From Captain Dugald Dalgetty_, _of Drumthwacket_, _to the Most Noble and +Puissant Prince James_, _Earl of Montrose_, _commanding the musters of +the King in Scotland_. _These_— + +MY LORD,—As touching the bruit, or _fama_, as we said at the Mareschal +College, I shall forthwith answer, and that _peremptorie_. For this +story of the _duello_, as a man may say (though, indeed, they that fought +in it were not in the dual number, as your Grecian hath it, but eight +soldados—seven of them gallant men), truly the story is of the longest; +but as your lordship will have it, though more expert with the sword than +the goosequill, I must even buckle to. + +Let your lordship conceive of your poor officer, once lieutenant and +Rittmaster under that invincible monarch, the bulwark of the Protestant +faith, Gustavus the Victorious; conceive, I say, Dugald Dalgetty, of +Drumthwacket that should be, in Paris, concerned with a matter of weight +and moment not necessary to be mooted or minted of. As I am sitting at +my tavern ordinary, for I consider that an experienced cavalier should +ever lay in provenant as occasion serveth, comes in to me a stipendiary +of my Lord Winter, bidding me know that his master would speak to me: and +that not _coram populo_, as I doubt not your lordship said at St. +Leonard’s College in St. Andrews, but privily. Thereon I rise and wait +on him; to be brief—_brevis esse laboro_, as we said lang syne—his +lordship would have me to be of his backers in private rencontre with +four gentlemen of the King’s Musketeers. + +Concerning the cause of this duello, I may well say _teterrima causa_. +His lordship’s own sister Milady Clarik was in question; she being, I +fear me, rather akin in her way of life to Jean Drocheils (whom your +lordship may remember; for, the Baillies expulsing her from Aberdeen, she +migrated to St. Andrews, _ad eundem_, as the saying is) than like, in her +walk and conduct, to a virtuous lady of a noble family. She was, indeed, +as current rumour had it, the light o’love or _belle amie_ of Monsieur +d’Artagnan, his lordship’s adversary. + +But of siclike least said soonest mended. I take cloak and sword, and +follow with his lordship and two other experienced cavaliers unto the +place of rencontre, being a waste croft whereon a loon was herding goats, +behind the Palace of the Luxembourg. Here we find waiting us four +soldados, proper tall men of their hands, who receive us courteously. He +that first gave cause of quarrel to my Lord Winter bore a worthy name +enough out of Gascony, that is _arida nutrix_, as we said at the +Mareschal College, of honourable soldados—to wit, as I said, he was +Monsieur d’Artagnan. To his friends, howbeit, he gave sic heathen titles +as I never saw or heard of out of the Grecian books: namely, Monsieur +Porthos, a very tall man, albeit something of a _lourdaud_; Monsieur +Athos; and he that was to be mine own opposite, Monsieur Aramis. Hearing +these outlandish and insolent appellations, I thought it becoming me, as +an honourable cavalier, to resent this fashion of presenting: and +demurred that a gentleman of the House of Dalgetty of Drumthwacket could +neither take affront from, nor give honourable satisfaction to, a +nameless landlouper. Wherein your lordship, I doubt me not, will hold me +justificate. + +Lord Winter homologating mine opinion, he that called himself Athos drew +each of us apart, and whispered the true names and qualities territorial +of these gentlemen; the whilk, as may befall honourable soldados, they +had reason sufficient to conceal while serving as private gentlemen in a +regiment, though disdaining to receive halberds, as unbecoming their +birth. He that aligned himself forenenst me was styled the Chevalier +d’Herblay; and, the word being given, we fell to. + +Now, mine adversary declining to fight _comminus gladio_, but breaking +ground in a manner unworthy of a gallant soldado, and the place, saving +your presence, being somewhat slippery and treacherous because of the +goats that were fed there, I delivered a sufficient onslaught; and he +fell, his sword flying from his hand. When I had taken his weapon—the +_spolia opima_, as we said at Mareschal College—I bid him rise, and then +discoursed him on the dishonour of such a hasty defeat. Then, he +confessing himself to me that, though under arms, he was a young +fledgeling priest in Popish orders, I began upon him with such words on +his disgracing the noble profession of arms as might have made him choose +to return to his cloister; when suddenly he fled, and, being young and +light-footed, robbed me, not only of such caduacs and casualties as an +experienced cavalier might well take from his prisoner for ransom, but +also, as now it appears, of my good name. For I doubt not that this +musketeer priest, Monsieur Aramis, or l’Abbé d’Herblay (for he hath as +many names as I have seen campaigns), was the loon that beguiled with a +lying tale the newsman of the “Gallo Belgicus.” And I have ever seen +that an honourable soldado will give the go-by to these newsmen and their +flying sheets, as unworthy of the notice of honourable cavaliers; of whom +(recommending your lordship for the truth of my tale to my Lord Winter, +now with his gracious Majesty the King) I am fain to subscribe myself +one, and your lordship’s poor officer, as ye shall entreat him, + + DUGALD DALGETTY, of Drumthwacket, + + Late Commander of the whole stift of Dunklespiel + on the Lower Rhine. + + + + +X. + + + _From Mr. Lovelace to John Belford_, _Esq._ + +The following letter must have been omitted from the papers to which Mr. +Samuel Richardson, the editor of “Clarissa,” had access. It was written, +apparently, after the disgraceful success of Lovelace’s disgraceful +adventure, and shows us that scoundrel in company not choice, indeed, but +better than he deserved, the society of Mr. Thomas Jones, a Foundling. +Mr. Jones’s admirable wife (née Western), having heard of Lovelace’s +conduct, sent her husband to execute that revenge which should have been +competed for by every man of heart. It will be seen that Mr. Jones was +no match for the perfidies of Mr. Lovelace. The cynical reflections of +that bad man on Lord Fellamar, and his relations with Mrs. Jones, will +only cause indignation and contempt among her innumerable and honourable +admirers. They will remember the critical and painful circumstances as +recorded in Mr. Henry Fielding’s biography of Mr. Jones. + + _Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras_ + _Ictibus crebris juvenes protervi_. + +CURSE upon thy stars, Jack! How long wilt thou beat me about the head +with thy musty citations from Nat Lee and thy troop of poetical divines? +Thou hast driven me to motto-hunting for the comeliness of mine epistle, +like the weekly scribblers. See, Jack, I have an adventure to tell thee! +It is not the avenging Morden that hath flashed through the window, sword +in hand, as in my frightful dream; nor hath the statue of the Commandant +visited me, like Don Juan, that Rake of Spain; but a challenger came +hither that is not akin to my beloved Miss. Dost remember a tall, +fresh-coloured, cudgel-playing oaf that my Lady Bellaston led about with +her—as maids lead apes in hell, though he more of an ape than she of a +maid—’tis a year gone? This brawny-beefed chairman hath married a +fortune and a delicious girl, you dog, Miss Sophia Western, of Somerset, +and is now in train, I doubt not, to beget as goodly a tribe of +chuckle-headed boys and whey-faced wenches as you shall see round an old +squire’s tomb in a parish church. Wherefore does he not abide at this +his appointed lawful husbandry, I marvel; but not a whit! + +Our cursed adventure hath spread from the _flippanti_ of both sexes down +to the heathenish parts of Somerset; where it hath reached Madam Jones’s +ears, and inflamed this pretty vixen with a desire to avenge Miss Harlowe +on me, and by the cudgel of Mr. Jones, his Sophia having sent him up to +town for no other purpose. De la Tour, my man, came to me yesterday +morning with the tidings that the New Giant, as he supposes, waits on me +to solicit the favour of my patronage. I am in the powdering closet, +being bound for a rout, and cry, “Let the Giant in!” Then a heavy tread: +and, looking up, what do I see but a shoulder-of-mutton fist at my nose, +and lo! a Somerset tongue cries, “Lovelace, thou villain, thou shalt +taste of this!” A man in a powdering closet cannot fight, even if he be +a boxing glutton like your Figs and other gladiators of the Artillery +Ground. Needs must I parley. “What,” says I, “what, the happy Mr. Jones +from the West! What brings him here among the wicked, and how can the +possessor of the beauteous Sophia be a moment from her charms?” + +“Take not her name,” cries my clod-hopper, “into thy perjured mouth. +’Tis herself sends me here to avenge the best, the most injured . . . ” +Here he fell a-blubbering! Oh, Belford, the virtue of this world is a +great discourager of repentance. + +“If Mr. Jones insists on the arbitrament of the sword . . . ” I was +beginning—“Nay, none of thy Frenchified blades,” cries he, “come out of +thy earth, thou stinking fox, and try conclusions with an English +cudgel!” + +Belford, I am no cudgel-player, and I knew not well how to rid myself of +this swasher. + +“Mr. Jones!” I said, “I will fight you how you will, where you will, with +what weapon you will; but first inform me of the nature of our quarrel. +Would you blazon abroad yet further the malignant tales that have injured +both me and a lady for whom I have none but the most hallowed esteem? I +pray you sit down, Sir; be calm, the light is ill for any play with +cudgel or sword. De la Tour, a bottle of right Burgundy; Mr. Jones and I +have business, and he hath travelled far.” + +In a trice there was a chicken, a bottle, a set of knives and forks, a +white cloth, and a hungry oaf that did eat and swear! One bottle +followed another. By the third Mr. Jones embraced me, saying that never +had a man been more belied than I; that it was Lord Fellamar, not I, was +the villain. To this effect I own that I did myself drop a hint; +conceiving that the divine Sophia must often have regretted our friend +Fellamar when once she was bound to the oaf, and that Jones was capable +of a resentful jealousy. By midnight I had to call a chair for my +besotted challenger, and when the Avenger was there safely bestowed, I +asked him where the men should carry him? His tongue being now thick, +and his brains bemused, he could not find the sign of his inn in his +noddle. So, the merry devil prompting me, I gave the men the address of +his ancient flame, my Lady Bellaston, and off they jogged with Jones. + +Was there ever, Belford, a stranger _amoris redintegratio_ than this must +have been, when our Lydia heard the old love at the rarely shaken doors: + + Me tuo longas pereunte noctes, + Lydia, dormis? + +Ah, how little hath Madam Sophia taken by despatching her lord to town, +and all to break my head. My fellow, who carries this to thee, has just +met Fellamar’s man, and tells me that _Fellamar yesterday went down into +Somerset_. What bodes this rare conjunction and disjunction of man and +wife and of old affections? and hath “Thomas, a Foundling,” too, gone the +way of all flesh? + + Thy LOVELACE. + +No news of the dear fugitive! Ah, Belford, my conscience and my cousins +call me a villain! Minxes all. + + + + +XI. + + + _From Miss Catherine Morland to Miss Eleanor Tilney_. + +Miss Catherine Morland, of “Northanger Abbey,” gives her account of a +visit to Mr. Rochester, and of his governess’s peculiar behaviour. Mrs. +Rochester (_née_ Eyre) has no mention of this in her Memoirs. + + Thornfield, Midnight + +AT length, my dear Eleanor, the terrors on which you have so often +rallied me are become _realities_, and your Catherine is in the midst of +those circumstances to which we may, without exaggeration, give the +epithet “horrible.” I write, as I firmly believe, from the mansion of a +maniac! On a visit to my Aunt Ingram, and carried by her to Thornfield, +the seat of her wealthy neighbour, Mr. Rochester, how shall your +Catherine’s trembling pen unfold the mysteries by which she finds herself +surrounded! No sooner had I entered this battlemented mansion than a +cold chill struck through me, as with a sense of some brooding terror. +All, indeed, was elegance, all splendour! The arches were hung with +Tyrian-dyed curtains. The ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were +of red Bohemian glass. Everywhere were crimson couches and sofas. The +housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, pointed out to my notice some vases of fine +purple spar, and on all sides were Turkey carpets and large mirrors. +Elegance of taste and fastidious research of ornament could do no more; +but what is luxury to the mind ill at ease? or can a restless conscience +be stilled by red Bohemian glass or pale Parian mantelpieces? + +No, alas! too plainly was this conspicuous when, on entering the library, +we found Mr. Rochester—alone! The envied possessor of all this opulence +can be no happy man. He was seated with his head bent on his folded +arms, and when he looked up a morose—almost a malignant—scowl blackened +his features! Hastily beckoning to the governess, who entered with us, +to follow him, he exclaimed, “Oh, hang it all!” in an accent of despair, +and rushed from the chamber. We distinctly heard the doors clanging +behind him as he flew! At dinner, the same hollow reserve; his +conversation entirely confined to the governess (a Miss Eyre), whose +position here your Catherine does not understand, and to whom I +distinctly heard him observe that Miss Blanche Ingram was “an extensive +armful.” + +The evening was spent in the lugubrious mockery of pretending to consult +an old gipsy-woman who smoked a short black pipe, and was recognised _by +all_ as Mr. Rochester in disguise. I was conducted by Miss Eyre to my +bedroom—through a long passage, narrow, low, and dim, with two rows of +small black doors, all shut; ’twas like a corridor in some Blue Beard’s +castle. “Hurry, hurry, I hear the chains rattling,” said this strange +girl; whose position, my Eleanor, in this house causes your Catherine +some natural perplexity. When we had reached my chamber, “Be silent, +silent as death,” said Miss Eyre, her finger on her lip and her meagre +body convulsed with some mysterious emotion. “Speak not of what you +hear, do not remember what you see!” and she was gone. + +I undressed, after testing the walls for secret panels and looking for +assassins in the usual place, but was haunted all the time by an +unnatural sound of laughter. At length, groping my way to the bed, I +jumped hastily in, and would have sought some suspension of anguish by +creeping far underneath the clothes. But even this refuge was denied to +your wretched Catherine! I could not stretch my limbs; for the sheet, my +dear Eleanor, had been so arranged, in some manner which I do not +understand, as to render this impossible. The laughter seemed to +redouble. I heard a footstep at my door. I hurried on my frock and +shawl and crept into the gallery. A strange dark figure was gliding in +front of me, stooping at each door; and every time it stooped, came _a +low gurgling noise_! Inspired by I know not what desperation of courage, +I rushed on the figure and seized it by the neck. It was Miss Eyre, the +governess, filling the boots of all the guests with water, which she +carried in a can. When she saw me she gave a scream and threw herself +against a door hung with a curtain of Tyrian dye. It yielded, and there +poured into the passage a blue cloud of smoke, with a strong and odious +smell of cigars, into which (and to what company?) she vanished. I +groped my way as well as I might to my own chamber: where each hour the +clocks, as they struck, found an echo in the apprehensive heart of + + THE ILL-FATED + + CATHERINE MORLAND. + + + + +XII. + + + _From Montague Tigg_, _Esq._, _to Mr. David Crimp_. + +The following letter needs no explanation for any who have studied the +fortunes and admired the style of that celebrated and sanguine financier, +Mr. Montague Tigg, in “Martin Chuzzlewit.” His chance meeting with the +romantic Comte de Monte Cristo naturally suggested to him the plans and +hopes which he unfolds to an unsympathetic capitalist. + + 1542 Park Lane, May 27, 1848. + +MY PREMIUM POMEGRANATE,—Oracles are not in it, David, with you, my +pippin, as auspicious counsellors of ingenious indigence. The remark +which you uttered lately, when refusing to make the trumpery advance of +half-a-crown on a garment which had been near to the illustrious person +of my friend Chevy Slime, that remark was inspired. “Go to Holborn!” you +said, and the longest-bearded of early prophets never uttered aught more +pregnant with Destiny. I went to Holborn, to the humble establishment of +the tuneful tonsor, Sweedle-pipe. All things come, the poet says, to him +who knows how to wait—especially, I may add, to him who knows how to wait +behind thin partitions with a chink in them. Ensconced in such an +ambush—in fact, in the back shop—I bided my time, intending to solicit +pecuniary accommodation from the barber, and studying human nature as +developed in his customers. + +There are odd customers in Kingsgate Street, Holborn—foreign gents and +refugees. Such a cove my eagle eye detected in a man who entered the +shop wearing a long black beard streaked with the snows of age, and who +requested Poll to shave him clean. He was a sailor-man to look at; but +his profile, David, might have been carved by a Grecian chisel out of an +iceberg, and that steel grey eye of his might have struck a chill, even +through a chink, into any heart less stout than beats behind the vest of +Montague Tigg. The task of rasping so hirsute a customer seemed to sit +heavy on the soul of Poll, and threatened to exhaust the resources of his +limited establishment. The barber went forth to command, as I presume, a +fresher strop, or more keenly tempered steel, and glittering cans of +water heated to a fiercer heat. No sooner was the coast clear than the +street-door opened, and my stranger was joined by a mantled form, that +glided into Poll’s emporium. The new-comer doffed a swart sombrero, and +disclosed historic features that were not unknown to the concealed +observer—meaning me. Yes, David, that aquiline beak, that long and waxed +moustache, that impassible mask of a face, I had seen them, Sir, +conspicuous (though their owner be of alien and even hostile birth) among +England’s special chivalry. The foremost he had charged on the Ides of +April (I mean against the ungentlemanly Chartist throng) and in the +storied lists of Eglinton. The new-comer, in short, was the nephew of +him who ate his heart out in an English gaol (like our illustrious +Chiv)—in fact, he was Prince Louis N— B—. + +Gliding to the seat where, half-lathered, the more or less ancient +Mariner awaited Poll’s return, the Prince muttered (in the French lingo, +familiar to me from long exile in Boulogne): + +“Hist, goes all well?” + +“Magnificently, Sire!” says the other chap. + +“Our passages taken?” + +“Ay, and private cabins paid for to boot, in case of the storm’s +inclemency.” + +The Prince nodded and seemed pleased; then he asked anxiously, + +“The Bird? You have been to Jamrach’s?” + +“Pardon me, Sire,” says the man who was waiting to be shaved, “I can slip +from your jesses no mercenary eagle. These limbs have yet the pith to +climb and this heart the daring to venture to the airiest crag of Monte +d’Oro, and I have ravished from his eyrie a true Corsican eagle to be the +omen of our expedition. Wherever this eagle is your uncle’s legions will +gather together.” + +“’Tis well; and the gold?” + +“_Trust Monte Cristo_!” says the bearded man; and then, David, begad! I +knew I had them! + +“We meet?” + +“At Folkestone pier, 7.45, tidal train.” + +“I shall be there without fail,” says the Prince, and sneaks out of the +street-door just as Poll comes in with the extra soap and strop. + +Well, David, to make it as short as I can, the man of the icy glance was +clean-shaved at last, and the mother who bore him would not have known +him as he looked in the glass when it was done. He chucked Poll a +diamond worth about a million piastres, and, remarking that he would not +trouble him for the change, he walked out. By this characteristic +swagger, of course, he more than confirmed my belief that he was, indeed, +the celebrated foreigner the Count of Monte Cristo; whose name and +history even _you_ must be acquainted with, though you may not be what I +have heard my friend Chevy Slime call himself, “the most literary man +alive.” A desperate follower of the star of Austerlitz from his youth, a +martyr to the cause in the Château d’If, Monte Cristo has not deserted it +now that he has come into his own—or anybody else’s. + +Of course I was after him like a shot. He walked down Kingsgate Street +and took a four-wheeler that was loitering at the corner. I followed on +foot, escaping the notice of the police from the fact, made only too +natural by Fortune’s cursed spite, that under the toga-like simplicity of +Montague Tigg’s costume these minions merely guessed at a cab-tout. + +Well, David, he led me a long chase. He got out of the four-wheeler (it +was dark now) at the Travellers’, throwing the cabman a purse—of sequins, +no doubt. At the door of the Travellers’ he entered a brougham; and, +driving to the French Embassy in Albert Gate, he alighted, _in different +togs_, quite the swell, and _let himself in with his own latch-key_. + +In fact, Sir, this conspirator of barbers’ shops, this prisoner of the +Château d’If, this climber of Corsican eyries, is to-day the French +Minister accredited to the Court of St. James’s! + +And now perhaps, David, you begin to see how the land lies, the Promised +Land, the land where there is corn and milk and honey-dew. I hold those +eminent and highly romantic parties in the hollow of my hand. A letter +from me to M. Lecoq, of the Rue Jerusalem, and their little game is up, +their eagle moults, the history of Europe is altered. But what good +would all that do Montague Tigg? Will it so much as put that delightful +coin, a golden sovereign, in the pocket of his nether garments? No, Tigg +is no informer; a man who has charged at the head of his regiment on the +coast of Africa is no vulgar spy. There is more to be got by making the +Count pay through the nose, as we say; _chanter_, as the French say; +“sing a song of sixpence”—to a golden tune. + +But, as Fortune now uses me, I cannot personally approach his Excellency. +Powdered menials would urge me from his portals. An advance, a small +advance—say 30_l._—is needed for preliminary expenses: for the charges of +the clothier, the bootmaker, the hosier, the barber. Give me 30_l._ for +the restoration of Tigg to the semblance of the Montagues, and with that +sum I conquer millions. The diamonds of Monte Cristo, the ingots, the +rubies, the golden crowns with the image and superscription of Pope +Alexander VI.—all are mine: I mean are ours. + +More, David; more, my premium tulip: we shall make the Count a richer man +than ever he has been. We shall promote new companies, we shall put him +on the board of directors. I see the prospectuses from afar. + + UNIVERSAL INTERNATIONAL TREASURE RECOVERY COMPANY. + + _Chairman_. + + His Excellency the COMTE DE MONTE CRISTO. K.G., K.C.B., Knight of + the Black Eagle. + + _Directors_. + + CHEVY SLIME, Esq., Berkeley Square. + + MONTAGUE TIGG, Esq., Park Lane. + + M. VAUTRIN (Les Bagnes près de Toulon). + + M. JEAN VALJEAN. + + The CHEVALIER STRONG. (Would he come in?) + + _Hon. Secretary_.—DAVID CRIMP, Esq. + + Archæological Adviser.—Dr. SPIEGELMANN, Berlin. + +Then the prospectus! Treasure-hunting too long left to individual and +uneducated enterprise. Need of organised and instructed effort. +Examples of treasure easily to be had. Grave of Alaric. Golden chain of +Cuzco. Galleons of Vigo Bay. Loot of Delphi. Straits of Salamis. +Advice of most distinguished foreign experts already secured. Paid-up +capital, a 6 and as many 0’s as the resources of the printing +establishment can command. The public will rush in by the myriad. And I +am also sketching a + +‘Disinterested Association for Securing the Rights of Foundlings,’ again +with Monte Cristo in the chair. David, you have saved a few pounds; in +the confidence of unofficial moments you have confessed as much (though +not exactly _how_ much) to me. Will you neglect one of those +opportunities which only genius can discover, but which the humble +capitalist can help to fructify? With thirty, nay, with twenty pounds, I +can master this millionaire and tame this Earthly Providence. Behind us +lies penury and squalor, before us glitters jewelled opulence. You will +be at 1542 Park Lane to-morrow _with the dibs_?—Yours expectantly, + + MONTAGUE TIGG. + + * * * * * + + _From Mr. David Crimp to Montague Tigg_, _Esq._ + + The Golden Balls, May 28. + +DEAR MR. TIGG,—You always _were_ full of your chaff, but you must have +been drinking when you wrote all that cock-and-a-bull gammon. Thirty +pounds! No; nor fifteen; nor as many pence. I never heard of the party +you mention by the name of the Count of Monte Cristo; and as for the +Prince, he’s as likely to be setting out for Boulogne with an eagle as +you are to start a monkey and a barrel-organ in Jericho; or may be +_that’s_ the likeliest of the two. So stow your gammon, and spare your +stamps, is my last word.—Yours respectfully to command, + + D. CRIMP. + + + + +XIII. + + + _From Christian to Piscator_. + +Walton and Bunyan were men who should have known each other. It is a +pleasant fancy, to me, that they may have met on the banks of Ouse, while +John was meditating a sermon, and Izaak was “attentive of his trembling +quill.” + +SIR,—Being now come into the Land of Beulah; here, whence I cannot so +much as see Doubting Castle; here, where I am solaced with the sound of +voices from the City,—my mind, that is now more at peace about mine own +salvation, misgives me sore about thine. Thou wilt remember me, +perchance, for him that met thee by a stream of the Delectable Mountains, +and took thee to be a man fleeing from the City of Destruction. For, +beholding thee from afar, methought that thou didst carry a burden on thy +back, even as myself before my deliverance did bear the burden of my sins +and fears. Yet when I drew near I perceived that it was but a +fisherman’s basket on thy back, and that thou didst rather seek to add to +the weight of thy burden than to lighten it or fling it away. But, when +we fell into discourse, I marvelled much how thou camest so far upon the +way, even among the sheep and the shepherds of that country. For I found +that thou hadst little experience in conflict with Apollyon, and that +thou hadst never passed through the Slough of Despond nor wandered in the +Valley of the Shadow. Nay, thou hadst never so much as been distressed +in thy mind with great fear, nor hadst thou fled from thy wife and +children, to save, if it might be, thy soul for thyself, as I have done. +Nay, rather thou didst parley with the shepherds as one that loved their +life; and I remember, even now, that sweet carnal song + + The Shepherd swains shall dance and sing, + For thy delight, each May morning; + If these delights thy mind may move, + Then live with me and be my love. + +These are not the songs that fit the Delectable Country; nay, rather they +are the mirth of wantons. Yet didst thou take pleasure in them; and +therefore I make bold to ask how didst thou flee at all from the City of +Destruction, and come so far upon thy way? Beware lest, when thou +winnest to that brook wherein no man casts angle, even to that flood +where there is no bridge to go over and the River is very deep—beware, I +say, of one Vain Hope, the Ferryman! For I would not have thee lost, +because thou art a kindly man and a simple. Yet for Ignorance there is +an ill way, even from the very gates of the City.—Thy fellow-traveller, + + CHRISTIAN. + + * * * * * + + _From Piscator to Christian_. + +SIR,—I do indeed remember thee; and I trust thou art amended of these +gripings which caused thee to groan and moan, even by the pleasant +streams from the hills of the Delectable Mountains. And as for my +“burden” ’twas pleasant to me to bear it; for, like not the least of the +Apostles, I am a fisher, and I carried trout. But I take no shame in +that I am an angler; for angling is somewhat like poetry; men are to be +born so, and I would not be otherwise than my Maker designed to have me. +Of the antiquity of angling I could say much; but I misdoubt me that thou +dost not heed the learning of ancient times, but art a contemner of good +learning and virtuous recreations. Yet it may a little move thee that in +the Book of Job mention is made of fish-hooks, and without reproof; for +let me tell you that in the Scriptures angling is always taken in the +best sense. + +Touching my flight from the City of Destruction, I love that place no +more than thou dost; yet I fear not its evil communications, nor would I +so hastily desert it as to leave my wife and children behind therein. +Nor have I any experience of conflict with the Evil One; wherefore I +thank Him that hath set me in pleasant fields, by clear waters, where +come no wicked whispers (be they from Apollyon or from our own hearts); +but there is calmness of spirit, and a world of blessings attending upon +it. And hence can no man see the towers of Doubting Castle, for the +green trees and the hedges white with May. This life is not wholly vile, +as some of thy friends declare (Thou, who makest thy pilgrims dance to +the lute, knowest better); and, for myself, I own that I love such mirth +as does not make men ashamed to look upon each other next morning. Let +him that bears a heavy heart for his ill-deeds turn him to better, but +not mourn as though the sun were taken out of the sky. What says the +song?—nay, ’tis as good balm for the soul as many a hymn: + + A merry heart goes all the day, + Your sad one tires in a mile-a! + +He that made the world made man to take delight in it; even as thou +saw’st me joyful with the shepherds—ay, with godly Mr. Richard Hooker, +“he being then tending his small allotment of sheep in a common field,” +as I recount in a brief life of a good man. As to what awaits me on the +other side of that River, I do expect it with a peaceful heart, and in +humble hope that a man may reach the City with a cheerful countenance, no +less than through groans and sighs and fears. For we have not a tyrant +over us, but a Father, that loveth a cheerful liver no less than a +cheerful giver. Nevertheless, I thank thee for thy kind thought of one +that is not of thy company, nor no Nonconformist, but a peaceful +Protestant. And, lest thou be troubled with apparitions of hobgoblins +and evil spirits, read that comfortable sermon of Mr. Hooker’s to weak +believers, on the _Certainty of Adherence_, though they want the inward +testimony of it. + +But now falls there a sweet shower, “a singing shower” saith old George +Chapman, and methinks I shall have sport; for I do note that the mayfly +is up; and, seeing all these beautiful creatures playing in the air and +water, I feel my own heart play within me; and I must out and dape under +yonder sycamore tree. Wherefore, prithee, pardon me a longer discourse +as at this time.—Thy friend, + + PISCATOR. + + + + +XIV. + + + _From Truthful James to Mr. Bret Harte_. + + WILLIAM NYE’S EXPERIMENT. + + Angel’s. + + DEAR BRET HARTE, + I’m in tears, + And the camp’s in the dust, + For with anguish it hears + As poor William may bust, + And the last of the Nyes is in danger of + sleeping the sleep of the just. + + No revolver it was + Interfered with his health, + The convivial glass + Did not harm him by stealth; + It was nary! He fell by a scheme which + he thought would accumulate wealth! + + For a Moqui came round + To the camp—Injun Joe; + And the dollars was found + In his pockets to flow; + For he played off some tricks with live + snakes, as was reckoned a competent show. + + They was rattlers; a pair + In his teeth he would hold, + And another he’d wear + Like a scarf to enfold + His neck, with them dangerous critters + as safe as the saint was of old. + + Sez William, “That same + Is as easy as wink. + I am fly to his game; + For them rattlers, I think, + Has had all their incisors extracted. + They’re harmless as suthin’ to drink.” + + So he betted his pile + He could handle them snakes; + And he tried, with a smile, + And a rattler he takes, + Feeling safe as they’d somehow been + doctored; but bless you, that sarpent awakes! + + Waken snakes! and they _did_ + And they rattled like mad; + For it was not a “kid,” + But some medicine he had, + Injun Joe, for persuadin’ the critters but + William’s bit powerful bad. + + So they’ve put him outside + Of a bottle of Rye, + And they’ve set him to ride + A mustang as kin shy, + To keep up his poor circulation; and + that’s the last chance for Bill Nye. + + But a near thing it is, + And the camp’s in the dust. + He’s a pard as we’d miss + If poor Bill was to bust— + If the last of the Nyes were a-sleepin + the peaceable sleep of the just. + + + + +XV. + + + _From Professor Forth to the Rev. Mr. Casaubon_. + +The delicacy of the domestic matters with which the following +correspondence deals cannot be exaggerated. It seems that Belinda (whose +Memoirs we owe to Miss Rhoda Broughton) was at Oxford while Mr. and Mrs. +Casaubon were also resident near that pleasant city, so famed for its +Bodleian Library. Professor Forth and Mr. Casaubon were friends, as may +be guessed; their congenial characters, their kindred studies, +Etruscology and Mythology, combined to ally them. Their wives were not +wholly absorbed in their learned pursuits, and if Mr. Ladislaw was +dangling after Mrs. Casaubon, we know that Mr. Rivers used to haunt with +Mrs. Forth the walks of Magdalen. The regret and disapproval which Mrs. +Casaubon expresses, and her desire to do good to Mrs. Forth, are, it is +believed, not alien to her devoted and exemplary character. + + Bradmore-road, Oxford, May 29. + +DEAR MR. CASAUBON,—In the course of an investigation which my researches +into the character of the Etruscan “Involuti” have necessitated, I +frequently encounter the root _Kâd_, _k2âd_, or _Qâd_. Schnitzler’s +recent and epoch-making discovery that _d_ in Etruscan = _b2_, has led me +to consider it a plausible hypothesis that we may convert _Kâd_ or _Qâd_ +into _Kab2_, in which case it is by no means beyond the range of a +cautious conjecture that the Involuti are identical with the _Cab-iri_ +(Cabiri). Though you will pardon me for confessing, what you already +know, that I am not in all points an adherent to your ideas concerning a +“Key to All Mythologies” (at least, as briefly set forth by you in Kuhn’s +_Zeitung_), yet I am deeply impressed with this apparent opportunity of +bridging the seemingly impassable gulf between Etrurian Religion and the +comparatively clear and comprehensible systems of the Pelasgo-Phoenician +peoples. That Kâd or Kâb can refer either (as in _Quatuor_) to a +four-footed animal (quadruped, “quad”) or to a four-wheeled vehicle +(_esseda_, Celtic _cab_) I cannot for a moment believe, though I +understand that this theory has the support of Schrader, Penka, and +Baunder. {125} Any information which your learning can procure, and your +kind courtesy can supply, will be warmly welcomed and duly +acknowledged.—Believe me, faithfully yours, + + JAMES FORTH. + +P.S.—I open this note, which was written from my dictation by my +secretary, Mrs. Forth, to assure myself that her inexperience has been +guilty of no error in matters of so much delicacy and importance. I have +detected no mistake of moment, and begin to hope that the important step +of matrimony to which I was guided by your example may not have been a +rash experiment. + + * * * * * + + _From the Rev. Mr. Casaubon to James Forth_, _Esq._, _Professor of + Etruscan_, _Oxford_. + +DEAR MR. FORTH,—Your letter throws considerable light on a topic which +has long engaged my earnest attention. To my thinking, the _Cab_ in +_Cabiri_ = CAV, “hollow,” as in _cavus_, and refers to the Ark of Noah, +which, of course, before the entrance of every living thing according to +his kind, must have been the largest artificial hollow or empty space +known to our Adamite ancestors. Thus the Cabiri would answer, naturally, +to the Patæci, which, as Herodotus tells us, were usually figured on the +prows of ships. The Cabiri or Patæci, as children of Noah and men of the +“great vessel,” or Cave-men (a wonderful anticipation of modern science), +would perpetuate the memory of Arkite circumstances, and would be +selected, as the sacred tradition faded from men’s minds, as the guides +of navigation. I am sorry to seem out of harmony with your ideas; but it +is only a matter of seeming, for I have no doubt that the Etruscan +Involuti are also Arkite, and that they do not, as Max Müller may be +expected to intimate, represent the veiled or cloudy Dawns, but rather +the Arkite Patriarchs. We thus, from different starting-places, arrive +at the same goal, the Arkite solution of Bryant. I am aware that I am +old-fashioned—like Eumæus, “I dwell here among the swine, and go not +often to the city.” Your letters with little numerals (as _k_2) may +represent the exactness of modern philology; but more closely remind me +of the formulæ of algebra, a study in which I at no time excelled. + +It is my purpose to visit Cambridge on June 3, to listen to a most +valuable address by Professor Tösch, of Bonn, on Hittite and Aztec +affinities. If you can meet me there and accept the hospitality of my +college, the encounter may prove a turning point in Mythological and +Philological Science.—Very faithfully yours, + + J. CASAUBON. + +P.S.—I open this note, written from my dictation by my wife, to enclose +my congratulations on Mrs. Forth’s scholarly attainments. + + * * * * * + + _From Professor Forth to Rev. Mr. Casaubon_. + (Telegram.) + +Will be with you at Cambridge on the third. + + * * * * * + + _From Mrs. Forth_, _Bradmore-road_, _Oxford_, _to David Rivers_, _Esq._, + _Milnthorpe_, _Yorkshire_. + +He goes on Saturday to Cambridge to hear some one talk about the Hittites +and the Asiatics. Did you not say there was a good Sunday train? They +sing “O Rest in the Lord” at Magdalen. I often wonder that Addison’s +Walk is so deserted on Sundays. He stays over Sunday at Cambridge. {129} + + * * * * * + + _From David Rivers_, _Esq._, _to Mrs. Forth_, _Oxford_. + +DEAR MRS. FORTH,—Saturday is a half-holiday at the Works, and I propose +to come up and see whether our boat cannot bump Balliol. How +extraordinary it is that people should neglect, on Sundays, the favourite +promenade of the Short-faced Humourist. I shall be there: the old +place.—Believe me, yours ever, + + D. RIVERS. + + * * * * * + + _From Mrs. Casaubon to William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, _Stratford-on-Avon_. + +DEAR FRIEND,—Your kind letter from Stratford is indeed interesting. Ah, +when shall I have an opportunity of seeing these, and so many other +interesting places! But in a world where duty is _so much_, and so +_always_ with us, why should we regret the voids in our experience which, +after all, life is filling in the experience of others? The work is +advancing, and Mr. Casaubon hopes that the first chapter of the “Key to +All Mythologies” will be fairly copied and completed by the end of +autumn. Mr. Casaubon is going to Cambridge on Saturday to hear Professor +Tösch lecture on the Pittites and some other party, I really forget +which; {130} but it is not often that he takes so much interest in mere +_modern_ history. How curious it sometimes is to think that the great +spirit of humanity and of the world, as you say, keeps working its +way—ah, to what wonderful goal—by means of these obscure difficult +politics: almost unworthy instruments, one is tempted to think. That was +a true line you quoted lately from the ‘Vita Nuova.’ We have no books of +poetry here, except a Lithuanian translation of the Rig Veda. How +delightful it must be to read Dante with a sympathetic fellow-student, +one who has also loved—and _renounced_!—Yours very sincerely, + + DOROTHEA CASAUBON. + +P.S.—I do not expect Mr. Casaubon back from Cambridge before Monday +afternoon. + + * * * * * + + _From William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, _to the Hon. Secretary of the Literary + and Philosophical Mechanics’ Institute_, _Middlemarch_. + +MY DEAR SIR,—I find that I can be in your neighbourhood on Saturday, and +will gladly accept your invitation to lecture at your Institute on the +Immutability of Morals.—Faithfully yours, + + W. LADISLAW. + + * * * * * + + _From William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, _to Mrs. Casaubon_. + +DEAR MRS. CASAUBON,—Only a line to say that I am to lecture at the +Mechanics’ Institute on Saturday. I can scarcely hope that, as Mr. +Casaubon is away, you will be able to attend my poor performance, but on +Sunday I may have, I hope, the pleasure of waiting on you in the +afternoon?—Very sincerely yours, + + W. LADISLAW. + +P.S.—I shall bring the ‘Vita Nuova’—it is not so difficult as the +‘Paradiso’—and I shall be happy to help you with a few of the earlier +sonnets. + + * * * * * + + _From Mrs. Casaubon to Mrs. Forth_. + + June 5. + +DEAR LADY,—You will be surprised at receiving a letter from a stranger! +How shall I address you—how shall I say what I ought to say? Our +husbands are not unknown to each other, I may almost call them friends, +but we have met only once. You did not see me; but I was at Magdalen a +few weeks ago, and I could not help asking who you were, so young, so +beautiful; and when I saw you so lonely among all those learned men my +heart went out to you, for I too know what the learned are, and how +often, when we are young, we feel as if they were so cold, so remote. +Ah, then there come _temptations_, but they must be conquered.—We are not +born to live for ourselves only, we must learn to live for others—ah! not +for _Another_! + +Some one {133} we both know, a lady, has spoken to me of you lately. She +too, though you did not know it, was in Magdalen Walk on Sunday evening +when the bells were chiming and the birds singing. She saw you; you were +not alone! Mr. Rivers (I am informed that is his name) was with you. +Ah, stop and think, and hear me before it is too late. A word; I do not +know—a word of mine may be listened to, though I have no right to speak. +But something forces me to speak, and to implore you to remember that it +is not for Pleasure we live, but for Duty. We must break the dearest +ties if they do not bind us to the stake—the stake of all we owe to all! +You will understand, you will forgive me, will you not? You will forgive +another woman whom your beauty and sadness have won to admire and love +you. You _will_ break these ties, will you not, and be free, for only in +Renunciation is there freedom? He _must not_ come again, you will tell +him that he must not.—Yours always, + + DOROTHEA CASAUBON. + + + + +XVI. + + + _From Euphues to Sir Amyas Leigh_, _Kt._ + +This little controversy on the value of the herb tobacco passed between +the renowned Euphues and that early but assiduous smoker, Sir Amyas +Leigh, well known to readers of “Westward Ho.” + +(He dissuadeth him from drinking the smoke of the Indian weed.) + +SIR AMYAS,—Take it not unkindly that a traveller (though less wide a +wanderer than thou) dissuadeth thee from a new-found novelty—the wanton +misuse, or rather the misuseful wantonness, of the Indian herb. It is a +blind goose that knoweth not a fox from a fern-bush, and a strange +temerity that mistaketh smoke for provender. The sow, when she is sick, +eateth the sea-crab and is immediately recovered: why, then, should man, +being whole and sound, haste to that which maketh many sick? The lobster +flieth not in the air, nor doth the salamander wanton in the water; +wherefore, then, will man betake him for nourishment or solace to the +fire? Vesuvius bringeth not forth speech from his mouth, but man, like a +volcano, will utter smoke. There is great difference between the table +and the chimney; but thou art for making both alike. Though the Rose be +sweet, yet will it prove less fragrant if it be wreathed about the skunk; +and so an ill weed from the land where that beast hath its habitation +defileth a courteous knight. Consider, if this practice delights thee, +that the apples of Sodom are outwardly fair but inwardly full of ashes; +the box-tree is always green, but his seed is poison. Mithridate must be +taken inwardly, not spread on plasters. Of his nature smoke goeth upward +and outward; why wilt thou make it go inward and downward? The manners +of the Cannibal fit not the Englishman; and this thy poison is unlike +Love, which maimeth every part before it kill the Liver, whereas tobacco +doth vex the Liver before it harmeth any other part. Excuse this my +boldness, and forswear thy weed, an thou lovest + + EUPHUES. + + * * * * * + + _From Sir Amyas Leigh to Euphues_. + +Whereas thou bringest in a rabble of reasons to convince me, I will +answer thee in thine own kind. Thou art like those that proffer a man +physic before he be sick, and, because his pleasure is not theirs, call +him foolish that is but early advised. Nature maketh nothing without an +end: the eye to see with, the ear to hear, the herb tobacco to be smoked. +As wine strengtheneth and meat maketh full, tobacco maketh the heart at +rest. Helen gave Nepenthe to them that sorrowed, and Heaven hath made +this weed for such as lack comfort. Tobacco is the hungry man’s food, +the wakeful man’s sleep, the weary man’s rest, the old man’s defence +against melancholy, the busy man’s repose, the talkative man’s muzzle, +the lonely man’s companion. Indeed, there was nothing but this one thing +wanting to man, of those that earth can give; wherefore, having found it, +let him so use as not abusing it, as now I am about doing.—Thy servant, + + AMYAS LEIGH. + + + + +XVII. + + + _From Mr. Paul Rondelet to the Very Rev. Dean Maitland_. {139} + +That Dean Maitland should have taken the political line indicated in Mr. +Rondelet’s letter will amaze no reader of ‘The Silence of Dean Maitland.’ +That Mr. Paul Rondelet flew from his penny paper to a Paradise meet for +him is a matter of congratulation to all but his creditors. He really is +now in the only true Monastery of Thelema, and is simply dressed in an +eye-glass and a cincture of pandanus flowers. The natives worship him, +and he is the First Æsthetic Beach-comber. + + Te-a-Iti, The Pacific. + +DEAR MAITLAND,—As my old friend and tutor at Lothian, you ask me to join +the Oxford Home Rule Association. Excuse my delay in answering. Your +letter was sent to that detested and long-deserted newspaper office in +Fleet Street, and from Fleet Street to Te-a-Iti; thank Heaven! it is a +long way. Were I at home, and still endeavouring to sway the masses, I +might possibly accept your invitation. I dislike crowds, and I dislike +shouting; but if shout I must, like you I would choose to chime in with +the dingier and the larger and the more violent assembly. But, having +perceived that the masses were very perceptibly learning to sway +themselves, I have retired to Te-a-Iti. You have read “Epipsychidion,” +my dear Dean? And, in your time, no doubt you have loved? {140} Well, +this is the Isle of Love, described, as in a dream, by the rapt fancy of +Shelley. Urged, perhaps, by a reminiscence of the Great Aryan wave of +migration, I have moved westward to this Paradise. Like Obermann, I hide +my head “from the wild tempest of the age,” but in a much dearer place +than “chalets near the Alpine snow.” Long ago I said, to one who would +not listen, that “all the religions of the world are based on false +foundations, resting on the Family, and fatally unsound.” Here the +Family, in our sense, has not been developed. Here no rules trammel the +best and therefore the most evanescent of our affections. And as for +Religion, it is based upon Me, on Rondelet of Lothian. Here nobody asks +me why or how I am “superior.” The artless natives at once perceived the +fact, recognised me as a god, and worship me (do not shudder, my good +Dean) with floral services. In Te-a-Iti (vain to look for it on the +map!) I have found my place—a place far from the babel of your brutal +politics, a place where I am addressed in liquid accents of adoration. + +You may ask whether I endeavour to raise the islanders to my own level? +It is the last thing that I would attempt. Culture they do not need: +their dainty hieratic precisions of ritual are a sufficient culture in +themselves. As I said once before, “it is an absurdity to speak of +married people being one.” Here we are an indefinite number; and no +jealousy, no ambitious exclusiveness, mars the happiness of all. This is +the Higher Life about which we used ignorantly to talk. Here the gross +temporal necessities are satisfied with a breadfruit, a roasted fish, and +a few pandanus flowers. The rest is all climate and the affections. + +Conceive, my dear Dean, the undisturbed felicity of life without +newspapers! Empires may fall, perhaps have fallen, since I left Fleet +Street; Alan Dunlop may be a ditcher in good earnest on an estate no +longer his; but here we fleet the time carelessly, as in the golden +world. And you ask me to join a raucous political association for an +object you detest in your heart, merely because you want to swim with the +turbid democratic current! You are an historian, Maitland: did you ever +know this policy succeed? Did you ever know the respectables prosper +when they allied themselves with the vulgar? Ah, keep out of your +second-hand revolutions. Keep your hands clean, whether you keep your +head on your shoulders or not. You will never, I fear, be Bishop of +Winkum, with all your historical handbooks and all your Oxford +Liberalism. + +But I am losing my temper, for the first time since I discovered +Te-a-Iti. This must not be.—Yours regretfully, + + PAUL RONDELET. + +P.S.—Don’t give any one my address; some of these Oxford harpies are +still unappeased. The only European I have seen was not an University +man. He was a popular Scotch novelist, and carried Shorter Catechisms, +which he distributed to my flock. I only hope he won’t make “copy” out +of me and my situation. + + P. R. + + + + +XVIII. + + + _From Harold Skimpole_, _Esq._, _to the Rev. Charles Honeyman_, _M.A._ + +These letters tell their own tale of Genius and Virtue indigent and in +chains. The eloquence of a Honeyman, the accomplishments of a Skimpole, +lead only to Cursitor Street. + + Coavins’s, Cursitor Street, May 1. + +MY DEAR HONEYMAN,—It is May-day, when even the chimney-sweeper, +developing the pleasant unconscious poetry of his nature, forgets the +flues, wreathes the flowers, and persuades himself that he is +Jack-in-the-Green. Jack who? Was he Jack Sprat, or the young swain who +mated with Jill! Who knows? The chimney-sweeper has all I ask, all that +the butterflies possess, all that Common-sense and Business and Society +deny to Harold Skimpole. He lives, he is free, he is “in the green!” I +am in Coavins’s! In Cursitor Street I cannot hear the streams warble, +the birds chant, the music roll through the stately fane, let us say, of +Lady Whittlesea’s. Coavins’s (as Coavins’s man says) is “a ’ouse;” but +how unlike, for example, the hospitable home of our friend Jarndyce! I +can sketch Coavins’s, but I cannot alter it: I can set it to music, on +Coavins’s piano; but how melancholy are the jingling strains of that +dilapidated instrument! At Jarndyce’s house, when I am there, I am in +possession of it: here Coavins’s is in possession of me—of the person of +Harold Skimpole. + +And why am I here? Why am I far from landscape, music, conversation? +Why, merely because I will follow neither Fame nor Fortune nor Faith. +They call to us in the market-place, but I will not dance. Fame blows +her trumpet, and offers her shilling (the Queen’s). Faith peals her +bells, and asks for _my_ shilling. Fortune rattles her banking-scales. +They call, and the world joins the waltz; but I will not march with them. +“Go after glory, commerce, creeds,” I cry; “only let Harold Skimpole +live!” {146} The world pursues the jangling music; but in my ear sound +the pipes of Pan, the voices of the river and the wood. + +Yet I cannot be in the playground, whither they invite me. Harold +Skimpole is fettered—by what? By items! I regret my incapacity for +details. It may be the tinker or the tailor at whose suit I am detained. +I am certain it is not at that of the soldier, or the sailor, or the +ploughboy, or the thief. But, for the apothecary—why, yes—it _may_ be +the apothecary! In the dawn of life I loved—who has not?—I wedded. I +set about surrounding myself with rosy cheeks. These cheeks grow pallid. +I call for the aid of Science—Science sends in her bill! “To the Mixture +as Before,” so much to “the Tonic,” so much. The cheeks are rosy again. +I pour forth the blessings of a father’s heart; but there stands Science +inexorable, with her bill, her items. I vainly point out that the +mixture has played its part, the tonic has played _its_ part; and that, +in the nature of things, the transaction is ended. The bill is +unappeasable. I forget the details; a certain number of pieces of yellow +and white dross are spoken of. Ah, I see it is fifteen and some odd +shillings and coppers. Let us say twenty. + +My dear Honeyman, you who, as I hear, are about to follow the flutes of +Aphrodite into a temple where Hymen gilds the horns of the victims +{147}—you, I am sure, will hurry to my rescue. You may not have the +specie actually in your coffers; but with your prospects, surely you can +sign something, or make over something, or back something, say a _post +obit_ or _post vincula_, or employ some other instrument? Excuse my +inexperience; or, I should say, excuse my congenital inability to profit +by experience, now considerable, of _difficulties_—and of friendship. +Let not the sun of May-day go down on Harold Skimpole in Coavins’s!—Yours +ever, + + H. S. + +P.S.—A youthful myrmidon of Coavins’s will wait for a reply. Shall we +say, while we are about it, Twenty-five? + + * * * * * + + _From the Rev. Charles Honeyman to Harold Skimpole_, _Esq._ + + Cursitor Street, May 1. + +MY DEAR SKIMPOLE,—How would I have joyed, had Providence placed it within +my power to relieve your distress! But it cannot be. Like the +Carthaginian Queen of whom we read in happier days at dear old +Borhambury, I may say that I am _haud ignarus mali_. But, alas! the very +evils in which I am not unlearned, make it impossible for me to add +_miseris succurrere disco_! Rather am I myself in need of succour. You, +my dear Harold, have fallen among thieves; I may too truly add that in +this I am your neighbour. The dens in which we are lodged are +contiguous; we are separated only by the bars. Your note was sent on +hither from my rooms in Walpole Street. Since we met I have known the +utmost that woman’s perfidy and the rich man’s contumely can inflict. +But I can bear my punishment. I loved, I trusted. She to whose hand I +aspired, she on whose affections I had based hopes at once of happiness +in life and of extended usefulness in the clerical profession, _she_ was +less confiding. She summoned to her council a minion of the Law, one +Briggs. _His_ estimate of my position and prospects could not possibly +tally with that of one whose _hopes_ are not set where the worldling +places them. Let him, and such as he, take thought for the morrow and +chaffer about settlements. I do not regret the gold to which you so +delicately allude. I sorrow only for the bloom that has been brushed +from the soaring pinions of a pure and disinterested affection. _Sunt +lacrymæ rerum_, and the handkerchief in which I bury my face is dank with +them. + +Nor is this disappointment my only _cross_. The carrion-birds of +commerce have marked down the stricken deer from their eyries in Bond +Street and Jermyn Street. To know how Solomons has behaved, and the +_black_ colours in which Moss (of Wardour Street) has shown himself, is +to receive a new light on the character of a People chosen under a very +different Dispensation! Detainers flock in, like ravens to a feast. At +this moment I have endured the humiliation of meeting a sneering child of +this world—Mr. Arthur Pendennis—the emissary of one {151} to whom I gave +in other days the sweetest blossom in the garden of my affections—my +sister—of one who has, indeed, behaved like a brother—_in law_! My word +distrusted, my statements received with a chilling scepticism by this +_Nabob_ Newcome, I am urged to make some “composition” with my creditors. +The world is very censorious, the ear of a Bishop is easily won; who +knows how those who have _envied_ talents not misused may turn my +circumstances to my disadvantage? You will see that, far from aiding +another, I am rather obliged to seek succour myself. But that saying +about the sparrows abides with me to my comfort. Could aught be done, +think you, with a bill backed by our joint names? On July 12 my +pew-rents will come in. I swear to you that they _have not been +anticipated_. Yours afflictedly, + + CHARLES HONEYMAN. + +P.S.—Would Jarndyce lend his name to a small bill at three months? You +know him well, and I have heard that he is a man of benevolent character, +and of substance. But “how hardly shall a rich man”—you remember the +text.—C. H. + + + + +XIX. + + + _From Miss Harriet to M. Guy de Maupassant_. + +This note, from one of the English damsels whom M. Guy de Maupassant +dislikes so much, is written in such French as the lady could muster. It +explains that recurrent mystery, _why Englishwomen abroad smell of +gutta-percha_. The reason is not discreditable to our countrywomen, but +if M. de Maupassant asks, as he often does, why Englishwomen dress like +scarecrows when they are on the Continent, Miss Harriet does not provide +the answer. + + Miss Pinkerton’s, Stratford-atte-Bowe, Mars 12. + +MONSIEUR,—Vous devez me connaître, quoique je ne vous connais pas le +moins du monde. Il m’est défendu de lire vos romans, je ne sais trop +pourquoi; mais j’ai bien lu la notice que M. Henry James a consacrée, +dans le _Fortnightly Review_, à votre aimable talent. Vous n’aimez pas, +à ce qu’il paraît, ni ‘la sale Angleterre’ ni les filles de ce pays +immonde. Je figure moi-même dans vos romans (ou _moâ_-même, car les +Anglais, il est convenu, prononcent ce pronom comme le nom d’un oiseau +monstrueux et même préhistorique de New Zealand)—oui, ‘Miss Harriet’ se +risque assez souvent dans vos contes assez risqués. + +Vous avez posé, Monsieur, le sublime problème, ‘Comment se prennentelles +les demoiselles anglaises pour sentir toujours le caoutchouc?’ (‘_to +smell of india-rubber_’: traduction Henry James). En premier lieu, +Monsieur, elles ne ‘smell of india-rubber’ quand elles se trouvent chez +elles, dans les bouges infectes qu’on appelle les ‘stately homes of +England.’ {154} C’est seulement à l’étranger que nous répandons l’odeur +saine et réjouissante de caoutchouc. Et pourquoi? Parce que, Monsieur, +Miss Harriet tient à son tub—ou tôb—la chose est anglaise; c’est permis +pourtant à un galant homme d’en prononcer le nom comme il veut, ou comme +il peut + +Or, quand elle voyage, Miss Harriet trouve, assez souvent, que le ‘tub’ +est une institution tout-à-fait inconnue à ses hôtes. Que fait-elle +donc? Elle porte dans sa malle un tub de caoutchouc, ‘patent +compressible india-rubber tub!’ Inutile à dire que ses vêtements se +trouvent imprégnés du “smell of india-rubber.” Voici, Monsieur, la +solution naturelle, et même fort louable, d’une question qui est faite +pour désespérer les savants de la France! + +Vous, Monsieur, qui êtes un _styliste_ accompli, veuillez bien me +pardonner les torts que je viens de faire à la belle langue française. +Dame, on fait ce qu’on peut (comme on dit dans les romans policiers) pour +être intelligible à un écrivain si célèbre, qui ne lit couramment, +peut-être, l’idiôme barbare et malsonnant de la sale Angleterre. M. Paul +Bourget lui-même ne lit plus le Grec. _Non omnia possumus omnes_. + +Agréez, Monsieur, mes sentiments les plus distingués. + + MISS HARRIET. + + + + +XX. + + + _From S. Gandish_, _Esq._, _to the_ ‘_Newcome Independent_.’ + + THE ROYAL ACADEMY. + +It appears that Mr. Gandish, at a great age—though he was not older than +several industrious Academicans—withdrew from the active exercise of his +art and employed his learning and experience as Art Critic of the +“Newcome Independent.” The following critique appears to show traces of +declining mental vigour in the veteran Gandish. + +OUR great gallery has once more opened her doors, if not to the public, +nor even to the fashionable _élite_, at least to the critics. They are a +motley throng who lounge on Press Days in the sumptuous halls; ladies, +small boys, clergymen are there, and among them but few, perhaps, who +have received the training in High Art of your correspondent, and have +had their eye, through a lifetime more than commonly prolonged, on the +glorious Antique. And what shall we say of the present Academy? In some +ways, things have improved a little since my “Boadishia” came back on my +hands (1839) at a time when High Art and the Antique would not do in this +country: they would not do. As far as the new exhibition shows, they do +better now than when the century was younger and “Portrait of the Artist, +by S. Gandish”—at thirty-three years of age—was offered in vain to the +jealously Papist clique who then controlled the Uffizi. Foreigners are +more affable now; they have taken Mr. Poynter’s of himself. + +To return to the Antique, what the President’s “Captive Andromache” must +have cost _in models alone_ is difficult to reckon. When times were +cheaper, fifty years since, my ancient Britons in “Boadishia” stood me in +thirty pounds: the central figures, however, were members of my own +family. To give every one his due, “Andromache” is high art—yes, it is +high—and the Antique has not been overlooked. About the back-view of the +young party at the fountain Mr. Horsley may have something to say. For +my part, there seems a want of muscle in vigorous action: where are the +_biceps_, where are the thews of Michael Angelo? The President is a +touch too quiet for a taste framed in the best schools. As to his +colour, where is that nutty brown tone of the flesh? But the designs on +the Greek vase are carefully rendered; though I have heard it remarked by +a classical scholar that these kind of vases were not in use about +Homer’s time. Still, the intention is good, though the costumes are not +what _we_ should have called Ancient Roman when the President was a +boy—ay, or earlier. + +Then, Mr. Alma-Tadema, he has not turned _his_ back on the glorious +Antique. “The Roses of Heliogabalus” are not explained in the catalogue. +As far as I understand, there has been an earthquake at a banquet of this +unprincipled monarch. The King himself, and his friends, are safe enough +at a kind of high table; though which _is_ Heliogabalus (he being a +consumptive-looking character in his coins in the Classical Dictionary) +your critic has not made out. The earth having opened down below, the +heads of some women, and of a man with a beard and his hair done up like +a girl, are tossing about in a quantity of rose-leaves, which had +doubtless been strown on the floor, as Martial tells us was the custom, +_dum regnat rosa_. So I overheard a very erudite critic remarking. The +composition of the piece would be thus accounted for; but I cannot +pretend that Mr. Tadema reminds one of either Poussin or Annibale +Carracci. However, rumour whispers that a high price has been paid for +this curious performance. To my thinking the friends of Heliogabalus are +a little flat and leathery in the handling of the flesh. The silver +work, and the marble, will please admirers of this eccentric artist; but +I can hardly call the whole effect “High.” But Mr. Armitage’s “Siren” +will console people who remember the old school. This beautiful girl +(somewhat careless in her attitude, though she has been sensible enough +_not_ to sit down on the damp rock without putting her drapery beneath +her) would have been a true gem in one of the old Books of Beauty, such +as the Honourable Percy Popjoy and my old friend, Miss Bunnion, used to +contribute to in the palmy days of the English school. Mr. Armitage’s +“Juno,” standing in mid-air, with the moon in the neighbourhood, is also +an example to youth, and very unlike the way such things are generally +done now. Mr. Burne-Jones (who does not exhibit) never did anything like +this. Poor Haydon, with whom I have smoked many a pipe, would have +acknowledged that Mr. Goodall’s “David’s Promise to Bathsheba” and “By +the Sea of Galilee” prove that his aspirations are nearly fulfilled. +These are extremely large pictures, yet well hung. The figure of Abishag +is a little too much in the French taste for an old-fashioned painter. +_Ars longa_, _nuda veritas_! I hope (and so will the Liberal readers of +the “Newcome Independent”) that it is by an accident the catalogue +reads—“The Traitor.” “Earl Spencer, K.G.” “The Moonlighters.” (Nos. +220, 221, 225.) Some Tory _wag_ among the Hanging Committee may have +taken this juxtaposition for wit: our readers will adopt a different +view. + +There is a fine dog in Mr. Briton Riviere’s “Requiescat,” but how did the +relations of the dead knight in plate armour acquire the embroidery, at +least three centuries later, on which he is laid to his last repose? +This destroys the illusion, but does not diminish the pathos in the +attitude of the faithful hound. Mr. Long’s large picture appears to +exhibit an Oriental girl being tried by a jury of matrons—at least, not +having my Diodorus Scriblerus by me, I can arrive at no other conclusion. +From the number of models engaged, this picture must have been designed +quite regardless of expense. It is a study of the Antique, but I doubt +if Smee would have called it High Art. + +Speaking of Smee reminds me of portraits. I miss “Portrait of a Lady,” +“Portrait of a Gentleman;” the names of the sitters are now always +given—a concession to the notoriety-hunting proclivities of the present +period. Few portraits are more in the style of the palmy days of our +school (just after Lawrence) than a study of a lady by Mr. Goodall (687). +On the other hand, young Mr. Richmond goes back to the antiquated manner +of Reynolds in one of his representations. I must admit that I hear this +work much admired by many; to me it seems old-fashioned and lacking in +blandness and affability. Mr Waterhouse has a study of a subject from a +poem that Mr. Pendennis, the novelist (whom I knew well), was very fond +of when he first came on the town: “The Lady of Shalott.” It represents +a very delicate invalid, in a boat, under a counterpane. I remember the +poem ran (it was by young Mr. Tennyson):— + + They crossed themselves, their stars they blest, + Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. + There lay a parchment on her breast + That puzzled more than all the rest + The well-fed wits of Camelot: + “The web was woven curiously, + The charm is broken utterly; + Draw near and fear not, this is I + The Lady of Shalott.” + +I admit that the wonder and dismay of the “well-fed wits,” if the Lady +was like Mr. Waterhouse’s picture of her, do not surprise me. But I +confess I do not understand modern poetry, nor, perhaps, modern painting. +Where is historical Art? Where is Alfred and the Cake—a subject which, +as is well known, I discovered in my researches in history. Where is +“Udolpho in the Tower”? or the “Duke of Rothsay the Fourth Day after He +was Deprived of his Victuals”? or “King John Signing Magna Charta”? They +are gone with the red curtain, the brown tree, the storm in the +background. Art is revolutionary, like everything else in these times, +when Treason itself, in the form of a hoary apostate and reviewer of +contemporary fiction, glares from the walls, and is painted by Royal—mark +_Royal_!—Academicians! . . . + + * * * * * + + _From Thomas Potts_, _Esq._, _of the_ ‘_Newcome Independent_,’ _to S. + Gandish_, _Esq._ + + Newcome, May 3. + +MY DEAR SIR,—I am truly sorry to have to interrupt a connection with so +old and respected a contributor. But I think you will acknowledge, on +reading the proof of your article on the Academy, which I enclose, that +the time has arrived when public criticism is no longer your province. I +do not so much refer to the old-fashioned tone of your observations on +modern art. I know little about it, and care not much more. But you +have entirely forgotten, towards the end of the notice, that the “Newcome +Independent,” as becomes its name, is a journal of Liberty and Progress. +The very proper remarks on Lord Spencer’s portrait elsewhere show that +you are not unacquainted with our politics; but, at the close +(expressing, I fear, your true sentiments), you glide into language which +makes me shudder, and which, if printed in the “Independent,” would spell +ruin. Send it, by all means, to the “Sentinel,” if you like. Send your +Tory views, I mean. As for your quotation from the “Lady of Shalott,” I +can find it nowhere in the poem of that name by the author you strangely +style “young Mr. Tennyson.” {165} + +I enclose a cheque for a quarter’s salary, and, while always happy to +meet you as man with man, must get the notice of the Academy written up +in the office from the “Daily Telegraph,” “Standard,” and “Times.” +{166}—Faithfully and with deep regret yours, + + THOMAS POTTS. + + + + +XXI. + + + _From Monsieur Lecoq_, _Rue Jérusalem_, _Paris_, _to Inspector Bucket_, + _Scotland Yard_. + +This correspondence appears to prove that mistakes may be made by the +most astute officers of police, and that even so manifest a Briton as Mr. +Pickwick might chance to find himself in the toils of international +conspiracy. + +(Translated.) + + May 19, 1852. + +SIR AND DEAR FELLOW-BROTHER (_confrère_).—The so cordial understanding +between our countries ought to expand itself into a community of the +political police. But the just susceptibilities of the Old England +forbid at this moment the restoration to a friendly Power of political +offenders. In the name of the French police of surety I venture to +present to the famous officer Bucket a prayer that he will shut his eyes, +for once, on the letter, and open his heart to the spirit of the laws. + +No one needs to teach Monsieur Bucket that a foreign miscreant can be +given up, under all reserves, to the justice! A small vial of a harmless +soporific, a closed carriage, a private cabin on board a Channel +steamer—with these and a little of the adroitness so remarked in the +celebrated Bucket, the affair is in the bag! (_dans le sac_). All these +things are in the cords (_dans les cordes_) of my esteemed English +fellow-brother; will he not employ them in the interest of a devoted +colleague and a friendly Administration? We seek a malefactor of the +worst species (_un chenapan de la pire espèce_). This funny fellow +(_drôle_) calls himself Count of Fosco, and he resides in Wood Road 5, +St. John’s Forest; worth abode of a miscreant fit for the Forest of +Bondy! He is a man bald, stout, fair, and paying well in countenance +(_il paie de mine_), conceiving himself to resemble the great Napoleon. +At the first sight you would say a philanthrope, a friend of man. On his +right arm he bears a small red mark, round, the brand of a society of the +most dangerous. Dear Sir, you will not miss him? When once he is in our +hands, faith of Lecoq, you shall tell us your news as to whether France +can be grateful. Of more words there is no need.—I remain, all to you, +with the assurance of my most distinguished consideration, + + LECOQ. + + * * * * * + + _From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq_. + + May 22. + +DEAR SIR,—Your polite favour to hand, and contents noted. You are a man +of the world; I am a man of the world, and proud to deal with you as +between man and man. The little irregularity shall be no consideration, +all shall be squared, and the man wanted run in with punctuality and +despatch. Expect him at Calais on the 26th current,—Faithfully yours, + + C. BUCKET. + + * * * * * + + _From Count Fosco to Samuel Pickwick_, _Esq._, _G.C.M.P.C._, _Goswell + Road_. + + 5 Forest Road, St. John’s Wood, May 23. + +DEAR SIR,—When we met lately at the hospitable board of our common +friend, Benjamin Allen, Esq., lately elected Professor of Chemistry in +the University of London, our conversation turned (if you can pass me the +intoxicating favour of remembering it) on the glorious science of +chemistry. For me this knowledge has ever possessed irresistible +attractions, from the enormous power which it confers of heaping benefits +on the suffering race of mankind. Others may rejoice in the advantages +which a knowledge of it bestows—the power which can reduce a Hannibal to +the level of a drummer boy, or an all-pervading Shakspeare to the +intellectual estate of a vestryman, though it cannot at present reverse +those processes. The consideration of the destructive as compared with +the constructive forces of chemistry was present, as I recollect, to your +powerful intellect on the festive occasion to which I refer. “Yes!” you +said (permit me to repeat your very words)—“Yes, Count Fosco, Alexander’s +morning draught shall make Alexander run for his life at the first sound +of the enemy’s trumpet. So much chemistry can achieve; but can she help +as well as harm? Nay, can she answer for it that the lemon which +Professor Allen, from the best and purest of motives, has blended with +this milk-punch, shall not disagree with me to-morrow morning? Can +chemistry, Count Fosco, thus thwart malign constitutional tendency?” + +These were your words, sir, and I am now ready to answer your +deep-searching question in the affirmative. Prolonged assiduous +application to my Art has shown me how to preserve the lemon in Milk +Punch, and yet destroy, or disengage, the deleterious elements. Will you +so greatly honour science, and Fosco her servant, as to sup with me on +the night of the twenty-fifth, at nine o’clock, and prove (you need not +dread the test) whether a true follower of knowledge or a vain babbler +signs—in exile—the name of + + ISIDOR OTTAVIO BALDASSARE FOSCO? + + * * * * * + + _From Mr. Pickwick to the Count Fosco_. + + May 24. + +MY DEAR SIR,—Many thanks for your very kind invitation. Apart from the +interests of science, the pleasure of your company alone would be more +than enough to make me gladly accept it. I shall have the enjoyment of +testing your milk-punch to-morrow night at nine, with the confident +expectation that your admirable studies will have overcome a tendency +which for many years has prevented me from relishing, as I could wish, +one of the best things in this good world. Lemon, in fact, has always +disagreed with me, as Professor Allen or Sir Robert Sawyer will be able +to assure you; so your valuable experiment can be put, in my case, to a +crucial test.—Very faithfully yours, + + SAMUEL PICKWICK. + + * * * * * + + _From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq_. + + May 26, 1 A.M. + +MY DEAR SIR,—We have taken your man without difficulty. Bald, +benevolent-looking, stout, perhaps fancies himself like Napoleon; if so, +is deceived. We nabbed him asleep over his liquor and alone, at the +address you meant to give, 5 Forest Road, St. John’s Wood. The house was +empty, servants out, not a soul but him at home. He speaks English well +for a foreigner, and tries to make out he is a British subject. Was +rather confused when took, and kept ejaculating “Cold Punch,” apparently +with the hope of persuading us that such was his name or alias. He also +called for one Sam—probably an accomplice. He travels to Calais to-day +as a lunatic patient in a strait-waistcoat, under charge of four +“keepers” belonging to the force; and I trust that you have made +preparations for receiving your prisoner, and that our management of the +case has given satisfaction. What I like is doing business with a man +like you. We may not be so smart nor so clever at disguises as the +French profession, but we flatter ourselves we are punctual and +cautious.—Faithfully yours, + + C. BUCKET. + + * * * * * + + _From Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Perker_, _Solicitor_, _Gray’s Inn_. + + Sainte Pélagie, May 28. + +DEAR PERKER,—For heaven’s sake come over here at once, bringing some one +who can speak French, and bail me out, or whatever the process of their +law may be. I have been arrested, illegally and without warrant, at the +house of a scientific friend, Count Fosco, where I had been supping. As +far as I can understand, I am accused of a plot against the life of the +Emperor of the French; but the whole proceedings have been unintelligible +and arbitrary to a degree. I cannot think that an English citizen will +be allowed to perish by the guillotine—innocent and practically unheard! +Please bring linen and brushes, &c., but not Sam, who would be certain to +embroil himself with the French police. I am writing to the _Times_ and +Lord Palmerston.—Sincerely yours, + + SAMUEL PICKWICK. + + * * * * * + + _From Monsieur Lecoq to Inspector Bucket_. + + May 27. + +SIR,—There has arrived a frightful misunderstanding. The man you have +sent us is not Fosco. Of Fosco he has only the baldness, the air +benevolent, and the girth. The brand on his right arm is no more than +the mark of vaccination. Brought before the Commissary of Police, the +prisoner, who has not one word of French, was heard through an +interpreter. He gives himself the name of Piquouique, _rentier_, +English; and he appeals to his Ambassador. Of papers he had letters +bearing the name Samuel Pickwick, and, on his buttons, the letters P.C., +which we suspect are the badge of a secret society. But this is not to +the point; for it is certain that, whatever the crimes of this brigand, +he is _not_ Fosco, but an Englishman. That he should be found in the +domicile of Fosco when that droll had evaded is suspicious (_louche_), +and his explanation does not permit itself to be understood. I have fear +that we enjoy bad luck, and that M. Palmerston will make himself to be +heard on this matter. + +Accept, Monsieur, the assurance of my high consideration. + + LECOQ. + +P.S.—Our comrade, the Count Smorltork, of the Police of Manners (_police +des moeurs_), has come to present himself. Confronted with the bandit, +he gives him reason, and offers his faith that the man is Piquouique, +with whom he encountered himself when on a mission of secrecy to England +it is now some years. What to do? (_Que faire_?) + + + + +XXII. + + + _From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis_. + +Mr. Quatermain offers the correct account of two celebrated right and +left shots, also an adventure of the stranger in the Story of an African +Farm. + +DEAR CURTIS,—You ask me to give you the true account, in writing, of +those right and left shots of mine at the two lions, the crocodile, and +the eagle. The brutes are stuffed now, in the hall at home—the lions +each on a pedestal, and the alligator on the floor with the eagle in his +jaws—much as they were when I settled them and saved the Stranger. All +sorts of stories have got into the papers about the business, which was +simple enough; so, though no hand with a pen, I may as well write it all +out. + +I was up on the Knobkerry River, prospecting for diamonds, in +Omomborombunga’s country. I had nobody with me but poor Jim-jim, who +afterwards met with an awful death, otherwise he would have been glad to +corroborate my tale, if it needed it. One night I had come back tired to +camp, when I found a stranger sitting by the fire. He was a dark, fat, +Frenchified little chap, and you won’t believe me, but it is a fact that +he wore gloves. I asked him to stay the night, of course, and inspanned +the waggons in laager, for Omomborombunga’s impis were out, swearing to +wash their spears in the blood of The Great White Liar—a Portuguese +traveller probably; if not, I don’t know who he can have been; perhaps +this stranger: he gave no name. Well, we had our biltong together, and +the Stranger put himself outside a good deal of the very little brandy I +had left. We got yarning, so to speak, and I told him a few of the +curious adventures that naturally fall to the lot of a man in those wild +countries. The Stranger did not say much, but kept playing with a huge +carved walking-stick that he had. Presently he said, “Look at this +stick; I bought it from a boy on a South African Farm. Do you understand +what the carvings mean?” + +“Hanged if I do!” I said, after turning it about. + +“Well, do you see that figure?” and he touched a thing like a Noah out of +a child’s ark. “That was a hunter like you, my friend, but not in all +respects. That hunter pursued a vast white bird with silver wings, +sailing in the everlasting blue.” + +“Everlasting bosh!” said I; “there is no bird of the kind on the veldt.” + +“That bird was Truth,” says the Stranger, “and, judging from the anecdote +you tell me about the Babyan woman and the Zulu medicine-man, it is a +bird _you_ don’t trouble yourself with much, my friend.” + +This was a pretty cool thing to say to a man whose veracity is known like +a proverb from Sheba’s Breasts to the Zambesi. + +_Foide Macumazahn_, the Zulus say, meaning as true as a yarn of Allan +Quatermain’s. Well, my blood was up; no man shall call Allan Quatermain +a liar. The fellow was going on with a prodigious palaver about a white +feather of Truth, and Mount Sinai, and the Land of Absolute Negation, and +I don’t know what, but I signified to him that if he did not believe my +yarns I did not want his company. “I’m sorry to turn you out,” I said, +“for there are lions around”—indeed they were roaring to each other—“and +you will have a parroty time. But you apologise, or you go!” + +He laughed his short thick laugh. “I am a man who hopes nothing, feels +nothing, fears nothing, and believes nothing that you tell me!” + +I got up and went for him with my fists, and whether he feared nothing or +not I don’t know; but he scooted, dropping a yellow French novel, by one +Catulle Mendes, that I could make neither head nor tail of. I afterwards +heard that there was something about this stranger in a book called “The +Story of an African Farm,” which I once began, but never finished, not +being able to understand most of it, and being vexed by the gross +improbability of the girl not marrying the baby’s father, he being ready +and willing to make her an honest woman. However, I am no critic, but a +plain man who tells a plain tale, and I believe persons of soul admire +the book very much. Any way, it does not say who the Stranger was—an +allegorical kind of bagman I fancy; but I am not done with him yet. + +Out he went into the dark, where hundreds of lions could be plainly seen +making love (at which season they are very dangerous) by the flashes of +lightning. + +It was a terrific yet beautiful spectacle, and one which I can never +forget. The black of night would suddenly open like a huge silver +flower, deep within deep, till you almost fancied you could see within +the gates of heaven. The hills stood out dark against the illimitable +splendour, and on every koppie you saw the huge lions, like kittens at +play, roaring till you could scarcely hear the thunder. The rain was +rushing like a river, all glittering like diamonds, and then, in the +twinkling of an eye, all was black as a wolf’s mouth till the next flash. +The lightning, coming from all quarters, appeared to meet above me, and +now was red, now golden, now silver again, while the great cat-like +beasts, as they leaped or lay, looked like gold, red, and silver lions, +reminding me of the signs of public-houses in old England, far away. +Meantime the donga beneath roared with the flooded torrent that the rain +was bringing down from the heights of Umbopobekatanktshiu. + +I stood watching the grand spectacle for some time, rather pitying the +Stranger who was out in it, by no fault of mine. Then I knocked the +ashes out of my pipe, ate a mealy or two, and crept into my _kartel_, +{184} and slept the sleep of the just. + +About dawn I woke. The thunder had rolled away like a bad dream. The +long level silver shafts of the dawn were flooding the heights, raindrops +glittered like diamonds on every kopje and karroo bush, leaving the deep +donga bathed in the solemn pall of mysterious night. + +My thoughts went rapidly over the millions of leagues of land and sea, +where life, that perpetual problem, was now awaking to another day of +struggle and temptation. Then the golden arrows of the day followed +fast. The silver and blue sky grew roseate with that wide wild blush +which testifies to the modest delight of nature, satisfied and grateful +for her silent existence and her amorous repose. I breakfasted, went +down into the donga with a black boy, poor Jim-jim, who was afterwards, +as I said, to perish by an awful fate, otherwise he would testify to the +truth of my plain story. I began poking among the rocks in the dry basin +of the donga, {185} and had just picked up a pebble—I knew it by the +soapy feel for a diamond. Uncut it was about three times the size of the +koh-i-noor, say 1,000 carats, and I was rejoicing in my luck when I heard +the scream of a human being in the last agony of terror. Looking up, I +saw that on either side of the donga, which was about twenty feet wide, a +great black lion and lioness were standing with open jaws, while some +fifty yards in front of me an alligator, in a deep pool of the flooded +donga, was stretching his open snout and gleaming teeth greedily upwards. +Over head flew an eagle, and _in mid-air between_, as I am a living and +honourable man, a human being was leaping the chasm. He had been pursued +by the lion on my left, and had been driven to attempt the terrible leap; +but if he crossed he was certain to fall into the jaws of the lion on my +right, while if he fell short in his jump, do you see, the alligator was +ready for him below, and the great golden eagle watched the business from +above, in case he attempted to escape _that_ way. + +All this takes long to tell, though it was passing in a flash of time. +Dropping the diamond (which must have rolled into a crevice of the rock, +for I never saw it again), I caught up my double-barrelled rifle (one of +Wesson & Smith’s), aimed at the lion on the right hand of the donga with +my right barrel, and then hastily fired my left at the alligator. When +the smoke cleared away, the man had reached the right side of the donga +safe and sound. Seeing that the alligator was dying, I loaded again, +bowled over the lioness on the left, settled the eagle’s business (he +fell dead into the jaws of the dying alligator, which closed on him with +a snap). I then climbed the wall of the donga, and there lay, fainting, +the Stranger of last night—the man who feared nothing—the blood of the +dead lion trickling over him. His celebrated allegorical walking-stick +from the African Farm had been broken into two pieces by the bullet after +it (the bullet) had passed through the head of the lion. And, as the +“Ingoldsby Legends” say, “nobody was one penny the worse,” except the +wild beasts. The man, however, had had a parroty time, and it was a good +hour before I could bring him round, during which he finished my brandy. +He still wore gloves. What he was doing in Omuborumbunga’s country I do +not know to this day. I never found the diamond again, though I hunted +long. But I must say that two better right and left shots, considering +that I had no time to aim, and that they were really snapshots, I never +remember to have made in my long experience. + +This is the short and the long of the matter, which was talked of a good +deal in the Colony, and about which, I am told, some inaccurate accounts +have got into the newspapers. I hate writing, as you know, and don’t +pretend to give a literary colour to this little business of the shots, +but merely tell a “plain, unvarnished tale,” as the “Ingoldsby Legends” +say. + +As to the Stranger, what he was doing there, or who he was, or where he +is now, I can tell you nothing. He told me he was bound for “the +almighty mountains of Dry-facts and Realities,” which he kindly pointed +out to me among the carvings of his walking-stick. He then sighed +wearily, very wearily, and scooted. I think he came to no good; but he +never came in my way again. + +And now you know the yarn of the two stuffed lions and the alligator with +the eagle in his jaws. + + Ever yours, + + ALLAN QUATERMAIN. + + + + +XXIII. + + + _From the Baron Bradwardine to Edward Waverley_, _Esq._, _of Waverley + Honour_. + +The Baron explains the mysterious circumstances of his affair with his +third cousin, Sir Hew Halbert.—“Waverley,” chap. xiv. + + Tully Veolan, May 17, 1747. + +SON EDWARD,—Touching my quarrel with Sir Hew Halbert, anent which I told +you no more than that it was “settled in a fitting manner,” you have long +teased me for an ampler explanation. This I have withheld, as conceiving +that it tended rather to vain quolibets and jesting, than to that respect +in which the duello, or single combat, should be regarded by gentlemen of +name and coat armour. But Sir Hew being dead, and buried with his +fathers, the matter may be broached as among friends and persons of +honour. The ground of our dispute, as ye know, was an unthinking scoff +of Sir Hew’s, he being my own third cousin by the mother’s side, Anderson +of Ettrick Hall having intermarried, about the time of the Solemn League +and Covenant, with Anderson of Tushielaw, both of which houses are +connected with the Halberts of Dinniewuddie and with the Bradwardines. +But _stemmata quid faciunt_? Sir Hew, being a young man, and the maut, +as the vulgar say, above the meal, after a funeral of one of our kin in +the Cathedral Kirkyard of St. Andrews, we met at Glass’s Inn, where, in +the presence of many gentlemen, occurred our unfortunate dissension. + +We encountered betimes next morning, on a secluded spot of the sands hard +by the town, at the Eden-mouth. {190} The weapons were pistols, Sir Hew, +by a slight passing infirmity, being disabled from the use of the sword. +Inchgrabbit was my second, and Strathtyrum did the same office for my +kinsman, Sir Hew. The pistols being charged and primed, and we aligned +forenent each other at the convenient distance of twelve paces, the word +was given to fire, and both weapons having been discharged, and the smoke +having cleared away, Sir Hew was discovered fallen to the ground, +_procumbus humi_, and exanimate. The blood was flowing freely from a +face-wound, and my unhappy kinsman was senseless. At this moment we +heard a voice, as of one _clamantis in eremo_, cry “_Fore_!” to which +paying no heed in the natural agitation of our spirits, we hurried to +lift my fallen opponent and examine his wound. Upon a closer search it +proved to be no shot-wound, but a mere clour, or bruise, whereof the +reason was now apparent, he having been struck by the ball of a golfer +(from us concealed by the _dunes_, or bunkers, of sand) and not by the +discharge of my weapon. At this moment a plebeian fellow appeared with +his _arma campestria_, or clubs, cleeks, irons, and the like, under his +arm, who, without paying any attention to our situation, struck the ball +wherewith he had felled my kinsman in the direction of the hole. +Reflection directed us to the conclusion that both pistols had missed +their aim, and that Sir Hew had fallen beneath a chance blow from this +fellow’s golf-ball. But as my kinsman was still _hors de combat_, and +incapable of further action, being unwitting, too, of the real cause of +his disaster, Inchgrabbit and Strathtyrum, in their discretion as +seconds, or _belli judices_, deemed it better that we should keep a still +sough, and that Sir Hew should never be informed concerning the cause of +his discomfiture. This resolution we kept, and Sir Hew wore, till the +day of his late lamented decease, a bullet among the seals of his watch, +he being persuaded by Strathtyrum that it had been extracted from his +brain-pan, which certainly was of the thickest. But this was all a bam, +or bite, among young men, and a splore to laugh over by our three selves, +nor would I have it to go abroad now that Sir Hew is dead, as being +prejudicial to the memory of a worthy man, and an honourable family +connected with our own. Wherefore I pray you keep a still sough +hereanent, as you love me, who remain—Your loving good father, + + BRADWARDINE. + + + + +APPENDIX + + +Note on Letter of Mr. Surtees to Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, p. 64. + +NO literary forgeries were ever much better done than the sham ballads +which Surtees of Mainsforth imposed on Sir Walter Scott. The poems were +spirited and good of their kind; and though we wonder now that some of +them could take in an expert, it is by no means assured that we are even +to-day acquainted with the whole of Surtees’ frauds. Why a man otherwise +honourable, kindly, charitable, and learned, exercised his ingenuity so +cruelly upon a trusting correspondent and a staunch friend, it is hardly +possible to guess. The biographers of Surtees maintain that he wanted to +try his skill on Scott, then only known to him by correspondence; and +that, having succeeded, he was afraid to risk Scott’s friendship by a +confession. This is plausible; and if good may come out of evil, we may +remember that two picturesque parts of “Marmion” are due to one confessed +and another certain _supercherie_ of Surtees. It cannot be said in his +defence that he had no conception of the mischief of literary frauds; in +more than one passage of his correspondence he mentions Ritson’s +detestation of these practices. “To literary imposition, as tending to +obscure the path of inquiry, Ritson gave no quarter,” says this arch +literary impostor. + +A brief account of Surtees’ labour in the field of sham ballad writing +may be fresh to many people who merely know him as the real author of +“Barthram’s Dirge” and of “The Slaying of Anthony Featherstonhaugh.” In +an undated letter of 1806, Scott, writing from Ashestiel, thanks Surtees +for his “obliging communications.” Surtees manifestly began the +correspondence, being attracted by the “Border Minstrelsy.” Thus it +appears that Surtees did _not_ forge “Hobbie Noble” in the first edition +of the “Minstrelsy”; for he makes some suggestions as to the “Earl of +Whitfield,” dreaded by the hero of that ballad, which Scott had already +published. But he was already deceiving Scott, who writes to him about +“Ralph Eure,” or “Lord Eure,” and about a “Goth, who melted Lord Eure’s +gold chain.” This Lord Eure is doubtless the “Lord Eurie” of the ballad +in the later editions of the “Border Minstrelsy,” a ballad actually +composed by Surtees. That wily person immediately sent Scott a ballad on +“The Feud between the Ridleys and Featherstones,” in which Scott believed +to the day of his death. He introduced it in “Marmion.” + + The whiles a Northern harper rude + Chaunted a rhyme of deadly feud, + How the fierce Thirlwalls and Ridleys all, &c. + +In his note (“Border Minstrelsy,” second edition, 1808, p. xxi.) Scott +says the ballad was taken down from an old woman’s recitation at the +Alston Moor lead-mines “by the agent there,” and sent by him to Surtees. +Consequently, when Surtees saw “Marmion” in print he had to ask Scott not +to print “_the_ agent,” as he does not know even the name of Colonel +Beaumont’s chief agent there, but “an agent.” Thus he hedged himself +from a not impossible disclaimer by the agent at the mines. + +Readers of “Marmion” will remember how + + Once, near Norham, there did fight + A spectre fell, of fiendish might, + In likeness of a Scottish knight, + With Brian Bulmer bold, + And trained him nigh to disallow + The aid of his baptismal vow. + +This legend is more of Surtees’ fun. “The most singular tale of this +kind,” says Sir Walter, “is contained in an extract communicated to me by +my friend Mr. Surtees, of Mainsforth, who copied it from a MS. note in a +copy of Burthogge “On the Nature of Spirits, 1694, 8vo,” which had been +the property of the late Mr. Gill. It was not in Mr. Gill’s own hand: +but probably an hundred years older, and was said to be “E libro Convent. +Dunelm. per T. C. extract.;” this T. C. being Thomas Cradocke, Esq. +Scott adds, that the passage, which he gives in the Latin, suggested the +introduction of the tourney with the Fairy Knight in “Marmion.” Well, +_where_ is Cradocke’s extract? The original was “lost” before Surtees +sent his “copy” to Sir Walter. “The notes had been carelessly or +injudiciously shaken out of the book.” Surtees adds, another editor +confirms it, that no such story exists in any MS. of the Dean and Chapter +of Durham. No doubt he invented the whole story, and wrote it himself in +mediæval Latin. + +Not content with two “whoppers,” as Mr. Jo Gargery might call them, +Surtees goes on to invent a perfectly incredible heraldic bearing. He +found it in a MS. note in the “Gwillim’s Heraldry” of Mr. Gyll or +Gill—the name is written both ways. “He beareth per pale or and arg., +over all a spectre passant, _shrouded sable_”—“he” being Newton, of +Beverley, in Yorkshire. Sir Walter actually swallowed this amazing fib, +and alludes to it in “Rob Roy” (1818). But Mr. Raine, the editor of +Surtees’ Life, inherited or bought his copy of Gwillim, that of Mr. Gill +or Gyll; “and I find in it no trace of such an entry.” “Lord +Derwentwater’s Good-Night” is probably entirely by Surtees. “A friend of +Mr. Taylor’s” gave him a Tynedale ballad, “Hey, Willy Ridley, winna you +stay?” which is also “aut Diabolus aut Robertus.” As to “Barthram’s +Dirge,” “from Ann Douglas, a withered crone who weeds my garden,” copies +with various tentative verses in Surtees’ hand have been found. Oddly +enough, Sir Walter had once discovered a small sepulchral cross, upset, +in Liddesdale, near the “Nine Stane Rig;” and this probably made him more +easily deceived. Surtees very cleverly put some lines, which _could_ not +have been original, in brackets, as his own attempt to fill up lacunæ. +Such are + + [When the dew fell cold and still, + When the aspen grey forget to play, + And the mist clung to the hill.] + +Any one reading the piece would say, “It must be genuine, for the +_confessed_ interpolations are not in the ballad style, which the +interpolator, therefore, could not write.” An attempt which Surtees made +when composing the song, and which he wisely rejected, could not have +failed to excite Scott’s suspicions. It ran— + + They buried him when the bonny may + Was on the flow’ring thorn; + And she waked him till the forest grey + Of every leaf was lorn; + + Till the rowan tree of gramarye + Its scarlet clusters shed, + And the hollin green alone was seen + With its berries glistening red. + +Whether Surtees’ “Brown Man of the Muirs,” to which Scott also gave a +place in his own poetry, was a true legend or not, the reader may decide +for himself. + +Concerning another ballad in the “Minstrelsy”—“Auld Maitland”—Professor +Child has expressed a suspicion which most readers feel. What Scott told +Ellis about it (Autumn, 1802) was, that he got it in the Forest, “copied +down from the recitation of an old shepherd by a country farmer.” Who +was the farmer? Will Laidlaw had employed James Hogg, as shepherd. +Hogg’s mother chanted “Auld Maitland.” Hogg first met Scott in the +summer of 1801. The shepherd had already seen the first volume of the +“Minstrelsy.” Did he, thereupon, write “Auld Maitland,” teach his mother +it, and induce Laidlaw to take it down from her recitation? The old lady +said she got it from Andrew Moir, who had it “frae auld Baby Mettlin, who +was said to have been another nor a gude ane.” But we have Hogg’s own +statement that “aiblins ma gran’-mither was an unco leear,” and this +quality may have been hereditary. On the other side, Hogg could hardly +have held his tongue about the forgery, if forgery it was, when he wrote +his “Domestic Manners and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott” (1834). The +whole investigation is a little depressing, and makes one very shy of +unauthenticated ballads. + + * * * * * + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{20} Who knows what may happen? I may die before he sees the light; so +I will add among my friends SKALAGRIM LAMB’S-TAIL. + +{43} Can Mrs. Gamp mean ‘dial’? + +{47} 1887. + +{50} In his familiar correspondence, it will be observed, Herodotus does +not trouble himself to maintain the dignity of history. + +{53} Mr. Flinders Petrie has just discovered and sent to Mr. Holly, of +Trinity, Cambridge, the well-known traveller, a wall-painting of a +beautiful woman, excavated by the Egypt Exploration Society, from the +ruined site of the Temple of Aphrodite in Naucratis. Mr. Holly, in an +affecting letter to the _Academy_, states that he recognises in this +picture “an admirable though somewhat archaic portrait of SHE.” There +can thus be little or no doubt that SHE was Rhodopis, and therefore +several hundred years older than she said. But few will blame her for +being anxious not to claim her full age. + +This unexpected revelation appears to throw light on some fascinating +peculiarities in the behaviour of SHE. + +{56} The great intimacy between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Quiverful, +indicated by Mrs. Proudie’s use of the Bishop’s Christian name—and that +abbreviated—has amazed the discoverer and editor of her correspondence. + +{60a} This signature of Mrs. Proudie’s is so unusual an assumption of +the episcopal style, that it might well cast a doubt on the authenticity +of her letter. But experts pronounce it genuine. “Barnum,” of course, +is “Baronum Castrum,” the rather odd Roman name of Barchester. + +{60b} It has been seen that Mrs. Quiverful did not obey this injunction. + +{65} This man was well known to Sir Walter Scott, who speaks of his +curious habits in an unpublished manuscript. + +{125} Mr. Forth, we are sure, is quite wrong, and none of the scholars +he quotes has said anything of the kind. + +{129} “He” clearly means, not Addison, but Professor Forth, the lady’s +husband. + +{130} It was not Asiatics, but Aztecs; not Pittites, but Hittites! +Woman cares little for these studies!—A.L. + +{133} The editor has no doubt that some one was—Miss Watson. Cf. +‘Belinda.’ + +{139} Owing to the sudden decease of the Dean in well-known and +melancholy circumstances, this letter was not delivered. + +{140} Alas, not wisely! But any careful reader of “The Silence of Dean +Maitland” will see that the Baby was an anachronism.—ED. + +{146} This appears to have been a favourite remark of Mr. Skimpole’s. +It will be noticed that, quite without intending it, Mr. Skimpole was the +founder of our New Cyrenaic School. + +{147} Mr. Skimpole’s recollections of classical ritual are a little +mixed hereabouts. He refers to Mr. Honeyman’s projected union with the +widow of Mr. Bromley, the famous hatter. + +{151} Colonel Newcome, indeed. + +{154} Non, Monsieur, je ne cite ni “Woodsworth” ni “le vieux Williams.” + +{165} Mr. Potts ought to have consulted the edition of 1833, where he +would have found the verse as quoted by Mr. Gandish. + +{166} And a nice mixture it must have been!—A. L. + +{184} The wooden bed fastened in an ox-waggon. + +{185} Mr. Quatermain has just said that the donga was filled by a +roaring torrent. Is there not some inconsistency here? + +{190} At the _High Hole_, indeed.—A. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Old Friends + Essays in Epistolary Parody + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: March 1, 2013 [eBook #1991] +[This file was first posted on April 16, 1999] + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD FRIENDS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1890 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The Baron at St. Andrews. From an old painting" +title= +"The Baron at St. Andrews. From an old painting" +src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>OLD FRIENDS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>ESSAYS IN EPISTOLARY +PARODY</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +ANDREW LANG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LONGMAN’S, GREEN, AND CO.<br +/> +AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16<sup>th</sup> STREET<br /> +1890</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED +BY</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET +SQUARE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LONDON</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall"><i>TO</i></span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>MISS RHODA BROUGHTON</i></p> +<h2>PREFACE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> studies in this volume +originally appeared in the “St. James’s +Gazette.” Two, from a friendly hand, have been +omitted here by the author of the rest, as <i>non sua +poma</i>. One was by Mr. <span class="smcap">Richard +Swiveller</span> to a boon companion and brother in the lyric +Apollo; the other, though purporting to have been addressed by +Messrs. <span class="smcap">Dombey</span> & <span +class="smcap">Son</span> to Mr. <span class="smcap">Toots</span>, +is believed, on internal evidence, to have been composed by the +patron of the <span class="smcap">Chicken</span> himself. A +few prefatory notes, an introductory essay, and two letters have +been added.</p> +<p>The portrait in the frontispiece, copied by Mr. T. Hodge from +an old painting in the Club at St. Andrews, is believed to +represent the Baron Bradwardine addressing himself to his +ball.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">A. L.</p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">I.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. Arthur Pendennis</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">II.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From the Hon. Cecil Bertie to the Lady +Guinevere</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">III.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mr. Redmond Barry to his Uncle</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">IV.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mrs. Gamp to Mrs. Prig</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">V.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Herodotus of Halicarnassus to Sophocles the +Athenian</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">VI.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mrs. Proudie to Mrs. Quiverful</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mrs. Quiverful to Mrs. Proudie</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">VII.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Robert Surtees</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>of +Mainsforth</i>, <i>to Jonathan Oldbuck</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>of +Monkbarns</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Jonathan Oldbuck</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>of +Monkbarns</i>, <i>to Robert Surtees</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, +<i>Mainsforth</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Robert Surtees</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>to Jonathan +Oldbuck</i>, <i>Esq.</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">VIII.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Nicholas to the Editor of the</i> ‘<i>St. +James’s Gazette</i>’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">IX.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From the Earl of Montrose to Captain Dugald +Dalgetty</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Captain Dugald Dalgetty</i>, <i>of +Drumthwacket</i>, <i>to the Most Noble and Puissant Prince +James</i>, <i>Earl of Montrose</i>, <i>commanding the musters of +the King in Scotland</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">X.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mr. Lovelace to John Belford</i>, <i>Esq.</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page90">90</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XI.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Miss Catherine Morland to Miss Eleanor +Tilney</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XII.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Montague Tigg</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>to Mr. David +Crimp</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page102">102</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mr. David Crimp to Montague Tigg</i>, +<i>Esq.</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XIII.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Christian to Piscator</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page113">113</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Piscator to Christian</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XIV.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Truthful James to Mr. Bret Harte</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page120">120</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XV.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Professor Forth to the Rev. Mr. Casaubon</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From the Rev. Mr. Casaubon to James Forth</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>Professor of Etruscan</i>, <i>Oxford</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Professor Forth to Rev. Mr. Casaubon</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mrs. Forth</i>, <i>Bradmore Road</i>, +<i>Oxford</i>, <i>to David Rivers</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, +<i>Milnthorpe</i>, <i>Yorkshire</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From David Rivers</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>to Mrs. +Forth</i>, <i>Oxford</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mrs. Casaubon to William Ladislaw</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>Stratford-on-Avon</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From William Ladislaw</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>to the Hon. +Secretary of the Literary and Philosophical Mechanics’ +Institute</i>, <i>Middlemarch</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page131">131</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From William Ladislaw</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>to Mrs. +Casaubon</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page132">132</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mrs. Casaubon to Mrs. Forth</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page132">132</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XVI.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Euphues to Sir Amyas Leigh</i>, <i>Kt.</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Sir Amyas Leigh to Euphues</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XVII.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mr. Paul Rondelet to the Very Rev. Dean +Maitland</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XVIII.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Harold Skimpole</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>to the Rev. +Charles Honeyman</i>, <i>M.A.</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From the Rev. Charles Honeyman to Harold Skimpole</i>, +<i>Esq.</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XIX.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Miss Harriet to M. Guy de Maupassant</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page153">153</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XX.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From S. Gandish</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>to the</i> +‘<i>Newcome Independent</i>’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Thomas Potts</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>of the</i> +‘<i>Newcome Independent</i>,’ <i>to S. Gandish</i>, +<i>Esq.</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page164">164</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XXI.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Monsieur Lecoq</i>, <i>Rue Jérusalem</i>, +<i>Paris</i>, <i>to Inspector Bucket</i>, <i>Scotland +Yard</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page167">167</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Count Fosco to Samuel Pickwick</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, +<i>G.C.M.P.C.</i>, <i>Goswell Road</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page170">170</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mr. Pickwick to the Count Fosco</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Perker</i>, <i>Solicitor</i>, +<i>Gray’s Inn</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page174">174</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Monsieur Lecoq to Inspector Bucket</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XXII.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page178">178</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">XXIII.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>From the Baron Bradwardine to Edward Waverley</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>of Waverley Honour</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page189">189</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">APPENDIX</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Note on Letter of Mr. Surtees to Mr. Jonathan +Oldbuck</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page197">197</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>FRIENDS +IN FICTION</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Every</span> fancy which dwells much with +the unborn and immortal characters of Fiction must ask itself, +Did the persons in contemporary novels never meet? In so +little a world their paths must often have crossed, their orbits +must have intersected, though we hear nothing about the adventure +from the accredited narrators. In historical fiction +authors make their people meet real men and women of +history—Louis XI., Lazarus, Mary Queen of Scots, General +Webbe, Moses, the Man in the Iron Mask, Marie Antoinette; the +list is endless. But novelists, in spite of Mr. +Thackeray’s advice to Alexandre Dumas, and of his own +example in “Rebecca and Rowena,” have not introduced +each other’s characters. Dumas never pursued the +fortunes of the Master of Ravenswood after he was picked up by +that coasting vessel in the Kelpie’s Flow. Sometimes +a meeting between characters in novels by different hands looked +all but unavoidable. “Pendennis” and +“David Copperfield” came out simultaneously in +numbers, yet Pen never encountered Steerforth at the University, +nor did Warrington, in his life of journalism, jostle against a +reporter named David Copperfield. One fears that the Major +would have called Steerforth a tiger, that Pen would have been +very loftily condescending to the nephew of Betsy Trotwood. +But Captain Costigan would scarcely have refused to take a sip of +Mr. Micawber’s punch, and I doubt, not that Litimer would +have conspired darkly with Morgan, the Major’s sinister +man. Most of those delightful sets of old friends, the +Dickens and Thackeray people, might well have met, though they +belonged to very different worlds. In older novels, too, it +might easily have chanced that Mr. Edward Waverley of Waverley +Honour, came into contact with Lieutenant Booth, or, after the +Forty-five, with Thomas Jones, or, in Scotland, Balmawhapple +might have foregathered with Lieutenant Lismahagow. Might +not even Jeanie Deans have crossed the path of Major Lambert of +the “Virginians,” and been helped on her way by that +good man? Assuredly Dugald Dalgetty in his wanderings in +search of fights and fortune may have crushed a cup or rattled a +dicebox with four gallant gentlemen of the King’s +Mousquetaires. It is agreeable to wonder what all these +very real people would have thought of their companions in the +region of Romance, and to guess how their natures would have +acted and reacted on each other.</p> +<p>This was the idea which suggested the following little essays +in parody. In making them the writer, though an assiduous +and veteran novel reader, had to recognise that after all he +knew, on really intimate and friendly terms, comparatively few +people in the Paradise of Fiction. Setting aside the +dramatic poets and their creations, the children of +Molière and Shakspeare, the reader of novels will find, +may be, that his airy friends are scarce so many as he +deemed. We all know Sancho and the Don, by repute at least; +we have all our memories of Gil Blas; Manon Lescaut does not fade +from the heart, nor her lover, the Chevalier des Grieux, from the +remembrance. Our mental picture of Anna Karénine is +fresh enough and fair enough, but how few can most of us recall +out of the myriad progeny of George Sand! Indiana, +Valentine, Lélia, do you quite believe in them, would you +know them if you met them in the Paradise of Fiction? Noun +one might recognise, but there is a haziness about La Petite +Fadette. Consuelo, let it be admitted, is not evanescent, +oblivion scatters no poppy over her; but Madame Sand’s +later ladies, still more her men, are easily lost in the forests +of fancy. Even their names with difficulty return to us, +and if we read the roll-call, would Horace and Jacques cry +<i>Adsum</i> like the good Colonel? There are living +critics who have all Mr. George Meredith’s heroines and +heroes and oddities at their finger ends, and yet forget that +musical name, like the close of a rich hexameter, Clare Doria +Forey. But this is a digression; it is perhaps admitted +that George Sand, so great a novelist, gave the world few +characters who live in and are dear to memory. We can just +fancy one of her dignified later heroines, all self-renunciation +and rural sentiment, preaching in vain to that real woman, Emma +Bovary. <i>Her</i> we know, her we remember, as we remember +few, comparatively, of Balzac’s thronging faces, from La +Cousine Bette to Séraphitus Séraphita. Many +of those are certain to live and keep their hold, but it is by +dint of long and elaborate preparation, description, +analysis. A stranger intermeddleth not with them, though we +can fancy Lucien de Rubempré let loose in a country +neighbourhood of George Sand’s, and making sonnets and love +to some rural <i>châtelaine</i>, while Vautrin might stray +among the ruffians of Gaboriau, a giant of crime. Among M. +Zola’s people, however it may fare with others, I find +myself remembering few: the guilty Hippolytus of “La +Curée,” the poor girl in “La Fortune des +Rougon,” the Abbé Mouret, the artist in +“L’Oeuvre,” and the half idiotic girl of the +farm house, and Hélène in “Un Page +d’Amour.” They are not amongst M. Zola’s +most prominent creations, and it must be some accident that makes +them most memorable and recognisable to one of his readers.</p> +<p>Probably we all notice that the characters of fiction who +remain our intimates, whose words come to our lips often, whose +conduct in this or that situation we could easily forecast, are +the characters whom we met when we were young. We may be +wrong in thinking them the best, the most true and living of the +unborn; perhaps they only seem so real because they came fresh to +fresh hearts and unworn memories. This at least we must +allow for, when we are tempted to say about novelists, “The +old are better.” It was we who, long ago, were young +and better, better fitted to enjoy and retain the pleasure of +making new visionary acquaintances. If this be so, what an +argument it is in favour of reading the best books first and +earliest in youth! Do the ladies who now find Scott slow, +and Miss Austen dull, and Dickens vulgar, and Thackeray prosy, +and Fielding and Richardson impossible, come to this belief +because they began early with the volumes of the circulating +library? Are their memories happily stored with the words +and deeds of modern fictitious romps, and passionate governesses, +and tremendous guardsmen with huge cigars? Are the people +of—well, why mention names of living authors?—of whom +you will—are those as much to the young readers of 1890 as +Quentin Durward, and Colonel Newcome, and Sam Weller, and Becky +Sharp, and Anne Elliot, and Elizabeth Bennett, and Jane Eyre were +to young readers of 1860? It may very well be so, and we +seniors will not regret our choice, and the young men and maids +will be pleased enough with theirs. Yet it is not +impossible that the old really are better, and do not gain all +their life and permanent charm merely from the unjaded memories +and affections with which we came to them long ago.</p> +<p>We shall never be certain, for even if we tried the experiment +of comparing, we are no longer good judges, our hearts are with +our old friends, whom we think deathless; their birth is far +enough off in time, but they will serve us for ours.</p> +<p>These friends, it has been said, are not such a very numerous +company after all. Most of them are children of our own +soil, their spirits were made in England, or at least in Great +Britain, or, perhaps, came of English stock across the seas, like +our dear old Leather Stocking and Madam Hester Prynne. +Probably most of us are insular enough to confess this +limitation; even if we be so unpatriotic to read far more new +French than new English novels. One may study M. Daudet, +and not remember his Sidonie as we remember Becky, nor his Petit +Chose or his Jack as we remember David Copperfield. In the +Paradise of Fiction are folk of all nations and tongues; but the +English (as Swedenborg saw them doing in his vision of Heaven) +keep very much to themselves. The American visitors, or +some of them, disdain our old acquaintances, and associate with +Russian, Spanish, Lithuanian, Armenian heroes and heroines, +conversing, probably, in some sort of French. Few of us +“poor islanders” are so cosmopolitan; we read foreign +novels, and yet among all the brilliant persons met there we +remember but a few. Most of my own foreign friends in +fiction wear love-locks and large boots, have rapiers at their +side which they are very ready to draw, are great trenchermen, +mighty fine drinkers, and somewhat gallant in their conduct to +the sex. There is also a citizen or two from +Furetière’s “Roman Bourgeois,” there is +Manon, aforesaid, and a company of picaroons, and an archbishop, +and a lady styled Marianne, and a newly ennobled Count of +mysterious wealth, and two grisettes, named Mimi and Musette, +with their student-lovers. M. Balzac has introduced us to +mystics, and murderers, and old maids, and doctors, and +adventurers, and poets, and a girl with golden eyes, and +malefactors, and bankrupts, and mad old collectors, peasants, +<i>curés</i>, critics, dreamers, debauchees; but all these +are somewhat distant acquaintances, many of them undesirable +acquaintances. In the great “Comédie +Humaine” have you a single real friend? Some of +Charles de Bernard’s folk are more akin to us, such as +“La Femme de Quarante Ans,” and the owner of the +hound Justinian, and that drunken artist in +“Gerfaut.” But an Englishman is rather +friendless, rather an alien and an outcast, in the society of +French fiction. Monsieur de Camors is not of our +<i>monde</i>, nor is the Enfant du Siècle; indeed, perhaps +good Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard is as sympathetic as anyone in +that populous country of modern French romance. Or do you +know Fifi Vollard?</p> +<p>Something must be allowed for strange manners, for exotic +ideas, and ways not our own. More perhaps is due to what, +as Englishmen think, is the lack of <i>humour</i> in the most +brilliant and witty of races. We have friends many in +Molière, in Dumas, in Rabelais; but it is far more +difficult to be familiar, at ease, and happy in the circles to +which Madame Sand, M. Daudet, M. Flaubert, or M. Paul Bourget +introduce us. M. Bourget’s old professor, in +“Le Disciple,” we understand, but he does not +interest himself much in us, and to us he is rather a curiosity, +a “character,” than an intimate. We are driven +to the belief that humour, with its loving and smiling +observation, is necessary to the author who would make his +persons real and congenial, and, above all, friendly. Now +humour is the quality which Dumas, Molière, and Rabelais +possess conspicuously among Frenchmen. Montaigne has it +too, and makes himself dear to us, as the humorous novelists make +their fancied people dear. Without humour an author may +draw characters distinct and clear, and entertaining, and even +real; but they want atmosphere, and with them we are never +intimate. Mr. Alfred Austin says that “we know the +hero or the heroine in prose romance far more familiarly than we +know the hero or heroine in the poem or the drama.” +“Which of the serious characters in Shakspeare’s +plays are not indefinite and shadowy compared with Harry Esmond +or Maggie Tulliver?” The <i>serious</i> +characters—they are seldom very familiar or definite to us +in any kind of literature. One might say, to be sure, that +he knows Hotspur a good deal more intimately than he knows Mr. +Henry Esmond, and that he has a pretty definite idea of Iago, +Othello, Macbeth, King Lear, as definite as he has (to follow Mr. +Austin) of Tito Melema. But we cannot reckon Othello, or +Macbeth, or King Lear as <i>friends</i>; nay, we would rather +drink with the honest ancient. All heroes and the heroines +are usually too august, and also too young, to be friendly with +us; to be handled humorously by their creators. We know +Cuddie Headrigg a great deal better than Henry Morton, and Le +Balafré better than Quentin Durward, and Dugald Dalgetty +better than anybody. Humour it is that gives flesh and +blood to the persons of romance; makes Mr. Lenville real, while +Nicholas Nickleby is only a “walking +gentleman.” You cannot know Oliver Twist as you know +the Dodger and Charlie Bates. If you met Edward Waverley +you could scarce tell him from another young officer of his time; +but there would be no chance of mistake about the Dugald +creature, or Bailie Nicol Jarvie, or the Baron Bradwardine, or +Balmawhapple.</p> +<p>These ideas might be pushed too far; it might be said that +only the persons in “character parts”—more or +less caricatures—are really vivid in the +recollection. But Colonel Newcome is as real as Captain +Costigan, and George Warrington as the Chevalier Strong. +The hero is commonly too much of a <i>beau +ténébreux</i> to be actual; Scott knew it well, and +in one of his unpublished letters frankly admits that his heroes +are wooden, and no favourites of his own. He had to make +them, as most authors make their heroes, romantic, amorous, and +serious; few of them have the life of Roland Graeme, or even of +Quentin Durward. Ivanhoe might put on the cloak of the +Master of Ravenswood, the Master might wear the armour of the +Disinherited Knight, and the disguise would deceive the +keenest. Nay, Mr. Henry Esmond might pass for either, if +arrayed in appropriate costume.</p> +<p>To treat a hero with humour is difficult in romance, all but +impossible. Hence the heroes are rarely our friends, except +in Fielding, or, now and then, in Thackeray. No book is so +full of friends as the novel that has no hero, but has Rawdon +Crawley, Becky, Lady Jane, Mr. Jim Crawley, MacMurdo, Mrs. Major +O’Dowd, and the rest. Even Dobbin is too much the +hero to be admitted among our most kindly acquaintances. So +unlucky are heroes that we know Squire Western and the +Philosopher Square and Parson Adams far better than even that +unheroic hero, Tom Jones, or Joseph Andrews. The humour of +Fielding and his tenderness make Amelia and Sophia far more sure +of our hearts than, let us say, Rowena, or the Fair Maid of +Perth, or Flora MacIvor, or Rose Bradwardine. It is humour +that makes Mr. Collins immortal, and Mrs. Bennett, and Emma; +while a multitude of nice girls in fiction, good girls too, are +as dead as Queen Tiah.</p> +<p>Perhaps, after all, this theory explains why it is so very +hard to recall with vividness the persons of our later +fiction. Humour is not the strong point of novelists +to-day. There may be amateurs who know Mr. Howells’s +characters as their elders know Sophia and Amelia and Catherine +Seyton—there may be. To the old reader of romance, +however earnestly he keeps up with modern fiction, the salt of +life seems often lacking in its puppets or its persons. +Among the creations of living men and women I, for one, feel that +I have two friends at least across the sea, Master Thomas Sawyer +and his companion, Huckleberry Finn. If these are not real +boys, then Dr. Farrar’s Eric <i>is</i> a real boy; I cannot +put it stronger. There is a lady on those distant shores +(for she never died of Roman fever) who I may venture to believe +is not unfriendly—Miss Annie P. Miller—and there is a +daughter of Mr. Silas Lapham whom one cannot readily forget, and +there is a beery journalist in a “Modern Instance,” +an acquaintance, a distant professional acquaintance, not a +friend. The rest of the fictitious white population of the +States are shadowy to myself; I have often followed their +fortunes with interest, but the details slip my aging memory, +which recalls Topsy and Uncle Remus.</p> +<p>To speak of new friends at home is a more delicate +matter. A man may have an undue partiality for the airy +children of his friends’ fancy. Mr. Meredith has +introduced me to an amiable Countess, to a strange country girl +named Rhoda, to a wonderful old Æschylean nurse, to some +genuine boys, to a wise Youth,—but that society grows as +numerous as brilliant. Mr. Besant has made us friends with +twins of literary and artistic genius, with a very +highly-cultured Fellow of Lothian, with a Son of Vulcan, with a +bevy of fair but rather indistinguishable damsels, like a group +of agreeable-looking girls at a dance. But they are too +busy with their partners to be friendly. We admire them, +but they are unconcerned with us. In Mr. Black’s +large family the Whaup seems most congenial to some strangers; +the name of one of Mr. Payn’s friendly lads is Legion, and +Miss Broughton’s dogs, with <i>their</i> friend Sara, and +Mrs. Moberley, welcome the casual visitor with hospitable +care. Among the kindly children of a later generation one +may number a sailor man with a wooden leg; a Highland gentleman, +who, though landless, bears a king’s name; an Irish +chevalier who was out in the ’45; a Zulu chief who plied +the axe well; a private named Mulvaney in Her Majesty’s +Indian army; an elderly sportsman of agile imagination or +unparalleled experience in remote adventure. <a +name="citation20"></a><a href="#footnote20" +class="citation">[20]</a> All these a person who had once +encountered them would recognise, perhaps, when he was fortunate +enough to find himself in their company.</p> +<p>There are children, too, of a dead author, an author seldom +lauded by critics, who, possibly, have as many living friends as +any modern characters can claim. A very large company of +Christian people are fond of Lord Welter, Charles Ravenshoe, +Flora and Gus, Lady Ascot, the boy who played fives with a brass +button, and a dozen others of Henry Kingsley’s men, women, +and children, whom we have laughed with often, and very nearly +cried with. For Henry Kingsley had humour, and his children +are dear to us; while which of Charles Kingsley’s far more +famous offspring would be welcome—unless it were Salvation +Yeo—if we met them all in the Paradise of Fiction?</p> +<p>It is not very safe, in literature as in life, to speak well +of our friends or of their families. Other readers, other +people, have theirs, whom we may not care much for, whom we may +even chance never to have met. In the following Letters +from Old Friends (mainly reprinted from the “St. +James’s Gazette”), a few of the writers may, to some +who glance at the sketches, be unfamiliar. When Dugald +Dalgetty’s epistle on his duel with Aramis was written, a +man of letters proposed to write a reply from Aramis in a certain +journal. But his Editor had never heard of any of the +gentlemen concerned in that affair of honour; had never heard of +Dugald, of Athos, Porthos, Aramis, nor D’Artagnan. He +had not been introduced to them. This little book will be +fortunate far beyond its deserts if it tempts a few readers to +extend the circle of their visionary acquaintances, of friends +who, like Brahma, know not birth, nor decay, “sleep, +waking, nor trance.”</p> +<p>A theme more delicate and intimate than that of our Friends in +fiction awaits a more passionate writer than the present +parodist. Our <i>Loves</i> in fiction are probably +numerous, and our choice depends on age and temperament. In +romance, if not in life, we can be in love with a number of +ladies at once. It is probable that Beatrix Esmond has not +fewer knights than Marie Antoinette or Mary Stuart. These +ladies have been the marks of scandal. Unkind things are +said of all three, but our hearts do not believe the evil +reports. Sir Walter Scott refused to write a life of Mary +Stuart because his opinion was not on the popular side, nor on +the side of his feelings. The reasoning and judicial +faculties may be convinced that Beatrix was “other than a +guid ane,” but reason does not touch the affections; we see +her with the eyes of Harry Esmond, and, like him, “remember +a paragon.” With similar lack of logic we believe +that Mrs. Wenham really had one of her headaches, and that Becky +was guiltless on a notorious occasion. Bad or not so bad, +what lady would we so gladly meet as Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, whose +kindness was so great that she even condescended to be amusing to +her own husband? For a more serious and life-long affection +there are few heroines so satisfactory as Sophia Western and +Amelia Booth (<i>née</i> Harris). Never before nor +since did a man’s ideal put on flesh and blood—out of +poetry, that is,—and apart from the ladies of +Shakspeare. Fielding’s women have a manly honour, +tolerance, greatness, in addition to their tenderness and +kindness. Literature has not their peers, and life has +never had many to compare with them. They are not +“superior” like Romola, nor flighty and destitute of +taste like Maggie Tulliver; among Fielding’s crowd of +fribbles and sots and oafs they carry that pure moly of the Lady +in “Comus.” It is curious, indeed, that men +have drawn women more true and charming than women themselves +have invented, and the heroines of George Eliot, of George Sand +(except Consuelo), and even of Miss Austen, do not subdue us like +Di Vernon, nor win our sympathies like Rebecca of York. +They may please and charm for their hour, but they have not the +immortality of the first heroines of all—of Helen, or of +that Alcmena who makes even comedy grave when she enters, and +even Plautus chivalrous. Poetry, rather than prose fiction, +is the proper home of our spiritual mistresses; they dwell where +Rosalind and Imogen are, with women perhaps as unreal or as ideal +as themselves, men’s lost loves and unforgotten, in a +Paradise apart.</p> +<h2><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>I.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. +Arthur Pendennis</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">Mr. Newcome, a married man and an exile at +Boulogne, sends Mr. Arthur Pendennis a poem on his undying +affection for his cousin, Miss Ethel Newcome. He desires +that it may be published in a journal with which Mr. Pendennis is +connected. He adds a few remarks on his pictures for the +Academy.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Boulogne, March 28.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Pen</span>,—I have finished +Belisarius, and he has gone to face the Academicians. There +is another little thing I sent—“Blondel” I call +it—a troubadour playing under a castle wall. They +have not much chance; but there is always the little print-shop +in Long Acre. My sketches of mail-coaches continue to +please the public; they have raised the price to a guinea.</p> +<p>Here we are not happier than when you visited us. My +poor wife is no better. It is something to have put my +father out of hearing of her mother’s tongue: that cannot +cross the Channel. Perhaps I am as well here as in +town. There I always hope, I always fear to meet <i>her</i> +. . . my cousin, you know. I think I see her face under +every bonnet. God knows I don’t go where she is +likely to be met. Oh, Pen, <i>hæret lethalis +arundo</i>; it is always right—the Latin Delectus! +Everything I see is full of her, everything I do is done for +her. “Perhaps she’ll see it and know the hand, +and remember,” I think, even when I do the mail-coaches and +the milestones. I used to draw for her at Brighton when she +was a child. My sketches, my pictures, are always making +that silent piteous appeal to her, <i>Won’t you look at +us</i>? <i>won’t you remember</i>? I dare say she has +quite forgotten. Here I send you a little set of rhymes; my +picture of Blondel and this old story brought them into my +mind. They are <i>gazés</i>, as the drunk painter +says in “Gerfaut;” they are veiled, a mystery. +I know she’s not in a castle or a tower or a cloistered +cell anywhere; she is in Park Lane. Don’t I read it +in the “Morning Post?” But I can’t, I +won’t, go and sing at the area-gate, you know. Try if +F. B. will put the rhymes into the paper. Do they take it +in in Park Lane? See whether you can get me a guinea for +these tears of mine: “Mes Larmes,” Pen, do you +remember?—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">C. N.</p> +<p>The verses are enclosed.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">THE NEW BLONDEL.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><i>O ma +Reine</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Although the Minstrel’s lost you long,<br +/> + Although for bread the Minstrel sings,<br /> +Ah, still for you he pipes the song,<br /> + And thrums upon the crazy strings!</p> +<p class="poetry">As Blondel sang by cot and hall,<br /> + Through town and stream and forest passed,<br /> +And found, at length, the dungeon wall,<br /> + And freed the Lion-heart at last—</p> +<p class="poetry">So must your hapless minstrel fare,<br /> + By hill and hollow violing;<br /> +He flings a ditty on the air,<br /> + He wonders if you hear him sing!</p> +<p class="poetry">For in some castle you must dwell<br /> + Of this wide land he wanders through—<br /> +In palace, tower, or cloistered cell—<br /> + He knows not; but he sings to <i>you</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">The wind may blow it to your ear,<br /> + And you, perchance, may understand;<br /> +But from your lattice, though you hear,<br /> + He knows you will not wave a hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your eyes upon the page may fall,<br /> + More like the page will miss your eyes;<br /> +You may be listening after all,<br /> + So goes he singing till he dies.</p> +<h2><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>II.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From the Hon. Cecil Bertie to +the Lady Guinevere</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">Mr. Cecil Tremayne, who served “Under +Two Flags,” an officer in her Majesty’s Guards, +describes to the Lady Guinevere the circumstances of his +encounter with Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller. The +incident has been omitted by Ouida and Mr. Henry James.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">You</span> ask me, Camarada, what I think +of the little American <i>donzella</i>, Daisy Miller? +<i>Hesterna Rosa</i>, I may cry with the blind old bard of +Tusculum; or shall we say, <i>Hesterna Margaritæ</i>? +Yesterday’s Daisy, yesterday’s Rose, were it of +Pæstum, who values it to-day? <i>Mais où sont +les neiges d’automne</i>? However, +yesterday—the day before yesterday, rather—Miss Annie +P. Miller was well enough.</p> +<p>We were smoking at the club windows on the Ponte Vecchio; +Marmalada, Giovanelli of the Bersaglieri, young Ponto of the +K.O.B.’s, and myself—men who never give a thought +save to the gold embroidery of their <i>pantoufles</i> or the +exquisite ebon laquer of their Russia leather +cricket-shoes. Suddenly we heard a clatter in the +streets. The riderless chargers of the Bersaglieri were +racing down the Santo Croce, and just turning, with a swing and +shriek of clattering spurs, into the Maremma. In the midst +of the street, under our very window, was a little thing like a +butterfly, with <i>yeux de pervenche</i>. You remember, +Camarada, Voltaire’s love of the <i>pervenche</i>; we have +plucked it, have we not? in his garden of Les Charmettes. +<i>Nous n’irons plus aux bois</i>! <i>Basta</i>!</p> +<p>But to return. There she stood, terror-stricken, +petrified, like her who of old turned her back on Zoar and beheld +the incandescent hurricane of hail smite the City of the +Plain! She was dressed in white muslin, <i>joli comme un +cœur</i>, with a myriad frills and flounces and knots of +pale-coloured ribbon. Open-eyed, open-mouthed, she stared +at the tide of foaming steeds, like a maiden martyr gazing at the +on-rushing waves of ocean! “Caramba!” said +Marmalada, “voilà une jeune fille pas trop bien +gardée!” Giovanelli turned pale, and, +muttering <i>Corpo di Bacco</i>, quaffed a <i>carafon</i> of +green Chartreuse, holding at least a quart, which stood by him in +its native pewter. Young Ponto merely muttered, +“Egad!” I leaped through the open window and +landed at her feet.</p> +<p>The racing steeds were within ten yards of us. Calmly I +cast my eye over their points. Far the fleetest, though he +did not hold the lead, was Marmalada’s charger, the Atys +gelding, by Celerima out of Sac de Nuit. With one wave of +my arm I had placed her on his crupper, and, with the same +action, swung myself into the saddle. Then, in a flash and +thunder of flying horses, we swept like tawny lightning down the +Pincian. The last words I heard from the club window, +through the heliotrope-scented air, were “Thirty to one on +Atys, half only if declared.” They were wagering on +our lives; the slang of the paddock was on their lips.</p> +<p>Onward, downward, we sped, the fair stranger lifeless in my +arms. Past scarlet cardinals in mufti, past brilliant +έτᾶιραὶ like those who swayed +the City of the Violet Crown; past <i>pifferari</i> dancing in +front of many an <i>albergo</i>; through the Ghetto with its +marmorine palaces, over the Fountain of Trevi, across the +Cascine, down the streets of the Vatican we flew among yells of +“Owner’s up,” “The gelding wins, hard +held,” from the excited <i>bourgeoisie</i>. Heaven +and earth swam before my eyes as we reached the Pons Sublicia, +and heard the tawny waters of Tiber swaying to the sea.</p> +<p><i>The Pons Sublicia was up</i>!</p> +<p>With an oath of despair, for life is sweet, I rammed my +persuaders into Atys, caught him by the head, and sent him +straight at the flooded Tiber!</p> +<p>“<i>Va-t-en donc</i>, <i>espèce de +type</i>!” said the girl on my saddle-bow, finding her +tongue at last. Fear, or girlish modesty, had hitherto kept +her silent.</p> +<p>Then Atys rose on his fetlocks! Despite his double +burden, the good steed meant to have it. He deemed, +perchance, he was with the Quorn or the Baron’s. He +rose; he sprang. The deep yellow water, cold in the +moon’s rays, with the farthest bank but a chill grey line +in the mist, lay beneath us! A moment that seemed an +eternity! Then we landed on the far-off further bank, and +for the first time I could take a pull at his head. I +turned him on the river’s brim, and leaped him back +again.</p> +<p>The runaway was now as tame as a driven deer in Richmond +Park.</p> +<p>Well, Camarada, the adventure is over. She was grateful, +of course. These <i>pervenche</i> eyes were suffused with a +dewy radiance.</p> +<p>“You can’t call,” she said, “for you +haven’t been introduced, and Mrs. Walker says we must be +more exclusive. I’m dying to be exclusive; but +I’m very much obliged to you, and so will mother be. +Let’s see. I’ll be at the Colosseum to-morrow +night, about ten. I’m bound to see the Colosseum, by +moonlight. Good-bye;” and she shook her pale parasol +at me, and fluttered away.</p> +<p>Ah, Camarada, shall I be there? <i>Que +scais-je</i>? Well, ’tis time to go to the dance at +the Holy Father’s. Adieu, Carissima.—Tout +à vous,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Cis</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>III.</h2> +<p class="gutsumm">Mr. Redmond Barry (better known as Barry +Lyndon) tells his uncle the story of a singular encounter at +Berlin with Mr. Alan Stuart, called Alan Breck, and well known as +the companion of Mr. David Balfour in many adventures. Mr. +Barry, at this time, was in the pay of Herr Potzdorff, of his +Prussian Majesty’s Police, and was the associate of the +Chevalier, his kinsman, in the pursuit of fortune.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Berlin, April 1, 1748.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Uncle Barry</span>,—I dictate to +Pippi, my right hand being wounded, and that by no common +accident. Going down the Linden Strasse yesterday, I +encountered a mob; and, being curious in Potzdorff’s +interest, penetrated to the kernel of it. There I found two +men of my old regiment—Kurz and another—at words with +a small, dark, nimble fellow, who carried bright and dancing eyes +in a pock-marked face. He had his iron drawn, a heavy +box-handled cut-and-thrust blade, and seemed ready to fall at +once on the pair that had been jeering him for his strange +speech.</p> +<p>“Who is this, lads?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Ein Engländer,” answered they.</p> +<p>“No Englishman,” says he, in a curious accent not +unlike our brogue, “but a plain gentleman, though he bears +a king’s name and hath Alan Breck to his +by-name.”</p> +<p>“Come, come,” says I in German, “let the +gentleman go his way; he is my own countryman.” This +was true enough for them; and you should have seen the +Highlander’s eyes flash, and grow dim again.</p> +<p>I took his arm, for Potzdorff will expect me to know all about +the stranger, and marched him down to the <i>Drei +Könige</i>.</p> +<p>“I am your host, sir; what do you call for, Mr. Stuart +of —?” said I, knowing there is never a Scot but has +the name of his kailyard tacked to his own.</p> +<p>“A King’s name is good enough for me; I bear it +plain. Mr. —?” said he, reddening.</p> +<p>“They call me the Chevalier Barry, of +Ballybarry.”</p> +<p>“I am in the better company, sir,” quoth he, with +a grand bow.</p> +<p>When a bowl of punch was brought he takes off his hat, and +drinks, very solemnly, “To the King!”</p> +<p>“Over the water?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Nay, sir, on <i>this</i> side,” he said; and I +smoked the Jacobite. But to shorten the story, which amuses +my tedium but may beget it in you, I asked him if he knew the +cards.</p> +<p>“I’m just daft when I get to the cartes,” he +answered in his brogue, and we fell to piquet. Now my Scot +wore a very fine coat, and on the same very large smooth silver +buttons, well burnished. Therefore, perceiving such an +advantage as a skilled player may enjoy, I let him win a little +to whet his appetite, but presently used his buttons as a mirror, +wherein I readily detected the strength of the cards he +held. Before attempting this artifice, I had solemnly +turned my chair round thrice.</p> +<p>“You have changed the luck, sir,” says Mr. Breck, +or Stuart, presently; and, rising with a mighty grave air, he +turned his coat and put it on inside out.</p> +<p>“Sir,” says I, “what am I to understand by +this conduct?”</p> +<p>“What for should not I turn my coat, for luck, if you +turn your chair?” says he. “But if you are not +preceesely satisfied, I will be proud to step outside with +you.”</p> +<p>I answered that we were not in a Highland wilderness, and that +if no malice were meant no affront was taken. We continued +at the game till, though deprived of my mirror, I had won some +500 Fredericks. On this he rose, saying, “Sir, in +this purse you will find the exact sum that I am owing you, and I +will call for my empty sporran the morn. It was Rob +Roy’s before it was mine.” Therewith he laid on +the table a sort of goatskin pouch, such as Highlanders gird +about their loins, and marched forth.</p> +<p>I set to work at opening his pouch, that was fastened by a +spring and button, seeming easy enough of access. But I had +scarce pressed the button when lo! a flash, a pistol shot, and my +right hand is grazed with a bullet that flew out of the +bag. This Highlander of the Devil had some mechanism in his +purse that discharged a small steel pistol when unwarily +opened. My hand is but slightly wounded, yet I cannot hold +my sword, nor hath my search brought me any news of Alan +Breck. He has vanished like an emissary of the Devil or the +Pretender, as I doubt not he is. But I will have his blood, +if he is not one of their Scotch fairies.—Your loving +Nephew,</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Redmond Barry</span>, <span +class="smcap">of Ballybarry</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—The Fredericks were in the bag, all told.</p> +<h2><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>IV.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mrs. Gamp to Mrs. +Prig</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">Mrs. Gamp nurses an old friend who is under a +singular delusion.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Todgers’s.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My precious Betsy</span>,—Which when +last we parted it was not as I could wish, but bearing malice in +our hearts. But, as often and often Mrs. Harris have said +it before me, with the tears in her angel eyes—one of them +having a slight cast from an accident with the moderator lamp, +Harris being quick in his temper—often and often have she +said to me: “Ah, Sairey, the quarrels of friends is +affection’s best restorer.” And good reason to +know it she have, with a husband as was ever true, and never gave +her no cause to form the wish to pizen them as has good looks, +but, for I will not deceive you, ready with his hands.</p> +<p>And so, between you and me may it be, Betsy Prig, as was +constant partners afore them Chuzzlewidges, and Nadgetts, and +Lewsomses, and Tiggses, and Chuffeys got that mixed and that +aggerawating that to remember who of them poisoned which or for +why in a slime draught, it makes my poor head go round, nor could +such be soothing to the temper. So let bygones be bygones +between us. For, wanting of my Betsy, I am now in a nice +state of confusion, with a patient as was well beknown to me in +younger days, when there wasn’t so much of a shadder on +this mortial vial, <a name="citation43"></a><a href="#footnote43" +class="citation">[43]</a> meaning Mr. Pecksniff. Which you +will not forget of him, by reason of his daughter as married that +Jonadge, and his collars as mints of money must have gone to the +getting them up; but is now at Todgers’s, and confused in +his poor mind, thinking hisself Somebody else high in +Parliament. And wonder at it I do not, them Chuzzlewidges +and Chuffeys being that distracting, and ever proving to be some +other pusson in disguise, as would confuge a calkilating boy.</p> +<p>So being applied to for to nightly him, there in that very +sick room—for why should I deceive you?—I meets the +daily nuss; and, Betsy, I was that overcome to have such a +pardner propoged to me as I had to ring and ask the young woman +immediate for a small glass of their oldest rum, being what I am +not accustomed to but having had a turn. For, will you +believe it, she was not a widger woman as has experience in the +ways of men, but a huzzy in a bragian cap like them the Nuns wear +in “Mariar Monk,” as you may have seen it in the +small sweet-shops, at a penny. And her hands as white as +her papistry cap, and she a turning up of her nose at what I had +took, and a presuming to give <i>me</i> advice about nussing, as +St. Pancradge’s Churchyard wouldn’t hold them +I’ve seen comfortable to their long homes, and no +complaints made but ever the highest satigefaction. So I +ups and gives her a bit of my mind; and Mrs. Todgers coming down, +“It’s she goes or me,” says I, “for never +will Sairey Gamp nuss, sick or monthly, with a pardner as has not +confidence in me, nor I in her, but contrary.” Then +<i>she</i> says she’ll go and speak to the doctor about it; +and out she tramps with her nose in the air, and sneezing most +awful, not being accustomed to that which I take, find it +strengthening, but as it have been a cause of sorrow and strife +let it be nameless between you and me. For to have the name +“Snuffey” brought forward it is what the heart can +forgive, but never forget in this valley of the shaddock.</p> +<p>I have nussed a many lunacies, Betsy, and in a general way am +dispoged to humour them rather than set them right up agin the +fire when fractious. But this Pecksniff is the tryingest +creature; he having got it in his mind as he is Somebody very +high, and talking about the House, and Bills, and clauses, and +the “sacred cause of Universal Anarchy,” for such was +his Bible language, though meaning to me no more than the babe +unborn. Whereby Mrs. Harris she have often said to me, +“What <i>do</i> them blessed infants occupy their little +minds with afore they are called into that condition where, +unless changed at nuss, Providence have appointed them?” +And many a time have I said, “Seek not, Mrs. Harris, to +diskiver; for we know not wot’s hidden in our own hearts, +and the torters of the Imposition should not make me diwulge +it.”</p> +<p>But Pecksniff is that aggravating as I can hardly heed the +words I now put on the paper.</p> +<p>“Some of my birds have left me,” says he, +“for the stranger’s breast, and one have took wing +for the Government benches. <a name="citation47"></a><a +href="#footnote47" class="citation">[47]</a> But I have +ever sacrificed my country’s happiness to my own, and I +will not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct +now. I know the purity of my own motives, and while my +Merry, my little Sir William, playful warbler, prattles under +this patriarchal wing, and my Cherry, my darling Morley, supports +the old man’s tottering walk, I can do without my Goschy, +my dears, I can do without him.” And wants to borrer +<i>my</i> umbreller for them “to rally round,” the +bragian idgiot!</p> +<p>A chattering creature he always were, and will be; but, Betsy, +I have this wery momink fixed him up with a shoehorn in his +mouth, as was lying round providential, and the strings of my +bonnet, and the last word as he will say this blessed night was +some lunacy about “denouncing the clogeure,” as +won’t give much more trouble now.</p> +<p>So having rung for a shilling’s worth of gin-and-water +warm, and wishing you was here to take another of the same, I +puts my lips to it, and drinks to one as was my frequent pardner +in this mortial vale, and am, as in old days, my Betsy’s +own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Sairey +Gamp</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>V.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Herodotus of Halicarnassus +to Sophocles the Athenian</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">Herodotus describes, in a letter to his friend +Sophocles, a curious encounter with a mariner just returned from +unknown parts of Africa.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">To</span> Sophocles, the Athenian, +greeting. Yesterday, as I was going down to the +market-place of Naucratis, I met Nicaretê, who of all the +<i>hetairai</i> in this place is the most beautiful. Now, +the <i>hetairai</i> of Naucratis are wont somehow to be +exceedingly fair, beyond all women whom we know. She had +with her a certain Phocæan mariner, who was but now +returned from a voyage to those parts of Africa which lie below +Arabia; and she saluted me courteously, as knowing that it is my +wont to seek out and inquire the tidings of all men who have +intelligence concerning the ends of the earth.</p> +<p>“Hail to thee, Nicaretê,” said I; +“verily thou art this morning as lovely as the dawn, or as +the beautiful Rhodopis that died ere thou wert born to us through +the favour of Aphrodite.” <a name="citation50"></a><a +href="#footnote50" class="citation">[50]</a></p> +<p>Now this Rhodopis was she who built, they say, the Pyramid of +Mycerinus: wherein they speak not truly but falsely, for Rhodopis +lived long after the kings who built the Pyramids.</p> +<p>“Rhodopis died not, O Herodotus,” said +Nicaretê, “but is yet living, and as fair as ever she +was; and he who is now my lover, even this Phanes of +Phocæa, hath lately beheld her.”</p> +<p>Then she seemed to me to be jesting, like that scribe who told +me of Krôphi and Môphi; for Rhodopis lived in the +days of King Amasis and of Sappho the minstrel, and was beloved +by Charaxus, the brother of Sappho, wherefore Sappho reviled him +in a song. How then could Rhodopis, who flourished more +than a hundred years before my time, be living yet?</p> +<p>While I was considering these things they led me into the +booth of one that sold wine; and when Nicaretê had set +garlands of roses on our heads, Phanes began and told me what I +now tell thee but whether speaking truly or falsely I know +not. He said that being on a voyage to Punt (for so the +Egyptians call that part of Arabia), he was driven by a north +wind for many days, and at last landed in the mouth of a certain +river where were many sea-fowl and water-birds. And thereby +is a rock, no common one, but fashioned into the likeness of the +head of an Ethiopian. There he said that the people of that +country found him, namely the Amagardoi, and carried him to their +village. They have this peculiar to themselves, and unlike +all other peoples whom we know, that the woman asks the man in +marriage. They then, when they have kissed each other, are +man and wife wedded. And they derive their names from the +mother; wherein they agree with the Lycians, whether being a +colony of the Lycians, or the Lycians a colony of theirs, Phanes +could not give me to understand. But, whereas they are +black and the Lycians are white, I rather believe that one of +them has learned this custom from the other; for anything might +happen in the past of time.</p> +<p>The Amagardoi have also this custom, such as we know of none +other people; that they slay strangers by crowning them with +amphoræ, having made them red-hot. Now, having taken +Phanes, they were about to crown him on this wise, when there +appeared among them a veiled woman, very tall and goodly, whom +they conceive to be a goddess and worship. By her was +Phanes delivered out of their hands; and “she kept him in +her hollow caves having a desire that he should be her +lover,” as Homer says in the Odyssey, if the Odyssey be +Homer’s. And Phanes reports of her that she is the +most beautiful woman in the world, but of her coming thither, +whence she came or when, she would tell him nothing. But he +swore to me, by him who is buried at Thebes (and whose name in +such a matter as this it is not holy for me to utter), that this +woman was no other than Rhodopis the Thracian. For there is +a portrait of Rhodopis in the temple of Aphrodite in Naucratis, +and, knowing this portrait well, Phanes recognised by it that the +woman was Rhodopis. <a name="citation53"></a><a +href="#footnote53" class="citation">[53]</a> Therefore +Rhodopis is yet living, being now about one hundred and fifty +years of age. And Phanes added that there is in the country +of the Amagardoi a fire; and whoso enters into that fire does not +die, but is “without age and immortal,” as Homer says +concerning the horses of Peleus. Now, I would have deemed +that he was making a mock of that sacred story which he knows who +has been initiated into the mysteries of Demeter at +Eleusis. But he and Nicaretê are about to sail +together without delay to the country of the Amagardoi, believing +that there they will enter the fire and become immortal. +Yet methinks that Rhodopis will not look lovingly on +Nicaretê, when they meet in that land, nor Nicaretê +on Rhodopis. Nay, belike the amphora will be made hot for +one or the other.</p> +<p>Such, howbeit, was the story of Phanes the Phocæan, +whether he spoke falsely or truly. The God be with +thee.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Herodotus</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>VI.</h2> +<p class="gutsumm">Mrs. Proudie, wife of the Bishop of +Barchester, admits Mrs. Quiverful into her confidence. Mrs. +Proudie first takes pleasure in a new and pious acquaintance, +Lady Crawley (<i>née</i> Sharp), but afterwards discovers +the true character of this insidious and dangerous woman.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">The Palace, Barchester, July 17.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Letitia</span>,—The appearance +of mumps in a small family of fourteen like yours, is indeed one +of those dispensations which teach us how mysterious are the +ways! But I need not tell you to be most careful about +cold, which greatly adds to the virulence of the complaint, and +it is difficult for you, in lodgings at Brighton, to keep a +watchful eye on so many at once. May this discipline be +blessed to you, and to the dear children!</p> +<p>I have much to tell you of Barchester. The light worldly +tone of some families in this place (I will not mention the +Grantleys nor the Arabins) has been checked, I hope, by one of +those accidents which surely, surely, are not to be considered +accidents alone! You know how strong is my objection to +fancy fairs or bazaars, too often rather scenes of giddy +merriment than exhibitions of genuine Christian feeling. +Yet by means of one of these (how strangely are things ordered!) +a happy change, I trust, is being brought about in our midst.</p> +<p>You have heard of Hogglestock, though you may never have +visited that benighted and outlying parish. Indeed, I was +never there myself till last week, when Tom felt it his duty +(though woefully misdirected, to my mind, but we are fallible +creatures) to go and open a bazaar in that place for the +restoration of the church. <a name="citation56"></a><a +href="#footnote56" class="citation">[56]</a> I accompanied +him; for I trusted that an opportunity might be made for me, and +that I might especially bear in on the mind of the rector’s +wife the absolute necessity of Sabbath-day schools. The +rector is a Mr. Crawley. He led us on our arrival into a +scene of red cloth, wax dolls most indelicately displayed, +cushions, antimacassars, and similar <i>idols</i>. The +Bishop’s speech (I composed it myself) you will read in the +“Barchester Guardian,” which I send you. While +approving the <i>end</i> he rebuked the <i>means</i>, and took +the opportunity to read a much-needed lesson on <i>Jesuitry</i> +and the dangers of worldliness in high ecclesiastical +places. Let those wince who feel a sense of their own +backslidings. When the Bishop had ended, I determined to +walk once through the bazaar just to make sure that there were no +lotteries nor games of chance—a desecration of our +<i>mites</i> now too, too frequent. As I was returning +through the throng, alas! of <i>pleasure-seekers</i>, and wishing +that I might scourge them out of the schoolroom, Mr. Crawley met +me, in company with a lady who desired, he said, to be presented +to me. He is a distant relation of the well-known county +family, the Crawleys, of Queen’s Crawley; the present +baronet, Sir Rawdon, having recently married Miss Jane Dobbin, +daughter of Colonel Dobbin. The lady who was now introduced +to me, and whose <i>still pleasing</i> face wears an aspect of +humble devoutness, was Lady Crawley, mother of the present +baronet.</p> +<p>“Madam,” she said, “I came here in the +belief that I was discharging a pious duty. My life, alas! +has been one of sore trial, and I only try to do good.” . . +.</p> +<p>I was going to say that I had seen her name in a score of +charity lists, and knew her as a patroness of the Destitute +Orange-Girls, the Neglected Washerwomen, and the Distressed +Muffin-Men. But she shook her head; and then, looking up at +me with eyes like a <i>saint’s</i> (if our +<i>privileges</i> permitted us to believe in these fabulous +beings of the Romish superstition), she said, “Ah, +no! I have always been in the wrong. The beautiful +address of the Bishop of Barchester has awakened me, and +convinced me that the <i>path</i> does not lie through Fancy +Fairs. I have to begin again. Who shall guide +me?”</p> +<p>I trust I am not subject to vanity; but the news that I (for I +composed the Charge, as I may almost call it) had been the +instrument of so affecting a change did not fail to please +me. I thanked Lady Crawley, and expressed my deep interest +in her altered convictions. Finally she promised to come on +a visit to us at the Palace (she usually resides at Bath or +Cheltenham), and has been three days an inmate. Never have +I met a more singular example of what the Truth can do for one +who, as she admits, was long ago a worldling. “I have +seen the vanity of it,” she tells me, with tears in her +eyes; <a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>and +from her example I expect an <i>awakening</i> among our +worldlings. They will follow the path of a <i>titled</i> +person. Tom is much interested in his <i>convert</i>, as he +thinks her. Not to <i>me</i> be the glory!—Your +assured friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Emily +Barnum</span>. <a name="citation60a"></a><a href="#footnote60a" +class="citation">[60a]</a></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mrs. Proudie to Mrs. +Quiverful</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">The Palace, Barchester, July 22.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Letitia</span>,—My hand +trembles so with indignation that I can hardly direct my +pen. Pray <i>burn</i> my letter of July 17 at once, if you +have not already done so. <a name="citation60b"></a><a +href="#footnote60b" class="citation">[60b]</a> We have been +<i>deceived</i> in that woman! She is a brazenfaced, +painted daughter of Heth, and has no more right to the title of +Lady Crawley than <i>you</i> have. I am told that she was +at one time the paramour of Lord Steyne, and that her conduct +made it impossible for her husband to live with her. And +this is the woman who has come within the gates of the palace of +a Christian prelate; nay, more, who has secured his signature to +a cheque of very considerable value. I think my suspicions +were first excited by the disappearance of the brandy in the +liqueur-stand, and by meeting “her ladyship’s” +maid carrying the bottle up to her room! I spoke to the +Bishop, but he would not listen to me—quite unlike himself; +and even turned on me in her defence.</p> +<p>Entering his study hastily on the following day, I found her +kneeling at his feet, her yellow hair (dyed, no doubt, for she +must be sixty if she is a day) about her shoulders, doing what do +you suppose—? <i>Confessing herself to the Bishop of +Barchester</i>!</p> +<p>And he was listening to her “confession” with an +appearance of interest, and with one of her hands in his.</p> +<p>“Serpent!” I said—and her green eyes +glittered just like one—“unhand his +lordship!” She gave a little laugh and said, +“Dear Mrs. Proudie, do not let me monopolise the +Bishop’s time. Perhaps I am in the way?”</p> +<p>“And you shall go out of it,” I said. +“You are one of those who cause Israel to sin. You +bring the Confessional, for it is no better, into the house of a +Prelate of the Protestant Church of England!” Would +you believe that she had the assurance to answer me with a +passage from the Prayer Book, which I have often felt certain +must be <i>mistranslated</i>?</p> +<p>“Pack, madam,” said I; “we know who can +quote Scripture for his own ends!”</p> +<p>And I pretty soon saw her out of the house, though <i>not in +time</i>; for the infatuated Bishop had already given her a +cheque for a sum which I cannot bring myself to tell you, for the +Funds of the Destitute Orange-Girls. Not a penny of it will +they ever see; nor do I approve of such ostentatious alms in any +case.—Yours in haste,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Emily +Barnum</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—I have heard from Lady Courtney all her +history. It is <i>abominable</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>VII.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Robert Surtees</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>of Mainsforth</i>, <i>to Jonathan Oldbuck</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>of Monkbarns</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">It is well known that Mr. Surtees of +Mainsforth not only palmed off on Sir Waiter Scott several +ballads of his own manufacture, but also invented and pretended +to have found in a document (since burned) the story of the duel +with the spectre knight which occurs in Marmion. In the +following letter this ingenious antiquary plays the same game +with Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, of Monkbarns, the celebrated +antiquary. A note on the subject is published in the +Appendix.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Mainsforth, May 9, 1815.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,—I am something of +the Mussulman’s humour, as you know, and never willingly +pass by a scrap of printed paper, however it comes in my +way. I cannot, indeed, like the “Spectator,” +“mention a paper kite from which I have received great +improvement,” nor “a hat-case which I would not +exchange for all the beavers in Great Britain.” It is +in a less unlikely place that I have made a little discovery +which will interest you, I hope; for as it chances, not only has +a lost ballad been at least partially recovered, but . . . +however, I will keep your learned patience on the tenterhooks for +a while.</p> +<p>Business taking me to Newcastle of late, I found myself in +Bell’s little shop on the quay. <a name="citation65"></a><a +href="#footnote65" class="citation">[65]</a> You know the +man by report at least; he is more a collector than a bookseller, +though poor; and I verily believe that he would sell all his +children—Douglas Bell, Percy Bell, Hobbie Bell, and Kinmont +Bell—“for a song.” Ballads are his +foible, and he can hardly be made to part with one of the +broadsides in his broken portfolios. Well, <i>semel +insanivimus omnes</i> (by the way, did it ever strike you that +the Roman “cribbed” that line, as the vulgar say, +from an epigram in the Anthology?), and you and I will scarce +throw the first stone at the poor man’s folly. +However, I am delaying your natural eagerness. So now for +the story of my great discovery. As our friend Bell would +scarce let his dusty broadsheet lumber out of his hands, I was +turning to leave him in no very good humour, when I noticed a +small and rather long octavo, in dirty and crumpled vellum, lying +on the top of a heap of rubbish, Boston’s “Crook in +the Lot,” “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” and +other chap-book trumpery. I do not know what good angel +that watches over us collectors made me take up the thing, which +I found to be nothing less than a copy of old Guillaume +Coquillart. It was not Galliot du Pré’s +edition, in <i>lettres rondes</i>, but, still more precious had +it only been complete, an example in black letter. I give +you the whole title. First the motto, in the frieze of an +architectural design, ΑΓΑΘΗ +ΤΥΧΗ. Then, in small +capitals—</p> +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Les Œuvres</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Maistre Gvil</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">laume Coquil</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">lart en son vi</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">vant Official</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">de Reims. Nov</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">vellement Re</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">veves et Corri</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">gees</span>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">M. D. XXXV.</span></p> +<p>On les vend à Lyon en la<br /> +Maison de Françoys Juste,<br /> +Demourant devant nostre<br /> +Dame de Confort.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>By bad (or good) luck this rare piece was imperfect—the +back gaping and three sheets gone. But, in turning over the +leaves, I saw something that brought my heart, as they say, into +my mouth. So, beating down Bell from his upset price of +fourpence to six bawbees, I pushed the treasure carelessly in my +pocket, and never stopped till I was in a lonely place by +Tyne-side and secure from observation. Then, with my knife, +I very carefully uncased Maistre Guillaume, and extracted the +sheet of parchment, printed in black letter with red capitals, +that had been used to line the binding. A corner of it had +crept out, through the injuries of time, and on that, in +Bell’s “crame” (for it is more a crame than a +shop), I had caught the mystic words Runjt macht Gunjt.</p> +<p>And now, I think, Monkbarns, you prick up your ears and wipe +your spectacles. That is the motto, as every one of the +learned family of antiquaries is well aware, and, as you have +often told me, of your great forbear, the venerable and +praiseworthy Aldobrand Oldenbuck the Typographer, who fled from +the Low Countries during the tyrannical attempt of Philip II. to +suppress at once civil and religious liberty. As all the +world knows, he withdrew from Nuremberg to Scotland, and set up +his Penates and (what you may not hitherto have been aware of) +his Printing Press at Fairport, and under your ancestral roof of +Monkbarns. But, what will surprise you yet more, the +parchment sheet which bears Aldobrand’s motto in German +contains printed matter in good Scots! This excellent and +enterprising man must have set himself to ply his noble art in +his new home, and in our unfamiliar tongue.</p> +<p>Yet, even now, we are not at the end of this most fortunate +discovery. It would appear that there was little demand for +works of learning and religion in Scotland, or at least at +Fairport; for the parchment sheet contains fragments of a Ballad +in the Scots tongue. None but a poor and struggling printer +would then have lent his types to such work, and fortunate for us +has been the poverty of your great ancestor. Here we have +the very earliest printed ballad in the world, and, though +fragmentary, it is the more precious as the style proves to +demonstration, and against the frantic scepticism even of a +Ritson, the antique and venerable character of those +compositions. I send you a copy of the Ballad, with the +gaps (where the tooth of time or of the worm, <i>edax rerum</i>, +hath impaired it) filled up with conjectural restorations of my +own. But how far do they fall short of the original +simplicity! <i>Non cuivis contingit</i>. As the title +is lacking, as well as the imprint, I have styled it</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">THE FRAGMENT OF THE +FAUSE LOVER AND THE DEAD LEMAN.</p> +<p>O Willie rade, and Willie gaed<br /> + Atween the shore and sea,<br /> +And still it was his dead Lady<br /> + That kept him company.</p> +<p>O Willie rade, and Willie gaed<br /> + Atween the [loch and heather],<br /> +And still it was his dead Lady<br /> + That [held his stirrup leather].</p> +<p>“O Willie, tak’ me up by ye,<br /> + Sae far it is I gang;<br /> +O tak’ me on your saddle bow,<br /> + Or [your day shall not be lang].”</p> +<p>“Gae back, gae back, ye fause ill wife,<br /> + To the grave wherein ye lie,<br /> +It never was seen that a dead leman<br /> + Kept lover’s company!</p> +<p>“Gae back, gae back frae me,” he said,<br /> + “For this day maun I wed,<br /> +And how can I kiss a living lass,<br /> + When ye come frae the dead?</p> +<p>“If ye maun haunt a living man,<br /> + Your brither haunt,” says he,<br /> +“For it was never my knife, but his<br /> + That [twined thy life and thee!]”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +</blockquote> +<p>We are to understand, I make no doubt, that Willie had been +too fortunate a lover, and that in his absence—the frailty +of his lady becoming conspicuous—her brother had avenged +the family honour according to that old law of Scotland which the +courteous Ariosto styles “l’ aspra legge di Scozia, +empia e severa.”</p> +<p>Pray let me know, at your leisure, what you think of this +<i>trouvaille</i>. It is, of course, entirely at your +service, if you think it worthy of a place in a new edition of +the “Minstrelsy.” I have no room to inflict +more ballads or legends on you; and remain, most faithfully +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. <span +class="smcap">Surtees</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page72"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 72</span><i>From Jonathan Oldbuck</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>of Monkbarns</i>, <i>to Robert Surtees</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>Mainsforth</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Monkbarns, June 1.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Sir</span>,—How kind hath +Fortune been to you, and, in a secondary degree, to myself. +Your letter must dispel the unreasoning and I fear envious +scepticism of MacCribb, who has put forth a plaunflet (I love +that old spelling) in which he derides the history of Aldobrand +Oldenbuck as a fable. The Ballad shall, indeed, have an +honoured place in my poor Collection whenever the public taste +calls for a new edition. But the original, what would I not +give to have it in my hands, to touch the very parchment which +came from the press of my revered ancestor, and, gloating on the +crabbed letters, confute MacCribb to his face <i>ipso visu et +tactu</i> of so inestimable a rarity. Exchanges—or +“swaps,” as the vulgar call them—are not +unknown among our fraternity. Ask what you will for this +treasure, to the half of my kingdom: my gold Aurelius (found at +Bermuckety, on the very limits of Roman Caledonia), my +“Complaynte of Scotland” (the only perfect copy +known),</p> +<blockquote><p>My copperplate, with almanacks<br /> +Engrav’d upon’t, and other knacks;<br /> +My moon-dial, with Napier’s bones<br /> +And several constellation stones.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Make your choice, in fact, of all my Gabions, as honest old +George Ruthven called them.</p> +<p>Nay, excuse the covetousness of an Antiquary, my dear sir; I +well know that nothing I could offer were worth a tithe of your +priceless discovery, the oldest printed Scots Ballad +extant. It shall suffice for me to look on it, under the +roof of Mainsforth, when next I make a raid across the +Border. I have conquered my passions, and can obey the last +of the Commandments. <i>Haud equiden invideo</i>, <i>minor +magis</i>. I need not bid you be watchful of your +booty.—Yours most faithfully,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Jonathan +Oldbuck</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page74"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 74</span><i>From Robert Surtees</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>to Jonathan Oldbuck</i>, <i>Esq.</i></p> +<p style="text-align: right">June 11.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Sir</span>,—Alas, your +warning comes too late. An accursed example of womankind, +fit descendant of that unhappy Betty Barnes, cook to Mr. +Warburton, who destroyed his ancient manuscript plays, hath +invaded my sanctum, and the original black-letter text of the +ballad has gone to join Shakspeare’s “Stephen” +and “Henry II.” She hath lit with it my study +fire, and it is fortunate indeed that I had made the copy of the +ballad for you. But the volume of Coquillart is alive to +testify to the authenticity of the poem; which, after all, is +needless evidence, as not even Ritson could suspect of either the +skill or the malice of such a forgery, Yours most faithfully,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert +Surtees</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>VIII.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Nicholas to the Editor of +the St. James’s Gazette</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">It is only too probable that a later +generation has forgotten “Nicholas,” the sporting +Prophet of “Fun,” in the reign of Mr. Hood the +younger. The little work, “Nicholas’s +Notes,” in which Mr. W. J. Prowse collected the papers of +the old Prophet, is, indeed, not an “edition de +looks,” as the aged Seer says, with his simple +humour. From the Paradise of Fiction, however (and the +Paradise of Touts), Nicholas has communicated, perhaps to the +Psychical Society, the following Epistle. His friendly +mention of a brother journalist speaks well for the Old +Man’s head and heart.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">The Paradise of Fiction, Feb. 9, +1888.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—My dear young friend, it +is ten to one, and no takers, that the public, than whom, between +you and me, I do not think much of them, have forgotten Nicholas, +or even never heard of the Prophet. Youth will be served; +and it is now between twenty years since he left off vaticinating +in “Fun,” during young Mr. Hood’s time, of +future sportive events for to come, and came to live <i>here</i> +with the other celebrated characters of Fiction, than whom I am +sure a more mixed lot, though perhaps a little gay. It +having come to the Prophet’s knowledge that some of them +was writing letters to “The St. James’s +Gazette” (than which I am sure none more respectable, +though perhaps a little not quite so attentive to sportive +interests as it might be), he have decided that Nicholas will +take up his pen once more, as of old.</p> +<p>The State of the Turf, my dear young friend, since an old but +still handsome bird would freely alight (when not warned off) on +Newmarket Heath, have caused Nicholas some anxiety. Sir, +between you and me, <i>it is rapidly getting no better</i>. +Here is Lord — (than whom a more sterling sportsman) as +good as saying to Sir — (than whom, perhaps), “Did +you ever hear of a sporting character called +Swindells?” And the Prophet <i>have</i> been told +that it may furnish matter for the gentlemen of the long +robe—which, in my time, many of them was backers of +horses.</p> +<p>And all along of what? Why, of the “inexplicable +in-and-out running of horses,” as the +“Standard” says, and as will often happen, you, +perhaps, having a likely dark one as you want to get light into a +high-class autumn handicap. The days is long past since +Nicholas was nuts on the game little Lecturer, but still has the +interests of the Turf at heart; and, my dear young friend, if +horses never ran in and out, where would be “the glorious +uncertainty of the sport”? On the whole, then, if +asked my opinion on this affair, the Prophet would +say—putting it ambiguous-like—“Gentlemen, when +there’s so much dirty linen to wash, can’t you +remember that we’re all pretty much tarred with the same +brush?” A great politician—which a lot of his +family is here, Coningsby, and the Young Duke, and many other +sportsmen—used to say as what the Turf was “a +gigantic engine of national demoralisation;” which Nicholas +is not quite sure but what he was right for him, though his +language on rather a large scale. Horses running in and out +is inexplicable! Why, gents all, which of us +<i>wouldn’t</i> do it, if he had the chance to put the pot +on handsome, human nature being what it is, especially +considering the lowness of the market odds as you have often and +often to be content with. In short, the more you stir it +the more it won’t exactly remind you of gales from Araby +the Blest; than which a more delightful country, only not to be +found on any atlas as Nicholas ever cast a glance at the map, +however large.</p> +<p>But enough of a subject than which perhaps one more painful to +me; the Prophet having often and often, in early days, been +warned off Newmarket Heath himself, and called a +“disreputable old tout,” though only labouring in his +vocation.</p> +<p>(Make a new beginning here, please, Printer.)</p> +<p>It have come to the knowledge of the Prophet that his +“Notes” are not quite so much read as they once was, +partly owing, no doubt, to the book being not so much an +“edition de looks” as rather a low-lived lot, to a +casual eye, at fourpence; the picture outside representing +Nicholas rather as having had too much for to drink than as a +prominent member of the Blue Ribbon Society, which it did not +exist in his period, nor would it have enjoyed, to any +considerable extent, my personal or pecuniary support, he having +something else to do with his money. (Printer, please put +in a full stop somewhere here, Nicholas being a little out of the +habit of writing for the periodical press.) He have also +heard that it is proposed in literary circles to start a +“Nicholas Society” for the purpose of printing a +limited edition of my works including my lost treatise of Knur +and Spell, on Japanese paper, illustrated with photo-gravelures; +they having come in since the Prophet’s period, though +perhaps a little gay.</p> +<p>But, my dear though exquisite young friends, is there no +better way of rallying round the Prophet than <i>this</i>? +I have heard, from characters in ancient literature, such as +Agamemnon—than whom a more energetic soldier, though +perhaps a trifle arbitrary—the Prophet <i>have</i> heard, I +say, that a deal of liquor used to be poured on the graves of +coves like him and me, and that it did them good. This may +be the case, and anyway the experiment is well worth trying; +though, I would say, do not let it be milk, as I gather was +customary in early times, as didn’t know any better; but, +if possible, a bottle or two of sherry wine, to which, as is well +beknown, Nicholas was partial. He will now conclude; and +the Prophet hopes that an experiment, than which, I am sure, one +more deeply interesting, will not be deferred; he not much taking +to the liquor here, though the company makes up for a great deal, +especially an Irish officer by the name of Costigan, than whom a +sweeter singer or a more honourable gentleman; and signs himself, +with gratitude for past favours, and kind respects to the Editor +of the “Guardian,”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Nicholas</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>IX.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From the Earl of Montrose to +Captain Dugald Dalgetty</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">Whoever has read the “Memoirs of +Monsieur d’Artagnan”—a Marshal in the French +King’s service—as they are published by Monsieur +Alexandre Dumas in “Les Trois Mousquetaires,” will +not have forgotten that duel behind the Luxembourg, in which, as +is declared, an Englishman ran away from the Chevalier +d’Herblay, called Aramis in his regiment. Englishmen +have never held that Monsieur Dumas was well informed about this +affair. The following letters of the Great Marquis and +Captain Dalgetty from the “Kirkhope Papers” prove +that Englishmen were in the right.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">—, 164-.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—Touching that I did, to +your apprehension, turn away from you with some show of coldness +on your late coming, it may be that you but little misread +me. But, for that no man is condemned without a hearing, I +would fain know under your own hand the truth concerning that +whereof a shameful report is bruited abroad, even in the +“Gallo Belgicus” and the “Fliegender +Mercoeur” of Leipsic—namely, that in a certain duel +lately fought in Paris behind the Palace of the Luxembourg, four +Englishmen encountering as many Musketeers of the French +King’s, one out of this realm, to our disgrace, shamefully +fled; and he (by report) Rittmaster Dugald Dalgetty. Till +which, bruit be either abolished, and the stain—as an ill +blot on a clean scutcheon—wiped away, or as shamefully +acknowledged as it is itself shameful, I abide, as I shall hear +from yourself,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Montrose</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span><i>From +Captain Dugald Dalgetty</i>, <i>of Drumthwacket</i>, <i>to the +Most Noble and Puissant Prince James</i>, <i>Earl of +Montrose</i>, <i>commanding the musters of the King in +Scotland</i>. <i>These</i>—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Lord</span>,—As touching the +bruit, or <i>fama</i>, as we said at the Mareschal College, I +shall forthwith answer, and that <i>peremptorie</i>. For +this story of the <i>duello</i>, as a man may say (though, +indeed, they that fought in it were not in the dual number, as +your Grecian hath it, but eight soldados—seven of them +gallant men), truly the story is of the longest; but as your +lordship will have it, though more expert with the sword than the +goosequill, I must even buckle to.</p> +<p>Let your lordship conceive of your poor officer, once +lieutenant and Rittmaster under that invincible monarch, the +bulwark of the Protestant faith, Gustavus the Victorious; +conceive, I say, Dugald Dalgetty, of Drumthwacket that should be, +in Paris, concerned with a matter of weight and moment not +necessary to be mooted or minted of. As I am sitting at my +tavern ordinary, for I consider that an experienced cavalier +should ever lay in provenant as occasion serveth, comes in to me +a stipendiary of my Lord Winter, bidding me know that his master +would speak to me: and that not <i>coram populo</i>, as I doubt +not your lordship said at St. Leonard’s College in St. +Andrews, but privily. Thereon I rise and wait on him; to be +brief—<i>brevis esse laboro</i>, as we said lang +syne—his lordship would have me to be of his backers in +private rencontre with four gentlemen of the King’s +Musketeers.</p> +<p>Concerning the cause of this duello, I may well say +<i>teterrima causa</i>. His lordship’s own sister +Milady Clarik was in question; she being, I fear me, rather akin +in her way of life to Jean Drocheils (whom your lordship may +remember; for, the Baillies expulsing her from Aberdeen, she +migrated to St. Andrews, <i>ad eundem</i>, as the saying is) than +like, in her walk and conduct, to a virtuous lady of a noble +family. She was, indeed, as current rumour had it, the +light o’love or <i>belle amie</i> of Monsieur +d’Artagnan, his lordship’s adversary.</p> +<p>But of siclike least said soonest mended. I take cloak +and sword, and follow with his lordship and two other experienced +cavaliers unto the place of rencontre, being a waste croft +whereon a loon was herding goats, behind the Palace of the +Luxembourg. Here we find waiting us four soldados, proper +tall men of their hands, who receive us courteously. He +that first gave cause of quarrel to my Lord Winter bore a worthy +name enough out of Gascony, that is <i>arida nutrix</i>, as we +said at the Mareschal College, of honourable soldados—to +wit, as I said, he was Monsieur d’Artagnan. To his +friends, howbeit, he gave sic heathen titles as I never saw or +heard of out of the Grecian books: namely, Monsieur Porthos, a +very tall man, albeit something of a <i>lourdaud</i>; Monsieur +Athos; and he that was to be mine own opposite, Monsieur +Aramis. Hearing these outlandish and insolent appellations, +I thought it becoming me, as an honourable cavalier, to resent +this fashion of presenting: and demurred that a gentleman of the +House of Dalgetty of Drumthwacket could neither take affront +from, nor give honourable satisfaction to, a nameless +landlouper. Wherein your lordship, I doubt me not, will +hold me justificate.</p> +<p>Lord Winter homologating mine opinion, he that called himself +Athos drew each of us apart, and whispered the true names and +qualities territorial of these gentlemen; the whilk, as may +befall honourable soldados, they had reason sufficient to conceal +while serving as private gentlemen in a regiment, though +disdaining to receive halberds, as unbecoming their birth. +He that aligned himself forenenst me was styled the Chevalier +d’Herblay; and, the word being given, we fell to.</p> +<p>Now, mine adversary declining to fight <i>comminus gladio</i>, +but breaking ground in a manner unworthy of a gallant soldado, +and the place, saving your presence, being somewhat slippery and +treacherous because of the goats that were fed there, I delivered +a sufficient onslaught; and he fell, his sword flying from his +hand. When I had taken his weapon—the <i>spolia +opima</i>, as we said at Mareschal College—I bid him rise, +and then discoursed him on the dishonour of such a hasty +defeat. Then, he confessing himself to me that, though +under arms, he was a young fledgeling priest in Popish orders, I +began upon him with such words on his disgracing the noble +profession of arms as might have made him choose to return to his +cloister; when suddenly he fled, and, being young and +light-footed, robbed me, not only of such caduacs and casualties +as an experienced cavalier might well take from his prisoner for +ransom, but also, as now it appears, of my good name. For I +doubt not that this musketeer priest, Monsieur Aramis, or +l’Abbé d’Herblay (for he hath as many names as +I have seen campaigns), was the loon that beguiled with a lying +tale the newsman of the “Gallo Belgicus.” And I +have ever seen that an honourable soldado will give the go-by to +these newsmen and their flying sheets, as unworthy of the notice +of honourable cavaliers; of whom (recommending your lordship for +the truth of my tale to my Lord Winter, now with his gracious +Majesty the King) I am fain to subscribe myself one, and your +lordship’s poor officer, as ye shall entreat him,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Dugald +Dalgetty</span>, of Drumthwacket,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Late Commander of the whole stift of +Dunklespiel<br /> +on the Lower Rhine.</p> +<h2><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>X.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mr. Lovelace to John +Belford</i>, <i>Esq.</i></p> +<p class="gutsumm">The following letter must have been omitted +from the papers to which Mr. Samuel Richardson, the editor of +“Clarissa,” had access. It was written, +apparently, after the disgraceful success of Lovelace’s +disgraceful adventure, and shows us that scoundrel in company not +choice, indeed, but better than he deserved, the society of Mr. +Thomas Jones, a Foundling. Mr. Jones’s admirable wife +(née Western), having heard of Lovelace’s conduct, +sent her husband to execute that revenge which should have been +competed for by every man of heart. It will be seen that +Mr. Jones was no match for the perfidies of Mr. Lovelace. +The cynical reflections of that bad man on Lord Fellamar, and his +relations with Mrs. Jones, will only cause indignation and +contempt among her innumerable and honourable admirers. +They will remember the critical and painful circumstances as +recorded in Mr. Henry Fielding’s biography of Mr. +Jones.</p> +<blockquote><p><i>Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras</i><br /> +<i>Ictibus crebris juvenes protervi</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">Curse</span> upon thy stars, Jack! +How long wilt thou beat me about the head with thy musty +citations from Nat Lee and thy troop of poetical divines? +Thou hast driven me to motto-hunting for the comeliness of mine +epistle, like the weekly scribblers. See, Jack, I have an +adventure to tell thee! It is not the avenging Morden that +hath flashed through the window, sword in hand, as in my +frightful dream; nor hath the statue of the Commandant visited +me, like Don Juan, that Rake of Spain; but a challenger came +hither that is not akin to my beloved Miss. Dost remember a +tall, fresh-coloured, cudgel-playing oaf that my Lady Bellaston +led about with her—as maids lead apes in hell, though he +more of an ape than she of a maid—’tis a year +gone? This brawny-beefed chairman hath married a fortune +and a delicious girl, you dog, Miss Sophia Western, of Somerset, +and is now in train, I doubt not, to beget as goodly a tribe of +chuckle-headed boys and whey-faced wenches as you shall see round +an old squire’s tomb in a parish church. Wherefore +does he not abide at this his appointed lawful husbandry, I +marvel; but not a whit!</p> +<p>Our cursed adventure hath spread from the <i>flippanti</i> of +both sexes down to the heathenish parts of Somerset; where it +hath reached Madam Jones’s ears, and inflamed this pretty +vixen with a desire to avenge Miss Harlowe on me, and by the +cudgel of Mr. Jones, his Sophia having sent him up to town for no +other purpose. De la Tour, my man, came to me yesterday +morning with the tidings that the New Giant, as he supposes, +waits on me to solicit the favour of my patronage. I am in +the powdering closet, being bound for a rout, and cry, “Let +the Giant in!” Then a heavy tread: and, looking up, +what do I see but a shoulder-of-mutton fist at my nose, and lo! a +Somerset tongue cries, “Lovelace, thou villain, thou shalt +taste of this!” A man in a powdering closet cannot +fight, even if he be a boxing glutton like your Figs and other +gladiators of the Artillery Ground. Needs must I +parley. “What,” says I, “what, the happy +Mr. Jones from the West! What brings him here among the +wicked, and how can the possessor of the beauteous Sophia be a +moment from her charms?”</p> +<p>“Take not her name,” cries my clod-hopper, +“into thy perjured mouth. ’Tis herself sends me +here to avenge the best, the most injured . . . ” +Here he fell a-blubbering! Oh, Belford, the virtue of this +world is a great discourager of repentance.</p> +<p>“If Mr. Jones insists on the arbitrament of the sword . +. . ” I was beginning—“Nay, none of thy +Frenchified blades,” cries he, “come out of thy +earth, thou stinking fox, and try conclusions with an English +cudgel!”</p> +<p>Belford, I am no cudgel-player, and I knew not well how to rid +myself of this swasher.</p> +<p>“Mr. Jones!” I said, “I will fight you how +you will, where you will, with what weapon you will; but first +inform me of the nature of our quarrel. Would you blazon +abroad yet further the malignant tales that have injured both me +and a lady for whom I have none but the most hallowed +esteem? I pray you sit down, Sir; be calm, the light is ill +for any play with cudgel or sword. De la Tour, a bottle of +right Burgundy; Mr. Jones and I have business, and he hath +travelled far.”</p> +<p>In a trice there was a chicken, a bottle, a set of knives and +forks, a white cloth, and a hungry oaf that did eat and +swear! One bottle followed another. By the third Mr. +Jones embraced me, saying that never had a man been more belied +than I; that it was Lord Fellamar, not I, was the villain. +To this effect I own that I did myself drop a hint; conceiving +that the divine Sophia must often have regretted our friend +Fellamar when once she was bound to the oaf, and that Jones was +capable of a resentful jealousy. By midnight I had to call +a chair for my besotted challenger, and when the Avenger was +there safely bestowed, I asked him where the men should carry +him? His tongue being now thick, and his brains bemused, he +could not find the sign of his inn in his noddle. So, the +merry devil prompting me, I gave the men the address of his +ancient flame, my Lady Bellaston, and off they jogged with +Jones.</p> +<p>Was there ever, Belford, a stranger <i>amoris +redintegratio</i> than this must have been, when our Lydia heard +the old love at the rarely shaken doors:</p> +<blockquote><p>Me tuo longas pereunte noctes,<br /> + Lydia, +dormis?</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Ah, how little hath Madam Sophia taken by despatching her lord +to town, and all to break my head. My fellow, who carries +this to thee, has just met Fellamar’s man, and tells me +that <i>Fellamar yesterday went down into Somerset</i>. +What bodes this rare conjunction and disjunction of man and wife +and of old affections? and hath “Thomas, a +Foundling,” too, gone the way of all flesh?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Thy <span +class="smcap">Lovelace</span>.</p> +<p>No news of the dear fugitive! Ah, Belford, my conscience +and my cousins call me a villain! Minxes all.</p> +<h2><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>XI.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Miss Catherine Morland to +Miss Eleanor Tilney</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">Miss Catherine Morland, of “Northanger +Abbey,” gives her account of a visit to Mr. Rochester, and +of his governess’s peculiar behaviour. Mrs. Rochester +(<i>née</i> Eyre) has no mention of this in her +Memoirs.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Thornfield, Midnight</p> +<p><span class="smcap">At</span> length, my dear Eleanor, the +terrors on which you have so often rallied me are become +<i>realities</i>, and your Catherine is in the midst of those +circumstances to which we may, without exaggeration, give the +epithet “horrible.” I write, as I firmly +believe, from the mansion of a maniac! On a visit to my +Aunt Ingram, and carried by her to Thornfield, the seat of her +wealthy neighbour, Mr. Rochester, how shall your +Catherine’s trembling pen unfold the mysteries by which she +finds herself surrounded! No sooner had I entered this +battlemented mansion than a cold chill struck through me, as with +a sense of some brooding terror. All, indeed, was elegance, +all splendour! The arches were hung with Tyrian-dyed +curtains. The ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were +of red Bohemian glass. Everywhere were crimson couches and +sofas. The housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, pointed out to my +notice some vases of fine purple spar, and on all sides were +Turkey carpets and large mirrors. Elegance of taste and +fastidious research of ornament could do no more; but what is +luxury to the mind ill at ease? or can a restless conscience be +stilled by red Bohemian glass or pale Parian mantelpieces?</p> +<p>No, alas! too plainly was this conspicuous when, on entering +the library, we found Mr. Rochester—alone! The envied +possessor of all this opulence can be no happy man. He was +seated with his head bent on his folded arms, and when he looked +up a morose—almost a malignant—scowl blackened his +features! Hastily beckoning to the governess, who entered +with us, to follow him, he exclaimed, “Oh, hang it +all!” in an accent of despair, and rushed from the +chamber. We distinctly heard the doors clanging behind him +as he flew! At dinner, the same hollow reserve; his +conversation entirely confined to the governess (a Miss Eyre), +whose position here your Catherine does not understand, and to +whom I distinctly heard him observe that Miss Blanche Ingram was +“an extensive armful.”</p> +<p>The evening was spent in the lugubrious mockery of pretending +to consult an old gipsy-woman who smoked a short black pipe, and +was recognised <i>by all</i> as Mr. Rochester in disguise. +I was conducted by Miss Eyre to my bedroom—through a long +passage, narrow, low, and dim, with two rows of small black +doors, all shut; ’twas like a corridor in some Blue +Beard’s castle. “Hurry, hurry, I hear the +chains rattling,” said this strange girl; whose position, +my Eleanor, in this house causes your Catherine some natural +perplexity. When we had reached my chamber, “Be +silent, silent as death,” said Miss Eyre, her finger on her +lip and her meagre body convulsed with some mysterious +emotion. “Speak not of what you hear, do not remember +what you see!” and she was gone.</p> +<p>I undressed, after testing the walls for secret panels and +looking for assassins in the usual place, but was haunted all the +time by an unnatural sound of laughter. At length, groping +my way to the bed, I jumped hastily in, and would have sought +some suspension of anguish by creeping far underneath the +clothes. But even this refuge was denied to your wretched +Catherine! I could not stretch my limbs; for the sheet, my +dear Eleanor, had been so arranged, in some manner which I do not +understand, as to render this impossible. The laughter +seemed to redouble. I heard a footstep at my door. I +hurried on my frock and shawl and crept into the gallery. A +strange dark figure was gliding in front of me, stooping at each +door; and every time it stooped, came <i>a low gurgling +noise</i>! Inspired by I know not what desperation of +courage, I rushed on the figure and seized it by the neck. +It was Miss Eyre, the governess, filling the boots of all the +guests with water, which she carried in a can. When she saw +me she gave a scream and threw herself against a door hung with a +curtain of Tyrian dye. It yielded, and there poured into +the passage a blue cloud of smoke, with a strong and odious smell +of cigars, into which (and to what company?) she vanished. +I groped my way as well as I might to my own chamber: where each +hour the clocks, as they struck, found an echo in the +apprehensive heart of</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">The +Ill-Fated</span></p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Catherine +Morland</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>XII.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Montague Tigg</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>to Mr. David Crimp</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">The following letter needs no explanation for +any who have studied the fortunes and admired the style of that +celebrated and sanguine financier, Mr. Montague Tigg, in +“Martin Chuzzlewit.” His chance meeting with +the romantic Comte de Monte Cristo naturally suggested to him the +plans and hopes which he unfolds to an unsympathetic +capitalist.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1542 Park Lane, May 27, 1848.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Premium +Pomegranate</span>,—Oracles are not in it, David, with you, +my pippin, as auspicious counsellors of ingenious +indigence. The remark which you uttered lately, when +refusing to make the trumpery advance of half-a-crown on a +garment which had been near to the illustrious person of my +friend Chevy Slime, that remark was inspired. “Go to +Holborn!” you said, and the longest-bearded of early +prophets never uttered aught more pregnant with Destiny. I +went to Holborn, to the humble establishment of the tuneful +tonsor, Sweedle-pipe. All things come, the poet says, to +him who knows how to wait—especially, I may add, to him who +knows how to wait behind thin partitions with a chink in +them. Ensconced in such an ambush—in fact, in the +back shop—I bided my time, intending to solicit pecuniary +accommodation from the barber, and studying human nature as +developed in his customers.</p> +<p>There are odd customers in Kingsgate Street, +Holborn—foreign gents and refugees. Such a cove my +eagle eye detected in a man who entered the shop wearing a long +black beard streaked with the snows of age, and who requested +Poll to shave him clean. He was a sailor-man to look at; +but his profile, David, might have been carved by a Grecian +chisel out of an iceberg, and that steel grey eye of his might +have struck a chill, even through a chink, into any heart less +stout than beats behind the vest of Montague Tigg. The task +of rasping so hirsute a customer seemed to sit heavy on the soul +of Poll, and threatened to exhaust the resources of his limited +establishment. The barber went forth to command, as I +presume, a fresher strop, or more keenly tempered steel, and +glittering cans of water heated to a fiercer heat. No +sooner was the coast clear than the street-door opened, and my +stranger was joined by a mantled form, that glided into +Poll’s emporium. The new-comer doffed a swart +sombrero, and disclosed historic features that were not unknown +to the concealed observer—meaning me. Yes, David, +that aquiline beak, that long and waxed moustache, that +impassible mask of a face, I had seen them, Sir, conspicuous +(though their owner be of alien and even hostile birth) among +England’s special chivalry. The foremost he had +charged on the Ides of April (I mean against the ungentlemanly +Chartist throng) and in the storied lists of Eglinton. The +new-comer, in short, was the nephew of him who ate his heart out +in an English gaol (like our illustrious Chiv)—in fact, he +was Prince Louis N— B—.</p> +<p>Gliding to the seat where, half-lathered, the more or less +ancient Mariner awaited Poll’s return, the Prince muttered +(in the French lingo, familiar to me from long exile in +Boulogne):</p> +<p>“Hist, goes all well?”</p> +<p>“Magnificently, Sire!” says the other chap.</p> +<p>“Our passages taken?”</p> +<p>“Ay, and private cabins paid for to boot, in case of the +storm’s inclemency.”</p> +<p>The Prince nodded and seemed pleased; then he asked +anxiously,</p> +<p>“The Bird? You have been to +Jamrach’s?”</p> +<p>“Pardon me, Sire,” says the man who was waiting to +be shaved, “I can slip from your jesses no mercenary +eagle. These limbs have yet the pith to climb and this +heart the daring to venture to the airiest crag of Monte +d’Oro, and I have ravished from his eyrie a true Corsican +eagle to be the omen of our expedition. Wherever this eagle +is your uncle’s legions will gather together.”</p> +<p>“’Tis well; and the gold?”</p> +<p>“<i>Trust Monte Cristo</i>!” says the bearded man; +and then, David, begad! I knew I had them!</p> +<p>“We meet?”</p> +<p>“At Folkestone pier, 7.45, tidal train.”</p> +<p>“I shall be there without fail,” says the Prince, +and sneaks out of the street-door just as Poll comes in with the +extra soap and strop.</p> +<p>Well, David, to make it as short as I can, the man of the icy +glance was clean-shaved at last, and the mother who bore him +would not have known him as he looked in the glass when it was +done. He chucked Poll a diamond worth about a million +piastres, and, remarking that he would not trouble him for the +change, he walked out. By this characteristic swagger, of +course, he more than confirmed my belief that he was, indeed, the +celebrated foreigner the Count of Monte Cristo; whose name and +history even <i>you</i> must be acquainted with, though you may +not be what I have heard my friend Chevy Slime call himself, +“the most literary man alive.” A desperate +follower of the star of Austerlitz from his youth, a martyr to +the cause in the Château d’If, Monte Cristo has not +deserted it now that he has come into his own—or anybody +else’s.</p> +<p>Of course I was after him like a shot. He walked down +Kingsgate Street and took a four-wheeler that was loitering at +the corner. I followed on foot, escaping the notice of the +police from the fact, made only too natural by Fortune’s +cursed spite, that under the toga-like simplicity of Montague +Tigg’s costume these minions merely guessed at a +cab-tout.</p> +<p>Well, David, he led me a long chase. He got out of the +four-wheeler (it was dark now) at the Travellers’, throwing +the cabman a purse—of sequins, no doubt. At the door +of the Travellers’ he entered a brougham; and, driving to +the French Embassy in Albert Gate, he alighted, <i>in different +togs</i>, quite the swell, and <i>let himself in with his own +latch-key</i>.</p> +<p>In fact, Sir, this conspirator of barbers’ shops, this +prisoner of the Château d’If, this climber of +Corsican eyries, is to-day the French Minister accredited to the +Court of St. James’s!</p> +<p>And now perhaps, David, you begin to see how the land lies, +the Promised Land, the land where there is corn and milk and +honey-dew. I hold those eminent and highly romantic parties +in the hollow of my hand. A letter from me to M. Lecoq, of +the Rue Jerusalem, and their little game is up, their eagle +moults, the history of Europe is altered. But what good +would all that do Montague Tigg? Will it so much as put +that delightful coin, a golden sovereign, in the pocket of his +nether garments? No, Tigg is no informer; a man who has +charged at the head of his regiment on the coast of Africa is no +vulgar spy. There is more to be got by making the Count pay +through the nose, as we say; <i>chanter</i>, as the French say; +“sing a song of sixpence”—to a golden tune.</p> +<p>But, as Fortune now uses me, I cannot personally approach his +Excellency. Powdered menials would urge me from his +portals. An advance, a small advance—say +30<i>l.</i>—is needed for preliminary expenses: for the +charges of the clothier, the bootmaker, the hosier, the +barber. Give me 30<i>l.</i> for the restoration of Tigg to +the semblance of the Montagues, and with that sum I conquer +millions. The diamonds of Monte Cristo, the ingots, the +rubies, the golden crowns with the image and superscription of +Pope Alexander VI.—all are mine: I mean are ours.</p> +<p>More, David; more, my premium tulip: we shall make the Count a +richer man than ever he has been. We shall promote new +companies, we shall put him on the board of directors. I +see the prospectuses from afar.</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">UNIVERSAL INTERNATIONAL +TREASURE RECOVERY COMPANY.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Chairman</i>.</p> +<p>His Excellency the <span class="smcap">Comte de Monte +Cristo</span>. K.G., K.C.B., Knight of the Black Eagle.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Directors</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chevy Slime</span>, Esq., Berkeley +Square.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Montague Tigg</span>, Esq., Park Lane.</p> +<p>M. <span class="smcap">Vautrin</span> (Les Bagnes près +de Toulon).</p> +<p>M. <span class="smcap">Jean Valjean</span>.</p> +<p>The <span class="smcap">Chevalier Strong</span>. (Would +he come in?)</p> +<p><i>Hon. Secretary</i>.—<span class="smcap">David +Crimp</span>, Esq.</p> +<p>Archæological Adviser.—Dr. <span +class="smcap">Spiegelmann</span>, Berlin.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then the prospectus! Treasure-hunting too long left to +individual and uneducated enterprise. Need of organised and +instructed effort. Examples of treasure easily to be +had. Grave of Alaric. Golden chain of Cuzco. +Galleons of Vigo Bay. Loot of Delphi. Straits of +Salamis. Advice of most distinguished foreign experts +already secured. Paid-up capital, a 6 and as many 0’s +as the resources of the printing establishment can command. +The public will rush in by the myriad. And I am also +sketching a</p> +<p>‘Disinterested Association for Securing the Rights of +Foundlings,’ again with Monte Cristo in the chair. +David, you have saved a few pounds; in the confidence of +unofficial moments you have confessed as much (though not exactly +<i>how</i> much) to me. Will you neglect one of those +opportunities which only genius can discover, but which the +humble capitalist can help to fructify? With thirty, nay, +with twenty pounds, I can master this millionaire and tame this +Earthly Providence. Behind us lies penury and squalor, +before us glitters jewelled opulence. You will be at 1542 +Park Lane to-morrow <i>with the dibs</i>?—Yours +expectantly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Montague +Tigg</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page112"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 112</span><i>From Mr. David Crimp to Montague +Tigg</i>, <i>Esq.</i></p> +<p style="text-align: right">The Golden Balls, May 28.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Tigg</span>,—You always +<i>were</i> full of your chaff, but you must have been drinking +when you wrote all that cock-and-a-bull gammon. Thirty +pounds! No; nor fifteen; nor as many pence. I never +heard of the party you mention by the name of the Count of Monte +Cristo; and as for the Prince, he’s as likely to be setting +out for Boulogne with an eagle as you are to start a monkey and a +barrel-organ in Jericho; or may be <i>that’s</i> the +likeliest of the two. So stow your gammon, and spare your +stamps, is my last word.—Yours respectfully to command,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">D. <span +class="smcap">Crimp</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>XIII.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Christian to +Piscator</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">Walton and Bunyan were men who should have +known each other. It is a pleasant fancy, to me, that they +may have met on the banks of Ouse, while John was meditating a +sermon, and Izaak was “attentive of his trembling +quill.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—Being now come into the +Land of Beulah; here, whence I cannot so much as see Doubting +Castle; here, where I am solaced with the sound of voices from +the City,—my mind, that is now more at peace about mine own +salvation, misgives me sore about thine. Thou wilt remember +me, perchance, for him that met thee by a stream of the +Delectable Mountains, and took thee to be a man fleeing from the +City of Destruction. For, beholding thee from afar, +methought that thou didst carry a burden on thy back, even as +myself before my deliverance did bear the burden of my sins and +fears. Yet when I drew near I perceived that it was but a +fisherman’s basket on thy back, and that thou didst rather +seek to add to the weight of thy burden than to lighten it or +fling it away. But, when we fell into discourse, I +marvelled much how thou camest so far upon the way, even among +the sheep and the shepherds of that country. For I found +that thou hadst little experience in conflict with Apollyon, and +that thou hadst never passed through the Slough of Despond nor +wandered in the Valley of the Shadow. Nay, thou hadst never +so much as been distressed in thy mind with great fear, nor hadst +thou fled from thy wife and children, to save, if it might be, +thy soul for thyself, as I have done. Nay, rather thou +didst parley with the shepherds as one that loved their life; and +I remember, even now, that sweet carnal song</p> +<blockquote><p>The Shepherd swains shall dance and sing,<br /> +For thy delight, each May morning;<br /> +If these delights thy mind may move,<br /> +Then live with me and be my love.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>These +are not the songs that fit the Delectable Country; nay, rather +they are the mirth of wantons. Yet didst thou take pleasure +in them; and therefore I make bold to ask how didst thou flee at +all from the City of Destruction, and come so far upon thy +way? Beware lest, when thou winnest to that brook wherein +no man casts angle, even to that flood where there is no bridge +to go over and the River is very deep—beware, I say, of one +Vain Hope, the Ferryman! For I would not have thee lost, +because thou art a kindly man and a simple. Yet for +Ignorance there is an ill way, even from the very gates of the +City.—Thy fellow-traveller,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Christian</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Piscator to +Christian</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I do indeed remember +thee; and I trust thou art amended of these gripings which caused +thee to groan and moan, even by the pleasant streams from the +hills of the Delectable Mountains. And as for my +“burden” ’twas pleasant to me to bear it; for, +like not the least of the Apostles, I am a fisher, and I carried +trout. But I take no shame in that I am an angler; for +angling is somewhat like poetry; men are to be born so, and I +would not be otherwise than my Maker designed to have me. +Of the antiquity of angling I could say much; but I misdoubt me +that thou dost not heed the learning of ancient times, but art a +contemner of good learning and virtuous recreations. Yet it +may a little move thee that in the Book of Job mention is made of +fish-hooks, and without reproof; for let me tell you that in the +Scriptures angling is always taken in the best sense.</p> +<p>Touching my flight from the City of Destruction, I love that +place no more than thou dost; yet I fear not its evil +communications, nor would I so hastily desert it as to leave my +wife and children behind therein. Nor have I any experience +of conflict with the Evil One; wherefore I thank Him that hath +set me in pleasant fields, by clear waters, where come no wicked +whispers (be they from Apollyon or from our own hearts); but +there is calmness of spirit, and a world of blessings attending +upon it. And hence can no man see the towers of Doubting +Castle, for the green trees and the hedges white with May. +This life is not wholly vile, as some of thy friends declare +(Thou, who makest thy pilgrims dance to the lute, knowest +better); and, for myself, I own that I love such mirth as does +not make men ashamed to look upon each other next morning. +Let him that bears a heavy heart for his ill-deeds turn him to +better, but not mourn as though the sun were taken out of the +sky. What says the song?—nay, ’tis as good balm +for the soul as many a hymn:</p> +<blockquote><p>A merry heart goes all the day,<br /> +Your sad one tires in a mile-a!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He that made the world made man to take delight in it; even as +thou saw’st me joyful with the shepherds—ay, with +godly Mr. Richard Hooker, “he being then tending his small +allotment of sheep in a common field,” as I recount in a +brief life of a good man. As to what awaits me on the other +side of that River, I do expect it with a peaceful heart, and in +humble hope that a man may reach the City with a cheerful +countenance, no less than through groans and sighs and +fears. For we have not a tyrant over us, but a Father, that +loveth a cheerful liver no less than a cheerful giver. +Nevertheless, I thank thee for thy kind thought of one that is +not of thy company, nor no Nonconformist, but a peaceful +Protestant. And, lest thou be troubled with apparitions of +hobgoblins and evil spirits, read that comfortable sermon of Mr. +Hooker’s to weak believers, on the <i>Certainty of +Adherence</i>, though they want the inward testimony of it.</p> +<p>But now falls there a sweet shower, “a singing +shower” saith old George Chapman, and methinks I shall have +sport; for I do note that the mayfly is up; and, seeing all these +beautiful creatures playing in the air and water, I feel my own +heart play within me; and I must out and dape under yonder +sycamore tree. Wherefore, prithee, pardon me a longer +discourse as at this time.—Thy friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Piscator</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>XIV.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Truthful James to Mr. Bret +Harte</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">WILLIAM NYE’S EXPERIMENT.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Angel’s.</p> +<blockquote><p> <span +class="smcap">Dear Bret Harte</span>,<br /> + + +I’m in tears,<br /> + And the camp’s in the +dust,<br /> + For with anguish it hears<br /> + As poor William may bust,<br /> +And the last of the Nyes is in danger of<br /> + sleeping the sleep of the just.</p> +<p> No revolver it was<br /> + Interfered with his health,<br /> + The convivial glass<br /> + Did not harm him by stealth;<br /> +It was nary! He fell by a scheme which<br /> + he thought would accumulate wealth!</p> +<p> For a Moqui came round<br /> + To the camp—Injun Joe;<br /> + And the dollars was found<br /> + In his pockets to flow;<br /> +For he played off some tricks with live<br /> + snakes, as was reckoned a competent show.</p> +<p> They was rattlers; a pair<br /> + In his teeth he would hold,<br /> + And another he’d wear<br /> + Like a scarf to enfold<br /> +His neck, with them dangerous critters<br /> + as safe as the saint was of old.</p> +<p> Sez William, “That same<br /> + Is as easy as wink.<br /> + I am fly to his game;<br /> + For them rattlers, I think,<br /> +Has had all their incisors extracted.<br /> + They’re harmless as suthin’ to +drink.”</p> +<p> So he betted his pile<br /> + He could handle them snakes;<br /> + And he tried, with a smile,<br /> + And a rattler he takes,<br /> +Feeling safe as they’d somehow been<br /> + doctored; but bless you, that sarpent awakes!</p> +<p> Waken snakes! and they <i>did</i><br /> + And they rattled like mad;<br /> + For it was not a “kid,”<br /> + But some medicine he had,<br /> +Injun Joe, for persuadin’ the critters but<br /> + William’s bit powerful bad.</p> +<p> So they’ve put him outside<br /> + Of a bottle of Rye,<br /> + And they’ve set him to ride<br /> + A mustang as kin shy,<br /> +To keep up his poor circulation; and<br /> + that’s the last chance for Bill Nye.</p> +<p> But a near thing it is,<br /> + And the camp’s in the +dust.<br /> + He’s a pard as we’d miss<br /> + If poor Bill was to bust—<br +/> +If the last of the Nyes were a-sleepin<br /> + the peaceable sleep of the just.</p> +</blockquote> +<h2><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>XV.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Professor Forth to the Rev. +Mr. Casaubon</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">The delicacy of the domestic matters with +which the following correspondence deals cannot be +exaggerated. It seems that Belinda (whose Memoirs we owe to +Miss Rhoda Broughton) was at Oxford while Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon +were also resident near that pleasant city, so famed for its +Bodleian Library. Professor Forth and Mr. Casaubon were +friends, as may be guessed; their congenial characters, their +kindred studies, Etruscology and Mythology, combined to ally +them. Their wives were not wholly absorbed in their learned +pursuits, and if Mr. Ladislaw was dangling after Mrs. Casaubon, +we know that Mr. Rivers used to haunt with Mrs. Forth the walks +of Magdalen. The regret and disapproval which Mrs. Casaubon +expresses, and her desire to do good to Mrs. Forth, are, it is +believed, not alien to her devoted and exemplary character.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bradmore-road, Oxford, May 29.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Casaubon</span>,—In the +course of an investigation which my researches into the character +of the Etruscan “Involuti” have necessitated, I +frequently encounter the root <i>Kâd</i>, +<i>k</i><sup><i>2</i></sup><i>âd</i>, or +<i>Qâd</i>. Schnitzler’s recent and +epoch-making discovery that <i>d</i> in Etruscan = +<i>b</i><sup><i>2</i></sup>, has led me to consider it a +plausible hypothesis that we may convert <i>Kâd</i> or +<i>Qâd</i> into <i>Kab</i><sup><i>2</i></sup>, in which +case it is by no means beyond the range of a cautious conjecture +that the Involuti are identical with the <i>Cab-iri</i> +(Cabiri). Though you will pardon me for confessing, what +you already know, that I am not in all points an adherent to your +ideas concerning a “Key to All Mythologies” (at +least, as briefly set forth by you in Kuhn’s +<i>Zeitung</i>), yet I am deeply impressed with this apparent +opportunity of bridging the seemingly impassable gulf between +Etrurian Religion and the comparatively clear and comprehensible +systems of the Pelasgo-Phoenician peoples. That Kâd +or Kâb can refer either (as in <i>Quatuor</i>) to a +four-footed animal (quadruped, “quad”) or to a +four-wheeled vehicle (<i>esseda</i>, Celtic <i>cab</i>) I cannot +for a moment believe, though I understand that this theory has +the support of Schrader, Penka, and Baunder. <a +name="citation125"></a><a href="#footnote125" +class="citation">[125]</a> Any information which your +learning can procure, and your kind courtesy can supply, will be +warmly welcomed and duly acknowledged.—Believe me, +faithfully yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">James +Forth</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—I open this note, which was written from my +dictation by my secretary, Mrs. Forth, to assure myself that her +inexperience has been guilty of no error in matters of so much +delicacy and importance. I have detected no mistake of +moment, and begin to hope that the important step of matrimony to +which I was guided by your example may not have been a rash +experiment.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page126"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 126</span><i>From the Rev. Mr. Casaubon to +James Forth</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>Professor of Etruscan</i>, +<i>Oxford</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Forth</span>,—Your letter +throws considerable light on a topic which has long engaged my +earnest attention. To my thinking, the <i>Cab</i> in +<i>Cabiri</i> = <span class="GutSmall">CAV</span>, +“hollow,” as in <i>cavus</i>, and refers to the Ark +of Noah, which, of course, before the entrance of every living +thing according to his kind, must have been the largest +artificial hollow or empty space known to our Adamite +ancestors. Thus the Cabiri would answer, naturally, to the +Patæci, which, as Herodotus tells us, were usually figured +on the prows of ships. The Cabiri or Patæci, as +children of Noah and men of the “great vessel,” or +Cave-men (a wonderful anticipation of modern science), would +perpetuate the memory of Arkite circumstances, and would be +selected, as the sacred tradition faded from men’s minds, +as the guides of navigation. I am sorry to seem out of +harmony with your ideas; but it is only a matter of seeming, for +I have no doubt that the Etruscan Involuti are also Arkite, and +that they do not, as Max Müller may be expected to intimate, +represent the veiled or cloudy Dawns, but rather the Arkite +Patriarchs. We thus, from different starting-places, arrive +at the same goal, the Arkite solution of Bryant. I am aware +that I am old-fashioned—like Eumæus, “I dwell +here among the swine, and go not often to the city.” +Your letters with little numerals (as <i>k</i><sup>2</sup>) may +represent the exactness of modern philology; but more closely +remind me of the formulæ of algebra, a study in which I at +no time excelled.</p> +<p>It is my purpose to visit Cambridge on June 3, to listen to a +most valuable address by Professor Tösch, of Bonn, on +Hittite and Aztec affinities. If you can meet me there and +accept the hospitality of my college, the encounter may prove a +<a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>turning +point in Mythological and Philological Science.—Very +faithfully yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">J. <span +class="smcap">Casaubon</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—I open this note, written from my dictation by my +wife, to enclose my congratulations on Mrs. Forth’s +scholarly attainments.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Professor Forth to Rev. Mr. +Casaubon</i>.<br /> +(Telegram.)</p> +<p>Will be with you at Cambridge on the third.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mrs. Forth</i>, +<i>Bradmore-road</i>, <i>Oxford</i>, <i>to David Rivers</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>Milnthorpe</i>, <i>Yorkshire</i>.</p> +<p>He goes on Saturday to Cambridge to hear some one talk about +the Hittites and the Asiatics. Did you not say there was a +good Sunday train? They sing “O Rest in the +Lord” at Magdalen. I often wonder that +Addison’s Walk is so <a name="page129"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 129</span>deserted on Sundays. He stays +over Sunday at Cambridge. <a name="citation129"></a><a +href="#footnote129" class="citation">[129]</a></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From David Rivers</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>to Mrs. Forth</i>, <i>Oxford</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mrs. Forth</span>,—Saturday is +a half-holiday at the Works, and I propose to come up and see +whether our boat cannot bump Balliol. How extraordinary it +is that people should neglect, on Sundays, the favourite +promenade of the Short-faced Humourist. I shall be there: +the old place.—Believe me, yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">D. <span +class="smcap">Rivers</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mrs. Casaubon to William +Ladislaw</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>Stratford-on-Avon</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Friend</span>,—Your kind letter +from Stratford is indeed interesting. Ah, when shall I have +an opportunity of seeing these, and so many other interesting +places! But in a world where duty is <i>so much</i>, and so +<i>always</i> with us, why should we regret the voids in our +experience which, after all, life is filling in the experience of +others? The work is advancing, and Mr. Casaubon hopes that +the first chapter of the “Key to All Mythologies” +will be fairly copied and completed by the end of autumn. +Mr. Casaubon is going to Cambridge on Saturday to hear Professor +Tösch lecture on the Pittites and some other party, I really +forget which; <a name="citation130"></a><a href="#footnote130" +class="citation">[130]</a> but it is not often that he takes so +much interest in mere <i>modern</i> history. How curious it +sometimes is to think that the great spirit of humanity and of +the world, as you say, keeps working its way—ah, to what +wonderful goal—by means of these obscure difficult +politics: almost unworthy instruments, one is tempted to +think. That was a true line you quoted lately <a +name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>from the +‘Vita Nuova.’ We have no books of poetry here, +except a Lithuanian translation of the Rig Veda. How +delightful it must be to read Dante with a sympathetic +fellow-student, one who has also loved—and +<i>renounced</i>!—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Dorothea +Casaubon</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—I do not expect Mr. Casaubon back from Cambridge +before Monday afternoon.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From William Ladislaw</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>to the Hon. Secretary of the Literary and +Philosophical Mechanics’ Institute</i>, +<i>Middlemarch</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Sir</span>,—I find that I +can be in your neighbourhood on Saturday, and will gladly accept +your invitation to lecture at your Institute on the Immutability +of Morals.—Faithfully yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">W. <span +class="smcap">Ladislaw</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page132"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 132</span><i>From William Ladislaw</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>to Mrs. Casaubon</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mrs. Casaubon</span>,—Only a +line to say that I am to lecture at the Mechanics’ +Institute on Saturday. I can scarcely hope that, as Mr. +Casaubon is away, you will be able to attend my poor performance, +but on Sunday I may have, I hope, the pleasure of waiting on you +in the afternoon?—Very sincerely yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">W. <span +class="smcap">Ladislaw</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—I shall bring the ‘Vita Nuova’—it +is not so difficult as the ‘Paradiso’—and I +shall be happy to help you with a few of the earlier sonnets.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mrs. Casaubon to Mrs. +Forth</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">June 5.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Lady</span>,—You will be +surprised at receiving a letter from a stranger! How shall +I address you—how shall I say what I ought to say? +Our husbands are not unknown to each other, I may almost call +them friends, but we have met only once. You did not see +me; but I was at Magdalen a few weeks ago, and I could not help +asking who you were, so young, so beautiful; and when I saw you +so lonely among all those learned men my heart went out to you, +for I too know what the learned are, and how often, when we are +young, we feel as if they were so cold, so remote. Ah, then +there come <i>temptations</i>, but they must be +conquered.—We are not born to live for ourselves only, we +must learn to live for others—ah! not for +<i>Another</i>!</p> +<p>Some one <a name="citation133"></a><a href="#footnote133" +class="citation">[133]</a> we both know, a lady, has spoken to me +of you lately. She too, though you did not know it, was in +Magdalen Walk on Sunday evening when the bells were chiming and +the birds singing. She saw you; you were not alone! +Mr. Rivers (I am informed that is his name) was with you. +Ah, stop and think, and hear me before it is too late. A +word; I do not know—a word of mine may be listened to, +though I have no right to speak. But something forces me to +speak, and to implore you to remember that it is not for Pleasure +we live, but for Duty. We must break the dearest ties if +they do not bind us to the stake—the stake of all we owe to +all! You will understand, you will forgive me, will you +not? You will forgive another woman whom your beauty and +sadness have won to admire and love you. You <i>will</i> +break these ties, will you not, and be free, for only in +Renunciation is there freedom? He <i>must not</i> come +again, you will tell him that he must not.—Yours +always,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Dorothea +Casaubon</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>XVI.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Euphues to Sir Amyas +Leigh</i>, <i>Kt.</i></p> +<p class="gutsumm">This little controversy on the value of the +herb tobacco passed between the renowned Euphues and that early +but assiduous smoker, Sir Amyas Leigh, well known to readers of +“Westward Ho.”</p> +<p>(He dissuadeth him from drinking the smoke of the Indian +weed.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Amyas</span>,—Take it not +unkindly that a traveller (though less wide a wanderer than thou) +dissuadeth thee from a new-found novelty—the wanton misuse, +or rather the misuseful wantonness, of the Indian herb. It +is a blind goose that knoweth not a fox from a fern-bush, and a +strange temerity that mistaketh smoke for provender. The +sow, when she is sick, eateth the sea-crab and is immediately +recovered: why, then, should man, being whole and sound, haste to +that which maketh many sick? The lobster flieth not in the +air, nor doth the salamander wanton in the water; wherefore, +then, will man betake him for nourishment or solace to the +fire? Vesuvius bringeth not forth speech from his mouth, +but man, like a volcano, will utter smoke. There is great +difference between the table and the chimney; but thou art for +making both alike. Though the Rose be sweet, yet will it +prove less fragrant if it be wreathed about the skunk; and so an +ill weed from the land where that beast hath its habitation +defileth a courteous knight. Consider, if this practice +delights thee, that the apples of Sodom are outwardly fair but +inwardly full of ashes; the box-tree is always green, but his +seed is poison. Mithridate must be taken inwardly, not +spread on plasters. Of his nature smoke goeth upward and +outward; why wilt thou make it go inward and downward? The +manners of the Cannibal fit not the <a name="page137"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 137</span>Englishman; and this thy poison is +unlike Love, which maimeth every part before it kill the Liver, +whereas tobacco doth vex the Liver before it harmeth any other +part. Excuse this my boldness, and forswear thy weed, an +thou lovest</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Euphues</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Sir Amyas Leigh to +Euphues</i>.</p> +<p>Whereas thou bringest in a rabble of reasons to convince me, I +will answer thee in thine own kind. Thou art like those +that proffer a man physic before he be sick, and, because his +pleasure is not theirs, call him foolish that is but early +advised. Nature maketh nothing without an end: the eye to +see with, the ear to hear, the herb tobacco to be smoked. +As wine strengtheneth and meat maketh full, tobacco maketh the +heart at rest. Helen gave Nepenthe to them that sorrowed, +and Heaven hath made this weed for such as lack comfort. +Tobacco is the hungry man’s food, the wakeful man’s +sleep, the weary man’s rest, the old man’s defence +against melancholy, the busy man’s repose, the talkative +man’s muzzle, the lonely man’s companion. +Indeed, there was nothing but this one thing wanting to man, of +those that earth can give; wherefore, having found it, let him so +use as not abusing it, as now I am about doing.—Thy +servant,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Amyas +Leigh</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>XVII.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mr. Paul Rondelet to the +Very Rev. Dean Maitland</i>. <a name="citation139"></a><a +href="#footnote139" class="citation">[139]</a></p> +<p class="gutsumm">That Dean Maitland should have taken the +political line indicated in Mr. Rondelet’s letter will +amaze no reader of ‘The Silence of Dean +Maitland.’ That Mr. Paul Rondelet flew from his penny +paper to a Paradise meet for him is a matter of congratulation to +all but his creditors. He really is now in the only true +Monastery of Thelema, and is simply dressed in an eye-glass and a +cincture of pandanus flowers. The natives worship him, and +he is the First Æsthetic Beach-comber.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Te-a-Iti, The Pacific.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Maitland</span>,—As my old +friend and tutor at Lothian, you ask me to join the Oxford Home +Rule Association. Excuse my delay in answering. Your +letter was sent to that detested and long-deserted newspaper +office in Fleet Street, and from Fleet Street to Te-a-Iti; thank +Heaven! it is a long way. Were I at home, and still +endeavouring to sway the masses, I might possibly accept your +invitation. I dislike crowds, and I dislike shouting; but +if shout I must, like you I would choose to chime in with the +dingier and the larger and the more violent assembly. But, +having perceived that the masses were very perceptibly learning +to sway themselves, I have retired to Te-a-Iti. You have +read “Epipsychidion,” my dear Dean? And, in +your time, no doubt you have loved? <a name="citation140"></a><a +href="#footnote140" class="citation">[140]</a> Well, this +is the Isle of Love, described, as in a dream, by the rapt fancy +of Shelley. Urged, perhaps, by a reminiscence of the Great +Aryan wave of migration, I have moved westward to this +Paradise. Like Obermann, I hide my head “from the +wild tempest of the age,” but in a much dearer place than +“chalets near the Alpine snow.” Long ago I +said, to one who would not listen, that “all the religions +of the world are based on false foundations, resting on the +Family, and fatally unsound.” Here the Family, in our +sense, has not been developed. Here no rules trammel the +best and therefore the most evanescent of our affections. +And as for Religion, it is based upon Me, on Rondelet of +Lothian. Here nobody asks me why or how I am +“superior.” The artless natives at once +perceived the fact, recognised me as a god, and worship me (do +not shudder, my good Dean) with floral services. In +Te-a-Iti (vain to look for it on the map!) I have found my +place—a place far from the babel of your brutal politics, a +place where I am addressed in liquid accents of adoration.</p> +<p>You may ask whether I endeavour to raise the islanders to my +own level? It is the last thing that I would attempt. +Culture they do not need: their dainty hieratic precisions of +ritual are a sufficient culture in themselves. As I said +once before, “it is an absurdity to speak of married people +being one.” Here we are an indefinite number; and no +jealousy, no ambitious exclusiveness, mars the happiness of +all. This is the Higher Life about which we used ignorantly +to talk. Here the gross temporal necessities are satisfied +with a breadfruit, a roasted fish, and a few pandanus +flowers. The rest is all climate and the affections.</p> +<p>Conceive, my dear Dean, the undisturbed felicity of life +without newspapers! Empires may fall, perhaps have fallen, +since I left Fleet Street; Alan Dunlop may be a ditcher in good +earnest on an estate no longer his; but here we fleet the time +carelessly, as in the golden world. And you ask me to join +a raucous political association for an object you detest in your +heart, merely because you want to swim with the turbid democratic +current! You are an historian, Maitland: did you ever know +this policy succeed? Did you ever know the respectables +prosper when they allied themselves with the vulgar? Ah, +keep out of your second-hand revolutions. Keep your hands +clean, whether you keep your head on your shoulders or not. +You will never, I fear, be Bishop of Winkum, with all your +historical handbooks and all your Oxford Liberalism.</p> +<p>But I am losing my temper, for the first time since I +discovered Te-a-Iti. This must not be.—Yours +regretfully,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Paul +Rondelet</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—Don’t give any one my address; some of these +Oxford harpies are still unappeased. The only European I +have seen was not an University man. He was a popular +Scotch novelist, and carried Shorter Catechisms, which he +distributed to my flock. I only hope he won’t make +“copy” out of me and my situation.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">P. R.</p> +<h2><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>XVIII.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Harold Skimpole</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>to the Rev. Charles Honeyman</i>, <i>M.A.</i></p> +<p class="gutsumm">These letters tell their own tale of Genius +and Virtue indigent and in chains. The eloquence of a +Honeyman, the accomplishments of a Skimpole, lead only to +Cursitor Street.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Coavins’s, Cursitor Street, +May 1.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Honeyman</span>,—It is +May-day, when even the chimney-sweeper, developing the pleasant +unconscious poetry of his nature, forgets the flues, wreathes the +flowers, and persuades himself that he is +Jack-in-the-Green. Jack who? Was he Jack Sprat, or +the young swain who mated with Jill! Who knows? The +chimney-sweeper has all I ask, all that the butterflies possess, +all that Common-sense and Business and Society deny to Harold +Skimpole. He lives, he is free, he is “in the +green!” I am in Coavins’s! In Cursitor +Street I cannot hear the streams warble, the birds chant, the +music roll through the stately fane, let us say, of Lady +Whittlesea’s. Coavins’s (as Coavins’s man +says) is “a ’ouse;” but how unlike, for +example, the hospitable home of our friend Jarndyce! I can +sketch Coavins’s, but I cannot alter it: I can set it to +music, on Coavins’s piano; but how melancholy are the +jingling strains of that dilapidated instrument! At +Jarndyce’s house, when I am there, I am in possession of +it: here Coavins’s is in possession of me—of the +person of Harold Skimpole.</p> +<p>And why am I here? Why am I far from landscape, music, +conversation? Why, merely because I will follow neither +Fame nor Fortune nor Faith. They call to us in the +market-place, but I will not dance. Fame blows her trumpet, +and offers her shilling (the Queen’s). Faith peals +her bells, and asks for <i>my</i> shilling. Fortune rattles +her banking-scales. They call, and the world joins the +waltz; but I will not march with them. “Go after +glory, commerce, creeds,” I cry; “only let Harold +Skimpole live!” <a name="citation146"></a><a +href="#footnote146" class="citation">[146]</a> The world +pursues the jangling music; but in my ear sound the pipes of Pan, +the voices of the river and the wood.</p> +<p>Yet I cannot be in the playground, whither they invite +me. Harold Skimpole is fettered—by what? By +items! I regret my incapacity for details. It may be +the tinker or the tailor at whose suit I am detained. I am +certain it is not at that of the soldier, or the sailor, or the +ploughboy, or the thief. But, for the apothecary—why, +yes—it <i>may</i> be the apothecary! In the dawn of +life I loved—who has not?—I wedded. I set about +surrounding myself with rosy cheeks. These cheeks grow +pallid. I call for the aid of Science—Science sends +in her bill! “To the Mixture as Before,” so +much to “the Tonic,” so much. The cheeks are +rosy again. I pour forth the blessings of a father’s +heart; but there stands Science inexorable, with her bill, her +items. I vainly point out that the mixture has played its +part, the tonic has played <i>its</i> part; and that, in the +nature of things, the transaction is ended. The bill is +unappeasable. I forget the details; a certain number of +pieces of yellow and white dross are spoken of. Ah, I see +it is fifteen and some odd shillings and coppers. Let us +say twenty.</p> +<p>My dear Honeyman, you who, as I hear, are about to follow the +flutes of Aphrodite into a temple where Hymen gilds the horns of +the victims <a name="citation147"></a><a href="#footnote147" +class="citation">[147]</a>—you, I am sure, will hurry to my +rescue. You may not have the specie actually in your +coffers; but with your prospects, surely you can sign something, +or make over something, or back something, say a <i>post obit</i> +or <i>post vincula</i>, or employ some other instrument? +Excuse my inexperience; or, I should say, excuse my congenital +inability to profit by experience, now considerable, of +<i>difficulties</i>—and of friendship. Let not the +sun of May-day go down on Harold Skimpole in +Coavins’s!—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">H. S.</p> +<p>P.S.—A youthful myrmidon of Coavins’s will wait +for a reply. Shall we say, while we are about it, +Twenty-five?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page149"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 149</span><i>From the Rev. Charles Honeyman to +Harold Skimpole</i>, <i>Esq.</i></p> +<p style="text-align: right">Cursitor Street, May 1.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Skimpole</span>,—How would I +have joyed, had Providence placed it within my power to relieve +your distress! But it cannot be. Like the +Carthaginian Queen of whom we read in happier days at dear old +Borhambury, I may say that I am <i>haud ignarus mali</i>. +But, alas! the very evils in which I am not unlearned, make it +impossible for me to add <i>miseris succurrere disco</i>! +Rather am I myself in need of succour. You, my dear Harold, +have fallen among thieves; I may too truly add that in this I am +your neighbour. The dens in which we are lodged are +contiguous; we are separated only by the bars. Your note +was sent on hither from my rooms in Walpole Street. Since +we met I have known the utmost that woman’s perfidy and the +rich man’s contumely can inflict. But I can bear my +punishment. I loved, I trusted. She to whose hand I +aspired, she on whose affections I had based hopes at once of +happiness in life and of extended usefulness in the clerical +profession, <i>she</i> was less confiding. She summoned to +her council a minion of the Law, one Briggs. <i>His</i> +estimate of my position and prospects could not possibly tally +with that of one whose <i>hopes</i> are not set where the +worldling places them. Let him, and such as he, take +thought for the morrow and chaffer about settlements. I do +not regret the gold to which you so delicately allude. I +sorrow only for the bloom that has been brushed from the soaring +pinions of a pure and disinterested affection. <i>Sunt +lacrymæ rerum</i>, and the handkerchief in which I bury my +face is dank with them.</p> +<p>Nor is this disappointment my only <i>cross</i>. The +carrion-birds of commerce have marked down the stricken deer from +their eyries in Bond Street and Jermyn Street. To know how +Solomons has behaved, and the <i>black</i> colours in which Moss +(of Wardour Street) has shown himself, is to receive a new light +on the character of a People chosen under a very different +Dispensation! Detainers flock in, like ravens to a +feast. At this moment I have endured the humiliation of +meeting a sneering child of this world—Mr. Arthur +Pendennis—the emissary of one <a name="citation151"></a><a +href="#footnote151" class="citation">[151]</a> to whom I gave in +other days the sweetest blossom in the garden of my +affections—my sister—of one who has, indeed, behaved +like a brother—<i>in law</i>! My word distrusted, my +statements received with a chilling scepticism by this +<i>Nabob</i> Newcome, I am urged to make some +“composition” with my creditors. The world is +very censorious, the ear of a Bishop is easily won; who knows how +those who have <i>envied</i> talents not misused may turn my +circumstances to my disadvantage? You will see that, far +from aiding another, I am rather obliged to seek succour +myself. But that saying about the sparrows abides with me +to my comfort. Could aught be done, think you, with a bill +backed by our joint names? On July 12 my pew-rents will +come in. I swear to you that they <i>have not been +anticipated</i>. Yours afflictedly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Charles +Honeyman</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—Would Jarndyce lend his name to a small bill at +three months? You know him well, and I have heard that he +is a man of benevolent character, and of substance. But +“how hardly shall a rich man”—you remember the +text.—C. H.</p> +<h2><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>XIX.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Miss Harriet to M. Guy de +Maupassant</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">This note, from one of the English damsels +whom M. Guy de Maupassant dislikes so much, is written in such +French as the lady could muster. It explains that recurrent +mystery, <i>why Englishwomen abroad smell of +gutta-percha</i>. The reason is not discreditable to our +countrywomen, but if M. de Maupassant asks, as he often does, why +Englishwomen dress like scarecrows when they are on the +Continent, Miss Harriet does not provide the answer.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Miss Pinkerton’s, +Stratford-atte-Bowe, Mars 12.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Monsieur</span>,—Vous devez me +connaître, quoique je ne vous connais pas le moins du +monde. Il m’est défendu de lire vos romans, je +ne sais trop pourquoi; mais j’ai bien lu la notice que M. +Henry James a consacrée, dans le <i>Fortnightly +Review</i>, à votre aimable talent. Vous +n’aimez pas, à ce qu’il paraît, ni +‘la sale Angleterre’ ni les filles de ce pays +immonde. Je figure moi-même dans vos romans (ou +<i>moâ</i>-même, car les Anglais, il est convenu, +prononcent ce pronom comme le nom d’un oiseau monstrueux et +même préhistorique de New Zealand)—oui, +‘Miss Harriet’ se risque assez souvent dans vos +contes assez risqués.</p> +<p>Vous avez posé, Monsieur, le sublime problème, +‘Comment se prennentelles les demoiselles anglaises pour +sentir toujours le caoutchouc?’ (‘<i>to smell of +india-rubber</i>’: traduction Henry James). En +premier lieu, Monsieur, elles ne ‘smell of +india-rubber’ quand elles se trouvent chez elles, dans les +bouges infectes qu’on appelle les ‘stately homes of +England.’ <a name="citation154"></a><a href="#footnote154" +class="citation">[154]</a> C’est seulement à +l’étranger que nous répandons l’odeur +saine et réjouissante de caoutchouc. Et +pourquoi? Parce que, Monsieur, Miss Harriet tient à +son tub—ou tôb—la chose est anglaise; +c’est permis pourtant à un galant homme d’en +prononcer le nom comme il veut, ou comme il peut</p> +<p>Or, quand elle voyage, Miss Harriet trouve, assez souvent, que +le ‘tub’ est une institution tout-à-fait +inconnue à ses hôtes. Que fait-elle +donc? Elle porte dans sa malle un tub de caoutchouc, +‘patent compressible india-rubber tub!’ Inutile +à dire que ses vêtements se trouvent +imprégnés du “smell of +india-rubber.” Voici, Monsieur, la solution +naturelle, et même fort louable, d’une question qui +est faite pour désespérer les savants de la +France!</p> +<p>Vous, Monsieur, qui êtes un <i>styliste</i> accompli, +veuillez bien me pardonner les torts que je viens de faire +à la belle langue française. Dame, on fait ce +qu’on peut (comme on dit dans les romans policiers) pour +être intelligible à un écrivain si +célèbre, qui ne lit couramment, peut-être, +l’idiôme barbare et malsonnant de la sale +Angleterre. M. Paul Bourget lui-même ne lit plus le +Grec. <i>Non omnia possumus omnes</i>.</p> +<p>Agréez, Monsieur, mes sentiments les plus +distingués.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Miss +Harriet</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>XX.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From S. Gandish</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>to the</i> ‘<i>Newcome +Independent</i>.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">The Royal +Academy</span>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">It appears that Mr. Gandish, at a great +age—though he was not older than several industrious +Academicans—withdrew from the active exercise of his art +and employed his learning and experience as Art Critic of the +“Newcome Independent.” The following critique +appears to show traces of declining mental vigour in the veteran +Gandish.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Our</span> great gallery has once more +opened her doors, if not to the public, nor even to the +fashionable <i>élite</i>, at least to the critics. +They are a motley throng who lounge on Press Days in the +sumptuous halls; ladies, small boys, clergymen are there, and +among them but few, perhaps, who have received the training in +High Art of your correspondent, and have had their eye, through a +lifetime more than commonly prolonged, on the glorious +Antique. And what shall we say of the present +Academy? In some ways, things have improved a little since +my “Boadishia” came back on my hands (1839) at a time +when High Art and the Antique would not do in this country: they +would not do. As far as the new exhibition shows, they do +better now than when the century was younger and “Portrait +of the Artist, by S. Gandish”—at thirty-three years +of age—was offered in vain to the jealously Papist clique +who then controlled the Uffizi. Foreigners are more affable +now; they have taken Mr. Poynter’s of himself.</p> +<p>To return to the Antique, what the President’s +“Captive Andromache” must have cost <i>in models +alone</i> is difficult to reckon. When times were cheaper, +fifty years since, my ancient Britons in “Boadishia” +stood me in thirty pounds: the central figures, however, were +members of my own family. To give every one his due, +“Andromache” is high art—yes, it is +high—and the Antique has not been overlooked. About +the back-view of the young party at the fountain Mr. Horsley may +have something to say. For my part, there seems a want of +muscle in vigorous action: where are the <i>biceps</i>, where are +the thews of Michael Angelo? The President is a touch too +quiet for a taste framed in the best schools. As to his +colour, where is that nutty brown tone of the flesh? But +the designs on the Greek vase are carefully rendered; though I +have heard it remarked by a classical scholar that these kind of +vases were not in use about Homer’s time. Still, the +intention is good, though the costumes are not what <i>we</i> +should have called Ancient Roman when the President was a +boy—ay, or earlier.</p> +<p>Then, Mr. Alma-Tadema, he has not turned <i>his</i> back on +the glorious Antique. “The Roses of +Heliogabalus” are not explained in the catalogue. As +far as I understand, there has been an earthquake at a banquet of +this unprincipled monarch. The King himself, and his +friends, are safe enough at a kind of high table; though which +<i>is</i> Heliogabalus (he being a consumptive-looking character +in his coins in the Classical Dictionary) your critic has not +made out. The earth having opened down below, the heads of +some women, and of a man with a beard and his hair done up like a +girl, are tossing about in a quantity of rose-leaves, which had +doubtless been strown on the floor, as Martial tells us was the +custom, <i>dum regnat rosa</i>. So I overheard a very +erudite critic remarking. The composition of the piece +would be thus accounted for; but I cannot pretend that Mr. Tadema +reminds one of either Poussin or Annibale Carracci. +However, rumour whispers that a high price has been paid for this +curious performance. To my thinking the friends of +Heliogabalus are a little flat and leathery in the handling of +the flesh. The silver work, and the marble, will please +admirers of this eccentric artist; but I can hardly call the +whole effect “High.” But Mr. Armitage’s +“Siren” will console people who remember the old +school. This beautiful girl (somewhat careless in her +attitude, though she has been sensible enough <i>not</i> to sit +down on the damp rock without putting her drapery beneath her) +would have been a true gem in one of the old Books of Beauty, +such as the Honourable Percy Popjoy and my old friend, Miss +Bunnion, used to contribute to in the palmy days of the English +school. Mr. Armitage’s “Juno,” standing +in mid-air, with the moon in the neighbourhood, is also an +example to youth, and very unlike the way such things are +generally done now. Mr. Burne-Jones (who does not exhibit) +never did anything like this. Poor Haydon, with whom I have +smoked many a pipe, would have acknowledged that Mr. +Goodall’s “David’s Promise to Bathsheba” +and “By the Sea of Galilee” prove that his +aspirations are nearly fulfilled. These are extremely large +pictures, yet well hung. The figure of Abishag is a little +too much in the French taste for an old-fashioned painter. +<i>Ars longa</i>, <i>nuda veritas</i>! I hope (and so will +the Liberal readers of the “Newcome Independent”) +that it is by an accident the catalogue reads—“The +Traitor.” “Earl Spencer, K.G.” +“The Moonlighters.” (Nos. 220, 221, 225.) +Some Tory <i>wag</i> among the Hanging Committee may have taken +this juxtaposition for wit: our readers will adopt a different +view.</p> +<p>There is a fine dog in Mr. Briton Riviere’s +“Requiescat,” but how did the relations of the dead +knight in plate armour acquire the embroidery, at least three +centuries later, on which he is laid to his last repose? +This destroys the illusion, but does not diminish the pathos in +the attitude of the faithful hound. Mr. Long’s large +picture appears to exhibit an Oriental girl being tried by a jury +of matrons—at least, not having my Diodorus Scriblerus by +me, I can arrive at no other conclusion. From the number of +models engaged, this picture must have been designed quite +regardless of expense. It is a study of the Antique, but I +doubt if Smee would have called it High Art.</p> +<p>Speaking of Smee reminds me of portraits. I miss +“Portrait of a Lady,” “Portrait of a +Gentleman;” the names of the sitters are now always +given—a concession to the notoriety-hunting proclivities of +the present period. Few portraits are more in the style of +the palmy days of our school (just after Lawrence) than a study +of a lady by Mr. Goodall (687). On the other hand, young +Mr. Richmond goes back to the antiquated manner of Reynolds in +one of his representations. I must admit that I hear this +work much admired by many; to me it seems old-fashioned and +lacking in blandness and affability. Mr Waterhouse has a +study of a subject from a poem that Mr. Pendennis, the novelist +(whom I knew well), was very fond of when he first came on the +town: “The Lady of Shalott.” It represents a +very delicate invalid, in a boat, under a counterpane. I +remember the poem ran (it was by young Mr. Tennyson):—</p> +<blockquote><p>They crossed themselves, their stars they +blest,<br /> +Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.<br /> +There lay a parchment on her breast<br /> +That puzzled more than all the rest<br /> + The well-fed +wits of Camelot:<br /> +“The web was woven curiously,<br /> +The charm is broken utterly;<br /> +Draw near and fear not, this is I<br /> + The Lady of +Shalott.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I admit that the wonder and dismay of the “well-fed +wits,” if the Lady was like Mr. Waterhouse’s picture +of her, do not surprise me. But I confess I do not +understand modern poetry, nor, perhaps, modern painting. +Where is historical Art? Where is Alfred and the +Cake—a subject which, as is well known, I discovered in my +researches in history. Where is “Udolpho in the +Tower”? or the “Duke of Rothsay the Fourth Day <a +name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>after He +was Deprived of his Victuals”? or “King John Signing +Magna Charta”? They are gone with the red curtain, +the brown tree, the storm in the background. Art is +revolutionary, like everything else in these times, when Treason +itself, in the form of a hoary apostate and reviewer of +contemporary fiction, glares from the walls, and is painted by +Royal—mark <i>Royal</i>!—Academicians! . . .</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Thomas Potts</i>, +<i>Esq.</i>, <i>of the</i> ‘<i>Newcome +Independent</i>,’ <i>to S. Gandish</i>, <i>Esq.</i></p> +<p style="text-align: right">Newcome, May 3.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Sir</span>,—I am truly sorry +to have to interrupt a connection with so old and respected a +contributor. But I think you will acknowledge, on reading +the proof of your article on the Academy, which I enclose, that +the time has arrived when public criticism is no longer your +province. I do not so much refer to the old-fashioned tone +of your observations on modern art. I know little about it, +and care not much more. But you have entirely forgotten, +towards the end of the notice, that the “Newcome +Independent,” as becomes its name, is a journal of Liberty +and Progress. The very proper remarks on Lord +Spencer’s portrait elsewhere show that you are not +unacquainted with our politics; but, at the close (expressing, I +fear, your true sentiments), you glide into language which makes +me shudder, and which, if printed in the +“Independent,” would spell ruin. Send it, by +all means, to the “Sentinel,” if you like. Send +your Tory views, I mean. As for your quotation from the +“Lady of Shalott,” I can find it nowhere in the poem +of that name by the author you strangely style “young Mr. +Tennyson.” <a name="citation165"></a><a href="#footnote165" +class="citation">[165]</a></p> +<p>I enclose a cheque for a quarter’s salary, and, while +always happy to meet you as man with man, must get the notice of +the Academy written up in the office from the “Daily +Telegraph,” “Standard,” and +“Times.” <a name="citation166"></a><a +href="#footnote166" class="citation">[166]</a>—Faithfully +and with deep regret yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Thomas +Potts</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>XXI.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Monsieur Lecoq</i>, <i>Rue +Jérusalem</i>, <i>Paris</i>, <i>to Inspector Bucket</i>, +<i>Scotland Yard</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">This correspondence appears to prove that +mistakes may be made by the most astute officers of police, and +that even so manifest a Briton as Mr. Pickwick might chance to +find himself in the toils of international conspiracy.</p> +<p>(Translated.)</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May 19, 1852.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir and Dear Fellow-Brother</span> +(<i>confrère</i>).—The so cordial understanding +between our countries ought to expand itself into a community of +the political police. But the just susceptibilities of the +Old England forbid at this moment the restoration to a friendly +Power of political offenders. In the name of the French +police of surety I venture to present to the famous officer +Bucket a prayer that he will shut his eyes, for once, on the +letter, and open his heart to the spirit of the laws.</p> +<p>No one needs to teach Monsieur Bucket that a foreign miscreant +can be given up, under all reserves, to the justice! A +small vial of a harmless soporific, a closed carriage, a private +cabin on board a Channel steamer—with these and a little of +the adroitness so remarked in the celebrated Bucket, the affair +is in the bag! (<i>dans le sac</i>). All these things are +in the cords (<i>dans les cordes</i>) of my esteemed English +fellow-brother; will he not employ them in the interest of a +devoted colleague and a friendly Administration? We seek a +malefactor of the worst species (<i>un chenapan de la pire +espèce</i>). This funny fellow (<i>drôle</i>) +calls himself Count of Fosco, and he resides in Wood Road 5, St. +John’s Forest; worth abode of a miscreant fit for the +Forest of Bondy! He is a man bald, stout, fair, and paying +well in countenance (<i>il paie de mine</i>), conceiving himself +to resemble the great Napoleon. <a name="page169"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 169</span>At the first sight you would say a +philanthrope, a friend of man. On his right arm he bears a +small red mark, round, the brand of a society of the most +dangerous. Dear Sir, you will not miss him? When once +he is in our hands, faith of Lecoq, you shall tell us your news +as to whether France can be grateful. Of more words there +is no need.—I remain, all to you, with the assurance of my +most distinguished consideration,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Lecoq</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Inspector Bucket to M. +Lecoq</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May 22.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,—Your polite favour +to hand, and contents noted. You are a man of the world; I +am a man of the world, and proud to deal with you as between man +and man. The little irregularity shall be no consideration, +all shall be squared, and the man wanted run in with punctuality +and despatch. Expect him at Calais on the 26th +current,—Faithfully yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">C. <span +class="smcap">Bucket</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page170"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 170</span><i>From Count Fosco to Samuel +Pickwick</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>G.C.M.P.C.</i>, <i>Goswell +Road</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">5 Forest Road, St. John’s +Wood, May 23.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,—When we met lately +at the hospitable board of our common friend, Benjamin Allen, +Esq., lately elected Professor of Chemistry in the University of +London, our conversation turned (if you can pass me the +intoxicating favour of remembering it) on the glorious science of +chemistry. For me this knowledge has ever possessed +irresistible attractions, from the enormous power which it +confers of heaping benefits on the suffering race of +mankind. Others may rejoice in the advantages which a +knowledge of it bestows—the power which can reduce a +Hannibal to the level of a drummer boy, or an all-pervading +Shakspeare to the intellectual estate of a vestryman, though it +cannot at present reverse those processes. The +consideration of the destructive as compared with the +constructive forces of chemistry was present, as I recollect, to +your powerful intellect on the festive occasion to which I +refer. “Yes!” you said (permit me to repeat +your very words)—“Yes, Count Fosco, Alexander’s +morning draught shall make Alexander run for his life at the +first sound of the enemy’s trumpet. So much chemistry +can achieve; but can she help as well as harm? Nay, can she +answer for it that the lemon which Professor Allen, from the best +and purest of motives, has blended with this milk-punch, shall +not disagree with me to-morrow morning? Can chemistry, +Count Fosco, thus thwart malign constitutional +tendency?”</p> +<p>These were your words, sir, and I am now ready to answer your +deep-searching question in the affirmative. Prolonged +assiduous application to my Art has shown me how to preserve the +lemon in Milk Punch, and yet destroy, or disengage, the +deleterious elements. Will you so greatly honour science, +and Fosco her servant, as to sup with me on <a +name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>the night +of the twenty-fifth, at nine o’clock, and prove (you need +not dread the test) whether a true follower of knowledge or a +vain babbler signs—in exile—the name of</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Isidor Ottavio +Baldassare Fosco</span>?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mr. Pickwick to the Count +Fosco</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May 24.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Sir</span>,—Many thanks for +your very kind invitation. Apart from the interests of +science, the pleasure of your company alone would be more than +enough to make me gladly accept it. I shall have the +enjoyment of testing your milk-punch to-morrow night at nine, +with the confident expectation that your admirable studies will +have overcome a tendency which for many years has prevented me +from relishing, as I could wish, one of the best things in this +good world. Lemon, in fact, has always disagreed with me, +as Professor Allen or Sir Robert Sawyer will be able <a +name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>to assure +you; so your valuable experiment can be put, in my case, to a +crucial test.—Very faithfully yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Samuel +Pickwick</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Inspector Bucket to M. +Lecoq</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May 26, 1 <span +class="GutSmall">A.M.</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Sir</span>,—We have taken +your man without difficulty. Bald, benevolent-looking, +stout, perhaps fancies himself like Napoleon; if so, is +deceived. We nabbed him asleep over his liquor and alone, +at the address you meant to give, 5 Forest Road, St. John’s +Wood. The house was empty, servants out, not a soul but him +at home. He speaks English well for a foreigner, and tries +to make out he is a British subject. Was rather confused +when took, and kept ejaculating “Cold Punch,” +apparently with the hope of persuading us that such was his name +or alias. He also called for one Sam—probably an +accomplice. He travels to Calais to-day as a lunatic <a +name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>patient in +a strait-waistcoat, under charge of four “keepers” +belonging to the force; and I trust that you have made +preparations for receiving your prisoner, and that our management +of the case has given satisfaction. What I like is doing +business with a man like you. We may not be so smart nor so +clever at disguises as the French profession, but we flatter +ourselves we are punctual and cautious.—Faithfully +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">C. <span +class="smcap">Bucket</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mr. Pickwick to Mr. +Perker</i>, <i>Solicitor</i>, <i>Gray’s Inn</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Sainte Pélagie, May 28.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Perker</span>,—For +heaven’s sake come over here at once, bringing some one who +can speak French, and bail me out, or whatever the process of +their law may be. I have been arrested, illegally and +without warrant, at the house of a scientific friend, Count +Fosco, where I had been supping. As far as I can +understand, <a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>I am accused of a plot against the life of the Emperor +of the French; but the whole proceedings have been unintelligible +and arbitrary to a degree. I cannot think that an English +citizen will be allowed to perish by the +guillotine—innocent and practically unheard! Please +bring linen and brushes, &c., but not Sam, who would be +certain to embroil himself with the French police. I am +writing to the <i>Times</i> and Lord Palmerston.—Sincerely +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Samuel +Pickwick</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Monsieur Lecoq to Inspector +Bucket</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May 27.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—There has arrived a +frightful misunderstanding. The man you have sent us is not +Fosco. Of Fosco he has only the baldness, the air +benevolent, and the girth. The brand on his right arm is no +more than the mark of vaccination. Brought before the +Commissary of Police, the prisoner, who has not one word of +French, was heard through an interpreter. He gives himself +the name of Piquouique, <i>rentier</i>, English; and he appeals +to his Ambassador. Of papers he had letters bearing the +name Samuel Pickwick, and, on his buttons, the letters P.C., +which we suspect are the badge of a secret society. But +this is not to the point; for it is certain that, whatever the +crimes of this brigand, he is <i>not</i> Fosco, but an +Englishman. That he should be found in the domicile of +Fosco when that droll had evaded is suspicious (<i>louche</i>), +and his explanation does not permit itself to be +understood. I have fear that we enjoy bad luck, and that M. +Palmerston will make himself to be heard on this matter.</p> +<p>Accept, Monsieur, the assurance of my high consideration.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Lecoq</span>.</p> +<p>P.S.—Our comrade, the Count Smorltork, of the Police of +Manners (<i>police des moeurs</i>), has come to present +himself. Confronted with the bandit, he gives him reason, +and offers his faith that the man is Piquouique, with whom he +encountered himself when on a mission of secrecy to England it is +now some years. What to do? (<i>Que faire</i>?)</p> +<h2><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span>XXII.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir +Henry Curtis</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">Mr. Quatermain offers the correct account of +two celebrated right and left shots, also an adventure of the +stranger in the Story of an African Farm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Curtis</span>,—You ask me to +give you the true account, in writing, of those right and left +shots of mine at the two lions, the crocodile, and the +eagle. The brutes are stuffed now, in the hall at +home—the lions each on a pedestal, and the alligator on the +floor with the eagle in his jaws—much as they were when I +settled them and saved the Stranger. All sorts of stories +have got into the papers about the business, which was simple +enough; so, though no hand with a pen, I may as well write it all +out.</p> +<p>I was up on the Knobkerry River, prospecting for diamonds, in +Omomborombunga’s country. I had nobody with me but +poor Jim-jim, who afterwards met with an awful death, otherwise +he would have been glad to corroborate my tale, if it needed +it. One night I had come back tired to camp, when I found a +stranger sitting by the fire. He was a dark, fat, +Frenchified little chap, and you won’t believe me, but it +is a fact that he wore gloves. I asked him to stay the +night, of course, and inspanned the waggons in laager, for +Omomborombunga’s impis were out, swearing to wash their +spears in the blood of The Great White Liar—a Portuguese +traveller probably; if not, I don’t know who he can have +been; perhaps this stranger: he gave no name. Well, we had +our biltong together, and the Stranger put himself outside a good +deal of the very little brandy I had left. We got yarning, +so to speak, and I told him a few of the curious adventures that +naturally fall to the lot of a man in those wild countries. +The Stranger did not say much, but kept playing with a huge +carved walking-stick that he had. Presently he said, +“Look at this stick; I bought it from a boy on a South +African Farm. Do you understand what the carvings +mean?”</p> +<p>“Hanged if I do!” I said, after turning it +about.</p> +<p>“Well, do you see that figure?” and he touched a +thing like a Noah out of a child’s ark. “That +was a hunter like you, my friend, but not in all respects. +That hunter pursued a vast white bird with silver wings, sailing +in the everlasting blue.”</p> +<p>“Everlasting bosh!” said I; “there is no +bird of the kind on the veldt.”</p> +<p>“That bird was Truth,” says the Stranger, +“and, judging from the anecdote you tell me about the +Babyan woman and the Zulu medicine-man, it is a bird <i>you</i> +don’t trouble yourself with much, my friend.”</p> +<p>This was a pretty cool thing to say to a man whose veracity is +known like a proverb from Sheba’s Breasts to the +Zambesi.</p> +<p><i>Foide Macumazahn</i>, the Zulus say, meaning as true as a +yarn of Allan Quatermain’s. Well, my blood was up; no +man shall call Allan Quatermain a liar. The fellow was +going on with a prodigious palaver about a white feather of +Truth, and Mount Sinai, and the Land of Absolute Negation, and I +don’t know what, but I signified to him that if he did not +believe my yarns I did not want his company. +“I’m sorry to turn you out,” I said, “for +there are lions around”—indeed they were roaring to +each other—“and you will have a parroty time. +But you apologise, or you go!”</p> +<p>He laughed his short thick laugh. “I am a man who +hopes nothing, feels nothing, fears nothing, and believes nothing +that you tell me!”</p> +<p>I got up and went for him with my fists, and whether he feared +nothing or not I don’t know; but he scooted, dropping a +yellow French novel, by one Catulle Mendes, that I could make +neither head nor tail of. I afterwards heard that there was +something about this stranger in a book called “The Story +of an African Farm,” which I once began, but never +finished, not being able to understand most of it, and being +vexed by the gross improbability of the girl not marrying the +baby’s father, he being ready and willing to make her an +honest woman. However, I am no critic, but a plain man who +tells a plain tale, and I believe persons of soul admire the book +very much. Any way, it does not say who the Stranger +was—an allegorical kind of bagman I fancy; but I am not +done with him yet.</p> +<p>Out he went into the dark, where hundreds of lions could be +plainly seen making love (at which season they are very +dangerous) by the flashes of lightning.</p> +<p>It was a terrific yet beautiful spectacle, and one which I can +never forget. The black of night would suddenly open like a +huge silver flower, deep within deep, till you almost fancied you +could see within the gates of heaven. The hills stood out +dark against the illimitable splendour, and on every koppie you +saw the huge lions, like kittens at play, roaring till you could +scarcely hear the thunder. The rain was rushing like a +river, all glittering like diamonds, and then, in the twinkling +of an eye, all was black as a wolf’s mouth till the next +flash. The lightning, coming from all quarters, appeared to +meet above me, and now was red, now golden, now silver again, +while the great cat-like beasts, as they leaped or lay, looked +like gold, red, and silver lions, reminding me of the signs of +public-houses in old England, far away. Meantime the donga +beneath roared with the flooded torrent that the rain was +bringing down from the heights of Umbopobekatanktshiu.</p> +<p>I stood watching the grand spectacle for some time, rather +pitying the Stranger who was out in it, by no fault of +mine. Then I knocked the ashes out of my pipe, ate a mealy +or two, and crept into my <i>kartel</i>, <a +name="citation184"></a><a href="#footnote184" +class="citation">[184]</a> and slept the sleep of the just.</p> +<p>About dawn I woke. The thunder had rolled away like a +bad dream. The long level silver shafts of the dawn were +flooding the heights, raindrops glittered like diamonds on every +kopje and karroo bush, leaving the deep donga bathed in the +solemn pall of mysterious night.</p> +<p>My thoughts went rapidly over the millions of leagues of land +and sea, where life, that perpetual problem, was now awaking to +another day of struggle and temptation. Then the golden +arrows of the day followed fast. The silver and blue sky +grew roseate with that wide wild blush which testifies to the +modest delight of nature, satisfied and grateful for her silent +existence and her amorous repose. I breakfasted, went down +into the donga with a black boy, poor Jim-jim, who was +afterwards, as I said, to perish by an awful fate, otherwise he +would testify to the truth of my plain story. I began +poking among the rocks in the dry basin of the donga, <a +name="citation185"></a><a href="#footnote185" +class="citation">[185]</a> and had just picked up a +pebble—I knew it by the soapy feel for a diamond. +Uncut it was about three times the size of the koh-i-noor, say +1,000 carats, and I was rejoicing in my luck when I heard the +scream of a human being in the last agony of terror. +Looking up, I saw that on either side of the donga, which was +about twenty feet wide, a great black lion and lioness were +standing with open jaws, while some fifty yards in front of me an +alligator, in a deep pool of the flooded donga, was stretching +his open snout and gleaming teeth greedily upwards. Over +head flew an eagle, and <i>in mid-air between</i>, as I am a +living and honourable man, a human being was leaping the +chasm. He had been pursued by the lion on my left, and had +been driven to attempt the terrible leap; but if he crossed he +was certain to fall into the jaws of the lion on my right, while +if he fell short in his jump, do you see, the alligator was ready +for him below, and the great golden eagle watched the business +from above, in case he attempted to escape <i>that</i> way.</p> +<p>All this takes long to tell, though it was passing in a flash +of time. Dropping the diamond (which must have rolled into +a crevice of the rock, for I never saw it again), I caught up my +double-barrelled rifle (one of Wesson & Smith’s), aimed +at the lion on the right hand of the donga with my right barrel, +and then hastily fired my left at the alligator. When the +smoke cleared away, the man had reached the right side of the +donga safe and sound. Seeing that the alligator was dying, +I loaded again, bowled over the lioness on the left, settled the +eagle’s business (he fell dead into the jaws of the dying +alligator, which closed on him with a snap). I then climbed +the wall of the donga, and there lay, fainting, the Stranger of +last night—the man who feared nothing—the blood of +the dead lion trickling over him. His celebrated +allegorical walking-stick from the African Farm had been broken +into two pieces by the bullet after it (the bullet) had passed +through the head of the lion. And, as the “Ingoldsby +Legends” say, “nobody was one penny the worse,” +except the wild beasts. The man, however, had had a parroty +time, and it was a good hour before I could bring him round, +during which he finished my brandy. He still wore +gloves. What he was doing in Omuborumbunga’s country +I do not know to this day. I never found the diamond again, +though I hunted long. But I must say that two better right +and left shots, considering that I had no time to aim, and that +they were really snapshots, I never remember to have made in my +long experience.</p> +<p>This is the short and the long of the matter, which was talked +of a good deal in the Colony, and about which, I am told, some +inaccurate accounts have got into the newspapers. I hate +writing, as you know, and don’t pretend to give a literary +colour to this little business of the shots, but merely tell a +“plain, unvarnished tale,” as the “Ingoldsby +Legends” say.</p> +<p>As to the Stranger, what he was doing there, or who he was, or +where he is now, I can tell you nothing. He told me he was +bound for “the almighty mountains of Dry-facts and +Realities,” which he kindly pointed out to me among the +carvings of his walking-stick. He then sighed wearily, very +wearily, and scooted. I think he came to no good; but he +never came in my way again.</p> +<p>And now you know the yarn of the two stuffed lions and the +alligator with the eagle in his jaws.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Allan +Quatermain</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>XXIII.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From the Baron Bradwardine to +Edward Waverley</i>, <i>Esq.</i>, <i>of Waverley Honour</i>.</p> +<p class="gutsumm">The Baron explains the mysterious +circumstances of his affair with his third cousin, Sir Hew +Halbert.—“Waverley,” chap. xiv.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Tully Veolan, May 17, 1747.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Son Edward</span>,—Touching my +quarrel with Sir Hew Halbert, anent which I told you no more than +that it was “settled in a fitting manner,” you have +long teased me for an ampler explanation. This I have +withheld, as conceiving that it tended rather to vain quolibets +and jesting, than to that respect in which the duello, or single +combat, should be regarded by gentlemen of name and coat +armour. But Sir Hew being dead, and buried with his +fathers, the matter may be broached as among friends and persons +of honour. The ground of our dispute, as ye know, was an +unthinking scoff of Sir Hew’s, he being my own third cousin +by the mother’s side, Anderson of Ettrick Hall having +intermarried, about the time of the Solemn League and Covenant, +with Anderson of Tushielaw, both of which houses are connected +with the Halberts of Dinniewuddie and with the +Bradwardines. But <i>stemmata quid faciunt</i>? Sir +Hew, being a young man, and the maut, as the vulgar say, above +the meal, after a funeral of one of our kin in the Cathedral +Kirkyard of St. Andrews, we met at Glass’s Inn, where, in +the presence of many gentlemen, occurred our unfortunate +dissension.</p> +<p>We encountered betimes next morning, on a secluded spot of the +sands hard by the town, at the Eden-mouth. <a +name="citation190"></a><a href="#footnote190" +class="citation">[190]</a> The weapons were pistols, Sir +Hew, by a slight passing infirmity, being disabled from the use +of the sword. Inchgrabbit was my second, and Strathtyrum +did the same office for my kinsman, Sir Hew. The pistols +being charged and primed, and we aligned forenent each other at +the convenient distance of twelve paces, the word was given to +fire, and both weapons having been discharged, and the smoke +having cleared away, Sir Hew was discovered fallen to the ground, +<i>procumbus humi</i>, and exanimate. The blood was flowing +freely from a face-wound, and my unhappy kinsman was +senseless. At this moment we heard a voice, as of one +<i>clamantis in eremo</i>, cry “<i>Fore</i>!” to +which paying no heed in the natural agitation of our spirits, we +hurried to lift my fallen opponent and examine his wound. +Upon a closer search it proved to be no shot-wound, but a mere +clour, or bruise, whereof the reason was now apparent, he having +been struck by the ball of a golfer (from us concealed by the +<i>dunes</i>, or bunkers, of sand) and not by the discharge of my +weapon. At this moment a plebeian fellow appeared with his +<i>arma campestria</i>, or clubs, cleeks, irons, and the like, +under his arm, who, without paying any attention to our +situation, struck the ball wherewith he had felled my kinsman in +the direction of the hole. Reflection directed us to the +conclusion that both pistols had missed their aim, and that Sir +Hew had fallen beneath a chance blow from this fellow’s +golf-ball. But as my kinsman was still <i>hors de +combat</i>, and incapable of further action, being unwitting, +too, of the real cause of his disaster, Inchgrabbit and +Strathtyrum, in their discretion as seconds, or <i>belli +judices</i>, deemed it better that we should keep a still sough, +and that Sir Hew should never be informed concerning the cause of +his discomfiture. This resolution we kept, and Sir Hew +wore, till the day of his late lamented decease, a bullet among +the seals of his watch, he being persuaded by Strathtyrum that it +had been extracted from his brain-pan, which certainly was of the +thickest. But this was all a bam, or bite, among young men, +and a splore to laugh over by our three selves, nor would I have +it to go abroad now that Sir Hew is dead, as being prejudicial to +the memory of a worthy man, and an honourable family connected +with our own. Wherefore I pray you keep a still sough +hereanent, as you love me, who remain—Your loving good +father,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Bradwardine</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>APPENDIX</h2> +<p class="gutsumm">Note on Letter of Mr. Surtees to Mr. Jonathan +Oldbuck, p. 64.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">No</span> literary forgeries were ever +much better done than the sham ballads which Surtees of +Mainsforth imposed on Sir Walter Scott. The poems were +spirited and good of their kind; and though we wonder now that +some of them could take in an expert, it is by no means assured +that we are even to-day acquainted with the whole of +Surtees’ frauds. Why a man otherwise honourable, +kindly, charitable, and learned, exercised his ingenuity so +cruelly upon a trusting correspondent and a staunch friend, it is +hardly possible to guess. The biographers of Surtees +maintain that he wanted to try his skill on Scott, then only +known to him by correspondence; and that, having succeeded, he +was afraid to risk Scott’s friendship by a +confession. This is plausible; and if good may come out of +evil, we may remember that two picturesque parts of +“Marmion” are due to one confessed and another +certain <i>supercherie</i> of Surtees. It cannot be said in +his defence that he had no conception of the mischief of literary +frauds; in more than one passage of his correspondence he +mentions Ritson’s detestation of these practices. +“To literary imposition, as tending to obscure the path of +inquiry, Ritson gave no quarter,” says this arch literary +impostor.</p> +<p>A brief account of Surtees’ labour in the field of sham +ballad writing may be fresh to many people who merely know him as +the real author of “Barthram’s Dirge” and of +“The Slaying of Anthony Featherstonhaugh.” In +an undated letter of 1806, Scott, writing from Ashestiel, thanks +Surtees for his “obliging communications.” +Surtees manifestly began the correspondence, being attracted by +the “Border Minstrelsy.” Thus it appears that +Surtees did <i>not</i> forge “Hobbie Noble” in the +first edition of the “Minstrelsy”; for he makes some +suggestions as to the “Earl of Whitfield,” dreaded by +the hero of that ballad, which Scott had already published. +But he was already deceiving Scott, who writes to him about +“Ralph Eure,” or “Lord Eure,” and about a +“Goth, who melted Lord Eure’s gold +chain.” This Lord Eure is doubtless the “Lord +Eurie” of the ballad in the later editions of the +“Border Minstrelsy,” a ballad actually composed by +Surtees. That wily person immediately sent Scott a ballad +on “The Feud between the Ridleys and Featherstones,” +in which Scott believed to the day of his death. He +introduced it in “Marmion.”</p> +<blockquote><p> The whiles a +Northern harper rude<br /> + Chaunted a rhyme of deadly +feud,<br /> +How the fierce Thirlwalls and Ridleys all, &c.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In his note (“Border Minstrelsy,” second edition, +1808, p. xxi.) Scott says the ballad was taken down from an old +woman’s recitation at the Alston Moor lead-mines “by +the agent there,” and sent by him to Surtees. +Consequently, when Surtees saw “Marmion” in print he +had to ask Scott not to print “<i>the</i> agent,” as +he does not know even the name of Colonel Beaumont’s chief +agent there, but “an agent.” Thus he hedged +himself from a not impossible disclaimer by the agent at the +mines.</p> +<p>Readers of “Marmion” will remember how</p> +<blockquote><p>Once, near Norham, there did fight<br /> +A spectre fell, of fiendish might,<br /> +In likeness of a Scottish knight,<br /> + With Brian Bulmer bold,<br /> +And trained him nigh to disallow<br /> +The aid of his baptismal vow.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This legend is more of Surtees’ fun. “The +most singular tale of this kind,” says Sir Walter, +“is contained in an extract communicated to me by my friend +Mr. Surtees, of Mainsforth, who copied it from a MS. note in a +copy of Burthogge “On the Nature of Spirits, 1694, +8vo,” which had been the property of the late Mr. +Gill. It was not in Mr. Gill’s own hand: but probably +an hundred years older, and was said to be “E libro +Convent. Dunelm. per T. C. extract.;” this T. C. +being Thomas Cradocke, Esq. Scott adds, that the passage, +which he gives in the Latin, suggested the introduction of the +tourney with the Fairy Knight in “Marmion.” +Well, <i>where</i> is Cradocke’s extract? The +original was “lost” before Surtees sent his +“copy” to Sir Walter. “The notes had been +carelessly or injudiciously shaken out of the book.” +Surtees adds, another editor confirms it, that no such story +exists in any MS. of the Dean and Chapter of Durham. No +doubt he invented the whole story, and wrote it himself in +mediæval Latin.</p> +<p>Not content with two “whoppers,” as Mr. Jo Gargery +might call them, Surtees goes on to invent a perfectly incredible +heraldic bearing. He found it in a MS. note in the +“Gwillim’s Heraldry” of Mr. Gyll or +Gill—the name is written both ways. “He beareth +per pale or and arg., over all a spectre passant, <i>shrouded +sable</i>”—“he” being Newton, of +Beverley, in Yorkshire. Sir Walter actually swallowed this +amazing fib, and alludes to it in “Rob Roy” +(1818). But Mr. Raine, the editor of Surtees’ Life, +inherited or bought his copy of Gwillim, that of Mr. Gill or +Gyll; “and I find in it no trace of such an +entry.” “Lord Derwentwater’s +Good-Night” is probably entirely by Surtees. “A +friend of Mr. Taylor’s” gave him a Tynedale ballad, +“Hey, Willy Ridley, winna you stay?” which is also +“aut Diabolus aut Robertus.” As to +“Barthram’s Dirge,” “from Ann Douglas, a +withered crone who weeds my garden,” copies with various +tentative verses in Surtees’ hand have been found. +Oddly enough, Sir Walter had once discovered a small sepulchral +cross, upset, in Liddesdale, near the “Nine Stane +Rig;” and this probably made him more easily +deceived. Surtees very cleverly put some lines, which +<i>could</i> not have been original, in brackets, as his own +attempt to fill up lacunæ. Such are</p> +<blockquote><p> [When the dew fell cold and +still,<br /> +When the aspen grey forget to play,<br /> + And the mist clung to the hill.]</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Any one reading the piece would say, “It must be +genuine, for the <i>confessed</i> interpolations are not in the +ballad style, which the interpolator, therefore, could not +write.” An attempt which Surtees made when composing +the song, and which he wisely rejected, could not have failed to +excite Scott’s suspicions. It ran—</p> +<blockquote><p>They buried him when the bonny may<br /> + Was on the flow’ring thorn;<br /> +And she waked him till the forest grey<br /> + Of every leaf was lorn;</p> +<p>Till the rowan tree of gramarye<br /> + Its scarlet clusters shed,<br /> +And the hollin green alone was seen<br /> + With its berries glistening red.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Whether Surtees’ “Brown Man of the Muirs,” +to which Scott also gave a place in his own poetry, was a true +legend or not, the reader may decide for himself.</p> +<p>Concerning another ballad in the +“Minstrelsy”—“Auld +Maitland”—Professor Child has expressed a suspicion +which most readers feel. What Scott told Ellis about it +(Autumn, 1802) was, that he got it in the Forest, “copied +down from the recitation of an old shepherd by a country +farmer.” Who was the farmer? Will Laidlaw had +employed James Hogg, as shepherd. Hogg’s mother +chanted “Auld Maitland.” Hogg first met Scott +in the summer of 1801. The shepherd had already seen the +first volume of the “Minstrelsy.” Did he, +thereupon, write “Auld Maitland,” teach his mother +it, and induce Laidlaw to take it down from her recitation? +The old lady said she got it from Andrew Moir, who had it +“frae auld Baby Mettlin, who was said to have been another +nor a gude ane.” But we have Hogg’s own +statement that “aiblins ma gran’-mither was an unco +leear,” and this quality may have been hereditary. On +the other side, Hogg could hardly have held his tongue about the +forgery, if forgery it was, when he wrote his “Domestic +Manners and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott” (1834). +The whole investigation is a little depressing, and makes one +very shy of unauthenticated ballads.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED +BY</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET +SQUARE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LONDON</span></p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote20"></a><a href="#citation20" +class="footnote">[20]</a> Who knows what may happen? +I may die before he sees the light; so I will add among my +friends <span class="smcap">Skalagrim +Lamb’s-tail</span>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote43"></a><a href="#citation43" +class="footnote">[43]</a> Can Mrs. Gamp mean +‘dial’?</p> +<p><a name="footnote47"></a><a href="#citation47" +class="footnote">[47]</a> 1887.</p> +<p><a name="footnote50"></a><a href="#citation50" +class="footnote">[50]</a> In his familiar correspondence, +it will be observed, Herodotus does not trouble himself to +maintain the dignity of history.</p> +<p><a name="footnote53"></a><a href="#citation53" +class="footnote">[53]</a> Mr. Flinders Petrie has just +discovered and sent to Mr. Holly, of Trinity, Cambridge, the +well-known traveller, a wall-painting of a beautiful woman, +excavated by the Egypt Exploration Society, from the ruined site +of the Temple of Aphrodite in Naucratis. Mr. Holly, in an +affecting letter to the <i>Academy</i>, states that he recognises +in this picture “an admirable though somewhat archaic +portrait of <span class="smcap">She</span>.” There +can thus be little or no doubt that <span +class="smcap">She</span> was Rhodopis, and therefore several +hundred years older than she said. But few will blame her +for being anxious not to claim her full age.</p> +<p>This unexpected revelation appears to throw light on some +fascinating peculiarities in the behaviour of <span +class="smcap">She</span>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote56"></a><a href="#citation56" +class="footnote">[56]</a> The great intimacy between Mrs. +Proudie and Mrs. Quiverful, indicated by Mrs. Proudie’s use +of the Bishop’s Christian name—and that +abbreviated—has amazed the discoverer and editor of her +correspondence.</p> +<p><a name="footnote60a"></a><a href="#citation60a" +class="footnote">[60a]</a> This signature of Mrs. +Proudie’s is so unusual an assumption of the episcopal +style, that it might well cast a doubt on the authenticity of her +letter. But experts pronounce it genuine. +“Barnum,” of course, is “Baronum +Castrum,” the rather odd Roman name of Barchester.</p> +<p><a name="footnote60b"></a><a href="#citation60b" +class="footnote">[60b]</a> It has been seen that Mrs. +Quiverful did not obey this injunction.</p> +<p><a name="footnote65"></a><a href="#citation65" +class="footnote">[65]</a> This man was well known to Sir +Walter Scott, who speaks of his curious habits in an unpublished +manuscript.</p> +<p><a name="footnote125"></a><a href="#citation125" +class="footnote">[125]</a> Mr. Forth, we are sure, is quite +wrong, and none of the scholars he quotes has said anything of +the kind.</p> +<p><a name="footnote129"></a><a href="#citation129" +class="footnote">[129]</a> “He” clearly means, +not Addison, but Professor Forth, the lady’s husband.</p> +<p><a name="footnote130"></a><a href="#citation130" +class="footnote">[130]</a> It was not Asiatics, but Aztecs; +not Pittites, but Hittites! Woman cares little for these +studies!—A.L.</p> +<p><a name="footnote133"></a><a href="#citation133" +class="footnote">[133]</a> The editor has no doubt that +some one was—Miss Watson. Cf. +‘Belinda.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote139"></a><a href="#citation139" +class="footnote">[139]</a> Owing to the sudden decease of +the Dean in well-known and melancholy circumstances, this letter +was not delivered.</p> +<p><a name="footnote140"></a><a href="#citation140" +class="footnote">[140]</a> Alas, not wisely! But any +careful reader of “The Silence of Dean Maitland” will +see that the Baby was an anachronism.—<span +class="smcap">Ed</span>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote146"></a><a href="#citation146" +class="footnote">[146]</a> This appears to have been a +favourite remark of Mr. Skimpole’s. It will be +noticed that, quite without intending it, Mr. Skimpole was the +founder of our New Cyrenaic School.</p> +<p><a name="footnote147"></a><a href="#citation147" +class="footnote">[147]</a> Mr. Skimpole’s +recollections of classical ritual are a little mixed +hereabouts. He refers to Mr. Honeyman’s projected +union with the widow of Mr. Bromley, the famous hatter.</p> +<p><a name="footnote151"></a><a href="#citation151" +class="footnote">[151]</a> Colonel Newcome, indeed.</p> +<p><a name="footnote154"></a><a href="#citation154" +class="footnote">[154]</a> Non, Monsieur, je ne cite ni +“Woodsworth” ni “le vieux Williams.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote165"></a><a href="#citation165" +class="footnote">[165]</a> Mr. Potts ought to have +consulted the edition of 1833, where he would have found the +verse as quoted by Mr. Gandish.</p> +<p><a name="footnote166"></a><a href="#citation166" +class="footnote">[166]</a> And a nice mixture it must have +been!—A. L.</p> +<p><a name="footnote184"></a><a href="#citation184" +class="footnote">[184]</a> The wooden bed fastened in an +ox-waggon.</p> +<p><a name="footnote185"></a><a href="#citation185" +class="footnote">[185]</a> Mr. Quatermain has just said +that the donga was filled by a roaring torrent. Is there +not some inconsistency here?</p> +<p><a name="footnote190"></a><a href="#citation190" +class="footnote">[190]</a> At the <i>High Hole</i>, +indeed.—A. L.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD FRIENDS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1991-h.htm or 1991-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/9/1991 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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Two, from a friendly hand, have been omitted here by the +author of the rest, as non sua poma. One was by Mr. RICHARD +SWIVELLER to a boon companion and brother in the lyric Apollo; the +other, though purporting to have been addressed by Messrs. DOMBEY & +SON to Mr. TOOTS, is believed, on internal evidence, to have been +composed by the patron of the CHICKEN himself. A few prefatory +notes, an introductory essay, and two letters have been added. + +The portrait in the frontispiece, copied by Mr. T. Hodge from an +old painting in the Club at St. Andrews, is believed to represent +the Baron Bradwardine addressing himself to his ball. + +A. L. + + + +FRIENDS IN FICTION + + + +Every fancy which dwells much with the unborn and immortal +characters of Fiction must ask itself, Did the persons in +contemporary novels never meet? In so little a world their paths +must often have crossed, their orbits must have intersected, though +we hear nothing about the adventure from the accredited narrators. +In historical fiction authors make their people meet real men and +women of history--Louis XI., Lazarus, Mary Queen of Scots, General +Webbe, Moses, the Man in the Iron Mask, Marie Antoinette; the list +is endless. But novelists, in spite of Mr. Thackeray's advice to +Alexandre Dumas, and of his own example in "Rebecca and Rowena," +have not introduced each other's characters. Dumas never pursued +the fortunes of the Master of Ravenswood after he was picked up by +that coasting vessel in the Kelpie's Flow. Sometimes a meeting +between characters in novels by different hands looked all but +unavoidable. "Pendennis" and "David Copperfield" came out +simultaneously in numbers, yet Pen never encountered Steerforth at +the University, nor did Warrington, in his life of journalism, +jostle against a reporter named David Copperfield. One fears that +the Major would have called Steerforth a tiger, that Pen would have +been very loftily condescending to the nephew of Betsy Trotwood. +But Captain Costigan would scarcely have refused to take a sip of +Mr. Micawber's punch, and I doubt, not that Litimer would have +conspired darkly with Morgan, the Major's sinister man. Most of +those delightful sets of old friends, the Dickens and Thackeray +people, might well have met, though they belonged to very different +worlds. In older novels, too, it might easily have chanced that +Mr. Edward Waverley of Waverley Honour, came into contact with +Lieutenant Booth, or, after the Forty-five, with Thomas Jones, or, +in Scotland, Balmawhapple might have foregathered with Lieutenant +Lismahagow. Might not even Jeanie Deans have crossed the path of +Major Lambert of the "Virginians," and been helped on her way by +that good man? Assuredly Dugald Dalgetty in his wanderings in +search of fights and fortune may have crushed a cup or rattled a +dicebox with four gallant gentlemen of the King's Mousquetaires. +It is agreeable to wonder what all these very real people would +have thought of their companions in the region of Romance, and to +guess how their natures would have acted and reacted on each other. + +This was the idea which suggested the following little essays in +parody. In making them the writer, though an assiduous and veteran +novel reader, had to recognise that after all he knew, on really +intimate and friendly terms, comparatively few people in the +Paradise of Fiction. Setting aside the dramatic poets and their +creations, the children of Moliere and Shakspeare, the reader of +novels will find, may be, that his airy friends are scarce so many +as he deemed. We all know Sancho and the Don, by repute at least; +we have all our memories of Gil Blas; Manon Lescaut does not fade +from the heart, nor her lover, the Chevalier des Grieux, from the +remembrance. Our mental picture of Anna Karenine is fresh enough +and fair enough, but how few can most of us recall out of the +myriad progeny of George Sand! Indiana, Valentine, Lelia, do you +quite believe in them, would you know them if you met them in the +Paradise of Fiction? Noun one might recognise, but there is a +haziness about La Petite Fadette. Consuelo, let it be admitted, is +not evanescent, oblivion scatters no poppy over her; but Madame +Sand's later ladies, still more her men, are easily lost in the +forests of fancy. Even their names with difficulty return to us, +and if we read the roll-call, would Horace and Jacques cry Adsum +like the good Colonel? There are living critics who have all Mr. +George Meredith's heroines and heroes and oddities at their finger +ends, and yet forget that musical name, like the close of a rich +hexameter, Clare Doria Forey. But this is a digression; it is +perhaps admitted that George Sand, so great a novelist, gave the +world few characters who live in and are dear to memory. We can +just fancy one of her dignified later heroines, all self- +renunciation and rural sentiment, preaching in vain to that real +woman, Emma Bovary. HER we know, her we remember, as we remember +few, comparatively, of Balzac's thronging faces, from La Cousine +Bette to Seraphitus Seraphita. Many of those are certain to live +and keep their hold, but it is by dint of long and elaborate +preparation, description, analysis. A stranger intermeddleth not +with them, though we can fancy Lucien de Rubempre let loose in a +country neighbourhood of George Sand's, and making sonnets and love +to some rural chatelaine, while Vautrin might stray among the +ruffians of Gaboriau, a giant of crime. Among M. Zola's people, +however it may fare with others, I find myself remembering few: +the guilty Hippolytus of "La Curee," the poor girl in "La Fortune +des Rougon," the Abbe Mouret, the artist in "L'Oeuvre," and the +half idiotic girl of the farm house, and Helene in "Un Page +d'Amour." They are not amongst M. Zola's most prominent creations, +and it must be some accident that makes them most memorable and +recognisable to one of his readers. + +Probably we all notice that the characters of fiction who remain +our intimates, whose words come to our lips often, whose conduct in +this or that situation we could easily forecast, are the characters +whom we met when we were young. We may be wrong in thinking them +the best, the most true and living of the unborn; perhaps they only +seem so real because they came fresh to fresh hearts and unworn +memories. This at least we must allow for, when we are tempted to +say about novelists, "The old are better." It was we who, long +ago, were young and better, better fitted to enjoy and retain the +pleasure of making new visionary acquaintances. If this be so, +what an argument it is in favour of reading the best books first +and earliest in youth! Do the ladies who now find Scott slow, and +Miss Austen dull, and Dickens vulgar, and Thackeray prosy, and +Fielding and Richardson impossible, come to this belief because +they began early with the volumes of the circulating library? Are +their memories happily stored with the words and deeds of modern +fictitious romps, and passionate governesses, and tremendous +guardsmen with huge cigars? Are the people of--well, why mention +names of living authors?--of whom you will--are those as much to +the young readers of 1890 as Quentin Durward, and Colonel Newcome, +and Sam Weller, and Becky Sharp, and Anne Elliot, and Elizabeth +Bennett, and Jane Eyre were to young readers of 1860? It may very +well be so, and we seniors will not regret our choice, and the +young men and maids will be pleased enough with theirs. Yet it is +not impossible that the old really are better, and do not gain all +their life and permanent charm merely from the unjaded memories and +affections with which we came to them long ago. + +We shall never be certain, for even if we tried the experiment of +comparing, we are no longer good judges, our hearts are with our +old friends, whom we think deathless; their birth is far enough off +in time, but they will serve us for ours. + +These friends, it has been said, are not such a very numerous +company after all. Most of them are children of our own soil, +their spirits were made in England, or at least in Great Britain, +or, perhaps, came of English stock across the seas, like our dear +old Leather Stocking and Madam Hester Prynne. Probably most of us +are insular enough to confess this limitation; even if we be so +unpatriotic to read far more new French than new English novels. +One may study M. Daudet, and not remember his Sidonie as we +remember Becky, nor his Petit Chose or his Jack as we remember +David Copperfield. In the Paradise of Fiction are folk of all +nations and tongues; but the English (as Swedenborg saw them doing +in his vision of Heaven) keep very much to themselves. The +American visitors, or some of them, disdain our old acquaintances, +and associate with Russian, Spanish, Lithuanian, Armenian heroes +and heroines, conversing, probably, in some sort of French. Few of +us "poor islanders" are so cosmopolitan; we read foreign novels, +and yet among all the brilliant persons met there we remember but a +few. Most of my own foreign friends in fiction wear love-locks and +large boots, have rapiers at their side which they are very ready +to draw, are great trenchermen, mighty fine drinkers, and somewhat +gallant in their conduct to the sex. There is also a citizen or +two from Furetiere's "Roman Bourgeois," there is Manon, aforesaid, +and a company of picaroons, and an archbishop, and a lady styled +Marianne, and a newly ennobled Count of mysterious wealth, and two +grisettes, named Mimi and Musette, with their student-lovers. M. +Balzac has introduced us to mystics, and murderers, and old maids, +and doctors, and adventurers, and poets, and a girl with golden +eyes, and malefactors, and bankrupts, and mad old collectors, +peasants, cures, critics, dreamers, debauchees; but all these are +somewhat distant acquaintances, many of them undesirable +acquaintances. In the great "Comedie Humaine" have you a single +real friend? Some of Charles de Bernard's folk are more akin to +us, such as "La Femme de Quarante Ans," and the owner of the hound +Justinian, and that drunken artist in "Gerfaut." But an Englishman +is rather friendless, rather an alien and an outcast, in the +society of French fiction. Monsieur de Camors is not of our monde, +nor is the Enfant du Siecle; indeed, perhaps good Monsieur +Sylvestre Bonnard is as sympathetic as anyone in that populous +country of modern French romance. Or do you know Fifi Vollard? + +Something must be allowed for strange manners, for exotic ideas, +and ways not our own. More perhaps is due to what, as Englishmen +think, is the lack of HUMOUR in the most brilliant and witty of +races. We have friends many in Moliere, in Dumas, in Rabelais; but +it is far more difficult to be familiar, at ease, and happy in the +circles to which Madame Sand, M. Daudet, M. Flaubert, or M. Paul +Bourget introduce us. M. Bourget's old professor, in "Le +Disciple," we understand, but he does not interest himself much in +us, and to us he is rather a curiosity, a "character," than an +intimate. We are driven to the belief that humour, with its loving +and smiling observation, is necessary to the author who would make +his persons real and congenial, and, above all, friendly. Now +humour is the quality which Dumas, Moliere, and Rabelais possess +conspicuously among Frenchmen. Montaigne has it too, and makes +himself dear to us, as the humorous novelists make their fancied +people dear. Without humour an author may draw characters distinct +and clear, and entertaining, and even real; but they want +atmosphere, and with them we are never intimate. Mr. Alfred Austin +says that "we know the hero or the heroine in prose romance far +more familiarly than we know the hero or heroine in the poem or the +drama." "Which of the serious characters in Shakspeare's plays are +not indefinite and shadowy compared with Harry Esmond or Maggie +Tulliver?" The SERIOUS characters--they are seldom very familiar +or definite to us in any kind of literature. One might say, to be +sure, that he knows Hotspur a good deal more intimately than he +knows Mr. Henry Esmond, and that he has a pretty definite idea of +Iago, Othello, Macbeth, King Lear, as definite as he has (to follow +Mr. Austin) of Tito Melema. But we cannot reckon Othello, or +Macbeth, or King Lear as FRIENDS; nay, we would rather drink with +the honest ancient. All heroes and the heroines are usually too +august, and also too young, to be friendly with us; to be handled +humorously by their creators. We know Cuddie Headrigg a great deal +better than Henry Morton, and Le Balafre better than Quentin +Durward, and Dugald Dalgetty better than anybody. Humour it is +that gives flesh and blood to the persons of romance; makes Mr. +Lenville real, while Nicholas Nickleby is only a "walking +gentleman." You cannot know Oliver Twist as you know the Dodger +and Charlie Bates. If you met Edward Waverley you could scarce +tell him from another young officer of his time; but there would be +no chance of mistake about the Dugald creature, or Bailie Nicol +Jarvie, or the Baron Bradwardine, or Balmawhapple. + +These ideas might be pushed too far; it might be said that only the +persons in "character parts"--more or less caricatures--are really +vivid in the recollection. But Colonel Newcome is as real as +Captain Costigan, and George Warrington as the Chevalier Strong. +The hero is commonly too much of a beau tenebreux to be actual; +Scott knew it well, and in one of his unpublished letters frankly +admits that his heroes are wooden, and no favourites of his own. +He had to make them, as most authors make their heroes, romantic, +amorous, and serious; few of them have the life of Roland Graeme, +or even of Quentin Durward. Ivanhoe might put on the cloak of the +Master of Ravenswood, the Master might wear the armour of the +Disinherited Knight, and the disguise would deceive the keenest. +Nay, Mr. Henry Esmond might pass for either, if arrayed in +appropriate costume. + +To treat a hero with humour is difficult in romance, all but +impossible. Hence the heroes are rarely our friends, except in +Fielding, or, now and then, in Thackeray. No book is so full of +friends as the novel that has no hero, but has Rawdon Crawley, +Becky, Lady Jane, Mr. Jim Crawley, MacMurdo, Mrs. Major O'Dowd, and +the rest. Even Dobbin is too much the hero to be admitted among +our most kindly acquaintances. So unlucky are heroes that we know +Squire Western and the Philosopher Square and Parson Adams far +better than even that unheroic hero, Tom Jones, or Joseph Andrews. +The humour of Fielding and his tenderness make Amelia and Sophia +far more sure of our hearts than, let us say, Rowena, or the Fair +Maid of Perth, or Flora MacIvor, or Rose Bradwardine. It is humour +that makes Mr. Collins immortal, and Mrs. Bennett, and Emma; while +a multitude of nice girls in fiction, good girls too, are as dead +as Queen Tiah. + +Perhaps, after all, this theory explains why it is so very hard to +recall with vividness the persons of our later fiction. Humour is +not the strong point of novelists to-day. There may be amateurs +who know Mr. Howells's characters as their elders know Sophia and +Amelia and Catherine Seyton--there may be. To the old reader of +romance, however earnestly he keeps up with modern fiction, the +salt of life seems often lacking in its puppets or its persons. +Among the creations of living men and women I, for one, feel that I +have two friends at least across the sea, Master Thomas Sawyer and +his companion, Huckleberry Finn. If these are not real boys, then +Dr. Farrar's Eric IS a real boy; I cannot put it stronger. There +is a lady on those distant shores (for she never died of Roman +fever) who I may venture to believe is not unfriendly--Miss Annie +P. Miller--and there is a daughter of Mr. Silas Lapham whom one +cannot readily forget, and there is a beery journalist in a "Modern +Instance," an acquaintance, a distant professional acquaintance, +not a friend. The rest of the fictitious white population of the +States are shadowy to myself; I have often followed their fortunes +with interest, but the details slip my aging memory, which recalls +Topsy and Uncle Remus. + +To speak of new friends at home is a more delicate matter. A man +may have an undue partiality for the airy children of his friends' +fancy. Mr. Meredith has introduced me to an amiable Countess, to a +strange country girl named Rhoda, to a wonderful old AEschylean +nurse, to some genuine boys, to a wise Youth,--but that society +grows as numerous as brilliant. Mr. Besant has made us friends +with twins of literary and artistic genius, with a very highly- +cultured Fellow of Lothian, with a Son of Vulcan, with a bevy of +fair but rather indistinguishable damsels, like a group of +agreeable-looking girls at a dance. But they are too busy with +their partners to be friendly. We admire them, but they are +unconcerned with us. In Mr. Black's large family the Whaup seems +most congenial to some strangers; the name of one of Mr. Payn's +friendly lads is Legion, and Miss Broughton's dogs, with THEIR +friend Sara, and Mrs. Moberley, welcome the casual visitor with +hospitable care. Among the kindly children of a later generation +one may number a sailor man with a wooden leg; a Highland +gentleman, who, though landless, bears a king's name; an Irish +chevalier who was out in the '45; a Zulu chief who plied the axe +well; a private named Mulvaney in Her Majesty's Indian army; an +elderly sportsman of agile imagination or unparalleled experience +in remote adventure. {1} All these a person who had once +encountered them would recognise, perhaps, when he was fortunate +enough to find himself in their company. + +There are children, too, of a dead author, an author seldom lauded +by critics, who, possibly, have as many living friends as any +modern characters can claim. A very large company of Christian +people are fond of Lord Welter, Charles Ravenshoe, Flora and Gus, +Lady Ascot, the boy who played fives with a brass button, and a +dozen others of Henry Kingsley's men, women, and children, whom we +have laughed with often, and very nearly cried with. For Henry +Kingsley had humour, and his children are dear to us; while which +of Charles Kingsley's far more famous offspring would be welcome-- +unless it were Salvation Yeo--if we met them all in the Paradise of +Fiction? + +It is not very safe, in literature as in life, to speak well of our +friends or of their families. Other readers, other people, have +theirs, whom we may not care much for, whom we may even chance +never to have met. In the following Letters from Old Friends +(mainly reprinted from the "St. James's Gazette"), a few of the +writers may, to some who glance at the sketches, be unfamiliar. +When Dugald Dalgetty's epistle on his duel with Aramis was written, +a man of letters proposed to write a reply from Aramis in a certain +journal. But his Editor had never heard of any of the gentlemen +concerned in that affair of honour; had never heard of Dugald, of +Athos, Porthos, Aramis, nor D'Artagnan. He had not been introduced +to them. This little book will be fortunate far beyond its deserts +if it tempts a few readers to extend the circle of their visionary +acquaintances, of friends who, like Brahma, know not birth, nor +decay, "sleep, waking, nor trance." + +A theme more delicate and intimate than that of our Friends in +fiction awaits a more passionate writer than the present parodist. +Our LOVES in fiction are probably numerous, and our choice depends +on age and temperament. In romance, if not in life, we can be in +love with a number of ladies at once. It is probable that Beatrix +Esmond has not fewer knights than Marie Antoinette or Mary Stuart. +These ladies have been the marks of scandal. Unkind things are +said of all three, but our hearts do not believe the evil reports. +Sir Walter Scott refused to write a life of Mary Stuart because his +opinion was not on the popular side, nor on the side of his +feelings. The reasoning and judicial faculties may be convinced +that Beatrix was "other than a guid ane," but reason does not touch +the affections; we see her with the eyes of Harry Esmond, and, like +him, "remember a paragon." With similar lack of logic we believe +that Mrs. Wenham really had one of her headaches, and that Becky +was guiltless on a notorious occasion. Bad or not so bad, what +lady would we so gladly meet as Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, whose kindness +was so great that she even condescended to be amusing to her own +husband? For a more serious and life-long affection there are few +heroines so satisfactory as Sophia Western and Amelia Booth (nee +Harris). Never before nor since did a man's ideal put on flesh and +blood--out of poetry, that is,--and apart from the ladies of +Shakspeare. Fielding's women have a manly honour, tolerance, +greatness, in addition to their tenderness and kindness. +Literature has not their peers, and life has never had many to +compare with them. They are not "superior" like Romola, nor +flighty and destitute of taste like Maggie Tulliver; among +Fielding's crowd of fribbles and sots and oafs they carry that pure +moly of the Lady in "Comus." It is curious, indeed, that men have +drawn women more true and charming than women themselves have +invented, and the heroines of George Eliot, of George Sand (except +Consuelo), and even of Miss Austen, do not subdue us like Di +Vernon, nor win our sympathies like Rebecca of York. They may +please and charm for their hour, but they have not the immortality +of the first heroines of all--of Helen, or of that Alcmena who +makes even comedy grave when she enters, and even Plautus +chivalrous. Poetry, rather than prose fiction, is the proper home +of our spiritual mistresses; they dwell where Rosalind and Imogen +are, with women perhaps as unreal or as ideal as themselves, men's +lost loves and unforgotten, in a Paradise apart. + + + +LETTER: From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. Arthur Pendennis. + + + +Mr. Newcome, a married man and an exile at Boulogne, sends Mr. +Arthur Pendennis a poem on his undying affection for his cousin, +Miss Ethel Newcome. He desires that it may be published in a +journal with which Mr. Pendennis is connected. He adds a few +remarks on his pictures for the Academy. + +Boulogne, March 28. + +Dear Pen,--I have finished Belisarius, and he has gone to face the +Academicians. There is another little thing I sent--"Blondel" I +call it--a troubadour playing under a castle wall. They have not +much chance; but there is always the little print-shop in Long +Acre. My sketches of mail-coaches continue to please the public; +they have raised the price to a guinea. + +Here we are not happier than when you visited us. My poor wife is +no better. It is something to have put my father out of hearing of +her mother's tongue: that cannot cross the Channel. Perhaps I am +as well here as in town. There I always hope, I always fear to +meet HER . . . my cousin, you know. I think I see her face under +every bonnet. God knows I don't go where she is likely to be met. +Oh, Pen, haeret lethalis arundo; it is always right--the Latin +Delectus! Everything I see is full of her, everything I do is done +for her. "Perhaps she'll see it and know the hand, and remember," +I think, even when I do the mail-coaches and the milestones. I +used to draw for her at Brighton when she was a child. My +sketches, my pictures, are always making that silent piteous appeal +to her, WON'T YOU LOOK AT US? WON'T YOU REMEMBER? I dare say she +has quite forgotten. Here I send you a little set of rhymes; my +picture of Blondel and this old story brought them into my mind. +They are gazes, as the drunk painter says in "Gerfaut;" they are +veiled, a mystery. I know she's not in a castle or a tower or a +cloistered cell anywhere; she is in Park Lane. Don't I read it in +the "Morning Post?" But I can't, I won't, go and sing at the area- +gate, you know. Try if F. B. will put the rhymes into the paper. +Do they take it in in Park Lane? See whether you can get me a +guinea for these tears of mine: "Mes Larmes," Pen, do you +remember?--Yours ever, C. N. + +The verses are enclosed. + +THE NEW BLONDEL. + +O ma Reine! + +Although the Minstrel's lost you long, +Although for bread the Minstrel sings, +Ah, still for you he pipes the song, +And thrums upon the crazy strings! + +As Blondel sang by cot and hall, +Through town and stream and forest passed, +And found, at length, the dungeon wall, +And freed the Lion-heart at last - + +So must your hapless minstrel fare, +By hill and hollow violing; +He flings a ditty on the air, +He wonders if you hear him sing! + +For in some castle you must dwell +Of this wide land he wanders through - +In palace, tower, or cloistered cell - +He knows not; but he sings to YOU! + +The wind may blow it to your ear, +And you, perchance, may understand; +But from your lattice, though you hear, +He knows you will not wave a hand. + +Your eyes upon the page may fall, +More like the page will miss your eyes; +You may be listening after all, +So goes he singing till he dies. + + + +LETTER: From the Hon. Cecil Bertie to the Lady Guinevere. + + + +Mr. Cecil Tremayne, who served "Under Two Flags," an officer in her +Majesty's Guards, describes to the Lady Guinevere the circumstances +of his encounter with Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller. The +incident has been omitted by Ouida and Mr. Henry James. + +You ask me, Camarada, what I think of the little American donzella, +Daisy Miller? Hesterna Rosa, I may cry with the blind old bard of +Tusculum; or shall we say, Hesterna Margaritae? Yesterday's Daisy, +yesterday's Rose, were it of Paestum, who values it to-day? Mais +ou sont les neiges d'automne? However, yesterday--the day before +yesterday, rather--Miss Annie P. Miller was well enough. + +We were smoking at the club windows on the Ponte Vecchio; +Marmalada, Giovanelli of the Bersaglieri, young Ponto of the +K.O.B.'s, and myself--men who never give a thought save to the gold +embroidery of their pantoufles or the exquisite ebon laquer of +their Russia leather cricket-shoes. Suddenly we heard a clatter in +the streets. The riderless chargers of the Bersaglieri were racing +down the Santo Croce, and just turning, with a swing and shriek of +clattering spurs, into the Maremma. In the midst of the street, +under our very window, was a little thing like a butterfly, with +yeux de pervenche. You remember, Camarada, Voltaire's love of the +pervenche; we have plucked it, have we not? in his garden of Les +Charmettes. Nous n'irons plus aux bois! Basta! + +But to return. There she stood, terror-stricken, petrified, like +her who of old turned her back on Zoar and beheld the incandescent +hurricane of hail smite the City of the Plain! She was dressed in +white muslin, joli comme un coeur, with a myriad frills and +flounces and knots of pale-coloured ribbon. Open-eyed, open- +mouthed, she stared at the tide of foaming steeds, like a maiden +martyr gazing at the on-rushing waves of ocean! "Caramba!" said +Marmalada, "voila une jeune fille pas trop bien gardee!" +Giovanelli turned pale, and, muttering Corpo di Bacco, quaffed a +carafon of green Chartreuse, holding at least a quart, which stood +by him in its native pewter. Young Ponto merely muttered, "Egad!" +I leaped through the open window and landed at her feet. + +The racing steeds were within ten yards of us. Calmly I cast my +eye over their points. Far the fleetest, though he did not hold +the lead, was Marmalada's charger, the Atys gelding, by Celerima +out of Sac de Nuit. With one wave of my arm I had placed her on +his crupper, and, with the same action, swung myself into the +saddle. Then, in a flash and thunder of flying horses, we swept +like tawny lightning down the Pincian. The last words I heard from +the club window, through the heliotrope-scented air, were "Thirty +to one on Atys, half only if declared." They were wagering on our +lives; the slang of the paddock was on their lips. + +Onward, downward, we sped, the fair stranger lifeless in my arms. +Past scarlet cardinals in mufti, past brilliant [Greek text] like +those who swayed the City of the Violet Crown; past pifferari +dancing in front of many an albergo; through the Ghetto with its +marmorine palaces, over the Fountain of Trevi, across the Cascine, +down the streets of the Vatican we flew among yells of "Owner's +up," "The gelding wins, hard held," from the excited bourgeoisie. +Heaven and earth swam before my eyes as we reached the Pons +Sublicia, and heard the tawny waters of Tiber swaying to the sea. + +THE PONS SUBLICIA WAS UP! + +With an oath of despair, for life is sweet, I rammed my persuaders +into Atys, caught him by the head, and sent him straight at the +flooded Tiber! + +"Va-t-en donc, espece de type!" said the girl on my saddle-bow, +finding her tongue at last. Fear, or girlish modesty, had hitherto +kept her silent. + +Then Atys rose on his fetlocks! Despite his double burden, the +good steed meant to have it. He deemed, perchance, he was with the +Quorn or the Baron's. He rose; he sprang. The deep yellow water, +cold in the moon's rays, with the farthest bank but a chill grey +line in the mist, lay beneath us! A moment that seemed an +eternity! Then we landed on the far-off further bank, and for the +first time I could take a pull at his head. I turned him on the +river's brim, and leaped him back again. + +The runaway was now as tame as a driven deer in Richmond Park. + +Well, Camarada, the adventure is over. She was grateful, of +course. These pervenche eyes were suffused with a dewy radiance. + +"You can't call," she said, "for you haven't been introduced, and +Mrs. Walker says we must be more exclusive. I'm dying to be +exclusive; but I'm very much obliged to you, and so will mother be. +Let's see. I'll be at the Colosseum to-morrow night, about ten. +I'm bound to see the Colosseum, by moonlight. Good-bye;" and she +shook her pale parasol at me, and fluttered away. + +Ah, Camarada, shall I be there? Que scais-je? Well, 'tis time to +go to the dance at the Holy Father's. Adieu, Carissima.--Tout a +vous, + +CIS. + + + +LETTER: Barry Lyndon + + + +Mr. Redmond Barry (better known as Barry Lyndon) tells his uncle +the story of a singular encounter at Berlin with Mr. Alan Stuart, +called Alan Breck, and well known as the companion of Mr. David +Balfour in many adventures. Mr. Barry, at this time, was in the +pay of Herr Potzdorff, of his Prussian Majesty's Police, and was +the associate of the Chevalier, his kinsman, in the pursuit of +fortune. + + +Berlin, April 1, 1748. + +Uncle Barry,--I dictate to Pippi, my right hand being wounded, and +that by no common accident. Going down the Linden Strasse +yesterday, I encountered a mob; and, being curious in Potzdorff's +interest, penetrated to the kernel of it. There I found two men of +my old regiment--Kurz and another--at words with a small, dark, +nimble fellow, who carried bright and dancing eyes in a pock-marked +face. He had his iron drawn, a heavy box-handled cut-and-thrust +blade, and seemed ready to fall at once on the pair that had been +jeering him for his strange speech. + +"Who is this, lads?" I asked. + +"Ein Englander," answered they. + +"No Englishman," says he, in a curious accent not unlike our +brogue, "but a plain gentleman, though he bears a king's name and +hath Alan Breck to his by-name." + +"Come, come," says I in German, "let the gentleman go his way; he +is my own countryman." This was true enough for them; and you +should have seen the Highlander's eyes flash, and grow dim again. + +I took his arm, for Potzdorff will expect me to know all about the +stranger, and marched him down to the Drei Konige. + +"I am your host, sir; what do you call for, Mr. Stuart of -?" said +I, knowing there is never a Scot but has the name of his kailyard +tacked to his own. + +"A King's name is good enough for me; I bear it plain. Mr. -?" +said he, reddening. + +"They call me the Chevalier Barry, of Ballybarry." + +"I am in the better company, sir," quoth he, with a grand bow. + +When a bowl of punch was brought he takes off his hat, and drinks, +very solemnly, "To the King!" + +"Over the water?" I asked. + +"Nay, sir, on THIS side," he said; and I smoked the Jacobite. But +to shorten the story, which amuses my tedium but may beget it in +you, I asked him if he knew the cards. + +"I'm just daft when I get to the cartes," he answered in his +brogue, and we fell to piquet. Now my Scot wore a very fine coat, +and on the same very large smooth silver buttons, well burnished. +Therefore, perceiving such an advantage as a skilled player may +enjoy, I let him win a little to whet his appetite, but presently +used his buttons as a mirror, wherein I readily detected the +strength of the cards he held. Before attempting this artifice, I +had solemnly turned my chair round thrice. + +"You have changed the luck, sir," says Mr. Breck, or Stuart, +presently; and, rising with a mighty grave air, he turned his coat +and put it on inside out. + +"Sir," says I, "what am I to understand by this conduct?" + +"What for should not I turn my coat, for luck, if you turn your +chair?" says he. "But if you are not preceesely satisfied, I will +be proud to step outside with you." + +I answered that we were not in a Highland wilderness, and that if +no malice were meant no affront was taken. We continued at the +game till, though deprived of my mirror, I had won some 500 +Fredericks. On this he rose, saying, "Sir, in this purse you will +find the exact sum that I am owing you, and I will call for my +empty sporran the morn. It was Rob Roy's before it was mine." +Therewith he laid on the table a sort of goatskin pouch, such as +Highlanders gird about their loins, and marched forth. + +I set to work at opening his pouch, that was fastened by a spring +and button, seeming easy enough of access. But I had scarce +pressed the button when lo! a flash, a pistol shot, and my right +hand is grazed with a bullet that flew out of the bag. This +Highlander of the Devil had some mechanism in his purse that +discharged a small steel pistol when unwarily opened. My hand is +but slightly wounded, yet I cannot hold my sword, nor hath my +search brought me any news of Alan Breck. He has vanished like an +emissary of the Devil or the Pretender, as I doubt not he is. But +I will have his blood, if he is not one of their Scotch fairies.-- +Your loving Nephew, + +REDMOND BARRY, OF BALLYBARRY. + +P.S.--The Fredericks were in the bag, all told. + + + +LETTER: From Mrs. Gamp to Mrs. Prig. + + + +Mrs. Gamp nurses an old friend who is under a singular delusion. + + +Todgers's. + +My precious Betsy,--Which when last we parted it was not as I could +wish, but bearing malice in our hearts. But, as often and often +Mrs. Harris have said it before me, with the tears in her angel +eyes--one of them having a slight cast from an accident with the +moderator lamp, Harris being quick in his temper--often and often +have she said to me: "Ah, Sairey, the quarrels of friends is +affection's best restorer." And good reason to know it she have, +with a husband as was ever true, and never gave her no cause to +form the wish to pizen them as has good looks, but, for I will not +deceive you, ready with his hands. + +And so, between you and me may it be, Betsy Prig, as was constant +partners afore them Chuzzlewidges, and Nadgetts, and Lewsomses, and +Tiggses, and Chuffeys got that mixed and that aggerawating that to +remember who of them poisoned which or for why in a slime draught, +it makes my poor head go round, nor could such be soothing to the +temper. So let bygones be bygones between us. For, wanting of my +Betsy, I am now in a nice state of confusion, with a patient as was +well beknown to me in younger days, when there wasn't so much of a +shadder on this mortial vial, {2} meaning Mr. Pecksniff. Which you +will not forget of him, by reason of his daughter as married that +Jonadge, and his collars as mints of money must have gone to the +getting them up; but is now at Todgers's, and confused in his poor +mind, thinking hisself Somebody else high in Parliament. And +wonder at it I do not, them Chuzzlewidges and Chuffeys being that +distracting, and ever proving to be some other pusson in disguise, +as would confuge a calkilating boy. + +So being applied to for to nightly him, there in that very sick +room--for why should I deceive you?--I meets the daily nuss; and, +Betsy, I was that overcome to have such a pardner propoged to me as +I had to ring and ask the young woman immediate for a small glass +of their oldest rum, being what I am not accustomed to but having +had a turn. For, will you believe it, she was not a widger woman +as has experience in the ways of men, but a huzzy in a bragian cap +like them the Nuns wear in "Mariar Monk," as you may have seen it +in the small sweet-shops, at a penny. And her hands as white as +her papistry cap, and she a turning up of her nose at what I had +took, and a presuming to give ME advice about nussing, as St. +Pancradge's Churchyard wouldn't hold them I've seen comfortable to +their long homes, and no complaints made but ever the highest +satigefaction. So I ups and gives her a bit of my mind; and Mrs. +Todgers coming down, "It's she goes or me," says I, "for never will +Sairey Gamp nuss, sick or monthly, with a pardner as has not +confidence in me, nor I in her, but contrary." Then SHE says +she'll go and speak to the doctor about it; and out she tramps with +her nose in the air, and sneezing most awful, not being accustomed +to that which I take, find it strengthening, but as it have been a +cause of sorrow and strife let it be nameless between you and me. +For to have the name "Snuffey" brought forward it is what the heart +can forgive, but never forget in this valley of the shaddock. + +I have nussed a many lunacies, Betsy, and in a general way am +dispoged to humour them rather than set them right up agin the fire +when fractious. But this Pecksniff is the tryingest creature; he +having got it in his mind as he is Somebody very high, and talking +about the House, and Bills, and clauses, and the "sacred cause of +Universal Anarchy," for such was his Bible language, though meaning +to me no more than the babe unborn. Whereby Mrs. Harris she have +often said to me, "What DO them blessed infants occupy their little +minds with afore they are called into that condition where, unless +changed at nuss, Providence have appointed them?" And many a time +have I said, "Seek not, Mrs. Harris, to diskiver; for we know not +wot's hidden in our own hearts, and the torters of the Imposition +should not make me diwulge it." + +But Pecksniff is that aggravating as I can hardly heed the words I +now put on the paper. + +"Some of my birds have left me," says he, "for the stranger's +breast, and one have took wing for the Government benches. {3} But +I have ever sacrificed my country's happiness to my own, and I will +not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. I +know the purity of my own motives, and while my Merry, my little +Sir William, playful warbler, prattles under this patriarchal wing, +and my Cherry, my darling Morley, supports the old man's tottering +walk, I can do without my Goschy, my dears, I can do without him." +And wants to borrer MY umbreller for them "to rally round," the +bragian idgiot! + +A chattering creature he always were, and will be; but, Betsy, I +have this wery momink fixed him up with a shoehorn in his mouth, as +was lying round providential, and the strings of my bonnet, and the +last word as he will say this blessed night was some lunacy about +"denouncing the clogeure," as won't give much more trouble now. + +So having rung for a shilling's worth of gin-and-water warm, and +wishing you was here to take another of the same, I puts my lips to +it, and drinks to one as was my frequent pardner in this mortial +vale, and am, as in old days, my Betsy's own + +SAIREY GAMP. + + + +LETTER: From Herodotus of Halicarnassus to Sophocles the Athenian. + + + +Herodotus describes, in a letter to his friend Sophocles, a curious +encounter with a mariner just returned from unknown parts of +Africa. + + +To Sophocles, the Athenian, greeting. Yesterday, as I was going +down to the market-place of Naucratis, I met Nicarete, who of all +the hetairai in this place is the most beautiful. Now, the +hetairai of Naucratis are wont somehow to be exceedingly fair, +beyond all women whom we know. She had with her a certain Phocaean +mariner, who was but now returned from a voyage to those parts of +Africa which lie below Arabia; and she saluted me courteously, as +knowing that it is my wont to seek out and inquire the tidings of +all men who have intelligence concerning the ends of the earth. + +"Hail to thee, Nicarete," said I; "verily thou art this morning as +lovely as the dawn, or as the beautiful Rhodopis that died ere thou +wert born to us through the favour of Aphrodite." {4} + +Now this Rhodopis was she who built, they say, the Pyramid of +Mycerinus: wherein they speak not truly but falsely, for Rhodopis +lived long after the kings who built the Pyramids. + +"Rhodopis died not, O Herodotus," said Nicarete, "but is yet +living, and as fair as ever she was; and he who is now my lover, +even this Phanes of Phocaea, hath lately beheld her." + +Then she seemed to me to be jesting, like that scribe who told me +of Krophi and Mophi; for Rhodopis lived in the days of King Amasis +and of Sappho the minstrel, and was beloved by Charaxus, the +brother of Sappho, wherefore Sappho reviled him in a song. How +then could Rhodopis, who flourished more than a hundred years +before my time, be living yet? + +While I was considering these things they led me into the booth of +one that sold wine; and when Nicarete had set garlands of roses on +our heads, Phanes began and told me what I now tell thee but +whether speaking truly or falsely I know not. He said that being +on a voyage to Punt (for so the Egyptians call that part of +Arabia), he was driven by a north wind for many days, and at last +landed in the mouth of a certain river where were many sea-fowl and +water-birds. And thereby is a rock, no common one, but fashioned +into the likeness of the head of an Ethiopian. There he said that +the people of that country found him, namely the Amagardoi, and +carried him to their village. They have this peculiar to +themselves, and unlike all other peoples whom we know, that the +woman asks the man in marriage. They then, when they have kissed +each other, are man and wife wedded. And they derive their names +from the mother; wherein they agree with the Lycians, whether being +a colony of the Lycians, or the Lycians a colony of theirs, Phanes +could not give me to understand. But, whereas they are black and +the Lycians are white, I rather believe that one of them has +learned this custom from the other; for anything might happen in +the past of time. + +The Amagardoi have also this custom, such as we know of none other +people; that they slay strangers by crowning them with amphorae, +having made them red-hot. Now, having taken Phanes, they were +about to crown him on this wise, when there appeared among them a +veiled woman, very tall and goodly, whom they conceive to be a +goddess and worship. By her was Phanes delivered out of their +hands; and "she kept him in her hollow caves having a desire that +he should be her lover," as Homer says in the Odyssey, if the +Odyssey be Homer's. And Phanes reports of her that she is the most +beautiful woman in the world, but of her coming thither, whence she +came or when, she would tell him nothing. But he swore to me, by +him who is buried at Thebes (and whose name in such a matter as +this it is not holy for me to utter), that this woman was no other +than Rhodopis the Thracian. For there is a portrait of Rhodopis in +the temple of Aphrodite in Naucratis, and, knowing this portrait +well, Phanes recognised by it that the woman was Rhodopis. {5} +Therefore Rhodopis is yet living, being now about one hundred and +fifty years of age. And Phanes added that there is in the country +of the Amagardoi a fire; and whoso enters into that fire does not +die, but is "without age and immortal," as Homer says concerning +the horses of Peleus. Now, I would have deemed that he was making +a mock of that sacred story which he knows who has been initiated +into the mysteries of Demeter at Eleusis. But he and Nicarete are +about to sail together without delay to the country of the +Amagardoi, believing that there they will enter the fire and become +immortal. Yet methinks that Rhodopis will not look lovingly on +Nicarete, when they meet in that land, nor Nicarete on Rhodopis. +Nay, belike the amphora will be made hot for one or the other. + +Such, howbeit, was the story of Phanes the Phocaean, whether he +spoke falsely or truly. The God be with thee. + +HERODOTUS. + + + +LETTER: Mrs Proudie + + + +Mrs. Proudie, wife of the Bishop of Barchester, admits Mrs. +Quiverful into her confidence. Mrs. Proudie first takes pleasure +in a new and pious acquaintance, Lady Crawley (nee Sharp), but +afterwards discovers the true character of this insidious and +dangerous woman. + + +The Palace, Barchester, July 17. + +Dear Letitia,--The appearance of mumps in a small family of +fourteen like yours, is indeed one of those dispensations which +teach us how mysterious are the ways! But I need not tell you to +be most careful about cold, which greatly adds to the virulence of +the complaint, and it is difficult for you, in lodgings at +Brighton, to keep a watchful eye on so many at once. May this +discipline be blessed to you, and to the dear children! + +I have much to tell you of Barchester. The light worldly tone of +some families in this place (I will not mention the Grantleys nor +the Arabins) has been checked, I hope, by one of those accidents +which surely, surely, are not to be considered accidents alone! +You know how strong is my objection to fancy fairs or bazaars, too +often rather scenes of giddy merriment than exhibitions of genuine +Christian feeling. Yet by means of one of these (how strangely are +things ordered!) a happy change, I trust, is being brought about in +our midst. + +You have heard of Hogglestock, though you may never have visited +that benighted and outlying parish. Indeed, I was never there +myself till last week, when Tom felt it his duty (though woefully +misdirected, to my mind, but we are fallible creatures) to go and +open a bazaar in that place for the restoration of the church. {6} +I accompanied him; for I trusted that an opportunity might be made +for me, and that I might especially bear in on the mind of the +rector's wife the absolute necessity of Sabbath-day schools. The +rector is a Mr. Crawley. He led us on our arrival into a scene of +re d cloth, wax dolls most indelicately displayed, cushions, +antimacassars, and similar IDOLS. The Bishop's speech (I composed +it myself) you will read in the "Barchester Guardian," which I send +you. While approving the END he rebuked the MEANS, and took the +opportunity to read a much-needed lesson on JESUITRY and the +dangers of worldliness in high ecclesiastical places. Let those +wince who feel a sense of their own backslidings. When the Bishop +had ended, I determined to walk once through the bazaar just to +make sure that there were no lotteries nor games of chance--a +desecration of our MITES now too, too frequent. As I was returning +through the throng, alas! of PLEASURE-SEEKERS, and wishing that I +might scourge them out of the schoolroom, Mr. Crawley met me, in +company with a lady who desired, he said, to be presented to me. +He is a distant relation of the well-known county family, the +Crawleys, of Queen's Crawley; the present baronet, Sir Rawdon, +having recently married Miss Jane Dobbin, daughter of Colonel +Dobbin. The lady who was now introduced to me, and whose STILL +PLEASING face wears an aspect of humble devoutness, was Lady +Crawley, mother of the present baronet. + +"Madam," she said, "I came here in the belief that I was +discharging a pious duty. My life, alas! has been one of sore +trial, and I only try to do good." . . . + +I was going to say that I had seen her name in a score of charity +lists, and knew her as a patroness of the Destitute Orange-Girls, +the Neglected Washerwomen, and the Distressed Muffin-Men. But she +shook her head; and then, looking up at me with eyes like a SAINT'S +(if our PRIVILEGES permitted us to believe in these fabulous beings +of the Romish superstition), she said, "Ah, no! I have always been +in the wrong. The beautiful address of the Bishop of Barchester +has awakened me, and convinced me that the PATH does not lie +through Fancy Fairs. I have to begin again. Who shall guide me?" + +I trust I am not subject to vanity; but the news that I (for I +composed the Charge, as I may almost call it) had been the +instrument of so affecting a change did not fail to please me. I +thanked Lady Crawley, and expressed my deep interest in her altered +convictions. Finally she promised to come on a visit to us at the +Palace (she usually resides at Bath or Cheltenham), and has been +three days an inmate. Never have I met a more singular example of +what the Truth can do for one who, as she admits, was long ago a +worldling. "I have seen the vanity of it," she tells me, with +tears in her eyes; and from her example I expect an AWAKENING among +our worldlings. They will follow the path of a TITLED person. Tom +is much interested in his CONVERT, as he thinks her. Not to ME be +the glory!--Your assured friend, + +EMILY BARNUM. {7} + + +From Mrs. Proudie to Mrs. Quiverful. + + +The Palace, Barchester, July 22. + +Dear Letitia,--My hand trembles so with indignation that I can +hardly direct my pen. Pray BURN my letter of July 17 at once, if +you have not already done so. {8} We have been DECEIVED in that +woman! She is a brazenfaced, painted daughter of Heth, and has no +more right to the title of Lady Crawley than YOU have. I am told +that she was at one time the paramour of Lord Steyne, and that her +conduct made it impossible for her husband to live with her. And +this is the woman who has come within the gates of the palace of a +Christian prelate; nay, more, who has secured his signature to a +cheque of very considerable value. I think my suspicions were +first excited by the disappearance of the brandy in the liqueur- +stand, and by meeting "her ladyship's" maid carrying the bottle up +to her room! I spoke to the Bishop, but he would not listen to me- +-quite unlike himself; and even turned on me in her defence. + +Entering his study hastily on the following day, I found her +kneeling at his feet, her yellow hair (dyed, no doubt, for she must +be sixty if she is a day) about her shoulders, doing what do you +suppose -? CONFESSING HERSELF TO THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER + +And he was listening to her "confession" with an appearance of +interest, and with one of her hands in his. + +"Serpent!" I said--and her green eyes glittered just like one-- +"unhand his lordship!" She gave a little laugh and said, "Dear +Mrs. Proudie, do not let me monopolise the Bishop's time. Perhaps +I am in the way?" + +"And you shall go out of it," I said. "You are one of those who +cause Israel to sin. You bring the Confessional, for it is no +better, into the house of a Prelate of the Protestant Church of +England!" Would you believe that she had the assurance to answer +me with a passage from the Prayer Book, which I have often felt +certain must be MISTRANSLATED? + +"Pack, madam," said I; "we know who can quote Scripture for his own +ends!" + +And I pretty soon saw her out of the house, though NOT IN TIME; for +the infatuated Bishop had already given her a cheque for a sum +which I cannot bring myself to tell you, for the Funds of the +Destitute Orange-Girls. Not a penny of it will they ever see; nor +do I approve of such ostentatious alms in any case.--Yours in +haste, + +EMILY BARNUM. + +P.S.--I have heard from Lady Courtney all her history. It is +ABOMINABLE. + + + +LETTER: From Robert Surtees, Esq., of Mainsforth, to Jonathan +Oldbuck, Esq., of Monkbarns. + + + +It is well known that Mr. Surtees of Mainsforth not only palmed off +on Sir Waiter Scott several ballads of his own manufacture, but +also invented and pretended to have found in a document (since +burned) the story of the duel with the spectre knight which occurs +in Marmion. In the following letter this ingenious antiquary plays +the same game with Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, of Monkbarns, the +celebrated antiquary. A note on the subject is published in the +Appendix. + + +Mainsforth, May 9, 1815. + +Dear Sir,--I am something of the Mussulman's humour, as you know, +and never willingly pass by a scrap of printed paper, however it +comes in my way. I cannot, indeed, like the "Spectator," "mention +a paper kite from which I have received great improvement," nor "a +hat-case which I would not exchange for all the beavers in Great +Britain." It is in a less unlikely place that I have made a little +discovery which will interest you, I hope; for as it chances, not +only has a lost ballad been at least partially recovered, but . . . +however, I will keep your learned patience on the tenterhooks for a +while. + +Business taking me to Newcastle of late, I found myself in Bell's +little shop on the quay. {9} You know the man by report at least; +he is more a collector than a bookseller, though poor; and I verily +believe that he would sell all his children--Douglas Bell, Percy +Bell, Hobbie Bell, and Kinmont Bell--"for a song." Ballads are his +foible, and he can hardly be made to part with one of the +broadsides in his broken portfolios. Well, semel insanivimus omnes +(by the way, did it ever strike you that the Roman "cribbed" that +line, as the vulgar say, from an epigram in the Anthology?), and +you and I will scarce throw the first stone at the poor man's +folly. However, I am delaying your natural eagerness. So now for +the story of my great discovery. As our friend Bell would scarce +let his dusty broadsheet lumber out of his hands, I was turning to +leave him in no very good humour, when I noticed a small and rather +long octavo, in dirty and crumpled vellum, lying on the top of a +heap of rubbish, Boston's "Crook in the Lot," "The Pilgrim's +Progress," and other chap-book trumpery. I do not know what good +angel that watches over us collectors made me take up the thing, +which I found to be nothing less than a copy of old Guillaume +Coquillart. It was not Galliot du Pre's edition, in lettres +rondes, but, still more precious had it only been complete, an +example in black letter. I give you the whole title. First the +motto, in the frieze of an architectural design, [Greek text]. +Then, in small capitals - + + +LES OEUVRES +MAISTRE GVIL +LAUME COQUIL +LART EN SON VI +VANT OFFICIAL +DE REIMS. NOV +VELLEMENT RE +VEVES ET CORRI +GEES. +M. D. XXXV. + +On les vend a Lyon en la +Maison de Francoys Juste, +Demourant devant nostre +Dame de Confort. + + +By bad (or good) luck this rare piece was imperfect--the back +gaping and three sheets gone. But, in turning over the leaves, I +saw something that brought my heart, as they say, into my mouth. +So, beating down Bell from his upset price of fourpence to six +bawbees, I pushed the treasure carelessly in my pocket, and never +stopped till I was in a lonely place by Tyne-side and secure from +observation. Then, with my knife, I very carefully uncased Maistre +Guillaume, and extracted the sheet of parchment, printed in black +letter with red capitals, that had been used to line the binding. +A corner of it had crept out, through the injuries of time, and on +that, in Bell's "crame" (for it is more a crame than a shop), I had +caught the mystic words Runjt macht Gunjt. + +And now, I think, Monkbarns, you prick up your ears and wipe your +spectacles. That is the motto, as every one of the learned family +of antiquaries is well aware, and, as you have often told me, of +your great forbear, the venerable and praiseworthy Aldobrand +Oldenbuck the Typographer, who fled from the Low Countries during +the tyrannical attempt of Philip II. to suppress at once civil and +religious liberty. As all the world knows, he withdrew from +Nuremberg to Scotland, and set up his Penates and (what you may not +hitherto have been aware of) his Printing Press at Fairport, and +under your ancestral roof of Monkbarns. But, what will surprise +you yet more, the parchment sheet which bears Aldobrand's motto in +German contains printed matter in good Scots! This excellent and +enterprising man must have set himself to ply his noble art in his +new home, and in our unfamiliar tongue. + +Yet, even now, we are not at the end of this most fortunate +discovery. It would appear that there was little demand for works +of learning and religion in Scotland, or at least at Fairport; for +the parchment sheet contains fragments of a Ballad in the Scots +tongue. None but a poor and struggling printer would then have +lent his types to such work, and fortunate for us has been the +poverty of your great ancestor. Here we have the very earliest +printed ballad in the world, and, though fragmentary, it is the +more precious as the style proves to demonstration, and against the +frantic scepticism even of a Ritson, the antique and venerable +character of those compositions. I send you a copy of the Ballad, +with the gaps (where the tooth of time or of the worm, edax rerum, +hath impaired it) filled up with conjectural restorations of my +own. But how far do they fall short of the original simplicity! +Non cuivis contingit. As the title is lacking, as well as the +imprint, I have styled it + + +THE FRAGMENT OF THE FAUSE LOVER +AND THE DEAD LEMAN. + +O Willie rade, and Willie gaed +Atween the shore and sea, +And still it was his dead Lady +That kept him company. + +O Willie rade, and Willie gaed +Atween the [loch and heather], +And still it was his dead Lady +That [held his stirrup leather]. + +"O Willie, tak' me up by ye, +Sae far it is I gang; +O tak' me on your saddle bow, +Or [your day shall not be lang]." + +"Gae back, gae back, ye fause ill wife, +To the grave wherein ye lie, +It never was seen that a dead leman +Kept lover's company! + +"Gae back, gae back frae me," he said, +"For this day maun I wed, +And how can I kiss a living lass, +When ye come frae the dead? + +"If ye maun haunt a living man, +Your brither haunt," says he, +"For it was never my knife, but his +That [twined thy life and thee!] + +* * * + +We are to understand, I make no doubt, that Willie had been too +fortunate a lover, and that in his absence--the frailty of his lady +becoming conspicuous--her brother had avenged the family honour +according to that old law of Scotland which the courteous Ariosto +styles "l' aspra legge di Scozia, empia e severa." + +Pray let me know, at your leisure, what you think of this +trouvaille. It is, of course, entirely at your service, if you +think it worthy of a place in a new edition of the "Minstrelsy." I +have no room to inflict more ballads or legends on you; and remain, +most faithfully yours, + +R. SURTEES. + + + +LETTER: From Jonathan Oldbuck, Esq., of Monkbarns, to Robert +Surtees, Esq., Mainsforth. + + + +Monkbarns, June 1. + +My Dear Sir,--How kind hath Fortune been to you, and, in a +secondary degree, to myself. Your letter must dispel the +unreasoning and I fear envious scepticism of MacCribb, who has put +forth a plaunflet (I love that old spelling) in which he derides +the history of Aldobrand Oldenbuck as a fable. The Ballad shall, +indeed, have an honoured place in my poor Collection whenever the +public taste calls for a new edition. But the original, what would +I not give to have it in my hands, to touch the very parchment +which came from the press of my revered ancestor, and, gloating on +the crabbed letters, confute MacCribb to his face ipso visu et +tactu of so inestimable a rarity. Exchanges--or "swaps," as the +vulgar call them--are not unknown among our fraternity. Ask what +you will for this treasure, to the half of my kingdom: my gold +Aurelius (found at Bermuckety, on the very limits of Roman +Caledonia), my "Complaynte of Scotland" (the only perfect copy +known), + + +My copperplate, with almanacks +Engrav'd upon't, and other knacks; +My moon-dial, with Napier's bones +And several constellation stones. + + +Make your choice, in fact, of all my Gabions, as honest old George +Ruthven called them. + +Nay, excuse the covetousness of an Antiquary, my dear sir; I well +know that nothing I could offer were worth a tithe of your +priceless discovery, the oldest printed Scots Ballad extant. It +shall suffice for me to look on it, under the roof of Mainsforth, +when next I make a raid across the Border. I have conquered my +passions, and can obey the last of the Commandments. Haud equiden +invideo, minor magis. I need not bid you be watchful of your +booty.--Yours most faithfully, + +JONATHAN OLDBUCK. + + +From Robert Surtees, Esq., to Jonathan Oldbuck, Esq. + + +June 11. + +My Dear Sir,--Alas, your warning comes too late. An accursed +example of womankind, fit descendant of that unhappy Betty Barnes, +cook to Mr. Warburton, who destroyed his ancient manuscript plays, +hath invaded my sanctum, and the original black-letter text of the +ballad has gone to join Shakspeare's "Stephen" and "Henry II." She +hath lit with it my study fire, and it is fortunate indeed that I +had made the copy of the ballad for you. But the volume of +Coquillart is alive to testify to the authenticity of the poem; +which, after all, is needless evidence, as not even Ritson could +suspect of either the skill or the malice of such a forgery, Yours +most faithfully, + +ROBERT SURTEES. + + + +LETTER: From Nicholas to the Editor of the St. James's Gazette, + + + +It is only too probable that a later generation has forgotten +"Nicholas," the sporting Prophet of "Fun," in the reign of Mr. Hood +the younger. The little work, "Nicholas's Notes," in which Mr. W. +J. Prowse collected the papers of the old Prophet, is, indeed, not +an "edition de looks," as the aged Seer says, with his simple +humour. From the Paradise of Fiction, however (and the Paradise of +Touts), Nicholas has communicated, perhaps to the Psychical +Society, the following Epistle. His friendly mention of a brother +journalist speaks well for the Old Man's head and heart. + + +The Paradise of Fiction, Feb. 9, 1888. + +Sir,--My dear young friend, it is ten to one, and no takers, that +the public, than whom, between you and me, I do not think much of +them, have forgotten Nicholas, or even never heard of the Prophet. +Youth will be served; and it is now between twenty years since he +left off vaticinating in "Fun," during young Mr. Hood's time, of +future sportive events for to come, and came to live HERE with the +other celebrated characters of Fiction, than whom I am sure a more +mixed lot, though perhaps a little gay. It having come to the +Prophet's knowledge that some of them was writing letters to "The +St. James's Gazette" (than which I am sure none more respectable, +though perhaps a little not quite so attentive to sportive +interests as it might be), he have decided that Nicholas will take +up his pen once more, as of old. + +The State of the Turf, my dear young friend, since an old but still +handsome bird would freely alight (when not warned off) on +Newmarket Heath, have caused Nicholas some anxiety. Sir, between +you and me, IT IS RAPIDLY GETTING NO BETTER. Here is Lord -- (than +whom a more sterling sportsman) as good as saying to Sir -- (than +whom, perhaps), "Did you ever hear of a sporting character called +Swindells?" And the Prophet HAVE been told that it may furnish +matter for the gentlemen of the long robe--which, in my time, many +of them was backers of horses. + +And all along of what? Why, of the "inexplicable in-and-out +running of horses," as the "Standard" says, and as will often +happen, you, perhaps, having a likely dark one as you want to get +light into a high-class autumn handicap. The days is long past +since Nicholas was nuts on the game little Lecturer, but still has +the interests of the Turf at heart; and, my dear young friend, if +horses never ran in and out, where would be "the glorious +uncertainty of the sport"? On the whole, then, if asked my opinion +on this affair, the Prophet would say--putting it ambiguous-like-- +"Gentlemen, when there's so much dirty linen to wash, can't you +remember that we're all pretty much tarred with the same brush?" A +great politician--which a lot of his family is here, Coningsby, and +the Young Duke, and many other sportsmen--used to say as what the +Turf was "a gigantic engine of national demoralisation;" which +Nicholas is not quite sure but what he was right for him, though +his language on rather a large scale. Horses running in and out is +inexplicable! Why, gents all, which of us WOULDN'T do it, if he +had the chance to put the pot on handsome, human nature being what +it is, especially considering the lowness of the market odds as you +have often and often to be content with. In short, the more you +stir it the more it won't exactly remind you of gales from Araby +the Blest; than which a more delightful country, only not to be +found on any atlas as Nicholas ever cast a glance at the map, +however large. + +But enough of a subject than which perhaps one more painful to me; +the Prophet having often and often, in early days, been warned off +Newmarket Heath himself, and called a "disreputable old tout," +though only labouring in his vocation. + +(Make a new beginning here, please, Printer.) + +It have come to the knowledge of the Prophet that his "Notes" are +not quite so much read as they once was, partly owing, no doubt, to +the book being not so much an "edition de looks" as rather a low- +lived lot, to a casual eye, at fourpence; the picture outside +representing Nicholas rather as having had too much for to drink +than as a prominent member of the Blue Ribbon Society, which it did +not exist in his period, nor would it have enjoyed, to any +considerable extent, my personal or pecuniary support, he having +something else to do with his money. (Printer, please put in a +full stop somewhere here, Nicholas being a little out of the habit +of writing for the periodical press.) He have also heard that it +is proposed in literary circles to start a "Nicholas Society" for +the purpose of printing a limited edition of my works including my +lost treatise of Knur and Spell, on Japanese paper, illustrated +with photo-gravelures; they having come in since the Prophet's +period, though perhaps a little gay. + +But, my dear though exquisite young friends, is there no better way +of rallying round the Prophet than THIS? I have heard, from +characters in ancient literature, such as Agamemnon--than whom a +more energetic soldier, though perhaps a trifle arbitrary--the +Prophet HAVE heard, I say, that a deal of liquor used to be poured +on the graves of coves like him and me, and that it did them good. +This may be the case, and anyway the experiment is well worth +trying; though, I would say, do not let it be milk, as I gather was +customary in early times, as didn't know any better; but, if +possible, a bottle or two of sherry wine, to which, as is well +beknown, Nicholas was partial. He will now conclude; and the +Prophet hopes that an experiment, than which, I am sure, one more +deeply interesting, will not be deferred; he not much taking to the +liquor here, though the company makes up for a great deal, +especially an Irish officer by the name of Costigan, than whom a +sweeter singer or a more honourable gentleman; and signs himself, +with gratitude for past favours, and kind respects to the Editor of +the "Guardian," + +NICHOLAS. + + + +LETTER: From the Earl of Montrose to Captain Dugald Dalgetty. + + + +Whoever has read the "Memoirs of Monsieur d'Artagnan"--a Marshal in +the French King's service--as they are published by Monsieur +Alexandre Dumas in "Les Trois Mousquetaires," will not have +forgotten that duel behind the Luxembourg, in which, as is +declared, an Englishman ran away from the Chevalier d'Herblay, +called Aramis in his regiment. Englishmen have never held that +Monsieur Dumas was well informed about this affair. The following +letters of the Great Marquis and Captain Dalgetty from the +"Kirkhope Papers" prove that Englishmen were in the right. + + +-, 164-. + +Sir,--Touching that I did, to your apprehension, turn away from you +with some show of coldness on your late coming, it may be that you +but little misread me. But, for that no man is condemned without a +hearing, I would fain know under your own hand the truth concerning +that whereof a shameful report is bruited abroad, even in the +"Gallo Belgicus" and the "Fliegender Mercoeur" of Leipsic--namely, +that in a certain duel lately fought in Paris behind the Palace of +the Luxembourg, four Englishmen encountering as many Musketeers of +the French King's, one out of this realm, to our disgrace, +shamefully fled; and he (by report) Rittmaster Dugald Dalgetty. +Till which, bruit be either abolished, and the stain--as an ill +blot on a clean scutcheon--wiped away, or as shamefully +acknowledged as it is itself shameful, I abide, as I shall hear +from yourself, + +MONTROSE. + + +From Captain Dugald Dalgetty, of Drumthwacket, to the Most Noble +and Puissant Prince James, Earl of Montrose, commanding the musters +of the King in Scotland. These - + + +My Lord,--As touching the bruit, or fama, as we said at the +Mareschal College, I shall forthwith answer, and that peremptorie. +For this story of the duello, as a man may say (though, indeed, +they that fought in it were not in the dual number, as your Grecian +hath it, but eight soldados--seven of them gallant men), truly the +story is of the longest; but as your lordship will have it, though +more expert with the sword than the goosequill, I must even buckle +to. + +Let your lordship conceive of your poor officer, once lieutenant +and Rittmaster under that invincible monarch, the bulwark of the +Protestant faith, Gustavus the Victorious; conceive, I say, Dugald +Dalgetty, of Drumthwacket that should be, in Paris, concerned with +a matter of weight and moment not necessary to be mooted or minted +of. As I am sitting at my tavern ordinary, for I consider that an +experienced cavalier should ever lay in provenant as occasion +serveth, comes in to me a stipendiary of my Lord Winter, bidding me +know that his master would speak to me: and that not coram populo, +as I doubt not your lordship said at St. Leonard's College in St. +Andrews, but privily. Thereon I rise and wait on him; to be brief- +-brevis esse laboro, as we said lang syne--his lordship would have +me to be of his backers in private rencontre with four gentlemen of +the King's Musketeers. + +Concerning the cause of this duello, I may well say teterrima +causa. His lordship's own sister Milady Clarik was in question; +she being, I fear me, rather akin in her way of life to Jean +Drocheils (whom your lordship may remember; for, the Baillies +expulsing her from Aberdeen, she migrated to St. Andrews, ad +eundem, as the saying is) than like, in her walk and conduct, to a +virtuous lady of a noble family. She was, indeed, as current +rumour had it, the light o'love or belle amie of Monsieur +d'Artagnan, his lordship's adversary. + +But of siclike least said soonest mended. I take cloak and sword, +and follow with his lordship and two other experienced cavaliers +unto the place of rencontre, being a waste croft whereon a loon was +herding goats, behind the Palace of the Luxembourg. Here we find +waiting us four soldados, proper tall men of their hands, who +receive us courteously. He that first gave cause of quarrel to my +Lord Winter bore a worthy name enough out of Gascony, that is arida +nutrix, as we said at the Mareschal College, of honourable +soldados--to wit, as I said, he was Monsieur d'Artagnan. To his +friends, howbeit, he gave sic heathen titles as I never saw or +heard of out of the Grecian books: namely, Monsieur Porthos, a +very tall man, albeit something of a lourdaud; Monsieur Athos; and +he that was to be mine own opposite, Monsieur Aramis. Hearing +these outlandish and insolent appellations, I thought it becoming +me, as an honourable cavalier, to resent this fashion of +presenting: and demurred that a gentleman of the House of Dalgetty +of Drumthwacket could neither take affront from, nor give +honourable satisfaction to, a nameless landlouper. Wherein your +lordship, I doubt me not, will hold me justificate. + +Lord Winter homologating mine opinion, he that called himself Athos +drew each of us apart, and whispered the true names and qualities +territorial of these gentlemen; the whilk, as may befall honourable +soldados, they had reason sufficient to conceal while serving as +private gentlemen in a regiment, though disdaining to receive +halberds, as unbecoming their birth. He that aligned himself +forenenst me was styled the Chevalier d'Herblay; and, the word +being given, we fell to. + +Now, mine adversary declining to fight comminus gladio, but +breaking ground in a manner unworthy of a gallant soldado, and the +place, saving your presence, being somewhat slippery and +treacherous because of the goats that were fed there, I delivered a +sufficient onslaught; and he fell, his sword flying from his hand. +When I had taken his weapon--the spolia opima, as we said at +Mareschal College--I bid him rise, and then discoursed him on the +dishonour of such a hasty defeat. Then, he confessing himself to +me that, though under arms, he was a young fledgeling priest in +Popish orders, I began upon him with such words on his disgracing +the noble profession of arms as might have made him choose to +return to his cloister; when suddenly he fled, and, being young and +light-footed, robbed me, not only of such caduacs and casualties as +an experienced cavalier might well take from his prisoner for +ransom, but also, as now it appears, of my good name. For I doubt +not that this musketeer priest, Monsieur Aramis, or l'Abbe +d'Herblay (for he hath as many names as I have seen campaigns), was +the loon that beguiled with a lying tale the newsman of the "Gallo +Belgicus." And I have ever seen that an honourable soldado will +give the go-by to these newsmen and their flying sheets, as +unworthy of the notice of honourable cavaliers; of whom +(recommending your lordship for the truth of my tale to my Lord +Winter, now with his gracious Majesty the King) I am fain to +subscribe myself one, and your lordship's poor officer, as ye shall +entreat him, + +DUGALD DALGETTY, of Drumthwacket, + +Late Commander of the whole stift of Dunklespiel on the Lower +Rhine. + + + +LETTER: From Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq. + + + +The following letter must have been omitted from the papers to +which Mr. Samuel Richardson, the editor of "Clarissa," had access. +It was written, apparently, after the disgraceful success of +Lovelace's disgraceful adventure, and shows us that scoundrel in +company not choice, indeed, but better than he deserved, the +society of Mr. Thomas Jones, a Foundling. Mr. Jones's admirable +wife (nee Western), having heard of Lovelace's conduct, sent her +husband to execute that revenge which should have been competed for +by every man of heart. It will be seen that Mr. Jones was no match +for the perfidies of Mr. Lovelace. The cynical reflections of that +bad man on Lord Fellamar, and his relations with Mrs. Jones, will +only cause indignation and contempt among her innumerable and +honourable admirers. They will remember the critical and painful +circumstances as recorded in Mr. Henry Fielding's biography of Mr. +Jones. + + +Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras +Ictibus crebris juvenes protervi. + + +Curse upon thy stars, Jack! How long wilt thou beat me about the +head with thy musty citations from Nat Lee and thy troop of +poetical divines? Thou hast driven me to motto-hunting for the +comeliness of mine epistle, like the weekly scribblers. See, Jack, +I have an adventure to tell thee! It is not the avenging Morden +that hath flashed through the window, sword in hand, as in my +frightful dream; nor hath the statue of the Commandant visited me, +like Don Juan, that Rake of Spain; but a challenger came hither +that is not akin to my beloved Miss. Dost remember a tall, fresh- +coloured, cudgel-playing oaf that my Lady Bellaston led about with +her--as maids lead apes in hell, though he more of an ape than she +of a maid--'tis a year gone? This brawny-beefed chairman hath +married a fortune and a delicious girl, you dog, Miss Sophia +Western, of Somerset, and is now in train, I doubt not, to beget as +goodly a tribe of chuckle-headed boys and whey-faced wenches as you +shall see round an old squire's tomb in a parish church. Wherefore +does he not abide at this his appointed lawful husbandry, I marvel; +but not a whit! + +Our cursed adventure hath spread from the flippanti of both sexes +down to the heathenish parts of Somerset; where it hath reached +Madam Jones's ears, and inflamed this pretty vixen with a desire to +avenge Miss Harlowe on me, and by the cudgel of Mr. Jones, his +Sophia having sent him up to town for no other purpose. De la +Tour, my man, came to me yesterday morning with the tidings that +the New Giant, as he supposes, waits on me to solicit the favour of +my patronage. I am in the powdering closet, being bound for a +rout, and cry, "Let the Giant in!" Then a heavy tread: and, +looking up, what do I see but a shoulder-of-mutton fist at my nose, +and lo! a Somerset tongue cries, "Lovelace, thou villain, thou +shalt taste of this!" A man in a powdering closet cannot fight, +even if he be a boxing glutton like your Figs and other gladiators +of the Artillery Ground. Needs must I parley. "What," says I, +"what, the happy Mr. Jones from the West! What brings him here +among the wicked, and how can the possessor of the beauteous Sophia +be a moment from her charms?" + +"Take not her name," cries my clod-hopper, "into thy perjured +mouth. 'Tis herself sends me here to avenge the best, the most +injured . . . " Here he fell a-blubbering! Oh, Belford, the +virtue of this world is a great discourager of repentance. + +"If Mr. Jones insists on the arbitrament of the sword . . . " I was +beginning--"Nay, none of thy Frenchified blades," cries he, "come +out of thy earth, thou stinking fox, and try conclusions with an +English cudgel!" + +Belford, I am no cudgel-player, and I knew not well how to rid +myself of this swasher. + +"Mr. Jones!" I said, "I will fight you how you will, where you +will, with what weapon you will; but first inform me of the nature +of our quarrel. Would you blazon abroad yet further the malignant +tales that have injured both me and a lady for whom I have none but +the most hallowed esteem? I pray you sit down, Sir; be calm, the +light is ill for any play with cudgel or sword. De la Tour, a +bottle of right Burgundy; Mr. Jones and I have business, and he +hath travelled far." + +In a trice there was a chicken, a bottle, a set of knives and +forks, a white cloth, and a hungry oaf that did eat and swear! One +bottle followed another. By the third Mr. Jones embraced me, +saying that never had a man been more belied than I; that it was +Lord Fellamar, not I, was the villain. To this effect I own that I +did myself drop a hint; conceiving that the divine Sophia must +often have regretted our friend Fellamar when once she was bound to +the oaf, and that Jones was capable of a resentful jealousy. By +midnight I had to call a chair for my besotted challenger, and when +the Avenger was there safely bestowed, I asked him where the men +should carry him? His tongue being now thick, and his brains +bemused, he could not find the sign of his inn in his noddle. So, +the merry devil prompting me, I gave the men the address of his +ancient flame, my Lady Bellaston, and off they jogged with Jones. + +Was there ever, Belford, a stranger amoris redintegratio than this +must have been, when our Lydia heard the old love at the rarely +shaken doors: + + +Me tuo longas pereunte noctes, +Lydia, dormis? + + +Ah, how little hath Madam Sophia taken by despatching her lord to +town, and all to break my head. My fellow, who carries this to +thee, has just met Fellamar's man, and tells me that FELLAMAR +YESTERDAY WENT DOWN INTO SOMERSET. What bodes this rare +conjunction and disjunction of man and wife and of old affections? +and hath "Thomas, a Foundling," too, gone the way of all flesh? + +Thy LOVELACE. + +No news of the dear fugitive! Ah, Belford, my conscience and my +cousins call me a villain! Minxes all. + + + +LETTER: From Miss Catherine Morland to Miss Eleanor Tilney. + + + +Miss Catherine Morland, of "Northanger Abbey," gives her account of +a visit to Mr. Rochester, and of his governess's peculiar +behaviour. Mrs. Rochester (nee Eyre) has no mention of this in her +Memoirs. + + +Thornfield, Midnight + +At length, my dear Eleanor, the terrors on which you have so often +rallied me are become REALITIES, and your Catherine is in the midst +of those circumstances to which we may, without exaggeration, give +the epithet "horrible." I write, as I firmly believe, from the +mansion of a maniac! On a visit to my Aunt Ingram, and carried by +her to Thornfield, the seat of her wealthy neighbour, Mr. +Rochester, how shall your Catherine's trembling pen unfold the +mysteries by which she finds herself surrounded! No sooner had I +entered this battlemented mansion than a cold chill struck through +me, as with a sense of some brooding terror. All, indeed, was +elegance, all splendour! The arches were hung with Tyrian-dyed +curtains. The ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were of red +Bohemian glass. Everywhere were crimson couches and sofas. The +housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, pointed out to my notice some vases of +fine purple spar, and on all sides were Turkey carpets and large +mirrors. Elegance of taste and fastidious research of ornament +could do no more; but what is luxury to the mind ill at ease? or +can a restless conscience be stilled by red Bohemian glass or pale +Parian mantelpieces? + +No, alas! too plainly was this conspicuous when, on entering the +library, we found Mr. Rochester--alone! The envied possessor of +all this opulence can be no happy man. He was seated with his head +bent on his folded arms, and when he looked up a morose--almost a +malignant--scowl blackened his features! Hastily beckoning to the +governess, who entered with us, to follow him, he exclaimed, "Oh, +hang it all!" in an accent of despair, and rushed from the chamber. +We distinctly heard the doors clanging behind him as he flew! At +dinner, the same hollow reserve; his conversation entirely confined +to the governess (a Miss Eyre), whose position here your Catherine +does not understand, and to whom I distinctly heard him observe +that Miss Blanche Ingram was "an extensive armful." + +The evening was spent in the lugubrious mockery of pretending to +consult an old gipsy-woman who smoked a short black pipe, and was +recognised BY ALL as Mr. Rochester in disguise. I was conducted by +Miss Eyre to my bedroom--through a long passage, narrow, low, and +dim, with two rows of small black doors, all shut; 'twas like a +corridor in some Blue Beard's castle. "Hurry, hurry, I hear the +chains rattling," said this strange girl; whose position, my +Eleanor, in this house causes your Catherine some natural +perplexity. When we had reached my chamber, "Be silent, silent as +death," said Miss Eyre, her finger on her lip and her meagre body +convulsed with some mysterious emotion. "Speak not of what you +hear, do not remember what you see!" and she was gone. + +I undressed, after testing the walls for secret panels and looking +for assassins in the usual place, but was haunted all the time by +an unnatural sound of laughter. At length, groping my way to the +bed, I jumped hastily in, and would have sought some suspension of +anguish by creeping far underneath the clothes. But even this +refuge was denied to your wretched Catherine! I could not stretch +my limbs; for the sheet, my dear Eleanor, had been so arranged, in +some manner which I do not understand, as to render this +impossible. The laughter seemed to redouble. I heard a footstep +at my door. I hurried on my frock and shawl and crept into the +gallery. A strange dark figure was gliding in front of me, +stooping at each door; and every time it stooped, came A LOW +GURGLING NOISE! Inspired by I know not what desperation of +courage, I rushed on the figure and seized it by the neck. It was +Miss Eyre, the governess, filling the boots of all the guests with +water, which she carried in a can. When she saw me she gave a +scream and threw herself against a door hung with a curtain of +Tyrian dye. It yielded, and there poured into the passage a blue +cloud of smoke, with a strong and odious smell of cigars, into +which (and to what company?) she vanished. I groped my way as well +as I might to my own chamber: where each hour the clocks, as they +struck, found an echo in the apprehensive heart of + +THE ILL-FATED +CATHERINE MORLAND. + + + +LETTER: From Montague Tigg, Esq., to Mr. David Crimp. + + + +The following letter needs no explanation for any who have studied +the fortunes and admired the style of that celebrated and sanguine +financier, Mr. Montague Tigg, in "Martin Chuzzlewit." His chance +meeting with the romantic Comte de Monte Cristo naturally suggested +to him the plans and hopes which he unfolds to an unsympathetic +capitalist. + + +1542 Park Lane, May 27, 1848. + +My Premium Pomegranate,--Oracles are not in it, David, with you, my +pippin, as auspicious counsellors of ingenious indigence. The +remark which you uttered lately, when refusing to make the trumpery +advance of half-a-crown on a garment which had been near to the +illustrious person of my friend Chevy Slime, that remark was +inspired. "Go to Holborn!" you said, and the longest-bearded of +early prophets never uttered aught more pregnant with Destiny. I +went to Holborn, to the humble establishment of the tuneful tonsor, +Sweedle-pipe. All things come, the poet says, to him who knows how +to wait--especially, I may add, to him who knows how to wait behind +thin partitions with a chink in them. Ensconced in such an ambush- +-in fact, in the back shop--I bided my time, intending to solicit +pecuniary accommodation from the barber, and studying human nature +as developed in his customers. + +There are odd customers in Kingsgate Street, Holborn--foreign gents +and refugees. Such a cove my eagle eye detected in a man who +entered the shop wearing a long black beard streaked with the snows +of age, and who requested Poll to shave him clean. He was a +sailor-man to look at; but his profile, David, might have been +carved by a Grecian chisel out of an iceberg, and that steel grey +eye of his might have struck a chill, even through a chink, into +any heart less stout than beats behind the vest of Montague Tigg. +The task of rasping so hirsute a customer seemed to sit heavy on +the soul of Poll, and threatened to exhaust the resources of his +limited establishment. The barber went forth to command, as I +presume, a fresher strop, or more keenly tempered steel, and +glittering cans of water heated to a fiercer heat. No sooner was +the coast clear than the street-door opened, and my stranger was +joined by a mantled form, that glided into Poll's emporium. The +new-comer doffed a swart sombrero, and disclosed historic features +that were not unknown to the concealed observer--meaning me. Yes, +David, that aquiline beak, that long and waxed moustache, that +impassible mask of a face, I had seen them, Sir, conspicuous +(though their owner be of alien and even hostile birth) among +England's special chivalry. The foremost he had charged on the +Ides of April (I mean against the ungentlemanly Chartist throng) +and in the storied lists of Eglinton. The new-comer, in short, was +the nephew of him who ate his heart out in an English gaol (like +our illustrious Chiv)--in fact, he was Prince Louis N- B-. + +Gliding to the seat where, half-lathered, the more or less ancient +Mariner awaited Poll's return, the Prince muttered (in the French +lingo, familiar to me from long exile in Boulogne): + +"Hist, goes all well?" + +"Magnificently, Sire!" says the other chap. + +"Our passages taken?" + +"Ay, and private cabins paid for to boot, in case of the storm's +inclemency." + +The Prince nodded and seemed pleased; then he asked anxiously, + +"The Bird? You have been to Jamrach's?" + +"Pardon me, Sire," says the man who was waiting to be shaved, "I +can slip from your jesses no mercenary eagle. These limbs have yet +the pith to climb and this heart the daring to venture to the +airiest crag of Monte d'Oro, and I have ravished from his eyrie a +true Corsican eagle to be the omen of our expedition. Wherever +this eagle is your uncle's legions will gather together." + +"'Tis well; and the gold?" + +"TRUST MONTE CRISTO!" says the bearded man; and then, David, begad! +I knew I had them! + +"We meet?" + +"At Folkestone pier, 7.45, tidal train." + +"I shall be there without fail," says the Prince, and sneaks out of +the street-door just as Poll comes in with the extra soap and +strop. + +Well, David, to make it as short as I can, the man of the icy +glance was clean-shaved at last, and the mother who bore him would +not have known him as he looked in the glass when it was done. He +chucked Poll a diamond worth about a million piastres, and, +remarking that he would not trouble him for the change, he walked +out. By this characteristic swagger, of course, he more than +confirmed my belief that he was, indeed, the celebrated foreigner +the Count of Monte Cristo; whose name and history even YOU must be +acquainted with, though you may not be what I have heard my friend +Chevy Slime call himself, "the most literary man alive." A +desperate follower of the star of Austerlitz from his youth, a +martyr to the cause in the Chateau d'If, Monte Cristo has not +deserted it now that he has come into his own--or anybody else's. + +Of course I was after him like a shot. He walked down Kingsgate +Street and took a four-wheeler that was loitering at the corner. I +followed on foot, escaping the notice of the police from the fact, +made only too natural by Fortune's cursed spite, that under the +toga-like simplicity of Montague Tigg's costume these minions +merely guessed at a cab-tout. + +Well, David, he led me a long chase. He got out of the four- +wheeler (it was dark now) at the Travellers', throwing the cabman a +purse--of sequins, no doubt. At the door of the Travellers' he +entered a brougham; and, driving to the French Embassy in Albert +Gate, he alighted, IN DIFFERENT TOGS, quite the swell, and LET +HIMSELF IN WITH HIS OWN LATCH-KEY. + +In fact, Sir, this conspirator of barbers' shops, this prisoner of +the Chateau d'If, this climber of Corsican eyries, is to-day the +French Minister accredited to the Court of St. James's! + +And now perhaps, David, you begin to see how the land lies, the +Promised Land, the land where there is corn and milk and honey-dew. +I hold those eminent and highly romantic parties in the hollow of +my hand. A letter from me to M. Lecoq, of the Rue Jerusalem, and +their little game is up, their eagle moults, the history of Europe +is altered. But what good would all that do Montague Tigg? Will +it so much as put that delightful coin, a golden sovereign, in the +pocket of his nether garments? No, Tigg is no informer; a man who +has charged at the head of his regiment on the coast of Africa is +no vulgar spy. There is more to be got by making the Count pay +through the nose, as we say; chanter, as the French say; "sing a +song of sixpence"--to a golden tune. + +But, as Fortune now uses me, I cannot personally approach his +Excellency. Powdered menials would urge me from his portals. An +advance, a small advance--say 30l.--is needed for preliminary +expenses: for the charges of the clothier, the bootmaker, the +hosier, the barber. Give me 30l. for the restoration of Tigg to +the semblance of the Montagues, and with that sum I conquer +millions. The diamonds of Monte Cristo, the ingots, the rubies, +the golden crowns with the image and superscription of Pope +Alexander VI.--all are mine: I mean are ours. + +More, David; more, my premium tulip: we shall make the Count a +richer man than ever he has been. We shall promote new companies, +we shall put him on the board of directors. I see the prospectuses +from afar. + + +UNIVERSAL INTERNATIONAL TREASURE RECOVERY COMPANY. + +Chairman. + +His Excellency the COMTE DE MONTE CRISTO. K.G., K.C.B., Knight of +the Black Eagle. + +Directors. + +CHEVY SLIME, Esq., Berkeley Square. +MONTAGUE TIGG, Esq., Park Lane. +M. VAUTRIN (Les Bagnes pres de Toulon). +M. JEAN VALJEAN. +The CHEVALIER STRONG. (Would he come in?) +Hon. Secretary.--DAVID CRIMP, Esq. +Archaeological Adviser.--Dr. SPIEGELMANN, Berlin. + + +Then the prospectus! Treasure-hunting too long left to individual +and uneducated enterprise. Need of organised and instructed +effort. Examples of treasure easily to be had. Grave of Alaric. +Golden chain of Cuzco. Galleons of Vigo Bay. Loot of Delphi. +Straits of Salamis. Advice of most distinguished foreign experts +already secured. Paid-up capital, a 6 and as many 0's as the +resources of the printing establishment can command. The public +will rush in by the myriad. And I am also sketching a + +"Disinterested Association for Securing the Rights of Foundlings," +again with Monte Cristo in the chair. David, you have saved a few +pounds; in the confidence of unofficial moments you have confessed +as much (though not exactly HOW much) to me. Will you neglect one +of those opportunities which only genius can discover, but which +the humble capitalist can help to fructify? With thirty, nay, with +twenty pounds, I can master this millionaire and tame this Earthly +Providence. Behind us lies penury and squalor, before us glitters +jewelled opulence. You will be at 1542 Park Lane to-morrow WITH +THE DIBS?--Yours expectantly, + +MONTAGUE TIGG. + + +From Mr. David Crimp to Montague Tigg, Esq. +The Golden Balls, May 28. + + +Dear Mr. Tigg,--You always WERE full of your chaff, but you must +have been drinking when you wrote all that cock-and-a-bull gammon. +Thirty pounds! No; nor fifteen; nor as many pence. I never heard +of the party you mention by the name of the Count of Monte Cristo; +and as for the Prince, he's as likely to be setting out for +Boulogne with an eagle as you are to start a monkey and a barrel- +organ in Jericho; or may be THAT'S the likeliest of the two. So +stow your gammon, and spare your stamps, is my last word.--Yours +respectfully to command, + +D. CRIMP. + + + +LETTER: From Christian to Piscator. + + + +Walton and Bunyan were men who should have known each other. It is +a pleasant fancy, to me, that they may have met on the banks of +Ouse, while John was meditating a sermon, and Izaak was "attentive +of his trembling quill." + + +Sir,--Being now come into the Land of Beulah; here, whence I cannot +so much as see Doubting Castle; here, where I am solaced with the +sound of voices from the City,--my mind, that is now more at peace +about mine own salvation, misgives me sore about thine. Thou wilt +remember me, perchance, for him that met thee by a stream of the +Delectable Mountains, and took thee to be a man fleeing from the +City of Destruction. For, beholding thee from afar, methought that +thou didst carry a burden on thy back, even as myself before my +deliverance did bear the burden of my sins and fears. Yet when I +drew near I perceived that it was but a fisherman's basket on thy +back, and that thou didst rather seek to add to the weight of thy +burden than to lighten it or fling it away. But, when we fell into +discourse, I marvelled much how thou camest so far upon the way, +even among the sheep and the shepherds of that country. For I +found that thou hadst little experience in conflict with Apollyon, +and that thou hadst never passed through the Slough of Despond nor +wandered in the Valley of the Shadow. Nay, thou hadst never so +much as been distressed in thy mind with great fear, nor hadst thou +fled from thy wife and children, to save, if it might be, thy soul +for thyself, as I have done. Nay, rather thou didst parley with +the shepherds as one that loved their life; and I remember, even +now, that sweet carnal song + + +The Shepherd swains shall dance and sing, +For thy delight, each May morning; +If these delights thy mind may move, +Then live with me and be my love. + + +These are not the songs that fit the Delectable Country; nay, +rather they are the mirth of wantons. Yet didst thou take pleasure +in them; and therefore I make bold to ask how didst thou flee at +all from the City of Destruction, and come so far upon thy way? +Beware lest, when thou winnest to that brook wherein no man casts +angle, even to that flood where there is no bridge to go over and +the River is very deep--beware, I say, of one Vain Hope, the +Ferryman! For I would not have thee lost, because thou art a +kindly man and a simple. Yet for Ignorance there is an ill way, +even from the very gates of the City.--Thy fellow-traveller, + +CHRISTIAN. + + +From Piscator to Christian. + + +Sir,--I do indeed remember thee; and I trust thou art amended of +these gripings which caused thee to groan and moan, even by the +pleasant streams from the hills of the Delectable Mountains. And +as for my "burden" 'twas pleasant to me to bear it; for, like not +the least of the Apostles, I am a fisher, and I carried trout. But +I take no shame in that I am an angler; for angling is somewhat +like poetry; men are to be born so, and I would not be otherwise +than my Maker designed to have me. Of the antiquity of angling I +could say much; but I misdoubt me that thou dost not heed the +learning of ancient times, but art a contemner of good learning and +virtuous recreations. Yet it may a little move thee that in the +Book of Job mention is made of fish-hooks, and without reproof; for +let me tell you that in the Scriptures angling is always taken in +the best sense. + +Touching my flight from the City of Destruction, I love that place +no more than thou dost; yet I fear not its evil communications, nor +would I so hastily desert it as to leave my wife and children +behind therein. Nor have I any experience of conflict with the +Evil One; wherefore I thank Him that hath set me in pleasant +fields, by clear waters, where come no wicked whispers (be they +from Apollyon or from our own hearts); but there is calmness of +spirit, and a world of blessings attending upon it. And hence can +no man see the towers of Doubting Castle, for the green trees and +the hedges white with May. This life is not wholly vile, as some +of thy friends declare (Thou, who makest thy pilgrims dance to the +lute, knowest better); and, for myself, I own that I love such +mirth as does not make men ashamed to look upon each other next +morning. Let him that bears a heavy heart for his ill-deeds turn +him to better, but not mourn as though the sun were taken out of +the sky. What says the song?--nay, 'tis as good balm for the soul +as many a hymn: + + +A merry heart goes all the day, +Your sad one tires in a mile-a! + + +He that made the world made man to take delight in it; even as thou +saw'st me joyful with the shepherds--ay, with godly Mr. Richard +Hooker, "he being then tending his small allotment of sheep in a +common field," as I recount in a brief life of a good man. As to +what awaits me on the other side of that River, I do expect it with +a peaceful heart, and in humble hope that a man may reach the City +with a cheerful countenance, no less than through groans and sighs +and fears. For we have not a tyrant over us, but a Father, that +loveth a cheerful liver no less than a cheerful giver. +Nevertheless, I thank thee for thy kind thought of one that is not +of thy company, nor no Nonconformist, but a peaceful Protestant. +And, lest thou be troubled with apparitions of hobgoblins and evil +spirits, read that comfortable sermon of Mr. Hooker's to weak +believers, on the CERTAINTY OF ADHERENCE, though they want the +inward testimony of it. + +But now falls there a sweet shower, "a singing shower" saith old +George Chapman, and methinks I shall have sport; for I do note that +the mayfly is up; and, seeing all these beautiful creatures playing +in the air and water, I feel my own heart play within me; and I +must out and dape under yonder sycamore tree. Wherefore, prithee, +pardon me a longer discourse as at this time.--Thy friend, + +PISCATOR. + + + +LETTER: From Truthful James to Mr. Bret Harte. + + + +WILLIAM NYE'S EXPERIMENT. +Angel's. + +Dear Bret Harte, +I'm in tears, +And the camp's in the dust, +For with anguish it hears +As poor William may bust, +And the last of the Nyes is in danger of +sleeping the sleep of the just. + +No revolver it was +Interfered with his health, +The convivial glass +Did not harm him by stealth; +It was nary! He fell by a scheme which +he thought would accumulate wealth! + +For a Moqui came round +To the camp--Injun Joe; +And the dollars was found +In his pockets to flow; +For he played off some tricks with live +snakes, as was reckoned a competent show. + +They was rattlers; a pair +In his teeth he would hold, +And another he'd wear +Like a scarf to enfold +His neck, with them dangerous critters +as safe as the saint was of old. + +Sez William, "That same +Is as easy as wink. +I am fly to his game; +For them rattlers, I think, +Has had all their incisors extracted. +They're harmless as suthin' to drink." + +So he betted his pile +He could handle them snakes; +And he tried, with a smile, +And a rattler he takes, +Feeling safe as they'd somehow been +doctored; but bless you, that sarpent awakes! + +Waken snakes! and they DID +And they rattled like mad; +For it was not a "kid," +But some medicine he had, +Injun Joe, for persuadin' the critters but +William's bit powerful bad. + +So they've put him outside +Of a bottle of Rye, +And they've set him to ride +A mustang as kin shy, +To keep up his poor circulation; and +that's the last chance for Bill Nye. + +But a near thing it is, +And the camp's in the dust. +He's a pard as we'd miss +If poor Bill was to bust - +If the last of the Nyes were a-sleepin +the peaceable sleep of the just. + + + +LETTER: From Professor Forth to the Rev. Mr. Casaubon. + + + +The delicacy of the domestic matters with which the following +correspondence deals cannot be exaggerated. It seems that Belinda +(whose Memoirs we owe to Miss Rhoda Broughton) was at Oxford while +Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon were also resident near that pleasant city, +so famed for its Bodleian Library. Professor Forth and Mr. +Casaubon were friends, as may be guessed; their congenial +characters, their kindred studies, Etruscology and Mythology, +combined to ally them. Their wives were not wholly absorbed in +their learned pursuits, and if Mr. Ladislaw was dangling after Mrs. +Casaubon, we know that Mr. Rivers used to haunt with Mrs. Forth the +walks of Magdalen. The regret and disapproval which Mrs. Casaubon +expresses, and her desire to do good to Mrs. Forth, are, it is +believed, not alien to her devoted and exemplary character. + + +Bradmore-road, Oxford, May 29. + +Dear Mr. Casaubon,--In the course of an investigation which my +researches into the character of the Etruscan "Involuti" have +necessitated, I frequently encounter the root Kad, k2ad, or Qad. +Schnitzler's recent and epoch-making discovery that d in Etruscan = +b2, has led me to consider it a plausible hypothesis that we may +convert Kad or Qad into Kab2, in which case it is by no means +beyond the range of a cautious conjecture that the Involuti are +identical with the Cab-iri (Cabiri). Though you will pardon me for +confessing, what you already know, that I am not in all points an +adherent to your ideas concerning a "Key to All Mythologies" (at +least, as briefly set forth by you in Kuhn's Zeitung), yet I am +deeply impressed with this apparent opportunity of bridging the +seemingly impassable gulf between Etrurian Religion and the +comparatively clear and comprehensible systems of the Pelasgo- +Phoenician peoples. That Kad or Kab can refer either (as in +Quatuor) to a four-footed animal (quadruped, "quad") or to a four- +wheeled vehicle (esseda, Celtic cab) I cannot for a moment believe, +though I understand that this theory has the support of Schrader, +Penka, and Baunder. {10} Any information which your learning can +procure, and your kind courtesy can supply, will be warmly welcomed +and duly acknowledged.--Believe me, faithfully yours, + +JAMES FORTH. + +P.S.--I open this note, which was written from my dictation by my +secretary, Mrs. Forth, to assure myself that her inexperience has +been guilty of no error in matters of so much delicacy and +importance. I have detected no mistake of moment, and begin to +hope that the important step of matrimony to which I was guided by +your example may not have been a rash experiment. + + +From the Rev. Mr. Casaubon to James Forth, Esq., Professor of +Etruscan, Oxford. + + +Dear Mr. Forth,--Your letter throws considerable light on a topic +which has long engaged my earnest attention. To my thinking, the +Cab in Cabiri = CAV, "hollow," as in cavus, and refers to the Ark +of Noah, which, of course, before the entrance of every living +thing according to his kind, must have been the largest artificial +hollow or empty space known to our Adamite ancestors. Thus the +Cabiri would answer, naturally, to the Pataeci, which, as Herodotus +tells us, were usually figured on the prows of ships. The Cabiri +or Pataeci, as children of Noah and men of the "great vessel," or +Cave-men (a wonderful anticipation of modern science), would +perpetuate the memory of Arkite circumstances, and would be +selected, as the sacred tradition faded from men's minds, as the +guides of navigation. I am sorry to seem out of harmony with your +ideas; but it is only a matter of seeming, for I have no doubt that +the Etruscan Involuti are also Arkite, and that they do not, as Max +Muller may be expected to intimate, represent the veiled or cloudy +Dawns, but rather the Arkite Patriarchs. We thus, from different +starting-places, arrive at the same goal, the Arkite solution of +Bryant. I am aware that I am old-fashioned--like Eumaeus, "I dwell +here among the swine, and go not often to the city." Your letters +with little numerals (as k2) may represent the exactness of modern +philology; but more closely remind me of the formulae of algebra, a +study in which I at no time excelled. + +It is my purpose to visit Cambridge on June 3, to listen to a most +valuable address by Professor Tosch, of Bonn, on Hittite and Aztec +affinities. If you can meet me there and accept the hospitality of +my college, the encounter may prove a turning point in Mythological +and Philological Science.--Very faithfully yours, + +J. CASAUBON. + +P.S.--I open this note, written from my dictation by my wife, to +enclose my congratulations on Mrs. Forth's scholarly attainments. + + +From Professor Forth to Rev. Mr. Casaubon. +(Telegram.) + + +Will be with you at Cambridge on the third. + + + +From Mrs. Forth, Bradmore-road, Oxford, to David Rivers, Esq., +Milnthorpe, Yorkshire. + + + +He goes on Saturday to Cambridge to hear some one talk about the +Hittites and the Asiatics. Did you not say there was a good Sunday +train? They sing "O Rest in the Lord" at Magdalen. I often wonder +that Addison's Walk is so deserted on Sundays. He stays over +Sunday at Cambridge. {11} + + +From David Rivers, Esq., to Mrs. Forth, Oxford. + + +Dear Mrs. Forth,--Saturday is a half-holiday at the Works, and I +propose to come up and see whether our boat cannot bump Balliol. +How extraordinary it is that people should neglect, on Sundays, the +favourite promenade of the Short-faced Humourist. I shall be +there: the old place.--Believe me, yours ever, + +D. RIVERS. + + +From Mrs. Casaubon to William Ladislaw, Esq., Stratford-on-Avon. + + +Dear Friend,--Your kind letter from Stratford is indeed +interesting. Ah, when shall I have an opportunity of seeing these, +and so many other interesting places! But in a world where duty is +SO MUCH, and so ALWAYS with us, why should we regret the voids in +our experience which, after all, life is filling in the experience +of others? The work is advancing, and Mr. Casaubon hopes that the +first chapter of the "Key to All Mythologies" will be fairly copied +and completed by the end of autumn. Mr. Casaubon is going to +Cambridge on Saturday to hear Professor Tosch lecture on the +Pittites and some other party, I really forget which; {12} but it +is not often that he takes so much interest in mere MODERN history. +How curious it sometimes is to think that the great spirit of +humanity and of the world, as you say, keeps working its way--ah, +to what wonderful goal--by means of these obscure difficult +politics: almost unworthy instruments, one is tempted to think. +That was a true line you quoted lately from the "Vita Nuova." We +have no books of poetry here, except a Lithuanian translation of +the Rig Veda. How delightful it must be to read Dante with a +sympathetic fellow-student, one who has also loved--and RENOUNCED!- +-Yours very sincerely, + +DOROTHEA CASAUBON. + +P.S.--I do not expect Mr. Casaubon back from Cambridge before +Monday afternoon. + + +From William Ladislaw, Esq., to the Hon. Secretary of the Literary +and Philosophical Mechanics' Institute, Middlemarch. + + +My Dear Sir,--I find that I can be in your neighbourhood on +Saturday, and will gladly accept your invitation to lecture at your +Institute on the Immutability of Morals.--Faithfully yours, + +W. LADISLAW. + + +From William Ladislaw, Esq., to Mrs. + + +Casaubon. + +Dear Mrs. Casaubon,--Only a line to say that I am to lecture at the +Mechanics' Institute on Saturday. I can scarcely hope that, as Mr. +Casaubon is away, you will be able to attend my poor performance, +but on Sunday I may have, I hope, the pleasure of waiting on you in +the afternoon?--Very sincerely yours, + +W. LADISLAW. + +P.S.--I shall bring the 'Vita Nuova'--it is not so difficult as the +'Paradiso'--and I shall be happy to help you with a few of the +earlier sonnets. + + +From Mrs. Casaubon to Mrs. Forth. + + +June 5. + +Dear Lady,--You will be surprised at receiving a letter from a +stranger! How shall I address you--how shall I say what I ought to +say? Our husbands are not unknown to each other, I may almost call +them friends, but we have met only once. You did not see me; but I +was at Magdalen a few weeks ago, and I could not help asking who +you were, so young, so beautiful; and when I saw you so lonely +among all those learned men my heart went out to you, for I too +know what the learned are, and how often, when we are young, we +feel as if they were so cold, so remote. Ah, then there come +TEMPTATIONS, but they must be conquered.--We are not born to live +for ourselves only, we must learn to live for others--ah! not for +ANOTHER! + +Some one {13} we both know, a lady, has spoken to me of you lately. +She too, though you did not know it, was in Magdalen Walk on Sunday +evening when the bells were chiming and the birds singing. She saw +you; you were not alone! Mr. Rivers (I am informed that is his +name) was with you. Ah, stop and think, and hear me before it is +too late. A word; I do not know--a word of mine may be listened +to, though I have no right to speak. But something forces me to +speak, and to implore you to remember that it is not for Pleasure +we live, but for Duty. We must break the dearest ties if they do +not bind us to the stake--the stake of all we owe to all! You will +understand, you will forgive me, will you not? You will forgive +another woman whom your beauty and sadness have won to admire and +love you. You WILL break these ties, will you not, and be free, +for only in Renunciation is there freedom? He MUST NOT come again, +you will tell him that he must not.--Yours always, + +DOROTHEA CASAUBON. + + + +LETTER: From Euphues to Sir Amyas Leigh, Kt. + + + +This little controversy on the value of the herb tobacco passed +between the renowned Euphues and that early but assiduous smoker, +Sir Amyas Leigh, well known to readers of "Westward Ho." + +(He dissuadeth him from drinking the smoke of the Indian weed.) + + +Sir Amyas,--Take it not unkindly that a traveller (though less wide +a wanderer than thou) dissuadeth thee from a new-found novelty--the +wanton misuse, or rather the misuseful wantonness, of the Indian +herb. It is a blind goose that knoweth not a fox from a fern-bush, +and a strange temerity that mistaketh smoke for provender. The +sow, when she is sick, eateth the sea-crab and is immediately +recovered: why, then, should man, being whole and sound, haste to +that which maketh many sick? The lobster flieth not in the air, +nor doth the salamander wanton in the water; wherefore, then, will +man betake him for nourishment or solace to the fire? Vesuvius +bringeth not forth speech from his mouth, but man, like a volcano, +will utter smoke. There is great difference between the table and +the chimney; but thou art for making both alike. Though the Rose +be sweet, yet will it prove less fragrant if it be wreathed about +the skunk; and so an ill weed from the land where that beast hath +its habitation defileth a courteous knight. Consider, if this +practice delights thee, that the apples of Sodom are outwardly fair +but inwardly full of ashes; the box-tree is always green, but his +seed is poison. Mithridate must be taken inwardly, not spread on +plasters. Of his nature smoke goeth upward and outward; why wilt +thou make it go inward and downward? The manners of the Cannibal +fit not the Englishman; and this thy poison is unlike Love, which +maimeth every part before it kill the Liver, whereas tobacco doth +vex the Liver before it harmeth any other part. Excuse this my +boldness, and forswear thy weed, an thou lovest + +EUPHUES. + + +From Sir Amyas Leigh to Euphues. + + +Whereas thou bringest in a rabble of reasons to convince me, I will +answer thee in thine own kind. Thou art like those that proffer a +man physic before he be sick, and, because his pleasure is not +theirs, call him foolish that is but early advised. Nature maketh +nothing without an end: the eye to see with, the ear to hear, the +herb tobacco to be smoked. As wine strengtheneth and meat maketh +full, tobacco maketh the heart at rest. Helen gave Nepenthe to +them that sorrowed, and Heaven hath made this weed for such as lack +comfort. Tobacco is the hungry man's food, the wakeful man's +sleep, the weary man's rest, the old man's defence against +melancholy, the busy man's repose, the talkative man's muzzle, the +lonely man's companion. Indeed, there was nothing but this one +thing wanting to man, of those that earth can give; wherefore, +having found it, let him so use as not abusing it, as now I am +about doing.--Thy servant, + +AMYAS LEIGH. + + + +LETTER: From Mr. Paul Rondelet to the Very Rev. Dean Maitland. +{14} + + + +That Dean Maitland should have taken the political line indicated +in Mr. Rondelet's letter will amaze no reader of 'The Silence of +Dean Maitland.' That Mr. Paul Rondelet flew from his penny paper +to a Paradise meet for him is a matter of congratulation to all but +his creditors. He really is now in the only true Monastery of +Thelema, and is simply dressed in an eye-glass and a cincture of +pandanus flowers. The natives worship him, and he is the First +AEsthetic Beach-comber. + + +Te-a-Iti, The Pacific. + +Dear Maitland,--As my old friend and tutor at Lothian, you ask me +to join the Oxford Home Rule Association. Excuse my delay in +answering. Your letter was sent to that detested and long-deserted +newspaper office in Fleet Street, and from Fleet Street to Te-a- +Iti; thank Heaven! it is a long way. Were I at home, and still +endeavouring to sway the masses, I might possibly accept your +invitation. I dislike crowds, and I dislike shouting; but if shout +I must, like you I would choose to chime in with the dingier and +the larger and the more violent assembly. But, having perceived +that the masses were very perceptibly learning to sway themselves, +I have retired to Te-a-Iti. You have read "Epipsychidion," my dear +Dean? And, in your time, no doubt you have loved? {15} Well, +this is the Isle of Love, described, as in a dream, by the rapt +fancy of Shelley. Urged, perhaps, by a reminiscence of the Great +Aryan wave of migration, I have moved westward to this Paradise. +Like Obermann, I hide my head "from the wild tempest of the age," +but in a much dearer place than "chalets near the Alpine snow." +Long ago I said, to one who would not listen, that "all the +religions of the world are based on false foundations, resting on +the Family, and fatally unsound." Here the Family, in our sense, +has not been developed. Here no rules trammel the best and +therefore the most evanescent of our affections. And as for +Religion, it is based upon Me, on Rondelet of Lothian. Here nobody +asks me why or how I am "superior." The artless natives at once +perceived the fact, recognised me as a god, and worship me (do not +shudder, my good Dean) with floral services. In Te-a-Iti (vain to +look for it on the map!) I have found my place--a place far from +the babel of your brutal politics, a place where I am addressed in +liquid accents of adoration. + +You may ask whether I endeavour to raise the islanders to my own +level? It is the last thing that I would attempt. Culture they do +not need: their dainty hieratic precisions of ritual are a +sufficient culture in themselves. As I said once before, "it is an +absurdity to speak of married people being one." Here we are an +indefinite number; and no jealousy, no ambitious exclusiveness, +mars the happiness of all. This is the Higher Life about which we +used ignorantly to talk. Here the gross temporal necessities are +satisfied with a breadfruit, a roasted fish, and a few pandanus +flowers. The rest is all climate and the affections. + +Conceive, my dear Dean, the undisturbed felicity of life without +newspapers! Empires may fall, perhaps have fallen, since I left +Fleet Street; Alan Dunlop may be a ditcher in good earnest on an +estate no longer his; but here we fleet the time carelessly, as in +the golden world. And you ask me to join a raucous political +association for an object you detest in your heart, merely because +you want to swim with the turbid democratic current! You are an +historian, Maitland: did you ever know this policy succeed? Did +you ever know the respectables prosper when they allied themselves +with the vulgar? Ah, keep out of your second-hand revolutions. +Keep your hands clean, whether you keep your head on your shoulders +or not. You will never, I fear, be Bishop of Winkum, with all your +historical handbooks and all your Oxford Liberalism. + +But I am losing my temper, for the first time since I discovered +Te-a-Iti. This must not be.--Yours regretfully, + +PAUL RONDELET. + +P.S.--Don't give any one my address; some of these Oxford harpies +are still unappeased. The only European I have seen was not an +University man. He was a popular Scotch novelist, and carried +Shorter Catechisms, which he distributed to my flock. I only hope +he won't make "copy" out of me and my situation. + +P. R. + + + +LETTER: From Harold Skimpole, Esq., to the Rev. Charles Honeyman, +M.A. + + + +These letters tell their own tale of Genius and Virtue indigent and +in chains. The eloquence of a Honeyman, the accomplishments of a +Skimpole, lead only to Cursitor Street. + + +Coavins's, Cursitor Street, May 1. + +My Dear Honeyman,--It is May-day, when even the chimney-sweeper, +developing the pleasant unconscious poetry of his nature, forgets +the flues, wreathes the flowers, and persuades himself that he is +Jack-in-the-Green. Jack who? Was he Jack Sprat, or the young +swain who mated with Jill! Who knows? The chimney-sweeper has all +I ask, all that the butterflies possess, all that Common-sense and +Business and Society deny to Harold Skimpole. He lives, he is +free, he is "in the green!" I am in Coavins's! In Cursitor Street +I cannot hear the streams warble, the birds chant, the music roll +through the stately fane, let us say, of Lady Whittlesea's. +Coavins's (as Coavins's man says) is "a 'ouse;" but how unlike, for +example, the hospitable home of our friend Jarndyce! I can sketch +Coavins's, but I cannot alter it: I can set it to music, on +Coavins's piano; but how melancholy are the jingling strains of +that dilapidated instrument! At Jarndyce's house, when I am there, +I am in possession of it: here Coavins's is in possession of me-- +of the person of Harold Skimpole. + +And why am I here? Why am I far from landscape, music, +conversation? Why, merely because I will follow neither Fame nor +Fortune nor Faith. They call to us in the market-place, but I will +not dance. Fame blows her trumpet, and offers her shilling (the +Queen's). Faith peals her bells, and asks for MY shilling. +Fortune rattles her banking-scales. They call, and the world joins +the waltz; but I will not march with them. "Go after glory, +commerce, creeds," I cry; "only let Harold Skimpole live!" {16} +The world pursues the jangling music; but in my ear sound the pipes +of Pan, the voices of the river and the wood. + +Yet I cannot be in the playground, whither they invite me. Harold +Skimpole is fettered--by what? By items! I regret my incapacity +for details. It may be the tinker or the tailor at whose suit I am +detained. I am certain it is not at that of the soldier, or the +sailor, or the ploughboy, or the thief. But, for the apothecary-- +why, yes--it MAY be the apothecary! In the dawn of life I loved-- +who has not?--I wedded. I set about surrounding myself with rosy +cheeks. These cheeks grow pallid. I call for the aid of Science-- +Science sends in her bill! "To the Mixture as Before," so much to +"the Tonic," so much. The cheeks are rosy again. I pour forth the +blessings of a father's heart; but there stands Science inexorable, +with her bill, her items. I vainly point out that the mixture has +played its part, the tonic has played ITS part; and that, in the +nature of things, the transaction is ended. The bill is +unappeasable. I forget the details; a certain number of pieces of +yellow and white dross are spoken of. Ah, I see it is fifteen and +some odd shillings and coppers. Let us say twenty. + +My dear Honeyman, you who, as I hear, are about to follow the +flutes of Aphrodite into a temple where Hymen gilds the horns of +the victims {17}--you, I am sure, will hurry to my rescue. You may +not have the specie actually in your coffers; but with your +prospects, surely you can sign something, or make over something, +or back something, say a post obit or post vincula, or employ some +other instrument? Excuse my inexperience; or, I should say, excuse +my congenital inability to profit by experience, now considerable, +of DIFFICULTIES--and of friendship. Let not the sun of May-day go +down on Harold Skimpole in Coavins's!--Yours ever, + +H. S. + +P.S.--A youthful myrmidon of Coavins's will wait for a reply. +Shall we say, while we are about it, Twenty-five? + + +From the Rev. Charles Honeyman to Harold Skimpole, Esq. +Cursitor Street, May 1. + + +My Dear Skimpole,--How would I have joyed, had Providence placed it +within my power to relieve your distress! But it cannot be. Like +the Carthaginian Queen of whom we read in happier days at dear old +Borhambury, I may say that I am haud ignarus mali. But, alas! the +very evils in which I am not unlearned, make it impossible for me +to add miseris succurrere disco! Rather am I myself in need of +succour. You, my dear Harold, have fallen among thieves; I may too +truly add that in this I am your neighbour. The dens in which we +are lodged are contiguous; we are separated only by the bars. Your +note was sent on hither from my rooms in Walpole Street. Since we +met I have known the utmost that woman's perfidy and the rich man's +contumely can inflict. But I can bear my punishment. I loved, I +trusted. She to whose hand I aspired, she on whose affections I +had based hopes at once of happiness in life and of extended +usefulness in the clerical profession, SHE was less confiding. She +summoned to her council a minion of the Law, one Briggs. HIS +estimate of my position and prospects could not possibly tally with +that of one whose HOPES are not set where the worldling places +them. Let him, and such as he, take thought for the morrow and +chaffer about settlements. I do not regret the gold to which you +so delicately allude. I sorrow only for the bloom that has been +brushed from the soaring pinions of a pure and disinterested +affection. Sunt lacrymae rerum, and the handkerchief in which I +bury my face is dank with them. + +Nor is this disappointment my only CROSS. The carrion-birds of +commerce have marked down the stricken deer from their eyries in +Bond Street and Jermyn Street. To know how Solomons has behaved, +and the BLACK colours in which Moss (of Wardour Street) has shown +himself, is to receive a new light on the character of a People +chosen under a very different Dispensation! Detainers flock in, +like ravens to a feast. At this moment I have endured the +humiliation of meeting a sneering child of this world--Mr. Arthur +Pendennis--the emissary of one {18} to whom I gave in other days +the sweetest blossom in the garden of my affections--my sister--of +one who has, indeed, behaved like a brother--IN LAW! My word +distrusted, my statements received with a chilling scepticism by +this NABOB Newcome, I am urged to make some "composition" with my +creditors. The world is very censorious, the ear of a Bishop is +easily won; who knows how those who have ENVIED talents not misused +may turn my circumstances to my disadvantage? You will see that, +far from aiding another, I am rather obliged to seek succour +myself. But that saying about the sparrows abides with me to my +comfort. Could aught be done, think you, with a bill backed by our +joint names? On July 12 my pew-rents will come in. I swear to you +that they HAVE NOT BEEN ANTICIPATED. Yours afflictedly, + +CHARLES HONEYMAN. + +P.S.--Would Jarndyce lend his name to a small bill at three months? +You know him well, and I have heard that he is a man of benevolent +character, and of substance. But "how hardly shall a rich man"-- +you remember the text.--C. H. + + + +LETTER: From Miss Harriet to M. Guy de Maupassant. + + + +This note, from one of the English damsels whom M. Guy de +Maupassant dislikes so much, is written in such French as the lady +could muster. It explains that recurrent mystery, WHY ENGLISHWOMEN +ABROAD SMELL OF GUTTA-PERCHA. The reason is not discreditable to +our countrywomen, but if M. de Maupassant asks, as he often does, +why Englishwomen dress like scarecrows when they are on the +Continent, Miss Harriet does not provide the answer. + + +Miss Pinkerton's, Stratford-atte-Bowe, Mars 12. + +Monsieur,--Vous devez me connaitre, quoique je ne vous connais pas +le moins du monde. Il m'est defendu de lire vos romans, je ne sais +trop pourquoi; mais j'ai bien lu la notice que M. Henry James a +consacree, dans le Fortnightly Review, a votre aimable talent. +Vous n'aimez pas, a ce qu'il parait, ni "la sale Angleterre" ni les +filles de ce pays immonde. Je figure moi-meme dans vos romans (ou +moa-meme," car les Anglais, il est convenu, prononcent ce pronom +comme le nom d'un oiseau monstrueux et meme prehistorique de New +Zealand)--oui, "Miss Harriet" se risque assez souvent dans vos +contes assez risques. + +Vous avez pose, Monsieur, le sublime probleme, "Comment se +prennentelles les demoiselles anglaises pour sentir toujours le +caoutchouc?" ("to smell of india-rubber": traduction Henry James). +En premier lieu, Monsieur, elles ne "smell of india-rubber" quand +elles se trouvent chez elles, dans les bouges infectes qu'on +appelle les "stately homes of England." {19} C'est seulement a +l'etranger que nous repandons l'odeur saine et rejouissante de +caoutchouc. Et pourquoi? Parce que, Monsieur, Miss Harriet tient +a son tub--ou tob--la chose est anglaise; c'est permis pourtant a +un galant homme d'en prononcer le nom comme il veut, ou comme il +peut + +Or, quand elle voyage, Miss Harriet trouve, assez souvent, que le +"tub" est une institution tout-a-fait inconnue a ses hotes. Que +fait-elle donc? Elle porte dans sa malle un tub de caoutchouc, +"patent compressible india-rubber tub!" Inutile a dire que ses +vetements se trouvent impregnes du "smell of india-rubber." Voici, +Monsieur, la solution naturelle, et meme fort louable, d'une +question qui est faite pour desesperer les savants de la France! + +Vous, Monsieur, qui etes un styliste accompli, veuillez bien me +pardonner les torts que je viens de faire a la belle langue +francaise. Dame, on fait ce qu'on peut (comme on dit dans les +romans policiers) pour etre intelligible a un ecrivain si celebre, +qui ne lit couramment, peut-etre, l'idiome barbare et malsonnant de +la sale Angleterre. M. Paul Bourget lui-meme ne lit plus le Grec. +Non omnia possumus omnes. + +Agreez, Monsieur, mes sentiments les plus distingues. + +MISS HARRIET. + + + +LETTER: From S. Gandish, Esq., to the "Newcome Independent." + + + +THE ROYAL ACADEMY. + +It appears that Mr. Gandish, at a great age--though he was not +older than several industrious Academicans--withdrew from the +active exercise of his art and employed his learning and experience +as Art Critic of the "Newcome Independent." The following critique +appears to show traces of declining mental vigour in the veteran +Gandish. + + +Our great gallery has once more opened her doors, if not to the +public, nor even to the fashionable elite, at least to the critics. +They are a motley throng who lounge on Press Days in the sumptuous +halls; ladies, small boys, clergymen are there, and among them but +few, perhaps, who have received the training in High Art of your +correspondent, and have had their eye, through a lifetime more than +commonly prolonged, on the glorious Antique. And what shall we say +of the present Academy? In some ways, things have improved a +little since my "Boadishia" came back on my hands (1839) at a time +when High Art and the Antique would not do in this country: they +would not do. As far as the new exhibition shows, they do better +now than when the century was younger and "Portrait of the Artist, +by S. Gandish"--at thirty-three years of age--was offered in vain +to the jealously Papist clique who then controlled the Uffizi. +Foreigners are more affable now; they have taken Mr. Poynter's of +himself. + +To return to the Antique, what the President's "Captive Andromache" +must have cost in models alone is difficult to reckon. When times +were cheaper, fifty years since, my ancient Britons in "Boadishia" +stood me in thirty pounds: the central figures, however, were +members of my own family. To give every one his due, "Andromache" +is high art--yes, it is high--and the Antique has not been +overlooked. About the back-view of the young party at the fountain +Mr. Horsley may have something to say. For my part, there seems a +want of muscle in vigorous action: where are the BICEPS, where are +the thews of Michael Angelo? The President is a touch too quiet +for a taste framed in the best schools. As to his colour, where is +that nutty brown tone of the flesh? But the designs on the Greek +vase are carefully rendered; though I have heard it remarked by a +classical scholar that these kind of vases were not in use about +Homer's time. Still, the intention is good, though the costumes +are not what WE should have called Ancient Roman when the President +was a boy--ay, or earlier. + +Then, Mr. Alma-Tadema, he has not turned HIS back on the glorious +Antique. "The Roses of Heliogabalus" are not explained in the +catalogue. As far as I understand, there has been an earthquake at +a banquet of this unprincipled monarch. The King himself, and his +friends, are safe enough at a kind of high table; though which IS +Heliogabalus (he being a consumptive-looking character in his coins +in the Classical Dictionary) your critic has not made out. The +earth having opened down below, the heads of some women, and of a +man with a beard and his hair done up like a girl, are tossing +about in a quantity of rose-leaves, which had doubtless been strown +on the floor, as Martial tells us was the custom, dum regnat rosa. +So I overheard a very erudite critic remarking. The composition of +the piece would be thus accounted for; but I cannot pretend that +Mr. Tadema reminds one of either Poussin or Annibale Carracci. +However, rumour whispers that a high price has been paid for this +curious performance. To my thinking the friends of Heliogabalus +are a little flat and leathery in the handling of the flesh. The +silver work, and the marble, will please admirers of this eccentric +artist; but I can hardly call the whole effect "High." But Mr. +Armitage's "Siren" will console people who remember the old school. +This beautiful girl (somewhat careless in her attitude, though she +has been sensible enough NOT to sit down on the damp rock without +putting her drapery beneath her) would have been a true gem in one +of the old Books of Beauty, such as the Honourable Percy Popjoy and +my old friend, Miss Bunnion, used to contribute to in the palmy +days of the English school. Mr. Armitage's "Juno," standing in +mid-air, with the moon in the neighbourhood, is also an example to +youth, and very unlike the way such things are generally done now. +Mr. Burne-Jones (who does not exhibit) never did anything like +this. Poor Haydon, with whom I have smoked many a pipe, would have +acknowledged that Mr. Goodall's "David's Promise to Bathsheba" and +"By the Sea of Galilee" prove that his aspirations are nearly +fulfilled. These are extremely large pictures, yet well hung. The +figure of Abishag is a little too much in the French taste for an +old-fashioned painter. Ars longa, nuda veritas! I hope (and so +will the Liberal readers of the "Newcome Independent") that it is +by an accident the catalogue reads--"The Traitor." "Earl Spencer, +K.G." "The Moonlighters." (Nos. 220, 221, 225.) Some Tory WAG +among the Hanging Committee may have taken this juxtaposition for +wit: our readers will adopt a different view. + +There is a fine dog in Mr. Briton Riviere's "Requiescat," but how +did the relations of the dead knight in plate armour acquire the +embroidery, at least three centuries later, on which he is laid to +his last repose? This destroys the illusion, but does not diminish +the pathos in the attitude of the faithful hound. Mr. Long's large +picture appears to exhibit an Oriental girl being tried by a jury +of matrons--at least, not having my Diodorus Scriblerus by me, I +can arrive at no other conclusion. From the number of models +engaged, this picture must have been designed quite regardless of +expense. It is a study of the Antique, but I doubt if Smee would +have called it High Art. + +Speaking of Smee reminds me of portraits. I miss "Portrait of a +Lady," "Portrait of a Gentleman;" the names of the sitters are now +always given--a concession to the notoriety-hunting proclivities of +the present period. Few portraits are more in the style of the +palmy days of our school (just after Lawrence) than a study of a +lady by Mr. Goodall (687). On the other hand, young Mr. Richmond +goes back to the antiquated manner of Reynolds in one of his +representations. I must admit that I hear this work much admired +by many; to me it seems old-fashioned and lacking in blandness and +affability. Mr Waterhouse has a study of a subject from a poem +that Mr. Pendennis, the novelist (whom I knew well), was very fond +of when he first came on the town: "The Lady of Shalott." It +represents a very delicate invalid, in a boat, under a counterpane. +I remember the poem ran (it was by young Mr. Tennyson):- + + +They crossed themselves, their stars they blest, +Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. +There lay a parchment on her breast +That puzzled more than all the rest +The well-fed wits of Camelot: +"The web was woven curiously, +The charm is broken utterly; +Draw near and fear not, this is I +The Lady of Shalott." + + +I admit that the wonder and dismay of the "well-fed wits," if the +Lady was like Mr. Waterhouse's picture of her, do not surprise me. +But I confess I do not understand modern poetry, nor, perhaps, +modern painting. Where is historical Art? Where is Alfred and the +Cake--a subject which, as is well known, I discovered in my +researches in history. Where is "Udolpho in the Tower"? or the +"Duke of Rothsay the Fourth Day after He was Deprived of his +Victuals"? or "King John Signing Magna Charta"? They are gone +with the red curtain, the brown tree, the storm in the background. +Art is revolutionary, like everything else in these times, when +Treason itself, in the form of a hoary apostate and reviewer of +contemporary fiction, glares from the walls, and is painted by +Royal--mark ROYAL!--Academicians! . . . + + +From Thomas Potts, Esq., of the "Newcome Independent," to S. +Gandish, Esq. +Newcome, May 3. + + +My Dear Sir,--I am truly sorry to have to interrupt a connection +with so old and respected a contributor. But I think you will +acknowledge, on reading the proof of your article on the Academy, +which I enclose, that the time has arrived when public criticism is +no longer your province. I do not so much refer to the old- +fashioned tone of your observations on modern art. I know little +about it, and care not much more. But you have entirely forgotten, +towards the end of the notice, that the "Newcome Independent," as +becomes its name, is a journal of Liberty and Progress. The very +proper remarks on Lord Spencer's portrait elsewhere show that you +are not unacquainted with our politics; but, at the close +(expressing, I fear, your true sentiments), you glide into language +which makes me shudder, and which, if printed in the "Independent," +would spell ruin. Send it, by all means, to the "Sentinel," if you +like. Send your Tory views, I mean. As for your quotation from +the "Lady of Shalott," I can find it nowhere in the poem of that +name by the author you strangely style "young Mr. Tennyson." {20} + +I enclose a cheque for a quarter's salary, and, while always happy +to meet you as man with man, must get the notice of the Academy +written up in the office from the "Daily Telegraph," "Standard," +and "Times." {21}--Faithfully and with deep regret yours, + +THOMAS POTTS. + + + +LETTER: From Monsieur Lecoq, Rue Jerusalem, Paris, to Inspector +Bucket, Scotland Yard. + + + +This correspondence appears to prove that mistakes may be made by +the most astute officers of police, and that even so manifest a +Briton as Mr. Pickwick might chance to find himself in the toils of +international conspiracy. + + +(Translated.) May 19, 1852. + +Sir and Dear Fellow-Brother (confrere).--The so cordial +understanding between our countries ought to expand itself into a +community of the political police. But the just susceptibilities +of the Old England forbid at this moment the restoration to a +friendly Power of political offenders. In the name of the French +police of surety I venture to present to the famous officer Bucket +a prayer that he will shut his eyes, for once, on the letter, and +open his heart to the spirit of the laws. + +No one needs to teach Monsieur Bucket that a foreign miscreant can +be given up, under all reserves, to the justice! A small vial of a +harmless soporific, a closed carriage, a private cabin on board a +Channel steamer--with these and a little of the adroitness so +remarked in the celebrated Bucket, the affair is in the bag! (dans +le sac). All these things are in the cords (dans les cordes) of my +esteemed English fellow-brother; will he not employ them in the +interest of a devoted colleague and a friendly Administration? We +seek a malefactor of the worst species (un chenapan de la pire +espece). This funny fellow (drole) calls himself Count of Fosco, +and he resides in Wood Road 5, St. John's Forest; worth abode of a +miscreant fit for the Forest of Bondy! He is a man bald, stout, +fair, and paying well in countenance (il paie de mine), conceiving +himself to resemble the great Napoleon. At the first sight you +would say a philanthrope, a friend of man. On his right arm he +bears a small red mark, round, the brand of a society of the most +dangerous. Dear Sir, you will not miss him? When once he is in +our hands, faith of Lecoq, you shall tell us your news as to +whether France can be grateful. Of more words there is no need.--I +remain, all to you, with the assurance of my most distinguished +consideration, + +LECOQ. + + +From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq. +May 22. + + +Dear Sir,--Your polite favour to hand, and contents noted. You are +a man of the world; I am a man of the world, and proud to deal with +you as between man and man. The little irregularity shall be no +consideration, all shall be squared, and the man wanted run in with +punctuality and despatch. Expect him at Calais on the 26th +current,--Faithfully yours, + +C. BUCKET. + + +From Count Fosco to Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., Goswell +Road. +5 Forest Road, St. John's Wood, May 23. + + +Dear Sir,--When we met lately at the hospitable board of our common +friend, Benjamin Allen, Esq., lately elected Professor of Chemistry +in the University of London, our conversation turned (if you can +pass me the intoxicating favour of remembering it) on the glorious +science of chemistry. For me this knowledge has ever possessed +irresistible attractions, from the enormous power which it confers +of heaping benefits on the suffering race of mankind. Others may +rejoice in the advantages which a knowledge of it bestows--the +power which can reduce a Hannibal to the level of a drummer boy, or +an all-pervading Shakspeare to the intellectual estate of a +vestryman, though it cannot at present reverse those processes. +The consideration of the destructive as compared with the +constructive forces of chemistry was present, as I recollect, to +your powerful intellect on the festive occasion to which I refer. +"Yes!" you said (permit me to repeat your very words)--"Yes, Count +Fosco, Alexander's morning draught shall make Alexander run for his +life at the first sound of the enemy's trumpet. So much chemistry +can achieve; but can she help as well as harm? Nay, can she answer +for it that the lemon which Professor Allen, from the best and +purest of motives, has blended with this milk-punch, shall not +disagree with me to-morrow morning? Can chemistry, Count Fosco, +thus thwart malign constitutional tendency?" + +These were your words, sir, and I am now ready to answer your deep- +searching question in the affirmative. Prolonged assiduous +application to my Art has shown me how to preserve the lemon in +Milk Punch, and yet destroy, or disengage, the deleterious +elements. Will you so greatly honour science, and Fosco her +servant, as to sup with me on the night of the twenty-fifth, at +nine o'clock, and prove (you need not dread the test) whether a +true follower of knowledge or a vain babbler signs--in exile--the +name of + +ISIDOR OTTAVIO BALDASSARE FOSCO? + + +From Mr. Pickwick to the Count Fosco. +May 24. + + +My Dear Sir,--Many thanks for your very kind invitation. Apart +from the interests of science, the pleasure of your company alone +would be more than enough to make me gladly accept it. I shall +have the enjoyment of testing your milk-punch to-morrow night at +nine, with the confident expectation that your admirable studies +will have overcome a tendency which for many years has prevented me +from relishing, as I could wish, one of the best things in this +good world. Lemon, in fact, has always disagreed with me, as +Professor Allen or Sir Robert Sawyer will be able to assure you; so +your valuable experiment can be put, in my case, to a crucial +test.--Very faithfully yours, + +SAMUEL PICKWICK. + + +From Inspector Bucket to M. Lecoq. +May 26, 1 A.M. + + +My Dear Sir,--We have taken your man without difficulty. Bald, +benevolent-looking, stout, perhaps fancies himself like Napoleon; +if so, is deceived. We nabbed him asleep over his liquor and +alone, at the address you meant to give, 5 Forest Road, St. John's +Wood. The house was empty, servants out, not a soul but him at +home. He speaks English well for a foreigner, and tries to make +out he is a British subject. Was rather confused when took, and +kept ejaculating "Cold Punch," apparently with the hope of +persuading us that such was his name or alias. He also called for +one Sam--probably an accomplice. He travels to Calais to-day as a +lunatic patient in a strait-waistcoat, under charge of four +"keepers" belonging to the force; and I trust that you have made +preparations for receiving your prisoner, and that our management +of the case has given satisfaction. What I like is doing business +with a man like you. We may not be so smart nor so clever at +disguises as the French profession, but we flatter ourselves we are +punctual and cautious.--Faithfully yours, + +C. BUCKET. + + +From Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Perker, Solicitor, Gray's Inn. +Sainte Pelagie, May 28. + + +Dear Perker,--For heaven's sake come over here at once, bringing +some one who can speak French, and bail me out, or whatever the +process of their law may be. I have been arrested, illegally and +without warrant, at the house of a scientific friend, Count Fosco, +where I had been supping. As far as I can understand, I am accused +of a plot against the life of the Emperor of the French; but the +whole proceedings have been unintelligible and arbitrary to a +degree. I cannot think that an English citizen will be allowed to +perish by the guillotine--innocent and practically unheard! Please +bring linen and brushes, &c., but not Sam, who would be certain to +embroil himself with the French police. I am writing to the Times +and Lord Palmerston.--Sincerely yours, + +SAMUEL PICKWICK. + + +From Monsieur Lecoq to Inspector Bucket. +May 27. + + +Sir,--There has arrived a frightful misunderstanding. The man you +have sent us is not Fosco. Of Fosco he has only the baldness, the +air benevolent, and the girth. The brand on his right arm is no +more than the mark of vaccination. Brought before the Commissary +of Police, the prisoner, who has not one word of French, was heard +through an interpreter. He gives himself the name of Piquouique, +rentier, English; and he appeals to his Ambassador. Of papers he +had letters bearing the name Samuel Pickwick, and, on his buttons, +the letters P.C., which we suspect are the badge of a secret +society. But this is not to the point; for it is certain that, +whatever the crimes of this brigand, he is NOT Fosco, but an +Englishman. That he should be found in the domicile of Fosco when +that droll had evaded is suspicious (louche), and his explanation +does not permit itself to be understood. I have fear that we enjoy +bad luck, and that M. Palmerston will make himself to be heard on +this matter. + +Accept, Monsieur, the assurance of my high consideration. + +LECOQ. + +P.S.--Our comrade, the Count Smorltork, of the Police of Manners +(police des moeurs), has come to present himself. Confronted with +the bandit, he gives him reason, and offers his faith that the man +is Piquouique, with whom he encountered himself when on a mission +of secrecy to England it is now some years. What to do? (Que +faire?) + + + +LETTER: From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis. + + + +Mr. Quatermain offers the correct account of two celebrated right +and left shots, also an adventure of the stranger in the Story of +an African Farm. + + +Dear Curtis,--You ask me to give you the true account, in writing, +of those right and left shots of mine at the two lions, the +crocodile, and the eagle. The brutes are stuffed now, in the hall +at home--the lions each on a pedestal, and the alligator on the +floor with the eagle in his jaws--much as they were when I settled +them and saved the Stranger. All sorts of stories have got into +the papers about the business, which was simple enough; so, though +no hand with a pen, I may as well write it all out. + +I was up on the Knobkerry River, prospecting for diamonds, in +Omomborombunga's country. I had nobody with me but poor Jim-jim, +who afterwards met with an awful death, otherwise he would have +been glad to corroborate my tale, if it needed it. One night I had +come back tired to camp, when I found a stranger sitting by the +fire. He was a dark, fat, Frenchified little chap, and you won't +believe me, but it is a fact that he wore gloves. I asked him to +stay the night, of course, and inspanned the waggons in laager, for +Omomborombunga's impis were out, swearing to wash their spears in +the blood of The Great White Liar--a Portuguese traveller probably; +if not, I don't know who he can have been; perhaps this stranger: +he gave no name. Well, we had our biltong together, and the +Stranger put himself outside a good deal of the very little brandy +I had left. We got yarning, so to speak, and I told him a few of +the curious adventures that naturally fall to the lot of a man in +those wild countries. The Stranger did not say much, but kept +playing with a huge carved walking-stick that he had. Presently he +said, "Look at this stick; I bought it from a boy on a South +African Farm. Do you understand what the carvings mean?" + +"Hanged if I do!" I said, after turning it about. + +"Well, do you see that figure?" and he touched a thing like a Noah +out of a child's ark. "That was a hunter like you, my friend, but +not in all respects. That hunter pursued a vast white bird with +silver wings, sailing in the everlasting blue." + +"Everlasting bosh!" said I; "there is no bird of the kind on the +veldt." + +"That bird was Truth," says the Stranger, "and, judging from the +anecdote you tell me about the Babyan woman and the Zulu medicine- +man, it is a bird YOU don't trouble yourself with much, my friend." + +This was a pretty cool thing to say to a man whose veracity is +known like a proverb from Sheba's Breasts to the Zambesi. + +Foide Macumazahn, the Zulus say, meaning as true as a yarn of Allan +Quatermain's. Well, my blood was up; no man shall call Allan +Quatermain a liar. The fellow was going on with a prodigious +palaver about a white feather of Truth, and Mount Sinai, and the +Land of Absolute Negation, and I don't know what, but I signified +to him that if he did not believe my yarns I did not want his +company. "I'm sorry to turn you out," I said, "for there are lions +around"--indeed they were roaring to each other--"and you will have +a parroty time. But you apologise, or you go!" + +He laughed his short thick laugh. "I am a man who hopes nothing, +feels nothing, fears nothing, and believes nothing that you tell +me!" + +I got up and went for him with my fists, and whether he feared +nothing or not I don't know; but he scooted, dropping a yellow +French novel, by one Catulle Mendes, that I could make neither head +nor tail of. I afterwards heard that there was something about +this stranger in a book called "The Story of an African Farm," +which I once began, but never finished, not being able to +understand most of it, and being vexed by the gross improbability +of the girl not marrying the baby's father, he being ready and +willing to make her an honest woman. However, I am no critic, but +a plain man who tells a plain tale, and I believe persons of soul +admire the book very much. Any way, it does not say who the +Stranger was--an allegorical kind of bagman I fancy; but I am not +done with him yet. + +Out he went into the dark, where hundreds of lions could be plainly +seen making love (at which season they are very dangerous) by the +flashes of lightning. + +It was a terrific yet beautiful spectacle, and one which I can +never forget. The black of night would suddenly open like a huge +silver flower, deep within deep, till you almost fancied you could +see within the gates of heaven. The hills stood out dark against +the illimitable splendour, and on every koppie you saw the huge +lions, like kittens at play, roaring till you could scarcely hear +the thunder. The rain was rushing like a river, all glittering +like diamonds, and then, in the twinkling of an eye, all was black +as a wolf's mouth till the next flash. The lightning, coming from +all quarters, appeared to meet above me, and now was red, now +golden, now silver again, while the great cat-like beasts, as they +leaped or lay, looked like gold, red, and silver lions, reminding +me of the signs of public-houses in old England, far away. +Meantime the donga beneath roared with the flooded torrent that the +rain was bringing down from the heights of Umbopobekatanktshiu. + +I stood watching the grand spectacle for some time, rather pitying +the Stranger who was out in it, by no fault of mine. Then I +knocked the ashes out of my pipe, ate a mealy or two, and crept +into my kartel, {22} and slept the sleep of the just. + +About dawn I woke. The thunder had rolled away like a bad dream. +The long level silver shafts of the dawn were flooding the heights, +raindrops glittered like diamonds on every kopje and karroo bush, +leaving the deep donga bathed in the solemn pall of mysterious +night. + +My thoughts went rapidly over the millions of leagues of land and +sea, where life, that perpetual problem, was now awaking to another +day of struggle and temptation. Then the golden arrows of the day +followed fast. The silver and blue sky grew roseate with that wide +wild blush which testifies to the modest delight of nature, +satisfied and grateful for her silent existence and her amorous +repose. I breakfasted, went down into the donga with a black boy, +poor Jim-jim, who was afterwards, as I said, to perish by an awful +fate, otherwise he would testify to the truth of my plain story. I +began poking among the rocks in the dry basin of the donga, {23} +and had just picked up a pebble--I knew it by the soapy feel for a +diamond. Uncut it was about three times the size of the koh-i- +noor, say 1,000 carats, and I was rejoicing in my luck when I heard +the scream of a human being in the last agony of terror. Looking +up, I saw that on either side of the donga, which was about twenty +feet wide, a great black lion and lioness were standing with open +jaws, while some fifty yards in front of me an alligator, in a deep +pool of the flooded donga, was stretching his open snout and +gleaming teeth greedily upwards. Over head flew an eagle, and IN +MID-AIR BETWEEN, as I am a living and honourable man, a human being +was leaping the chasm. He had been pursued by the lion on my left, +and had been driven to attempt the terrible leap; but if he crossed +he was certain to fall into the jaws of the lion on my right, while +if he fell short in his jump, do you see, the alligator was ready +for him below, and the great golden eagle watched the business from +above, in case he attempted to escape THAT way. + +All this takes long to tell, though it was passing in a flash of +time. Dropping the diamond (which must have rolled into a crevice +of the rock, for I never saw it again), I caught up my double- +barrelled rifle (one of Wesson & Smith's), aimed at the lion on the +right hand of the donga with my right barrel, and then hastily +fired my left at the alligator. When the smoke cleared away, the +man had reached the right side of the donga safe and sound. Seeing +that the alligator was dying, I loaded again, bowled over the +lioness on the left, settled the eagle's business (he fell dead +into the jaws of the dying alligator, which closed on him with a +snap). I then climbed the wall of the donga, and there lay, +fainting, the Stranger of last night--the man who feared nothing-- +the blood of the dead lion trickling over him. His celebrated +allegorical walking-stick from the African Farm had been broken +into two pieces by the bullet after it (the bullet) had passed +through the head of the lion. And, as the "Ingoldsby Legends" say, +"nobody was one penny the worse," except the wild beasts. The man, +however, had had a parroty time, and it was a good hour before I +could bring him round, during which he finished my brandy. He +still wore gloves. What he was doing in Omuborumbunga's country I +do not know to this day. I never found the diamond again, though I +hunted long. But I must say that two better right and left shots, +considering that I had no time to aim, and that they were really +snapshots, I never remember to have made in my long experience. + +This is the short and the long of the matter, which was talked of a +good deal in the Colony, and about which, I am told, some +inaccurate accounts have got into the newspapers. I hate writing, +as you know, and don't pretend to give a literary colour to this +little business of the shots, but merely tell a "plain, unvarnished +tale," as the "Ingoldsby Legends" say. + +As to the Stranger, what he was doing there, or who he was, or +where he is now, I can tell you nothing. He told me he was bound +for "the almighty mountains of Dry-facts and Realities," which he +kindly pointed out to me among the carvings of his walking-stick. +He then sighed wearily, very wearily, and scooted. I think he came +to no good; but he never came in my way again. + +And now you know the yarn of the two stuffed lions and the +alligator with the eagle in his jaws. + +Ever yours, +ALLAN QUATERMAIN. + + + +LETTER: From the Baron Bradwardine to Edward Waverley, Esq., of +Waverley Honour. + + + +The Baron explains the mysterious circumstances of his affair with +his third cousin, Sir Hew Halbert.--"Waverley," chap. xiv. + + +Tully Veolan, May 17, 1747. + +Son Edward,--Touching my quarrel with Sir Hew Halbert, anent which +I told you no more than that it was "settled in a fitting manner," +you have long teased me for an ampler explanation. This I have +withheld, as conceiving that it tended rather to vain quolibets and +jesting, than to that respect in which the duello, or single +combat, should be regarded by gentlemen of name and coat armour. +But Sir Hew being dead, and buried with his fathers, the matter may +be broached as among friends and persons of honour. The ground of +our dispute, as ye know, was an unthinking scoff of Sir Hew's, he +being my own third cousin by the mother's side, Anderson of Ettrick +Hall having intermarried, about the time of the Solemn League and +Covenant, with Anderson of Tushielaw, both of which houses are +connected with the Halberts of Dinniewuddie and with the +Bradwardines. But stemmata quid faciunt? Sir Hew, being a young +man, and the maut, as the vulgar say, above the meal, after a +funeral of one of our kin in the Cathedral Kirkyard of St. Andrews, +we met at Glass's Inn, where, in the presence of many gentlemen, +occurred our unfortunate dissension. + +We encountered betimes next morning, on a secluded spot of the +sands hard by the town, at the Eden-mouth. {24} The weapons were +pistols, Sir Hew, by a slight passing infirmity, being disabled +from the use of the sword. Inchgrabbit was my second, and +Strathtyrum did the same office for my kinsman, Sir Hew. The +pistols being charged and primed, and we aligned forenent each +other at the convenient distance of twelve paces, the word was +given to fire, and both weapons having been discharged, and the +smoke having cleared away, Sir Hew was discovered fallen to the +ground, procumbus humi, and exanimate. The blood was flowing +freely from a face-wound, and my unhappy kinsman was senseless. At +this moment we heard a voice, as of one clamantis in eremo, cry +"Fore!" to which paying no heed in the natural agitation of our +spirits, we hurried to lift my fallen opponent and examine his +wound. Upon a closer search it proved to be no shot-wound, but a +mere clour, or bruise, whereof the reason was now apparent, he +having been struck by the ball of a golfer (from us concealed by +the dunes, or bunkers, of sand) and not by the discharge of my +weapon. At this moment a plebeian fellow appeared with his arma +campestria, or clubs, cleeks, irons, and the like, under his arm, +who, without paying any attention to our situation, struck the ball +wherewith he had felled my kinsman in the direction of the hole. +Reflection directed us to the conclusion that both pistols had +missed their aim, and that Sir Hew had fallen beneath a chance blow +from this fellow's golf-ball. But as my kinsman was still hors de +combat, and incapable of further action, being unwitting, too, of +the real cause of his disaster, Inchgrabbit and Strathtyrum, in +their discretion as seconds, or belli judices, deemed it better +that we should keep a still sough, and that Sir Hew should never be +informed concerning the cause of his discomfiture. This resolution +we kept, and Sir Hew wore, till the day of his late lamented +decease, a bullet among the seals of his watch, he being persuaded +by Strathtyrum that it had been extracted from his brain-pan, which +certainly was of the thickest. But this was all a bam, or bite, +among young men, and a splore to laugh over by our three selves, +nor would I have it to go abroad now that Sir Hew is dead, as being +prejudicial to the memory of a worthy man, and an honourable family +connected with our own. Wherefore I pray you keep a still sough +hereanent, as you love me, who remain--Your loving good father, + +BRADWARDINE. + + + +APPENDIX + + + +Note on Letter of Mr. Surtees to Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, p. 64. + + +No literary forgeries were ever much better done than the sham +ballads which Surtees of Mainsforth imposed on Sir Walter Scott. +The poems were spirited and good of their kind; and though we +wonder now that some of them could take in an expert, it is by no +means assured that we are even to-day acquainted with the whole of +Surtees' frauds. Why a man otherwise honourable, kindly, +charitable, and learned, exercised his ingenuity so cruelly upon a +trusting correspondent and a staunch friend, it is hardly possible +to guess. The biographers of Surtees maintain that he wanted to +try his skill on Scott, then only known to him by correspondence; +and that, having succeeded, he was afraid to risk Scott's +friendship by a confession. This is plausible; and if good may +come out of evil, we may remember that two picturesque parts of +"Marmion" are due to one confessed and another certain supercherie +of Surtees. It cannot be said in his defence that he had no +conception of the mischief of literary frauds; in more than one +passage of his correspondence he mentions Ritson's detestation of +these practices. "To literary imposition, as tending to obscure +the path of inquiry, Ritson gave no quarter," says this arch +literary impostor. + +A brief account of Surtees' labour in the field of sham ballad +writing may be fresh to many people who merely know him as the real +author of "Barthram's Dirge" and of "The Slaying of Anthony +Featherstonhaugh." In an undated letter of 1806, Scott, writing +from Ashestiel, thanks Surtees for his "obliging communications." +Surtees manifestly began the correspondence, being attracted by the +"Border Minstrelsy." Thus it appears that Surtees did NOT forge +"Hobbie Noble" in the first edition of the "Minstrelsy"; for he +makes some suggestions as to the "Earl of Whitfield," dreaded by +the hero of that ballad, which Scott had already published. But he +was already deceiving Scott, who writes to him about "Ralph Eure," +or "Lord Eure," and about a "Goth, who melted Lord Eure's gold +chain." This Lord Eure is doubtless the "Lord Eurie" of the ballad +in the later editions of the "Border Minstrelsy," a ballad actually +composed by Surtees. That wily person immediately sent Scott a +ballad on "The Feud between the Ridleys and Featherstones," in +which Scott believed to the day of his death. He introduced it in +"Marmion." + + +The whiles a Northern harper rude +Chaunted a rhyme of deadly feud, +How the fierce Thirlwalls and Ridleys all, &c. + + +In his note ("Border Minstrelsy," second edition, 1808, p. xxi.) +Scott says the ballad was taken down from an old woman's recitation +at the Alston Moor lead-mines "by the agent there," and sent by him +to Surtees. Consequently, when Surtees saw "Marmion" in print he +had to ask Scott not to print "THE agent," as he does not know even +the name of Colonel Beaumont's chief agent there, but "an agent." +Thus he hedged himself from a not impossible disclaimer by the +agent at the mines. + +Readers of "Marmion" will remember how + + +Once, near Norham, there did fight +A spectre fell, of fiendish might, +In likeness of a Scottish knight, +With Brian Bulmer bold, +And trained him nigh to disallow +The aid of his baptismal vow. + + +This legend is more of Surtees' fun. "The most singular tale of +this kind," says Sir Walter, "is contained in an extract +communicated to me by my friend Mr. Surtees, of Mainsforth, who +copied it from a MS. note in a copy of Burthogge "On the Nature of +Spirits, 1694, 8vo," which had been the property of the late Mr. +Gill. It was not in Mr. Gill's own hand: but probably an hundred +years older, and was said to be "E libro Convent. Dunelm. per T. +C. extract.;" this T. C. being Thomas Cradocke, Esq. Scott adds, +that the passage, which he gives in the Latin, suggested the +introduction of the tourney with the Fairy Knight in "Marmion." +Well, WHERE is Cradocke's extract? The original was "lost" before +Surtees sent his "copy" to Sir Walter. "The notes had been +carelessly or injudiciously shaken out of the book." Surtees adds, +another editor confirms it, that no such story exists in any MS. of +the Dean and Chapter of Durham. No doubt he invented the whole +story, and wrote it himself in mediaeval Latin. + +Not content with two "whoppers," as Mr. Jo Gargery might call them, +Surtees goes on to invent a perfectly incredible heraldic bearing. +He found it in a MS. note in the "Gwillim's Heraldry" of Mr. Gyll +or Gill--the name is written both ways. "He beareth per pale or +and arg., over all a spectre passant, SHROUDED SABLE"--"he" being +Newton, of Beverley, in Yorkshire. Sir Walter actually swallowed +this amazing fib, and alludes to it in "Rob Roy" (1818). But Mr. +Raine, the editor of Surtees' Life, inherited or bought his copy of +Gwillim, that of Mr. Gill or Gyll; "and I find in it no trace of +such an entry." "Lord Derwentwater's Good-Night" is probably +entirely by Surtees. "A friend of Mr. Taylor's" gave him a +Tynedale ballad, "Hey, Willy Ridley, winna you stay?" which is also +"aut Diabolus aut Robertus." As to "Barthram's Dirge," "from Ann +Douglas, a withered crone who weeds my garden," copies with various +tentative verses in Surtees' hand have been found. Oddly enough, +Sir Walter had once discovered a small sepulchral cross, upset, in +Liddesdale, near the "Nine Stane Rig;" and this probably made him +more easily deceived. Surtees very cleverly put some lines, which +COULD not have been original, in brackets, as his own attempt to +fill up lacunae. Such are + + +[When the dew fell cold and still, +When the aspen grey forget to play, +And the mist clung to the hill.] + + +Any one reading the piece would say, "It must be genuine, for the +CONFESSED interpolations are not in the ballad style, which the +interpolator, therefore, could not write." An attempt which +Surtees made when composing the song, and which he wisely rejected, +could not have failed to excite Scott's suspicions. It ran - + + +They buried him when the bonny may +Was on the flow'ring thorn; +And she waked him till the forest grey +Of every leaf was lorn; + +Till the rowan tree of gramarye +Its scarlet clusters shed, +And the hollin green alone was seen +With its berries glistening red. + + +Whether Surtees' "Brown Man of the Muirs," to which Scott also gave +a place in his own poetry, was a true legend or not, the reader may +decide for himself. + +Concerning another ballad in the "Minstrelsy"--"Auld Maitland"-- +Professor Child has expressed a suspicion which most readers feel. +What Scott told Ellis about it (Autumn, 1802) was, that he got it +in the Forest, "copied down from the recitation of an old shepherd +by a country farmer." Who was the farmer? Will Laidlaw had +employed James Hogg, as shepherd. Hogg's mother chanted "Auld +Maitland." Hogg first met Scott in the summer of 1801. The +shepherd had already seen the first volume of the "Minstrelsy." +Did he, thereupon, write "Auld Maitland," teach his mother it, and +induce Laidlaw to take it down from her recitation? The old lady +said she got it from Andrew Moir, who had it "frae auld Baby +Mettlin, who was said to have been another nor a gude ane." But we +have Hogg's own statement that "aiblins ma gran'-mither was an unco +leear," and this quality may have been hereditary. On the other +side, Hogg could hardly have held his tongue about the forgery, if +forgery it was, when he wrote his "Domestic Manners and Private +Life of Sir Walter Scott" (1834). The whole investigation is a +little depressing, and makes one very shy of unauthenticated +ballads. + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} Who knows what may happen? I may die before he sees the +light; so I will add among my friends SKALAGRIM LAMB'S-TAIL. + +{2} Can Mrs. Gamp mean "dial"? + +{3} 1887. + +{4} In his familiar correspondence, it will be observed, Herodotus +does not trouble himself to maintain the dignity of history. + +{5} Mr. Flinders Petrie has just discovered and sent to Mr. Holly, +of Trinity, Cambridge, the well-known traveller, a wall-painting of +a beautiful woman, excavated by the Egypt Exploration Society, from +the ruined site of the Temple of Aphrodite in Naucratis. Mr. +Holly, in an affecting letter to the ACADEMY, states that he +recognises in this picture "an admirable though somewhat archaic +portrait of SHE." There can thus be little or no doubt that SHE +was Rhodopis, and therefore several hundred years older than she +said. But few will blame her for being anxious not to claim her +full age. + +This unexpected revelation appears to throw light on some +fascinating peculiarities in the behaviour of SHE. + +{6} The great intimacy between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Quiverful, +indicated by Mrs. Proudie's use of the Bishop's Christian name--and +that abbreviated--has amazed the discoverer and editor of her +correspondence. + +{7} This signature of Mrs. Proudie's is so unusual an assumption +of the episcopal style, that it might well cast a doubt on the +authenticity of her letter. But experts pronounce it genuine. +"Barnum," of course, is "Baronum Castrum," the rather odd Roman +name of Barchester. + +{8} It has been seen that Mrs. Quiverful did not obey this +injunction. + +{9} This man was well known to Sir Walter Scott, who speaks of his +curious habits in an unpublished manuscript. + +{10} Mr. Forth, we are sure, is quite wrong, and none of the +scholars he quotes has said anything of the kind. + +{11} "He" clearly means, not Addison, but Professor Forth, the +lady's husband. + +{12} It was not Asiatics, but Aztecs; not Pittites, but Hittites! +Woman cares little for these studies!--A.L. + +{13} The editor has no doubt that some one was--Miss Watson. Cf. +'Belinda.' + +{14} Owing to the sudden decease of the Dean in well-known and +melancholy circumstances, this letter was not delivered. + +{15} Alas, not wisely! But any careful reader of "The Silence of +Dean Maitland" will see that the Baby was an anachronism.--ED. + +{16} This appears to have been a favourite remark of Mr. +Skimpole's. It will be noticed that, quite without intending it, +Mr. Skimpole was the founder of our New Cyrenaic School. + +{17} Mr. Skimpole's recollections of classical ritual are a little +mixed hereabouts. He refers to Mr. Honeyman's projected union with +the widow of Mr. Bromley, the famous hatter. + +{18} Colonel Newcome, indeed. + +{19} Non, Monsieur, je ne cite ni "Woodsworth" ni "le vieux +Williams." + +{20} Mr. Potts ought to have consulted the edition of 1833, where +he would have found the verse as quoted by Mr. Gandish. + +{21} And a nice mixture it must have been!--A. L. + +{22} The wooden bed fastened in an ox-waggon. + +{23} Mr. Quatermain has just said that the donga was filled by a +roaring torrent. Is there not some inconsistency here? + +{24} At the HIGH HOLE, indeed.--A. L. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Old Friends, by Andrew Lang + diff --git a/old/oldfn10.zip b/old/oldfn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e47e111 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/oldfn10.zip |
